Tag: untitled

Untitled Descendants ficlet, (2016-07-26)

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The stories go a little differently.

Small details made important when the ending turns one way instead of the other.

Like sparks turning into bonfires, and flapping wings turning into storms.

The queen triumphant, the kingdom stolen. Ambition and cunning and power rewarded.

All because of one tiny change.

—

It starts like this:

The Evil Queen ascends the throne, and knows she must get rid of Snow White. It is not a matter of beauty, but a matter of politics–for now, she is queen regent, throne gained by marriage, but that will be taken from her as soon as Snow White comes of age.

She summons her best hunter–not a man who can be swayed by a pretty face and a couple of tears, but a woman whose eccentricity is allowed because of her ruthlessness.

Normally, the Huntress only cares for exotic furs, but for this one hunt she doesn’t mind coming back with a different trophy instead.

For true, the Evil Queen feasts on a princesses’ heart that night, and thus solidifies her reign.

Long live the Queen.

—

Then it keeps going:

Maleficent is, above all else, a being of magic. The being of magic, even, if she’s going to honest. No other fairies are nearly as powerful as she is, and any other magical being that is more also has far less freedom.

When it comes to magic, nothing can defeat her.

Which is why, when it comes to the little princess and those second-rate fairies, she’s not worried about her curse failing.

What she’s worried about is that terrible little prince she’s betrothed to breaking it.

All curses can break, even hers.

But if the little prince is too distracted by, say, a neighboring kingdom’s Queen declaring war to save this kingdom. Well, then.

She’s not much one for mortals, but alliances have their benefits.

Maybe she’ll give the Queen a thank you gift.

—

Then it spreads further:

The sultan is a buffoon, so it’s not as if Jafar doesn’t already run the kingdom, but there’s a difference between running it and ruling it and Jafar knows which one he’d rather have.

There’s an Empress in the cold lands to the west, one backed by a magic creature. It doesn’t hurt to be friendly with one’s peers, especially one who thinks so much alike.

And anyway, as royal vizier, it’s Jafar’s job to make sure foreign relations run as smoothly as possible.

The diamond in the rough nearly ruins everything, but the Empress from the cold lands sends… an ambassador of sorts.

When the Huntress is done, she considers her trophies. The monkey’s fur is coarse and no doubt flea-ridden, but the tiger pelt? She could make quite the coat out of that.

It’s not as if the new Sultan minds.

—

And so the story changes:

The Empress has conquered three kingdoms now, her influence spreading, and it’s unlikely she’ll be ousted. Certainly not with Maleficent on her side.

It’s a large amount of land and people to govern, though no one could say the Empress is bad at her job, no matter how evil she may be. But Maleficent does owe her a thank you gift.

The neighboring kingdom has recently lost their king and queen, leaving only a young bratty prince in charge.

In homage, Maleficent plays the part of an old woman and curses the entire castle.

There is little resistance, with no royalty to stop her; the Empress expands her empire. And she gives the Huntress a thank you gift of her own: a very unique hunt with quite the exotic prey.

~

A/N: I kinda wanted to do a bad guys win thing… this may act as a prequel for an AU series, though I’m a little wishy washy on that because… I’ve become terrible at finishing my Descendants WIPs and I don’t want to just start up another one, you know?

Anyway, because the whole… different time periods mash up into the present thing kind of annoys me, I was wondering what if everyone was in the ambiguous medieval past. And then, trying to figure out how to put Cruella in the past made me realize she would’ve totally been a huntress and Snow White would have been totes doomed.

And then it kind of spiraled from there because I love political ramifications of fairy tales. Love them.

… This kinda reminds me of my first Descendants ficlet.

edit: now on ao3 as part of Nameless, Worthy (Infamous

Untitled Voltron ficlet (2016-07-23)

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A/N1: The rest is under the cut because it has cussing and also mentions things which, while not necessarily nsfw, also isn’t for kids and since Voltron is a kids show… well. Better safe than sorry, right?

~

As soon as their lions land in their respective hangars, both Lance and Keith are racing for the kitchen. When they meet up in the hallway, they start shoving at each other, trying to trip up the other, even as they both try to get their first.

It doesn’t matter that they are officially boyfriends and have been for a year–rivals is forever, apparently.

Keith gets to the kitchen first, technically, but Lance has longer arms and no sense of propriety, so he’s the one that gets the apple.

Yeah, all this for an apple.

Lance crows triumphantly then immediately licks it, holding it up and declaring, “Ha! I’ve licked it so therefore it’s mine.” Because even though they’ve been in space and defending the universe for four years, Lance is actually a six year old brat at heart.

While Shiro explains to Allura and Coran that licking things isn’t actually how property is legally claimed on Earth, Keith just reaches over, snatches the apple and bites into it.

“Dude!” Lance says, protesting against the clear violation of the most sacred iteration of dibs. 

Keith just looks confused, even as he munches away at his ill-gotten gains.

“You can’t just eat something I’ve licked,” Lance tries to explain because Keith lived in a shack in the desert by himself and not everyone had a billion and a half siblings and cousins to teach them the ways of society.

Keith still looks confused, “I’ve had your tongue in my mouth,” he says, then pauses, considering, “I’ve also had your dick in my mouth,” he adds and doesn’t blush at all, even though Lance’s face turns as red as Keith’s lion, because sometimes Keith has zero shame about the weirdest things.

Shiro face palms because Lance’s inappropriateness is predictable–Keith’s is not. Thankfully, neither of the Alteans ask about that. 

Whoa,“ Hunk says, as he and Pidge enter the kitchen, putting down the box he’s carrying and belatedly covering Pidge’s ears, "watch your language. There are children around,” he hisses at a volume that makes covering Pidge’s ears moot. Which makes sense, seeing as how he’s really just being a troll.

Pidge rolls their eyes and shrugs him off with a lot more elbows than he thinks is necessary, “Fuck off,” they say which is pretty mild all things considered. “It wasn’t funny when I was fourteen and it’s not funny now. Also, you dumbasses, we have, like, a hundred more apples.” Adding their box of apples next to Hunk’s on the counter, doesn’t quite make it a hundred. But seeing as the “grow Earth plants in the castle” is a joint project between Hunk and Pidge and the Green Lion, they would know.

“It’s the principle of the matter!” Lance says, once his embarrassment has run its course. But he still reaches over to snag another apple for himself, then sidles over to Keith and kind of drapes himself over him.

So, basically, all is forgiven.

~

A/N2: I had the most innocuous yet weird dream, got dragged to a birthday party for someone I don’t know, and sat awkwardly in a corner for hours with my phone. This is what happened.

Untitled (2016-07-16)

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There’s this guy.

And, no, it’s not that kind of story, but it’s a story and it wants to be told.

So there’s this guy.

And he’s a little weird, but maybe that’s just because to me he doesn’t make sense and maybe I’m the weird one. But if I had to describe him, it would be:

Ephemeral, yet constant.

And how can that be, you might ask, for aren’t those opposites? How can someone be both fleeting yet continuous, ever changing yet the same?

The only words I’ve ever said to this guy were…

Actually, no…

The only words he’s ever said to me are “Do you see it?”

And perhaps I answered, but most likely I didn’t–too bewildered and caught off guard to respond properly. But that’s the closest thing to a conversation we’ve ever had, and I find it hilarious and sad.

Because in the book that would be my life? He is always there. He flits in and out of my family and friends’ lives, a name repeated so often that it gains a life of its own. A character mentioned in every chapter, but never for more than a few sentences.

How strange.

Collecting anecdotes of this guy I’ve never really talked to. Knowing details of his life that I don’t really care for. Like being roommates with a stranger you never see or hear, but can infer the existence of through dirty dishes and moved furniture.

Tangential lines whose single point of contact wasn’t even all that meaningful.

“Do you see it?”

Do I see it? See what? What does it matter?

We are looking in different directions, looking for different signs, only aware of each other the same way passers by in a crowd are–another body, a step to the side, an almost dance with an almost partner to an almost song that no one can hear.

There’s this guy.

He’s weird, a familiar stranger, the same configuration of letters reappearing on different pages.

But that’s just how life works.

~

A/N: a day late, but maybe i’ll write another thing today to count as 07-17′s post properly

Untitled (2016-07-14)

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You don’t remember the moments surrounding your fall.

You remember the speed–pavement beneath your wheels, trees blurring by, the wind stinging your cheeks and pulling at your clothes.

You remember riding, then flying, but you don’t remember falling. Crashing. Tumbling across cement and dirt and coming to a stop because of a tree.

You remember laughing out of joy, whooping because you’ve never felt more alive. You don’t remember screaming out of fear or crying in pain.

You don’t remember how you ended up in the dirt, tears streaming down your cheeks as you blink your eyes open to worried faces.

Your sister on your left, so careful not to touch you, not to make things worse. A stranger on your right, checking your pulse, your spine, your life.

“Do you remember me asking you questions?” he says, and you say maybe, you say yes, because he is asking one right now and maybe you remember giving your name and your location and your age but maybe that’s the first thing you remember after waking up.

You remember his name is John, a nurse taking a vacation, riding on a tour bus which is now waiting patiently by the curb.

Your cousin comes now, his voice calling out, but you don’t turn to look at him because your head hurts and your neck hurts and you’re scared, too.

You were having so much fun and now you’re scared. Now you’re crying. Now you’re so cold, you’re shivering.

You don’t understand. You were having fun.

You don’t remember what happened.

~

A/N: uh, so, thankfully, it wasn’t that bad of a crash and I had a helmet so it’s only a mild concussion and some scrapes and bruises (and weird almost-whiplash neck soreness), but there was an ambulance and a hospital stay and some x-rays and stuff so…

I had wanted to be able to post something cool when I “came back” so to speak, but besides my hospital stay, the trip was very busy and I didn’t have time to write anything, much less the Haku/Shikako fic I was planning to do, so… yeah.

i really liked your snippet where the devil sells his soul :) And just out of curiosity, would his soul kinda feel like jelly if you poked it? Strong jelly? Like bubble tea? A particularly unappetizing big jelly bubble thing.

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

Thanks! I imagine it would be kinda like a disconcertingly large and warm boba pearl. About the size of a tennis ball. And maybe it kinda stings the longer you hold it, as if the slime is caustically acidic. And the longer you touch/look at/perceive it the more it both compels and repulses you like a handheld spiritual black hole.

I mean… Probably.

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writing-prompt-s:

The Devil sells his soul to you.

Untitled (2016-07-03)

You’re walking down Mission Street, eyes on the cracked cement under your equally threadbare shoes, when your shoulder smacks into something.

“Sorry,” you mutter, without looking up, because that’s just asking for further confrontation which you’re really not in the mood for. It has led you to apologizing to inanimate objects before–lamps and signposts and, once, an inflatable gorilla mascot declaring BIG SAVINGS!–but you’re not that easily embarrassed. Anyway, better safe than sorry.

“No worries,” a voice says which rules out the inanimate object possibility. Apparently, despite your foolproof strategy, the person you’ve bumped into decides to engage.

God damn it.

“Blasphemy,” the person adds in a different voice. Same person, different voice… somehow?

You look up.

The person at first is taller than you, blonde hair, broad shoulders. Smiling with somehow charmingly crooked teeth. But you blink and suddenly that smile becomes decorated with braces, framed in a face with freckles that weren’t there a moment ago. And then the blonde hair turns brown, the eye level dropping down to meet yours.

You blink again, new appearance. Same person, you’re sure of it.

“Can I interest you in a new investment opportunity?” They say which, no matter how weirdly mesmerizing yet nauseating the constantly shifting features, is an automatic signal to leave.

“No thanks,” you mutter and sidestep the person. “I don’t carry cash,” you add, because it’s both true and has deterred solicitors previously.

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” the person continues, walking backwards to keep up with you. Which is highly off-putting. As is the way their voice deepens, accents shed like molting feathers from a sick pigeon.

“Not interested,” you add, a little more firmly, speeding up your pace. You shove one hand into your bag’s outer pocket, where the pepper spray your older sister gave you in a fit of overprotectiveness has sat unused for the past four months. Hey, better safe than sorry, right?

The person’s height has increased again, legs and stride lengthening in turn, and you can’t shake them off. With your eyes on the ground you notice how their shoes change too–high heels one second, boots the next.

“Whatever you have in your pocket will be fine,” they say, less charming and more desperate, which is just enough to make you pause. Not seriously consider it, though, because your keys and phone and wallet are in your pockets and that would just be stupid. Might as well sign your soul away.

“No,” you say simply, and walk away…

… or at least, you try to.

“Don’t you walk away from me!” they say, and now you’re not sure what their voice is like or what they look like because you can feel them somehow, the command scratching away in your brain and in your lungs. Words beyond sound, fear written down deep in your bones. The pepper spray falls harmlessly from your hands.

And yet, despite it all, you still think they sound terribly desperate.

“I don’t even know what you’re selling,” you say, because sometimes sensibility has to give way for stupidity.

The person circles you, frozen in place as you are, appearance ever shifting but the same expression of consideration on their faces.

“That pocket,” they say, pointing at the zipper of a pocket awkwardly situated just off of the right armpit of your jacket. You don’t really use that pocket for much. Actually, you don’t really remember what’s in there. “I’ll trade it to you for the contents of that pocket.”

Considering what happened last time you said no, you reach over to unzip the pocket and pull out what appears to be a half-filled packet of tissues, two throat lozenges, and an oblong ball of lint.

Skeptically, you hold it out to the person.

“Excellent,” they smile, looking far too pleased by the remnants of your last battle against the flu. They pluck the detritus from your hand and in exchange give you what looks like a… you’re actually not sure what to call it. A slimy lump of coal? A sickly goth fireball? What the hell is this?

“You’re not too far off,” they say, near manic with glee, “with the last one, that is.” They smirk, bright and smug and waiting for a punch to the face, before suddenly disappearing.

Frustratingly, you now wish you had a tissue to wrap this thing up. You settle for putting it in your empty tupperware from lunch and wiping your palm uncomfortably on the thigh of your jeans.

That done, you resume your walk–no need to make your delay longer than necessary.

It takes two weeks for you to realize what exactly you bought.

And that has more to do with the angry archangel banging on your door at three in the morning, while an unrepentant shapeshifting devil takes refuge on your second-hand armchair.

God damn it.

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Once, my father cried in front of me.
That’s a lie.
He’s cried in front of me four times.
But never where anyone else could see it.
I stared at him in silence each time,
And tried to swallow down my laughter.

Once, I loved a girl;
This is nothing new.
But I didn’t realize until two years later,
After I had already stopped,
And she began loving someone else.

Once, I broke another girl’s heart,
And forgot how I did so,
Immediately.
To this day I still don’t remember,
Unsure what I did or why.

Once, I stayed up for forty eight hours.
So exhausted,
But too desperate for sleep to actually do so.
I watched the sun rise twice and despaired;
Saw the sun set thrice and thought:
Is it my turn now?

jacksgreyson, Untitled (2016-07-01)

Untitled (2016-06-28)

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It starts as hunger.

A steadily building desire.

A needy creature residing not in the stomach but in the heart.

Lovers. Plural.

He can’t be alone.

All of his tricks–his speeches and illusions–they only work if there’s an audience. He draws them in close, keeps their attention on him. Eyes and ears and minds on him.

Hearts outstretched until he sinks his teeth in them.

(Famine)

—

Next is conflict.

The spark catching flame.

Growing and roaring and burning everything it touches.

High Priestess. Guardian of Mysteries.

The stars near to attainable, but scorching. Some tricks are better at a distance.

Cages and chains and timers, mirrors and wires and bright blinding light. Trappings for the oldest struggle in the world: humans versus danger. None of it works without her

Her best prop has always been herself.

(War)

—

Then comes decay.

A gradual descent.

Skin crawling and eyes closing and a creeping sense of unease.

Hermit. Introspection. Isolation.

He’s always been the most patient.

Never needed anything but himself.

Words and glances and the occasional finger snaps. Listen carefully, set them up, wait for the trigger, and watch them fall.

Revenge and gratification all the sweeter for a delay.

(Pestilence)

—

Last is the end.

Or perhaps the beginning.

Slate wiped clean and ready for new marks.

Death. Transformation.

Nothing is as it seems.

~

A/N: I watched Now You See Me to watch Now You See Me: The Second Act in theaters so, I dunno, some Horsemen thoughts.

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Know Your Place

he shouts from his podium, hundreds of thousands raising their arms in blind devotion

they say from behind their desks, signing papers full of words they don’t understand

those are the last words before three shots to the back, bleeding out on the concrete

just sit quietly, follow orders, they know what’s best for you so smile and be pretty

Know Your Place

but what even is my place and who are you to tell me so?

i will not let myself be shoved into a box, pushed to the side, stuck in the corner

i am a person, growing and living, constantly changing–i am in motion;

why know my place when i can know my direction and speed instead?

Know Your Place

jacksgreyson

Untitled (2016-04-27)

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It’s not as if he’s never left the temple before–sometimes the older worshippers will ask for help carrying things, and he’s old enough to run quick errands by himself–but now stepping outside feels different. An entirely new experience because of the context.

He is leaving the temple and he will not be coming back tonight or tomorrow, not even next week. He may not ever return.

It’s a thought both thrilling and frightening, making him look back at the temple even as Consalvo and Melvina lead him away. The stained glass window sparkles in the afternoon sun, as if greeting him farewell. And even the grey stone walls seem warmer and brighter, the temple putting on it’s best face before he goes.

He smiles back at it, even if that seems silly.

“Excited?” Consalvo asks, noticing his smile and matching it with a grin of his own.

If anything, that makes him even giddier, and he can’t help the laugh that escapes him, “Yes,” he says because it’s true.

He has no idea what his future may be, and he’s eager to find out.

—

Their first stop isn’t a foreign one to him–while the town does have a port and one of the kingdom’s four main temples, it is rather small. There is only one haberdashery in town and the worshippers have to get their uniforms from somewhere.

Gilian the seamstress spots him first, somehow through a cloud of petticoats that will no doubt be part of the mayor’s next gown.

“Aljun!” she greets, pulling pins from her mouth and climbing her way from under what will eventually be a truly massive skirt, “I just saw you two weeks ago! Have you gone through another growth spurt already?” She asks, partially teasing, partially serious, eyeing the hems of his uniform with a sharp eye.

“Not quite,” Melvina says, catching Gilian’s attention.

The seamstress startles and blushes, embarrassed at having been caught of guard, before composing herself, “Oh? How can I help you today?”

“Aljun here will be needing some new clothes,” is all the warning he gets before Melvina’s hands clamp down on both of his shoulders and guide him towards the fitting area of the shop. “In hardier fabric than the uniform, if you can. Different styles, of course,” she adds, as Gilian crowds in close with excitement.

“I’ve always wanted to dress this boy up in something besides the worshipper uniform,” Gilian confesses, before smoothing a hand over his head as if he were several years younger, “No offense meant, Aljun, it’s just that the uniform gets boring after a while. I’ve always wondered what you’d look like in something else.”

“And color!” Consalvo says, poking his head out from the shelves of fabric samples and, indeed, holding a swatch of bright purple.

Betrayed and bemused, Aljun resigns himself to being a mannequin for the rest of the afternoon.

~

A/N: I really thought I’d get to the ship already… oh well. Here’s a random makeover scene nobody wanted

Related to these two ficlets… gotta think of a name for this series…