ℒil { P o p p i t } // Rave

[Scourge]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,600,true][atrb=style,border-radius: 0px 0px 20px 20px;][bg=F5F5F5] Misaki Hatoro The doll sipped her tea with careful, precise movements. Fingers wrapped against the handle with stiff motives, almost as if her limbs were plastic. Moving just as slowly, eyes fluttering to a close gradually before opening again; her gaze flickering about the Kitchen silently. The stillness of it all would cause any average man to shudder at the intensity of her 'act', moistened lips pressed together in a fine poker-face that suited her porcelain features quite well. Head tilt and all she remains unblinking from that moment on, tea-cup held to lips with abrupt solemness. But was it really the kitchen she sat in? Black dots seeped into the wall, tearing and mauling at the paint, soon the thin layer of paper that once covered the stockade; revealing the familiar surface of mirrors, mirrors in every nook and cranny of the room. The floor was no different as the tiles shattered, being replaced by unusually crystal-clean speculum. A bead of sweat dribbled down the side of her temple as she sat upright, finding herself without tea, in a simple creaking wooden chair that could barely support her weight. With eyes wide, staring straight ahead at the hundreds, no, thousands of reflections that found her. But no, the marionette no longer found herself staring at her own reflection. All she saw now was fire, unexpected heat seeping into her flesh, seering through her ligaments; now cracked lips opened wide although no sound emitted from them. The flames climbed up her legs, lapping hungrily at her hands. A scream that shattered the mirrors; practically breaking through this reality reverberated throughout the room and her mind. An animalistic scream, raw and intense almost as if the figure weeping had never felt the need to cry out before. Fear, pain and death all combined in one unkept useless void of a doll. . . Crumple. ♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣ The nightmares came again. Night after night they strike and bite at my sanity, flames that felt like fingers prodding and marking at my thighs and hips, teeth-like pain that seered through the skin of my neck was performed in bites. The breaking point of all my dreams was when they reached my hands, taking their sweet time to bludgeon and pummel at my fingers. Even the simple thought of it caused me to snap back to reality, dropping the piece of toast I held firmly between ungloved fingers; the distinct sound of bread clashing against fine china echoed throughout the empty kitchen. Pupils dance around frantically, almost expecting the walls to mangle and become the familiar mirrors that usually haunt my dreams. As the nightmare never comes I let out a quiet sigh of relief, pushing back at the table to stand-- quickly downing the toast before looking down at the familiar nightgown that covered my figure. It was dirtied with crumbs, a smile tugged at my lips as I realised how messy and un-formal I was being. Turning, I walked up the stairs, making my way to my room silently with light steps, only to get dressed for a brand new day. ♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣ Lil miss Poppit walked through the house with dull steps, dressed in a beige blouse with a ruffled line going through the middle; button'ed up firmly. Over the blouse was a beautifully coloured straight skirt, two lines of buttons running up the sides of them. Stockings covered her legs, along with her signature white gloves upon fingers. A yellow and white short scarf was wrapped around her neck, oddly quaint despite being unfitting due to the different colour scheme of clothing she wore. She instead began to brush and tug at her hair, thoughts racing through her head as she studied her bright azure irises in the mirror, curled lashes fluttering ever so briefly. Instead she turned to the door, walking downstairs to the kitchen and fitting on oven-mittens. Reaching into the Oven she quickly snatched out a tray of ginger-bread men, her actions surprisingly abrupt due to her usual relaxed nature. Almost as if scared she was going to repeat the incident. As the Doll looked down at the tray with hopeful eyes she found nothing but 'despair', her sweets, although delicious in flavour, were deformed in appearance. Nether-the-less the stuffed two gummie droplets into their heads for eyes, chocolate spots for buttons and lastly laid frosting upon their wrists and other appropriate areas. She pushed back from the counter, quickly turning off the oven and packing the gingerbread men away in a brown paper bag. No, she did not throw them in the bin, instead adjusting her buttons and looking around, suddenly reaching under the counter and taking out a few more identical paper bags; their openings tucked in the exact same form, almost perfect. It was obvious these bags were filled with various candies and sweets, except for a loaf of bread she carried with instability, astonishing shocks of pain beginning to bounce back and forth from every muscle on her finger, causing her to grit her teeth in pain momentarily. She looked up at the ceiling briefly, going over her thoughts as if to keep her mind in check. What am I doing again? Oh, yes. It was as if a switch was clicked in her mind, a smile clear upon her face. Instead she made her way out the backdoor, into the alleyway that was directly outside her household. Rats scurried across the floor, successfully splashing through dirtied water on their journey. Instead of cringing like most spoilt brats in District Two would, Misaki sucked in a deep breath, beginning to walk through the alleyways carefully. She looked around frequently while travelling in the routes, turning many a corner before stopping abruptly. Inwardly cursing herself as she realises she took a wrong corner, she looked around at the intersection she was currently stuck in. The same dark patch that was once her memories began to seep into her mind, tattering her memory quite effectively. Where am I? How did I get here? Which alleyway? ♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣ I sighed ever so quietly as I realised my mistake. Instead of finding my own way home and considering my safety, the only concern that filled my mind was the homeless I visited weekly. Those who I gave food, loaves and sweets to frequently. It still disgusted me how such people were forced to live in a position like that, when wealth and beauty was all around them. That's why I've devoted myself to assisting them in any way I could. But that's if I could remember what I was actually doing most of the time. Was I an amnesiac? No, then I wouldn't be able to remember anything. The only thing that I couldn't quite get a hold of was how I got here, where do I go and what happened all those years ago. It was as if I purposefully forgot these things, much to my own annoyance. Instead I stood in the alleyway, bowing my head slightly-- immersed deeply in thought.

OOC: Have her outfit. (just heeled boots and gloves aswell.)

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Phantilius Eros Atwood

We live in cities you'll never see on screen
Not very pretty, but we sure know how to run free
Living in ruins of the palace within my dreams
And you know, we're on each other's team

"a · dopt - verb; legally take another's child and bring it up as one's own."

Then in the eyes of society, I was adopted. My own family had left me on a stranger's porch as a lamb for slaughter, even without a care about who I would grow to be later on. The Mother that held me for almost a year had, suddenly, the greatest idea to leave me unprotected on an elderly man's porch and never even thought twice about it. The thought brought a volatile tang to my stomach, like the feeling somebody gets once they enter a new bar for the first time, being swarmed by the wrenching smells of elderly lonely men and the settling collection of rather questionable liquids in the corner. But I had been adopted by the very mentor that still pretends to own me today, the senial man who expects me to listen to his very psychotic whim and request since he was the one to bring me up. For he was the one to teach me everything I know, unlike Demitri and Errol who claim to have teach me just the same amount.

Maybe he wouldn't have had to been stuck with me in a different occasion, maybe my mother had been a woman in poverty, who managed to live in a district soaked in riches. She may not have been able to hold on to the baby she left without a name, my needs outweighing hers. Leaving me as bait to a psychotic old man who only had a few short years left may have been her only option, since keeping me would be a killer burden that neither of us would survive. Or she may have abandoned me in cold blood, ditching her mistake child for a life of dancing and alcohol. Which must run in the family. Genes didn't lie, and alcohol addiction had to start somewhere, right?

If the need ever came, I could hunt for my mother myself, becoming an assassin forces you to meet quite a few... willing people; the idea of finding her would vacumm any fun residing in it however. Sometimes getting lost in self-pronouned thoughts of her seems more fun than doing the tasks at hand, thinking of all the "What-if?"s and "Or maybe.."s. Once, the thought of my mother also being an assassin crossed my mind, since talent like mine can only come from capable genes that as. Actually finding her however, seemed a little terrifying. What if I was disappointed for what I saw, or if she was more disappointed in what I became? The answer never quite came to me, What would happen? Would she even love me, or even recognize me?

[/i][/color] I'm not required an answer though, and I may never actually know.

I don't need the answer, or the figure herself. My own life has spiraled by itself without any assisstance from her, so any input now is a little too late. Besides, I've already found my real family, These bastards, who were forced into the same life style as me. The seven or so of us may not care or get along. ever. But us group of lost hearts do care somewhere. Maybe if they cared more they wouldn't of left my ass on a bench last night though. Sleeping on benches was not in my agenda, nor should it ever find its miserable way back there. My family may or may not have been tall, but I definitly was, reaching as high as 6"2, but the benches scattered around empty streets weren't meant for somebody's entire stature, espically when their entire head swung off the gold-plated sides. The bulk of the night I ended up staring parallel, while my jacket held cover for barely a fourth of my scrunched up body. The thoughts lying in my head however, didn't lay parallel, they didn't lay at all. Even trying to force myself to sleep didn't work, any concentration on sleeping got slurred into the next idea. Ideas that ranged from how I would stab Errol for allowing them to leave me, to the anger on the Mentor's face once he realized who was missing once again, to the heretitary traits I may or may not posses.

The ideas eventually did cease fire, dragging my mind into a dreamless slumber in some abandoned street. "Got any change?" The coarse voice rang through my newly-waken ears. "Huh.. No, I don't even know you..." My response was quick and guarded with crossed eyes. My hands snapped my lazy jacket off the bench before this scraggly hobo could snatch it first, and left while he stood staring as if I poured cold water on him. Eventually, the feet sailing my body guide me to the alleyways I usually patroled. Not for any paticular reason, watching morphling addicts scurry away like roaches once I arrive was entertaining to say the least, but it grows tiresome after a while. Staying in the alleys seemed safer than the other option, Returning to the brotherhood... For some reason, running face-to-face with an enraged "over the hill" aged man seemed like an unfavorable idea.

Once my feet, launched from the rooftop, reaches the ground both of the drug-dealing abominations flee, leaving nobody but little old me in the alley way. The trails of the addicts stained into the ground, muddy footprints leading down past an intersection of alleys and into an entirely different branch. My own eyes create their own trail, following the startled atrocities as they continue their endeavours elsewhere, until another figure gets caught in the path. Almost like a statuette, caught on que flowing into the intersection with a doll-like complexion and hair that threathened to scald the walls around her. Oh, hello there.[/i] "Hey!" I shout out, clear as day in an attempt to withhold her lost attention.[/size][/blockquote]

I'm kind of over getting told to throw my hands up in the air, so there
So all the cups got broke shards beneath our feet but it wasn’t my fault
And everyone’s competing for a love they won't receive
'Cause what this palace wants is release

[Scourge]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,600,true][atrb=style,border-radius: 0px 0px 20px 20px;][bg=F5F5F5] Misaki Hatoro "Are you a woman or a barbarian, young lady? Point your toes a little more, raise those tiny hands of yours! What have I told you about those gloves. There you go, just like that." The frail doll pranced around the hall with such graceful, careful movements. Eyelashes fluttered closed and paper skin held tight in a pink corset that came with her ever-adored Ballet dress, feet barely touching the floor, pointed covered toes whispering false promises of connection with the woodwork underneath them deviously. Her arms raised high in an arc above her head, once beautifully flowing crimson hair now tied in the tightest of sock-buns, although a visible fringe was adorned upon her well-proportioned face. Not a single blemish, nor a single pimple was in sight upon her rosy cheeks nor her un-wrinkled forehead; the girl pirouetting ever so briefly before cavorting elegantly across the joinery. The adagio continued, her movements were as fluent as the melody that played with it, not a single bead of sweat dribbled down the temple of her forehead, nor a single hushed pant emitted from her. Although most dancers would gambol, she in fact silently and carefully frolicked around the Hall, much like a fawn in Spring. Arms were instead extended, making gestures that were in-sync with the euphony, a charming simper finding it's way to the Ballerina's countenance. Her legs oscillated ever so slightly before prancing forth again, contact with the floor now almost completely lost as the tune began to increase in volume and tempo. The peering irises of her Family were seen vaguely as her eyelashes flutter open, only to close again inevitably. Loose strands of postiche made it look as if there was a dazzling fire ablaze upon her scalp, whirling with her movements. Their accusing gaze made her feel like a marionette, their will subconsciously plucking at her strings, causing her elegant movements to become less forced, instead of her face flushing like a ripe tomato the colour source went to her cheeks, adding a fairly attractive shade to her appearance. As the tempo gradually fell to a gentle sway in the air, the music ever so slowly came to a stop, the Doll's movements lowering just as slow as it's volume. She adorned such beauty and grace that is astounded even her Mother, her eyes' opening wide as a thundering clap echoed throughout the hall. Although it was only her Mother, Father and Teacher in the enclosure with her, she never failed to be surprised by their supportive structure. All three of them, including her Mentor. A small, unsure smile tugged at her lips as she pivoted her figure around, meeting their gaze. She let go of a brief curtsy before allowing a quiet sigh to reverberate throughout the room, walking towards them with hushed, quiet steps. The marionette instead stopped in front of them, vaguely studying their features, seeing the genuine proudness in their eyes. She began to doze off in her own thoughts once again, wondering if they'd be that proud of her if she won The Games, or if she could at least be strong enough to volunteer. With her gaze averted downwards she could imagine herself at an interview, dressed in lace and ribbons, performing for the crowd. She could imagine herself helping in the Capitol's kitchen, along with witnessing herself on camera-- beheading a lower district dweller. But really, did she want that? To always have the cold blood of a twelve year old drenched upon her palms, her gloves soaking it up like a sponge-- turning the spill into a stain. The same type of stain that would cover her heart if she even lightly slapped a person, slowly tearing holes in her conscience and turning her into a weeping mess. Would her parents even be proud of her for such vile actions? She instead squeezed her fingers against her reddening thighs, elbow-length silk white gloves covering her burns were worn. The pure jolt of pain that recoiled up and down her veins was enough to tell her the answer. Never. ♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣ Silence reigned. I sank into this little world I called my own, immersed deeply in my creation. My walls closed in on me, suffocating both myself and the candle I had once called my self-esteem. My chest began to ache hysterically while my head thumped vividly. The sounds and shadows around me began to jump back out at me, but my eyes weren't even open. I instead rose my chin, inhaling the absolutely chilling air, finding my lips to become frozen shut. This ice instead begins to flurry down my neck and chin, frostbite nibbling at my exposed flesh and under my shirt. As much as I tugged and fought from it's grip, the sweet release never came. What drove me to this nightmare? Why am I hopelessly stuck in this trance, all over again. My glued shut eyelids finally opened, only to find the ice had seemingly vanished. The only thing that connected me to reality was the wind whipping at my bare face, my thoughts enveloping me almost completely. Mentally, but surely not physically, my lithe frame stood alone in the alleyway vaguely. I did not feel the presence wash over me, their footsteps as silent as mine while I was dancing. But, no, I did not realise he was there until I heard a deep, alluring tone shout out a single, although startling, "Hey!"

[/i]. Scared, I let out the most embarrassing of squeaks, managing to let the paper bags within my grasp slip out of my grip, instantly falling to my knees to pick them up, although my hands recoil at the pain that shoots up each individual finger-- as per usual. I felt a tinge of pink splash upon my cheeks, holding onto my wrist in pain, of course subconsciously. I turn my figure around, staring up at the man with my large, dilated irises, elongated eyelashes fluttering delicately at him as I let out the quietest, tiniest of, "H-hello?" 's. My eyes widen as I take in his figure, letting out an audible gulp, a shy, sweet smile tugging delicately at my lips as I turn to grab onto the bags firmly and finally, pushing myself up onto my feet with haste as I turn my body fully now, of course not wanting to be rude, my simper never shrinking nor widening, although eyelashes flutter involuntarily, charm practically oozing from my appearance. Tiny fingers begin to curl around the paper bags, holding them just above my lap as I stare up at this man.
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OOC: Phan/Misaki = the very best ship.

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Phantilius Eros Atwood

We live in cities you'll never see on screen
Not very pretty, but we sure know how to run free
Living in ruins of the palace within my dreams
And you know, we're on each other's team

When I was a child, there was a glass doll, equipped with skin the gleamed like a shined opal, that used to sit on a shelf of a tiny toy store near a busy side of the district. It found its way there every hour on the clock, sitting in the same position with golden curls in locks that flowed down its frame, as nearly every girl and boy walked past it, never giving it a single thought. Their minds drifted off into the gleaming weapons found in the training stations, and not on that of the gleaming figurette laying straight in front of them, craving a single drop of magical attention that could bring it to life for once. Never did the figurine pass my mind twice either, I knew better than to imagine myself with it for how Errol and Demitri, and maybe even Riddle would depict it as. The doll was determined however, sitting poise on a dusty forgotten shelf.

One day, a child did decide to give it the light of day. It wasn't my hands that found their way into the miniscule area, yet a different child however latched their palms across it, leaving fingerprints across the once stainless covering. Intriguing as it was, I stayed watch with tired eyes, as hiding from the poor mentor was easy, even at the age of ten. No secret purpose was woven into the watch either, only the same unprofitable boredom as always, even as the young boy's greasy hands stuffed they doll's outfit into his pocket. My eyes didn't widen any during the shady event, even if theivery was unprideful. Until his arms slam the doll onto the ground did my pupils flicker with interest, the way the beautiful dusted skin managed to crack every which way and split into two's and three's of pieces. Each lock of sun-kissed hair falling into an unorganized mess, while the fingers cracked and freed themselves creating nothing but a mere mess instead of the perfected, unmerited item beforehand.

Nevertheless, dolls hadn't held a special place in my heart. The idea of a being so fragile that falling over could fold their lives managed to twirl around my mind. How something so perfected and time-consuming could accidentally fall over and shatter into unrecognizable features. I hadn't spent seventeen years of my life to memorize the different shards to reconstruct when glass had been broken into a million pieces and needed to be fixed. Drilled into my minds were not the blueprints to recreate a valuable possession, but the instructions to bend the fingers of life back in order to receive what I needed. A tiny statuette held no will against somebody who claimed lives of others for sports, somebody who actively saw death.

Yet, as on que I attempted to watch my preset actions unfold in front of myself, still hearing ricochet of my uproarious voice float in between the blankets of air surrounding us. As soon as the word registers in her brain, her body snaps into attention while she squeaked softly like a puppy during its first nightmare, unable to control the small adorable outbursts. The item her twin hands grasped around dropped to the ground after a rush of pink materializes slowly into the porcelain covered mask, before instantly grabbing the ripping paper parcel once more. Her eyes eventually trail their way to my currently awkward figure, coated in bed-hair and a sleazy over-sized grey jacket, while she herself stand in a form that could rival a goddess. Synchronized she blinks one, two, three, four before actually saying a single word.

"H-Hello?" and a single word was all she said. Her voice rang through my ears with glee, enveloping my eardrums with the smooth note. Smooth managed to decipher it flawlessly, as it was smooth. Smooth like master icing plastering a fresh cake, smooth like the skin on gingerbread men before being baked. And the aroma of gingerbread seemed to materialized and manage to bake the area surrounding her, all the way to the area around my own figure, outweighing whatever I may have smelled like before hand. Was it me or her that smelled like that? Wait, when do I ever smell like gingerbread. My eyes meet her azure ones once more, that still threaten to pierce through me even after her eyes break away from mine to blink more. Usually I find myself more prepared than this, smooth talking was an action I had more than enough confidence in. Any thoughts I managed to create slurred together, like "Your eyes smell nice." or another incoherent "compliment." Instead of creating conversation I took two light steps forward, buying a little bit more time to think. She definitely smelled better than me.

"I-um. uhhh. Do you need any... help?" The sound of my own voice rang through the air and into every pair of ears in the alley. Assassins were meant to be cunning, but I must have missed that lesson. In stead of comprehending the battlefield as expected, this lady I didn't even know the name of managed to already disarm me, practically holding her sword right to the center of my chest.

I'm kind of over getting told to throw my hands up in the air, so there
So all the cups got broke shards beneath our feet but it wasn’t my fault
And everyone’s competing for a love they won't receive
'Cause what this palace wants is release

(May or may not have edited this, but operation Misaki/Phantilius is a yesyesyes.)

[Scourge]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,600,true][atrb=style,border-radius: 0px 0px 20px 20px;][bg=F5F5F5] Misaki Hatoro mi-sa-ki, a japanese title meaning "beautiful blossom" ♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣ The ceramic statuette twirls upon it's 'throne', a sweet melodious tune filling the air quietly. Marble limbs bent in such an elegant curtsy, the music box's audio played in such a quiet, sophisticated way that it would make the ocean's waves, currents that once crashed and bludgeoned the sandy coast of beaches instead turn to a more gentle sway, tides seeping back into the sea. The figurine that swiveled carelessly atop the Box was a replica of her, she who gyrated in such a similar fashion. Small gloves were carved upon the statuette's wrists, a somewhat pleasant smile barely visible upon her facial features. Such a life-like, beautiful work of art being displayed in a form of pure elegance, luxurious decorations were adorned upon the Box, although the marble figure was left un-touched. Yet, it seemed that the once hollow carcass of the ballerina was filled with deliciously decorous marble. Beautiful, she was, life-sized and portrayed as a figurine as well. But, was she really that beautiful inside and out? Sculpted into a frame of pure grace? Or was it really just pathetic copper that coated her insides, the same that ran throughout her coarse veins. Perfection was something that she, and no other person would ever achieve, no matter how beautiful they were on the outside. There'd always be something biting back at them. The statuette's throne slowly, although surely crumbled into masses of ashes and bile, once vivid royalty becoming no more than a lump of waste. Wide hall walls gradually closed in on her, purple banners laced with gold lining and crown insignia's now turning into a sour, subtle maroon that would never be as graceful as it's original form. The once settled aroma of her palace would now turn into a stench of decomposing flesh and burnt bread. What drove her to such troubling thoughts? That even her Safe Heaven she once called her Sanctuary to burn to the ground, like flames upon canvas. The troubling thoughts deep within the back of her mind never showed on the exterior, and she prayed, so everyone prayed, they'd never come out. But who would save them, and her, when those disturbing little images came out to play. The answer is plain, and simple. Nobody. ♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣ Crystal clearly I watch the man before me, although he reeked of alcohol it seemed the sheer scent of my Gingerbread men overcame his stench, although the distant smell of cigarettes managed to reach my nose nether the less. I shift on the spot silently, the enticing option of yawning almost too great to resist as my cerulean irises flutter vaguely. Gloved fingers stayed in front of my lap, the stillness of my hands caused them to have a firm grip on the tearing paper bag in between their grasp. The fragrance of pure temptation emitted from me, a cool draft carries it away from my vaguely and across the alleyway, past his ragged hair and over-sized jacket. I blink once, twice, no, three times at his offer, a quiet giggle is heard from me as I shake my head. Instead I rose my chin, observing his ever so tattered figure, although his face appealed to me above all else, unknowingly. My blush's shade increases momentarily before settling down once again, beautifully curved cherry-red lips puckering together momentarily before opening to speak, only to close again. I did not want to impersonate a goldfish, not in front of this man, at least. A rush of air brought me back to reality inevitably. I had dozed off yet again, the embarrassing moment causing my figure to grow stiff. Was I born to be in the sky rather than on the ground? To always have my head in the spectre we call clouds. My marble-paved face's expression began to waver, although the apparent subtle shyness was still clearly evident on it. I began to observe this man, although it was only for a moment, as only seconds had passed between our speech. Pale, pale as the full moon on a starless night his face was, causing a strong amount of shock and worry to settle in. I closed the gap between us, taking not one, but two steps forward, my eyebrows furrowing momentarily. "O-oh, I-I'm perfectly fine...." I say in an unintentionally timorous tone, gulping down my fear despite my timid demeanor still visible. "You look quite pale....Would you like something to eat?" Genuine concern was laced into my voice as my fingers reached forward, cupping his face in their tiny grasp, the simple feeling of silk upon flesh would be warmer than a mother's kiss, these tender little nuzzles igniting the skin underneath their touch. I ran my thumb over his cheek, worry carved into my features-- although never over-shadowing my withdrawn nature. It was as if she struck the sword straight into his already aching sternum.

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Phantilius Eros Atwood

We live in cities you'll never see on screen
Not very pretty, but we sure know how to run free
Living in ruins of the palace within my dreams
And you know, we're on each other's team

Like a bull in a china shop. The single group of words so simple that a child could comprehend them. Six easy words that stood for a mediocre meaning, but it didn't frustrate them from predicting my every move like they were encoded in my tension soaked genes. The alleles that were embroided into each strand standing dominate for traits such as reckless and hopeless. Was it truly my fault that I couldn't resist failing if it was genetics? It couldn't be forced on me if I was the one trapped into it, right? How was it placed on my head if everything suddenly broke?

Because it's your reputation, idiot. I'm not especially the smartest (even if I am one of them) but I know enough to realize where my reputation sits. Everybody sees me as some violent beast, that I can't be trusted with things more delicate than myself or they will certain meet their end. My abilities could save my life in moments of need, and I could certainly care for myself by myself. Otherwise though, they saw me as a threat to myself. The careless drinking and hook-ups, tripping over my own two feet even without the assistance of cheap wine. Smashing my face into the ground occasionally didn't have its ups and downs, it only had downs. Living up to a rumour that hadn't even found its way into my ears didn't seem like a great idea for fun. It wasn't a rumour anymore though, was it? Does it count as a rumour when everybody knows about it, and how it's really the truth.

It had never been a secret that I could barely walk better on my own than a toddler. An assassin that can barely take three steps on his own didn't seem to bode well, but talking wise on the other hand, I had been known to be more smooth. Keeping the hook-ups and hickeys and lipstick stains and claw marks secrets wasn't difficult compared to shadowing the broken plates I trampled on. Because it wasn't a secret. Why bother concealing it in a household trained to spot the tiniest of evidence. Bruises lining on my arm didn't play as a "get out of jail free" card with the mentor, but it proved that I could achieve something correctly. Somehow I could grasp my slick fingers across an appointed pumping heart after mere minutes.

Random hook-ups had slowly became my ecological niche, nearly a profession rather than a hobby to force the hands of a clock to rotate faster. Not all of them went far, some not even reaching to the door to the cold air that always circulated district two, but being able to control the strings held its own perks. Their hearts were in my hands, along with the strings holding onto their variant arms, following my lead with a simple thrown on smirk. But I wasn't in control this time. My hands hadn't grasped their way around the threads leading like they had before, but instead a firm hand found their own route around my untouched cords. A tiny hand, each digit as soft and kind as the last, held its way tagging me along like a lost puppy. As if I was a captive at war.

It had gone unnoticed that my side of the battlefield was slowly losing any ground it had covered beforehand, how the only soldier queen against me had pushed nearly against me. That she checkmated the king with her only two steps forward, even as the tip of her sword rested against my own chest while we were close enough to tilt my head just in order to look into her eyes. The same pair of sapphires that threatened to pierce through me like the point against my shielded heart.

Words that escaped her mouth hadn't gone escaped however, my mind trapped on her rather than the battle at hand. O-oh, I-I'm perfectly fine..." The air that whipped around the both of us throughout the stripped alleyway we both found ourself into had summoned frill bumps on my arms, unshielded from the sleeves pulled up to a happy midpoint, but the heat radiating from both my own and her figure clouded us like a fiery blanket of fresh pastries. "You look quite pale... Would you like something to eat?" The move felt as if her sword had finally struck through to its red target, but it wasn't the words hadn't breached past my only armour, no I had been pale for a while. Gentle fingers, covered in woven threads brushing across my cheek had forced my body to tense up, as if it was my last breath.

"I'm usually pale" Idiot. Out of anything to blurt out, that had to be the only thing I could that made any form of sense. What had happen to be "Smooth"? Before I blurt another string out of nervousness, I gulp the words back into my throat. Instead, changing the topic seemed less of a train wreck instead of talking about my person life because nothing is more of a mind changer than an alcoholic murder, right? "I uhh, don't think I ever picked up your name."

I'm kind of over getting told to throw my hands up in the air, so there
So all the cups got broke shards beneath our feet but it wasn’t my fault
And everyone’s competing for a love they won't receive
'Cause what this palace wants is release

[Scourge]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,600,true][atrb=style,border-radius: 0px 0px 20px 20px;][bg=F5F5F5] Misaki Hatoro mel·an·chol·y, a condition of depression and irritability formerly attributed to an excess of black bile. ♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣ Early morning, dreary horizon Aching hands are pulling a millstone Wailing from the cart ...Moaning from a shattered heart... ♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣ My gaze never faulters, not a single bit. I keep my eyes locked with his intently, his own beautifully luminous ones. My mind trails off, as usual, my heart beating in the same fashion of an army's marching. But my eyes do not betray a thing, staying wide and intent, peering into his own keen ones. It may have been something about the way he spoke, or how the way his face flushed when my own words spilled out smoothly to meet his ears-- the simplicity of it all nearly made me let out a chuckle, although I kept it tucked deep within my royally troubled mind. His breath ghosted over my face as he spoke, the eerie scent of alcohol and drugs were drowned out, lost in the flowing river I called my mind, my currents tugging and pulling at the twigs of various trees and willows. Only to forget about them soon after, letting them drift away like a boat to an endless sea. I resist the urge to lean closer, my own unusual tendencies being pushed away. I wish that I could feel the skin of my palm upon his paper-white skin, alas, the simple sight of my hands could drive any mere stranger to look at me in pure disgust. To leer at me, taunt the fact that I was hideous. A beast among beauties. I can feel my confidence delve into the unforgiving tides of The Sea, becoming lost with the treasures that 'our' waters behold. But, no. No I do not. Not today, at least. I let the waters rush past my legs rather than tug me along, for the first time in years. Then I realised how nervous he was, although why was beyond me. Maybe a bit of makeup was smudged? I was too doll-like for his tastes? I remind myself how undeniably horrid I am, the same plague of insecurity that cursed me for all of these years came back to haunt me. No. Not today, it won't. "I'm usually pale," he says, although in a fit of nervous chains, why was he nervous in front of somebody like myself is personally beyond me. But nether-the-less, I offer him a smile, a smile that could equal the shyness of the Sun at the dreariest of nights. Unknowingly, I had been subconsciously tugging at his strings, plucking at the threads. Maybe if I knew I had the power to do so, I'd see how it feels to be on the opposite side of a Marionette. Like I am now. If only my fingers could be strong enough to tweak a puppet's movements. But those things only happen in the place I called My 'World'. Even there it isn't safe. But I don't tell myself, nor anyone else. The strangely beautiful man in front of me struggled internally, I could feel it. The way he stuttered his next words made my smile widen, but not in pity, not in amusement. This feeling deep within my chest was one that was foreign to me. I ignore the 'pain' in my sternum. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, then finally allows his words to drift across and linger in the air between us."I uhh, don't think I ever picked up your name." I tilt my head at his approach, although quickly I straighten up my stature, my thumb once again dancing over the skin of his cheekbone before trailing down his face, hands now clasped in front of my lap, "Misaki, pleasure to meet you." I offer him a hand, the same hand that carressed his elegant face only moments ago. I look over him again, resisting the urge to pat down his hair, even though I liked the way it frizzled, his oversized jacket was dirtied with the speckles of fluff.

OOC:
Sorry, I rushed this a bit, I had to go to schooool.

[Deleted]

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Phantilius Eros Atwood

We live in cities you'll never see on screen
Not very pretty, but we sure know how to run free
Living in ruins of the palace within my dreams
And you know, we're on each other's team

What purpose do childhood stories even serve in the long run? Not to fall over on a two foot brickwall or you might break your face? Perfect. Majority of them hold no real purpose actually, the story of a how a gorgeous lady sleeping for weeks at a time, being waken up by a kiss later wasn't going to affect my life at all or the way I thought of problems. Knowing that squirrels would steal bread crumbs I threw on the ground was obvious, why would I have the need to read about it in order to better my own life. In fact, most of the stories could be solved by using common sense. Why eat an apple some elderly lady gave you for no reason, when you could just as easily throw it away later. There might be a monstrous beast in that castle, princess, so why risk it? A beast that could just as easily roar with no reason to, and send you hiding until you could escape again.

Yet, the princess stayed. Sure she had been traded for it, her soul swapped for somebody elsess she cared more about than her own, but she stayed. Fear wasn't apart in the story after a while as the tingling in the tips of her fingers had evaporated long ago, you can tell by the way she talked. It was because she didn't have a reason to be anymore, the beast already messed up his act. After taking off his mask it was hard to put it back on and pretend that it hadn't happened, that he hadn't stuttered his words because her perfect eyes locked onto his and he felt it in his stomach, that his face hadn't grown bright pink from the way her hands danced across his chin, that the palms he possessed hadn't been lined with sweat because the blood pumping from his heart was seeping through the glue that kept his cool and collected.

Oh wait, that was me instead. I couldn't blame my stutters on a hairball caught in my throat, considering the only thing stuck in there recently were my words. Since when did I ever stop being the intimidating beast and transform into a weak kitten, unable to speak correctly nevertheless keep ahead. Since when did "monsters" start to sweat when they get nervous and stutter when they don't know quite to say. Where did your courage go, Phant? I don't know. I never felt it fall from my chin and through my body in order to flee through my toes, and escape from my grasps for the first time in years. Instead, the feeling in my stomach felt hallow, like each breath I took could only fill an insignificant space compared to the emptiness surrounding it. Even while I felt each push of air entire my lungs, it felt that I was still holding it, like little kids did to see who could stay underwater the longest. The gentle thud, thud, thud of my heartbeats echoing throughout my whole body, as if it is preforming its own solo. Well, I'd rather it stop.

The solo almost did though, the perfectly crafted smile eroding onto her own face after my blurb of dialogue idiocy seemed to lighten up the ocean in my mind like a lighthouse, attempting to guide my thoughts lost at sea through the fog and back to safety. My eyes watch along while her head slightly tilts to one side, before registering my words into her own mind and snapping towards attention. The thumb challenging any intimidation I still possessed dropped into her other palm in front of her lap while her back straightens like her marionette finally picked up the strings, but she wasn't fully aware beforehand. "Misaki, pleasure to meet you." My thoughts coiled around the name in order to remember it, and remember it well. White-clothed fingers were outstretched towards me, while her eyes seem to count each strand of ragged hair on my head. My own fingers gently wrap around hers. "That's a beautiful name." managed to escape my mouth before I lift her hand up and peck it softly, before giving her my own name. "Phantilius." I don't remember the beast being this cheesy.

I'm kind of over getting told to throw my hands up in the air, so there
So all the cups got broke shards beneath our feet but it wasn’t my fault
And everyone’s competing for a love they won't receive
'Cause what this palace wants is release

[Scourge]

Misaki Hatoro ♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣ consent (kənˈsɛnt) vb 1. to give assent or permission (to do something); agree; accede ♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣❤♣ It was strange. The fury and longing of your fingertips never seemed to soothe and lessen the hollowness in your stomach, it only appeared to make it grow stronger. With tingling toes you had pulled the feeling closer. The aroma it decided to bring was almost as tempting and alluring as the cookies you had once baked without a problem, the cookies that had stolen you. How they itched to feel the pressure they put upon piano keys ago, the clutch and grasp they had on baking trays but no. That just wouldn't do. Self-pity was not your place, if you were to pity anyone it was the lessers by far. Now your ribs bared flesh and bone only, not the groping fingers of a deceiver, nor the weight of a heavier, broader chest. When blood was spilt upon white sheets and toes dug into creeping skin, they did not stop. He did not stop. The hollowness only grew and clawed at your lungs, requesting entry. To steal your breath eternally just like he and they had stolen you. But still you kept breathing, you ceased to care about your own well-being. It meant nothing to them, so why should anyone care about the girl down the lane, the doll made of porcelain-- eyes of glass. Acting like they cared would only stain the transparent blocks of perception, turn their cracked surface into blackened stains of irises. But now your lips yearned for air, air that was not your own. Perhaps this was the itching the hollowness had once felt before it permanently resided in your stomach, to grasp and ache for your oxygen. Although you had never felt the feeling of burning flesh upon your own tulips, you knew the only way you would like your strange title is when it was sighed into your mouth by another, limbs entangled and desire shown. But you did not wish for them to leave little footprints along your neck and nape, fingermarks that trailed away to a distance you could not reach. Away from your clutches. Not like he had once done, who scarred you at an age where you couldn't even bat at the stains left by his fingers-- to brush them away into dust. Long forgotten. Now you folded up the memories in the back of your throat, although the salty taste there was enough to be distinguished between gulps of bittersweet candies. The cavities of your mouth stung, tongue glued to the dry cavern that was the roof. The way you said your own name seemed distant, perhaps not to him, he did not notice the way you lingered on the 'sa' and how your lips pulled back with each syllable. You were convinced that any moment you were about to transform into an animal before his very eyes, anxiety filling your head. Static. Then nothing, aching limbs stiffening with each hauled movement. It seemed painful for you to speak, teeth grinding against your inner-cheeks, heavy eyelashes fluttering every now and then. Air flooded your chest, causing it to heave-- the agonizing wait continued, patience seemed to have been drained from you.  'That's a beautiful name.' Some part of you wanted to prod and search his face, for any strangled lies and dishonesty that would have happened upon it. Yet it never came, only deft fingers wrapping around your own, raised to just as clever lips. Exhaling as he states his own name, you utter a few hushed words that barely have the nerve to pass your lips. "Phantilius...I've never heard anything like it. I-it's quite exotic." The smile you adorned only grows, although does not threaten to push at your cheek muscles just yet. Briefly, numb fingers wiggle around, only to stop soon after.

[Deleted]

T R A P P E D IN, M O N O CHROME.

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P H A N T I L I U S
DISTRICT2 | SEVENTEEN| MALE

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The longing glare for him at her became increasing difficult with every passing second and rush of wind. Unlike the one in front of him, Phantilius was nearly terrified of blinking, for the angel in front of him could fly away the second he stopped looking. The cooling keeping him together was slowly peeling away with the snap of each nerve connecting the mast together. With each blink and shutter capturing a photograph in a memory of him, it seemed almost like a game between the two of them. More likely, a game for her, as he had definitely been on the losing side. Each individual nerve snapping inside of him fell in almost relation to the cordially inviting smile emitting frost between the both of them.

However, he was not the one invited, but merely one to do watching from outside the kingdom. The lady in red hair, Misaki, deemed nearly hosting her own party by herself in front of him, shutting out the world around her. So Phantilius watched, with eyes coated in air of ice, while she smiled at the jokes in her head, since he felt himself slipping up with every flow of words from his cretin mouth. He still smiled back on the off hand though, as her own eluded the feeling of regret over the mundane expression of hand kissing and greetings.

Until the embarrassment brought back the idea, he never thought twice of him holding her hand, and he forgot to ever let go. Yet, he did not wish to let go, as she would leave him without second thought once he did. All to remember was a pretty face and a name, Misaki, and once she was gone he would never refind her. There was more to learn, her family, her life, her being here, her being with him, but for once he was the scared one. Desires to act on impulse was second guessed, and the dauntless had been broken. But what had not stopped him before, what changed about this time. To learn the taste of her lips, to hear what his ridiculous name would come out as in a different voice, to feel how soft her skin was behind shielded gloves, they were all hidden away.

Instead, he was to console with out the knowledge of her name, and the way her hair flowed, and how she and he had barely met yet she already managed to dishevel him. Phantilius hung close to the hope of maybe he buried himself an enigma inside of her mind, that she held close to the mysteries he might have left behind already. Hopefully, he was not the only one to be unsatisfied with the current fashion of learning one another, but she knew all about him that he knew of her as well, he noticed the way her eyes flashed and fluttered, while she noticed whatever he had brought to the playing field that had not been coated in alcohol and an overused jacket.

"Phantilius. I've never heard anything like it. I-it's quite exotic."

After hearing the name leave her mouth, he immediately regretted ever being called that. Of all the names, he had to be stuck with what sounded like a french prostitute, so how was he to compare to that of Misaki or even Demitri.

"I would never call my child it."

Maybe if he had a boy one day, he'd name it Demitri or Errol, after the only two that could beat him. Before choosing his next words, he took a minute. Not to think, but to memorize the lady in front of him, not her face or curves, but her voice. So on the nights when he was alone, and it was quiet, he could remember the way she talked. Maybe then he wouldn't feel alone.

"If it was a girl, I'd name her Misaki, and I'd treat her like a princess."

Getting ahead of himself wasn't the matter, he knew the more likely route for both of them after the left was that they would never see another again. He meant every word still, because he finally met competition that was not either Demitri or Errol. Even with the fact of them forgetting each other in matter of weeks, he still did not let go of her hand yet.

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