(no subject)

[an_evening_star]

Perfect.

Victoria Forrester is completely perfect.

The artful swish of that flawless column of ash-blond curls, the fading noise of that musical tinkle of laughter as she turns the corner, starts the sinking feeling of dread somewhere in the pit of his stomach and his fingers rise to rap harshly against his forehead with a low his of, "Idiot."

Victoria Forrester is perfect. And now she's gone.

"Oh," the mocking breath cuts neatly into his self-deprecating monologue before he can even get to the good parts, accompanied by a tumble of far too much near-white hair over the back of the chair and the messy clank of combat boots on the desk with little to no regard toward school property.

He had almost forgotten that she was still there. (Bearing witness to his spectacular idiocy. He might as well off -)

"Now that was smooth, Prince Charming."

He almost wishes that she were the sort to let him forget.

"Yvaine?" he mumbles, face still buried rather miserably in his hands. "Can you not call me that?"

The sound of her laughter is nothing at all like Victoria's high, almost chiming giggle - it's low and soft and surprisingly quiet given Yvaine's often (and, truthfully more often than not) loudly impatient voice - and he slits his eyes open to watch. It's never occurred to him before, but she doesn't really laugh often.

A grin, "Lothario then?"

It takes an almost distressing amount of effort not to smile back.

"Or do you prefer Don Juan?"

She leans a bit further, tips of her hair brushing the floor (he nearly points it out - but he's distracted and still deliberating on whether or not smiling can be written off as politeness, or if you actually have to like someone) and feet bracing on the back of the chair in front of her (he worries, very briefly this time, about school property again).

He finds himself irrationally fascinated with the almost impossible (or it very well should be impossible) arc of her spine as she stretches her arms above her head. The silver star dangling at the end of her necklace catches in the dip of her throat and her eyes are bright and oddly entrancing.

Her head tilts backward - watching him from upside-down - lips curved into a wide, Cheshire grin. He feels hunted all of a sudden. It's not an altogether unpleasant feeling. He dismisses it as immediately as he possibly can. (It is not, perhaps, as immediately as he planned.)

"Casanova?" she purrs, evidently much too gleeful with his loss of balance than propriety generally allows for.

He's relatively certain that she's evil.

"Hardly," he mutters, one he is able to tug his eyes away from the whole distracting Yvaine-ness of her.

Relatively certain might be putting it a bit lightly.

"Suck it up and deal with it then, Prince Charming. You're branded," she replies, and a single eyebrow arcs in a display he's almost jealous of. "Now can we finish this pointless assignment? Sometime this year, preferably - or, you know, whatever's good for you. Wouldn't want to be inconveniencing you, of course."

She is evil.

Completely and utterly evil.





"I was thinking," she breathes, lashes low - heavy with the wisping steam and the early morning - fingers curled around a mug of tea that she has no express plans on drinking. "Piracy."

The day is quiet and lazy - very nearly too lazy, if such a thing were truly possible - her legs are long and crossed at the ankle somewhere in the space over on the other side of his lap. It's too far off for her to remember properly. Or for her to tilt her head enough to see. His shirt slides its way off of her shoulder as she shifts and she tugs it back into place with warm fingers. The skin there feels strangely cold in comparison and she leans herself a bit closer.

"Piracy," he repeats dully with a raise of one eyebrow that sets her grinning.

"Well, after breakfast of course."

"Ah, yes." The vague sarcasm nearly earns him a kiss, or perhaps it just earns him one for later. "Of course. No better time for piracy, really. Silly of me."

She hums an affirmative and tilts her mug to his lips, resolutely ignoring hastily muttered protests that skim along 'too much sugar' lines. It is, very techincally, her tea in the first place - no matter if she's bothered to taste it (or if she even will) - and she can hardly be arsed to share if he's just going to complain incessently.

"Might I ask why?"

Thoughtfully, "You might."

His fingers catch at a surprisingly sensitive spot along her thigh and she yelps in a manner that is entirely dignified.

"Might I get an answer?"

She waits for another few moments, chin tilted haughtily in overexaggerated thought, glancing down her nose at him until his hand travels a bit higher and she's forced to swat at it with an indignant, vaguely squawking laugh - her free hand raised in front of her in amused surrender.

"Because I miss it."

She sips delicately, narrows her eyes and wonders briefly if it would be a bit excessive to want more sugar. There is hardly seven spoonfuls as it is. It's only very barely passable.

"Because it is the closest thing to home that I can take you," she murmurs, chin propped against his shoulder and dark curls tumbling against her nose. "And I would very much like to show you off properly."

The teacup is abandoned, settling back into the ring of steam it left behind with a quiet sort of clatter.

"Because I would very much like to kiss you when you are dizzy from the altitude."

She runs ceramic-warmed fingertips along his jawline, nails catching slightly at the rough, sandpapery edges. He needs to shave. She'll tease him about it later.

"Because," she whispers, grinning as his eyes flutter closed, and watching dark eyelashes against sun-darkened cheeks she can't help but think of caramels. She's developed a strange fondness for them - as far as any fondness for food goes - and she wonders briefly if it's because of his skin."The looks we will get will be utterly magnificent."

One eye opens, distinctly unimpressed, and he and drawls her name in a manner that would be scolding if he thought that she would listen. She doesn't. She hasn't ever before.

"Yes, love?" she asks and the word - seldom used, though always meant - tastes like a victory, quiet against his skin and sweet on her tongue.

It works, she knows, because it's true.

"Piracy then," he agrees - and as she leans in to dole out his previously tallied kiss, she smiles and whispers praises to sweetness against his lips.





"Tobias, you must be kidding me," she takes a long sip of her tea - giving in under the man's constant, frowning attention to the previously untouched mug.

(One would almost think that her disinterest in food was some sort of personal affront.)

She rolls her eyes while in the shade of the ceramic and flutters her free fingers.

"What in my Mother's name makes you think that it would be a good idea to leave me alone with your children?"

He settles back into his chair as the mug clatters onto its setting, grinning now, "You're not alone, Yvaine."

The Look she shoots him is nothing short of murderous.

Her relationship with Tristran isn't at all amusing (Really!) and he should wipe that smirk off of his face immediately.

"Tristran doesn't count, Tobias. He is - he is like an extra limb of some sort. A very attractive extra limb, mind you, but one who -"

There's a sudden shriek from the next room and she's up, eyes wide and fingers curling worriedly around the doorjamb, even as it dissolves into high-pitched giggles - and the very tips of the fingers on her free hand brace themselves mildly against her forehead.

"- who happens to be getting along marvelously with your children," she finishes dully, resolutely ignoring the way that her lips attempt to curl upward as her boy is pounced by two very energetic little moppets.

It's charming.

It's sweet.

It's completely and utterly horrifying in its domesticity.

"I'm doomed, aren't I?" she sighs, cheek pressed lightly to the doorway.

She's sorely tempted to knock her skull against the wall - but settles for a quiet, muffled groan.

"He's going to want some now."

"See?" his voice is far too chipper for her liking - and she feels no express need to glance backward at the smirk that is surely situated somewhere over her shoulder. "Not alone at all."

In the next room Tristran makes some (mildly successful) attempt not to topple himself over, all the while balancing one girl on his shoulders and the other one wrapped securely around his leg - and the smile she'd been fighting slides it's way across her mouth.

Bloody children.

Dryly, "Have I mentioned lately that I hate you?"

She's already resolved to babysitting duties long before the calloused hand settles itself onto her shoulder.

"Not in the past five minutes, glowworm."