#thewiickedones

The brothers and Castiel are gone. Cain politely declined the angel's request to join that trio to a bar, because he has other plans for tonight. Winchester remains the theme, still. Meeting in 'secret', again. It has been a while since he last showed up in person to chat with Mary and who can truly deny the fact that the adults need time among their likes, too? Not that the boys are children... well, in some way they yet are. Only parents understand the way their social battery drains tangibly with every overheard fight sucking energy out of every nerve. Where responsibility interlocks with resilience, give or take the obligatory pinch of deathless worry bled on top.

Mary might welcome a timeout. One with a demon who feels nervousness tickle at his fingertips and down his spine that he hasn't experienced in a long, long time. The giddy sort. The suddenly-care-about-not-messing-up kind. So, equipped with a sixpack of beer [he's seen her enjoy some before] and, thanks to the gentleman of the old school living under his skin like a second self, a box of chocolates, Cain knocks on the bunker door. The metal's coolness against his fist distracts him from overthinking. Sensations work wonders. Cold resets, grounds you within seconds.

All he knew was the cold nothingness until it was seared away and broke a stasis of emptiness that had no feeling or thought, just cold and barrenness all around and no thought to comprehend anything. 

Something had changed. A fire spread though the internal chasm of the young prince, warming from the throat at first and feeling as if a heat was carried by smoke throughout the rest of him, down to his throat and lung that made a breath gasp out, aching in his throat as if the muscles had frozen and only now being awoke. When eyes jolted open to see great bonfires all around, an unfamiliar air whipping at his bare skin and people covered all in red. 

The days moved fast since then. The priests and priestesses in red making clear their disappointment and that Valarr was not who they intended to bring and how they couldn’t do the rite again. They had stopped interacting with him, not seeing a point and clear their resentment to the prince with every look cast his way. Yet on one day, something felt different. There was an energy to the place, an excitement that might’ve been carrying some fear as they prepared for someone. 

He used to be part of a large group. Everyone had their roles. Folks kept busy. People earned their keep. Someone always watched each other’s backs.

Nowadays, it was him and his companion. They’d been separated from the group for quite some time. They weren’t sure where the others were, or if they were even still alive.

Nah, Rick's still alive, Daryl told himself. He was damned sure of it. If anybody could survive this hellscape, it'd be Rick.

Along with the protein bars he and his traveling companion took from the convenience store over a week ago, it was all they had for food, until he went hunting. First, they needed to find a place to hunker down. It was going to get dark soon.

As he proceeded to look over his crossbow, a twig snapped within earshot. In one fluid motion, he cocked and loaded his weapon. He aimed it in the direction of the sound. But as soon as he saw it wasn’t a walker, he let out a sigh of relief and lowered his crossbow.

“Ya took long enough to come back,” he grumbled as he removed the arrow from its rail.

@thewiickedones

The motel room is dim except for the flickering yellow lamp beside the bed, the kind that buzzes like it’s dying slowly. Dean sits on the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, a switchblade snapping open and closed in his hand with quiet, rhythmic clicks. Open. Shut. Open. Shut. The metal flashes in the weak light each time the blade locks into place. It’s the only thing keeping his head straight. Every nerve in his body feels like it’s been stripped raw, something restless clawing under his skin in a way that makes sitting still feel impossible. His jaw is tight, teeth grinding faintly as the knife snaps open again. The sound fills the room, sharp and steady.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Dean’s eyes flick to the cheap motel mirror across the room for half a second before he looks away again. He already knows what he’ll see: pupils blown wide, the faint tremor in his hands he can’t quite get rid of. The hunger is louder tonight. Louder than the buzzing lamp. Louder than the traffic outside. Louder than his own thoughts. The blade snaps open again just as the motel door creaks. Dean doesn’t look up immediately. He already knows who it is. “Door wasn’t locked,” he mutters, voice rough from disuse as the knife spins lazily between his fingers before snapping shut again. His green eyes finally lift toward Ruby as she steps inside, something dark flickering behind them.

Click.

a  satisfied  and  dark  laugh  erupts  from  the  vampire's  chest,  pleased  to  see  the  worry  and  concern  that  paints  over  her  face  like  wrinkles,  fear  coming  off  like  intangible  smoke.  he  rolled  his  shoulders  casually,  unfazed  by  her  threats,  ❛  i  would  say  sorry,  faith,  but  i  see  something  in  you.  a  darkness  that  you're  hiding  from,  running  away  from.  i  want  to  see  that  darkness  you're  so  desperate  not  to  let  drown  you...  ❜  he  told  her,  his  voice  sleek  like  velvet.  he  disappears  back  into  the  shadows  of  the  night,  hiding  from  her  once  again,  but  encircling  her  nonetheless.  he  sucked  at  his  fangs  at  her  questions,  shaking  his  head  to  himself.  ❛  i  don't  gift  this  life  to  just  anyone.  you're  special,  i  see  it  in  your  eyes.  the  way  you  devoured  the  chase  through  those  woods,  the  way  you  were  so  willing  to  let  go  of  the  tracks...  ❜  he  explained  to  her,  his  words  echoing  through  the  wind  that  brushed  through  their  hair.  the  water  continued  to  crash  onto  the  shore  as  they  played  toe  to  toe,  the  seagulls  squawking  in  the  distance  and  the  smell  of  the  saltwater  loomed  in  his  nostrils.  the  scent  that  overpowered  all  of  it,  though,  the  only  one  he  cared  for  and  honed  in  on,  was  the  smell  of  faith's  fear  of  what  was  to  come.  he  couldn't  blame  her  for  being  so  frightened.  after  all,  he  never  gave  her  a  warning  to  heed  or  even  a  choice  in  the  matter.  when  david  wanted  someone,  though,  he  made  sure  to  get  it,  and  he  wanted  faith.

he  took  in  a  deep  breath,  appearing  behind  her  for  a  brief  second  to  caress  her  neck  with  his  long  talons  then  disappearing  once  more.  he  was  taunting  her,  wanting  to  drive  her  straight  to  the  edge,  scare  her  further.  he  was  feeding  off  it,  insatiable  for  her.  ❛  oh?  is  that  so?  ❜  he  asked,  curious  as  to  what  she  could  mean  by  those  words.  was  it  a  threat  onto  him  and  his  boys?  or  did  he  do  something  to  her  that  was  unlike  anything  he's  done  to  any  of  his  victims  or  vampire  children?  she  had  spat  some  of  her  own  blood  onto  the  sandy  shore  and  the  smell  had  tickled  his  nostrils,  feeling  his  mouth  begin  to  salivate.  but,  feeding  on  her,  killing  her,  would  be  a  waste  of  potential.  he  much  rather  see  her  become  and  be  a  part  of  them  than  just  be  some  meal  he'd  soon  forget.  he  let  silence  fall  between  them  for  a  moment  before  he  spoke  again,  suddenly  appearing  in  front  of  her  but  wearing  his  human  face  once  more.  his  lips  were  pressed  together  in  a  thin,  serious  line  as  he  stared  her  down,  icy  blue  hues  piercing  through  her  and  the  darkness  that  engulfed  them.  ❛  killing  me  won't  reverse  what's  already  been  done,  ❜  he  tells  her,  lying  through  his  teeth,  but  she  didn't  know  that.  she  didn't  have  to  know  that.  he  was  confident  her  mindset  would  change  once  she  completed  her  full  transition  from  human  to  vampire.  ❛  if  you  want  my  advice,  embrace  it,  ❜  he  begins  to  tell  her,  stepping  closer.  ❛  you  know  what  you  are  now  and  you  know  what  we  are.  you'll  never  grow  old,  faith,  and  you'll  never  die...  but  you  must  feed.  ❜

@thewiickedones asked: ❝ Could you just think about anyone other than yourself for once ? ❞ ( Spike From Buffy or Faith )

there it was! the age old plea for selflessness ( or maybe just a nudge away from selfish and narcissistic ). either way, it's enough to to make him want to roll his eyes. helping out of the kindness of his tainted little heart had never done him any good. it's times like this he wants to wave the slayer away with a bugger off. let her get her pretty head yanked off because she didn't have him there, in trench coat swishing heroics. it's also times like this when he realizes he can't do it. he's like a fuckin' puppet, his strings pulled towards caving every time.

had buffy taken a stake to his spine?

❝ right, sure, because that's worked out so well for me before. i can see why you think i enjoy practically losing my bloody limbs for you. ❞ but christ, i want to help you. he hadn't even heard her out yet. the second buffy came into the mausoleum, he knew the look. admittedly, his neck was far more durable than hers was, and he knew his way around all kinds of nasties.

seconds hang in the air, looming and vexing, because spike knows already that he's going to think of someone other than himself. but he ought to think of himself, he ought to get something out of it. he'd rather be seen for the demon he is. he's not angel in all his brooding, selfless wonder.

❝ what's in it for me, buffy? ❞

From here with @thewiickedones (David)

"I'm not whining about it. I'm venting. Totally different, man!"

Paul sighed in defeat. There was a lot for him to digest. Not that he'd let anyone other than David know. It wasn't easy for him to explain. He was stubborn as hell when it came to his feelings. It wasn't easy--clearly. Even with someone like David, he couldn't just lay it all out on the table. He couldn't even be honest with himself. Everything was easier with Sonya. Why was that? His features scrunched when he came to that realization.

"Things were just… easier with her," he forced himself to admit out loud. "Just something about her. It's like she got me, you know? Like nobody else did. Didn't have to pry too deep to get me. I opened up with her all so easily. I had a natural high with her."

When he died, yeah, she moved on. But to move on with a disc jockey techno creep like DJ X? He thought she had way better taste than that! It was only when he learned about the drugs did he get why she got hooked up with that mess.

"She moved on deep. Like real deep. Guess that meant I had to, too. Not that much, but like, whatever. I wasn't expecting Tamara to completely fill in Sonya's shoes but, I just…"

His voice trailed off. He wasn't sure what to expect, considering he'd never hooked up with a djinn before. Tamara was hot, and she knew how to have fun. He didn't have to worry about her being broken or getting hurt. They benefitted one another. Why not be together?

“He scares me.”

There. She said it. Micah Bell truly frightened Mary Linton. From the way he looked, the way he spoke, and his overall presence sent shivers down her spine. The moment Arthur spoke about him, Mary wanted nothing to do with the man.

This confession amused Etta Caroll. She tilted her head in Mary’s direction. “Do tell,” she replied to the gentlewoman. “Is Mr. Bell too ‘rough around the edges’ for the likes of yourself?”

Mary already didn’t appreciate her mocking tone. “I’ve been told of the times he could’ve gotten Arthur killed, and those were far too plenty.”

“As if Arthur isn’t guilty of doing the same thing, sweetheart.”

Mary gasped. Etta narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. The two glared at one another. 

Etta leaned forward, as if to challenge Mary. “Whoever is the strongest should win,” she stated simply. “I see nothing wrong with Mr. Bell’s philosophy.”

“It’s savagery,” Mary replied with a shake of her head. “It’s also downright cruel. Everyone is supposed to work together.” She wrung her hands together and closed her eyes. “I wasn’t too happy with Arthur being involved, but at least he looked out for everyone. Micah, he only looks out for himself.”

“You’re wrong,” Etta snapped. “Your fear is judging him. Micah knows what’s best, and that’s why Dutch trusts him. He sees the bigger picture.”

Mary’s eyes fluttered open, and a shadow of doubt masked her features.

“Does he?” she questioned in a low voice.

Before Etta could defend Micah further, Mary asked her another question.

“How far are you willing to protect him?”

The female outlaw didn’t hesitate with her response. “Whatever it takes. I don’t care.”

“Do you love him? Or are you simply obsessed with his ideas?”

Mary didn’t feel the slap across the face until it was too late. The sharp crack sent her tumbling to the ground. Etta stood over the fallen woman with her throbbing hand still raised. 

“How dare you,” Etta hissed, her voice quivering. Her eyes filled with tears. “To question my feelings…!”

Mary panted heavily as she slowly collected herself off the ground. Her head spun, her cheek throbbed, and her lower lip bled. Her eyes lifted until she stared at the distraught Etta before her. The words clearly struck harder than the physical slap she received.