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[personal profile] clockwork_hart1
not!fic that isn't not!fic, but really isn't fic, either.

Whatever. Here's a handy list of liferuiners:

Alice Morgan (God and Other delusions)

Our Father,

Who art in heaven,
tell me of thy name

Thy kingdom born
of guilt and scorn
on earth, they have no heaven

Give them this day their daily breaths
they stutter and deceive themselves through

as they ruin those who trespass against them
lead them not into enlightenment
but the safety of their faith

(and pray, do not deliver me from any evil)

Amen

Cassie Ainsworth & Chris Miles (These Kids Are Not Alright)

Chris Miles is not a snail. He thinks it, though. He slithers through his own filth because he can, because he owns his own mess if he owns nothing else and there's control in his slimy chaos. She wishes he didn't carry his whole world on his back.

Chris Miles is not a prince charming. Secretly, she thinks he could have been. If he had ever been the one to kiss her awake, and out of dreams of bones and pretty pixie fragilities there may never have been a poison apple for either of them to bite.

Chris Miles tastes like old chewing gum and something salty-dark. She doesn’t think about that often. She thinks it’s not her secret to share.

Chris Miles is made of rocket ships, firework hisses under smoke and sedated wonders. She likes the night time better, where she can feel the way he shines - not her frail sunlight but a thousand bursting stars.
Chris Miles is a shadow figure, on the edge of every movement she makes, dancing around every corner she turns. She remembers when he used to be solid in her arms when the flat got too cold and the electric burnt out and he shoved all the blankets over her pale skin.

Chris Miles is an angel. And she’s - breathing, maybe?

Dawn Summers, (What's a haiku, anyway?)

i
Fuck your tomorrow
if I stole your skin away
would you wake yourself?

ii
did you have a wish?
to be a superhero?
or just be shadow...

iii
I smiled today
he licked into my mouth and
I smoothed down her skirt

Elena Gilbert (sic transit gloria)

She didn't come to set herself on fire, and now it's all she ever wants to do. A flame princess that they stoke and wave into inferno. And she trades in her sacrificial crown for one of fury.

Furious at everyone who loves her, at everyone who would fall at her feet.

Nemesis.

She isn't here to die, but no one else fucking lives when she pulls back from the edge of the cliff.

Goodbye to her breath when no one else will draw it.

(There's a car in the drive. To drive. Goodbye then, this isn't any life.)

James Cook (and the absence of whatever)

She's made of fuckin' lightning, she is. Pretty and sharp and murder. She's every inch of dirt and violence of his secret dreams and so easy to slip inside.

He doesn't think he has a clue what kind of monster she really is.

And he's all stabilizers on the back of a rocket ship. That fuckin' kid, keeping him alive and safe as he can when all he does is barrel himself into chaos.

He thinks he'd probably die for him, when he tries punching through his teeth.

And he has to believe that one day the three of them are gonna fall straight off that cliff into something less jagged, because he's sick of cutting himself on either of their lips.

But it's not the first or last time he'll wipe the blood off onto his sheets.

It's love, or whatever.

Martha Jones (Open Heart Surgery)

She's alright.

Big surprise. Look who gets up and carries on when her chest is splintering.

Look who gets a new job, gets a diploma, get's a life on her hands that's all hers to save and not just a blip on infinites unfathomable.

Look who gets coffee every morning, drops tips into an empty cup, spills it on the nurse that never blinks her way.

Look who wakes up in the morning so she doesn't see starry skies.

Look who trades in normalcy for things falling out of the sky because. Well. Because she misses it, sometimes.

Look who's doing alright for herself again.

I know, who'd have guessed?

Natasha Romanoff, You are

It is not her voice, not her mother tongue.

(She hasn't dreamt in Russian for six months, though the terror toll is no lower)

It is not her hair, not this length, shade or cut.

(The slick bun piled atop her skull, skin taut and painful, it lingers like the cramps in her toes.)

It is not her body, with the holes and jagged-raw tenderness.

(Secretly, she had always hoped for outward scars - a blossom over inward screaming)

It is not. It is not.

She.

(Is this freedom, or a well gilded cage?)

Raven Reyes (5 objects or less)

5) Spanner

She tightened herself up, since they all went away. It's not what she wanted, never to be closed off or cut up. She thinks maybe she could learn to like herself better this way if she waits long enough. (Shame about the impatience, then.)

4) Space Suit

She's on the edge of every single universe, and hanging on by a single thread. She is every star in that sky, every planet hurtling around every sun towards eventual implosion. She's space in the soul of a woman and she'll expand until every facet of their broken is swept into her orbit.

3) Feather

She threw herself to earth, a bird of flight cast off her wings. She's never been more scared in her life, shaking, sweating, squirming her insides away. She can't wait to touch the ground.

2) Gunpowder

She didn't mean to sling them into herself. She's gonna blow up in all their faces. (She thinks they might not mind)

1) Heart

Boom boom. Boom Boom.

Boom.

Veronica Mars (Eat Me, I'm Done)

I haven't quite worked out yet what she'd make of me now. Gooey, marshmallow Veronica, fake smiles the size of moons. Tortoise-shell Veronica, well used and flint-sharpened.

Some days, when my tongue bites back I think she'd like me, my snarls and growls. She'd scritch behind my ears and call me Rover.

Some days, when I'm curled up in no one's arms and think about all the times the sky fell down, I think she'd hate me. Watch how I dismantle what I thought I loved just to share the bitterness. She'd shove me into her pool and call it drowning lessons.

Some days I try to get her back. Through her brother. Through her lover. Push myself so far into them we're all part of the same soul signature.

Some days I try to bury her. Not that that ever works.

I haven't quite worked out what she would be, now. Wicked princess, carefully ruining any preconception the masses invoked. Clever, ruthless girl, dismantling the worst of the world until it ran in her favor.

Some days, overcast, slow days, I don't know I miss her at all.

I wear a cape now. She always wore a mask.

Winnifred Burkle (White Rabbits Running)

Follow the white rabbit into wonderland. She fell through a book. Isn't that a different story?
She can't remember anymore.

She thinks Alice might have been a person, not a cow. But that isn't really what matters.

There have been beheadings, shrill cries for bared necks. Not a single grinning cat, though.

Alice, if she remembers rightly, used her wits and her legs and she saved herself from from the horrors.

Fred thinks she maybe should have read a different book.
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