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( buffy summers + boykingx )
【☪ 】 ‘ i don't really know why he's relevant. we weren't talking about him, samuel. ’
Harmonie du Soir || Allison & Sam
Allison is tired tonight. The night previous she had been up a little too late at the theater, talking and laughing with the crowd she'd been getting to know. And after that her patrol had taken her all over the east side and she'd been up later than she usually was. By the time she had dropped herself into the white nest of blankets on her bed, the city was starting to lighten already and the stars were beginning to fade.
As a result the music on the jukebox is a little less uptempo than it is most nights. Allison takes a little longer to make the drinks, and to wipe down the counters, and to make the transactions for the drinks. But she toils on anyway, making the counters gleam and filling glass after glass with a rainbow of colors of beers; red, gold, black, brown, and near white sparkle in their containers which line up along the walnut counter.
An older man in a plaid shirt and leather jacket that she swears she's seen on a hundred different people in here waves her down and she gets lost in conversation with him, which she discovers too late is actually an attempt to pick her up. By the time she realizes it, she's already entangled in the conversation and everyone else is still working on their drinks so there's no graceful way to exit the conversation.
It's her job to flirt so she does, mildly, smiling blandly and tilting her head as though she's interested in the story about the werewolf this guy bagged. Hopefully it'll net her a few dollars in tips later and he won't take it seriously. If she's unlucky then she's just acquired a new stalker. Who knows.
She fervently hopes someone comes up to the bar and orders a drink soon.
Misery Is A Communicable Disease || Crowley, Sam, Stiles
Repurposed from an earlier thread which dissolved.
A young girl stood on the corner of two streets, looking nervously down the busy intersection. She was around ten years old, had medium blonde curls which fluttered with the wind around a blue ribbon in her hair, and her eyes were as grey as the cloudy sky above her. Her knees knocked against each other in the cold wind of New York underneath a wool skirt that covered them. Ahead of her was a group of humans. She could not help what she did next. The ring on her finger burned and she knew.
Ten minutes later each and every one of them was dead, piled up in an alley like firewood. The only sign of the young girl left was a blood stained teddy bear which had been left there.
Within three weeks the news had begun to report it. Corpses would be found in piles, with a small teddy bear sitting out in front of them. The killer could not be found; police had no idea what to make of it. Reporters gave the best stories they could; with so little information about who might be doing it, they had only speculation to work from. The story began to spread across the internet soon enough, and it got big enough to catch the attention of more than one hunter.
Crowley was having a few bad days as well. His vault had been broken into, and he still had no idea by whom. Inside the vault were hundreds of valuable artifacts, all of which he had collected over hundreds of years of wise purchases and investments. Each of them had some kind of unique power, and they provided him the means by which he had climbed to power.
The one which was missing was very, very valuable, and very dangerous, and he needed it back as soon as possible. It didn’t matter what he had to do. But then, didn’t he already know of some people who could help him? He could tip them off to the case, and work with them, except he didn’t trust them. So instead he decides to let them solve the case themselves and watch over it to make sure they get it right. If it seems like they’re getting off track then he might make an appearance to help them out.
To this end, he keeps an eye (or, rather, the eyes of an employee) on the security cameras of New York to wait for them to make an appearance.
Christmas drabble for Sam
Stories of Merlin’s recent activities had hit local papers, which he knew. What he didn’t know was that these seemingly innocuous anecdotes were attracting the attention of a rather dangerous man.
It had been a long time since he’d touched up on healing magic - it had never been his forte, but over the centuries it had improved, and it was something he thought would be useful to keep in working order.
Thus his travels, flitting from town to town, seeking out the injured and the ill, saving some from the brink of death. It was good practice, and it felt good.
At the moment he was just returning to his motel room from his last patient - a man with early stage skin cancer. Not fatal, just expensive to treat, and the man and his wife weren’t sure they could afford the medical bills. Merlin did his work for free.
Flopping backwards onto the bed, he grasped for the remote and flipped the telly on. God, motels were ruining any semblance of sophistication he’d ever had with all their crap shows.
A solid knock came at the door. Merlin hit the mute button on the remote and stood with a little sigh.
He gazed through the peephole, and had to look up a bit to see the man standing outside. Black suit, sideburns, not at all hard on the eyes, smooth poker face. Merlin opened the door warily, but put on a smile.
Misery Is A Communicable Disease || Crowley, Sam, Castiel
A young girl stood on the corner of two streets, looking nervously down the busy intersection. She was around ten years old, had medium blonde curls which fluttered with the wind around a blue ribbon in her hair, and her eyes were as grey as the cloudy sky above her. Her knees knocked against each other in the cold wind of New York underneath a wool skirt that covered them. Ahead of her was a group of humans. She could not help what she did next. The ring on her finger burned and she knew.
Ten minutes later each and every one of them was dead, piled up in an alley like firewood. The only sign of the young girl left was a blood stained teddy bear which had been left there.
Within three weeks the news had begun to report it. Corpses would be found in piles, with a small teddy bear sitting out in front of them. The killer could not be found; police had no idea what to make of it. Reporters gave the best stories they could; with so little information about who might be doing it, they had only speculation to work from. The story began to spread across the internet soon enough, and it got big enough to catch the attention of more than one hunter.
Crowley was having a few bad days as well. His vault had been broken into, and he still had no idea by whom. Inside the vault were hundreds of valuable artifacts, all of which he had collected over hundreds of years of wise purchases and investments. Each of them had some kind of unique power, and they provided him the means by which he had climbed to power.
The one which was missing was very, very valuable, and very dangerous, and he needed it back as soon as possible. It didn't matter what he had to do. But then, didn't he already know of some people who could help him? He could tip them off to the case, and work with them, except he didn't trust them. So instead he decides to let them solve the case themselves and watch over it to make sure they get it right. If it seems like they're getting off track then he might make an appearance to help them out.
To this end, he keeps an eye (or, rather, the eyes of an employee) on the security cameras of New York to wait for them to make an appearance.
