second nature
(replicanaminé) Because loving you just comes second nature to me. A collection of one-shots based on false memories and falser emotions. (welcome to hell. we've been waiting for you.)
(a/n) umm. uuuummmm. this was going to be done in september after I did a paper on the salem witch trials. then it was going to be done in time for halloween.
well, happy thanksgiving.
xxx
(ii) queen of the damned
xxx
(witch)
Black jagged lines run down crisp white pages. They break chains and stab deep into hearts and minds and memories—light on shadow on light. Lines curve into the shape of a face, and a name falls from lips for the first time. Lines rip across photorealistic landscape and eradicate a world.
Between the pen and the sword, the sword never had a chance.
..x..
(devil-mark: a mark placed on a witch by Satan to mark her as his own)
So pretty, the one says, the one who brought her here and whispers to her promises of broken chains and captive heroes and sunsets that she will never ever see. So beautiful. So untarnished and pure.
She is pretty. Her skin is pale and flawless, not a blemish to be seen. She bears no scars of servitude, never to bleed when pricked or hurt when harmed.
Or perhaps the marks are merely the kind that she can't see.
..x..
(familiar: a companion)
She's still drawing her chains around the limbs and throat of her hero, remembering the whispers of the others, remembering that he could be hers if she just sits down and shuts up and does as she's told. But inside, she secretly wonders, and perhaps she would fear if she could reach the bare parts of her soul not coated in numb witch-scar tissue cold to the touch:
Aren't heroes supposed to slay witches? Isn't that their job? If she truly wanted a companion, a helper, why was she reaching out to close her fingers around something that might sting? She's unsure, and it shows.
So she's given a new project. A break, they call it, a secondary assignment. A new application for her "special talents."
And when he walks in—
And when she touches his face gently with the tips of her fingers—
And when she puts pencil to paper, but can't draw a single line to capture his essence, his impossibly unchainable soul—
He reaches out and grips her hand. Please, he says. Please, let me stay me. Please. And she ducks her head and whispers in her barely used voice, But if they find out—
They won't, he assures her. I can be your protector. I can be your companion. I can tell you things about the outside world. Let me be your eyes. She can't say a word. She nods once.
It's us and them now, he says.
She hopes she isn't one of them.
..x..
(poppet: a small figure in the likeness of another, used to cast spells)
He comes to her every moment he can, his eyes sparkling with some unfathomed feeling no matter how he is wounded or weary. He brings her tales of other parts of the castle, news errantly dropped from their lips in his presence, and these comfort her, insomuch as she can be comforted.
Does it bother her that his love is a lie? Does it bother her that while he trains and trains to fight the hero, she sits and draws her pretty chains around the hero's pretty neck, the whip at his back and the carrot out in front, urging him on inexorably toward her and the one who loves her?
The question really is, can it bother her? Or do the marks and scars on her soul run so deep that no blade of treachery can ever hope to bleed out her emptiness? As the others toy with their prey before the kill, has she adopted a plaything now? Perhaps she is one of them after all.
Even knowing this, even as she landscapes his heart for him despite their deal, even as she binds him to her with the chain that may be his noose, she is still cold, and she still shows no sign of pain.
..x..
(black mass)
Heart on soul.
Skin on skin.
Black and white blended and mixed into all the shades of gray you like, and no one can tell them what is right and what they will burn for because they already live in Hell.
His warmth sears her and her cold chills him and it is wrong and it is wrong and it is perfect.
And maybe for that one second, she could feel something.
Feeling was...strange.
It hurt.
..x..
(thou shalt not suffer a witch to live)
Her chains are tightening and running out, link by link. The hero is coming and the lover is waiting and she has to make a decision.
She chooses.
And he dies.
Her chains crumble and the noose tightens and he is broken and he is nothing now, just a clay doll with pins stuck in it and a lock of hair tied around its neck.
He is dead. So is she.
She has been dead for a long time now.
..x..
For want of a protector, the heart was lost.
For want of a heart, the soul was lost.
For want of a soul, the protector was lost.
Welcome, child. Welcome to Hell.
We've been waiting for you.
xxxFINxxx
(a/n) umm. uuuuuummmm. I've never written a sex scene before.
uuuummmmmm. I'm a wuss.