not your mother's angel

[seraphxdavis]

@claudiamcrshall

[claudiamcrshall]

SERAPH!

Don’t mistake him for sentimental. Pussy words like that shudder at the thought of being attached to him. She’s kissed like a cactus kisses a tourist who thinks walking the Mojave desert will be easy. There’s only one thing here that’s easy, and she’s right underneath him. She lets the tip of his tongue coat the back of her throat, pulling in, getting closer, wanting to gag on him one more ti–

FUCKING BITCH

She bit him! She FUCKING bit HIM.

Seraph’s body yanks back. His pulse is felt through his tongue. The taste of blood trickles in his mouth. The kiss of the cactus has done its job, placing him squarely in the role of the tourist. And it’s desperate. She could have almost made it up to him. Between that panting chime of hers and the sweat that’s beading her neck from his hold, she could have made this right. But she can’t. Not now. She’s done it again. She’s opened up her fucking mouth and for all the wrong reasons.

Like a cork in a champagne bottle. She gets one POP. Fist balled up, taken to the mouth. It’s their toast to the night! Welcome home, slut. The side of her head is knocked into the leather. What a bruise it’ll be to take on the other side. He’s cut his knuckle on a fang of hers, but it’s an even trade now. He grins at her, white teeth staining with red from her first shot, a reminder that she did this to herself. A drop of blood shows on her lip, oozing from the split he caused, and look at that.. he’d know that shade of red from anywhere on his hand.

His middle finger is drawn into his mouth, sucking her filth off before showing it to her, clean and glistening.

“Tastes like…”–his cut tongue clicks in its profiling–“dead meat.”

the taste of iron explodes, a freshly split lip against bone and teeth, her ears ringing from the impact of head to leather, and back again. to say it’s unexpected would be the mark of a fool, someone unaware that the only way to receive violence is to incite more, to give twofold what has been given. but a punch to the face is a necessary evil, the kind of hit that’s been tolerable for years and years on. her inhale is ragged, drops of blood making their way to the back of her throat, convinced they offer more help than harm in their ability to choke her. 

she tries to get all of the distance she can, sacrificing scratches and stray hair for the few inches that gloating can get her in this space. “you’d know.” vitriol is an easy description for her, it encompasses the fear, the hate, trembling adrenaline that seems to always pour out of her. she spits blood and saliva onto his leg, unable to choke down copper any longer. “is that all you did while i was gone.” as though she was gone so long as to need replacement, or simply cared enough to question the girls that were meant to stand in her place, to bear the bruises that she’d missed by being a state away.

in the past she’d thought them all stupid, unable to see, refusing to acknowledge the black and blue truth of what it meant to share a room with seraph. but with her gone, such reminders of their fate were no longer lurking the halls of schools and supermarkets. of course he would still try, but who would still follow. who would give him the keys to their house when… “can’t i get a drink first.” whiskey might dull the senses— if she couldn’t get out of what was coming, hadn’t it always been preferred. but at least she would be off the floor, away from the couch, on an even playing field again, resetting positions so that she had another shot. and wouldn’t nate be home eventually, wasn’t there always a timer just about to run out on them. “last meal and all.”

[seraphxdavis]

Before the night's over with, she'll blossom into a perfect rosie. Black and blue and red all over. She's already got a trail of the latter from her snout. Bet she can taste it mixing with his, a piece of him sliding down her scrawny throat before she can slick over it herself. Isn't that cute? A whore's version of the oath they took before she wanted to be little miss California. Where does she get off thinking that he owed her loyalty after what she did? She's never stopped thinking about herself.

"Too late to be jealous," he tells her, nearly choking with laughter when her mouth comes near his thigh. Someone can't keep her blood down! He reminds her that help's just an inch away, yanking her forward by her skull, like fingertips against a baseball about to be pitched, forcing her lips to scratch the zipper. No surprise if her teeth manage to snatch it down, but in the moment it's enough to make him laugh, something that she better be thankful for.

"What'd you think you'd see when you came crawling back?" Dead meat and all, she must have thought of something to make that sort of leap. "Head above the mantel?" he teased, teeth baring, torn between another round of hilarity and tearing out her throat.

Her struggles leave him with brown strands wrapping between his fingers, the sound of her knees crashing against the floor, doing everything she can to get her old spot back in his life.

"I could never execute you, princess," he tells her, and what's there to doubt with that kind of smile, or with that hand reaching around the scruff of her neck like a helpless kitten? "Only a life sentence for you," he lowered against her face. "Hard labor, right? It's what you want."

[seraphxdavis]

claudiamcrshall​:

she’s never been a dreamer, a little girl made up of fairytales and high school love stories. when girls in her dorm hall sit around and talk of first kisses and boyfriends, she cannot contribute. what does she have to show for, what could she say about the moment that she’s found herself in. it’s nothing more than an act, the punctuation of her own stupidity. could so little have changed that she still. his joke is horrible, more flashback than humor, the immediate instinct to try and run squashed only by the fact that she is still trapped below him. she is a new person, certainly there are people who have taken her place in this sick game. she will not be reformed in his image. 

how does it taste? like bitter regret, the punctuation of all of her failures. that she’s come home to see her father and been left with nothing but the cold memory of everything she was supposed to have surpassed. self pity leaves nothing for her, the acid that burns through her as her hands try and push at his shoulders, the fevered get off of me that can’t be said with words. she leans in to him, his mouth on hers, trying not to inhale until finally she bites catching tongue and flesh, aiming for blood but settling for surprise. whatever the injury, it should be enough to change his mind from the direction it was headed in. there is nothing else she can do to get herself out of the current position. 

“it tastes—” she says with a ragged breath, iron in taste and will, the beginning of something she’s not sure. it can’t be any worse than the hundreds of nightmare scenarios that she’s woken herself up from in a cold sweat. “desperate.”

Don't mistake him for sentimental. Pussy words like that shudder at the thought of being attached to him. She's kissed like a cactus kisses a tourist who thinks walking the Mojave desert will be easy. There's only one thing here that's easy, and she's right underneath him. She lets the tip of his tongue coat the back of her throat, pulling in, getting closer, wanting to gag on him one more ti--

FUCKING BITCH

She bit him! She FUCKING bit HIM.

Seraph's body yanks back. His pulse is felt through his tongue. The taste of blood trickles in his mouth. The kiss of the cactus has done its job, placing him squarely in the role of the tourist. And it's desperate. She could have almost made it up to him. Between that panting chime of hers and the sweat that's beading her neck from his hold, she could have made this right. But she can't. Not now. She's done it again. She's opened up her fucking mouth and for all the wrong reasons.

Like a cork in a champagne bottle. She gets one POP. Fist balled up, taken to the mouth. It's their toast to the night! Welcome home, slut. The side of her head is knocked into the leather. What a bruise it'll be to take on the other side. He's cut his knuckle on a fang of hers, but it's an even trade now. He grins at her, white teeth staining with red from her first shot, a reminder that she did this to herself. A drop of blood shows on her lip, oozing from the split he caused, and look at that.. he'd know that shade of red from anywhere on his hand.

His middle finger is drawn into his mouth, sucking her filth off before showing it to her, clean and glistening.

"Tastes like..."--his cut tongue clicks in its profiling--"dead meat."

[seraphxdavis]

[seraphxdavis]

claudiamcrshall​:

there is horror in the details, the contraction of muscle, the calculation right before the next brutal swing. an expression is little more than a warning to be read, a smile only means that she is going to bruise. it happens again and again, punctuated with phrases that she’s slowly unlearned. you love it, you asked for it, this is what you wanted. the kind of insidious repetition that has wormed its way into her brain and only recently found rejection on firm solid ground. she had come back to see her father, to find that he was still doing okay after this many years. she had come back to sit at the diner with lukewarm cups of coffee and a slice of pie between them to remember the good times. seraph would have been no where to be seen in this version of reality. it is now with a hand pressed against her forehead that she feels the sharp pain, that there was no good time. there never had been. 

she tried to turn her head, feeling the tension of his hold against her skin, unable to move away from his next action. the torture of trying to get out of his hold, knowing and waiting, finally salvia hitting the back of her mouth. it would have caused a spluttering cough his she wasn’t already being yanked into a new position. the disgusting pastiche of a kiss that she’s always hoping to avoid, punctuated with the reputation that she has disowned. she’s trapped, and does as asked so long as his hands stay tangled in her hair, waiting to break her down more. was there another way to mark her that he had not yet discovered— she hoped to not find out 

she makes a dramatic act out of his word. throat bobs underneath his touch, impossible to miss. has she actually swallowed anything? she’s not even sure, hoping only for the hand thats found placement on her jaw to let go and allow her the ability to speak again. to spit back angry and violent, say his favorite way to show love was impossible because his mother was dead. but none of that can spill out if she’s still pinned down. her hand makes only a half hearted attempt to push him away, as though it’s less challenge than suggestion. things have hardly escalated, this is still a position to get out of. there are days left to plan a careful revenge, that only happen if he gets the fuck off her in the first place, eyes only a plea of okay, the hope that’ll be enough. 

She thinks she's squirming. He knows she's begging. Begging to be touched. Begging to be unspooled. Begging to be dragged inside out. She doesn't say a word. She can't. Those lips are cinched up by force. Not a sound comes out but the leather grinding together, shifting weight of the two of them catching some dumb hide of an animal and the cow the furniture is made out of. There are these ticks she has. Tells. Wrinkled up snout. Bulging vein in her neck. Burning pools for eyes. She wants it the hard way. It's the only way she knows. The way his mouth crooks at the corner, pulling it up in an uneven smile, lets her know that he reads for the filth she is.

"How does that taste?" The grin widens as he moves closer, inward, downward. Eye-to-eye. Nose-to-nose. A touch becomes a press; a press becomes a push; a push becomes a thrust until her nose shudders at the force. "Don't worry. You don't have to keep holding it." His breath flushes over her face, blooms over the lips he's buttoned up with his thumb. "You're going to have more than that down your throat, princess." Those lips are pinched and pulled, almost shaken by one digit. Patronizing. In the same sentiment as: who's my sad, dumb slut? "Can't start until we stretch it back out first."

The thumbnail is used like a crowbar, breaking and entering what is already owned. Sealed up as soon as it's pried open, this time by his own mouth, clamping over hers. There's a sharpness, a dagger for a tongue, slicing across hers and through a pool in the back, stabbing at the point of promise, as far as it'll go until swallowing is either gagging or choking. The only options she's left herself with.

[seraphxdavis]

claudiamcrshall​:

the laugh creeps up on her, threatens to pull at a web of memories she’s sworn she’s grown past the need to keep. the frozen deer in the headlights gaze won’t work here, her hands slide down his knee an inch further, words don’t stick to her thoughts quite as well when she’s tensing to run. either she’s too obvious in her plan or he’s too erratic in his own, the match wherein she almost jumps just to find herself slammed into the couch with force enough to dizzy her already rattled state. the couch is too soft for a real impact, she sinks into it, claustrophobic leather around her, sticking to every inch of bare skin as he makes it sure that she cannot, will not run.

she pulls at his hands before they’re fully around her throat , the knee-jerk reaction that’s never been beaten when it comes to hands trying to wind their way around her throat. call it self-preservation, call it weakness, either way it’s not going to help her situation. she’s not strong enough to pull him off, she’s spent all her time carrying film reels and library books, forgetting to pick up a weight or two in her spare time. the idea that she might have come home for the holidays in some normal way goes up in smoke. she was only kidding herself that people could change, that she could find a way around her childhood, some side path where none of it had happened to this shiny new her. his thumb searches out weakness, there is no new her.

because still, she knows what he’s referring to in an instant. the waking up in a cold sweat, gasp when someone turns a corner too fast, turning to make sure every shadow was just another person on the way home. the type of thing that gets her labelled, single suite, beware. the bottle of vodka that rolls around in her nightstand drawer, collides with the bottle of sleeping pills, and asks what kind of night it’s going to be. “sentimental of you.” she spits out, trying to pull at his hand just a little, a test not a threat. how could she go anywhere when held down the weight of his frame. they’re just talking, eventually something will give. she can force that kind of hand. “since when was it about what i love?”

Sentimental. About her! He could snap her neck. The tendons are itching for it, one twitch rippling through his hand, squeezing. Oh, he could! He could! He should. It swarms inside of him, the energy of a god with too much power to know what to do with, an overabundance of what can be done and all the possibilities open before him. Everything. Anything. She's his to do whatever he pleases with, and she's just too stupid to remember it. He doesn't forgive, doesn't forget, but he's willing to refresh. She's not going to get what she wants so easily. Instead of cracking her open and playing with her vocal cords, plucking her as if she's the tiny violin she's always screaming like, the electricity shocks his face, tugging at his lips. They're pulled apart, both sides stretched out, full potential reached, indenting his cheeks, teeth glistening with venomous hunger.

"You love it," he repeats while her fingers play around his knuckles, trying to hold his hand. How could she say she doesn't with sappy shit like that? His nails are like needles, sticking into her nape. "You couldn't help but come back for it." His thumb thrusts down on her chin, ready to unhinge it from her jaw, plying to keep her lips apart. The force is enough to tip her head forward, some lame move of the anatomy for self-preservation. Seraph's free hand solves it, diving to her forehead, bolting her to the cushions with him alone as her sun to gaze up at.

"There's only one way you know how to show love, princess," his voice drills down her throat, body it originates from hovering above, open mouth less than a foot from hers before the extended out tongue wets, string of spit pulled down by her gravity until its hurled down that gaping hole of a mouth. She's clamped up, sealed, palm to to that hairline popping blood vessels beneath its touch to arch her throat back.

"Swallow."

[seraphxdavis]

claudiamcrshall​:

the opening play doesn’t get a rise from her. his nail drives into her palm, and she clenches her jaw, she doesn’t let it give way to whimper even as the skin breaks under the pressure of his dirty hands. there’s nothing to say, the scar will always stand out against any protests that she has against permanency. blood pools in her hand as she tries to pull it away, tries to escape before it’s too late and her narrow window of opportunity is closed completely. but she’s either not quick enough, or she’s missed the window completely. the fraction of a second when she might have ran is closed down with his new seat on the coffee table. 

“i did—” but her sentence is cut short with the blow to her head, rattling up from her jaw and disorienting her completely. she chokes on her gasp by virtue of her mouth being forced closed against cheap wood. her thoughts are a jumbled mess, trying to reorder where they might have become a cutting remark. there’s nothing but the base instinct to get out. 

she straights herself back up, the red of where bone met the table already revealing itself. his legs are on either side of her, she breaths in deeply. she tries to betray no fear as she pushes her hair back out of her face. there are steps to this game, there is still a chance to try and get out. each hand finds its way to a knee, blood blotting against the left leg of his jeans. “how could i miss you.” she says finally, pushing herself up to the couch slowly, still somewhat contained by his own frame. he strikes quickly, she’s never been able to beat him in a game of all out strength. but that doesn’t mean she has to give up immediately, she has time, she can be smarter. she has to be. 

so they’re eye to eye, at least for a moment. it has to be enough for a first try. “you didn’t miss me.” 

She's watched as she tries to fix herself up, hair being shoved by her fingers, even when he has a finger still wrapped around a strand. He gives it a final yank for her, curling it around like a yo-yo before it spirals off his pointer. His own grin glimmers back in her eyes, glassy from the impact that resonates in that growing color to her jaw. His touch barely has left her before its making its way to deepen the shade he's already caused, just like how she can't keep her hands off of him either. Both of them on his knees, can't wait to dive up to his zipper, burning little palms searing through his jeans, stamping him in her own blood. She says her words one way, and he takes them as he wants, just like anything else she's ever given to him.

How could she miss him? She's proving it right now. Always the cloying girl, on her knees, eyes wetting to be in his good graces. It makes him laugh, reverberating in the back of his throat, wide smile back. So, she turns it on him instead, thinking she knows everything, impatiently pulling for him to do what he does best, what she hasn't had in months.

"Now, why would I do that?" he asks in her face, his breath misting against her mouth with that slight shake of the head that tells her how much of a stupid question that really is to bring up. She's already put herself in the position she's wanted. Fingertips stretching out to his thighs, can feel the brush of the short nails, as if she didn't have the idea of clawing into him. Can't have her waiting. Poor thing.

His body is thrown forward, taking her with him. She's got her back pushed into the couch. Where he wasn't able to pin her hands down, his own hand has found its home. Thumb digging under the soft part of her throat that sinks up to her chin, fingers pooling in her nape. "I never miss what's mine." Knees push down further in to the cushions, her hips in between them. They're just talking. She's waited this long, she can wait longer. Make her think about what happens when you go and come back thinking all is forgotten.

"How many times did you see me when the lights were out, princess?" he asks, pressing into her, thumb now sliding to that ruddy-colored jawbone. "Kept your bed right by the window like I know you love."

[seraphxdavis]

claudiamcrshall​:

it is at this moment that she realizes the strategic disadvantages of her position on the floor. the attempt to make herself smaller and unseen has also made her infinitely easier to trap. her back already against the sofa, all he had to do was wind his hand through her hair and hold firm— the game was over before it’d begun. the book slid off her lap, hitting the floor at an odd angle that was going to bend the pages before she’d get a chance to fix it. all so that he could force her hand open, her fingers fighting against the touch of his own but still giving way to expose the slash across her hand that would never fade. how could it, still ridged and white, standing out as a neon sign. don’t you dare forget. when even her own hand was a memory given for him to reminisce over. did she come back for more, was that not enough torture for one lifetime.

she thinks she could pluck a name at random, any person just as volatile as the next. who would come and see her? trent the short stop, jody the secretary. a thousand injuries imagined, horribly easy to make real once he stopped finding humor in the situation. for a second she picked no one, freezing in place as he got closer to her neck. hand bent at an awkward angle. easy answer: levi. but he’s already too close too quickly, all it took was walking into the house and she can feel his breath. the edge that was already raised, probing for her to crumble. the question skipped in its entirety in favor of the more appeasing answer. “you didn’t lose me this time.” 

what was the danger in agreement, even when it was shortened. fear that came out as annoyance, trying to pull away from him as he got closer. words dissonant with actions, but given to him all the same. and sidestepping the actual word that found its way out into the open already. still somehow stinging to hear, perhaps the year of avoiding insults had softened her to how much it was thrown around within the walls of her own home. “nate told you.” there is something weak in her admittance, circling back to the answer that seemed obvious now. if he said she was hear for the break, then she was trapped for just as long. the name popped into her head again, levi. there was no way to get through twenty-four hours of constant contact sober. her skin already itched from where he continued to try and map out any changes. “what’s special about today anyways.”

"This time?" He laughs. Even when she's trying at acceptance it sounds stupid and weak. Never thinks through her words before they all spill out. Isn't that like her? "It's like you think you ever got away," he goes on, easily tightening his grip like second nature the more she struggles, scrapes her scalp to just get her to stay in place, "but I know my princess always has a piece of me with her, doesn't she?"

Thumbnail shoves into the scar tissue in her palm, hard and fast, feels tendons try to snap like rubberbands underneath, senses blood prickling to the surface while he's focused on her face. This is what she's come back for, and there's nothing that she can say, no lie she can try to spin, that will tell him otherwise. What did she think would happen when she stepped foot into his town?

Her hair is a mess, thrown in a clump to dangle in front of her face, leaving a sliver of it free, saves her left eye to watch him take a seat. She has her floor. He has his coffee table in front of her, legs open and one set of fingers still twisting in those filthy brunette strands. What Claudia asks is less question than an attempt at starting something she shouldn't. He hopes out of that good eye of hers she's able to get a good look at his grin before he pulls her in two directions. The hand is pushed back, her head is pulled forward, chin smashing into the frame of the table between his thighs. He feels how her jaw clamps, reverberates through the skull he's itching to get into one way or another.

"Today's the day you get to stop missing me," he talks down to her before blowing a piece of her hair out of her eye, a quick shot that's delivered with a complementary show of teeth. "I know you have to get your fill."

[seraphxdavis]

claudiamcrshall​:

he doesn’t fall. why would he fall, what stroke of luck would she have needed for the world to suddenly give her that. it was never going to happen on her own.  because she’s weak. even then, she should have pushed harder, kicked harder, run the moment she saw the door, fought back. and she shouldn’t have ever walked in the bedroom, walked in the house, wandered into the backyard. her hands shoot out on impulse to try and stop her from hitting the ground too hard, and she screams before she can stop it, before she knew it was even her voice. raw, some deep welling pain that had to get out before she could stop it from announcing itself to the world. it was only a hand wound, deep and bleeding, and smeared with ash and dirt and whatever else was on the bedroom floor. it was only a hand wound, and yet it feels like it’s going to split her apart. but she stops herself, biting her lip to stop from anything else spilling through.

even as his foot smashes down on her, an explosion of pain through the bone of her shoulder blade, she stifles the next scream that won’t do her any good. if she tastes iron, there’s no mistaking who’s blood it is. it catches in a tremble of her jaw, the body reacting against the next of its trials. because she was weak, but she had to endure. and really if this wasn’t going to happen, then she would have never let it happen. this. him standing above her as he gloats victory against her, decides there must be something still take. the endless pit of want and greed and something inside him that. demanded that she still find some other small fragment that could be offered up. 

he kneels above her, terrifying and real, and the darkness is closing in around them. it’s no illusion, he is a void in which any light she might have had sinks. and there will be no escaping whatever happens next, and there will be no living past tonight. because she could kick, try to claw away at the sacrifice of her shoulder, but how would she beat him downstairs. how could she make it out the sliding glass door and into her empty house, and where else would there be to go. who else could there be to save her. 

her body unfailingly betraying her, mouth open to reveal the bloodstained lips she’s painted for herself in a last attempt to avoid the pain that’s oncoming. how else might she show him what he asks of her. was the scar not enough, the screaming, crying bloodstained carpet, the bruises that will last for days if not weeks. what might he ask but for her eyes to hollow out and have no one else but him. no she’s going to show him. and she will. because she has no choice, there is no exit left for her to take but the one that will come when he opens the bedroom door for her himself. the desperate misery of it all. 

she refuses to say anything, her voice would have come out high and stifled from his hold. and what would she have even said that wasn’t immediately thrown back in her face. maybe silence will be enough to get it over with. her one free hand holding fast to the carpet for her first chance to pull away, gaze slipping from the sight he was so intent on her watching and falling to the pile of ripped clothes that laundered the floor. she didn’t think she was scared for whatever happened next. it didn’t mean it merited anymore than what she’d already given. she refused to say anything, she’d already lost. 

He's her first. First one to split her open, rearrange her organs, cast her from the mold of his touch again and again. But she never can get it perfect, always has to squirm, always shows the seams of his work when he's done with her. She's got to rip the stitches apart from her lungs, let the blood trickle in where she makes them go raw, has had a taste for it since the first time he introduced her to it. She used to take it like a delicacy, small grunts given back; now, she's never satisfied, screams so loud her chest is contoured to the shape of her ribs.

Her body is tight between his knees, holding onto that last piercing howl that keeps her tethered. Rigid spine, barely concealed from the half remnant of a tattered shirt, held on by one shoulder. A loose sling of cotton fibers won't do her any good, not with a shoulder that's been pounded by a boot and the connected wrist clutched and drawn up behind her back. This palm of his, ownership penned with the tip of a blade, is whatever he wants it to be. She should know by now that it'll always be that way, but sometimes the pieces in her little head shake loose. Up to him to screw them back together.

There's no forgetting tonight. He promised it. What will remind her first? Will it be the imprint of his hand against her face, thumb pressing down on her nose, the carpet burn on her cheek he makes sure is rocked into her flesh? Or is it going to be her bent back arm with the palm that has nerves still twitching in it, still so afraid of the blade that kissed it or the fire that drew its tongue over it? His money is on something she hasn't even felt yet tonight, beyond the slide into his parted jeans, beyond the heat that swims into the open slices of her hand.

"No final words?" His voice has a smile in it, as dark as his tone is, the depth of it growing as her wrist is made to twist and pull by his own command. "Come on," he goes on, pushing more of his weight forward, digging further against her cheek to have fibers underneath embed themselves in her pores. "I know how much you want to scream again." Her fingers are made to curve around him, scraping flakes of her flesh desperately hanging on with a sudden thrust forward. "Go on, princess. Let me hear it."

The corner of her eye is spread across by his pointer finger, upper lid rubbed into. Oh, how one sudden push from her could have him digging through that eye of hers. He could pop it right out if he needed to, leave it dangling out of her socket. The idea pulses through him, tempting, pounding through the veins she's made to take care of. Least of what she owes him, isn't it? But she's never thinking of that. Never thinking of anyone but herself. How's it feel, now? To finally give back? To know she's making a difference with every rush of his hips that dive further and further into her hold. She becomes not the only one with parted lips, only his are decorated with teeth, glaring down at her even through the dark.

His knees clutch harder as if her ribs could be so easily bent under his pressure, popping blood vessels to show up by the time she ever makes her way home or wherever she'll find herself soon. Too early to tell. The grip against the side of her face strengthens, some of the nails burrowing into her scalp while the others nestle in her skin, keeps her still while his final push is drawn. The heavy laugh mingles with the sight of her mouth dampening, coating itself in him, enough to have droplets form on her chin and jaw. He barely can get the words out through his humor and the extra breath that rushes in, but his words find a way to rumble in her ear as her hand is tossed back at her side, useless to him now.

"Look at the fucking mess you made."

[seraphxdavis]

claudiamcrshall​:

the voice rang out, echoing through her head trying to find placement, the same dark threats that had once set her running into the woods, fighting for her life the best way she knew how. the only way she knew how— disappearing. maybe if he’d said hello, how are you, it’s been some time. a million different scenarios where when he walked through the door he didn’t still see the version of her that had been coughing up blood the night before her father had dropped her off at the airport. 

the voice grated against her, but she didn’t have time to feign surprise. why look up from the book with an i thought you were dad. because the door was locked, everything was locked, no one was supposed to have the key except for the owner of the house. “i was expecting—” but he grabbed her hair, pulled it back so there was no mistaking who it could be, reminder received from the heavy footsteps at the entrance. everything since just driving the point home. here is your frozen winter childhood, here is the past you will never escape. 

“i wasn’t expecting you.” sounded braver than she felt, just slightly. reminder serving only to prove that nothing had changed. her nickname sour, aged badly. she pulled her head back, letting the strands pull against his grasp. pained reminder that she didn’t need, there were still plenty every time she had to change, to shower, to think of herself as something more. eighteen years of damage could not be undone in one, much as she’d thought she’d tried. “not too long.” her fingers curled into the book, the betrayal of a calm exterior. “how’d you know i was here?”

She was always quick to forget. Teach her one thing, and it'd be leaking out of her ear before his breath was done, scarlet letter from her own hand as if she was proud of being that sloppy. Maybe if he just shook the lesson back into her skull, let it rattle just the right way to fit into that missing void. It was barely dipped into thought before the action was teased, hand grasping harder, crescent nips left behind, smooth skin spooling in his touch, her cut off voice vibrating against his palm. Like nothing had changed, grin tearing into her pupils to welcome her back as she ripped her hair, yanked from the scalp, still a fistful of worthless strands between his fingers that refused to come undone.

"Who else would come see you?" That joking tone, that corrosive edge of implication, how it ebbed and flowed between a laugh and the image of the walls being sprayed with blood. Not a single person would care enough; not a single person would dare risk it. After all this time, she was still the kind of damaged goods that would forever hold her maker's mark, flashing warning label to be returned to owner. A year away wasn't going to make those signs disappear. She was right about one thing for once; it hadn't been that long for that to happen. Eternity wasn't going to set her back to being a blank canvas, fresh little thing, untouched and pure. She never was that.

"I know it's been long enough for you to come running back for more," he returned, playful scratch of the thumbnail to her nape, digging in as if it was their childhood game, built on nostalgia instead of burning tears and muddy tantrums. Push and push until she got misty-eyed, then push and push some more to have her dissolve, sink so far down she'd never be able to pick herself back up. Pry that fucking claw away from her picture book, give her the answer she's asking for, remind her that there are things in this world that are more than skin deep, that they will forever have a place in her veins.

"When have I ever lost you?" he asked her, voice laced in acidic honey as his free hand forced hers open, spread it to see her palm no matter what struggle he faced. Had to see the open wound it used to be, the ring of discolored scar tissue; she had to look at it, too, held it up for both of them, one wrong move and he'd add a crooked digit to the mix for her. Brush of her hair was pressed to the side of his chin, his face beside hers but not on any equal plane, always above her, the keeper to the kept. “Don’t worry. Maybe today will be the day you’ll get it.” She’s had enough practice, but it’s never enough. Running his hand up her little head as if etching the knowledge into her, dragging her hair up, tossing it over the side of her face, showing off the side of her throat to him as his breath ran down it. “I’ll always know where my slut is."

[seraphxdavis]

claudiamcrshall​:

@seraphxdavis​

nate had picked her up from the airport, assured her that he was happy to catch up over the break. he wanted to see her, he was glad to have her home. but, he hadn’t taken any time off work for it, handed her the keys to her mom’s old car in case she needed to run an errand, and left her to herself. which would have been fine if she was alone, just the backpack of books that she’d brought and a heap of blankets on her bed to keep her warm. but she hadn’t packed a backpack of books, she’d been careful to keep it light— just one paperback painting with light. and she stayed in the living room with all of the doors locked, a mug on the coffee table while she sat on the floor.

and still there was the rattle of the front door, the catch of her breath as though she might be able to pretend that no one was home if she just pulled her knees into her chest, if she just waited every storm would pass. the paperback gripped firm in her hands, hoping that he would just leave her alone. because it’d been over a year and she hadn’t seen him, hadn’t heard his voice. wasn’t it enough to move on because their lives were far along diverging paths and she was leaving the day after christmas. 

she wished her dad had taken a half day to ask her how school was going and if she needed anything. the door swung open, and she wished she could just disappear. she knew whatever she said would come out in a wobbly unsure voice, so she said nothing at all. a chess player didn’t have to make the first move to win the game. maybe if she kept an eye on the open page of her book she could just claim focus and send the newer version of seraph davis on his way. 

Nate hadn't fucking SHUT UP about that slut the moment he had gotten off the phone with her. He had been there when the call happened. Sat right on that couch next to him before he had gotten up. Same couch that knew every inch of his daughter, in some places still had little notches in it from where her fingernails dug into the armrest. Nate was none the wiser, usually put his own hand on top of them without batting an eye, sometimes with a cold beer, but when he came back into the room, he took a chair like Seraph hadn't been the one always making the visits. No, everything had to stop dead in its tracks for the return of little miss popular!

Only was a matter of time before Nate got tired of her. Turned out it didn't take long. Saw the police car drive out of the driveway, turn a left down the street, disappear for the routine shift like it wasn't any different of a day than the usual. That left one all alone, probably crying by herself that no one was taking care of her, that she had come all this way for nothing. The least Seraph could do was give her something to remind her of the place for old time's sake, and maybe if she was good, he could make it permanent for her. Not as if anyone would go looking for her when she had already made a habit of abandoning the grieving sap. Should have thought of that before coming just to ignore him.

The doorknob was locked. Can you fucking believe that? As if he was a stranger! Hilarious. Who did she fucking think she was? Acting as if she still had rights to this place. She gave that up a long time ago. The spare key was lifted up under one of the rocks, held it for a moment with a grin, flash of how much better it'd look with a piece of her brains still clinging to it. Got a laugh out of him as he dropped it, the sound of it hitting the cement walkway better than a doorbell before he slid the key in.

He expected her to look up, but she stayed to her book. Not a single fucking word! Not a welcome back! Good to see you! I'm still your slut! Not even her favorite words, not even a glance up.

"What's the matter?” he called out to her as he stepped closer. “You're not looking for attention? That's not like you!" He still smiled, gave her the chance to make it right. Too bad that window was one already closing, just as he was closing in on her, moving to that same couch of theirs, before reaching down around the back of her neck. Gave it a tight squeeze, little sun-bleached hair of hers trapped in his grip as his face saddled up against her ear. "Don't worry, princess." Quick yank back for her eyes to catch up to his, tugging from the tangled roots. "I know it’s been too long for you to remember how it felt. I’ll remind you.”

[seraphxdavis]

claudiamcrshall​:

her fingers stretched back, pulling at skin that was already torn apart, splitting and blistering. a ruined hand. even if it healed would she ever be able to get the image out of her mind of the deep red that coated skin. had it ever been a hand in the first place, had it been hers. the spit hit the deepest part of the wound, where the knife had cut just deep enough that it hurt more than the burn, a throat scratched “ow—!” on instinct, watching more blood pool, rushing to try and clot the injury before it could be pulled into a new angle. too little too late, as he bent her hand the other way. 

she dropped her right hand, little fist curling in the carpet because he might have cornered her but it didn’t mean she had to do everything. nails dug in deeper to balance the pain of feeling her skin tearing at the force of his grip, the pressure that wouldn’t let up. as if it wasn’t enough that she was going to be marked forever, that she should have some fucking depraved memory to go with it. her head forced up to look at him. angry tearfilled little girl eyes. “let—go.” but she lacks conviction, words pulled apart by pain and struggle. said despite knowing they would never be listened to. she tried to pull her hand back, succeeding in only driving the pain deeper, cut further in with the motion.

she is agony. something tied in with those words, that she might never recover from this version of herself. could it be so, that she really would never be separate from this trap that she found herself in time and time again. just to be used. she certainly felt the weight of it. the layer of smoke and grim that covered bare skin as if that was a suitable replacement for what had been ripped off of her.

he had her exactly where he wanted her for only a moment more before she twisted her hips, feeling her skin scrape raw from where the seams of his boots had pressed in, but in the sacrifice she’d managed to pull her leg in knee as close as she could. it wasn’t the most well thought out of her plans, but when backed into the wall her options were limited. she slammed her knee against the bone of his shin, combined with her free hand, hoping there was enough strength to shift him off balance. after all, he’s put his most precious appendage in her hand, the sudden shift in weight couldn’t have been pleasant. though she’s never been strong enough to completely push him away, more so the last cry of the someone who couldn’t go down without one last burst of anger.

she’d said get it over with and he’d taken it as carte blanche victory to claim whatever he’d wanted. after she’d said everything he asked, done everything he directed. and at the very base of her being, that was already too much. but it didn’t mean she broke free, and it wasn’t the kind of action that would ever leave this corner of the room. “i’m not worried.” her voice is the least of her energy. she hadn’t expected to accomplish much, but at least she’d tried. pathetic. “how could i forget.”

She reeks. Used up, worn out, separating at the seams. She's a cocktail of rusted iron, dirty laundry, and musk that oozes from naked pores. Yet there's still life in those little lungs, cruddy stolen air, petty theft, taking what isn't hers just to spit it back out in half-sounds. 'Ow' comes out with a moan, heated enough to char her throat, crackling around the edges. 'Let go' is followed with glistening eyes, pleading expression, had to catch her breath in between just those two words to keep up. Suck up more of the oxygen, fill your chest, balloon waiting to pop. Look at her torn up shirt. She wants to be shred up, as long as it's by his hands, a pin at every touch, ready to send her flying across the room.

But it's her. Selfish. Ungrateful. Needy. Her. She's a fucking mess, tattered wrapper of someone's daughter, half-whore, half-dupe. She doesn't know how close she is to meeting the incinerator with the move she's about to make. It shoots up his leg, knee against shin, bone against bone. The hand he took as his betrays him, wrenching around him, piercing up the root of his being. His breath scrapes his teeth. His knee bends. His kindness is the only thing that falls.

"FUCKING BITCH!"

If he had a gun in his hand, there would be a hole in her brains; he'll settle for her neck to leave a hole in her lungs. She's grabbed. Yanked forward. Too much force and not enough. Thrown on the floor, front first. Oh, these hands! Now, she appreciates them to catch her fall! Too late to say sorry with a boot slamming into her right shoulder, all his weight to flatten her into his floor. Unbridled fury becomes him. It scorches him from the inside out. This is hatred. He'll give her horror. Should have appreciated things when she had the chance as he returns the favor of her crimes.

Left wrist is grabbed next, that very palm that was given freedom loses all privilege, stretched out behind her back, hinged by the delicate mercy of her elbow. "What's there to worry about?" he asks her, twisted grin etched in his voice, just a spasm away from ripping out her throat. If she wants to answer him, it'll be tangled in a strained breath as his body shifts harshly against her, foot grating off the shoulder, knees on either side of her waist, free hand gripping onto her chin to force half of her vision to get an eyeful of him.

Darkness shines through him, features bleeding into valleys of the night, blue eyes a shade of grey, blond hair a dusting of moonlight. She has a touch of it, too. Mud off his shoes, soot from her mess, dried blood from her head. It's more than skin-deep. It's in her bones, same ones that make her jaw, same jaw that his palm molds around, thumb dragging up the cheek to thin out her face before it thrusts the profile of her nose, cutting the supply off for her mouth to jump open like a pull-string doll.

"You're going to show me you won't forget."

[seraphxdavis]

claudiamcrshall​:

there was one version of the world where the knife sank into seraph’s shoulder, clean and sharp. pain returned to the source, or at the very least enough for rosie to focus on the new target. how much could it hurt. could it break a wrist again. even with such a caveat, willing sacrifice, she is not in the version of the world where she gets her way. seraph caught her hand before it came close, crushing grip encircling her wrist but not breaking. fingernails carving crescent moon cuts in their wake. of course she struggles, tries to pull away as he yanks her closer. his breath against her ear for only a moment before she tilts her head away. struggles like her life depends on it, because doesn’t it? her hand already being forced against her will at an awkward angle, the pain just enough to distract her from her primary task as distraction. she falls distracted instead, trying to gain some control. 

“i fucking—” her sentence is cut midway by a sharp gasp, the knife cutting into the skin above her hip. it wasn’t that she was in the version of the world where she might have a chance, luck was gone from her completely. she was useless paralyzed, eyes wide taking in nothing but his fucking smile. it goes deeper, slow sinking, fear seeping in where there should have only been anger. not that the action had happened, but she was powerless, she could do nothing. she struggled, tried to pull back, to slacken her own grip, and all for nothing. but right before it could really puncture, he’s pulled away, grip goes loose enough that she can finally wrench the knife away, just shallow enough that when it goes wide it only scratches instead of disemboweling. it clattered to the floor, blade gleaming red.

the cost of her own victory is immediately apparent as the dog skittered across the kitchen, the first to hit the floor and not get back up. how could she after a metal boot to the chest, how could she even breathe. one hand presses on the wound that’s quietly pooling blood against her sweater, the other to her mouth by the quick shock of events. claudia knew both the steel toes that seraph favored and the wheezed breath of broken ribs, she knew before either man that the dog was not getting back up and that if it hadn’t been one rosie to drop it would have been the other. 

“get out.” it sounds far weaker than it should, the pouting of a weak child against nothing. she simply could not stand in this kitchen any longer, she simply could not leave it so long as he was still here. “get out!” there was no promise of how long he might be banished, or if the word might have held any meaning at all. but her harsh voice echos right at home against the walls of this kitchen. absorbing another sight, taking in what should have been a scream and nullifying it. lower lip almost trembles, caught in the still building meltdown. but of course that’s what he wants, why else would he have named the dog after her. why say anything at all to julian, when she’d been hoping for nothing but frosty indifference she got this awful dose of reality. that he could say any manner of thing, and it would still sting as though she was twelve years old and coughing up mud. 

she wants to run over and pound on his chest until he stops breathing, little fists hitting at muscles that would have to give eventually. how dare he say this, how dare he do this, how dare her dad die now and make it all so terrible so quickly. wasn’t it just a few weeks ago she’d been standing in the california desert and thinking this was how life was supposed to be. instead she’s standing in her fucking kitchen and she’s about to start pooling blood on the floor again. he must know he’s won from her expression, but she wondered if just for a moment she’d be okay with it if he just left her the fuck alone, the dog enough of a distraction to give her space for the first time since she’d landed in washington. 

“he gets it!” the yell met with a sharp inhale from the wound, pressing harder to stop it. she’s not sure he does, not in the full dawning that someone who went to high school with them might. someone who still holds her up to some higher standard that she’d hope to one day meet. he doesn’t know the words carved in her locker-face, the laughter, the windows always facing. but she never wants him to, shouldn’t that be enough. “go to a fucking hospital.” how any other time she might have relished the moment that his teeth are stained red and the blood is his own, and he has to leave he simply has to. instead she is just tired, pushed back into the world that he has created for her and there is no guarantee for her safety. 

In color, they have matching mouths. He sees it and thinks nothing of it as he leans down to her; he's never been the one compared to a dumb bitch and he's not about to start now, not even if it's a dying wish, a last plea of being noticed, of wanted, of an eagerness to please. Rosie's mouth is red for now, pulsing tongue, bright gums, ruby blood mixed in her own spit, but he's seen it too many times to know that that lively color will be extinguished to a ghostly pale by the time the last breath is over. And he will live on, just as he always does, a stain on his teeth and a swollen lip as the only reminder it happened at all.

She's hauled up, a shifting skeleton that's in pieces commanding a shiver through the ears from the yelp that's produced. Her breathing grows faster to catch up, little chest bobbing against him. The look that's flashed over at her as he turns is clear: remind you of anyone? It's all in the smile, the way his tongue coats over the canine tooth to wipe off the fresh blood it's producing from underneath. There's a laugh just for her at the back of his throat from the way she tells him to go, that feeble, half-sure, half-tempted voice before she's got to put on a different one for their foreign exchange friend.

"Que te den por culo! She said get out!"

He doesn't know who he's talking to, telling him to leave his house, the house he knows belongs to him at heart, but the steps that are taken to him are cut by her voice again, the pull of her enough to stop, as if he can hear her pain in there. Look at those priorities. Besides, what else is there to do when his mind is on his damaged dog and Seraph's arms are full with his? At least he seems to know his is bleeding.

"You don't have to lie. I know you've got some explaining to do. Wouldn't want him to get the wrong idea here, would we?"

But she can't leave well enough alone! Not even when he's walking out, and there's something fucking funny about it. That's what we call desperation! Rosie is jostled up to get a better grip while he reaches out for the door knob, laughter for her tangling in another whine, one that's running ragged.

"Funny when we all know who's into drugs around here," he reminds as the exit swings open, a twist around to see the Spaniard on his tail, hand to the door with that puzzled look on his face. Could swear by the look there's some recognition there. Bitch. "Better watch what you take, Julian Santiago."

SLAM

[seraphxdavis]

julianxsantiago​:

claudiamcrshall​:

she’s grown soft. with her kickboxing classes and joking and always being kissed good night, it’s rounded out every edge that had been left purposely jagged, sharps that were supposed to stick and protect her. it didn’t happen, she was coddled with te amo and forever, thinking she could grow past things done to her and make it into things for her. and she was dizzy-sick staring at the slant of seraph’s mouth, not remembering her own steps in the dance that had been built for her own protection. she tried not to back away the moment that seraph takes a step forward, holding firm only because she is equal parts trapped and hoping to protect. her hand is squeezed and she is not a singular. but she’s always been the easier target given his options, she doesn’t want to step back now and leave julian exposed to what she already knows. his half shaken head met with only her wide eyed stare, how tired he looks. how she’s done this to them all.

seraph’s hand crashing on julian’s shoulder instead of hers, how worlds collide. how its still somehow heaviest on hers, and she lets go, reaches over to push his hand off but julian’s beat her to it. she’d be lying if there wasn’t some satisfaction that came from watching seraph fucking davis catch a fist to the face, and not defend against it, not let it be some glancing blow, let it sink in fully and wipe the smile off his face. but that’s her soft edges, thinking it could be so simple as a one and done. that the dog that had been at the periphery of everything was just menacing decoration meant to keep her in place while he ran his hands across her checking for loose parts. it wasn’t the case— she was stupid to think so. 

she was shoved back before she had the chance to react, transfixed on seraph’s bloody mouth, the words that spill out of it. she hit the wall behind them, staring right at him and how he finally pronounces santiago but she got stuck five words earlier and her world is caving in. even at the top of her game, she had no defense against the weakest parts of her heart. hearing her middle name, her nickname on seraph’s tongue after she screamed at him so long ago to never ever ever say it again. he’d read off a letter meant for just her at age ten because rosie was just her in her smallest form. it was only her uncle who said it and it wasn’t for anyone else on the planet to know. and he took it because he simply took everything. by the time her brain can process anything else julian has let out a hiss of pain that pierces through the fog threatening to encase her. she could hardly stand by in the mess that she created. 

she could feel the desperation rising up in her, anguish humiliation frustration tears, and the sound she made was that same stupid sharp breath in that always gave away that she’d been hurt at all. her expression had never been a mask, it was always a painted obvious sign how the color must have drained from her face. how quickly her world shifted from one tilting axis in which she was awaiting some punishment for a crime she had never committed to the next where she turns to actively catch the attention of tormentor and tool. she has only a moment, she only has the one gesture, julian or seraph, whos hand was there to take now. what was there left to do in the world where coffee spilled across the counter and the spoon was haphazardly tossed, the knife was—

there wasn’t a second thought, she lunged for the knife block quick and unpredictably. she knew seraph hadn’t been expecting it from the fact that she was able to get past him at all. and it was enough, it had to be, there was no extra time to overthink or hesitate when the dog was still growling. her hand wrapped around the first weapon she found. a steak knife, likely too dull to do any real harm, but it was in her hand and she turned. “rosie.” her voice was more firm than it felt, rage shimmering along the surface. didn’t matter if she actually hit her target, sinking it into seraph’s shoulder or chest, or fucking jugular. it just that it was flashy enough to catch the dog’s attention, that she meant to hurt him with the same intent as a punch to the jaw. even if he caught her midstrike, even if the dog tackled her to the ground before she even got close. none of it could be worse than what julian had already endured.

Blood thrashes in the veins, leaking through ripped vessels, churning and swelling around the muscles. It’s a shot of adrenaline, injected by needle-fine teeth through a leather sleeve. Wave after wave. Beat after beat. Pound, pound, pound all to the rhythm of the overworked heart. Torn open knuckles blister to a crimson heat, burning until they numb, the only feeling left to them the squeezing of life to capillaries that are kinked by Rosie’s mouth.

Julian’s hand to the back of her neck, prickle of short fur, fistful of skin, pulling, prying, driving into her, all for her to dig in just as hard, just as ferociously, wrenching back and forth to keep her place. The growling overwrites the pattern of the pulse, a shockwave tearing into protected flesh that can only stay protected so long before it breaks.

THUD

Claudia. His heart. His corazon. It’s flooding him, every cell, every trigger of pain, of wrath, of blinding instinct to fight to protect alight, a fire spreading. There is every role of defense for another between them, except for one. Just one. A black hole. A dark void. Nothing there. Only taking more and more, a sacrifice of blood stripped. Enough. Rosie’s ear is grabbed, twisted, a high pitch squeal pooling at the back of her throat that punches them both. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

“Rosie.”

It’s her voice, the glint of metal, the ripcord snap of recognition that puts the plan together, the sacrifice that is reaching its dawn.

“No! Joder!”

Tendons flex, life given back, released back to their wild state, freedom at what cost as the stream of saliva bares itself, opened up jaw ready to snap into a new victim. No. No. No! Both arms wrap around the rib cage, head jerking back to take a swipe at him, narrowly dodged, barely missed, one missing breath away from a chunk of his cheek being cleaved before all strength is heaved into tossing her across the linoleum, nails skittering, skull smashing into the cabinet, a rattle against its hinge. It’s as if the sound is delayed, asynchronous, needs to be edited, her demise is heard while her resurrection is witnessed, ravenous claws driving in, launching forward, just the same kind of impulse Julian takes, wringing around Seraph’s arm, pulling him in front.

There's blood in his mouth. Been a minute since he's tasted his own. Longer than he can really remember. She never would dare. Not really. Not without wanting something for it. He doesn't. He thinks he's won. A hero. An unseen tremor ripples through that nervous system of his, electrical jolts darting across his face, the kind that jerks the corners of the reddening lips into a grin, a scowl, the flashing of emotions that impulses dictate. Who does he fucking think he is?

Dog toy, is Seraph's guess.

Tongue swipes along his lower lip, hand to his jaw, adjusting it while Mr. Hollywood adjusts his life. What a sight it is to see that this is what she thought was better, what she had to run to, what she stayed with for all those years. Ten, wasn't it? His introduction to Rosie is tangled in a laugh because of it, a glimmer of it across the surface, one that trained ears can get. His own never lost their practice. If they had, what a shame it'd be had he missed that familiar breath of hers. That sharp intake, inverted moan, dilated eyes. What's it for, princess? The flashback of hitting the wall or is it suddenly making sense why you really came back? Why you let yourself be driven back home? Why you let the bruise form on your thigh on the way? Why your wrist will look the same in a few short hours? Maybe all of the above. You were always the smart one when it came to tests. What's the answer?

"Rosie... That's no way to treat a friend of the family," he coos over her snarls, over the gritted back grunt of breath the stranger steals in the room. It took him one moment, one moment he took for himself to look at the one she lured in here, for /her/ to take away the spotlight. Can't a guy be in pain without her trying to grab the attention all for herself! But she's not by herself. Look at her. A knife in hand, raised up. This bitch thinks she can stab him?

Julian Santiago's back turns, leaving her all alone for that second of need, of want, of what she's been missing all these ten years and more. Her hand is snatched, harsh tug forward as if stained linoleum in a kitchen is polished marble in a ballroom, and in his height his bloody lips are drawn to her ear, breath as biting as his fingernails in her wrist.

"I knew you'd like it. Named her after a bitch that just. Can't. Stop."

Does she feel it? Of course she does. She lives for it. Trickle of blood against her sweater, right above the hip bone, from her own hand. Have to make up for lost time. Impatient! Just can't wait for him to leave, can she?

And then he's grabbed. Turned around, facing his own dog, subordinate against master before she's even able to register him.

"STUPID BITCH!"

Mid-lunging seeing the mistake, but not before Seraph's boot slams into her chest, a heavy kick that knocks her down in a fit of whimpers that eventually draws ruby red droplets from a panting mouth. Now, everyone can walk away with their own souvenir of Winthrop.

"Just have to talk to them the right way, chico," he adds, a flash of dyed teeth his way while he walks to take up Rosie, who's now collapsed to her side, out of breath, labored breathing for what she can get in, maybe a punctured lung. Who's to say? "Guess you haven't practiced enough to know."

[seraphxdavis]

claudiamcrshall​:

he drew closer, she would have felt it even if she couldn’t hear it. but that laugh, low and bitter, chilling her to the bone. if there was any other alarm that could have gone off in her brain, it was for that. she was cornered, had cornered herself instead of risking humiliation, and she was going to pay for it. she had to. every decision was hers to make, and she chose wrong. his boots dug into her hips, hard and bruising, making it impossible to try an escape without losing a layer of skin, though she struggled against them anyways. they pinched in harder, pinning her to the spot, forcing her to focus on the unzipped pants and nothing else. 

regardless of his words, she feels like she’s had enough. heart a hummingbird in her chest, unable to stop the rush of shallow breathing that does nothing but make her dizzier. the sharp gasp as he pulled her hair, pressure against an already fresh wound pulled an awful whimper from her, the moan was all pain no pleasure, but wasn’t it still there all the same. vacuum in the room filled by her almost instantaneously. 

and sometimes, it wasn’t a noble fight, there was nothing particularly brave or remarkable about her. sometimes she was pushed to the very edge and there was no way out but through. sometimes it felt like the difference between life or death, even if it wasn’t. and yet that was the reason why trembling hand finally raised up, loose grip around him, following instructions in their bare minimum form. but she didn’t move any more, she’d given him her hand. it was what he asked. 

“get it over with.” just because it had to happen, didn’t mean she had to watch, head wrenched into an awkward angle but eyelids fluttering closed. the passive calm of the black space that existed when she wasn’t forced to stare. she lost some battles, he lost some, there was no war that she knew. it was just these stupid fucking games and she was tired, and she hurt, and all she wanted was to hear fine that’s enough, even though it never happened. 

Dirty, little husk of a girl. How he had stripped her down, let her skin show with all their living memories attached, notches of the attention she craved, doused in colors of exploration, only for her to show how rotten to the core she really was. His palm slicked against her scalp, a concoction of sticky iron staining his skin, could smell it in the air over the fumes of the blackened shirt she had to ruin. This was going to be a nice night, one for the scrapbook, until she had to get her grubby paws involved. Only seemed fair that she start using them to make amends, but she couldn't bring herself to do it right, always finding some way to make things difficult.

He felt it. After her breath tangled around him, sound lapped up, the palm she chose to touch him with was smooth, lines across them etched by life, the folds she gave to herself from any other sort of practice she gave everyone else. Not from him. He makes her his, a custom fit, molded to his design, and she does everything to push it away. His wrist wrenches because of it, clump of hair a ball of matted red cells in between his fingers, ready to be hurled. It's all just stitching on another ball, one hit too hard, shattering into the nearest window. But he wouldn't do that. Not tonight. Not when she's got her hands full already.

"I know you don't want me to do all the work. Not after everything else," he reminds, teasing voice that goes against the grip on her, the disconnect as always there, inescapable. "You should have just asked if you wanted me to hold your hand so bad." Dumb slut. Who is she fooling? As if she doesn't /know/ what to do.

"Show off the ring I gave you, princess." Not for debate, not when his free hand grabs hold of the back of her other hand, yanking it up against the will of those stubborn muscles of hers. "Don't be scared to make it official." She's swallowed up by his touch, no comparison and no mercy, digits stretching out and wrist bending back for the palm to be facing up. It exposes the proof of their bond, valley of his claim, the expanse of its permanency. Cut fresh, seared in, ruffled edges lining it before Seraph's chest raises, cheeks sallow, all to have his spit splash into it.

"Don't worry," he goes on, watching her face, shifting her hand forward, curling her fingers around him, feeling the wet peels of flesh flaking off in the press, "we both know you're always going to be dirty one way or another."

[seraphxdavis]

claudiamcrshall​:

JULIAN!

Non-stop drive. Coffee fueled. Bad mood soaked through and through from the start. He left as soon as the cancellation ended, only for hours to pass by to wind up here. If every flight to Seattle hadn’t been booked, if the airports hadn’t been somehow grounded after the plane he was supposed to be on left, he would have been really here sooner, not acting like some fucking mirage.

Exhaustion took a backseat, fired the second he crossed the threshold. Luggage in one hand, leather jacket protecting him from the cold of the outside and the chill of the inside. Coffee grinds spilled, spoon lost, what had he not seen to make it that way? It was the type of question that slipped in his eyes for Claudia to read, how she dragged his attention away the moment she spoke, the tone in her voice enough to make his jaw tighten before eyes flashed to the only one that could be blamed.

Who the fuck are you? What are you doing? Here? In this house? With her? Seraph. What name is that? What name is it that has never been heard before? What did you fucking do to make her this way?

His free hand draws to Claudia’s direction, fingers gesturing for her to step closer, away from a stranger that’s obviously a stranger to only him. There has never been a time less favorable for introductions than now, caffeine the only thing that’s keeping him tethered to this earth, temper percolating, civility flaking from its already needle-thin veneer that has never been known to stick well to him.

“Where else would I be?” he questions her first, glance to her, the knitting of the brows, the tell that this is not fine. But this isn’t the start of a war, not a war where he is on the opposite side of her, anyways. It’s their fight, but where did his invitation come from? The only one that’s there is the one he has designed himself, delivered by the fucking neighbor’s hand. How close he is to having his fist land through that smile, how it itches in his hand as it curls into one, ready to be thrown, how his teeth grit at his voice, his words, the only thing keeping it to his side is the darkness he’s been thrown into by Claudia, how it shows how little he knows, what he has walked into.

“No,” the word pulses back past clamped teeth against the question before his head gestures to her. “Listen to her. After ten years? She knows my name.”

the best thing in the world right now would be to disappear completely. to be swallowed whole and never return. worlds colliding with spectacularly negative results from the outset. the scowl across seraph’s face twisted her stomach, her own face gone ashen. it was not a lack of faith in her own defenses, but the horrific inability to know just when the down turned mouth will become the entire expression and she will be spitting up blood, or worse— humiliated in front of the only person she has left to care about. 

but the brain tries to calm, searching out that other face in the kitchen, the one which offers not punishment, but safety. how it was possible to be a team, not just two people forever entangled. but she’d pushed him into the dark and left him there, thought she could protect him from the awful, about hearing about who she used to be. before even the volatile girl he’d been exposed to, there was someone weaker.

it was easy to pick his gesture as the one to respond to. to move towards him with his hand near outstretched and waiting for her. it was enough for her to read it as an invitation. not angry, only questioning her own agitation. there was no raincheck for torment in his furrowed brow, just the wish for understanding. it must be unsettling enough for him, that she wavered in the decision at all, given the two men. but she finally takes her step towards her future not past, eyes downcast only for the moment before she decides. her hand takes the one thats been offered to her, how he must feel it cold and nothing. what had the word been, dead. 

“i thought flights were booked. i didn’t know when you’d—” but he came anyways, and before any harm befell her. standing in front of the speeding train and pulled away at the last minute. those words were for him alone, eyes trailing up as though she still couldn’t exactly believe that this is how the scene has found itself playing out. there was nothing to hide, not in the stupid flickering innuendos that seraph threw out. for once, someone was inclined to believe her first. it changed everything, it mattered more than he could have known.

her next sentence was tossed out more generally. to serve a purpose, to claim a side as if there had been any choice. “julian santiago.” perfect pronunciation, made to practice. she threw the words at seraph, nerve regained as quickly as it had been lost. how easy it was to regain feeling when she was no longer pressed into the counter top, to remember the truth. “you know who he is.”

There's a dent in reality. A formation that reverberates through space and time, bass on full blast, a jarring vibration that jackhammers its way in, stretching and stretching with every wrong step she makes, putting their gravity to the test. Funny! He doesn't remember giving her the choice. And while the white knight is looking at her, so is he. It's what she's wanted. All eyes on her. Little miss popular wouldn't have it any other way, would she? So proud of herself to show off how many times she's rolled her head back and screamed a name just to carry on family tradition.

"Someone's been practicing," words drip off his tongue, that lopsided smile being sliced by the glint in the eyes. Ten years. Yeah, he knows she's had lots of it to know her way around. Hasn't she always? "She's always been good with a mouthful." The words are for both of them, now, but she isn't let up until his hand falls on Don Quixote's shoulder, a heavy drop, playful, the kind of earnest treatment that a man shares with another man, to level with him, to make sure he understands the rules of the house he's walked into.

"Come on, don't be nervous. A friend of hers is a friend of mine, and let me tell you," he grins, how can he not, just bursting a bubble that should never exist in the first place, he's doing him a favor, "you've got a lot of friends to meet, amigo."

[seraphxdavis]

claudiamcrshall​:

she heard the front door open, and the sudden loss of pressure draws a sharp inhale from her. whatever tension had been building to some insurmountable point has no where to go in the presence of others. the hands that had been wandering so dangerously low are suddenly gone, her hand tingles with the rush of blood back to her fingers as he shifts his grip. it’s only a stay of execution, some well meaning childhood figure who heard she was going to be home. a few minutes of play acting that nothing was amiss, because it was only a few days and then she could be gone for good. they would say some thing about her father, undercut in how she could have been there. should have helped him. and then they would be on their way, and maybe she could get away with postponing the fight until later. after lunch. after the feeling returned to all five fingers so she could punch him right in the fucking face. 

the figure was blocked by seraph’s frame, her own eyes unable to break from his. trying to figure out if this will be the kind of game that they’re on the same team for. against the adults of the world, or if he’s going to play at humiliation. sick double entendres that churned her stomach and made everyone else in the room laugh. what was the cost really, she was of no expense. but then she hears the voice. his voice, how even that insult feels more like home than the four walls that were currently around her. she pushed seraph away, finally able to back off the counter top that had been digging into her back. an action with more force and thoughtlessness than she’d meant, but there is suddenly the chance she won’t pay for it.

and she sees julian standing there, in her childhood kitchen. saving her without realizing it; following her all they way even after she’d been so awful on the phone. short and clipped, contributing nothing to the questions he asked her. how could she when every word resulted in another pinch, another squeeze, a reminder that she was a long way from hollywood. she was a long way from her dream. she’s never been any good at hiding her emotions, what relief must be breaking over her face with crystal clarity for both men. she could burst into tears. she could run into his arms and pray salvation. she does neither, deserves neither, shifting on unsteady feet. “you’re here” her voice is thick with the tears that she suddenly refuses to shed. she doesn’t know for whose sake she might try and bury the feeling. “you made good time.” because that’s what she would have joked, if anything were right, if he hadn’t walked into this as opposed to something simpler, neater.

“this is my next door neighbor. he helped my dad out.” she hesitated at the description, how it would draw some remark in comparison. his anger seared against her, she didn’t have to look to know it. “seraph, davis.” step further away from him, little string that was supposed to connect the two of them snapping the more distance she was able to put. “we were making coffee.” counter splattered with grinds that she waved to as if they were more explanation and less crime scene. everything spun as she tried to connect the two realities that had just collided. she rubbed her wrist absently, eyes trailing the dark figure he cut against the dusty old wood. how she could have burst at the mere sight of him. “you’re really here.”

Well, isn't it the white knight, coming to the rescue of the princess, ready to take her back home from her tower? Not today! That's the problem with language barriers; there's always something in the details that gets lost. This isn't a knight. She's not his princess. And where do you think they are now if not home? This is the only home she will ever know, Winthrop tattooed on her heart, marks to prove it, some from cauterized treatment when stitches just weren't good enough for her. Had to make sure it lasted, time and time again. He's seen them. He knows it. The real question is, who hasn't?

Seraph's gaze doesn't leave the outsider, and look at that; it's mutual. Can you read the thoughts through the eye contact? Can you read between the lines made of coffee grinds? Can you hear the subtext in a whore's tears that are welling in her throat because nothing else is down there? Can you?

What a dumb question. Who is this? You know who I am. No introduction needed. Don't believe what she says. Don't let her lie to you. Mr. Hollywood, you've met me before. Don't you remember when she took off her clothes the first time so you could see whose name is on her? It's part of the scars she begged for, a type of branding you'll never master. I know you saw it on her palm, on her finger, that princess cut ring that you fucking tried to rip off of her. You've been a fan of my work every time you've run your hands over her, fingers in her hair when you grabbed it, felt those knots in her skull from me. Guess whose face she pictured when she was dreaming? Turning back and forth in your bed, remembering where she belongs? You know who I am. You know me as well as I know you, chico. We're family.

Someone just hasn't told you that family around here means another funeral to plan.

"Buenos dias," he speaks, the air shifting, the tug of one corner of his lips rising. The profile view of the scowl reserved for Claudia to catch. She'll choke on her words soon enough. Just not here. "We didn't plan on you walking in on us. She's a messy one, isn't she?" Leaning off the counter, a step is taken, one that rises the head of the dog in the corner, but Seraph is all smiles, he's here to make friends, make him feel right at home, just like the good neighbor she's told him he is. "You’re Hoolian, right?"