Roleplay Stories

I intend to lump all the stories I write/have written based on roleplays here. Because I've written a bunch.

I'll be sure to be nice and specify *which* roleplay each story is based on and give little tidbits on it so you understand and all.

And so let us delve into the world of my schizophrenia various characters.

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This one's not quite finished; it's maybe halfway. It's a backstory for Taiju, whom is currently involved in a roleplay with Savfantasy. I hit a little bit of a block, so we're stuck with him and his father fighting.

Taiju had daddy issues so he ran away from home! Yaaaay!

Anyway, because I know not all of you are following my and Savvy's roleplay:

- "Magus" refers to an ability that someone is born with. Usually to control the elements in some way, but there are a bunch of different kinds.

- Likewise, a "Magi" is someone born with the power.

- Taiju is a Magi Undae, meaning he controls water and other liquids. His father makes references to Soli and Incindeae; Incindeae can control and conjure fire. Soli can do something to the same effect, but more powerful and only during the day.

- The king doesn't take kindly to not having all Magi working for his kingdom.

- Nale is Taiju's younger brother, approximately three years younger

---


The swords felt like extensions of his arms. They weren’t just tools for fighting—they were a part of him. Every parry to an invisible enemy, every stab, may as well have been done with his bare hands.

The thin sheen of sweat on his face threatened to let his glasses slip. He hardly noticed. Taiju kicked up one foot, imagining the crunch of cartilage in the imaginary opponent’s nose, then let the momentum spin him around and followed up with a thrust. He immediately drew his arm back again and jabbed his elbow behind him at another “sneaking up” behind him, then twisted around, pulling his other arm through in a slash that would have gashed the belly of a human, but only sliced the air.

The fight was intricate, as though a dozen men came at him, though he only fought against himself. Taiju’s moments to spar alone were rare nowadays, and as such he was always engrossed in the false battles. It was his time alone, when he didn’t have impress anyone else. Nobody criticized him. Nobody expected him to do better. And the imaginary soldiers fell one at a time.

He spun around again and dropped his swords to the ground. In the same fluid movement, he let his Magus creep out. He could feel the water in the ground, left after a recent rainstorm, and he drew upon it. Water rose up to the soil’s surface and gathered at Taiju’s fingertips as he continued to fight, launching into a flurry of kicks and parries. He carried the water constantly at his hands, using it as a weapon; subtly shaping it into sharp edges whenever he made a swipe, bringing it up in front of him in a sheet of ice when he brought up an arm to block. He worked with it as he had his blades, as a part of him, manipulating the liquid to flow with his body.

Something behind him made a scuffing noise. Taiju whirled around and threw his water straight outward at the person approaching.

His father looked less than amused to have the water splash in his face. His expression soured, but he said nothing.

Taiju stood for a moment in battle-ready position, then eased himself into a stand. His breath came in ragged gasps, but he never took his eyes off the older man.

“I’m surprised,” his father began, raising a large hand to wipe his face dry, “that you weren’t more wary of my coming. Or do you greet everyone like this?”

“No. Only you.” Taiju’s dry smile held no humor. “Don’t worry, I knew you were coming, which is why I had that special greeting just for you. Don’t you feel special?”

His father glowered down at his son. Taiju resembled very little of his father; the older man was tall, built solidly from the earlier years spent as a kingdom soldier and maintained by his arduous work as a blacksmith, and took pride in maintaining a fine scruff of facial hair that accentuated the sharp features of his face. Taiju, despite nearing his fifteenth birthday, had yet to inherit any of these traits. He stood a full foot shorter than his father, slim, with softer features that easily gave onlookers the impression he belonged surrounded by books, not in the forge. The only similarities to be found in the two could be found in the same crop of shaggy dark brown hair, and the same sharp hazel eyes.

Taiju finally broke his glare from the gaze of his father, leaning down to pick up his swords. He mentally steeled himself for whatever abuse that was to come. They could never speak without harsh words.

“So why,” began his father, adopting a condescending tone, “do you find it necessary to mix your . . . Magus--” he spat the word with disdain, “--with a perfectly good fighting style?”

Taiju’s grip tightened around the sword handles. “It’s good for focus,” he replied tensely. “It takes skill to manipulate one’s Magus while maintaining a fight. Considering you fought for so long alongside Magi, Damek, one would think you’d understand this.”

“I’ve never approved of them. Witchcraft will never compare to a fine tempered steel.” Damek narrowed his eyes. “And it would do you well to show some respect to your elder.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy Dearest, but my attempts are to improve upon my fighting, not make it worse.” Taiju sheathed his swords in the scabbards at his side; the hilts hit the scabbard tops with such force that his palms were left in pain. “Everything can be improved upon.”

Damek’s eyebrow gave a slight twitch. “Perhaps I would approve more if you had a genuinely useful skill to use in the forge. Maybe if you were a Soli or Incindeae.”

“Aside from the fact that I can’t control what I was born as, I’m sorry, Dad, but I don’t think you want to give me the ability to control flames.” Taiju smirked at his father, though the glare accompanying it dispelled any humor. “You really, really don’t want to do that. The urge to freeze the blood of some people is such a temptation as it is.”

“You should be more grateful,” Damek pointed out, crossing his arms. “You’re lucky we harbor you as well as we do.”

“Because it’s such a chore to take care of your own son,” Taiju said dramatically.

“Because you know the risk we’re at!” Damek barked, glaring back at Taiju. “If the king ever found out that we were taking care of you instead of turning you over to him, we would all suffer!”

“You don’t even give a damn!” Taiju spat back. “If Nale had my powers, you’d praise him for it because he’s just Daddy’s little boy, isn’t he?”

“And you’d do well to be more like him,” Damek reminded darkly. “Your . . . interests are not becoming of a male your age.”

“And so war and blood are more proper interests for a fourteen-year-old?” Taiju asked in disbelief. “I don’t understand that, Dad. Either way, you have to put up with it, so you might as well get over it and quit criticizing me. I can’t help it.”

“I wish you could.”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t, because I know how much it pisses you off.”

Damek’s next reply came in the form of a backhand across the side of Taiju’s face. He gave a small gasp of pain and stumbled backward, but only scowled otherwise.

“You are arrogant!” Damek snarled. “You put yourself on a pedestal, thinking that you’re better than your own brother, your own father, just because you have your abilities!”

“I never did anything!” Taiju shouted back. “You made that assumption! If Nale could do it, you would still be happy with him and you would still hate me as much as you do now! It’s not about the kingdom, it’s not about Nale, it’s not about my Magus, you just don’t like me! I spent the first ten years of my life trying to earn your approval and it’s never been good enough for you!”

“I’m trying to push you to be better!”

“You aren’t! All you’ve ever done is look down on me ever since I starting showing disinterest in becoming a blacksmith!”

“It’s an honorable business!”

“And what makes being a craftsman different?”

“All you ever want to make is toys! Useless things!”

“I’m still doing the same thing you are! Making things that people can use! There are a thousand weaponsmiths but rarer are the ones who want to make genuinely useful things!”

Damek rolled his eyes. “Watches and knives aren’t useful!” he retorted.

“Only to you, because you love spilling blood so much!”

---

And that be it. I intend to go back and rewrite a little of this, because I'm not sure about how well the argument leads into itself, and obviously I have another half to write. But let me know what you think so far.

Its a truly great story Syl, I can't wait to read more of your stories. You have true talent.

:3 Thank you~

IT IS FINISHED.

Critique is still quite welcome. Considering it's 2:33 in the morning and I was eager to finish, it may not be perfect. SO YEAH.

-----


The swords felt like extensions of his arms. They weren’t just tools for fighting—they were a part of him. Every parry to an invisible enemy, every stab, may as well have been done with his bare hands.

The thin sheen of sweat on his face threatened to let his glasses slip. He hardly noticed. Taiju kicked up one foot, imagining the crunch of cartilage in the imaginary opponent’s nose, then let the momentum spin him around and followed up with a thrust. He immediately drew his arm back again and jabbed his elbow behind him at another “sneaking up” behind him, then twisted around, pulling his other arm through in a slash that would have gashed the belly of a human, but only sliced the air.

The fight was intricate, as though a dozen men came at him, though he only fought against himself. Taiju’s moments to spar alone were rare nowadays, and as such he was always engrossed in the false battles. It was his time alone, when he didn’t have impress anyone else. Nobody criticized him. Nobody expected him to do better. And the imaginary soldiers fell one at a time.

He spun around again and dropped his swords to the ground. In the same fluid movement, he let his Magus creep out. He could feel the water in the ground, left after a recent rainstorm, and he drew upon it. Water rose up to the soil’s surface and gathered at Taiju’s fingertips as he continued to fight, launching into a flurry of kicks and parries. He carried the water constantly at his hands, using it as a weapon; subtly shaping it into sharp edges whenever he made a swipe, bringing it up in front of him in a sheet of ice when he brought up an arm to block. He worked with it as he had his blades, as a part of him, manipulating the liquid to flow with his body.

Something behind him made a scuffing noise. Taiju whirled around and threw his water straight outward at the person approaching.

His father looked less than amused to have the water splash in his face. His expression soured, but he said nothing.

Taiju stood for a moment in battle-ready position, then eased himself into a stand. His breath came in ragged gasps, but he never took his eyes off the older man.

“I’m surprised,” his father began, raising a large hand to wipe his face dry, “that you weren’t more wary of my coming. Or do you greet everyone like this?”

“No. Only you.” Taiju’s dry smile held no humor. “Don’t worry, I knew you were coming, which is why I had that special greeting just for you. Don’t you feel special?”

His father glowered down at his son. Taiju resembled very little of his father; the older man was tall, built solidly from the earlier years spent as a kingdom soldier and maintained by his arduous work as a blacksmith, and took pride in maintaining a fine scruff of facial hair that accentuated the sharp features of his face. Taiju, despite nearing his fifteenth birthday, had yet to inherit any of these traits. He stood a full foot shorter than his father, slim, with softer features that easily gave onlookers the impression he belonged surrounded by books, not in the forge. The only similarities to be found in the two could be found in the same crop of shaggy dark brown hair, and the same sharp hazel eyes.

Taiju finally broke his glare from the gaze of his father, leaning down to pick up his swords. He mentally steeled himself for whatever abuse that was to come. They could never speak without harsh words.

“So why,” began his father, adopting a condescending tone, “do you find it necessary to mix your . . . Magus--” he spat the word with disdain, “--with a perfectly good fighting style?”

Taiju’s grip tightened around the sword handles. “It’s good for focus,” he replied tensely. “It takes skill to manipulate one’s Magus while maintaining a fight. Considering you fought for so long alongside Magi, Damek, one would think you’d understand this.”

“I’ve never approved of them. Witchcraft will never compare to a fine tempered steel.” Damek narrowed his eyes. “And it would do you well to show some respect to your elder.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy Dearest, but my attempts are to improve upon my fighting, not make it worse.” Taiju sheathed his swords in the scabbards at his side; the hilts hit the scabbard tops with such force that his palms were left in pain. “Everything can be improved upon.”

Damek’s eyebrow gave a slight twitch. “Perhaps I would approve more if you had a genuinely useful skill to use in the forge. Maybe if you were a Soli or Incindeae.”

“Aside from the fact that I can’t control what I was born as, I’m sorry, Dad, but I don’t think you want to give me the ability to control flames.” Taiju smirked at his father, though the glare accompanying it dispelled any humor. “You really, really don’t want to do that. The urge to freeze the blood of some people is such a temptation as it is.”

“You should be more grateful,” Damek pointed out, crossing his arms. “You’re lucky we harbor you as well as we do.”

“Because it’s such a chore to take care of your own son,” Taiju said dramatically.

“Because you know the risk we’re at!” Damek barked, glaring back at Taiju. “If the king ever found out that we were taking care of you instead of turning you over to him, we would all suffer!”

“You don’t even give a damn!” Taiju spat back. “If Nale had my powers, you’d praise him for it because he’s just Daddy’s little boy, isn’t he?”

“And you’d do well to be more like him,” Damek reminded darkly. “Your . . . interests are not becoming of a male your age.”

“And so war and blood are more proper interests for a fourteen-year-old?” Taiju asked in disbelief. “I don’t understand that, Dad. Either way, you have to put up with it, so you might as well get over it and quit criticizing me. I can’t help it.”

“I wish you could.”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t, because I know how much it pisses you off.”

Damek’s next reply came in the form of a backhand across the side of Taiju’s face. He gave a small gasp of pain and stumbled backward, but only scowled otherwise.

“You are arrogant!” Damek snarled. “You put yourself on a pedestal, thinking that you’re better than your own brother, your own father, just because you have your abilities!”

“I never did anything!” Taiju shouted back. “You made that assumption! If Nale could do it, you would still be happy with him and you would still hate me as much as you do now! It’s not about the kingdom, it’s not about Nale, it’s not about my Magus, you just don’t like me! I spent the first ten years of my life trying to earn your approval and it’s never been good enough for you!”

“I’m trying to push you to be better!”

“You aren’t! All you’ve ever done is look down on me ever since I starting showing disinterest in becoming a blacksmith!”

“It’s an honorable business!”

“And what makes being a craftsman different?”

“All you ever want to make is toys! Useless things!”

“I’m still doing the same thing you are! Making things that people can use! There are a thousand weaponsmiths but rarer are the ones who want to make genuinely useful things!

Damek rolled his eyes. “Watches and knives aren’t useful!” he retorted. “And neither are those drawings that you love to do so much!”

“Only to you, because you love spilling blood so much!”

“Working for the kingdom is an honor! You should learn this!”

Taiju threw up his hands in disbelief. “You worked for a tyrant!” he argued. “A man who either enslaves or kills all of the people he doesn’t like!”

He paused for a moment, glaring up at his father. One eyebrow rose slightly. “Gee. I wonder why that sounds so familiar to me,” he said sarcastically.

Damek snarled and lunged forward, grabbing a fistful of Taiju’s shirt. He lifted the boy bodily off the ground, barely allowing the toes of Taiju’s boots to scrape the grass. Taiju felt his heart seize up in his chest with fear. Damek had never gotten this violent.

“Let me go!” Taiju demanded, pulling vainly at Damek’s wrist.

“You will learn to respect me!” Damek hissed between clenched teeth. He pushed his face into Taiju’s, fogging the boy’s glasses with his hot breath. “Perhaps I should start beating that rebelliousness out of you!”

Taiju reacted before he thought. He kicked out, planting his heel sharply in Damek’s stomach. Damek gasped as the air was blown from his lungs and dropped Taiju, who landed on his back and immediately attempted to scramble away. Damek managed to regain his breath and seized Taiju by his belt, yanking him back.

“You are done being so disobedient,” he growled, as Taiju fumbled to think of a way to retaliate. He grasped desperately at the sheath hidden inside his boot, and his fingers closed around the handle of his dagger just as Damek forcefully turned him around by his shoulder. The man’s grip was painful. His other hand swung out, curled into a huge fist.

Taiju’s reflexes kicked in as he thrust up his blade and squeezed his eyes shut.

He heard his father gasp out in pain and felt the grip slacken. Taiju pulled away from Damek’s hold and dared to look up.

Damek clutched at a bleeding stab wound in his forearm, face contorted with pain. Taiju glanced to the dagger he held and realized, with horror, that he was the one who had caused the wound. He backed away, his hand beginning to tremble as blood dripped down the dagger onto his knuckles.

Damek brought a deadly glare to meet Taiju’s frightened gaze. “Get out of here,” he growled, in a voice so low and dangerously cold that Taiju felt a fearful shiver crawl up his spine. “I am done with you. I will have nothing else to do with you . . . you worthless excuse for a son.”

Taiju couldn’t respond for a long moment. His mouth struggled to form words, but his voice failed him. “You can’t do that,” he said dumbly. “You can’t disown me.”

“I just have.”

“No . . .” Taiju’s lips curled into a scowl. “You can’t disown me. I’ll leave on my own, like I should have ages ago.” He started to walk away, past his father, toward the house. “Why I never left, I’ll never know, but I can guarantee I won’t regret it.” His hands shook as he began to unbuckle the belt that held his swords at his hips. He turned back halfway to the house so he could look at his father as he defiantly dropped his weapon belt to the ground. “And the best part? I won’t need to rely on your shoddy work anymore.”

Damek gave only a look of sheer hatred and disbelief as Taiju stormed back toward the house.

When Taiju threw open the back door, his mother, Kade, jumped with surprise. She looked on in shock as her son came into the kitchen and began digging through drawers with bloodied hands. He slammed down his knife on the counter so he could search.

“Taiju, what are you doing?” she asked, slowly advancing toward him as he bustled around the kitchen.

“Packing,” he replied gruffly. He found a plain cheesecloth in on of the drawers and laid it out on the counter, then began rooting through cabinets for food.

“Why? Where do you think you’re going?” Kadea rested a hand on Taiju’s shoulder, gentle but firm.

“I don’t know. Somewhere that isn’t here.” After shrugging her hand off of his shoulder, Taiju found some dried jerky in another cabinet and began packing some into the cheesecloth. Afterward he added a large piece of a bread loaf and tied it all into a neat bundle.

“I thought you were practicing your fighting. Did something happen with your father?” Kadea continued to press as Taiju snatched up his packaged food and left the kitchen.

“Yeah. And I’m done with him.”

Kadea sighed. “Hon, you know he doesn’t mean anything bad when he-”

“Yes he does!” Taiju whirled around to face her, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I don’t understand why you keep ignoring it! You know how he abuses me just because I’m not like him or Nale, Mom!”

“He’s just-”

“Trying to push me to be better? He already gave me that excuse! If he was trying to do that, he wouldn’t tear up the drawings I do! He wouldn’t try to break the watches I make with Len, or bend up the knives I make on my own, or tell me that the only thing I’ll ever do is bring the kingdom down on our heads!” Taiju didn’t realize that his voice was beginning to rise. “And you wouldn’t sit there and just watch him while he does it all, Mom!”

Kadea was taken aback. “Taiju . . . why . . .” She couldn’t form a proper sentence to counter his outburst. “Running away won’t . . .”

“Well, staying here won’t help either.” Taiju replied bitterly. He went into his room and picked up his messenger bag, normally used to carry his supplies back and forth when he went around town. Now he stuffed it with his food, then snatched his sketchbook off his desk with a handful of pencils and packed them as well. “Nothing’s going to be accomplished if I stay. I’ll just suffer the abuse more, and I’m sick of it.”

Kadea gently took him by the shoulders when he tried to move toward his dresser for clothing. “Hon, you know it’s dangerous,” she said softly. Taiju gave a dismissive ‘tch’ and started to move away, but Kadea just pulled him back. “You’ll be a rogue out there. With your abilities, you know that you can’t go into cities. The king will be looking for you. Making a living will be difficult, if not impossible at your age.”

“I don’t care,” Taiju said defiantly, staring at the floor. “I’ll manage. I’ll prove him wrong.”

Kadea sighed and affectionately tried to arrange a piece of Taiju’s hair. “You don’t need to do that,” she said.

“Yeah, I do. I don’t care. I’ve been thinking about this for a couple of years, and I’ll manage.” Taiju swatted away her hand, preferring his hair as it was. “I don’t care what you say. He disowned me anyway, so if I don’t leave on my own, he’ll just do it himself. But you don’t care, do you? You’ll just sit back as always.”

Kadea took her hand back, looking hurt. Taiju took a shirt out of the dresser and started to fold it up, but he hesitated when he saw her expression.

“Mom, I just . . . I can’t stay here, alright?” He let the anger leave his voice. “Dad practically tried to kill me just a few minutes ago, and even if he hadn’t, I can’t deal with him. I . . . maybe I shouldn’t blame you, but I’m done with him. I don’t care how dangerous it’s going to be. People hide. I can too. I’ll be able to take care of myself. Nothing you say is going to change my mind, so . . . just let me go, okay?” He finished folding his shirt and put it in his bag, then pulled some other clothing from the drawer and shoved them into his bag as well. “He’ll tell you the same thing. He doesn’t want to put up with me, either. He said he’s sick of me. It’ll be easier for everyone.”

Kadea watched him quietly for a few seconds, then, without a word, walked out of the room. She came back a moment later, carrying a bundle of dark cloth.

“I suppose,” she said, “that I should give this to you now. I was going to save this for your birthday, but I finished early and it would be more helpful to you now.”

She unfolded the bundle before Taiju could make a reach for it. A long forest-green cloak tumbled from the tight folds. She sighed softly as she looked it over, while Taiju simply looked confused and unsure of what to say to the gift.

“Since your birthday’s in the winter, it seemed appropriate. And, well, if you’re going to leave, you might as well have it now.” Kadea draped the the cloak around her son’s shoulders and fastened the silver clasp at his throat. “Maybe it’s a good thing I haven’t had much else to do lately, huh?”

She sighed again. Tears were starting to well in her eyes behind her glasses. She pulled her son into a tight embrace, already knowing that she wouldn’t have the chance to do so again. He didn’t protest.

“Mom . . .”

“Somehow, this just doesn’t surprise me,” she said softly, her voice wavering with the threat of tears. “I always wondered if you’d just up and leave home . . . I guess I was right after all.”

Taiju didn’t know how to respond. All he could do was grip the pair of slacks he still held.

Eventually, he rested his forehead against her shoulder, biting the inside of his lip as a wave of sadness hit him, too.

“I guess you’re right. I know I can’t change your mind.” Kadea held Taiju out at arm’s length and forced a watery smile. “So . . . I love you. Don’t forget that. And come back to see me sometime at least, okay?”

Taiju stared at her for a long moment, not trusting himself to speak. He pulled away from his mother’s hold, shoved the rest of his clothes in his bag, and slung it over his shoulder. He started to brush past her, then paused.

“I’ll come back. Love you too,” he mumbled, hugging her briefly with one arm before hurrying out of the room. Kadea watched her son walk away in solemn silence, trying to keep her tears from falling.

Taiju made haste for the front door, knowing that if he didn’t leave quickly, his father would decide to help. He paused in the kitchen to pick up the dagger again, grimacing at the blood but sheathing it again. He could clean it later, when he was farther away from his home.

He had his hand on the doorknob when one last distraction decided to hold him back.

“Taiju? Where are you going?”

Taiju looked back at his younger brother, frowning. “I’m leaving, Nale,” he said flatly. “So you don’t have to compete with me for Dad’s affection anymore. He’s all yours.”

“But why are you going?” Nale grabbed the back of Taiju’s shirt when he tried to leave.

“Because Dad hates me.” Taiju tried not to sound bitter to the eleven-year-old, but it was extremely difficult. “Look, let me go.”

“But . . .” Nale reluctantly let go but didn’t take his eyes off Taiju. “Why would you go? That just seems . . . weak.”

Taiju rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you and Dad will get along just fine without me,” he said.

Nale frowned. “Maybe he was right all this time,” he said accusingly. “A real man wouldn’t run away.”

“Our definitions are different. If you don’t shut up right now, I’m not leaving without giving you a healthy bruise or five.” Taiju’s threats were hollow. No matter how much he had learned to dislike Nale as the years went by due to the growing similarities between him and his father, Taiju just couldn’t bring himself to harm the younger one. He had been innocent once.

Nale looked disapproving. “I don’t understand how I’m related to you,” he said.

“Neither do I. Good luck.” Taiju spun around to leave before he said something he would regret to Nale.

“Good luck.”

Unlike Taiju’s farewell, Nale’s wasn’t laced with sarcasm.

Taiju hesitated for a brief second, then continued out, closing the door with a quiet click behind him.

As he walked down the dirt road, he found a sudden onslaught of tears. He grit his teeth against them. Home was nothing, he reminded himself. There was nothing good to remember from there. Absolutely nothing.

As he walked away, and each glance over his shoulder showed the house becoming progressively smaller in the distance, Taiju felt the knot of fear and apprehension growing larger and tighter in his belly. Where would he go? Kadea was right; the king would be looking for him if he chose this life. Rogues were frowned upon by everyone outside his small town, and he knew that he was young and life would only be made more difficult by that fact.

He stopped in the middle of the road and looked back, wondering for a second if he should turn back around. Perhaps this would be a bad idea after all and he should stay at home.

He thought of what his father would say. “Just like you. You can’t even hold up on your promise to leave, could you? And now you came running home to Mommy to take care of you again. You’ll never amount to anything on your own, will you?”

Taiju scowled. He was going to prove his father wrong today. He was going to take care of himself and make a living doing what he wanted. He would dodge all the king’s watchdogs, and live out on the side of the dirt roads if he had to. He was not going to give in to what his father said yet again, even if that meant turning to a lifestyle that would get him looked down upon. He would prove his father—he would prove Damek wrong.

He pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders and the hood over his head. As of today, he was officially a rogue.

This was a rather goofy story that I wrote about "Demon," a vampire/werewolf/demon-based roleplay. Wrote it after a funny scene in Kuroshitsuji.

>3>

Notes:

-Drake is to Devon and Colt is to Zeke. Um, that sounds a little odd, but yeah.
-Drake and Zeke are vampires, the other two are werewolves.

That's it for now.

------

"Cherry Stems"

“Damn it, this is a lot harder than it seems.”

Zeke sighed and moved around the cherry stem until he could hold it between his teeth. “Stupid cherry stems are such a pain.”

Drake, laying back on the couch, hands behind his head and also with a cherry stem in his mouth, gave a slight nod. “Didn't think it'd be so hard. Who brought this up, anyway?”

“Colt,” Zeke replied, tucking his stem back in his cheek. “She brought home all those stupid cherries and dared me to tie one in a knot with my tongue, remember?” He gestured to a plastic bowl on the coffee table filled with several dozen of the small red fruit. “Apparently she watched something where some guy could do it and wanted to see if I could. It's supposed to be a sign that you're a good kisser or something if you can tie a cherry stem in a knot.”

“Right . . . You know, I didn't know she even liked cherries.”

“Neither did I.” Zeke sighed and shifted to lay upside-down on his chair. “I can't not do it or Colt'll make fun of me for the rest of eternity, though.”

Somebody walked out and stood in front of him. Zeke found himself staring blankly at a pair of denim-sheathed legs for several seconds; the blood rushing to his head made it difficult to think straight.

“You are both aware, of course, that you look like dogs with peanut butter stuck to the roofs of their mouths, right?” Devon asked flatly, tongue in her cheek as she looked down at Zeke, then over at Drake. “Not that you're much smarter than dogs, granted . . .”

“Hey!” Drake protested angrily. The cherry stem in his mouth fell into the back of his throat when he spoke, and he shot up, coughing fitfully as he struggled to remove the stem from his windpipe.

Devon's eyebrow went up a fraction of an inch. “Yeah . . . um, you are aware you're proving my point, right?” she asked.

“Shut up,” Drake wheezed when he held the stem in his palm. Devon just laughed and started to the empty cushion of the couch Drake no longer occupied. On the way she bent down and plucked a cherry from the bowl and popped it in her mouth, then sat down and cracked open a thick novel.

“Thought you didn't like cherries,” Zeke accused.

“Haven't had any in years. Thought maybe my tastes had changed,” Devon replied, shrugging. She made a face and swallowed the fruit. “Blech. Apparently they haven't. Well, good luck on trying to boost your self-esteem through an urban myth, boys, and try not to die.”

Drake resisted the urge to pick up a handful of cherries and throw them at her.

After several more minutes of the boys’ fitful attempts to knot up a cherry stalk without the use of their hands, Colt walked out of the bedroom she and Zeke shared. Hands in her pockets, she smiled at Zeke. “Any luck yet?” she asked sweetly.

“No. You gave me an impossible mission,” Zeke pouted, folding his arms over his chest.

“He's right. This is damn near impossible,” Drake agreed, now just chewing on the end of his stem. “It's way harder than you'd think.”

Colt smirked a little. “Is that so,” she said. “That’s sorta pathetic. Now I'm really convinced it's true, though. I mean, you obviously have to have a really strong muscle in order to pull that off . . .”

Devon gave a snort of laughter, but otherwise did nothing. Three glares were immediately shot at her, but she kept her eyes on her book.

“Well, I've gotta go make sure Nero's not tearing up something. You can stop if you want,” Colt said, making a gesture over her shoulder. “It doesn't really matter, anyway. I just wanted to see if you could do it.”

Zeke finally decided it was time to give up and spat out the stem that he had spent twenty minutes trying to tie. “Thank you,” he mumbled, disheartened by his defeat. He sat upright, then swooned slightly from the sudden blood rush.

Drake shook his head. “Now I'm just determined,” he said. “I'm not going to lose to a freaking cherry stem.”

Colt giggled and left with a small wave.

Devon then stood up, placing a paper bookmark in her book. Without saying a word, she started back toward her and Drake's bedroom. Drake and Zeke looked up and watched her leave.

However, by the table she paused. She raised a hand, produced a perfectly knotted cherry stem from between her lips, and tossed it onto the coffee table. Casually she sauntered off again toward the bedroom.

“Wusses,” she said before the door closed.

Drake and Zeke stared at the knotted stalk for a long moment, mouths agape in shock. Devon was the last person in the world either of them would have expected to even attempt the feat, let alone accomplish it.

After several seconds, Zeke looked over at Drake.

“Dude, we are the luckiest guys ever.”

Well, this one's a few months old, but I think it's worth putting up.

Joey is being used in a roleplay here with Avalon and Savfantasy, but he's not nearly as developed as he is in the longer-running one I have with my best friend, which is where this came from. He suffers from some severe depression, and this was sort of a way of getting into his mind and seeing kinda what he thinks and such.

And also, Damien has anger issues. As such, this is a fair warning that there's a decent use of profanity in this story.

Did you catch that?

There's profanity in this. OKAY? COVER YOUR SENSITIVE EARS EYES.

There's not too much, but it's enough to constitute a warning.

-----

He turned the pocket knife over in his hands. Over and over. The blade glinted in the light, a brilliant, transfixing silver. His eyes never left it.

The small blade paused in its turns. Joey trailed his eyes along the fine edge. He put the point to his finger; holding a keen tip, having only rarely been used, the steel poked a tiny hole in the flesh. It scarcely hurt, even as a bead of blood welled.

So easy, he thought. Skin protected nothing . . .

He dragged the flat of the blade down his fingers, across his palm, and stopped at his wrist. Precariously he balanced the point on top of one of the blue veins visible through his pale skin. If he were to just pull that blade down his forearm, he could end it.

No more depression.

No pain.

No weakness.

So easy.

The thought of suicide was bright and clear and his mind. Why should he hold back? Nobody cared. Nobody would care.

That's a lie, said a corner of his subconscious. Jack would care. You're his best friend.

“He'd move on,” Joey mumbled aloud. “He still has Zakuro.”

Zakuro would care, argued his subconscious. She's your friend, too.

“They'd get over it.”

And Damien?

“So will she.”

She's already lost her family. Are you going to be such a bastard as to take away her friend, too?

“Damien doesn't care. She'll still have the others anyway. And her thousands of boyfriends . . .”

She loves you.

“No she doesn't. She's never loved me. She never would.” Joey's hand trembled faintly.

No, she doesn't love you like you want her to. She still cares for you deeply, just like everyone else does.

“They'll all move on. It doesn't matter!” Joey hissed.

Of course, not that you'll ever know whether she loved you or not, seeing as you were always too much of a prideful ass to say anything. Now it won't matter.

“It wouldn't have mattered anyway!”

His subconscious was silent again.

Joey took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. His hand still shook. Even so, he pressed the knife against his wrist. Even with the slightest pressure, the steel edge threatened to split the skin.

Hypocrite.

He paused again.

You're just being a hypocrite.

“I'm not,” Joey whispered.

Selfish.

“No.”

How many times have you coaxed Jack out of suicidal thoughts? asked his subconscious. Told him so many times that suicide isn't the way . . .

“That's different,” Joey argued weakly.

Hardly. And what about Damien? When you got mad at her for the same thing after your fight?

Joey was finding it hard to argue with his own logic.

Just a selfish hypocrite willing to destroy everyone else's lives by taking your own.

“They'll go on-”

Why should they have to?

Joey grit his teeth and tried to block out the doubting voice. What did it know? Nothing. It knew nothing. His logic was always what got him in trouble anyway. It was what always made people hate him.

His hand shook violently with the knife as he again pressed it to his wrist. His breath caught in his throat. Just a couple of inches down his forearm. Nothing hard. Easy, even.

Those logical thoughts kept coming back. For a brief second, he wondered just what the hell he was doing.

He pushed the thought away. There was no time for doubts.

“Joey! What the hell is going on in there?” Damien's voice sounded over her pounding on the door. “I know you're in there, so quit ignoring me!”

Ignoring? Joey hadn't even heard her to begin with. He clenched his jaw and steadied his hand. He had to do it now, before anyone came in. Before speaking to anyone. That would only make it more difficult.

He jumped when the door burst open. Without his consent, the tip of the knife dug into his wrist. He gasped and immediately pulled the knife back, looking at the blood coating the tip and leaking from the small stab wound and forming a small puddle on the desktop.

“What the hell are you doing?” Damien demanded as she strode across the room. She grabbed Joey by the shoulder and wheeled him around in the desk chair to face her. When she saw the blood and the knife in his trembling hand, her eyes widened, and she gasped. “What are you doing?”

Joey blinked a couple of times, looking down at his hands. What had he been doing? Another few seconds and he would be bleeding to death over his desk.

“I . . . I don't know,” he whispered. The pocket knife fell from his hand. Damien picked it up off the floor and looked over it.

“How do you not know?” she asked. “You stabbed yourself in the wrist. You have to have a reason for that!”

“I . . .” Joey shook his head slowly. “I really don't know . . .”

“Were you trying to cut yourself?”

Joey shook his head again. He didn't want to admit to himself what he had been trying to do, let alone to Damien.

“Then what?” Damien demanded sharply. “You'd better not lie to me, Joey.”

“I was . . .” Joey faltered, and his voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “Trying to kill myself.”

“What?!” Damien exclaimed shrilly. “Why the fuck would you do that?!”

Joey shrugged. It was his best response.

Damien laughed dryly, a sound without humor. “I really can't believe you, Joey,” she said, and put the knife back on the desk. “You're off your pills for two days and you try to pull crap like this? And here I was thinking you didn't need them. I thought you were the sensible one.”

Joey stared at his bleeding wrist.

“Why the hell would you want to kill yourself?” Damien asked. “You have no good reason.”

Again a shrug. “I really don't know what I was thinking,” he mumbled. “It just . . . felt like nothing was worth it . . .”

“You son-of-a-bitch!” Damien yelled at him suddenly. Joey didn't flinch at the rise of her voice, but she did reluctantly turn his gaze up to her. His eyes were dull, his expression empty of anything but depression.

“How can you sit there and tell me that you decided to kill yourself just because it sounded like a good idea?!” Damien shouted. “You bastard, how can you tell me that?!”

When Joey opened his mouth to speak, Damien struck him as hard as she could. Only a soft gasp of pain passed his lips; otherwise he couldn't protest as his cheek burned and stung.

“You yelled at me for wanting to die after we fought!” Damien yelled angrily. Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked furiously to keep them back. “You get angry with Jack for drinking when he's upset! Yet here you are trying to kill yourself and you don't even know why!”

“I'm sorry,” Joey mumbled, looking at her again. “I can't explain why-”

Damien slapped him again, making the other side of his face turn a healthy scarlet. “You are a fucking hypocrite, Joey!” she screamed. “You're nothing but a self-centered hypocrite!”

Joey knew she was right. He couldn't find the words to argue.

Damien grabbed the front of his shirt in both hands and yanked Joey up. He stumbled, but was limp as he was forced to stand and look at her. “Did you even think about us at all?” she demanded. The tears finally overflowed and ran down her cheeks in rivers. “Me and Zakuro and Jack . . . Were you really going to just leave us behind like that?”

Ashamed, Joey looked away, choosing to watch the blood drip down his hand from the corner of his eye. “I thought you would all move on,” he mumbled.

“That's not an excuse!” Damien shook him roughly. “That doesn't mean it's okay to take away our friend! We would miss you for the rest of our lives! Believe it or not, we all care about you!”

She dropped him back into his chair in disgust. “But that's right. You like to think that you don't need anyone,” she spat. “Or that anyone cares about you. So of course it wouldn't matter if you were dead, right?!”

“That's not what . . .” Joey still looked off. That had been what he was thinking.

“Look, just . . . I'm done.” Damien held up her hands, defeated, then wiped the tears from her eyes. “Just don't talk to me, okay?”

“Damien-” Joey began, but she cut him off.

“No. Obviously I'm not important to you. And I don't want to talk to a hypocritical bastard like you.” Damien turned to leave, then paused. She went back to snatch the pocket knife off the desk, then stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Joey stared after her for a long moment. Although blood still leaked from his wrist, he forgot about it. After a moment he turned back to his desk, slumped over it, and covered his head in his arms.

Everyone would hate him. He couldn't blame them.

Damien didn't understand, though. He couldn't even control his own thoughts when he was like this. He barely knew what he was doing with that knife.

Hell, what was he thinking? He didn't understand.

He dug his fingers through his hair, into his scalp, until his nails almost drew blood. Not only was this depression ruining his life, it was making him ruin the lives of everyone he cared about. Why couldn't he just control himself?

But it was so hard. Even if he didn't have a “good reason.” Nothing felt as though it was worth living for. Not his friends, not a promising career, not even the girl he thought he loved. He couldn't help the thoughts when it was impossible for him to think anything was better. Damien just didn't understand that.

Wouldn't matter now.

Tears stung at his eyes. He didn't even try to stop them as they fell from his eyes, dripping down his nose and onto his glasses. His shoulders began to tremble with sobs, and although he fought to hold them back, his pride gave way. The sobs overtook his body, wrenching a choked cry from his throat and wracking his thin frame.

He gave up and cried.

I have to say that you are a great rider Sal. I hope you write more. Although I also hope others update and post too. I also love and agree with your sig.

This one isn't so much a "roleplay" story so much as it's a bit of original writing with roleplay characters in it.

This was an English assignment, where we had to analyze the writing style of Albert Camus and write a short story in his style. Most people chose to write about Meursault, who was the main character of the book we just finished, but I chose to use a prompt from one of Camus' notebooks that he never wrote a story for. So I decided I'd use Joey and Dani, the latter of which I haven't gotten to use for anything. :v

This isn't my normal writing style. In fact, I rather despise writing like this. Camus uses a lot of short sentences and isn't heavy on describing actions people take, while I normally like to write that out and all. I'm not even sure I perfectly nailed the style, but I tried. ;_;

The prompt I used was basically about mint candies that you could buy, with sayings such as "Do you love me" and such written on them, with the proper responses ("Yes," "A lot," etc.) so that you could exchange them with your loved one. One such exchange was supposed to link two lives forever.

. . . A rather cheesy prompt but I immediately got this idea when I read it so here we are.

-----

Joey stared outside, gazing blankly through the wide glass windows at the front of the theater building, waiting for the painfully slow line to crawl forward. The sun was bright that afternoon and the weather was warm for early spring, tempting a number of teenagers besides him to leave their homes for the day with friends. He was alone, as usual. He saw a number of couples. Most of them were students from his own school. He ignored them. None of them noticed him, either.

When one couple blocking his view of the window became involved in an affectionate embrace, he turned away while making a face. He couldn’t understand why they all were so outward about their affection in a public place. Perhaps it had something to do with his own loneliness; Joey had yet to find a girl worth his attentions and hadn’t bothered to look. Maybe if he became involved, he would understand those emotions better. Then again, he figured, most girlfriends probably wouldn’t like his habit of trying to examine the emotions involved, attempting to understand them scientifically and logically rather than in whatever manner it was he was expected to. Feelings were simply not his strong point. It was a shame.

Someone ahead of him moved, drawing Joey’s attention back to the queue. He found himself suddenly at the front of the line when the person ahead stepped away with an armload of sweets, and wondered just when that had happened. He blinked once, then stepped forward.

He eyed the worker behind the counter; a shortish young woman, with blond hair and blue eyes and too-bright pink coloring on her lips. He frowned while she just maintained a perfectly cheerful smile.

“So what would you like?” she asked. Even her voice seemed to give off waves of cheerfulness. He replied that he didn’t care and to surprise him, deciding not to confess that he hadn’t given a thought to his decision during his ten-minute wait in the line.

She frowned but said nothing to him. Instead she ducked down behind the counter to find something in their candy display, while he dug for his wallet in his back pocket. As he always did, he made a point not to look at his driver’s license while trying to find a crumpled dollar bill. The picture was not a pleasant one and he preferred to look at it as little as was possible. He hadn’t been happy the day he had earned his license despite how most would expect a teenager to be cheerful after earning it and his picture had suffered. Not to mention his glasses were crooked. When he glanced back to the theater employee, she was still looking disdainful and was holding a white box of candy. Joey couldn’t read the text on the front, but it was an eye-catching red. She made an attempt to be cheerful again as she handed over the box, and he tried to force a tiny smile for the sake of being courteous, but the exchange of the money and sweets was otherwise silent and Joey left the counter feeling no more thrilled with his purchase.

He finally decided to look at what he had bought. Pictures of small hard mint candies decorated the white box and he squinted to look at the words engraved on them. When he couldn’t, he read the rest of the box. The advertisement said that the candies were meant for couples. Half of them read things like “Will you marry me?” and “How much do you love me?” and the other half were the proper responses; “Yes, of course,” “A lot,” and so on. Joey sighed. Just his luck. He was the only one alone in the theater. Who was he expected to share them with?

He sat down at a table in the lobby. His movie wouldn’t start for half an hour. He had arrived early just to be away from his family longer. His younger siblings were horribly annoying and his mother lacked the skills to keep them in line. His only escape was to leave the house. His original excuse had been only the movie, but an extra half hour wouldn’t hurt anybody.

While waiting, he tore open the box of candy and poured out a handful to read the sayings. They were the same as advertised on the box. He rolled his eyes and ate several.

He glanced off to the side toward the other tables. Moments ago they had been empty, but now a girl his age sat at one nearby. Although Joey never gave it much thought with anyone, he had to confess she was kind of pretty; she had thin features, and long blond hair. One piece of it was dyed black and fell by side of her face. He couldn’t see her eyes. He hoped they were brown. He didn’t like blue eyes with blond hair. She was staring blankly at a box of mints, the same kind as his, over the top of her glasses. She looked bored with them.

Maybe she sensed Joey’s gaze on her, because she looked over a few seconds. He looked back at his candy to pretend he hadn’t been watching her. When he figured that she was looking away, he looked again. She seemed interested in her candy all of a sudden; she’d poured a bunch on the table and was sorting through them, reading each one.

Joey felt the sudden need to use the restroom. Figuring his candy didn’t need to come with him, he closed the box and left it on the table while he excused himself. When he came back a minute later, there was a single candy laying next to his box. He frowned, knowing he hadn’t left any out when he left. He looked at the girl, who was looking at him too but turned away with a small smile when he saw. Then he looked back at the candy. It read “Do you like me?”

Confused, he looked up at the girl, who was now giving him an expectant look. He guessed she wanted him to respond. He sat in his chair and picked up his own box of mints, and dumped some on the table. What one could he possibly use? “Yes” was out of the question, but “No” made him sound rude. “I don’t know” wasn’t even an option, and nor was “Who are you?” He frowned at his choices, until finally he found one that said “Maybe.” That was good enough. Too lazy to get up, he sat and tossed it over. It landed on the girl’s table and she immediately picked it up to read. She smiled a little bit and began digging through her candies again. Joey pretended to be interested in going through the random receipts in his wallet while actually anticipating the arrival of her response and telling himself he actually wasn’t.

The response came a minute or so later. The mint was thrown again, and nearly skittered across the table. Joey put out a hand to stop it. He read it quickly: “Will you marry me?”

He immediately threw one back that said “No.” She just giggled when she read it and gave him a sort of thumbs-up. Apparently she approved of the reply. Joey wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, but he was beginning to enjoy this game.

The next one came. “Would you kiss me?”

Another “No” was sent back, and she just laughed. Joey wondered what was so amusing about being told no.

She hesitated to throw another candy back. Joey wondered why, then decided to ask a question. He couldn’t find an original one. So he tossed another one that said “Do you like me?”

Hers said “Yes.” Joey was surprised. Then she threw another one. “A little.” So she liked him a little. Not bad.

The exchange continued. Several minutes passed and they had each exchanged half of their candy and were starting to use the same ones over. Joey looked at his watch and realized his movie would start soon, and slid out of his chair.

“Where are you going?” This was the first time he had heard her speak since meeting her. He explained, with reluctance, that his movie would start in five minutes and he didn’t want to waste a ten-dollar ticket.

“You could come with me,” he said when she looked saddened. “I . . . could buy you a ticket. Or something.”

She nodded and said she would like that and stood up from her seat. Joey smiled for the first time that day.

“I’m sorry if that seemed a little weird,” she added, looking a little shy. “I didn’t know if you’d really start throwing candy back, but it seemed worth a shot since you were sitting alone, too.”

Joey chuckled quietly and said that he didn’t mind at all, and that it turned out to be an interesting way to spend half an hour. She smiled gratefully and said that her name was Dani; he replied with his own name and remarked that he rather liked that name for a girl. After buying another ticket for her they went into the theater for the movie, both silently happy that they had wound up buying those mint candies to start with.

This is a somewhat older story, but I still like it.

It's a story based on a story based on an FMA roleplay. I was roleplaying with an old friend and she wrote a story about it in which my character tries to save her best friend by turning her into a chimera. Then her mind breaks. 8D I made a first-person view about the second-to-last chapter. It was so much fun.

-----

"Perfect Insanity"

Haha . . . oh, they fell for it so easily. You would have thought a couple of well-trained military officers would know better. “Oh, help me, I'm so scared . . .” Tch, that and a few well-faked tears and that one was just suckered in. Of course, they were going to open the cell door anyway; I heard them talking, saying they couldn't believe they had to take a fifteen-year-old girl to interrogation on charges of murder. Ha. They always underestimate the girls, and the young ones at that. You'd never believe that someone like me could be anything more than broken down, afraid, incapable of comprehending the meaning of her own actions.

Maybe they weren't expecting me to do anything. That's no surprise. After all, I've already made my best friend into a chimera and killed a couple of officers. I shouldn't be anything more than afraid and broken down. Crying for my life was the most stereotypical thing that a teenage girl convicted of murder could do.

Idiots.

That first one was unbelievably easy to kill. He was the one who felt bad for me. It was hard not to laugh when I heard his older, obviously smarter partner warn him to be careful coming in after me. Any second, I expected that someone would figure it out; my hands were, after all, dripping blood from the transmutation circles I had carved into my palms with my fingernails (and yeah, that hurt like hell). Yet he didn't. Not until it was too late.

He died so easily. The elder officer screamed to get out, but by then his partner didn't have a chance. A clap of the hands and a smack on the side of the head and the man was dead. Electricity crackled through his body, making every nerve in his body fizzle out and explode in a fraction of a second. Just like the first two men I killed . . .

He collapsed to the ground with hardly a twitch, a bloody stamp of an array printed on the side of his forehead.

The other officer panicked. He turned to run away, trying to get down the hall.

He didn't make it either.

“Why are you leaving?” I asked sincerely, putting on the most sickeningly sweet, despaired voice I could as he turned to flee. I was right after him, of course; witnesses simply wouldn't do. “Why won't you help me?”

I would have thought him to run faster than that, but only ten feet down the constricting corridor I got him. He died like his friend, slammed with more electricity from the back this time. Likewise he collapsed with only a twitch or two, dead with his face in the stone.

I've always wondered, what does it feel like to die that way? Every nerve in your body exploding, overridden with painful electrical pulses. There's usually not much time to feel pain, which was why I loved it when I thought of it. Alchemy's so great . . . But there still is that one second or two, before the brain shuts down and the heart pops from sheer overload, where you register that extreme pain, the electricity pounding through your body from the point of contact and frying everything.

But there's still never enough time to scream. If you're lucky, you might get to sort of gasp before you die.

With both of them dead, I finally stopped. Nobody else was coming, so nobody else needed to be killed. For a brief moment, I felt satisfied. Powerful. Nobody could stop me. Yeah, that bastard back at the train station shot me, and yeah, it still hurt. But I was still alive, and now I was living like never before.

One might argue that in this position, I shouldn't dig myself into a deeper hole. Killing more would help nothing, they might say. I disagree. I was already on death row. Nothing I did would make it better.

My best friend was a monstrosity because I had no self-control. My other friends . . . God knew what would happen to them. I wouldn't see them again. I was going to be executed no matter what now. Even if somehow I did escape, which would have been nice, there was no real point to life after that.

If I was going down, I was taking every last damn person I could with me. I'd already fucked myself over. No reason why I couldn't have some fun and screw over everyone else.

When I brushed some hair from my face, blood from my hands smeared under my eye. I just grinned. If I was insane, all the better to look the part.

Of course, I still had some business to take care of. I knew that if I was here in the hellish place, they'd taken Morgan (was she even still Morgan anymore? I just called her that because that was the human half's name . . . it was long past thinking about the friend anymore) somewhere else. Probably in the same building. I'd never heard of military officers being too bright. It would have been smarter on their behalf to keep a prison separated from a holding cell for chimeras and crap.

All the better for me. I laughed at the misfortune of the dead men at my feet before I started off down the hall again. Faint, beastly cries of fear and agony echoed at me from somewhere down those halls.

One of those beasts was mine, and hell would freeze over if I didn't get to kill it first.

Unfortunately for all involved, I burst into the lab room just slightly too late. A man stood in front of the door once I swung it open, and a woman was at a lab table, holding an empty syringe.

My chimera lay there, strapped and still.

Now I was, of course, beyond simply pissed. Maybe nothing would have happened had they left her alone. But of course not. They simply had to meddle in the affairs of others, didn't they.

That was, of course, why I was there in the first place.

The man was killed and cast aside; no time to revel in the feeling of power. The woman whirled around to face me. She looked shocked. I hoped she was. I ran over and shoved her aside to look at the chimera belted down to the table. Indeed, she was dead.

Here I had to stop. There had been, until that point, a tiny part of me feeling remorseful. I wanted to apologize. It was my fault Morgan had suffered.

Now it didn't matter. Fuck that, because there was no chance left.

“I-I'm sorry,” the woman stuttered when I turned my glare on her. She was feeble, helpless, unable to defend herself. “I-I had to . . . there was nothing I could do. . . .”

I didn't believe her. There was always another option. I could've sat there in my cell, but no. I did something. I got out of it. Granted, I did it by killing, but . . . it worked.

By that point, though, I couldn't see from fury. I liked it. I let it happen. There was nothing left now. All I had to do was kill the woman in my sickening revenge.

There was a thin wire running along the wall next to me, scarcely camouflaged by the peeling white paint. It ran up to the single light bulb that lit the dim room. Again, I grinned. It was as if they wanted me to do this. They were just giving me the chances, one at a time.

She screamed when I touched the wire. The bulb shattered, scattering searing glass shrapnel and sparking fires from the fuse. The fire spread, engulfing the ceiling.

The entire time, she just screamed. I knew I was laughing. After that, I'm not too sure, to be honest. I remember some men came in, trying to douse the fire and find any survivors.

I think they were disappointed to find me.

By then I didn't bother to fight back, though. What was the point? I could either die in that flaming room or when one of them shot me again. I just let them go. I know one of them smacked me for something I said, others murmuring about how insane I was, and yet a third man panicking when he was told to take my arm and lead me out. He didn't want to die, he argued. He'd seen those I had killed, and he knew that if I wanted out, I would get out. The first of them couldn't figure out why I was laughing and crying at the same time.

But enough had died . . . yes, that was enough. I was tired. I was in pain. I was out of my mind, as they all kept saying.

That was enough.

Hurp.

Taiju stuff. I like writing for Taiju and I really like getting muse to write again.

For the roleplay Taiju's currently in, I had to make up a new history for him. Normally he's a traveling rogue, but for this story he's the son of the king's head councilman and I had to make up something new to fit that. This is part of it, kinda sorta.

-----

Taiju looked between his parents, each in turn. Kadea was doing her best to force a watery smile, but his father maintained only a stoic look. Taiju tried to ask them why everything was happening, but his voice stuck in his throat and he decided it was best to be quiet. Questions often made his father angry, anyway, and Damek was scary when he got too angry.

Damek coughed and wandered away to go tend to a horse. Taiju followed him with his eyes. The stallion was fitted for travel, he noticed, with full saddlebags and fitted reigns.


Kadea knelt down then to the level of her five-year-old son and forced her smile even harder. “Ready to go?” she asked, her voice soft.

He shook his head. “Why do I have to go?” he asked. “Can’t I stay here? I don’t wanna leave home.”

“But you’ll get to go live at the castle,” Kadea replied. Taiju watched her brow furrow so slightly, as though just saying it made her upset. “Not many people get to even see there, and you get to live there with your father now. And then when you grow up you can have a nice job on the council just like him.”

Taiju glanced at Damek, then looked back at Kadea. “Aren’t you coming?” he continued to ask. “I didn’t see you pack any bags to go . . .”

“No, dear, I have to stay.”

“What about everyone else?”

“They’ll stay with me.”

“Will you come later?”

He watched her hesitate. “Maybe,” she replied after a few seconds, though the response sounded strained. “I hope so.”

“Me too.”

Kadea looked away then, toward her husband, who was now chatting with a servant and seeming impatient. Then she returned her attention to Taiju and pulled something from the sleeve of her dress, hidden within the folds of the cloth.

“I want you to keep this,” she whispered as she gently took Taiju’s hand and pressed something into his palm. He looked at it. It was a copper coin on a string of leather, shiny and new, imprinted with the wolf’s paw that he recognized as the symbol of House Adanan—his family. “Put it on and do not let your father see it. Hide it underneath your shirt.”

“Why?” Taiju struggled to pull the necklace on over his head and his too-big glasses that they hadn’t had the time to fit to his face. Kadea helped to carefully pull it over, then fixed his glasses on his nose.

“He might take it if he does see it,” she responded, “so you must keep it hidden from him at all times if you want to keep it. Do you understand?”

“But why would he-”

“Taiju.” When she said his name, it carried a weight to it that only a parent could give. Taiju silenced himself and gave a meek nod, mumbling a tiny “Okay . . .”

“Good.” Kadea smiled again and enveloped her son in a warm, motherly embrace before he could protest. He groaned, hating the physical contact, but she just laughed and held him at arm’s length.

“Be good,” she said, “and don’t give your father any trouble.”

“Okay . . .” he muttered again.

She kissed his brow and ruffled his hair. “I love you,” she said, tears in her eyes as she pulled away.

“I-” Taiju started to reply, but Damek barked his name and cut him off. The man gestured for Taiju to come.

“Go on now,” Kadea said, standing up. “It’s time for you to leave.”

Taiju bit his lip and turned to go. He felt tears spring up in his eyes, too, but he defiantly rubbed them away. He wouldn’t cry. Crying was for children and he knew Damek wouldn’t have it.

-----

Taiju awoke with a start to the darkness of his private quarters.

How long had it been since those memories had manifested themselves in his dreams?

He stared at the wall, silently trying to gather his thoughts. The room was still dark. He thought about groping at the bedside table for his pocket watch, but dismissed the idea immediately when he realized he would still have to get a light to even see the time.

He rolled onto his side and tucked his arm under his head and pillow, drawing his covers up over his bare chest. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the small amount of moonlight peering through the drapes, he started to scowl.

It had been weeks—months, even, since the last time he had had that dream. It wasn’t even just a dream, it was a memory that bothered him even during the daytime. He thought he had finally rid himself of it.

Taiju inhaled a heavy breath, and, exhaling, whispered “Pathetic.”

He wished he could speak to Elain, then, but even if it weren’t the middle of the night, somebody would disapprove of him doing so.

“Like that would help,” he muttered darkly. “Because I really want to admit to her that I still have mommy issues after thirteen goddamned years . . .” Subconsciously, he grasped at the coin that he still wore around his neck. The copper was freezing against his heated skin and vaguely reassuring when he clutched it.

He had seen her once in the past thirteen years since, and as he thought of that, he felt his eyes sting. She had been living on the streets. What may she have been reduced to just make a living? What if she was dead? He would never know because he couldn’t be there and he was too cowardly to go against his father’s orders and go look for her himself.

Taiju turned his face into his pillow as the tears threatened to overflow. He was not going to be weak. Tears were for children and he would not have it.

This is pretty old. Based upon an old roleplay I used to do. Lots of unnecessary characters.

Made me sad to read through it again. :/

-----


This was it. He was going to tell her today, no matter what happened. Morgan and Jack would be gone for a few hours, which left him alone to talk to Damien uninterrupted and unbothered.

Joey sighed and scuffed at a rock in his path. The small stone was sent flying down the dirt road, skittering to a halt approximately thirty feet away, and only relieved a tiny fraction of Joey’s stress.

“God damn it,” he swore out loud, nearly punching the air in frustration; the action was only prevented by the small, though elegant, bundle of mixed flowers he held. “Why the hell do I have to be so nervous?” The whole thing was simple: go home and tell Damien of his feelings for her. It was not difficult in the slightest, but it felt as though a whole flock of butterflies had taken up residence in his stomach. Every step back home was increasing his mixed feelings of anticipation and dread, an unpleasant combination. Every bit of sense in his head was telling him to turn around, to ditch the flowers in some random trash can and forget the entire idea, but his legs still carried him forward. He wasn’t going to back out this time.

He ran the fingers of his free hand back through his hair, doing little to tame it. The slightly curly strands still fell back to frame his face and cover his eyes. Nonetheless, he did it again, and a third time, not to fix his hair, but just as a nervous reflex. It did little to help. He felt as though he could sprint a mile with all of his pent-up energy and nerves, but that would only leave him exhausted and still nervous for when he finally found Damien.

“Alright, just suck it up,” he told himself as the farmhouse home came into view only a few hundred feet away, a distance that was rapidly shortening. “You’ve done worse than saying a few words to one person.” What was he so afraid of? He was a singer, a speaker; for years he had sung in front of people, and although he generally hated the human population he had given stirring speeches for classes and those he had never met before. There was no reason he should be unable to speak privately with a single girl.

This thought emboldened him and restored his confidence. Joey let out a breath and continued up to the house with renewed determination, clutching the flower bundle a little tighter in his jittery hand.

When he stopped on the front porch, he paused to inhale and exhale another deep breath. Then he opened the door and went into the house, going quickly before any further doubts could creep into his mind.

“Yo, Damien, you here?” Joey called ahead of himself. He didn’t immediately receive an answer. Figuring she simply didn’t hear him, Joey casually held the flowers behind his back and advanced further into the house.

He stopped in the hall next to the stairwell, thinking to go upstairs and see if Damien was in her room. A voice from the kitchen stopped him with one foot on the stair. Apparently Damien was downstairs, which saved Joey a trip to the second floor.

His smile fell a little when a male’s voice accompanied it; he had thought Morgan and Jack would be gone until considerably later. That didn’t matter, though. He could still pull this off; judging by the thinly-veiled taunts he had received from both, they had already figured out he had feelings for Damien.

“Hey, Damien, can I talk to y- . . .” The question died in his throat upon entering the kitchen. His smile vanished with his voice.

Damien was in the kitchen, but keeping her company was a young man that Joey had never met. He was embracing Damien loosely, his hands gracing her hips, and only a second after Joey entered the room the other male gently tugged Damien forward and kissed her lips, an action Damien eagerly returned. Neither noticed Joey standing there, shocked into silence and nearly forgetting why he was even there.

It wasn't until several seconds later when the couple broke apart that anybody recognized his presence. To Joey's distaste it was the young man who first saw him. He frowned a little and nodded in Joey's direction. “Damien, who's this?”

“Hm?” The silver-haired girl looked back over her shoulder. “Oh! I didn't know you were home, Joey.”

Despite the fact I yelled for you twice, Joey thought bitterly. I feel so loved. . . .

“I'm sorry if you needed something. I was just busy talking to Shawn here and kinda forgot about everything else,” Damien continued apologetically, unaware of Joey's irritated thoughts.

“No, no, it's okay. . . . It wasn't anything important, anyway.”

Damien laughed a little bit. “Anyway, since I know you two haven't met, this is my new boyfriend, Shawn, and Shawn, this is Joey, one of the boys that room with me.”

Joey felt a blade pierce his heart. Was that really all Damien could say? That he was just another one of the boys?

Shawn smiled and extended a hand toward Joey in greeting. “Well met,” he said politely.

Joey blankly looked down at the offered hand, then back up at Shawn, doing nothing. “The feeling's mutual,” he said flatly. Whether Shawn understood the sarcasm or not wasn't apparent.

“Yeah, we just met the other day and sort of . . . clicked,” Damien said, affection lacing her voice as she looked up at Shawn.

Shawn chuckled. “Yeah, that was a pretty good day,” he said, leaning down to briefly kiss Damien again.

The dagger in Joey's chest gave a sharp and agonizing twist, but his expression remained cavalier.

When Damien looked back at Joey, she glanced down at the flowers he held. “Oh, those are nice,” she observed. “What are those for?”

Joey tried to pretend he had forgotten he held them, although in actuality the fact that they were in his hand had never felt more obvious than in the last minute. He shrugged and cast a casual look at the bundle in his hand. “Oh, um, nothing really,” he lied quickly. “Just something stupid that Michelle gave me. . . . I didn't want to throw it away in front of her or anything.”

“That was pretty nice of her.” Damien innocently smiled. “You should give her a chance, you know.”

“Yeah . . .” Joey cleared his throat. “Anyway, um, I really only came home to grab something and go, so I'll just, uh, leave you two alone.” Without waiting for a response he turned sharply and left.

He went upstairs and paused in the doorway of his room, scanning the comfortably cluttered space. He considered taking his bass guitar, but the notion was immediately dismissed, so in order to make his lie seem legitimate he grabbed a key on a chain off the desk and slipped it around his neck. The key was for work, though he wasn't scheduled a shift that afternoon. Then he walked as calmly as he could out of the house, though his stiff stride and unrelenting grip on the flowers that he still refused to drop gave away his actual mood.

On his way down the path he passed by Michelle, who was on her way to the house. She smiled when she saw him coming. “Hey, Joey, I was wondering if-”

Joey didn't even stop. In mid-stride he shoved the flowers into Michelle's hands and grumbled “Just take these and leave me alone.”

Michelle stared after him, any joy in the gift stolen by his clear distress.

Joey kept walking to nowhere; he didn't know here hew as going, all he knew was that it was away from home. His hands were clenched into fists inside his pockets. He kept thinking of how Damien had described him: just another boy in the house.

“Just another stupid, scruffy-haired, poorly-dressed, talentless, no-good, antisocial boy living in the corner room on the second floor,” he growled as he kicked at another rock and sent it soaring down the street. “One who takes his dear, sweet time in sucking up the courage and in the end doesn't matter anyway because he took too long and lost his chance.”

The next stone he kicked in frustration flew even farther. It made him feel no better.