on her kind of love

She wasn’t completely lying when she had told Ainsley that the only people she could see herself falling in love with were dead.

Truthfully, if she was going to be honest, she had fallen a little bit in love with every ghost she’d ever met and talked to and spent a decent amount of time with.

The ones that she called hers were the ones she’d fallen the most in love with. They had seen her dark, rotten insides and she’d seen theirs in return.

She loved them because they knew everything about her and she knew everything about them.

She did love Kiandre, but it was a different kind of love. A less twisted kind. A kind of love that wasn’t really love.

from the mouth of a teenage medium

The thing about being a medium is that you don’t get a choice. You see dead people everywhere and anywhere you go cause, lets be real, what place doesn’t have it’s fair share of ghosts?

You could go to a coffee shop and there could be a ghost in clothing from well over a hundred years ago sitting at one of the tables, moving whenever someone walked over to sit down.

You could walk down a modern street and observe ghosts from half a century ago going about their daily lives as if they weren’t dead, pausing only when a car or a person walked through them.

You could go anywhere in the world, hospitals, forests, beaches or deserts and you would see ghosts.

Anshee knew that people that couldn’t see would find that sad.

She found it comforting.

hair of oranges, eyes of coal, skin of snow

She doesn’t think they realise what being exposed to ghosts at a young age does to people. Not can do but does. She doesn’t think they realise what it’s like to listen to the wails of the dead every moment of your life.

How could they? She’d never given them any indication that there was something wrong with her.

Perhaps she was a little bit too quiet.

Perhaps she was too much of a loner.

Perhaps she was a little bit too morbid.

Still, there was no way for them to know just how twisted she was.

The seven girls in the cages that hung from the ceiling, barely alive, missing fingers as well as chunks and strips of flesh, could attest to just how messed up she was.

There was blood underneath her fingernails three layers thick, a ghost leaning on her shoulder, her eyes were bloodshot and there was a slightly cruel twist to her otherwise blank visage.

She’d created ghosts of her own.

For all that she adored the power that names gave her, she rarely used it these days. It payed to have demons on your payroll after all.

But sometimes, when foolish mortals dared to lay a hand on what was hers, she let her malicious nature out to play.

Dio was hers. Amari, Cal and Ben were hers. Hamish and Rob and all the little men were hers. Hell, even Nauvoo was hers.

She didn’t like it when people touched what was hers.

Take, for example, the last time someone had tried to lay a hand on Amari. Despite their age, they were frightfully naïve.

that man had been dumb enough to give her his name, even with all the clues she was a fae. He’d been found sometime later, dead because of a heart attack.

Remember, remember

Remember, remember, the fifth of November

She didnt know why that part of the rhyme was always the bit she hummed to herself. She didnt remember when she had started to hum it.

She didn’t remember a lot of things.

People thought her harmless because of that.

A shrieking laugh, mocking and high pitched, escaped her. It echoed in the surrounding woods. That was their foolish mistake.

She forgot dates, places, random objects, but never faces, never names. She was a faerie, an unseelie, names had power, power she could use, power she adored. Why would they think she would forget?

She’d let them though. She would let them think she was harmless. She’d let them think she was nothing more than a forgetful junkshop owner with wings that fidgeted when she got bored and always had a smile ready to greet her friends with.

It made it all the more fun to cross paths with people who were foolish enough to give her their names and watch them slowly realise what they had done.

Perhaps Dio’s insistence that she was evil wasn’t that far off.

Remember, remember indeed

otppromptuniverse:

Prompt #40

(Feel free to change pronouns!)

“I know you better than anybody else. I can sense your interest in him.” He winked and she playfully punched him square in the chest.

“Well,” Ase started as he flopped down in the seat beside Morrigan. “I think it’s safe to say that you and Lycos want to make out with each other.”

The girl lifted her head to stare at him blankly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you better than anybody else. I can sense your interest in him.” He winked and she dropped the blank expression to playfully punch him square in the chest.

“I mean, of course I do. He’s such a pretty boy,” Morrigan rolled her eyes playfully.

otppromptuniverse:

Prompt Based Off Of What I Heard At School Today

“You made out with her?” “Wha–NO! I MET UP with her.”

“You made out with her?” Ase stared at the other male, somewhat shocked at the idea that Lycos might have made out with his best friend.

“Wha–NO! I MET UP with her,” the white-haired male corrected before pausing. “I mean, I made out with her last night but I haven’t made out with her today. Must change that,” his voice trailed off into a mutter.

“Too much info, bro,” Ase grimaced, deciding not to comment on the fact that he had just basically admitted to showing some kind of interest in his best friend other than platonic love. It was kind of obvious anyway.

“You’re dating Gwen, the very image of innocence. Everything is too much info for you,” Lycos pointed out. “Hell, I think even the mere mention of anything going past kissing is enough to turn you and your girlfriend into a blushing mess.”

“You know,” Ase gave Lycos an odd look, “Everyday, I come closer to agreeing with Ana that you are gross.”

“She doesn’t need any more people to agree with her,”

A Series of Disorganized Events (Part 5)

If someone were to look into the shop at the end of the lane, smaller on the outside, bigger on the inside, with the sign that read “Junk and Disorderly”, they would be struck by the realization that it was an odd place to be.

6 inch tall men could be seen running around if one merely looked hard enough, there was a demon in the storage room that usually caused chaos and swore most creatively, a vampire usually lurked in the darker parts of the store and offered to help customers with reading, a single tiny dragon usually buried itself in one of the jewelry boxes and a faerie was always behind the counter.

Yes, Junk and Disorderly was a strange place. But it was a good kind of strange. At least until

Díograsach

unwittingly awoke some eldritch abomination and forced them to combat it.

i did a thing

Iro didn’t know exactly when she started to specifically look for paints that matched Grant’s color scheme. Heck, she didn’t even know when she started paying attention to what color his eyes were or the exact shade of his hair.

Well, that made it sound like she had romantic feelings for the man. Nope, none from her. He wasn’t her type. Besides, he was more her dad than anything else, not that she would say anything. She did have a reputation to keep after all.

The girl shook her head and brought her attention back to the surprisingly blank section of wall in her room. I say surprisingly because every other bit of space had been taken up by paintings of things from Earth or by paintings of things from her imagination.

However, the section of wall space was big enough to fit a life size version of Grant, providing she got everything correct. The various sketches she’d done when she was sure he wasn’t watching would be helpful.

She picked up one of those drawings in one hand and pinned it to a piece of the wall beside her canvas. That done, she picked up a small paint brush, dipped it in white paint and began to sketch out his face.

A Series of Disorganized Events (Part 4)

When you’re shopping for groceries, the last thing you expect to see is a piece of paper appear in a floating ball of hell fire. Unless your name is Maeve, apparently.

With an aggravated sigh of long suffering, the faerie plucked the paper from the air, dusted off the ash and looked at what her roommate had written.

‘Dear Maeve,

The silverware is alive! It tried to attack me! I have barricaded myself in the storage cupboard! Also, the figurines have come alive and are rebelling because they want equality or something. Send help!

Your demon roommate,

Diograsach’

“What has that idiot gone and done this time?” Maeve muttered to herself rhetorically, looking at the store in front of her. She sighed and turned on her heel, knowing that she would never hear the end of it if she didn’t get back there soon.