( AN OPEN POST #2 )

[charmlessness]

 
 
 

you know the drill. pick your poison (not entirely limited to those listed). reply with a prompt in the form of a post, photo, song, text, voicemail, whatever your heart desires & receive a response. simple, right? right.

 
 
 

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[maleficents]

( Maleficent makes a soft tsk, tsk noise, as though to scold him for being so daft. Has he no imagination? Violence can't possibly be the only answer men hold in high regard.

She is not naive enough to think that she would ever get an apology. Maybe years ago, when her vision was still partially clouded with hopes that he might come back to her and return that which was taken, but that time has passed. In its place, a mixture of bitterness and anger has taken over.

Never again does she want to be so trusting of someone that so willingly deceives to get what they want. That mistake cost her far too much, and she learned her lesson. Love isn't real, and man is never, under and circumstances, to be trusted.

Wiping a bit of dust off of the wooden backboard of the pew she stands at, an eyebrow arches high on her forehead. Messy, messy. Just as he is. )

Oh, Stefan, no. ( She speaks as though she's fond of him. Deep down, there are parts of her that still are; parts of her that are still in love with that boy that kissed her, saying he belonged with her. ) I'm not going to kill you — that would be too easy.

( Eyes narrowed and jaw tight, Maleficent steps even closer, keeping mind to stay out of reach. She knows what a desperate man is capable of, and he knows her on weakness.

Surely he's got many an iron object on his person, and that's not a risk she's willing to take. )

I want you to suffer.

[warred]

[ For the both of them, there lies a discrepancy between what they believe to be true and what actually is. Quite possibly, it accounts for a large part of the gap that stretches ever wider between them, despite the fact that there had been a time when they had hardly gone a few days without seeing each other. (They'd been much younger, granted, burdened with much less responsibility, though that does not belittle the existence of sentiment nor how true it had seemed, at the time.) She doesn't mean to take his life — he still does not completely exploit the fact that he knows how to take hers. Both hands stayed, though that does not keep them from poisonous words.

Her voice is soft and then harsh, in turns, and it only twists the knife deeper between his ribs. He lacks vision beyond all-consuming ambition, lacks scope beyond what had been ingrained in him as a boy. (Riches as defined by material possessions and the obedience of others rather than the existence of something to love and be loved by in turn.) That gap had formed early — he had still had nothing while she had grown to preside over the Moors, powerful in a way that would never be accessible to him. As little as childhood games may mean, there is still an undeniable disappointment that comes with winding up last, time after time.

His expression mirrors hers as he steps forward, though he keeps his hands (balled into fists) at his sides. ]

Do you think I don't?

[ There are other answers he could use — and so you curse my daughter to do it — but they escape him, as drawn up as he is in his own preoccupations. ]

I see your shadow everywhere I go.