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Random writings and snippits that don't fit anywhere else. |
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If I Should Self Destruct ...you can have my stereo. A collection of random snippits and writings that don't fit anywhere else. |
| Penance -1- His hand slid up her bare back, fingertips lifting the stray strands of her hair from her neck. She smiled, her face pressed against the sheets. She'd been dreaming. Of a man named Zane. And the god he'd become. "Are you happy?" he whispered against her skin, his lips roaming the back of her neck. A sigh escaped her lips. "Content," she breathed back and laughed when his hand gripped her shoulder in play. "Just content?" "Mhmm," she moaned. "I am too lazy to be happy, love." It earned her a small nibble against her ear and she laughed against, rolling over and finally opening her eyes against the golden light coming in through the window. It shone upon his face as he propped himself up with one arm, looking down on her. His hair was mussed and there were scratches along his back that she'd given him. She'd known him for an eternity, but never like this. He was a constant in her life, but their relationship wasn't. It was still new, in its infancy, and she found it exhilarating. They were the only ones who'd stuck together after Dante's defeat. They'd taken a simple life. A simple world. A small cottage away from life, from others, from anyone. A place they could explore each other and the possibilities of what they could do together. She'd never thought she would end up here, in his bed. She hoped it wasn't just a phase. "We will have to leave the bed at some point," he smiled down at her. Her lips puffed in a pout. "No, don't say such things, Veles." It earned a laugh from him and she loved the sound of it. She loved that she could elicit such a sound. The bed immediately felt emptier when he pushed himself up, standing in the golden light. Her eyes roamed his body as he grabbed clothes. Plain, simple. It was their life now. "I'll catch us breakfast." He pulled on his pants and turned to eye her. "If you are not out of bed by the time I am back, I fear it will require punishment." A playful smirked graced her lips. "Do you promise?" His only answer was to lean forward and kiss her forehead. Then he was gone. -2- The bed dipped. She hadn't been fully asleep again, but she hadn't gotten out of bed like Veles had wanted. "You are back too soon," she whispered, rolling over. "What punishment will I..." A gasp cut off the rest of her words. She didn't recognize the man kneeling on the bed. Her hand shot out towards him, conjuring the immortal power, but the man grabbed her wrist and in that moment she knew. He was more than a man. -3 Smoke choked her lungs. The pain was so intense it froze the very blood in her veins. What was left of it. There was only heat. And pain. She thought she was screaming, but the smoke clouded it with coughs. And then even that stopped and her vision clouded. She wanted Veles. Where was her Veles. Then she heard him and he was screaming and at first she thought it was in pain. His hands found her and she realized he wasn't in pain, not physically. She could barely hear him, barely see him. Her name was on his lips and that was enough. "Calah!" -4- "Let me see." She sat on the edge of a ragged bed. They'd found a town, a village. They were unknown to the mortals there, but already she could hear the stirrings of whispers of power and gods. They buzzed in the air and threatened to choke them, but Veles had insisted they were safe here. He'd insisted they had to stop. He kneeled in front of her, his hands on her knees. His eyes wide and pained as he looked up at her. His skin was darkened with soot and his hands blistered from the flames. But the pain wasn't aimed towards the wounds, they were aimed at her and she knew what she was asking him. "Calah..." he whispered. "Please, Veles," she tried again, her voice choked and dry. "Let me see." His eyes closed and for a moment, she didn't think he was going to do as she asked. She kept one arm tucked near her chest, her legs swinging freely and she knew what she was asking. There were already whisperings of the answer scorched onto her limbs. She still had to see. Veles licked his lips and stood slightly, reaching for the table at the edge of the bed and grabbing a small mirror. He held it down to his side and looked up at her again, eyes pleading and broken. "It will heal," he whispered to her. She knew it was the truth. It didn't change anything. At her silence, Veles bit his lower lip, and it looked painful for him to hold up the mirror. Painful because he knew what it would do to her. She met her own gaze in the reflection and it took her breath away. She couldn't recognize what looked back at her. The fire had masked her in scars and horror. Her hand shook as she took the mirror from him, unable to peel her eyes from the stranger, the thing looking back at her. A sob escaped her throat and Veles's grip tightened on her knee at the noise. His mouth opened, probably to tell her again that she would heal. She was immortal. Scars never stayed. She knew it. She didn't want to hear it. "It is my own cruelty come back for me," she whispered, horrified. "No," Veles said sternly. He stood, prying the mirror from her hands and tossing it away in anger. His face was dark and dangerous and she'd seen it that way before. "Calah, listen to me." Tear stung at her eyes and she couldn't look at him. Exhaustion swept over her and she let the tears fall from her eyes, burning her battered skin on the way down her cheeks. "It is deserving retribution." Veles's hands came to her face, cupping her chin as he tried to make her look at him. The grip hurt, but any touch hurt. She couldn't meet his gaze and she felt the growing anger and passion radiating from him. "Whatever penance you think you owe for the things you've done, you have paid in full, love," he grit out. "This is not deserving and it will not go unpunished." Calah closed her eyes. "We were foolish to think we could live in peace," she whispered. "We were foolish to think our past would not come back to pay us back for the things we've done." Veles let out a cry at that and he crouched against, his arms wrapping around her waist and his head laying on her leg, as if he were praying to her and her eyes remained distant, lost to him. She was a fool to think she could have him. She was a fool to think the world would let her forget who she used to be. "Please, Calah," Veles whispered. "Why shouldn't you be happy? Why can't you see that you've been redeemed?" He lifted his head to look at her face and she continued to cry, reaching for his head and trying to turn his face away. "Don't look at me," she whispered and she felt him stiffen beneath her touch. "Don't look at me, Veles." She tipped and laid down on the bed. Veles helped guide her, the pain nearly consuming her. "Leave me to suffer." She felt his fingers run over her head, soft and smooth and then his lips pressed against her shoulder. "If you must suffer," he whispered. "Then I will make who is responsible for this suffer a hundred times greater. And when I am done, I will return to you." He leaned forward, trying to catch her eye. "Calah? Do you hear me?" "Leave me, Veles." His face hardened and he pressed his lips against her forehead. "I will be back." |
| Beautiful -1- Calah couldn't remember his name. A part of her wasn't even sure if she'd asked. His head was between her thighs and his tongue was doing amazing things and that's all that mattered. Names were easy to forget. Names and faces, especially if they were mortal, meant little to her. Their lives were over in the blink of an eye and she couldn't remember a time when she'd ever cared for them. Her head tipped backwards, lips parting, eyes going to the mirrors above her head. They surrounded her. Different shapes and sizes painting the walls with the only thing she ever wanted to remember. Beauty. True beauty. The kind that couldn't be captured by an artist or mimicked in a poem. The kind only the mirror could show her. His head lifted and the words passed between his lips in a whisper. "You're beautiful." A cruel smile curled the corners of her mouth and she reached down to grasp a handful of his hair, pulling his head up and away from her. She sat forward, mouth hovering over his. "I could kill you," she told him. He wasn't fazed, so driven with lust. "I could tear your head from your body." It was true that she could and the thought crossed her mind that she should. He was a waste of her time. Her eyes rose to look pass him and into the mirror. She could see his muscled back as he kneeled in front of her and she met her own gaze, tipping her head back. "Please goddess," he said and she didn't correct him. Let him think she was a goddess. Maybe she was. They never really knew what they were or where they came from. Only that they didn't grow old and didn't die. They'd yet to find a thing that could kill them. Powerful beings. Powerful and beautiful. "Let me have you." Calah smiled at the words. "What price would you pay to have me?" "Anything," he told her. "I would give you my life." "Your life is meaningless to her." Calah's eyes snapped to the doorway to her room where a dark figure stood, dirty and ragged, like he had crawled through the worse of the worlds to get there. He probably had. Tossing the mortal away, she stood, her lips puckered. "Dante," she breathed his name. "Goddess," the mortal said behind her and the dark figure in the doorway snapped his hand out towards him, an echoing snap resounding around them. Calah sought out the mortal in the mirrors, watching him fall lifeless to the ground. "That was mine," she pouted. The sentiment was fake. They both saw straight through it. -2- "You look awful." She offered the observation with a chalice of wine. Dante took both with nonchalance. She ran her fingers across his shoulders as she rounded him, still watching them both in the mirror. Tugging at the rags he was wearing, she pulled them up over his head, mussing his long, dark hair. Dark, awful lines marred his skin and she frowned at them, tracing them with her hands. They would fade. They would heal. They always did. They were still ugly and awful and she shied her eyes away from them, instead meeting her gaze in the mirror across the room. "I was in a prison for the last 100 years," Dante snapped, his voice clipped. "Solitude, save for my tormentors." Calah merely snorted, rounding him again to swing her leg across his, sitting down on his lap. "Only a hundred?" she asked. "Tell me, love, why are you so bitter? We've all done far worse to each other and a hundred years is but a rest for you." The growl that escaped his throat caught her by surprise and he grabbed her wrists violently. She let out a carnal noise, mouth open as she felt the need crawl up in her chest, reminding her that he'd interrupted what the mortal had started. "I've found something that will change it all," he spat. Calah ignored the words. Dante was always searching for ways to deal with the others. To get under their skin, to repay them for hurts they'd caused him. It was nothing new, this rivalry he had with them. Virgil especially. Brothers. Constantly bickering. It annoyed Calah to no end. "Come now, Dante," she whispered, leaning forward to ghost her lips over the nape of his neck. "Let me welcome you home." One of his hands shot to her neck and she inhaled sharply as he squeezed, pushing her back. "I will change everything." She rolled her eyes, hands gripping the one he had around her neck. She wasn't scared. He couldn't kill her. He was violent and dark and she loved it. She loved the power Dante possessed. It was only right he be the one to be rewarded with her beauty. "You'll change nothing," she said flatly. Darkness passed across his face. "Toy with them, be done with it, and come back to my bed." A gasp escaped her lips as he stood, casting her aside abruptly. She caught herself on the chair, head whipping over her shoulder, hair hanging about her face in a dark halo. She narrowed her eyes at him. "You'll rue those words," he spits at her, storming out angrily. She laughs. She doubts. It is only a game. -3- Flowers grow in the courtyard. Plentiful, bold, brilliant colors. They are alive and beautiful and every day, Calah came to the garden to pluck petals from each of the blossoms. The faults needed to be prominent. She would pull the petals from the flowers and crush them in her hands. It wasn't powerful or dangerous, but anything beautiful, she felt compelled to destroy. Some days, she wondered if she was made this way. Made to be a creature of contempt and jealousy. She didn't dwell too long on the thoughts. They were poisonous. Virgil found her sitting among the crushed petals of the flowers. "Where is he?" he demanded. A coy smile parted her lips as she looked up at him, blinking against the light in the sky. "Where is who?" she feigned innocence. She hadn't always been on Dante's side. There had been a long span of time where there hadn't been sides. But when the years slipped by like memories, sides were bound to be drawn. There'd been a war between Virgil and Dante and even though the battle was over, the war waged on. It wasn't that she had anything against Virgil. It was that Dante thought she was beautiful. "Calah, please," Virgil begged. "Virgil," she cooed his name. "You look worried. It is an ugly look on you." Of all the reactions she expected to get out of him, she was surprised when he came forward and kneeled next to her, ignoring the slight. She was used to insulting him, used to pointing out his faults. He never got angry at her and to her delight, sometimes he would slight her back. But this was different and it confused her. For all her years of existence, different wasn't something she was used to. "Calah, I beg of you," he said and she paused at the sincerity in his voice. "This is urgent. I fear he has done something awful that could destroy us all." She laughed because she didn't know what else to do. "You are being very dramatic. What could possibly destroy us?" "Please," Virgil said again and it was enough to make the fight seep from her bones. "Is he back?" Her chin jutted and she studied Virgil's face, now more intrigued than ever. "He was here earlier," she said and she was confused to see actual fear cross Virgil's face. He stood, eyes going to the tower where Dante's room lay. "Stay here," Virgil commanded and took off. Calah sat for only a moment before curiosity got the best of her and she followed after him. -4- Silas sat chained to a chair. Virgil paused just inside the doorway and Dante stood behind Silas, an odd looking scepter in his hands. None of these were what caught Calah's eyes. She stared at Niah, the firey haired woman who stood at Dante's side and all Calah could think was that she wasn't supposed to be there. That was her spot, at Dante's side. A bitter fire rose darkly in her chest and her fists clenched at her side, but she couldn't peel her eyes away from Niah. The jealousy was hot and burning. She could have razed the whole world if the power had been in her. "Dante," Virgil said, holding up his hands. "You don't know what you hold there, brother." Dante smiled cruelly and coldly. "You are wrong. I know exactly what I have here. That you would keep it hidden, pains me, brother," he spat the word as though it were an insult. "This has gone too far," Virgil tried. "You took it too far," Dante spat back, pointing at him. The scepter stayed aimed at Silas's head and Calah thought it was peculiar. What did Dante expect he could do with that? They were immortal. They couldn't die. "You think yourself a leader," Dante continued. "But you are not more powerful than I." "I never claimed to be," Virgil said sadly. Pain etched itself across Dante's face and then it faded as quickly as it had come. "Your words are useless. It is I who holds the power now." Calah frowned and took a step forward to go to his side, but the whole room seemed to freeze as Dante aimed the scepter at Silas's head and a spark of light engulfed the immortal tied to the chair. Calah shielded her eyes for a moment and when the light had passed, she couldn't comprehend what she was seeing for a moment. She thought it was some cheap magic trick at first. Then she felt it. Felt the devastating pain in her chest that she'd never felt before. The pain of loss, of something being torn from her heart and discarded. Beside her, Virgil cringed as he felt it too. She didn't know what it was. Couldn't comprehend because it had never happened in all their years of existence. Silas sat a dried corpse. Mouth agape in death, eyes just empty sockets. His skin had shriveled as if the life had been sucked from his body. Calah thought at any moment, he would go back to normal, but the resonating pain in her chest told her otherwise. It was her mind that was having trouble understanding what she was looking at. An immortal had died. Silas was dead. "Silas?" Calah whispered his name. She'd told the immortal once that she had no love for him, but deep down, they'd all known that wasn't true. They all shared a bond, whether they wanted to or not. They were all bonded by immortality and time. "What have you done?" Virgil whispered. "What you could never do," Dante said coldly. "Together, we will rule everything." Calah's eyes went back to Dante, tearing away from the corpse that sat where an immortal once did. "We?" she whispered. Dante's gaze fell on her and he didn't stop Niah when her arm went around his waist. He didn't push her away or cast her aside as she laid her head on his shoulder. Calah felt the world drop from beneath her feet and a physical pain rise up in her gut. It was rejection and betrayal in a way she couldn't understand. "Sorry," Dante whispered to her. "You're just not for me." The words choked her, nearly doubling her over in the physical pain she felt. Her lips parted and a cry of despair escaped them at the pain of rejection. She barely noticed the scepter being swung her way and in the next moment, Virgil's arms were wrapped around her and they were fleeing. The walls exploded around them and she wasn't moving on her own, frozen in the pain of heartache. When next she opened her eyes, they had appeared in the main hall. The others sat there, wide eyed and bewildered and Calah couldn't say anything. Virgil kept an arm around her. "Silas is dead," Virgil told them. "We felt it," one of the others said. Followed by, "How?" "We must go," Virgil said. "Now." They fled then. They all fled. |
| come together 2 A "Invalid Item"  AU – I still don’t know the characters or how they act…--- Delaney turned the key, locking the jail cell. He glanced at the scruffy man inside, who gave him a goofy smile. He’d said his name was Boris, but somehow Delaney doubted that was true. The other guy had said his name was “Fucking Mary Magdalene.” Somehow, he doubted that one as well. “You boys play nice,” he told them, before closing the door to the cells and heading out into the office. He stood there for a moment and glanced around. They’d both had IDs on them, multiple actually and Delaney didn’t know who they were, but they were bad news. No one who had multiple fake IDs meant well coming to a town like Rain Hill. He grabbed one of the wallets and rifled through the IDs. He thought about running them through the system to see if the alias’s caught a match, but he didn’t think that would work either. With guys like this, once a name got hot, they threw it out. He still had the fingerprint database to go through. Pausing midway into his chair, he glanced at his computer and then stood up again. The databases. That’s what had struck him odd about their willingness to be arrested. The way “Boris” had said it. They wanted something from the database. He smirked. It was quiet in the jail cells and he didn’t like it. Grabbing the back of a folding chair, he carried it with him as he opened the door. Immediately, “Boris,” who had been standing near the door to his cell, put his hands behind his back and tried to look innocent. It failed. Delaney didn’t call him on it. Instead, he pulled the folding chair to the wall on the opposite side of their jail cells and opened it, sitting down heavily with his arms crossed as he just stared at the two. For a moment, they all just stared at each other. It was “Boris” who finally broke the silence. “So, Sheriff,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Enjoying the view?” Delaney shook his head. “Not really,” he told him. “But you came here with the thought that you would pick the lock, get what you need, and escape. So until the Sheriff actually gets here in the morning, you go near that door and I’ll shoot you.” “Boris” scowled. “So you’re just a lowly deputy.” “Yep,” Delaney answered simply and then leaned back in his chair, settling in. It was going to be a long night. The man stood there for a moment before he scoffed and turned to sit down. Delaney caught sight of a paperclip in his hands and the man just slipped it into his jacket pocket before crossing his arms over his chest and scowling like a child at him. “You think you’re so smart,” Boris growled. “Observant,” Delaney corrected. The other man, supposedly “Mary,” snorted. “Any other ideas?” he shot to his comrade in the other cell. Boris shrugged. “He’ll make a mistake,” he said. “He can’t sit here forever. He’ll get hungry for donuts or coffee…” the man brightened up. “Maybe we could use the power of suggestion to make him pee.” He leaned forward. “Waterfalls. Rivers. Lemonade. You gotta pee yet?” “No,” Delaney said dryly. “You will soon,” Boris told him. Delaney doubted it. |
| come together A "Invalid Item" AU – I don’t know the other characters or how they would act--- Delaney was good at reading fights. He could usually distinguish between a drunken brawl, a lover’s quarrel, a test of manhood, and a few other reasons people took swings at each other. Drunken brawls were usually heated, but sloppy. The alcohol managed to take away people’s inhibitions, allowing them to hit harder and without reservation, but it also impaired their senses, making the biggest loser in the fight the air. A lover’s quarrel was usually heavily one sided. Even if it was a love triangle with two men fighting over the same woman. There usually wasn’t a consensus between all parties involved that a fight was what needed to take place. Tests of manhood were probably the most dangerous fights, simply because both parties had something to prove. Both wanted to be bigger and better and stronger and no matter what had caused the fight, it wasn’t about proving themselves right. It was about proving themselves worthy. If Delaney had to guess, these two were fighting for the latter reason. It was heated and awful. The blows were precise and meaningful and they weren’t afraid to use their environment. They looked like they had some training, or at least had been in other fights before. One of them looked like the desert wind had blown him in, dirty and ragged and tough. He seemed the angrier of the two. The other man was scruffy and, Delaney couldn’t think of the right word for it, but if he had to say something, he’d say animalistic. Like a dog fight, which he’d seen his fair share of, breaking them up two counties over when the department had asked for him as back up. But this wasn’t a dog fighting ring and it wasn’t a drunken brawl he could just get into the middle of. This was a fight in the middle of the street between two guys who had something to prove to each other. And Delaney was alone with a Sheriff’s deputy star on his breast and a gun in his holster. Tasers were too expensive and mace went bad too quickly around here. There were never enough chances to use it. He’d have to be smart about this. “Hey,” he tried. “I’m going to have to ask you to cease fighting.” The two men didn’t stop from trying to kill each other. Delaney sighed and took a few steps away from his squad car. He unholstered his gun, but kept it aimed at the ground and tried again. “Hey!” he yelled a little louder. Still, they didn’t stop and Delaney made a face before aiming his gun into the air and firing off a shot. Finally, the two stopped fighting, shoving away from each other and Delaney watched as the two appraised themselves and then the other, he supposed for bullet wounds, before they turned and glared at him. By then, his gun was lowered at them. “I asked nicely,” Delaney said. The scruffy looking one held up his hand, but Delaney kept his gun trained on the other. There was a holster laying a few feet away that he assumed belong to him, but that didn’t mean he still wasn’t concealing a weapon somewhere on his person. “Sheriff,” the scruffy one said. “Trust me, it’s best if you just stay out of this.” Delaney didn’t move his aim from the other man. “I doubt it. I’m going to need you both to take two steps towards me and lay face down on the ground.” “Are you insane?” the scruffy man asked. “You’re really going to try to arrest us?” “Not just try,” Delaney said. “Do as I ask or I will shoot you.” He tightened his finger around the trigger, eyes going back to the man near the holsters. “And if you go for those guns, I’ll take it as an act of aggression and will be required to use deadly force.” The man quirked his head to the side. “You think you’re faster than me?” he growled, spitting blood from the side of his mouth, obviously still riled up. “Yes,” Delaney answered without a hesitation or doubt. The scruffy one cleared his throat, holding his hands up. “You know, this might not be so bad,” he said, which earned him a side glare from the other. “To go to the sheriff’s office, where they have sheriffs…and guns…and databases…” Delaney frowned slightly as the two look at each other, the scruffy one jerking his head in a silent conversation to the other. It took a minute, but finally the other man sighed and held his hands up, forcing a smile on his face. “Okay, Sheriff. You win.” |
| Delaney Monroe a character study for "Invalid Item" --- 1. tough Delaney came home with a black eye on the third day of school. He hadn’t cried or complained about it and when his father asked him what happened, he’d told his father, “I have a black eye because I have a girl’s name.” It wasn’t, “someone hit me,” or “people think my name is a girl’s name.” It was facts. It was cool and calm and straight to the point and it was then that his father knew what sort of man his little boy was going to become. There were multiple ways his father could have handled it. He could have tried to tell Delaney that he should be angry or hurt. He could have tried to say that he didn’t have a girl’s name. He could have gone to the school and demanded the kid apologize. He didn’t do any of those and in a way, his father accepted, enabled, and shaped the way Delaney would grow. His father accepted his son’s answer and in return, told him, “Someone gives you a black eye, you give them two back.” That’s exactly what he did. And he kept doing it until people didn’t talk about his name anymore. People didn’t shove him or push him unless that wanted it back tenfold. This is what made Delaney tough. --- 2. collected His father died when he was in high school. Just shy of Delany’s eighteenth birthday. His father hadn’t seen him grow up to be a man and maybe that stung a little. The priest wanted to console him and Delaney tried to tell him he didn’t need it. People came and went and his father had been a smoker all his life, so he’d brought it on himself. The priest tried to tell him it was normal to deny a person’s grief. Delany tried to tell the priest that he wasn’t sure if he was grieving. He would miss his father and he was disappointed he was gone, but grief? He wasn’t sure he knew how that felt. Emotions never came easy for Delany. But when he was burying his Dad in front of a crowd of strangers, he cried for quite possibly the first time since his infancy. A few stray tears. That was all. A man from the post office came up to him after the funeral. He’d been trying to joke when he said, “A life of tears doesn’t suit you.” Delaney had to agree. He wouldn’t ever cry again, because even a stranger had told him it wasn’t worth it. This is what made Delaney collected. --- 3. calm The army was the only place he could go after he sold his house and most of his possessions. He’d finished high school and the next day he was on a bus to a fort in Texas. His drill sergeant reported to his superiors that he was emotionally stunted. The quietest and coldest recruit he’d ever seen. Disturbing as a friend, but perfect as a soldier. He was the kind of man they needed on the front lines. So that’s where Delaney went. Two tours, a handful of conflicts and the thing that takes Delaney out of the army is a stray bullet and purple heart. And a bronze star. His unit thought he was cold and distant and didn’t care about the camaraderie or brotherhood. A frag grenade changes that when it takes out a sergeant’s legs and Delaney carries him over his shoulders for a mile and a half to safety. It takes the medical staff nearly ten minutes to realize that the blood on Delaney’s flat jacket doesn’t all belong to the sergeant. There’s a bullet lodged between Delaney’s ribs. “Why didn’t you say something?” one of the nurses says to him. “It doesn’t hurt,” he tells her. His silence saved the sergeant, who had nearly bled to death. This is what makes Delaney calm. --- 4. cold Delaney marries a woman when he gets home from tour. Six years later, she divorces him. He doesn’t ask why and that seems to make it worse. She yells at him that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about her or that they don’t have kids. She says it’s like sleeping next to a statue at night, because it’s hard to get him to smile and when he does, it feels like he’s acting. She says that he has no emotions and he’s calm when he should be angry and calm when he should be happy and he’s so damn calm that she can’t take it anymore. Delaney doesn’t disagree. He doesn’t think she’ll understand what things calm can accomplish, she he doesn’t try to explain. On her way out the door, she turns and looks at him as he sits on the couch, watching her go. “Do you care that I’m leaving?” “Yes,” he tells her, because that’s the right answer. “Then why aren’t you trying to stop me?” Delaney shrugs. “You’ve already made up your mind.” She just shakes her head. “Do you even feel anything?” He waits for the door to close. “Cold,” he tells himself. |
| .family. The scene was gruesome. One of the worst Sam had seen since she'd joined the Undertakers. It had to be some ritualistic killing. There seemed to be a lot of them lately. But this one was bad. It was a family. Sam had a soft spot for families. Especially her own. She wasn't a detective or a sergeant, so it wasn't her job to investigate the crime scene. Her job was to rope it off, hold people back, and wait for the big wigs to do their job and solve it. Some days she wished she was the one solving crimes. Other days, like this day, she was glad all she had to do was stretch police tape across a doorway. It was a family and Sam had a soft spot for families. .partners. Caleb tried to get the mustard off of his collar while Sam drove. He was a sloppy eater and Sam thought it was good that he'd found himself a wife who was willing to put up with his demanding laundry schedule. "You hear about the Were pack on 31st?" Caleb asked, still trying to rub the yellow stain from his shirt. Sam licked her lips, eyes going to the rearview mirror for a moment before she lied. "Nope." "They're cats," Caleb went on. Sam's hands tightened around the steering wheel. "Cougars or something. You have to wonder who thought up some of these Weres, huh?" "They're created by witches," Sam said automatically. Caleb snorted. "Shit, I know that. I'm just saying...why break from the norm? Wolves don't cut it anymore?" Sam shrugged nonchalantly. "Don't ask me. I wouldn't know shit about it." .blood. When Roman asks for blood in exchange for information, she wants to tell him no. She doesn't. She says yes. She knows as soon as the fangs sink in that this changes everything. She won't be the same. She tells herself it's for the greater good. She lies. .bite. His name is Trent and he's her boyfriend depending on what day of the week you ask. She's known Trent for a couple of years and he doesn't have a whole lot going on upstairs, but he's pretty to look at. They go dancing at a bar. She wears a strapless black dress and she's out on the dance floor with Trent's hands around her waist when she sees Roman. At first, she doesn't think he's noticed her, but then his eyes shift towards hers and for a moment, she's stuck. She's tuck because she sees hunger on his face and she wants to sneer at him and tell him she doesn't give blood for free. She's stuck because a part of her wants the bite. She realizes this and it takes every amount of effort she can muster to look away and turn around to face Trent. "Let's go," she says. Trent misunderstands, she can tell by the smutty grin on his face. She might give him what he wants tonight, but she doesn't think so. She doesn't want to fuck Trent. She just doesn't want to give in to Roman. |
| Tristan stares at the opposite wall as he lays still on his bed. His back is torn to shreds by his Dad's belt and it isn't the first time this week that he's upset his Dad to the point of getting a beating. He lays there with tears on his cheeks and his arms folded in front of him and he misses Isaac. He misses his brother. There was no stopping their Dad when he got mad, but at least Isaac was usually there afterwards to remind him that he was alright. He was usually there to mend the wounds. His other brother's didn't care. He was the runt, he was the weak link and his other brothers just thought of him as a nuissance. He sniffles and he misses Isaac. There's a woman singing in the corner of his room and even when he closes his eyes and tells himself she's not there, he can still hear her. She drowns out his own thoughts and after a while, he just gives up and listens to the song she's singing. It's a lullaby. He lets it lull him to sleep. *** His Dad has his hands around his neck. He pulls back a fist and brings it down hard into Tristan's face with a crack. He can taste blood, he can feel it all over his face. His Dad slams him into the floor and then hits him again and again and again. Trist goes limp, he's trying to submit, but his Dad isn't accepting it. He's scared. He's scared that this time his father has realized he's not worth keeping around. Tristan's head rolls to the side and his younger sister is there, eyes wide as she watches. There are tears in her eyes. His other brothers aren't there. They don't care. She does. He wishes she doesn't. *** He's beaten unconscious and when he comes to, he's still on the kitchen floor. His sister is there, and she's trying to clean out the wounds. There's a fresh bruise on her cheek and it makes Tristan angry because that's his little sister and their Dad can beat the crap out of him if he wants, but he should never be allowed to touch his sister. "Tristan?" she asks, small and scared. He nods. "We're leaving," he says. She just nods in response and doesn't question. *** The house smells like Isaac. It was hard tracking him, he'd done a good job of hiding himself. But their little sister is good at it. She's good at following the scent of wolf. Tristan wouldn't have been able to do it without her. There's a penguin following them. He knows it's not really there. When they knock on the front door, a strange wolf opens it and Tristan's lip pulls back in a snarl. He pulls his sister behind him and he's pointing a finger at the strange wolf. "We're looking for Isaac." The wolf lifts an eyebrow. "Can I ask who you are?" he asks and Tristan doesn't like the pleasantries. "We're his fucking siblings," his sister says and Tristan doesn't have it in him to scold her for swearing. His knees are getting wobbly, his face pounding and he just wants his brother. He's tired of watching his back and skirting around their father. He just wants to sleep. A familiar voice speaks from the doorway, but Tristan's already halfway to the ground. "Tristan?" Familiar arms catch him and he closes his eyes, resting his head against his brother's shoulder. "Make it go away," he whispers. "Make it go away." |
| Blood dripped from the end of Ayden's nose as he sat tied to the chair. He couldn't lift his head and see where he was at, but it sounded dark, damp, decayed and dead. He remembered the motel room. He remembered how empty it felt because Johnny had run away. He'd been a dick of an asshole and he'd run off because something had bit him and now maybe he wasn't as human as he'd like to be anymore. So instead of waiting for Ayden to fix it, he'd run off like a little bitch and as soon as Ayden saw him again, he was going to tell him exactly what he thought of that. If he saw him again. Right now, it wasn't looking so good. Blood dripped from the end of his nose. It trickled from the corners of his lips and he's in pain, everywhere. He remembers the motel room and hanging up the phone with Ashley Baker. He remembers telling the man to get there as soon as he could, he's found something that could save Johnny. Ashley Baker says he isn't worth saving because he's a little bitch. Ayden disagrees. With the worth saving part, not the little bitch part. Ashley Baker isn't the first one there. Ayden doesn't expect it and that's his fault because he's a god damn Marshall and that means there are always baddies out there that want to hurt him. He shouldn't have let his guard down. Not ever. But he did. He did and a baddie found its way inside the motel room to kick his face in and take him. Blood drips from the end of nose and Ayden tries to blink away the macabre sight of stab wounds around his torso. They knew just where to hit. They knew just where to stab where it wouldn't hit anything vital, but it would bleed and it would hurt like hell. One of his eyes is swollen shut and he's coughing blood, wheezing as he breathes and maybe they knicked a lung. It's hard to stay awake. He see's Johnny's face, being a little bitch because he got bit by something nasty and now he's turning into something nasty. He see's Johnny's face as they argue that Ayden can find a way to stop it and Johnny shouldn't be locked up or killed. Johnny's finger is itching the trigger of his gun and Ayden tells him that it's a pussy's way out to kill himself. He thinks it's the only thing that stops Johnny from pulling the trigger. He's see's Johnny's face as his brother straddles his waist, hands wrapped thickly around Ayden's neck, choking the life out of him. Except it's not Johnny's face. It's the evil thing he's threatening to become. Ayden chokes out a beg and Johnny's eyes suddenly widen. He lets go, scrambling back and Ayden lays there hacking and gagging on the ground. He doesn't even sit up before Johnny is out the door and gone. Just like that. What a little bitch. Now Ayden sits in this dead, dark, decaying, damp room with blood dripping from the end of his nose and stabs wounds around his torso and blood choking his throat. His eye is swollen shut and he can't feel his hands from where they're bound with rope behind his back. He could have gone to college. He was smart and he'd gone a few semesters at a community college, but it got to hard to explain the injuries and having to leave to go hunt things down. It was too hard to be normal when you were anything but. He wonders if this would still be happening if he had stayed in school. Or maybe Johnny would be dead. He wonders where his brother is. A shotgun blast sounds and he thinks maybe it's an answer, but he's having trouble breathing and his head is so heavy it hangs down in front of him. He hears something scream awful and loud, screeching. A hand finds his shoulder and then a familiar voice is cursing, "Jesus. Little Buddy, can you hear me?" Ashley Baker. The man's bright Hawaiian shirt hurts his one open eye. It's too bright in this dark, damp, dead place. Ayden tries to tell him yes, he can hear him, but his head lolls to the side and Ashley Baker is rounding the chair, pulling at the rope around his wrists. Another shotgun and the sound of something being beat echoes through the room and then Johnny, the little bitch himself, is coming to stand in front of Ayden. His eyes are wide as they look down at him, shotgun in one hand. He's got darkness under his skin, something evil trying to turn him. But the fear in his eyes is all Johnny. He swallows thickly and leans down. "Ayden?" he asks, voice wavering. "Shit, you in there?" "I found a cure," Ayden whispers hoarsely, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth as he says it. Johnny's face contorts and he nods, crouching down in front of him, the shotgun resting across his knees. "I know," he says quietly. "That's why these guys came after you. You messed around with their shit, you dumbass." Ayden doesn't say anything as Ashley gets the rope to loosen. His hands fall forward and it hurts badly. He starts to tip out of the chair, but Johnny is moving forward and catches him. His arm is soft and comforting around his shoulders and it makes Ayden's eyes flicker close. He doesn't recognize this Johnny and it's not because he's evil. It's because he's scared and he cares. "Hang on, Little Buddy," Ashley Baker says. "Hold him there a minute, let me get the first aid. He's losing too much blood." "Okay," Johnny's voice is small and then they're alone in the room. He feels his brother shift beneath him and then Johnny's asking, "Ayden? Come on, don't die on me now." Ayden smirks. "I won't," he whispers back, even if his eyes won't open. "Need to tell you what a bitch you are." Johnny snorts. "Fuck you," he says, but it lacks the normal bite. Ayden licks his dry lips. "Johnny," he says, and he hates that it turns into a whimper as the pain from the stab wounds starts to make itself known. Johnny tightens his grip on him. "I'm here," Johnny says. Ayden nods. "I found a cure." |
| She never cried when Luka died. She was so busy trying to keep her son alive and safe that she didn’t have time to grieve over his death. And having Mischa around didn’t help, because on off days, she could pretend like Luka was still here. They had the same face. Mischa was bigger and stronger and had more tattoos, but she could pretend. She breaks in the bathroom of a cheap motel room in Wyoming. She isn’t sure what pushes her over the edge. Every time she showers, she takes off the ring on a necklace around her neck and sets it on the counter. But for some reason, when she takes it off this time, she can’t tear her eyes away from it. She just looks at the silver ring and Luka had gotten it for her a few years back. They’d never married, but it didn’t mean they didn’t love each other. He’d gotten her the ring on Tommy’s birthday. It meant they had escaped. She should have known better. Her hand comes out to run along the chain and as soon as it meets the cold metal of the ring itself, she’s crying. It doesn’t come slowly. She’s crying and sobbing all at once and her knees give out as she falls to a sitting position against the tub. She rests her head on her knees and she sobs because Luka is dead. Luka is dead. She isn’t surprised when the bathroom door opens softly. She doesn’t know how he’ll react. She’s been spending so much time trying to get him to trust her. She’s tired of trying. She’s tired of pretending everything is okay and she doesn’t feel guilt gnawing away at her gut because she knows she got Luka killed. Mischa sits down quietly next to her and the feel of his arm wrapping around her shoulders and pulling her close to him reminds her so much of Luka that it only makes her cry harder. Mischa’s chin rests on the top of her head and she can pretend it’s Luka, but she’s tired of lying. Luka is dead. Dead and gone. After a while, she has nothing left to cry and they’re still sitting on the floor in the bathroom. Tommy is probably out in the motel room, trying to give them some privacy and she feels like she’s failed. She’s supposed to be strong for her son. But she’s tired. She misses Luka and as she thinks it, she nestles her head against Mischa’s chest, his arm still around her, holding her tight. “I never even told him my real name,” she whispers, her voice broken and her shoulders shaking. “Nyet,” Mischa says. “You tell him only name that matters.” She shakes her head. “He didn’t even know me. I loved him and he didn’t know me.” “You are Anya,” he Mischa says sternly. “You will always be Anya. Anyone else is liar.” “Anya’s the lie,” she whispers. “He shouldn’t be dead.” Mischa turns his head and she just closes her eyes as his lips press into her hair. “Nyet, he shouldn’t,” he agrees. “But he is. For you. He love you.” She shakes her head. “He loved a lie.” “Then it is good lie.” |
| "Baka!" Emi yelled as her sword sliced through the last lizard-like creature aiming its dripping jaws at Sly. She hated that they were going after him, but the fierceness behind her blow wasn't drawn by hate. It was drawn by the half of a medallion she held in her hand and the matching half he held in his. This was it. This was her freedom and her life with Sly. After this, she was done being the guardian. She could defeat Takeru and the seal would be saved and she could spend the rest of her days with Sly. It had made her giggle when he'd asked her if she was afraid of growing old. She hadn'tk nown how to answer him except to laugh and kiss him and he'd accepted that answer, whatever it may mean. He accepted all of her answers that involved her kissing him. And this medallion was the key. It was the key to her freedom. Tucking into a roll along the ground, she ran for Sly, gunning for him as he held his hand out, the half of the medallion towards her. She didn't hesitate. There was no doubt or second guessing. He'd said this was the key, he'd said this would save her and let them be together forever and she believed him. She believed Sly and she trusted him and if he said this was the answer, then this was the answer. The world jolted around them as soon as the halves of the medallion were reintroduced. Electricity seemed to snap between their fingers and for a split second, her eyes met Sly's. She wanted to tell him she loved him, because she hadn't said the words yet, but she did. She thought he knew. She hoped he knew. Because now they were going to be together. Except the medallion cracked apart no sooner than it had been put together again. Emi let out a pained cry as she was flung backwards, Sly mirroring her on the other side, though his descent was shortened as he hit the wall behind him, falling to his hands and knees. Emi tried to land gracefully, her hand skimming the asphalt, but all she managed was to scrape away her skin and she rolled, her sword coming loose from her fingers. As she came to a stop, a awful pain came to life on her chest and she couldn't help but cry out, her torn hand coming to her sternum as symbols and designs etched their way onto her skin. She sat up, looking down at herself, pulling her button up shirt apart to look at her chest and her eyes widened as a circle with twelve animal symbols burned its way onto her chest. She shook her head. It was a marking she was all too familiar with and she didn't know why it was on her skin now. Her head snapped up to look at Sly, who sat against the wall. His eyes widened when he saw Emi and she watched as he pulled his shirt up, exposing just bare skin where the symbols had once been. She didn't understand, but apparently Sly did. He looked back up and suddenly flung his piece of the medallion away. "No!" he yelled. "I..." she shook her head because she knew what this meant but she didn't want to admit it. "Shirubureka," something hissed from her side and she turned to fight it off, her hand pawing on the ground for her sword, but she'd lost it in the fall. It didn't stop her from slaughtering the monsters now coming at her. Their eyes focused on the symbol on her chest. "Emi!" she heard Sly scream, fear and panic making his voice awful. She turned, trying to see what was coming after him so she could cut it down. But he just stood shakily against the wall, his eyes locked on her. No, not her. Something behind her. The pain was sudden and firey. She jerked and tried to draw in a breath, but her body wouldn't listen. Sly's eyes widened and then he was screaming, fire erupting from his hands, but Takeru's monsters dropped between them, sacrificing themselves for their master. A hand on her shoulder pulled her tigheter against her own blade, protruding from her chest, coming from the center of the symbol as if it were a target. That's exactly what it was. Her head fell backwards, her body unable to keep herself up. Takeru leaned a cheek against her forehead. "This is my gift to you," he whispered. "Freedom. And your lover's life. Take it and be satisfied." She couldn't draw breath and around them, the world started to crumble. The ground breaking open and this was a part of the seal she never saw. The breaking. The ending. This was her failure. Takeru drew Kaidokusuru from her chest and she fell to the ground in a heap. He tossed the sword down beside her and she saw her own blood staining the metal. From beyond that, she could hear Sly screaming. Primal, animalistic and her eyes started to slip close. The world started to fade around her because she'd failed. "Emi," Sly's voice broke through the fog and when her eyes opened again, she was in his arms, looking up at him. His face was stained with blood and tinged black from the fire he manipulated. There were already tears streaking through the soot and his hand padded down her hair. "Babe?" She tried to say his name, but only blood came from her mouth. "No, please," he whispered, pulling her up to his chest, his hand pressing over the pulsing wound in her own. "This isn't what I wanted," he whispered. "Emi, please. Stay with me." Her fingers grasped weakly at his shirt. She wanted to do what he asked, but the world was fading around her, blood trickling from the corners of her mouth. She wanted to tell him she loved him. She loved him more than anything. He would always be hers. He would always be the one she chose. "Babe, please," he whispered. "Please." She thought about him telling her about the girl who'd died in his arms before. She hated she was repeating it. She hated he would remember her like this. Weak. Frail. Dying. Dead. "Sly," she gurgled. He hugged her tightly, the tears coming unbidden now. The words were on her tongue, waiting to be said. She didn't get the chance. |
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Aww I love them. Poor Calah!