"It's really shitty, but it won't be permanent. Once you start gaining some control over it, it'll get better." Then again, looking at the state of her skin he determined maybe that was an absolute lie. If she couldn't grasp the simple concept of "fire bad" then how the hell was she supposed to grasp the emotions of everyone else? Yeah. She was friggin doomed.

The golden band is little more than practicality. Lex is devoted to him entirely without it. Yet Killian's chest fills with an airiness capable of lifting him off his feet. They know they're the only ones for each other, but this lets the rest of the world in on the ill-kept secret.

She hopped herself up onto a stool and swung her legs from it, her tail swishing about behind her. Obviously, her appearance was quite striking, as most people hid the fact that they had powers, but Zelkova couldn't be bothered with the trivialities of humans. It was simply beneath her. Besides, anyone who really wanted to fight god was going to have a problem. For the most part though, people steered clear of the walking menace to society. It was almost like they subconsciously saw right through the innocent little girl to the devilish god in sheep's clothing.

Banter, the sharp-wit Killian so often used to defuse tension, electrifies the lightning rod that is his tongue. Flooding his mouth in a static that begs to be released. The admin's lips remained sealed, however. Glued shut by a will that refused to indulge Fernando in his twisted entertainment.

Miyako was an Uchiha. They could do anything if her father and grandfather were to be believed. Crushing dirt beneath her boots, she peered at her reflection in the water. Disgust and disappointed at the sight of her own eyes. Pale and golden - not what she needed, not what she wanted - deserved.

Casual enough to show just how comfortable Fernando is in the situation. Confidence comes in more than just insults and boasts. His attitude spells out what he could never state on record.

"You'd better not have hurt Sish," she continued darkly, scrunching up her face in a vain effort to get her vision to clear, "or you'll—you'll be sorry you were ever born." Big words from someone tied up who was only barely returning to consciousness, even she knew that, but she tried to put all the force behind them she could muster up.

For a shortness of time (and breath) that was all Hotaru could see; red. The face of fire; full of color, smoke and movement. Of blood pumping and the insidious curl of rage billowing. It was menstrual flow and after-birth exasperation; the beginning of her ire and the violent end of laissez-faire indifference.

She wants to scream the unheard pleas in her heart. The steady flow of silent responses to the silent questions he never asked and never told pounding against her skull, threatening to split open if the pressure is not relieved.

A great many things were kept from the carefully crafted life that he had perfected over the years. Everything on the surface, and a vast depth of things beneath. Everything hidden beneath a charming smile and a charismatic personality. He had his moments, sure. Where the truth of himself would slip out, but he was always quick to bury it away from the light again. Hiding and running were the two things that Morgan did better than anything else. Pretending to be something that he wasn't. There wasn't much of a genuine bone left in his body.

Except for one day a year.

This was a test, she decided. If he didn't tell her, she wouldn't ask again. And she wouldn't ask him about his witchcraft, either, or anything else. She'd forget the way her own name sounded in his mouth, like a foreign word or a spell. She'd forget the rest of it too—how much she'd liked the steady touch of his hand, his funny little toad, the whole thing. She'd find her own way out of here, leave him to rot with his debts and his talk of Yonn Merla, and she'd never think of it again.

And if he told her?

Morgan's hand fell to the wires in his pocket as he slowly made his way down the hallway, closing the door softly behind him, clicking the lock into place. Whoever was stuck in here, was stuck in with a paranoid and angry seraph. Carefully and quietly, he made his way down the hallway, poking his head gingerly around a corner to reveal a dark shape sitting in one of his chairs. Tall. Dark. And definitely drunk. Morgan's expression flattened and he sighed. "Seriously?"

Killian focused on the mist swirling in the man's palm. The way it danced in the air like a Kirlia, forming a tendril that wafted scents sweeter than any Aromatisse under his nose, kept him fixated. Glued to the cotton candy fog until the very moment it evaporated into nothing.