Flash Fiction #12
Jul. 16th, 2012 04:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
n_wilkinsonFor mandalee1013
Prompt: Ione's thoughts while unconscious
Universe: Infinity's End, Whispers of Yesterday, canon. Warning: stream of conscious
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: Lady Crysan/Sleet, We all have our demons
Universe: War of the Animum. Warnings: None.
For mandalee1013
Prompt: Azriel/Kieran, awakened with a kiss
Universe: Infinity's End. Warnings: Slashy kiss, hints of something more
Prompt: Ione's thoughts while unconscious
Universe: Infinity's End, Whispers of Yesterday, canon. Warning: stream of conscious
It's cold. Sinking into icy waters. Closing over her head. Swallowing her.
She can't breathe. Can't think. Trapped. No aether. Nothing.
There's laughter. He's mocking her. He's always mocked her. Nothing's changed in that regard.
Ione screams, incandescent with rage. Bubbles form at her lips, rising upward, crashing against an icy ceiling.
Hatred and loathing intermingle. He left footprints in her blood. Blue eyes, forever sightless. Grief. Regret. Pain.
Broken and boneless. Fenris, turned to ash. Aponi, pinned and stuffed. Grey with death. Worse than fading, but it's close.
Heartbeat slowing. No breath in her lungs. Darkness wrapping around her, tendrils thick and impenetrable. Hands around her throat. Aether consumed.
There's a broken peace. Her aether folds in on itself. She's hot and cold, flesh stretched taut. Her fingers and toes are numb.
Ione's alone.
And then, a warmth. A touch of heat blankets her body from head to toe. A pressure, familiar and welcome. She leans into it, yearning to be closer.
Ione gasps, sucking in desperate breaths, chest heaving. The air tastes sweet, honey and butter on fresh bread. Crisp like after a rainfall.
Aether coils deep, burrowing into the warmth. A last vestige against the darkness.
Gale's green eyes look down on her, dark with concern. She hasn't the strength to reassure him. She wants to live. Numb fingers twitch.
Sleep is no escape. It crests over her nonetheless. Reality is the nightmare. Dreams are worse. She's trapped between.
Help me.
There's a whisper. “I'm here.”
Ione sleeps.
She can't breathe. Can't think. Trapped. No aether. Nothing.
There's laughter. He's mocking her. He's always mocked her. Nothing's changed in that regard.
Ione screams, incandescent with rage. Bubbles form at her lips, rising upward, crashing against an icy ceiling.
Hatred and loathing intermingle. He left footprints in her blood. Blue eyes, forever sightless. Grief. Regret. Pain.
Broken and boneless. Fenris, turned to ash. Aponi, pinned and stuffed. Grey with death. Worse than fading, but it's close.
Heartbeat slowing. No breath in her lungs. Darkness wrapping around her, tendrils thick and impenetrable. Hands around her throat. Aether consumed.
There's a broken peace. Her aether folds in on itself. She's hot and cold, flesh stretched taut. Her fingers and toes are numb.
Ione's alone.
And then, a warmth. A touch of heat blankets her body from head to toe. A pressure, familiar and welcome. She leans into it, yearning to be closer.
Ione gasps, sucking in desperate breaths, chest heaving. The air tastes sweet, honey and butter on fresh bread. Crisp like after a rainfall.
Aether coils deep, burrowing into the warmth. A last vestige against the darkness.
Gale's green eyes look down on her, dark with concern. She hasn't the strength to reassure him. She wants to live. Numb fingers twitch.
Sleep is no escape. It crests over her nonetheless. Reality is the nightmare. Dreams are worse. She's trapped between.
Help me.
There's a whisper. “I'm here.”
Ione sleeps.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: Lady Crysan/Sleet, We all have our demons
Universe: War of the Animum. Warnings: None.
The dream hits as it always does, in the dead of night when she is most vulnerable. Usually, Crysan has no clients and she rarely shares her bed, so no one is present to bear witness to her moment of weakness.
Tonight, however, is not the usual.
She bursts out of sleep with her body bathed in sweat, her heart racing a mile a minute, and her breathing erratic. By her side, Sleet doesn't stir, his breathing even and face slack with sleep.
Crysan eases out of the bed, a bit amused to find Sleet's hand clutching at her. She gently disentangles his fingers, leaving him curled around a pillow, and grabs a silk robe, throwing it over her shoulders. It's a chilly night, too damp to wander around unclothed.
Moonlight seeps in through the window, casting her room in shadows, and Crysan approaches the single door to her balcony. It's a small, narrow platform just large enough for her to stand on and the only luxury she allows herself.
The night smells of snow. The sky is thick with heavy clouds, scattered just enough to let peeks of moonlight through. It's a nice night. Calming. It helps to chase away the lingering shadows of terror and helplessness.
Never again.
“You're gonna get sick.”
Crysan's hands clench into fists. Damn thieves and their ability to move silently. “Weren't you sleeping?”
She hears Sleet yawn. “Was. Got cold.”
Crysan turns toward one of her favorite patrons, arching a brow. “Aren't thieves supposed to have been born in the gutters, thrust into a lifetime of crime, and therefore, able to withstand all uncomfortable situations?”
Sleet's lips curve with amusement. “Do you honestly think I was raised in the gutters? Aren't madames supposed to be able to read their clients?”
Touche.
He is right, after all. Sleet has always confused Crysan. He doesn't steal because he has to. The fact that he is educated to a certain degree proves that he was raised by someone who cared. Sleet doesn't carry the black aura of a man who's had to struggle for anything. There's no darkness in his heart, nothing to turn him bitter and angry. And no matter what Sleet says, the matter of his sexuality is not the end of his world. He seems to embrace it well enough.
So why then does he steal?
The thrill? No. Sleet does not seem the type.
A lack of ambition? Now that Crysan could believe. There's not an ounce of ambition in the man's body. He has no real desires, no real wants. Nothing to drive him to do what is necessary.
We all have our demons, Crysan's mentor used to say. And it is true, even for herself.
Sleet, however, is different. He hasn't met his demons yet. And Crysan can't help but wonder what he will do when he finally does.
“I read you like an open book,” Crysan replies, turning the full force of her focus on Sleet, making him squirm. “I choose not to share my observations. There is a difference.”
Sleet folds his arms over his chest, tearing his gaze away. “So why're you out here anyway?”
Crysan is not surprised by the subject change. “I needed some air.” She gestures him back inside and follows him, closing the door to the balcony behind herself.
Sleet all too eagerly pulls himself back onto the bed with a lazy sprawl. “Why?”
She drops the robe, noticing with some amusement that he still holds her gaze, eyes never once dipping to admire her nude form. A lesser woman would find herself self-conscious. Crysan hardly considers it an insult. Sleet enjoys her company for the mentality she can give him, not the soft curves of a woman.
She swears she has never met a man so firmly rooted in his sexuality. The majority of people she has ever met have been bisexual, with a heavy leaning toward one side or the other. But not Sleet.
“Because you, dear Sleet, are a bed hog of the worst kind,” Crysan replies, crawling onto the bed with a predatory curve to her lips. “And a cuddler to boot.”
“I am not!”
Crysan chuckles. She has to give Sleet some credit. He's paying for her company, but as it turns out, he's done her a favor as well.
Tonight, however, is not the usual.
She bursts out of sleep with her body bathed in sweat, her heart racing a mile a minute, and her breathing erratic. By her side, Sleet doesn't stir, his breathing even and face slack with sleep.
Crysan eases out of the bed, a bit amused to find Sleet's hand clutching at her. She gently disentangles his fingers, leaving him curled around a pillow, and grabs a silk robe, throwing it over her shoulders. It's a chilly night, too damp to wander around unclothed.
Moonlight seeps in through the window, casting her room in shadows, and Crysan approaches the single door to her balcony. It's a small, narrow platform just large enough for her to stand on and the only luxury she allows herself.
The night smells of snow. The sky is thick with heavy clouds, scattered just enough to let peeks of moonlight through. It's a nice night. Calming. It helps to chase away the lingering shadows of terror and helplessness.
Never again.
“You're gonna get sick.”
Crysan's hands clench into fists. Damn thieves and their ability to move silently. “Weren't you sleeping?”
She hears Sleet yawn. “Was. Got cold.”
Crysan turns toward one of her favorite patrons, arching a brow. “Aren't thieves supposed to have been born in the gutters, thrust into a lifetime of crime, and therefore, able to withstand all uncomfortable situations?”
Sleet's lips curve with amusement. “Do you honestly think I was raised in the gutters? Aren't madames supposed to be able to read their clients?”
Touche.
He is right, after all. Sleet has always confused Crysan. He doesn't steal because he has to. The fact that he is educated to a certain degree proves that he was raised by someone who cared. Sleet doesn't carry the black aura of a man who's had to struggle for anything. There's no darkness in his heart, nothing to turn him bitter and angry. And no matter what Sleet says, the matter of his sexuality is not the end of his world. He seems to embrace it well enough.
So why then does he steal?
The thrill? No. Sleet does not seem the type.
A lack of ambition? Now that Crysan could believe. There's not an ounce of ambition in the man's body. He has no real desires, no real wants. Nothing to drive him to do what is necessary.
We all have our demons, Crysan's mentor used to say. And it is true, even for herself.
Sleet, however, is different. He hasn't met his demons yet. And Crysan can't help but wonder what he will do when he finally does.
“I read you like an open book,” Crysan replies, turning the full force of her focus on Sleet, making him squirm. “I choose not to share my observations. There is a difference.”
Sleet folds his arms over his chest, tearing his gaze away. “So why're you out here anyway?”
Crysan is not surprised by the subject change. “I needed some air.” She gestures him back inside and follows him, closing the door to the balcony behind herself.
Sleet all too eagerly pulls himself back onto the bed with a lazy sprawl. “Why?”
She drops the robe, noticing with some amusement that he still holds her gaze, eyes never once dipping to admire her nude form. A lesser woman would find herself self-conscious. Crysan hardly considers it an insult. Sleet enjoys her company for the mentality she can give him, not the soft curves of a woman.
She swears she has never met a man so firmly rooted in his sexuality. The majority of people she has ever met have been bisexual, with a heavy leaning toward one side or the other. But not Sleet.
“Because you, dear Sleet, are a bed hog of the worst kind,” Crysan replies, crawling onto the bed with a predatory curve to her lips. “And a cuddler to boot.”
“I am not!”
Crysan chuckles. She has to give Sleet some credit. He's paying for her company, but as it turns out, he's done her a favor as well.
For mandalee1013
Prompt: Azriel/Kieran, awakened with a kiss
Universe: Infinity's End. Warnings: Slashy kiss, hints of something more
Blank paper. Or an endless grassy field, with the blue sky stretching out in all directions above it, the grain swaying in the wind, a stray cloud floating by. Or the raucous pulse of a waterfall as it crashes on the rock below, spray flecking into the air, sun glinting through and creating a rainbow.
Or, better still, the ebb and flow of the air currents. The breath of the earth as it dances and tickles the trees. The way it ghosts around him, guiding him. The way his magic flows with it.
The press of something warm and soft on his lips, the faint scent of cherries and beneath that, something bitter and sharp, like flashpowder only a bit more potent. The sound of familiar laughter, and fingers carding through his hair, and then familiar weight that plops down in his lap.
Azriel's eyes snap open as he's shoved out of his meditative state, completely unsurprised to find that his personal space has been invaded as he stares into laughing gray eyes.
His shoulders slump out of meditative state. “Kieran--”
Those familiar lips attack again, claiming Azriel's own and stealing his words. Kieran's tongue flicks against his, reigniting the taste of cherry, as Kieran's arms slid around Azriel tugging him closer. As though he isn't already planted in Azriel's lap.
“Good morning,” Kieran says against his lips, full of mischief as always.
Azriel raises a brow. “It's late afternoon,” he replies dryly. “And I was meditating.”
“Really? Because I just woke up.” Kieran's fingers toyed with the hairs at Azriel's nape, a light touch that sent sensation dancing down Azriel's spine. “Besides, I didn't think you'd mind a distraction.”
His breath hitches. “I should be angry with you,” Azriel says, but his hands find Kieran's legs of their own accord, sliding upward toward his groin.
Kieran scoffs. “Have you ever been genuinely angry with me?”
“I'm sure there was a time or two,” Azriel murmurs, casting a glance at their door. Not that visitors generally barged in on them, but it never hurt to be careful.
“I locked it,” Kieran says, noticing his look. “So let me take care of distracting you now, before we get to business later.”
Azriel, for his part, sees no reason to argue.
Or, better still, the ebb and flow of the air currents. The breath of the earth as it dances and tickles the trees. The way it ghosts around him, guiding him. The way his magic flows with it.
The press of something warm and soft on his lips, the faint scent of cherries and beneath that, something bitter and sharp, like flashpowder only a bit more potent. The sound of familiar laughter, and fingers carding through his hair, and then familiar weight that plops down in his lap.
Azriel's eyes snap open as he's shoved out of his meditative state, completely unsurprised to find that his personal space has been invaded as he stares into laughing gray eyes.
His shoulders slump out of meditative state. “Kieran--”
Those familiar lips attack again, claiming Azriel's own and stealing his words. Kieran's tongue flicks against his, reigniting the taste of cherry, as Kieran's arms slid around Azriel tugging him closer. As though he isn't already planted in Azriel's lap.
“Good morning,” Kieran says against his lips, full of mischief as always.
Azriel raises a brow. “It's late afternoon,” he replies dryly. “And I was meditating.”
“Really? Because I just woke up.” Kieran's fingers toyed with the hairs at Azriel's nape, a light touch that sent sensation dancing down Azriel's spine. “Besides, I didn't think you'd mind a distraction.”
His breath hitches. “I should be angry with you,” Azriel says, but his hands find Kieran's legs of their own accord, sliding upward toward his groin.
Kieran scoffs. “Have you ever been genuinely angry with me?”
“I'm sure there was a time or two,” Azriel murmurs, casting a glance at their door. Not that visitors generally barged in on them, but it never hurt to be careful.
“I locked it,” Kieran says, noticing his look. “So let me take care of distracting you now, before we get to business later.”
Azriel, for his part, sees no reason to argue.
