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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: |
| Kryptonite; Church | |
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| Topic Started: Thursday, 21. August 2014, 16:01 (1,007 Views) | |
| Mac | Thursday, 21. August 2014, 16:01 Post #1 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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"Well, ain't like I've never done this before Doc. I did in New York a few times..." She stood on the gym matts, which were now so worn and torn between her and church's vigorous 'work outs' over the last few months that they needed replacing altogether. She'd get around to it, eventually. Really she should just throw them out, the busted lines in the thick blue plastic coated canvas caused the creamy fluffy interior to stick out. She'd already turned them over, there was no saving these poor fluffy fucks. She was barefoot, because well, why not? Ain't like they were going anywhere tonight, it was an indoor night of recreation. No bars, no fucking television (she didn't own one) and nothing but Church, her, and the gym equipment. She wore shorts, tight little black ones that left the round curve of her ass cheeks hanging out the black spandex fabric. She wore only a black sports bra on top, opting to wear as little as possible due to the heat. She couldn't air condition the fucking warehouse, as far as anyone knew it was relatively uninhabited and she didn't want a massive power drain to light up her hidey hole on any Nossie sensors, which meant she was left to burn up in the summer heat. Her dreads were gathered and tied atop her head in a dread bun, boring but practical when she was desperate to keep the heat off the back of her neck. "I just, ain't never done it on purpose... Both times were flight responses when the numbers were to high. I don't think there was anything I didn't have inside my body in New York, fuck... I ate everything. Ain't no choice sometimes." Malk. She'd eaten Malk. She'd learned /never/ to eat malk again. Fuck that shit, she'd never do it again. She was holding a clear bag of red, with a bendy straw inserted through the point where you were supposed to attach the lines. It was cool in her hand, having just come from the fridge in her garage locker where the massive collection of the dead juices were stored. In the winter sometimes she liked it warm, but in the summer the cold liquid was like the best star bucks frappe that money could buy. True she hated Starbucks, and didn't do anything sweet unless she was hella stones out of her noggin, but she equated the relief from the icy vamper sliding down her throat to the way she saw people react to their iced coffee beverages. Except they had no idea how much better fanger tasted. She didn't sip it, she drank it like it was liquid ambrosia, fingers obscuring the label of 'Fucking flowery dickhead' on the front. The blood bags forced 'donor' been a toreador at some point. Now they were ashes somewhere in Paris. "Is there like, a trick or something? Do you in vision yourself like superman? Ain't nothing I ever did caused it to Work on purpose...and it ain't like I didn't try after the first time, holy fuck did I ever! Can you imagine? God... I'll be unstoppable." She looked far to happy at the prospect of getting faster than her ghoul reflexes could provide. She was already a fucking super human monster, adding another level of 'don't fuck with me' would just give her that extra edge to her already bloated ego and self vision. Maybe she'd get the nerve to finally settle an old, haunting score. |
![]() "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 | Saturday, 23. August 2014, 01:23 Post #2 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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I like it here. Course I have good reason to. I don't need to dig deep to bring back fond memories of the night I found her ass, craving the taste of her blood. Determined to get it one way or another, not having a clue shit would end the way it did...the best way ever. You'd think those memories got lost amongst all the blunt force trauma that went down that awesome night. You're probably right. But thanks to all the subsequent evenings spent in a whirlwind of that sublime violence, I've been able to fill in the gaps with ample sights and sounds. If these walls could talk, they'd fucking scream. But that's not what I like, I mean, I like it. I'm not a sentimental guy, I usually just try to hang my hat in especially shady spots. But this place? It's a nice space. Things are practical, no clutter to take yourself out on. Not as crammed as the apartment, room to actually stretch out some. That and it's not the apartment, cause that place is just...not a place I like to be at anymore. Sure as shit not alone. Just a reminder of somebody I used to know...Fuck. This place though, it's great. Maybe I love it cause it's just the fact that its Mac all over. Or it's the fact that I get to have her all over. All comes back to the fucking in the end I spose. I was staring at the trampoline with little intention before I turn to her as she explains a little more about New York. Looking mighty fine as she does it, along with making me jealous of a straw. I decided not to make jokes about her ass so...actually, why haven't I been doing that? I could now, but I'm eager to hear what she's saying, cause this shits gonna be unreal. Super Speed 101. I'm perhaps not as practically well dressed as her, but y'know, fanger. My pants...are gone. They'd run their course, and finally died in the line of service when she tore them beyond repair as she liberated me of them. I'm breaking in some jeans. Nothing fancy, but they feel hella sturdier than the last pair, which felt like going bare. Maybe that's the thing, cause I'd totally be naked 24/7 if it wasn't considered unnatural by society. Beh. I managed to pull a vest on before going for a hunt earlier, not that it matters. Coolness is not an issue, though I do like having my bare feet on the cold mat. Makes me feel grounded enough to throw down, but keeps things carefree. I already know this is gonna be, if nothing else, hilarious. ”Damn right I'm superman.” I nod my head to further cement how right she was with her statement. Wait, did she even actually say that?Yes, I know who superman is, cause I watch too much damn TV. ”Super strength, speed. Fuck flight. Ice breath. Heat vision.” My face twists with retarded delight as I say the last two and realise they're kind of applicable. Whether its me mumbling on the length of her neck...or commanding her to destroy my pants using only my bedroom eyes. ”But you're fuckin' right baby, scares the shit out of me. You...being anything more than you are now...” Fuck is that ever exciting. I swallow hard, hoping she catches my adams-apple bob up and down, cause even though the action is forced, fuck if it don't perfectly sum up how I feel about the whole thing. Something would have to go wrong, surely. Like some 80's B-flick. Too much power, she'd turn, literally, into some sort of monster. Course, you never hear that shit happening for real. Maybe her tits would come off. They able to move at high speeds? ”Anyway, I'm tryin' to think about the first time I did it. And, uh, how” I want to say the first place I managed it was Vegas, well, Nevada. Prison. I think. Difficult to think of specifics, but there were some true psychopaths in there. I was one of them, but I was pumped with Brujah. I wasn't to be fucked with. Course, I could only do so much by telling people that, but there were a few fight or flight situations in the yard or the mess hall. And no where to run. Faceless fuckers that I don't lose sleep over, but I mutilated (or worse) all the same. The strength came naturally, but the speed was so infrequent. Bursts of unholy power. The early years of my relationship with a creature that hides beneath the skin, when we were so new and curious about one another. It would lash out violently when backed into a corner. Maybe this is wrong...maybe I'm remembering things wrong. Well that's a whole fucking lot of good. ”It's a choice, like flicking a switch.” I advise her with an unconvinced face. Shit, this is tricky to explain. ”I wanna go faster, and knowing that I can, I do. Dunno how that shit started though.” I look at her with head slightly tilted as I scratch my beard and contemplate how best to describe my magical blood powers, cause that's what it is. Seriously, as far as I'm aware, Vampires are fucking make believe. No-one knows how we are what we are, right? ”Maybe that's how it does start. Needin' to do it. Instinct an' all that. I mean, think about it. You know Brujah are strong, Gangrel are tough, Malks are crazy. It's in the blood already, it's there to be used surely.” I stop scratching as I furrow my brow. Slow down Doc, or do you want to be known as Professor Fanger from now on? ”It makes me feel light. Every thing's so effortless. I can still remember – you know when you work out, do some curls for fucking half an hour or something to the point your arms so tense it feels like somethings gonna snap or pop. And you put the weight down and your hand move so easily...I dunno, honey. Shits weird. Wont hurt to try, well, nothing you can't handle.” I have a few ideas how we can coax that power out of her, and there's gonna be some bruises as a result, but I'll try not to get all hot and bothered whilst they happen. Try my darndest. I take a few steps towards her, gathering that she's just about finished with her fanger energy smoothie. ”Mind over matter baby. If anyone could learn off a jackass like me, it's you.” Even if she can't, it'll still be a decent workout. Being the gent I am, I'll let her tell me when she's all full and ready. Wouldn't wanna get blood on the mats, now would we? |
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| Mac | Saturday, 23. August 2014, 18:21 Post #3 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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"I love flying, you're such a freak. The higher the better... Totes disappointed that you wont sky dive with me. Telling you, major awesome rush. Falling through clouds? God damnit, feels like heaven. Probably the closest I'll ever be too." She grinned while she watched him swallow, that forced movement on his part not lost on her at all. He was always supportive of making her a better beast, unstoppable. Yeah, it was because he wanted her to /be/ unstoppable. She'd never stop killing, it was to intrinsic to her nature now. He just wanted to make sure that she came back from the killing, alive and well and as whole as she could be. He hated seeing other people tear her up, such violent acts were for his hands only. A coy grin covered her features, as she popped up and down on her toes and let her hips start wiggling to and fro like a kid waiting for the candy store to open. She sucked the bag dry while she quagswagged back and forth in a hyperactive state. When the last bit of blood flushed up the straw, she chucked it over to the weight bench. It landed where she threw it, but the moment of the throw made it topple over the edge and fall to the ground. Meh, she'd pick it up later. "Alright, think light thoughts then? That doesnt sound fucking helpful. I'm as dense as a rhino, not a fucking elf with hollow bones and shit. Whatever... Light thoughts..." What did she envision herself as? She's never imagined herself as anything light. Although, perhaps she could find something less tank like that was applicable to her own self image? A predator, like a large cat. They were surely heavy yes, but they were /fast/ and had a very light jump force. They knew how to bend and sway, how to freck through the woods and jungle without making a sound. She could do that, she could imagine herself a large stalking predator in the wild. A lion? Eh, no. She also couldn't imagine herself as anything with spots or stripes, she just wasn't the showy type like that. She could doll up with the best of them, if she was being /paid/ for it. Typically? Mac like to be Mac, no make up and dressed so red neck it hurt. A Caracal cat. Yeah, that was her. Good at jumping, climbing, and stupid stunts performed at dangerous heights. They snatched birds right out of the sky, and that to her? Was the kind of Cat she would want to be. Like a trap, waiting and springing on creatures that thought they flew so high nothing could touch them. "Alright. Mind over Matter." So, A Caracal and a Jackass meet in the woods. Edited by Mac, Saturday, 23. August 2014, 18:22.
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| Church | Monday, 25. August 2014, 20:14 Post #4 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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I don't let her jabs at my perfectly rationale objection to stepping foot on a plane phase me. She thinks I'm the freak here? Bitch. Crazy bitch, remember. Does the crazy cause it gets her off and to me, strapping yourself in on one of those mother fuckers...I suppress a shudder running through me.Freak-bitch. I don't know if she quite understands what exactly I'm made queasy by, cause I like to talk about it even less than I like thinking it. It's not the height, the falling – hell, maybe if I could fly I wouldn't give a shit. It's the waiting, the confinement, the noise, the other couple hundred anchovies stuffed in there with you. Never liked it when I was living, and doing it while dead has got bad news all over it. So in summary, fuck you Cocktease, I ain't getting on no plane. What's with this wiggle? She know she's this adorable? Princess like the idea of being a killing machine too? Well, of course she does. I think it's a chip on her shoulder, that as bad ass as she is, you're average Brujah can pound you to jelly with little actual hand to hand combat skill. Case and point, Doc Fanger. As strong as I am, don't matter none when I can barely lay a finger on her. In a fair fight she is plain better than me, I might just win out cause I have the advantage of being a walking corpse. I hit the button or, as she refers to it, start cheating, things get considerably more one sided. She's smart enough, and a whackjob to boot, to be able to fight that fire with, well, fire. But that don't always work. And it's nice to be able to tear somebody's head off before they even know you're behind them, regardless of whether you needed to or not. So yeah...why the fuck not? ”Alright, so let's do it.” Do it indeed. Do what exactly? Well, I've thought about it...briefly. Like, five seconds ago, weren't you paying attention? It goes back to what was said earlier, that instinctively it can maybe be drawn out. What better way to provoke such a reaction than by kicking the crap out of her? Well, hopefully not. Maybe one or two licks might help, but I don't really wanna hurt my Princess, even if she does like it. Cause here's what I'm thinking; Princess is better on her feet than me when I'm not burning blood. She's smarter too. If we play a little game of keep away, she can do just that...for a while. But she can also get cornered, get tired, get desperate...it's not a real threat, but if she's put in a position that she might need to be that fraction faster, would it happen? I thought maybe that she could try and catch me but I dunno if that'd be the same sensation. Man, I really wish I remembered how I learnt this shit. ”What I'm figuring...is basically...you stay the fuck out of my way. I wan' you to just evade whatever I throw at you.” Cause I give a mean dead leg. I don't wanna draw blood so much as give a shock to the system if she's a little too slow. Getting hit in the biceps or the thigh the wrong way? She at least has the advantage that I wont break any bones...probably. ”Always keep movin, no fuckin' climbing up high. You could run but...I'll just catch you. So why don't we keep it on the mat?” I smirk a little as I say it, remembering the footrace we once had in the car park outside. I know, I'm a cheater. ”Oh by the way? You ain't allowed hit me. You can do what you need t'not get hit but no sucker punchin' me back, 'kay?” Better slip that one in there as I square up close to her, looking as pleased as I always do when I get to see my baby in a mood like this. Trying not to fall into those chocolate pools and get all hazy when there's work to be done. Doing the dance one more time, except this time it might have educational significance? Not just for us, but all Fanger-kind. Meh. At the very least, it might give her a little practice in avoiding a grinner moving at high speeds, which if you can hold out, leaves the fanger running on low. And, well, more dangerous than ever, but easier to kill if they hesitate a moment to struggle with their monster. “This ain't about fighting, it's about speeding up your body to match your reflexes. No objections I hope?” Ooooh, such a cheater. Whether she does have any reservations or not, she better be ready. I barely ball up the fist in my haste to jab one into the meat of her left arm. I'm not burning blood yet, cause we'll start this shit slow. Have her run rings around me until, bam, she can't do that shit no more. Whether she's quick enough to dodge this first one would be worth a wager. Then again, my left hands already cocking up at my side, and she knows I'm a lefty. She won't wanna get hit by that. |
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| Mac | Thursday, 28. August 2014, 21:20 Post #5 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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Never trust a fanger. Yet there she wAs, breaking a golden rule and being all to comfortable with the specimen in her warehouse. Somehow, she didn't actually expect him to just go to town like he had. Really, she wasn't sure why she didn't expect it since he'd never been the slow start kind. She was just slightly aloof in mental imagery of being a cat like beast, stalking her prey through the jungle gym of her warehouse as he laid out rules. Dodge, duck and cover, run, but no hitting back. Oh yeah, cuz that would ever happen. Her instincts were just all to strong when it came to scenario's like this, it's why she could never engage in friendly bouts of sparring. Something could trigger and she'd end up with a knife in someone's neck by accident, even as hard as she tried to keep it friendly and civil. She just wasn't the type, even when she was trying. Maybe it would be easier that she didn't have any explicitly sharp stabbing objects on hand, but she still had hands and feet and the idea those couldn't connect with him at any point? It wasn't right, it wasn't her! Her face would wrinkle up in an objecting expression, but that wrinkled expression morphed into a wince of pain as his punch landed on her thick shoulder as he struck out. "Fucker!" And fuck that not hitting back bullshit too! She thought for maybe a millisecond she'd try for a while, but she needed an immediate moment if satisfaction in response, even as his meaty left sledgehammer of a hand was flying at her. Well, best to get out of it's way. What beats the length of Docs arm? Her legs, and she'd try and aim a hard heel to the top of his foot as she side stepped to dodge, trying to give it all her weight and use his foots arch as the point of momentum to push off backwards and jump to create some distance between them. She was dodging, she totally wasn't intending to stamp in his foot like the cunty bitch she was. Her grin was rather a give away, feigning innocence wasn't her forte. |
![]() "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 | Saturday, 30. August 2014, 17:47 Post #6 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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Fucker indeed. Just hearing a cry from my baby is enough to get me going. It's not my favourite noise to come from her, I probably wouldn't even put it in the top ten. That space is reserved for those little gasps and whimpers and moans that she has no choice but to make, unknowingly mumble as her senses are blocked by a cloud of torment. Not that I could put a finger on my very favourite...probably involves 'Church' or 'Doc' or 'Baby', maybe even 'Damon' for when her brains really are getting bashed around in her skull from a vigorous pussy pounding. But anyway, this is a different tone of noise. A sort of 'You cheating piece of shit' vibe somewhat with traces of 'Don't ever change, or I'll get bored.' Surprise and anger and yet the understanding that I would never hurt her, will never hurt her in ways she can't take. I almost prepare for a fist to head back my way, but maybe she's clocked that doing that is gonna lead to another nasty bruise in the form of a left hook. She knows I'm a lefty by now, right? And she knows that she can't stand there toe to toe with a Brujah, even if- ”Jheess” I didn't even look at her feet. Bitch. She ducks closer for that split second that I was expecting a hay maker, and instead she's crunched a few toes and made a fucking crater across the curved length of my foot with enough impact that I stop my fist flying. The crash mats did their part to cushion the blow, but still, toes are a bitch. I forget I have them until somebody goes and fucks up a few. ”Cunt.” I growl at the childish face she makes my way as she leaps off and back a few feet, all too sure that my face is looking just as stupid right now. So I guess she's not completely on board with the 'no fighting back' rule. Figures. She better not get too many licks on me or I'm not gonna wanna teach so much as just fight till we're an intimate bundle of flesh on the floor, taking each other apart piece by piece. So...guess I start the show early? I try to feel out the sensation more thoroughly than I ordinarily would, but all the while, I'm in a rush. I need to be faster, and I command my blood to make it so. And what do you know? For lack of a scientific explanation of the process, it just happens. So what do we do? Well, we plant our feet and charge like a fucking rhino. She thinks she's dense, yet has the natural grace and agility to do what she just did and springboard away without so much as a spanking? Well, I'm afraid I got bad news for her sweet ass. She's a slave to momentum, gonna land where she's gonna land and can't do anything about that. I might not be able to beat her there, maybe I can, but even if I don't she's gonna require a split second to get her footing before she can move again, lest she fall on her ass and become easy pickings. Easy and delicious. And not a bad idea. I mean, if she's fighting a Fanger who was put together like me, fists are the least of her problem. What happens when they use a burst of speed to get on her, hold her in a compromised way and just chow down? The thought turns my fucking stomach. I consider the lariat, but I don't really wanna take her head off. Still, may be worth a half assed effort to make her try and dodge it. That's when I'll try to catch her. Front or behind, it don't matter. See if I can wrap her up around the waist or under the armpits, get a hold of her and take her down to the ground. Whether this is done with a shove, a hip toss, a fucking German superlex...anything to get her down. Then, we'll see what she does. Trying to get up around a speeding grinner is a good way to get your head taken off, but I trust in my baby to always have a card to play. |
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| Mac | Thursday, 4. September 2014, 04:38 Post #7 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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That beautiful all over shiver ran through her skin when she smashed his foot, the nearly purred slur calling her a 'Cunt' was like the sweetest humming to her ears. She loved to hurt, and Churchs myriad of stupid faces of painful wonder never ceased to deliver that much needed stroke to her sadistic parts. It would be a rare little thrill she was sure, considering what the intentions between this little play time were. She didn't 'fight' no Celerity blessed mother fuckers. Mac fought hard and dirty, and part of that dirty was knowing /who/ she was offing in the dark and what they were capable of. Brujah were double the cleaning fee of any other clan, simply because they had the strength and the speed to actually end her life. The speed was something she couldn't compete with, it left her at a disadvantage to the point where she knew when to back down. Mac loved to lay on the hurt and be hurt in return, but she knew far to well that she was made of flesh and blood and death could be dealt to her any moment when caught in a position like she was in now. Brujah were dangerous, it's why every moment with Church tasted so fucking good. So many layers of the forbidden fruit, he was the best kind of torture. She was ready to hit ground and continue to back pace, side step with Church on an angle to her and keep her eyes on him. She knew the lay out of the gyms floor well enough to manuver it in the dark, no need to even glance at her feet, which was one of the many exercises she did during the day when the sun was burning and her Doc was sleeping soundly in deathly slumber. Different days were a different focus, but sometimes she played solo blind mans bluff around the warehouse. Why? Well, get a fucker in here and cut the power and it was a blackout zone. Knowing your territory when your opponent didn't? Jesus, that was the win there. As long as the fucker didn't have that freaky glow in the dark eye bullshit, she had the advantage. He wasn't there to keep those hazel eyes on though, he was moving at that Brujah speed that left her at such a disadvantage. Blink and you miss it, blink and the fucker was trying to clothes line you into next week. Fuck that, she wasn't going to lose her head! Luckily, he didn't want her too. He was aiming high, trying to force her into a dodge. She'd dodge, by dropping to the ground completely and trying to roll out of the way. It was really all she could do, and it lacked her usual grace as the action was a desperate drop tuck. If he wasn't on her in a hairs split, she would be scrambling to her feet and trying to run for it across the mats to try and get more space again. No need to keep her eyes on the ground, she would try and keep them on him... The moment he blinked out of existence this next time? She'd be throwing an elbow into the air in an arc. Even if he caught her, she'd still manage to smash him with a bony appendage and get a little bit of vengence in. |
![]() "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 | Saturday, 6. September 2014, 14:26 Post #8 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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She drops and tumbles. Go figure. I didn't expect anything different, so maybe that's why I expected something different, y'know? I figure I was gonna get a sneaker to the jaw, that somehow she'd roll through her jump and pull retaliation out the bag. Not that I'm disappointed that she didn't, hell she might actually be following the rules, but the surprise and right hook to my ego is more often than not the result of me chasing her around. Baby moves better than me, can kick ass better than me, and she still gets to fucking come. Bitch. I think of all her fancy toys (no, not those in the box under the bed) and wonder what kind of botch-job I'd pull if I tried to do anything with a chain. Maybe something she can teach me in the future? Would make things like catching her ass easier. Hmmm...I could lasso her...but she'd probably lose her mind with the cowboy fantasies. Anyway, here and now, Church is losing despite the cheating. Baby stop, drops and rolls like a fire drill, making me spin from my feint, and while I'm able to turn and grab after her in less than a frantic heartbeat, I miss. My fingers graze the small of her back, just out of reach as she regains her footing and starts scampering in the other direction. I'm annoyed I didn't get her, I mean, I would've settled for my fingers to catch a little further south and maybe de-pants her. I don't think that would slow her down either, I'm guessing those thighs would just tear the material clean in half instead of hindering her movement at all. But maybe it'd motivate me a little more to catch her? Or motivate her to be caught... Whatever. Wishful thinking. Compose your thoughts, Church, you still got plenty of juice in the tank. I take off in pursuit, probably dissolving to a blur of colour to her as she peeks over her shoulder. My hands flexing anxiously from the lack of hurting they've laid down so far, so eager to tear and destroy her. Well, destroy her slowly. Thoughtfully. Every second a paradise for her and me both. Starting right fucking now. I don't know what I'm gonna do exactly, other than make her pay for getting caught of course. I figure a forearm to the back of the braincase might make her smell the roses and wanna keep the fuck away, but it's not what I wanna do. Sure, she's tough enough for it, but I'd actually like to keep her head clear and have the rest of her buckle, all her limbs get beaten to jelly so she can barely move them. As the hammering feet of my pursuit draw that much closer, I realise that the bitch still doesn't quite grasp the rules. She strikes back behind her, way too fucking precise and clean to be a flailing reaction to me breathing down her neck. Bitch had a plan, always does. I'm gonna remind her just how Celerity means I don't care for it. The elbow drives home, and where it hits is damn right nasty. I hoped that it would snag on the meat of my shoulder, but no such luck as it glides right past and jams me right in the collar bone. Or the throat. No, definitely collar bone, cause I feel that little fucker snap like a twig in ground zero of flaming fucking agony. Makes me hiss of air escape between my teeth in a way she is accustom to, a tiny orgasm whispered onto the back of her neck, yet makes me wish I had clubbed her right down to the ground, bowled right through her with just my body mass. I suppose I should've, what with it being the average cannon fodders method of battle. But no. I'm a gentleman. I don't let her get that fucking arm back without a cost, and whether she wants to pay it is up to her. I loop an arm under hers to make sure she doesn't get a chance to recoil and get the fuck out of dodge again. The other hand finds hold of her wrist, bend that motherfucker back to straighten it out on the anchor of my own biscep. I'ma stomp a heel into her calf and bring her to her knees. If this works, If, uh, I dunno. I guess I'll pin her to the ground and wrench this arm till it's fucking wrecked. I was supposed to keep her moving, on her toes...doesn't seem to be going that way. Bitch is too stubborn for that. So I guess we take away her weapons and hope she's smart enough to run. Cause lord knows I hope she's smart enough to do that out there in the real world. |
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| Mac | Wednesday, 10. September 2014, 18:48 Post #9 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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Her elbow caught, which meant she'd predicted he was chasing her ass down good and plenty like he was supposed to. She'd hoped it would make him stop, or pull back, hoped the blow would be heavy enough that he'd have wasted time to dodge so she could turn directions and dash. No, fucker took the blow like a champ and the impact of her elbow to his collar bone rang up her arm. The resulting sound like sex from Churchs lips was enough to make her skin crawl with a sort of needy joy, an expectant thrill. While they might be entertaining business now, trying to keep things clean and fight dirty... She knew that the night would at least end right, if they could deny themselves long enough to get through the lesson. She didn't go numb from the blow to his collarbone, not like the time she'd gotten him so good to the forehead he'd gone stupid and she'd lost the feeling up the entire limb. She felt the impact of this, but it didn't disable her. What was disabling was the arms that were suddenly hooking hers, capturing the arm she'd used to strike out and crippling it's ability to deliver another, or even retreat if she wanted to. Her wrist was manacled by his other, and before she could pull away she was trapped in an arm lock. Momentum from being hooked up while in motion made her body come round and twist, jarring the shoulder somewhat harder than Churchs intention may have been. Maybe not, either way, she hissed a swear between teeth sharply. Her nails immediately sought to resist him, trying to sink into his tattoo'd flesh and get some revenge in a grip. It wasn't even a conscious action, just a response to the sudden grab that swept a small ripple of fear through her. His foot moved to quick, the layers of celerity in his movements to much for her to be able to respond to more than she already had. She crashed to her knee's, gym matts coming up to meet her and keeping her knee caps from smashing out on the concrete floor beneath, the potence in his incredibly strong limbs dulled somewhat by the thick Ventrue skin she had. Still hurt like mad though, even when he wasn't /trying/. “Mother fucker.” She needed to be faster, when he had his speed on there was nothing she could do. A drop and dodge to prevent him from grabbing her in the first place had been smart, but eventually you couldn't out think someone who moved that fast. There were lucky breaks like that had been, like the elbow to his face, but celerity won out every fucking time. If he'd wanted to, if this had been outside in the streets and he wanted to, he'd be able to sink those fucking fangs right into her neck and feed himself silly. Yeah, she could break it, but it was like fighting the wind when the fanger was able to burn and regrab so easy. She hated this right here, that moment she knew she was fucked. Ain't like she would give up, ever, she'd fight to the last breath in every situation and be sure to burn those mother fuckers down and drag them to hell with her.... but still, knowing with an uncomfortable sureness where she was going when the curtain dropped was always a terrible feeling. She sobered from the instinctual flash of fear quickly, enraged at the thoughts that passed in lightening flashes through her mind. Fuck she hated thinking that way, and it made her face peel back in a look of disgusted rage as she'd try and yank on her arm in his grip. He was coming to the floor with her, he was already aiming to do so, but god damned if she wasn't going to wrestle him for supremacy here. She needed to twist and get those god damned legs up and around him, around his head if she could but his torso would do if she had to. She needed to get her arm from the twisted angle and reverse this, wrap those limbs around him and get on top. It didnt matter if she couldn't stay there long, she just wanted to get there for a moment. She just needed to kick back to her ego again, because thinking about her eventual ride to hell had popped her bubble. She needed to get fucking faster, she needed to be able to outrun death when he eventually came a knocking. |
![]() "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 | Friday, 12. September 2014, 00:07 Post #10 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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I could break it. I hope she realises that. Not saying it would be easy, not when you combine her natural hardiness with that never say die mentality, she'd likely find a way to squirm free before I could crack it. But it's there, the threat, looming close enough that it might instil that frenzied panic I need from her. While she might be defiant and stubborn and would never tap out by her own volition, hopefully her instincts see things a little differently. Hopefully the subconscious realises that fighting is pointless, and that she needs to run. Even if it's running to the nearest bottle of Vodka, sticking a rag in it and making a nice fiery death bomb for me; it's better than going toe-to-toe with me. I hear her pained cry, and it's not the good kind. Though her nails burrow and scrape my skin to a bloody red, it's not to satisfy or to stave off any burning desire. It's desperation. Me being me, and her being her, and me knowing her better than she could possibly imagine, I know how wrong this feels for her. How being restricted and trapped is a fate worse than pummelled to a pulp. I don't know if it harkens back to her youth, to the things that happened to her growing up, if there is an actual fear against the physical restraint, cause fuck if it's something that I don't like to ask about. But I know the loss of control kills her. Being enslaved. Mentally, it's a fucking nightmare of hers. Physically, it's more difficult to do, but it's still a thing when you're able to out-muscle her so. If she were to die, which she never will by the way, it's always had to have been in that literal blaze of glory. And while that isn't an option here tonight, I fucking hope, it's probably worse. She can't burn me up, she doesn't want to lose a limb to get free for fear that it might not come back again. Instead she does the only thing she can do; get rid of me and hurt trying. ”Nuh-uh” It sounds like a gruff breathe of 'ain't gonna happen, doll' as she yanks at my grip. I don't budge in a manner I think she hoped, though I do wobble about on my feet for a second before dropping to a knee behind her. I think nothing of it, till I realise I no longer have the angle on her arm to keep it tense and teetering on destruction. It's enough that she has a little wiggle room, and giving Mac wiggle room is most certainly a bad idea. So I've gotta act first, act fast. I relinquish the grip, though it's not totally my choice, she may not be expecting it without least another elbow or two being thrown.I doubt impedes her plans none. Much to my chagrin, she doesn't scamper away on all fours, probably cause she knows that her ass ain't nothing but a target for me to chase after. But seriously, she continues to defy what I believe to be the best method of teaching this shit. Fight or flight, I guess she doesn't figure in the latter. There are no words, I guess there isn't time, just the squeak and rustle of the crash mats and her grunts of breath as she spins in a heartbeat and attempts to, well, I know too fucking well. I should've expected it, I think it's both of our preferred methods of laying down a hurting. It's just that much easier. You get your position right, knees firm on either side of a person, you got all the advantage when it comes to whacking them and ordinarily rob them of a chance to retaliate. I say ordinarily, because we're far from that. In fact, the dynamics of our relationship is such that either of us can top anyone, but we're both just as dangerous from the bottom. She wants that now, she doesn't care about learning if she can ultimately match a vamp using the speed. She just wants to fight and prove she can win regardless. And I guess it's my job as the loving boyfriend to take her down a peg or two. So no, no top position for Mac tonight. Or at least not for now. By the time she spins right way round and has her hands poised to wrestle me down, my blurring fist is already crashing into her. I launch a sucker into the same biscep that I started the evening off with, and intend to do so that much more, see if I can have her limbs lose all strength. I can see her eyes widen at the sensation, her face beginning to contort from it's bloodthirsty snarl to pain and shock. She doesn't get a chance to savour the moment though, driving a knee into my ribs though not solely as a strike. It lingers there, draped around my back in a manner I am so accustom, albeit usually our bodies meet at the crotch. I won't let her lock in though, cause how the fuck is that gonna help with speed? Instead my hand takes a hold of her superb thigh, or at least as much of that meaty limb as it can get a hold of in the most ungentle of ways. Every time she tries this nonsense, I'm gonna hurt her for it, even if I'm burning blood way too fast for comfort. I grab the biceps I just struck, squeezing like a vice for just shy of a second, all too aware that I could get a forehead to the nose. She wants to roll around and have a wrestle? Fucking fine. I lift her, her considerable weight like nothing in my hands as she's lifted off the ground. It's not like I'm hoisting her above my head, or outright hurling her into the sky, but rather cradling her body at a diagonal angle before I push off the leg that still has a grounded foot, stand tall a moment, then slam her into the ground. I go with her, letting my weight add to the force and resulting in our hard bodies crashing into a heap below. Even then, I'm not fucking done. I'm mounting her from the side, which is a mighty fine position to paste somebody from, but she probably knows how to get on top. So I'm gonna wrestle some, get my leg hooked around hers so she's down one weapon, get her arm pinned under my other knee if at all possible. Strip her of all options, get her really fucking cooking since she's so determined to play miss tough bitch. We'll see how tough she is when she's pinned to the ground getting a beating like no other. Better that than pinned to the ground and drained of all fucking life, right? She understand that? Know how much that thought fucking terrifies me? I'm a firm believer in the best defence being a good offence, but Mac is so much better than that, so much smarter. If she was purely on keeping herself in one piece, I don't doubt that she could win this. But stupid bitch is not seeing it, getting all teary eyed from choking on her god damn pride. |
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| Mac | Friday, 12. September 2014, 05:05 Post #11 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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Yeah he could break it, yeah he could put her down. It's what made her panic in the first place, despite the fact she trusted him above anyone else and certainly any fanger, that ripple of fear that'd swept through her initially was pure human instinct. It took a brain to fight back against the rush of mother natures panic, a moment to gather herself to resist the fear, and when she had? Well, she'd just got mad and wanted on top. Get in a blow, do some damage. Ego was her blunder, because she had a rather huge one. He was moving like a blur, that god damned fanger speed delivering a hard punch and then locking into to the tattoo'd curve of a muscled bicep. The noise that came from her mouth was a grunt, stunted, angry, denying him a full growl or exhalation. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction, she wouldn't stoop so low as to break this early. Her knee made contact, and she tried to get the other one up to wrap around so she could twist sideways and throw his face into the mat. To bad he wasn't having any of it, he was already moving to prevent her submission moves. He knew her to well, a near year now had created a real good connection between them. Action and reaction somewhat like a dance, but their waltz was a lot more violent than the average bears. These steps were somewhat new, even as a moments déjà vu flashed through her mind. They'd once before come to serious blows on these crash pads, the gym mats now so wrecked and broken that the layers of soft downy landing were puffed up between the cracks of the blue vinyl seals. That first and last time had been when he'd first hunted her, and she'd lured him into her haven unsure if she was going to fuck him, or eat him. She'd figured both, but a shag that good needed repeating. Over and over. They'd done serious damage to one another that night too, but the stakes were different. They'd both been brain fucked on not knowing what to do with the other, desire to consume and consummate tangled in violence that left his face smashed in and her lungs punctured but fragments of her own ribs. Ribs that felt much the same now as they had then, after the world had shifted and he'd lifted her by her own god damned arm and then dropped them together into the crash pad. That, that had been entirely unexpected. That was something she would usually do to a baby vamp, to get her jollies off on their faces when a ghoul was making them eat concrete like breakfast cereal. This time it was her over inflated ego that burst, along with what felt like a lung when they landed like an egg falling off the counter. It felt like she'd just shattered and was slowly oozing from her shell, even though the crash pads prevented any grinding of her exterior into the ground to draw blood or break her skin. Even with the crash pads, and her entirely well built Ventrue frame, she hurt. Church was a strong mother fucker, and she was mortal. She needed to breath but couldn't, and she couldn't tell if it was her pride stuck like a massive brick in her throat, or actually her lungs and throat all closed up and incapable. She needed to roll over, cough, and recover... But the things she needed were not the things she would get. Instead she'd get pinned under a leg and a knee, and her ability to fight back? Well, it was smashed before he's claimed the position of lording over her. She could cry, except she didn't do that girly shit worth a damn. Still, she felt the horror and humiliation of his power pose on top of her. She could go crawl into a hole now, but what had she expected? She knew he'd be faster, she knew this was the outcome from the get go... But still, she'd sort of thought she'd pull another impressive feat of epic proportions out of her ass. She was so good at that sort of thing, and instead she was glaring with the defiant eyes of a petulant child that hated being wrong. He had one leg and one arm, pinned painfully between his grinding limbs and the mats, but that still left her one of each once she managed to fulfill that basic human need for air. To bad she was wheezing like an old man. Had Church been any fanger but Church, She'd be meat now. A tasty juice box, wham bam drain you mam and walk away. Whether her pride or her body was more bruised at that moment was highly debatable. Edited by Mac, Friday, 12. September 2014, 15:39.
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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 | Saturday, 13. September 2014, 22:46 Post #12 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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What the fuck look is that? A glimmer in her eye that doesn't invite me to play games with her, less of a 'fuck me' and more a 'fuck you.' Embarrassment? Can she feel such a thing? Supposedly such a thing has happened, when she was a slutty Mrs. Clause being held up high with declarations that she was gonna get gloriously railed. Repeatedly. Even then she managed to giggle, cause maybe she took a little pride in it, though hell if I know why. I mean, I know why I was proud of it. I get to bone a goddess, why wouldn't I enjoy telling people that? I don't really care about the reasoning in the moment anyway, cause for all I know, she's just mimicking me. I know my eyes give away more than I'd like right now, about how annoyed I am with her persistence, that unyielding nature I love and hate as it suits me. Right now? Hate. My jaw muscles works as my teeth grind behind closed lips, my eyebrows furrow to a face of sheer pissed-off-ness. I hate the cunt for not doing what she's told, even if it does benefit me. I mean, I told her to run, to dodge, to work up a sweat and hopefully some magic will happen. She realises I'd rather be doing something else, right? That I'd rather her avenge each smack I lay on her with something only she could pull. But I need to show restraint, and so does she. She needs to show some fucking brains too, before I smash them to mush along with her skull. It was a big landing, enough that I'm glad there's a concrete floor beneath the mats. Something that hardly registered with me beyond a bump to the knees. That's the benefit of being undead I suppose. No real chance of pulling a muscle or getting winded or getting dizzy. Other time I might appreciate getting her so out of breath, especially in light of the fact that I'm on top right now. I don't though. I appreciate being able to restrain myself and not knock the irritable look off her face. ”What!?” I'm not quite shouting, but my voice is firm and hard edged, and if I cared to think back to a time where I spoke to my Princess like this, I think I'd probably draw a blank. ”You think you're too good to do what I say, huh? Well, you sure look good right now.” I punctuate the sentence with yet another dig to the upper arm, determined to get that fucker burning as well as not trying to escalate the violence. This started out with such childish excitement and it's degenerated into frustration all too soon. After punishing her arm, I reach over and pin it so that, provided I keep my face away from hers, she's pretty much powerless. ”This is where a real grinner tears your throat out. I just pray to fuckin' Jebus you wouldn't give a real grinner a chance to get like this.” Cause that's what's wrong, what gets under my skin. What if Hammy had been Brujah, huh? Or just better than she expected. She lost a fucking hand from being so god damn reckless. I'm almost tempted to bite her, not to recoup what I've lost, but just to teach her a fucking lesson. I guess she figures that should she ever end up like this, it's plan G for Gasoline and she lights up Mr. Fanger and dies in a blaze of glory. Well that's not fucking good enough. Her selfish ass don't get to die that easy here. I can only hope that in the real world, it'd never come to this, that she wouldn't play with fire, that she would do the right thing. Granted, in a real life fight, I might already have been set ablaze, and that's fine. But if she didn't have that option? If she knew she was going to lose. Would she come back another day, better prepared? Or die swinging...and leave me all alone. I don't know if wailing on her arm some more would dissuade her from ever being so compromised, so I just grunt, unhook my leg from hers and push up on her wrists. ”Now get the fuck up, and don' you dare let me knock you back on your ass, cause I'll send you down twice as fucking hard next time.” I don't look her in the eyes. Hell, I half turn away after backing up a few paces, cause I can't stand to see her look at me like that. And cause I know when she opens that fat fucking mouth of hers, cause she will, I ain't gonna like it. |
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| Mac | Wednesday, 17. September 2014, 02:28 Post #13 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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Her arm was going to break, it so it felt, even without Church going full out on the limb the repeated love taps were enough that beneath the thick inky sleeve the muscle was swollen and purple already. When he struck again her entire face twisted with the pain. It wasn't entirely the wrong kind of pain, it was so nearly the right kind. She loved a blunt, heavy beating. This was persisting beyond the kind of torment she enjoyed though, because there was a distinct lack of the sentiment she needed to get off on. There was no real malice in his face, no hatred and burning need to punish her for the sake of punishment and causing anguish and pain. Rebelliousness that demanded she take other people's sadism and subvert it couldn't be mustered in response to the green gaze of her lover, because there was just to much caring behind those big doey eyes of his. She couldn't sexually rouse to it properly, even if it did twinge those buttons a little, the emotional impact of his yelling at her was all wrong and fell short of the home plate. It got all jumbled and crossed her wires in a new and entirely unsettling way. She didn't know what she should feel really, but knowing wouldn't have helped wash down the shameful sweep of sickness that rode her spine. She couldn't even place all the pins that prickled her then, feeling like an acupuncturist had gone mad on Limbic system. Little pricklings of feelings all over, scattered through her heart, brain and body. Guilt? Partly that she might genuinely feel bad for not listening? Mostly, and understandably shamed she'd been taken down so fast by a grinner, even Church . She'd known it, she /knew/ it still, that super human speed was the winner 9/10 times. It was still a hard pill to swallow and that pill was stuck in her throat and causing her to gasp in recovery. She had to look away from his face as he yelled on about how that was when her throat got ripped out. OH REALLY?! Because she didn't know that! Her cheeks burned and the lines around her nose and brows hurt from being pulled back so hard in a grimace it might have gotten stuck there forever. Her mama flashed through her head then, a memory from so long ago she was surprised by it's surfacing. "Mac honey, don't sit so close to the TV. Your face will stick in that ungodly expression of stupor, and I don't want no stupid looking baby forever honey." She thought about her mom now and then yeah, but rarely did memories actually come and go. This one was full bodied, she could even smell the chicken in the oven as she sat Infront of the screen inches away from a thriller about a giant crocodile in the bayou (they didn't have crocodiles...) eating up teenagers dumb enough to make out on the banks. It did nothing to improve her mood, it only made her feel guilted further. Why the fuck was she feeling guilty?! The mind fuck of carrying this weight was beyond her, and after she'd been let free from beneath his heavy figure she rolled up to her feet with a mounting anger. This shit should come natural, physical talents were her god damned forte. She wasn't a brainiac, infact most of the time she was the dumbest lightbulb in the room, but god dammit she was supposed to be the sharpest knife in the drawer. She tried to shake it off as she came to her toes, swallowing hard as she tried to sooth the burning rage in her throat and lungs. Her arm hurt, and she wasn't sure the home hadn't fractured from his last blow. She bounced once on her feet but didn't find the energy to be all spirited like when they'd first started, and instead settled to the balls if her feet softly. She wasn't planted in place, just in case he decided go strike out before she wanted to be ready. This wasn't like the usual games they played, his tone of voice was certainly more pissed off than she'd ever heard him before... And she purposely did dick things to get his knickers in a twist. Now, she'd really hit a nerve not even trying. Maybe that was the problem, not trying? Did he think she wasn't? She was just responding damnit, she was fucking trying! Out there in the real world she'd have lit his ass on fire so fast and sent them both to hell in a rage full blast of glory. She didn't say anything, she was just trying to calm the fuck down and get herself present again. The silent treatment was her response to his yelling at her, where he'd probably expect her to get all up in his face she was instead going the opposite. She wanted space from that shit, and she hoped to keep it. No contact, right? Her arm twisted at her side, tilting back and forth from the wrist up to the shoulder, to use the pain to fuel those adrenaline rushes as she waited with knitted brows and bared teeth. Dodge first then, because she couldn't just turn and run. They were close to the edge of the mats, and that was part of the problem. It was to fucking small. Confined, not enough space to run and dodge if she had to stay flat footed. She did so much better in the air, dropping in from stupid heights, making the kinds of leaps and jumps that no one else would ever dare. This wasn't about what she was good at though, this was about making her better at what she wasn't good at. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, taking in another deep rattling breath as her body ached still from impact. Alright. Edited by Mac, Wednesday, 17. September 2014, 05:10.
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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, 29. September 2014, 21:50 Post #14 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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"Don't get fuckin' cute with me." I growl it under my breath, though by all means she's welcome to hear it. It's the best thing I can do after she gets up and gives me a big old 'fuck you' with her eyes. Since when have I ever been able to make her shut up? Granted, it's not as miraculous as getting me to shut up, but it's something. I expected more defiance, more fuck you; for her to pop to her feet and barrage me with verbal spew and angry fists. Just that bob to her throat I am so accustomed to seeing when her mouth gets all dry and palms all sweaty...this is different though. This is like she's actually biting her tongue and showing some restraint. Well...alright. I mean, that's what I wanted, but still, wasn't what I expected. That look on her face, guess she's swallowing down even though she will never learn to like it. "That arm looks sore." I nod to the swollen bruise that blends all the ink etched in the area to resemble a smudge. There isn't an ounce of sympathy in anything I say or do. "Think I'll move onto the legs. An' I know you don't want two broken stems when I fuck you later, do yah?" I mean, who does? Without the ability to wrap me up, keep me in line during my neverending mission to fucking come just once. I'm confident she would be able to do more than your average dead fish, sure, but without making me work for each and every time I drive into her would be torture. Not the good kind of torture neither. She can't be rendered helpless like that, and I likewise couldn't just gain top spot without the struggle. No, it's wrong. So wrong that a small something inside of me whispers encouraging words to go with such imagery. Something dark and perverse that wants my blood smeared on her lips and desires her to beg for more. Jebus, what happened? Suddenly I'm uncomfortable with the way I'm acting. Embarressed even of the way I just spoke to her, that she stands there now completely devoid of all that enthusiasm and playfullness. It was something of an inevitablility I think, that I couldn't keep certain feelings bottled up and to myself forever, my blood doesn't allow me to bottle anything for long. I bite my tongue a lot of the time around Mac, even though I know how damn good she is, doesn't mean I ain't gonna worry. A selfish worry at that. She's my light in the darkness now, makes me stronger than I thought I could ever be, and I silently thank her for that every night we're together. Thing about that light though, if it ever gets snuffed out...what the fuck am I going to do? It's not right for me to think about, not my place to demand she don't get heself mixed up with all that danger. She knows shes not invincible, but she knows she can probably pull a draw with the best of them. That way she wins I guess, and that's what I'm so god damned afraid of. Why she can make me so unspeakably angry when she fucks around like this. My gaze wavered from her as soon as the discomfort crept in, a necessity as I take a few moments to calm myself. My chest lacks the heaving to and fro that hers does, but I still always imagine myself taking those deep, calming breaths. Let the cold air in the cool that raging burn, even if there is no physical heat there to speak of. Stop being a fucking idiot Church, stop tring to mollycoddle the bitch, she's fine. She'll take care of herself, I mean, she got this far right? And if I can treat her right, like the goddess she is, then maybe she'll have greater motivation for not kicking the bucket, no? That thought doesn't help, and as I move my eyes back to her I've decided to stop thinking about, well, that altoghether. “Hey, fuck you. I'm going to live forever. If I'm going to live forever, so you are you Fanger.” I smirk at the memory as I bring a hand up to my collarbone. "Good to know your elbows still as tough as when you cracked my coconut." I say a lot softer now, the weak smile able to linger on my lips as fingers massage the impact area. I'm hardly 'calm' but I'm getting back down to something acceptable. "But I'd appreciate it if you could kick my ass less when I'm burning so much blood. Cause when I get hungry, well..." Ain't that the truth though? She starts taking lumps out of me and I'm gonna get hungry a damn sight quicker than I am now, and needless to say, I'm already beyond peckish. I can contain myself to a point, but the beast don't appreciate having bones broken in a starved state. Makes it do stupid things. She got blood bags here for me, cause she's sweet like that, but honestly? She's the tastiest bitch in all of London. Really. Despite the high Vodka levels, and let me assure you that I fucking hate the stuff, I only wanna eat her. Sure the gasp in my year, the nails in my back...they make the feeding experience better, but I'd take that shit from a needle if I had to. I take a few short steps forward, challenging her with my eyes. Come on baby, prove to me that you're the best. Make me look fucking stupid just like I know you can. I flex my hands a couple times as I approach, just to let her know that the pain train is once again leaving the station. Then...I'll punch. Try and bruise her up some if she doesn't listen and get the fuck out of dodge. Not burn blood until I have to, which is hopefully after she dodges everything I throw at her without so much as breaking a swear. If she lets me get hold of her again? Well, I'll show I'm a man of my word and break those legs just like I promised. |
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| Mac | Saturday, 4. October 2014, 17:40 Post #15 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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Her arm looked sore? Gee golly whizz, what a fucking astute observation captain obvious. She didn't respond to his try to goad her, well not verbally. She got shiftier on her feet, itchier, just that touch much more angry and cancerous. She wouldn't lose her top, fly into a rage fit and try and flay him. She knew exactly what he was doing, poking at the tender spots on her ego and her now bloated, painful arm. Well, that wasn't going to work. She'd been in way worse situations, with people much more suited to playing a badgering torturer than Church. All he was doing was re-enforcing the growing inner resolve to stay the fuck out of his reach. Normally at taunts and teases about fucking her with broken legs? She'd offer up some sort of a little moaned noise of whimperish delight, let her knee's slide together and her thighs clamp down tight to try and both emphasize and quiet down that little warm throbbing he stirred in her. She just had these reactions to him, these impluses and uncontrollable desires when they got to close or talked dirty to one another. While a pathetically weak little thrum did manage to twinge somewhere in her nethers at the idea, it wasn't anything on the scale it usually was. It was totally and completely ignorable, and she was going to do just that. Ignore it. Ignore his taunt. If he thought he'd be spreading her knee's later, sliding home, and having a nice Mac flavored juice box? Well, she couldn't quite imagine that being the end to this situation. Right now she couldn't actually imagine much, she was to in the moment and stead fast on seeking some sort of retribution for her bruised ego. She just wanted to keep his hands off her now, which was quite the opposite of the last year they'd spent in each others company. Partially sprung from his words, from his flashing green eyes, but a lot sprung from her crashing self image of being the untouchable queen. She realized it was so incredible childish and infantile, the base need to be oppositional and defiant that she always had. The need to be on top of creatures that by their nature, were not toppable. Vampires were vampires. She was just a tweener, a ghoul, more hearty and capable than a generic unenlightened Kine but still not even on the level of the dead. Still, she needed to be on the level. She needed to be able to believe herself capable, hearty, and better than they were. This was usually why her prey were shovel head and fledglingss. Idiot new borns with only their most basic instincts and abilities to try and survive. Small little thrills of power, which she'd take where ever she could get them. Church was on a whole different level. He was older, had decades of experience on top of her own, and had been dead for more years than she'd been alive. Or at least, around there. She could never quite keep track of his exact time frame of existence, so lame was he with providing accurate details and dates about his life. Still, without his fucking voodoo vampires powers and even with all his god damned years on her... She was better . She knew that. If he was rendered down to a living breathing creature she could take him. She needed to focus on that, remind herself of that, not let herself panic into a corner of the paper bag and panic attack. She could avoid him, until he juiced and burned and evoked that Celerity she could damn well avoid every little fucking thing he threw at her. When he made jokes about her elbow being as good as it always had been, a reference to their second meeting when she'd bombed down on top of a little Mouse and squashed the girl into a mud puddle? She didn't even smile. She couldn't, she was too twisted up and annoyed inside to get over it so easy. Normally she liked to laugh, to crack jokes, but she didn't like anything at that moment because she was riding the edge between tantrum and trying to keep her temper. His movement for her with the implications he was hungry? Well, that just made her move out of the way. She'd already resolved earlier she wasn't going to be his juice box, not that night. Even if he was doing this all on her instigation, she was no longer in a mood to fuck around or to fuck. She moved, when the fist came through the air at her she'd do a duck and run under the arm and off the side of him that threw it. He wouldn't be able to reel back and catch her in time, especially with the force Church punched. You couldn't just stop halfway when you hit as hard as they threw. She'd be careful while she ducked that his god damned knee didn't come up to meet her, twisting in the way she tucked and threw herself underneath to prevent any contact should he decide to try and knee her. Then she'd continue to streak over the gym mat, to try and put some distance between them. Fine, they'd cat and mouse. This fucking mouse was as psychotic as the cat though, and no, she wouldn't play by all his rules. She wouldn't hit him back, but she wouldn't stay grounded either. Not entirely. It felt to fake, to restricted, to unlike her to have to follow so many rules. If they wanted to try and force some god damned celerity out of her, she couldn't feel so unnatural about it. She needed to feel into her instincts better, and if she was both trying to resist her urge to get above him, and trying to resist the urge to set him on fire, and trying to resist the urge to throw a return punch, she was just blanketing her instincts to god damned much to be able to find any of that. The only times she'd ever managed to que up that speed was in New York, and it was in situations where shit was /real/ and she needed that speed badly. She'd just feasted on a miniature army of Brujah, made and tossed onto the battle field like fodder... but there were /so many/ of them they'd been like Hydra's. New York had been a series of near death events, over and over, triggers and stims that made her panic. Panic was different than this annoyed frustration, panic was less annoyance and more real, heart hammering fear. To many rules were just to restricting. She'd break the ones she needed too, like 'stay on the mats'. Fuck that, she wouldn't climb the equipment, the uneven bars, the rope. Not to get away and stay away, but damn she was going to go for them and use the leverage of them to grab, leap, and go over him when she needed to. He didn't want her using them because he sucked at the whole parkour thing, to big and blocky and untrained. Well, she sucked at the celerity thing. She'd do what she needed too to stay out of reach, cuz the boy was going hungry while she was pissy. |
![]() "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, 8. October 2014, 01:18 Post #16 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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Swing and a miss. Aaaand...huh. Guess she's a lady of her word, or lack thereof, not following up her duck out the way with a spiteful breaking of toes. What the fuck was that look for? I twist my hips as I follow through with the missed sledgehammer, catching a beehive of dreads darting out of the range of my elbow coming back on the recoil. Thank fuck too, seeing as it might've taken her head off. Then I probably would've done the same with my tongue. But no, it's not to be. Instead I see the meanest bitch I know running hard. If I had the time, I might consider how...odd this feels. How I was perhaps, again, expecting her to just duck that punch and give a bump back. It's just...what she does. We've had our fair share of knocks, that goes without saying. Sometimes it does start out with us on our own two feet, maybe when somebodies teasing has gotten out of hand and we decide to settle our differences with fisticuffs, all the while trying to layer on some intimidation over the goofy ass grins. Mac never loses. Even if she don't win the wrestle for top, she will always one up me cause...I dunno, she's a winner? The patter of her feet against crash mats comes to a halt as she runs beyond the boundries of play. I keep my mouth shut and don't stall in my pursuit. I wonder if there's some master plan waiting to be unfolded, that she's actually luring me towards the ACNE anvil hidden so discreetly up in the rafters. She's gonna smash my skull, kick the shit out of me and tell me the next time I tell her what to do, she's gonna cut my dick off. Yeah right. She likes it more than me. As I watch her back ripple in the wake of her strides, I can only picture the face on the otherside of it, all screwed up and pissed. Frustrated. That she can't hit back or that she can't learn this shit, I figure all of the above. Telling her what to do, I don't like it. Not in this setting anyway. I'm a lousy fucking teacher to begin with, but throw in the fact that I'm screwing my only student, and there's no wonder there's a little discomfort. I swapped in frustration at her not listening to weirded out when she did. What fucking gives? I'll take it though, swallow a pill that tastes a little sweeter than hers. Neither of us was exactly educated, and even if we was, I don't think we'd have liked it enough to do well. She probably could've, but whether or not she would've... There's no way I can catch her in a foot race, unless this was a 50 mile sprint or something. Despite the constant blazing, her lungs are not the kind that give out so easily, and even when she's been rendered out of breath from yours truly wrapping my hands around her throat, I always figure she has more in the tank. Thats humans for you. Adrenaline and all that shit, something I figure would need to be brought about in the here and now if she wants to get faster. I know my arms aren't swinging fast enough, legs not stampeding as quickly as they can, and that thought wills it faster. I'm swept with that familiar sensation that's just so...it's hard to describe. You ever been speeding in a car, redlining the motherfucker with how fast you're going and then returning to pedestrian speed? Things seem so much slower, even though they're not. You can just see things unfold at a pace that just seems more manageable. More time to react, more time to act. It's a god damn super power. Fair credit to her, she can dodge it. I pull another failed larriot as her sixth sense felt a forearm creep towards the back of her neck and she lowers her head. That on it's own is vital. Her timing? Hearing me close that gap, know me well enough to know what I might try. And to be fair, it was that or the baseball slide that got us so very well acquainted such a long time ago. It's hard to be on the move trying to hit the target who is also on the move without it being a homerun. If she can dodge a sucker closing the gap she might find herself avoiding a world of hurt. But again, this is supposed to be 'Using Celerity 101' not 'Fighting Fast Fucking Fangers.' Ordinarily I might have found it tricky to bring myself to a stop, but celerity has a way of making things that much easier. Like the laws of physics don't wanna apply to you. I stop just a fraction ahead of her and throw up a mule kick right back. Why? Cause I don't kick much. Donkey's kick in my opinion. She knows me too well and knows that I like using my hands, so I have to throw curveballs. Even if I'm going fast, I'm not making this fucking easy, cause that's not how you learn jack shit. I miss. I turn my head to see just where she's gotten to, but I notice the rush of air before I notice her being airborne. She's fucking jumping and while it don't take me too long to realise where to, I do wonder why I didn't see it coming. With all the grace of one of those tiny girls who devote their lives to whatever the fuck this shit is at the olympics, despite being the complete opposite of said tiny girls, she's grasping the one bar and flinging herself to the second. Motherfucker. Got me burning blood AND breaking more rules? I don't know if she's a mind reader, the look she gives me as she perches up there all fucking smug. Look what you can't do, Church. Cept her face ain't smug. She looks how I feel, which is to say, gritted teeth and fucked up feelings. I grimace at the sight, narrow my eyes as this torrent of god knows what the mind fuck leaves me feeling shit. What a waste of fucking time this has proven to be. What the fuck is up her ass? Should I be the bigger man and apologise for anything and everything I might have done? Fuck no. I did nothing for a change. Except cheat, of course. That's what Celerity is, cheating. She never likes me using it, so I don't, makes the playing field more even. Basically, in her favour. Funny that, eh? I approach the base of the bars slowly, unwavering gaze that dares her to make her move before I'm right underneath her and lose whatever precious distance she's gonna gain when she leaps off. Cause that's the plan I'm assuming? It's either that or get caught, right? When that happens, I'm gonna be right there after her, but with the knowledge now that she's substituted breaking one rule for another. I break those legs, she ain't going nowhere. It's only a matter of time before I get my hands around those thighs of hers. Guess it's on her whether or not I'm gonna wanna break them or slide my fangs in. |
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| Mac | Thursday, 9. October 2014, 00:53 Post #17 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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He was after her, and she didn't want to be caught again. She didn't want to lose again, didn't want her badass reputation in his eyes to go up in smoke. He couldn't realize that she was made of soft fleshy mortality, she didn't want him to know what lay beneath that hard shell. She didn't intend to pull up and stay up. She had only meant to grasp, pull, and use leverage to swing out of his reach and sail into a new and church free space. Somewhere in the heart hammering spasm of her leap, intentions got fucked up. She trusted Church probably more than she trusted anyone else alive (or undead), and yet for all the sighs, groans, and nights of bliss they'd spent together building that trust, instincts bred by years of fear and danger could not be undone. Being chased by a Fanger, even one she was on such intimate terms with, left her head rolling into a panic. She could smell the rubble, decaying aromas of broken sewers and torn earth. New York had been a dream come true and a nightmare. The bloody rivers of her time spent there were stained with conflicted feelings. She loved to kill, dominate and command. There had been plenty of that on hand, but there'd also been torture and terror. She'd had her skin peeled off and eaten by an insane fanger with a seriously creepy church going grandpa vibe. She'd been pinned into a hole with another fanger for days, blistering from a fever she'd caught from dropping with skinless legs into the sewer to escape. She'd learned to run there, run faster than she'd ever run before. That's where she'd tapped celerity for the first and only times, in the panic fueled, instinct driven need to escape. By any means. Any method. She wanted to burn him alive. That small hummingbird in her chest thrashed to escape, and threats of broken limbs and a desire to stay out of reach caused her brain to cross fire and tangle. She needed to go up, up and up and out the each of his fangs, fists, and feet. Throw down a Molotov cocktail and light that fanger up in a blaze of glorific flailing arms and limbs. She had the means, there were a lot of things hidden around the warehouse for use if anyone ever found her little hidey hole. The sudden desire to light him up almost sent her leaping from the uneven bars to the rope, which would have been an impressive jump for anyone without the mighty, miles longs legs of an amazon. At the top she'd have what she needed to win, to quiet the panicked little ego in the back of her brain. To get back to that place of sheer terror, she could /not/ have rules and restrictions. She could not be kept from throwing a punch, setting someone on fire, let alone 'stay on the mat'. If she went to that place, one of them would end up dead. "We're done." She stood on the top bar, bare feet bent and toes sticking to the curved bar with more tension than she needed. She'd been braces to jump for the rope, on sheer drive instead of choice. Choice, even at the last second, was what made her stop. She still resented him then, looking down at the thing that could kill her if it wanted to. She still had the badgering need urging painfully beneath her ribs to hurt him. Stop him. Prevent him from getting ahold of her at all costs. When had the fun turned sour? It wasn't supposed to be like this. "I... I just can't." Not with you. She still wanted to go to the top of the rope, but for mightily different reasons now. She wanted to shamefully go pull herself up into the rafters and hide from the incredulity that she'd called it quits. |
![]() "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 | Saturday, 11. October 2014, 14:13 Post #18 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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There's something really fucked about the way I'm coming at her. Slow and sure, a method that is not ordinarily applicable when it comes to taming a Macintosh. This is something predatory in me, forcing my eyes to be unmoving from her as I creep towards her almost casual but sure as fuck tensed up that when she goes, I do. I don't intend on giving her the opportunity to land, or at the very least, not softly. "We're done." That stops me in my tracks more than an elbow ever could, though for very, very different reasons. Is my mouth hanging open stupidly? Not quite. In fact, I don't feel my expression shift from what it was, the grimace of a mean motherfucker. I just glare at her, perched up there, not looking completely convinced that we are 'done.' And I didn't even get to break something. Despite the fact that Princess looks almost pained by saying these things, that she 'can't', despite the fact that I should be understanding because of how fucked this is, I'm pissed. Pissed at how fast things spiraled out of control, pissed with her for being so defiant, with me for insisting that I could possibly teach her...I'm pissed that I'm getting pissed, and instead of breaking free from the bitter circle, I embrace it. Hell, I suck it's fucking dick. At least it takes my mind off of the hunger for a moment, even if it will eventually make me crave her blood. "We're done?" I ask harshly, though I'm not really interested in hearing the answer. Just for my benefit, incase I misheard her. I wanna ask why, ask what the fuck...I don't. There's no point in arguing for something that I don't really believe in myself, so I concede: "Yeah. I guess we are." I mumble as I turn away from her, head shaking in something that she might percieve as dissapointment. In truth, it probably is, but I'm just as annoyed with myself as with her. Jebus, if there's something I can get out of this is that I don't have to play silly fucker anymore, but still...I'd do it. For her, I'd do anything. The fact that she's the one quitting...I can't imagine her ever doing that. I don't know why I suggested it, me being me, a fucking idiot who can barely talk nevermind teach. I figured she could just...do it, y'know? Somewhere amongst all the martial arts and the fire spinning and ghouliness, I figured it was just waiting in her. Would be as easy to call out as it is in me, that she would somehow know how I feel and mimic me. We're close...but not that close. She's not my- fuck. No. I turn around from her skulking figure, making my way back towards the worn out crash mats trying to breath deep and think positive. I wish I was more of the monkish persuasion, able to let the little niggles disappear. I can, I mean, I have a form of therapy that can help out so wonderfully. Unfortunately, my therapist and object of frustration have been bundled up into one pretty - fuck it, divine - package. I glance back at her, and her arm. That bruising looks so damn good, I want it blotched all over, from head to toe. I express this desire in a growl, my longing and hunger evident in every syllable; "Get the fuck over here." |
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| Mac | Saturday, 11. October 2014, 18:11 Post #19 |
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Goddess of Fuck and War
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It wasn't that she didn't think she had it in her to learn Celerity, she did. Somehow, somewhere, with the right conditions, she could learn that shit. Just not with him... Church wasn't allowed to get too close to that border she'd set up in her mind that barricaded him on the 'safe' side of Fanger. That 'safe' side was so fragile, so very paper thin that this game could bring it all crashing down and rip through her guards. If walls came down and he was on the other side of it, instinct would end their playtime /forever/. He was already running low on blood, making him more irratable and dangerous, and if she slipped into a hunters skin even for a few minutes the combination of both of them not holding on to their faculties properly? Fuck... They could die. Not in the good and right way to die together either, not in a blaze of glory taking out Jack or doing something that would leave their names on the lips of eternity, in the fucked and horrible horror way that had no right to come knocking and ruining their fun. It had knocked, briefly. She'd answered the metaphorical door and panicked. The scent of New york hadn't left her nostrils, something sulphuric and damp making her think of being trapped. She felt trapped there, sacrificing a hell of a lot of face to end the game by saying things that felt dirty in her mouth. She wanted to melt into a puddle of oozing disappointment and die. Dissolve, splatter down off the bar in a rain of melted ego and seep into the broken lines on the crash mats. Soak up into the cottony stuffing that sprung out between cracks, and seep away beneath the plastic sheets and hide in the dim and dark. The look of hunger in his eyes might normally turn her on, get her heart pumping in all those good ways. Make he want to reach out and brush a heated fingertip against his cool skin, so sparks would start an entirely different and more appropriate kind of play between them. Right then? That look of hunger sickened her. It just reminded her he was what he was, dead, a fanger. She couldn't find that place inside that twisted up with Pride when she would call him 'her fanger'. Where ever that place was inside her, a cold blanket had been thrown over it by the rise of old feels. She hadn't felt this way in a long time, hadn't been so overwhelmingly crushed beneath a tide of feeling like she was betraying herself. He was fucking a Fanger. Not just that, but she was more than fucking a fanger /to her/. She wasn't just using him for the bliss of his fangs and the icey punishment of his hands. She was laughing with him over beautifully rolled joints, watching stupid westerns with him while sprawled over his lap, she'd told him about Mel's. Her head spun, and she looked away from his growl with a sickened, pale expression. She didn't want to be there. She was such a god damned traitor, betraying her decades old promise to never be under another Fanger's thumb. His blood wasn't in her, but holy fuck... she was loyal to him anyways wasn't she? She didn't want to hurt him, didn't want this game to get to the point they hurt each other for real, damaged the strange connection that made them so god damned happy. Happy. She'd been happy for near a year. "Go eat someone else for a fucking change." She'd make that jump then, from the uneven bars to the rope. Without the power and adrenaline she'd been pumping with earlier and the fizzling sort of energy evaporating from her limbs she didn't make it nearly as gracefully as she would have liked. She felt fucked up and like someone was stirring her balance center. She'd pull herself up the rope though, to try and get lost in the rafters. He wouldn't follow her, he knew her better than to take the pet name between them seriously. She was not a Princess, she did not want to be chased. Not then. When she wanted to be chased, she told him. Right then? She just needed a hole to hide in. |
![]() "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, 15. October 2014, 00:32 Post #20 |
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
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"The fuck is that supposed to mean?" Oh, but the meaning is quite perfectly clear. Backtrack to the big fucking neon lights she had spelling out her feelings, and yet I'm so god damn confused by the look that came across her face the way she met my demand. That alone had me spinning on the spot all ready by the time she verbalises the 'fuck you' and is throwing herself to the ground away from me. No, not even that. I see the tail end of the rope whip around right about where she should be, some part of the gym that I can hardly say concerns me, even if I sort of live here now. Maybe once or twice I've stood at the bottom, cracked wise about the obvious to make her giggle and show off as she shimmied her way up to untouchable levels and return the favor. This isn't that. This isn't right. I know that as I watch her quietly disappear...her words hit me for what they are. That's when I ask my eloquently worded question, even if it is apparently falling on deaf-crazy bitch ears. I just hope it can be heard over the growling on my 'tummy' as it watches it's favourite juice box escaping it's grasp. Cause it's loud. Even if she can't hear it, it's fucking roaring at her. I'm roaring at her, even if she don't turn to see it. I'm hungry, but not starved or...she's more than fucking blood to me. I'd be lying if I said that she wasn't the tastiest bitch, living or otherwise, that I can remember biting. I guess living on a cocktail of random shovelheads does something cause there ain't no other meal I'd rather be eating up. Or maybe I'm bias. I'm not hungry enough to rush on over, pull that rope down and a big Mac steak tumbling with it. Or maybe I am. Cause the shit we have? Like I said, it's more than a meal. I get that this idea was a fuckup, we were going like ten fucking minutes before this break down. I'm not the person to do this, I don't wanna either. But I dunno...I figured we could forget this shit no sooner than we started it and I, well, I would do my bit in reminding her that she doesn't need this shit, that she's already the best in the world. She would fill in the blanks herself. Cover this fuckup by painting her black and blue with my hands, and she'd do the same for me. That's why I'm so fucking hungry. Cause what is that if not hunger? Addiction is more fitting, but I don't think I longed for a hit of crack like I long for her. Again, could be post death bias, but fuck if she don't keep my world turning these days. I feel disappointed in myself, cause I should know what the fuck is going through her head right now and at least understand what the fuck is going on, even if I can't fix the fucking thing. Pity she's taken the high road and vanished up who knows where...Jebus, what the fuck? Why's she gotta be like this? Why the fuck can't she just tell me what's going on in that god damn watermelon of hers? I bite my tongue...literally. So trivial but the sharpness is enough to snap me back to my senses. It's something to stop the fucking brain spasm and stop getting so mad at her. My body is getting hard, just, feels fucking rigid where I stand like it always does when I feel the need to smash something. My hands miraculously aren't balled into fists, though the fingers are outstretched and tense like they wanna grab something. Like a rope...or a neck. Don't fucking do this. You'll regret it. "Yeah, I guess I will. Find a nice fucking blonde, maybe." I announce as I start to make my way to the door, not even sure if she's listening. If she is, she'll know from the tone that any 'blonde' better be a fucking 700lbs werewolf if it wants a chance of surviving the night. I mean, why the fuck not, right? I stay here, the best I could do is pine like a puppy at the bottom of the rope and hope she can't stay mad forever. The worst...Jebus the worst. If I stay, I'm gonna find reasons to get mad at her...and I'm gonna think about her fucking neck and her body and breaking those fucking legs...Shit. I preemptively let the monster out the cage and now there's nobody willing to play with it. I care about her too damn much to sic it on her. So I guess I'll wrestle the bastard...I, uh...just need to think of something else. I guess I'm not especially well dressed to be out walking close to midnight, in England, in Fall, but I'm a big guy, I can pull it off. The lack of shoes is a bit of an issue maybe but...I'm sure I can find something, just keep walking to the door. As soon as I know her eyes can't be on me anymore, something inside me is both relieved and infuriated by what just happened. I get my ass down the stairs, through the fancy ass security door and in the small room next to the parking lot. The fresh air does me good. The first throat I find to chow down on? Even more so. But I never stop wanting, never stop needing. If I'm Superman, she sure as shit is my Kryptonite. I just wish I was hers...instead of fucking Celerity. Jebus. |
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1:15 AM Jul 11