Ａ ＳＴＵＤＹ ＩＮ：being doomed by the narrative, the modern whore of babylon, her father's unwilling daughter, revival of the old magic, the grotesque and unsettlingly horny, women's wrongs, god released her into the wild and is now hunting her for sport, &&. watching the golden girls on a crystal ball.
bunny brigade. @maidmyth @moonsymbols
my sun and moon. @ghstrks
the squad. @ichigokurosaki @ryusxnka @coldjustness @bloodczar @palespawn @darabeatha @tidesfate @zimwy @dvilsdesire @saintsdawn @lunarrepel @viiteaz @fvzzyelf @harpersoath @deathdates @baragkusiga @villain-he @wlsons @midokai @feralweapon @unascended @fenanera @supurman and the rest of my lovely moots !
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if she doesn't get a kiss she is GOING to burn this damn house down
burn the house down she raves? the goddess is amused by the entire premise of her burning their little home down for refusing or dating to withhold their affections from her. but would she though? they debate the validity of her promise of destruction for something like this , but . . . they are far too pleased with the promise of chaos and destruction to bother to question it. thinking far too hard about something of this nature sucks every bit of fun out of it all.
the goddess reached forth to take hold of her , dark fingers stark across a pale throat, and crowds the raving she-devil into the far corner. ruby eyes burns like two heated coals over a fire , above a smile full of whimsy and no doubt mischief. their thumb sets under the round edge of her chin and lifts that face up to them where she has little choice in meeting the goddess’ stare. and slowly , slowly , that face draws lower to kiss those angry little lips.
❛ listen at this mouth of yours. how naughty. ❜ breath fans out over her lips a moment , and dips back down to take them again.
THE FIRST TIME SHE DIED FELT PEACEFUL. the slightest of struggles as heavy limbs pierced water's surface, clawing helplessly at porcelain coffin, and then — nothing. she awoke a month later to the smell of roses and her pépère's scarred face smiling back at her. jarring, and a little claustrophobic, but a rather pleasant experience as far as deaths go. THE SECOND, THIRD, AND FOURTH WERE AT HER GRANDFATHER'S HANDS. the consequence of being ‘ a disobedient little brat, ’ which, to her, was a very interesting way of saying, trying to save someone's life. alas, she learned quick enough that saving lives isn't the name of the game — ending them is.
after that, she stopped keeping track. there was no point to it, really, not when nothing stuck, another lesson she picked up on in record time. alcohol lost its buzz, pills lost their fun, and blades lost their sting ; all the usual suspects had been apprehended with the key to their cell thrown away. WHAT A BUMMER.
speaking of bummers, sam's really harshing her vibe, which isn't exactly abnormal for them, but the way he says it hits a specific nerve. ( death isn't just empty space. death isn't just sleep. it's your whole life on replay, again and again : every good memory, every bad memory, every feeling, on an endless loop, until you wake up. ) maybe he'll always see her as some kid, but she's not. not anymore.
“ sa - am. ” she's not okay, and she doesn't hide it well. “ you know english isn't my first language. what do you mean? ”
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"So is dis a rare case where dey did bury you wit'cho fortune..?"
“ A QUESTION I'M SURE YOU'RE ASKING FOR COMPLETLY INNOCENT REASONS, ” she teases with a gentle shove to his shoulder. “ but, no, they did not. i wasn't buried with anythin' partly because i wasn't buried at all. mon pépère kept me in a casket in ‘is shop ‘til i woke up. my grave is empty. ” a shrug. it’s been long enough that their death doesn't bother them as much as it used to. talking about it almost feels normal.
' my dad taught me how. said it was, good to know, in case i ran out of bullets. ' in fact, the majority of sam's skills were imparted unto him by his militant father, a man so beset by grief he embodied it. that grief entailed neglect, days, weeks spent pursuing his white, demonic whale in favor of abandoning parental responsibility. if he'd truly loved them, he wouldn't have let it spurn him into hunting, or would've relinquished his children to an adoption service.
but, and sam wrinkles his mouth as it strikes him, if he had, azazel would've found him anyway. and it would've been like a wolf ravaging a den of trapped hares.
he exhales steadily, jaw clenching about the breadth of this agitating truth. the absent hole where his mother's legacy dug only widened and consumed anything in it's path, like some burrowing infectious tract; that bead of resentment pops in sam in synchrony with another knife pointed squarely in the bark. ' thats cheating and you know it. '
FATHERS. WHAT ARE THEY GOOD FOR? the occasional miscellaneous skill, perhaps ; hers taught her how to keep a good poker face in addition to his mother tongue, yet nothing near worth the torment endured. ( briefly does her shoulder ache with a burn long since healed, a scar on the mind over the body. she was only a kid. she was only a kid. SHE WAS ONLY A KID! ) to her, this is pleasant. fun, even. so little time is spent just existing, always bouncing from one thing to another, like the world was ending or something. girlish giggle escapes them as they reach out for another knife, same as the first : lift, flick, whoosh, this time with some added flair. “ it's only cheatin' if we're not on equal ground. youse could do it, too. ”
boots plant firmly in the ground beside him, an invasion of his personal space as she gets on her tippy toes to get closer to his perspective. “ in fact, it's probably the easiest thin' youse can do — easiest to control, anyway. ”
her hand rises slowly, palm up. one of the knives tremble. “ imagine reachin' out t'grab it . . . ” she curls her fingers as though wrapping them around an invisible thread. the knife shivers harder, that familiar glow now encasing it. “ . . . then pull. ” on cue, they yank their arm back. the knife pops out of the bark with ease, then clatters to the ground. they smile at him. “ try it. get the knife without movin' your feet. ”
“ THAT'S COMPLETELY BEYOND THE POINT, ” comes sharp retort, gaze never leaving her compact mirror. tongue instinctively flicks across painted lips, testing the resistance. once satisfied, they snap it shut with a c-l-i-c-k. “ companies shouldn't be testin' make-up on any animals — ‘cept, like, death row inmates. that's so not punk. ” how did they get here again? they’ve never been the type to shy away from voicing their thoughts, but, man, does sam make them feel so stupid sometimes. “ for the record, all mine is cruelty-free. ” they even offer him the tube, to check for himself.
@rotdame said: " actually, the passengers manage the radio and the driver keeps his eyes on the road. idiota . . . "
" hey, you got a problem? " dean's boot pedals the gas, signaling a surging roar of the engine churning over. he extends a hand over to the volume knob & twists it. the thundering bass pumps so high it throbs the speakers at their seams. his teeth bare in the shape a smile, though the fan of crinkles bunching his eyes is all thick insincerity. " buy a bus pass. "
SEVERAL PROBLEMS, ACTUALLY. but she keeps those to herself in fear that he actually will kick her out of the car — and she doesn't trust him to stop first either. instead, they sink into the seat with a huff and a pout, which surely doesn't help her look like anything other than a brooding teenager. even the obnoxiously blue foam of their headphones can't do anything to drown out the sound. not that she necessarily wants them to, except she's not going to admit that they have similar music tastes after all that.
“ I KNOW YOUSE DON'T LIKE ME, ” she says all of a sudden, practically yelling over the radio. “ we're bein's of energy and emotion ; youse can't ‘ide yours from me. ” a pause. she looks out the window. “ . . . sam said youse nuked the last faerie in a microwave. never been so glad t’be tall . . . ”
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judging by the wreath of knives imprinted on that gnarly old oak, sam is well aware of what day it is. a new blade seats in his throwing hand, whipped with the precision of a sideshowman. it perfectly spears into the dead wood beside the rest. ' i haven't done this since stanford. '
THEY KNOW, OF COURSE. though any thoughts of their father are cast out of their mind, they know. maybe it's why they came out here with sam in the first place ; the youngest daughters, burdened with a heavy hand both absent and destructive. if she tries really hard, she can still picture his face, those cold eyes, but such memories have long since been replaced with the tired smiles and exasperated sighs of her loving, if a little overwhelmed, uncles.
so perhaps today isn't so bad. not for them. if sam need to take his anger out on something, while they would prefer it not be some poor tree, she'll stay with him anyway, clapping at every throw as if she were shocked and awed. “ yeah? youse make it look easy. ” tara's not near the weapon enthusiast her brother is — ( she remembers kian once tried teaching her to fence : he, a boy of thirteen ; she, no older than eight ) — but appreciative enough of a good blade ; albeit, with a penchant for daggers over anything else.
several knives lift into the air, bathed in verdant glow. a flick of her wrist is enough to send them flying, landing above his own — two side-by-side, one directly below, in a way that creates a . . . face, of sorts. they are, at least, proud of their handiwork. “ guess it's all MIND OVER MATTER, innit? ”
TARA VIBES. | "I Want My Beloved to Be Happy" / Spike (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) / Wednesday Addams (The Addams Family) / "The Fair Folk" / "Femme Fatale" / Sarah Williams (Labyrinth)
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