#*redwell prompt

[blondierosebourne]

need your love ♦ a drabble

"Life, woman, life is God's most precious gift; no principle, however glorious, may justify the taking of it." -- Arthur Miller

It was the plain stable boy.

Perhaps Alexis found herself so mesmerized because he had resisted every one of her tricks, every one of her tempting wiles, and treated her with nothing but courteous respect. Perhaps the hard ripples of his abdomen or the thick, rich color of his skin or the dark curls of his inky locks or the way he seemed to glisten and sparkle after a long day in the field that kept her attention from wavering. She hardly knew and she hardly cared. It took everything in her to keep herself from shaking him, from screaming in his face, "Can't you see me?" However, as frustrated as she was by his indifference, she was still a lady, and for no one and nothing would she drop that pretense. After all, it was only her polite graces and her wide blue eyes that kept the other ladies at court from condemning her as a whore, a vicious, manipulative whore.

However, all of that collapsed when her mother brought word of the stable boy's departure.

"He spoke of a better position in the city," Henrietta said with a shrug, her eyebrows arching at her daughter's shock. The gentle but firm matriarch had a hint of knowing in her eyes, as though she could see straight through to Alexis' infatuation. The young blonde's hands wrung together, her gloves wrinkling as she did so.

"Did he say when he'd be leaving?" Alexis asked, her voice airy and light, as though she hardly cared. However, her mother was no fool. She could see the question confirm the other's suspicions, but she hardly cared. She would not have him slip through her fingers, not if she could help it.

"A fortnight," the older woman replied. She paused, ever so slightly, the silence weighted with reproach. Yet again, Alexis hardly cared; Henrietta had her best interests at heart, but her mother had no power to change her daughter's mind once it had been set. And Alexis' desire was carved into marble, permanent, irrevocable. "Why?" The question was casual, but Henrietta's eyes flashed with warning. If the young blonde wanted a prosperous marriage, she did not need a reputation of cavorting with those beneath her. And she most certainly needed her maidenhead in tact.

"Petunia had grown accustom to his care," Alexis answered with equal casualness. That much was true; her silver stallion loved the stable boy as much as her owner desired him. "She'll be sad to see him go." I'll be sad to see him go.

And so two weeks passed in a blur. Alexis saw more suitors, strung them along, and never made a definitive decision, leaving them all with lipstick smudged on their cheeks and their hearts reeling backwards and forwards for the beautiful blonde who only had to smile to wriggle her way into their entire being. She attended her lessons, learning to sew and cook and clean and read and write. But she spent far more time riding Petunia than she had in years, going down to the stables every day. And every day, the stable boy would remain evasive, unresponsive to her flirting. Never crossing the line of propriety, keeping his hands to himself and his eyes fixed on her face, he was immovable by desire, if he even felt desire for her.

It finally came to the last day that he would remain in the countryside working for the Rosebournes, and Alexis felt as though walls were closing in on her. She was trapped by the propriety she refused to abandon and the rise and fall of the sun. All day, she spent her time skittishly pacing around her chambers, her handmaidens barred from entering. She had to make this decision for herself. To go to him, to confess her desire, to ignore any and all repercussions if he reciprocated, or to do nothing and watch him ride off into the hills.

By mid afternoon, she'd reached her consensus.

Stepping into the tightest, lowest, most provocative dress she owned, her hair held tight in golden curls atop her head like a tower, she walked purposefully towards the stables, her heart and mind set upon what was going to happen. Either she'd walk out a woman with humiliation to be faced later or she'd walk out with shame heavy on her shoulders at her own stupidity. Regardless, however, she slipped inside of the barn, the strong musk of horses and hay wrapping itself around her. The stable boy was brushing out Tempête, her father's thick, roiling mare, the horse glistening under the orange afternoon light.

"Leon." She finally spoke his name, announcing her presence. He glanced up, and she swore she saw shock glance across his features. However, it could've easily been a trick of the light, and she refused to paint herself silly with false hope. "I've...come to ask you something." That was a vastly oversimplified explanation of why she'd spent the last two weeks grappling with the sort of desire that kept her awake at night.

"Milady, if you want to see Petunia, she's--"

"I came to see you."

The silence that hung between them was filled with tension. Alexis could see his muscles tensing, his jaw tightening, as though he had almost known that she would do this, that she would come to him. However, she could not decipher if the tautness of his body was him hardening himself against her due to hatred or desire. She swallowed down whatever fears, whatever insecurities held her back and took one step forwards. She took it as a good sign that he didn't take a step backwards.

"Why?" His question was curt, and his eyes seemed to fixate on hers, his deep, brown gaze locking on her aquamarine stare. His voice was gruff, turning the beauty of the French language into a guttural grunt. Where Alexis was lilting and beautiful like a flower in the breeze, he was a rock, immobile and incorruptible. She took another step forwards, and Alex could slowly see him unraveling. She caught the quick flick of his eyes downwards to the curve of her chest, and she took that as a victory. A third step, and she was close enough to reach out, to touch him, to kiss him. She had never been kissed before, never like she'd always wanted to be. Hard, fast, and rough, not chaste and loving. She had never felt the strong ripple of muscles underneath her fingers, twisting and contorting to match her movements. As though he knew what she was thinking, Leon cleared his throat.

"Because you're leaving tomorrow," Alex murmured, taking another, final step closer. She could see the sweat beading along his jaw, could see the light stubble spattered on his cheeks and the thick swell of his lower lip. She had given into desire, and all she needed was for him to do the same.

"I am sorry to leave, but it cannot be helped." His voice was wavering, quivering, and Alexis took that as her second victory.

Boldly, rashly, she took a chance. She leaned forwards, closing the distance between them, and pressed her mouth to his. It was as though he was battling with himself as their lips glanced against each other; he was still for a moment, not responding to the kiss, and a terrible sort of fear found root in Alexis. And then his arm slid around her, pulling her closer, and his lips parted easily for her tongue. She found herself twining her fingers in his wild curls as she'd wanted to do ever since she laid eyes on him, gasping against his mouth as he tore through her dress, roughly and desperately. She hardly cared about the dress, not when she felt as though every sense in her body had finally been awakened. She never wanted anything more than she wanted this, the sharp ardor of heavy breaths, swollen lips, and roving hands. Her hands slipped underneath his shirt, palming and pressing against the thick chords of muscle lining his chest, his abdomen, his sides. The jut of his hip bones, the way they sharply angled out above the line of his pants, made a small moan pull itself from her lips.

Leon flipped her with ease, pressing her to the wooden wall of the stable. His mouth moved from hers, traveling down to her neck with ravaging desperation. Alexis' words were barely words, ghosts of gasps and groans.

"Why did you not tell me sooner?" she asked, breathless. Had she known he reciprocated such fervid desires, she would've come to him months ago.

"Because you are a lady, and I'm a mere stable boy," he mumbled out against her neck. "Because you and I--"

"We are creatures of passion, and thus should make passion regardless of our last names," Alex groaned, as his hand pressed between her thighs, slipping inside of her. Her words were lost as she clamped down on her lower lip, his fingers inside of her far more teasing than she'd ever been to any man. Leon's lips quirked upwards in a smirk at her response to him, a glint of pride in his eyes; it only served to make her wetter, to make her hips jerk into his, their bodies rolling against each other. He caught her mouth with his, their lips sliding against each other as an orchestra of gasps and moans filled the air. Alexis could feel a tightening in her stomach, as though she was sitting atop Petunia, and the horse was about to plummet over the steepest hill in the rolling greenery. But just before the silver mare took her descent with galloping hooves, Leon stopped. His hand slid upwards, no longer resting between her thighs, to palm at her breasts, the motion tugging a wrecked groan out of her.

She was too far gone to care about any sort of decency, and her hands reached downwards, yanking at his pants. Her palms rested against the curve of his arse, urging him forwards. Alexis reveled in the way that Leon treated her, as though she wasn't a princess that he had to worship, but a creature he wanted to destroy, and yet he still listened to the insistence of her desire, his hips following the path that her yearning hands indicated. He thrust into her, and Alex was whole.

Pleasure hit her instantly. She was drowning in it, and she hadn't even reached its peak; it was a waterfall of color, as though she could see every particle in the barn with stunning accuracy. She could feel every touch of Leon's hand as though he was touching every part of her at once. Nothing had ever felt as beautiful as this, as pure; because that's what this was. Purity and innocence wrapped in sin as though the Devill himself was smiling down upon her, and he was beautiful. She grasped for Leon's mouth, pulling it to her own, and she tasted heaven on his lips.

However, as she climaxed, groans and gasps vibrating through her, something shifted. No longer was Leon's face mirroring hers, his expression as filled with ecstasy as Alexis'. His handsome features were twisting, melting almost, as though the heat of their passion was reducing him to something else. Her body felt hot where he touched her, his length inside of her almost burning, but it was a pleasurable sort of heat. She allowed herself to enjoy it because it was already pulling a second, third, fourth moan from her lips. Slowly, the heat was growing, and it surpassed anything Alexis had ever felt, better than his hands between her thighs, better than the rhythmic thrusting of their bodies, better than his teeth clamping on her collarbone, his lips suckling at the tender skin. This was heaven.

And then Leon turned to dust and ash in her hands.

Alexis was too wrapped in light, in fire, in heat, and in passion to notice at first. The pleasure had gotten under her skin and turned her body into a puddle of desire, and there was nothing she could do but ride out the ardor. However, as it dissipated, horror set in. She fell to her knees, her chest still heaving, tears pricking at her eyes. He had been in her arms one second, and then the next, he was gone. He had been reduced to a pile of ashes that littered themselves on her feet, against her bare legs, the remnants of what used to be the most beautiful man she'd ever set eyes on.

Tears fell freely down her cheeks, and she could not admit what she'd just done. She couldn't even allow herself to form the words in her mind. Things like this didn't just happen. The fairy tales her mother had told her as a child were just that: fairy tales. No ghosts and ghouls lurked in the darkness to steal her away. But then how on earth did she explain what had just happened? How did she put into words what she'd just seen?

Regardless of how she'd done it, one fact rang true within her: she had just killed Leon.

At the realization, she let out a small scream, her tears rising to hysteria, her hands shaking desperately as she covered her lips. She bit into her palms to keep herself from crying out yet again, so deeply that she could taste blood. But when she drew her hands away from her mouth, they were smooth, and the skin was unbroken. The sight only caused her sobs to come in more strength. She could not face the fact that her humanity was only a disguise for something far more deadly. It was as though the world had just shattered any illusion of what she had wanted her life to be. How was she supposed to have children if any man that came near her would be reduced to ashes? How was she supposed to marry and perform her duties if she was a killer?

Alexis lay in the barn for hours, as the sun set in the background and the moon rose in the sky. She could not move; her limbs were lead and her heart was shattered and bleeding. Tears stained her cheeks, and just when she thought she'd ran out of the salty liquid, more would drip from her sad, sad eyes. Finally, however, she forced herself to sit up. She forced herself to stand. She could not drown in her misery; something inside of her wouldn't allow it. Instead, with stiff limbs and a heavy heard, she forced herself to wash the ashes and dirt off of her pale skin in a nearby stream. She was using every ounce of strength she had to keep herself from shattering, as though every part of herself wanted to explode in a thousand different directions. She could not erase from her mind the vision of Leon with a warm smile on his face as he entered her, as though he was being given everything he desired. In reality, he'd been given the kiss of death.

Alexis dressed quickly and deftly even though her hands were shaking, and pulled her gown back on; the back was completely ripped through, but it would serve to get her back to the manor house without fuss. As she traipsed back upwards, back to her room, back to her meaningless, idiotic life, the sun began to rise.

It was a new day. And she was a new being.

"You were missed at mass," Henrietta commented lightly over breakfast. Alexis pushed her food around with disinterest, her eyes rimmed with tiredness. "Did you go to see Leon off?" At his name, Alex stiffened, her body tensing, as though his name was a knife burying itself in her stomach. She pushed her plate away ever so slightly, and one of the servants came, taking it out of her sight. She felt as though she was going to be ill, whatever little that resided in her stomach forcing its way upwards. However, she simply forced it back down, and twisted her features into a delicate, simpering smile.

"No." Her answer was prompt. Her lie, however, resounded within her, and twisted her stomach into knots. "I was simply feeling under the weather."

And so began her damnation.

[vengefulheir]

up in flames ♔ a drabble

The winding path to Matthew Randall's grave was unfamiliar, so much so that Eve's nerves felt on edge, the shadows of the trees looming out at her like leering ghouls. She wrapped her arms tightly around her waist, her expression full of steely purpose. She was tired of her mother's overwhelming sense of propriety, tired of everyone and their concerned looks and gentle words, tired of being coddled and being treated like a glass doll. All she wanted was to be left in peace and quiet, to process without everyone pressing themselves in on her like walls closing in. Logically, she assumed that she'd find the solace she was looking for in a valley of the dead. However, she hadn't factored in how uncomfortable she would be with their clammy hands jerking upwards trying to pull her down into the ground.

Eve hadn't visited her father's grave since the funeral; the funeral itself had been a disaster, of course. Some reverend speaking about a man he'd barely known, her mother stiffly staring on, and her half brother marring the entire scene with his presence. She'd barely been able to contain her fury that the mutt even had the nerve to show up. He was not Matthew Randall's son, not really, and thus, he had no purpose attending the event. However, he was not here now; it was just her and her father. And that's what she needed. Everyone else was simply mere distraction, pawns diverting her from her true cause.

Her footfalls were not filled with their usual confidence, but rather mild trepidation. While she didn't want people coddling her, begging to know if she was alright, that was out of pure desire to not divulge that she was not, in fact, alright. Vengeance burned in her chest, so much so that she could feel its clutching hands squeezing her tight. Eve knew that she would never be able to rest, never be able to stop until her father's killer was caught; because of course, he could not have just died of natural causes. He was Matthew Randall, the Alpha of the Loup Garous of Redwell, the most powerful man she knew. Death did not simply claim him for no reason. She knew what she must do and that was make right whatever had taken him from her, from the world before his time. It was all that kept her from falling into the abyss of her loss, knowing that she had a purpose, and that said purpose was closure.

Eve halted in front of her father's grave, surprised that she'd found it so quickly. It was a meager thing, elegant and simple, but nowhere near as awe inspiring as the Alpha had been in life. Eve was a slim, small thing, always paling in comparison to her father's height, her father's width, her father's strength. However, now, she could tower over his tombstone and dominate him entirely. The idea made her skin prickle. That's not how things were supposed to work. She wasn't supposed to have finally proved herself to be better than her father because he was buried under six feet of earth and dust. The thought made her feel hollow, as though someone had gutted her like a jack o'lantern and left her leering for the world.

Thus far, it looked like no one, save her mother, had visited the grave. One month since the funeral, and the only vestiges of life left were the flowers that her mother placed there every other Sunday on her way home from church. Eve kicked the flowers aside. They were pitiful, yet another example of her mother performing her ladylike duties because it was expected of her to be the grieving widow. They meant nothing. Bitterness towards everything and everyone welled up in her chest, the emotion cutting through her insides like glass, leaving jagged wounds. No one had known him, not truly. Not his wife or his son or even his pack. It had just been her. He had put so much effort into training her, and she had put so much effort into being his perfect little warrior that she had to have meant something so terribly important to her that he never would've left if given some sort of choice.

....Right?

She shook the thought from her mind, fishing around in her pocket. Matthew Randall had always kept a small token of the old world, of the life he'd left behind: a coin, so worn and so weathered that she could barely tell what it said. However, it was always in his pocket, always on his bedside table before he slept, and Eve had always been curious about it, even as a young girl. She had asked and asked to be told the story, and every day he told her that he would tell her the next night. Eventually, she stopped asking, And now, he was gone, and she'd never know. The least she could do, however, was put the memory to rest with her father. Fingers digging into the grass, she scooped out a tiny little hole and nestled the sliver of metal into place. It shone in the dirt, like a glistening gem among the inferior. Her chest tightening slightly, Eve recovered the earth, patting it down tightly.

People always said things at grave stones. They made desperate confessions, pleading apologies, and distraught bargains with the devil. She felt as though she had to say something...but what? What could she possibly say that would articulate the wealth of emotion trapped in her chest? No words could capture the fear of being without guidance, the uncertainty of whether he truly valued her as a daughter, as an heir, the grief over his passing, or the need for the most violent form of vengeance possible. Words would never capture such a plethora of feeling. Words would never be enough. So, she held her tongue. Her father would've known what she was feeling at this very moment if he was standing by her side. He would've known what to say to both push her forwards and comfort her at the same time.

But he wasn't here, and in that realization, she found her voice.

"I'll find out who did this to you, Father," Eve mumbled, her words blazing with righteous purpose, "and I'll create a legacy out of your name." Me. Only me. Not your bastard son.

And with that, she rose to her feet, dusted off her hands, and stalked out of the cemetery.

[blondierosebourne]

the hunger ♦ a drabble

Numbness filled Alex's veins as cold jets of water pounded against her skin. Her blonde hair melted out of its elaborate curls, falling flat against her back, her mascara ran down her cheeks like tears the color of midnight, and her lipstick washed away, leaving behind a gaunt maroon trace around her mouth. Slowly but surely Alex was decomposing, the water washing away her every facade, her every semblance of normalcy. However, her gaze was blank, staring straight forward, her mind too consumed to even turn the faucet for jets of water that would warm her frozen soul. Instead, she stood, shivering, with tears that refused to come.

She might as well have had blood staining her hands a permanent shade of crimson. But she already knew that there would be no sign of destruction on her slender palms. No sign of death. No sign of life. They were just the same delicate hands that used to paint, used to glide over a piano, used to write in a diary. Now, all they seemed to do was strip off layer after layer of clothing and wind in strangers hair. They should be stained with blood; they should be stained with ash; they should be stained with death. But it was useless to scrape them raw to try and scrape away the foul taste of sin. No soap in the world was powerful enough to wash away her guilt. And god, was she guilty.

Nothing about what she'd done was new to her. She had found herself, standing in a cold shower with her own tears mingling into the water more times than she wished to count. She'd found herself desperately scrubbing away whatever she thought she saw staining her hands. She'd found herself disgusted with her own reflection, so disgusted that she'd broken her mirror more time than once and ripped open her knuckles along with it. The covering up of her indiscretions, of the blood that stained her hands, with her own seemed to be the only way to sate her agony. Because she liked being this monster. She let it control her.

Alexis ignored the pain she caused, ignored the misery that seemed to follow her because the rush of pleasure that came before the agony was all she had ever craved. And that was the worst part. She was contrite in the graceless moments of clarity she was given, but when she had a mouth pressed to hers and a hand sliding and groping its way down her body, the only thing she cared about was herself. Not the poor sod who'd been tempted into her den of iniquity with a charming smile and a deadly flash of aquamarine eyes.

Frustration wrought through her, her eyes squeezing shut as she tried to distance herself. Alex could hide from everything she feared as long as she couldn't see what she'd done. But the memories seemed to potent to wash away with the water that beat down on her like hail. Flashes of him crossed her mind, each memory sliding between her ribs like a butcher's knife. Tall, brunette, amber eyes, easy smile, he'd bought her a drink, and she returned the favor by damning him. Like a true creature of the night, she'd drawn him back to her place, and he'd been so gentle with her slender frame. And she'd never even bothered to learn his name before she'd sent his soul howling into Lucifer's death grip.

Her hand clenched into a fist, a sharp wave of self loathing bubbling up into her throat. She was a ticking time bomb, wading towards her own self destruction. Alex had, admittedly, wanted a life overflowing with excitement and adventure, but this was far too much. Now, all she craved was normalcy. She wanted to be able to blush and smile and laugh and live, rather than lure men to their demise like a modern day siren. Alex had always been a woman of heightened emotions. She felt every joy lifting her high to rest on the cloud, but her every mistake weighed down on her shoulders like someone was trying to force her through the cement into her own slot in Hell. And now, she barely remembered what it was like to smile without trying to force the expression to curve her lips upwards. But at the same time, she was far too deep to give up now.

The dichotomy between her persona and her truth was so stark that she thought she was being divided into two people. On the one hand, there was the Alex that made men carve their hearts out and hand it to her on a silver platter, the Alex that didn't care about anything but her own pleasure, the Alex that wanted to destroy and destroy and destroy because it just felt so good. She was all fire, all crimson, all passion. But, on the other hand, there was the Alex that was left to clean up the messes, the ashes left behind by the fire. And she was crumbling into pieces. All she felt was guilt, agony, and a crushing sense that she would never be anything she'd once thought she would be. One was weak where the other was strong. One was power and desire where the other was just fear.

The frustration within her finally bubbled over, and Alex's hand connected with the hard tiles of the wall, her chest heaving as her tears mingled with the water of the shower. She put all of her strength into the motion, all of her misery, all of her anger, all of her hatred. If she could simply destroy herself, harrow herself from the inside out, maybe she would cleanse away whatever fueled her apathy towards the destruction of another. Or perhaps she just craved feeling something. The numbness was too much for someone who's personality was based around the fact that all she did was feel. She felt her skin tear open, and the water was suddenly a diluted shade of crimson. Sinking to the floor, she clutched her hand to her, hugging her knees to her chest. She broke herself, shattered herself, and scattered the pieces because she didn't deserve to be whole. She needed to stop. She was going to stop.

The next night, Alex tugged a blonde over her threshold, never detaching her mouth from his.

[blondierosebourne]

miss nothing ♦ a drabble

The soft, cotton sheets swathed around Alexis were her shackles.

Whoever she'd dragged into her den of iniquity was long gone; that in itself made her stomach twist. Alex hadn't even bothered to know his name. The sweetness of his lips on hers had been enough of a reason for her. As of the guilt of the freefall, of the tumble from grace, wasn't enough, there was also a very new, a very strange, very important factor to consider.

His name was Christian. Christian Wayland.

He was everything she'd ever wanted in a man: vastly intelligent, supremely witty, and utterly gorgeous. He challenged her with every word that came out of his mouth, and the two always battled for dominance. At first, she hadn't been able to stand being in a room with him for more than ten minutes, and she almost always left annoyed and furious with herself, furious that she hadn't been able to outsmart him, that he'd made her look like a fool. Alex had thought he only saw her as a simpering schoolgirl, too insipid and dull for his taste, even with her reputation as a heartbreaker and a maneater. That was, until he'd kissed her like he wanted to snap her in half, and everything had been downhill from there. Heels over head, they'd fallen into the kind of passion that burned cities to the ground, that left people in shambles, that ruined everything it touched. But that was all Alex had ever craved. He was all she craved. However, he was all she couldn't have.

Every relationship she'd ever been in before had ended horrifically; she was too fickle and temperamental to stay still long enough to allow her heart to open for someone else. She'd always been the one getting dumped for being "emotionally detached" and "a frigid bitch", or she'd just ignored the idea of monogamy and fucked her way out of the scenario. Never before had she felt anything more than apathy towards the men who seemed so vastly scorned by her actions. She never seemed to understand what the big deal was. If she wanted something, she would take it. It wasn't her fault that they couldn't keep her interest for longer than five seconds.

However, Christian had done something to her. He'd taken more than her mouth when he kissed her. Alex was terrified of how much she cared about him. More terrifying still, she was so shocked by the fact that she found herself dependent on him, that she found herself realizing she would be a shade of herself without him, that she knew she ought to run. She knew she ought to leave him behind and never look back because he was everything that could destroy her. And with every kiss, he promised that she had captivated him, he promised that he didn't care about anything but being with her, and what scared her more than anything was that she believed him entirely. She needed him because he was the only person in her entire life that had made her feel.

And now, slipping out of her ivory sheets, she was about to let him slip through her fingers.

She didn't deserve him. He didn't deserve her. With the two of them, it was a competition for who would break the other's heart first. And Alex was addicted to shattering hearts. She refused to let him be broken by her. He deserved someone who could love him, someone who could be satisfied by him and him alone. He deserved someone who wouldn't bolt at the first sign of trouble. He deserved someone who didn't withdraw into herself to hide from the world. At the beginning, when Alex had been so enthralled the challenge that was Christian, she had thought she could give everything up, tear down every wall she had ever built, and give him every part of her that no one had ever touched. At first, she'd been able to, and he did the same for her, and they were intimate in ways much more terrifying than sex. If anyone could claim to know her truly, it would be Christian. But, as she had realized that very day, old habits die hard, and quitting cold turkey is easier said than done. She couldn't change; she was incapable of change. She was unlovable, it was as simple as that. And he didn't deserve that.

The knock on the door was the tolling bell of her dirge. Swallowing, she tugged on a shirt -- the large button up of her latest conquest, left behind as a sign of her victory --  and dragged herself to let Christian in. Her feet were cinder blocks, each step heavier than the last; she knew as soon as she opened the door, she'd be signing the contract of her own misery.

He greeted her with a kiss. He always did. Alex loved the way he kissed her. Everyone else always treated her like she was porcelain, like she would break in their palms of they held her to harshly. Christian didn't. He kissed her like she was made of ivory, and he planned to shatter that ivory into shards, into daggers. He was never gentle with her because he knew if he was, she would never have looked twice at him. However, this kiss made Alex's heart thump with agony, every beat sending a fresh wave of poisonous love through her body.

She broke the kiss off abruptly, drawing away from him. She still tasted him on her lips, her heart thudding dangerously at the thought. She glanced upwards and could see it in his eyes. The truth dawned in his eyes as he took her in, and his shoulders stiffened, his jaw clenched, and she felt something in her whither and die.

He knew already.

Of course he did. Her hair was mussed, her shirt most definitely not hers and not his, and she wasn't wearing underwear, period. However, if Christian knew this was the end, it was over. He wouldn't beg for her. He wouldn't beg for anyone.

"Chris," she sighed, her hands reaching up to cup his face; he jerked away, seemingly involuntarily. The simple movement caught her heart in her throat, and she swallowed, sending the useless organ to her stomach to be degraded and destroyed by the acidic currents of agony.

"Just...don't say anything. Please. I don't want to hear it. I know it'll all be bullshit." His voice was cold, but she caught his hands trembling as he pulled away from her entirely. His jaw was too tight, and his eyes were too bright. She knew the symptoms well, as evasion of hurt was her preferred path of pain tolerance. So, she remained silent. Besides, Alex didn't trust her voice not to come out as a wavering plea, a desperate, gasping beg for him to just stay and never leave. Her jaw ached from how hard she clenched it, biting back the words she yearned to leave her lips.

And then, suddenly, he was on her, kissing her the way he did, his mouth making her forget everything she was, everything she would be. He walked her backwards easily, ramming her roughly against the wall of her apartment, his hands at her hips. He ripped away at her shirt, his hand snaking up to palm at her breasts, sliding down to cup the curve of her arse. Everything within her was screaming that this was right, that this was pure, that this was what she needed. But Alex knew better; the little birdie of doubt had perched itself on her shoulder, and it wasn't going to flap away until Christian was walking out of her apartment, never to be seen again.

Wordlessly, she broke off the kiss and forced him off of her.

His brown hair, like the color of creamy mahogany, masked his expression as he pulled away from her. The sag of his shoulders only showed her that he'd given up. She could feel a hollow sob clawing its way from her lungs, and she had to turn away from him. Alex refused to cry in front of anyone, even Christian.

An eon passed, and he finally spoke, his words cutting through her like a glacial knife.

"You'll fuck anything that moves -- except me, of course. After all, sex has to be for strangers, not for people you legitimately care about -- because you're a coward, Alexis. You're a fucking coward, and it's not because you smell like someone else or you let someone else's hands slide over your body that we're through. It's because you'll always hide behind your walls, and there is nothing anyone can do to get behind them." A sharp laugh left him, cold and broken, the sort of laugh that made her skin crawl with anguish. "Guess I should've expected this; after all, it was just a race to see who would get skittish and bolt first. Although, a part of me had been hoping that we were good enough for each other that we could avoid all of that...guess not."

The door slammed, and Alex raised her fist to her mouth, biting so hard into her knuckles that she could taste blood, as tears poured down her cheeks. Her hand muffled her shuddering sobs, and she crumpled to the ground, her knees drawn up to her chest.

He was the only person she'd ever loved. And, after this, she doubted whether she would ever love again.

That night, she washed her cheeks clear of her tears, painted her mouth with lipstick that looked like blood, and pulled on a dress tight enough to be a second skin. As she danced at the club, she felt every eye clinging to her frame. They all wanted her, and she just wanted oblivion.

[blondierosebourne]

i really fucked it up this time ♦ a drabble

Alexis leaned over the sink, splashing cold water on her face as her hands shook and her lips trembled. It was like this every time, every damn time. Fingers would lace themselves together, she'd draw him away from whatever he had been doing, the two of them would find somewhere more private, a bathroom, his car, her car, the alley behind the bar, wherever, and then lips would brush against lips, and it was all over. The worst part of it all was that she enjoyed it. She enjoyed being powerful, being desired, being chased. She enjoyed the rush, the way she felt after everything was all said and done, as though she was landing lightly on her feet after jumping from the O of the Hollywood sign. That was the worst part of it, that this darkness inside of her, this wrathful malevolent thing that harrowed its way through her gave her happiness that she had never known before. That she got pleasure out of manipulation, out of temptation, out of seduction, and out of the excess of such carnal needs.

Her life had become a cycle, a constant ebb and flow of her trying to find her way back to the young blonde that had been full of lust for the world not for the world of men that would kill to have her and her giving in to the sharp ecstasy of being a maneater, a temptress, a killer of men, one who could knock 'em down with a bat of her lashes. By day, she poised as the perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect friend. By night, she was something completely different, with all of her best traits erased, and all of her worst magnified. It was worse than losing herself entirely because she knew who she was, knew who she wanted to be, and knew who she used to be, and yet, a part of her didn't even care. A part of her was willing to forsake all of that for just one more kiss, one more touch, one more gasp of heavenly rush. She wasn't a slave to her passions; she was a slave to the power of seduction.

Her hands clenched around the sink, her knuckles white, as she breathed heavily, her heart pounding in her throat. Alex wasn't weak, by any standards. She was strong, with burning passion and fervor for what she wanted. And all she wanted now was a way out. Alex could see the way her mom looked at her when she thought her daughter was preoccupied, like she could barely recognize the blonde twenty two year old that sat across from her at the coffee shop sipping a mocha latte just as she had been doing for the past six years. She could tell that her friends were all apprehensive around her, knowing that she would slink off and find some handsome man candy to wear on her arm if the opportunity presented itself. Even her professors were starting to notice this hellish transition from good girl to harlot. And she couldn't tell any of them, couldn't tell any of them why. Judging eyes followed her wherever she went, and if they weren't casting some sort of aspersion on her, they were clinging to her every curve, her every swish of her hips, thinking with whatever was in their pants rather than whatever was in their hearts.

Alexis knew that she had wrecked relationships, broken hearts, and crashed into people like a hit and run. At first, she hadn't cared. But now, all she could do was care. Every kiss, every touch, they revolted her as much they excited her. And that was why she knew she had to leave. She couldn't keep living a life that was slowly making her into a shell of a girl. She wasn't going to stand around and let herself slip so far away from who she was that she could no longer recognize her own reflection. Even now, the girl that stared back at her in the mirror was barely recognizable. But Alexis could see something in her eyes, something like a captive begging to be set free.

Family. Duty. Honor. That's what she had always been taught to believe in. Well, fuck family. Fuck duty. Fuck honor. If she thought about the people she'd grown up with, if she thought about the friends she was leaving behind, if she thought about what her departure would do to those she cared about, she'd never be able to leave. If she thought about what she was responsible for, what she had to do, what she must do, all she could think was that the only way to be true to any of her morals, any of her beliefs, was to leave this heaven-now-hell and find herself a purgatory, a fresh start. And...her honor had been forsaken so long ago that it was pointless to even hope for a sliver of it back.

She exhaled deeply, stepping away from the sink, and grabbed her bag of toiletries before she slipped out of the bathroom and tiptoed back to her room. Coming home for the weekend should have been the first tip off to her parents; as a sophomore in college, Alex had come home on occasions other than holidays a grand total of twice. Once before because she'd dipped into her savings and had no money to do her laundry, and then there was now. But no, her parents had welcomed her in with open arms, and as Alex packed her bag quietly and deftly, she felt guilt rising in her throat like bile. All weekend she had played the role of the dutiful daughter, the smiling, doting, warm, charming girl that they thought they knew. They had no idea that they'd never be seeing their only child again. Alex felt wetness dancing down her cheeks, and she roughly brushed the tears away. She had to be this selfish if she had any chance of being the daughter they could be proud of.

Her bag packed, there was nothing left to do but leave. Her flight out of San Diego International Airport was at 6:30 AM and the digital clock on her night stand was blinking 3:36 AM at her. Quietly, she hitched herself up to her feet, swinging her backpack over her shoulder and heaving up her duffle bag. Alex slipped silently down the hallway, padded down the stairs, making sure to skip the second to last one because it creaked like a bitch. As she passed the kitchen, however, ready to slip out through the garage, throw her stuff into the back of her trunk, and zoom off to the airport without so much as a backward glance, she stopped, aching sadness rising in her chest. She couldn't even bring herself to leave her parents a note, a small token that their daughter was safe and sound. Even as she stopped, she couldn't make her feet step forward or her hands rummage around the drawers for a sticky note and a sharpie.

So she just left. No note could ease the loss of a child, whether it be through death or distance. No words could comfort her parents.

As she pulled out of her driveway, gliding her way to the highway where she slammed her foot as hard on the gas as she wanted, her blonde hair billowing like a curtain of gold in the wind, she finally let tears splash down her cheeks. However, they were not tears of agony, of misery, of devastation. They were tears of happiness.

She was free.

[blondierosebourne]

dig up the bones, but leave the soul alone ♦ a drabble

The energy of the night had lulled down to a soft sigh as last call neared; only the regulars remained stagnant in their chairs rather than heaving themselves to their feet and sauntering -- stumbling -- out of the bar. Alex always preferred O'Dwyers to be hustling and bustling, but she didn't mind it when it got quiet. She could turn on the TV and watch Lost reruns to her heart's content, so long as she was being attentive to the customers that remained. It was just as Kate was tearing her way through the jungle that Alex heard the sharp noise of the door shutting, and she glanced over, a smile quirking her lips, readying to ask the newest customer what they'd be having.

Instead, her heart dropped out of her chest, eyes widening. It took her a moment to realize that, no, this wasn't Patricia Thompson from her freshman year seminar on adolescent psychology at UCLA. The girl's hair was too dark and her face too round, but the similarity was so uncanny that she could still feel her heart pounding in her chest, her mouth dry and her eyes wide.

"Are you alright, miss?"

The girl's voice jolted her from her reverie, jerking her expression out of its look of mild horror into a polite smile. Still, however, Alex's hand shook as she reached backwards for a clean glass.

"I'm fine," she said offhandedly; as hard as she tried to allow her voice to sound casual, even to her own ears, she sounded forced and wavering. "Just, y'know, late night, a bit tired." She shrugged, before quickly changing the subject. "What'll it be?"

"Whatever you guys've got on tap," she said with a sigh, pulling up a chair and sitting herself down. Alex poured the girl her drink as fast as she could without spilling it, before turning back to pour herself a neat glass of scotch. She downed the liquor in one mouthful, the alcohol burning its way down her throat; however, it served its purpose. Her hands had stopped shaking, and her nerves soothed themselves.

For twelve months, Alex hadn't been forced to deal with a single thing to do with her past. A mistress of avoidance, she danced around prying questions with infinite grace, finding loopholes and scapegoats left, right, and center. Her new life, however boring and tedious it could be at points, was all she craved; it was her biggest dream, her biggest hope, her biggest aspiration: to start over with a clean slate. No one knew her in Redwell, and therefore, they couldn't judge her for her past. They couldn't look down on her for the mistakes she'd made or the demons she ran from or the skeletons in her closet. But losing that, having her past catch up to her, that was all she feared. Sometimes, she'd walk into the local cafe and think that one of the baristas looked like her old neighbor, or she'd go to the diner and think that someone was looking at her, almost as though they'd recognized her. As much as she distanced herself from the mistakes she'd made in California, Alex couldn't help but feel as though the year of grace she'd been given was too good to be true, that her past would rise again to haunt her and destroy the safe haven she'd built herself here. If worst came to worst, and she was somehow confronted with everything she'd tried to bury on the West Coast once more, she'd have no choice but to uproot herself from this quaint little Connecticut town and find some place to start afresh once more. It was cyclic, a horrifically bad, devastatingly horrible idea, but she was too afraid of what she refused to tell anyone that she was willing to run from it for the rest of her life.

But that was ridiculous.

Alex had escaped. She'd left her old life behind without so much as a backward glance, and now she was free. She had what she'd always wanted: an apartment of her own, a steady income to do with as she pleased, and the attention of every man who walked into O'Dwyers. She could live her life as she pleased, without judgement, without fear, and allowing her irrational phobias to creep into her mind at any moment was ridiculous. She'd gotten what she wanted, and she couldn't have been more grateful.

She was being ridiculously, insanely paranoid, and she needed a nice strong drink and a good night's sleep to wash the irrational nature of her thoughts away. Patricia Thompson and everyone else she had left behind were still sleeping in their beds in good ol' San Diego.

Everything was still perfect and pristine. Nothing had been ruined.

[blondierosebourne]

carpe diem ♦ a drabble

Sunlight crept through the shades of Alex's tiny apartment, jerking her from her slumber like a persistent alarm clock that only got louder. A groan, muffled by her pillow, echoed through the room. Working from nine at night to four in the morning should merit some sort of award, preferably one that involved a sizable chunk added to her paycheck and a better, more permanent spot in the employee parking. But, at the same time, Alex loved walking into the bar just as it was rising to the peak of the night, where everyone was already tipsy, if not drunk, and she was welcomed by the usual wolf whistles and whooping that came with being one of the favorite bartenders in town. The only thing that was utterly, horribly, terribly horrific was the fact that late shifts essentially fucked her sleeping patterns for the next week. It was criminal, in her eyes, to be woken before at least four in the afternoon when she had tumbled into bed while the sun rose up to greet the regular civilians with jobs that worked normal hours.

Groggy and lethargic, Alex didn't bother to lift her head from the pillow, instead feeling around in her bedside table with hands lacking any form of dexterity from the lazy sleepiness that still occupied her body. She heard a sharp clatter and a scraping noise before her hand finally found its way to her phone. The light of the screen was blinding, and she almost did a double take, squeezing her eyes shut until she finally felt as though she could look at her luminescent phone without having an aneurysm. The screen flashed back at her, 2:14. She was in half a mind to just throw the phone at the nearest wall, grab another pillow, and hold it over her head so she could fall asleep without sunlight intruding on much needed rest. But, alas, once she was awake, she was awake for good.

Alex rolled out of bed, taking her entire comforter with her, wrapping it around her shoulders like a cape, and padding out of her bedroom into the small, bright kitchen. Five minutes later, a steaming cup of green tea was cradled in her hands, and Alex's legs were stretched out on the couch as she flipped through the arts and leisure section of the Boston Globe. With each sip she took of her scalding drink, she felt caffeine spiraling through her veins, waking her up, washing away the tiredness and exhaustion of her night on the job. However, it was nice to have an abundance of time before she had to go into work for the day; she could do something like paint her toenails while she watched Captain America on Netflix for the thousandth time, or go for a jog and then swing by the diner to pick up a box of their phenomenal lemon bars. The world was her oyster, and she could do whatever she damn well felt like doing.

Glancing up from the newspaper, she saw her ancient goldfish, Freddo, flapping his little fins and staring at her sagely, as though his little fishy eyes were disapproving her lassitude.

"All you ever do is swim around in a bowl, don't even start on me," Alex glowered, her blue-green eyes slanting. With a dramatic swish of his tail, the goldfish swam off, as though her words had actually vexed him. Rolling her eyes, she buried herself deeper into the cocoon she had created with her comforter.

In truth, her days were rather redundant. She hadn't decided to enroll in classes at Redwell's Community College, leaving schoolwork behind in California. She had friends, but not the sort of friends she'd consider to be close enough to do things like shopping or going to the movies. Really, all she had was her job. She woke up, wiled away her day, went to work, and then passed out. At first, the lack of responsibility towards anything except paying her bills was exhilarating  exactly what she had needed. But now, as always, she was getting restless, uneasy. A fickle creature, she needed change to survive; if she remained stagnant, she would surely drown in the mundane inanity that was becoming her life.

However, she didn't have the energy to disassemble her entire life to find the redundancies, extract them, and replace them with something new. She was content with her life, truly and completely. It just needed some sprucing up.

And with that, she shut her newspaper, sliding out of her blankets to throw on a pair of tiny running shorts and a tank top. Sitting on her couch speculating about what she wanted to do with her life would get her nowhere; going out into the world and seizing what she wanted, that seemed a tad more probable.