So part of the reason why I asked for song lyrics was like "yey I can write some stuff based on the song/character"

And wow look at the amazing variety of songs for: caspian nyx aspen aspen nyx caspian nyx aspen rose nyx aspen caspian aspen aspen caspian (quinn is dead to me). Amazing. I have never seen such variety in my life. I mean, you know, not that I'm complaining.

Also sorry if it's like edgy because like...all the songs are all like angsty. I really don't like how these came out but I decided to post it anyway since I spent too long writing it to not post it. I've actually had this done for like 2 weeks but I was 'ehh' with it so I didn't post it till now. Also didn't write too much on Cas since I didn't want to write something wrong eekk That would be bad.

Also, the song lyrics are a little bit awkwardly placed haha...So sorry if they just are jutting out with no real purpose.

Aspen couldn't move. His eyelashes brushed against the fabric tied around his face and drew in a sharp gasp. His nails scraped against a rock as he reached forward, his hands having been bound in front of him. Warm breath drew across his cheek and he nearly leaned into like it was comforting, that presence.

"I'm gonna ask you again," Nyx murmured, trailing his fingers across his cheek to remind him of where he was. "Did you steal the dagger?"

He shook his head. He didn't, truly, but Nyx had never believed him. He couldn't lie, not with his blood, but Nyx never believed him. So he felt hands on his shoulders, the voice coming from behind him, and he nearly jumped at the sensation. Everything was so quiet and it felt like he was floating because there was absolutely nothing except for the hands on his shoulders and the faint sound of the birds in the distance.

"Liar," Nyx breathed, a low growl beneath his words. "You know you did and you better say or you're really gonna get it, you know." One of his hands slid from his shoulder to tighten it on his arm. "So you gotta say in three-"

"-I didn't, I swear."

"Two."

Aspen shook his head, trying to pull his wrists apart as they hurt and chaffed and felt raw under the twine.

"One."

He opened his mouth to protest and warmth flooded his shoulder and it was hot, so hot and he tilted his chin back to cry out, lurching forward to pull away. And he ripped away and the ground was cold as he fell sideways and his shoulder was wet and warm and dead leaves stuck through his shirt to the wetness that dripped down his arm. He realized the pain a few moments after the warmth, like a papercut, and it was sharp at first, feeling like a dagger nicking his skin until it pushed deeper and deeper until it was so deep that it radiated through his entire right side and the blindfold was wet with tears he didn't know he had spilled. The twine at his wrists bit deeper into his skin.

And it was so painful and raw and his thoughts raced in some strange anticipation for another one because 'Yes, you can mark me and I'll cherish it. Do what you'd like, I'm everyone's for taking.'

Nyx spat out a bloody mouthful onto the ground next to him, wiping his lips.

"That's gonna leave a scar," he stated, leaning over Aspen to pull the fabric away from the bite marks on his shoulder. "Pity." Slowly, he moved to untie the fabric on his eyes and Aspen blinked and looked over and his shoulder was red and he stared at it and moaned in nausea. "And you'll listen to me now, right? Or you're gonna get another one of those and-"

"It was Joan, I swear, she took it to sell in the Towns," Aspen said quickly, frozen in his spot as he stared up at him. "I swear, I swear, it was her."

"Oh?" Softening, Nyx smiled and lovingly pulled him to his feet to press a kiss to his cheek because he earned it. "You're so good. We can play nicer games if you're like this more."

"...Really?"

Aspen never asked but he never saw Joan after that again.

I'm a slave to your game
I'm just a sucker for pain
I wanna chain you up
I wanna tie you down
I'm just a sucker for pain

He was very still by choice this time, letting them position his arms because they wanted him just right, like a little puppet. Lips pressed against his jaw and hissed whispers praised him, praised only him and he smiled. "Pretty, so pretty," the whispers said and he leaned into them, his fingers tightening into fabric. "So pretty, such a pretty faerie." His green eyes were very wide because he wanted to see how he was doing, if everyone was smiling as well because yes, he was good and smart and pretty and he knew how to sit still and swallow back the rising bile in his throat.

Teeth worried his skin and a cold hand pressed against his back and trailed up the edges of his wings and his nerves were alight with unease and he nearly jerked away because it was an unwelcome visitor. He didn't like it and he just mouthed it but the girl in front of him mouthed lovely phrases against his skin that made him shake, he was uncomfortable and nervous and the person behind him- who was it- was so close and kept touching his wings over and over and over again.

Was this what it meant to be adored? Loved even?

Fingertips pressed into his wrist, so hard that nails left crescent shaped scars long after they adored his skin, kissing it. Nails kissed his skin. Nails scratched it too, bruising the surface with little blood vessels crying under his wrist. And it was wonderful, the sting in his wrists and the small twitching of his skin like a cat as he tensed and relaxed under the pressure of fingertips that sank into his skin, testing it.

The girl drew back when someone pushed her away and someone else replaced her, lips grazing his wrist and guiding his arms around the person's neck like "Yes, Aspen, just like that. This is how you're supposed to be. Shh, don't speak. Only when you're spoken to, just be-"

Silent, Aspen nodded and suddenly his face was shoved into the ground and he wasn't confused but he let them and that was what was right. Splinters in his cheek. His hand braced against the ground and he stared at the forest in the distance and eyes, eyes watching him, judging, savouring because yes, "Look at me," he wanted to say. "Look at me because I am pretty and watch me be pretty for you, at your hands, because I am adored."

Running through the parking lot
He chased me and he wouldn't stop
Tag, you're it, tag, tag, you're it
Grabbed my hand, pushed me down
Took the words right out my mouth
Tag, you're it, tag, tag, you're it

Life caught up to Caspian faster than he could run away.

Even if he could have seen it hurtling at him like a freight train, he wouldn't have turned his back. It just wasn't how he was taught. He'd fight off the force, the unimaginable force with anger and fury and all the hurt that gathered in his back and spread through his veins and kept him on edge.

In the Towns, no one ever listened and, in turn, he didn't have to either. He let his dowsing dagger lead him to the next pool of blood that would gather around someone's feet as they scrambled away from him. Sometimes he'd end up on his back, panting because he couldn't walk away from the two, four, six people that wanted to kill him. That wanted to take his dagger and slice his throat enough to hurt, but not enough to bleed out because they'd never kill him.

No, killing him would be too nice and nice was something Caspian never got or learned.

Rather, he cursed life for his misfortune, blaming the weakness he refused to address and the anger that he never kept in check and his inability to see more than three feet in front of him. If there was a cliff, he would have gladly walked off because his compass for life had been destroyed before his moral compass was ever found and the dagger was still his dowsing rod.

Again.

Slick blood on his hands because he couldn't, wouldn't stop fighting as if stopping would mean giving up. Everyone on the streets turned into enemies because who were they to judge him? It was like living in a candlelight, only able to see that the path led on but he couldn't see at all where he was headed. It was silly to him, ever thinking that things could be different. Cruelty by then had become his only friend, the only listener that would hear the words he cursed. They were carried off by the wind.

It wasn't as if anything he had to say would change his situation.

Things that were lost could not be found so easily.

Who are you to change this world?
Silly boy!
No one needs to hear your words.
Let it go.

Some stupid werewolf had been bothering him again, jeering behind his back. Caspian glared at him with a look that usually would have scared those younger than him at the Unseelie, but the stupid, stupid wolf just grinned back with that same dumb gleam in his eyes.

People that were as dimwitted as the werewolf weren't able to comprehend when they were in trouble. Sometimes, Caspian could tell that the people around him thought he had a death wish, starting so many fights and leaving with too many cuts to count when all he had was a dagger against a group of savages. He was smarter, faster, stronger, but it was not enough against groups. And maybe he did have a little bit of a death wish.

But no, if he wanted to die, he'd climb to the werewolf's ego and jump to his IQ for a quick death and one of a bit of humour that lent a smirk to Caspian's mouth. Quietly, a dagger fitted itself against his palm and he stared at the wolf with a challenging look.

He wasn't sure who dealt the first blow but Caspian reached out to grab the werewolf's hair and instead found his hand sinking into fur, the Changing person morphing under his fingertips. The werewolf's snout elongated to fit the rows of teeth that salivated and drooled onto the already wet ground from earlier rains. Hah, coward. Changing into the dog he is. And with no small amount of hate, he lunged at the wolf, wrapping his arms tight around it's neck as he pulled it to the ground, watching as it's legs buckled underneath itself. It was hard to grasp, though, and he was left with just fur in his fingers when the wolf shook itself up, growling and barking.

Launching off the floor, the werewolf attempted to snap at his arm, clipping his hand with the edge of his tooth but Caspian knocked him to the ground, hacking away with his dagger, trying to tear through thick dog skin and matted fur.

Hate seethed from the cut on his hand.

He was hot all over, shivering in the heat as he cut away again and again till his hands were red and the wolf whined as it struggled to get away. The wounds slowly started to heal up, but not fast enough as Caspian went to push the dagger into it's shoulder and-

A traitor to his body, his back spasmed, this unimaginable pain running up his spine like a dagger sawing through his skin again and again and he gasped, his hand losing grip of the dagger, of the werewolf, and he pressed his hand against the ground.

"What are you looking at?" he snapped at a few people staring and they quickly started off. Angry, he picked up his dagger to shove it into a sheath. He looked down.

His hands were very red and wet.

You cut it away
And you filled me up with hate
Into the silence you sent me
Into the fire consumed

There was hardly anything Aspen wouldn't do to hear someone compliment him.

"You-"

"-Are-"

"-Smart and-"

"-Pretty and-"

"-Good at this, Aspen. I'm proud of you."

Were they complimenting him or were they complimenting him?

He wasn't sure who 'him' was anyway.

All you need's a couple more condiments
And a hundred thousand dollars for some compliments

Part of him wanted to belong the way he had belonged in the Unseelie, but he didn't think he'd be taken in by anyone.

Anyone who did want him in some faction would be crazy.

They didn't see how messed up and wrong and psychotic his thoughts were because annoyed glances and a chin held high disguised everything.

He wasn't afraid, and he certainly wasn't weak.

Just a little bit too broken in the head to fit all the jagged pieces into one place.

They think I'm crazy but they don't know the feeling
They're all around me,
Circling like vultures
They wanna break me and wash away my colors
Wash away my colors

Aspen always pulled off his cloak first, using one delicate motion to discard it onto the floor so his wings could be viewed at their full brilliance. He was never shy in going slow, letting their eyes roam over him as he turned to pull his shirt off, carefully lifting it above his head and pulling it from the back so his wings didn't catch.

Sometimes, he would catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror and he raised his chin, ensuring he was still pretty. From the curve of his cheekbones to his jaw as his collarbones sloped under his throat in a pleasing manner, he'd watch himself. He would curl his shoulders forward a little, admiring how his wings caught the light and the other person would let out a breath of appreciation.

It was his job to look pleasing and ever line of his body had to look perfect and smooth and sharp and elegant and he looked back at them, his lips parted because oh, the wanton look they loved simply melted their hearts and he gave a demure smile.

Then he would read them, understanding what they wanted and whether he should lay down first or let them or whether he should beckon them over and let them work at the button and zipper of his black pants. They were often covered by his cloak or too dark to see and he wished for people to see him, really see him because oh, his legs were long and lithe and lovely and up close, it was easier to see how his chest rose and fell with each breath and why cover it with fabric when people could appreciate beauty.

"I am not a museum exhibit just for looking at," he said once. "I'm yours for tonight."

And, often times, they wanted to cover his eyes with a ribbon. Perhaps, he speculated, they just wanted a faceless body to appreciate, one that had no soul or substance. It was easier to abuse now and forget later, Aspen inferred.

Even so, he had always considered his eyes his best trait.

Take off my clothes
Oh, bless me, father
Don't ask me why
You're right
You're right

Joining the Hunt had been the first step to moving on, although Caspian hardly called it that. It was a distraction mainly, and hell knew he needed lots of those.

Used to his previous high status in the Unseelie, it was disappointing to have to start out on the bottom again but it was better than nothing. He had the stars to sleep under again, the forest to rustle around him at night, and a staff in his hand that made the pain in his back just a little more tolerable.

He wasn't happy, though, which was apparent if anyone saw him. There was always this bitter look in his expression, like he'd rather be elsewhere or doing something else. It was easier to be like that than let anyone in. If someone got too close, they could be horrified at what they see since inside, he thought himself ugly and twisted because his back was scarred like the inside of his mind.

Now and again, he'd get questions about his blood. About his purity.

"If you were as pure as you claim you are," people would say, "Then you'd have wings."

Caspian merely straightened his cloak, shot them a dirty look, and continued on. A few times- or more than a few times- he got into skirmishes but it was different than in the Unseelie because killing wasn't always allowed. And there were these people called supervisors that broke them apart sometimes and scolded them and told them to stay in line and when were faeries ever supposed to stay in line? It was worse that this one supervisor, this one stupid supervisor would annoy him and touch his back as if he knew but he didn't and hell, Caspian sometimes just wanted to wipe that smug look off his face.

The days were like different hues of paint smeared together to create an everlasting night that settled on his senses. Things were easier to decipher, uncluttered by the dirty and messy life of the cities. Everything was very clear and he reached out to brush the rocks with his fingertips as he stood as if he were stalking something, his hand holding onto his staff.

Joining hadn't changed the distrust that flickered in his gaze from time to time though, doing better to hide it at some times than others. Distancing himself from everyone, like in the Unseelie Court, was a strategy he kept when he wasn't at war, finding it easier to just build a barricade between him and others.

At the rate he was going, at the rate his eye was darkening, the Hunt started to become a place of belonging. Not a home, though. A home meant comfort and he wasn't sure if he knew what that was, if he'd ever know what that was.

It just wasn't natural, to trust. To feel comfort. To be...content.

The bridges are burning, the heat's on my face
Making the past an unreachable place
Pouring the fuel, fanning the flames
I know, this is the point of no return
I won't turn around

Attraction, to Aspen, was always ephemeral; there one moment, and gone the next.

People were so predictable and boredom always started to creep at the edge of his mind. He found no sin in admiring others for split second, a snap in his infinity, before moving on the next day.

Caspian was drunk on the idea that his life was one great fight: him against the world.

Even in the Hunt, everything was a battle and he had stopped fighting for respect a long while ago. Maybe, he thought, he was just fighting for some quiet and a place to fight for.

Would a life of spontaneity ever get boring? Aspen wasn't sure. He was so stuck in his way, his way in the Towns and he didn't think he could stop. Maybe it was an addiction of sorts.

Something cold and sadistic always brewed inside of Caspian's head and it drove him crazy sometimes to have so many thoughts racing in his head with no way to express them but with his staff in his hand and a knife in the other. It was as if he could bleed out words for everyone to see but everyone seemed to recoil instead. Good. He was glad they did.

Aspen viewed people like drinks: cheap, a bit of fun, and a cause of a nasty hangover to follow. They all tasted different, some sweeter than others. But all of them seemed to leave a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

Caspian only wished for people to shut up, hell, just shut up because he could hear the whispers about, at, behind him as he walked. It was like sipping acid and it burned his throat.

Get me a drink I get drunk off one sip just so I can adore you
I want the entire street out of town just so I can be alone with you
Now go when your ready my heads getting heavy pressed against your arm
I adore you

"Is it a bad thing?" Aspen asked, thinking for a very, very long time, "That I've changed?"

Caspian leaned back, the roof uncomfortable against his hands but he didn't mind much. In fact, it wasn't really something he fully noticed, both the roughness and the chilled breeze, and he started to speak. "That depends on you. And whether you want to change."

"I don't know. I didn't have many feelings before." Pausing, Aspen licked his lips. Things were suddenly very complicated and so many thoughts mixed in his head and all he could muster up was, "I'm not sure if I like them or not." And he realized how terrible it sounded but he just sat there quietly, awaiting a response. Would he not be pleased? Would he be angry?

"Then... then..." It wasn't like Caspian to be hesitant with most things, only with talks of personal thoughts, and Aspen found it incredibly endearing. "If it's my fault you've changed and you don't like it then that's bad."

"I don't think things like that are your fault, you know." For a moment, he tried to think of a word. His mind scanned his vocabulary and he ended up saying the first thing he could think of, regardless of how ridiculous it sounded. "I adore you. I couldn't think it's your fault or you did anything bad." Adore. That was a funny word.

Caspian seemed to think so as well and he looked nearly surprised at his usage of it. His eyes turned unreadable, a sign he was thinking and thinking and Aspen tried to read him but found that he could not understand the words in his expression. It was always like that and it was refreshing and nice and frustrating and new and he tilted his head towards him to stare.

Adore.

A very funny word but, somehow, very fitting.

Mundanes, to Rose, were somehow so much nicer than all the Shadowhunters made out to be. They didn't kill people, nor did they attend meetings about wars, and they certainly didn't have to worry about strange creatures coming after them in the night. Oh, or Church getting mad at them.

They were very simple, with nice eyes that crinkled when they smiled from years of laughing over screenshots and funny pictures of cats. There were no scars on their arms or knives hidden in their sleeves and they simply talked to her about the weather and fashions and boys and movies. The mundane girls liked her so much that they invited her everywhere, asking her for fashion advice, hair advice, makeup advice, boy advice and Rose would giggle in response and answer enthusiastically. Shadowhunters, in turn, seemed to always tell her to get her head out of the clouds as if she was delusional and she didn't understand why they were like that.

And the mundane girls touched her gold curls and called them pretty. She was glad, so glad that they liked her because, for a moment, she could pretend that they were like her and they were simply girls in a mall that needed dresses for the dance.

There was no dance for her to go to, but who was she to say no to a new dress?

"You're so gorgeous," a girl would smile cheerfully and Rose felt a bit of relief rush to her head. "You have to tell me where you get your hair done."

"Oh, I curl it myself," Rose answered, touching them daintily. "I can teach you sometime."

"God, you're a lifesaver. My place sometime?"

"You're so skinny," a girl would remark, taking Rose's arm to pull her into a store. "You have to tell me what you eat. You seriously have my dream body."

"Oh, just healthy things, really." Rose thought for a moment, setting a hand against her waist, tapping her fingers against it lightly. "I mean, I'm still working on it."

"You're so dedicated. I wish I could be like that."

"You're so short," a girl would critique, wrinkling her nose as she pulled a pair of heels off a shelf. "You have to try these one. They'll give you legs for days."

"Oh?" Rose glanced down at her dainty pumps, hardly scuffed from their occasional wear. She knew she was petite, but she hadn't ever thought it was a problem. "I guess I can try them."

"You'll look amazing in them. I can tell."

Was that what she was supposed to be? Tall, lithe, and a gorgeous blonde barbie for them to dress up? Of course she wanted to be called gorgeous and, in a quick thought, she slipped into the heels and admired herself in the mirror. This bit of satisfaction settled in her chest as she looked over herself. Yes, that was what was missing. Her friends gave a clap of appreciation, nudging her shoulder.

"There," they praised. "That's perfect."

You know that we are living in a material world
And I am a material girl

Sorry Rose's is kind of out of place.