#detective: azalea kingston

[detectivesappho]

devil hearts that mourns

A/N: I did not outline, I vibed for a whole hour to write this done, barely any edit. You won't see any product like this because Im trying to cure perfectionism. @seravadumortain . The denial is fucking real here. +Im going back to outlining after this, oml, the amount of times I did NOT know what to do is just. Oof. ps. but also maybe not as this is a lot more fun and easier to do, oof. Please do share thy opinions and criticisms.

Wordcount: 1295

Tags: Angst, Denial over feelings, Unsure over feelings, Mutual Pining, They just won't get together.

Summary: Farah is gets physically hurt when Detective Azalea chooses to save Sanja. She regrets.

cr. to 'Accident' by Chrystos for "give me a word for pain that is sharp enough."

--

She doesn't move.

( do you know pain? )

She can't move, that is the most frightening of things. The world--- time, its hands clicking, brushing numericals on the clock but her feet stays steady on the ground. Her knees doesn't buckle. But her eyes see red beyond what others see.

She sees Farah's blood.

Her blood staining her pretty fingers.

( give me a word for pain that is sharp enough )

The numericals, they pass pass pass. She can't reach out and stop it from ticking. Nat moved her to a place, safe enough, she said. They're back in the agency, she whispered.

She closes her eyes.

She does not know how long she is there, still. The others leave her behind. When she opens her eyes, it's only Morgan who stayed.

"Is she alright?" Her dry throat is parch, she can only croak out the words. Morgan takes the cigarette off her lips, blowing off smoke.

She nods, after a moment.

"She is."

"And?"

"She doesn't take the injury serious enough." She scoffs.

( a word that is more rain than sunshine, more wreckage than storm . )

"Oh." She says this as others would say surprise. When she was young, she learned to close herself off. It is better, she would say. Less hurt, lesser hurts--- Azalea would sing this like a church's chorus in her head. Until really, she can't feel anything.

Morgan doesn't mind it, from across.

"She's looking for you."

Azalea frowns, turning away, lips pursed.

"I know."

"You don't." Morgan barks out a satirical laughter. "If you did, you'd be there. She refuses to sleep and its taking a toll."

She sighs, looking up to meet matching grays.

"Do I look like I care?" Azalea shifts, standing from the sofa. When she blinks, the world clears a little to tell her they were in the lounge, the soft colors hurting her eyes, only reminding her of what she did. What she's done.

She runs a hand over her hair. "Look, I saved Sanja. I don't think I---"

Morgan snaps. "If you saved Sanja then stop moping about the fact you did."

Azalea flinches.

"You want to leave?" Morgan raises a brow, opening up her arms. "Feel free to. I'm just saying what Ava told me."

The vampiir looks away, returning to her unfinished cigarette. Morgan doesn't say, Farah wants you. She most especially didn't say, that's what Ava told me.

But the woman implies it.

She closes her eyes.

Takes a heavy inhale in, and here, Atlas, she would say, this weight of the air is like a hundred worlds behind my back.

She leaves the lounge.

( let us sing a song for the lovers, where they kiss under the birth of the sun and love under aging moons. let us sing a song of werewolves, all bite and claws, all-devouring and lust. )

She finds her way around the maze, until she reaches where, supposedly, Farah would be. Ava is outside, as if waiting. She looks. Azalea meets her eyes.

Ava sighs.

"She won't lay down, but the medication will soon kick in. Dr. Tuft managed."

Morgan didn't say that. But Azalea nods, either.

"Morgan told me, some."

There's a twitch on Ava's lips. Azalea wonders, for a moment, what happened while she was in a daze. While she saw Farah lying on the ground and she just completely froze herself inside to out.

Azalea walks past Ava, about to open the doors---

"She says its not your fault." She stills. Ava continues. "I--- we, do not put blame for the choice you had to have made."

Ava and her had butted harsh heads the first time they met. But she too, was the first person Azalea could get close to.

She sighs.

There's a little smile on her face, just soft.

"Thank you."

She pushes open the doors. Her grey eyes meets the sun.

( or, if not a song, then an elegy. an epic of lesser goddesses and mortal maidens. of the naiads that took princesses, the driads that loved the maids. if not epic, then true story, long novel, or fairytale. the cinderella-knight and her rogue-ish princess. )

"Finally." Farah huffs from the bed. But Azalea is startled, slightly, by a bright unicorn pendant hanging by the bed, some guardian that adds a little brightness in the dull, white-gray walls. Farah shifts lightly, flinches when she seems to have nudged a sore spot. Azalea is quick by her side, easing her lightly back down.

"I wanted to sit."

"You needed to rest."

Farah scrunches her nose. "Do I, majestic being, deserve rest in this hospital bed?"

Azalea snickers. "What do you deserve? A coffin to sleep in?"

"As if I'd die from lack of rest!"

Azalea looks her over.

"You look good enough to play the part."

Farah groans, but there's a small, relieved smile on her face, she gestures for her to sit. She does. Azalea smiles a little too, before she looks away, trying to blink away the tears.

She saved Sanja, not her. Not even when she pleaded for it.

"It's my fault." Azalea gasps out, the torrent of guilt washing over her like a thousand foot wave devouring sea caves. "I just---"

"I don't hate you for it."

"I'll do the part of hating, as if I haven't done it before." Azalea huffs. "Just. Hate me. Tell me you're disappointed and---"

"And you're telling a patient who desperately needs to rest work up enough a temper to get mad at you?" Farah chuckles, but her eyes soften when she turns to Azalea. "I can't blame you, silly. I love you too much for that, and know you enough as well."

Azalea flinches at the confession. Hearing heartbreak than love, hearing pain than love.

"Can you not say things like that?"

"What?" Farah raises a brow, "Love?"

"I'm not denying. I just. I don't think I'm---"

"I'll wait." Farah yawns. "For now, play big spoon?" She curls on her side, looking at Azalea. Like these, these moments where she says, don't leave, Azalea can never deny even though she knows she should.

Love, and pain. Its like she can't leave it as long as its Farah who gives and takes. As if she is willing to open herself up unconsciously even if her lips says no. Willing to take out her heart.

"Alright." She sighs, taking her place beside Farah, who fits around her, placing her head on her arm as she gives a content sigh. Azalea looks over her features, then gives a grunt.

"When you're like this, you're making me love you more."

"Then why don't we just get together?" She pipes up in her arms.

"Didn't you say you'd wait?" Azalea chuckles.

Farah gives an exaggerated, and exhausted gasp. "Why wait when you know you could just get together already?"

Because you can say you want it, but not take it for yourself. Like all lovers in television where they could have it and yet not reach out and take it.

"I need to fix something of myself." She replies. Fix things as in her fear for the unknown. Fix as in what she is, human-skin and monster-flesh. Fix as in she's still carrying her burden and she doesn't want to let Farah carry it. "Then maybe, just maybe."

Farah doesn't reply for a long moment, Azalea closes her eyes too.

"I like you no matter what." There's the careful whisper, Azalea could just barely hear. Her heart pounds loudly in her chest, and she wonders if Farah could her thoughts. "But at least you didn't say no." Azalea would laugh then, but lethargy takes her quick, especially with such a warm, love-heavy body curled by her side.

[detectivesappho]

cut my hair - cavetown

A/N: for @siennadraws who wanted to see scenario like this and i had offered to write it on my “free time”. or if I don’t write that nat oneshot i had been planning for this past week. And STILL, for a scenario, 2099 words is long please, have mercy. this is the longest thing i’ve ever written for wayhaven and it is when Farah cuts Detective Azalea’s shoulder length black hair. I DONT REGRET ANYTHING.

Wordcount: 2099

Tags: Absolutely fluff, a bit of angsty as to why Azalea doesn’t like having long hair.

Summary: Some fears work like this, if her hair is long it will feel like a leash. It will feel like she had listen to her words and that’s why her hair is long. Farah offers to cut it, she lets her.

---

She brushes away what little debris it could be on her jeans. Vampiirs don't sleep. But here, she can say they don't need it, but they sleep. Azalea can says they sleep in places called home, and it is human nature to curl in a place dangerous. But here, Farah is simply on her side and if she opens her eyes, Azalea's would meet gold.

She leaves the little escapade they've built in the middle of nowhere, carrying her lightweight bag, leaving a few heavy items behind to tell a flitty canopy of green that will tear with rain. But there is no rain yet, so she doesn't worry much.

She tries to avoid the bluebells as she walks a path without a path at all. She knows though, there is a nearby river, less a five minute walk. It's the reason why she chose that place to build their home.

She gathers blue bells to her arms when she realizes she might run the risk of stomping them between spaces.

Azalea has a bad habit of not letting her hair get too long. And when she means long, she means it never reaches below her shoulders. She stares at her reflection in the river. It's around it now, too. Long and straight black locks framing her face. It would pass her shoulders if she lets it be.

She gives a shaky inhale. Seeing her reflection, it's difficult to give herself a proper cut. But she'll have to make do. This is necessary. The water not at all still. Farah wanted this vacation, she gave it to her. But right now, they were miles across humanity, so there wasn't a nearby barbershop she could go to.

( she liked it, but she will never admit it to her . there is too much blood in her, and she fears when blood moons arrive, she might claw herself alive . she does not want to show this now or tell this werewolf story now. )

She turns away from the clean, flowing rivers, settling herself well beside it on the wet ground, the scent of petrichor easing down her anxiety. She opens her backpack, looking around for the spare pair of scissors she had brought. It should be here. She never leaves without things like that.

She takes it out, finding it at the bottom of her bag. Raising it up, glinting between sunlight through green canopy.

"What are you doing?"

The scissors drops from her hand. Black eyes meeting gold.

"Nothing." She picks up the scissors, gripping it tight until her hands pale. Her heart thrums a little softly in her chest, her shoulders shrinking to herself. She breathes a little too hard. But to a vampire, it's better to tell half-truths and believe them. She turns to face Farah completely than craning her neck.

( this is liars )

"It's nothing." She tries for a smile.

"No, tell me." Farah holds onto her wrist just as she tries to put the scissors back. "I can keep a secret you know." She smiles mischievously and it pales in comparison to how gentle her eyes are. And forgive Azalea for the times she's heard love as if it is heartbreak. Forgive the times she's buried her head in her hands in the hopes her own claws might shush her fears. Because she wants love like that, stay like that.

She inhales. She knows that Farah could keep a secret. She's kept so much of her secrets. So what is this compared to Farah? What is a little thing from the past?

But she is afraid either way. Fearing coming in different colors and she wonders if Farah could hear it, in her blood and the thrum of her veins.

Farah lightly opens her fist, the one that was gripping the scissors. She takes it from her hands, but Farah doesn't look away once.

"It's okay."

A string splinters inside of her, unraveling all the other ones that had wrapped her heart in shadows in cocoons.

The answer spills from her lips.

"I wanted to cut my hair."

"Oh!" Farah eyes widen, letting her hand go. She doesn't ask why, or remark the long locks look better on her. The scissor remains somewhere between them, on the ground and grass. They sit a little in silence, Farah's eyes never leaving hers except for the moments she'd divert her attention to the stainless blade.

The air is not stagnant, but careful like a deer crossing borders in quiet leaps. Bountiful in all things clean and the green was enough to cleanse all the red she's seen in her nightmares.

"Can I cut it?"

Azalea turns from the scissor to the shorter woman. She's smiling softly, and her eyes looking like that one man Azalea had met in her travels, he had been gentle. He had given her place she so can temporarily call home.

( even though she left without a word, even though she took and never gave . she remember visiting, and he'd kept dry flowers on his vase . she left a pouch with what she could afford . she never looked back . )

Farah has her hand out asking if she could have the blade.

"You're not going to ask why I want to cut it?" She croaks out. Is she not going to ask the reasons why she seems to hide everything or flinch with every careful touch? Or even this, in the chances she might look less woman.

"Should I?" Farah replies lightly in jest. "No. Unless the cutting hair thing means you just recently broke up and you're single--- hey! Don't give me that look, I heard that's what it meant."

"It doesn't." She snips, a little bitterly but there's a feigned harshness to that too. She can never be so harsh, buried too much in guilt.

"You don't have to tell me." She pipes up when her lips part as if to tell the story.

"But I want to." She huffs. "I think you deserve it."

Farah gives a laugh, throwing her head back, the river rushing behind Azalea nearly forcing away the sound but she hears it clearly.

"Okay." She takes Azalea hands in hers. "Tell me. In return, cut my hair too."

"Why?"

Farah's fingers come to her face, the dew-skin feel, caressing the skin there. Finger on her cheek, tracing the sharp contours of her face that has labeled her monster. Down, down till her lips, parting it slightly with her thumb.

"So you won't feel alone." Azalea flushes at the answer, taking her face away from her hands as she turns to her side.

"You don't have to do that."

It's Farah's turn to scoff.

"I want to." She places both her hands at the side of Azalea's head, turning her until their eyes meet directly, and squishes it. She giggles when Azalea scowls, lightly swatting her hand away, but she doesn't look away anymore. "So are you telling the story, actually I'll cut your hair while you do it so you won't feel anxious."

Things like this, her heart leaps beyond the boundary. Beyond things she's known and forgotten. Things she thought she'd be hurt when she walks the crossfire.

"Alright," She turns, her back facing Farah, her toes nearly dipped onto the flowing river. She did, feeling the cold that touches her bare feet when she'd threw it away when arriving.

She feels Farah running her hand over her hair. And softly, sudden, like lovers they are, she hears Farah's breath on her ear, close.

"How short do you want it to be?" She whispers, nuzzling her face on the crook of her shoulder. Farah chuckles when Azalea tenses. "So?" she pulls away. The click, click of the scissors behind her, but she is cutting no hair just yet.

"Do you know pixie cut?"

"Nope." Azalea cranes her neck to the side just to see Farah cutely shake her head, sitting in a cross-legged, her hands planted on the ground in front of her like a cute pet.

"Its…" She supposed Farah has never seen her in it yet. She favored the bob cut but she misses the pixie one. "Just cut my hair a few centimeters below my chin."

"Woman, do you see me knowing a centimeter?"

Azalea scrunches her nose. "What's your measurements then?"

"How about we just trim it?"

Her shoulders bulk up. "Can you trim?"

"Trimming should be much easier than cutting it an inch below your chin."

"Centimeter."

"Who cares."

Its quiet then. Some time, some place out of the world. Not anyone can just barge in. Here, she is dipping her toes cold water. Here, she hears the careful snip snip of the scissors on her hair. And Farah is trying to be gentle. She wants, in a way, to stay like this forever. Having Farah behind her, staying. She imagines her biting her lip, licking it in annoyance because she hears a grunt, a tug then a very sharp snap that was nearly obscured by the river.

"Are you sure you're cutting my hair and not pulling my head off?"

"Hey!" She hears a scoff. "I'm trying. Unless you want to cut your hair off yourself---"

"I'm sorry." She tries to force down the blush on her cheeks. "I just--- I'm nervous." And there is only rare times, moments where she is this honest.

"Of me cutting your hair disastrously or telling me what brings this cut my hair thing?" Farah seems to pause from cutting, simply weaving her fingers around her hair. It is relaxing. "You know, there is nothing wrong with havin---"

"Someone told me I'd look terrible in it." Azalea cuts her off. Her heart going places in her chest just remembering it. "I loved her… And, I always did like having it short. "

Farah seems to tense. She stopped combing her hair. And then continues.

"Why would you care about her?"

"She wasn't afraid." Azalea closes her eyes. "She stayed by me. It's like how I wasn't afraid of you being a vampire. Isn't it a wonderful feeling?"

Farah exhales, somewhat dreamily.

"It is." There's a snip again, softer this time. "But you don't have to be insecure of how you look. Because unlike her," Farah turns her head, just so she can meet her eyes, fingers on her chin. "I love you no matter what as long as you let me." She breathes out.

And Azalea doesn't know where the scissor went, all she knows is she's kissing her lips and tasting berries she must've found, sweet and bitter all the same. She tastes like home, and warm. Farah falls on her back to the grass behind, Azalea heaving in front of her. Her hand on Farah's waist, and one around the crook of her neck.

Her hair falls between them. It is shorter.

"You cut my hair fast."

Farah chuckles below her. "What if it is in all honesty, terrible? Maybe it just looks here but actually looks bad on you."

"I trust you." And the answer spills so fast both of them blush. Heat creeping hard on her cheeks. "And you told me you'd love me anyway."

"True." Farah reaches to cup her face. "Kiss me."

Azalea complies.

-

"Are you sure you know my hair like I do?"

"You cut your own hair?" Azalea raises a brow at that.

"In the mirror, unlike someone who recklessly attempts to do it on a fading reflection of herself in a river."

"I'll ruin your hair."

"Do it!" And Farah laughs loud, echoing around the tresses of the trees. "In all honesty though, Nat watches over me."

"Makes sense." Azalea shrugs, taking Farah's hair onto her hand, trimming the ends. They had washed it lightly with their abundance water. Ones they had packed for the small vacation.

"Not in the way you think." Farah lightly cackles. "I bought a bunch of dyes once, and dyed my hair green. She fears I might do something similar again."

Azalea laughs too, along with her.

"Did you like it though?"

"Not really. I like what I am." Azalea hums. "Just like I like you." She blushes. Farah says it like a simple thought, like something that should be obvious.

And she's reminded, for the hundredth time, why Azalea doesn't run from Farah's kind of love. It is far too sweet, and careful and gentle. A quagmire she'd be fine living in.

Azalea turns Farah's head the same way she had, taking her lips, feeling her.

Loving her.

[detectivesappho]

liars, we’ll be.

A/N: There might be uncomfortable things below the cut. Detective Azalea is emotionless usually, the rebellious type who nearly got into jail because she was used as a scapegoat for a murder. So~~~ with that said and done, BEWARE. but there is soft moment. Written for Wayhaven Week 2020, this is a TWO-SHOT. Also, I’m late. Who cares. @otomefandomevents 

Wordcount: 1522

Tags: Angst, Fluff, Implied Murder, Emotional, We are Sad

Dusk / Dawn

Summary: “Did the sun kiss you?” Azalea mocks the shorter woman, lithe in nature. Head turns to her, fever eyes shimmer like some gold. *No,* she scrunches her nose, stands, leans across from Azalea’s desk, *no*. Lips like diamonds ( but soft soft ), mangoes ripe in open suns, and she dyes dry flowers in her name.

how do you spell love ( dye ) ?

farah farah farah

–

“Please, would you draw me a little lamb?” and the aviator, in his thirst, carrying his sun-heavy gods— takes his human meager strength, takes up his pen, and drew.

But humans aren’t all the aviators, who, in gaps of moonlight could catch Arizona and China in a glance.

They are not all fighters.

-

( “If I said I cared about you…” Azalea falters. Farah glances from the set of papers to look at her. She had told Farah to sort them out. It would be off help. But sunsets are Azalea’s weakness lately.She has started to hate the sound of bells, chasing shadows just as she, watching the younger agent walk away back to the warehouse.

Sometimes, Farah offers to escort her home. And each time, Azalea stubbornly denies.

“What would happen to us?” Farah chuckles at that. Azalea looks away. She looks stunning like that, buried in papers. She knows how the younger agent has a passion of avoiding them, but here, here she—

“I would stay,” Azalea meets Farah’s gold dawn eyes. “If that’s what you’re worried about… I wouldn’t leave.” There’s a gentleness in her, a softness. For once, they’re not lying. Them as in Azalea and Farah, )

June 2020

Azalea shivers, the damp scent of sewers cling to her jacket, and still, she wraps it tight around her. It reminds her of the city. She is reluctant to throw it away as she doesn’t quite know when she’ll get warm clothing once again. At least, in the city, with its hulking towers and cold cold chills, there were places warm. Least of all, she was never once kidnapped, not like this. 

Her heart had always been two sizes small in her chest, and frozen. Rib caging it in chains, and she never knew what pain meant. She picked up a bone, and fought her way smart out of thin alleys in the big city. Here, there are no narrows and no slips she could hide in. Here, she is easy picking. She doesn’t know where she is, where she could be.

Some place in the middle of constructing homes, she hides. She can run at any time to the forest that gathered around the small town. She doesn’t know how long it’s been.

But she misses… Warmth. Love.

But then— ( with a space two sizes big around her heart ) how do you spell love?

She stokes the fire, picks up a dry twig in her gathered pile and throws it down.

In amber?

The bonfire bursts with soft hisses, warm immortal body— gold starlight. Azalea closes her eyes, sinking in the warmth. How’d *she* live looking so god?

( She means her, with soft lips and mangosteen. In the leap of her steps, in the comfort of her body the size of two moons. So much like lighthouse in sea. )

Azalea curses. A spark out of hand nearing her bare feet. Warm warm warm. Her breath hitches in her lungs. No. She curls, burying her head in her drawn knees. You spell love, like you spell light light.

Shine.

Spell it like— her.

( “Did the sun kiss you?” Azalea mocks the shorter woman, lithe in nature. Head turns to her, fever eyes shimmer like some gold. *No,* she scrunches her nose, stands, leans across from Azalea’s desk, *no*. Lips like diamonds ( but soft soft ), mangoes ripe in open suns, and she dyes dry flowers in her name.

how do you spell love ( dye ) ?

farah farah farah )

Once upon a time, there was a little princess who lived in a planet not much bigger than herself, and was in need of a friend. And in some fellow days, where the pond in her planet roars with the sea, she places down her chair, and watches forty-seven sunsets, and say; *this must be love, this must be how it feels*.

( “I like you,” She looked so beautiful, Azalea could not say a word in the confession. I like you, like you, you. How do you spell love? How do you say love?

Because it is not ‘like’ she feels, not like in *her* way but, the dawn kind, burning-red sun kind of *this must be love, must be how it feels*. )

Not all humans are aviators.

She stomps the last embers with her boot. The sound of a dozen footmen will follow her in her shadows, gathering up her twigs and stuffing it in her pack. They’re close.

Closer.

Some, are called cowards. And others are called roses.Do you know? A flower rarely cares for anything than itself.

“I heard they caught Unit Bravo in the cells.” And the footmen hollered. *How much would* that *one sell? Such pretty gold for eyes.*

A breath gets caught up in her lungs.

The terrifying thought of maybe, of it is her. Of a scary pain and darkness Azalea will stumble into if she does not run. And, in all truths, she is not running still.

If a flower cares, then it is no flower. In the garden of eve, they call it a lover. A lonely one if not reciprocated, lovers if so.

Her hands come up to brush on the pistol she has cocked in her holster. She can do it. She takes a hestitating inhale. Turning around, her lips quivering.

It’s a cemented platform, rods framing the base, yet a home to be built around it.

It’s been far too long for her. She has principles. Never use a gun unless necessary. But is this necessary? No. She can run, she can sprint to the forest. How long now since she’s held a gun like this with the actual intent to kill?

Four years.

Four, too fucking long, years. 

She can’t do this. She stifles a sob inside her throat. 

For Farah, she can’t even do this?

“Hey! It’s her—” There’s tripping feet when they get to the open horizon. It’s a flat base, perfect for construction, ready for it. It is too easy for them to catch on her, at the edge of the forest, ready to escape.

Azalea takes out her pistol as they did with theirs.

In the garden of Eve, there was only ever two lovers. So who would dare to match up with them?

And in the garden of Eve, there wasn’t ever another pair like Adam and Eve.

A gunshot is fired.

( Lillian, that was her name. Azalea looks on down at the confusing state of the other woman, shivering in fear of her, or something at least. Azalea is fairly a harmless youth in her early twenties. Azalea does not hurt without reason. Doesn’t that otherwise mean harmless?

“My father,” Lillian whispers over the crackling fire, inadvertently muffling down her tone further from afar. Azalea frowns, but leans to hear better. “He used to hurt me.”

Oh.

Azalea turns away. Hurt, hurts. The concept is  confusing for her. She does not know hurt. Like most demons, Azalea does not know what it means to be in pain. There was nothing much she cared for.

“I’m too weak to hurt him. To— kill him.” Her last words are loud enough for Azalea to flinch. Lillia looks at her, some earnesty in her eyes. Some… poison. “But you can, right?” )

She runs.

A bullet edging close to her frame and she covers her hands around the side of her head, swiftly avoiding trips around the forestry.

There will never be a good enough flower to rip its own petals to become an unsteady, lonely lover.

“There!”

Azalea trips, moaning in pain when her surroundings seem to blur all around her. Some green, and brown. Men’s faces appearing to surround her.

A lover is a bad fate to have.

( Lillian has the most beautiful smile on her face. She would be an angel on Earth. However, Azalea always knows better. The so-called angel clapping gleefully at the sight of her tied up abusive father smiles when she turns to Azalea.

“Thank you. Thank you—” She cries out, running towards her and wrapping arms around Azalea like a lover.

Azalea watches the father let out a panicked yell as she reciprocates the action, carefully around Lillian’s waist, burying her nose in her lily scent.

“Can I,” Lillian whispers near her ear. “kill him?” )

She groans when a bullet is shot at her shoulder in such close range, trying to curl around herself but she is kicked to her side.

“Did you get her?”

“Ha, isn’t it obvious?”

In this situation, isn’t it necessary to kill them now? To— kill, otherwise it would be her dying wouldn’t it?

Otherwise, Farah would be…

Alone.

( “Do you know,” Azalea pulls herself apart from Lillian. “Death is mercy. Living… That is the true torture. It is…”

Azalea looks away, turning to her beautiful fingers.

“It is my principle to not kill.” )

-

The little princess who lived in a planet not much bigger than herself knew a flower. And she called this flower Lillian. This little princess with a heart who once was two sizes big in her chest believed that she would never be lonely. But the flower had its thorns, and further in the days, she bled.

-

Azalea takes their guns.

She kicks the bodies with a scowl. 

Toggles all of their safety on.

From what their phones say, Farah should be around a warehouse in this town.

She sharply inhales, marching on out of the forest, the setting sun behind her. Her hands curled into fists. Flowers have thorns.

In things like scales, deaths and lives, don’t you still think its better not to mess otherwise on people ( flowers ) born with knives?  

It was too long. Has been too long. 

-

In the end, the little princess had her heart mutilated by the flower, and the flower was no more.