Rampaging Plot Bunnies

So, let's get writing, shall we? :)

The square, top-heavy mailbox sulked on the curb, ensconced in early afternoon shadow. Front flap side open, it seemed to pant for breath in the late summer heat. While its expression may have been mistaken for insolence by a few jealous neighbours - they had no choice but to swelter stoically in the glaring light - the mailbox was most certainly jealous. For what repository of the postal service, with peeling paint, tarnished brass, and accumulated muck, can help but envy the pristine condition of a nearby SUV?

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(So I just randomly started writing, and this is what's coming of it. I'll for sure have more, but consider this a prologue)

Normally, kisses are described as feeling like fire, hot with love and passion. But all I felt was a nauseating cold upon my lips, and the closest thing my mind could associate the feeling of it to was the mucus that a sick person would blow out of their nose. I stood exactly as I had before he had kissed me, with my feet planted firmly and my back straight, the picture of defiance. We had been in a heated argument, the both of us drawing ourselves up to our full heights, as if in a battle of posture we could settle our battle of words. And then, before I could react, he had grabbed my shoulders and closed the few inches between us. I suppose he must have thought that I would be so shocked that I would just let him win the argument. True enough, I hadn’t expected it. But I would not let this derail me. It took everything in me to suppress a gag, and I stared forward apathetically. This kiss means nothing. I consoled myself. Nothing at all. I felt him hesitate as he realized I wasn’t responding to him, and that was my cue to lift my hand up to his chest and gently push him away. His hands remained on my shoulders a moment longer, as though if he could somehow stay physically connected it would make up for my unresponsiveness. But as soon as he saw the look in my eyes, unchanged from before his forwardness, except to add a new layer of steely anger, he let go and took a step back. This man, the crown prince of Auven, visibly deflated before me, all of his fierceness and determination gone from him, replaced by a tired dejection. We stood like that in a terse silence for what felt like an hour, though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. The shadows seemed thick and heavy, and combined with the arc of moonlight that poured in through the arched window beside us, he looked ethereal before me, the black of his thick, unkempt hair furthering the effect by its stark contrast to his pale skin. My stomach twisted, but I kept my face impassive. Finally, he looked up and met my eyes. His, which were normally a striking green, looked dimmed and broken, and I couldn’t help but wonder what he saw in mine.
“Penn…” he started, in a hoarse whisper. “I-I’m sorry, I just..” he trailed off again, and his eyes fell back to the floor. I shook my head slowly.
“No, sire. There is nothing more to be said. I must bid you good night.” I tried to speak with sternness, but it only came out as a tense weariness. Guess that will have to do. I stood there a moment longer, then walked past him, down the corridor, leaving him alone in the shadows and the moonlight.