NOT SOME VAGUE FUCKING CONCEPT

                       “Your need to talk almost every second does become a full blown buzzkill after a while. Needless to say, that’s not a compliment.” As far as Alexander understood, there is no relationship between the two. In the Fontaine family, there were always whispers that Shelby was the odd one out      a feeling he understood well, choosing to isolate himself due to the rareness of his species, and just how much people object their existence. It created great lengths of conflict within himself.

                       Water became a clutch for him; he’d have no reason to live had it not been for the outstanding resources Red Creek acquired, providing him with a place where his toes were kept off the ground, and a weight is lifted from his shoulders. The best part is the lack of crowd it attracted, especially during the colder season, allowing him to do what needs to be done without a single sound echoing in his environment. “Thanks for being a pain in everyone’s ass throughout our time in the town. You do have the option to leave     ”  

                   In other words, he’d be more than happy to escort Shelby out without putting on a show. That’s how much she annoyed him. “A witch taking graveyard shifts? I figured you’d be investing some time in a spell or brewing some herbs than doing such a thing.” And this comes from someone who does not care much for necromancers, going off of their stereotypical attributes. “It’s hard to believe, yeah. Hence my gift of muting others out,” the dark haired male teased. “Are you awkwardly going to continue staring while I put back on my clothing?” His glossed hues indicated seriousness, chugging down the remainder of his beer before clutching the material of his clothing. “I am a supernatural species that relies on water, anyway. Consider this a normal routine.”

                    Fingers snapped in conclusion and further support to his extempore, grin split open fully now, “I think it’s a compliment, however. I’m not set on this earth to please you by shutting up,” there’s a twinkle in verdant hues, far too puckish for her own good as she prattled on. Perhaps it was the very sentiment that she did annoy people that allowed her to charge on all the more, shrugging as words that could be akin to knives only bounced off her surface. Shelby had endured years of separation, both from her own mental self and the physical abandonment from Red Creek; the criticisms of a stranger hardly vexing to her.  

                    “It’s my mission in life,” she chided effortlessly, hands placed upon her hips in tandem to any stretch of verbal sparring they were sure to endure. “Besides, I have left, plenty of times. But, alas, home is home; why won’t you leave?” Shelby allowed the inquiry to reverberate, arms soon crossed amidst her animated self. She was perpetually undaunted by all who tried to wreak judgment and scrutiny on her family, yet she paused all the same whenever it came to the parlance of referencing herself as a witch. 

It sprung up against her spine like a chill she’d never suffered through before, icy and sharp and altogether lacquered in uncertainty as Julian moved quicker than she’d truly ever seen before. The blade in his hand drawing her attention alike a terrible accident waiting to happen. Light caught the sharp edge of it and despite knowing with a far greater amount of certainty than she was truly able to admit, the safe haven she’d found with him clawed purchase against an uphill battle of thoughts she never thought she’d find circling any aspect of feeling she held around him. No matter how many times she could silently tell herself that it was okay, he’s a cop – this is..— totally normal, the truth remained, she’d have been far less unsteady had he pulled a gun instead. One which she knew now rested, tucked away within the safe locked drawer. “What’re you..— Julian..” Azure hues widened and even with limbs instinctively pushing her away from him, or rather, the knife in hand, Lucinda having never really looked up from it, “A knife? What if they’ve…– You can’t go out there.” Only, surpassed thought of why died on her tongue for the newly found reminder that not everything that sought to cause harm was human as it once was, even in her own mind. It turned over in her stomach and threatened to spill far more than fear into the air as the sound grew louder, glass of fallen photographs shattering in the hall. “Okay..– Okay,” hands fumbled with the frayed edge of the sweatshirt of his she wore, following him to her feet. Perhaps, a year ago, she might have been the type to unwillingly accept the fact that she could do nothing to help. Truly, she might have fought him tooth and nail, even with the effervescent itch within the tip of her tongue to do exactly that, the world and everything in it was, now far too big for her to grapple a footing in something like this. Instead, such an itch grew to constrict her throat, stomach dropping right through the floor with every chaotic sound that filled the once near silent home; and every thought thereafter that drew her to the little boy now entirely out of reach for them and the man who would undoubtedly do anything to find a way past it. Lips pursed and she shook her head, stepping forward to draw digits across the inlet of his wrist. They’d already said goodbye to far too many people for her to be even close to okay with the glimmer of such in dark hues, the volatile jarring of organ against the skeletal inside of her chest far more painful than it’d been in months. “You don’t get to leave me ..— us too.” It fell thickly, until the guttural sound of growling caught the heels of safety and echoed beneath the door, the very sound drawing fear to the marrow of her bones and a trembling panic to fingertips that gripped tighter around his wrist. “You just be here to tell me it’s okay.” She knows — knows that it’s damn near crippling to have to worry so vividly, but what he wants feels near impossible. To stay here — no matter what she hears. It feels far too much like the long forgotten night she’d watched as he caved, crumpled to the floor in agony. The swelling in her chest mirrors the fear and uncertainty, of not knowing what was happening, of not knowing what to do, to do little more than watch uselessly and it’s all she can manage to shift away from the door — and him, in a sharp, jarring movement as collision rattles the hinges. Hands clamp over her mouth to stifle the scream that settles in her throat, the mottled sound of any possible objection dying out as the dire need to run twisted in her chest.

                     It was the very precipice of guilt, a mangled bout which plumed in the center of his gut, noxiously suffocating every inch of him. Even in spite of the weapon now dexterously placed amiss calloused fingertips, a dulcet eminence remained, inherent in every fibre of Julian’s being, free hand offering a final passing upon her freckled features. As if to say goodbye, as if uttering a litany of what ifs he could not dare enunciate swathed amidst a gentle caress; his thumb passing over the cusp of her jaw, “I will never let anything happen to you.” A frigid conclusion, extempore tumbled out as more of a promise to himself over anything. Lucinda and his child would be safe, under any guarantee, even amiss any trauma to himself. Hand sunk up to nestle into russet tresses, bringing her closer as a kiss was placed upon her forehead, pulling away in volant regard; knowing he’d have to break such proximity now or else he never would. 

                   Her sullen words breached a hollow wound upon his heart, a vertiginous lurch causing him to near wince. Julian couldn’t face her, not any longer as he tried to ease into the violent end that was inevitable now; the brutality the animal held something not even he could match. A hunter’s blessing wrought a litany of devotion to a cause that could only tandem to an eternal quietus; a future he had once morosely accepted. To live by such code, to die by it; a maddening bout that could only explain his more impetuous vigor that had since simmered over the years. Years that proved perhaps this life was not eternal, lest not for him; the fondness felt for Cinda and now, for his child, a bond that he would not allow to be severed through their prospective deaths. “I’ll be here. I will.” Paranoia swelled, the assumption that the Ouroboro’s had finally decided to compose a coup; slaughtering his family and others under the guise of a maddening power shift. He could only hope it was a werewolf out of place amidst the concrete jungle, the strength and dexterity to overtake a supernatural of such caliber not nearly as great in such case. 

                 No matter the excruciating barrel of thoughts that ran rampant through his head, time proved to never be enough; the wretched collision upon his door drowning out the myriad of solutions that dared escape him. He would have to face such creature in the now, exposing his own fears to Lucinda as the supernatural world now collided with her own, inescapably so. “Get ready to run,” syllables flowed from his lips curtly, the gray matter which was near brainwashed under the light of a soldier now coming forth. He couldn’t bear to have Lucinda freeze up, knuckles white as another crash resounded against the splintering door. Evident of his limp, the battle of man and beast wouldn’t fair to a comely denouement, hinges clattering to the floor as the door finally gave way; a sacralized battlecry of his own escaping as the creature lunged right at him, the silver blade grazing wolf’s flesh as Julian was thrown to the ground.

               His current state of mind prohibited him from committing himself to Archer’s Point, with hunting being his sole saving grace at the moment. Blood coated the surface of his plump lips, yearning for nothing more than another beer to pop open and a woman by his side to fulfill his pleasures     that was until the mere sight of the ghost made his stomach tie up in knots, ignoring this would be the first ( and only time ) Kara will ever witness Giovanni finishing a kill. His tailored suit now filled with the remnants of the deceased wolf, the most he could do is let out a snarl. “In need of a wash, love. Care to watch that as well? I remember once thinking one of them was the reason you ended up disappearing.” A reflection; one he despised, sucking in a whiff of air. “Imagine the turn out had that been the case. Imagine, yes      one could imagine. Any who, I’m off.” The rekindling of their relationship takes time. It doesn’t dismiss the fact that she’s dead, however. He’ll forever feel guilt over this fact, lowering his head to hide his distress; the last he needed was to create further problems with the ghost.  

         Her countenance fell, once brazen to grit teeth and unsavory expression. It was hidden from him for all but a moment, as an intimate hand cleared her curtain of hair and exposed her veneer. With a maneuver she could topple him onto a fainting couch, gentle in the brute sense; his mass proved difficult to control while not entirely functional on its own. Though a strand was still clutched between his fingertips, to which she caught sight of after a brief moment of remembrance, Corrina found herself reaching to pin the wrist attached to the cushion below. His eyes were barely there, half opened and sunken in. He resembled a corpse, almost, any more and she wouldn’t dare have laid a hand on him. She took the time to study him, despite the urgency of his condition, the definition of his face she knew so well. A pause too long before she finally placed the back of her free hand on his forehead, the clammy, lukewarm surface was a telltale sign of a deeper problem.

         “You won’t be interested.” She’d make sure his memory was wiped clean of their encounter. If it meant carving at a monumental section of his memory, it’s all she could do. He could know of her ability to wield magic; that’s all she would allow. Every room in the house was equipped with something helpful, bottles, potions, brews, all held a property unbeknownst to her without examining in some way. She could do with the smells of them, but a proper grimoire would be ideal. “Don’t move.” With closed eyes she let the shelves and shelves of them speak, listening for the same key words. The witch jolted upwards and toward the far side of the library, all with a purpose. Pulling a decrepit bound set of spells from the wall, she opened to a certain page.

                    A pained chuckle rattled his ribcage, the remnants of blood peppering lacquered lips, waxen from the loss of blood, “Even in my final moments you can’t be honest,” A teasing bite smattered his tone, though there was that ever present sliver of fear when death knelt its scythe upon the crook of your neck; a taste of the inevitable —the prospect of forever dauntingly gelid. Fingertips fell through the curls of golden locks, the gauche tumble back down to his side as she placed him upon the library’s couch. The comment was vaguely vexing, a litany of jabs he couldn’t quite express tumbling out amid every syllable, fingertips still curled as if in remembrance of locks still loosely coiled between them. Terror pricked at russet hues, swallowing the lump in his throat as if in acceptance that such magic was all a rouse conjured up in his final moments, exhaling a labored breath as weak orbs followed her every movement around the room. 

         She didn’t do this with other people. Corrina was selfish by nature, born completely unaware of others’ feelings unless she wanted to know them. Adding someone, much less a supernatural someone, where portal jumping was concerned meant more risk than she was willing to put forward. But it was Caleb; she could leave him to fend for himself with a somewhat guilty conscience. She shook the thought from her head with vigor. “Keep them closed.” She was afraid for him to see the power she wielded. It’d be enough to scare anyone off. There were a series of portals around the city, ones that lead to the Frey, the Sanctuary, her home. She’d jumped so many times before she didn’t have to lift a finger, just whisper the incantation low and clear. The hum of energy engulfed the both of them, and in a flash they were gone, no one the wiser. Corrina was out of breath by the time they returned home, locks of blonde hair obscuring her vision. The house was empty, no familiar auras lingering around, well, besides Caleb’s. She struggled to keep him upright in the moment, the task of transporting the both of them proving to be more than she was used to.

                    Eyes flitted closed, the fumes of whatever trust which had since been mangled between the duo allowing him to separate her need for such privacy. Magic was an unfamiliar entity to the male, even with such curse that ran rampant through his veins; his attempts to making a breakthrough of understanding next to none. It was fear that drove such course, blind rage at the murky unknown allowing such antipathy to take over until there was a brute separation between his human counterparts and wolfish traits. Said response could only translate over to Corrina’s stretch of magic, witches a new taste of that gray area of the world which Caleb still deemed incomprehensible. The humming emanated around them under a vertiginous bout, eyes squinted shut until such sounds inevitably died off, stumbling as they seemed to make contact with their fresh destination. 

                       ❛   pardon me  ,  ❜   giovanni began , clearing his throat ,       ❛ but i’m still getting used to the.. uh —- ghost thing .   ❜     the concern in his voice became clear as day  ;  features scowling at the mere sight of kara , aching to reach out and touch her skin yet knowing it’ll serve no good for the both of them .    the young adult hadn’t bothered to ask the appropriate questions       as to how she ended up in the position that she was in .    any keen behavior to understand the          circumstances of her death typically led to his dismissal — an action of hers that frustrated him greatly.       ❛   is there anything that i can do to help with this particular situation ?  ❜   he inquired  ,  refusing to capture her sight .    ❛   because i am willing to help regardless of you being a  —- mm .  ❜    cue the first crack of his voice .            ❛ regardless of what happened .  ❜

                    When the apparition of such deluded world was lifted, Bethany could only breathe a sigh of desperate relief, another claw from the Ouroboro’s that once dug it’s way into her life now filed clean off; the means of alienating herself from their cause dire. Her own emancipation had been a perpetual phantasm, always half achieved, never quite living up to potential. The ophidian had been their puppet, lured by a promising smile and kind eyes that proved spurious and now she had the means, her own fragile courage, to flee. Timing was everything and with the separation from house, she found it hard to surmise what the Ouroboro’s could be planning next, or what her involvement could possibly be; slipping into the phoenix’s apartment as he near warily answered her own bout of frantic knocks. 

Never quite so easy to forget, yet the surreptitious goings on within the city had come to something of a stand still. Baited breath passing for something far more relieving, though perhaps such fleeting parallel to a time before might have slipped beneath fingertips purely based on the individual beneath mindless traced out across the arm draped over her shoulder. Mindlessly, as the depth of a quiet evening encroached, the dusk glow slipping beyond the window until chilled breeze crept across the bare skin of her thigh and she shifted to sit up. “All I’m saying is that whoever decorated this place just…” Lips pursed tightly to stifle the laugh that bloomed, Cinda neither willing to openly admit what she thought on the off chance he’d had a hand in it or perhaps even one of his sisters. Legs drew up, tucked in against her chest, teeth chewing relentlessly at the inside of her cheek, and the coy smirk that continued to play out across her features shifted to something almost too soft — to fond of facial lines she traced without even thinking about it. “It’s not bad, but it couldn’t hurt to..—–”

Words cut short as the sound of glass shattered from beyond the living room drowned her out. Immediate thought passing right by what it might have been and holding a vice like grip around concern that surrounded the six month old boy she knew to be sound asleep within the confines of Julian’s apartment; right beyond the tearing sound that emanated the once silent hallway. Though instincts within her lay few and far between, Lucinda still found herself on her feet, yet further away from the doorway than she’d first intended, something about the things she knew nothing of planting her feet when every nerve ending in her system told her to run. “What the hell is that?” Growling, guttural and primal to it’s core tore at the strings of the organ within her chest, and far was she to ever know the painted target worn by the man she found belonging with, the string of synced attacks roused in the lowly night against those who stood opposing the ouroboros cause. “Julian, what the hell is that?” She knew virtually nothing — nothing about the things that lurked within the shadows, nothing about what lived as little more than a myth – and what very clearly didn’t.

                    Humored epithets rolled off her tongue, imbued with any flippant sense at his less than savory sense of decor; said furbishing being near barren. The itinerary of his life the past few months — perhaps even years — was proven to be a perpetual backlash of cataclysmic fervor, unrelenting as the emphasis of such trouble permeated every region of his life. It provided no sense of time when it came to fulfilling the reverie of being a normal human for once, any fragments of such regularity only coming about when it was proven he was to provide for Lucas alone; the mother a showcase of abandonment, learned in her own youth. He never expected Lucinda to return much less dare step up to the plate in terms of assistance, a factor which he once vehemently refused as if in the sake of his own pride. Stalwart she was, however, in her own support; inexorable in spite of the looming threat of his family’s prospective eradication at the hands of the Ouroboro’s. 

                    He could be petrified of such day, his own personal well being never much a factor in his worry; his loved ones coming first, no matter his own conditions. Julian had faced deaths slippery slope far more than he cared to keep track of, the dire will to protect his family and those in the very population of New York not something he could ever disregard — even if it meant putting his own happiness, and life, last. 

                    He detected such noise before it was ever thus enunciated from her lips, chalking it up to a hopeless phantasm that was keen on repugnant memories. Julian could spring up out of habit, a blade suffused with silver already produced between calloused fingertips, “... ‘Cin, please——” go; freckle-dusted male was near bilious at the thought of any harm coming to her, or Lucas; viscerally frantic at the impression that he could not possibly protect them both. To leave with his son in tow, they’d have to face such monstrosity out in the hall, he would have to face Lucinda observing such part of his life that he vied to stow away from her, obsidian hues flitting back to her as if uttering a silent goodbye were things to go awry. 

“I grew them back.” His tone was purposefully coy but it didn’t last. This kind of thing was always going to be exciting, introducing magic to people for the first time. But Mal had used the phrase ‘introductory to magic’ specifically and…There was a lot he could teach him. A lot he wanted to teach him. Both to show off and bring him a bit more up to speed on what was happening around him.

But mostly…

Straightening up a bit and nodding towards the pages, he tried to ignore the sheer giddiness in his gut and focus on explaining. “Sigils and stuff are pretty introductory, actually. They’re all made up of runes which are pretty much the ABC’s of magic. How you arrange them is how you give them power. But I mean, if you’re me, they also have to look as aesthetically pleasing as possible.” Reaching to flip back a couple of pages, a wry grin pulling at the corners of his lips, Lucian gestured to a progression of symbols. All the same, just arranged differently near underlined labels of rooms in his apartment. Everything was done in pen, the ink aged and etched into the page portraying bulkier, almost harder to make out symbols, versus the fresh ones that were cleaner. The difference between eighteen and twenty-four. “I mean, you normally can’t see them anyways, but it’s a matter of pride.” He was only half joking, eyes leaving the page to glance up at Mal before flipping a few more pages.

The notes were messy, half printed, half cursive scribbles in Latin marked under certain rooms. He pointed at one in particular under ‘Bedroom’. “And yes, soundproof the place.” His tone was particularly matter-of-fact despite his slight smirk. “You want your neighbors to listen to whatever shenanigans you get up to at 3AM?”

                     He hummed softly, cerulean hues grazing over the witch as if in summary of all that Lucian now described, studying the Tallis as if observing him in a new light. “Ah, I see, you’re something of on artiste.” Syllables encapsulated a mocking tone, though timbre resonated in a more tender fondness than perhaps he could ever even vocalize, apprehensively reaching forward to allow fingertips to graze such work. “So if you can’t see ‘em how the hell do y’know you’re not screwing up the... framework?” Mal teased, a grin flourishing on waxen mien, as eyes came alight with effervescent admiration, inquiry a perpetually teasing jest. 

She could do without his particular brand of snark at the moment. She was in immense pain and just needed to avoid this whole conversation. “Got in a fight with a feral animal, I won, but I’m here to see Rowan,” she said tersely. The huntress grimaced as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other and the movement jostled her injury. “So can you tell me if he’s still here or?”

Anna watched in thinly veiled boredom as the original pressed haplessly at the buttons. As if him pressing them would fix it, obviously it didn’t help. “Me be nice to you? And what, pray tell, would be considered me being nice?” she asked, though she didn’t turn to look at him or meet his gaze. Instead she pretended to find something very interesting on the chrome wall across from her.

The huntress could feel her hands shaking as she dropped the blade, dark hues watching the injured wolf finally run off. A few labored breaths expelled from her lips as she waited just a few more minutes before attempting to get off of the ground in the alleyway she’d stumbled upon the wolf in. Pain shot from the gash on her side and she bit her lip to keep from shouting out. Any amount of adrenaline she had from the fight was finally gone and all of that pain had settled in. And god – she forgot how much an injury from a werewolf could hurt. Recently the only injuries she had were from the bites that came from a certain original that she could barely stand to be around. Her own martyrdom shocking her in a way when she made that deal many months ago. Her being the ‘willing’ blood bag to the infuriating male to hopefully save innocents from suffering at his dangerous fangs. Just the thought of it made bile rise in her throat. Her siblings would really let her have it if they knew just what she was doing when she disappeared for hours. If they could see her pinned against a surface with Noah Bordeaux’s head buried in her neck or his lips pressed against her wrist. Anyone who didn’t know any better would think it a lover’s embrace of sorts, but that was another thought that made the bile rise in her throat.

Anna made her way out of the alley, one hand holding onto the brick buildings while the other clutched at the wound on her side that was bleeding quite profusely. Where could she go to get healed up? She could go see Xavier, he’d give her a decent patch job, but he would also be pissed to see her in such a condition. She knew she was really close to BITE and maybe Rowan was still in, he’d heal her in a heartbeat. With that decision in mind she turned the corner to make her way to BITE. She hoped Rowan was still in at least. And god forbid – she did NOT want to run into Noah, she wasn’t in the mood for his particular brand of sarcasm tonight.

Heels clicked on the floor as she walked in the front door, her hand covered in blood as she made her way to the elevator. She used her clean hand to hit the button for it to come down. And once those doors dinged it was obvious that the gods were against her because the doors slid open and her dark hues met those infuriating blues that she hated. Noah Bordeaux. Great.