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| Welcome To The Night You find yourself in London on a dreary, foggy night like any other. But what lurks in the shadows is the stuff of fantasies and nightmares, far from mortal reality. This game uses the cursed and immortal vampiric condition as a backdrop to explore themes of morality, depravity, the human condition, salvation, and personal horror. We are a writing and roleplaying community dedicated to telling complex and engaging stories. Your fate is your own. Mingle among the ivory-tower elite in the Camarilla, join the fight of the discontented and chaotic Anarch rabble, or set out independently and attempt to survive in London's nighttime underworld. Anything is possible in our World of Darkness. Create Your Account! If you're already a member, please log in to your account to access all of our features: |
| Wake up, Little susie.; (Semi Open - PM) Church | |
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| Topic Started: Monday, 21. July 2014, 05:33 (1,014 Views) | |
| Mac | Monday, 21. July 2014, 05:33 Post #1 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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She was doing her usual monthly check of her finances, using a brand new internet cafe because of an inbred need to avoid double tapping any haunt. It wasn't like it mattered anymore, she could very well use the same computer over and over and no one would gain any new intel on her location. The world now knew exactly where she was, she'd been in London far to long to labour under any belief that if someone wanted to find her, she'd be under their radar. She used to check in from all over the world, usually a least another town every other month, often other states and provinces, even countries. Now, now save for France, anyone following the financial trail (fingers crossed her Nossie was still dutifully keeping that under wraps) would know London was the place to bomb to off that Amazonian fuck face. This particular internet cafe served actual coffee, and the smell of it on the air was rather reminiscent of her teenage hang over years. She used to drink a lot of coffee (usually spiked) to help recover after a good long night of being drunk and stupid. She wasn't drunk, but she sure as shit was hitting ye old flask in her pocket every few minutes. She hated being in a cafe like this, there were to many teenagers and kids on video games. Some of them stank to high heavens, and she wanted to grab the kid three computers down from her and threaten him within an inch of life to learn to wash his god damned clothes and apply deoderant. It was moments like this she was thankful her partner didn't perspire, because he'd probably have been one hell of a stinky mother fucker in is living years. As it was, she had to tackle him down and forcefully remove his pants if she wanted those washed, and they only collected whatever he spilled on them. She didn't have to worry about sweaty ball wreak, which she was pretty sure she'd caught a whiff of when she passed that kid earlier. She sat with the white screen throwing that slightly blue tint over her features, dressed as boring as she always did. Ripped jeans, black wife beater, slightly worn in grey sneakers, waist length dreadlocks piled atop her head and curled into a bun to keep them off her neck. She was damp to the touch in heat like this, naturally of a warmer temperature than normal kine, and she seemed to sweat pure ethanol because of her small issue of being an alcoholic. She typed with one finger, jamming it at the key and keeping the button depressed for a fragment longer than necessary each time. It was like she wanted to break the keys, like they'd done her a personal injustice in some way and she was assaulting them for it. Truthfully, it was just that she wasn't good with a computer. She'd never made grade 12, Marco had snagged her just before the start of her finishing year, and computers still hadn't been a big thing then. She was from an era when Oregon trail was still black and white, and you'd get a slap upside the head if you wanted to print something that wasn't absolutely necessary to your existence. She jabbed her login into the ghost site she'd been given by her nossie, entering the password fiercely and hearing a small crack from the plastic keyboard. She hadn't actually intended to do it damage, and she made a face of being off put as she tried to eye the keyboard closer to see. Meh.... it was alright, just a little superficial crack right? When she hit enter, she spent a few moments tracking down the screen slowly with a finger and reading under her breath, lips moving along. What the fuck? After moments confusion, she was jabbing at the keyboard again although this time she didn't really care if she damaged it. She checked her e-mail attached to her financial connections, eyebrows knotting into a furious look of rage. Middle Tennessee Mental Health Institute, Payment past due? “What... What the fuck!?” She seemed to yell at the computer screen, although it was more of a loud 'conversation voice' to her own sensibilities, smacking it along the edge of the monitor and causing the entire screen to flicker on and off a few times as the monitor teeter like it was deciding if it was going to fall off the desk or not. A hand slamming down on top of it stopped it from falling, as she nearly pressed her nose to the screen as her lips moved along to read the notice. She didn't get to finish it, before she was throwing a fist into the screen and causing everyone in the cafe to jump, scream, and back away. |
![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Church | Monday, 21. July 2014, 21:26 Post #2 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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If Mac thinks she's having problems... Undoubtedly one of the greatest things that we get from the whole fanger condition is the immortality. Personally, I'm not a fan. I'd quite happily take the staying young and strong perk, but It'd still be nice to, y'know, die of natural causes aged one hundred. I'm nearly seventy. Fuck knows if I'd be alive right now. I don't think so, but you never know. At least if I was an old man bumbling through a world so very fucking different from my childhood, I'd look right doing it. Right now? Right now there's a retard-junkie trying to do this shit called 'google.' I don't know why I thought it was a good idea to tag along, but I legitimately had things to do. I had no idea how infuriating and painstaking this things were till I parked my ass down one over from Mac and tried to use a keyboard and a mouse. The process is probably a hundred times slower than your average joe, cause I get a little excited with my typing and I ruin everything in front of me. You'd think I struggle with a phone more, smaller buttons and what not, but no. what the fuck is this? My hands have the amazing ability of somehow covering just the key I'm looking for every god damn time. And far be it from me to criticize the system, but, shouldn't this fucking thing at least be in alphabetical order? It takes me way too long to write out one fucking sentance. Did you mean...? I know what I fucking meant. Jebus. My fingers, I guess subconsciously, massage this building headache with aimless strokes through my hair as I rest my head in my hand. I'm propped on the desk with an elbow, my straining eyes probably looking close to tears, as I can't fathom what the fuck is showing up all over the god damn screen. I click...something, let my eyes flicker to my flustered Princess, to the little jerk offs constantly trying to eye up her tits before they notice me noticing and shit it. Can I blame them? For looking I mean. And shitting it I suppose. Being a big bastard, dressed in equal measures of white trash as her (even if she does look better rocking it). So add that with the fact that I probably look pretty cheesed right now. Is it so hard to find out what's for sale in the London area? Apparantly so, cause I'm being absolutely mugged here. I got pictures of shit showing up, reviews of places, contact details. I slowly repeat things under my breath just to make sure they don't make sense. Nope, still mean jack shit. Maybe I should just get a guy to do this for me, type in "tit's" and amuse myself till Mac is done? “What... What the fuck!?” "Huh?" She's talking to me right? The tone of outrage isn't lost on me, nor the complete lack of caring that we're hiding out amongst the regular folk. I assume she's talking to me and turn to her with a look of 'What was that?' This face only intensifies as she gives the screen a love tap, grab it's hair and start smooching with it. Or maybe I just imagine that? I slide a little closer to her - my purpose now abandoned and replaced with curiosity, an urge to kick whatever ails my baby's ass. "Whassa' ma-" Fuck. The other occupants seem to take a jump back, terrified of the blow before it ever comes to land. I, thankfully, manage to catch her arm somewhere between winding it up and firing it into the glass. This is why we can't go anywhere nice, dammit! "Chill your tits, will ya!?" I meant to snarl that quietly as I close the distance fully, pushing her balled fist down between us as if that will make it so nobody noticed. But no, I matched her in terms of volume and tone, only making the little folks around us dread that little bit more. I haven't had to drag her off somebody, stop her kicking their ass...yet, so it's amazing to think I'm saving a bunch of wires and metal from death by Goddess. They're probably thinking they've stumbled into a bad situation, that the psycho's in the cafe are gonna blow a casket and pull a gun. Turn this place into a massacare. Well if anyone is thinking that, they're so terribly wrong. We don't carry guns. "S'wrong?" I mutter, trying to get her full attention, though not before I took a glance at the screen and absorbed a handful of words. In particular, Tennessee Mental Health. Huh. That's...new. |
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| Mac | Tuesday, 22. July 2014, 18:53 Post #3 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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Her fist was caught in the froZen grip of a dead psychopath, a dead psychopath who was raising his voice at her. Sometimes she didn't notice when she did the same thing, always able to excuse her own dickishness but less able to extend that forgiveness to others. Her eyebrows had never unknotted, and she watched his eyes shoot over to the screen. Great, she was supposed to break that fucking screen before he read any of her personal business. She was still adjusting to this entire, I have a boyfriend and he does shit with me phase of their relationship. Him tagging along to the cafe hadn't seemed like a big deal, they did all sorts of semi normal shit together these days. An ever growing attempt at being "people". Sometimes the dead bastard even went out with her to snag take out, which always blew her mind because what a punch to the junk. Watching someone eat delicious shit like burgers and pizza and pounds of bacon at a time, all the while drowning it all in bottles of the cheapest, strongest shit that managed to call itself vodka. She was to aware of everyone staring at them, two over sized red neck fucks with temper problems surrounded by dumpy, chubby, rank little computer shits that were endlessly more capable than them at this 'people' stuff. Wait, what was he asking? Her eyes had been on the stinking fat kid a few computers away, who had been staring at her rack like it was a meteor about to smash him in the face. She could make that dream come true... But church was asking something. "What ? Oh... My fucking moneys screwed up that's what." And it wasn't a small sum of money either. She didn't really know -why- it was screwed up either. Either her Nossie that was taking a cut to manage her finances was somehow dead, or he was pissy she wasn't bringing any new funds and he was trying to 'encourage' her slaughtering spree. She'd stopped taking contracts, and she'd been rather lucrative for him. "I got fucking shit I have to pay for..." She couldn't use a computer to solve this shit, she needed to call Benedict directly to ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing. She hoped he was just fucking with her, cuz she'd be pretty fucked if it turned out he was dead. She knew she had the account codes and passwords somewhere, but damned if she knew what the fuck to do with it from there. She needed to leave, before fuck face found himself yanked out of his chair and smashed into her chest so hard he went unconscious. "Let's fuck off I can't take these stinky fuckers anymore. LEARN TO SHOWER COCK SUCKERS!" She'd then remember she had to do that log out shit, clearing the screen and breaking the mouse while she did so. Piece of crap. |
![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Church | Wednesday, 23. July 2014, 18:32 Post #4 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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Money huh? "Bummer." I take another glance at the monitor in an effort to acquire more details without turning things into an interrogation, but unfortunately, to no avail. Fucking things hurt my eyes just looking at them, and the jumble of words are just alphabet soup to this sneaky peek. Soon enough my eyes are resting back on her annoyed face, all screwed up with confusion and anger that extends far beyond the need to use these infernal machines. Money ain't a problem for people like us, or so I thought. People like me for sure. Only thing I need, I'm pretty sure I can't buy with cash...at least by conventional means. And no, it's not love. So Princess is broke? I don't really understand. My hand slips away from hers, warmed somewhat from the inferno that seeps through her pores. I swear she's hotter when she's angry. I mean, like, that devilish heat she gives off. Not how good she looks. She always looks good, and when she's mad, it usually means I'm in for a treat. This is that and more. Something else, a shift in her eyes that doesn't foretell bloodshed and mayhem. Like she's concerned...something I'm more certain of as she confirms having shit to pay for. I mean, beyond Bacon and Booze, there's what? Well, the weed. Then what? Despite being almost certain she doesn't pay for that stuff anyway... I button my lip. At least for now. No talking while we're surrounded by these little piggies. But you better believe I have interest in what my Baby does, and for damn sure in what ail's her. I prefer it to be a physical problem; maybe poverty manifest in the form of some hapless hobo who is gonna take Mac's soul away to shit stained hell. That way I can punch it right in the face. This though? Baby would never survive on the streets...she hates smells. She hates these stinky fucks just like she hates me when I've gone a few without so much as a quick flanneling. She's got a hatred of these pants something fierce...and I never got why. I get them a little bloody now and again, what's the problem? "Lady's right, cocksuckers." I announce to the room as I get to my feet, though I'm not looking any shits in the eye cause, well, it stinks enough without adding piss and shit to the mix. "If you actually showered, you might meet one. Might even get to fuck her in it." This is maybe a little hypocritical of me to say it, but fuck, I ain't human no more. I was hygienic enough when I was breathing...at least enough to get laid anyway. "I thought somebody sorted this shit for you?" I say, only to her now, under my breath as I watch bits of plastic peel away from the mouse under the barrage of her frantic clicking. Just like a certain somebody handles my money. I hang onto it, but Mr. Wyoming is always the go between to make purchases and what not. It's just how it is, cause people like me and her don't do their finances or check their accounts. It's left to better men. We do our thing, they do theirs. Only problem being that he doesn't like answering his phone lately...I needed a new broker and, maybe I went a little over the line in assuming this, I was gonna use hers. I don't know how she feels about sharing, but give me a few hours and I could convince her. I don't need a few hours, but that's how long I like to convince for. Convince the fuck out of her. The piggies Church, no talking with the piggies, especially not what goes on behind our closed doors. Wouldn't want minds to melt. This is personal. Well, it's not, but the less information these little assholes run off with, mouthing off that this big southern bastard and bitch were spooking their local, the better. I might aswell just head on out, let her grapple with her greatest foe of all time with dignity. "Just smash it." I suggest to her before stepping away. She had been eager enough to try it earlier, no? I turn to the door, to the man behind the counter who is awestruck with the monsters causing a ruckus. What are the chances he lets us have this one 'on the house?' Let's find out. |
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| Mac | Wednesday, 23. July 2014, 20:10 Post #5 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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Church had a nearly magical way of making whatever was going down wrong, not seem so bad. His yelling at the stinking mass of computer dorks was one of these magical things, especially as he teased that showering could help lead them to the land of de-virginizing fucking. Like any of these idiots had much of a chance, what a joke. She just glared daggers at all the scared, hesitant faces that surrounded them. Could she make one of the piss themselves? She probably could, but was the needed effort expenditure worth the thrill of bullying? Nope. This was all to easy, and she liked to work for her thrills. Then he was leaning closer, asking her about the whole situation. Didn't she have someone do this shit for her? YES. Fucker knew that! What a stupid god damned question. “Of course I do. I don't know what the fuck is fucking happening... If someone killed my Man, I'll be pissed. If he's fucking with me...” Well, she'll be just as pissed. Generally, being pissed off was the state of her existence she knew best. Any excuse to fly off the handle was a good one right? Church was the best way to cool her temperature, but he wasn't making any effort to do that now was he? When he said just break it, she did. Except not the computer screen, just the mouse. She'd make a fist and smash it into a small explosion of plastic shrapnel that scattered about the desk she'd been working on. She could smash the screen too, but was that hissy fit really worth it? Half and half, as her hissy fit was slowly dying into something she dealt with with less grace. Guilt. No, not over having a tantrum and breaking a mouse. Fuck that, she could burn the entire place down without feeling bad about it. No, she was feeling bad about the “Payment Past Due” notice. Not that the payment itself wasn't there, but the implications of what happened when payments didn't come through. She slid back on the chair, back of her heel catching the chair and causing it to fly up and hit the wall behind her, creating another loud shattering noise. Well, maybe the tantrum hadn't entirely gone now had it? She stomped out, flats of her grey sneakers still creepily quiet as she did so. Shouldn't it make a loud earth shaking rumble, each and every step of such a large and menancing looking woman? It should. She stomped out, using both hands to shove at the door that blocked her way so it swung open on its hinges and banged against the rim, threatening to fall off its hinges with a shuddering creak. She looked back over her shoulder at Church as he glared down the attendant, wondering if he was going to punch the mother fucker for her. Really, the cashier guy hadn't done anything at all to anyone, he wasn't even staring at her titties. Still, who was she to judge who and who didn't get punched? Sometimes she just like to hit people because it made her giggle. The fresh air of the street was a beautiful wake up call, moist and cool in the dim of the night. She stopped on the edge of the sidewalk, breathing it in like it was vodka. Oh yeah, Vodka! She pulled her flask from her pocket, unscrewing the rather beaten in cap and lifting it to just guzzle the rest of the contents. She'd have to acquire a refill pronto. Payment Past Due. Jebus christ, Benedict was going to get himself killed for this if he didn't fix it right away. She'd fly all the way back to the states to cut him apart, piece by piece if there was any sort of stop to the money's intentions. Mother fucker. Where was she going to find another Nossie?! Benedict had been perfect for what she needed him for, him and that Ventrue buddy that managed the whole business side of things. She was just a god damned tool, she wasn't the master mind by any stretch. "Baby, I need to hurt something..." |
![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Church | Wednesday, 23. July 2014, 23:03 Post #6 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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From the way this guy's squirming, I can tell it's having the desired effect. The aggressive stance, the accusing eyes and, of course, the psycho girlfriend causing a scene in the background. It all adds together to ask this guy one simple question? Do you feel lucky, punk? Boy, is my switch set to asshole this evening, or what? Gotta get my giggles somewhere, especially since I just spent what felt like forever looking the fool in public. To these little shitheads. Lucky fucking mortals pissing their life away. I don't even think the monster inside finds them appetizing, figure it'll clog up my fangs with fat. I'd like to give them all a little wake up call in the form of a right hook...but then I'd be a childmurderer. And a, like, murderer-murderer for this dude. He looks confused. Wait, did I fuck up the eyes? Thankfully, my Princess rescues him from a dreadful fate, I'm on her tail as soon as she's done fucking making an exit. Owner's lucky there just so happened to be a door there. I know my baby well, more than she'd like to know I dare say. I know the fact that 'her man' as she put it being dead probably wont make her shed no tears. I know that she's killed alotta fangers for big bucks, and I ain't never seen her spend a dime. As I get hit by the cool air, blessedly free of bodily odour, I could tell it was time for a nightcap before she fished old faithful free. Somethings under her skin...And it gets under my skin to have to watch it. "Hurt something, huh?" I bark back in a tone that isn't quite as smooth on the ears. Or maybe that's just how she sounds to me now, especially when she uses the "H" word. Though, this is different, a sort of frustration but...I dunno, different. Not the kind of need that drives us into a frenzy on one another, tearing and biting till eventually I'm lying broken and bruised to the sound of her furious breathing...I said it earlier, but I'll say it again, bummer. I round a few steps to get in front of her, not offering myself as a punch bag as I'd like to. She wants some blood that ain't ours for a change. I mean, sure we got enough of that in Paris. And hell, Paris had even made her a little more bloodthirsty. She reacquired her taste I guess. I don't know if I was ever worried - she ain't never gonna be able to get rid of me - more curious. Was the lack of Sabbat in London an issue for her carnivorous lifestyle? I could've gone with her if she wanted, spent the next few years in bliss away from this hellhole. But I can't. Not yet. But I need her to chill the fuck out. And telling her that led to, erm...I feel argument is to mild a word. Fuck it, that was in the past, don't know why I'm thinking about that now. We need something to hurt. Hmm. "If only...there were bears..." Although it might not seem like it, I really am trying to think of what the fuck can cool her heels short of asking her what the money's for, cause while that might be a direct way of dealing with the issue, it sure as fuck don't sound too pretty. At the same time, I'm trying to look her in the eyes and see if she flinches, cause why the fuck would she if everything is normal, right? There's no Sabbat god fucking dammit...none. I'm sure I heard something about 'Fight Club' here in London but being run by Cammy fucks, nuh-uh, ain't happening. Hmmm. Cammy fucks. "Shame there ain't nothing big and exciting to kill, huh?" Like a bear. More fun than killing a crappy human, right? "We could always take a walk. Find a dive. Get wasted. Raise some fucking hell." I shrug, sure as shit the best thing I can really think of. Cause while there ain't exactly exotic things to sharpen your claws with, there's still an abundance of assholes. And while it ain't exactly challenging, lord is there something satisfying in punching somebody who really, actually, honestly deserves it. |
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| Mac | Thursday, 24. July 2014, 18:10 Post #7 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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Yeah, hurt something. Not their usual kind of hurt at all, but the kind of hurt she dealt when she just needed to vent that outrageous fucking storm that twisted up inside her. Hurt between the two of them had taken on a whole new level of something strange to her, fucking and laying down a beating had gotten all twisted up in the strange sort of intimacy and obsession they had for one another. It was fulfilling, gratifying, and in some miraculous way, transcendant. She'd never understand why, and trying to would just make it all feel wrong. She'd decided months before to stop looking into the barrel of the gun that was her and Church, because fuck if she didn't need whatever the fuck was wrong with them. It wasn't a vent, not for her hate and venom. She needed that right now, she needed to carve something up and watch it bleed. That red drip was a vehicle for purging herself. Churchs large hulking frame stepping into her line of sight made her eyes narrow, his swagger not the usual 'get into it with me' but something more apologetic. She capped the empty flask and reached behind to tuck it into her back pocket, the whirl wind of anger at Benedicts fucking with her finances (God she hoped it was Benedict fucking with her) and the guilt of what could be happening to a certain person if that Payment Past Due wasn't just a little notice. Payment past Due, treatment stopped? Medications ceased? What exactly were the implications there? It'd never happened before, so she didn't fucking know. “A bear? A bar? Are you fucking mental?” If he was, she could check him in right along side Mel's. The mere suggestion of something so ridiculos, and then boring (Church could reduce a mans skull to rubble with a single punch, how much fun could be had in a bar when she didn't just wanna knock someone around, she wanted to smash) was what made her swell with annoyance. “Why are we here? Why are we in London?” Why -were- they?! They could be out there laying waste somewhere, she could be picking up contracts and making money. She could be filling that base need to wreck and destroy, getting her jollies in all the right places instead of feeling stranded, isolated, and useless. She hadn't felt so useless in double decades, the lack of having a purpose in London was starting to drive her mad. Yeah, she had Church. They could theoretically waste eternity fucking, but they wouldn't. Both of them seemed to have shit to actually -do- now and then, as much as they hid it from one another like children hording candy after halloween. Secrets tucked away, poisonous treats that slowly ate away. God damn his stupid, stubbly, pretty face. She wanted to rage at him, throw all the knives that were twisting in her insides at him instead of letting them dig deeper. Those green eyes always fucked her up, and instead of sending a fist into that face she was doing something ever more degrading and confused, she was pushing him with both hands out of her way. Like some helpless fucking girl or something, trying to remove a frusturating boyfriend from blocking her storming tantrum path. She felt sickenly aware of what it would look like from the outside, and it just made her head throb all the worse. She needed a bottle of vodka, and she was going to go fucking fetch a bottle, or ten, from the closest liquor store. |
![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Church | Thursday, 24. July 2014, 22:12 Post #8 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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Well, looks like somebody else may be stuck on 'asshole' too. I let her shove past and begin to build up a head of steam, and while her paws could probably drive the air out of the healthiest lungs you ever did see, it's nothing more than a tickle. And yeah, let her. I could've been defiant and pushed back, but I'm a little preoccupied chewing over what she just said. Apart from the idea sucked, cause even I figured that. But why are we here? She's building a full head of steam something fierce. I'm stomping after her before she can get herself lost. "Hey..." I don't expect her to notice the hard edge to my speech, or that I'm even talking at all, so I back it up by catching her shoulder in my hand. I'm somewhat gentle in putting on her brakes and turning her back to face me, although by gentle I mean not as rough as I can be. Enough to show my frustration from the situation, which builds the more I gotta watch her squirm uncomfortably. "You think I know why? I don't, but I sure as shit am trying." Ain't that the truth, something I dearly hope she can see. "When we went to Paris, baby, I had a fuckin' ball. Away from here...Me and you. I didn' want it to end, and hell, I wouldn've come back if you weren't comin' with me." Another, well, half truth there. By the time we were coming back I had this idea in my head, and felt like I needed to come back. But if she'd said 'fuck it, let's ride each other into the sunset...sun...' point is, I would've struggled with it. Jebus, I don't think I could ever willingly be without her. My hand never left her shoulder, and she ain't gonna get it loose without a severe case of the shakes. I don't wanna press too hard though, even if it would be only done out of concern and, ugh, love. Cause that's all I got for this woman, even if I show it in unusual ways. A firm grip, a sobering slap...I'll do it all. Starting with answering her question the best I can which, frankly, ain't very good at all. I stare into those gorgeous peepers of hers and find myself under her spell. I only want to please her. And...and me telling her the whole truth wont do that. I can't tell her...Jebus, who am I convincing here? "I wanted to find something. A God damn, what's the word...reason? Make amends for the things I've done, make me feel less like shit. And...an' I gotta do it here." Fuck me, my speech pattern slips away from hard, stony words and degenerates into uncertainty. I can't explain this shit without explaining this shit, can I? Man, I'd really like to just lay into a cammy fuck right about now instead of this bullshit, and I think I'd stop biting my tongue with it if it weren't for the need to keep my nose clean. For now. "Why the fuck does it matter where we are?" |
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| Mac | Thursday, 24. July 2014, 22:58 Post #9 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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The hand on her shoulder didn't -stop- her, those sneakers tried to keep on trekking. The abrupt near collapse as she found her upper body unable to progress with her feet nearly took her down, as she yanked the shoulder one but found his grasp unwilling to yield to her. She was turned around easily enough after that, as there was no point in fighting this fanger. He was technically stronger than her, by a long shot, it's what brought them together in the first place, even if she was a hell of a lot more graceful than he was. Yeah, Paris was a blast. They'd fought but really, when didn't they? Ain't like any of this came easy between them. Obsession wasn't innocent, it wasn't sunshine and daisies, they were not the perfect image of domestic bliss. When they were hot, they were hot, but there were times when they both sat in pissed silence not really able to bridge a gap due to ... well, being them really. “It matters cuz I'm here with you! I'd fuckin' go anywhere for you, but -WHY- London? So as long as you gotta 'make amends' I'm stuck in this fucking shit hole, sitting on my ass... wasting time I could be out there pulling in money and glorifying in what I do best. Whats in your head?” They weren't the kind to talk about ... well, much. The did talk, but usually it was about stupid shit. Stories of near death heroics, or idiotic situations that ended in humiliation and embarrassing moments to be immortalized in laughter. Real moments happened, but they came and went so fast anyone but them would have missed that they were there at all. This was almost a real moment, watching him struggle to try and put words to whatever balls were rolling around inside that skull of his. It was like watching a little kid that didn't have the vocabulary try and summarize what he was feeling, but she wasn't going to let that fly. He had the god damned vocabulary, as stupid as he liked to make people believe he was she'd never really let cop out the way other people might. She knew better than to believe that red neck image, he wasn't the brightest light but fucker wasn't nearly as dim as he wanted people to believe. “Cuz if you want me to stick around, you gotta tell me why the fuck I'm here.” And how long... How long would 'making amends' take exactly? She wasn't particulairly enthusiastic about being there at all, besides all of ANYONE that could still be on her ass from the US being able to find her easy peasy after being there over a year, there was a lack of work, and a whole “Hammy” issue. On top of that, Aguirre refused to come out of the wood work whenever she was around. Girl was on the down low and real low, like Mac was something to be scared of. That pissed her off to no end, that Mouse had seen her fucking one handed and riddled with bullet holes and now she decided that somehow Mac was scary? Fucking twat had seen her weak and vulnerable, and she hated -anyone- seeing her that way... Rather than Mouse, who then ditched her. Then there was the little rat, god damn he needed a real good beating. If he was ever through Anarch land again, she'd be on his hairless tail faster than a Gangrel exterminator with a horde of cats. She wanted her shoulder back, while his grip wasn't the vice it could be... be was still touching her with that icey stump of a meaty hand, and the cool it brought her wrathful skin was entirely to soothing. Just a little tighter, make it hurt a little more baby. Calm me down. |
![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Church | Sunday, 27. July 2014, 12:46 Post #10 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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If shrivelled, unbeating hearts could melt, eh? Cause despite this sudden mood swing of hers, despite the venom that drips from each and every word of hers, she reaffirms her stupid levels are as high as mine. So she did come back here for me? Only me? It don't stoke my ego none, cause frankly, I get it. She's been...lonely. I've been there, done that shit, and it was unpleasant, even if you think it's for the best. You hide yourself away because you think you're shit and will destroy those who you actually give a damn about. We've already had that conversation...and while that night had ended in our familiar fashion, I'd rather not go down that particular avenue of discussion again. And maybe that's the problem? We're both bottlers, both full rotten memories that gnaw away till there's nothing left. Me and Princess can talk to each other about anything, I really do think that. Just...we choose not to. We'd rather forget to bring these issues up and instead elect for them to grow bigger and more complicated till they blow up in our faces. Like, for example, why London? Why the fuck can't I just...find the words? "You got me, baby...I..." I grimace, and let my eyes drift away from her to scan up and down the street we're stood on. Don't know if the guy at the café would've bothered phoning the police, especially since we didn't make a hundredth of the mess we could've, but they ain't who I'm worried about. More like anything else that likes to take up residence in the night, a certain...'Rattish' creature. I don't like my words to go beyond the people I'm telling without me knowing...and this sure as shit I don't even wanna tell her. My free hand glides up the steamy expanse of her forearm, trying to rub out some of the anxiety. Cause believe it, I'm tense. Not the good way. Or maybe there is no good way and I just enjoy it all the same. There's a twinkle in her eye suggesting the same internal difficulties, though I am still just as clueless as to why. Money...since when has any of this been about money? "London was...the first place I ever found a home. Or at least a place where I was accepted. Happy even." No, I don't like this, I really don't fucking like this. I unconsciously try to pull our bodies a little closer, though my intentions are far from the usual dry fucking. I need her to ground me...to give me strength with that blazing aura of hers. I'm uncomfortable, sure, but I can't help look at her with utter admiration in my eyes. Like, despite not wanting to tell her this, I do want to. I want her to understand what I'm going for and, as wrong as it sounds, be proud of me? Appreciate what I'm trying to do for me, for the Anarchs. For her. My grip only gets firmer as I force a few baby steps out of her, my other hand having ran up her arm is now clamped on her biscep. "I was left here as a 'baby' bloodsucker, and the Anarchs looked after me." I continue a few decibels lower "I had people lookin' out for me an'..." It fucking hurts to think about it, it's why I never do so so directly. I cling to her like my life depends on it, jaw locked and teeth gritted as I stare resolute into her ees. Cause maybe it will if the wrong people ever catch wind of this. "It was all bullshit. I was bullshit. I was a son of the Sabbat and I didn't even know it yet. I sold out my friends then took my pat on the head cause I was too afraid to do shit. I just wanted to get high...forget it all." I feel like hurling, but I guess that's me being all dramatic. She might see right inside, see the shit person underneath. I don't know how much she knows about the entire dynamic of London. And hell, I don't know if I really could've helped what I did, if what I did had that much of an impact. If it wasn't me it would've been some other poor shmuck, for sure. But it was me, and it hurts to think about. My fingers dig in now - give me strength, baby - and I'm sure it's met with a hiss of released air but...I'm a little preoccupied with her eyes. I don't blink the entire time, but there's only so long I can keep eye contact with someone while explaining myself, and occasionally I find myself distracted by her mess of dreads up on high. "An' you know what? That's...history. I can't change that. What I can do is make sure no fucker ever uses me again. That no-one ever does..." Maybe I'm a dreamer, crazed for thinking that I have the brain for this sort of thing, but I'm trying not to overthink things. Keep them simple. "I want somewhere that's mine Mac. That's, ours. Ain't you tired of running all the time, girl? Of not having somewhere you belong?" It sounds almost like begging, I'm god damn desperate for her to see some sense in my fountain of bullshit. But all the same...of course not, you're a flighty bitch, which sure ain't a good combination with an immortal boyfriend. I hang on tight in case she feels like giving me a demonstration. |
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| Mac | Tuesday, 29. July 2014, 16:17 Post #11 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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His cool hand was an icy balm to sweaty, over heating skin. When you naturally burned at a ridiculos temperature, the summer was your greatest foe. She could never cool down proper, especially now that she avoided pools like ten variations of the bubonic plague. Cold showers all day long really, but none of it compared to the sun going down. When the sun stopped radiating the earths surface, the air cooled and Doc Fanger woke. Two good things that came packaged together. Together was a good place, especially as he pulled her in close and attempted to warm his cold dead hide through leeching her body heat. He could have as much as he wanted, it was like having a walking, talking ice pack. Her ice pack was clamping down tightly on her bicep, his iron grip causing a painful throb beneath the touch. It was like he knew just how to calm her down, introduce those dulcet notes of sweetness that always begged her attention. She swallowed, body wanting to leave anxiety and anger behind and shift into a moist, feral place of abusive pleasure. They couldn't do that here though, and she was tired of all their conversation following the exact same pattern. Before anything serious and meaningful ever made it out of their mouths, they were stuffing body parts in. It was hard to imagine Church as a baby blood sucker, new born and all confused and messed up. She'd never known him high as a kite, never known his retarded and severely deficient self. By the time he's stumbled into her life and literally picked her ass up off a vomit covered death bed, he'd gone clean. If he'd still been a tweaker, would he ever have stopped? Would he just have laughed at the pile of shit on the ground just brought to it's knee's by a Baron's sneak attack? A sneak attack that wouldn't have done a fucking thing, if she hadn't had venomous god damned fangs. Hazel eyes watched his face as he spoke, struggling somewhat as she witnessed him trying to get the words out. This sort of struggle wasn't a joy for her, it felt wrong. She didn't like to see him hurt like this, she didn't like to see him hurt in ways that she wasn't dishing out to his superb physical form. Emotional torture? Well, that wasn't their god damned style, not with each other. Yeah she liked to prey on weak minds of kine now and then for kicks. Not him. Right now though she had to, cuz she had to get him to dump a few bottles so she could mentally grasp why she was rotting in London. When his nails dug in she hissed a vodka laden breath, feeling that uncontrolled need to let her thighs rub together and her knee's knot to prevent becoming a puddle. He needed to get his hands off her, even if she didn't really want him to. She's try and shift, trying to make it look like she wanted to get in closer and take comfort in his meaty form. She twist her hips, and would lift a knee between them and get him good in the stomach with it if she could Only way to really break free, do something drastic and unexpected so his grip on her arms would break on their own. She wasn't strong enough to break free otherwise, and maybe a little thrill of violence would help him cool the doey eyes and romance he was trying to spew on her. "No. I actually don't want I settle down.... Become an easy target for the creepy crawlies in my past. Believe me baby, I ain't being a paranoid freak when I say that. Marta's followed me plenty, and she fucks up everything and everyone I give a damn about. I killed her happiness, she's gonna kill mine. Forever. Staying in one place? I'll Stagnate, lose my edge. I ain't got many skills baby you know that. The only place I really wanna be is where ever you are, but I'll go crazy if that means we end up sitting and watching old westerns for the next century. While I wait for it all to come crumbling down." And she had to bring in money... She had enough to last a long time, but apparently Benedict wasn't really the kind to keep doing her book keeping if she was sitting on her ass. The deal was if she died he'd keep it up, they'd never discussed her being -alive- and just not taking contracts. Afterall, wasn't a scenario she ever coulda thought up herself. "I'm stupid for you baby, but I'm generally pretty stupid." With a whole tail of stupid attached to her ass and dredging through the night with her. |
![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Church | Thursday, 31. July 2014, 23:45 Post #12 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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This really isn't the sort of thing we should be doing. Talking, that is. Not to say that we're as one dimensional as it might appear, but when blood is pumping and some bones need to be cracked, we should actually go take care of that need. Instead of...this. Scared half to death in ways I can't comprehend, a new cold niggle that'll silently make me squirm in discomfort. It's a very real and plausible fear too, that one day Princess might see Doc Fanger for what he really is. And while I've never made it a secret, didn't pretend I had some squeaky clean past but...fuck if I don't like it. Things I have to live with. And I'm trying, believe me, now more than ever I realise what I can do to at least try and put things right. But that's all conditional...as in, on condition that my baby is by my side when I do it. Cause I can't do it without her. I wont. All this dread bundled into a few short seconds of silence and I want to start bearing into her in the usual way in a feeble attempt to make her forget what I said. Can't believe I'm thinking this, but I'm not in the mood for that, not after what I just laid on the table. She's usually more co-operative with a dick in her though, and would be willing to forgive her Doc on account of him making her feel so good. I can't be a bad person, right? Not if I make her feel so good. Just like she's not a bad person for doing me a kindness and letting me forget everything and devote only to her so gorram utterly. "Unphff--" I yelp in the customary fashion as my torso contorts around her thigh. Well, guess she can read minds. Figures. The shot doesn't really register on the pain-brain barrier, not to say it don't hurt, but it hits me like a jolt of electricity and I find myself pushing off of her and taking a few steps back. I find my hands raised higher than their natural rest, with lefty instinctively balling up to let loose a haymaker in retaliation. I catch myself though, gritting my teeth and watching her with eager eyes. Instantly, the imaginary tightness to my chest subsides and eases as she talks, glossing over what I told her in a way I am so fucking thankful for. But what she says...Jebus. I'd laugh if it wasn't for this bad taste in my mouth. "Oh...baby." I coo, a little dreamy maybe. And no, it wasn't the violent impact of the knee that's made me go all gooey eyed for her, but what she said. I know better than to comment on it, I do...but I can't. My lips curl ever so slightly into the smallest of smirks. Trust her to know how to cheer me up, even if she has no intention to. At least not in the way I am. "Stop thinkin' crazy. A century? I feel like I've lived too long already and you're talking another hundred years?" I gotta say something, even if it's not the fact that I'm somewhat moved by the idea that she would be with me that long. I mean, I know she said she could fuck me forever, and that is kind of a possibility given our mortality or lack thereof. But let herself go crazy, a hundred years of domestic bliss? I keep myself backed away, trying to work the old x-ray eyes so I can read her mind and find out what the fuck that fucked up brain of hers is thinking. It worked well for her, afterall. "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times. I live to please, baby. You and only you. You're my goddess and I fuckin' worship you. I would never wanna tie you down, an' even if I did I know I couldn't. I want somewhere my goddess can call home cause I don't think you ever had one that wasn't forced on you." But what the fuck do I know, right? Foster homes and Sabbat dens...yup, seem pretty horrid. Can't say that's the reason why she's so god damn flighty, but it makes sense in my head at least. "What if I can make London safe for you? That any fucker - creepy, crawling or otherwise - that shows up gets put down as soon as they touch down." I wish I was better at explaining, and a little of that frustration from earlier is still clearly hanging around. "I mean-" Course 'I mean,' just say it right in the first place you fucking idiot. "-Listen. I don' like what you do. I mean, I do, but you gotta understand that seeing you all busted up and hurt ain't pleasant." Well, it is, but when it's not me who's done the busting? Can't say I like her playing rough with others, even if the aftermath fucks are as glorious as they have been. "But Doc'll always be there to put you together, cause he's a fucking retard for you." He being me. I get a little carried away with the Doc persona, not that it matters when she knows the fire that I have forever burning for her. "But when the time comes that you're done with a job...what, you just carry on runnin? You don't want somewhere you can hang your hat after a job well done? Somewhere you know you're safe and can play with me some?" Even though there's a accusing tone in my voice - cause frankly what the fuck is the point if you don't ever stop? - I'm hardly one to judge. I have no connection to the world, no purpose now or ever in the past. I have nothing of worth, nothing of sentiment...I only have her. She's everything. "Marta ever shows up, baby, we'll kill her. Now that goes down with us doin' it...or us plus a dozen or so comrades. People who want some fucking peace and quiet. You don't think there'd be a place for someone like you? Even if I didn't want you in all the ways I do, I'd still need you. I think. At least, I assume I will. I need the best...that make sense?" I ask, not fully able to track the bullshit as it leaves my system. My scrunched up features, accurately portraying my confusion quite well, can't help but soften as I look at her. My Princess...shaken. Fuck Church, don't do it. Don't bite. You know it'll only be trouble if yo- "What's this really about?" I give up. |
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| Mac | Friday, 1. August 2014, 18:29 Post #13 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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The knee worked, an cool hard body smashing against an already bruised thigh as she struck him. They came apart, largely because he pushed her away from the shock of the unexpected blow. Grey sneakers slid on the ground, back pacing just a little to prevent a balled fist from being able to connect. She registered the action of it in his form, the lines of his shoulders and arm tightening, his feet planting in the fashion she'd come to expect from him when he was going to strike at her. She wanted him to, part of her wanted to just bring it down to the level both of them understood and loved about each other. Then his dreamy green eyes were becoming pools of gooey affection, and her mouth was wrinkling up in a look of horror and confusion. Eyebrows knitted together even harder now, giving him a glare like a drowning victim lost at sea, mortified at his cooing like a love struck teenager. What the fuck? Why was he looking so satisfied, so... happy amid the shit they were chucking out of their mouths? Then he was elaborating on her tongue blunder, poking at a comment that had escaped her dumb ass mouth without her even realizing the implications of it. A Century? He couldn't just let sleeping dragons lie could he? No, he had to take a fucking scale and tug it like a trophy, piss it off. “Hey, fuck you. I'm going to live forever. If I'm going to live forever, so you are you Fanger.” Unless she's killed off first, which was a likely story. Church had tamed the suicidal urge in her, cooled the burning need to do something stupid and escape the shit piled on her diner plate. He made the shit not taste so bad, made the heap not seem so high. When she used to sit back and take stock of her life, the scales were certainly different looking then. She'd be sitting on one brass plated side, way up in the air as the stack of dirty deeds and sins on the other sank so low they were hanging out in hell. Might as well jump right? Plummet all that way and hit the ground with such force and magnitude that maybe she could take a good block full of assholes with her to hell. She didn't want that now, she didn't crave the only atonement she'd seen as enough for her deeds. The death wish lingered yes, but on a quiet simmer at the back of her soul. Kept at bay by meaty hands that knew just how to hurt her in all the ways that made her want to live. Tucked away even further now and again, by strange words from an assholes mouth that hit her in all the wrong, right ways. Hazel eyes unscrunched just a little, brows relaxing, muscles loosening, even if she was trying hard to resist the effect of his care bear words. He didn't really know a lot about her life, he assumed. “Assuming makes an Ass out of U and Me” Course, wasn't like she'd ever corrected any of the misconceptions when he referenced anything she'd said, so it was her fault for letting all these thoughts grow bigger and bigger inside his half empty skull. He wanted a -home-. He wanted comrades. He wanted solid roots. Jesus, the care bears had really done a number on his head didn't they? Then again, how could they not? She knew what he meant, and she understood it even if she resisted that understanding. She got it. It didn't sit right with her anymore though, wanting that sort of thing. She began to walk, to get out of where they were. She needed the cold air on her over heating skin, and to fill the need to move. Walk. Run. “I ain't what you think I am Doc. For one, I ain't a fucking orphan. You just assumed, but I have a Ma. She's alive somewhere... Ain't seen her since the state took me away. Happy birthday Mac, your Papa fucks you, you kill him, and the state thinks it's a great time to take you away from the only good thing you got.” She didn't run, but she needed to relieve the build up of tension and anxiousness somehow. Talking made it worse, like she was a can of soda that'd been shaken all up, and someone was cracking the top and exposing it to atmosphere. She wanted to explode and fizzle out everywhere. She was nearly vibrating, and her words were a tangled mess that went between annoyance, anger, and a certain kind of childhood sadness that'd been put on ice for a very, very long time. “Karen, Jay, and Mel's were my home baby. I wasn't bounced around in Foster forever. When I was 13 I found a place where I actually fit in. That was my home, a place to play, to hang my 'hat'. Karen was a real Mom, and while Jay and I were never 100% with each other no teenage ever works perfect with their folks. It felt real. Fighting with Jay made me feel like he gave a shit about me. Mel's was my everything. I was the older protective sister in school, beat up the other kids that tried to pick on her or the boys that broke her heart. Drank beer underaged on the porch of our boyfriends houses, Mel's loved to read aloud and she'd read on really hot days, and we'd lazy about smoking weed and giggling. We were stupid teenagers and I had roots. They made me a person...” A real person, almost. She'd always been an angry fucker, but she'd lived, and laughed, and loved. She'd been capable of it all then, an entire scale of emotions even if they'd been stunted and miswired. “Then Marco...” Thats where words choked. He knew this whole thing was a mess for her to have to talk about, that she always became a disturbed clam and pulled herself closed nice and tight when it came to those years under Sabbat thumb. “And... I ... went to see Mel. I got an off leash card for 24 hours, and I took it. I -missed- her. I hadn't seen her in over six years... And he had one of the other idiots track me. A little Malk prick of a ghoul who could go invisible. I never even saw her proper ...” She stopped on the sidewalk, real sudden and out of no where considering how fast she'd been pacing. Her hands were itching, her skin was vibrating with a sort of anxiety that meant she felt like she was going to spew. She knew this feeling, this feeling that came with the bottles and cans of soda inside being all shaken around. “She had a little boy... Marco liked kids. That was his thing. He loved them. He pieced together who she was, and he fucking ate her baby in front of her and killed her husband. He brought her 'home'. HOME. To me. To the basement he kept me in. Wanted her to join our 'family'. Tortured her, tried to do what he did to me to her.... She wasn't never a monster of a person like me. She was strong in her heart, a good person, not a stubborn asshole like I was. She broke and wouldn't go back together again. No matter what he did...No matter what I did to try and help. The pieces were to small, to itty bitty. Rarely even coherent.” Yep, going to puke. Going to spew all over the place, but this felt like she was going to throw up more than stomach contents. Was she going to hurl her heart out onto the pavement so it could be stepped all over? Her entire insides were viced, clamping, painful. She'd eaten a giant feast of rocks for diner, and they were sharp and tearing up her insides as they fell through her. “That's what I gotta pay for. Cuz she's still alive... her body is. I couldn't kill her when we got out, even if it woulda been a kindness... and I couldn't manage her insanity. I couldn't stand seeing all the broken pieces of what I loved...” Oh god Mac, don't you fucking -cry-. Carebears cry, you don't do that lame shit. Don't let no one see you break, don't even let yourself see it. |
![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Church | Monday, 4. August 2014, 18:57 Post #14 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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Oh...oh fucking Christ. The fact that she claims she's gonna live forever, well, it lifted my spirit somewhat. I don't wanna live forever, but if she's around, I could bear it. If she keeps me grounded, keeps me human. And when you throw in the fact that she didn't even blink in the face of my troubles makes me doubt myself considerably, yeah, that maybe I'm not such an asshole. Aguirre did it too. But Mouse was living with her own guilt that inexplicably ate away inside of her, despite the audience cheering for her above anyone and everyone else in this freakshow. She didn't deserve her pain, and that's what made it so damned difficult to squeeze it out. Because it was irrational, and because she was very stubborn. But this... When she turns tail and starts a pace, I'm the loyal dog stalking after her ass without the need of an explanation. Though I'm made stupid by whatever black magic she's sugaring me with all the time, I'm not so blind as to see that my line of enquiry had the expected results. Mac's brain just got out the frying pan and melted on the fire. Her feet are itching. Her body...contorts ever so slightly, the smallest and subtlest signs that no-body but me could pick up on. Or maybe anyone could. It's so...unlike her ordinary devil may care attitude. The world was always full of monsters for her, sure, but they never seemed to frighten her, only anger her. She's said about the shit that will follow her, to kill her happiness...It can't just be that, right? Especially not when her happiness hits like a fucking truck... Her Ma...maybe I did know? Maybe she did bring it up once before. I asked her if she killed her, right? Something like that. I can't begin to comprehend what it means to have a real loving family, because I never did get that luxury myself. And that's how I see it, a luxury. It was fucked, I wish things were different, but I survived it, right? I can put myself back in a young Church's shoes, back before the reefer madness and the MKUltra, when everything was clear and he...well, he was in love. He was working to make that love work. He got so damn fucking distracted trying to make it work, he broke it. He was a retard, but a happy one, even with no Ma to speak of and a Pa that whipped his ass every night. Because of that one special someone. Her footwork quickens, and as do I, trailing behind ever so slightly to her side with my face probably all balled up in confusion. Cause now she's throwing names at me, one's I've not heard before. She tells a story that might as well have started 'once upon a time' cause it's damn near unconvincing hearing her of all people tell tales of a time she was, well, normal. A normal girl who went about business in a normal way – or at least what I would consider to be average. Shaken from her beginnings, but somehow able to cope. For Mac to say that she was the older sister to Mel's implies that Mel's was the younger sister to her. Loved her like a sister. Just the notion brings the smallest of smiles to my lips, though say it's a jovial one and I know you're bullshitting. Cause I know the next part before she even says that Cunts name. I'm glad it wasn't all doom and gloom, sure, but getting that ripped away from you? I wish she'd cool her heels and just let me, fuck if I know, make it better? Apply the ice pack to her shivering form and her closing throat. I wanna tell her she doesn't need to say anymore...but she does. And I die a little inside. My pace probably slows before hers as I draw to a halt behind her, my eyes fixed on the back of her beehive hairdo and my legs feeling like spaghetti. My chest feels tight, stops me from telling her to shut her god damn fucking mouth, like I can't fucking breath even though I don't need it. This...I can't talk. I can't do all the amazing things I should to make her feel better. I wish I could go back and take back the question, to spare my baby this pain that's bubbled to the surface. Fuck that, I wish I could go back to young and stupid Church, even though he couldn't do it, he would certainly ask Jack if he could do me a solid and take Marco apart, slowly at that. My palms are coated with something slick and sticky, only when I look down through this dreamy haze do I notice my hands are fists, that the fingernails shredded the skin like nothing. She had happiness, I got that. I always knew she was taken from something, I always thought I knew her well enough to get that...but she wasn't taken from her happiness. She had it destroyed. Killed. This is...terrifying. I'm scared of how this makes me feel. Oh, baby. I'm so fucking sorry. Suddenly, things are that much clearer. The 'Fanger' hatred. The money problems. Mac bleeds like a human being, but I've never seen her hurt like one before. A hurt I can comprehend far better than I thought. We really are babies of the same horrid family. Both unafraid to martyr ourselves, even if there is no cause, because it's easier than seeing those you love do it. Suffering is part of our life. Seeing others suffer is the worst pain imaginable. There's plenty in this world worse than death, and she's had to keep that in her, fuck, forever. She's been bleeding far too long. ”...” I can't make words, only a quiet and futile grunt out of my open mouth. I close my eyes and count to ten, blocking out the dizzying shroud that hit me square in the face in favour for a few moments of clarity. I need to calm down. It's so fucking stupid and wrong and I can't help it. It eats me up to see her like this, knowing there isn't a damn thing I can do to fix it. ”I...” Fucking idiot, think. Clearly. It's her pain, not yours, you're supposed to make her feel good not drag her down to your level. I open my eyes and swallow the lump down, feeling ”It's not your fault, baby.” I manage to spit it out at long last, with a ragged breath of air that feels like it expelled some of the poison. “An' I know you think it is bu' it just ain't. It's not your fault these fuckin' animals get to live in the first place. You...” More of the corrosive substance seemingly leaves, though my body remains as rigid as it's ever been, not even letting up for the slow footsteps to come up behind her. I can't bring myself to do anything though, cause frankly,what is there to do? A pat on the back? A hug? A right hook? The latter would stop her thinking, make her blind to everything but pain. Fuck her till she's too tired to remember, just let her drift off to sleep with content. I want to lay a hand on her shoulder, reassure her that she's not alone and I ain't going anywhere. It hovers just shy, enough to get a licking from her boiling skin. I feel...disgusted. I'm just like him, aren't I? Underneath I am. Another fucking animal looking for the best piece of meat to gnaw on. I can convince myself otherwise, but a nagging voice tells me not to bother. What would you do if she walked away from you? Told you she found somebody else, told you she didn't want you anymore, didn't need you anymore? ”I can't tell you all the things I'd do if it meant that never happened...I can't change the past...but I would. Even if it meant I would never have you...” Why the fuck do I bother then? Cause I can't change shit. God I hope I'm not crying. Brujah are incapable of such a feat, or so I have been told by crappy sources. I'm too angry to cry...too keen to do what she had suggested a few minutes ago and 'hurt' something. I can settle for myself. ”I...where the fuck is your guy based?” Oh yeah, he'll do. If he's fucking with her, he has no idea what he's fucking unleashed. That he might cause her to live this shit again cause he ain't got enough cash to line his pocket? I got money. She can have all of it. I don't need it...but neither does she. She needs something beyond our reach. Or...is it? ”You don't deserve it Mac. None of this shit. An' don't you dare fuckin' give me any shit back cause I know you're as stubborn as fucking Mouse with her problems. Marco was a fucking abomination that proves there ain't a fucking God to keep us safe. You didn't want it to happen, I know you never did. You're not like that. Oh, fuck.” I'd like to drive my head into the nearby brickwork just to get a few seconds of oblivion, maybe it'll help me think something up. Beyond my current thought pattern. Namely, kill every fucking fanger on the planet then myself last to ensure they never fucking come back. That would make things better. Make things a whole lot easier. I can deal with evil, stare it right in the face and not budge an inch. But innocence... ”What do you want, baby?” I ask, hopefully not sounding too defeated through gritted teeth. If this guys in the states, we need to go get him. I don't know if I could stop there though. Marta, did she say? Mrs. Fucking Abomination. I only want my baby to be happy...and since I can't do that, maybe I can at least make her feel safe. And maybe drowning in abomination blood can cool this temper, for the sake of whatever sorry Cape gets in my way next. |
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| Mac | Tuesday, 5. August 2014, 15:38 Post #15 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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He followed her. Like she knew he would. She'd not even had a doubt about it, no matter the tantrum she was having he'd never walked away. It was her that always ran, itchy feet and sweaty palms. They were stupid, fucked up pricks with a dangerous obsession with one another. It was demented and twisted, a union born from a night of Stupid antics and dare devil stunts that's left her ready to close her eyes for good. So close to escaping and finally paying her dues. How many mothers cried at night, mourning their dead children? Was Karen, her Mum, one of them? Crying over Mel's. She'd told Church she'd never hurt her Ma, not on purpose. She hadn't, either of them, but both of them had suffered because of her. If Church hadn't picked her up off the concrete, she'd have gone into the abyss at the end of a long and knotted rope of her own doing. Few would have given a shit, more would have celebrated. The dead that welcomed her in hell would have a parade. He was standing at her back, hovering. Just fucking standing there as the guilt washed out her mouth with bitterness. She wanted to turn around and deck him, yell at him, tell him off for standing there. Scream and chew him out for even letting her talk, for letting her spill herself all over the place. He could cut out her heart so easily, if he really wanted to dig into the wound and make it bleed out. She was such a fucking fool for him. She couldn't call it was it was between them, because she didn't deserve that sort of thing. Even without that word which was like a double edged knife in her stomach, Doc was the reason she was still standing. He'd never do that... Never open her up worse, never bleed her all out and infect the remaining husk the way another had. No, he was Doc Fanger... He put her back together again, he never ripped her apart. Even when he was laying hard fists and solid knee's, stomping the shit out of her body, he was putting her together. Lamentations of healing through breaking her down. They had that connection, to the pain. Testing their boundaries and limits, facing the things that haunted them in the dark through layers of painful mind washing. The drowning of ones self in raw and primal bliss to try and clean your soul. She'd never be shiny and new again, but sometimes after a night with him, her body hummed and ached in just the right ways that it didn't seem so terrible to be alive anymore. That was just escapism. He was her escape... Because underneath everything all the sins remained, with Mel's fueling the coal in train that carried them, Marco in the engine wearing a conductors Cap, and Marta chasing her along the train for asking for her ticket. Church was playing the coulda, shoulda, woulda game. If they could play that game, there was an endless assortment of other choices she should have made. That was a place she'd got stuck, for a long time. When she'd broken her bonds and escaped him completely, she'd had to struggle with trying to make sense of it all, the soup of shit left over in her life and in her soul. Shoulda woulda coulda took the majority of the first year of her life after Marco. Drugs, booze, and games. She'd do anything for an escape from the black stains in her life, burnt wounds left on her mind like cigarette butts on the back of a stubborn child looking for a fix. She knew she was supposed to feel like she was right where she ought to be, that if they woulda shoulda coulda she should want to do it all over again and end up right where she was. That's how people who lived thought right? Well fuck that high society, hippy bullshit. If she could, Mel's would be just fine, married and pregnant again, and Mac would be surrounded by half a dozen nieces and nephews all trying to outwit her in blind mans bluff. None of them would of course, but she's encourage them to keep trying while the Dreaded Aunt slaughtered them all with ninja tackles upon the slightest noise. She'd have tough nieces and nephews, they'd have to be. That was all pretend, all in her head. Coulda woulda shoulda was a dangerous game, because it was all pure escapism at it's worst. She could run away inside her head all she wanted, her body was still buckled over ready to vomit a bellyful of guilty vodka in a dirty London street. No matter Doc Fangers insistence that it wasn't her fault, she'd never agree. She'd made to many mistakes, done to many stupid moves and layered on to many years of haunting guilt... And that's all she had. Guilt. Guilt to keep her human. When she should have long ago flipped the switch to not give a damn, and just let herself decay into the monster that shivered beneath her skin while she did all the things she was so good at doing. She wasn't good at nothing except pain and death, and she was real good at those delightfully thrilling horrors. She just wished she wasn't, or that there was more than that.... But whenever she had more than that, it all fell away. They'd had a bit of something here, hadn't they? They'd had the carebears... Strangely, in a mind fuck of utter horror she'd delighted in the Care Bears. They're wide eyed innocence, reactions to the house guest of Hammy, Sawyer staring open mouthed at her titties as Church pulled out the metal fragments from her belly. Aguirre getting upset as stomping out. God she'd liked that, because it meant the little mouse had given a shit. Yeah, possibly because she just had a soft heart and couldn't watch no one suffer, but partially cuz the girl had liked her. "I don't want to lose it again. You wanna build something, and I don't like to build nothing cuz it'll all come down..." And she was scared of that. Mac was afraid of shit, just not the shit people were usually scared of. Cover her in spiders, drape a giant snake around her neck, splash buckets of intensities all over the place and give her a severed head as a new best mate. That was all dandy. It was the shit that mattered, the shit that really hurt she didn't like to touch. Touching led to wanting, and wanting something good always went bad. "I don't know how to make things baby..." There was a time though, a long time ago when she thought she'd make something of it all. It was mostly Mel's that did that sort of thing, created. She made music, that beaten up old guitar Mac lugged around with her a testimony to summers spent relaxing on the deck as they played. Sometimes she'd sit with a foot draped out of a hammock, using her bare toes to push back and forth to the music Mel's played. She'd taught her, that's how Mac had learnt. Besides a tiny little girl with a big smile and warm brown eyes. "I don't know what I want, because it all contradicts itself. The things I know, the things I want. There's things I want that can't never happen... Yet I want them. Every god damned day. I tell myself to fuck off as stop hopin, cuz that just hurts too... And in the end, running's all I know. Cuz running's what I've been doing since I was seven... And the only time I ever stopped went to ashes. So I ... I don't know how. " She'd said something Similair before, she didn't know 'how'. She'd meant it then, but maybe he could understand more now. Get what she really meant when she said she didn't know how, she didn't know how to live because she was walking around half dead already. She'd be wholly dead, if it wasn't for him. Was she going to vomit? Why hadn't she yet? When had she went from bending over to crouching with her head between her knees? And was her face wet? Why was her face wet... She wasn't allowed to do that shit. "I want Mel's taken care of. Whatever's left of her I want it taken care of." |
![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Church | Tuesday, 5. August 2014, 23:42 Post #16 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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I understand now. Maybe not completely, cause how the fuck could I? I always had an inkling that there was more, but not in the craziest dream that this scrambled brain can muster could I ever picture such a thing. And yet, it makes so much fucking sense. She's the strongest person I've ever met, and it's no wonder why. You eat shit from day one and you get to like the taste. So much so that you don't even take in the fact that it's rotting you away from the inside, deadening everything with disease till you and the world are on unfriendly terms. She never could stomach being a human, and I hadn't questioned why. Street cred, that's what she'd said before wasn't it? I guess it was a joke, even if its about as funny as a decapitated head. I thought it was because of what I am, which maybe it was at first. Guilt of some kind, for fucking a beast that has the same essence of death in it's veins. Fear of being trapped and enslaved once more. I figure she never wants to be in that situation again, who would, but I mean...how would she know Mel was alright? My hand has long drifted back to my side and hanging there limply as I gawk at the back of my girl, not cutting her off as she lets more of the pain free. It's not about me, or us. It's about everything she ever had being taken from her. Why bother? If it's going to be ripped and snatched away, is it worth that pain? They say it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all – well they are fucking idiots. All those times we were pressed so close, her body slick and shivering from the affection I rained upon her, all the quiet moments we had where I would let my eyes whisper to her; How much I adore her and worship her, that she's my fucking world when we're together. And while it might be hopeful thinking, I swear she looked at me the same, a glimmer of that same gem that was something much more than simple lust before she would push away or say something stupid. This is why, ain't it? This is...Jebus, it's everything. How she talks, how she holds herself, forever in a fucking defensive stance because it's easier to be alone than it is to lose everything around you. Maybe I understand better than I think, cause it wasn't too long ago I thought exactly the same. And while Aguirre put me on the right path, it was Mac that made me see the light. Made me want something more. Each word that leaves her pretty little mouth digs deep underneath my skin. I'm so annoyed by her. Stubborn, stupid, bottling cunt. And yet, she's the innocent one here. She didn't ask for her Pa to molest her, for Marco to snatch her, for the packs to defile her. She weathered it all, all alone. She doesn't know how, those fucking dreaded words that take me back to a time that she left me broken. I can't even look at her anymore, because I know how pathetic this makes me. It's her fucking pain Church, not yours. You can't fix it, you can't fix shit. Fuck if it doesn't mean I don't want to...I want to do anything and everything to make her whole. But it can't happen, it wont happen. Our first bout of pillow talk was on that very subject, no? We can't change the past, so we best forget it. I guess we were both lying through our teeth. I hear her shuffle, her voice completely cracked with emotion before I move my eyes back on her, really not sure what I'm seeing anymore. It's like a bad trip, a mind game being played on me as I watch her crumble down to the ground. Any aggression that I have seems to get sucked up in the cold of night and leave me wanting to...protect. I should never have made her tell me this, that's what I'm feeling right now. I'm smarter than that though, and I know this is significant for her. Dare I say healthy. Something inside of me knows that in the future this wont be but a moment of anguish that pushed her to be something she hasn't in a long time. To let off some steam that has stoked her fires for the better part of her life. But right now, I can't see that. I only see my baby hurting, a kind of hurt that no amount of doctoring can fix. I'm on my knees as suddenly as gravity can take me, sliding myself up close and enveloping her in my arms. I bite the bullet on what to do here, and let my body run autopilot. ”Whatever you want baby. I'll make sure it happens, I promise.” My forehead rests somewhere at the base of her neck, my face lost in a mass of dreads, my arms just trying desperately to pull her close. I'm lurched over her in a better attempt to obstruct her from the world, keep her safe and hidden away. This right here is blasphemous talk between the two of us, with any emotion normally shown by a clashing of our hips. ”You don't need to worry bout anythin' but you an' her. We'll fix make sure she's looked after, I promise baby. I promise” I expect a punch for this kind of play normally, but she's in no position to do so. I'd very much like her to, to exercise that fury as it so justly should be, but that doesn't help us. Doesn't help Mel's. ”You deserve good things, baby. Don't ever think you don't. The world is a better place cause of you, cause of the shit you've taken out. The suffering you took so others didn't. You can't control everything, Princess. I know if you could...” I know too damn right. Despite how she might talk to other people, treat them like an annoying piece of shit, she'd save every damn one of them. She would martyr herself because she knows she can take it better than anyone else. ”You saved me girl. I might've picked you out the gutters, but if I weren't dying the worst death...then you.” Wonderful you, perfect you. I should shut up, want to even, but my tongue is on autopilot. She already knows it, but I feel the need to reiterate all the good things about her. Let her know that I will always be crazy for her. I park my ass on the floor, still grasping around her with the intent to pull her into my lap and fucking, I dunno, rock her? That's so dumb and yet I wanna do it. This fucking girl. I bring my face around to the front of her balled up figure, to look her in the face. Oh fucking... ”Mac, I...” If I had a heart it'd break. Who am I kidding? It just burst like security glass and shattered across the floor. I just eyeball her a few moments longer before shifting my gaze away. I still keep a firm arm wrapped around her, as if it will negate her inner turmoil. But I've just remembered something, a little treat I brought along with me cause I knew the café was gonna be an issue. My ragged hands dip into a thigh pocket, pulling from within a slightly dishevelled looking joint that I prepared earlier. I clamp it between my lips to free the accompanying zippo lighter which (after closing my eyes) I spark up and suck in a lungful of tasty goodness. At least that's all it is for me, I sure as shit it can do more for her as I pluck it free between a thumb and forefinger and offer it. ”Come on baby, we need to get outta here and sort out this mess, yeah?” |
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| Mac | Wednesday, 6. August 2014, 17:46 Post #17 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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Mel's was what was left of her, her humanity. The memory, the guilt. It kept her feeling, feeling bad yeah, but feeling. She had a switch inside she could throw, to stop it all. Toss the vodka, stop the weed, get clean inside herself to get clean of the emotions that bound her to those fragments of what it felt like to live. Happiness lost, but happiness experienced. Broken pieces of a stained glass manifesto to the power of the right kind of Foster care, the kind that involved the caring and not just a free paycheck for a lazy man who didn't want to hold down a job or an alcoholic who couldn't keep one. Her life had never been a fairy tale, but it had been enough. More than that, more than what would have been enough for a kid like her. She felt alien to herself, re-experiencing all the things she'd put aside to plunder on, because it was the only way she could manage. She'd taken all these memories and trained herself to get angry rage full instead of sorrowfully desperate. A younger her was living in her grown up skin and it felt -wrong- that anyone should meet that girl. No wonder she had her head between her knee's, she didn't want anyone to see this shame. She didn't want to feel it, she didn't want to be there in London in a state so foreign and horribley weak she wished she could just die with a few fragments of dignity. Did she have any of that anymore? Nope, it was running down her cheeks. She needed it to stop, the bottles that had broken inside were leaking their contents all over, and using her eyes as an escape hatch. The salty liquid on her face burned, not physically but with indignant horror. She didn't like this person, this weak thing she was right then. It needed to drown in it's tears so that she didn't have to experience all this anymore. It was all the wrong kind of hurt. When Church dropped to the pavement and pressed his head to the back of her neck her insides felt like the dropped a mile. Every bit of her guts seemed to jolt, and then hit concrete hard and with startling force. Might as well have thrown a bucket of ice water on her, as his arms and body seemed to try and overtake her like a cool blanket. She hated him. She hated he was seeing this, that he was making her feel this. It was his fault, he couldn't leave well enough alone could he? He couldn't just drop it, tell her to man up and get the fuck up. Couldn't just slap her and yell at her for being such, well, such a fucking girl? That's what she needed. She needed to man up and get over it like she always did. Play her ego, provoke her into being the hard cunt that knew how to deal with all this nonsense. By not dealing. Shove the shit away cuz really, ain't nothing you can do about it is there? Pointless fucking mellow drama that opened you up and let other people creep in. Instead of closing it all up, he was cradling her. He was promising that he's help make whatever she wanted happen. God fucking damnit. It was just pulling it all open wider, the weight of him wasn't a patch for the hole it was more like a heavy brick had been chucked into the tear and it was just ripping wider to accommodate object lodged there. She struggled, it was beyond her control. Her mind just went into a panic mode, overwhelmed, and she wanted to get away from the thing that was making it worse. She tried to leave to embrace, a sudden twitching desperation to take flight. It was instinctual. She'd always been a runner. She needed air under her wings, concrete under her shoes. His arms held her tight though, the struggle not her usual thought out placement of fists and elbows. This was the broken panic of a kid that couldn't deal. Her heartbeat ran a deathly pace in her chest, the sudden burst of panic causing it to run a race. Maybe her heart could escape if her body could not. "I promise." What was he promising? Hear ears were ringing with the cocaphany of a frantic heart beat. He was saying things. Sappy, hopeful, good things. Ugh, how could he still talk like that? How could he still think anything good about her? Because he didn't know Mel's. He didn't get it... He didn't get that she had that same, sweetness that attracted people to Mouse. He didn't understand, if he put Mouse in place of Mel's in that story he'd be ripping her apart. He didn't even know how easily that could be true, with the shit that stalked after her in the night. “You saved me girl. I might've picked you out the gutters, but if I weren't dying the worst death...then you.” Then you... No, then -them-. Something somehow, that turned out right. They'd both been dying, rotting inside and looking for something to die for. They'd found it in each other, but at the same time, it was the exact thing that took away that desire for finality. Cuz this was better, these arms that trapped her. Those stupid words that fell from his mouth, infected by the care bears, it was better than the mass of her existence in the last two decades. How had two utter pieces of shit, because she knew he'd been a fucking moronic asshole in his younger years, found something that meant so much? They didn't desrve it, but holy fuck she wanted to keep it. Cling to it. Do whatever it took to not lose those dopey green eyes that looked at her with a sort of worship that made her mouth go dry and her palms get sweaty. She'd kill to keep what she had, without ever wanting it to be so important to her he'd slammed into her life and stuck, like a Mack truck of super glue driving into a wall at full force. Church was the driver, laughing maniacally all the way. She'd settled down, stopped the flailing and shifting and need to escape. Instead, she'd gone still and limp like noodles tossed into a boiling pot. He was shifting, and when he shifted she adjusted just a little. She didnt want to make it look like she was comfortable or anything, but she needed to get her throbbing, confused head laid against him so she could close her eyes and stem the tears. Wipe what wet was there already against the fabric of his hoodie. Stop it all. Let him cool down this tumult of waves and broken glass cascading along inside her. She hadn't been held like this since she was 15, and Karen was consoling her after a hard night of drinking had gone the wrong way. This was ridiculos. She knew that. How did it even happen? A crazy over reaction caused by shaking the can of over carbonated soda. She'd never realized there was so much pressure waiting to go bang. Then a smell was on the air, familiar and welcome as a joint was put into her view. It made her laugh, shakily but with a certain level of absolute appreciation. Boy knew her well. So god damned well. She reached out to take it, bringing it to her lips and taking in a long sigh of air through a bright red cherry. The end glowed appreciatively, as she drank in the soothing taste of herby goodness. “Fuck yeah, let's get the fuck out of here...” She wanted to stay, right where she was cuz she wasn't sure anyone would ever hold her like that again... but she wasn't 15, and she felt stupid as all fuck as the tides inside her calmed. “I... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that.” She didn't know what else to say, because as her own self indulgent pity streak was coming to an end she was realizing this couldn't be easy for him to listen to. She'd have a hard time if he broke down like that, fuck man, what would she do? Stand there stupidly or run away? Tell him to man up? She didn't really know, but felt ashamed that she thought it'd be the latter. He'd listen to her bear it all, but would she ever have the same spine to let him dump it all on her? No, she was a coward. Edited by TapestryofShame, Wednesday, 6. August 2014, 22:14.
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![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Church | Monday, 11. August 2014, 23:58 Post #18 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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Everything...dies down. Her thrashing, her breathing, her heartbeat, all becoming a crawl in comparison to the hundred mile an hour pace she had just been setting. As she settles into me, for the first time ever, her warmth actually soothes the fever that was raging. Things threaten to stop entirely, and even though that terror grips me firmly by the throat, it doesn't show. I can't so I won't. Things can remain at the ass-opposite end of 'the norm' and I'm perfectly fucking happy for that to happen if it means she can shed some of this burden. I'll take one for the team and try to bleach away the vision of a weeping woman who would rather die than bear such embarrassment. Not just for her sake, but mine. I never want to see those gorgeous peepers of hers well up unless it's in the midst of a stoned giggle fit. Can't say I ever envisioned out little adventure into the world of the civilized could have ever come to this, but then again, who could? I doubt she can even comprehend where she is right now; wrapped in my arms, cradled like a child were it not for the fact that her freakishly large body and those python legs can't be contained. I worried what she might do if I let her go, but even more what if I didn't? Descend into chaos and panic, lash out at me not from spite but just...fear. Think up something malicious to put me down and keep me there long enough to make her escape. Poof, a Mac gone. And if I didn't let her do that? Well, girl likes fire. Girl thinks she deserves a gruesome end. The thought makes me shudder, makes my guts ache and squirm for this selfish fear of not being alone. More than that though, without her. I wouldn't miss having somebody around, I'd miss the somebody. And that whisper of a chuckle that signals her return to sanity at the appearance of one Miss. Mary Jane...she's too damn strong and stubborn to let something like this break her. It's eating away faster than any disease could, for sure, and not because her body is damned near indestructible. Cause her mind is just as tough, as it relates to mental anguish. This is a matter of the soul...or the heart. While a spliff is no cure for any of the above, it certainly is a start. At her word, I expected to have her shift out of my lap, create some distance and, hopefully, shrug it off. My hand, after passing her the doobie and slipping the lighter away, had dropped to rest to the small of her back and keep her aware of my willingness to hold her as long as needed. And seemingly, that is a bit longer. A few seconds pass by, I watch her take a hearty breath of the right kind of fresh air, I can't help feel more and more relieved as her face resets back into it's usual, and dry, picture of prettiness. That'a girl. ”Shouldn't have done what?” I ask in a tone that is clearly not genuine, screaming the obvious that she need not answer. It's not like I ever have a choice in remembering her face as it was, remembering the tears...anyway, I'm not entirely sure I'm sorry. It was hardly fun, enjoyable and sure as shit not pleasurable. But it was important, more important to her than anything I could've imagined there being. Perhaps I shouldn't, but at the revelation of there being an actual human being underneath the ice cold killer exterior, I'm...proud. Maybe that's not the right word, but it sure fits the description. I'm forever in awe of her; the way she can move and think. Drive me wild, in good ways and bad. Makes me stupid, makes me laugh. Fuck, makes me happy. But to see the real emotion beyond that hidden amongst the violence and sex, things I've seen sure, but she's never just let out before. I always figured she wasn't a Sabbat because she was untameable, and that they were cruel in their attempts to do so. Turns out it's cause she actually does give a fuck. I always knew that...but here's the proof. The optimist inside me runs around and shout shit that I normally don't bother to listen to, cause fuck you optimist, you're a worthless fuck. Now? Maybe I understand where he's coming from. Even though he beasts discomfort at being so close to the embers doesn't deter me holding her close, the thought of what would happen if anything had happened to her sister does. I could sit here for hours just watching her face flare up in the darkness, the cherry to illuminate the profile of her beautiful face over and over and letting her know how much I adore her with devoted silence. So different to how we normally pass the time, but how easily I could find myself doing it. That's the kind of stupid she makes me, I suppose, and I can't let that shit fly. So, with a little positioning, I'm pushing back to my feet, bringing her with my and guiding her feet down to the ground so she doesn't just topple onto her ass. Might be a little wobbly after the emergence of her inner demons, and I wouldn't blame her. ”So I'm probably the last person who can help you with this, but...y'know. Tough. You're stuck with me.” As soon as she's on her feet, my hands are off, feeling the phone in my pocket before pausing and realising I don't actually keep numbers. I have a little book somewhere. Some numbers in there. And if any of them work, it might help sort out this mess. I know any book keepers? ”Let's get home. I mean, yours. Or mine. Just...out the fuckin' street an' as far away from the stinky cocksuckers as possible.” Where she can have a good smoke and drink and not worry about anyone seeing her post-breakdown. Where we can make some calls, get thing settled and she can relax. No, I'm not just angling for sex. I don't think I've ever been so turned off in my life. And yet, when I look at her...and I do, right in the eye. I look at her and she makes me feel like a idiot kid. I reach out a hand. A little ironically maybe, but not fully. Not at all. Yup, fucking idiot. |
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| Mac | Wednesday, 13. August 2014, 17:28 Post #19 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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His shifting and moving to get up signaled the end of the spell, like a sudden slapping of thick gob a of glue over the rips in her soul that had been pouring out everywhere. It needed to happen, she needed to get back together and plug up the girly leaks. She was disgusted by herself. Being this crying, miserable, guilt wracked creature was not who she was anymore. She didn't know how to be like this, she'd crawled out and become someone build so much stronger. This phase of her life was gone, this guilt was a ten year old wound that needed to get the fuck back down into the depths of her soul. Something's never healed, somethings you just had to learn to live with, tucked away until they calcified and were cocooned by the disassociation of time. When her feet touched down she didn't stumble, or weakly flail about. By the time Church was so carefully enabling her to be a real person again, she'd managed to get together at least half of herself and was sturdy on those long limbs of muscle. Searching through old memories and feelings had left her drained, her face felt strangely tight, like she could feel the dried stain of salt on her cheeks and the puffy red rim of her eyes. It was such a foreign feeling, one she could only liken to getting a burning face full of smoke and ash when playing with a bon fire. No smell or choking in this, but the same facial burn... Was she crying straight vodka? That would explain why it seemed to sting so bad, and she would use that mental image to explain it to herself because she felt so very ashamed of the action. His burning green gaze on her didn't relieve the tightness in her chest, it made her breathe somewhat harder as her expression peeled back into something with flaming red cheeks and a daring defiance for him to poke at the moment, burst the bubble, say something to take the embarrassment and shame and just turn it into rage. Bring it down to something more common, normal. He didn't poke, he didn't enrage, he just moved on so perfectly she could have struck him out of frustration. God damnit, he navigated her to well. They'd been together to long hadn't they? He knew when to poke and ...when to -poke-. She felt sort of like she was balancing on the edge of a knife then, unsure which direction to dive off in, but if she stood there to long the knife itself would simply slice through her. “Yeah, let's get the fuck out of here.” Her words were somewhat slower than they ought to be, less hiss and rumble but not so unlike herself it would be alarming. She was just tired and muddled, his suggestion to get off from the kine quarters and to some place less humiliating was a good one. She needed to crawl in a hole and die, she would have chosen to crawl into a hole on her own but Church was firmly stating his intention to escourt her. “My place, I need booze and you're out.” She took another long drag off the blunt between her lips, the cherry glowing long and bright as she drew in hard and slow. She wanted (No, she needed) the flavorful smoke to wash all the way down to the very last alveolus, coat her with its calming smoke and give her brain that buzz she knew so well. The spliff burned away, till the cherry hit her lip and seared the skin. She pinched the red ember between her fingers, rolling it and chucking the ash to the ground as she looked at the half hearted hand he was raising. Was he as fucking confused at all this shit that just fell out of her mouth as she was? He looked slightly, off. His humor was there, but it was subtle and the way he looked at her was full of something that she didn't know what to do with. She could take that hand, slink her fingers into his and walk all care bear like down the road hand in hand with the boy that made her stupid. Live a fairy tale. That sort of shit wasn't for her, she didn't know how to do all this emotional shit. There'd been to much already, and she'd just drown under it all if it kept up. Instead she'd just turn to walk away, but wait for him enough so that when they walked, their shoulders would bump up against each other. “How do you kill a Nossie that lives in the States? Can a hit man hire a hit man? Cuz, I think I might have to murder someone for this... I ain't used to having to get someone else to do my dirty work, but... It would be hard to reach that far if we're in London. You got any peeps from back home?” And by the end of talking about murder and mayhem, she sounded so much more like herself she almost felt like it. Even the sting in her face was beginning to fade away, as the smokey brain she was inhabiting helped her shake off the meloncholy's edge. Edited by TapestryofShame, Wednesday, 13. August 2014, 19:03.
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![]() "You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows." | |
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| Church | Monday, 18. August 2014, 00:26 Post #20 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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My gaze is getting too heavy, or at least I feel like I'm undressing her soul with my eyes. I surely ain't, I don't want to psychoana-whatsit any of this shit. I can't fathom it, I don't wanna. I just want that smoke to do it's magic and fill her with good vibes, maybe drain her of her ability to recall her history. But still I stare, hoping they're not so intruding to my Baby as she seems to acknowledge the outreached hand. Some things are better left hanging in the air, and I'm not upset by the knowledge that my hand was one of them. Not at all. The fact that she leaves me hanging and is happy to walk out of here solely on the strength of her own two legs is uplifting. It was win-win as far as I was concerned, something that I couldn't imagine setting her off on one like it maybe would normally. Either she took my hand cause...she needed to, she felt too damned drained to keep up the tough bitch act and just wanted to borrow some strength to make it home. I sure as shit know I know I've done it enough with her. But no, the bitch is back. Dunno about better than ever, but I can let the tension melt away in the warming relief that sweeps through me as she turns away, mind now set on losing herself in the bottom of a bottle and getting 'even' with her book keeper. I'm sure a few absolutes will get her mind to a much happier place by taking the thought out of it. There's also the benefit of having her elsewhere too, away from prying eyes who she thinks will leap all over her when they spot the weakness in the armour. I don't get that, but girl not wanting to stick around I understand completely. Let's get to the warehouse, to normalcy, to a place I can freely give her all the distractions she needs after we try to sort this mess out. I have every intention of trailing behind her just like before, the obedient dog in the shadow of his master, but with an obedience born purely out of love. But her pace is more that of getting from A to B than her itchy feet willing her to run and never look back. I'm able to shuffle up to her side and switch my eyes from the tangle of dreads to the road ahead, looking forward. That's what we're doing right? Looking to the future, cause what the fuck else can we do with the car wreck pasts that we somehow managed to walk away from? ”Peeps...yeah, maybe.” Maybe indeed, though I feel like that came out more confident than I actual am. I mean, I know plenty of psychos in the state – none of which I would consider myself being on good terms with. Dunno if they're still working, hell, if they're still alive, but none of these are people I want to connect with ever again. But it's for my Princess, an' I suppose I'll do anything for her ass now wont I? ”I got some numbers in a book somewhere, won't hurt to call 'em. Push comes to shove, we can do it ourselves.” Jebus, we. I feel almost dirty saying it, cause it's something I'm almost certain she wants to keep as far away from me as possible still. But then, does she wanna go to the states seeing as it's the birthplace of all her nightmares? Whatever dogs are after her, the hound masters waiting in the good old US of A. I want them all dead, sure, but easier said than done. And what I said still stands...if I can get this shithole up to standards, make a place that I can keep her safe in, it don't matter how many hounds come a'sniffin. I'll put those fuckers down. ”Anyway, it ain't too important.” Jeez, that could be misinterpreted and I could get a roundhouse to the junk. I turn to her to ensure that ain't the case, and hope that she can see the alarm in my face at my possible insensitive comment. ”It's not. I know you're pissed but you're gonna be even more fucked off if we don't get some money wired across and things...sorted.” No need to name names or be specific, but she knows what I mean. What use is it killing the accountant if Mel's is suffering for it? Get that sorted first, then it's easier to determine just how dead this guy needs to be. Though I catch her drift, if he's fucking her around cause she ain't getting her hands as dirty as she used to...well, he's a bigger fucking idiot than me. If he thought she was dead? Well, he's a no good, untrustworthy, heartless asshole and that's kind of on her for making a bad decision. Doesn't mean he should get off lightly for it though. Her face isn't twisted with the crying, but still there remains faint traces of the cracks in the shell. It's a face I've never seen before and maybe never will again. ”I meant what I said. You're stuck with me. An' I'm with you on this, whatever you need, you know you can ask it.” I haven't been dissuaded by any of this evenings events, she knows that right? And I sure as shit know it ain't over. There's gonna be more frustration with the phonecalls and the bank details and the leaving shit in the hands of people...waiting. The epitome of frustration for people like us. I'll be there with her...and probably make things ten times worse. Jebus. Hopefully we don't completely wreck this city before I can try and fix it. And by that I mean I hope we can turn it on each other, take that hate and venom that we bottle and throw it in each others faces. Cause I know it wont hurt. I know I'll never hurt her in the ways that really hit home, and after being with her so long, I know she wont do the same. We'll turn it into something...positive, at least by our standards. And then hopefully, when the sun rises, there's enough left standing for me to slip away into some peaceful dreams. More importantly, enough left in the world for my baby to do the same. |
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1:15 AM Jul 11