alainn_aislinn: (Not that sort of fairytale)
It had taken some convincing, but Melissa had always been a persuasive girl. Aislinn liked her, wished Devin hadn't been stupid enough to break up with one the Morrigan had taken an interest in. It could have done him good to reconnect with those in Faerie. But he'd been frightened, and he had left, and she had maintained a quasi-friendship with the girl for her own purposes. The gift. The mark. The way her brown eyes saw things.

And now there was this request, and here she was, lingering in a coffee house, sipping a cup of tea and listening to poetry not even a muse could fix, waiting for an alien who didn't believe in fairies. Well, she didn't believe in aliens, but she was willing to trust the girl's judgment, at least as far as being willing to meet this Doctor she was traveling with.

She'd been amused enough to dress for the occasion in the most fairylike garb she could get away with in a human public. Her auburn curls were pulled half back, tumbling down her back and over her shoulders. She let just enough of the glamour slip so that her skin was whiter, eyes greener and tilted just a bit. She left her ears human-looking, but the hint of a point was there. Her dress was dark green and black, velvet and something silk-like. It was a sundress of a sort, clinging to her skin here and there where it should, and flowing free in other places. Her earrings and necklace were delicate jade leaves, carved by the finest dwarven craftsmen.

Sighing, Aislinn tucked a stray strand of hair back and added more cream to her tea, then glanced around, watching the door for someone who looked like an alien. Hopefully the evening wouldn't be boring, at the very least. And if he really was an alien...A calculating look flashed in her eyes.

Well, that could be very interesting, indeed.

TM: Party

Mar. 5th, 2007 03:20 pm
alainn_aislinn: (lost)
The music made her head hurt, but not nearly as much as the smoke in the air from cigarettes and joints, and she was fairly certain that she detected a whiff of opium in the mix as well. She shouldn't be here, and the knowledge of it slid along her nerves with a simple surety. She didn't belong here.

But he was here, her rockstar poet, buried on the couch beneath a pile of limbs and blonde hair and red curls that were failing to mask what the person, impossible to tell if it was male or female, was doing to him with their far too perfect to be fully human mouth. He was here, and so, then, was she, because when he got like this, he vibrated, and if she waited for him to get home, away from the clowns and hanger-ons, then she wouldn't get the sweetest taste of that energy.

More bored than interested, she took a hit off of joint that was being passed and let someone who thought she was someone else do things that would have shocked Fergus that she allowed. She was too numb to care where the creature's hands wandered, watching him over its shoulder, eyes fixated, until there.

There was the moment, the instant when it all hit him and he melted away, and it and its hands couldn't touch her, because she slid into him, in through that open door where he dreamt in esctasy and delight that washed every sordid moment away until she felt clean and renewed again.

For a little while, everything was all right again. They never died. She never cried. There was light and there was music and joy once more. And she danced.
alainn_aislinn: (Time)
The first time he turns that savage wit on her, she flinches away, stunned, and finds herself gasping for air around sobs that shake her whole frame. It's not the cruelty of it, not really. She's too used to the knife slashes of the Sidhe court, the smiles that hide daggers, the words that wound even deeper. She's heard crueler, had sharper words sliced through her skin than these. No, the shock of it is that it comes out of that perfect mouth, the shattered paradise she thought she had left hell for.

The first time he hurls something at her, she stumbles, glad that the drink has made his aim poor. Memories of shattered pottery, shattered windows, glass that left you bleeding flashes through her mind. Already, she's learned that paradise is just for dreamers, and that monstrous beauty is mirrored in humanity from the patterns she learned in childhood. Everything repeats itself, and she starts to follow the patterns, because that is the best way to predict when might be a good time to be gone.

The first time he hits her, she falls, lip bruised from his hand and cheek bruised from hitting the table. The bruises heal quickly, aided more by Fergus' gentle touch, warm on her skin in the garden. He makes love to her there, after, wooing her with sweet promises that would have won her just two years before. Distraught at her refusal, he begs her to at least not go back, saying it shouldn't be like this. Artists should respect their muses, cherish them, woo them out with honey and cakes. She looks at Fergus, and she laughs that someone so old and wise can be so naive.

The truth is so much darker, more desperate. She needs him. His genius is unlike any to come to the islands' shores in so very long. He shines, and he makes her shine, and in him, she finds her purpose, her glory. To flit away to a lesser flame before this one had burned itself out would be folly. So she strokes it, she fans the flame, she makes him light up the whole world and set it on fire. It dazzles him along with the rest, and his excesses match the blaze inside him, growing and surging higher, tearing into him until they have nowhere else to go but to lash into her as well.

No one should be able to withstand that heat, that soaring toward heaven. Even Icarus was burned and fell, shattering on the ground below.

But Aislinn doesn't shatter.

She learns to snap back, taunt him with his own words until he has no outlet but to spill them across the page.

She hurls things back at his head, feeding his rage then turning it toward injustice, hypocrisy, those he is truly angry with.

She learns to duck, a mocking smile on her lips as she whispers that he'll never tame her.

She doesn't break.

She bends herself. She bends him. And when she is done, there stands a man that history will never forget.

Fergus never understands, but when she comes back home heartbroken and sick at the loss of him, shaking from the knowledge of what she has done, for a moment, a flicker of pride rests in her mother's eyes. In that moment, she finally breaks.

Everything is so much easier after that.

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alainn_aislinn

December 2007

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