definitions

things i am :

- an actress

- a blonde

- enthusiastic about the color yellow

- owner of a gorgeous cavachon puppy called henry

- a dirty mistress

- a queen bitch

things i am not :

- a dirty skank

- a stealer of all blankets. i always share fairly and play well with others

- an artist. i can sorta draw a peace sign but one of the tails is usually missing for some reason.

- a dancer

(which is not to say that i cannot, merely that i loathe it, particularly dirty dancing.)

- a consumer of anything containing aspartame, high fructose corn syrup, or partially hydrogenated soybean oil. that shit has ETHANOL in it. or meat. that’s just creepy.

the ballad of l(2) and kristi

Here’s what we’re fast discovering on PP. Sweet, loving couples last. They do. Especially if the people writing them get along well and feel affectionately towards the characters. It’s just working out that way, and that makes perfect sense to me. They’re like puzzle pieces, some of these characters- they fit together like puzzle pieces… compensating for eachothers’ faults, etc.

But these sweet, loving couples usually cease to be sexy. That’s what doesn’t seem fair. If you last longer than, oh, I don’t know, two months, you stop being sexy. You start having to be sweet and, oh! If you get married? Yeah, you’re fucked. You then have to be responsible and you’re tied down, trapped, chained to eachother. Which, in some cases, I’m sure would be very enjoyable- but definitely not sexy.

Oh, and god help you if you have children. Because then not only does one cease to be sexy, you completely lose the ability to have sex painlessly for like, four to five months there. Without sex, it’s physically impossible to be sexy. I mean, there’s a reason that they share three of the same letters. Not to mention, uhm, do you know what happens to women when they get pregnant? They get fat. I’m not sugar-coating it. And no, honey, it’s not gonna be a 35 pound baby. You’re double-fucked, only, of course, you’re not, for reasons outlined at the beginning of this paragraph.

So this is why married people and pregnant people can’t be hot anymore. Unfortunate but true.

Is it any surprise that I don’t really want to call what L(2) and I have ‘dating’? Everyone knows that we’re hooking up by now, I think. Or maybe they don’t and I’m a better secret-keeper than I thought, but I really doubt that. Let’s just say, for the purposes of my argument, that everyone knows.

EVERYONE KNOWS. This means that it’s practically dating anyway as everyone knows, so no random girl’s going to try to snag him, because she’ll know already that he likes me better. But, through my methods, we don’t actually have to call it dating that way.

Why, you ask, this aversion to the word ‘dating’?

It’s basically the high-school version of marriage. When I say he’s my boyfriend, I’m promising to be with him (and ONLY him) and to not want other people and to be lovey-dovey in the hallways. In return, he’ll get fiercely jealous whenever another guy wants to be my lab partner or stand next to me in choir. I know how this stuff works. Maybe he doesn’t… maybe it’s different in England?

And once you’re married… well, you’re not hot anymore.

i am the walrus

I turn my back to you, because this is the part that I hate the most. It’s so undignified… well, it’s all undignified, really, but this especially looks awful. Like a child playing with straws at a restaurant, waiting for the food to come, bored out of their mind.

Look what I can do, Mama! I’m a walrus. Wally, wally, walrus!

I breathe in and it burns the insides of my nose, stings and sears, and I know it’s only moments before I’ll lose it completely.

Losing my nose. What a nice thought. I hate my nose so much- chubby and round, drawing attention to my definitive lack of cheekbones. I can’t wait until I’m eighteen. I’ll get a nosejob. I’ll be so pretty.

Pull the straw and turn around, exhale through mouth, force self to smile. You’re smiling too but shakily and I know that you hate this part too. I wonder if you even did anything. How funny it would be if we both faked one night, if we both pretended and then watched the other…

Silliness.

I giggle at the tingling in my cheeks…. the numbness of my nose, the funny feeling in my lips. It’s so nice, so nice, so nice…

I realize that I’ve been saying it, so nice, outloud, and blush a little for a moment and then I forget to be embarrassed.

Turn the dial up on the stereo. That’s better.

Mother Superior jumped the gun. Mother Superior… Mother Superior…

“She hit me today… she did,” I murmur, barely audible over the Beatles. They were fucking druggies, so obvious, strawberry fields forever and ever and happiness is a warm yelllllloow submarine.

You are slumped a little on the couch and I listen to the sounds of the party in the next room over. “Who?” you ask, though I know that you barely can understand me.

I can’t understand myself.

“Sister Margaret,” I answer and give no further explanation.

My heart is pounding harder and harder, clouds of red and pink and yellow and storming above me and around me and pressing me down… Hold me now and let it be. Shelter me. Comfort me. Whisper words of wisdom. Let it be. I want you to let it be oh oh oh… You will live one hundred years if I can show you how.

I love your voice. Your accent.

“The Beatles were British with bowl cuts. All styled like yours,” I giggle. “Sexy sexy.”

“Sexy Sadie,” you reply and I love your voice.

“Let’s kiss,” you say and I know why.

Kissing is fun. Kissing is more fun this way.

I pirouette to you and almost crash into the table and you laugh and grab my hand, pulling me onto the couch beside you, saying, “You’re okay, Kris, right?”

But you stretch out and I’m lying half on top of you and I like this, being in charge, and I just laugh and don’t answer and I can feel one of your hands [warm, long fingered, a little callused] gently wrapping around the back of my neck and the other tracing the line between my bare skin and my jeans and it sort of tickles but mostly it’s just fucking sexy.

So I let myself fall into your chest which is hard and not very soft and sort of brush your lips with mine…

And it feels like fucking sex, it’s so good, I can feel so much, these deep roots spreading between our lips and twisting down until they’re deep inside me. Your eyes aren’t grey, they’re violet, this deep beautiful violet….

Waves of sorrow, pools of joy, but this is all waves of joy and color. I own the world. I have nothing to be afraid of anymore. I’m young and I’m sexy and powerful and you look at me like I’m a goddess and the feeling that is building in the very bottom of my tummy…

My toes, I realize, are all curled up and clenched…

Did you just bite my tongue, L(2)? Okay, that’s weird. I’m going to forget that.

You turn us over and I half smirk because even in this cloud you still can’t lose, you silly dominant bastard. But that’s okay. As long as you don’t let me go, I don’t care.

We do this so that we’re not alone, I think. So that we can be witnesses for eachother. So that we can prove to eachother that we haven’t failed yet.

Second and third within four seconds. I’m impressed, but the world’s returning now.

The grey.

You are losing speed too and you move your hands back, shift your arms to slip them around me, though we’re both trembling slightly. Looking over, I can see it in your eyes, the sadness and loneliness that neither of us can keep at bay for too long, with or without this help.

What are we looking for? It’s not fucking love. It could be sex.

Sometimes I think we’re all just trying to find a friend.

monsters in the closet

Sometimes I feel like I’m settling to prove a point. I really like H, really, I do, but the fact of the matter is that he does NOT have a British accent, each strand of his hair does NOT lie perfectly across his forehead as though Botticelli designed it to lay just so, and worst of all, there isn’t that same electric tingle, the breathless stammer that comes up when he stops at my locker to ask if we had homework in Ethics.

It’s not fair to H, though, to keep leading him on this way- to keep going to the movies with him and dancing with him and… you know, everything else that goes with movies and parties and drinking and dancing. He has these hopeful brown eyes, as though he’s some large puppy that only wants me to like him the way he likes me in return.

And it’s not that I don’t like him. Really, I do. If L(2) didn’t exist, I think that he would be a totally serious relationship. But the fact of the matter is that, if I could bring myself to admit to L(2) that I do NOT in fact hate him, that I DO in fact think his accent is the sexiest thing ever to grace my ears (and I’ve heard Adam Pascal sing the score of RENT) and that, most importantly, I would absolutely kill to be his girlfriend.

If you really think about it, it’s all L(2)’s fault. It was his fault, because he didn’t get that the premise of the undate was that we weren’t actually dating and I wasn’t planning on hooking up or anything. It’s his fault because he had that smarmy smirk when he was asking me to homecoming, like he knew that it was an offer that no girl could resist and that I was awfully lucky and damn well should know it. If he hadn’t behaved that way, I wouldn’t have wanted to prove a fucking point and I prooobably would have just gone out with him and we would have had a fabulously sexy time together with perfect hair and well-modulated voices.

But no. He couldn’t do it. He had to be an imbecile, had to wink at me when he walked in on the team as we were changing, had to walk down the hallway like he owns the fucking school. He had to have the Hannah Montana magnet inside of his locker, had to call Nick a fag. And he absolutely had to introduce me as, “Oh, meet Kristi. You’d like her, she wants to be an actress.”

I AM a fucking actress! I’ve been paid for 80-some percent of my roles since I was nine years old! I have an agent, press write-ups…

I hate that I still love his smile and that, every time I speak to him, my voice jumps up an octave and trembles a little. I get goosebumps and he looks and me and says, “D’you want my sweatshirt? Damn building’s got no heat, hasn’t it?”

And I always shiver and nod and then he gives it to me and it smells like him- warm, like grass and firewood and some spice. Then, of course, I wear it for a period or two and listen to everyone whisper about how I’m wearing L(2)’s sweatshirt.

They’re a bit unimaginatives, the soulless lemmings. They get boring after a while. Sh, don’t tell them that, but it’s really true.

Poor Nick.
Poor H.

And it’s all L(2)’s fault!
He’s a monster. I swear it, too much attention makes monsters of us all.

Of us all.

Clouded Vices – Chapter One

A.N. From now on, since the fanfiction archives on Phoenix Penna are failing, I’ll be posting my RP fic- formerly [i]Sunlight Falling on Shadows[/i], but I’m reworking it to become [i]Clouded Vices[/i]. Without further ado? Here you go. Chapter one. Rock on.

–

Beulith Moone sat in an awkward metal chair by her best friend’s bedside, holding Ama’s hand tightly, rubbing it in her own. The other girl’s fingers were cool to the touch, though she whimpered about a suffocating and inescapable heat. Blu’s heart broke more and more all of the time, watching a near-sister waste to nothing, but she didn’t know how else to save her.

Ama was propped up on a high stack of pillows, her honey-blonde curls knotted into a loose bun to keep them out of her face, which was covered with a sheen of perspiration. Though her eyes were almost completely closed, she was conscious, slowly drawing shaky breaths.

There was nothing that could be done for her now. It was clear to Blu and Reyen both, as present in the room as the potted plants and uncomfortable chairs. Reyen sat on the edge of the hospital bed, sweeping Ama’s long bangs out of her eyes one moment and brushing a soft kiss against her forehead the next. The blonde girl would smile weakly each time he touched her, breathe out an unsteady giggle with each delicate caress. As Blu looked on, she felt a sharp stab of pain in her chest. Jealousy. Her greatest vice clouded over her for a hazy second, a whimper of a wish for a person like Reyen making itself well heard within her before she squelched it stubbornly.

Though it had been years since Reyen and Blu had last really spoken, years since they’d exchanged more than idle pleasantry, they fell into an easy camaraderie beside the girl that they both loved. Knowing that her closest friend deserved an embarrassedly honorable Slytherin, Blu had helped their relationship along… just a bit. It didn’t hurt that Reyen was her older brother’s best friend, so it was easy to get Tree to encourage him to get the courage up to ask Ama out. Blu’s shy best friend had had a thing for Reyen for ages when he finally did ask her to go to Hogsmeade with him at the beginning of fifth year.

It was almost three months after that to the day that Ama was diagnosed with a strange, communicable form of Malnesdna that hadn’t yet been encountered in the Wizarding World after suffering severe headaches and fatigue. One of her best friends, Blu, had it as well. The other, Dana, was safe.

For months, Ama had been treated with Tripisin- strange gold pills that were said to be some sort of a miracle drug. Though they did work in taking away the pain and keeping the illness from being contagious, they’d also proven… strangely addictive. It was nearly impossible to forget to take medication. Blu had noticed that, if she swallowed one or two when she wasn’t even feeling that badly, she experienced… a high. She forgot everything that hurt her… she floated above her troubles on silken clouds of gold.

Reyen disagreed with the Tripisin prescription but was quietly supportive throughout the entire ordeal. Now, as Ama quivered in pain, Blu saw that he was a thinner, more shadowed version of the person that he’d been.

“Her parents will be back soon,” Blu said to him quietly, still stroking Ama’s hand. “You don’t have to stay, Reyen…”

Though she’d been silent for hours, Ama shook her head and whispered, “Don’t leave me… please don’t leave me…”

Reyen said nothing at first and simply moved so that he sat all of the way beside her, the weak girl’s head resting on his chest. Blu released Ama’s hand and said nothing, though she watched as he circled his arms around Ama and whispered, “I will never leave you. I love you…”

“I love you too,” she breathed, her lips pale and barely moving.

Drawing in a deep breath, Blu tried not to think about what would happened if Ama died. When Ama died. At least this fear would be gone, at least this worry about losing her would be over, but… then it would really be over. The Healers had prepared them for it. They said that there simply wasn’t a way that Ama could recover from being this far gone, but still- it seemed like there could still be hope until the very end.

After a moment, Reyen’s eyes closed as well, and Blu snuck a glance at him. She still sort of thought of him as the slight, blond friend of Tree’s, who preferred reading to playing any sort of game. She remembered snatching his books out of his hands and trying to understand them- he was devouring Steinbeck and Tolstoy when she’d barely learned to read. Granted, he was two years older, but… still.

Ama was lucky. He was… not at all bad-looking. Maybe not as striking as his friend Luke, Blu privately thought, but Reyen was definitely… not bad-looking. She squished the thought after a moment, remembering her boyfriend. Freddy. Who was adorably cute- she forced herself to add on, ‘much cuter than Reyen’, though she only half-believed it.

“That’s darling, truly, but… her parents probably won’t appreciate you two being… intimate that way?” Blu hazarded, knowing past a shadow of a doubt that she was correct. Madame du Lac was famously uptight- Blu hadn’t ever seen the woman without her buttoned-to-the-neck blouse, high-waisted pants meant for old women, and sensible shoes. She constantly attempted to forbid Ama from speaking to Blu and Dana or, really, anyone else at Hogwarts since Ama’s two best friends had come for a visit one summer. Though Dana had proven reasonably capable of behaving herself, Blu had worn jeans with holes in them and accidentally swore in front of Ama’s baby sister. Instantly, Blu, Dana, and the entire population of Hogwarts was condemned as ‘inappropriate’, ‘rude’, and ‘simply not good companions for a good girl like Amandine.’

Ama, however, had other plans and no qualms about telling her mother as much. She loved Dana, loved Blu, loved Hogwarts, loved Reyen, and simply hated that woman. Which was why it grated on both of the girls in the hospital room that Madame du Lac was hovering over her ill daughter so… forcibly. Blu wanted to shake Ama’s mother by the shoulders, remind her that she’d never been the sort of parent that her daughter deserved, and tell her that it wasn’t exactly going to help matters if she decided that she would leap in and be Little Mrs. Perfect in her daughter’s final hours.

Not, of course, that these were Ama’s final hours. With every breath that Ama took, it firmed Blu’s belief that Ama would be just fine. She would pull through this bad bout and it would be alright- they would figure out the cure for Malnesdna before she had a chance to almost die again. It was right, of course. Who would dare to banish such a pretty girl six feet underneath the ground?

“I want him,” Ama said quietly, but firmly. “If… she doesn’t… like that… she can leave me alone.”

Blu smiled and bent to give Ama a brief kiss on the cheek. “I’m going to get you something to drink, okay? You look parched. Enjoy your time before Mummy dear arrives.”

Wrinkling her nose, Ama nodded. Glancing at her friend a final time, Blu left the room. She really did think that Ama looked and felt better. Ama was speaking- she hadn’t been able to do that at all the day before, and she had more color in her cheeks and lips than she had in… at least a week. She was on the mend. Blu was sure of it. Maybe love could really heal a person- maybe Reyen’s complete and unadulterated adoration for Ama could keep her alive until a more… permanent cure could be found.

It sounded like a fairy tale, but it had been a bad year for Ama… and really, for Blu, too. Maybe they deserved the ‘happily-ever-after’ bit.

It wasn’t long before Blu saw an Acolyte dressed in the traditional blue robes, who seemed only too happy to assist her in finding the tea room again. It’d been a while since she’d really been in St. Mungo’s for any length of time and she appreciated the help. His name, he said, was… Mark? Matthew? A Biblical name, she was quite sure. She forgot it before she’d even reached the stairs.

In the tea room, she bought a bottle of pumpkin juice for Ama- though it had always tasted nasty to Blu, she knew that Ama loved it, and… well, anything that would make her friend happy.

She almost got lost again on the way downstairs to Ama’s room. There were too many damn… twisting hallways and spiral staircases in the hospital. No matter how many times she was there, she was sure that she would never manage to figure out exactly how to get around easily.

Still, she found it. 287. And it seemed quiet enough from the outside, which was probably a good sign. It seemed like, in all of the movies about people being… violently ill in hospitals, there was a great fuss and commotion.

Opening the door tentatively, she peered inside. Ama was clearly asleep, still tucked into Reyen’s arms. For his part, Ama’s boyfriend watched her breathe uncertainly in and out, slowly rubbing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb.

Blu stepped all of the way inside the room, closing the door carefully behind her so as not to make a sharp sound that would undoubtedly wake her friend up. She was certain now that Ama was doing better, certain that what she was seeing was definite improvement on the girl’s admittedly frail condition.

She sat down in her usual chair beside the hospital bed, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on top of them. All she could do was pray that there would be some sort of an advancement in the process of curing Malnesdna before she got this way- weakened and struggling just to live, just to have a heartbeat. Of course, it was obvious that she would have people with her constantly if it were so. Just like Ama. No one would ever abandon Blu.

There was a high-pitched squealing in the room suddenly from one of the monitors and it was then that Blu noticed that Ama’s entire body was shaking. Reyen leapt up, alarm, shock, and fear etched into his face. For a moment, Blu and Reyen glanced at eachother over the helpless body of the girl they both loved, and Blu felt… ill. Obviously, ill with anxiety and nerves, a stabbing pain somewhere much higher inside of her than her stomach.

And then it was gone and they both looked back down. Blu gripped Ama’s hand tightly, trying to quell the tremors, but they had erupted into something even greater… Ama was having a seizure.

“Shit,” Reyen said tonelessly, but they had only a moment to dwell on the hopelessness and impossibility of the situation before a Healer, resplendent in violet robes, swept into the room.

“Shock. Damnit. Gone into shock,” the Healer growled down at Ama’s body, using his wand to send violet sparks out of the swung-open door. Distress signals, Blu realized. Calling for more Healers.

He crossed the room to pull a black glass bottle of something think and gooey and began to pour out a measurement, forcing it into Ama’s mouth.

Blu was captivated. Though it was creepy and grotesque, she thought that… Healing was really fascinating.

However, the Healer didn’t seem to want company. “I’m going to need room to move about in here,” he snarled at Blu and Reyen, two awkward and afraid teenagers. “As are the other Healers. Get out!”

Poor bedside manner, Blu thought strangely. Her body felt paralyzed and numb… she moved her arm and it only barely flinched, curled her fingers and watched as they curled, feeling as though they belonged to someone else. Then she was aware of an arm wrapped around her waist, propelling her out the door. Okay. That was okay. Everything was okay.

And then they were outside of the hospital room and Blu sank down to the floor, her head in her hands. This was too fast. This was wrong. She’d been fine. Ama had been fine. She wasn’t going anywhere.

There was a high-pitched, strange sort of sound, a keening noise, a shattering, hopeless sound, and Blu was revolted. What sort of a monster would make that sound? Who would have the indecency to be so loud in a public place? She looked up at Reyen, his face still lined with shadows, and felt the salty wetness on her cheeks and tasted the awful metallicness in her mouth where she’d bit her lip too hard and she knew that it had been her and that it was her sobbing.

“Blu?” Reyen asked, his voice hoarse, somewhere far away. It was a large, cool hand that he lay on her shoulder, kneeling down beside her.

She shook her head, wiping her tears quickly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, not looking at him. “i… I don’t know… what happened…”

Looking at her, he had the distraught eyes of a person whose heart has been torn from them and broken without mercy. “I don’t either,” he answered, his voice low and with a definite hint of a quiver.

“What on earth is going on here?” Madame Anais du Lac hissed, the toe of her sensible black shoe tapping the marble floor of the hospital hallway impatiently. “I had already asked you two to leave my poor girl alone! She’s in sensitive enough condition without the pair of you bringing more… trouble down upon her,” she continued, glaring Blu even as the fifteen-year-old hastily pulled herself to her feet, trembling with fear and sadness and anger.

“I’m sorry, madame,” Blu sighed, but gave no further explanation. She felt as though she owed something… more, but couldn’t bring herself to care.

The Healer emerged from the hospital room, his eyes downcast. “If I could speak with the mother of Amandine du Lac…” he began, and didn’t not have to wait long before Madame Anais nodded.

“I don’t… have good news,” the Healer said quietly. “If you could come with me to speak somewhere more privately, I would be very much obliged to you.”

Blu felt as though she’d been stabbed, felt as though a hot, sharp knife had been forced between her ribs.

No.

No… no… no…

love

I’m sick of screwing up with the people who actually care about me. I’m not sure quite how to quit or what I’m even doing wrong, only that it is, in fact, wrong, and I need to fix it before I alienate everyone in my life. Well… they’re not actually physically in my life, at least not yet. But they are real to me, more real than almost anyone else I know.

I like it when L holds my hand. Our fingers lace together reflexively, twining into eachother- tiny slivers of creamy white almost completely obscured by the deepest and sexiest of cinnamon. He bends his head and kisses the tip of each of my knuckles, grinning. Our palms are so warm together, cupping eachother and fitting together so perfectly…

Every time I think about him, it’s his hands that I think of first.

ooh la la!

Did anyone else notice the new little French girl at the class picnic yesterday? It would seem that this little number will be coming to our fair school this next year… She was quite quiet, though. I think we can count on her not to stir up too much trouble. Pity.

In other news, I think we can officially consider Caleb bisexual. I saw him at the movies three nights ago with more eyeliner on me- and with a male cutie on his arm.

Also. I need a red lipstick. I still can’t find mine- this is growing to be extremely strange. If any of you took it, don’t hesitate to speak up. I won’t assume anything, Timmy-sweet, I promise…

AND, in addition, I need a serious plot for Kit. Not romance. She needs gravity. Any takers, see me.

Godzilla

I shall take this opportunity to cheerfully hand in my resignation. I resign from whatever this is that I’m doing, whatever little principality this place is that I’m ruling.

I give up. I give in. Everyone thinks that they’re different at first, but then they’re not. They get selfish or cruel or both and then, if I can, I destroy them. It’s fun. I feel a bit like Godzilla or a puppetmaster. Powerful.

Or maybe I don’t. Maybe I shall take this opportunity to become a little bit cooler, harder, and more ambitious. Draw the curtain a bit further across.

I feel bad for Michele Wui. She was about to place higher than she’d ever placed in a golf tournament before, and then she somehow managed not to sign her scorecard. She was disqualified and now she’s back where she’s always been- a golf prodigy who can’t seem to actually win anything. Poor darling.

However, I feel quite pleased with myself. I’m looking for a new contemporary dramatic monologue. Feel like helping? Drop me a line with a suggestion or two.

Maybe I’ll write some angsty poetry. That sounds like fun.

i dreamed a dream

I had a nightmare last night.

No, not a nightmare, now that I think of it. It wasn’t scary like a real nightmare should be; it wasn’t bloody or shadowy. There was nothing chasing me towards the edge of a cliff, and I didn’t have that horrible nightmare where I leapt into the sky and began to fly, began to fly everywhere and see everything until I was high, high above the ground, and then I tried to go forward and I couldn’t and all of a sudden I was falling back…

But I always woke up before I hit the ground. So it was okay and I could deal with it, even if I cried for hours after I woke up. Even just living on the ground would be easier than being able to fly, and then dying of falling.

Last night’s dream was sheer bliss, though, while it lasted.

It was so real… It was just how I remembered it. We were, erm, doing a science lab on constellations and parallax and something else, supposedly. In actuality, we were lying on a quilt at eleven at night, about a hundred yards behind my house. He was actually doing the labwork, holding his thumb up to the sky, part of the constellation of Sirius, and mumbling definitions to himself.

I hated science at the time and didn’t even nearly understand what we were attempting to do on the lab. And besides, did it really matter? I didn’t think so. The stars were pretty and they lit up the sky and made nice patterns and that was all I thought I really needed to know about them.

He was staring straight up at the sky, the whites of his eyes glowing and half-squinted in thought. He actually enjoyed doing science work. He really, really thought it was interesting.

I smirked, setting out to prove that I was ten times more fascinating than some billion-year-old star. Rolling over onto my side to face him, I bent and pecked him on the cheek.

He continued to stare determinedly up at the sky, though I could see that he was fighting a smile. “Kristi… We need to finish this.”

“Awww, is little L scared of getting a bad gwade?” I simpered, sitting up. Once I was cross-legged beside his prone form, I slipped the pencil and calculator out of his hands and dangled them over his broad chest.

He made a grab for them and missed. “Kristiiii…” he growled, though I knew he wasn’t really angry with me. It was just a game. But it was fun and I was bored.

He sat up too, easily wrestling the calculator from my grip. He had bigger hands than me- what’s a girl to do?

I pouted. “We have all of this time together and you’re just sitting there like a moron,” was my plaintive whine.

“Well, you’ll actually be a moron if you don’t start doing your homework,” he retorted, though his lips (brownish-pink, heart-shaped, barely chapped) were twisted in the most delectable of smirks.

The verbal jousting was unbearably boring, so I slipped a leg over his waist and then re-situated myself, so that I was straddling him, our faces so close that our noses bumped together. Better! “Pay attention to meeeee,” I purred, biting his bottom lip. “I’m so much more exciting than a fucking star…”

“You are a fucking star,” he replied simply, wrapping a hand around the curve of my waist. “How could I pay attention to anything else?”

“That’s right!” I beamed triumphantly, “I’ve got you trapped!”

He kissed me then, slowly at first. Our lips played together in a simple pattern… up, down, side, side, down, up… It was sweet, gentle.

“Trapped?” he mumbled against my mouth.

Before I even knew what was happening, he had stood up completely, pressing me close to his body so that I didn’t fall, my legs wrapped around his waist. “L!” I squealed, half-blissful and half-terrified. “What are you-”

He cut me off again, pressing his lips hard against mine, gently releasing me down to the ground. I stayed on my toes, as it was a little difficult to reach his lips. He chuckled as I lightly traced the edge of his lips with my tongue. “Kristi,” he said, pulling away for a moment, “do you actually expect me to finish this stupid thing at this rate?”

“This… ah… wha?” I responded, confused, my mind very pleasantly fuzzy.

“The lab, babes,” he elaborated.

“Oh! Uh… does it matter?” I pulled him by the hand back onto the quilt, my legs suddenly soft and entirely un-usable. When he remained standing uncertainly, I simply lay back and looked at the stars, unbuttoning several buttons on my shirt. I wasn’t pulling a striptease- it was just way, way too easy to get him to lie down next to me.

When he did… there was officially no more talking.

It was a fucking nightmare, but I didn’t realize it until I woke up. I didn’t realize how far I’d fallen until I woke up and hit the ground.

blogroll – updated!

This is a mini-post, just letting you all know that my blogroll has officially been created AND updated, thank you Abi!

A brief summary:

One Hundred Cranes is a already well-crafted blog by my dear friend Gretta, and one of those which I copycatted off of. Especially poignant are her included song lyrics- I particularly love ‘Ice Queen’.

Into the Rose Garden is written by another good friend Abi. Also one I copycatted off of. Very interesting commentary on life, separation, and friendship.