VioletzeEcoFreak

Eric Fawkes had only known Peter for two years, and was hopelessly addicted to this man, his master and sometimes-owner. He bent and gave in to almost all of his commands ("friendly suggestions" he called them) except for one, where he had shocked himself with the strength of his will. He refused, time and again, to share a dwelling of any sort with Peter. It was mostly for show, and both men knew it. Eric could easily recall dozens of times he and Peter had shared a meal or a bed, but if he always had a sanctuary to return to then perhaps he could keep himself from fully embracing that life and addiction. He was alarmed, then, when his door

"We have readers?" Grenadine asked out loud, bringing the focus back to her. "Because honestly, I haven't felt anything that would indicate there being someone else reading us, and it's not like this is a really thrilling or original story besides the weird premise." Oh yes, you have readers. Hey, what are you doing here? Typing this sentence, smiling to myself, listening to Wagner at an unnecessary volume—that sort of thing. You know, you could have at least finished reading the story before you start writing the fanfiction. But this is the point where the story diverges due to my presence, so what does it matter what else happens

The landscape was perfectly flat and perfectly white, the air still and the light coming from everywhere at once. The ambient lighting remained perfectly consistent, despite the ground stretching off into infinity in all directions. But in one place the light seemed a little brighter, perhaps a tad warmer and stronger and certainly more golden than the white light from everywhere else. This was perfectly intentional. And let there be life! The little spot of golden light intensified the tiniest amount before changing shape and becoming vaguely humanoid on top, with what should've been legs more resembling a ghost's bottom. The light tapered

The hundred and sixth word is the end, said the little piece of paper. He panicked. If he was finally reaching the finale of this trial then he needed to hurry. Hadn't he been told that endings were the most dangerous parts of magic? He counted his words meticulously, one two three, and with each word his resolve to end the magic hanging like a Sword of Damocles over his head increased. Eighty-eight eighty-nine ninety. So close to the end he could practically feel his legs turning back to flesh from stone and the dull ache of petrification seemed distant. He reached the word and... End

Frederick Wilson was, among other things, a blusher. His two elder brothers teased him about it relentlessly even now. Over the years he'd learned to suppress his blush reflex, but it had never truly gone away. That was probably why his cheeks were flaming red as he stood behind a small but strongly-built woman while in line to get a coffee. More specifically, he was blushing because the woman was hot. Really hot. And as much as it ashamed and humiliated him, Frederick knew he was responding to her physical hotness. He felt distinctly uncomfortable, particularly as she started eating a handful of almonds and drinking her coffee black as she l

Ivan Rollibard had, at the age of seven, gotten a very bad inner ear infection that had wreaked havoc on his sense of balance. He had long since recovered, but even now his sense of balance was poor when he was distracted or turned quickly. And such was the case while he was out grocery shopping one afternoon. He was caught by surprise when he heard the sound of a cart collision happening on the other side of the produce section, turned his head to make sure nothing was going towards him, the world spun out from under him, and he felt to the ground. Someone, most likely a girl, screamed in shock as he tried to get a grasp on his position. A

Max Linwood was not an orator. He would never write or make great speeches, but he could talk. He borrowed from the poetic beauty of Arabic and the power of the Germanic languages and the loveliness of the Romantic languages, sometimes even while using clunky, strange, efficient English. For him, sound was everything, it had resonated so deeply in him even as a child that, to this day, the sound of a church bell ringing was the thing that reminded him most of his childhood, living a block down from an imposing cathedral. Perhaps his fixation on sound was on of the reasons why he and Olive Keefe had always gotten along so well. She was a girl

Samuel Grove awoke slowly, stretching out as best as he could despite the ropes holding his knees and wrists together. The burn of the nylon rubbing against his skin seemed to have been mended. Lisa O'Keefe was passed out on the floor, Eric Fawkes kneeling between the two of them. By this point Samuel knew enough about Eric's powers to guess what had happened. "Using a child's life to mend mine? Monstrous," he condemned from the floor. Eric merely shrugged. "Peter's orders," he replied in a dead voice. Samuel leered, but his hard expression immediately softened to one of concern as Lisa stirred. She stood up slowly and glanced at Eric, who

Faith Argyris was only a training hero, still excessively young and learning the ropes of hero-ing on her summer vacation. As a result, perhaps she could be forgiven for spacing out while she and her mentor were trying to patrol a portion of the city from the top of a small apartment. Then, aforementioned mentor, Daniel Oxford, gave Faith a swift cuff to the back of her head. "Pay attention," he reminded her testily. Daniel wasn't a mean mentor, but he did take his work seriously and having a summertime apprentice had not been one of his aims when he'd been asked if he would help out with the influx of Gifted teens and children who would be