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Goliath | AU Ambrodes friendship fic | 12.10.13

So, like the title states, this is something I wrote last year for an English class of mine off inspiration from my AU wrestling RP, WWE-RPG, where my Cody Rhodes is best friends with Dean Ambrose. I recently opened up the folder again and did some edits and touch-ups from the "final" product I had turned in for the class, so I decided to make it the first update to this place in awhile.

Enjoy.

Word Count: 3372

The club music drowned out just about everything, including the scuffle that in progress down the hall leading past the bathrooms to the owner's office. If anyone coming and going from the bathroom noticed, they decided it was in their best interests to not get involved. Even as another man, young and built, jumped over the counter from the back of the bar and went barreling toward where the fight was taking place, no one saw fit to stick their nose into it. This could be due to the intoxicated state of most customers in the club but Jon was certain, as a fistful of metal connected with his midsection, that they were simply cowards. Everyone was. Scared of taking a stand against some mountain man beating the crap out of another person.

Sinking to his knees, he looked up at his aggressor just in time to see them tackled to the ground. If the music were quieter, he was sure he would have heard some kind of enraged yell from his partner with the act. Jon pressed his back against the wall behind him as he watched Cody, the cold seeping through his shirt in a welcome distraction from the sharp stabs of pain throughout his body. The other should be out back with his father, Virgil, unloading the newly delivered alcohol. That he's not means the bartender didn't listen when he told her to keep quiet about the giant man. Smiling through the pain, Jon wondered how to get back at the woman but there was a more pressing matter before him. Cody wasn't stopping his assault on the mountain man, who wasn't fighting back. Taking it his cue that break time was over, he forced himself to a stand before leaning down to grab his friend, one arm wrapping around his neck and the other gripping his upper arm. Jon kept the hold until he had successfully dragged Cody from the dazed man and into his father's office.

“Let go!” The anger doesn't leave the smaller male until they're inside the office and Jon shoves him into a large armchair before collapsing himself on the couch. The leather feels good and there's a debate between him and a few others in his head on whether he should stay put and sleep or get up to deal with his distressed friend. Cody solves it for him by sitting on the ground by the couch and Jon makes himself open one eye to look at the other. His brows are furrowed, plump lips that typically flap at him about the newest superhero movie now pressed into a small line. All signs of a brain working too hard. Jon does the only thing he can think of in that moment and reaches up, flicking his friend right in the nose.

“I don't have bail money. Let it go. Besides,” his hand drops back to the leather of the couch and he does his best to smile, “it's not his fault he has bad luck.”

“...Mm. What did he want?” Cody asks, and he stares for a moment before easing his hands under himself and lifting his body from it's position. A hand on the front of his shoulder helps him into a sit and Jon makes himself laugh through the throbbing pain that comes from his ribs. “Jon.”

“I don't know what he wanted; I intercepted him before he could do whatever,” the lie comes easy and Cody frowns immediately. It looks abnormal on a face that Jon is used to seeing smiles from. “Is your old man--”

“What are we going to do about the fight tomorrow?”

“Up to you, Lispy, but don't pull out that white knight complex on me,” Jon watched the other as he stood up and headed over to the cabinet behind his father's desk, “if there's going to be a fight, we'll be in there together.”

Cody doesn't say a word, returning to the couch with a first aid kit, the white clashing with the red and brown color scheme of the room. Before long, what might as well be acid is being pressed to a cut beneath Jon's eye and he's biting his tongue. It stings more than an angry wasp and he focuses on reading his partner's face to distract himself. Perfectly plucked eyebrows knit together in concentration with his lips pressed into a line, drawing full attention to the faint beginnings of a mustache under his nose. Jaw set and cheeks sucked in—he's sucking on his teeth. Jon winces dramatically at the next contact from the cloth and those same eyebrows shoot up as Cody's demeanor softens into the wide-eyed look best suited to a kid worried over a tumble their buddy took from a bike. If it weren't for the fact that they were well into their twenties, Jon thought the other might have started crying.

“You need to shave that damn lip of yours again,” he speaks as if nothing ever happened, and Cody's shoulders sink as his eyes close, “and you need to stop being so fuckin' soft before someone does more than just pretend you're hurting them.”

“Maybe I'll let it grow in,” the cloth is pushed into Jon's hands and he uses it to wipe his face with his eyes closed, memorizing the few places that sting as it passes over the skin. When he pulls it away, it's a nice shade of red. “That's disgusting.”

“You make people bleed on a regular basis and you're telling me that a little bit of blood disgusts you, Lispy?”

“I don't usually gotta look at that much of it for more than a few minutes,” as soon as Cody finishes speaking, Jon throws the cloth at him. He snatches it right out of the air and promptly scrunches his face up, nose wrinkling as he turns and throws it directly into the trash can next to his father's desk. “Rude. Do I throw bloody shit at you?”

“No, you thankfully keep all those tampons to yourself,” Jon doesn't let the other come up with a retort this time, knocking the first aid kit away with his hand as he stands up from the couch. “Fuck the alcohol—let's hit that diner across the street.”

“I think I want the alcohol, actually,” despite his protest, however, Cody moved to pull Jon's arm over his shoulders, “dad's going to be so mad when he sees you...”

“If he didn't see mountain man first. Virgil ain't gonna do shit if we don't ask him to, and we're not gonna,” he thought back to his assailant's insistent attempts to find out exactly where Cody was before things had become physical and straightened up a bit. “You can't take revenge on the hired muscle.”

***

“I can use that money out of savings to take care of the bills,” as Cody rambled on about their finances Jon found his gaze locked on the spoon that the other used to push what had once been ice cream around in a large bowl. He licked the salt from his fries off his fingers before reaching over to smack the other on the forehead. “Ow! What the fuck—”

“Spill what's bothering you. It ain't that I got my ass beat, so don't try that cause it happens all the time and you're still able to eat ice cream like an over emotional teenage girl.” Jon narrows his eyes at his friend, taking it in as his eyes widen and the spoon finally stills in the bowl to lift a bite of the frozen treat to Cody's lips. “Too late, ya dumbass. What's wrong?”

“You lied to me,” Cody said after he had swallowed the ice cream, and Jon felt his hand twitch where it was resting on the table. “You said you intercepted that guy, but Christina told me that he approached you. I can't... Figure out why you would lie about that.”

“I didn't lie,” the twitch repeated itself and Jon pressed his hand flat against the table, “he wasn't there for me, I just didn't want to help him find who he was there for.”

“And why the fuck not? You know I can't let you fight with me tomorrow, right? We're going to have to forfeit our match to a couple of bird-brained thugs.”

“I'm a bird-brained thug, too, Davis.” Jon didn't mean for the words to come out as sharply and fast as they had, but was glad they made the other stop talking. “There's other fights, it ain't the end of the world. Fuck, you can even get your girl that ring you've been talking about all year.”

“Why the fuck did you let some guy beat up on you, Jon?” Cody's insistence on the topic didn't surprise him, but Jon pretended not to hear it and turned his attention back to the food in front of him. Silence hung between them for a moment before it was his friend's turn to reach out and shove his shoulder. “Was it because he was looking for me?”

His hand twitched again and Jon stood up, the sound of glass shattering and Cody's startled yell following him out the door. He wondered what had broken—their plates or the glass salt and pepper shakers that had been swept off the table with them. Settling on both, Jon smiled to himself as he started down the street and pulled out a joint. His hand was perfectly still when lighting the thing and he took a long drag, holding it in a moment before blowing out again just as Cody caught up to him.

“Are you fucking crazy?”

“Don't ask stupid questions you already know the answer to,” Jon took another drag from the joint before holding it out to the other. Receiving the typical 'no,' he put it back between his lips and waited for the substance to work it's magic on his ribs. “You didn't stop and help clean that shit up?”

“My best friend happened to have just run off after a fit of rage,” Cody told him with a huff, “I thought it was more important that I follow him than stop and clean. What was that?”

“You don't know when to keep your fuckin' mouth shut,” he said as he glanced over at the shorter man with a frown, “I tell you something, give you something to ease that goddamn mind of yours and you just keep digging.”

“I deserve to not have my friend fuckin' keeping shit from me,” the response makes him want to punch the other. Preferably with the same brass knuckles the mountain man had used on him, “I'm just as capable as you are. You don't need to go around protecting me—you definitely don't have any fucking right taking a beating from someone that's meant for me in the first place and then blowing it off—”

“If I had known that guy was carrying brass, I would have sent him your way,” Jon interrupts the other, but Cody calls him on the lie and he has to concede, “look. You don't need to be going around fighting when you're already hurt. I already told you that shit when we started this team.”

“But I could, I'm not fucking fragile.”

“You do this shit for fun, Cody, when you could be sitting in the background running that arena right alongside your dad,” he takes another drag from the joint before letting it drop from his lips to the ground and snuffing it out with the heel of his boot, “you're good at what you do because you're fast and injuries only slow you down. So stop fuckin' wondering why I didn't send Goliath your way.”

“...Fine. Who do you think sent him?”

“Who had a stake in the fight tomorrow?”

***

All is silent as Jon stands outside of the Davis' club waiting for Cody to finish telling his father they have to forfeit their fight. There's a special request to be given to Virgil: send their opponents to the alley when they get their pay for winning. The alley is a small dead end space directly behind the establishment that Jon can get to from the outside simply by jumping the fence next to the club and walking down several yards to the corner of the building. One left turn and he's out of sight from the street. There's a couple of bars laying out beside a trash can and he entertains the thought of grabbing one before dismissing it. This is something he wants to do with his bare hands.

Cody appears from the same door he expects their would-be opponents to arrive through later on. A smile is present on his face and he offers a can of beer up to Jon as he joins him in leaning against the wall for the wait. Knowing the alcohol will only lighten his mood, Jon sets it on the ground beside them for the time being.

“You know what this feels like?” Cody's voice draws him out of his thoughts and Jon turns his head slightly.

“Are you going to reference a comic book to me? Because if you are, the answer is going to be no. I don't care about that geeky shit.”

“I was going to say baseball,” the words make him raise an eyebrow but Cody just ignores it and grabs one of the bars from the ground. “You put your eye on the ball, right? Then you just...”

He takes a swing just as the door to the alley opens once more, the metal bar just missing the door itself. Jumping, Cody jerks back out of sight before the newly arrived duo can spot him or the weapon. One of the men is an inch or so taller than Jon, made up of more fat than muscle and a five o'clock shadow beard. The other is shorter and according to Cody, looks like “a less built Wolverine who doesn't know what a shower is.” They're laughing, probably at their success of making money without fighting. Jon waits until they notice him and smirks when the laughter dies out, the door clicking shut behind them.

“...Jon, hey, I uh. Thought Davis said you weren't able to make it today. He forfeited the fight to us, you know.” Wolverine-wannabe speaks, offering a tight smile while reaching for the door. Jon watches him jiggle the handle and pushes away from the wall.

“Just like you wanted,” Jon speaks with a smile of his own, a wide grin that splits his lip open again and shows all his teeth, “Lispy thought it was important for you to have it. Since it meant enough for you to hire muscle.”

The two men exchange a look as Wolverine-wannabe gives up on the door. Courage makes it's entrance and the tall one lunges at him with a closed fist Jon ducks under his arm and buries his own fist into the man's gut before moving toward the dead end side of the alley. Wolverine-wannabe follows and lands a punch that Jon can't get his arm up to block quick enough, followed by a kick to the side of his already hurt leg. Jon lands a punch and hops back on one leg to avoid another kick. He can practically feel the smugness coming off the other and can't help but smirk at the misplaced confidence, right before a shout of pain followed by a thud comes from the direction of the door.

Jon lunges forward as Wolverine-wannabe turns and hooks his arms behind his back just in time for Cody to swing the bar into his midsection. Once. Twice. Three times before Jon shoves him to the ground. Turning to Cody, he nods in approval as the other hands the bar to him. Jon nudges Wolverine-wannabe with his boot then kicks him to his back and soon he's happily pressing the bar down across the man's throat. He's vaguely aware of Cody making his way back over to where he's the taller one has probably been knocked out cold.

“Does breaking code of conduct weigh heavy on your conscious?” Jon asks as he presses the metal hard against Wolverine-wannabe's windpipe. The man rasps out an almost inaudible plea and Jon smiles. He puts more pressure for a moment before lifting and tossing the bar away to grab a handful of the gasping man's shirt. He jerks him up so their faces are only an inch apart. “Well?”

“W-we'll give you the money—” Jon laughs at Wolverine-wannabe's words as Cody shoves his friend down in a barely-conscious heap beside them.

“Don't want your money, idiot,” Cody says and the man's eyes are wide as saucers, “this isn't about that. See—”

“We could have fought you today,” Jon interrupts, releasing his hold on the shirt so the man's head smacks back down against the ground, “but I was hurt and that sort of thing makes Lispy nervous. He's a worrier, you see.”

“S-so you beat us with a crowbar?” Wolverine-wannabe chokes out, voice shaking, “that's the move of cowar—”

Jon's fist hits his windpipe and he goes from speaking to choking as the other man leans over him with a snarl. “You're getting off easy, you spineless bitch. If your buddy had so much as laid a hand on my partner last night, you would already be laying in a hospital bed. I'm not as understanding as he is about these kinds of things, you see.”

He stands just as a sickening crunch is heard from Cody kicking the other man in the face, watching his friend retreat down the alley. One final glance is spared to their would-be opponents and then Jon takes off after the other. As much as he would like to stay and continue making them pay for the slight they tried to commit, he can't let the other go off alone after this.

“You okay?” Jon asks as they hop back over the fence to the sidewalk in front of the club, looking toward his friend. Usually silence from the other man would be welcome, but right now he isn't willing to let Cody retreat into his thoughts.

“Nah,” he replies with a sigh before shrugging and waving a hand, “those jerks really did cost me that ring for Selina.”

Jon stops mid-stride and turns to narrow his eyes at the other, shaking his head. “Typical for you to think of her now. Don't worry that we have bills to pay or anything—”

“I did that last night!”

“No, you're gonna cry because you can't get a fuckin' engagement ring for the bitch who isn't even waiting for one,” as he finishes speaking Cody shoves him a foot to the side and Jon resists the urge to laugh. “Way to be a responsible adult.”

“Whatever, I'm more responsible than you.”

Jon just shrugs at that before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a ten dollar bill. He glances down at it before waving it in front of Cody. The other follows it with his eyes before looking over at him and frowning.

“Agree to give me free drinks at the club until the next fight, and I'll buy you whatever ice cream you want right now,” he says and he can practically see the gears start turning in Cody's mind. It's no where near a fair trade, but Jon would get the free drinks either way. What he really would like is for his friend to remain happily distracted from the events of the last twenty-four hours. “I won't even call you fat when you eat it all in one sitting.”

“...No more knocking shit off of tables?” Cody asks, reaching out to try and snatch the bill only for Jon to pull it away and stuff it back into his pocket.

“That's only for when you forget I'm the only guy allowed to bully you around outside of the arena.”

“You don't bully me,” Jon promptly informs the other that he's suffering from Stockholm Syndrome, but Cody doesn't bother playing along. “Hey Jon?”

“What now?”

“Thanks for taking on that guy.”

“No problem, Lispy.”

[writtenraw]

"Pet" Part 4 - S!Punkicho AU

So I'm stalling while I finish up something I'm writing for Jen's birthday (yes it's delayed but I was writing for school on her actual birthday so bare with me please).

In any case, this is the next little bit in that Pet AU I was working on last year. Like last time, I included the last line from the last bit I posted. I hope ya'll enjoy it. 

“What have you been thinking about while I was away to arouse you again?”

-

...Fuck. He felt his face flush as attention was drawn to his partial erection, the sound of that horrible laughter back in his head. What was wrong with him?

“Oh, the normal. Thinking about me fucking you and leaving you in a bloodied, broken heap. My dick being shoved down your throat, and—”

Shut up!

“Or maybe it was the taste of your own body fluids. Maybe the thought of killing people and the memory of what I did to you last time...”

No! Shut up!

“Oops, I made it worse didn't I? Let me make it better.” Images started flashing through his head that he definitely didn't want. Not right now, not with Blondie right there in front of him.

His head connected hard with the wall behind him of his own accord.

“Hey!” Before he could repeat the action, a hand was holding the back of his head, keeping him from moving it backwards. Just as quickly, he received a hard slap across his face. “Next time you do something to purposefully hurt yourself like slamming your own head into the wall, I'll tie you up so thoroughly you won't be able to flex your little finger. Let alone move your neck.”

Panic shot through him, and it must have been obvious in the way that he tensed up. Blondie chuckled and the hand gently pushed his head down to allow examination. He heard tsk'ing before the hand vanished and slapped the back of his head quite hard, causing him to cry out.

“Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you wanted pain.” The hand ran through his hair before moving to his chin and lifting his head up again. “...You need to bathe, but I did tell you that you don't get anything without asking or answering. I'm a man of my word, but I'm also able to compromise. For now, I'll accept non-verbal communication. Nodding and shaking your head, things of that sort... As long as you're a good boy and cooperate. Do you understand?”

–.–

Chris smiled widely when the boy eventually nodded, reluctant and delayed, but he would take it. Patting him on the top of the head, he sat back on his haunches.

“Good boy. Now, first thing's first. I was thinking about this name ordeal we have. If you're not going to tell me, I'm going to have to come up with something to call you. Are you going to give me your name?” He paused, waiting long enough for the boy to shake his head in response. “I didn't think so. Do you enjoy being called 'mutt'? No. Okay... Well, it can't be 'bitch' or 'pet', well it could be the second but—you don't like the idea of anything like that, do you?”

The kid had been shaking his head vehemently the entirety of the last sentence. Chris hummed, deciding to take pity on him and started thinking silently, tilting his head down. When an idea finally occurred to him, he snapped his fingers and chuckled.

“Do you know what a punk is, kid?” The boy seemed to hesitate, unsure of answering, but Chris didn't care to wait. “A punk can be many things, actually, from a fanatic of a certain kind of music to a delinquent or even... Someone like you, meant for sex. I think you fit two out of three, at least, so how about we go with that until you decide to give up your real name?”

–.–

Punk. He repeated it several times in his head for a moment. He didn't like Blondie's logic, but if he could just forget that part of it then it really wouldn't be so bad. It even had the right letter in the beginning and he didn't completely hate hearing it—not like he hated hearing his own name, at least.

“Punk. Phillip. Punk. Phillip the Punk.” He grimaced at the sound of the voice in his head testing the name out as well. They made it sound as mocking and condescending as they made his name. “I like it. Say yes.”

Not your choice.

“You like it, too. Say yes.”

“Are you even paying attention, mutt?” Blondie's voice startled him from the inner argument and he tensed, expecting to be struck again and confused when nothing happened. “Well?”

“Say yes.” Slowly, he started to nod in acquiesce but the voice repeated itself more firmly, sounding amused. “Say. Yes. Speak, Phillip.”

He opened his mouth, almost doing as he was told before stopping. Nothing more than a weakly stammered “uhhh” passing through his lips and sounding like a nervous groan. Pursing them closed again, he clenched his eyes and nodded. Not long before he had wanted to kill Blondie, now the man didn't seem so bad. He didn't want to speak—he wanted to wait and see if the man was worth killing.

–.–

“...Punk it is then.” Chris stated, a bit disappointed after he had thought that the kid might actually say something. Frowning, he pat the side of the boy's face and smirked. “I assume you're slow because you're learning, so let's be clear. If I address you, Punk, I want a response. Quickly. Otherwise I might think you're ignoring me. You don't want me to think that, understand?”

The boy—Punk, Chris reminded himself—nodded almost immediately, tension becoming more obvious in his small body. He held back a sigh. Chris hadn't even had him for long and the kid had already managed to rapidly jump between acting like a defiant little fuck one moment and terrified the next. What kind of personality did that entail? The bravery certainly wasn't without cause, the kid knew how to fight on some level and Chris didn't need what the merchant had told him to know that.

The fear, though? He doubted that the kid had never found himself in a situation similar to this. Most toys he'd ever bought knew how to take a beating without being fearful, and someone who was apparently unsellable had to have gone through plenty of them. Deadly, that was what the merchant had said. Deadly and untrainable. So what triggered the anxiety attacks in the making?

“Are you scared of me, Punk?” Chris asked in a quiet voice, knowing before he spoke that he would receive a head shake. “Then why are you so tense and shaky?”

He watched as Punk froze, every muscle on the kid's body coiling before his breath quickened. Another anxiety attack trying to worm it's way in. Chris reached out and slapped him across the face, wondering if he was giving the kid too much credit. Maybe he was just a little boy who wanted to come off fearless and opted to do so by acting out harshly. Maybe he had hurt a few unintelligent people in midst of some panic attacks and the merchants decided to make him into their dangerous little pet.

“Hey, I told you about not wanting to take you to a doctor without cleaning you up. I'll be mad if you fuck that up.” He put on his best irritated voice as Punk seemed to struggle to calm down again. “I want honesty, Punk, then we'll move on to more important things. Understand?”

–.–

He took a shaking breath, trying to regain control of whatever panic had seized him before. Then, he nodded slowly to show that he was listening, that he understood. His cheek still stung from the hit moments ago and he didn't want it to repeat—stinging things made his eyes water, even if they didn't hurt much. It would look like he was crying and Blondie would think he was weak and then there would be no reason to debate whether or not to kill the man. He didn't like people who thought he was weak.

“Good. Now, let's try again. Are. You. Scared?” He hated that question, shook his head again. Blondie made a frustrated sigh before speaking again. “Then why all the anxiousness?”

He couldn't answer that, shaking his head helplessly. Even if he wanted to, how could he without acknowledging that he had been frightened? That his entire body was waiting for horrible things to happen with him helpless to stop anything. That he didn't like thinking of ignoring—

“He reminded you of me. I'm flattered, Phillip.”

He couldn't explain anything related to his fear.

[writtenraw]

Love in Reverse | Original Poem | 11.18.13

Mild inspiration taken from Serial Punk. Or a lot. Uh, yeah.

I love you, like I love the knife that cuts

down my chest. Or the long nails that dig

under the skin of my hips. I love you

like I love the sting of a hand print left

on the side of my face. Like the taste

of my blood on your red-stained lips.

I hate you, like I hate your fingers

brushing down my arm. And how my

cheeks burn when you smile. I hate you

like I hate the warmth from your body

laying next to mine. Like your breath

tickles my ear and imprints my mind.

I love you as a cannibal loves his dinner

and a murderer loves to chase their prey.

I love you, as a slave loves their master

or a pet their owner. How a victim comes

to love their abuser. That is how I love you.

[writtenraw]

Family Rules | Original Poem | 11.3.13

Family is there for you,

supports you when you fall.

Family talks down to your face

until you feel low as dirt.

You could stop them

but you’re just a coward

trying to play by rules

everyone else gets to make.

[writtenraw]

Roses | Original Poem | 10.28.13

One of my English classes this semester is creative writing and the last half of the class is about poetry. Each week we have to write a different form of poetry. Last week it was a prose poem, this week the assignment was "narrative poetry using a metaphor." This is my first ever attempt at a lyrical narrative, and I'm not sure how good it is, but I figured I would share it anyway.

Petals twirl in the air

between our houses. A

bittersweet tornado with

it’s yellows and pinks

from the ruined rose

bushes in the poorly

tended garden that marks

the edge of our yards.

Yellow roses on your side,

pink on mine. A single

yellow petal lands in the

palm of my hand. I lift it

to my face and wonder

at the soft texture.

Our eyes meet over the

abused bushes. I freeze,

wondering if you

saw my moment of

weakness. The petal

is now like a thorn

stabbing into my cheek.

I let it fall and it’s swept

back into the tornado as

you smile. It’s like a

slap to the face. The

stinging cold of the wind

erases the memory of

the petal and I turn away.

Later, once the wind has

died and you are gone,

I return to the windswept

garden. My knees sink

into the cold soil and I

stare, shaking, at the little

suns peaking out after the

storm. Three remain, one

dangling from a broken stem.

I reach out to take it, but a

thorn digs into my finger and

it drops. Ruined as soon as it

touches the ground. I wipe

my blood on the petals.

The next time I see you,

you’re replacing the uprooted

bushes with new ones. White

blossoms glare up at me now.

My finger throbs in memory

of the thorn. You are robbing

me of those little suns,

replacing them with clouds.

As your eyes meet mine over

the garden, I smile. Bittersweet

as you reach out and carefully

pick a pink rose from my bush

and twirl it in your fingers. Like

I could never do with even a

single, perfect yellow rose.

[writtenraw]

Go Figure | DX Short Scene | 5.6.09

I was eating ice cream today and it reminded me of this little DX story I wrote like four years ago and published on my FF.net profile. I wanted to share it here, though. Because while it's fairly horrible writing, it amuses me and I am nostalgic so I will share it here.

--

“I don't get it!” Shawn suddenly whisper-yelled, cutting off Hunter's rant about the current storyline (he was mad that his revenge on Randy kept getting cut short).

The younger man stopped and looked oddly across the table at his friend, who had stopped eating his ice cream (Shawn was on a sweet tooth kick lately) and was staring off at a different table. Now that he thought about it, Hunter realized that the other had been watching the same table quite a lot lately. So, interest peaked, he turned around to look.

He was a bit surprised to see that his friend's item of interest was some girl from the stage crew who was, funnily enough, also eating ice cream. What could she have done to demand so much of the Heartbreak Kid's attention?

“Uh...Don't get what, Shawnie? There somethin' you're not telling me?” He asked, turning to look oddly at his friend who promptly rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue in a childish manner. Hunter raised an amused eyebrow in response.

“That girl. Every day lately she's been getting ice cream, right?” Shawn started, reluctantly tearing his attention from the crew member to his fellow Degenerate. “But instead of eating it like a normal person, she always mashes it with her spoon or something and mixes it together, like she' playing with it!”

“Uh...”

“I just don't get it! Why ruin perfectly good ice cream like that?”

“Shawn...”

“And it's not like she gets all the same flavors, either! There's always at least two different ones there, and she just...Murders them and mixes them together!”

“Shawnie, hey! Snap outta it, man!” Hunter clapped his hands in front of his friends face, and when it earned him a glare for interrupting, he merely pointed at Shawn's bowl of ice cream, which by now had been turned into a mashed up soup or shake-like substance.

“Awh, darn it.” A bit put out, Shawn pushed the contents of his bowl around with his spoon for a moment. At some point, however, this changed from an dejected 'I can't believe I did that' action into a more concentrated one, as if he thought by mixing it further together he could fix the issue. “Hey...This is kinda fun...Wonder if it'll taste good still.”

Hunter shook his head, sighing and grabbing his spoon to reach over and take a small amount of the concoction, tasting it with a certain amount of caution. The terrified look on Shawn's face was enough to make his more immature nature to come out. His hand shot to his mouth after he swallowed, fake-gagging and choking before slumping over onto the table. A second passed before he felt his friend poke his shoulder and heard his name whispered fearfully but he didn't respond, waiting for the inevitable and hilarious panic he knew was going to come.

Sure enough, after a few more attempts to stir his friend, Shawn wailed out in a terror filled, grief stricken voice, “I KILLED HUNTER! NOOOO!”

This was followed by complete and utter silence as all the occupants of the room turned their attention to the resident Degenerates, not quite sure what to make of the current happenings. The Heartbreak Kid did seem genuinely distressed about whatever had just happened, and Hunter wasn't moving (he was trying really hard not to break the act). After a moment a murmuring started up and one of the other wrestlers finally decided to end the matter.

“Real funny you two, but we're not buying it.” Jeff called from a few tables down, where he was eating with Matt. Shawn sputtered indigently, flailing his arms.

“You think I'm kidding?! You think I would kid about my best bud's death?! DO I LOOK LIKE I'M JOKING TO YOU?!” He yelled, high-strung with a mixture of sugar, grief and anger with being accused of such. “I wouldn't kid about this! The Heartbreak Kid has been known to pull some pranks in the past, but I would never stoop so low!”

“...You're serious?”

“Am I serious? You wanna know if I'm serious?! OF COURSE I'M SERIOUS YOU DUNDERHEAD!” By this point Shawn had moved around the table, Triple H out of his vision and all his attention on the poor younger Hardy brother. Hunter took this as his chance to 'revive' and straightened up, stretching and turning around to watch the show with a grin on his face.

“Uh...”

“I mean, what kind of question is that?! Hell, what kind of REACTION is that? I'm sittin' here, freaking out because I KILLED MY BEST FRIEND and all you people can do is stare at me like I'm some crazy person!”

“Shawn---”

“Well you know what, I'm sick of it! There's no respect these days! I--” Hunter stepped foreward now and grabbed his friend by the shoulders, spinning him back around so they were face-to-face.

“Calm down, Shawn!”

“Don't you tell me to calm down! I killed you and they don't think I'm serious! You gotta be kiddin'---” Shawn finally seemed to realize who he was yelling at and his anger evaporated quickly into relieved delight, “Hunter! You're ALIVE! It's a MIRICALE!”

“Shawn...” Hunter started, trying to capture his friend's attention as he went off on a tangent of praises to God, “Sh---Shaw---....Hi, earth to Shawnie! Come in! Hellooo! Shawn, I wasn't dead! I was just kidding with ya!”

Shawn stopped suddenly with his happy-go-lucky praises and what-not, suddenly looking at the now taken-aback Hunter with his 'serious business' expression. The Game unwillingly took a step back from the other, but didn't succeed in putting any distance between them. Oh boy, maybe it hadn't been such a great idea...

“You mean to tell me...That you pretended to choke on my ice cream? And you PRETENDED to be DEAD for the last five minutes?” He asked slowly, in a deathly calm voice. Hunter swallowed once and nodded, offering a weak grin.

“P-pretty funny when you look back at it...Don't...Don't you think, Shawnie?” He asked, moving a bit farther back. Shawn paused, seeming to consider this for a moment before nodding to himself reluctantly.

“Yeah...I suppose it was...” Hunter let out a breath of relief, relaxing. However, a second later he wished he hadn't because he was suddenly laying flat on his back on the floor and his jaw was smarting something bad while Shawn stood over him with a furious gleam in his eye, “DON'T YOU EVER DO THAT TO ME AGAIN! I thought you were DEAD! Do you have any idea what sort of trauma I just went through?! If you EVER do that again I swear I'll give you a lot more than just a taste of Sweet Chin Music!”

And then he was gone from Hunter's sight, though the younger of the pair did hear him sit back down and the clink of his spoon and ice cream bowl. He lay there for a moment, just listening as the noise in the cafeteria picked up again now that the 'death' had been checked off as just more of the pair's childish antics. Yeah, that definitely hadn't been one of his greatest ideas...

“Hey...This doesn't taste ruined at all! In fact, it's sorta like strawberries covered in mint chocolate...” Shawn stated from somewhere above him, and Hunter sighed.

Of course his attention would find it's way back to that. His friend had never been one to leave things alone once they caught his interest. Groaning, he reached up to rub his jaw again, wondering at the amount of power behind the kick.

“You ever gettin' up, Hunt?” He merely growled in response to the overly-cheerful and innocent sounding question. “...Can I have your ice cream?”

“Yeah. Whatever you want, Shawnie...” Hunter muttered finally, not moving anymore than to sit up and watch his friend attack the half-eaten bowl of ice cream, acting for all the world as if he hadn't just had an 'episode' (as Vince would call it) moments before.

Go figure.

[writtenraw]

Writing Excerise #1 for ENG 221 | "Finding the Story" | 8.27.13

Assignment:

Finding the Story:

This is a Week One writing exercise. It can be quite intense, and it can produce good story material.

I took this exercise (with permission!) from screenwriter Gill Dennis (Walk the Line, Return to Oz), whom I had the pleasure of meeting at the Squaw Valley Community of Writers conference several years ago. 

I’ll ask you a series of three questions. “Free write” your answers with no filter—no ethical, moral or grammar filter. Write, write and then write. Don’t revise. You can do this with pen or pencil or on a keyboard.

Once you have written an answer, set it aside.

Question #1: What is the most terrifying thing that has ever happened to you? Don’t explain too much, just tell the story. Describe the most terrifying event in your life, or the moment that you experience the greatest terror.

Question #2: What is the most shameful thing you have ever done? Don’t rationalize or justify, just tell the story. Describe your moment of greatest shame.

Question #3: What is the most joyful event in your life? Describe the moment of greatest joy you have experienced.

Turn in your answers to me on the date marked on the calendar. As they all are, this writing exercise is optional.

One:

My most terrifying experience happened when I was in elementary school, around the age of ten. Early in my third grade year my older sister and I had to move in with our life-long neighbors next door. Our mom had lost our house and the neighbors, Angie and Robert, agreed to take care of us—my mom’s youngest—while she found a stable home. An experience scary enough by itself for a young child initially. I shared a bunk bed with my sister in our designated room. It was a familiar environment; we stayed over most weekends already.

A few weeks into our stay something woke me in the middle of the night. I remember opening my eyes in a pitch black room and simply turning my head toward the side of the bed. Now, I slept on the top bunk and my gaze was directed naturally toward the ceiling thanks to safety bars. So as I turned my head to look in the direction of the door, I was greeted by the sight of three grayish floating heads close the ceiling. I don’t remember many details about them, just that they didn’t look friendly and that they seemed to be looking right at me. I was terrified, and the first time it happened I told myself it was just a nightmare lingering in my head. I hid under the blanket hugging my teddy bear until I fell back asleep.

 After that, I wouldn’t look around dark rooms or areas in the house. I had trouble sleeping without my sister in the room with me, and I woke up in the middle of the night countless times but refused to open my eyes. I was paranoid in the house at night, and I didn’t encounter the heads again until I climbed down from the bunk to go right across the hall to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

 It’s two steps from the bedroom to the bathroom, and there was a nightlight that was always on in the bathroom at night for my sister and I. I couldn’t turn the light in the bedroom on because my sister would wake up, so I climbed down from my safety zone and crossed the room blindly to the door. My eyes stayed closed the entire time until I opened the bedroom door and knew there would be light in my vision. Light was safe. So I darted across the hall without any incident, flipped the bathroom light on and relaxed. No heads, no whispers, just a silent sleeping household. I thanked God and believed that it really was all in my head that original night. Going back across the hall was a completely different experience. I was looking where I was going now, and I just glanced up halfway between the two doors. There were the heads, swooping down at me from the ceiling. I think I ran into the bedroom and flipped the light on, panicking. From then on, for the next two years it happened repeatedly that I would see them. Sometimes they talked, other times they just stared or swooped at me. I had nightmares all the time and never wanted to have anything to do with dark areas. I still don’t, and now I’m older I don’t go around that particular house at night without turning on a light, I sprint the short distance between the guest room and the bathroom, and I never look anywhere but straight ahead.

--

Two:

 I switched schools in the beginning of my fifth grade year, and even as a sixth grader I hated where I was at and everyone around me almost unconditionally. Fifth grade I spent actively and openly showing I hated the school—I didn’t cooperate with anyone but my teacher who I knew outside of school, and my speech teacher. If there was a substitute, I didn’t participate in class assignments. Instead I wrote how much I hated the school over and over again on a piece of paper, and usually the sub was our school counselor who would let me go ahead with that activity. More than anyone else, I hated the counselor. She was a fake, nagging and condescending woman who at one point when I was in sixth grade had me pulled from lunch and left waiting in the office for an hour without any idea as to why until my dad showed up suddenly. They spent the next hour after that randomly reassuring me that they didn’t think I was crazy while telling my mother over the phone, and my dad in person, that I was psychotic and etc. over a vocabulary assignment I had turned in. I was suspended for a week and the counselor tried to get me into some weird friendship support group in her office afterward.

 I never got in trouble for the suspension with my parents. Shortly after that event, I convinced my mom to let me walk to school with one of my few friends, a boy named Josh who I hung out with more and more as time passed. I was home by myself when he showed up, and he told me that he didn’t really want to go to school. He wanted to go to ParkLane and the craft store in Shoppers Square right down the street. Josh was a shoplifter, and having been close with him for a while I was no better when I was out with him. After five minutes, he convinced me to ditch school and go hang out at the mall. I called my step dad at work and faked being sick so I could “stay home.”

 Josh and I spent most of the day ripping stores off of small things. I was always uneasy with the shoplifting routine, but that day I think we took a necklace or bracelet from a couple different places. We went into See’s for free samples and a couple hours later went home where my sister was. She had come home early and I made some bullshit lie to her about why I wasn’t in school, then said Josh and I wanted to go to an accessory story in the mall. She gave me a couple of bucks to buy her a necklace. We got her necklace, then got McDonalds for ourselves with the money she’d given me to pay for that necklace. My mom was home when we got back. I don’t think I ever admitted that I had spent the day on a small stealing spree, and I don’t think she cared. I had been popping up with stuff I never had the money to get for weeks before that. She was mad I had ditched school. A week later I think Josh was expelled or had moved away, I never found out which, but I never saw him again. It took years before I could even admit to anyone that I was a thief the first half of my sixth grade year.

--

Three:

The summer after graduating sixth grade I went to a Jr. High summer camp at my church. I had just started going again, and recognized only one or two kids out of roughly a hundred present from three different churches. Church camp was a five day adventure held at Camp Timberwolf at Bucks Lake in California. We had a lesson after breakfast and dinner with small group time after the lesson, a huge chunk of free time after lunch, and various games/activities/competitions in between. I spent most of my trying to get better acquainted with the other kids that I vaguely remembered from before I left my own church two years prior. The week itself was a sharp contrast from my life at the time—I had a negative outlook on life, minimal friends, and wasn’t a social child. Camp didn’t leave me an option but to make friends and I was oddly put into a place where I didn’t feel separated or judged by anyone. A lot of the kids I made friends with in that week, I was extremely close with throughout my Jr. High years and for a couple years into Highschool.

 My moment of greatest joy happened at the end of that week. The night before everyone would be getting picked up and heading back down the mountain we had our last lesson and small group sessions. Now during group throughout the entire week we had simply been talking about the lesson and at times talking amongst ourselves getting to know each other or opening up about difficulties in our lives. The atmosphere at the camp was very open despite the typical teenage-level drama that plagued everyone and by the end of the week it was very much like an odd family that I found myself capable of being vulnerable toward, in contrast to my home life where I had built a mental wall between myself and everything since roughly third grade.

 The lesson that night was my church youth group’s two lead pastors (one from the high school youth group, and then our Jr. High one) standing up and sharing their testimonies with us and generally driving home this message about the love of God and Jesus Christ. It was a weird group experience. By the end of it, the Jr. High pastor was talking to us while crying—he set off a chain reaction that put the entire camp into tears. I remember… It was a surreal experience and something about it triggered something in me. A need, I suppose, that had been neglected and hurting me for a while. I had spent my third and fourth grade year away from my mother and oldest siblings in a home I didn’t feel loved or accepted in more often than not, and had been yanked from the one place that I did feel safe and secure (my school at the time) in order to be with my family again. I didn’t feel accepted in my school or in my family and felt more like a burden to my mother/parents than anything. So that last night at my first church camp… I had this epiphany. I had just spent a week around people who genuinely seemed to care, who loved one another despite knowing less than great things about them and who didn’t present a fake, judging, or impatient atmosphere. And these people credited all of it toward God. God’s love, they said, that’s what everyone needs to this raw need inside of them. That’s what goes in this blackhole that try as we might, nothing ever seems to fill up.

 My blood family weren’t church-goers, and I only went because our long time neighbors when I was growing up had taken myself and my sister with them every weekend to church, and we had nothing to do with them from the time I moved back with my mom in fifth grade until right before camp that summer before I entered Jr. High. I figured after a week immersed in this environment, that I certainly felt something different about these people that wasn’t anywhere for me at home, with my family or in school. I had learned all I figured I needed to know about God and Jesus years ago in Sunday School. The story of Genesis and how Adam and Eve brought sin into the world by being tricked by Satan into disobeying God, making everyone sinners. Then John 3:16 “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son so that whomsoever believeth in him may not perish, but have everlasting life.” All of that stuff that any kid who grows up in the church knows. I’d been “saved” a million times as a child. I never really understood what it meant, I was too young. No one ever explained it, and in hindsight I don’t think it’s something that can really be explained to a child on that level. Things have to be kept simple for children, and hell even as a Jr. Higher I didn’t have the slightest clue what exactly I was experiencing that night. All I knew was that I felt accepted and loved by people I had only known for a week, maybe longer if they were from my church, who were somehow happy despite all this crap they were going and had gone through. I was surrounded by people who by some phenomenon were pushing through lives that I was positive I wouldn’t have made it through. I was two steps away from self-harm in sixth grade.

 So I took what they were saying to heart about God and Jesus being what was going to fix me. I was broken, and I knew it. I’d gone from happy and carefree to miserable and hating everything I used to love in a matter of months and nothing made it better for years. I thought to myself “this has to work, they’re happy, I can be happy again too. I want to be happy.” So I talked with my small group leader and I prayed. I don’t believe in this saved-immediately idea, I think it takes a little more time and understanding to really have that, but I do believe in a trigger. For anything to come in, you have to open the door. That night I opened the door and it was my greatest moment of joy because I wasn’t just letting in this great feeling… I was letting out a lot of pain and suffering and hatred. I found something and it gave me permission, so to speak, to let go of a lot of baggage… The feeling didn’t just pass like happiness tends to do, either. I rode on that moment of joy for years.

[writtenraw]

Run | Nero/SP | Future Fic

Something I started at some point earlier this year. Decided to finish it up and post it, since this blog needs to be updated and I needed to do some kind of writing while listening to my Spotify playlists again.

Basically takes place immediately after Chris is found dead; Punk takes into the forest with the police pursuing him. The police aren't aware of who he is. Meanwhile Nero is, of course, helpful as ever.

Word Count: 1008

--

His lungs burned.

How long had he been running like this? Not long enough to wind him this much, if the sound of the people chasing him not far behind was any indication. Punk knew he could out run most police on normal terrain, doing it on a forest path really shouldn't have been any different. His breathing had been erratic since before the running started, though, and that was working to his disadvantage even as he slowly but surely left his pursuers behind.

It wasn't until he could barely hear them that he let himself stop to catch his breath, trying to grasp at some kind of understanding in his head. Why was this happening? Why him? Why now? All this panic was coursing through his veins for a reason and Punk was simply have trouble remembering what that reason was. He just wanted away, he couldn't be caught by those people

He needed to escape

A chuckle from behind him signaled the appearance of perhaps the worst possible creature for the moment. Punk clenched his eyes closed, refusing to turn. Knowing Nero, the demon would do it's best to get him all turned around on the path and then he could very well be heading back towards the police instead of away from them. It was better to stay facing the direction he knew would carry him farther away, closer to his escape from this mess.

“Phillip...”

“Go away.”

“I don't think I will, Phillip.” Nero's voice was coming from beside him now, but Punk didn't look. His eyes opened and he stared down at the path before him, listening intently for any sounds of the police officers. It was stupid to stay still this long. “I could help you, you know, Phillip.”

“I don't need your help!” Punk snapped, forcing himself to at least start walking forwards on the path. Every step helped. Every step bought him time before sprinting would have to be resorted to again.

“Of course you don't, Punkers.”

That did it. The nickname struck a raw chord in him and before he could even think, Punk spun around with a furious yell in order to fling a fist at the demon. At least, at where he thought the demon was. The result was him flailing his arm through the air with no connection. He blinked, but as a hand brushed over his back Punk swung again. Trying in vain over and over to connect a hit to the demon, forgetting that he didn't want to lose track of what way he had been heading on the path.

By the time he had given up, Punk was completely turned around. He didn't know which way was forward and which way was back. Frustration and panic rose up in him as the demon's laughter rang out, echoing off the trees around them. Noise that would surely draw the police nearer.

“Fuck...” Turning on his heel, Punk did the only thing he could think of and went off the path, running blindly in whatever direction he was turned toward and praying his feet would carry him further away.

He hadn't gone far before a secluded house seemed to pop up out of no where in front of him. Skidding to a halt, Punk's panic seemed to double and he immediately started trying to backpedal. He knew where this was going and he wasn't stepping foot in that place. Not again. Turning, he once more ran to the side and headed in a different direction, but it wasn't long before he was right back at the house.

“No!” He refused again and once more took off running, the process repeating itself until he felt like he couldn't possibly run another step. The sun was going down, and Punk dropped to the ground, leaning hopelessly against the trunk of a tree and staring at the house. “Please...”

A growl behind him made his entire body tense up, head slowly turning to look around the trunk of the tree. A pair of yellow eyes stared back at him from the shadows of the forest and he swallowed hard. Rustles could be heard as slowly but surely a few more pairs of eyes showed up, leaving no doubt in Punk's mind that he was facing down a pack of wolves.

“...I fucking hate you.” Reaching slowly into his pocket, Punk gripped his zippo and a crumpled up piece of paper—some kind of receipt. Doing his best to keep eye contact, he flipped open the zippo and lit the paper on fire. The growling got louder, but Punk didn't hesitate in tossing the paper onto a nearby pile of dried up leaves.

Immediately, flames sprung up between himself and the wolves and Punk forced himself to move again. Scrambling back to his feet as the forest exploded into a symphony of snarls, growls and howls, he sprinted toward the house. The fire wouldn't keep the things back for very long, and he vaguely wondered if it would spread at all to the forest.

All thought left him as he reached the house, slipping inside and slamming the door closed behind him. Breathing hard, he felt his legs give out and slid to the floor with his back pressed against the door. It was pitch dark inside the home and he wondered for a moment whether or not he had been wrong before. Maybe this wasn't Nero's way of tricking him into coming to his place. Maybe it was just an abandoned home.

Reaching up, he felt around the doorknob for a lock, clicking it into place before lifting his zippo and lighting it. Immediately he was greeted with the grinning face of the demon directly in front of him, jumping and dropping his source of light. As it clattered to the ground, Nero cackled and Punk was aware of a hand patting the top of his head.

“Welcome to your new home, Phillip. Provided you're good enough to earn it.”

[writtenraw]

Happy Birthday to Angel and Sabre.

Twenty-three and one year closer to 1900.

[writtenraw]

     The item looked foreign to her despite the fact that, when she picked it up, it felt familiar to handle. Light, delicate, just a small crown like circle of precious metal twined together like vines with a few emerald jewels embedded at the crown for decoration. Nothing too fancy--simplistic at best, she was sure.

     Sabre held it up to her eye level and stared for several moments at the item. She turned it in her hands, eyes examining every part of it critically. Examining it as though she thought that staring at it long enough would unlock some kind of information in her mind as to what it was and why it was there.

     "You wear it on your head." The deep, soothing voice of Gilean reached her ears from the doorway and Sabre nearly started. Turning to face him, she set the item back down on the cushion it had been resting on when she found it.

     "Yes, it's obviously a head ornament for someone, but that..." She said snippily, trailing off when he held up a hand to silence her.

     "Not someone," he corrected her in an oddly amused tone, walking over to stand beside her and lift the circlet himself, "this is not a circlet meant for someone. You wear it, Young One."

     "...I do not..." She fell silent again, looking up at the Immortal (they always made her feel tiny, two feet taller than she) as he turned and carefully set the item on top of her braided hair. It fit perfectly, and did not feel unfamiliar even though Sabre found the item new to her eyes and memory.

     That was the problem, though, wasn't it? She had no memory from before she had woke in the Dark Lands. Anything she thought new nearly always felt familiar and gave her an annoying sensation of having something dancing just beyond the grasp of her mind. Knowledge that she wanted desperately.

     "What am I that there is a crown fit for me?" She asked after several moments of silence, reaching up to remove the circlet from her head and staring down at it again. Frowning.

     "Important." Taking the item from her hands, Gilean set it down and placed a hand on her back to guide her from the room. "It will come to you in time. For now, you are late for your lessons."

[writtenraw]

I adore you're writings ~:3 Would u ever consider taking a request?

Oh gosh I don’t know how old this ask is because Tumblr is a butt and didn’t notify me of new messages but thank you!

And yes I will totally take requests, though at the moment I can’t promise much from them but I will do my best. :)

[writtenraw]

Since this is where I put things that I make and I need a base for this video after Tumblr's latest stint that disallowed a blog reblogging themselves.

This is the crappy opening vid I made for a roleplay show.

I don't see why anyone WOULD want to use it, but if you decide you do, ask me first. I dislike surprises in that area, and I won't bite.

[writtenraw]

Field of Daffodils | Short Story | 3.22.13

Wrote this on the fly to go with an anonymous gift of a daffodil bouquet on Gaia. Decided to go ahead and stick it here since it seems safe enough from ruining the flair of mystery for the person I gifted (they don't know me here or there, so). The gift I sent with it was the bouquet mentioned above and described below.

I used to pick flowers such as these every Sunday. There was a field full of them just outside of town and we always passed them on our way home from church. Every weekend, I would separate from my Papa when we came to the field.  "I'll just be a little while." I would tell him. "Our centerpiece is a week old."  Papa always told me that one day, I would have picked all the daffodils in the field and it would be barren. Laughter would spring from me as I ran away into the field, thinking that surely my Papa was merely playing a trick on me. Of course I would never pick all the flowers away from the field; I was not that greedy.  Now, the field is barren. I walk past it on my way into town, wrapping my arms around myself to fight off the cold. It has been barren for years, thanks to a fire that nearly ruined everything. My Papa doesn't know about the flowers being all gone. He's too sick to leave the house and see for himself, and I could never bring myself to tell him.  You see, my Papa's favorite flower is the yellow daffodil. He says they light up the room with hope, every time I bring them home. So now, every Sunday I walk into town and to the florist shop. Buy a bouquet of yellow daffodils from them and carry them back home to my Papa with a smile.  Today, I ask the florist to wrap the daffodils in gold and I pick out a bright yellow ribbon to tie around it. This bouquet is special.  These will be the last flowers I ever give to my Papa, and they will stay with him forever. 

[writtenraw]

"Pet" Part 3 - S!Punkicho AU

Yeah I don't know what to label these anymore but this seems the easiest so we're just going with it. Uhm. Here's the next bit. Sexual shit and what-not coming into play but nothing really graphic. Oh, and some blood.

Also, in case you haven't caught on yet, the little single niches that break the text apart are there to signify a shift between the POV's of Chris and Punk. It's a little easier for me to write when I'm not constrained to one person's POV, so that's what I'm doing with this.

I've included the last line of the bit I gave last time so to help remind where it's left off. I'm literally just posting mostly down the program I have it written, so it's all rough drafting stage... But I hope you guys enjoy it anyway.

“I really should punish you, but I think that can be done later. Right now I have something else in mind.”

–

It took all his control not to react when the felt his boxers being cut and pulled away, clenching his eyes closed beneath the blindfold when the tip of the blade glided over his midsection, tracing the faint outline of his abs. He tried to focus on something else, other than what was happening. The last thing he wanted was to experience a rush of hormones right now.

“Untrainable, too dangerous to sell off. Have to be restrained just to rent out so they can make some sort of profit off of you. That's what the guy said.” Blondie's voice was low, almost as if he were contemplating the words as he spoke. “Makes a man wonder if you've ever been given a taste at what being good gets you.”

The feel of the cool metal vanished, quickly replaced by the sensation of a hand gripping his partial erection. He couldn't keep back the gasp that escaped him in reaction to the sudden hold, his tongue swiping across his lips nervously, encountering the familiar taste of his own blood. What the fuck was Blondie doing?

“Turned on already?” The hand stroked him, slow and languid, while the man spoke lowly. “I wonder what did it for you. Was it being manhandled? Are you so used to being retrained that it's a plus for you, now? Being helpless and unable to stop whatever happens... Or do you just like sharp objects? Do you get off on danger, mutt? I bet you do. You seem the type to enjoy pain.”

He flushed, breath quickening as his head tilted down. Fuck. Why was this fucker doing this to him?

“I wonder...”

–

Chris halted his hand for a moment, smirking at the small sound of disappointment that left his new toy. Good. At least he knew the boy had a functioning sex drive. He grabbed his knife again. Pressing the blade down against the boy's left thigh, he slowly dragged it down in order to make a nice cut. It was a pleasant surprise when one of his theories from before proved right. The boy whimpered and tried to buck into his hand, obviously not caring that he might stab himself in the process.

“You're surprisingly vocal for someone who refuses to talk.” He took a moment to gather some of the fresh blood from the cut. Using it as lube, he picked back up on the hand job. “Good.”

It didn't take much more to make the boy cum, and Chris felt vaguely disappointed. He'd have to work on that. Using one of the scraps of cloth that had once been the boy's clothes, he wiped off his hand and knife. There was a brief moment where he contemplated cleaning the kid up some as well, but it didn't last long. He could ask if he wanted that. Besides, the blond figured he'd be all but hosing him down soon enough. He wasn't a fan of dirty things.

“'Easy come, easy go' gains a whole new meaning with you, doesn't it?” Chuckling, Chris stood and pocketed his knife, taking in the sight of still recovering teen.

All things considered, he didn't think he made a bad deal for this one. It would be a fun challenge to train the kid himself. A new and interesting experience. Not to mention, the boy was attractive even in his current state. That could only mean he'd be more-so when he wasn't various levels of disgusting.

“I'm going to go clean up. You sit tight and put some thought into that name I asked you for. I don't want to keep on calling you 'mutt'.”

–

It wasn't until he couldn't hear Blondie's footsteps anymore that he realized the man had left him alone. Tensing, he waited for the inevitable. His head had been oddly empty since he'd been dragged back here. Both relieving and unsettling, especially now when he wasn't sure what to expect. Whatever he'd been waiting for, though, it wasn't the sound of the door to the room slamming shut. He jumped, head jerking up in that direction despite the fact that he wasn't currently able to see anything. The action was rewarded with the sound of that laugh that usually only existed in his mind, echoing in the room.

“You look like you're having fun.” The voice was familiar, a little deeper than Blondie's but not quite as smooth or... Sane in nature. It sounded like the damn thing was getting a grand amount of enjoyment out of his own predicament. He bit back a retort and prayed they'd just go away. “Playing the ignoring game again? You know that never ends well for you.”

“...I'm not...” His own voice sounded weak, lack of use making it scratchy and uneven. It was amazing he didn't sound worse after the damage done to his nose.

“Not playing or not having fun? Both?” They'd gotten closer now, the voice sounding from directly beside him right before he was treated to the sensation of a tongue running over his cheek. Shuddering, he tried turning his head away only to have a hand in his hair stop him. “You should really count yourself lucky that you're tied up like this, little boy. I could do much worse.”

He bit down on his tongue, reluctant to speak further. No matter how careful he was, he always seemed to say something to bring some kind of misery on himself. That was the last thing he wanted, especially now. What he wanted right now was to be able to put his arms down and see, maybe try to sleep. Mostly he just wanted to be alone, but that was a laughable concept. They never left him alone.

“Are you going to give him your name?” The question surprised him, but he hesitated only a second before shaking his head. “So I'm still the only one who gets to hear your voice.”

“...You kill everyone I talk to.”

“Correction, Phillip, you kill them. I help.” Before he could argue, two fingers swiped over the mess Blondie had left him with before shoving into his mouth. He let out a muffled sound of surprise at the sudden taste of his own blood and cum, while the other talked over him. “This one seems nice, though. I don't think you'll be able to bring yourself to give him that fate.”

They vanished, then, and he subconsciously licked his lips clean before becoming aware of footsteps on the other side of the room. He started to say something, but then it occurred to him that it probably wasn't his nightmare and his mouth snapped closed again.

“What have you been thinking about while I was away to arouse you again?”

[writtenraw]

Twice Captive - Velia and Sabre | Ialu Scene | 2.16.13

Prompt from Writeworld: "Give me one good reason not to kill you."

Took it and ended up writing a rough, rough draft of something for my novels that ended on an unexpected but welcome note.

Velia and Sabre get taken by surprise by a group of unlikely thugs in Akeledama, the corrupt city that sits near the border of the Dark lands, while on a mission to assess how much the Dark lands barrier has grown. Sabre, reluctant to use her powers, fails to fight off the thugs in physical combat. As a result, the two are taken captive by the thugs and held in a basement of one of the houses at the edge of the city.

This is a rough recollection of the events that follow, kept in third person but jumping back and forth between being Velia's POV and Sabre's POV. Mostly told from the former.

-

“Tough little girlie, aren'cha?” The leader of the group of thugs that had succeeded in taking them by surprise—how, Velia still hadn't figured out—slapped Sabre's face roughly. The ravenette didn't respond, lips pursed tightly as she kept up a facade of indifference to her current position. “An entire night and not a decent word out'cha pretty lil' mouth. Guess that'll make it the other girlie who's gonna give, yeah?”

Cold terror shot through Velia and she automatically backed away from the barred door of where the thugs had thrown her while they tried to get what they wanted from Sabre. The older female glanced in her direction, but her demeanor didn't change. No worry or distraught was shown, in fact there was nothing more than cold indifference in Sabre's gaze.

For the first time since they'd been apprehended, Sabre spoke.

“Do as you wish to the flower. She is of no importance to me.”

“Found a voice again, eh? We'll see, girlie. Ay!” The leader turned to another of the group and gestured towards Velia. “Go rough 'er up. Have fun with it. Not like she can do much. Ain't that right, you?”

Velia couldn't find a voice to reply, simply stepping further and further back from the door as it was approached by thug number two. He was right, though. She couldn't protect herself, she didn't have power like the Drakons and the best she could do in combat was shoot a bow. By all right, she never should have come along to this place. Drake had warned her against coming, but Sabre had been confident in her ability to keep them safe and Velia had trusted her.

Now who knew what was going to happen.

– –

Sabre opted not to watch the thug that went to retrieve Velia from the cell they had thrown her in before. She directed her gaze down to the floor, focusing on the chains restraining her. To be sure, out of all the things that had happened in the course of the night, the chain hurt her the worst. It was enchanted to become increasingly, painfully, colder with every second it was exposed to fire and stay that way.

She was going to be suffering from burns of a different kind for awhile thanks to them. It didn't matter to her, though. This was not a new form of restraint to her. The only thing that made it harder was the constant presence of the men. Sabre was forced to be more careful and go slower than the last time she had forced such a chain to break—because she was being beaten and cut into for the better part of the night.

When she heard the cell door opening, Sabre finished what she'd been working on all night. The chains by her hands shattered and the restraints clattered to the floor around her. For few seconds nothing happened other than the men staring at her in surprise. Sabre smirked faintly and raised her arms to the side.

“At least the vampires knew to place me in a position where using my power hurt my companions.” Looking between the men, she forced down the lingering, searing pain and summoned a ball of flame to each of her hands. “Now... Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you where you stand.”

“Sabre!” Velia's frightened scream drew her gaze toward the cell. The thug who was sent after the younger girl now had her in his grasp and a knife to her throat.

“One wrong move and I'll kill her!” He shouted, glancing between the other two of his group and the now still Sabre. “I mean it!”

“...So be it.” Sabre muttered in annoyance, closing her fists and dispersing the flames. “I warn you, though. The flower is very flammable.”

As she finished speaking, Velia's sleeve burst into flames. The thug yelled in surprise, jerking and shoving Velia to the ground as the fire caught onto his own clothing with unreal ease. The girl herself screamed, slapping at the fire to put it out as the thug tried and failed to do the same, his clothing going up in flames. Velia scrambled across the floor and out of the cell, slamming the door closed behind her with a loud clang and yanking the keys out as Sabre turned back to the other two thugs.

“Decision made.” Her words seemed to snap them out of their frozen state of fear and shock, the two men yelling in rage and rushing at her.

Taking a breath, Sabre took an evasive approach to the encounter. She had already tried to take the men head-on in hand to hand combat before and it hadn't ended well. Now she was in worse condition and knew better. There was no sparing these men from burning.

“Vee,” Sabre called as she concentrated on dodging her attackers, “leave the room.”

“But—”

“Go!” Sabre stumbled back as the leader's fist collided with her shoulder, grunting in pain. Another collided with her stomach as Velia scrambled from the room and the third thug managed to grab Sabre, holding her in place for the leader to take more hits.

“Not so tough, really, eh girlie?” The leader asked, smirking as he pulled out a knife and waved it in front of her. “Don'cha have any sense of survival.”

Sabre coughed out a laugh, smirking despite her situation and eyeing the knife before replying.

“Let's find out.”

She watched the knife start to come at her, eyes following it's path for all of a second before her vision blacked out.

– –

Velia had barely made it up the stairs from the room they'd been held in when it happened. An explosion shook the building and a gust of heat flew up from the basement, knocking her to the floor. Screams accompanied it, but they were quickly silenced and it was all she could do to climb back to her feet, shaking as she turned back toward the staircase.

Minutes passed and nothing happened. No one appeared at the bottom of the stairs and Velia felt her anxiety build. Looking around the room she was in, she tried to take a breath. Maybe she could find their things instead of just standing and waiting for the other female to come out of the room.

That was just what she was about to do when footsteps sounded from the basement. Immediately, her attention went back to the staircase and Velia let out a breath of relief at the sight of Sabre climbing the steps toward her. Then reality hit her.

“...You killed them too, didn't you?” She whispered as the other reached the top of the stairs and leaned against the wall. Sabre eyed her for a moment before responding.

“Think of it less like killing and more like purifying. Their souls were filthy.” As she spoke, the exhaustion and pain became evident in her voice. Velia didn't look comforted by the statement so she sighed, snapping at the other in irritation. “It was them or us.”

Silence reigned for a moment before Velia sighed and hugged herself, looking around once more. Sabre shoved herself away from the wall and stumbled forward a few feet, the younger reaching out to try steadying her. She was slapped away with a sharp, “don't touch me,” from Sabre.

“You're hurt. Let me help.”

“So are you. I...” Sabre looked around the room, eyes landing on a table with three chairs that had been shoved into the corner. “I'll sit for a few moments and rest. If you really want to help, find our things.”

Velia stared, but she was ignored as the other made her way toward the table. Sighing deeply, she nodded in consent and turned to do as she was told, knowing that there was no other way to help the stubborn woman. All she could do was search the couple rooms in the small house and hope to find their things before Sabre lost consciousness or someone else came inside the house.

“I shouldn't have brought you with me...” Sabre spoke, voice just loud enough to be heard as she searched. “This never would have happened.”

Opting not to respond, Velia continued her search. It only took a couple of minutes to find their belongings dumped into a pile in the corner of one of the few rooms. Stooping down, Velia took a moment to place her quiver and bow on her back before finding her sheathed knife and attaching it to her belt. She felt a little better with weapons on her, especially with the condition the stronger female was in. Maybe she couldn't do much, but time was usually all Sabre ever wanted and if they were in trouble again Velia thought maybe she could buy some for the other.

Frowning down at the remaining pile of items, Velia pushed aside a few packs and Sabre's own weapons in search of their cloaks at the bottom of the pile. Taking them, she draped on over her arm and used the other to bundle up the rather large amount of items. Lifting the heavy load, she stumbled sideways into the wall and leaned against it for a moment before willing herself back to where Sabre was waiting. Arming herself hadn't done much to make carrying things easier.

“F-found them.” Velia gasped out as she finally laid the bundle on the table, leaning against it heavily to catch her breath and asking Sabre in pure disbelief. “How can you carry so much weight on you?”

“...I'm accustomed to more physical exertion than you and I distribute the weight. It is not so hard.” Sabre replied, confusion evident in her tone as she straightened in the chair and reached to undo the cloak, Velia sitting in another chair beside her.

Rifling, Sabre lifted her sword from the pile and set it across her lap, muttering a word under her breath to cause the item to shrink into a dagger. A moment later she was tugging a belt lined with various sized pouches from the pile and laying it on the table in front of her. She checked the contents of each pouch as Velia did the same for their satchels.

“Seems like they didn't get a chance to loot through our things.” Velia stated after a moment, looking over at Sabre and noting the frown on her features. “What is it?”

“It doesn't make sense for them to have gone the entire night without taking inventory of our things. In this city, currency is what you have. We're carrying what should be a fortune to anyone here. Coin, fabric, food and basic survival items... Rare healing herbs and weapons.” Shaking her head, Sabre turned her attention back to her belt, opening one of the pouches and pulling out a couple of green leaves which she popped into her mouth before pulling out more to hand to Velia. “Chew these. We need to leave and they will help until we find a safe place to recover properly.”

“This place is not safe?” Velia asked, accepting the leaves and smelling them hesitantly. A sharp, crisp aroma greeted her and she gave in, placing the mysterious plant into her mouth to chew. It wasn't the best taste, much like she would expect normal leaves to taste but cleaner in a way.

“No. They could have sent or been waiting for someone. We need to leave the city.”

“But the mission—”

“A failure we will learn from.”

The conversation ended there as they set themselves and their belongings in order and prepared to leave out of the back door of the house. Velia opted to carry both satchels in attempt to lessen the load on the other. She helped Sabre with her cloak, quickly bundling her hair up and tying it loosely into it's own knot to shorten the length and better hide it beneath the fabric. Sabre wrapped an arm around her own for support once they were ready, breathing measured.

As they opened the back door to leave, however, things changed. Something blasted into them or rather, something blasted into Sabre. Velia stumbled back and fell, feeling the other woman's presence being wrenched away from her as Sabre screamed for the first time in Velia's memory of knowing her. Just as suddenly as it happened, it stopped and complete silence fell.

Terror gripped her, paralyzing her on the ground as she tried to figure out what was happening. Footsteps sounded from the direction of the door and Velia tried to will herself into action. Reaching to pull out her knife she started to sit up, halting immediately as the tip of a sword was pointed at her throat. Staring at the blade, she looked up to see who was wielding it and felt her heart skip a beat before starting to pound in her chest. Lord Damien stared back at her with black eyes, smiling pleasantly.

“Finally, I get to see the rose that the Dreamer grew.” Damien spoke softly, head tilting to the side as he stared down at the horror-stricken girl. “I'm curious... Is there any reason that I should allow you to live?”

Velia didn't answer, her voice having left her completely. She wanted desperately to look around, to find Sabre and make sure she was okay. Part of her knew, however, that whatever she saw wouldn't be reassuring. If Sabre was okay, she would have been trying to send the entire building up in flames by now. At the very least she would have tried to attack or be speaking, possibly yelling.

“Nothing? Shame.” Pressing the tip of his blade harder against her throat, Damien's smile twisted into a more malicious smirk. He went to speak again, but paused before suddenly lowering his sword. “I do believe I have thought up a use for you.” Stepping away from Velia, he made a gesture with his hands and she felt herself jerked to her feet by an invisible force. “I'll send you north with the wolves and have them dump you at the Immortal's doorstep... After all, someone has to deliver the message about the Princess making it home.”

Her fear doubled, every horrible thing she'd been told about the werewolves flying through her mind in a second. Desperate and helpless, her gaze flew around the room. Catching sight of her companion finally, Velia finally found her voice and screamed Sabre's name. Chuckling, Damien stepped forward, leaning in close and patting her face with a gloved hand as though to reassure her.

“Don't worry. She's just sleeping. And so shall you.” He told her, cupping the side of her face for a moment before speaking a word of magick. Velia felt herself slip into unconsciousness with the sight of Sabre's body, covered in bruises and laceration, hanging limp in the air before a Shade and looking as cold as death itself.

[writtenraw]

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[writtenraw]

A story about Crimmus? | Punkicho Oneshot | 12.25.12

So earlier on this month Andy gave me the idea of Chris spending a few hours trying to explain Christmas, with all it's lovely meaning and religious things, to Punk. Without really getting anywhere and lots of drinking and sassiness from Punk. Now, this isn't exactly what I had in mind when I first decided to write it before I got sick, but this is how it decided to come out. I wrote it down throughout my day today and did some editing and adding to it as I was typing it up.

<3 Happy Christmas, loves. I hope you enjoy this little bit of Punkicho fun.

--

Christmas wasn't a time of year that Punk was fond of, going so far as to say that he hated the holiday. He didn't understand most of the holiday, but unfortunately he found himself in the company of those who loved the season entirely and celebrated it with a certain level of determination.

Of course, the last few years had been spent with Chris bestowing a certain amount of importance on the holiday for the two of them. The year before last, he hadn't so much as stood a chance against the effect the blonde created. He'd quickly fallen into grump-mode when Chris had failed to keep the promise of spending time with just the two of them for the holiday. Despite all his dislike for Crimmus, he wanted to spend the holiday with his ridiculous boyfriend.

Chris simply had that effect on him. Even if he didn't cherish the holiday, he cherished the time with the other. Now, though, he was questioning such attachment as the blonde had decided to put his utmost effort in explaining the holiday to the younger male. In detail. Punk almost wished that he wasn't straight-edge, because alcohol might be very helpful throughout this ordeal.

“Punkers! You're not even paying attention!” Chris' accusing protests called his attention back to the blonde. Punk shrugged shamelessly, smiling at the other with all the charm he could muster.

“Then you'll have to start being more interesting, sparkles.” His was met with a frown and his smile quickly changed to a smirk as he added. “What are you gonna do, spank me?”

“Wash your mouth out with soap.”

“Take all my presents away.”

“Ground you for the rest of the year.” Chris shook his head, raising an eyebrow as Punk suddenly slid to his knees in a pleading fashion, putting on an overly remorseful act.

“Oh, please don't ground me, daddy! I'll be good, I promise. I'll do anything that you want, without arguing and I'll be the best behaved little slu—”

“Naughty. You and the term “good” don't even belong in the same sentence.” Chris cut across him with a snort, grinning at him a bit dubiously.

Punk fought the urge to return the grin and kept his face trained to be the same begging, remorseful expression as before. The blonde narrowed his eyes at him, lips pursing together. Time passed with the two of them staring at each other like this, having entered a silent battle to see who would crack first. Finally, though, they both broke into smiles and Punk snickered, sitting back on his heels for a moment before moving back to his seat.

“Of course, if we're talking about my mouth then we can just blow right past the term “good” and into calling it great.” He smirked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Right?”

“Maybe.” Chris regained his exasperation from before, returning to the original topic. “Are you ever going to shut up so I can finish?”

“With a story about Crimmus?” Punk asked, raising his eyebrow in a show of equal exasperation for the blonde. “I don't see what a damn baby has to do with anything.”

“...I'm going to go get a drink. Then you are going to be quiet and actually pay attention to what I'm telling you.” Chris scowled at him before standing and heading towards the kitchen. Punk sighed, settling back into his seat expectantly. He was sure that this entire ordeal would become much more interesting once Drunkicho was out in full force, trying to tell it.

“Honestly, Chris, you're better off just giving up. I really don't care—”

“No! You're going to learn about the meaning of Christmas, damn it!” The older male snapped, returning to the room with a bottle of GG in his hand. He took a long drink before sitting down and speaking again. “It's more than just gifts and food and all that crap—”

“Why are you so big on this, anyway? Don't you blasphemy every night when we f—”

“This isn't about me! This is about you and baby Jesus and Christmas!”

“But I don't care—” Chris' hand was suddenly pressed against his mouth, a frown on the blonde's features.

“Shhhhh. It's a good story, just as long as you listen.” There was a moment of silence before Punk leaned back and away to regain his freedom to speak.

“Does it explain the whole Santa thing?” He asked, tone expectant. “Because that's what I'm interested in, really.”

Chris stared at him and sighed before taking another drink. Swallowing, he nodded and once again demanded for Punk to just pay attention. Rolling his eyes for what felt like the millionth time, Punk waved a hand to acknowledge the request. He wasn't going to promise anything, but he'd at least try as long as it eventually shut the other male up. Nagging wasn't a very lovable trait.

So he sat throughout a couple more hours of Chris' determination to try and explain the religious holiday. At some point he opted to make things more fun for himself and started asked questions to prove that he was paying attention. Of course all his “helpful” and “eager” attempts to show his involvement with the story seemed to just further frustrate Chris, driving him to drink an increasing amount as time passed. By the time Punk was once again growing sick of the entire thing, he could barely understand a word that was leaving the blonde's lips. Let alone whatever story he was trying to convey.

Oh, well. That just meant it was time to go in for the one question he enjoyed asking anyone who wanted to try and preach about Christmas to him. After all, he was a complete asshole who relished in this kind of thing.

“So... What about all those kids in the poverty-struck countries? I mean—no, Chrissy, listen. I listened to you. Those kids can't really leave Santa cookies and milk, because they can't even feed themselves. Does he still leave presents for them? Or do they just get forgotten completely because they can't give him anything in return?” At the end of the question, spoken in his best I'm-honestly-concerned-about-this-issue tone, Punk looked at his boyfriend with all the innocence of a naïve child. When the blonde simply stared at him, open-mouthed over the top of his bottle of GG, Punk blinked and raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

“...Fuck this.” Chris muttered, downing the rest of the bottle in one go. “Go to your room.”

“That's the most coherent thing you've said in the last thirty minutes—” Laughing, Punk ducked the bottle thrown at him by the blonde, scrambling towards the bedroom obediently. “Are you coming, too? There's still that present in your pan—ack!”

He ducked another thrown bottle and ran the short distance into their bedroom, closing the door behind him as another bottle slammed into the door. Quietly leaning against the door, he grinned to himself at another successful holiday venture. He loved working Chris into a frustrated rage. Even if he was drunk, the night usually ended up being a lot more fun when the man was frustrated by his stubborn refusal to be turned into a holiday advocate.