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[ashswept]

mini profile 4 u sabs

full name: veda sanem

age: 14-15???

personality: scary demon child ha haha no really, her witchy abilities showed when she was young and her dad coddled her and basically told her she was better than everyone. didn't really do her any good.

history and things: dad was some powerful vessel guy, banged a witch, 9 months later she comes back like, THIS IS 50% YOURS BUT U GET THE ENTIRE DEMON CHILD FOR FREE and disappeared

[ashswept]

She's strange, and somehow, sees right through Callum, manages to see right through to what he is. "I'm being escorted by a dog?" were the first words she uttered at him, staring with what was bordering on disdain. Veda was quiet about it, made sure the other agents heard it, not that any of them would get her context. The scruffy man with the tired eyes and look of exasperation doesn't say anything. Sort of winces when she looks at him again, appraisingly.

She can't see it, the other form, just knows the impression of a shifter when she sees one. Something like a thread of a color. She used to think it was a trick of the light, but her father told her different. But he was gone now, her mother too. She knew they were dead, but no one seemed to want to tell her how or why. Just ask questions. (Have you ever seen your parents fight with other people? Was there anyone strange hanging around? Does you have grandparents or aunts or uncles that live close by?)

By the end of it, she's sitting at the dog's desk because everyone else seems to have gone home or too busy and she flips through manilla folders of never-ending paperwork. Forms with names and dates that she eats up while he argues with someone over the phone. "C'mon," he tells her eventually, and an elevator ride and a short walk later they're in the parking garage. He starts the car ruefully, still not sure how the hell he's going to manage a whole child.

"I'm not going to a group home," she assures him, after a brief, but merciful silence.

"We can't find anyone to take you, it's too late." 3 am to be exact and the dirt road, god bless the familiar road, appears in the headlights. Callum couldn't remember deciding to go to Zeke's, just knew he didn't know what to do with this godawful child and that he didn't need her judging the death trap he called an apartment.

When he pushes open the door finally, there's comfort in the bare carpets and the goddamn rocking chair and knocking he won't have to deal with the situation himself.  "Zeke...uh, we, we got company!" he calls, but what he really means is 'shit shit shit shit how did this even happen?' There's a light on somewhere in the house and he hopes he doesn't wake up the man he's sleeping with by bringing him a freaking child.

There seems to have been some sort of miscalculation on Callum's part because the first thing she says is, "What, are you two vagrants?"

--

Bad news often arrives in the day light, while tragedy is committed at night. It's a phenomenon the wizard has puzzled over before. Cal would be able to provide the statistics—and the gruesome case files to match his theories. Murder, theft, all manner of sin perpetuated in the assurance that the shadows might hide the bloodstains. For some reason, people simply lost their minds, or what was left of their inhibitions, when the sun sank below the horizon. Zeke peers into the darkness of his porch, considering that very thought. The pale light of half-dead bulbs trickles out onto the worn boards and beams, and his long and crooked shadow seems to crawl over the figures of his two guests. A dog shifter, stubborn, but loyal (and surprisingly flexible), and a young woman with all the hallmarks of beleaguered youth. Her mouth tugs downward and he feels himself mirroring the expression. “I believe,” He gathers the robe around his waist, securing it and stepping aside to beckon them in. “That vagrants don't normally own property.” The door clicks shut behind Cal and his charge, affecting the same solemn quality as a jail cell closing. Could he still pity himself, when he invited trouble into his home? The girl practically reeks of it, her magic settling thickly over his skin, a clinging mass that seeks direction. Dark eyes seek out his, nose wrinkled in contempt every bit as obvious as her power.

---

[4/26/2014 5:03:27 PM] Peyton: Cal can't quite gauge the magnitude of the mistake he's made, maybe because it's so late or it's so dark or he hasn't seen Zeke react with children, let alone children like this one. God he hopes it's at least clean inside. And that the fumes or smoke from that godawful basement haven't made their way upstairs again. "Hmmh," is what she says, and Cal guesses the fact that Zeke owns the property doesn't make the state of it any less contentious. It doesn't help that her parents resided in a gaudy apartment complex, nicer than most places in Montana by a long shot (which was where their bodies were found, incidentally). "Always exceptions," she adds, first examining the robed specimen before turning back towards the dog. "Zeke, this is--" Cal's mind tugs at names on reports, (victims employers next of kin suspects suspect suspects), "-Veda-- Veda Mahdavi." She gives a nod while Cal just motions helplessly. "I had no where else to take her." Something between them, but she can't quite tell what. It's there, so apparent that she can trace the thread between them, she just doesn't know what it means. He's clearly of some influence, the tall one. She can feel it in the air around him, traces of it left on the floor where he's tread, like it settled there. The shack, masquerading as a house of sorts, seems to breathe it, each board and fiber permeated. The man wrinkles his nose at her, contemptuously. "Your skills as a host are impeccable," she announces, before turning away. Follows noiseless words, syllables wrapped in exhalations, in incantations of breath and dust and bone. It's loud, fills the empty space as she moves away from the front door, across rough floors and rugs that should have been laid to rest a decade ago.

--

[4/26/2014 7:35:34 PM] Sabrina: There are dark bruises beneath Cal's eyes—there always are. A combination of worry and lack of sleep, long hours, poor pay, he could go on. The federal government could take it out of a soul, few employees would be willing to take unpaid overtime in the form of some refugee (its the best word he can think of for the solemn young girl), and yet here they are at his door. He curves a broad palm about the shifter's shoulder, squeezing gently and quieting further explanations. “It's alright.” No man should be punished for doing the right thing. The old farm house had plenty of room, drafty in the cold months, and the specter of his long dead great-great Aunt could cause some ruckus if she was disturbed, but over all, it wasn't such a bad place. Maybe, it was even one of the better ones for a witch like Veda. “You're welcome here as long as you'd like.” The words might sound stale in another's mouth, the recitation of necessities, but Zeke takes pains to impart his sincerity on the girl. He parts from Cal, lips pressed to his forehead and a sigh stirring his hair. “Thank you—I learned from the best.” One corner of his mouth quirks up in a rueful smile, leaning down in an attempt to catch Veda's gaze. Not for long though. Thoroughly unpleasant things happened when two magical users looked into one another's eyes. The windows to the soul rarely portrayed fields of lush grass and wildflowers. More often, they showed the pains of a life, and no more than Zeke wanted her to see his, the wizard had no desire to find out first hand what had brought her into Callum's custody. “Do you know what you are?” Amidst the clammer of chairs being pulled out from the table and Zeke pawing through his cabinets for coffee mugs, he asks questions. Three mismatched mugs dangle from his long fingers as he coaxes the stove top burners to life. “Cal,” He turns, his shadow snaking across the floorboards as he closes one muddy eye in interest, “Did you know?”

---

[6/12/2014 10:54:18 PM] Peyton: Zeke is accepting, forgiving even, of the current predicament they're now placed in, despite having had no real say in the matter. A phone call would have sufficed and Cal would have gladly dialed the number if he would have been sure of an answer on the other end. Smoke signals might have been more effective. In truth, what sort of affect it would have on the girl, he wasn't sure. Just losing her parents and all, maybe seclusion, or isolation rather, wasn't the wisest choice. Peace and quiet might be a remedy for a troubled soul, but not a grieving child. The weight of Zeke's hand resting on his shoulder is a slight reassurance that he hadn't erred in judgement. His weariness can be traced in the line of his shoulders, in the circles under his eyes, which he tries to rub away with his fist. God is he glad that Zeke doesn't expect him to turn back around and drive this kid back to his own quarters (... had he even paid the electric bill?). The man isn't sure how their new guest feels, as she seems to be inspecting the roughspun rug and wood floors underfoot with curious intent. When she looks up though, her nose wrinkles and the scruffy man and his obviously close companion. "Thank you," she answers, her reply clear, but maybe the appreciation muddier. Thank you for sharing your dump with me, might have been a bit closer to the truth. Veda's options are few and far between. The girl recognizes that at the least this place holds enough secrets to weed out to keep her busy. She can feel them under her feet, leeched out from the cracks in the floorboards. The taller one leans down, trying to catch her eyes, variance in height making it a challenge. She keeps her eyes level, which is somewhere around his gut. Maybe defiance, maybe just keeping her cards close to her chest. Trust isn't easy, and with their kind, well she knows enough to guard herself. And then, amid the scrambling movements and the questions, she's left with the dog who shuffles her along to the table. "No. Yes. I mean, I knew something," comes Callum's answer, mingled with Veda's forthright affirmation of, "Yes." The man scratches the back of his neck and expounds with, "She knew what I was. Even you didn't know." She moves to sit patiently, while Cal dallies in front of the table, waiting for Zeke. And more than likely a long-winded explanation.

---

[6/12/2014 11:43:41 PM] Westernbullet: Worse things have come to his door in the night. It requires no great effort on his part to welcome them in, to make a kettle of tea, to ask a few questions and give a few answers. Cal has a talent for rubbing the knots from between his shoulders--and besides, there are times in his life when he would have given a great deal for the luxuries of a warm drink and a kind voice. He nods gently at the girl's thanks and sets about filling the old, battered tea kettle. It takes two tries before the stove top flickers to life, two tries and a whispered word, the exhale of his breath, before the burner finally catches and blue-tipped flames lick the bottom of the pot. "Ah, good." Zeke relaxes almost instantly, a lazy smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "That means there's a lot less explaining for me to do." Without further ado, the man takes his seat, leaving the mugs on the counter, but bringing a small container of sugar with him. "No, 'You're a wizard, Harry' speeches," A vain attempt at humor, and maybe it's ill placed. He waits for the young witch's reaction and tries to suss out something more about her, but her appearance doesn't give much away. Sharp eyes, a stubborn set to her chin, dark hair that falls in wisps over her ears. She looks like someone he knew once and it's faintly disturbing, a familiarity he can't quite place. "Cal," There's warmth in his voice, and he takes on a gentle, chiding tone, the best thing for dogs that have worked themselves up. "Sit down, I know you've been standing most of the day." Crime scenes don't leave much room for rest and relaxation. "It's harder to tell when a shifter's in animal form. And it could be that Ms. Mahdavi is simply better at that sort of thing." Silence finds its way into the conversation and Zeke lounges in the kitchen chair, listening to the creaks of the homestead, the whine of hinges and the sigh of floorboards that have become the voices for generations. "There are a couple empty rooms, you're free to take whichever one you want." He and Cal shared the bedroom at the very end of the hall, neither the biggest or the smallest of them. It'd been his mother's once, but that isn't so much important as the view is. Windows become important things after spending a certain amount of time without them. "Just leave the basement alone." The tea kettle whistles and he rises to his feet, "For now."

[ashswept]

He hears someone coming, knows someone’s coming up the drive by the gravel crunching under foot and dogs that bark and growl out back. The gate opens, closes, locks, and he walks to the front, more annoyed than curious. Perhaps even worried.

(Blood washes and evidence you can burn, but witnesses, they aren’t as easy to get rid of.)

The screen door does not provide an ideal view, but he shields his eyes from the noon day soon and waits, wordlessly, patiently.

(Shotgun makes too much noise but theres a hunting knife tucked in a boot.)

She approaches calm as you like, barefoot. She carries something in her hand. “Just being neighborly,” she had drawled the last time, fingers lingering too long before she opened the door.

He pushes open the screen door and “Cobbler this time,” she calls and crosses the porch. He doesn’t say anything and doesn’t budge from the door, but she pushes through and crosses the threshold like she’s knows every inch of the place and there’s a tightening in his gut as she brushes past with the most infinitesimal touch. He doesn’t tell her that she isn’t welcome. Even if he should.

He sits in a chair, she leans against a battered and scarred kitchen table. Nothing’s said, but he can’t help but look at her feet and soon his eyes are wandering up her legs, wishing it were his hands instead. Those eyes watch him and that half-smile appears as she pushes away, and walks towards him.

Slender fingers, run down his jawline, and press against his throat. She sinks onto his lap, while he tips his head up and finds her lips.

He wants to sink his teeth into her, but they made a deal. No marks, because she’s got to make sure he doesn’t find out, even if half the town knows. (It doesn’t stop her from nipping his bottom lip and sliding her hand to the back of his neck and digging her nails into the back of his neck.) Hands find their way up along her thighs, tracing circles, and she presses closer, kisses harder.

He wants to believe that he loves her, but love, love shouldnt be this base.

(40S PSYCHO NEIGHBORSSSS. I IMAGINED IT LIKE A COOL MOVIE SCENE BUT I COULDN’T FIGURE OUT HOW TO WRITE IT SO IT TURNED OUT LAME)

-----

He can hear ‘em coming, far off, but loud and clear. it means they aren’t trying to hide their presence and maybe they have been here the entire time. biding their time and nosing around til they got the answers that they wanted. or didn’t want. there is no denying that it’s an invasion. some came with guns and knives and the rest came with something far worse; splayed jaws and teeth that would do far worse than any knife carried and of course the simple reminder that they everyone in Blackwater was free game.

Crouched low, up against the big steel sidewall of the auto shop, he’s counting the seconds between the sounds, like thunderclaps only he knows how close they are and that storm is gonna keep rolling in. Caution and urgency conflict inside him, but eventually, the need for movement takes over and he bolts inside. It’s dark, and obscure forms in the spaces between cars and bikes terrorize him, but he keeps close to the wall and makes sure nothing moves that shouldn’t. A hand wanders up and down the wall and eventually, find the switch.

A single set of lights flicks on, too much undue attraction if he flicked ‘em all on, and he stands utterly still for a moment, gazes at the familiar shop and unfamiliar hue splattered near everywhere. There’s too much blood on the walls, in the shape of drag marks across the floor. A moment passes and he’s already at the locked box where all the keys are kept, prying it open to find his own set. It’s attached to an uglyass keychain Billy gave him. It’s easy to locate. His bike, only just in working order, leans up against the wall by the set of open doors, like somehow she knew.

The bike, the old piece of shit that he expects to save his life, it starts on the second try (bless Sabra and her mechanical expertise). It would be a quick drive to the cabin if it wasn’t for the swarming numbers of people on the streets. He opts for dirt tracks and wooded trails.

The hunting cabin, a derelict old structure, with only half a roof, it still stands by some miracle and in front of the relic sits a piece of shit truck that’s not in much better condition. Coming to a stop, he practically heaves the bike over so he can hop away and almost break down the door.

"C’mon, all the roads are closed off, they’re sweepin’ through town right now. some human… some not. they’ll find you soon enough, we gotta go." he’s out of breath, but still doesn’t bother pausing for a break. his hand finds her arm and he pulls her towards the door. "We can’t stop to pack. We’ll take my bike along the back roads until we cross the state lines. We can take the highway. Chicago’s the best bet." Words tumble out, an endlessly stream of near-hopeless plans. Beau is trying not to panic. They’ve dealt with threats before, but not on this scale, and not so isolated and so few in numbers. From what he heard in town, the force they mustered was dropping by the second.

[ashswept]

in which i write terrible monster-hunter things for moon

she drives a pickup because it's easier to throw the bodies in the back and cover 'em with a tarp than it is to fit them the back of some shit mid-sized or an eco-car that's someday going to save them all (she doesn't think either of them will live, especially him). she also makes him sit in the back, because he's soaked in too much blood. Flat-out tells him, 'Bennett, there's not a chance in hell you're getting that on my seats'. riding in the back, he tries not to think about the pieces wrapped up in the tarp or how they're gonna scrub all that blood out of his clothes.

The body is unceremoniously dumped in a hole in the ground of the appropriate size and is swallowed up by shovelfuls of dirt. She'd made him phone it in, making sure that it was already dug when they pulled in. "Dead is dead," was her thinking and there wasn't anything left for him. Most at the Inn agreed and the closest thing he got to a service was a full bar and shared quiet anxiety. No one wanted to think about the one who didn't come back and they sure as hell weren't gonna talk about it.

The story is already around and people step out of his way when he comes down, washed up, scrubbed clean in only the physical sense. Eye contact is sparse too and he gets the message clear enough.

Four beers down and a familiar figure finds him, in the corner, eyes following her to the corner table that was vacated especially for him.

She leans up against the table, arms folded in front of her. She expects him to say something, but he keeps his head. Up until the point where she uses a muddy boot to shove his chair around til he faces her. Confrontation seems

He loves her, always has, but he never expected anything in return. It happens, especially among their folk. Tight-knit and yet still somehow estranged, it was easy to fall for the idea of someone, if only that. Bennett's seen all the terrible things she's capable of, be it with a gun, knife, or her bare hands but he doesn't think love is among them. Her tone bites, but is thankfully low and she leans in to try to keep her words from rising above the murmured conversations already progressing.

"There's something coming. You know it, I know, every damned amateur in here reading the portents knows it." 

Quietly bobbing his head in agreement, he side-eyes all the other resident hunters pretending they aren't drinking in every word.

"Now the old deacon out there, there wasn't much of him left to wrap up and bring in a doggy-bag back home for a proper burial. That's on you now, Isaiah; you gotta carry that weigh." (She doesn't announce to everyone in the bar how his hands shook too much to be able to get a round off or how he froze and couldn't even run when the beast came upon him. He wants to feel grateful to her but somethings gnawing at his guts.)

"Straight up truth is you're a liability." No one pretends to be deaf to their discussion anymore. Most have turned to look at the scene, her leaning down and him still not having the balls to look her in the face.  "We lost one good body today and whatever hell's waiting over the horizon, we're gonna need every last one we got for it."

"What I need from you now is to know you aren't going out again. You're gonna sit this one out and you're gonna stay here until all this is sorted once and for all. Understand, Bennett? You understand me?"

Too many eyes waiting expectantly, too many dirty, half-soused backwoods men and hillbillies watching him. "I- I can't," is his final answer. Hidden somewhere in between desperation and enough sweat-soaked, knee-knocking fear is the rest of his answer. 'I can't I can't I can't because there's nothing else I don't know anything else I can't do anything else if I can't do this then what can I do.' He's too tired and too drunk to spill his guts in front of them all, for what it was worth.

A sigh and a shake of her head that read not quite disappointment as much as resolve, maybe a little bit of expectation. There's a hush, like the exhaled at once, and his hands suddenly tremble.

She's practically on top of him then, and in such a foreign show of intimacy she smooths his hair, her hands coming to settle on the sides of his unshaven face. His face and neck redden even more when he leans down and kisses the top of his head. It's almost dizzying afterwards, the motion of her stepping back, a hand reaching out to where a hulking man and small woman stand. His arms are crossed, disapproval written across a fretting mug, but nevertheless she transfers the pool cue.

Between the kiss and the booze, he almost doesn't process the downward arcing stick, the whooshing air it parts and he sure as hell doesn't have enough time to move his leg out of the way before it makes contact and shatters his kneecap.

[ashswept]

a thing moon and i are working on

[8:47:25 PM] Peyton: they probably only use it bc it was the site of an old church and offers some meager protection against lesser demons and spirits

[8:48:04 PM] Moon: "Sunny Breakfast and Inn" [8:48:24 PM] Moon: "Green Meadows"

[8:48:43 PM] Peyton: SANCTUARY INN [8:48:50 PM] Peyton: bc how creative would these guys be

[8:42:40 PM] Moon: HUNTERS ARE AWFUL TIPPERS [8:42:47 PM] Moon: they leave scratch off cards and lottery tickets instead [8:42:53 PM] Moon: sometimes tokens from their hunts [8:43:05 PM] Peyton: severed werewolf heads in the closets [8:43:25 PM] Moon: all sorts of unnecessary stuffed deer and bear heads hanging up on the wall [8:43:52 PM] Peyton: too many [8:45:03 PM] Peyton: eventually they would just toss em out into the back of the property [8:45:12 PM] Peyton: ROTTING ANIMAL HEADS [8:45:17 PM] Peyton: TEETH [8:45:19 PM] Peyton: ANTLERS [8:45:22 PM] Peyton: JUST LYING AROUND [8:45:36 PM] Peyton: other locals convinced they got some satantic rituals goin on [8:45:49 PM] Peyton: which would be ironic as fuck

[9:09:51 PM] Moon: theres a grave yard out back behind the trees [9:10:00 PM] Moon: unmarked graves [9:10:02 PM] Moon: for the most part

[9:05:53 PM] Moon: SOME BIG BURLY DUDE and a little lady hunter, she rescued him, he's an awful shot but he tries so hard [9:06:12 PM] Peyton: HE CAN COOK AND DO LAUNDRY [9:06:33 PM] Moon: YES!! MEBBE THEY OWN THE BED AND BREAKFAST. she leaves to hunt and hes a stay at home dad [9:06:49 PM] Moon: everybody knows when shes gone hunting because [9:06:49 PM] Peyton: THAT IS PERFECT [9:07:02 PM] Peyton: feeds u werewolf on accident [9:07:05 PM] Moon: bc burly dude BURNS IT FROM WORRYING AND BEING DISTRACTED [9:07:50 PM] Moon: sometimes hunters are seen dragging roadkill deer in through the kitchens back door [9:07:54 PM] Moon: fresh roadkill of course [9:08:26 PM] Moon: THE SPECIAL MENU IS A BLACKBOARD/CHALK hanged across from the bar on the wall [9:08:38 PM] Moon: its always fancy french stuff or whatevs [9:08:45 PM] Moon: burly dude went to culinary school

[ashswept]

ORIGINS & FAMILY:

Name: Katherine Eliza Knox

Nickname: Kit

Reason for name: Shorter,

Birthday: April 17th

Age: 23

Gender: Female

Place of birth: Colorado

Places lived since: Utah, Nevada, California

Parents’ names, backgrounds, occupations: ????

Number of siblings: 1, Denver

Relationship with family: Close with Denver, was semi-close with parents

Happiest memory: Playing baseball with other neighborhood kids in the snow

Childhood trauma: One of her friends was hit by a car

Children of his/her own?: No

PHYSICAL

Height: 5'11"

Weight: 135lbs

Build: Scrawny and lean as hell, probably wouldn't make much of a meal for the zombies

Nationality: GYR?????

Disabilities: Dyselxic, possible ADHD

Complexion: Pasty white and freckled

Face shape: Long thin face

Distinguishing facial features: Strong jawline

Hair color: Ginger

Usual hair style: Shaved down

Eye color: Blue eyes

Glasses? Contacts?: Neither

Style of dress/typical outfit(s): Wears close-fitting clothes to keep from getting snagged on anything or by any zombies

Typical style of shoes: Boots, steel-toed more than likely

Health: Undernourished, susceptible to sickness

Grooming (does she/he wear makeup? shower daily? wear only clean clothes? pluck her eyebrows?): h ah h ahh aha

Jewelry? Tattoos? Piercings?: probably has a bigass back tattoo somewhere or one that goes along her ribs/side and down to her hip

Accent?: None really

Unique mannerisms/physical habits (bites nails, talks with hands, taps feet when restless):

Athletic?: Very

INTELLECT

Level of education: High school grad, dropped out of comunity college after taking a few automotive classes

Level of self esteem: Average??

Gifts/talents: Kickasss driver,

Shortcomings: Moody, argumentative, stubborn

Style of speech: Loud and has a tendency to talk to fast,

"Left brain" or "right brain" thinker?:

Artistic?: Vaguely

Mathematical?: Vaguely

Makes decisions based mostly on emotions, or on logic?: Make snap-decisions and probably couldn't tell you why she made 'em

Neuroses: 

Life philosophy: Fuck it, I'm probably gonna die anyways

Religious stance: Believes in god but isn't religious

Cautious or daring?: Daring, stupidly so

Most sensitive about/vulnerable to:

Optimist or pessimist?: Somewhere in between

Extrovert or introvert?: Extrovert

Level of comfort with technology: Pretty good, but ya know apocalypse

RELATIONSHIPS

Current marital/relationship status: Single

Sexual orientation: Asexual

Past relationships: Few and far between, usually ended fairly quickly

Primary reason for being broken up with: Has trouble connecting with people

Primary reasons for breaking up with people: Doesn't actually enjoy relationships

Level of sexual experience: ???? has had sex, doesn't care for it, doesn't wanna bother

Story of first kiss: Awkward middle-school making out while in detention

Story of loss of virginity:

A social person: an open and very social, but has few close friends

Most comfortable around: Denver. Zombies??

Oldest friend: Denver

How does he/she think others perceive him/her?: Doesn't honestly care

How do others actually perceive him/her?: Depends on the person? Most people seem genuinely confused or unsettled by Kit

VOCATION

Profession: Professional zombie fucker-upper

Past occupations:

Passions:

Attitude towards current job: Hey Den let's go kill more zombies

Attitude towards current coworkers, bosses, employees: Hey Den let's go kill more zombies

Salary: Food rations, whatever they can scavenge

SECRETS

(Every character—no matter how minor—should always have secrets!)

Phobias:

Life goals:

Dreams: Not dying

Greatest fears: Getting bit and having to have Denver put her down

Most ashamed of:

Most embarrassing thing ever to happen to him/her:

Compulsions:

Obsessions:

Secret hobbies:

Secret skills:

Past sexual transgressions:

Crimes committed (and was he/she caught? charged?): None

What he/she most wants to change about his/her current life: No zombies??

What he/she most wants to change about his/her physical appearance: less boob

DETAILS/QUIRKS

Daily routine:

Night owl or early bird?: Early bird, can't see zombies in the dark

Light or heavy sleeper?: Light

Favorite food:

Least favorite food:

Favorite book:

Least favorite book:

Favorite movie:

Least favorite movie:

Favorite song:

Least favorite song:

Coffee or tea?: Coffee

Crunchy or smooth peanut butter?: Smooooth

Type of car he/she drives (or wishes he/she drove):

Lefty or righty?: Lefty

Favorite color:

Cusser?: h ah aha yes

Smoker? Drinker? Drug user?: Nope, yep, nope

Biggest regret: 

Pets?: Not really. Will feed and name strays she finds, but can't exactly take of anything

[ashswept]

zombie things for gyr I. INFECTION - pandemic hits (need to expand on when started/how fast spread) - initially, most people get sick, a small portion recover - virus kills host then reanimates them - immediately after feeding, zombie becomes quicker/more agile/smarter (FAST ZOMBIES!!!!) - afterwards, become more dormant and slow down - HEADSHOTS!!! II. SURVIVAL - kit just kicked out basic, heading home. Denver was ?????? - large cities = hot zones don't do the thing - best method of survival was to keep moving and scavenge on the way - basically keep the noise level the fuck down III. CIVILZATION - maybe 2-3 years after, different settlements join together - town/city location?? gyr where in colorado do u want this - general paranoia of sickness/disease. don't know if virus will come back or not - large groups of people banned/seen as dangerous - curfews and food rationing - 2 sets of walls, inner walls haven't been breached - not let past inner walls unless healthy and can be useful - probably run by a nutter, kit and Denver will have to take care of dis bitch - people like kit + Denver sent out to clear zombies, maybe for scavenging parties or just to keep numbers down around settlements - probably paid in more food rations and supplies THOUGHTS, IDEAS, ANYTHING ???

[ashswept]

he is curled up on the floor, amongst tatty furniture, nestled between thrift-shop pillows dragged off the couch that was conceivable picked up off the side of the road. it made little difference to him, because, on this very stormy sunday afternoon, he was a dog. he was a dog on other occasions too, but this one was different and simply out of necessity. It's freezing and he can't for the life of him get a fire started in the old fireplace. To be honest, Callum wasn't sure the wizard could even get it started without the use of his other talents. Being furred was simply a convenient way of keeping warm. The snoozing hound's nails scrape at the floor and he chases a bird or a rabbit through the black. His ears prick up however, something other than shrieking gales and rainfall disturbing his nap.

There's shuffling steps, the not entirely unpleasant smell of hay and livestock, and the sound riffling of papers and his privacy being invaded.

It was his own damn fault, he should have known better. In one of his rare moments of domesticity, he thought to bring his work home with him. or rather, to Zeke's house. It wasn't as if he went through Zeke's basement after all. Lifting his head from the pillows, a bleary-eyed dog surveys the kitchen, where he had scattered what little information he had on his current assignment. A questioning look is tossed his way, and the canine stands, stretches, and somehow becomes an exhausting looking man, crouching on the floor.

"What... is this...?"

"A picture of a severed foot."

"Yeah." Zeke stops. He probably doesn't even want to ask, so he doesn't. Ca' tell him anyways because he's not inclined wait for him to find the words.

"If you bothered reading the report, rather than riffling through the pictures--" The shifter pulls his shirt on but doesn't finish the reprimand. "A pair of hunters found it. They were tracking something and saw an old shack, went inside and there it was sitting on the table, plain as day. " He pulls on a shirt and scrapes the rest of the papers off the table, hastily stuffing them into the manilla folder earlier cast onto the floor. "Used to be a coal mine up there, real remote, shut down now. There's been other reports. No bodies, disappearances mostly."

BLURGH ILL FINISH THIS IN THE MORNING I JUST REALIZED CALLUM ISNT WEARING UNDIES WHOOPS

[ashswept]

come down now, they'll say

but we'll stay.

the rain pours, torrential the only word fit to describe it. it's as if the sky above mourns for them, their separation. the division between them, even at twelve years old, is a tragedy. ("You need to make other friends," a sad smile and pitying eyes told him. "Try playing with someone else at school.") they have known each other for five years and seven months by now. Delilah once told him about past lives, how people believe that you were something else before you died and became you. It still confuses Alek, but he thinks he understand when she says they probably met in a past life too.

He asked her when they met, standing face to face, if she thought it had ever rained like this in their past life. She considers. "Probably. When one of us died." He nods and take the rain poncho she holds out. She helps him pull it on. It keeps the rain off better the bomber jacket he had begged both his moms for for christmas. It doesn't make much different either way, since he's been thoroughly soaked through on the three mile trek through the cities blackened streets.

The lot was the agreed rendezvous. An open dirt patch, littered with occasional debris, where once upon a time a man had burnt down a building for money or for love according to the story. maybe even to hide a body. who really knows?

The pair of flashlights do little in the rain, but they weave and slog through the mudhole. She chooses a spot and sits, because it is as good as any place to wait. Fingers numb from the cold, he fumbles with a thermos from his backpack and offers it to her.  "Cocoa."

"Good idea." She take a swig and they sit a while, switching off the lights and shivering in the dark.

"We can't stay here," she says sagely.

"I know."

he pauses and takes another drink and passes it back. the rain water soaks into his socks and he knew he should have boots. They aren't here to run away, they are not that naive. They came to make a stand.

"Can we wait until they find us?"

"Yeah."

He leans his head on her shoulder and she pulls her knees up towards her chest and wraps her arms around them and they wait twenty three minutes before headlights find the sodden lot. Alek stands and so does she. He tries to take her hand, but she is holding thermos and he instead grasps desperately to the tin, his fingers just barely touching hers. There's no exchange of words. They watch two women (his mothers) get out of the car, followed by a large man (her father).

Still clutching the thermos between them, they traverse the lot and the sidewalk to the car. There's expectation on their faces. He can't quite meet their eyes, any of their eyes. so he lowers his head and murmurs, "I don't want other friends," and climbs into the car. She follows. There is silence broken only by sound of the wipers scraping across the windshield. He holds her hand the entire drive home.

[ashswept]

wip

he pulls the mask on, slips the cord back around his head and takes another drag. breathes in deep, tries to make the fumes permeate every cell in his body like it could cure him. it doesn't, it makes him even worse. hooks a thumb underneath the bottom of the mask and pulls it far enough to let the butt fall from his lips.

his fingers itch, the twitch and teeth-grinding urge to light another, but he licks his lips instead and slides onto the rotting wood floor. fingers instead pry up a loose board and fish underneath. his catch is the rusted pipe that

he doesn't hide behind the mask, he's had it pulled off once or twice. it serves a different purpose entirely. he's someone else when its on. the things he does, he would do without the mask. it doesn't allow him the accommodation of anonymity or an outlet with which to hide his shame.

its more like

----

masked vigilantes possibly beau /shrugs

[ashswept]

draw your swords

so come on love, draw your swords

and shoot me to the ground

cos you are mine, i am yours

let's not fuck around--

  he hopes she realizes that when he whispered the words 'i will always love you', he didn't foresee this, standing a yard away and somehow still miles away. maybe not even miles, maybe the distance was the years between then and now; between the day she started this and the space they didn't dare cross between 'em in the dumpy motel room where they had called a truce, six years later. its dark and he tries to find the words.

the distance shrinks to maybe a foot, and then even less and he opens his mouth to tell her. tell her that he the words still rang true even after everything he'd done,

but he realizes that the distance is even more than the six years, its the space between the blade and the set of ribs she slips it in his back it's lightyears between them and then less than nothing but the space between molecules as her arm wraps around him and he presses her lips to her forehead and feels the knife again and again.

he can't find the words, can't open his mouth to say them, just tastes the blood and smells her shampoo and lets his legs give way under him while the warmth seeps down his jeans and boots

[ashswept]

smutt drabble whoops

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lG5aSZBAuPs

he can't breath through all the smoke, but maybe if he wanted to breath, maybe he shouldn't have set fire.

it was too late now. heat seers through him, angry red marks trailing against his skin, in the shape of nail marks. lungs labored, pulling in air, gasping in uneven labors as he pulled his lips away from hers for a moment before she found them again. Vision blurred through half-closed eyes as if there heat waves are coming off of her pale skin.

he sits up to pull her closer, and palms placed flat against his chest force him back down and he relents. Eases back onto the bed and lets her hands ease down his belly and lets his eyes and presses up against her as he feels the heat of her thighs against his hips--

and he burns and burns for her.

(if he wanted to breath, maybe he shouldn't have set the fire.)

    ---

  idk they were probs super high and having sex the end also dom billy is fun to write bri why are ur chars so cool

[ashswept]

LIFE / REBIRTH / DEATH

(WIP)

  you make a fine shrine to me

She is dripping wet. The tattered sweater that she girds herself with, a garment unfitting for one of her stature (but it smells like him and she can't bare to part with it) is sopping as she wades through the waters that turn her blood to ice. or maybe it's the lost that chills her through flesh and bone. "YOU CAN'T LEAVE--" she calls after him, the figure in the distance. The voice staggers him, the voice that shaped him, the voice that he was made to worship. Stumbles, but struggles upright, even though the current rages and the water churns and appears as if it's boiling. Pulling at the bandages, limping away from her. Wind howls and the sky dims and greys. If he turns around, he will see her rising, slowly, slowly, off her feet until she's all but christ-like, standing on the water's surface. She pulses. With dogged persistence, he moves forward.

"I MADE YOU--"

alt 1. he can hear her words in his head, over her enraged, pleading shouts. his birth, his genesis. "I made you, I pulled myself apart and made you from blood and bone and marrow and heart. I breathed air into the lungs I gave and brought your dead heart to life."

memories hammer in his head and he almost remembers the lips and teeth pressed against him, skin pressed against skin.

"YOU'RE MINE YOU WILL ALWAYS BE MINE--"

Feet stuttering to a stop, heart stuttering to a start, she stands in front of him. "You're mine." A reminder, a reminder that burns into his skin, into his chest, and even deeper as she presses her hand there. he's a statue, carved of marble and flesh, watching her with woe-filled eyes. fingers trace a shape there, and she could just as easily tear it out of him. her mouth crushes against his and he feels the strength seep from his bones and he is hers once again.

---

alt 2. it's the last thing he hears.

the water, it laps and tugs and pulls, and suddenly it wraps and twists around his ankles. He kicks, bare feet savage in their attempts at freedom, but it's already to his waist, to his chest, to his neck. With desperation, he cries out and a hand reaches out towards her, fingers splayed. He swears feels her hand slide against his and then he is swallowed.

It's deep and it's endless bluing darkness and all he can see, thrashing desperately against the arcane forces that bind him, is her. her face watches him, unreadable. It builds and builds in his chest, lungs burning, body greedily bleeding them of every ounce of air that they hold. struggling to the surface, body clawing at the blackness that cradles him, cages him.

and when the waters empty him of his last breath, lungs brimming, he's devoured by the darkness. she reaches down, hands plunging into the cold to find shirt collar. effortlessly, she pulls him up, presses lips to him, and breaths life back into him.

---

alt 3. there's a wail, a warcry that freezes bone and he feels the blaze of heat as the deadened sky lights up. He wheels around, mouth open as if he has something important to tell her. Hands, trembling hands and trembling fingers reach up to the hole that gapes in his chest where he could have sworn was filled before. She watches as the tide carries her love away and the waters of life swallow him up.

[ashswept]

beau + billy drabble post

- LAME RIVAL PACK LEADER AU?

she sets the order of porkchops down in front of him, and he-- ever the genile southern child, raised god-fearing and polite-- offers a full-toothed smile and returns the gesture with a thank you. slides a finger along the edge of the plate and tastes the barbeque sauce, sweet and tangy and seemingly to his satisfaction. normally, he's not in such a good mood, not these days, but today was looking like a break in the storm. a small one, but that was all they need. enough work and the right timing, and it would snowball. now, snowball was too arbitrary a word. snow melted to fast. this-- this would be a forestfire, it would rage for eons on, if he could help it. just need strike a match, kindle it properly, and watch it go.

he picks up the knife and fork placed on the table at his elbow, and cuts through the flesh. it's rendered easily, rare and still tender. he takes a bite, slow and thoughtful, chews thoroughly, and then takes another. doesn't bother with a napkin and eventually, doesn't even bother with his knife and fork. There aren't any stares because the only other people in the diner understand.

Halfway through the second slab of meat, he sucks the sauce off his fingers, wipes the remains on his jeans, and ignores the mess of juice running down his mouth. His hand fishes through his pockets and retrieves a relic of a phone. The man scrolls to the 'B' section and clicks a name.

they don't call. haven't talked in years, but the occasional text was not unheard of. they never answered each other, but childish and cruel, they were not above taunts. he types, he sends,

a hundred miles off, a phone buzzes in the swarming afternoon heat with a single unread message. it reads:

"should have done better."

Outside, a mile off in that little run-down barn, all boarded up and previously chained shut, there's screams that only he can hear, screams that echo through his head and sound, if anything, like his victory song. He flips the phone shut, smiles once more, and takes another bite.

---

- SUCCUBUS!BILLY AU

it's her, he knows it's her. before, he thought it was just a passing bug, but now he knows. He can feel it afterward, feel it in his bones, and ache like somethings missing and he's a bit more brittle than before. the last time, after she'd lain beside him for a few minute afterwards, recovering her breath, she slipped away, and he hadn't even the strength to push himself onto his elbows and ask her to stay a little longer.

he just turns his head, watches the pale, perfect figure retreat out the open door then closes his eyes and tries the preserve that picture in his mind while the rest of him falls to waste. he has considered confronting her, but that would ruin the image, taint it with the undeniable truth that he pretends doesn't exist.

it's been going on for so long, he doesn't think he can make it stop.

the last time, the last time she comes to him, he's tries to stand. legs wobble and don't seem likely to hold him. She pushes him back down on the bed and everything within him tells him to struggle, as she presses down on top of him. but he just looks at her with clouded eyes while she kisses his neck and collarbone and says, "don't leave this time. don't leave. say you won't leave."

she doesn't make the promise, and he doesn't feel his body been shorn from his soul.

ideas:

- LET'S HIDE THE EVIDENCE NOT REALLY AU JUST REAL GROSS??

[ashswept]

He's always had a proclivity for it, the hunting. Perhaps it was all the reading, all that knowledge pulsing through him, leaking out even in everyday life. Not quite thinking on his feet, because for the most part it wasn't conscious action, just all those collected words and phrases sloshing over from thought and into action. And when he wasn't battling the dark, collecting ashes and artifacts, bruises and broken bones, he spent his days in the library. He rather enjoys the lack of life there, among all those tomes. Great dead heaps of paper, the slow decay of ink and covers and cover pages. Withered corpses of lives past, memories faded. Quite comforting in its own dismal way. He breaths easier, sits more comfortably, and even sleeps deeper on those frequent occasions when he nods off, slumped over some battered piece of archaic literature. In the uninterrupted silence was woven a net of safety, one with which he had long girded himself with. It frays and tears with each passing night, but he wraps the tatters around himself and prays it's enough. Prays it holds.

[ashswept]

he is the true king. in nature, kind and fair. born in nobility, raised on the notions of fealty and love. Gold-haired, gold-eyed, golden-hearted. but he is not king, so he stands aside for his kin, half-brother in blood, but more in bond. he kneels before him, hails him as sire. Holds true to his vows. Ushers out council, and stands firmly with every unwise decree. Not once does he look back upon what could have been. And in the dark, when the fear and fevers overtake his brother, he grips his hand tight and utters urgent reassurances, warm and false. '--did what you must.' '--the only way.' '--the good of the kingdom.' The curled form on the bed, writhes and cries out and still he sits and keeps the lights burning until the sky lightens and heaves off its black mourning veil. Desperate whispers and white-knuckle grips ease, and sleep overtakes them both, one huddle on the bed, the other sits on the floor, sentinel even in slumber. And when they come for their lord, their king, his name on their tongues and blood on their hands, he spares him from their judgement as only he can. There's a brief struggle to untangle fingers and hands, but he is victorious. He tilts an anguished face upwards and press lips to his pale forehead. Hands slip downwards and the face dips forward and he finds a pulse and a throat and squeezes. A brief silence, a minutes time and now he's looking into a stranger's face, closed eyes, and blue lips. they hail him as hero, as king, thir cries echoing through the hallowed halls. - - - - - - - - - - - idk I just like sibling character who are creepily close?? this all sounded better last night when I was half asleep and wrote it