Not too happy with some of the stuff here, but I usually write super late so hey, there's a bit of a sacrifice of quality hahaha Anyway, here's some random stuff, finally at a decent length chapter rather than like 500 words total. Some are in the past, and some are pretty recent :) And some are shorter, some longer - ya know the deal :)

Typing out a few notes, Lev kept his fingers moving as his thoughts drifted, often finding that his attention strayed during classes. He couldn't help it, with the professor's attention on so many different people, and he couldn't help but feel rushed to get on with the lesson and pack up his things when it came to the GE courses. They didn't make sense to him, even though the concepts were simple, and he found the mundane way of working things out to be odd. Perhaps he had stowed himself away in the Downworlder side of things for too long.

Pulling up a new tab, he opened up the university's database, logging in quickly, glancing every once and a while in the professor's direction to see if they had written anything new on the expansive whiteboard. His latest research essay had been logged in, and he clicked on it quickly. Puzzled, he stared at his score. He had been skating by with mediocre marks in the class, that much was stressful to him, and he couldn't understand how he hadn't been receiving better feedback.

Snapping his laptop closed when the time was winding down for the class session, he mindlessly packed his things up. Was it silly to think he could have simply assimilated back into the mundane world after spending years of being removed from it?

"Professor," he called, hurrying down the steps, his messenger bag thumping against his leg as he walked. "Can I ask something? I'm a little confused on the last assignment."

The professor stopped erasing the whiteboard, setting the eraser down and walking over to sit in her chair by her computer. "You'll have to remind me of your name. I have too many students to keep count."

"Uh, Lev...Levin Ryuu," he answered, slightly dismayed. "I did the paper on comparative schematics."

"I remember that." She turned to look at him, and Lev suddenly felt very young and childlike, as if his words were going to quickly be dismissed.

"I don't understand my mark for this assignment," he started, sighing and keeping his words even. "There were no grammatical errors, and I believe the information was well presented."

"Well, this was a research paper," the professor went on, and Lev couldn't help but notice a hint of condescension in her words. "You need citations. APA. Chicago. MLA. Your work was almost plagiarism."

"Plagiarism?" He raised his eyebrows. "I didn't use outside sources, but I assure you all of the information is accurate."

"This Communications course isn't an opportunity to show off what you think you know about subjects that are far beyond your age," she replied, sounding more like she was scolding than teaching. "You need information from actual researchers, with doctorates and practice in the field."

It took all of Lev's patience to not argue on the point, not wanting to be seen as a trouble student. People there seemed to be grasping the easy things so much faster than he was, and it was almost silly how difficult the professors made things seem. How much they complicated simple concepts.

"Okay...Well, then is there anything else I can do to fix my papers?" He asked, straining to be polite.

"Try to limit yourself to three prepositions a sentence," she advised, looking back at her computer. "Take out adverbs."

Lev blinked. "What? Why?"

"It's more professional that way." The professor seemed to be shifting her attention away from him, and she gave off the impression her time was too valuable to be spent on trivial things. "Professional writers do it."

"How does it...improve my writing at all?" He curled his fingers around the strap of his bag, attempting to curb his annoyance.

"I'm sure you learned this in high school, Lev. Look at the sources on the syllabus if you have any other questions."

He opened his mouth, a comment about to escape him, before he silenced himself and gave a curt nod. High school? God, had he really missed so much? It wasn't that he didn't enjoy school - it just seemed ridiculous to be forced to do things with no clear reason. It didn't seem logical, but then again, the mundane world seemed to function on things with no rhyme or reason. Instead, he made his way to the door, pushing it open with the tip of his shoe. Despite its shortcomings, he couldn't help but miss the Institute bitterly.

"Seems odd that a faerie would do such a mundane thing like this," Lily observed, tugging on a blue streak in Blake's hair before letting it curl back over his forehead. Her dark eyes were focused, her lips parted as words waited to spring forth. "You don't seem very focused on looks."

"I'm not." He could not help but pull away just slightly, the gesture odd to him. "I like blue."

The answer was simple, but she looked unsatisfied, pursing her lips. "I've noticed Unseelie say things bluntly, like we're supposed to believe it since it seems like the truth, but it's not really," she remarked before a smile cracked in her expression. "You can tell me things, can't you?"

"There's not much to it." He avoided the question, reluctant to let the answer be drawn from his tongue so easily, but her inquisitive and smug expression didn't change. Instead, she slid into his lap to watch him closely – no one ever came into the Sanctuary anyway. Almost, he blushed, but pushed it away forcefully, not wanting to seem easily disturbed or prudish. She would poke fun at him, like he was a child, and continuously cross boundaries, only by a fraction. Enough to get his attention, but not enough to make him annoyed.

"Well?" Her voice grew lighter, her eyes narrowing at him. Somehow, even when she was quiet, she never seemed soft. She was always strung, wound like a doll, her movements calculated and sly.

"I just do it because I can." That was mostly the truth, for there was a strict order in the Unseelie and they did not allow for very much freedom. It was hardly a vanity thing, for he often didn't care if they grew faded and washed out, but it was one thing that the Unseelie did not care about or monitor. He hadn't been able to choose his mediocre status, nor the uncomfortable feeling in his back when his wings rubbed against his cloak, or even where he lived. He did not think there was anything important about being an individual in the Unseelie.

Lily made him feel important, maybe. At least she paid him attention.

"Mmm, whatever you say, Blake." And Lily laughed and pressed a hand to his cheek, kissing his forehead. She lingered, shifting her weight so she was not prone to falling off, her long hair falling for a second over her face. He didn't know why, but his hand instinctively moved to push it from her face, marveling at her features as if he was unveiling some hidden wonder. He had grown tired of looking at faeries, for they were all the same in the Unseelie, and while he felt at home in such a place, human traits were enticing, and exotic.

He thought he might have stared for too long since her expression grew pleased and amused.

"Do you like the view?" She teased, brushing his hand away to instead coax him to place it at her waist. "You ought to come to the Institute more often. Times are changing, you know. I'm sure the Shadowhunters here will let you in."

"...You're nearly asking me to desert my home. I cannot do that." It was known that loyalty to faerie factions was often stronger than blood, and the ones who did betray were not easily spared or let back in. He did not want to suffer such a fate, but she was warm, and interesting, even when the Unseelie had chilled his words. "This is already dangerous."

She tugged on his hair lightly, winding a finger in it. "It is for me too, as long as you remain Unseelie."

He almost drew back, his brow scrunched up in thought. "Then you cannot expect me to go in harm's way without a reason."

Lily rolled his eyes and kissed away Blake's frown. "Then I will give you a reason to," she murmured against his lips and Blake had to draw back quickly, his head tilted down, and he very much wanted Lily to give him something else.

"I should go," he admitted, unwillingly, his face warm and he hoped she didn't notice. "Someone will notice I am gone eventually."

"Will they? I guess I can't expect to keep you here forever."

"No, I guess not."

"Well, then. I'll escort you back." She shifted and then stood up on the concrete, pulling him to his feet. Her smile was sharp and pretty and he took her hand to lead her out the door.

"Want a drink?"

"Er-?" Connor stared at the bartender, feeling awkward at her expectant gaze. "Sorry, I zoned out."

"I asked if you wanted a drink."

"Oh...Just water's good," he said, giving an apologetic nod. He had never been one for alcohol, and he certainly wasn't going to start now.

The bartender only shrugged, filling him a glass to slide it down the bar, her second eyelid blinking a few times before she turned to serve other people. It was a quiet night in the Towns. Connor was able to say that now, having spent most of his time going between the Institute and the streets of the Downworlders, thinking that maybe, if he should ever talk to people, it should be ones that could at least acknowledge his presence.

He drank his water slowly, mindlessly, the runes on his neck getting a few dirty glares from a few vampires in the corner that looked too wary to do anything about him. If they wanted a fight, he guessed he'd give them one, but he wasn't in the mood for drawing blood. In fact, he wasn't sure he knew what he was in the mood for, but maybe some company would be nice, especially if they didn't know him. He wasn't one to seek social situations, but he found that he was craving some sort of normality, and that a stranger wouldn't talk to him like many of the people in the Institute did.

"What's a Shadowhunter like you doing here?" Some warlock girl slid into the barstool next to him, exotic designs like leopard prints dotting her cheekbones and neck, no doubt her Mark.

Connor glanced to the side. "Like me?"

She smiled, and Connor was surprised to see it was sweet and without any ill-intentions. "Not on patrol. You don't look like you're here to spy. If you were, I'd recommend you cover up your runes more next time."

"Oh, yeah...No. I'm not here on business." He wasn't sure why he said such an honest thing, but it didn't strike him as a particularly harmful declaration. "Just here to...to get a change of scenery."

"Some scenery, huh?" The girl waved her hand at the bartended to signal for a drink before she crossed her legs and rested an elbow on the table. "You're cute, at least. Or maybe harmless looking enough that no one wants to fight you. Shadowhunters aren't really liked in these places."

"No...I guess not." Attempting to make some sort of friendly conversation, he set his glass down but kept his gaze just slightly past her. "Why're you here?"

"Same reason as everyone, I presume." When the bartender delivered her drink, she took a swig, her eyes seemingly kind and odd for such a dismal establishment. "I'm just here for some company. The whole lot of Downworlders on the other side of town are all the same. It's good to get a little out of one's usual area."

"Yeah. Maybe you're right." Unsure of what to do, he lifted a hand to fix his hair, pushing them behind his ear. "Maybe that's why I'm here."

"I've been told I can be good company-..." Catching sight of the rune on his hand, she reached out instinctively to take his wrist gently. "Can I-"

Connor stiffened, but didn't pull away, knowing she would not know what it was.

"I've never seen a Nephilim rune like this," the warlock girl murmured, reaching to unfurl his fingers to see the lines more clearly. "And...Oh-...I'm sorry."

"What?" He resisted the urge to tug his hand back, drawing in a sharp breath. "What is it?"

"I'm an empath. I cannot help it." She smiled sadly, although her eyes did not leave his hand. "It is the power I was born with. I figured you were in here for some bigger reason. Taverns and bars do not usually get customers that are simply looking for new scenery."

Feeling mildly disappointed in her words, he looked at the water, struggling for a response. "I see...Well, things are what they are. That's all."

She loosened her grip and he placed his hand back in front of him, rested on the edge of the bar. It seemed even his troubles followed him into such a place. Perhaps he could not run, as he wanted to.

"I can ease that. My powers are not only one way," she said, her words reassuring and generous. "I can help, if only for a moment."

He had no immediate response, torn between curiosity and instinctual hostility that jumbled his thoughts. "It's...I-...I'm alright."

"It's no trouble." Her hand crept over to rest on his arm, and he found that his thoughts were not so dark as they were before. Not so dismal, but calm, and steady. "I am not your enemy, Shadowhunter."

"I have been mixed up with too many warlocks as of late," he said, but the words were only a whisper. But her hand was reassuring, and it certainly didn't feel like magic. No, it was more like a comfort. Like the feeling of an emotional iratze, or a careful embrace, and his gaze traveled to the side to watch her.

"You won't be mixed up with me. I only offer brief respite." And she was telling the truth, for the words that left her lips seemed sweeter than before, and it was like he had known her a lifetime. At least, that was the feeling she gave him, and he realized then that she was staring at him, studying him, more like, as if assessing his reaction. A strange sense of gladness, desire, and comfort subdued his mind, and he suddenly wished he had taken that drink the bartender had offered him. Maybe it would have loosened his tongue, allowed him to be more careless and carefree, and done something Savannah might have approved of.

But he just drew away, quickly, catching his breath to level himself and shake off the remnants of her magic. "I'm sorry-...I really should go, but I...appreciate your concern."

She looked slightly dismayed, but settled back in her seat. "Of course. I only mean well," she responded, her sight lingering on his red rune. "Do take care when you head back to the Institute."

"Y-yeah. Noted." Leaving a sympathy tip on the bartop, Connor gathered himself and got down from the barstool. He could not help but feel that all eyes were on him as he left, and he shoved his hand in his pocket. Was it so difficult for him to fathom losing himself in someone, even for just a few minutes? Shaking his head, he slipped into the evening air of the Towns, his thoughts crisper, the bell on the door ringing behind him as he slinked off into the night.

Black wisps of hair fell by the lazy river bank. Snipping carefully, Aspen kept his reflection in sight as he worked on his hair, wanting to have it cut before the battle.

There had been too many instances, in his own personal fights, when someone had wound their fingers in his hair and pulled on it, yanking him their direction. That had been in the past, though. Now, he thought the only hands that usually wound their fingers in his hair were his own, and Caspian's. The thought brought a smile to his lips as it crossed his mind, the scissors clicking slightly as they cut.

Caspian often touched his hair as they spoke, or when they kissed, and it had grown instinctive for the both of them, the gesture was strangely comforting. Sometimes, Caspian would sit there as they spoke, curling a finger in his hair, and Aspen was glad that he did not have to force such physical contact, as he once had to what seemed like eons ago. No, now his actions were reciprocated, and he did not have to worry much about guiding Caspian, and telling him what to do. It did not fail to lessen the distress that usually plagued him.

They fought more frequently than he liked, but they did not hate each other yet, and so it was a success. Even after venomously spitting at him and even drawing a sword against him, Aspen found he could not scare him off. They worked through it. He hoped they always would.

Black hair littered the ground at his feet, and he shook his head, the last strands falling into the river to be washed away. It was good enough, black hair still curling over his forehead and loose, choppy hair wavy by his ears and down his neck. He wiped off the scissors, tucking them into a strap at his hip. While he did not think he cut his hair badly, Aspen found it comforting to know there was no reprimand waiting for him every time he changed his appearance, no matter how minute or insignificance. It was nice to not care or worry about such things.

Maybe they would be okay. And that would be good enough.

Ethos could not envy Sol - only respect him.

He watched from a distance, as he often did, as Sol greeted a few others in the crowd, all winged and of high class. There had been no reason for them to speak with one another, and Ethos knew he would never speak to a Gentry Knight on casual terms, but he enjoyed observing from his position nonetheless.

Sol was lightly armoured, as many of the Gentry Knights were after missions or tasks that required some measure of force. His expression never strayed from one of amusement, but Ethos did not think he looked happy. Perhaps he was, and it could not be seen, but Ethos could never believe that a person of such high status and purity and narrow morals could ever drop their guard to be carefree. Perhaps a well ranked diplomat could, or maybe even a Servant of the Queen, but even such people always kept an air of stuffiness around them, one that often kept the lower class pushed from their ranks.

Ethos had been told on numerous occasions that he acted as if he was higher than he was, with his curious words and manner of dress, and was also told that his cautious attitude painted him to be some sort of lowly beggar, so he had never been sure what kind of impression he gave off. It was important to be respectable, surely, but he was not sure if anyone besides the higher class ever garnered such respect.

Fleeting in attitude and coy by nature, Sol seemed to be the image of the unmasked Seelie: beautiful, and even more lethal. Ethos looked away, perturbed. It was strange to serve a beloved Queen, but feel the urge to reject such social standings. And it was even odder to feel chained to them, as if they were now some part of his biology, even when he silently criticized what social status made people become.

To be a person of high standing, he thought, often curdled one's mind. He thought maybe it rotted their core, and maybe that was the problem with the Unseelie, for greed and pride without bounds could destroy the soul. There was no higher power he prayed to, but he found himself silently imploring for the Seelie lands to keep their world in balance, for a high Seelie without leashes on their hubris could tear them apart. Maybe that was why he found the Queen so important to his heart, for she was prideful, yet generous. Ruthless, yet benevolent. Balancing the faerie will of power with the need for peace and shared prosperity, even if she did work to dish out social standings by blood and usefulness.

Sol had it easier, no doubt, and Ethos inferred he could ask for anything and obtain it, but he found he did not want to be on his level. He did not think that his capacity for good would be strong enough, as if some ancient faerie urge would consume him the first time he achieved any taste for power. It was strange, the thought that maybe he would not have control over his desires, but he did not feel he had to fear. He was good at keeping them locked up, tucked away, in the dark until he, himself, did not know what they were.