Really short but I did these literally in the past hour.

...

What happens behind closed doors

Frowning, Cole leaned back against the wall, leaning his head against the edge of his bed. In his hands, he sorted through random papers and clutter that bothered him, discarding random junk mail to the side that was addressed to him. A photograph fluttered to the ground and he looked at it without much curiosity, picking it up to stare at it.

He thought he had lost it, although he wouldn't have cared. It was the only photograph he had from his childhood and it was a bad one at that. He was only perhaps twelve or thirteen and it was him in front of the Academy, a book in his hand. He was glancing to the side so his face was a little blurry but he had never smiled for photos so Cole didn't see the point in being able to make out his features anyway. His academy suit looked grey in the faded quality of the photograph and he raised his eyebrows.

The edge of the photo was worn and it was familiar but he had never been nostalgic so he was glad no one had seen the photo. It wasn't like him to ponder about such things and he wouldn't like it if someone saw him looking so soft, as if he were human or something despicable like that.

Slowly, he tore the photo in half and discarded it with the junk mail. One less thing from the past was a good thing and, as he let the mail and photo fall into the rubbish bin, a drop of blood dripped on the ground.

Rose twisted to the side in front of the mirror, her hands on her hips and her chin lifted as she gazed at herself. There was a dress slung across her arm, freshly pressed, and it smelled faintly of lilac. A few stray hairs obscured her vision and she brushed them away, her eyebrows drawn together and her mouth pursed slightly. It was often that she found herself like this, gazing at herself with the same unsatisfied expression.

Her fingers traveled across her side, pinching at the skin at her already petite waist and suddenly wishing she was thinner. Any slighter, and it would look like she would break- a perfect golden-haired doll with a fragile face and joints.

Slowly, her fingers drew away from her skin and instead to her legs where she slowly shifted to try and see if it was her mind or the mirror that made her legs wider than she wanted. Ah, if only there was some faerie potion for that. Really, there probably was but it was less about actual appearance and more about the one she saw in her head. She liked her eyes and her hair and herself but if she stared long enough, there was always something. Perhaps if her waist was not cinched enough by the sashes of her dresses, people would not want to talk to her anymore. And she loved to talk.

A knock sounded on the door and she smiled wide at the idea of company. Casting a look of doubt at herself in the mirror, she shook it away quickly to slip her dress on and start to pull on a pair of stockings.

"Coming!" she called out joyfully and reached to cover the mirror with a blanket.

Aspen had given two options: a public punishment or one in privacy. The faerie, prideful, picked to be alone in the woods with him, not wanting to be seen in such a compromising situation.

"Now, we don't take treason lightly. If I see you talking to that werewolf pack again-..." Keeping his tone low, Aspen kept his free hand against the faerie's chest, his knees on either side of the faerie below him. "You just look at these scars and remember that we don't fuck around with people like you, got that? You see those scars and remember that we'll kill you the next time you think of sharing private information."

The faerie squirmed slightly and Aspen caught his hand, twisting it back to give him access to his wrist. It was a game, really, and he enjoyed painting the faerie's arm with such bright shades of red. Lines decorated his skin and Aspen smiled, dropping the dagger and drawing his finger through the paint. It stained their skin and he longed for a sheet of paper to draw such pretty pictures and he brushed his fingers against the faerie's cheek because why not, it was so much prettier that way. So he pressed a finger against the faerie's lips because taste it, is it good because it looks pretty and the faerie gagged, gasping as Aspen's other hand pressed at his throat.

"Do you like that?" Aspen teased and why, it was such a fun game and the faerie gasped for breath once his hands were drawn back. Slowly, Aspen moved to sit between the faerie's legs instead, pulling him closer to kiss him because why not and it tasted like sucking on a coin. "That was for being quiet. M'kay?"

The faerie nursed his cut arm to his chest.

"Now, this is our little secret, right?" Aspen said, standing up and smiling again, angelically. "A little bit of my love to you. I have to be good and if you tell anyone what bad I've done, you'll really have bad coming for you. Got that?" Raising a finger to his lips, he winked as he turned away. "Good game, sweetheart. But I win."

It wasn't enough to be effortlessly the best.

Of course, it looked that way with his natural talent and endless intellect, but Mason never wasted his time on thinking that he was ever 'enough'. It wouldn't be enough until he was the best and he didn't think people would want to see how much work he put into being better than they were. Because he was and there was no denying that and anyone who was anybody knew that he would someday be on the top.

That was how it was always meant to be. So sometimes that meant staying in the training room until ungodly hours of the night, far past when most people had gone to bed and he trained. Diligently. His swords grew dull with the constant use and he sharpened them casually in the daytime. Mason drew his hand back in front of the target, narrowing his eyes and throwing the dagger expertly.

Another perfect shot. He didn't expect less. In fact, he had no reason to be anything other than the perfect Shadowhunter. He reached back down the get another dagger, his focus growing by the second. The dagger was smooth and cold in his hand and he flicked his wrist with a careful precision that only Shadowhunters understood, that only he understood, and the dagger wedged in the target a mere centimeter away from the other one. Of course, he thought in the midst of the empty room, a perfect throw.

Contrary to his name, Park could never really park his mind. It was always rambling on and on about his passions- skating- and silence was something he rarely got.

He was used to the constant chatter in his mind as he walked, though, different voices muttering things that hardly made sense. Accident on Lake Drive. Miscarriage. Suicide on La Vienne. Job offer. Divorce. Proposal. Spilled coffee. Murder.

He didn't say what he heard anymore, though, knowing that the future was never concrete. Sometimes, however, when he was in his room, he'd sit in the very far corner on his bed and put headphones on and play music loud, so loud that he thought he'd go deaf and sometimes, he didn't mind the idea of going deaf. The snare and hi-hats and cymbals of the music broke through his thoughts as they permeated through the walls like deadly gas and intoxicated him with bad premonitions.

There was this ringing in his ears after each song would end and he nodded his head to the pulsing sound of nothing. He had never thought of himself as unhappy, but there was no denying the annoying feeling of everything and every fate at once crashing down on him every single time he stepped outside and looked at the people. So he found a way to cope by drowning them out with the sound of a skateboard hitting the pavement and the blaring music in the quiet of his bedroom where no one would see except himself. Because sometimes it was nice to be the only one that existed in such a vast, vast world of so many story lines.

He smiled a little at his situation, keeping it to himself and trying to block out the voices and instead listen to the beat of his own drum.