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jamjar: (library)
Title: This is the morning of our love
Author: [livejournal.com profile] jamjar
Prompts: )
Notes:

When I think more than I want to think
Do things I never should do
I drink much more than I ought to drink
Because I brings me back you...
(Lilac Wine, written by James Shelton, performed by Eartha Kitt.)

Content some may find disturbing.
All feedback appreciated, positive and negative. Written for the Sensory Overload Challenge
He wakes to the wreckage of his room. )
jamjar: (curtain Harley)
I realised that I hadn't actually posted this to lj. The first complete original story I've finished since-- GCSEs, maybe? Which kind of shows, but eh.

Comments, suggestions and criticisms would be much appreciated.

I really need a title for this. )
jamjar: (Default)
Based on this myth.

"I don't know why you're still holding a grudge," Fox said. He let out a small laugh, which sounded almost exactly like the yowl of a cat in heat. "It's not like it's the first time you've been tricked."

Raven stretched out his wings and preened his feathers.

"I'm a fox, you know. It's what I do."

Raven sniffed. "Been talking to the Scorpion again?"

"Which is my point!" Fox grinned, red tongue lying over white teeth. "If I can forgive Scorpion, I don't know why you're still so moody over a piece of cheese. She killed me. You only lost a meal."

"Yes," said Raven. "But no-one ever called me beautiful before."
jamjar: (Default)
He didn't bother unpacking most of his gear, just throwing his bag into the locker at the end of his bed minus a few toiletries and a book or two, before looking around.

The room was long and almost empty. Most of the beds were made, and there were a few signs of occupancy, but the only people still moving were him and two of the guys that had come in with him. Keller was SAS, like him, and During had a definite military posture, although he wore no insignia.

There was a lump in his stomach and his back itched like he was in hostile territory, but he didn't wait for the others to finish stowing their gear before he made his way down to the mess hall.

Which turned out to more like a canteen, or the dining hall from his secondary school. It was large and old-fashioned, just like everything seemed to be in the castle, with tables set out evenly.

Most of the people were already eating and two maids were clearing away some of the tables. The noise hushed when he walked in and he felt their eyes follow him as he made his way over to the queue. Most of the looks were calm, but some were actively hostile and he felt a moments pang for his old squad. Three of them had been assigned to the organisation while he was still on leave, but he had no idea where they were right now.

None of the tables looked friendly, but he picked one that was less hostile than most and sat down with his tray.

"You're another new one, then?"

She was pretty, petite which he liked, blonde and looking quite out of place here. The men on the table around her must have topped her height by a foot and even laughing had the air of somebody who has shot, and been shot at, killed and been prepared to die.

They were laughing now, making some remark that made her snort dismissively and put on an expression of mock insult. The man on her left had his arm in a sling, but was waving a spoon full of mash about in a vaguely threatening way with his free hand.

"Pretty little thing, isn't she?"

He looked up at the man who'd spoken. "yeah. Looks a bit out of place here, though."

The man smirked. "Forget it. She's one of the ones left from the old crew. So are the men with her. They tend to stick together when they're not on duty. Not that there's that many left." He looked Thomson over. "What were you, SAS?"

Thomson nodded.

"That's not gonna win you many favours. I heard the SAS were heavily involved in the mess before."

Thomson shrugged and didn't say anything. Mess was what most people called it. The long, dark night was another. Hell on Earth was popular, too. Bloody politics and infighting was how his commander had referred to it. Treachery had only been used in whispers, until he got here and found out that most people called it that in loud, clear terms.

Shameful, was what he called it, and was why he'd accepted this transfer.
jamjar: (Default)
She thinks about suicide. Not often and not out of depression. Just as an option. One of the was of dealing with a situaion, or not dealing with it. The idea appeals, although she knows she won't do it. It'd be an end, to stress, to the potentail for failure. It would be the ultimate distraction technique, the best way of not thinking about life. It wouldn't be hard. There are pills and knives everywhere, she could pick a time when no-one was home and just do it.

She knows she won't do it, but it's nice to know she could if she tried. It's there as an option

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