Late 20s tgirl. Elf ear pervert. Some say hemipenis girl. Writing mostly original F/F. Stories will frequently be horny so if you're under 18 you're getting blocked.



caffeinatedOtter
@caffeinatedOtter

"Oh, give me that," the archer says cheerily. "You'd think, with all the drugs you've put in you, and all the paper your hands are accustomed to, that you'd be able to roll better than that." She scoops the slip of fine paper and pouch of imported pipeweed out of Malia's hands.

"All the drugs?" Malia says, in mock upset. "All the drugs? All my cosmic insights, all my arcane assistance, and what remains in peoples' minds is drugs?"

"Aye," the archer says sunnily, nimbly producing a neat rollup. "When you're immortal and godlike and known to all the world, they'll write you into tomes of wizardly history; Beware of Malia Clag-Snorter, child, and know her by her purchase of drugs by the cartload and by her origami—"

She's cut off by Malia's fingers across her lips, the wizard's face pulled between fond and frowning.

"Immortal?" the wizard says. "Think you that's how I end?"

The archer gives her a cautious look, kisses her fingertips. "Is that not the wizardly aspiration?" she says lightly, handing back the cigarette, and Malia tucks it in the corner of her mouth and seem to consider the question harder than it was intended.

"I have been everywhere," she says finally. "I have been everywhere, I have been within every mote of matter making up your flesh at once, and I have been on the outside of you, each of us within the prison bars of our own flesh, only as close as my fingers can press to you; and I tell you, Steadfast-Be, that one of those is better." She crooks a smile, takes the rollup from her lips and contemplates it, before looking up again at the archer. "Would you still love me, were I the Conqueror Worm?"

"What?"

A motion of Malia's fingers, and the cigarette smoulders. "A lich," she says. "The wizard's immortality. An evil skeleton wizard, aye?"

"Well, the lack of flesh would be a disappointment," the archer murmurs.

"No," Malia says. Something hard flits over her expression. "No disappointment; for to set yourself on immortality means to set yourself on discarding everyone you know to history, as unimportant, as trash. As nothing. Immortal or human; you choose, one or the other. The work of immortality comes after the choice, of course, but by that time you're so far past discarding everyone that you can barely see it any longer in memory—"

"What about that other wizard," the archer says, eyes crinkled in a little concern at Malia's mood, wondering if she should be distracted. "The one that's not a lich, you know the one—"

"The Eternity Mage?" Malia draws a lungful of smoke. "If people understood her, they'd like her no better than one. She has paramours, across all of human time, aye? But she's a thing made of all of her at once, in all parts of her history. All the ones in her lovers' futures, too; she knows how each of them turn out. She's more an expert on memory than time by now, half mad in trying to fence off parts of her for a while, to be able to meet people without already knowing every second they'll have together—" she bites the words off. "You like to flirt, Steady. But the uncertainty, the unfolding of the experience of it, that's the joy, aye? If you knew from the start the precise angle to put your head at to catch their eye, the exact word to choose to make someone feel disposed toward you, then it's not flirting. It's just manipulation. And she has nothing else, she is nothing else, a massive ball of already knowing all the things she'll do. She's not human."

The archer reaches out to stroke her arm, soothingly, and Malia quickly covers the hand with her own, squeezing her fingers.

"She seemed fine, that time she came to meet you," the archer says, then thinks on it. "But that's your point, aye? She always can."

"I will be great," Malia says, savage and angry and smug. "I will be a terror. But I chose, I chose already to live and to end human. They will not write of that as my triumph, but it is, Steady, that it is," and the archer looks into her solemn eyes, nods, and tenderly leans their foreheads together.

"You're staying for us," she says softly, and watches the vulnerable flicker of Malia's smile, and can't help but press a kiss to it, grinning. "Well! Nobody's ever spurned eternity for me before; must be true what they say about tail from the Dells—"

Malia snorts under her lips. "Wretch," she says, flickering fingers rapidly extinguishing and then vanishing the rollup, freeing her hands to drift to the archer's waist. "Every sordid word," she adds huskily.


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