we are falling down again tonight;
So once upon a Memefield, there was a drabble meme and like always, I was pitifully late in finishing them. It's too horrible to comment back when they've already forgotten so! Just dumping them here. haha i wrote them like two weeks ago and I think they're horrid already...
Aisling - Hallelujah by Rufus Wainwright
Tendrils of hair tumbled down her face as the shadows gnawed away at the undersides of her sharp cheeks, traced lines along her spindly arms, and pooled into the shadows of her white shoulder blades. She usually liked to stay in dreams, soft and warm and full of nostalgic laughter. In dreams, her missing leg grew to be an iron leg, softly growing with pale white flesh. In dreams, she did not have to bury her small fingers into the dark fur of her wolves, to feel their heartbeats resonate in her missingness state. In dreams, she did not lack.
But she did not like England’s dreams. They stretched too long, with the history of people, and she always landed in a rose bush. The little dark rose, she always stood out against the green shrubbery, and England would see her with his old eyes and ask her to tea under a tree that had grown for a thousand years, and she knew it because she had been in the dream too long and she had seen it grow and seen the warriors in their rough cloaks and women screaming in the dark of night and babies bawling in empty shacks.
She did not understand people very much, but she understood pain.
Timidly, she sipped her tea and waited until he turned away so she could slip out of his dream, to angularly dart away like a fish. An uncomfortable feeling rested in her stomach when she accidentally slipped into his dreams, because he always looked so sadly happy to see her. He would serve her tea that had gone bad years ago, and they would watch the sunset on the white cliffs as buildings crumpled into the ocean. His dreams lacked the laughter of children, replaced softly with the hollowness of time.
He had no Cauldron of the Dagda. His dissatisfaction appeared in the rotting of the trees and the withering of the grass. She wanted to leave. But he stared at her in a kind, absent manner, and even when she left, there would be the teacups arranged for two at the small round table, so she sat and drank and watched civilizations collapse and sipped her tea.
She did not understand people very much, but she understood loss.
--
Australia - Europa by Globus
This is London, he would say, guiding Australia’s small hand onto the crinkled newspaper. The barbed print curved and twisted too cleverly for Australia to read yet, but he could make out the dim picture of the houses and the ladies in heavy dresses and gentlemen standing stiffly next to handsome horses. And England would sit him down in front of the table, newspaper forgotten in the corner, as he taught him the alphabets and numbers of a gentleman, so that Australia could write him coarse and childish letters during the long months between visits, ones that he would never send, and watch them burn instead.
This is London, he would say, stretching his hand over the world map, where the tinges of ancient days still wryly decorated the seas, a tip of a sea monster here and there as a maritime nod and wink. His long finger would cross thousands of miles with one fell swoop, the speed of which to cause ten-league boots to blush with shame, and settle on a small island off the side of Europe. Though Australia would sit in his lap and squirm, his own short fingers could not move as quickly as England’s, so the journey from that small island to the larger land mass at the right-bottom corner of the map seemed long and arduous. Then again, he did not measure the distance in inches, but the days he lingered on the docks, waiting for England to come again.
This is London, he would say, sitting him down for the meals as Australia’s ears rang after being scrubbed raw red by England’s harsh administrations with a coarse linen towel. The silver platter would peek open to reveal disgusting creations, boiled black and green and purple, like a bruise that stretched for five plates and dessert. But Australia swallowed them dutifully, one lump after another, all while his thick snake curled fondly at his feet. Though England would lecture about table manners of the gentry in his cities, Australia would only remember the way the food was carefully lifted to his mouth by a silver fork, only to be stopped and placed down when word came that his attention was needed elsewhere, and he would leave with a soft pat to the head to board his ship again. The food that had been so warm then chilled uncomfortably as Australia finished his meal in an empty room.
This is London, he would say, opening the cabinets of his study as the sun blazed outside. He would pull out handkerchiefs, dabbing at the sweat of his brow, as he continued his search. At the bottom of the cabinet would be the suit brought over from London that was already too small by the time he arrived, so he would need to tailor them. But even by tailoring end, the collar and the sleeves would be too tight for Australia, and fighting against the tide of time always resulted in a hollow defeat. But still, he would bring him gifts, colourful toys. Australia didn’t touch those when England stayed, because he would take long walks with Australia during the warm evenings and Australia would show him his achievements and England would smile his special smile. He reserved the toys for the lonely evenings when the world had left him, and only an outdated memento could give him any comfort.
This is London, he would say, as Australia hugged him tightly, after he had hid so long that he had been afraid that England would never find him. Australia had hiked so long that the red dirt caked the black of his boots, and had waited until evening coldly fell. He had nearly given up hope of ever being found when a familiar face peered into the cave. This is London, he would say, as he scooped up Australia’s tired form and held him close for the long trek home. This is my heart, he would say, as Australia pressed one ear onto his chest to hear the throbbing beats that told him steadily and calmly, again and again and again, that he was loved.
--
Relm - Colorblind by Dresden Dolls
1.
He was not her father.
The villagers attempted to shove her into a perfect daughter role. Stuffed animals invaded her bed, and a perfectly placid and a perfectly boring shade of pink stained her bedroom walls. The mothers with blank-eyed looks cooed at her, and the fathers with stiff expressions nodded at her in the department stores.
But she was not the perfect daughter. She ran down the streets, she did not wipe her shoes from mud when she trampled into houses, and she drank the tea cup with both hands, chugging it down until the Darjeeling dripped from her chin. She would have pretended, though, for him. Pretended to be obedient when it mattered, on those days that he complained that his bones ached and his back hurt and he turned the calendar to July only to stare in dismay at the decorations outside the streets.
Sometimes he spoke about his children to her. He would recount endless tales of lost toys and lullabies on stormy nights to her until they all blended together, the story of America and Canada and Sealand and Hong Kong and and and and. He spoke about them in the past, but he looked blind as he touched her small knuckles over the table.
He could have been her father, but she was not his child.
2.
He was not her brother.
Once, as she had grown to the gawky stage where the clothes didn’t fit quite right and her feelings tumultuous for the boy who sat next to her and chewed his pencil, he had told her that all men that brothers be. She had been too busy watching him embroider and thinking about shaggy-haired boys with white throats and maple smells, but the saying stayed in her as she attended school and did her chores and painted in the backyard.
Sometimes, when she visited his house after school, she would accidentally stumble upon an argument, like tripping over a rock in a river. You’re my brother, I care for you, don’t you understand. When they had left and he was left alone, sullen and hurt and sitting on his throne of musty mothballs and lingering lint.
“I am all the brothers in my house,” he told her once, “and all the sisters too.” She didn’t understand, but even if he was old and stinky, maybe she could have been his sister. They squabbled like siblings over the television channels, and he wasn’t above fighting for the last cookie when they were hungry.
But he was too many brothers and sisters to himself, and the exhausted look that he always wore told her that there was no room for her in his house.
3.
He was not her country.
She had reached the age where her limbs seemed strange and long, but she was slowly growing into herself. She started to see him, not as an old man, but a strangely young gentleman. He had no gray hairs, and the wrinkles on his face came from his frowns. He wasn’t her father or her brother, but he was strange.
She, who dreamed about saving the world, missed her home sometimes. A certain light on the trees and the fresh smell from the bakery made her heart ache for the ballads of her town. She knew about countries. She knew because his stories had turned from fairy tales to stories of his past, pulled from him reluctantly like thread drawn from his lips. If he really was a country, she did not understand his hesitance. His own essence was created from people, from history, from his past. She felt familiar to him, and if she closed her eyes when he was making tea, she could almost imagine the land of sloping green hills with trees that sang tunes when a certain wind blew through their hallowed trunks.
But then he would speak, softly and gravely, of his boys. He began in the beginning, a discordant tone reaching his voice, and he told her about monasteries lit on fire and parchments curling into soft, slow flames. And he told her about women crying in the night and babies cold and alone in the shacks and the power of the ocean’s pull and strange men in metal garbs slowly sweeping across his land. All the while, as his fingers flickered on grasping his tea cup, he would gaze at her with vulnerability, waiting for her to tire of his stories.
He was not afraid of his past. He simply did not know how much she could bear to hear.
The history was not hers to take.
4.
He was not her lover.
She was a young lady, frizzled hair swept up into a neat ponytail. Her motions were graceful and demure, and even if she pounced excitedly on the last cookie, she was as tall as him. Her affection for him curiously wrapped around him, and she would spend hours on her bed, thinking about her feelings and about boys.
At first, the thought made her laugh. An ugly old man with a bad back and drank too much tea to be healthy. But the more she considered it, the girlish hopes and dreams stirred deep within her stomach. When he awkward smiled, he didn’t look so bad. And she had grown up, and he had stayed the same, and he seemed so much more human. He knew her well, and she rested at his house with comfort. She told him about boys and he gave her the same advice (“fuck those buggers, they’re not good enough for you”) and she would spend hours on end staring at his ceiling. His kisses were feathery and his hugs were tight, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
But he never cried in front of her. Even if he sniffled at soap operas, and his eyes watered after a particularly scathing remark about his cooking, he never told her about his pains. She would tell him about everything and he would listen over a cup of tea. But when it came to his troubles, he would just smile weakly and shake his head sadly.
Perhaps he did not love her in that way.
5.
“What am I to you?” She leaned her chin on her long fingers, and watched as he achingly sat down on the couch beside her. Instinctively, he slid his arm over her shoulders and tucked his chin on her head to reach for the remote control.
He didn’t say anything at first, fumbling with the buttons for the right channel. Patiently, she folded her legs underneath her weight, and rested her arm on a cushion. He bent his head slightly to squint at the buttons, and she lightly blew on the back of his neck to watch the bristles of his messy hair tremble.
“Mm?” He leaned back into her grasp as the game show came on, their daily uninterrupted routine continuing without a hitch.
“Like somebody is your daughter, or your mother, or your girlfriend…” She trailed off expectantly, staring into the shell of his ear.
“What brought this on?” He appeared amused, but not reluctant to answer. Staring at the game show host, he merely tilted his head and gave a small shrug.
“Come on, old man, just tell me.”
“I don’t know,” he said, laughing softly. “This is all moving so fast. I don’t know, how about that you’re my friend? Does that please you any?” He reached behind her and tugged playfully at the tendrils of her hair, all while still watching the show.
She rested her head on his bony shoulder and stared at the flickering black-and-white television show, a secret smile growing at the edges of her lips.
“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I guess that would do.”
--
Canada - Eastern European Funk by Inculto (Or I enjoy writing Canada as a teenage girl too much.)
So.
Say that you were invisible. No, not literally. Figuratively. Nations sit on you, nobody listens to you, and sometimes there’s a flag on your head that’s not yours. It’s hard, right? You stand in the back of the room and you can see the exact definitions of everybody’s problems and nobody even listen to you. Germany needs to be less serious. Italy needs to pay attention. And America needs to be less loud and more sensitive to problems. Everybody’s problems. Your problems.
But America is stupid. He’s an idiot. And even if you don’t tell him this when he’s wielding a three-foot buzzing chainsaw, you tell him this when you’ve just had enough and snap. You tell him exactly what you think about him, how he’s just a mindless idiot always blathering about his own plans, a self-centered loser who can’t read a map right to save his life, and it might have saved his life a few times if he could. You tell him, in no uncertain terms, that you know everything about him, even if he doesn’t know you. He doesn’t know you at all.
It feels good to get it all out.
America is one thing. But England is another. Because even if he sometimes looks at you and sees America, he remembers you. You remember him. He was the nation in stiff clothing, the man who came in wooden ships, and he smelled like tea and sugar and smog. He was big and he took your hand, and he told you that you had a brother. He patted your head and it felt good. He looks at you now and stops you from berating America and you do stop.
So. That’s why you hate him.
Because he remembers you just barely enough, but you’re never first on the tip of his tongue. You’re not a little boy who hides behind his mama’s apron. You don’t need him to do anything for you. But it’s stupid. Because he knows you, there’s always some hope that he actually will look at you first, and not to anybody else. It’s selfish and it’s stupid, but that’s how you feel.
You’re not going to spend your life pining for your paternal figure to turn around. Just deep breaths. Life goes on. You go on. That’s the way it goes.
Even if it hurts.
--
Fransu - Ergo Proxy OP (Monoral by Kiri)
He stroked the tendrils of her honeydew hair and breathed into the shell of her ear and raked his fingers down the strong muscles of her neck. She smelled like wine and freshly baked bread and sorrow, and he would tell her this if he wasn’t burying his head into the crook of her strong and stern and bony shoulder. With his free hand, he entangled his bony fingers into the frivolous frills of her stiff blue dress, and whispered to her about her gaudy decorations and she told him that he had no fashion sense and he said she spoke too much and she said he shouldn’t say anything at all and they were at it again until the argument ate itself whole and they were back at the beginning again, helpless and foolish.
I hate you, he told her, over and over again. And she said, no, non, I hate you so much more.
With that out of the way! Sorry that I haven't been keeping up with my f-list lately, I've been stressed and frazzled ahh... like, I might not have any internet for a week or so. Which comes to the point of the post (my posts have points??) which is same verse, same as the first.
Give/Link me a prompt and a pairing or character and I'll write you about said prompt and pairing/characters.
It... keeps me entertained for a while and oh gosh I've forgotten how to be without internet idek. I'll take up... knitting or... chess...
Aisling - Hallelujah by Rufus Wainwright
Tendrils of hair tumbled down her face as the shadows gnawed away at the undersides of her sharp cheeks, traced lines along her spindly arms, and pooled into the shadows of her white shoulder blades. She usually liked to stay in dreams, soft and warm and full of nostalgic laughter. In dreams, her missing leg grew to be an iron leg, softly growing with pale white flesh. In dreams, she did not have to bury her small fingers into the dark fur of her wolves, to feel their heartbeats resonate in her missingness state. In dreams, she did not lack.
But she did not like England’s dreams. They stretched too long, with the history of people, and she always landed in a rose bush. The little dark rose, she always stood out against the green shrubbery, and England would see her with his old eyes and ask her to tea under a tree that had grown for a thousand years, and she knew it because she had been in the dream too long and she had seen it grow and seen the warriors in their rough cloaks and women screaming in the dark of night and babies bawling in empty shacks.
She did not understand people very much, but she understood pain.
Timidly, she sipped her tea and waited until he turned away so she could slip out of his dream, to angularly dart away like a fish. An uncomfortable feeling rested in her stomach when she accidentally slipped into his dreams, because he always looked so sadly happy to see her. He would serve her tea that had gone bad years ago, and they would watch the sunset on the white cliffs as buildings crumpled into the ocean. His dreams lacked the laughter of children, replaced softly with the hollowness of time.
He had no Cauldron of the Dagda. His dissatisfaction appeared in the rotting of the trees and the withering of the grass. She wanted to leave. But he stared at her in a kind, absent manner, and even when she left, there would be the teacups arranged for two at the small round table, so she sat and drank and watched civilizations collapse and sipped her tea.
She did not understand people very much, but she understood loss.
--
Australia - Europa by Globus
This is London, he would say, guiding Australia’s small hand onto the crinkled newspaper. The barbed print curved and twisted too cleverly for Australia to read yet, but he could make out the dim picture of the houses and the ladies in heavy dresses and gentlemen standing stiffly next to handsome horses. And England would sit him down in front of the table, newspaper forgotten in the corner, as he taught him the alphabets and numbers of a gentleman, so that Australia could write him coarse and childish letters during the long months between visits, ones that he would never send, and watch them burn instead.
This is London, he would say, stretching his hand over the world map, where the tinges of ancient days still wryly decorated the seas, a tip of a sea monster here and there as a maritime nod and wink. His long finger would cross thousands of miles with one fell swoop, the speed of which to cause ten-league boots to blush with shame, and settle on a small island off the side of Europe. Though Australia would sit in his lap and squirm, his own short fingers could not move as quickly as England’s, so the journey from that small island to the larger land mass at the right-bottom corner of the map seemed long and arduous. Then again, he did not measure the distance in inches, but the days he lingered on the docks, waiting for England to come again.
This is London, he would say, sitting him down for the meals as Australia’s ears rang after being scrubbed raw red by England’s harsh administrations with a coarse linen towel. The silver platter would peek open to reveal disgusting creations, boiled black and green and purple, like a bruise that stretched for five plates and dessert. But Australia swallowed them dutifully, one lump after another, all while his thick snake curled fondly at his feet. Though England would lecture about table manners of the gentry in his cities, Australia would only remember the way the food was carefully lifted to his mouth by a silver fork, only to be stopped and placed down when word came that his attention was needed elsewhere, and he would leave with a soft pat to the head to board his ship again. The food that had been so warm then chilled uncomfortably as Australia finished his meal in an empty room.
This is London, he would say, opening the cabinets of his study as the sun blazed outside. He would pull out handkerchiefs, dabbing at the sweat of his brow, as he continued his search. At the bottom of the cabinet would be the suit brought over from London that was already too small by the time he arrived, so he would need to tailor them. But even by tailoring end, the collar and the sleeves would be too tight for Australia, and fighting against the tide of time always resulted in a hollow defeat. But still, he would bring him gifts, colourful toys. Australia didn’t touch those when England stayed, because he would take long walks with Australia during the warm evenings and Australia would show him his achievements and England would smile his special smile. He reserved the toys for the lonely evenings when the world had left him, and only an outdated memento could give him any comfort.
This is London, he would say, as Australia hugged him tightly, after he had hid so long that he had been afraid that England would never find him. Australia had hiked so long that the red dirt caked the black of his boots, and had waited until evening coldly fell. He had nearly given up hope of ever being found when a familiar face peered into the cave. This is London, he would say, as he scooped up Australia’s tired form and held him close for the long trek home. This is my heart, he would say, as Australia pressed one ear onto his chest to hear the throbbing beats that told him steadily and calmly, again and again and again, that he was loved.
--
Relm - Colorblind by Dresden Dolls
1.
He was not her father.
The villagers attempted to shove her into a perfect daughter role. Stuffed animals invaded her bed, and a perfectly placid and a perfectly boring shade of pink stained her bedroom walls. The mothers with blank-eyed looks cooed at her, and the fathers with stiff expressions nodded at her in the department stores.
But she was not the perfect daughter. She ran down the streets, she did not wipe her shoes from mud when she trampled into houses, and she drank the tea cup with both hands, chugging it down until the Darjeeling dripped from her chin. She would have pretended, though, for him. Pretended to be obedient when it mattered, on those days that he complained that his bones ached and his back hurt and he turned the calendar to July only to stare in dismay at the decorations outside the streets.
Sometimes he spoke about his children to her. He would recount endless tales of lost toys and lullabies on stormy nights to her until they all blended together, the story of America and Canada and Sealand and Hong Kong and and and and. He spoke about them in the past, but he looked blind as he touched her small knuckles over the table.
He could have been her father, but she was not his child.
2.
He was not her brother.
Once, as she had grown to the gawky stage where the clothes didn’t fit quite right and her feelings tumultuous for the boy who sat next to her and chewed his pencil, he had told her that all men that brothers be. She had been too busy watching him embroider and thinking about shaggy-haired boys with white throats and maple smells, but the saying stayed in her as she attended school and did her chores and painted in the backyard.
Sometimes, when she visited his house after school, she would accidentally stumble upon an argument, like tripping over a rock in a river. You’re my brother, I care for you, don’t you understand. When they had left and he was left alone, sullen and hurt and sitting on his throne of musty mothballs and lingering lint.
“I am all the brothers in my house,” he told her once, “and all the sisters too.” She didn’t understand, but even if he was old and stinky, maybe she could have been his sister. They squabbled like siblings over the television channels, and he wasn’t above fighting for the last cookie when they were hungry.
But he was too many brothers and sisters to himself, and the exhausted look that he always wore told her that there was no room for her in his house.
3.
He was not her country.
She had reached the age where her limbs seemed strange and long, but she was slowly growing into herself. She started to see him, not as an old man, but a strangely young gentleman. He had no gray hairs, and the wrinkles on his face came from his frowns. He wasn’t her father or her brother, but he was strange.
She, who dreamed about saving the world, missed her home sometimes. A certain light on the trees and the fresh smell from the bakery made her heart ache for the ballads of her town. She knew about countries. She knew because his stories had turned from fairy tales to stories of his past, pulled from him reluctantly like thread drawn from his lips. If he really was a country, she did not understand his hesitance. His own essence was created from people, from history, from his past. She felt familiar to him, and if she closed her eyes when he was making tea, she could almost imagine the land of sloping green hills with trees that sang tunes when a certain wind blew through their hallowed trunks.
But then he would speak, softly and gravely, of his boys. He began in the beginning, a discordant tone reaching his voice, and he told her about monasteries lit on fire and parchments curling into soft, slow flames. And he told her about women crying in the night and babies cold and alone in the shacks and the power of the ocean’s pull and strange men in metal garbs slowly sweeping across his land. All the while, as his fingers flickered on grasping his tea cup, he would gaze at her with vulnerability, waiting for her to tire of his stories.
He was not afraid of his past. He simply did not know how much she could bear to hear.
The history was not hers to take.
4.
He was not her lover.
She was a young lady, frizzled hair swept up into a neat ponytail. Her motions were graceful and demure, and even if she pounced excitedly on the last cookie, she was as tall as him. Her affection for him curiously wrapped around him, and she would spend hours on her bed, thinking about her feelings and about boys.
At first, the thought made her laugh. An ugly old man with a bad back and drank too much tea to be healthy. But the more she considered it, the girlish hopes and dreams stirred deep within her stomach. When he awkward smiled, he didn’t look so bad. And she had grown up, and he had stayed the same, and he seemed so much more human. He knew her well, and she rested at his house with comfort. She told him about boys and he gave her the same advice (“fuck those buggers, they’re not good enough for you”) and she would spend hours on end staring at his ceiling. His kisses were feathery and his hugs were tight, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
But he never cried in front of her. Even if he sniffled at soap operas, and his eyes watered after a particularly scathing remark about his cooking, he never told her about his pains. She would tell him about everything and he would listen over a cup of tea. But when it came to his troubles, he would just smile weakly and shake his head sadly.
Perhaps he did not love her in that way.
5.
“What am I to you?” She leaned her chin on her long fingers, and watched as he achingly sat down on the couch beside her. Instinctively, he slid his arm over her shoulders and tucked his chin on her head to reach for the remote control.
He didn’t say anything at first, fumbling with the buttons for the right channel. Patiently, she folded her legs underneath her weight, and rested her arm on a cushion. He bent his head slightly to squint at the buttons, and she lightly blew on the back of his neck to watch the bristles of his messy hair tremble.
“Mm?” He leaned back into her grasp as the game show came on, their daily uninterrupted routine continuing without a hitch.
“Like somebody is your daughter, or your mother, or your girlfriend…” She trailed off expectantly, staring into the shell of his ear.
“What brought this on?” He appeared amused, but not reluctant to answer. Staring at the game show host, he merely tilted his head and gave a small shrug.
“Come on, old man, just tell me.”
“I don’t know,” he said, laughing softly. “This is all moving so fast. I don’t know, how about that you’re my friend? Does that please you any?” He reached behind her and tugged playfully at the tendrils of her hair, all while still watching the show.
She rested her head on his bony shoulder and stared at the flickering black-and-white television show, a secret smile growing at the edges of her lips.
“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I guess that would do.”
--
Canada - Eastern European Funk by Inculto (Or I enjoy writing Canada as a teenage girl too much.)
So.
Say that you were invisible. No, not literally. Figuratively. Nations sit on you, nobody listens to you, and sometimes there’s a flag on your head that’s not yours. It’s hard, right? You stand in the back of the room and you can see the exact definitions of everybody’s problems and nobody even listen to you. Germany needs to be less serious. Italy needs to pay attention. And America needs to be less loud and more sensitive to problems. Everybody’s problems. Your problems.
But America is stupid. He’s an idiot. And even if you don’t tell him this when he’s wielding a three-foot buzzing chainsaw, you tell him this when you’ve just had enough and snap. You tell him exactly what you think about him, how he’s just a mindless idiot always blathering about his own plans, a self-centered loser who can’t read a map right to save his life, and it might have saved his life a few times if he could. You tell him, in no uncertain terms, that you know everything about him, even if he doesn’t know you. He doesn’t know you at all.
It feels good to get it all out.
America is one thing. But England is another. Because even if he sometimes looks at you and sees America, he remembers you. You remember him. He was the nation in stiff clothing, the man who came in wooden ships, and he smelled like tea and sugar and smog. He was big and he took your hand, and he told you that you had a brother. He patted your head and it felt good. He looks at you now and stops you from berating America and you do stop.
So. That’s why you hate him.
Because he remembers you just barely enough, but you’re never first on the tip of his tongue. You’re not a little boy who hides behind his mama’s apron. You don’t need him to do anything for you. But it’s stupid. Because he knows you, there’s always some hope that he actually will look at you first, and not to anybody else. It’s selfish and it’s stupid, but that’s how you feel.
You’re not going to spend your life pining for your paternal figure to turn around. Just deep breaths. Life goes on. You go on. That’s the way it goes.
Even if it hurts.
--
Fransu - Ergo Proxy OP (Monoral by Kiri)
He stroked the tendrils of her honeydew hair and breathed into the shell of her ear and raked his fingers down the strong muscles of her neck. She smelled like wine and freshly baked bread and sorrow, and he would tell her this if he wasn’t burying his head into the crook of her strong and stern and bony shoulder. With his free hand, he entangled his bony fingers into the frivolous frills of her stiff blue dress, and whispered to her about her gaudy decorations and she told him that he had no fashion sense and he said she spoke too much and she said he shouldn’t say anything at all and they were at it again until the argument ate itself whole and they were back at the beginning again, helpless and foolish.
I hate you, he told her, over and over again. And she said, no, non, I hate you so much more.
With that out of the way! Sorry that I haven't been keeping up with my f-list lately, I've been stressed and frazzled ahh... like, I might not have any internet for a week or so. Which comes to the point of the post (my posts have points??) which is same verse, same as the first.
Give/Link me a prompt and a pairing or character and I'll write you about said prompt and pairing/characters.
It... keeps me entertained for a while and oh gosh I've forgotten how to be without internet idek. I'll take up... knitting or... chess...