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[darkfascination]

———————————— Author’s Note: This is an interaction between Severen Van Sickle and an OC of mine. The character is the physical manifestation of the mortal sin of Wrath. ————————————

The ominous presence, of what presumed to be a church, was undeniable. The building felt like it had a will entirely its own. He’d never known another place to have such a palpable otherworldliness, a living essence even in the absence of another soul. He looked down the empty, endless path stretching parallel in front of the large, wide, stone steps and could discern nothing in either direction; only a border wall of shrubbery to break up the grey. With no other choice, he proceeded upward— steps oddly muffled— to the large stained glass doors. Resting his hand on the burnished bronze handle he stares, fixated by the images depicted in the glass. Scenes of violence, of fire, war, rage, drowning in a river of tar. He can’t really tell if what he is seeing is truly frozen in the colored glass or playing out right before him. It is mesmerizing cruelty. Something about it awakens his ever present hunger. The door opens beneath his hand, though Severen is nearly certain he did not depress the lever. It swings inward on silent hinges of its own volition; he releases his grip in order to not be dragged along with it as it completed its course. He steps inside the darkness within, somehow darker than the night he has left outside and proceeds without hesitation into the interior. Candelabras bedecked with dripping candles line the path, casting flickering shadows in the wake of their disparate light. The pews are polished mahogany, void of bodies, tattered bibles marking the absence of the penitent. 

“C’mon down son, no sense lingerin’” the voice is rich, warm as melted chocolate and just as smooth. It has the opposite effect on Severen, he freezes in place and stares into the gloom to the pulpit from which it came. There stands the speaker, dressed in a fine maroon suit, smiling like a fox in the hen house.  This man was a predator, as much as he was and it gave him pause, wariness encroaching. He hadn’t known there could be another with that same fire in him, and this one burned even brighter. It was alluring, dangerous.

“Don’ hover in doorways when you’re bidden son, come on. Rih’ here”. The man slapped a hand upon the pulpit, a crack of metal on hardwood reverberating in the vast emptiness, and then indicated one of the front seats with palm raised heavenward.

Severen felt himself moving without consciously meaning to, legs more obedient than himself. As he approached he was caught up staring straight into the man’s face. It was difficult to tell if it was Severen’s own supernatural ability to see in the dark, or something about this other that made him emanate with an ambient glow. It deepened the shadows surrounding him, but made the details of his gentlemanly features perfectly distinguishable. Gentle creases framed his mouth as white teeth glinted in the dim light, revealed in a smile that made Severen reflexively think of the word ‘wicked’. Dark eyes remained locked upon him as he approached, as if they looked away he may turn tail— it occurred to him it may be wise to do so, but he’d never much been one for retreat. Gripping the top of the pew, so tight the wood creaks, the night creature sits, though he is far from relaxed; wound tight enough to burst upward at a moment’s notice.

“Good”, it is said with a cheer that is skin deep, the man sauntering around the wooden stand; adjusting his tie with skilled aplomb. Long, pale fingers run down the ebony silk, dodging an opal tie pin as they run the course. A sharp crack resonates as his black, crocodile skin dress shoes connect with the two stairs down to the carpeted main aisle. Severen watches the performance with familiarity; the swagger, the uncontested confidence, he knows this prowler innately— as if this were himself.

“It’s good to have you here son”. The man stands before him now, Severen has to look up to see his face, most likely because he is sitting, however, it feels like more than that. There is something discordant with the man’s visual appearance, an untruth in the physical way he presents himself; the material trappings unable to fully restrain what truly lies beneath.

“Where’s here?” Severen asks almost petulant, not keen on being the less dangerous thing in the room. He leans back against the uncomfortable bench, bracing his arms down either side, taking up as much space as he can. He tries for a casual calm— a feeling that does not exist in this place— although his irritation is obvious; never much good at disguising his more negative emotions.

“It’s nowhere, where ain’t special. This could be”, the man rotates first one direction than the other, arms splayed outward as if only seeing this place for the first time today, “Anywhere!” An amused snort from the man and he inclines forward in a conspiratorial manner, “Although I do appreciate this, it is rare I get to be anywhere I am truly at home”. Severen feels left out of the joke, but finds the man’s charm impossibly infectious, he has a half cocked grin on his face without knowing why he’s smiling.

“Forget ‘where’”, the man hikes his pants and slides onto the seat beside Severen, “let’s work on ‘who’”. One wide palmed, long fingered hand is extended to his guest, for that is exactly what Severen realized he was now. How or why he was invited to this place was a mystery— for the time being— of one thing he was certain: he was present at the behest of this man, his host. Without a second guess he wraps his own strong fingers around the proffered hand and the two hold in place, neither moving. An intensity of heat, absent of the comfort warmth typically brings, wraps his body. It felt like a furnace within had been ignited, or further stoked perhaps. Despite himself, Severen took a sharp inhale, a tremor of sudden exhilaration shuddering throughout.

“Yes, boy, you do know me”, the buttery voice penetrated his mind, “not by name, but by profession, I am delighted we are familiar”. For the first time, in a very long while, Severen understood what it meant to be hunted—captured. This man had drawn him, a card from a deck he had full control of, and held him here, held him close, for a devising all his own; and certain to be singularly serving.

“Ira is a name good as any”, the man offers, now releasing his grip, yet the fire stays burning in the cowboy’s chest. “And you, Severen, Mr. Van Sickle, have no need to give anything more of yours to me. You’ve granted me plenty, to which I am eternally grateful”. The laugh that comes after his words is humorless and vicious in a way that puts Severen on edge in a way that is completely unfamiliar.

“Never mind that, a personal jest”, dismissively he waves it away, as if clearing the words from the air, “You are right to feel compelled to this place, you are right that I brought you in particular, invited, if you will. There is an offer I wish to make you son, one you’ll be most inerres’ted to entertain. In fact I feel I can guarantee your answer, but as choice is of a particular importance to me, I will elucidate”.

Usually when one looked to strike a proposition to another— at least in Severen’s experience— they were not quite so bald faced about having manipulated the outcome. The deceitful dance of dithering, of finding the alignment that suited both parties was not present here. He could not be sure if this was a one-sided arrangement he would see little or no benefit from, or if his prize had already been decided without the chance to bargain. 

“Don’ you worry your head over none’a that Mr. Van Sickle, I wouldn’t seek to lose you for anything this world could hope to provide”. It was oddly emotional, like a father feeding his child the words of adoration only a parent can give.

“What’re you proposin’?” Severen says shortly, mistrust of Ira building, becoming conscious of himself in this place, of his individuality, breaking through the overwhelming, suffocating nature of his surroundings— of the man before him. Ira claps his hands and it sounds like a whip crack, “Mr. Van Sickle, I want to get you directly on your way home!” He speaks with exuberant glee, as if it were him being benefitted by this proposal. Dark brows knit over blue eyes. 

“What’d you mean?” The words leave his lips before he can stop them. A secret part of him knows exactly what Ira means and it has stopped Severen from knowing this truth himself. There is a quiet mental cry at the prospect of remembering, but it is too late to go back now, a door opened can no longer be closed without force.

“Ahhh son, I forget how much ya’ll don’ like that part, sorry for this”, there is an actual hint of apology in his voice, “but it will help with your decision I reckon”.  Ira leans forward and clasps the side of Severen’s face, heel of his hand resting on the rise of his cheek. The thumb presses upon the start of his brow and traces the dark line end to end, and with the gesture a line of piercing fire enters Severen’s brain. It all surges forward in a blended crescendo of overwhelming agony. There is such horrid desperation and pain he cannot recognize himself in it. Certainly those are not feelings known to him, not anymore, and yet they are born from him like fetid butterflies bursting out of the chrysalis of his mind.

He sees things he knows he was not present for, death he had not witnessed, and the horror of what had happened after he had been forced to oblivion is worse than anything he had suffered. When Severen regains a present consciousness he can’t tell if the scream reverberating in his head was loosed aloud or not; either way, Ira holds the same expression as before, unbothered. His hand falls away and rests in the gap between them.

“You were right to hate him”, Ira’s tone has changed from jollity, to a sumptuous melancholy, “You were right to distrust and to want his destruction”.

“I was right” Severen repeats, but stops when he realizes how lured he was to say so. He doesn’t like how easily Ira pries into the core of him, and immediately becomes defensive.

“If I was right to mistrust one stranger, why should I trust you?” he snaps, muscles tensing in anticipation of confrontation. Ira only laughs, a rich, melodious sound.

“Mr. Van Sickle, was I not already clear that we are the furthest thing from strangers?” Severen looks hard into the face now, taking his meaning literally, although the features bear no resemblance to a memory he can form. Inexplicably Ira’s eyes, which he had taken for auburn, seem to flicker, he thinks it is a reflection of the firelight caught in his iris, but in actuality he knows that they are a fire unto themselves.

“Son, I been with you more days than anyone you ever known”, he gestures for Severen to not interrupt, “You may not have known I was there, we have little rules for these things, but trust I know every second of your life, it’s my favorite story”. The truth of the last three words is apparent in the utter pleasure displayed in the smile he shares with Severen, it is discomforting, yet he finds himself more intrigued by ‘why’ rather than ‘how’, or ‘what for’. 

“Because you are The Savage One”, there is a reverence in the title, “A wild tempest of brutality the likes’a which I ain’t never known before or since. Well,” he leans back into the pew rotating his palm one way and the other in a “more or less” motion, “there have been one or two others, but none with your won’erful consistency”. Severen has not forgotten how they got to this point and returns to his first line of questioning.

“What’s this gotta do with you makin’ me an offer?” Ira braces a hand down on his wine colored dress pants, bending forward “Everythin’ boy!” He looks almost bewildered at Severen’s lack of understanding, “Want revenge don’cha?”

“Innit a lil late for that?” Dark sarcasm adds to his seething, gloomy disposition, the furnace within dissipating some, pain returning.

“It ain’t late for anythin’, in fact it ain’t even begun” Ira speaks in a secretive fashion, low, eager, trying to drag the other into his own giddiness, but only partially succeeding in the fact that Severen is once more intrigued.

“Lissen Mr. Van Sickle, I know I’ve been elusive, downright enigmatic if spoken true, but that’s the nature of these things, it’s interpretive you might say. If I say, ‘Sure would be a kick to see you drag that milksops intestines ‘cross the state ‘a Oklahoma’ that don’t rightly put in place what I’m offerin’”. Severen waits for him to continue, he does so gladly. “Now, ‘Wreck vengeance in my name, burn blade of fury and malignant hate’ so on and so forth, now that’s more akin to my way of things”. Severen plays the words once over mentally and latches onto an understanding; as if coming through a thick wood onto a clear meadow. “You the devil at this particular crossroads?” “Sumethin’ like that".

“We fiddlin’, cause I was always better on guitar”. Ira bellows a laugh, the metal thud of his rings on wood again as he slaps the top of the pew.

“This is a damn fine pleasure ain’t it!” Even in a laughing squint his eyes seem to intensify in their red-orange glow. “Mr. Van Sickle, you got the gist of it, but I’m not one for game playin’ or wheelin’ dealin’ nonsense”. He clears his throat, coughing out the last of his laughter.

“This is a true and honest petition to have you back where I think you oughta be, an’ my only fine print is that you keep doin’ what you been, an’ keep on doin’ it”. Severen’s eyes narrow a second time. 

“That hardly sounds like a deal”

“I never called it a deal, I called it an offer. Got your superstitious western ways all tangled in this very forthright proposal”. Leaning back, replaying their conversation over in his mind Severen analyzes Ira, all his abundant words, his conniving motivations, what he has declared of who— what— he is, the knowledge he claims to have of who Severen is; and his fixed desire to have him continue his malicious ways.

Blue eyes move from the man to their surroundings, the marble walls, the elaborate trappings of ethereal worship, he sits up with a conclusion come to, not in haste, but with acceptance.

“All this to ask me somethin’ you know the answer to, and nothin’ in return? Superstition er’ not that seems like a deal that gets a man in trouble”.

“What other trouble you got to get in son?” Both men are leaning toward one another, a standoff in all but action, two combative entities sizing the other before swinging. The challenge ignites another intense flare in Severen and he feels nearly overwhelmed by the heat, it is revivifying, as if he’d never known what it felt like to be warm.

“You doin’ that?” He growls, clasping his chest in something that is not quite pain, but is certainly not pleasant. 

“Haven’t done anythin’ to you Mr. Van Sickle, thas on you, in you rather”, all grins again.

“Y’see I don’t need you to verbally agree, it’d be nice, all clear cut and in the open, but like you said just now, I know you’ll take this offer, ya’only protestin’ cause it’s in your nature to do so. ‘An it ain't like me to divert someone from their chosen course, far from it”.  There is a faint chuckle, another personal joke, “What you’re feelin’ is what I am promisin’ you”.

“Resurrection?”

“More”.

“More?”

“Much more”.

The smile that was once mischievous and guarded becomes openly pleased, eyes flaring, no longer with the suggestion of firelight, but as barely contained infernos themselves.

“What’s it that plagued you while you terrorized humanity?” Severen’s hand still works his sternum, the roiling blaze there pulsing.

“Slowed you down and kept you hidden away?” There is a pause while he follows the line of thought.

“You sayin’ I can walk in daylight?”

A snicker, “Son, you can strip down in your drawers and do cartwheels on the beach if you have a mind”, hearty laughter, “Tha’s what I’m here to provide, a ball of fire and gas cain’t burn away what’s already aflame”. Severen meets his eyes again and the painful burning surges outward down his extremities and into his head. It courses like poison through his veins, scalding his insides. He stares at his arms, hands, looking for the visible signs of the track it has blistered through him, but there is no indication whatsoever, just the radiant heat that won’t stop.

“Is this, is this deal done?” He asks in panting gasps, finding it hard to breath— unsure if he needs to— “Is this, is this what I am now?”

“You don’t have a clue yet boy, but you will, in time”. He rests his palms on his thighs and hunches forward preparing to stand, “As for your question, I s’ppose that is our business concluded”. He rises, again the surreal juxtaposition of the physical and otherworldly presence, and slips his hands into his pockets, glancing over one shoulder to his companion, “This was a true delight Severen, an’ I hope in all this pageantry you do know that to be the truth”.

The name almost seems like it belongs in another time. Once he had clung to a title he’d known from his human past, The Reaper, he had reclaimed his given name of Severen in his time of gluttonous desecration, now the unspoken title he had gained because of his unfettered wrath called loudest, The Vengeful One. All torment of fire ceased upon this revelation.

That same grin of affection was cast upon him.

“You are free son, I loose you upon the world, a plague of my own invention, a beast of blood and fire molded from the star’s own heart. Go forth and be triumphant in your unholy deeds, and as you reap and water the earth with the blood of damned and saintly alike do so with only one thing in your heart, Savagery”.

“Amen”.

Sermon concluded he opened his eyes to the blinding white light of high noon sunlight, reflecting off even the pale dust of the abandoned road he lay upon. All was coated in beige, even himself, but there was no pain, there was no burn. He sat up, stood, stared into the life taking light, looked around his surroundings. There was no point in questioning if what had happened was real, current circumstances were evidence enough, but even without it he could feel the difference inside himself. There was no crippling hunger— although he felt starved— there was only a feeling of barely contained power even he was hesitant to uncoil.

But he would, how he would.

First, though, he needed a drink, and even if he wasn’t sure where he would find it just yet, he knew he would.

His lord did provide. 

[darkfascination]

“ if you keep eating every monster who looks in my direction i’m not going to have any patrons left. ” for someone who so adamantly claimed to not be a jealous individual , his actions sure said otherwise.

He tapped his cigarette on the table twice and placed it between his teeth, flipping open the book of matches brandishing the name of her establishment. Selecting one he strikes it and lights the tip, bringing it to life. His lips leave a red rim on the filter. After taking a long drag he smiles, grey smoke filtering out between his blood stained teeth.

“ I can’t recall hearin’ you complain previous to this…incident ”, he flicks the tip, ashes smoldering into the air and settling in the open cavity of the recently deceased’s throat.

“ Or ever stopping me ”.

He takes another drag, theatrically slow.

“ I mean you could, so…” he exhaled over his shoulder and slides off the stool putting the cigarette out in the groove of the poor unfortunate’s dented temple. A metallic ring pierces the air as his boots hit the floor.

“ There must be somethin’ you enjoy seein’ ”.

He flairs out his coat, revealing the fact that he did not see fit to put a shirt on. A turn of his heel and the dim light gleams off the wolf engraving on his spurs.

“ No one ever mistook me for a smart man, but”, he hooks one thumb into his belt, the other flicking the edge of the police badge on his jacket so it sings, “ I’d say my deductive reason’in is sound ”.

[darkfascination]

Body meets body in a winding crush. The man mercifully doesn’t even have time to feel fear as Severen clamps his jaws over the man’s throat, nearly clearing the circumference. With one tug the manager’s flesh tears and a river courses down over his front.

The vampire’s face is hidden in the tatters, grotesque noises of his mouth wrenching apart muscle and tendon. It isn’t just blood he’s after. He seeks destruction. Even with short nails he claws through the body with ease, his fervor making up for what he lacks. It isn’t long before the mass of flesh and bone is unrecognizable as something human.

Severen, devouring whatever he can reach, only pauses his horrid gorging when he comes to the remnants of the man’s lung. As a semblance of sanity settles in he slows his chewing, more aware of his actions. He drops the organ and gags, spitting out what is in his mouth.

“Ugh, smoker”.

There is an irony to his revulsion.

Clarity overrides his former tantrum, savagery complete. He feels a certain amount of embarrassment at the outburst, disgusted at acting foolish in front of her. That’s when he notices her proximity, the scent of rose cutting through that of dying flesh.

He turns his head and there she is, filling his vision, all encompassing and all consuming. One hand goes toward her cheek, his face following, pressing his forehead to Lira’s and closing his eyes to open up his other senses.

The smell of her, past perfume, the feel, not just skin but the incalculable will beneath, the taste, but he’d not sully the ascendant flavor with the swill currently on his tongue. He breathes her in, and with each long breath finds solemnity, peace. Tranquility pervades in the presence of murder.

The pieces fall into place, he knows what she wants of him and is ready to testify on the mount as one might to their chosen god.

“Spark?” He sighs the word reverently, “I’m, I didn’t…Awh hell”.

He drops his hand from her and sits back on his haunches, pinching the bridge of his nose. The words he wants to say are there, but the barrier that keeps rising between saying them is already reforming. In this singular moment they would be so easy to bring forth, should the next one come they would once more be out of reach.

“What am I fuckin' tryin’a tell you”, he mumbles to himself, less out of anger than irritation at his own ineptitude.

Severen looks back at her, the whole of her. The fact that she is there, the fact that she has stayed; even when all he wanted to do was run— that despite that fact, any which way he turned his head he always saw her face. He knows— knew before— but there is a danger in giving over that power of destruction to another. And it would destroy him. She could protect it alongside him though, keep him safe as she has all this time, as he hopes to provide to her in return should she need him to in the future.

Severen slowly cups her face between his palms, ignorant of the fact that they are stained, or how he’s already marred her with his touch. Blue eyes stare deep into the greens and yellows of her own inscrutable pair, tracing each pattern they make, memorizing them as if at any time he could forget.

“They’re gone”, he whispers huskily, unable to raise his voice while confessing what he needs to, "an' I can't see past it". Severen nearly breaks away, but persists "there's too much, too much for me by myself. I’m not strong enough for it, but I am tryin'a be", his voice fades, the shadows of his past rising to haunt him once more. he screws his eyes shut, pressing his lips thin to fight them back; they can find him later, torment him then, but not now.

Forcing himself back to the present Severen takes a persevering breath “I know you ain’ interested in watching me build the gallows, an’ lord knows I don’t need the help”.

Wait. That’s not what he wanted to say. No conscious intention to make some offhanded joke.

Isn’t that what you do?

The vampire drops his hands from her and looks perplexed, as if she were the one to speak. Clutching his head he stands, not sure how he’s missed it, still avoiding what he spent all this time lining up.

The tip of his boot severs a chunk of meat from the flesh pile as he delivers it a swift kick out of frustration.

“Goddammit ! ”

He has his back to her, too sickened with himself to turn back around. A part of him wants to rummage on the floor for the keys, flee the scene instead of facing the fact that he can’t tell Lira what he wants to say. To do so would only make him even more of a damned fool than he already was.

Strikin’ out Tiger

“Shut up”, he mouthed silently, dragging his hands over his face.

‘You’re the only place to me, you’re the place I want to be, I want to be at your place?’ A jumble of words tangled in his mind, any one phrase— meaningless whatever their construction— was too hard to focus on. Either that man had more than tar lining his organs, or he really was still too starved— or traumatized— to think straight.

Sure, must be it.

“Fuck” he hissed between his teeth, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. He had missed it, it was there and he’d left her at the station once again.

When had this gotten so difficult? Couldn’t any human teenager profess their love on the street? Had he lived too long, become so jaded, that he couldn’t find a shred of sincerity in the hollows of his heart?

It was an excuse. A poor one.

Trapped between the sun and the abyss he seemed set on digging for himself Severen stood there, like the accused before the firing squad.

there’s nothing she can do but stand and watch as he moves like a tornado through the room , fighting against the parasite nestled in his chest cavity , ready to burst through , with unbridled rage.

he’s haunted by ghosts she can’t see , oh , but she hears them sink their fangs into him. they whisper in his ear like furies. fueling this mania he can't seem to shake.  she watches them chip at his sanity , helpless to stop it. she’s seen him at his worst , at his most savage and crazed , impossible to reason with , exhausting , but not quite like this ---  this guilt was destroying him. a heavy price paid for bolting the door when the stranger knocked.

he tears himself apart with such a vengeance, his anger turning inward when the furniture no longer suffices. it scares her , because she's afraid of what he might do to himself next. 

she tries calling out to him , her voice a lighthouse meant to guide him to safer shores , away from this tumultuous sea , but it falls on deafened ears. he's too far gone , he is drowning , he can't hear her ---- they are much too loud , and she , all the worse for it.

lira has the burden of age , of soul sucking experience , having been in his place so many times before , but no matter the mileage beneath her belt , the wisdom she was meant to accrue , this part of living never got any easier. 

her heart cries out to him. i can love you enough for all of them. i can be your family , if you let me -- though she knows there’s no replacing what was taken from him. they held a place in his heart no one could ever touch. 

it’s only when she hears a knock at the door that her legs regain mobility again , cutting severen off before he has a chance to act -- in truth , escape. although she doesn't fear what may be waiting on the other side , of the two of them, she was the only one thinking clearly. 

with a few quick strides she crosses the room , meeting the intruder at the doorway by the time it cracks open. a face she’d only seen briefly , in the twilight hours of the day , greets her. he isn’t happy , she doesn’t care. 

his words barely register as she  , in one swift motion , snatches the man from the hallway and shuts the door behind him once more , to the best of her ability.  it would serve as a sufficient barrier for now. he has no time to understand the gravity of the situation, or disgust her with useless begging , before she turns and tosses him to severen. his life means nothing to the two of them. he was merely food. a sacrifice she is willing to make a million times over if it sated the beast ripping through her spark.

maybe he would feel more like himself after he ate.

she sits down on the ruined carpet , close to him , hoping the smell of her perfume , the wild curls he loved to bury his face in , might comfort him , remind him that she’s still here. she is flesh and blood, she is real and she will not abandon him. 

she’ll go wherever he needs her to , live whatever life would make him happiest ,  if he asks and means it. 

[darkfascination]

“Goddammit, give me the fucking wheel!” Jesse lunged for the steering wheel over Severen pulling it hard to the right. “Get the fuck outta here!” He snapped at the laughing vampire. “C’mon old timer lighten up!” But he’s already sliding out of the seat as Jesse forces his way into the chair practically sitting in his lap.

“Jesus, you tryin’a make Diamondback jealous?” She rolls her eyes in the backseat. “What’s there to be jealous of, no one wants your skinny ass”. Severen flips her the finger, she blows him a kiss.

Jesse has righted the car by now, the rusty station wagon back in a straight line. “Can’t leave you alone for two seconds while I check the map” he scolds in a grumble, but it’s rote. “Don’t need a map anyway, I know where we are”, Homer chimes in, turning the page of the same comic he’s been reading from two states over. “It’s the next exit to get to the Cloverleaf, if you want to stop outside town it’s exit five”. Jesse glances in the rear view, catching a glint of halogen light off the inhuman, boy-shaped creature. “Ya, I know”, he mutters under his breath.

No one else is convinced if he does or not.

It falls quiet and Severen starts at the radio dial again, all that greets him is the screech of static and faded voices, nothing that sounds like music. He slaps the dash hard— it dents— “you had to get the one piece’a crap without a radio”. He slouches down in the passenger seat with a snarl. Jesse knows his fledgling is hungry, it’s making him restless.

They’re all hungry. Their last meal had been shared, and one human wasn’t much split five ways. In the very back is Mae, quietly looking out the back window at the passing sky. She seems the only one unbothered, although Diamondback can hear her scratching at her arms, getting fidgety herself. She clears her throat and starts to sing. It’s a little ditty from back in her days; she makes sure to put a real saccharine spin on it.

Homer looks over the top of the comic. Diamondback comically bats her eyes at him and does broad, exaggerated hand gestures as she sings about “winnin’ back her man”.

He shakes his head, but smiles all the same.

Up front Severen snorts, “Ain’t gettin’ back shit with that screeching”, but he’s laughing, the mood already lightening. Mae has turned around to face them all, broadly grinning and even joins in on the chorus. Jesse can’t help catching the infectious levity and whistles the melody to back up their voices.

“Aw hell” Severen sneers, but it reminds him of older days and joins in himself, almost unconsciously. Homer remains fixated on the comic, he’s clearly not reading anymore, just maintains his aloof air out of habit. It’s just then that they spot a roadway diner dead ahead; right smack dab in the middle of Nowhere USA. The perfect spot, just for them.

“Anybody hungry?” Jesse chuckles. Severen drums on the dashboard and howls his delight.

Diamondback and Mae shout out the last words and cheer, ending in laughter as Mae clambers over to sit between the woman and Homer— she doesn’t want to waste a second to get out. Homer drops the comic to the floor, sits up and slicks his hair back; or tries to.

Harsh neon lights up their greedy faces as the station wagon pulls to a stop amidst the other waiting vehicles, it’s a good selection. Jesse cuts the engine and turns to his posse.

“Now you can have whatever you want on the menu, but just remember”, they all turn to stare at him, “try to have a good time”.

Everyone is smiles again, whooping and cheering as they thrust themselves out of their cramped confines and into the fresh night air. Jesse hangs back to watch them all stampede in, Mae and Diamondback arm in arm, Homer and Severen tripping and shoving each other trying to be first. They were a right strange rabble that was for damned sure, but what they were first and foremost, was family.

He shook his head with a smirk, reaching in his pocket to check for his smokes, and heading in after them. Soon there would be screaming, and blood. Soon it would all be good again, another fine feast to see them fit to carry on their wandering ways.

“Family”, he muttered to himself as he pushed through the doors, already hearing Severen opening his damn fool mouth for another wisecrack. Jesse tapped out a smoke and rested it between his lips. Making his way slowly to the table he surveys the other folks all tucked into their meals, counts up the staff and who might be carrying, sees a waitress and nods to her and then to the table they’ve collected at.

“Family” he said again, sliding into the booth next to Diamondback.

“What’s at hun?” She asks him, but he only shakes his head.

“I said let’s eat!”

Homer and Mae look up from the menu they were pouring over together and share a delighted look. From over by the jukebox Severen cheers, either at the pronouncement or from finding a track he likes it is unclear. “And what’ll you be havin’ hun?” Asks the waitress who has sidled over to them, notebook in hand.

“Oh, why, I think we’ll be having one of everything my dear”, Jesse says as he gives her a broad smile showing all his teeth, “starting with you”.

They don’t know it, but their little massacre makes the local papers.

They’re two states over before they hear at all. Mae wonders what the waffles would have tasted like. Out of all of them, she’d know best but can’t really remember anymore. None of them mind much. They have something better than all the human things they’ve left behind. What they are, is family.

[darkfascination]

The keys hit his chest and fall to the ground. They both know he doesn’t want them. Something cracks inside him at the thought of sitting behind the wheel ( Jesse’s spot ) and starting over. He doesn’t want to, never has, and has used Lira as a shield from the truth; burying himself in their shared past—his desperate attempt to reclaim a semblance of what he lost.

If he ever felt shame he would realize what a coward he has been cruelly playing pretend that nothing has changed, tricking himself with her as forced accomplice. He lets himself believe that this fallacy is mutual, that this is what Lira wanted too. What they have is passion, two monsters being monsters ( What’s wrong with a good screw ? ) , and passion doesn’t need explanation or motive.

Severen knows this is a lie ( add it to the pile ) , there has always been more than sex between them. He couldn’t call it love— hasn’t used that word properly in all the time he can recall. Too many people have said “love” and had it mean less than horseshit ( except maybe one ), so it isn’t a word he brings forward. He wouldn’t need to though, because words have never been what was important to them; still, all this is too overwhelming to process along with everything else, and without the chance to run away he feels shackled to an inescapable trap— one of his own devising. He feels so young suddenly, so inexperienced in life ( in death ) .

There’s a liquid fire roiling within, making him seethe. The walls withholding the magma in his chest are crumbling, letting the toxic fire engulf his insides. A moan starts in his throat, it turns into an inhuman scream. It has no equal, this bellow of madness, he punches through the wall and it was smart of Lira to pick an interior room because the hole left there gapes into the darkness of the adjacent empty space.

“You fuck ! ” He screams.

He isn’t talking to Lira, he isn’t talking to anyone, he’s consumed, possessed, by the nothing he feels.

“Fuck ! ” He is chaos around her, nothing stays in its right place.

If he could think straight he would know this was all a pretense to make her leave. He both wants to be alone— no— but doesn’t want to be the one to leave— don’t go— and is caught in the juxtaposition like one drawn and quartered. Spit flies from his mouth as he howls, hair wild, he’s never been more bestial than this moment.

He can’t even see anymore so consuming is his fury.

The place is torn asunder met with a force far greater than it could hope to withstand. Severen can’t stay here, he must break his bonds, but if he leaves there is no one there. The very last person in the world is in this room with him and all he can do is tear himself apart.

Somehow the door has become his enemy. It’s the only thing that has yet to bear a mark of his anguish, so he picks up the desk he tossed against the wall and hurls it through. It wedges partway, just a hollow core piece of shit, but now it’s only more of a barricade. He screams at it, if he had his revolver on him he’d shoot every bullet into the wreckage, it’s a small miracle he doesn’t. He’s run out of things to destroy and squats down in the middle of the floor digging his hands into the tangles of his hair, hard.

Whoa son, calm it down.

“ Shut up Jesse , " he mutters through his gritted teeth.

You’re alright, just walk it off.

“ Fuck you. ”

That ain’t no way to talk to Diamondback.

“ Fuck both of you. ”

“ I heard a helluva commotion what’s goin’ on in here?”

They’d picked this place because there’d been no one else staying at the motel, and the manager was by his lonesome. A frisky looking couple would have given him the message to give them a wide berth, but it seemed he still cared enough about this shithole to want to assess what damage was being done to it.

At the sound of the man’s voice Severen instantly perks up. His eyes are glassy, barely cognizant, he’s on autopilot, the ever starved creature in control. “ Good lord…” the man sighs in wonder, no doubt staring at the desk in bewilderment. He unlocks the door and pushes it open, displaying himself in view of the vampire. “ Now what in the hell are you two doing in here ? ”

Severen leaps.

she’d be a fool to say she hadn’t expected this moment to come. to wake up and not find him there , as had been her experience so many times before. he’d stayed longer than he ever had in the past , seeking her out far more consistently , the length of time between his visits growing so short she could throw a stone and it would find him. so maybe this was her fault , for getting too comfortable , for letting herself think that this time would be different. that maybe underneath all that bravado his pulse quickened for more than just her naked form.  she understands the calling , the need to run free as far as your feet paws could carry you. she had never cared for him in any way that denied him his freedom. being someone who greatly values her own independence and time spent alone. she would never want to be the reason he felt confined , suffocated. love that did not set you free was no love at all , but a prison. they were born to live and roam and experience all that life had to offer , she would never take that away from him. solitude was better than a fire stomped out.

his tone is enough to tell her this was more than restlessness. he was hurting and it had finally taken it's toll, the wound festering within him , unacknowledged , had finally become necrotic. it’s been a long time coming , a storm she’s anticipated but could never quite divine the extent of the damage.

she doesn’t reach out to soothe him , he’d find it condescending , but she does stand, growling in response , as he, in his frustration , invades her space. it’s the only warning she’s going to give.

 𝙱𝙰𝙲𝙺 𝙾𝙵𝙵.

his pain was his own, to do with as he pleased but she wasn’t his enemy. she refuses to play the role he’s chosen for her , no matter how it may upset him ,  instead choosing to be what he needs in this moment , not what he wants. 

he should know her better than to bait her in such a way , she has more self control ( insulting that he may think otherwise , even for a brief moment ) ,  in hopes of reprieve from a reality he refused to face. she wouldn’t bleed him out of anger , not like this. never like this. she , who’d only ever loved him , even at his ugliest. more than anyone who had come before her , more than jesse, diamondback, homer and mae , more than anyone who may come after. as only a monster could love another. she’d spared him a fate , it feels like ,  he wished he’d met. she feels his resentment , but she feels no regret. she’d do it again even at the cost of losing him. she couldn’t leave him to die like the others , though it had been too late to save them. see you later was easier than goodbye , always. he could hate her for it , the choice would still remain the same. 

❝ do what you want to the furniture , burn this fucking place to the ground. i really don’t give a shit. no one is forcing you to stay , severen , and we both know it —  all i’m asking you to do is wait for sunset , ❞ please. she’s not going to watch him burn just so he can feel alive. ❝…then you can put me to the rear view and never look back. ❞

yes , this was a long time comin’.

her words burn in her mouth, as she spits them back at him , taking a life of their own. this isn’t what she wants either but she doesn’t know how to stop it. how to stop him from leaping off this cliff to the chasm below. his mind’s already made up. 

 hands fumble with her own , torn black jeans , hastily pulling them on now that the thought of sleep was laughable. ❝ here , ❞ she picks up the keys , to a truck they’d stolen , from the ground and tosses them in his direction.

❝ i hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for . ❞

[darkfascination]

@ulfhrafnx said: “ come back to bed ,” eyes shut , she hears him pacing around the blackened room , as she fades in and out of consciousness. either as a result of cabin fever or because he had something on his mind , she isn’t sure, but it’s distracting regardless. getting on her nerves , if she’s being honest. “ the sun is still out , ” and it wasn’t due to set for another couple of hours — whatever was plaguing him was going to have to wait.

He’d been idle too long, too wrapped up in easy prey and tangled bedsheets. He wasn’t meant for settling.

He couldn’t sleep, his mind fidgeting, picking out every discomfort, every noise was too loud, or too soft. Lira beside him was too warm, or too far away. He about leaps off the mattress, another displeasurable comfort, and finds himself surveying this cage he’s allowed himself to be trapped in.

They had roamed, they had plagued the earth like disease, it reminded him of the old(er) days, and he longed for it- them- again.

“ I wanna go."

He says back, voice flat, not a sign of the usual humor.

She mentions the sun.

“ I don’t care. "

He could take the burn, the singe would be payment enough just to be back on the road; to be free once the oppressive luminance hid its face and let him truly loose.

Severen is ready to run out the door bare ass and all, but he spent too much time in his old leathers to give them up now. He grabs his pants off the floor and starts dressing, “ Gotta get outta here ” he mutters to himself.

It feels like claustrophobia, a tightening in his chest. For a minute he thinks he hears Jessie calling him. Severen sucks a breath between his teeth banishing that sound to the furthest place he can.

He sits hard on the edge of the bed to get his boots on, not caring about disturbing Lira. In his mind she’d already be up and at the door- or maybe he’s thinking of Them again-but she’s still in bed, is she deliberately ignoring him? She can’t hear the engine idling can she…

Severen is up and ready to kick the door open and leave, yet there is something stopping him. He won’t admit the truth that lingers just outside of comprehension: he doesn’t know how to be alone anymore. Hasn’t been capable of acknowledging that he is until he feels the bond unwind to its limit— to understand that there is no one out there.

He used to— Be Alone— just himself for company with a fire and the stars. It used to not mean much, but after decades, centuries with his dysfunctional bunch of misfits (family) Severen has no idea how to sit with himself (who is this).

He needs her to come, but she’s lying there.

He gets angry.

He doesn’t give a shit about her pack, about her family. Where’s his ? Where did his family go ?

( Some shitty kid hangs around and now it’s just him ? )

To hell with that. Lira is his last connection, he’s clinging to her like a lifeline, but can’t admit it, not to himself, not to anyone, won’t, can’t.

It’s agony, it’s pain, he turns it into rage. Severen kicks the bedframe and the leg buckles tipping lopsidedly. “ Get. Up. ” He growls, ready to drag her out. Of course he knows she’s stronger than him, and just as savage, at this point though, he doesn’t care if she guts him and uses his intestine for corset strings as long as she does. Something.

He lashes out again and the wood screams and gives completely collapsing to the ground.

He doesn’t know how to ask her, maybe because he hasn’t had to ask in so long. He’s not sure he wants to be acting like this, but it feels (terrible) good to be furious, packing it into the voids.

“ I’m leaving ”, is what he says, and ripping the sheets off her he snarls in her face. “ And you’re coming. "

[darkfascination]

leaves some new spurs with wolves on them somewhere sev can find because his last ones were damaged. 💋

“These are great!” Homer said pulling spurs up from the black tissue paper they had been wrapped in inside the box.

Severen’s eyes widened threateningly as he snatched them away “Those ain’t for you!” He growled curling them defensively toward himself, “Don’t go through my shit”. He brushed a thumb over the wolf engraving and fell back into the tattered armchair.

Homer tried to not look like he was pouting. “How come only you got Christmas gifts?” Severen chuckled as he leaned down to push the spurs over his ankles, “I only got one gift to give, and it’s for adults only”.

Homer rolled his eyes in disgust as he left in the pursuit of better company. Severen stamped his foot on the cement flooring, a metallic chime rang out in answer. Despite what he said he’d left a little something for Lira back at her place. On the bedpost he’d hung a black Stetson, with a braided, black leather band. After he slept away the day he would have to go see her in it—and with any luck she'd just be in the Stetson—he smiled as he closed his eyes.

[darkfascination]

“Awh shit, if there’s someone waitin’ jus’ let’ em know they can go after me”, he chuckles as her fingers curled around his buckle like a handlebar; the sole barrier between them—beside a few scant bits of scorched, soiled cloth he’d be more than happy to lose.

Severen had slacked his thirst before he’d arrived— more out of need than want— unable to wait for better fare, but she awakened an even more primal urge within; one he hadn’t satisfied in far too long.

“Whooo ya mean I could get six goes before we had to take a break? Sounds like a deal if’n ya ask me!” He puts on an extra display for her, the jester hiding the brute they both know lies beneath his antics.

The hand clasping her back runs up quick to cup the back of her head, gripping a handful of loose, dark curls, pulling back hard enough to incline her chin. He’s gotten this far, and doesn’t care about asking anymore, a tongue, still stained with the blood of some lost soul, traces the taut tendon of her throat. He can feel the hot blood coursing there, intoxicated by just the scent of what’s below. It is stronger— more alive—than anything else he has tasted, and just the proximity of it makes his body heat up, just the idea of her warmth within.

It is in this proximity to Lira he realizes just how much vile gore he’s filled himself with, a scavenger stuffed with scraps, this is the taste he’s wanted washing over his crude tongue— what he’s dreamt of having in his grasp. What little control he’d kept is slipping and he’s all too eager to let loose; an animal uncaged with a power waiting to meet him at his worst.

Severen’s grip near her waist intensifies, were she a lesser being bruises would have sprung around his fingers, blooming like poison flowers—he hopes it draws the beast out.

“C’mon darlin’ let’s make up for lost time”.

His teeth break the skin just under her jaw, a small bead of red bubbling to the surface and before she can retaliate he catches it with his lip, savoring the stolen drop of ambrosial dew. A dark and ominous chuckle surfaces involuntarily and it takes every last restraint he has to not clamp his mouth over the supple skin of her neck. The vampire presses himself tightly against Lira, crushing the chill of his flesh into her.

“I’mma bout outta gentlemanly behavior” he growls by her ear, a thick, lustfulness in his voice, “You gonna show me you missed me or what?”

❝ 𝐇𝐌 , 𝐈 𝐁𝐄𝐓. ❞  he was trouble plain and simple —  but she doesn’t seem to mind. instead matching his hunger with voracity of her own , even as he tests his boundaries. how he loved to push all the wrong buttons. hubris had always been his defining characteristic , recklessness coming in close second. ❝ .... but that’s the thing about perks ,  you have to be around to receive them.  ❞

his breath ghosts along her collarbone and her skin prickles despite herself, previous engagement now abandoned. if he wanted her complete attention he had it , for better or worse.

❝ how do you know where i do or don't need to be ? i might have another suitor waiting. ❞ her back hits polished wood , she now pinned against him but she smiles, one predator’s baring of teeth to another.  a hand slips past his blood stained under shirt , nails trailing down his torso before resting on his belt buckle.

❝  bar open’s in thirty minutes , cowboy. your record’s what , 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 ? ❞

[darkfascination]

smacks geralt’s ass like a drum.

The witcher snorted at her deriding, a short glare shot her way. Turning back to Roach he finished tightening the saddle.

“You’re as bad as Dandelion, and he sings”.

[darkfascination]

“What I want is you, what I’m missin' is when there used to be a whiskey waitin’ for me”. He said in husky whisper, toothy grin widening as he leaned in and loudly sniffed at the nape of her neck, hot breath close along her exposed jugular.

“Then again, I could go for somethin’ stronger”.

Hands, unclean and rough slid up to grip her waist, one traveling back around to spread along the small of her back. “Ain’t like you gotta go nowhere, we can put on a show right here”. He laughs, but there is less humor and more hunger in the sound; a barely bridled craze, restrained only at the joy of anticipated satisfaction.

“I bet I can go longer’n 60 seconds at this rodeo!” Severen lets loose another wild, whooping laugh, now miming a lasso with one hand as he grinds against her. A subtle shift of his weight pushes her back toward the bar, clearly intent to find exactly how much Lira will let him get away with.

❝ 𝑯𝑶𝑵𝑬𝒀 , 𝙸'𝙼 𝙷𝙾𝙼𝙴 ! ❞ 

the sound of spurs clicking against the hardwood flooring announces his arrival , long before his voice cuts through the silence. southern twang as charming as ever. 

❝ look what the cat dragged in , ❞ she doesn’t glance up from the inventory she’s cataloging , even as calloused hands take firm hold of her hips. 

@darkfascination was never very patient , didn’t take too kindly to being ignored either , so it comes as no surprise when he whirls her around to face him , pulling her flush against his torso in the process , his touch unrestrained. ❝ ain’t you the prettiest filly i’ve ever seen. ❞ he offers a toothy grin , eyes manic as they take her in.

❝ mhm, you here because you missed me or because you want something ? ❞

[darkfascination]

Philipa Eilhart, Miss. Steal Your Girl…and your kingdom. If she and Theresa from Fable partnered up that would be a power (business or otherwise) couple for the ages.

[darkfascination]

ulfhrafnx​:

a sideways glance is cast at the remnants of his felled beast , the smell wafting from its corpse an affront to her senses. it takes all her will power not to gag though her displeasure is worn plainly for him to see. overshadowed only when he reclaims his arm, staggering in the process and she in turn preparing to catch him should his stubbornness cause him to fall. he doesn’t , though she remains on high alert. 

amidst heaviness of breath and strained speech she catches only one word:  ‘ horse ’ , and instantly understands. a moment later and she’s whistled for roach. the horse enthusiastically joining them. snatching the satchel from it’s saddle she hands it to geralt hastily. watching as he frantically rummages through it for whatever concoction may bring him reprieve.  what a strange breed witcher’s were, truly. 

  ❝ can i help you with anything else ? a bath perhaps. ❞ it’s only half a jest, meant to lighten the mood though she means it in earnest.  ❝ that smell , gods , is it foul. your horse agrees. ❞ almost as if on cue roach sneezes and she laughs.  ❝ come on then , there’s a stream not too far. ❞

As soon as the leather satchel hits his hands he rummages amongst the ordered glass vials blindly. Through memory and scent he alights on the one he needs and pulls the cork with his teeth— the least of his concerns finding it again. Greedily he empties the contents into his mouth, the smooth, strong alcohol warming his throat and stomach while the sweetness both made him want to gag and stirred awake a hunger he hadn’t realized he felt.

His heightened metabolism immediately begins producing the nullifying enzymes, purging the toxins from his system.

“Hnn…”, he cleared his throat roughly, “you and Yennefer are great lovers of baths”. Finally he felt well enough to open his eyes again, the darkness still appearing brighter than it would to most, but less oppressive on his dilated pupils.

“In this case I would have to agree with you both”.

The fetid rot of the creature mixed with his sickly sweat nauseated him as well. With a nod he indicated she should lead the way as he looped Roach’s reins over his palm; mindful to put the satchel back into its spot in her saddlebags.

“Don’t start, c’mon” he half growled at the horse who tried to back from him when given space. Soothing the mare with Axii he grumbled something about chasing her through the brush, able to coax her to walk with him as her eyes glazed with docility.

“Is it too much to hope this stream of yours is more than a trickle of frigid water among sharp pebbles? If I’m to wash in middle of a forest I’d like to do so without slipping and getting a rock in the arse for my trouble”.

[darkfascination]

you want to fuck me so bad in church it makes you stupid 😏💋

Wrapping one palm easily around the circumference of her throat, he smiled, evenly, brimming with malicious intent. “How about I bleed you dry instead?”

[darkfascination]

❝ Hey,  ❞  There's the flutter of his hand in a short wave to attract the attention of the priest; the look on his face biting back a smirk.

❝  A friend (?) just asked me an interesting question.  She's looking to, uh ... ❞  Trent pauses, trying to find a word other than fuck, screw, get railed ...   

❝  She wants to have sex in a church. Don't know where, don't know with who. The only thing that's stopping her is she thinks it might go to hell over it.  What does the Lord say,  would it count as a sin?  ❞

It is less the talk of mortal intercourse that riles him, but the thought that Lux should have any presence in his most frequented place of “work” than he. Setting his jaw teeth grindingly taught, he turns in forbidding swiftness toward the speaker. Gaining a foot in height in sheer lack of restraint to hold his mortal form, Ira towers, arms spreading wide as if to call brimstone down through the stained glass portraiture. “THOU WOULD DEFILE THE HOUSE OF THE LORD WITH SUCH IRREVERENT ACTS?! VILE, PERNICIOUS FORNICATORS! FAITHLESS FETISHISTS SHALL BE CAST TO THE DEPTHS TO BURN AND WRITHE IN TORMENT!” He looms now, spittle beading his lips as it hangs with the ever present dust in the oddly reddish light that seems to rise from his skin; a palpable heat accompanying. Leaning forward so their faces were uncomfortable inches from one another he now whispers, a sound far more menacing than the deafening boom of his earlier outburst. “You tell her if she fucks in church I’ll make goddamned sure it ends in a “crime of passion””. After that he dissipates, more than likely to trade words with his frequent co-conspirator.

[darkfascination]

glaswen​:

Seek salvation,  just the word elicits a short grin as he follows the priest to the confessional booths, disappearing just before the other’s gaze reaches back towards him. It wasn’t a smile of pride nor security, though maybe there was a secret hiding behind his show of teeth. It’s bitter above all else, a biting reminder wedged in between rows of ivory. Salvation was a joke, a far cry, an impossible feat unless he could find a loophole in this non-existent wording belonging to this contract of his.

Then again, does he really deserve to save himself? Then why did he come here?

Small thanks is given in return, he steps into the booth as the priest instructs. Waiting until the door closes him in, shadows from candlelight stretching upon him in ornate patterns. His own private jail. Lingering presence remains, the strangest chill in the back of his neck—though he can no longer finger out if it’s his own gut instinct or if he’s anxious. 

Stuck on trying to remember how this used to go when he was a kid. 

When Trent hears the eventual sounds on the other side, posture straightens accordingly. And when the screen separating priest and sinner slides the other way, when he can see the silhouette of the one who greeted him at the altar on the other side, his hands fold in on each other; fingers lacing and gripping too tightly. 

❝  Bless me Father for I have sinned. It’s been … ❞  Pause.  ❝  We’d be here for a long time if I tried to tell you how long it’s been but … I’m here to confess.  ❞

Where should he begin? 

Two sins become the forefront of his mind. The first surely would’ve damned him, the second made certain he left no chance to escape.

He opts for the second, for now. Despite the consequences, the ordeal felt—easier. His fate was a sure thing.

❝ A few years ago, I made a deal that I no longer want to go on with, ❞  Struggle seeps into his voice, attempting to find a description that wouldn’t rend him a lecture on pranking the priest with talks of demons and the supernatural. ❝ The whole thing was a mistake, I barely remember how it happened … and I get the short end of the stick by the end.  ❞ 

A slow, shaking, laugh ghosts his breath to stop himself from continuing on. 

❝ It feels like—Like I’ve sold myself to a devil.  ❞

It feels akin to closing the trap on unsuspecting prey.

He lingers— perhaps a little too long — by the door staring with eyes that burn like coals, seeing not a wooden barrier between them, but a glorious opportunity. Ira reaches to drag manicured nails down the interlaced wooden slats, to feel the dulled edges bite into the grain. Thankfully, whatever reserves of patience he has left stop him; and instead he walks into the other vestibule and seats himself inside.

Were it hunger that he felt, he would be salivating, finds himself licking his lips anyway—practicing several slow inhales and exhales— before opening the partition window with a soft hiss, prompting his victim, the beleaguered, to begin.

Unbeknownst, he interlocks his fingers in time with the other, a mirror image in opposite repose; one troubled, the other indulgent.

But for the minor blessing of privacy the confessor is saved the growing rapture of the primordial being’s delight as the monologue beings. He lets his eyes close, ears capturing every word and sifting further, digging deeper than what is physically present as he partially abandons the confines of this plane; finding within— Trent — what it is he really feels; what it is he wants to say-- whether or not it is what is being said. He can sense the shadowy subtext, that this is a careful testing of the water before submerging fully-- that is fine; although he was not a creature designed for temperance (despised the concept really) he did savor the satisfaction of the truly converted, he could play this game.

When the inevitable silence falls he calmly lets it build, as if pondering, analyzing the words; when in fact the words are of the least importance to him. His ultimate design leaves little of Trent’s true wants in its weave.

“Deals hold importance to those bound to them, but are not the Lord’s commandments a deal struck with the divine for your salvation?”

He let a pregnant pause form, timing it just right to cut off the other before he could speak, “Do you think the Lord bows to the like of demons and devils? That he would not fight to save your soul, even from  yourself? Would you too fight for the salvation our Lord God can grant you?” Distant memories of other such sermons come like far echoes to his ear. Calling upon the hope blinded worshipers to “save” the corrupted souls of their fallen brethren, with sword, with flame...

In the dim shadows of their shared confines Ira smiles a wicked grin.

He could smell the murk of regret and self deprecation lapping at this mortal’s ankles; could almost see him being slowly consumed by the black, tar swamp of the river sucking him down to swallow him whole in eternal abject misery.

Delightful.

[darkfascination]

like a cat demanding attention , no matter how inconvenient , luxuria drapes herself on the arm rest of his favorite reading chair. purring audibly as she does so , though she refrains from mischievously disrupting his task. instead a manicured hand inches closer to adjust the lapels of his jacket. knowing how he loathed wrinkles in his suits. her touch is intentional , indicative of ulterior motive as it lingers near the base of his neck.

With what could only be described as saintly patience, Ira resists the immediate urge to cast her off her perch. As one who needed nothing as rational as reason to feel slighted, his acceptance of her spoke of the pleasantness of his current mood. Turning the page of the tome he held expertly spread across one wide palm, he readjusted the lapel she dragged her fingertips across—not because it needed it, but out of unconscious irritability.

“Begone”, voice flat, lacking the usual cadence, decidedly withholding all he could from her as miserable, petty vengeance against her interruption of his solitude.

[darkfascination]

glaswen​:

He could count the number of times he’s been to church in the last ten years on one hand.   A perfect zero.  The closed fist hanging by his side and brushing alongside his jeans, nails driving into skin in nervous habit. His parents had never been religious, and even now, while Trent shrinkingly walks along the rows of empty pews, he finds himself in growing contempt for this stupid idea. Hazing mind slowly sharpens to the echo of his footsteps upon marble; the further in he goes, the louder it drags on into the emptiness of icons and fixtures. 

And those eyes of paintings and statues seem to follow him, swelled by judgement reckoned and long passed. There was no saving this soul. The owner of it had seen to that himself. 

Still, the pendulum of his decision has shifted once more to regret. And here he indulges it, just this once for some semblance of penance. But was it really penance to drive him here? Or was he stuck in half a high, feeling sorry for himself? 

He should turn back before it’s too late, while the chance was still his.

Yet with that final thought,  sound reverberates and conjoins with the subtleties of one person and splits into two.  At odd ends of the chancel they meet, and Trent has shifted his wandering, unsteady, gaze from the crucifix to the other.  

Surprise twitches on the cusp of Trent’s expression, at the age of the man before him. The Father he had seen in those few experiences of religion when he was young had been almost senile. A droning man, dug his roots in the church they frequented, the only thing that hadn’t dulled had been the love for his own voice. He remembers his mother complaining once, about how they could choose another church where the sermon didn’t last longer than an hour.  

No, they all don’t start like that,  right?

❝  Hello, Father. ❞   His voice carries louder than he wanted it to, the church swallowing his words and spitting them back as an echo.  ❝  I have.. Ah.  If you’re doing confessionals … I have a couple of things I need to confess to.  ❞

It was hard to keep secret the hunger building inside him as he fixedly watched the approach of the man in clear self designed torment. Eyes, obscured in deceptive auburn, roiled behind their veil, feeling the gentle press of nails to flesh as if they bit into his own skin now. Oh yes, you suffer. It was beautiful, the shame that lingered behind the affable mask provided to the general masses. As much as Wrath wore a guise of humanity this one too was in hiding. How he longed to dig his fingers into that fleshy falsity, feel it tearing from bone and sinew in the clutches of his claws. Words, loud and resonant in the vast emptiness of this chamber of loathing, pulled him out of dreamy reverie. ‘Father’ he had said, and was it not the job of The Father to provide for the children that needed his attentions—his firm, guiding hand?

“But of course my child”, he stepped around, hands clasped before the well pressed front of his shirt, “the Lord is always here to listen”. In a smooth motion Ira gestured to the ornately carved booths in the far corner. Bleed your heart to me child, give succor to the beast at your gates.

Slow, even steps rang out, each sharp -clack- of his heel on marble like a shot in the silence. His face never turned from watching the confessor, the same smile with just a hint of teeth affixed. For anything he would be unable to pull his focused attentions away, rapt he was in feeding off the self hatred that wallowed just beyond the shadow of social politeness. Ira reached the edge of the stairs, progressing down each of the three steps in the same staccato gait. At the bottom he popped open the door on creaky hinges silently bidding the newcomer entry.

“Come, confess your sins, seek repentance and salvation”.

@glaswen

For as much as humanity wanted to claim that their sanctified shelters of religiosity were places of acceptance and love, he never found any to turn him away when preaching the ol’ “fire and brimstone”. Every cry out to cast away the unfaithful, the unholy, every claim made that hell awaited any who faltered even in the slightest, was met with raucous cheering and “praise be”. They lapped up the tainted wine he waved his hands over, devoured each unleavened cracker as hungrily as they would true flesh were redemption promised by consumption.

The hard part was hiding his smile.

Now, hanging up his vestments in solitude he could laugh, he could savor their two-faced, sanctimonious horseshit. Believing themselves the worthy because they obeyed orders all lined up in their pews. Falling to their knees before him and crying out for a dead man who would sooner turn his back than free their putrid souls. Ira felt lifted off his feet he was so filled of their hatred, their intolerance for their fellow man.

Delicious.

Grabbing the opened bottle of sacramental wine he readied to down it to the last drop— to really relish the sacrilege they called upon themselves— when he heard the creak of the inner vestibule door. He thought it rare a straggler would make it back before they could stuff their faces with brunch, but he’d not turn down an opportunity for one last taste. Replacing the bottle he checked his appearance in the mirror, straightening his collar and smoothing down the front of the stately black shirt tucked into black dress slacks. With a grin he stepped out to the altar, hiding wolfish expression as the lost lamb came into view.