Dear I was pompous and my sister was crazy.

Life is a bitch, and then one stabs you.


Creative Original or Derivative (Fanfiction): Original.

Rating/Warning(s): T

Disclaimer: All copyright, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.


The boat’s name was Phaedre.

She was a beautiful, slender thing; elegant smooth lines and a delicately shaped body. She’d been born for speed, and speed was what she thirsted for.

The uninterrupted horizon of the ocean glinted in the sun, as though shards of glass were caught in the foam of the waves and broke out the sunlight like prisms.

Ahead of them, a tall tree of white sails rose calm and sober.

Most likely this was the Belem, the French three-mast training ship. A beauty really. Almost as beautiful as the English Cutty Sark, or the Argentinean Libertad.

The Phaedre was built for speed, but the Tall Ships were built for steady pacing.

Phaedre was too small a boat to compete in the oceanic Tall Ships race, but as many of her size, she sailed along, a companionable childish presence flanking the elevated walls of ancient wood that composed the stunning frigates.

The sun was a golden disc of blinding light suspended lazily upon the endless blue of the horizon. It caught in the steel stays attached to the mast and shone like liquid gold, spilling orange along the long white surface of the wide sails and the smooth paint of the deck.

There was a peculiar, fascinating calm in the ocean. The vastness of the quietness that surrounded them made it feel as though the Phaedre were alone in the whole wide Universe, white sails in the horizon notwithstanding. Much like the silence found in the deep isolated lands of farms or forests, the silence was alive and vibrated, pulsated with life.

It was power held back.

The potential for destruction that the ocean held was such that it easily overwhelmed.

Like a lion, that in the long smooth lines of muscles beneath soft skin hides a power no man could dream of, the ocean, too, was all the more gentle and beautiful for its apparent calmness.


Creative Original or Derivative (Fanfiction): Original.

Rating/Warning(s): M (death, gore)

Disclaimer: All copyright, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.


To die, had said Peter Pan, shall be the greatest adventure of all.

Another Peter in another time, not to mention another planet, had to disagree.

Why the hell he was even thinking of Peter Pan right now, as bombs rained down upon their heads like the leaves of a tree on a windy day in the thickest of autumn, was beyond him.

Maybe it was shock. He’d heard something about that, a whisper from a medic to a pale nurse in the wing of a half-forgotten hospital. In France? Yes, probably.

He hardly remembered France.

Dying, he thought grimly, flinching back as a bomb fell bulls-eye on a rabbit-hole nearby, is no adventure at all.

Though he supposed, perhaps dying while fighting some adult pirate with a ridiculous curving mustache and a hook in his hand while on the topmast cross of a ship’s big mast in an imaginary world, was much more adventurous than being torn to pieces by a well-aimed mortar.

But well, to each its own. Luck is a crazy lady.

A tree exploded to his right. Startled and fearing the rain of broken wood that would some come down upon him, he rolled to his side and covered his head. Someone shouted for the medic, but medics did not vacate their rabbit-holes in the middle of a mortar chaos. What good would it do to anyone if a medic was blown to bloody rags in front of them?

He rolled to his back to try and assess the situation, huffing indignantly when dirt snuck up his right eye, making him blink stupidly.

He released several curse words in French, that happens to be a great language to curse, and rubbed at the lid furiously.

Another bomb fell in close proximity, spraying dirt over him as if already covering up a grave.

Not yet, he thought fiercely.

A white hot, maddening lightening of pain shot up his thigh, burning up his spine with such blinding intensity that his back arched and he choked on saliva. His throat constricted, strangling his scream before it reached his lips, so that he only emitted a clogged, breathless croak. His mind was awash with pain, unable to register anything else but the hot, sickening agony in his thigh.

But only a moment later, the pain subsided enough that he could drag frozen air into his lungs, snow burning his throat. He arched his back again and turned on his side, taking his hands to the injured thigh. He breathed methodically a few times, calming down and arresting possession of himself, before he dared glance down.

A long, serrated splinter of wood protruded from his flesh, about three foot in length and half a foot in diameter. Blood had already spread generously across his clothes, bright red and hot.

The artery, he thought wearily.

Around him the world was a storm of dirt and noise and madness. He remained quiet and still, watching the snow beneath his leg turn red as the stain spread. His heart roared in his ears, behind his eyes and at the pulse point in his throat. With every furious beat, he saw blood spurt forth around the wood.

The sounds of the chaos seemed muted, blanketed beneath the horror of what was happening. He thought of calling a medic, but he couldn’t lie to himself—none would come, just as none had come for the poor wretched soul that had called before.

He counted the seconds together with the beats of his heart, and dragged his eyes lazily up towards the sky. It was a dreary, dull grey stretched endlessly above him. Silver snowflakes drifted gently down, quiet as if unbothered by the horror going on around them.

He swallowed.

His heart beat crossly, doggedly keeping steady.

His eyelids were heavy, and he had trouble breathing… but he was calm. It was alright. The battle had ended, it seemed. Quiet befell the forest; the kind of quiet that can only be heard after an attack, or before a great furious storm.

He watched the sky through the black of his long lashes, tranquil.

Cold had spread through his limbs as if running through his veins. He breathed it in and it settled in his muscles, making his limbs heavy, his muscles turning into lead. His thorax seemed incapable of continuing the struggle to rise and fall under the punishing weight of his chest. He felt asphyxiated, but the cold made it better.

He was so tired.

He let his eyes close drowsily, enjoying the moment of impassive calm and silence.

Dying, he thought vaguely, dying is easy.


Creative Original or Derivative (Fanfiction): Original.

Rating/Warning(s): M (mention of nudity and strong language)

Disclaimer: All copyright, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.


Magic, as God, works in mysterious ways.

And that is perhaps an odd way of putting it, but also it was rather accurate.

She stood like a statue, bewildered in front of the magic circle, and stared.

And stared.

The naked, long, decidedly masculine form inside the boundaries groaned and turned, breathing in deeply through a long, aristocratic nose. The golden light of the fire in the heart fell over the planes and angles of his body like a gentle caress.

She stared.

And stared some more.

His lashes were ridiculously long, as were his limbs—he was rather disproportionate actually, thought certainly quite beautiful.

He rose up in an elbow and looked around, his wide violet eyes finally zeroing-in on her.

He spoke something in a language she didn’t understand, his voice like velvet over gravel. She shook her head, mystified. He arched a long black brow and tried again, this time in another one. He continued to switch through tongues, all of them completely unfamiliar to Estela, for a while. As he did it he sat up, leaning back on his hands, indolent and evidently comfortable with his nudity.

Estela kept her eyes studiously fixed to his handsome face, from time to time allowing it to wander down the long lines of black tattoos that curved over his chest; but never lower.

Suddenly, she heard something she recognized, and jerked her eyes back to his face. His brows arched.


“Oh. No, um—inglés?”

“English,” he offered, tilting his head.

“Yes. Yes, English.”

“Well, so. Who the fuck are you?”

Taken aback by his language, she blinked. Indignation rose up her body alongside the blush creeping up her cheeks, and she frowned.

“Hey! What—“

But she was at a loss as to what to say to him, as he moved to crouch, his hands resting flat on his thighs and his legs spread in a rather—obscene way. He looked like a great cat, his skin gleaming golden in the firelight and his black hair cascading softly over his broad shoulders. She realized there was actually a feline quality to his features, which were sharp and elegant.

“What am I doing here? Where is here, for that matter? And who are you?”

She blinked.

Alright—first things first. Stay calm. Be rational.

“Here is Arizona. I’m Estela Madeleine. And you’re… I don’t know what you’re doing here. Who are you?”

His brows went up again, “You summoned me.”

“No, I was trying to summon a female demon; her name is Ostrusa.”

“That’s not a real name,” he dismissed with a derisive snort.

Embarrassment and anger curves up her spine. Her cheeks burned.

“Well, that still doesn’t explain why the hell you’re here!”

“How would I know? You summoned me.”

“By mistake!”

“Oh, and? I’m still here, no? I suppose you could take that comfort—your summoning works.”

She huffed indignantly, moving along the outside of the circle and thinking fast.

“What’s your real name?” she demanded, glaring at him.

The violet of his eyes seemed to swirl endlessly, never lingering still for more than a second.

He snorted derisively again, “As if I’ll tell you.”

“Why the hell did I summon you if I didn’t have your real name?” she asked, more to herself than him, her mind whirring with possibilities.

“Well, so. Why did you want to summon this girl, then?” he asked conversationally.

“She took my sister’s left eye. I want it back,” she said fiercely, glaring at him as though defying him to laugh at her resolve.

He didn’t; he looked completely impassive, neither mocking nor surprised.

“I suppose that makes sense. Hm. That explains why you ended up summoning me; I’m a vengeance demon.”



She was blank.

“But… then—I mean… what are you supposed to do?”

“Take your vengeance? For a small price, something negotiable.”

“Like what? My left eye?” she asked cynically.

“Um, a little more. Maybe your heart. Maybe all your memories from before you were five. Or your sexual impulse. I personally like that last one. Female libido is powerful.”

She stared at him.

“I’m sort of attached to my libido. I could spare the memories, though.”

“Memories are a powerful thing,” he tilted his head, looking at her out the corner of his right eye. A grin spread quickly over his face, showing unusually long canines.

Then again, who knew what was unusual for a demon, right?

“Well, so. They’ll do. It’s just an eyeball after all. Does she even have green eyes at least?”


“Meh. Cheap eyeball then. Oh well. If you’d like to break the circle now, we’ll get started.”

He was all business as he stood, tall and thin, rubbing his hands. Estela forced her eyes to stay above his waist.

He laughed, “You do have a strong libido. I like it.”

He did. Males have a sort of incorporated lie detector, quite difficult to ignore in his nakedness.

Estela turned slowly to the window, wondering just what exactly she’d gotten herself into this time.

Lucky Break
This is the first prompt for the Fictionista Workshop WitFit Challenge.

The prompt: Lucky Break

This is Creative Original Writing, not fanfiction. Therefore no desclaimers apply (except this belongs to me I guess)

Rating: T.

Lucky Break

There was something about Scotland.

The air here in the Highlands was heavy, pregnant with the rain that had stopped only moments ago.

Perched in a rock atop a small hill, he swept his eyes lazily over the landscape that spread like a vibrant, vivid emerald carpet beneath his gaze. From where he was he could see a small, delicate silver line in the endless sea of green; a creek.

The breeze ran cold and humid, moving slowly as if drowsy through the forests that surrounded him. With it, it carried the scent of forests, a scent he could easily recognize. It lingered in his palate and at the back of his throat, alive and pleasant in his nose. It was the scent of the wilderness, something he associated easily with Scotland.

There was something about this place, he thought vaguely again, but he could not quite pin what exactly. It eluded his grasp like a playful eel, teasing ticklish at the point of his tongue—but never allowing itself to be caught.

The succession of events that had lead him to this place and time were odd and quite random. The tangled net of consequences deriving from actions was difficult to navigate, even in his mind, and he had been there to see it all.

He turned his head just a fraction and his eyes fell upon the desolated remains of what had once been a cabin. A family must have lived there, surely. But it stood now deserted, destroyed, and half eaten away by the vegetation. The constant rains and moods of the Scottish weather were kind to no abandoned construction.

He wondered if it had been deserted for many years, or only just since the year seventeen forty five.

He wondered if the Scot that had built it lay buried beneath the soil at the field of Culloden, keeping company to his clansmen under the grim watch of the great stones marking the burial places.

He was a historian.

He wondered on the fate and past of things. The urge to discover the story behind the ruined cabin almost made him stand and reach it—but he remained sitting in his rock.

He thought back to Culloden and a chill stole down his spine.

Not for the first, and most assuredly not the last, time, he wished he didn’t have a curious mind.

The reports given to the English citizens concerning what had happened at Culloden were incomplete, fragmented—and quite clearly embellished.

He could not tolerate to be lied to. He must know the truth, and he would not trust upon anyone to deliver it without flourish and shrew. He needed to see for himself.

He had thought he had been lucky, quite lucky, when he was given permission by His Majesty the King to look into the reports and investigate the true extent of the Jacobite Rising.

Lucky. Very lucky indeed.

And so, he had traveled, and gone back and forth between all the places the Jacobites had mounted resistances. He had interviewed soldiers that had been at Culloden.

And that had been fine—quite nourishing for his curiosity. He had gotten the answers he sought out.

He had been lucky.

But some kind of uneasy, chilling feeling run sharply below his skin, searing down his veins. Truth was truth, aye—but not all the truth.

He thought he knew, perhaps, where he could find the other side of the truth.

In a dark, damp, ancient old castle turned prison.

He was lucky again; he was granted permission to see the Jacobites within the thick old walls of Chranduir.

He was a thin, long thing of a man, and the Highlanders thought him a book mouse. He was certainly no warrior, but neither did he wish to pass as one. He was honest and forthright—and for this he was rewarded.

The man was quite old, and quite ragged. He’d met more battles in his time than he should count with his fingers, and not all of them had had lucky results. He was missing an eye, and a thick long silver scar crossed his cheek.

He had thought, this was a lucky break; this man will speak to me nothing but the truth. He could see it in his wide, jade green eye.

And the truth, indeed, he told.

When thou shall see the abomination of desolation, said the Bible.

His eyes slid back to the ruined remains of the old cabin.

There was something about Scotland, yes.

Luck, he thought vaguely, breath caught broken in his throat, was not a very fine thing at all.

Come a-searching, and ye shall find, the old man had said. Only just look around.

Like a double-edged knife, knowledge and truth could simultaneously construct and destroy.

He’d come to Scotland a free young boy, and left, now, as a wiser, slightly bitter older man. Ignorance is bliss, old folk say. But then—how should anyone know that, unless they lose that bliss through means of self destruction? One hardly ever learned for someone else’s experience.

The wind picked up, carrying to him the scents of grass and rain, and he thought he heard, in the wind, the faint gentle voice of a long-forgotten bag-pipe song.

He knew, now, and could not forget. Nor could he lie, for it wasn’t in him to do such a thing.

The old man had spoken the truth, and as it had been relied to him he could not more hide it than he could kill himself. For lying, and betraying his and the old man’s souls, was suicide indeed.

An old rhyme came then to mind, and though it did not quite correspond, it did funnily apply.

He said it aloud, a murmur that hung in the wind along with Scotland’s faded voice, and he smiled to himself.

Remember, remember the Fifth of November, The Gunpowder Treason and Plot, I see no reason, Why the Gunpowder Treason, Should ever be forgot.”

His mind was made. He’d speak the truth. He’d speak it loud and he’s speak it around. It must be known.

Lucky break indeed.

Total words: 1026.

Drabble: For Vicki
Well, I haven;t been around in a while, but I think it's time I get back on :)  I'll be posting the chapters of my other Blood Ties fic too, Under the Sign of Capricorn, soon.

Hope you like!

My very first drabble, ever. I hope it's good. Drabbles are a challenge!

Title: Pendulum
Pairing: Henry/Vicki
Disclaimer: I own nothing, they're property of Lifetime and Tanya Huff


She found him sitting on the floor, surrounded by a dozen of equally beautiful drawings, some inked, some half way through. The long sleeves of his grey T-shirt were rolled up carelessly and his fine brow was furrowed in concentration.

“I can’t choose the cover.” He muttered when she crouched by him to kiss his temple.

She noticed his slightly pouting face and smiled.

She loved that in him. Alternatively man and child, Henry could just as naturally tear a werewolf from limb to limb and curl in bed, cuddly, around her heat.

He was a pendulum in constant wing.  

Under the Sign of Capricorn 2
Under the sign of Capricorn
Discalimer: I don't own any of them.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The Universe seemingly thought Vicki didn't have enough to deal with, what with an overprotective Police Detective and a constantly romance attempting vampire, and thus decided that it was time to add some injury to insult; a house goblin, and Vicki's mother.
"Trust me, mom, inviting Henry for dinner? Not a good idea." Unless you want him to have the waitress for dinner, that is.

Second chapter here. I read the Blood Books so i know Vicki's mom is the sweetest ever, but for plot purposes I made her more similar to my mom XD the woman is scary, let me tell you.



Under the Sign of Capricorn
Under the sign of Capricorn
Discalimer: I don't own any of them.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The Universe seemingly thought Vicki didn't have enough to deal with, what with an overprotective Police Detective and a constantly romance attempting vampire, and thus decided that it was time to add some injury to insult; a house goblin, and Vicki's mother.
"Trust me, mom, inviting Henry for dinner? Not a good idea." Unless you want him to have the waitress for dinner, that is.


Under the sign of Capricorn

“Self portrait? Really? Really really?” her brow was arched and her tone dripped sarcasm.

“Why, you might disagree, but I happen to think myself acceptably handsome.”

“I never said I thought you were ugly.” Vicki replied, frowning.

“You admitted it by omission.”

“What, because I never told you you were hot, I automatically think you’re not? Aren’t you assuming a lot?” she arched an eyebrow.

He whirled on her, a devilish little smile, distinctly Henry’s brand of mischievous amusement, his eyes bright. “So you think I am?”

“What? Assuming things? You do tend to do that.”

“Now, Vicki.” He said, tilting his head to the side gently and stretching the last i, as if coercing a stubborn child into something she didn’t want to do. “You can tell me.”

“No I can’t. I’ll never live it down. You’ll constantly harass me about whatever answer I give you. You see, I know you.” She jabbed her long index finger against his chest accusingly. “You can be quite self centered.”

“Ah, well. If you truly think that, perhaps I should return to my self portrait. I wouldn’t want to contradict a lady, you see.”

“So, do you make a self portrait as a tradition, like Christina’s paintings?” she asked, slowly circling around the tripod, thoughtful. Henry delighted himself in following her heartbeat, his eyes trained on the oleo as his brush traced the first line of his own eyebrows. 

“No.” he said. “Christina is a vivid memory that I must honor. I paint her every year to remind myself of how I felt about her and place it in sharp contrast of what I feel the moment I paint her. As a result I always see her differently. But I always see myself in the same light, my impressions don’t change.” He lifted his eyes from the oleo to follow her as she came to his left, still walking slowly. “Painting the same thing 480 times is not particularly appealing—I can’t help but notice that you are circling me, kind of like vultures do?” he arched an amused eyebrow.

She scowled. “Eagles circle as well.”

“Yes, but they don’t carrion.” He grinned, arching his eyebrows suggestively.

Vicki arched an eyebrow and pointedly looked at the half sketched painting. “You know, I know a dreadful story about a man with a painting of himself and too much love at his own reflection. Tragic, let me tell you.”

“You mean Dorian Grey? “ he grinned, arching his eyebrows and looking at her over his shoulder. Vicki smiled. “Interesting man, that.”

“Who, Grey?”

“Wilde.” Henry answered, following her movements with his sharp eyes as she kept moving around him. “Interesting indeed. I learned quite a lot from him.”

“Did you?” she asked, arching her eyebrows. “I hear he had—unusual sexual tendencies.”

Henry chuckled. “Homosexuality is hardly unusual, and before you hint at it, not, I did not sleep with him. I like ladies very much, thank you.” He straightened, blinking. “And to what do I owe your delightful visit, Vicki? You haven’t told me.”

She paused at his side, looking at the painting. He had already painted his eyes, nose and lips, and the fact that the rest was a very light pencil sketch added sharpness and intensity to those features.

“Okay, here’s my dilemma. I’m on this case, the one about the house curse—“

“The goblin.” Henry observed, attentive.

“You had to say it.” She said, reproachful.

“What can I say? I like things spoken as they are.” Except when it comes to us, I suppose, he thought.

Vicki had a peculiar way to deal with things; she could accept he was a nearly five century old vampire, but she couldn’t believe the little house elves called goblins could inhabit homes in modern-day Toronto.

“Well, anyway I’m supposed to get rid of that thing but Coreen is still researching how to do that. And the thing is, my dearest mother is coming to visit, since it’s her birthday, and…” she trailed off, arching her eyebrows.

His smile widened, his eyes bright with mirth. “Yes?” he encouraged, already knowing perfectly well what she was about to ask.

She glared, suspecting he was deliberately forcing her to spell things out for him.

She took a deep breath, scowling. “And you said you wanted to be more involved in my business.” She ground out.

“Did I?” he arched his eyebrows in polite interest, his eyes shining like those of a cat in the dim light of the condo’s living room. “And where does that leave us?”

It leaves you acting insufferably coy, Vicki thought, but smiled tightly. “Why don’t you tell me, smart guy?”

“Well, I think it leaves us around your admittance that I am a good detective.” He said, stepping closer to her.

“Wait, I already admitted that.” She frowned slightly.

“Oh? Was that about the same time you admitted I was a good partner?” he said, giving another step.

“I think it was the same conversation.” She narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms. Looked like she was going to have to ride the wave.

“And so you admit you trust me.” He concluded charmingly.

“If I tell you you’re pretty, will you drop this?”

Henry laughed. “Bribe? How generous, Victoria. But perhaps you could offer a more… substantial reward for my assistance?”

“I can bargain with walking down the hall to the elevator holding hands. I’m not authorized to any greater offers.” She deadpanned.

“I was thinking of something a little more… intimate.”

“You would.” She responded, tilting her head knowingly.

“I think we already had this conversation.” He pointed out.

“Apparently it’s happy memory night.” Vicki agreed.

“Ah. I’ll behave; go on, tell me what you need.”

She sighed; apparently he was all about being difficult tonight. “I need you to take over the case, like a nice little partner, and finish it while I deal with my mother.”

“You sound as though the goblin would be preferable.”

“I’m sure it is; at least he won’t try to cajole me into getting married and having offspring ‘before my time passes’.”

“I did mention I’m husband material.”

“I wonder about that. You’re a 450 year old vampire, son of Henry VIII; how exactly are you husband material, again?”

“I didn’t know taking a tan was within the specifications. Times really do change.”

“Yes, well, no one wants to marry to a guy whose skin is whiter than your dress.”

“You’d marry in white?” he asked, grinning widely.

“Could you focus?” 

“Right.” Henry nodded, still chuckling. “Goblin. Got it. I’ll take care of it, partner.”

“Welcome on board, rookie.” She sighed.

“Give my regards to your mother.” He called as she walked away. “Tell her she is welcomed whenever she feels like visiting.”

“Sure. ‘Henry, mom. Mom, Henry; Henry is 450 years old and drinks human blood. He also draws comics.’.”

Henry frowned. “Graphic novels.” He muttered as she closed the door behind herself.




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