Xx-Alexis-Xx
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Xx-Alexis-Xx
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*From Guild/Thread Aequitas
Xeno knew he was coming before she heard him. Goosebumps ran down her delicate, pale skin and she sighed. It was a rare sound from the witch--a sigh of defeat. She knew she couldnt run from him anymore, and apparently fate wanted them to interact. The sound of someone crashing to the ground alerted her to his anger and presence. She felt sick all of a sudden and dropped her fork, her pinapple (still stabbed with the eating utencil) splattering violently on the table. She felt dizzy, but anxious. Maybe it was how prisoners felt before being executed. But then again, many creatures like those within the school were getting executed. Xeno would be the first in the school, but outside, none the less. Nervous, the Necromancer returned her fork and fruit into it's cup, sitting up comfortably. It would surely be the last place she'd ever sit while breathing, so she might as well enjoy it. And then she felt him. His presence, his shadow on hers, his body heat. Whatever it was, she knew he was behind her. But she wouldnt feign innocence and stupidity and look back at him. "Emer--" She began, wincing involuntarily as he slammed his hands down on her shoulders. "Well, I apologize for my unprofessional behavior, earlier. Unfortunately--" She bit her lip to avoid crying out in pain as he gripped her collar bone. "Araqiel and I need to have a chat. So I'll be a little tied up--" She continued until he pulled her from her seat.
She would've laughed at the irony of her last sentence, but she was far too scared. It was the feeling you'd get before you vomit. Hot, unwilling to eat, and uncomfortable. But she went willingly, despite his force. Her heart dropped as he looked at her. She knew about canines--they looked each other in the eyes to prove their dominance. And if they wished to be challenged, others of their pack would bear their teeth. But Xeno knew she was a deer in presence of the hungry wolf. She wouldnt stoop to begging, though. She would never beg for her life--not even in front of her murderer. She had known the dead all her life, and it was what they always regretted. Being forced into pity; it was said to be worse than death itself.
Shoved into a dark room, Xeno considered her options. She could try jumping out the window---yes, that was always an open option. Unless of course, he blocked it. She could die...Well, that was clearly a last resort. She could try to seduce him..No, she was too petrified to move, let alone be sexy. Biting at her lip nervously, the witch instinctively backed against the wall. She knew she was cornered prey; at this point there was nothing to do. Her blood ran cold when his eyes turned their abstract color. 's**t. He's really going to kill me.' She thought darkly, lowering her head a little. She returned her head upwards as he came closer, telling herself she had to face death proudly. Although, her own advice wasnt really helping. Her knees were shaking, so she attempted to stand up straighter, but it just made her look more nervous and unorganized. She let out an instinctual cry as he slammed her against the wall, his form pressing roughly against hers. She let out a quiet gasp, not in surprise, but for air. Silly Xeno had stopped breathing for a moment there.
His glance to her pale skin surprised her, but she said nothing for the time being. She didnt want to anger him by trying to fool him. After all, he was a wolf, not a fox. Although she so desperately wanted to avert her eyes from his own, she stared. She let out a quiet moan as he slammed her into the wall again, speaking to her angrily. A part of her just wanted him to kill her already, but another part of her hoped he would be enticed by her moans of pain. "You said--No...Hexes...Not--a--hex.." She said quietly, but he was too busy talking to himself to hear her. Or he was ignoring her, or just didnt want to acknowledge her. It wasnt clear, but neither were the thoughts of Xenophon. She was panicking, sure that Araqiel could sense, taste and smell her fear. It seemed to drench and suffocate her, making her desperate. She attempted to think up a spell or something to keep him away, but her mind was completely blank of rhyming words. As he gripped his hair, the witch heard her heart throbbing in her head. She just hoped someone would find her body.
As he turned, Xeno's eyes widened. They were completely yellow now, and she scratched at the wall with her fingernails, her back still to it. She wouldnt scream or run. She merely felt her knees buckling, and she lightly slid down. However, before she could fall, he grabbed her. She was ready for him to bite into her throat and end her life but... he didnt. Their lips met quickly, and Xeno felt as though she had swallowed her own heart. She was confused, but the feeling of his powerful form pressing against her in a non-violent way was enough for her to close her eyes. She allowed him to kiss her, returning it with just as much force. She had left behind the terrified soon-to-be-dead witch she was just a few seconds ago, and returned to her confident and goal-achieving self. She moaned, letting her left hand slide up to his cheek, her right palm pressing against the wall. She let her tongue meet his, then withdrew it, deciding to start simply. She let it run against his lower lip, controlled by pure passion.
If this was Araqiel's idea of punishment, then she wanted much, much more.
Xenophon
Xeno knew he was coming before she heard him. Goosebumps ran down her delicate, pale skin and she sighed. It was a rare sound from the witch--a sigh of defeat. She knew she couldnt run from him anymore, and apparently fate wanted them to interact. The sound of someone crashing to the ground alerted her to his anger and presence. She felt sick all of a sudden and dropped her fork, her pinapple (still stabbed with the eating utencil) splattering violently on the table. She felt dizzy, but anxious. Maybe it was how prisoners felt before being executed. But then again, many creatures like those within the school were getting executed. Xeno would be the first in the school, but outside, none the less. Nervous, the Necromancer returned her fork and fruit into it's cup, sitting up comfortably. It would surely be the last place she'd ever sit while breathing, so she might as well enjoy it. And then she felt him. His presence, his shadow on hers, his body heat. Whatever it was, she knew he was behind her. But she wouldnt feign innocence and stupidity and look back at him. "Emer--" She began, wincing involuntarily as he slammed his hands down on her shoulders. "Well, I apologize for my unprofessional behavior, earlier. Unfortunately--" She bit her lip to avoid crying out in pain as he gripped her collar bone. "Araqiel and I need to have a chat. So I'll be a little tied up--" She continued until he pulled her from her seat.
She would've laughed at the irony of her last sentence, but she was far too scared. It was the feeling you'd get before you vomit. Hot, unwilling to eat, and uncomfortable. But she went willingly, despite his force. Her heart dropped as he looked at her. She knew about canines--they looked each other in the eyes to prove their dominance. And if they wished to be challenged, others of their pack would bear their teeth. But Xeno knew she was a deer in presence of the hungry wolf. She wouldnt stoop to begging, though. She would never beg for her life--not even in front of her murderer. She had known the dead all her life, and it was what they always regretted. Being forced into pity; it was said to be worse than death itself.
Shoved into a dark room, Xeno considered her options. She could try jumping out the window---yes, that was always an open option. Unless of course, he blocked it. She could die...Well, that was clearly a last resort. She could try to seduce him..No, she was too petrified to move, let alone be sexy. Biting at her lip nervously, the witch instinctively backed against the wall. She knew she was cornered prey; at this point there was nothing to do. Her blood ran cold when his eyes turned their abstract color. 's**t. He's really going to kill me.' She thought darkly, lowering her head a little. She returned her head upwards as he came closer, telling herself she had to face death proudly. Although, her own advice wasnt really helping. Her knees were shaking, so she attempted to stand up straighter, but it just made her look more nervous and unorganized. She let out an instinctual cry as he slammed her against the wall, his form pressing roughly against hers. She let out a quiet gasp, not in surprise, but for air. Silly Xeno had stopped breathing for a moment there.
His glance to her pale skin surprised her, but she said nothing for the time being. She didnt want to anger him by trying to fool him. After all, he was a wolf, not a fox. Although she so desperately wanted to avert her eyes from his own, she stared. She let out a quiet moan as he slammed her into the wall again, speaking to her angrily. A part of her just wanted him to kill her already, but another part of her hoped he would be enticed by her moans of pain. "You said--No...Hexes...Not--a--hex.." She said quietly, but he was too busy talking to himself to hear her. Or he was ignoring her, or just didnt want to acknowledge her. It wasnt clear, but neither were the thoughts of Xenophon. She was panicking, sure that Araqiel could sense, taste and smell her fear. It seemed to drench and suffocate her, making her desperate. She attempted to think up a spell or something to keep him away, but her mind was completely blank of rhyming words. As he gripped his hair, the witch heard her heart throbbing in her head. She just hoped someone would find her body.
As he turned, Xeno's eyes widened. They were completely yellow now, and she scratched at the wall with her fingernails, her back still to it. She wouldnt scream or run. She merely felt her knees buckling, and she lightly slid down. However, before she could fall, he grabbed her. She was ready for him to bite into her throat and end her life but... he didnt. Their lips met quickly, and Xeno felt as though she had swallowed her own heart. She was confused, but the feeling of his powerful form pressing against her in a non-violent way was enough for her to close her eyes. She allowed him to kiss her, returning it with just as much force. She had left behind the terrified soon-to-be-dead witch she was just a few seconds ago, and returned to her confident and goal-achieving self. She moaned, letting her left hand slide up to his cheek, her right palm pressing against the wall. She let her tongue meet his, then withdrew it, deciding to start simply. She let it run against his lower lip, controlled by pure passion.
If this was Araqiel's idea of punishment, then she wanted much, much more.
Part Seductress, part Attila the Hun.
Xx-Alexis-Xx
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*From thread, "That's just Super."
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An angry alarm clock glared at Finnegan. Growling lightly, as if it would scare the machine into silence, he finally sat up. Bitterly turning the thing off, he was tempted to just lie back down and go back to sleep. He could here the slow rise of his roommates, but ignored them. Snatching his towel, he hurried into the bathroom. Locking the door behind him quickly, he sighed. Staring at himself in the mirror, the teenager fixed his hair, running his olive fingers through it. Turning the shower on, he stuck his hand in, checking the temperature. Still cold. Sitting down on the edge of the sink, Finnegan yawned. He was exhausted--a late night of playing with his...powers. Yes, his powers. Such fun, but even more fun to use with friends. "Damn it," the boy mumbled quietly. He had forgotten about the heist afterschool--he was actually hoping to come back and take a nap. Considering his schedule and party habits, naps were usual for him. Rubbing the back of his head with a palm, the male stood again. Returning his hand to the shower, he nodded to himself. Easily stripping, he stepped into the shower.
Nearly slipping, the male swore. After a ten-minute shower, he exited. Wrapping his towel around his waist, he turned off the shower and left the room. He was the farthest from the bathroom on their floor, but he was happy enough with his body to show it off. Stepping inside his messy room, he easily hopped over a large mound of paper. Pulling on a pair of blue, spotted boxers, he sighed. Glancing out the window, Finnegan saw Remy's car pulling out of the driveway. Remy...He had wanted to talk to her that morning, but there was always class. Pulling out a pair of black jeans, the male stepped into them slowly. He had to hop up a bit to get them on all the way, but he didnt mind. Tight pants were pretty normal for the eighteen-year-old. Easily slipping on a t-shirt, he covered it with a jacket. Pulling the hood up over his head, Finnegan squinted at himself in the mirror. "Hmmm..Needs something.." He mumbled to himself, and narrowed his eyes, focusing on a his messy hair. In a matter of seconds, the tuft of hair covering his eye turned red. Smoothing it back a little, he smirked at himself in the mirror. "There we go...Much better."
After deciding to wear his black sneakers, the male hurried down the stairs, his backpack slung over his shoulder. Nearly tripping as he reached the bottom, he laughed and rubbed the back of his head. 'Really hope no one saw that...' he thought, glancing around quickly. His eyes found a group of people. He couldnt help but frown, sucking on his lower lip, as if frustrated. Why was it that everytime he walked in a room, villains were no where to be seen? Faking a smile, the boy skidded into the room, opening the fridge. Glancing inside for something that looked appetizing, he sighed. Finding nothing that he was particularly craving, he closed the fridge. Squinting and looking upward, he mumbled something to himself. "Hmm..Maybe there'll be something different if I look again.." He said, opening it again. Browsing again, slower, he reached for a juice box. After manuvering it out of the packaging, Finnegan placed it on the counter top and grabbed the straw, wrenching it from the plastic. Violently poking the straw through the hole at the top, he brought the small juice box up to his lips and began to drink. No breakfast today, other than a---Cheezits! Yes, there were plenty of Cheezits in the pantry. Or was it Cheese-its? Wondering this, he strolled over to the cabinets happily, pulling out the box of Cheese-snacks. Hugging it to his chest, the male opened it and hungrily snacked. After about twenty of the small snacks, he returned the box to the cabinet, and continued his juice.
Glancing at the others in the room, his eyes first found Charlie. He smirked, his mouth still holding the end of the straw. Looking over, he saw...Oh god, what was her name? Something...Something...Whatever--brittish kid. Brittish Kid was sitting on the counter, not too far from himself. He blinked, didnt really give her much of a response and looked over once again. Another girl, Charisse, was sitting in one of the stools. Finn couldnt help but giggle at the word...Stool. Charisse was pretty, but then again, how couldnt she be, with her body returning to normal every time she got a cut? Finnegan watched her lips as she spoke, then a lightbulb seemed to go off in his head. 'Yeah...Erin..That was her name..Wasnt it?' He thought, glancing down at his wrist, as if looking for a clock, Finnegan hardly noticed Andie returning upstairs. He had his own friends to worry about! Waving a quick goodbye to everyone and dropping his juice box in the trash, Finnegan dashed out the door. It took him only a few minutes to find Skylark, and he hurried behind the boy, draping an arm around his shoulders.
Smirking devilishly, Finnegan patted the boy's head. "N'awww..Miss me already, Sky? Well that's alright, I've missed you too. Ahhh..It seems like it's been.. Finnegan faked a sniffle, "Ages since we last talked! Oh Skylark!" The male sobbed into his friend's shoulder, then pulled back with a laugh. So what if Finn was in a Drama-Queen mood today? It was his right as a teenager to be cranky, full of angst, and moody! Or was that a teenage girl's right? Did it matter? Finnegan was full of life, and that's all that mattered to him. Adjusting his backpack on his left shoulder, the male glanced over at Skylark again. Nudging him gently with an elbow, Finn raised an eyebrow. "Why so blue, Panda-Bear? Come on! I'm here now, no need to be in a bad mood anymore. You know what you look like? You look like this--" The male paused and changed his shape with ease, imitating his friend's appearance. Lowering his head sadly, Finnegan sighed. "I'm so pre-pubecent and lonely without you, Finnegan. I've missed you dearly..." He mocked in the boy's voice, then snickered and returned to his own form. Returning his arm to the younger male's shoulder, Finn patted his arm. "It's alright, babycakes. You know we're still like--- he had to pause to twist his middle and index finger together, "this! Friends forever, right buddy?" He nudged again, then smiled. He was quiet for a few minutes, his walk slowed down so he could walk at an equal pace with Skylark. "So, anything on the agenda for today?"
Xx-Alexis-Xx
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It was night. Possibly the best part of the day—it was a proven fact that darkness stimulates the human body. And stimulation was what Vaine was all about. But was that really hard to see? Her short and skimpy clothes gave anyone’s eyes access to most of her assets, and she hardly minded. She was snobby at heart, and hated all women—even her sisters when they were alive. But could you blame the girl? When she was killed, her family turned their heads in shame. Not even pity or discomfort, but shame! Just the thought made her blood boil and her eyes narrow. But she was over it, in her own mind. Over women in general, was more like it. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Killing women in vengeance—was that being over something? Cruel and inhuman, just the idea of this would shock someone, but Vaine was far from human. Sure, she was once…but that was a long time ago. Jealousy, anger and lust had forced death upon her, and she still remembered it as though it was earlier that day.
It was 1857, and Vaine had been known amongst wives as the village whore. They were just jealous because she was the most attractive girl in their village, and that their husbands fawned over her. In all honesty, she had been sleeping with all of them. In fact—there was only one time that she had been caught—and it led to her death. She had been gathering berries to grow in her own garden when she came across Jeremiah, an attractive married man. It had been no secret that they both thought each other were attractive—but they had never had sex before. Lust overtook the both of them as she approached, and soon, they were having sex in Jeremiah’s corn field. However, he had forgotten that his wife would be coming by to bring him lunch. The woman came across them in the field and screamed, pulling Vaine from her husband. “You’ll pay for this, slut.” She threatened, and Vaine took her lightly, merely brushing dirt from her dress. However, everything seemed to go downhill from there. Jeremiah’s wife and the other wives of the village banned together and accused the young girl of Witchcraft, setting up various situations. False of course, but the city council was anxious to kill anyone. On the day she was to be burned at the stake, she cursed her village. “I’ll come back for each of you—I’ll make sure you all suffer for my death, especially each of you pathetic women!” Were her final words, and her hate and spite revived her.
She was buried in an unmarked grave, but the next morning, she awoke asleep above the dug grave. Anger filled her body once again, and she completed her promise. Even though each man was surprised to see her, they seemed to fall helpless to her seductive traits. Her beauty had become a hypnotic trance, one which no man could resist. With each passing time, Vaine found that every time she bedded a married man, his wife would come, as if called by an unknown source. In a trancelike state, the wife would watch helplessly as Vaine killed their husband. It was a quick, but painful process for her victims. Once she had finished the sex, she would plant a long kiss on them, their lungs almost immediately catching fire. When the men died, they’d still be in their zombie-like trance, leaving them unable to struggle or even notice the pain. With the final smoking-hot kiss, their essence would be forced from their body, leaving in the form of the kiss. It took only a simple inhale to take it in, and it was like a drug addiction for the Succubus. However, it wasn’t just for pleasure—she realized that she had to “feed” at least once a month to stay young—two a month to stay strong. However, it was the faces of the wives that she enjoyed the most. Their dumbfounded expressions brought a smile to the young woman’s face—there was one woman in particular that she had enjoyed killing the most, though. Elizabeth—Jeremiah’s wife had always been enemies with Vaine, so she made sure that Elizabeth was the last one to suffer.
Just like the rest, the other woman had come and watched her husband die, smoke fleeting the male’s lips as he died. It was clean, but it allowed Vaine to watch them each suffer when they died. Sadistic, but extremely kinky for the Succubus—but what else was expected? After killing so many people so many times, surely it was common for the murderer to enjoy it, wasn’t it? Elizabeth clutched her chest and fell to the ground, her eyes welling with painful tears. Leaning down to her, Vaine only smiled, whispering in her ear, like she did to all the rest of the wives, “You will burn like I did. For my own sins, I punish you.” And with a snap of her fingers, flames would erupt in each corner of the room. Unable to process their fear or surroundings, the women would only stand or sit there, their eyes filled with absent realization. When they finally began to burn, they were too late to be saved. Their killer had already left—satisfied and hungry for more lives. Immortal and hungry, Vaine began traveling the world for more victims. A blessing in disguise was her infertility, but frankly she was glad. It simply would not do to get pregnant—surely she would die if she had to spend nine months without a victim. But as married men became harder and harder to find, she began lusting after regular men. Whether or not they were in a relationship didn’t matter to Vaine---she was lustful as ever, and just as beautiful.
Over the years, she moved all over the place, as to cover her tracks. Surprisingly, the world seemed to turn a blind eye to it, and suspected mere fire-hazards as the killer. Her tracks covered cleanly by the flames, the succubus had no worries of ever getting caught. The public eye viewed her as a lustful girl, but one who was miserable. The latter was far from true, but they knew her as a cursed female. It seemed that every male who claimed to “love” her, died. Now, this certainly didn’t scare men off—in fact, they viewed it as a challenge. They had no intent on falling in love with the woman, but merely sleeping with her. But her powerful aura made any man a love slave to her, whether they wanted her or not. There had been witches that had found her out almost twenty years ago, and threatened to stop her—but they too were mere mortals on the inside and their weaknesses were easily found and destroyed. Just like the rest, Vaine killed them off spitefully. Women—they disgusted her to no end. She loved herself, of course, but that was the only exception. It was a mystery to the public why she had no female friends, but no one pried too much. And if they did—well, they would end up in another tragic house fire. The twenty-three year old had settled in Vegas for the time being. She had made it her goal not to get too famous, as it could be problematic when she faked her death again. But she was wealthy—living in comfort and mystery. Surely, only half of the population of Las Vegas (her current home) knew who she was, and beyond that, she was unknown. She had dated and married a wealthy man in the past year, and offed him as soon as he signed his will. It was extremely tough not to kill him once they first had sex, like she usually did.
But, he had left her all of his money, shunning his family and friends like she had convinced him to. It didn’t take much, just a light whisper and he would nod, muttering “Of course.” Being a Succubus certainly had it’s perks. Though it didn’t work on all of her victims, she could usually tempt them to do whatever she wanted. Alter their sense of reality. Although, at times it was irritating to see a human get so drunk from her power. Her aura, if inhaled too much, could make someone feel woozy and blur their vision. This was usually a good chance to seduce them, but if she didn’t act quickly, there was always the possibility that they would fall asleep. So she tried to distance herself from most people, and tried to make her jobs quick. Once she had the money, she began opening businesses and clubs, making them her own. Once she made enough money, she even opened a hotel, known as “The Siren.” Not far from her own race, but she feared that if she hinted at it too much, witches would be suspicious again. But with her career and wealth higher than ever, the succubus was happy. Except for the fact that the men that surrounded her were pointless to kill. Each was either too famous or too much of a bother to seduce. She wasn’t trash—she had tastes. She wanted her men aggressive and cocky, thinking that they could have the world if they just requested it. It was ‘taming’ these people that caught her curiosity and turned her on, giving her a sense of power.
Years of experience had taught her how to recognize such traits. The first sign would be a glance and a smirk. They would pretend to look away, as if they were more interested in their conversation than her. Please! They would eventually join her, asking if they could buy her a drink or dance with her. But she knew exactly how to counter them, but attract them. She would politely deny their request, leaving an aura of mystery about her. She would plague their thoughts, until they eventually came looking for her again. Vaine found them asking again, always, and the second time, she would reluctantly agree to their request. Light flirting and still more curiosity intrigued the men, until they would come crawling after her. But some were more difficult to seduce than others, and time after time, she seemed to be proved men. But that was exactly why she preferred challenging men. Shy or easy ones were just so boring! Her mind skipped back to her last victim, only about a week ago.
Crawling atop him with a moan, Vaine smiled down at her victim. He looked just like the rest—it had been so easy toying with him. She had assumed he would be harder to convince, but he fell under her spell quicker than most. “Tell me I’m beautiful..” She moaned with a smile, and the man beneath her, his eyes glazed over with lust replied, “You’re so beautiful…” The male responded, staring up at her. Nodding her head confidently, the Succubus smiled, running her tongue across her lips with another groan. “Now tell me you want me..” She whispered, and the man did as requested. “I want you…” He said, helpless and weak to her seductive abilities. Finally releasing her orgasm, Vaine leaned down and kissed her victim for the last time, his eyes widening as his lungs burned. His essence filling her own cold, dark soul, the female shivered as he suffered, smiling. He didn’t scream or struggle, but just lied there. There had always been a few seconds that the men stared at her, as if begging her for mercy or help with their eyes. The Succubus had always loved to watch her men die—each was different in their demise. Setting fire to the male’s apartment building, she knew that help would be found quickly enough. Of course, the police would assume that the man had perished in the fire alone, but she knew the truth.
But enough of old victims, she had a party to get ready for. She and her representatives were meeting an agent this evening, at the opening of her new club, Purify, located inside of her hotel. She had organized the opening as a costume party, just for shits and giggles. She wanted something different, and wanted the chance to show off a slutty outfit, as usual. Easter, Halloween, Valentine’s Day—all perfect times for costumes. But it didn’t seem to be enough, so she had at least one Costume Party each year. Running her hands down her smooth olive skin, Vaine stared at herself in the mirror, smirking. “So beautiful…” She complimented herself as she did her hair. Brown with black accented layers of hair reached just the top of her breasts, and was a hassle to pin back. But she managed—tying it back into a tight bun, allowing curled strands of it to hand at the sides of her face. Topping her hair with a tiara with a black heart in the center, Vaine smiled at herself as she finished dressing. Perfect.
She had her club manager announce her as she headed down the stairs into the underground club, located in the basement of her hotel. “Now introducing, the owner—Miss Vaine Siren!” The man announced, the club erupting in cheering as the woman departed down the stairs, dressed in her slutty costume. The Queen of Hearts—how appropriate. She was beautiful, her smooth olive skin accented nicely in the color and lack of the clothes. She took a seat at the bar, her small flamingo bag in hand. A man whistled somewhere behind her, which she instantly recognized as her representative. “He should be here soon. I told him to wear a costume. After all, no costume, no entry as you said yourself, Your Majesty.” The man smiled, gently kissing the top of her wrist. Vaine smiled and nodded her head, “Good. Send him over to see me once he’s gotten here. Actually—talk to him first. Don’t tell him who I am, he hasn’t seen me, so I want him to guess.” She requested, and the man nodded, retreating to a VIP couch near the stairs. A scotch on the rocks was handed down to her, and she took a light sip, smirking at the bartender. Though her representatives suggested she had a female bartender, she had refused. She glared as men entered her club with women. “If only segregation was still legal..” The Succubus mumbled under her breath, darkly.
*From a 1 on 1 Roleplay with Viciously Wicked
It was night. Possibly the best part of the day—it was a proven fact that darkness stimulates the human body. And stimulation was what Vaine was all about. But was that really hard to see? Her short and skimpy clothes gave anyone’s eyes access to most of her assets, and she hardly minded. She was snobby at heart, and hated all women—even her sisters when they were alive. But could you blame the girl? When she was killed, her family turned their heads in shame. Not even pity or discomfort, but shame! Just the thought made her blood boil and her eyes narrow. But she was over it, in her own mind. Over women in general, was more like it. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Killing women in vengeance—was that being over something? Cruel and inhuman, just the idea of this would shock someone, but Vaine was far from human. Sure, she was once…but that was a long time ago. Jealousy, anger and lust had forced death upon her, and she still remembered it as though it was earlier that day.
It was 1857, and Vaine had been known amongst wives as the village whore. They were just jealous because she was the most attractive girl in their village, and that their husbands fawned over her. In all honesty, she had been sleeping with all of them. In fact—there was only one time that she had been caught—and it led to her death. She had been gathering berries to grow in her own garden when she came across Jeremiah, an attractive married man. It had been no secret that they both thought each other were attractive—but they had never had sex before. Lust overtook the both of them as she approached, and soon, they were having sex in Jeremiah’s corn field. However, he had forgotten that his wife would be coming by to bring him lunch. The woman came across them in the field and screamed, pulling Vaine from her husband. “You’ll pay for this, slut.” She threatened, and Vaine took her lightly, merely brushing dirt from her dress. However, everything seemed to go downhill from there. Jeremiah’s wife and the other wives of the village banned together and accused the young girl of Witchcraft, setting up various situations. False of course, but the city council was anxious to kill anyone. On the day she was to be burned at the stake, she cursed her village. “I’ll come back for each of you—I’ll make sure you all suffer for my death, especially each of you pathetic women!” Were her final words, and her hate and spite revived her.
She was buried in an unmarked grave, but the next morning, she awoke asleep above the dug grave. Anger filled her body once again, and she completed her promise. Even though each man was surprised to see her, they seemed to fall helpless to her seductive traits. Her beauty had become a hypnotic trance, one which no man could resist. With each passing time, Vaine found that every time she bedded a married man, his wife would come, as if called by an unknown source. In a trancelike state, the wife would watch helplessly as Vaine killed their husband. It was a quick, but painful process for her victims. Once she had finished the sex, she would plant a long kiss on them, their lungs almost immediately catching fire. When the men died, they’d still be in their zombie-like trance, leaving them unable to struggle or even notice the pain. With the final smoking-hot kiss, their essence would be forced from their body, leaving in the form of the kiss. It took only a simple inhale to take it in, and it was like a drug addiction for the Succubus. However, it wasn’t just for pleasure—she realized that she had to “feed” at least once a month to stay young—two a month to stay strong. However, it was the faces of the wives that she enjoyed the most. Their dumbfounded expressions brought a smile to the young woman’s face—there was one woman in particular that she had enjoyed killing the most, though. Elizabeth—Jeremiah’s wife had always been enemies with Vaine, so she made sure that Elizabeth was the last one to suffer.
Just like the rest, the other woman had come and watched her husband die, smoke fleeting the male’s lips as he died. It was clean, but it allowed Vaine to watch them each suffer when they died. Sadistic, but extremely kinky for the Succubus—but what else was expected? After killing so many people so many times, surely it was common for the murderer to enjoy it, wasn’t it? Elizabeth clutched her chest and fell to the ground, her eyes welling with painful tears. Leaning down to her, Vaine only smiled, whispering in her ear, like she did to all the rest of the wives, “You will burn like I did. For my own sins, I punish you.” And with a snap of her fingers, flames would erupt in each corner of the room. Unable to process their fear or surroundings, the women would only stand or sit there, their eyes filled with absent realization. When they finally began to burn, they were too late to be saved. Their killer had already left—satisfied and hungry for more lives. Immortal and hungry, Vaine began traveling the world for more victims. A blessing in disguise was her infertility, but frankly she was glad. It simply would not do to get pregnant—surely she would die if she had to spend nine months without a victim. But as married men became harder and harder to find, she began lusting after regular men. Whether or not they were in a relationship didn’t matter to Vaine---she was lustful as ever, and just as beautiful.
Over the years, she moved all over the place, as to cover her tracks. Surprisingly, the world seemed to turn a blind eye to it, and suspected mere fire-hazards as the killer. Her tracks covered cleanly by the flames, the succubus had no worries of ever getting caught. The public eye viewed her as a lustful girl, but one who was miserable. The latter was far from true, but they knew her as a cursed female. It seemed that every male who claimed to “love” her, died. Now, this certainly didn’t scare men off—in fact, they viewed it as a challenge. They had no intent on falling in love with the woman, but merely sleeping with her. But her powerful aura made any man a love slave to her, whether they wanted her or not. There had been witches that had found her out almost twenty years ago, and threatened to stop her—but they too were mere mortals on the inside and their weaknesses were easily found and destroyed. Just like the rest, Vaine killed them off spitefully. Women—they disgusted her to no end. She loved herself, of course, but that was the only exception. It was a mystery to the public why she had no female friends, but no one pried too much. And if they did—well, they would end up in another tragic house fire. The twenty-three year old had settled in Vegas for the time being. She had made it her goal not to get too famous, as it could be problematic when she faked her death again. But she was wealthy—living in comfort and mystery. Surely, only half of the population of Las Vegas (her current home) knew who she was, and beyond that, she was unknown. She had dated and married a wealthy man in the past year, and offed him as soon as he signed his will. It was extremely tough not to kill him once they first had sex, like she usually did.
But, he had left her all of his money, shunning his family and friends like she had convinced him to. It didn’t take much, just a light whisper and he would nod, muttering “Of course.” Being a Succubus certainly had it’s perks. Though it didn’t work on all of her victims, she could usually tempt them to do whatever she wanted. Alter their sense of reality. Although, at times it was irritating to see a human get so drunk from her power. Her aura, if inhaled too much, could make someone feel woozy and blur their vision. This was usually a good chance to seduce them, but if she didn’t act quickly, there was always the possibility that they would fall asleep. So she tried to distance herself from most people, and tried to make her jobs quick. Once she had the money, she began opening businesses and clubs, making them her own. Once she made enough money, she even opened a hotel, known as “The Siren.” Not far from her own race, but she feared that if she hinted at it too much, witches would be suspicious again. But with her career and wealth higher than ever, the succubus was happy. Except for the fact that the men that surrounded her were pointless to kill. Each was either too famous or too much of a bother to seduce. She wasn’t trash—she had tastes. She wanted her men aggressive and cocky, thinking that they could have the world if they just requested it. It was ‘taming’ these people that caught her curiosity and turned her on, giving her a sense of power.
Years of experience had taught her how to recognize such traits. The first sign would be a glance and a smirk. They would pretend to look away, as if they were more interested in their conversation than her. Please! They would eventually join her, asking if they could buy her a drink or dance with her. But she knew exactly how to counter them, but attract them. She would politely deny their request, leaving an aura of mystery about her. She would plague their thoughts, until they eventually came looking for her again. Vaine found them asking again, always, and the second time, she would reluctantly agree to their request. Light flirting and still more curiosity intrigued the men, until they would come crawling after her. But some were more difficult to seduce than others, and time after time, she seemed to be proved men. But that was exactly why she preferred challenging men. Shy or easy ones were just so boring! Her mind skipped back to her last victim, only about a week ago.
Crawling atop him with a moan, Vaine smiled down at her victim. He looked just like the rest—it had been so easy toying with him. She had assumed he would be harder to convince, but he fell under her spell quicker than most. “Tell me I’m beautiful..” She moaned with a smile, and the man beneath her, his eyes glazed over with lust replied, “You’re so beautiful…” The male responded, staring up at her. Nodding her head confidently, the Succubus smiled, running her tongue across her lips with another groan. “Now tell me you want me..” She whispered, and the man did as requested. “I want you…” He said, helpless and weak to her seductive abilities. Finally releasing her orgasm, Vaine leaned down and kissed her victim for the last time, his eyes widening as his lungs burned. His essence filling her own cold, dark soul, the female shivered as he suffered, smiling. He didn’t scream or struggle, but just lied there. There had always been a few seconds that the men stared at her, as if begging her for mercy or help with their eyes. The Succubus had always loved to watch her men die—each was different in their demise. Setting fire to the male’s apartment building, she knew that help would be found quickly enough. Of course, the police would assume that the man had perished in the fire alone, but she knew the truth.
But enough of old victims, she had a party to get ready for. She and her representatives were meeting an agent this evening, at the opening of her new club, Purify, located inside of her hotel. She had organized the opening as a costume party, just for shits and giggles. She wanted something different, and wanted the chance to show off a slutty outfit, as usual. Easter, Halloween, Valentine’s Day—all perfect times for costumes. But it didn’t seem to be enough, so she had at least one Costume Party each year. Running her hands down her smooth olive skin, Vaine stared at herself in the mirror, smirking. “So beautiful…” She complimented herself as she did her hair. Brown with black accented layers of hair reached just the top of her breasts, and was a hassle to pin back. But she managed—tying it back into a tight bun, allowing curled strands of it to hand at the sides of her face. Topping her hair with a tiara with a black heart in the center, Vaine smiled at herself as she finished dressing. Perfect.She had her club manager announce her as she headed down the stairs into the underground club, located in the basement of her hotel. “Now introducing, the owner—Miss Vaine Siren!” The man announced, the club erupting in cheering as the woman departed down the stairs, dressed in her slutty costume. The Queen of Hearts—how appropriate. She was beautiful, her smooth olive skin accented nicely in the color and lack of the clothes. She took a seat at the bar, her small flamingo bag in hand. A man whistled somewhere behind her, which she instantly recognized as her representative. “He should be here soon. I told him to wear a costume. After all, no costume, no entry as you said yourself, Your Majesty.” The man smiled, gently kissing the top of her wrist. Vaine smiled and nodded her head, “Good. Send him over to see me once he’s gotten here. Actually—talk to him first. Don’t tell him who I am, he hasn’t seen me, so I want him to guess.” She requested, and the man nodded, retreating to a VIP couch near the stairs. A scotch on the rocks was handed down to her, and she took a light sip, smirking at the bartender. Though her representatives suggested she had a female bartender, she had refused. She glared as men entered her club with women. “If only segregation was still legal..” The Succubus mumbled under her breath, darkly.
*From a 1 on 1 Roleplay with Viciously Wicked
Xx-Alexis-Xx
Offline
England seemed to be falling apart at the seams. First, their Queen died—leaving only male heirs to the throne. It wasn’t as if the King or Queen of England had much to do anyway, but still…They were a public icon to the people of the United Kingdom. The second (and most annoying) problem was that the throne was soon to be given to a boy. He was only twenty four at the time, and would be made into king on the eve of his twenty fifth birthday. Now what was so wrong about this? Everything.
The prince was the definition of a royal pain. He would spend the afternoons skateboarding through Buckingham Palace, and would refuse to stay indoors. Though his father strongly insisted that he stay inside, the boy rebelled constantly. He’d ride off on his motorcycle, and find the nearest party, and crash there. He’d usually be found the next morning by the police or the press, hung over. Every so often, some girl would be in the papers, claiming she had sex with the prince. But regardless of his rebellious attitude, he was relatively careful. Especially with women—he knew better than to hang around them when he was drunk. But there had been a couple times where he slept with girls at parties…And even more times where he threw up on girls at parties.
His style was a big disappointment to his family. He constantly wore black and skinny jeans, much like the teenagers of downtown London. The high-class families that filled England were getting more and more disgusted with the boy’s behavior, and less and less important people began coming to see the Prince. But it didn’t matter to him---he didn’t really want to be King anyway, his brother did. Christian, his younger brother, was only ten months younger than his brother, but he seemed so much more mature. He was everything the King should’ve been, but because his brother was older, he wasn’t to be king for a long while. Not until his older brother died, anyway, and everyone knew that Christian was quite jealous. But was he jealous enough to kill his only sibling? People in England had different opinions, but Aiden, the soon-to-be-King, didn’t suspect a thing. And perhaps that would eventually bring his demise, but for now, he seemed safe.
Their father was not of royal blood, so he could not take the throne. Their mother had died earlier that year, and while the rest of his family mourned, Aiden was out partying again. Though the teenagers of England adored the prince, the majority couldn’t stand him. Christian was a doll in their eyes, and their worship inspired the younger male to be even more cunning. He hadn’t tried anything yet, but he began dressing better, using better grammar, and even insulting his brother. It was as if he was trying his best to impress England—and it was working. Aiden, however, couldn’t care any less. He was planning another of his secret trips out of country—this time, his destination was rumored to be America. He had always wanted to go, but had never had the chance. When he was younger, his parents sheltered their children so much, they hardly left England. But it had always been the Prince’s dream to see the world and experience the lives of other people.
So on this particular morning, Aiden seemed more active than usual. Usually he would sleep until the late afternoon, but this morning, he had chosen to rise at 10:00 AM. It was quite strange, considering he didn’t have any meetings with people, or things to do that day…According to his family’s agenda, anyway. But he was certainly acting suspicious. Every time someone tried to open the door, he would shove himself against it, and demand to know who was entering. He’d let them come in after a few minutes, then hurriedly sent them on their way. He had hardly wanted breakfast. He had a few bites of sausage, then sent the rest of his food back to the kitchen. He announced that he’d be going out for a little while, to no one in particular. His brother scoffed, uncaring, and slammed himself back into his own room. When no one seemed to have their eyes on him, the Prince hurried out of the palace.
Packing three large suitcases in the back of his limousine, he asked his driver to take him to the airport. Though his chauffer didn’t seem happy with the demand, he begrudgingly drove away. Once in front of it, the male slipped on his large sunglasses and entered the airport, looking around with a sigh. There didn’t seem to be any press around, but they always showed up, one way or another. After giving the attendant his passport, information, and ticket, she directed him to the direction of his terminal…After he gave her his autograph. With a sigh, he proceeded up the escalader—girls and their autograph collections. It was unbelievable to the male. But perhaps in America, it would be better…Maybe girls wouldn’t know who he was, and he’d finally be treated like a regular guy. But then again, it could always be worse. Wasn’t that every American girl’s dream? To be a princess, or a queen? He’d always flirt, but he highly doubted he’d ever fall in love with an American girl.
After many long, long hours on the plane—first class, of course—Aiden stepped off. He groaned quietly, stretching his arms over his head as they landed. He was exhausted, but he’d gotten a pretty good sleep. Glancing out the window, everything looked strange to him…As if he were on another planet or something. There was hardly any green around, pretty much all city. He had landed at LAX, and was grinning by the time he got his luggage. Aiden, still dressed in a black shirt and skinny jeans exited the airport, his sunglasses atop his head. He was glad to have called over-seas to get a limo, and easily found his driver. Letting the man place his luggage in the trunk, the prince slid into the backseat. “Mmn, exhausted…Driver, will you please just uhhmm…get me to my hotel?” He asked, glancing up at the driver, who entered the car. The man only nodded, and began towards the large Hilton that was widely known throughout the city. He had requested the Royal Suite, and easily made his way into the lobby. Easily…until the press caught a glimpse of him.
They all seemed to crowd around him suddenly, shouting his name. Ignoring them with a light scowl, he slid on his glasses, making his way to the elevator. Once inside, he quickly closed the doors, so no brave souls would try to get inside with him. He pressed two buttons to confuse the photographers, making them thing he was on his way to floor seven, when really, he was on his way to the top floor. Once at his destination, he exited the small elevator, his hands dug deep in his pockets. As he made his way to his suite, he noticed a girl looking around his age walking towards the ice machine. He gave her an approving look and smirked, and she flushed, then turned. Shaking his head a little, Aiden continued to his room and opened the door, a rush of air hitting his face. He sighed, comfortable, and locked the door behind him. Sitting in a chair near the window excitedly, he anxiously awaited his luggage. Once it came, he tipped the bellboy generously and picked up the phone. After having an interesting conversation with the operator, he eventually was put on hold. When the person he had called answered, he smiled. “’Ello—this is Prince Aiden, of England? Yes, that prince. Listen, I was wondering if you could reserve an area in your VIP section for me? You will? Awwh, thanks. Yes, yes…I’ll be sure to take lots of pictures in front of your club. Alright then, see ‘ya soon, then.” He spoke, hanging up the phone.
Lying down comfortably on the bed in his suite, the Prince groaned. It took only a few minutes until he fell asleep. After a few hours, he awoke, glancing over at the clock on the nightstand. He squinted, his eyes slowly focusing. It was only around midnight, so he had plenty of time to get ready. After showering and changing into his normal attire, he grabbed his wallet and headed downstairs. Luckily, the press had gone away. After his limo drove him to the club he had called previously, P U L S E, he got in without a problem. Girls shrieked his name behind the velvet rope, and he just flashed them a smile. Weaving through the large crowd of dancing people, he found his way to the VIP area. Soon, after a few shots, someone brought him on stage with a microphone. “Alright, everyone! Now we’ve got a very special guest with us tonight! Here he is—Prince Aiden!” The man exclaimed, and the prince only waved, grinning. Soon, loud rap music stating something about “Going down in a club,” and the male made his way down the stage, dancing and laughing.
Ha—If only Christian could have so much fun. But he couldn’t—after all, you have to have a heart to have a good time.
*From the one on one roleplay, The Prince and Me with Madame Mafia.
The prince was the definition of a royal pain. He would spend the afternoons skateboarding through Buckingham Palace, and would refuse to stay indoors. Though his father strongly insisted that he stay inside, the boy rebelled constantly. He’d ride off on his motorcycle, and find the nearest party, and crash there. He’d usually be found the next morning by the police or the press, hung over. Every so often, some girl would be in the papers, claiming she had sex with the prince. But regardless of his rebellious attitude, he was relatively careful. Especially with women—he knew better than to hang around them when he was drunk. But there had been a couple times where he slept with girls at parties…And even more times where he threw up on girls at parties.
His style was a big disappointment to his family. He constantly wore black and skinny jeans, much like the teenagers of downtown London. The high-class families that filled England were getting more and more disgusted with the boy’s behavior, and less and less important people began coming to see the Prince. But it didn’t matter to him---he didn’t really want to be King anyway, his brother did. Christian, his younger brother, was only ten months younger than his brother, but he seemed so much more mature. He was everything the King should’ve been, but because his brother was older, he wasn’t to be king for a long while. Not until his older brother died, anyway, and everyone knew that Christian was quite jealous. But was he jealous enough to kill his only sibling? People in England had different opinions, but Aiden, the soon-to-be-King, didn’t suspect a thing. And perhaps that would eventually bring his demise, but for now, he seemed safe.
Their father was not of royal blood, so he could not take the throne. Their mother had died earlier that year, and while the rest of his family mourned, Aiden was out partying again. Though the teenagers of England adored the prince, the majority couldn’t stand him. Christian was a doll in their eyes, and their worship inspired the younger male to be even more cunning. He hadn’t tried anything yet, but he began dressing better, using better grammar, and even insulting his brother. It was as if he was trying his best to impress England—and it was working. Aiden, however, couldn’t care any less. He was planning another of his secret trips out of country—this time, his destination was rumored to be America. He had always wanted to go, but had never had the chance. When he was younger, his parents sheltered their children so much, they hardly left England. But it had always been the Prince’s dream to see the world and experience the lives of other people.
So on this particular morning, Aiden seemed more active than usual. Usually he would sleep until the late afternoon, but this morning, he had chosen to rise at 10:00 AM. It was quite strange, considering he didn’t have any meetings with people, or things to do that day…According to his family’s agenda, anyway. But he was certainly acting suspicious. Every time someone tried to open the door, he would shove himself against it, and demand to know who was entering. He’d let them come in after a few minutes, then hurriedly sent them on their way. He had hardly wanted breakfast. He had a few bites of sausage, then sent the rest of his food back to the kitchen. He announced that he’d be going out for a little while, to no one in particular. His brother scoffed, uncaring, and slammed himself back into his own room. When no one seemed to have their eyes on him, the Prince hurried out of the palace.
Packing three large suitcases in the back of his limousine, he asked his driver to take him to the airport. Though his chauffer didn’t seem happy with the demand, he begrudgingly drove away. Once in front of it, the male slipped on his large sunglasses and entered the airport, looking around with a sigh. There didn’t seem to be any press around, but they always showed up, one way or another. After giving the attendant his passport, information, and ticket, she directed him to the direction of his terminal…After he gave her his autograph. With a sigh, he proceeded up the escalader—girls and their autograph collections. It was unbelievable to the male. But perhaps in America, it would be better…Maybe girls wouldn’t know who he was, and he’d finally be treated like a regular guy. But then again, it could always be worse. Wasn’t that every American girl’s dream? To be a princess, or a queen? He’d always flirt, but he highly doubted he’d ever fall in love with an American girl.
After many long, long hours on the plane—first class, of course—Aiden stepped off. He groaned quietly, stretching his arms over his head as they landed. He was exhausted, but he’d gotten a pretty good sleep. Glancing out the window, everything looked strange to him…As if he were on another planet or something. There was hardly any green around, pretty much all city. He had landed at LAX, and was grinning by the time he got his luggage. Aiden, still dressed in a black shirt and skinny jeans exited the airport, his sunglasses atop his head. He was glad to have called over-seas to get a limo, and easily found his driver. Letting the man place his luggage in the trunk, the prince slid into the backseat. “Mmn, exhausted…Driver, will you please just uhhmm…get me to my hotel?” He asked, glancing up at the driver, who entered the car. The man only nodded, and began towards the large Hilton that was widely known throughout the city. He had requested the Royal Suite, and easily made his way into the lobby. Easily…until the press caught a glimpse of him.
They all seemed to crowd around him suddenly, shouting his name. Ignoring them with a light scowl, he slid on his glasses, making his way to the elevator. Once inside, he quickly closed the doors, so no brave souls would try to get inside with him. He pressed two buttons to confuse the photographers, making them thing he was on his way to floor seven, when really, he was on his way to the top floor. Once at his destination, he exited the small elevator, his hands dug deep in his pockets. As he made his way to his suite, he noticed a girl looking around his age walking towards the ice machine. He gave her an approving look and smirked, and she flushed, then turned. Shaking his head a little, Aiden continued to his room and opened the door, a rush of air hitting his face. He sighed, comfortable, and locked the door behind him. Sitting in a chair near the window excitedly, he anxiously awaited his luggage. Once it came, he tipped the bellboy generously and picked up the phone. After having an interesting conversation with the operator, he eventually was put on hold. When the person he had called answered, he smiled. “’Ello—this is Prince Aiden, of England? Yes, that prince. Listen, I was wondering if you could reserve an area in your VIP section for me? You will? Awwh, thanks. Yes, yes…I’ll be sure to take lots of pictures in front of your club. Alright then, see ‘ya soon, then.” He spoke, hanging up the phone.
Lying down comfortably on the bed in his suite, the Prince groaned. It took only a few minutes until he fell asleep. After a few hours, he awoke, glancing over at the clock on the nightstand. He squinted, his eyes slowly focusing. It was only around midnight, so he had plenty of time to get ready. After showering and changing into his normal attire, he grabbed his wallet and headed downstairs. Luckily, the press had gone away. After his limo drove him to the club he had called previously, P U L S E, he got in without a problem. Girls shrieked his name behind the velvet rope, and he just flashed them a smile. Weaving through the large crowd of dancing people, he found his way to the VIP area. Soon, after a few shots, someone brought him on stage with a microphone. “Alright, everyone! Now we’ve got a very special guest with us tonight! Here he is—Prince Aiden!” The man exclaimed, and the prince only waved, grinning. Soon, loud rap music stating something about “Going down in a club,” and the male made his way down the stage, dancing and laughing.
Ha—If only Christian could have so much fun. But he couldn’t—after all, you have to have a heart to have a good time.
*From the one on one roleplay, The Prince and Me with Madame Mafia.
Xx-Alexis-Xx
Offline
● ● ● A u r e l i a
"Love songs suck and fairy tales arent true."
As the sun slowly rose, it seemed that time propelled forward, sending all living creatures into their daily routine. However, Aurelia was not a living creature, and wasn’t as punctual as most people. Yet, at the same time, she was usually awake before most people even began to stir. If you looked over at the average park bench in Verusido, Aurelia would be sitting there already, book in one hand and a delicate cup in the other. Anyone who watched her carefully enough would know that she never ate candy in the morning, at least not without coffee or tea. She always seemed to be bundled up in some attractive trench coat or sweater, looking more like a New York model, rather than an Imaginary Friend.
However, once the sun rose higher into the sky, it seemed the Imaginary Friend would shed her calm appearance and shift both her clothes and attitude. By around noon, it simply wouldn’t be wise to speak to Aurelia, as she was most likely to snap at people in the afternoon. Some said it was because her cold heart was starting to melt beneath the hot sun, so to preserve it, she grew angry easily. Of course, this was complete nonsense. A much more reasonable explanation, which also happened to be the correct one, was that Aurelia had been abandoned by her child in the afternoons, and had eventually grown to loathe them. She hated the happy chirping of birds on Earth, she hated how people happily greeted each other for lunch or coffee…She just despised everything about afternoons, so much that she often wondered why she had actually left her home. During the evenings, she was a little more laid back, but was still easily irritable. It was rare that she actually allowed other Imaginary Friends to talk to her, but in the evenings or mornings, she would sometimes have a very brief chat with another Imaginary Friend. She found it rather ironic, though, that they had all been made to be friends to people, yet she didn’t get along with any of them.Had her personality matched her appearance, many-a-child would’ve wanted Aurelia as their own friend. She was stunningly beautiful; there was no denying that, yet at the same time, you could see how miserable she was if you looked deep enough into her eyes. Despite how shockingly green they were, it seemed like they had dulled over the years. It was as if someone had drained both the happiness and life from her body, and her eyes just reflected that. Even though it was clear she wasn’t happy, the young Imaginary Friend seemed to always have a cold smirk plastered on her face. Her only joy in life was making fun of people, that or intimidating them to the point that they almost piss themselves. Still, even an occasion laugh from scaring the other Friends couldn’t get her out of her 10-year emotional slump. Of all the other Imaginary Friends, Aurelia considered herself to have the worst distance between herself and her creator. The others had gotten some sort of a goodbye, or a “pink slip,” in a way, yet Aurelia hadn’t gotten anything. The young boy that had been her only friend had just deserted her, as if she didn’t exist. It had always angered her that humans didn’t believe in her—sure, Imaginary Friends were a ridiculous notion to them, but did people just have to give them up so uselessly? At times, she wished that she could terrorize humans and show them she was real, but she assumed she’d be stopped by the other friends quickly. The others all seemed happy in their own way—most of them got along, and were sickeningly happy all the time. There was one, though, that seemed to never be happily conversing with the others. In a way, Aurelia connected with the fiery red head, but she would always have to remind herself that she simply didn’t care. Even if there was an Imaginary Friend like her in the world, she didn’t want to meet them. Though she would never admit it to anyone, she was terrified of being rejected again. Of course, her sour attitude just dug herself deeper into the pit of disapproval. It tore her apart that she just couldn’t get along with anyone—there was a point, the month after her creator had abandoned her, that she had attempted to make friends with some of the others. But that shy, vulnerable attitude quickly faded and was replaced with undeniable anger.
The news of returning to Earth was like ripping off a freshly healed scab. But it was quite obvious that nothing had been healed in Aurelia’s mind—she still harbored the hatred she held for ten years. If anything, it had intensified, rather than melted away. She couldn’t understand how the others who were returning to Earth could so easily forgive their creators for abandoning them. Aurelia thought most of them as fake for doing this—nothing but pathetic puppies that follow their owner with their tails between their legs. But Aurelia refused to be like that. She was going to take the revenge that she had so desperately wanted to seek over the last ten years. She wanted to show the boy she was created by just how awful he was, and how miserable he had made her. She wanted him to toss and turn with sleepless nights, just as she had so mournfully encountered. But unlike the other imaginary friends, she wouldn’t confess her species to him first. No, the sorrow he had bestowed upon her had changed her appearance immensely, to the point where she was sure he wouldn’t recognize her. So perhaps she’d be his own personal poltergeist, appearing in his peripheral vision from time to time, sitting beside his bed while he attempted to sleep, and whispering things into his ear chillingly. Over ten years, she had definitely planned out her assault on the young male, her rage multiplying each day. And in result of his cruelty, she had turned into a spitting, scowling b***h. It was his fault that she didn’t have any friends. It was his fault that no one would talk to her. Though she couldn’t decipher it at the time, what she really wanted to do at the time was cry and yell at him, telling him everything that had happened to her. But she saw crying as a sign of weakness—as weak as the insults the other Imaginary Friends tried to propel back at her when she teased them. In fact, she had never honestly cried. She had cried to get out of trouble quite a few times, but she had never cried from her own sorrow. False tears were all that she knew, and really, she wasn’t sure how to cry. Sure she had seen people do it, but she was always suspicious that they were faking. Could Imaginary Friends really even cry? Or were their emotions really just a bunch of smoke and mirrors? Artificial, just like their actual existence.
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Her appearance that afternoon to Earth was very…bland. It wasn’t flashy or exciting—she just sort of faded in, as if she were a radio station being adjusted to meet the listener’s location. Unlike other Imaginary Friends, Aurelia was determined to show herself to people as much as possible. She had been so shy when she was younger, and wanted to terrorize humans just as one of them. Although it would’ve probably been the best revenge, she assumed it wouldn’t be wise to frighten humans by “not being there.” Well, at least they didn’t think she was there. Even so, she wouldn’t bother the humans just yet—there was plenty of time for that later. Her main concern was finding her creator, and appearing in a bustling city just wouldn’t do. So, invisible to everyone but the boy who had made her, Aurelia shoved her hands in her pockets and walked, a light sigh escaping her lips. A cool breeze blew past her, making her short blonde hair swirl about her wildly. Once the wind and her hair calmed, Aurelia paused and closed her eyes, leaning against a wall. Imaginary Friends were supposed to be able to sense where their creators were, right? So why couldn’t she get even the slightest read on him? Perhaps it was because she really didn’t want to be with her creator anymore, or because he was dead or something. No…He wouldn’t have been dead, since she was chosen to re-connect with him and everything. Growling with frustration, Aurelia stormed off for the umpteenth time in her life, pale fists clenched tightly. Her cheeks were already red, and she hadn’t even been back to Earth for ten minutes! It was the bustling city, the loud noises, and of course the humans, that annoyed her about Earth. It was always just spiraling with business, to the point that she could hardly even concentrate on herself. [/******** this.” The female finally growled, throwing up her hands in utter annoyance. She needed a drink, or better still, some candy.
Aggravated and upset, Aurelia entered the mall, taking a seat at an empty table in the food court. She pulled a candy cane from her pocket and quickly unwrapped it, sticking the straight piece into her mouth, while she held it by the curve. The female glanced around and shook her head with a light sigh. She had remembered this mall from before—it was much different now, but still recognizable. The ice rink near the food court had been turned into a movie theatre, and many new stores had been added, but it was still clearly the old mall. Aurelia could always remember seeing Imaginary Friends in the mall when she came, but now, there weren’t any in sight. She could always tell the Imaginary Friends from humans—they had a certain glow about them, almost like a reflection on a window. She remembered being so afraid when she went to the mall with her creator, but she felt safe because she was with him. She was such a fool to trust him—she should’ve known better, but she was young and stupid, an awful mixture. But luckily she had grown out of her stupidity, unlike many of the other Imaginary Friends who were still obsessed with their creators. It puzzled her how they had kept their good spirits for so many years without souring, like she had done. And even through all of her hatred towards her creator, she just couldn’t remember his name. She could remember the face, but the name just always seemed to elude her, as if it were cowering in a corner away from the female. Despite her misery and attempts to disconnect with them, her old memories constantly haunted her, refusing to leave her mind when she slept.”Don’t push me too high, ____ !” Aurelia called out to her creator, who was gently pushing her back and forth on the swing set. His shoe had flown off, and as he went down to retrieve it, he began guiding his friend’s swing back and forth, since her short legs couldn’t really help her swing, unless the wind aided her. It was ____ who had sparked her love of swing sets, as she had always loved to feel the wind rushing through her hair. The clenching of her stomach each time her swing went high in the air made her giddy, giggling every time she returned down to Earth. And it seemed that ____ had just as much fun pushing her and helping her swing, because he was always laughing as well. However, their alone time never lasted very long, as a group of bullies that had always bothered ____ would usually show up and terrorize them. In attempt to protect her best friend, Aurelia would always yell something at the young boys, asking ____ to repeat it to them. These snarky comments, such as “Why don’t you and your big teeth go bother someone else?” would almost always get ____ beat up and teased even further. Once the bullies left, Aurelia would grab her friend by the hand and walk home with him, trying to comfort the young boy. She could never understand why people thought he was a misfit. He might’ve dressed a little differently, talked differently, even thought differently, but she never thought he was strange. He was very smart in her eyes, and she’d always ask him about things when she was curious. He had the answer to almost everything, and even when he didn’t, he was still charming. In a way, she was glad he didn’t have any other friends, as she always feared she’d get jealous of them.
But even though he didn’t any more friends in that time period, he began to grow away from Aurelia. He no longer held her hand on the way back from the park, and he no longer pushed her on the swing sets. After a while, he didn’t even tell her secrets anymore. He would only occasionally talk to her, but his care for her seemed to dampen. But as foolish as she was, Aurelia only thought that he was tired or sad, and thought their relationship was still as strong as ever. Clearly, it wasn’t. One day, she woke up and tried to talk to him, but he ignored her completely. He acted as though he couldn’t hear, see, or feel her. She would scream for his attention and pull at his arm, but he only ignored her and shook his arm, as if riding a fly from his skin. He began reading more and more, rather than going on adventures with Aurelia. Still incredibly vulnerable and impressionable, the young Imaginary Friend would just sit beside him and lick lollipops, silently hoping he’d turn to her and say something like, “Just kidding!” But of course, ____ never spoke to her again. Aurelia followed him everywhere he went, but he no longer pulled out a chair for her, or introduced his teachers to her. The last time she saw him was when she went to see the school counselor with him, when he confessed that he had no friends.
After that, it seemed like everything just sped by. She was suddenly in Verusido all the time and tried to receive comfort from the others who had been rejected. Many of them ignored her, though, and the ones who actually spoke to her had fakeness about them that Aurelia didn’t trust. In her eyes, no one could compare to ____, who she had trusted with her life. More than anything, she just wanted her best friend back—she wanted to just rewind everything that had happened and change it for the better. She began thinking that there was something wrong with her, and that she was the one who drove ____ away. After a few months of loneliness, she began changing her attitude and appearance, growing colder and colder each day. She soon began to distance herself from the other Imaginary Friends, staying in her house without leaving for weeks on end. After a few years, she finally began letting herself be seen in public again, sitting on park benches in the morning and drinking silently. However, when people approached her, she held just as much spite as a harpy. As beautiful as she was, it was strange that she had grown so dark and mean to others, and yet it made perfect sense if you thought about it. She wanted as little friends as possible, terrified to drive more people away from her. She had barely recovered from her battle with depression after ____, and didn’t want to risk being upset forever. So instead, she replaced her sadness with rage.
Something seemed to yank her from her memories, and when she looked down, she realized she had been sucking on the wrapper from her candy cane. The female spit it out and gagged, glancing up with an irritated huff. The Imaginary Friend stood up and spit her wrapper in the nearest trashcan, nearly adding a batch of vomit when she smelled the rotting food inside. As Aurelia lifted her head from the trashcan, her eyes immediately caught something from across the room. It was a male, who seemed to be glowing, just like the Imaginary Friends she had seen so frequently in the past. But as he turned, the Friend nearly vomited again as she realized horrifically who it was. It wasn’t a Friend, it was an Enemy. It was her creator, Jason Roberts. His name suddenly rushed back to her, and even after all of the years and all the changes he made with himself, she could still easily tell it was him. Her face seemed to turn even paler than it already was, and she stared, her mouth hanging open. All of their memories flooded into her head again, and she tried hard to shake them from her mind. With each memory stuck in her head, her anger intensified. ”He doesn’t even know what I’ve been through!” She growled to herself, gripping the trashcan in front of her. Realization finally ran over her, as an idea popped into her head. Closing her eyes, the female gently rocked back and forth, feeling herself “solidify.” Now people would definitely see her as if she was a human, but Jason certainly wouldn’t know the difference. She walked towards him, pretending to pass the male until she faked a trip, her shoe catching on his. She fell to the ground with a light yelp, slowly standing. ”I’m sorry, I must’ve slipped. Hey, aren’t you…Jason? I think I’ve heard of you around my school.” She seductively smirked, her emerald green eyes glancing up at the ceiling before focusing on him again.
Just as she opened her mouth to speak again, a toddler ran from their parent and bumped into her, dripping its drool on her designer shoes. Her eyes flared with rage and a snarl formed on her lips. The child looked up at her, his eyes shining with tears. He began to sob, and his mother quickly ran up. ”I suggest that you watch your ******** children, before they slobber over people’s shoes. Unlike you, people don’t all buy our outfits from K-Mart you know.” She snapped bitterly at the woman, who looked offended, but didn’t say anything before retreating to her table at the food court. Still utterly disgusted, Aurelia let her eyes flicker back up to Jason. Another cool smirk forced onto her lips, the female extended the top of her hand, as if expecting him to kiss it. “I’m Winter, Winter Jacobs.” She lied smoothly, batting her green eyes calmly. All the candy in the world couldn’t be as sweet as the revenge she was determined to stick him with.
"All the world's a stage. A stage on which you are doomed to fail."
Xx-Alexis-Xx
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[Xenophon Reginald is currently in: The Slytherin Dormitories]
How had it gotten so late so soon? It seemed as though night had pounced upon the students, and class had slipped by so quickly. Perhaps it was Xenophon’s nervousness that brought on such a rushed feeling. But why was she nervous? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen Drake earlier that day…however, on the eve of his birthday, everything felt different. The young witch felt pressured to impress her friend the most, out of all the Slytherins who had gathered to congratulate him. It was Drake’s 18th birthday, but Xeno wasn’t excited at all. In fact…she was dreading the party. ”No, no…I’ll feel differently once I sit down with everyone. I’ll have a good time—I will!” The raven-haired beauty told her reflection, her hands gripping the sink. A knock startled her from her own little pep-talk, and she glanced towards the door. A voice was heard from the other side—one of her decent friends.
“Talking to yourself again, Xeno? Really—you shouldn’t be so nervous! Drake will love your gift, I’m sure!” The female on the other side of the door assured her, then paused. “…You did get ‘im a gift, didn’t you?” She asked, and the seventeen year old opened the bathroom door. ”Yes, Isadora. I got him a gift, if you must know. I don’t know why I’m so nervous, to be honest. I just feel…press—“ Xeno started, but was interrupted by the sixth-year Slytherin in front of her. Patting the older girl’s back affectionately, Isadora laughed. “No need to worry, ‘Zeen! He’ll be closer to you than stupid to a Gryffindor!” The girl tried to assure her, bringing a sigh from Xenophon. A horrible pun, really, but she couldn’t really disagree. The name she’d chosen to use bothered her immensely, but she attempted not to let it show.
One hand trailing up to her ear, a slender finger found a stray curl of hair. Wrapping up in it comfortably, her finger seemed to pulse loudly. Isadora didn’t notice, but it seemed deafening to the older girl. Was this going to be a Tell-Tale Heart situation? Trying to rid the thought from her head, she only nodded to the younger Slytherin, as if dismissing her. “See you at the party, Xeno!” The girl yelled out, leaving her friend alone in their dorm room. Xenophon was the last to get ready, as usual. All the other girls (at least the ones in her room,) were already downstairs, talking to Drake. Taking a deep breath, the witch convinced herself that no one was flirting with him at this very moment. The thought of him kissing someone else…well, that was simply irrational. Why would he…? He knew that Xenophon had been flirting and giving him subtle hints all day. But you never knew—he could’ve been lusting after someone entirely different on his birthday.
Her lower lip quivered at this notion, and she shook her head, tearing the thought from her mind before it tore her heart. With a newly kindled determination, she returned to the bathroom and brushed her hair, sighing as she stared at herself. Her skin seemed paler than before—was it because of her mood, or just the way the lights in the room reflected on her? Tilting her head to the right in thought, she stopped her brushing. Well, if she did look this pale for the rest of the night, she might as well have something to balance out her luminescent skin tone. Slowly releasing her hair from its usual ponytail, the ravenette continued to adjust her hair. It would’ve been so much quicker to use magic, but then again, results could never be guaranteed if she used it. Besides, her wand was on her bed and she didn’t feel like leaving the mirror just to get it. After a couple minutes of curling her hair and applying light make-up, all she had to do was change.
She had decided long ago what she was going to wear to Drake’s party, but even still, she was having doubts. As her hands trailed over the soft fabric of the dress, she couldn’t help but smile a little. It was beautiful, but even more so on her. Ridding of her robes, Xenophon carefully slipped on her dress, her hands gliding over her hips slowly. She sighed contently as she returned to the mirror, looking over herself from every angle. Perfection—and the dress wasn’t half bad either! She smirked at this thought and began putting on her jewelry, carefully making sure she didn’t damage her perfectly curled hair. A necklace with a white jewel hung around her neck—easily seen as a diamond. Speckled along her fingers were silver rings, also accented with diamonds. So what if she liked to show off her wealth? Drake didn’t seem to care, but the other Slytherins might! Besides, wealth was a sign of power, and she liked to keep younger Slytherins in line. She felt like a Queen in her outfit, no doubt about it. Returning to her trunk, she pulled out a pair of white heels and sighed. Tying the thread that hugged at her ankles, Xeno nervously rubbed her hands together, glancing up at the ceiling with anticipation. Her nerves were once again setting in, and she realized the only thing left to do was get her present. Had anyone else gotten Drake a present? Unsure of this, the young witch seemed to stop in her tracks, considering her options. She could give him it in front of everyone—but if he disliked it, or if no one else had gotten him one, she’d be horribly embarrassed. Or, she could give it to him later—although, he might think she had forgotten to get it for him and bought it last minute. Tapping her foot against the floor, she sighed and picked up her gift, which was carefully placed in a green bag. Silver and white tissue paper was inside, hiding the gift from sight if it was simply looked in. Her hands shook as she held it, and the witch took a deep breath. ”Pull yourself together, Xenophon! Really—what’s to be nervous about? The worst that could happen is that he’ll reject you. And embarrass you in front of everyone…and flirt with someone else.” She said quietly, seeming more and more discouraged as she spoke. Shaking her head, she returned to her bed and tucked her wand away, under her pillow. Surely there would be no use for it in the Slytherin common room—where people from other houses were not permitted.
After much consideration, Xeno had decided to give it to him in front of everyone. Sure, she would be risking embarrassment, but then again…what was embarrassment when she would risk her own life for him? Sure it was a little extreme, but it was the truth. She had never loved someone as much as she loved him—God forbid someone pried into her thoughts and found out. Her world revolved around Drake, but she doubted he knew how much she adored him. Their relationship was much like Voldemort’s and Bellatrix Lestrange’s. Her fingers gripped the gift as her mind wandered to their relationship. It was no secret that Bellatrix had loved The Dark Lord. But he had used her, and even though they were close, it was never confirmed that he had returned her feelings. Lowering her head slightly, Xenophon sighed. Bellatrix had always been her role model—never giving up her beliefs, no matter what her family argued.
She died at the hands of a blood traitor, no less…But she died with courage. She died in battle, just like The Dark Lord. ”I wont allow the same to happen to me. I deserve—no, I demand better.” She vowed, but flushed as she heard someone close the door. Turning, she noticed Isadora once again. Her cheeks unable to switch back to their natural pale color, the witch cleared her throat. ”Isadora…W-what are you doing in here?” She questioned, her cheeks still flushed with embarrassment. The sixth-year only laughed, and cocked her head in the direction of the stairs. “Come on, Xeno. It’s not a party unless you’re there!” The girl smiled, looking up at the older witch. Isadora had always been her number one fan, really. It wasn’t as if she had done anything great yet, but the young girl seemed to know everything about her. Her family’s names, her age, her favorite things, and most importantly—her feelings for Drake. So, to keep her from spilling, the witch reluctantly became friends with the girl. ”Alright, I’m coming.” Xeno nodded, and Isadora left her alone once more.
Sighing, the female glanced down at her gift, closing her eyes in a silent wish. ”Please like my present.” She whispered softly, and quickly began down the stairs to the common room. Isadora seemed to announce her presence, as if she were royalty. Smirking proudly, the witch easily brushed past the crowded group of Slytherins, finding Drake finally. A sixth year sat to his right, leaning close and laughing at everything he said. Once the girl saw Xenophon’s challenging glare, she quickly moved out of the way. But then again, wouldn’t you? If the girl rumored to have a thing for the guy you’re flirting with was standing in front of you, her hands tightly gripping a gift bag, and her cheeks red with rage…Well, I doubt you’d stick around to see what she had to say. Sighing comfortably as she sat beside the eighteen-year-old, Xeno smiled. Gently pressing her lips against his cheek, she tossed her curled hair. ”Happy Birthday, Drake.” Was all she said, handing him her gift gently. Her thoughts quickly focused on her gift, remembering everything about it. She had treasured it, and saved it for a special occasion. It was an item she had been in possession of for years---one given to her by her grandparents. And hopefully, Drake would appreciate it as much as she did. After all, what Slytherin wouldn’t want something that belonged to the former Dark Lord?
It was one of two hand mirrors. It was beautiful, even though it was quite a few years old. Aside from the piece of glass inside, the entire mirror was made of jade. So, needless to say, it was a bit heavy, but not unnaturally so. On the handle was a small image of the Dark Mark, one that could be easily overlooked. Her grandparents had told her that they had belonged to Voldemort and Bellatrix—their own Two-Way Mirrors. Such items weren’t hard to come by, but then again, they weren’t easy to make. But from the detailing of the mirrors, it was clear that someone had taken plenty of time and effort to make them. Written in clean cursive on the back of the mirror were the words, ”For my.” However, on the back of the identical mirror that Xenophon had tucked away carefully in her room, were the two words, ”Lord, always.” So clearly, Bellatrix had given the mirrors to Voldemort…But the question of who made them remains a mystery. Leaning close to Drake, Xeno brought her lips near his ear and whispered quietly, ”Don’t open it until you’re alone…Or we’re alone, rather.” She smirked as she pulled away, one hand resting comfortably on her dress.
Her pale hand was seen clearly amongst her black dress. It wasn’t excessively long, but it was a nice length, none-the-less. It stopped just a few inches past her knees, leaving plenty of room for her white shoes to be exposed. A white silk strap wrapped right above her waist-line, about six inches of the fabric hanging from the side. Thin black straps held the dress up, but enticed the eye at the same time, making the eye take just a quick glance. Perhaps it was the style of the dress that made the average male wonder what lie beneath it… But then again, Xenophon never gave the credit of attention to her outfit. She smiled, happily taking in the attention, even though it turned back over to Drake in just a few seconds. Even though it was rather loud in the common room, Xeno had expected more people. There were at least ten, crowding around Drake and wishing him a happy birthday, but only a few were some that the young witch predicted to become Death Eaters. Her eyes found her gift again, subconsciously running her tongue across her lips. Even as he held her gift, Xenophon couldn’t help but be nervous.
[Xenophon Reginald is currently in: The Slytherin Common Room.]
Xx-Alexis-Xx
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Professor Nicholas Swan is currently: Sleeping, in his bedroom.
Black silk.
It seemed to be everywhere—shifting and distorting the surroundings as if it were clay being formed. It sounded as though waves were rushing all around the area, deafening any speech that took place within the silk. Still, there was no water present at all; in fact, everything suddenly seemed very…dry. It was almost as if the heat and energy of the desert had made its way within the small, enclosed area. A voice rang out coldly, somehow making its way through the loud crashing of the invisible “waves.” The Earth below shook violently as words flowed from seemingly thin air. Slowly but surely, a face appeared out of the darkness, floating several feet in the air. The voice was suddenly made perfect sense, with such spite and lack of care that it really couldn’t be anyone else. It was none other than Jack Fiyero. “I don’t know why the ******** they want me to do this anyway—I don’t see a reason why I’m going to need to ride a Hippogriff in the future.” The female spat bitterly, her eyes narrowed menacingly. A shrill laugh escaped the Gryffindor’s lips, her mouth opening to expose an array of sickeningly sharp teeth. But suddenly, two words flooded the area, drowning out any other sort of noise, silencing everything. “Avada Kedavra.” It spoke clearly, a flash of green light instantly illuminating from behind the thick curtain of darkness. The floating head of the Gryffindor student’s eyes rolled up into her head as she screamed, her face melting grotesquely, eventually disappearing. Again, there was silence as the silk pulled back, vanishing from sight. And there, from the behind the silk, emerged the Potions Professor, his hands casually shoved in his suit pockets, as if he hadn’t just witnessed one of his students killed. He suppressed a childish grin, glancing up into the air, as if expecting another head to come flying out of the darkness. But no—out of the darkness beyond emerged a fellow Slytherin, one he simply could not ignore.
Of course, it was Drake.
”Professor Swan, you have witnessed my power, but now…you must…” Drake began, slowly raising his wand at the older male. Nicholas only blinked, a nervous smile pulling at the corner of his lips. ”What, Mr. Arden? Do you expect me to teach you how to kill a mudblood properly? How to make them suffer for just a moments, before they’re unjustly killed? How to gain power, yet evade Azkaban forever?” Nicholas questioned quietly, his eyes finding the student’s shoes, as if too thoughtful to look him in the eyes. “Professor, I just want a better grade on my assignment!” Drake blurted out, clearly frustrated and irritated. A sly smile found Professor Swan’s lips now, and a brief nod soon followed. So he clearly wasn’t ready to accept his responsibilities yet---fair enough, he was young, and still had a lot of time before the urge to murder would be in his veins. Or at least that’s what Nicholas assumed. ”Of course, Mr. Arden.” He said calmly, but just as he raised his wand, a bright beam of sunlight protruded from the corner of the dark area. Silently, Drake continued to speak, but his words became mumbled and incoherent, the sunlight seeming to pierce and penetrate his body, as if he were a drawn image being erased. The ground began to shake violently once again, splitting in half and dividing the handsome men. The Potions Professor seemed to zip off into the light, flying higher and higher until the young male was no longer in sight.
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Jerking himself into a sitting position, Professor Swan panted heavily, his eyes flickering open to glance around the room he was in. A dresser, a small washroom, a large window, and a large mirror occupied most of the space, not to mention the large bed he was currently occupying. The man sighed and slunk backwards, the back of his head landing squarely on his pillow. He raised a trembling hand and ran it through his dark hair, a somewhat disappointed frown on his face. “Damn it.” He swore quietly to himself before sitting up again, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. Still, even with his quiet swear and shaken posture, the middle-aged Professor was smiling again, stretching his arms above his head. He glanced down at the underwear he had slept in, looking down at his morning erection. He peeked in to “check” on it, a silly smirk still present on his face. ”Hey there, Buddy. Nice to see ‘ya again.” He lightly snickered before stripping them off, tossing them carelessly on the floor. Nude, the man walked about his room as if this were a normal habit of his, wincing as he looked over at the glowing window which seemed to bear more than a college student on Girls Gone Wild. He neared the window and slowly pushed it open just a crack, taking this time to glance out at the lake. He inhaled a deep breath of the morning air before trotting over to his washroom. Itching his bare chest with strangely delicate, yet firm hands, the male started a warm bath, deciding to take as much time as possible. Punctuality was definitely not one of the Professor’s strong suits—and yet he demanded it in his classroom.
Nicholas quietly chuckled to himself as he rubbed soap across his arms, softly humming sweet nothings to himself. Yeah, maybe he was acting just a little bit gay that morning, but it was better than being a careless old grump for the rest of the day. Yes, this Saturday was sure to be a great day, or at least a decent one. After he took the time to scrub down the rest of his upper and lower body, the man submerged his head in the water, slowly running his hands through his almost silky hair. His eyes were tightly shut, and a few bubbles escaped his lips as he exhaled what was left of his air into the water. He sat up and gasped, dabbing at his eyes with the corner of a towel that hung near-by his bathtub. He paused and suddenly let out an over-dramatic laugh that could probably be heard by people in the hallway. ”I just thought of the word hung, di’n’t I?”” He said to himself, glancing down at his lower-body. ”Yes. Definitely.” He added in, before shampooing his hair. His thick fingers worked vigilantly to scrub and wash the long tendrils of dark hair, being careful to lather every single lock. Once that was finished, Nicholas submerged himself in the water again, making sure that his eyes were sealed shut tightly. After a quick coat of conditioner and another delicate ‘dunking,’ Nicholas exited his bathtub and sighed, drying his upper body before wrapping the towel around his waist. He smiled again and let out a relaxed sigh, returning to his small room.
The Potions Professor hummed to himself happily, occasionally reaching up to touch his silky-smooth hair. He pursed his lips and smiled, rubbing his towel up and down his leg to rid it of any remaining moisture. He tossed his towel on the floor, not even noticing that it landed smoothly next to his underwear. Nude once again, the Professor slowly made his way to his dresser and slid open one of the mahogany drawers, fishing through each of his white shirts before he found one near the bottom. He picked it up and unfolded it, putting it on slowly and carefully, showing that he truly had no concern for the time. He attempted to smooth out the wrinkles with his palm, but eventually gave up on it, as it just seemed to make him more and more frustrated, not to mention more wrinkled. Huffing lightly, the male fished out a pair of underwear and slid them on, bending down to search for a pair of pants in another of the drawers. As he stood, a flash of luminescent light appeared from the window, making the male turn his head. There was a female student, who couldn’t have been older than fifteen, who was currently floating outside his window. But as he looked again, he noticed that she was standing on a broom, with a camera in her hands. A camera? This girl must have been a mudblood, or a Hufflepuff to be this stupid.
His confused expression quickly warped to an angry one as he neared the window, his nostrils flaring. The girl let out a nervous yelp and sat on her broom, taking off into the sky.
Swearing under his breath, it seemed like Nicholas’ good mood had temporarily vanished. It didn’t take an amazing Wizard to figure out that he had a habit of changing emotions instantly. Grudgingly putting on his pants, the man continued to growl and mumble, shaking his head. ”I do not believe this…” He hissed angrily as he reached for one of his suit jackets, slipping it on quickly. Stepping in front of his large mirror, the male quickly adjusted his collar and buttoned his jacket, too distracted to give as much effort to his outfit as he usually did. He sneered at himself, upper lip raised in clear annoyance and dislike for the morning. ”Filthy little mudbloods.” He hissed at his reflection, which mimicked him precisely. He had made a habit of saying it every morning so he wouldn’t blurt it out at breakfast. At times, he’d have to make trips back to his mirror to repeat it, as he’d come awfully close to screaming it in his classroom. He huffed bitterly, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his jacket. His white shirt was seen much more clearly beneath it now, and underneath that, was his nearly hairless chest. He frowned again, reaching up and running a hand through it with an unsatisfied sigh. He made his way back into his washroom and looked around desperately for his hair gel. Yes, it was a muggle product, but how else was he supposed to quickly do his hair? Besides, he hated using magic to fix his hair, as it almost always messed it up.
The male slicked it up first, then began running his fingers through it roughly, to give it that ragged but handsome look. He always made sure that his hair looked purposely messed up, no matter what his mood was in the morning. God forbid he was ever seen with his hair all a mess and everything in front of his students—no, he would rather fake a sickness than be seen with un-brushed hair. He grabbed a small pencil-like object from the sink counter and neared his eye with the object, smearing black eyeliner along his eyelid. He paused and blinked, staring at his reflection with a cocked eyebrow. ”I look like a Dalmatian. A very very handsome Dalmatian.” He mumbled quietly, staring at his eye thoughtfully. He shook his head and continued with his eyeliner, rubbing it on the opposite eye, then beneath it to give him more of a rugged look. With another light sigh, the male exited the bathroom after carefully inspecting both of his eyes for any sort of mistakes. Most of the time, mistakes were not common with Nicholas Swan. He was a bit of a perfectionist, and couldn’t stand himself when he did something wrong. But of course, he was always determined to do better on whatever task he did, even if there was no possible way to improve. No, he would always find a way, even if it took pacing the world and back to think of it. His mood had improved, but he was still clearly distraught and annoyed, even though he might’ve been able to force a smile. Even so, it wouldn’t take much to piss him off, and god help the stupid Hufflepuff that was probably going to approach him with a stupid question.
With still no regard for the time, Nicholas slipped on a few black bracelets, rather than a watch. He tilted his head from side to side in attempt to crack his neck, but there was no popping noise, making him frown once again. Professor Swan took a deep breath before grabbing his wand from the top of his dresser, running his fingers across the wood briefly. He blinked lovingly as he stared down at it, easily tucking it away in his coat. Exiting his room swiftly, he made sure to lock the door as he exited down the halls, rubbing his tongue across his lips thoughtfully. The Professor quickly made his way through the Slytherin Dormitories, just to check in and make sure everything was in order. He knew there was a party within the dorm last night, but he didn’t interfere, as it was Drake’s eighteenth birthday. He too had a birthday party similar to it when he was younger, and though it wasn’t completely ruined, he didn’t want to be like the Potions Professor who had abruptly stopped his own birthday party. He slid out of the room, slowly walking down the thin hallways of the Dungeons. His hands were placed coolly in his pockets as he walked, his shoulders still maintaining a light sway, even though his hands were refined to his pockets. A huffing from down the hall caught his attention, irking him from inside—not out of pity, but out of annoyance. When he saw Aradia nearing the Slytherin dormitories, he abruptly placed his large hand on her shoulder, stopping her. ”Excuse me, but this is not your dormitory. You are not permitted to be lurking around here, so I suggest you go back to your own room before I give you a detention.” He snapped bitterly, narrowing his eyes darkly at the young girl. With one swift motion, he turned her around until she faced the moving stairs, which would’ve led to her dormitory.
Brushing past her with a huff, he rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to stick around to hear her b***h and moan about her mudblood friends, or whatever it was she was upset about. The Potions Professor shook his head and continued walking, only one hand stuffed into his pocket now. As he entered the Great Hall, a few nervous and excited giggles sounded out from each table, undoubtedly the girls who fawned over him. He trotted forward smoothly, straightening his posture to seem more enticing to the young girls. He let his lips curl into a breath taking smile as he looked over at a Ravenclaw girl, nodding his head teasingly. She flushed suddenly and lowered her head into her cereal, unable to meet the gaze of the Potions Master. Nicholas’ eyes shifted immediately to Drake, who stood out in the Great Hall like a sore thumb. He neared the boy and placed a firm hand on his shoulder, nodding his head. “Mr. Arden, I kindly suggest that you find a seat, before one of the Hufflepu---other students…begin throwing their food at you. Standing so dumbly in a crowd, you are an easy target.” He said to the boy, his hand tightening on his shoulder at the last two words, implying that he meant something entirely different. ”I would like it if we had a nice chat, as well…” He added, glancing over his shoulder to nod to a Gryffindor girl who was staring directly at the two of them. After a momentary thought about the dream he had the night before, the Professor’s eyes darted from left to right before finishing, ”And I will re-evaluate the score on your last assignment, as I have reason to believe that I…may have been too harsh.”
Nicholas released the young Slytherin’s shoulder and gave him a light, teasing nudge in the opposite direction. ”Now go, before I’ll be forced to make you scrub cauldrons in my office.” He said with a slightly joking tone, treading up to the staff table. He gave a slight nod to his fellow staff members, smirking excitedly at the Herbology teacher, letting his eyes meet her’s. He took a seat beside Laertes and nodded his head, wincing, as if afraid the man’s bird would bite him. ”Laertes. I trust you slept well? I’m a little pissed this morning…Some bloody girls took a photo of me, in my underwear.” He whispered to his friend, a frown on his lips. He sighed and shook his head, scooping some fruit onto his plate. He took a bite and shook the end of his fork in his friend’s direction, nodding a little. ”That new Herbology teacher is hooooot! Think I might have a chance with ‘er? I think her name is Lily, or somet’in.” He mumbled, his mouth busily chewing a few strawberries. He swallowed and grinned at the Professor, leaning forward to catch another glimpse of the Herbology teacher. When she turned her head, he quickly looked away, rubbing his cheek to hide his eyes, and pretending he hadn’t been looking at her. Could you say awkward? So, perhaps the day hadn’t gone according to plan as of late, but there was still a chance things could work out…Right?
It seemed to be everywhere—shifting and distorting the surroundings as if it were clay being formed. It sounded as though waves were rushing all around the area, deafening any speech that took place within the silk. Still, there was no water present at all; in fact, everything suddenly seemed very…dry. It was almost as if the heat and energy of the desert had made its way within the small, enclosed area. A voice rang out coldly, somehow making its way through the loud crashing of the invisible “waves.” The Earth below shook violently as words flowed from seemingly thin air. Slowly but surely, a face appeared out of the darkness, floating several feet in the air. The voice was suddenly made perfect sense, with such spite and lack of care that it really couldn’t be anyone else. It was none other than Jack Fiyero. “I don’t know why the ******** they want me to do this anyway—I don’t see a reason why I’m going to need to ride a Hippogriff in the future.” The female spat bitterly, her eyes narrowed menacingly. A shrill laugh escaped the Gryffindor’s lips, her mouth opening to expose an array of sickeningly sharp teeth. But suddenly, two words flooded the area, drowning out any other sort of noise, silencing everything. “Avada Kedavra.” It spoke clearly, a flash of green light instantly illuminating from behind the thick curtain of darkness. The floating head of the Gryffindor student’s eyes rolled up into her head as she screamed, her face melting grotesquely, eventually disappearing. Again, there was silence as the silk pulled back, vanishing from sight. And there, from the behind the silk, emerged the Potions Professor, his hands casually shoved in his suit pockets, as if he hadn’t just witnessed one of his students killed. He suppressed a childish grin, glancing up into the air, as if expecting another head to come flying out of the darkness. But no—out of the darkness beyond emerged a fellow Slytherin, one he simply could not ignore.
Of course, it was Drake.
”Professor Swan, you have witnessed my power, but now…you must…” Drake began, slowly raising his wand at the older male. Nicholas only blinked, a nervous smile pulling at the corner of his lips. ”What, Mr. Arden? Do you expect me to teach you how to kill a mudblood properly? How to make them suffer for just a moments, before they’re unjustly killed? How to gain power, yet evade Azkaban forever?” Nicholas questioned quietly, his eyes finding the student’s shoes, as if too thoughtful to look him in the eyes. “Professor, I just want a better grade on my assignment!” Drake blurted out, clearly frustrated and irritated. A sly smile found Professor Swan’s lips now, and a brief nod soon followed. So he clearly wasn’t ready to accept his responsibilities yet---fair enough, he was young, and still had a lot of time before the urge to murder would be in his veins. Or at least that’s what Nicholas assumed. ”Of course, Mr. Arden.” He said calmly, but just as he raised his wand, a bright beam of sunlight protruded from the corner of the dark area. Silently, Drake continued to speak, but his words became mumbled and incoherent, the sunlight seeming to pierce and penetrate his body, as if he were a drawn image being erased. The ground began to shake violently once again, splitting in half and dividing the handsome men. The Potions Professor seemed to zip off into the light, flying higher and higher until the young male was no longer in sight.
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Jerking himself into a sitting position, Professor Swan panted heavily, his eyes flickering open to glance around the room he was in. A dresser, a small washroom, a large window, and a large mirror occupied most of the space, not to mention the large bed he was currently occupying. The man sighed and slunk backwards, the back of his head landing squarely on his pillow. He raised a trembling hand and ran it through his dark hair, a somewhat disappointed frown on his face. “Damn it.” He swore quietly to himself before sitting up again, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. Still, even with his quiet swear and shaken posture, the middle-aged Professor was smiling again, stretching his arms above his head. He glanced down at the underwear he had slept in, looking down at his morning erection. He peeked in to “check” on it, a silly smirk still present on his face. ”Hey there, Buddy. Nice to see ‘ya again.” He lightly snickered before stripping them off, tossing them carelessly on the floor. Nude, the man walked about his room as if this were a normal habit of his, wincing as he looked over at the glowing window which seemed to bear more than a college student on Girls Gone Wild. He neared the window and slowly pushed it open just a crack, taking this time to glance out at the lake. He inhaled a deep breath of the morning air before trotting over to his washroom. Itching his bare chest with strangely delicate, yet firm hands, the male started a warm bath, deciding to take as much time as possible. Punctuality was definitely not one of the Professor’s strong suits—and yet he demanded it in his classroom.
Nicholas quietly chuckled to himself as he rubbed soap across his arms, softly humming sweet nothings to himself. Yeah, maybe he was acting just a little bit gay that morning, but it was better than being a careless old grump for the rest of the day. Yes, this Saturday was sure to be a great day, or at least a decent one. After he took the time to scrub down the rest of his upper and lower body, the man submerged his head in the water, slowly running his hands through his almost silky hair. His eyes were tightly shut, and a few bubbles escaped his lips as he exhaled what was left of his air into the water. He sat up and gasped, dabbing at his eyes with the corner of a towel that hung near-by his bathtub. He paused and suddenly let out an over-dramatic laugh that could probably be heard by people in the hallway. ”I just thought of the word hung, di’n’t I?”” He said to himself, glancing down at his lower-body. ”Yes. Definitely.” He added in, before shampooing his hair. His thick fingers worked vigilantly to scrub and wash the long tendrils of dark hair, being careful to lather every single lock. Once that was finished, Nicholas submerged himself in the water again, making sure that his eyes were sealed shut tightly. After a quick coat of conditioner and another delicate ‘dunking,’ Nicholas exited his bathtub and sighed, drying his upper body before wrapping the towel around his waist. He smiled again and let out a relaxed sigh, returning to his small room.
The Potions Professor hummed to himself happily, occasionally reaching up to touch his silky-smooth hair. He pursed his lips and smiled, rubbing his towel up and down his leg to rid it of any remaining moisture. He tossed his towel on the floor, not even noticing that it landed smoothly next to his underwear. Nude once again, the Professor slowly made his way to his dresser and slid open one of the mahogany drawers, fishing through each of his white shirts before he found one near the bottom. He picked it up and unfolded it, putting it on slowly and carefully, showing that he truly had no concern for the time. He attempted to smooth out the wrinkles with his palm, but eventually gave up on it, as it just seemed to make him more and more frustrated, not to mention more wrinkled. Huffing lightly, the male fished out a pair of underwear and slid them on, bending down to search for a pair of pants in another of the drawers. As he stood, a flash of luminescent light appeared from the window, making the male turn his head. There was a female student, who couldn’t have been older than fifteen, who was currently floating outside his window. But as he looked again, he noticed that she was standing on a broom, with a camera in her hands. A camera? This girl must have been a mudblood, or a Hufflepuff to be this stupid.
His confused expression quickly warped to an angry one as he neared the window, his nostrils flaring. The girl let out a nervous yelp and sat on her broom, taking off into the sky.Swearing under his breath, it seemed like Nicholas’ good mood had temporarily vanished. It didn’t take an amazing Wizard to figure out that he had a habit of changing emotions instantly. Grudgingly putting on his pants, the man continued to growl and mumble, shaking his head. ”I do not believe this…” He hissed angrily as he reached for one of his suit jackets, slipping it on quickly. Stepping in front of his large mirror, the male quickly adjusted his collar and buttoned his jacket, too distracted to give as much effort to his outfit as he usually did. He sneered at himself, upper lip raised in clear annoyance and dislike for the morning. ”Filthy little mudbloods.” He hissed at his reflection, which mimicked him precisely. He had made a habit of saying it every morning so he wouldn’t blurt it out at breakfast. At times, he’d have to make trips back to his mirror to repeat it, as he’d come awfully close to screaming it in his classroom. He huffed bitterly, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his jacket. His white shirt was seen much more clearly beneath it now, and underneath that, was his nearly hairless chest. He frowned again, reaching up and running a hand through it with an unsatisfied sigh. He made his way back into his washroom and looked around desperately for his hair gel. Yes, it was a muggle product, but how else was he supposed to quickly do his hair? Besides, he hated using magic to fix his hair, as it almost always messed it up.
The male slicked it up first, then began running his fingers through it roughly, to give it that ragged but handsome look. He always made sure that his hair looked purposely messed up, no matter what his mood was in the morning. God forbid he was ever seen with his hair all a mess and everything in front of his students—no, he would rather fake a sickness than be seen with un-brushed hair. He grabbed a small pencil-like object from the sink counter and neared his eye with the object, smearing black eyeliner along his eyelid. He paused and blinked, staring at his reflection with a cocked eyebrow. ”I look like a Dalmatian. A very very handsome Dalmatian.” He mumbled quietly, staring at his eye thoughtfully. He shook his head and continued with his eyeliner, rubbing it on the opposite eye, then beneath it to give him more of a rugged look. With another light sigh, the male exited the bathroom after carefully inspecting both of his eyes for any sort of mistakes. Most of the time, mistakes were not common with Nicholas Swan. He was a bit of a perfectionist, and couldn’t stand himself when he did something wrong. But of course, he was always determined to do better on whatever task he did, even if there was no possible way to improve. No, he would always find a way, even if it took pacing the world and back to think of it. His mood had improved, but he was still clearly distraught and annoyed, even though he might’ve been able to force a smile. Even so, it wouldn’t take much to piss him off, and god help the stupid Hufflepuff that was probably going to approach him with a stupid question.
With still no regard for the time, Nicholas slipped on a few black bracelets, rather than a watch. He tilted his head from side to side in attempt to crack his neck, but there was no popping noise, making him frown once again. Professor Swan took a deep breath before grabbing his wand from the top of his dresser, running his fingers across the wood briefly. He blinked lovingly as he stared down at it, easily tucking it away in his coat. Exiting his room swiftly, he made sure to lock the door as he exited down the halls, rubbing his tongue across his lips thoughtfully. The Professor quickly made his way through the Slytherin Dormitories, just to check in and make sure everything was in order. He knew there was a party within the dorm last night, but he didn’t interfere, as it was Drake’s eighteenth birthday. He too had a birthday party similar to it when he was younger, and though it wasn’t completely ruined, he didn’t want to be like the Potions Professor who had abruptly stopped his own birthday party. He slid out of the room, slowly walking down the thin hallways of the Dungeons. His hands were placed coolly in his pockets as he walked, his shoulders still maintaining a light sway, even though his hands were refined to his pockets. A huffing from down the hall caught his attention, irking him from inside—not out of pity, but out of annoyance. When he saw Aradia nearing the Slytherin dormitories, he abruptly placed his large hand on her shoulder, stopping her. ”Excuse me, but this is not your dormitory. You are not permitted to be lurking around here, so I suggest you go back to your own room before I give you a detention.” He snapped bitterly, narrowing his eyes darkly at the young girl. With one swift motion, he turned her around until she faced the moving stairs, which would’ve led to her dormitory.
Brushing past her with a huff, he rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to stick around to hear her b***h and moan about her mudblood friends, or whatever it was she was upset about. The Potions Professor shook his head and continued walking, only one hand stuffed into his pocket now. As he entered the Great Hall, a few nervous and excited giggles sounded out from each table, undoubtedly the girls who fawned over him. He trotted forward smoothly, straightening his posture to seem more enticing to the young girls. He let his lips curl into a breath taking smile as he looked over at a Ravenclaw girl, nodding his head teasingly. She flushed suddenly and lowered her head into her cereal, unable to meet the gaze of the Potions Master. Nicholas’ eyes shifted immediately to Drake, who stood out in the Great Hall like a sore thumb. He neared the boy and placed a firm hand on his shoulder, nodding his head. “Mr. Arden, I kindly suggest that you find a seat, before one of the Hufflepu---other students…begin throwing their food at you. Standing so dumbly in a crowd, you are an easy target.” He said to the boy, his hand tightening on his shoulder at the last two words, implying that he meant something entirely different. ”I would like it if we had a nice chat, as well…” He added, glancing over his shoulder to nod to a Gryffindor girl who was staring directly at the two of them. After a momentary thought about the dream he had the night before, the Professor’s eyes darted from left to right before finishing, ”And I will re-evaluate the score on your last assignment, as I have reason to believe that I…may have been too harsh.”
Nicholas released the young Slytherin’s shoulder and gave him a light, teasing nudge in the opposite direction. ”Now go, before I’ll be forced to make you scrub cauldrons in my office.” He said with a slightly joking tone, treading up to the staff table. He gave a slight nod to his fellow staff members, smirking excitedly at the Herbology teacher, letting his eyes meet her’s. He took a seat beside Laertes and nodded his head, wincing, as if afraid the man’s bird would bite him. ”Laertes. I trust you slept well? I’m a little pissed this morning…Some bloody girls took a photo of me, in my underwear.” He whispered to his friend, a frown on his lips. He sighed and shook his head, scooping some fruit onto his plate. He took a bite and shook the end of his fork in his friend’s direction, nodding a little. ”That new Herbology teacher is hooooot! Think I might have a chance with ‘er? I think her name is Lily, or somet’in.” He mumbled, his mouth busily chewing a few strawberries. He swallowed and grinned at the Professor, leaning forward to catch another glimpse of the Herbology teacher. When she turned her head, he quickly looked away, rubbing his cheek to hide his eyes, and pretending he hadn’t been looking at her. Could you say awkward? So, perhaps the day hadn’t gone according to plan as of late, but there was still a chance things could work out…Right?
Professor Nicholas Swan is currently: Beside Laertes, in the Great Hall.
Xx-Alexis-Xx
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• • •_______ { ` R e d } - - - >
M A R K U K
Knock knock, who's there?
It's me. Wondering why you're not naked.
No, I don't have feelings, 'cause feelings are gay.
ttttttttt•ttttttttt•ttttttttt•ttttttttt
- ×× pзииy ғoя youя тнougнтs. . .
_____________________ ×× s т α я т
⋆⋆ The birth certificate says ‖ » » Markuk Damien Klemens
⋆⋆ But all my friends will call me ‖ » » I believe the name around town is "Dickbag."
⋆⋆ This year I will be ‖ » » Nineteen.
⋆⋆ Because I was born on ‖ » » July 27th
⋆⋆ The stars tell stories ‖ » » Leader of the Pride; Leo
⋆⋆ Look but don't touch ‖ » » The most masculine thing on the planet.
_____________________ ×× ∂ ι g g ι и g
⋆⋆ Take a gander ‖ » » I'm obviously very attractive. I constantly have girls flocking over me, reminding me that I'm perfect from head to toe. I take great pride in my physical fitness, as high-class sports have been treasured in my family for generations. I am actively enrolled in polo, as my father has many prize-winning horses that he shows frequently. I used to be involved in fencing, croquet, and tennis, but as I've grown older, I don't have as much time for leisurely sports. I believe my body is better than perfect, as I've taken years and years to perfect it. Anyone who doubts the quality of my frame is simply jealous, poor, and idiotic. I've been compared to the Greek Gods before, but honestly, I think that's obvious. I have chiseled abs, strong cheek bones, and beautiful pale skin; who wouldn't want to ******** me?
I have always had platinum blonde hair. Like my mother, I was born with dirty-blonde hair, but it became lighter as I got older. By the time I was in ninth grade, I outshone everyone else, in more ways than one. I have sea-green eyes that shine as if they were made to replicate Galaxies, themselves. Some people have referred to me as a Nazi, just because I'm of German descent, have platinum blonde hair, and have light-toned eyes. It's amazing how ignorant some people can be, and though I fully judge other people, it's wrong to judge a beautiful person such as myself. As I said before, I've been noted for having very strong cheek bones. Just by glancing at me, you can tell that I am German, since we're known for having such dominant bone structure. Unlike my grandparents, however, I do not have an accent. At times, I wish I had a German accent, as it definitely makes people swoon, but I suppose that would add to my "Nazi" appearance, wouldn't it?
I generally wear nice clothes. I refuse to wear "jeans and a t-shirt," as I believe it to be tacky. If I was trying to look poor, I think I would just ride the public bus in jeans and some disgusting shirt with a stain on it. Yes, that's the American Dream these days, isn't it? Ugh, no wonder no one likes America anymore. No, I prefer to wear trench coats, designer shoes, and decent-looking outfits. I usually wear gloves, mostly because I wouldn't be caught dead touching anything a poor person has touched. I mean, honestly, can you imagine me touching a shopping cart that some bum has carted around? Ugh, just the thought of it makes me sick to my stomach. That is precisely the reason my family pays our butlers to shop for us--I'm to disgusted to touch anything in those wretched places.
Obviously, girls are throwing themselves at me constantly. I always expect to be flocked by men and women when I enter any sort of place, as it's basically inevitable. People will always recognize how gorgeous I am, and there's no way to avoid it, except maybe draping myself in a blanket. I've never had self-esteem problems, because there is no possible way that I could doubt how great I look. In fact, even when I've argued with girls I've slept with, they can never deny they're still attracted to me. I think it's the one power I have over people; I can make them bend to my will by flirting with them, and making them think I actually like them. This of course, if a laughable concept, as I'm rarely attracted to anyone these days. I just find all girls the same--drooling and begging for my attention. It's just so pathetic. I don't mind sleeping with them, of course, but this doesn't mean I'm really attracted to them. It takes a strong backbone and a strong will to attract me, not just a great a**.
⋆⋆ Sit and listen ‖ » » I, personally think I am a very kind person. Well, kind to the rich, anyway. I suppose I'm the polar opposite of Robin Hood--I don't care much for those who are poor, if you want to say it nicely. I'm an elitist, make no doubt about it, and I only associate with those who are just as wealthy as I am. Those who are into gangs, drugs, and grunge things are just at the bottom of the food chain for me. I mean, I'll sleep with whoever has a nice body, but that doesn't mean I have to associate with them, of course. One night stands are common in my apartment, which I suppose says something about my personality. I have no problem sleeping with those who are beneath me (no pun intended) but I do have a problem speaking with them, kissing them, and so on. I find the poor disgusting and it is very rare when I find someone who isn't wealthy that I actually take a liking to. They must have every quality I go after to make up for not having money--they have be intelligent, strong-willed, opinionated, and over all, not be easy. Where's the fun in just asking someone to ******** and proceeding with it? No, no, I prefer a challenge; that's what really peaks my interest.
So, as you can see, if you're poor, we won't get along. I've been told that I'm a d**k, an a*****e, a jerk, a p***k, a snob, and any other offensive term you can think of. But obviously, these are the remarks of poor people who have tried to talk to me. Those who aren't wealthy don't deserve any respect, let alone kind words. So, yes, perhaps I have been just a little bit rude to people in unfavorable clothes, but even if they call me idiotic names, they don't faze me. I mean, do I honestly look like the type who cares what some ******** hood rat says about me? Please, that's like asking a crack-head what they think of the Anti-Drug program. Sarcasm is a large part of my vocabulary, as it's generally the only type of speech I grace poverty with. Being humorous isn't easy for me, as my jokes always come out rather depressing and cruel. Of course, the other men who play polo with me find them hilarious, I can't really impress people I fancy with them. So yes, being funny is out, but I don't need humor to make myself attractive, as I already am. Besides, making people laugh is over-rated; that's what you pay comedians for, so why take away from their earnings? I lure in my sexual partners with my charm, my wit, and my appearance, rather than my personality. The only thing girls need to know before we have sex is that I'm well endowed and I am not looking for commitment.
I'm not one of those bullshitting saps who say something along the lines of, "I act mean, but on the inside, I just want to be loved." ******** that. I've always been the way I am, and I suspect that I will continue to act this way for the remainder of my life. I get along well enough with my parents, stopping by their lovely home to visit occasionally. My parents are very proud of me for growing up exactly like them, and seeing as I'm their only child, they value me immensely. Some people accuse me of being spoiled, but growing up in a millionaire's world, how can I be anything other than well-raised?
⋆⋆ Now listen to story time ‖ » » Contrary to popular belief, I was not born in Germany. No, I'm not a Nazi, even though plenty of people accuse me of being one. Just because I have German blood and dislike people doesn't mean I'm a Nazi. I hate everyone equally. My grandparents immigrated to the U.S. from Germany, but my father is American-born. Of course, both he and my mother have very distinctive German accents, which may add to the suspicion that I share the beliefs of Hitler. I, myself, can speak German, and when I get really angry, I do sometimes begin to speak with a German accent, but 90 percent of the time, I speak like a normal American.
I was born in New York, New York--the upper-east side of Manhattan, naturally. My family, who has multiple homes all over the world, decided to stay in Los Angeles for most of the year. We vacationed frequently, but I went to school in L.A., and basically grew up there. Obviously, I didn't mix with those horrid gang-bangers, and hardly went anywhere in the city by myself. Admittedly, it was a little frustrating when you had security waiting outside the door as you took a piss, constantly checking if you were alright. Even so, they kept me safe from any trouble, so I can't really complain. In fact, I'm sure I impressed plenty of women when these large men were following me around desperately, forced to protect me. During these times, I didn't get laid much, but I took pride in flirting and being desirable, as I still am. My parents have always been very protective of me, not wanting me to be corrupted by the poor. This is why I was given my first car when I was only fourteen. I had to wait a while to drive it, but because of my family's connections, I got my license early. I suppose I may have been deprived of the "normal" high school experience, friends, etc, but it doesn't bother me too much. I grew up successful, intelligent, and attractive--who needs friends when I have myself?
Other than having a limited amount of friends, I've grown up fine. Of course, having supernatural powers hasn't exactly been normal either. I was out at one of the local, smaller bookstores, glancing at the books that were stacked outside the door. I looked up to see the moon, and all of a sudden, the sky flashed red. At first, it startled me, but I reasoned that it must've been a reflection, or an airplane that caught my eye. Something like that, anyway. When I was paying for my books, I began feeling strange--almost sickly. It felt as though all of my senses were being overwhelmed by some unknown source. The room suddenly smelled different, my vision was blurring, and I could feel myself begin to fall. The shop owner grabbed my hand to catch me and I froze. I saw red, but not like I usually did. My eyes rolled back into my head, according to the man, but all I remember was seeing red for a moment. It was almost as if someone had pulled red fabric over my head--I couldn't breathe, I couldn't communicate, I could only see.
It was like I was a God or something. I was watching the shop owner's life, already knowing his future actions. He was closing up his store--he began to cross the street, when suddenly, a pink Cadillac sped up and hit him. He fell to the ground and cried out once, then was silent. His breathing promptly stopped, and I knew that he was dead. I gasped all of a sudden, and felt my eyes begin to focus again. I was staring at the shop owner--alive and well, trying to wake me up. I was confused, and frightened, so I grabbed my books and left. I stuck around outside, smoking in the alleyway near the shop, watching and waiting for him to come out. Once he finally began to close, I saw it all play out like before. I could feel goosebumps trickling out across my skin, and ran forward. Just as he began to cross the street, I grabbed him and yanked him backwards. He started up with a "What the ********?" kind of attitude, but as the distinctive pink Cadillac nearly grazed him, he almost fainted.
Honestly, I was just as amazed as him. I saved someone's life that night, but somehow...I couldn't help but wonder if I should've. Who am I to intrude on the ending of someone else's life? It was then that I decided I would use this ability as I saw fit, not just do the heroic thing. After all, I've been a jerk all my life; why stop now?
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⋆⋆ I often indulge myself in ‖ » » This is much harder for me to fill out, you see. I enjoy politics immensely, as my parents are both in the industry; my father is an adviser for some of the highest-ranking men in the country and my mother works as a member of Congress. I have a very strong interest in books, as it is what I usually invest my time in. In fact, I've been employed by a local company as a journalist on current events and classic books. So, you'll most commonly find me sitting in a comfortable chair at our local Coffee Bean, reading or typing away on my laptop. And there is an attractive young woman who works there who I've taken quite a fancy too. She acts as though she isn't attracted to me mentally, but honestly, who could resist a wealthy young man like myself? Still, I like a nice challenge, and I'm sure she'll bend to my will eventually. It's almost refreshing that a girl isn't tripping all over herself to talk to me, but I'll find it amusing when I finally break her. It's partly attractive, but also a bit annoying to have to work for a nice screw.
⋆⋆ Get those things away ‖ » » I can't stand when girls flock over me. It's like, yeah, I'm obviously sexy, but do you really need to follow me around? It's hilarious and pathetic all at once. I also hate when girls expect me to do all the work in a relationship--women are expected to do all the cooking, all the cleaning, and of course, please a man when he wants them to. Women who believe in the whole "Feminist" bullshit are just stupid, in my opinion. Ever since I was a child, I've had a strong disliking for television; in fact, I find it revolting and will not watch it at all. I don't even OWN a television, and in this day and age, that is obviously strange. I really can't stand dogs, as well. I just find the whole "chasing you around and begging for morsels of food" act really annoying. My parents had a dog when I was very young, but we never got along at all. I may or may not have left the back gate open one day, resulting in a "Lost Dog." We (thankfully) never found Monroe again.
⋆⋆ I was born special ‖ » » I've been said to misuse a psychic vision or two.
⋆⋆ Never forget these! ‖ » » Not many people know this, but I have an intense phobia regarding public buses. Perhaps it's the fact that they're a breeding ground for germs that bothers me. Although, it may be because so many poor people ride them, but either way, would rather walk some where than ride one of those disgusting machines. Thank God for limo services. Whenever I'm in extremely cold weather, my psychic visions will occur at an overwhelming rate, and I'll begin to see multiple "scenes" at once. If I'm in a very hot environment, I wont receive any visions at all.
⋆⋆ Who comes for play dates ‖ » » Straight as a nail, but I do like to tease...
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⋆⋆ My stereo is playing ‖ » » The Satirist's Love Song - Lemon Demon, Show Me Your Genitals - Jon Lajoie
⋆⋆ I'm sure I forgot something ‖ » » I am quite skilled at horse-riding, though you'll hardly see me riding off into the sun-set with some stupid whore. I go to the Coffee Bean every day. Brushing against someone may or may not trigger my powers.
⋆⋆ My favorite colors ‖ » » Black Licorice and Majestic Maroon.
⋆⋆ Not myself? Then I must be... ‖ » » Xx-Alexis-Xx
ttttttttt•ttttttttt•ttttttttt•ttttttttt
Women are only good for three things:
Cooking, cleaning and vaginas.
I can give good sex to you, 'cause I am really good at sex..
Women are only good for three things:
Cooking, cleaning and vaginas.
I can give good sex to you, 'cause I am really good at sex..
Xx-Alexis-Xx
Offline
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P H O E B E
Pheebs
Are we human, or are we denser?
My sign is vital,
my hands are cold.
⋆⋆ The birth certificate says ‖ » » Phoebe Aeron Pallas.
⋆⋆ But all my friends will call me ‖ » » Pheebs, Phoebe.
⋆⋆ This year I will be ‖ » » Seventeen.
⋆⋆ Because I was born on ‖ » » March 3rd.
⋆⋆ The stars tell stories ‖ » » Pisces.
⋆⋆ Look but don't touch ‖ » » 100% p***s-Free.
⋆⋆ Take a gander ‖ » » I have red hair, originally, but since I was about thirteen, I've been dying it a more auburn color. It's about shoulder-length, but sometimes I let it get a longer. I mean, my hair isn't really a big priority to me, if I see it needs to be dyed, I won't leave to go buy some right away. It can wait a few days, or a week or two; it's not like I have anyone to impress with it, anyway. It looks redder than it actually is, compared to my pale skin. Some people even ask me if I'm Mexican, just because of the strange pairing. No, I'm pretty much the definition of Caucasian. I have no rhythm, I have big eyes, and my hips are pretty un-proportional to my chest. I've always had a relatively small chest, something it's natural to be self-conscious about, I guess. Small chests are the gossip of the year, especially down here, where it's basically mandatory to get a boob-job. I have a pretty big a**, for what it's worth, which kind of makes me wonder how I'd fit in on the East Coast. I've heard they're much more accepting when it comes to average girls, but who knows? I have to accept the fact that I'm here, in Silicone-Breast Valley.
I'm not fat, but I'm not thin. I'm just sort of average, considering my height. I stand at a somewhat meek height of five feet, four inches. My mom is around my height, a little taller than me, though. My father is around six feet tall, so I guess all-in-all we're a pretty average family, looks-wise. I take that back, we're an average family everything-wise. I think the only thing about that isn't really average is my face. I have really plush lips, similar to those of a Russian mail-order bride, maybe. My nose is unnaturally large, but I think my lips kind of camouflage it, as long as you don't look too close. But I suppose I'd rather have a large nose than a bird-like nose; I feel kind of bad for people who look like Toucan Sam or something. Of course, my eyes are probably the most noticeable thing about me. They're blue, with a bit of a hazel center, but look rather similar to peacock feathers. My eyelashes are pretty long, to boot, making my eyes my best feature, by far.
I think I have a nice neck, also. It's pretty long, considering I, myself, am pretty short. It's five inches long, which is pretty interesting I thought--I know Sarah Silverman has a 6-inch neck, but I'm not really jealous. I think that's when it reaches a point of freakish height, although she is well-proportioned. Ugh, just the name Sarah brings back bad memories, reminding me how ugly I consider myself now. I mean, I always considered myself pretty good looking, but as soon as my ex-girlfriend spewed out those horrible, life-changing words, all I see in the mirror is a fat, pathetic idiot. I stray away from people so much because I'm afraid if they look close enough, they'll see the same thing. I'm too afraid to get close to someone again, because honestly, I just don't want to be hurt. Can you see it in my eyes? How I desperately revolt against, yet crave a decent friendship, or possibly a relationship? No, I'm sure you don't, since my eyes are always fixed on the ground, or the next problem ahead of me.
I don't really like working out, but I do it anyway. I mean, besides all my running, I like to try yoga and cardio workouts, even the occasional Ty-Bo. I dread the three days I go to the gym per week, but I guess it's a good way to get my mind off of things. I focus more on, "Ow, ow ow, my ******** thighs!" but that's beside the point, isn't it? I think the self-torture of fitness is something I need to engage in constantly, because one, I'd like to have a nicer body, two I kind of need the abuse, and three, it takes my mind off of things. But I'll be honest--in Ty-Bo, I absolutely loathe double time. I can always tell when he's about to say it, too, he always just pauses, closes his eyes in concentration and screams it, "ANNNNNDDD DOUBLE TIME!" I follow along, regrettably, but I always end up sore after a few rounds of it. Ugh, it makes my body ache just thinking about it.
I dress in whatever will still fit me, these days. I haven't gone clothes shopping in...eight months, maybe? I dread picking out clothes to wear, so I usually just go with whatever's in my closet. Jeans and a long-sleeved shirt? Fine. A tank top and a pair of torn khaki's? As long as it's in my closet. I have mostly jeans, though, so I tend to wear different variations of them. Blue jeans, faded ones, black jeans, some of those florescent-colored ones...I'm just a jeans person, I guess, mostly because they go with almost everything. I don't usually wear jewelery, except for maybe a necklace now and then. But I don't really have any rings, or earrings that I wear anywhere. I'm just sort of plain, I suppose; I don't pick out my outfits the night before, I just grab stuff from my closet (make sure it matches, at least a little bit) and go. I don't spend too much time on my hair in the morning, either. I brush it, maybe straighten it a little bit, and go to school. Is there really a point to getting all dressed up for myself?
⋆⋆ Sit and listen ‖ » » I'll come out with it right away, I'm very insecure. I felt like I fit in when I lived in San Fransisco, but I suppose people were much more accepting in general there. Ever since we moved to L.A., I've just secluded myself away more and more. I suppose it's somewhat pathetic; I often wish I could just muster up the gumption to be a b***h, or something similar. I'm just left feeling worthless, though, so consequently, I keep to myself, not straying far out of my comfort zone. I've started to realize just how worthless I am; in fact, it's hard to think of how I didn't realize it before. I know it's probably just Sarah's words rattling around in my head, but I've come to believe in them completely. Or at least, almost completely. It's like I'm doomed to give into her power, regardless of how I fight it. I suppose I'm just weaker than I let on. Or maybe it's clear to see--I'm not exactly sure how that works. Either way, I've grown to dislike myself more and more, and that's probably the first thing that's apparent about myself.
People always tell me I take things way too seriously. I guess I'm a literal person--studying the stars and reading through mythology about it has made me rather boring, I guess. I like Greek Mythology, or anything relating to the stars, like Astrology. Has this dulled my personality? Probably. I'm probably the least-likely to get a joke, and would probably take some offense to a sexual joke. Not that I'm a prude, but I do get pretty butt-hurt about things most of the time. Just personal attacks, or what I assume is one, hurt badly now, like pouring lemon juice on an open cut. I think I just have trouble being myself, as I've lost what I used to be since moving here. I used to be happy, funny, and really outgoing, but now it's like my soul has been sucked out of my system or something. I wish I was back in San Fransisco, but I don't want to dread on the past too much and get upset. Then again, I hardly get upset anymore. In a way, I enjoy bottling up my emotions, because it gives me another chance to ignore them. I hate dealing with feelings of any kind--I just kind it so frustrating to express emotion now. And whenever I actually do stay and face something, it usually results in a large blow-up, and a stopper in the relationship it involves. I just prefer running away from my problems, literally and metaphorically speaking.
I guess you could call me an old soul. I don't really fit in with the norm--I like classical music, waltzing in the dark with myself, reading by candle light. I'm not really into the mainstream look, or the mainstream anything, for that matter. Unfortunately, I have a habit of giving up easily. If I try once or twice and fail, I usually just write off the task completely. If someone else convinces me I'll be unable to accomplish something, I may not even try it. I suppose I'm really clay-like, in the sense that I'll bend easily to someone else's will. I'm a people pleaser, despite how much I try not to care of what people want. I wish I could be like those people who are just kind of like, "******** you," and storm off. I usually stay meekly and ask if I can help with something. Easy to corrupt, I suppose. This will probably be my downfall in the end.
⋆⋆ Now listen to story time ‖ » » I was born and raised in Northern California. I found refuge in San Fransisco for quite some time, but eventually had to move to the Los Angeles area because of my parents' work. My mother and father are rather popular in the Real Estate business, and thought for some reason the market would be better here. Of course, Southern California is much less accepting, so we've had a rather dreadful time adjusting. Now, it's normal for me to be called a dyke, constantly offered a "good curb stomping." It's ridiculous, having to keep your own sexuality a secret now. When I was younger, my friends and family seemed fine with it, but ever since we moved south, the subject is uncomfortable. Apparently, my parents have adopted the trend of being homophobic, and don't like to admit that I'm a lesbian. My mother tries to suggest men I should try dating, while my father forbids me of bringing home any girls, fearing I'll sleep with one. This change in the people who are supposed to be close to me is both terrifying and fascinating. I don't wish that my parents accepted me anymore--I gave up on wishing a while ago. I try not to mention who I'm attracted to or even who I'm friends with around them, and they don't probe much anymore, except my mother suggesting partners. It's almost as if she wants me to sleep with a guy, hoping it'll convert me. They're simply unwilling to admit the possibility that I could be gay, even though I am. It's an extremely frustrating topic, and usually ends in feuds that last for days.
We moved to Southern California when I was fourteen, so clearly, we haven't been here very long. I still haven't adjusted though, and only have a scattered group of friends. I don't mind being alone, but there are times when I wish I could tell someone other than my cat what I feel. I don't act out for attention, like so many troubled teens apparently do, but I stick to the background. I think the most appropriate classification for me would be a wallflower. Since we moved, I haven't really stood out that much--I like to sit in my room and paint with my stereo turned up high. I've always found comfort in expressing myself in art; painting, sketching, photography, I'm rather fond of each. Although, admittedly, I never quite got the hang of pottery. When I finish a painting, instead of hurrying downstairs, showing it to my parents and hanging it on the wall, I stuff it into my closet. I wouldn't say that I'm ashamed of my art, but I figure, no one will appreciate it besides myself, until I eventually get sick of it and throw it out. So I store them all in my closet, for a rainy day of reminiscing. All of my photographs are stored in my second drawer in my dresser, and as you may of guessed, I never open it, unless I'm dumping some images into it. In a way, when I put my art away, it symbolizes throwing them away completely. Maybe I feel like if I don't hide my work, someone else will throw it away, because they'll finally notice what a failure I am? Or maybe I'm just over-analyzing things. Ever since we moved down here, my father has accused me of over-analyzing everything I get upset about. So, regrettably, I've learned to ward off anything that hurts me; friends, people, dates. It's as if it's all been shoved into my dresser or my closet.
If anything does hurt me, though, I run. I run like hell, as far away as I possibly can. I usually stop when I reach a body of water, and try to calm myself down. I always relax a little more when I'm staring into the liquid abyss of a lake or the beach, even a neighbor's swimming pool will suffice sometimes. I guess fish of a...scale...school together? Alright, that turned out terribly. Basically, I associate my fascination with water with being a Pisces, the astrological sign of the fish. But water isn't the only landscape I take refuge in--I've also been found staring at the stars. Astronomy is one of the few topics I find absolutely captivating; I could stare at Orion's Belt for hours. Sometimes, I stay up until four or five o' clock AM, just watching the constellations, contemplating existence. I've always wondered if there is a bigger purpose in life, or if we are simply human. It's a rather blunt thought, but of course, there's no way to answer it. If humans are to be so remarkable, why do we kill, why do we do nothing with our lives 93 percent of the time? I've never had the opportunity to share this thinking with anyone, even when I lived up North. Whenever someone talks about space, the universe and everything, people assume they're some Star Trek fanatic. So I keep my art, my sexuality and my fascinations bottled up like a Genie, obviously giving me little to talk about. I'm a bit of a ******** when it comes to...well, everything. Believe it or not, I used to be rather confident. I had my own art gallery set up in an abandoned house on the end of town, and my friends would always stop by. But now, it seems like a fantasy to even remember that. I've grown cold and boring, a joke, basically. I can't say I blame my peers for not wanting to be my friend; it's not like I'd have anything interesting to say if someone did happen to sit near me.
My parents are very mainstream, sometimes to the point where you think they're Stepford parents or something. They've always been into that two kids happy kids, white picket fence in suburbia idea, but I guess things didn't turn out as they planned. The doctor told my mom that she couldn't have children, but by some miracle, (or curse) I came about. They tried again, and after about ten years, my mom got pregnant. She, unfortunately, had a miscarriage, and she and my father were never the same after that. They had a rift between them, between all of us. I think more than anything, they always think, "What if we had the other child instead of Phoebe?" I just always get the feeling that's what they want to ask, but are afraid of the answer. I think they believe this child would've been the opposite of me; a star-athlete, popular with their peers, and a joy to be around. I think the thought of a better child just makes my parents more ashamed of me, in a way. Not that this really hurts my feelings or anything, can you blame them for wanting more than they have? It's human nature, really. I'm all-too-familiar with disappointment, so strangely enough, I'm not angry at my parents for their obvious disappointment in me. I may sound quite plain and terrible as I write this, and you may be asking yourself if I am unhappy. The answer is yes, but I think that's just as much of human nature as breathing is. I've tried taking my life only once, and obviously failed. I get by now, not happily, but living one day to the next. Whoever said, "Live each day like it was your last" obviously never lived in Southern California, where life is sucked mercilessly from your soul.
I was in a relationship about a year after we moved here; it lasted about a year and a half, ending in utter humiliation. I was led on to believe that I was worth something, that I was intelligent and beautiful. The probability of finding a steady relationship these days is 1000 to 1, or at least something along those lines, so I've sworn off dating for a while. You just get hurt, so why would I want to put myself through that agony again? As my ex-girlfriend put it, I'm a replaceable, worthless slut, whose only purpose in life is to bend to the will of others. I think Sarah is the reason I've grown so closed off to the world, as she's convinced me that I shouldn't grace the world with my horrid presence. Seeing as no one has told me I'm anything other than this, I'm inclined to believe her. I'm sure this too must convince whoever chooses to read this that I'm pathetic, depressed, and suicidal, but I'm not. Sure, I'm unhappy, perhaps a little on the pathetic side, but I am not depressed. I refuse to lie in bed and wallow in my misery all day, so I take walks outside every day, and try to write, paint or draw something too. It's a good way to keep me from doing nothing, I guess--sometimes I just feel like a caged bird. I wish I could just run, and not be stopped.
⋆⋆ I often indulge myself in ‖ » » Cold showers are one of my favorite pastimes; I just love to feel the cool water on my face. I know most people cant stand them, but I just can't get enough. In fact, I always feel a bit woozy after hot showers. My skin gets all flushed, and I look similar to a cooked goose. I tend to flock to bodies of water as well, like lakes, pools, or the ocean in particular. I'm not really into that "long walks on the beach" crap, but I do like to sit on the rocks and just watch the tide come in. Collecting sand dollars and seashells are especially exciting for me, I have a whole jar full of them hidden away in my closet, which I'm constantly adding to. I spend 40 percent of my time painting or drawing, and another 30 percent walking. The other thirty percent is distributed amongst unfavorable tasks and activities, like talking to my parents. I've always had a fascination with watching certain birds. If it's a pigeon, I'll get disgusted and shoo it away calmly, but doves, nightingales, owls, and ravens have constant cameos in my sketchbooks. I really enjoy music, like everyone else, and find myself browsing through new artists almost every week. Right now, I'm tuned in to the Killers, mostly, along with some Kate Nash and Ingrid Michaelson. Just anything that can help me get through the day, I guess. I think one of the most prominent things I enjoy is being alone, though. I suppose I have to get used to it, since it's what I'm basically forced to do, but I do rather like it. I'm my own friend, as pathetic as that is, and you'll often see me talking to myself. I'm the only person I have who will question my theories and thoughts on life, the universe and everything, after all.
⋆⋆ Get those things away ‖ » » I really hate Ty-Bo, but I'm obsessed with doing it. I do it three times a week, long with other workouts, but Ty-Bo is just...evil. Double time? ******** that. I dislike my body, which is why I'm so into working out now, I guess. I don't really like sweets all that much; brownies, cookies, cakes, candy...It's just not really for me, I guess. I don't like to be surrounded by people, because I always feel really uncomfortable. I hate hot weather, hot showers, and just...hotter girls. It kills my conscious when I'm near more attractive women, partly because I know they won't be interested with me, but mostly because they just look, act and ARE better than me. I remain neutral on most things, so I don't really have too many dislikes. I guess I'm just a little too easy-going.
⋆⋆ I was born special ‖ » » I run the only way I know how: By putting one leg in front of the other in quick succession.
⋆⋆ Never forget these! ‖ » » I have a pretty significant fear of heights, to the point where I start to hyperventilate when I fly. We had to get off the plane and drive to Southern California when we moved, just because I started freaking out so badly. I also have a fear of getting close to people, which is pretty apparent by now, I'm sure. What else? Uhm, oh, when I'm in warm water, I start to feel really woozy and slowed-down--it's really strange.
⋆⋆ Who comes for play dates ‖ » » It's a girls-only sleepover.
⋆⋆ My stereo is playing ‖ » » Giving up by Ingrid Michaelson, The Nicest Thing by Kate Nash, Mouthwash by Kate Nash, Melt My Heart to Stone by Adele, Human by The Killers.
⋆⋆ I'm sure I forgot something ‖ » » I'm a pretty decent painter and sketcher, and I really have a passion for astronomy.
⋆⋆ My favorite colors ‖ » » Monstrous Melon and Terrifying Turquoise
⋆⋆ Not myself? Then I must be... ‖ » » Xx-Alexis-Xx
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• • •_______ { ` t u r q u o i s e } - - - >
P H O E B E
Pheebs
Are we human, or are we denser?
My sign is vital,
my hands are cold.
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- ×× pзииy ғoя youя тнougнтs. . .
"Nothing travels faster than the speed of light with the possible exception of bad news, which obeys its own special laws."
_____________________ ×× s т α я т
⋆⋆ The birth certificate says ‖ » » Phoebe Aeron Pallas.
⋆⋆ But all my friends will call me ‖ » » Pheebs, Phoebe.
⋆⋆ This year I will be ‖ » » Seventeen.
⋆⋆ Because I was born on ‖ » » March 3rd.
⋆⋆ The stars tell stories ‖ » » Pisces.
⋆⋆ Look but don't touch ‖ » » 100% p***s-Free.
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⋆⋆ Take a gander ‖ » » I have red hair, originally, but since I was about thirteen, I've been dying it a more auburn color. It's about shoulder-length, but sometimes I let it get a longer. I mean, my hair isn't really a big priority to me, if I see it needs to be dyed, I won't leave to go buy some right away. It can wait a few days, or a week or two; it's not like I have anyone to impress with it, anyway. It looks redder than it actually is, compared to my pale skin. Some people even ask me if I'm Mexican, just because of the strange pairing. No, I'm pretty much the definition of Caucasian. I have no rhythm, I have big eyes, and my hips are pretty un-proportional to my chest. I've always had a relatively small chest, something it's natural to be self-conscious about, I guess. Small chests are the gossip of the year, especially down here, where it's basically mandatory to get a boob-job. I have a pretty big a**, for what it's worth, which kind of makes me wonder how I'd fit in on the East Coast. I've heard they're much more accepting when it comes to average girls, but who knows? I have to accept the fact that I'm here, in Silicone-Breast Valley.
I'm not fat, but I'm not thin. I'm just sort of average, considering my height. I stand at a somewhat meek height of five feet, four inches. My mom is around my height, a little taller than me, though. My father is around six feet tall, so I guess all-in-all we're a pretty average family, looks-wise. I take that back, we're an average family everything-wise. I think the only thing about that isn't really average is my face. I have really plush lips, similar to those of a Russian mail-order bride, maybe. My nose is unnaturally large, but I think my lips kind of camouflage it, as long as you don't look too close. But I suppose I'd rather have a large nose than a bird-like nose; I feel kind of bad for people who look like Toucan Sam or something. Of course, my eyes are probably the most noticeable thing about me. They're blue, with a bit of a hazel center, but look rather similar to peacock feathers. My eyelashes are pretty long, to boot, making my eyes my best feature, by far.
I think I have a nice neck, also. It's pretty long, considering I, myself, am pretty short. It's five inches long, which is pretty interesting I thought--I know Sarah Silverman has a 6-inch neck, but I'm not really jealous. I think that's when it reaches a point of freakish height, although she is well-proportioned. Ugh, just the name Sarah brings back bad memories, reminding me how ugly I consider myself now. I mean, I always considered myself pretty good looking, but as soon as my ex-girlfriend spewed out those horrible, life-changing words, all I see in the mirror is a fat, pathetic idiot. I stray away from people so much because I'm afraid if they look close enough, they'll see the same thing. I'm too afraid to get close to someone again, because honestly, I just don't want to be hurt. Can you see it in my eyes? How I desperately revolt against, yet crave a decent friendship, or possibly a relationship? No, I'm sure you don't, since my eyes are always fixed on the ground, or the next problem ahead of me.
I don't really like working out, but I do it anyway. I mean, besides all my running, I like to try yoga and cardio workouts, even the occasional Ty-Bo. I dread the three days I go to the gym per week, but I guess it's a good way to get my mind off of things. I focus more on, "Ow, ow ow, my ******** thighs!" but that's beside the point, isn't it? I think the self-torture of fitness is something I need to engage in constantly, because one, I'd like to have a nicer body, two I kind of need the abuse, and three, it takes my mind off of things. But I'll be honest--in Ty-Bo, I absolutely loathe double time. I can always tell when he's about to say it, too, he always just pauses, closes his eyes in concentration and screams it, "ANNNNNDDD DOUBLE TIME!" I follow along, regrettably, but I always end up sore after a few rounds of it. Ugh, it makes my body ache just thinking about it.
I dress in whatever will still fit me, these days. I haven't gone clothes shopping in...eight months, maybe? I dread picking out clothes to wear, so I usually just go with whatever's in my closet. Jeans and a long-sleeved shirt? Fine. A tank top and a pair of torn khaki's? As long as it's in my closet. I have mostly jeans, though, so I tend to wear different variations of them. Blue jeans, faded ones, black jeans, some of those florescent-colored ones...I'm just a jeans person, I guess, mostly because they go with almost everything. I don't usually wear jewelery, except for maybe a necklace now and then. But I don't really have any rings, or earrings that I wear anywhere. I'm just sort of plain, I suppose; I don't pick out my outfits the night before, I just grab stuff from my closet (make sure it matches, at least a little bit) and go. I don't spend too much time on my hair in the morning, either. I brush it, maybe straighten it a little bit, and go to school. Is there really a point to getting all dressed up for myself?
⋆⋆ Sit and listen ‖ » » I'll come out with it right away, I'm very insecure. I felt like I fit in when I lived in San Fransisco, but I suppose people were much more accepting in general there. Ever since we moved to L.A., I've just secluded myself away more and more. I suppose it's somewhat pathetic; I often wish I could just muster up the gumption to be a b***h, or something similar. I'm just left feeling worthless, though, so consequently, I keep to myself, not straying far out of my comfort zone. I've started to realize just how worthless I am; in fact, it's hard to think of how I didn't realize it before. I know it's probably just Sarah's words rattling around in my head, but I've come to believe in them completely. Or at least, almost completely. It's like I'm doomed to give into her power, regardless of how I fight it. I suppose I'm just weaker than I let on. Or maybe it's clear to see--I'm not exactly sure how that works. Either way, I've grown to dislike myself more and more, and that's probably the first thing that's apparent about myself.
People always tell me I take things way too seriously. I guess I'm a literal person--studying the stars and reading through mythology about it has made me rather boring, I guess. I like Greek Mythology, or anything relating to the stars, like Astrology. Has this dulled my personality? Probably. I'm probably the least-likely to get a joke, and would probably take some offense to a sexual joke. Not that I'm a prude, but I do get pretty butt-hurt about things most of the time. Just personal attacks, or what I assume is one, hurt badly now, like pouring lemon juice on an open cut. I think I just have trouble being myself, as I've lost what I used to be since moving here. I used to be happy, funny, and really outgoing, but now it's like my soul has been sucked out of my system or something. I wish I was back in San Fransisco, but I don't want to dread on the past too much and get upset. Then again, I hardly get upset anymore. In a way, I enjoy bottling up my emotions, because it gives me another chance to ignore them. I hate dealing with feelings of any kind--I just kind it so frustrating to express emotion now. And whenever I actually do stay and face something, it usually results in a large blow-up, and a stopper in the relationship it involves. I just prefer running away from my problems, literally and metaphorically speaking.
I guess you could call me an old soul. I don't really fit in with the norm--I like classical music, waltzing in the dark with myself, reading by candle light. I'm not really into the mainstream look, or the mainstream anything, for that matter. Unfortunately, I have a habit of giving up easily. If I try once or twice and fail, I usually just write off the task completely. If someone else convinces me I'll be unable to accomplish something, I may not even try it. I suppose I'm really clay-like, in the sense that I'll bend easily to someone else's will. I'm a people pleaser, despite how much I try not to care of what people want. I wish I could be like those people who are just kind of like, "******** you," and storm off. I usually stay meekly and ask if I can help with something. Easy to corrupt, I suppose. This will probably be my downfall in the end.
⋆⋆ Now listen to story time ‖ » » I was born and raised in Northern California. I found refuge in San Fransisco for quite some time, but eventually had to move to the Los Angeles area because of my parents' work. My mother and father are rather popular in the Real Estate business, and thought for some reason the market would be better here. Of course, Southern California is much less accepting, so we've had a rather dreadful time adjusting. Now, it's normal for me to be called a dyke, constantly offered a "good curb stomping." It's ridiculous, having to keep your own sexuality a secret now. When I was younger, my friends and family seemed fine with it, but ever since we moved south, the subject is uncomfortable. Apparently, my parents have adopted the trend of being homophobic, and don't like to admit that I'm a lesbian. My mother tries to suggest men I should try dating, while my father forbids me of bringing home any girls, fearing I'll sleep with one. This change in the people who are supposed to be close to me is both terrifying and fascinating. I don't wish that my parents accepted me anymore--I gave up on wishing a while ago. I try not to mention who I'm attracted to or even who I'm friends with around them, and they don't probe much anymore, except my mother suggesting partners. It's almost as if she wants me to sleep with a guy, hoping it'll convert me. They're simply unwilling to admit the possibility that I could be gay, even though I am. It's an extremely frustrating topic, and usually ends in feuds that last for days.
We moved to Southern California when I was fourteen, so clearly, we haven't been here very long. I still haven't adjusted though, and only have a scattered group of friends. I don't mind being alone, but there are times when I wish I could tell someone other than my cat what I feel. I don't act out for attention, like so many troubled teens apparently do, but I stick to the background. I think the most appropriate classification for me would be a wallflower. Since we moved, I haven't really stood out that much--I like to sit in my room and paint with my stereo turned up high. I've always found comfort in expressing myself in art; painting, sketching, photography, I'm rather fond of each. Although, admittedly, I never quite got the hang of pottery. When I finish a painting, instead of hurrying downstairs, showing it to my parents and hanging it on the wall, I stuff it into my closet. I wouldn't say that I'm ashamed of my art, but I figure, no one will appreciate it besides myself, until I eventually get sick of it and throw it out. So I store them all in my closet, for a rainy day of reminiscing. All of my photographs are stored in my second drawer in my dresser, and as you may of guessed, I never open it, unless I'm dumping some images into it. In a way, when I put my art away, it symbolizes throwing them away completely. Maybe I feel like if I don't hide my work, someone else will throw it away, because they'll finally notice what a failure I am? Or maybe I'm just over-analyzing things. Ever since we moved down here, my father has accused me of over-analyzing everything I get upset about. So, regrettably, I've learned to ward off anything that hurts me; friends, people, dates. It's as if it's all been shoved into my dresser or my closet.
If anything does hurt me, though, I run. I run like hell, as far away as I possibly can. I usually stop when I reach a body of water, and try to calm myself down. I always relax a little more when I'm staring into the liquid abyss of a lake or the beach, even a neighbor's swimming pool will suffice sometimes. I guess fish of a...scale...school together? Alright, that turned out terribly. Basically, I associate my fascination with water with being a Pisces, the astrological sign of the fish. But water isn't the only landscape I take refuge in--I've also been found staring at the stars. Astronomy is one of the few topics I find absolutely captivating; I could stare at Orion's Belt for hours. Sometimes, I stay up until four or five o' clock AM, just watching the constellations, contemplating existence. I've always wondered if there is a bigger purpose in life, or if we are simply human. It's a rather blunt thought, but of course, there's no way to answer it. If humans are to be so remarkable, why do we kill, why do we do nothing with our lives 93 percent of the time? I've never had the opportunity to share this thinking with anyone, even when I lived up North. Whenever someone talks about space, the universe and everything, people assume they're some Star Trek fanatic. So I keep my art, my sexuality and my fascinations bottled up like a Genie, obviously giving me little to talk about. I'm a bit of a ******** when it comes to...well, everything. Believe it or not, I used to be rather confident. I had my own art gallery set up in an abandoned house on the end of town, and my friends would always stop by. But now, it seems like a fantasy to even remember that. I've grown cold and boring, a joke, basically. I can't say I blame my peers for not wanting to be my friend; it's not like I'd have anything interesting to say if someone did happen to sit near me.
My parents are very mainstream, sometimes to the point where you think they're Stepford parents or something. They've always been into that two kids happy kids, white picket fence in suburbia idea, but I guess things didn't turn out as they planned. The doctor told my mom that she couldn't have children, but by some miracle, (or curse) I came about. They tried again, and after about ten years, my mom got pregnant. She, unfortunately, had a miscarriage, and she and my father were never the same after that. They had a rift between them, between all of us. I think more than anything, they always think, "What if we had the other child instead of Phoebe?" I just always get the feeling that's what they want to ask, but are afraid of the answer. I think they believe this child would've been the opposite of me; a star-athlete, popular with their peers, and a joy to be around. I think the thought of a better child just makes my parents more ashamed of me, in a way. Not that this really hurts my feelings or anything, can you blame them for wanting more than they have? It's human nature, really. I'm all-too-familiar with disappointment, so strangely enough, I'm not angry at my parents for their obvious disappointment in me. I may sound quite plain and terrible as I write this, and you may be asking yourself if I am unhappy. The answer is yes, but I think that's just as much of human nature as breathing is. I've tried taking my life only once, and obviously failed. I get by now, not happily, but living one day to the next. Whoever said, "Live each day like it was your last" obviously never lived in Southern California, where life is sucked mercilessly from your soul.
I was in a relationship about a year after we moved here; it lasted about a year and a half, ending in utter humiliation. I was led on to believe that I was worth something, that I was intelligent and beautiful. The probability of finding a steady relationship these days is 1000 to 1, or at least something along those lines, so I've sworn off dating for a while. You just get hurt, so why would I want to put myself through that agony again? As my ex-girlfriend put it, I'm a replaceable, worthless slut, whose only purpose in life is to bend to the will of others. I think Sarah is the reason I've grown so closed off to the world, as she's convinced me that I shouldn't grace the world with my horrid presence. Seeing as no one has told me I'm anything other than this, I'm inclined to believe her. I'm sure this too must convince whoever chooses to read this that I'm pathetic, depressed, and suicidal, but I'm not. Sure, I'm unhappy, perhaps a little on the pathetic side, but I am not depressed. I refuse to lie in bed and wallow in my misery all day, so I take walks outside every day, and try to write, paint or draw something too. It's a good way to keep me from doing nothing, I guess--sometimes I just feel like a caged bird. I wish I could just run, and not be stopped.
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⋆⋆ I often indulge myself in ‖ » » Cold showers are one of my favorite pastimes; I just love to feel the cool water on my face. I know most people cant stand them, but I just can't get enough. In fact, I always feel a bit woozy after hot showers. My skin gets all flushed, and I look similar to a cooked goose. I tend to flock to bodies of water as well, like lakes, pools, or the ocean in particular. I'm not really into that "long walks on the beach" crap, but I do like to sit on the rocks and just watch the tide come in. Collecting sand dollars and seashells are especially exciting for me, I have a whole jar full of them hidden away in my closet, which I'm constantly adding to. I spend 40 percent of my time painting or drawing, and another 30 percent walking. The other thirty percent is distributed amongst unfavorable tasks and activities, like talking to my parents. I've always had a fascination with watching certain birds. If it's a pigeon, I'll get disgusted and shoo it away calmly, but doves, nightingales, owls, and ravens have constant cameos in my sketchbooks. I really enjoy music, like everyone else, and find myself browsing through new artists almost every week. Right now, I'm tuned in to the Killers, mostly, along with some Kate Nash and Ingrid Michaelson. Just anything that can help me get through the day, I guess. I think one of the most prominent things I enjoy is being alone, though. I suppose I have to get used to it, since it's what I'm basically forced to do, but I do rather like it. I'm my own friend, as pathetic as that is, and you'll often see me talking to myself. I'm the only person I have who will question my theories and thoughts on life, the universe and everything, after all.
⋆⋆ Get those things away ‖ » » I really hate Ty-Bo, but I'm obsessed with doing it. I do it three times a week, long with other workouts, but Ty-Bo is just...evil. Double time? ******** that. I dislike my body, which is why I'm so into working out now, I guess. I don't really like sweets all that much; brownies, cookies, cakes, candy...It's just not really for me, I guess. I don't like to be surrounded by people, because I always feel really uncomfortable. I hate hot weather, hot showers, and just...hotter girls. It kills my conscious when I'm near more attractive women, partly because I know they won't be interested with me, but mostly because they just look, act and ARE better than me. I remain neutral on most things, so I don't really have too many dislikes. I guess I'm just a little too easy-going.
⋆⋆ I was born special ‖ » » I run the only way I know how: By putting one leg in front of the other in quick succession.
⋆⋆ Never forget these! ‖ » » I have a pretty significant fear of heights, to the point where I start to hyperventilate when I fly. We had to get off the plane and drive to Southern California when we moved, just because I started freaking out so badly. I also have a fear of getting close to people, which is pretty apparent by now, I'm sure. What else? Uhm, oh, when I'm in warm water, I start to feel really woozy and slowed-down--it's really strange.
⋆⋆ Who comes for play dates ‖ » » It's a girls-only sleepover.
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⋆⋆ My stereo is playing ‖ » » Giving up by Ingrid Michaelson, The Nicest Thing by Kate Nash, Mouthwash by Kate Nash, Melt My Heart to Stone by Adele, Human by The Killers.
⋆⋆ I'm sure I forgot something ‖ » » I'm a pretty decent painter and sketcher, and I really have a passion for astronomy.
⋆⋆ My favorite colors ‖ » » Monstrous Melon and Terrifying Turquoise
⋆⋆ Not myself? Then I must be... ‖ » » Xx-Alexis-Xx
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There is no message we're receiving,
let me know, is your heart still beating?
Are we human, or are we denser?
There is no message we're receiving,
let me know, is your heart still beating?
Are we human, or are we denser?
Xx-Alexis-Xx
Offline
• • • Phoebe
{Terrible Turquoise}
Green finch and linnet bird, nightingale, blackbird,
How is it you sing?
How can you jubilate sitting in cages,
never taking wing?
Just six laps? Phoebe found herself breathing deeply, as if trying to keep from hyperventilating. 'Six laps. Okay, I don't know what the hell she's talking about, ONLY six laps? That's twice the amount we normally run! Alright, alright, calm down, Pheebs. Just don't think about it--three laps is one mile, sure, but let's not think about how many times you have to do it.' The enhanced red-head sighed, placing her hands on her hips as she doubled forward. "What am I doing? I can't run two miles right now--I barely ate anything this morning!" Her conscious was already nagging at her, reminding her how she failed by comparison to the rest of her Gym class. Running with other people was such an embarrassment--she didn't want everyone to see her run out of breath half-way through the first lap again. And of course, considering Murphy's law had taken effect recently, they had to run two whole miles. Life had began to suck long before this, but it seemed fate had to constantly remind her how bad things were. A wave of sickness ran over Phoebe as she approached the track, the relaxed chatter of her classmates rubbing salt into her wounds. How could they be so calm about running two miles? At least they had friends to chat with, and run with the entire way. Who did Phoebe have? She had herself--her nagging, negative, annoying self. Things could've been worse at this point, of course. However, such terrible twists in the day usually developed around three o' clock, not first period. Her gym teacher was too busy prattling on with the other gym instructors, but Phoebe knew this strategy all too well. 'Oh, yeah, let's just pretend to talk, so they think they're off the hook for a few minutes. Then, out of no where, we'll announce GO! They'll be so caught off guard, they're sure to falter under the pressure.' She found herself narrating their conversation in her head, her eyes narrowed intensely. There was nothing else she wanted to think about--she couldn't allow herself to get distracted, not now. She already convinced herself that everything was riding on this run around the track. Failure was not an option. Unfortunately, her subconscious, destiny, her fellow classmates...or at least one of the following had other plans for Phoebe Pallas.
As if it were a simple answer to a question, the gym teacher turned her head and announced, "GO!" As predicted, some people near the back stumbled as the crowd of pubescent men and women sprinted forward. A few people were left behind, lost in the confusion completely, but Phoebe was not one of them. Things started out as they normally did--she was fast, for the first thirty seconds or so. She had successfully managed to penetrate the herd of thin, social girls, running along-side their boyfriends. Her heart was pounding wildly, and her thought process had not kicked in quite yet. She could feel the eyes of the students around her, mockingly boring into every inch of her body. Unlike her experiences in English, Math, and other various courses, no one was making fun of her verbally. She wasn't exactly surprised, though; she imagined everyone was too busy trying to hold their own and keep from falling back. Breath was a precious necessity in their first period class, to talk was to lose it faster than normal. When Phoebe glanced to the left to track her progress, however, she noticed that one of the girls' lips were in fact moving. She squinted her eyes, and made out a laugh, then began to notice something else. They were...jogging? Here she was, running at her full capacity, while these skinny bitches were jogging and chatting. The fact of the matter was, Phoebe couldn't hear what they were saying over the sound of her breathing. Her heart continued to throb maddeningly in her chest, one of the various things that was sending her body overboard. She was beginning to slip back from the rest of the class, running somewhere within the "Look at us, we all have lip piercings and smoke after school," group for a few moments. She was a rock in a school of fish at the moment, and not even her dashing legs could keep her afloat now.
Phoebe found herself remembering bits and pieces of motivational dialogue from movies. 'You can do it, kid! Don't give up!' She found herself thinking, but even that took away from her running skills. She had fallen all the way back into the 'stragglers' group; those who were too busy texting or talking to do any running. She wasn't quite in the last leg, but she was quickly approaching it. Though she told herself not to think about progress, she couldn't help but notice that some people were already on their second lap. Second lap, huh? She was only 3/4ths done with the first! Pretty soon, the stragglers would notice they were about to be overlapped and would dash forward. Phoebe could feel her legs beginning to slow again, turning into more of a pathetic jog, rather than an actual run. Why couldn't she just make a log of the times she runs at home? She did it often enough--she just hated to do it under pressure. "You like running, Phoebe. Just pretend you're doing this at home--pretend no one else is around." She was talking to herself now, hoping it would rouse more of a reaction from her body. For a split second, her legs began to pick up speed, but they quickly realized that this little effort was too much now. Finally, the red-headed teen had called it quits. She was near the end of her first lap, but she could already hear the trampling feet of those who were attempting to hurry and finish, and those who just wanted to over-lap her. 'Just kill me now! She found herself thinking, leaning her head back as if to ask the sky for answers. Why hadn't she been given the genes to have a good body, like so many other girls in Los Angeles? Hadn't fate been cruel enough to her so far? She couldn't be good at something? Unfortunately for Phoebe, fate was just getting started.
She found herself wishing for a break, or at least a water bottle as the rush of teens began to pass her. After many-a-time of being passed, Phoebe had learned to stray to the right-side of the track, as slower traffic often did. She compared her speed to the discarded hurdles beside her and frowned, her negative thoughts already brewing. Maliciously, they began offering "the truth." 'So pathetic...And I thought everyone was good at something. But I guess Phoebe Pallas isn't an 'everyone,' is she? No, no, Phoebe is just the one that Earth forgot, and was much better off doing so anyway. What am I doing? I don't want to be a failure, but if I don't try, I'm a failure anyway. Then again, I've always been a failure---I'll never do anything worthwhile. I might as well give up now, while I still have a chance.' A feeling she wrongly identified as nausea was forming in her stomach, threatening to make her vomit. She felt like she was seeing Sarah all over again--that churning, butterfly-like feeling in her stomach that made her cheeks flush. For some strange reason, though, Phoebe began to do something she found amazing. She began to run. It was slowly at first, but she could feel an invisible force begin to push at her, sending her feet forward on some rogue mission. Perhaps she had mistaken the nausea for gumption, or inspiration, or something of the like. Though she wasn't passing anyone yet, she could feel herself pulling up, away from being over-lapped. One hurdle, two hurdles she had already passed! Out of her sheer amazement, she had forgotten to switch lanes again, though. It didn't matter to her now, she felt unstoppable! The feeling of running was so much different than it had been minutes ago. For once, she was enjoying running the track at school! It felt so simple, so effortless, so...
Time, inadvertently skipped a beat. A young girl found herself on a cot, alone, in an air-conditioned room. Where was she? Who was she, for that matter? Like time, knowledge in itself had completely evaded the girl. She wanted to know the facts before she sat up into this unknown world. Taking a minute, this clueless teenager reviewed what she knew. 'Well...I'm...on something that's very uncomfortable, I know that. And it's also quite nice in here, very refreshing for a room.' She found herself thinking, an unrecognizable, yet pristine voice narrating her thoughts. Surprisingly, she took some amusement in trying to figure out her current situation, identity, and purpose. 'I'm a female, I think.' Another bland, yet necessary observation. She fidgeted briefly to make sure, then noticed the large breasts perched atop her figure; definitely female, then. After minutes and minutes of trying to remember everything, the redhead sat up and groaned loudly. The facts were these: This young girl was unfortunately Phoebe Pallas, she was approximately seventeen years old, and her head was on the verge of exploding.
Never in her life had Phoebe expected to be ran to so urgently. At the sound of her cry, the school nurse came bounding into the room, only to stare at the young girl. They both held bewildered expressions as they studied each other; the nurse was quite round, though she still maintained the look of a skeleton, somehow. Her cheeks and eyes were sunken in immense proportions, giving her the look of Jack Skellington. Despite this appearance, she wasn't completely terrifying. Of course, you wouldn't want to bump into her in a dark alleyway, but in the beckoning light of the sun, she wasn't too awful. Even so, she looked at Phoebe as if she had two heads. "Oh! You're awake!" The nurse said, looking a bit too pleased by this obvious fact. "You've been, well," she hesitated, "asleep! For quite some time, actually." By this tone, Phoebe already knew things were worse than they seemed. She lied back down on the cot, trying to picture it as a comfortable King-Sized bed. Unfortunately, she couldn't help but feel like this King sized bed was made completely of rock, covered in toilet-seat covers. She found herself far too exhausted to sit up, though. "In fact, I was going to call an ambulance if you were out much longer, but you're awake now, so I suppose that's all that matters!" The school nurse seemed far too happy about this fact, which was suspicious to say the least. Something suddenly clicked in Phoebe's head--she was happy to avoid lawsuit. Had an ambulance actually been called, this would've given her parents liability to sue the school, or at least file complaints. For some strange reason, schools often associated being conscious with being perfectly healthy.
Phoebe, however, was not as easily relieved. "Wait, what exactly happened to me?" Although she wasn't exactly sure she wanted to hear what happened, she was curious. She wrinkled her nose, wiggling it from left to right slightly. To the average onlooker, it may have looked like she was demanding answers in some witchy way, by means of Samantha from Bewitched. Looking down, she suddenly realized that she was still dressed in her gym clothes. Gym...was that the last place she'd been? Before the woman could answer, Phoebe began thinking of her own explanations, though they sounded a little kooky at best. As she contemplated alien abduction, a seizure and various 'possibilities,' the nurse spoke up. "Well, you were running in your gym class, and apparently, someone accidentally knocked you over. Then, as the other runners approached, some of them sort of...well, went over you." The nurse rubbed the back of her head uncomfortably, clearly trying to put the subject gently. "So you're telling me some douche-bag knocked me down and kept running, then several other students trampled over me?" Phoebe demanded, still not sitting up yet. She was fuming, but refused to take it out on someone who had no part in her injury. Although, the woman hadn't even bothered to take her to the hospital! The least she could do was call an ACTUAL doctor, or an ambulance or something! Who knew how long she had been lying unconscious on this cot? As Phoebe had never known how to deal with her anger, she did what she always did, she bottled it up. "Well, I suppose that's putting it a little...blandly, but yes, that's basically what happened this morning."
"Wait...this morning? What time is it now?" Phoebe asked, her eyes furrowing with frustration. "Oh, about...two twenty-five." The nurse said with a nonchalant smile. At this point, the redhead felt as though steam were about to come out of her ears. She had been unconscious for about six hours, and no one had bothered to call the hospital? What about her parents? Her parents must be worried sick! Right on cue, the nurse piped in, "And I tried to get a hold of your parents, but they each were busy, according to the secretaries at their offices. I informed them that it was an emergency, but I just couldn't get through." Ah yes, the icing on the cake, her parents. Phoebe sighed, and swung her leg over the side of the cot, then hissed in pain. Her foot felt as if it were broken! She looked down, suddenly feeling the rush of pain emitting from her ankle. While lying down, she hadn't even noticed her ankle was twisted, especially since: 1) She had been unconscious for six hours, 2) She wasn't moving it around, and 3) She was busy with other matters, like recovering from a momentary case of amnesia. It had almost been nice not knowing who she was; it was nice to be someone other than Phoebe for a change. In those brief minutes, she felt like she had slipped off of Destiny's vendetta list. Unfortunately, that was not the case. "Oh, yes, it appears you've twisted your ankle! But don't worry about that, I estimate that it'll be better within the week. Just try not to put all of your weight on it." The nurse said, happy as a clam.
Despite the fact that the cot was the epitome of uncomfortable, Phoebe found herself unwilling to get up. "You can just go home, you know. School's gonna end in about fifteen minutes anyway," the woman offered to her, as if it were some sort of a bribe. The redhead just nodded, and slowly stood up from the cot. Her body was sore everywhere, then again, after all that had happened to her already, what did she expect? The girl hobbled her way to the locker rooms to change her clothes and collect her things, sighing every few steps. The damp smell of the locker room made her wince; it felt as if it were heated, probably some attempt to get the girls to sweat more by the teachers. It wasn't as if Phoebe minded seeing sweaty girls clad in sports bras and tight shorts, it was just...no one was interesting. Had they known this, they probably would've been offended and disgusted, but it was undeniably true. She found no one attractive at her school, or at least no one she knew. They were all stuck up, social, and secluded in their own little worlds. In the process of pulling off her shirt, Phoebe noticed that she had a blood stain on her shirt, apparently from a wound in her back. She reached up and grazed the area with her fingers, then withdrew her hand to stare. Dried blood coated her fingers, so obviously it wasn't too bad. Even so, in her mind, Phoebe knew it was going to scar-over. Once dressed, the seventeen-year-old victim of life limped to the parking lot, got into her car and drove off campus. It was always refreshing to drive away from the school, in fact it was her favorite part of the day. Although, she certainly didn't feel like going home...where should she go? Pain was constantly shooting up through her left foot, but she did her best to ignore it as she contemplated her day. Just as her mind drifted back to the incident, she found herself remembering.
Tuesday, May 12th. At 8:07 AM, her gym class began running. At 8:12 AM, Phoebe Pallas had stopped running. After a brief discouraging nag from her conscious, she began to pick up speed again. Before, this area had been completely fuzzy, to say the least, but now, she was remembering. She was near the hurdles, on the right-side of the track, normally letting her evade the traffic of the students who over-lapped her. Tuning into her memories, she tried to re-hear what the people behind her were saying. "I dare you to jump all of those hurdles, Brett," was all that she remembered for the dialogue, but she could clearly see their faces in her mind. Brett Tharrin, Julie Kinkle and (probably) Summer Harrison normally walked and jogged together in the mile. Phoebe remembered seeing them pass her before, so they must've been on the verge of overlapping her completely. This would've given them the perfect excuse to slack off. Julie and Brett had a very public relationship, in the sense that if you ever approached them, they would be holding hands, or playing tonsil hockey, or some other ridiculous act of affection. Phoebe could distantly recall the sound of jumping behind her--or at least the sound of someone's shoes hitting the ground. This was about the time she began to run, 8:15 AM, and it was also the time at which Brett Tharrin tripped. On his way over a hurdle, he had looked over his shoulder to grin, and had found himself caught mid-air, between the hurdle. His left foot was stuck behind it, while the rest of his body tried to propel forward. In that brief millisecond, there was probably one thing running through his mind, "Oh no." Brett spun out of control, kicking his leg until he was free, free to lose his balance somewhere else on the track! Unfortunately, Phoebe had been running near the hurdles, still, and fate threw him atop her easily. They tumbled almost comically, rolling around the track for a few moments, before Brett landed on top of Phoebe, who was face-down on the rubbery track. He didn't think to warn anyone as a stampede of high school students came rushing through; he got up and ran, to save himself. Much like Mufasa, Phoebe Pallas was perishing under the feet of others, being stepped on by at least twelve people. By this time, she was unconscious, however, and would never really know how many footprints were left on her gym clothes. Once her teacher noticed that someone was lying on the track, she approached the area, expecting to find someone who tripped. Instead she found Phoebe, bleeding, covered in footprints, and unconscious. A security golf-cart (as they were oh-so-threatening) approached shortly after to take the girl to the nurse.
Phoebe ran her fingers through her hair with one hand, the other still firmly clutching the wheel. "And my parents didn't even care?!" She exclaimed, as if angrily questioning the world. Life sucked, as usual. But this day was only one of many 'comical' experiences that fell upon Phoebe Pallas. Oh, like that time she was stuck in the locker room alone for two hours after an especially-long fire drill? Or the time she became sick and vomited in the hallway on her way to Science, then received OCS for being tardy. The list went on and on, to the point where it was painful to think about. "I can't go home...not yet." She found herself saying, and approached the only place she knew she could relax in peace this early in the afternoon; The Coffee Bean. It was surprisingly slow for 2:40 in the afternoon; then again, most of the customers seemed to flood in after work. Phoebe took a seat on one of the couches, making herself comfortable on a seat in the corner. Oh, her coffee. In the thought process of getting inside, not crying, and not sending a pissed-off message to her parents, she had forgotten to order her coffee. Though she didn't know it, blood was still coated on her face, from her original fall. It wasn't a huge spot of blood, but it was somewhat noticeable, dried on her cheek. She found that she could move her ankle now, but it was still incredibly sore, so she made her way to the counter slowly. "I'll...get a...hot chocolate, please. Medium." She was in no mood for coffee, and assumed fate had boned her enough times today, that she could enjoy a nice chocolate drink without an accident. She paid in spare one dollar bills, then stood anxiously near the counter, waiting for her drink. Could things get worse for the unluckiest person on the planet? Again, fate wasn't even getting started.
tttttttt 
{Terrible Turquoise}
Green finch and linnet bird, nightingale, blackbird,
How is it you sing?
How can you jubilate sitting in cages,
never taking wing?
Just six laps? Phoebe found herself breathing deeply, as if trying to keep from hyperventilating. 'Six laps. Okay, I don't know what the hell she's talking about, ONLY six laps? That's twice the amount we normally run! Alright, alright, calm down, Pheebs. Just don't think about it--three laps is one mile, sure, but let's not think about how many times you have to do it.' The enhanced red-head sighed, placing her hands on her hips as she doubled forward. "What am I doing? I can't run two miles right now--I barely ate anything this morning!" Her conscious was already nagging at her, reminding her how she failed by comparison to the rest of her Gym class. Running with other people was such an embarrassment--she didn't want everyone to see her run out of breath half-way through the first lap again. And of course, considering Murphy's law had taken effect recently, they had to run two whole miles. Life had began to suck long before this, but it seemed fate had to constantly remind her how bad things were. A wave of sickness ran over Phoebe as she approached the track, the relaxed chatter of her classmates rubbing salt into her wounds. How could they be so calm about running two miles? At least they had friends to chat with, and run with the entire way. Who did Phoebe have? She had herself--her nagging, negative, annoying self. Things could've been worse at this point, of course. However, such terrible twists in the day usually developed around three o' clock, not first period. Her gym teacher was too busy prattling on with the other gym instructors, but Phoebe knew this strategy all too well. 'Oh, yeah, let's just pretend to talk, so they think they're off the hook for a few minutes. Then, out of no where, we'll announce GO! They'll be so caught off guard, they're sure to falter under the pressure.' She found herself narrating their conversation in her head, her eyes narrowed intensely. There was nothing else she wanted to think about--she couldn't allow herself to get distracted, not now. She already convinced herself that everything was riding on this run around the track. Failure was not an option. Unfortunately, her subconscious, destiny, her fellow classmates...or at least one of the following had other plans for Phoebe Pallas.
As if it were a simple answer to a question, the gym teacher turned her head and announced, "GO!" As predicted, some people near the back stumbled as the crowd of pubescent men and women sprinted forward. A few people were left behind, lost in the confusion completely, but Phoebe was not one of them. Things started out as they normally did--she was fast, for the first thirty seconds or so. She had successfully managed to penetrate the herd of thin, social girls, running along-side their boyfriends. Her heart was pounding wildly, and her thought process had not kicked in quite yet. She could feel the eyes of the students around her, mockingly boring into every inch of her body. Unlike her experiences in English, Math, and other various courses, no one was making fun of her verbally. She wasn't exactly surprised, though; she imagined everyone was too busy trying to hold their own and keep from falling back. Breath was a precious necessity in their first period class, to talk was to lose it faster than normal. When Phoebe glanced to the left to track her progress, however, she noticed that one of the girls' lips were in fact moving. She squinted her eyes, and made out a laugh, then began to notice something else. They were...jogging? Here she was, running at her full capacity, while these skinny bitches were jogging and chatting. The fact of the matter was, Phoebe couldn't hear what they were saying over the sound of her breathing. Her heart continued to throb maddeningly in her chest, one of the various things that was sending her body overboard. She was beginning to slip back from the rest of the class, running somewhere within the "Look at us, we all have lip piercings and smoke after school," group for a few moments. She was a rock in a school of fish at the moment, and not even her dashing legs could keep her afloat now.
Phoebe found herself remembering bits and pieces of motivational dialogue from movies. 'You can do it, kid! Don't give up!' She found herself thinking, but even that took away from her running skills. She had fallen all the way back into the 'stragglers' group; those who were too busy texting or talking to do any running. She wasn't quite in the last leg, but she was quickly approaching it. Though she told herself not to think about progress, she couldn't help but notice that some people were already on their second lap. Second lap, huh? She was only 3/4ths done with the first! Pretty soon, the stragglers would notice they were about to be overlapped and would dash forward. Phoebe could feel her legs beginning to slow again, turning into more of a pathetic jog, rather than an actual run. Why couldn't she just make a log of the times she runs at home? She did it often enough--she just hated to do it under pressure. "You like running, Phoebe. Just pretend you're doing this at home--pretend no one else is around." She was talking to herself now, hoping it would rouse more of a reaction from her body. For a split second, her legs began to pick up speed, but they quickly realized that this little effort was too much now. Finally, the red-headed teen had called it quits. She was near the end of her first lap, but she could already hear the trampling feet of those who were attempting to hurry and finish, and those who just wanted to over-lap her. 'Just kill me now! She found herself thinking, leaning her head back as if to ask the sky for answers. Why hadn't she been given the genes to have a good body, like so many other girls in Los Angeles? Hadn't fate been cruel enough to her so far? She couldn't be good at something? Unfortunately for Phoebe, fate was just getting started.
She found herself wishing for a break, or at least a water bottle as the rush of teens began to pass her. After many-a-time of being passed, Phoebe had learned to stray to the right-side of the track, as slower traffic often did. She compared her speed to the discarded hurdles beside her and frowned, her negative thoughts already brewing. Maliciously, they began offering "the truth." 'So pathetic...And I thought everyone was good at something. But I guess Phoebe Pallas isn't an 'everyone,' is she? No, no, Phoebe is just the one that Earth forgot, and was much better off doing so anyway. What am I doing? I don't want to be a failure, but if I don't try, I'm a failure anyway. Then again, I've always been a failure---I'll never do anything worthwhile. I might as well give up now, while I still have a chance.' A feeling she wrongly identified as nausea was forming in her stomach, threatening to make her vomit. She felt like she was seeing Sarah all over again--that churning, butterfly-like feeling in her stomach that made her cheeks flush. For some strange reason, though, Phoebe began to do something she found amazing. She began to run. It was slowly at first, but she could feel an invisible force begin to push at her, sending her feet forward on some rogue mission. Perhaps she had mistaken the nausea for gumption, or inspiration, or something of the like. Though she wasn't passing anyone yet, she could feel herself pulling up, away from being over-lapped. One hurdle, two hurdles she had already passed! Out of her sheer amazement, she had forgotten to switch lanes again, though. It didn't matter to her now, she felt unstoppable! The feeling of running was so much different than it had been minutes ago. For once, she was enjoying running the track at school! It felt so simple, so effortless, so...
✄ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Time, inadvertently skipped a beat. A young girl found herself on a cot, alone, in an air-conditioned room. Where was she? Who was she, for that matter? Like time, knowledge in itself had completely evaded the girl. She wanted to know the facts before she sat up into this unknown world. Taking a minute, this clueless teenager reviewed what she knew. 'Well...I'm...on something that's very uncomfortable, I know that. And it's also quite nice in here, very refreshing for a room.' She found herself thinking, an unrecognizable, yet pristine voice narrating her thoughts. Surprisingly, she took some amusement in trying to figure out her current situation, identity, and purpose. 'I'm a female, I think.' Another bland, yet necessary observation. She fidgeted briefly to make sure, then noticed the large breasts perched atop her figure; definitely female, then. After minutes and minutes of trying to remember everything, the redhead sat up and groaned loudly. The facts were these: This young girl was unfortunately Phoebe Pallas, she was approximately seventeen years old, and her head was on the verge of exploding.
Never in her life had Phoebe expected to be ran to so urgently. At the sound of her cry, the school nurse came bounding into the room, only to stare at the young girl. They both held bewildered expressions as they studied each other; the nurse was quite round, though she still maintained the look of a skeleton, somehow. Her cheeks and eyes were sunken in immense proportions, giving her the look of Jack Skellington. Despite this appearance, she wasn't completely terrifying. Of course, you wouldn't want to bump into her in a dark alleyway, but in the beckoning light of the sun, she wasn't too awful. Even so, she looked at Phoebe as if she had two heads. "Oh! You're awake!" The nurse said, looking a bit too pleased by this obvious fact. "You've been, well," she hesitated, "asleep! For quite some time, actually." By this tone, Phoebe already knew things were worse than they seemed. She lied back down on the cot, trying to picture it as a comfortable King-Sized bed. Unfortunately, she couldn't help but feel like this King sized bed was made completely of rock, covered in toilet-seat covers. She found herself far too exhausted to sit up, though. "In fact, I was going to call an ambulance if you were out much longer, but you're awake now, so I suppose that's all that matters!" The school nurse seemed far too happy about this fact, which was suspicious to say the least. Something suddenly clicked in Phoebe's head--she was happy to avoid lawsuit. Had an ambulance actually been called, this would've given her parents liability to sue the school, or at least file complaints. For some strange reason, schools often associated being conscious with being perfectly healthy.
Phoebe, however, was not as easily relieved. "Wait, what exactly happened to me?" Although she wasn't exactly sure she wanted to hear what happened, she was curious. She wrinkled her nose, wiggling it from left to right slightly. To the average onlooker, it may have looked like she was demanding answers in some witchy way, by means of Samantha from Bewitched. Looking down, she suddenly realized that she was still dressed in her gym clothes. Gym...was that the last place she'd been? Before the woman could answer, Phoebe began thinking of her own explanations, though they sounded a little kooky at best. As she contemplated alien abduction, a seizure and various 'possibilities,' the nurse spoke up. "Well, you were running in your gym class, and apparently, someone accidentally knocked you over. Then, as the other runners approached, some of them sort of...well, went over you." The nurse rubbed the back of her head uncomfortably, clearly trying to put the subject gently. "So you're telling me some douche-bag knocked me down and kept running, then several other students trampled over me?" Phoebe demanded, still not sitting up yet. She was fuming, but refused to take it out on someone who had no part in her injury. Although, the woman hadn't even bothered to take her to the hospital! The least she could do was call an ACTUAL doctor, or an ambulance or something! Who knew how long she had been lying unconscious on this cot? As Phoebe had never known how to deal with her anger, she did what she always did, she bottled it up. "Well, I suppose that's putting it a little...blandly, but yes, that's basically what happened this morning."
"Wait...this morning? What time is it now?" Phoebe asked, her eyes furrowing with frustration. "Oh, about...two twenty-five." The nurse said with a nonchalant smile. At this point, the redhead felt as though steam were about to come out of her ears. She had been unconscious for about six hours, and no one had bothered to call the hospital? What about her parents? Her parents must be worried sick! Right on cue, the nurse piped in, "And I tried to get a hold of your parents, but they each were busy, according to the secretaries at their offices. I informed them that it was an emergency, but I just couldn't get through." Ah yes, the icing on the cake, her parents. Phoebe sighed, and swung her leg over the side of the cot, then hissed in pain. Her foot felt as if it were broken! She looked down, suddenly feeling the rush of pain emitting from her ankle. While lying down, she hadn't even noticed her ankle was twisted, especially since: 1) She had been unconscious for six hours, 2) She wasn't moving it around, and 3) She was busy with other matters, like recovering from a momentary case of amnesia. It had almost been nice not knowing who she was; it was nice to be someone other than Phoebe for a change. In those brief minutes, she felt like she had slipped off of Destiny's vendetta list. Unfortunately, that was not the case. "Oh, yes, it appears you've twisted your ankle! But don't worry about that, I estimate that it'll be better within the week. Just try not to put all of your weight on it." The nurse said, happy as a clam.
Despite the fact that the cot was the epitome of uncomfortable, Phoebe found herself unwilling to get up. "You can just go home, you know. School's gonna end in about fifteen minutes anyway," the woman offered to her, as if it were some sort of a bribe. The redhead just nodded, and slowly stood up from the cot. Her body was sore everywhere, then again, after all that had happened to her already, what did she expect? The girl hobbled her way to the locker rooms to change her clothes and collect her things, sighing every few steps. The damp smell of the locker room made her wince; it felt as if it were heated, probably some attempt to get the girls to sweat more by the teachers. It wasn't as if Phoebe minded seeing sweaty girls clad in sports bras and tight shorts, it was just...no one was interesting. Had they known this, they probably would've been offended and disgusted, but it was undeniably true. She found no one attractive at her school, or at least no one she knew. They were all stuck up, social, and secluded in their own little worlds. In the process of pulling off her shirt, Phoebe noticed that she had a blood stain on her shirt, apparently from a wound in her back. She reached up and grazed the area with her fingers, then withdrew her hand to stare. Dried blood coated her fingers, so obviously it wasn't too bad. Even so, in her mind, Phoebe knew it was going to scar-over. Once dressed, the seventeen-year-old victim of life limped to the parking lot, got into her car and drove off campus. It was always refreshing to drive away from the school, in fact it was her favorite part of the day. Although, she certainly didn't feel like going home...where should she go? Pain was constantly shooting up through her left foot, but she did her best to ignore it as she contemplated her day. Just as her mind drifted back to the incident, she found herself remembering.
Tuesday, May 12th. At 8:07 AM, her gym class began running. At 8:12 AM, Phoebe Pallas had stopped running. After a brief discouraging nag from her conscious, she began to pick up speed again. Before, this area had been completely fuzzy, to say the least, but now, she was remembering. She was near the hurdles, on the right-side of the track, normally letting her evade the traffic of the students who over-lapped her. Tuning into her memories, she tried to re-hear what the people behind her were saying. "I dare you to jump all of those hurdles, Brett," was all that she remembered for the dialogue, but she could clearly see their faces in her mind. Brett Tharrin, Julie Kinkle and (probably) Summer Harrison normally walked and jogged together in the mile. Phoebe remembered seeing them pass her before, so they must've been on the verge of overlapping her completely. This would've given them the perfect excuse to slack off. Julie and Brett had a very public relationship, in the sense that if you ever approached them, they would be holding hands, or playing tonsil hockey, or some other ridiculous act of affection. Phoebe could distantly recall the sound of jumping behind her--or at least the sound of someone's shoes hitting the ground. This was about the time she began to run, 8:15 AM, and it was also the time at which Brett Tharrin tripped. On his way over a hurdle, he had looked over his shoulder to grin, and had found himself caught mid-air, between the hurdle. His left foot was stuck behind it, while the rest of his body tried to propel forward. In that brief millisecond, there was probably one thing running through his mind, "Oh no." Brett spun out of control, kicking his leg until he was free, free to lose his balance somewhere else on the track! Unfortunately, Phoebe had been running near the hurdles, still, and fate threw him atop her easily. They tumbled almost comically, rolling around the track for a few moments, before Brett landed on top of Phoebe, who was face-down on the rubbery track. He didn't think to warn anyone as a stampede of high school students came rushing through; he got up and ran, to save himself. Much like Mufasa, Phoebe Pallas was perishing under the feet of others, being stepped on by at least twelve people. By this time, she was unconscious, however, and would never really know how many footprints were left on her gym clothes. Once her teacher noticed that someone was lying on the track, she approached the area, expecting to find someone who tripped. Instead she found Phoebe, bleeding, covered in footprints, and unconscious. A security golf-cart (as they were oh-so-threatening) approached shortly after to take the girl to the nurse.
Phoebe ran her fingers through her hair with one hand, the other still firmly clutching the wheel. "And my parents didn't even care?!" She exclaimed, as if angrily questioning the world. Life sucked, as usual. But this day was only one of many 'comical' experiences that fell upon Phoebe Pallas. Oh, like that time she was stuck in the locker room alone for two hours after an especially-long fire drill? Or the time she became sick and vomited in the hallway on her way to Science, then received OCS for being tardy. The list went on and on, to the point where it was painful to think about. "I can't go home...not yet." She found herself saying, and approached the only place she knew she could relax in peace this early in the afternoon; The Coffee Bean. It was surprisingly slow for 2:40 in the afternoon; then again, most of the customers seemed to flood in after work. Phoebe took a seat on one of the couches, making herself comfortable on a seat in the corner. Oh, her coffee. In the thought process of getting inside, not crying, and not sending a pissed-off message to her parents, she had forgotten to order her coffee. Though she didn't know it, blood was still coated on her face, from her original fall. It wasn't a huge spot of blood, but it was somewhat noticeable, dried on her cheek. She found that she could move her ankle now, but it was still incredibly sore, so she made her way to the counter slowly. "I'll...get a...hot chocolate, please. Medium." She was in no mood for coffee, and assumed fate had boned her enough times today, that she could enjoy a nice chocolate drink without an accident. She paid in spare one dollar bills, then stood anxiously near the counter, waiting for her drink. Could things get worse for the unluckiest person on the planet? Again, fate wasn't even getting started.
•ttttttttttttttttttt •tttttttttttttttttt •
tttttttt How can you remain staring at the rain
maddened by the stars?
How is it you sing, anything?
How is it you sing?
maddened by the stars?
How is it you sing, anything?
How is it you sing?
Xx-Alexis-Xx
Offline
M A R K U K • • •
{Rampaging Red}
"I don't need a crystal ball to see what a ******** you are."
6:27 seemed to burn into the face of a digital clock, unwilling to change. Reluctantly, Markuk shifted to the edge of the bed, carelessly swinging his legs over the side. He choked out a yawn, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with a groan. He glanced down, noticing that he was nude. This wasn't often a surprise, as lately, one-night-stands had been common. The blonde glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the opposite side of the bed. The girl had already left.'Good.' He thought, lying on his back slowly. She must have left far earlier, for the sheets no longer held any warmth. Markuk was relieved to know that she wasn't one of those clingers; she knew what the plan was, and had no other intentions. "Maybe I'll call her back one day." The male mumbled, half-asleep, his mind wandering. A few more hours of sleep sounded splendid at the moment, but Markuk knew that it would not be in his best interest. "Sleeping in is for peasants." He kept repeating to himself as he stood, stumbling across his apartment. He groaned, leaning his head against the bathroom door, his eyes closing almost immediately. He sighed, breathing deeply for a few moments, then opened the door. He dared not click on the light just yet; his eyes were sensitive at the moment, and risking blindness was not on his agenda for the day.
Markuk quickly began twisting the knobs on his shower, mumbling at it, as if urging it to hurry. He huffed and puffed in frustration, but there were certainly no straw houses to blow down. The alleged 'Big Bad Wolf' took a comfortable seat at the edge of his bathtub, begrudgingly waiting for his water to heat up. He had always loathed waiting for things; all his life, he had gotten what he wanted immediately. Waiting for gravity, hot water, slow computers...it all just made him ridiculously annoyed. He reached up, running his fingers through his blonde hair slowly, thoughtfully. His mind began to wander to the 40-minute romp last night, which quickly led to a deep sleep. Markuk found himself tugging at his locks a little, an absent-minded memory of his previous actions. He leaned back slightly, the heated water grazing his bare flesh. He stood up promptly, sticking a hand in carefully, just to be sure it was safe. After cautiously locking the bathroom door, the male slipped into the bathtub/shower hybrid, scrubbing profusely.
He always had the fear of catching some horrid STD, despite the fact that he always used a condom. God only knows, peasants were chock-full of them; herpes, chlamydia...all that nasty stuff. Only gays had AIDS, though, so he certainly had no chance of harvesting that disease. His homophobia was second nature to the male; he considered it just a natural fact of life that only gays had AIDS. This, of course, was not the case, but he believed it to be so. Attending private schools all his life, Markuk was highly influenced by Christian and Catholic ideals, promoting abstinence and religion. Through his mid-through-late teens, the wealthy blonde was forced to figure out sex on his own. Well, with other people would be the best way to describe it, but his information came from experience.
Despite thinking that the world revolved around him, and that he was the epitome of brilliance, Markuk had no proper education about homosexuals. He believed what he learned in school, gays were unclean, disgusting AIDS-wielding monsters. At the thought of them, Markuk scrubbed his hands together with his body wash twice, then once more for good measure. He couldn't even imagine socializing with a homosexual, let alone being friends with one. Had one of his close friends (which were only rivaling wealthy teenagers) announced that they were a homosexual, he would promptly end the acquaintance. Then again, Markuk didn't really have many "friends." Of course, there were the family friends, who had their rude and snarky children, but they were hardly friends at all. All they discussed was money, and how they constantly out-did each other, even as they grew older. They would sit around the terrace after a nice game of Polo and brag, in a smug way, as if each were better than the next. Markuk shared in this attitude, normally the one who topped everyone else's stories. He had always been the one to get the girls; the tart young red-head with an appealing appetite for c**k. Such language was only used in a classy manner, matter-of-factly, even.
Once the blonde had finished showering and washing his hair, he exited his bathroom, a embroidered towel wrapped snugly around his waist. Though he was quite thin in the waist, he detested the idea of a 'wasp waist,' a sign of wealth and beauty in the nineteenth century. Apparently his great-great grandfather had been quite keen on them, known for his "exquisite" waist, which was remarkably small. Seeing pictures of the man, even at old age, made Markuk grimace, as the sight of a wasp waist was definitely disturbing. It was hard to understand how anything like that could be viewed as beautiful, as if anything, it seemed like something women would do more. Markuk's great-grandfather was not only wealthy, but was also an esteemed gunman. He took pride in shooting anything in his path; ducks, wild animals, even trespassers. Back then, murder wasn't viewed nearly as seriously, so his great-grandfather earned quite the reputation.
Murder. Could Markuk ever do it? As he gazed into the mirror, he wrinkled his brow in thought, studying himself. He didn't look like a murderer, but then again, they were always rather discreet. The blonde frowned, widening his eyes after a few seconds, then letting them return to normal. No, no, he could never be an estranged killer; he looked far sexier when he held a calm expression. Markuk raised an eyebrow calmly, looking over himself once again. Pleased with his appearance, he padded out of the bathroom and began pulling clothes from his drawer. Since it was the middle of May, Markuk figured it wouldn't be wise to wear his usual trench coat, and settled with slacks, a long-sleeved shirt, and a nicely-fitted vest. He rarely had to give his hair any styling; it was naturally styled, in a way, only needing the occasional mousse. Tugging on his dress shoes, the blonde began running his fingers through his hair, a quick effort to groom himself, since he had no servants to do so at the moment. Servants...was that even the correct term? He didn't think of them as having any sort of lives; to Markuk, they were pointless, stupid peasants who had the privilege of caring for him. He treated them as such, too--his mother had always been kind to them, but he took after his father and treated them like animals.
Markuk quickly began twisting the knobs on his shower, mumbling at it, as if urging it to hurry. He huffed and puffed in frustration, but there were certainly no straw houses to blow down. The alleged 'Big Bad Wolf' took a comfortable seat at the edge of his bathtub, begrudgingly waiting for his water to heat up. He had always loathed waiting for things; all his life, he had gotten what he wanted immediately. Waiting for gravity, hot water, slow computers...it all just made him ridiculously annoyed. He reached up, running his fingers through his blonde hair slowly, thoughtfully. His mind began to wander to the 40-minute romp last night, which quickly led to a deep sleep. Markuk found himself tugging at his locks a little, an absent-minded memory of his previous actions. He leaned back slightly, the heated water grazing his bare flesh. He stood up promptly, sticking a hand in carefully, just to be sure it was safe. After cautiously locking the bathroom door, the male slipped into the bathtub/shower hybrid, scrubbing profusely.
He always had the fear of catching some horrid STD, despite the fact that he always used a condom. God only knows, peasants were chock-full of them; herpes, chlamydia...all that nasty stuff. Only gays had AIDS, though, so he certainly had no chance of harvesting that disease. His homophobia was second nature to the male; he considered it just a natural fact of life that only gays had AIDS. This, of course, was not the case, but he believed it to be so. Attending private schools all his life, Markuk was highly influenced by Christian and Catholic ideals, promoting abstinence and religion. Through his mid-through-late teens, the wealthy blonde was forced to figure out sex on his own. Well, with other people would be the best way to describe it, but his information came from experience.
Despite thinking that the world revolved around him, and that he was the epitome of brilliance, Markuk had no proper education about homosexuals. He believed what he learned in school, gays were unclean, disgusting AIDS-wielding monsters. At the thought of them, Markuk scrubbed his hands together with his body wash twice, then once more for good measure. He couldn't even imagine socializing with a homosexual, let alone being friends with one. Had one of his close friends (which were only rivaling wealthy teenagers) announced that they were a homosexual, he would promptly end the acquaintance. Then again, Markuk didn't really have many "friends." Of course, there were the family friends, who had their rude and snarky children, but they were hardly friends at all. All they discussed was money, and how they constantly out-did each other, even as they grew older. They would sit around the terrace after a nice game of Polo and brag, in a smug way, as if each were better than the next. Markuk shared in this attitude, normally the one who topped everyone else's stories. He had always been the one to get the girls; the tart young red-head with an appealing appetite for c**k. Such language was only used in a classy manner, matter-of-factly, even.
Once the blonde had finished showering and washing his hair, he exited his bathroom, a embroidered towel wrapped snugly around his waist. Though he was quite thin in the waist, he detested the idea of a 'wasp waist,' a sign of wealth and beauty in the nineteenth century. Apparently his great-great grandfather had been quite keen on them, known for his "exquisite" waist, which was remarkably small. Seeing pictures of the man, even at old age, made Markuk grimace, as the sight of a wasp waist was definitely disturbing. It was hard to understand how anything like that could be viewed as beautiful, as if anything, it seemed like something women would do more. Markuk's great-grandfather was not only wealthy, but was also an esteemed gunman. He took pride in shooting anything in his path; ducks, wild animals, even trespassers. Back then, murder wasn't viewed nearly as seriously, so his great-grandfather earned quite the reputation.
Murder. Could Markuk ever do it? As he gazed into the mirror, he wrinkled his brow in thought, studying himself. He didn't look like a murderer, but then again, they were always rather discreet. The blonde frowned, widening his eyes after a few seconds, then letting them return to normal. No, no, he could never be an estranged killer; he looked far sexier when he held a calm expression. Markuk raised an eyebrow calmly, looking over himself once again. Pleased with his appearance, he padded out of the bathroom and began pulling clothes from his drawer. Since it was the middle of May, Markuk figured it wouldn't be wise to wear his usual trench coat, and settled with slacks, a long-sleeved shirt, and a nicely-fitted vest. He rarely had to give his hair any styling; it was naturally styled, in a way, only needing the occasional mousse. Tugging on his dress shoes, the blonde began running his fingers through his hair, a quick effort to groom himself, since he had no servants to do so at the moment. Servants...was that even the correct term? He didn't think of them as having any sort of lives; to Markuk, they were pointless, stupid peasants who had the privilege of caring for him. He treated them as such, too--his mother had always been kind to them, but he took after his father and treated them like animals.
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A quick bathroom break later, Markuk had grabbed his laptop case and was headed out the door of his apartment. He took the elevator, rather than the stairs, always afraid he'd run into one of his unpleasant neighbors on the way down. They always had the time to b***h and moan at him for all the noises he made late at night. To Markuk, they were just jealous fools who couldn't get any, so they rained on his parade. Luckily, not many people were up at seven AM, so Markuk avoided the usual angry mob-like flood of residents. Once he descended down the elevator, the young man gripped his laptop case tightly and set off into the world. His first stop was always to grab the daily newspaper, right across the street. He kept to himself, a slight fear of being bothered by some hoodlums or some hobos. He would wait until 7:10 AM, which was the time his limousine arrived to pick him up, and if it wasn't there, he would walk. Of course, depending on how groggy he was in the morning, he would wait a little longer, just for the fresh coffee he would be given. Right on time, his driver pulled up and opened the door for Markuk, offering to take his bag. The young man refused the suggestion and took a seat inside, the smell of coffee filling his nostrils immediately.
His chauffeur quickly handed him his coffee, still scalding hot. "Black, I presume?" Markuk questioned, wafting the smell of the coffee into his face carefully. His driver nodded profusely, as if terrified to exchange too many words with the young man. The chauffeur stared at the blonde for a few moments, blinking twice, "Sir...you, uh...have some lint on your shirt." He mumbled, then reached his hand toward his charge's chest to remove it. With cobra-like speed, Markuk snatched his limousine driver's wrist and held it, staring at the man intensely. The young, rich client's eyes widened immediately, his pupils dilating to a remarkable size. A wave of red covered his eyes, temporarily blinding him. He closed his eyes and shuddered, coming back into reality after only a few seconds. His pale hand still gripped his driver and he released him, blinking a few times before nodding. "Don't touch me. You can keep your hands all over that blonde tramp you're having an affair with, but don't touch me!" Markuk grumbled, taking a sip of his coffee before dismissing his driver to his seat. His chauffeur stammered incredulously, but obediently returned to the front of the car and drove off. The blonde couldn't help but smile to himself; he had always found pleasure in telling people he knew of their secrets.
Once Markuk was driven into town (as he lived about twenty minutes from any decent coffee shop) he settled himself into the Coffee Bean, his usual place. He was almost always the first one there, spending a good deal of money on the coffee as he wrote his articles. He was forced to frequently use the bathroom after all the coffee he drank, but always stood a good two-feet away from the toilet when he did so. For now, though, he was fine. He took another sip of his coffee as he exited the limousine, not even bothering to say goodbye to his driver. His laptop case in hand, Markuk entered the Coffee Bean, taking a comfortable seat at one of the small tables, withdrawing his newspaper. After reading about the daily news and stocks, he tucked it away in his bag, opening his laptop smoothly. 9:07 Read the display on his computer, and he sighed. Another hour already wasted at the Coffee Bean. And so began his work--he was feverishly writing articles and reports on various websites; most of them for elitist comment, but some for actual work. Before he knew it, it was almost three o' clock. He was somewhat surprised to note that he had only purchased two coffees from the store, but he was certainly planning on having one made by Andy. Oh, Andromeda, the one creature in this disgusting part of town that actually pleased him. She was certainly a rare flower, the only woman he had met who dared to dislike him. But like any good sportsman, Markuk enjoyed a good challenge. He hardly noticed the other customers who had entered, but fixed his eyes on Andy as she entered the building. Once she was situated behind the counter, he stood and approached, a sly smirk on his face. "Good afternoon ladies," he said smoothly, "I'll take a black coffee, please. Any size." Normally, 'please' wasn't even in Markuk's vocabulary, but in this case, he wanted to impress Andy. Once he paid, he gave her another smirk, then returned to his seat, glancing around the room. Although he noticed the obviously-pathetic girl and the male with facial hair, he didn't really care about looking at anyone else. He shrugged and returned to his work, crossing one leg over the other. Things were boring, true, but Markuk expecting such behavior from mere peasants.
His chauffeur quickly handed him his coffee, still scalding hot. "Black, I presume?" Markuk questioned, wafting the smell of the coffee into his face carefully. His driver nodded profusely, as if terrified to exchange too many words with the young man. The chauffeur stared at the blonde for a few moments, blinking twice, "Sir...you, uh...have some lint on your shirt." He mumbled, then reached his hand toward his charge's chest to remove it. With cobra-like speed, Markuk snatched his limousine driver's wrist and held it, staring at the man intensely. The young, rich client's eyes widened immediately, his pupils dilating to a remarkable size. A wave of red covered his eyes, temporarily blinding him. He closed his eyes and shuddered, coming back into reality after only a few seconds. His pale hand still gripped his driver and he released him, blinking a few times before nodding. "Don't touch me. You can keep your hands all over that blonde tramp you're having an affair with, but don't touch me!" Markuk grumbled, taking a sip of his coffee before dismissing his driver to his seat. His chauffeur stammered incredulously, but obediently returned to the front of the car and drove off. The blonde couldn't help but smile to himself; he had always found pleasure in telling people he knew of their secrets.
Once Markuk was driven into town (as he lived about twenty minutes from any decent coffee shop) he settled himself into the Coffee Bean, his usual place. He was almost always the first one there, spending a good deal of money on the coffee as he wrote his articles. He was forced to frequently use the bathroom after all the coffee he drank, but always stood a good two-feet away from the toilet when he did so. For now, though, he was fine. He took another sip of his coffee as he exited the limousine, not even bothering to say goodbye to his driver. His laptop case in hand, Markuk entered the Coffee Bean, taking a comfortable seat at one of the small tables, withdrawing his newspaper. After reading about the daily news and stocks, he tucked it away in his bag, opening his laptop smoothly. 9:07 Read the display on his computer, and he sighed. Another hour already wasted at the Coffee Bean. And so began his work--he was feverishly writing articles and reports on various websites; most of them for elitist comment, but some for actual work. Before he knew it, it was almost three o' clock. He was somewhat surprised to note that he had only purchased two coffees from the store, but he was certainly planning on having one made by Andy. Oh, Andromeda, the one creature in this disgusting part of town that actually pleased him. She was certainly a rare flower, the only woman he had met who dared to dislike him. But like any good sportsman, Markuk enjoyed a good challenge. He hardly noticed the other customers who had entered, but fixed his eyes on Andy as she entered the building. Once she was situated behind the counter, he stood and approached, a sly smirk on his face. "Good afternoon ladies," he said smoothly, "I'll take a black coffee, please. Any size." Normally, 'please' wasn't even in Markuk's vocabulary, but in this case, he wanted to impress Andy. Once he paid, he gave her another smirk, then returned to his seat, glancing around the room. Although he noticed the obviously-pathetic girl and the male with facial hair, he didn't really care about looking at anyone else. He shrugged and returned to his work, crossing one leg over the other. Things were boring, true, but Markuk expecting such behavior from mere peasants.
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