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sidewaysTitle: Siren
Rating: PG
Genre: Urban fantasy?
Wordcount: 329
Remarks: You know that moment where you write something riddled with cliches and melodrama but you're so damn pleased to have broken through an extensive block that you can't help but feel proud of it anyway? Yeah. Andrew/Jester is mine (and, yes, of a kin with coffeehouse Andrew; this is technically his first and truest 'canon'). Pyre is Quixote's (and most definitely not of a kin with Patience ahah oh god).
Andrew’s first kiss is warmth in the wet, clumsy but keen, and he loses his hat when their noses bump together. She is six years old and still has the ruins of his sandcastle under her fingernails; the drizzle clings to her stringy hair and eyelashes, and condensation rolls from her mouth in miniature mimicry of her mother’s nervous puffs. There is never anybody in the park this late in the evening, let alone on so dreary a day, and they crown themselves king and queen of the barren land in the absence of worthy challengers. Their civilisation rises and falls and turns upon itself a dozen times before they end up laughing underneath the sparse plastic shading of the slide, and she seals their triumph in the space between one giggle and the next.
Of course when the hat comes off his ears come out, and though once the shouting is done he turns to wave past his father’s firm grip and hurrying legs, she is crying too hard to see.
Jester’s first kiss is fire in the dark, cruel and possessive, and he doesn’t move away for fear of losing his lips. She is older and younger and still has shreds of his skin under her fingernails; the taste of copper-ash rolls across his tongue and throat, turning his thoughts scalding to the touch. People walk these stairs often and he can hardly tell if the thumping he hears is footsteps or heartbeats, but she is a thief queen in bloodied rags and he doubts there would be any bold enough to challenge her for this prize. Their battlefield is still new and his bruises still fresh, and he holds quiet and still in the hope that she will take away defeat and not surrender.
Of course when their gazes meet the truth comes out, and she leaves him leaning against the wall without a word, the afterimage of her smile burning the world from his eyes.
Rating: PG
Genre: Urban fantasy?
Wordcount: 329
Remarks: You know that moment where you write something riddled with cliches and melodrama but you're so damn pleased to have broken through an extensive block that you can't help but feel proud of it anyway? Yeah. Andrew/Jester is mine (and, yes, of a kin with coffeehouse Andrew; this is technically his first and truest 'canon'). Pyre is Quixote's (and most definitely not of a kin with Patience ahah oh god).
Andrew’s first kiss is warmth in the wet, clumsy but keen, and he loses his hat when their noses bump together. She is six years old and still has the ruins of his sandcastle under her fingernails; the drizzle clings to her stringy hair and eyelashes, and condensation rolls from her mouth in miniature mimicry of her mother’s nervous puffs. There is never anybody in the park this late in the evening, let alone on so dreary a day, and they crown themselves king and queen of the barren land in the absence of worthy challengers. Their civilisation rises and falls and turns upon itself a dozen times before they end up laughing underneath the sparse plastic shading of the slide, and she seals their triumph in the space between one giggle and the next.
Of course when the hat comes off his ears come out, and though once the shouting is done he turns to wave past his father’s firm grip and hurrying legs, she is crying too hard to see.
Jester’s first kiss is fire in the dark, cruel and possessive, and he doesn’t move away for fear of losing his lips. She is older and younger and still has shreds of his skin under her fingernails; the taste of copper-ash rolls across his tongue and throat, turning his thoughts scalding to the touch. People walk these stairs often and he can hardly tell if the thumping he hears is footsteps or heartbeats, but she is a thief queen in bloodied rags and he doubts there would be any bold enough to challenge her for this prize. Their battlefield is still new and his bruises still fresh, and he holds quiet and still in the hope that she will take away defeat and not surrender.
Of course when their gazes meet the truth comes out, and she leaves him leaning against the wall without a word, the afterimage of her smile burning the world from his eyes.
