#salemyevette

[persephone-johanson]

Oh jeez! 

[floyd-marshall-blog]

*making a late snack*

*humming*

[unknown-tristen]

Yevette- 12

Kidnapped

A phone was raised to Yevette’s ear, tears stained her fair cheeks. In another location in town, Tristen’s face was also stained with tears, along with blood and bruises. A man was between them, on the other line with Yevette. Tristen got into some trouble this time, made a website for someone, maybe, or maybe got involved with drugs again. No information was given on why he was taken, but he was. And now Yevette was being contacted for ransom. The man’s voice was gruff and clearly all business, he didn’t care about Tristen at all. All that could be heard was, “Make the deal, bitch,” from the man, and Tristen’s desperate shouting in the background, both in Polish and English, begging her to refuse. “Lenny, shut him up,” the man growls out, earning a squeak from Yevette. It’s quiet for a moment, his pleas being the only thing heard, before a hit and a sob. Over Tristen crying, the man coolly says, “Well? What’s your choice?” The black-haired woman takes a moment to gather herself and wraps her hand tight around the phone, squeezing her eyes shut. “Replace him. Take me.” A pause. A laugh. “So we’ve got ourselves a Belle, huh? Save your family and switch places with him from the big bad beast when he’s the one who messed up? You do realize this will almost certainly end in you dying, right?” She nods and lets out her breath, despite the fact he can’t see her. She could hear Tristen screaming again and a different man demanding his silence, though he didn’t listen, and it broke her heart. She couldn’t do this to him, he already lost one mother, she couldn’t let him lose two. But could she lose another child? Could she willingly let another die under her own control? She couldn’t back out, she could never betray him. “Yes. I’m sure.” He laughs again, both evil and light-hearted. “Absolutely perfect. Be at your bar in a half hour. We’ll drop him off after your car leaves. No goodbyes, though, I hope you’ve said all you had to before he fucked up. Get ready, bitch, because your final hours start now.” Before the line fails, Yevette hears Tristen’s heart-wrenching shout, his voice strained, tears apparent, she could hear his heart-break. But she knew it was for the best. It’s all she’d hear until the moment she died soon enough, and she expected him to hate her. But she needed to save him just one last time.

[floyd-marshall-blog]

*waiting outside Mystique*

*looking for Yevette*

[floyd-marshall-blog]

You Gotta Do You || Self Para

[floyd-marshall-blog]

*doing some work he brought home*

Hmm...

[floyd-marshall-blog]

I Feel My Temperature Rising || Self Para

It was the last straw. Floyd wasn’t going to sit back and give chances to subpar work. Starting a week ago an employee of one-year had started to get sloppy with his work. He was losing paperwork, coming in late, not focusing on the briefings. It all was making Floyd rather annoyed, but he was trying to give the benefit of the doubt–bad stuff happened in other’s private lives and they could pick up once they figured themselves out. Plus, Floyd had been in a notoriously good mood ever since the engagement. This good mood magnified now that he no longer felt like the Big Bad Wolf, who blew away at other’s dreams and ate their hopes. So to speak. This, however, was it. The cop, Hank, had ignored his job completely by going to scarf donuts like some horrible cliché instead of doing a sweep in his area. Which just so happened to be where a high speed chase drove through. Thanks to his laziness it took an extra hour to cut the guy off and end it.

From Floyd’s expirence there were three kinds of reactions to getting fired. You cried, you got angry, or you shut down completely and couldn’t process anything. And Floyd knew exactly which one Hank was prone to–anger. He proved himself right when, immediately upon hearing the news, Floyd saw Hank’s face scrunch up like a newborn about to cry. Hank made his hands into fists, slamming them heavily against the table, and standing up–his face red. Hank started to yell and curse and threaten. Late Floyd wouldn’t be able to recall at all what he said since he knew to just tune out the anger for 90% of the rant. What he heard as he tuned in to hear a snippet caused Floyd to freeze, ridged in his shoulders and upper arms.

“–One fine piece of ass, she is,” he was saying and Floyd knew immediately he was referring to Yevette, “I’m so glad that she’s back up there, selling herself, and shaking those perky tatas,” Hank smirked and Floyd cringed, “Sucks for you, though. Having a girl who can’t even keep it in. She’s not even yours, she’s everyone’s little sex figure,” he gave a bitter laugh, “And even with her obvious mentality that she has no worth, it’s still utterly desperate that she said yes to being your husband–not that that even matter with how she gives it away to everyone for money. Even if it is just looking. Pathetic. You aren’t even man enough to have a woman for yourself,” he spat out, harsh. Then he turned on his heel amd stormed out of there. Everything he said was striking a chord with him, his mood and self-esteem sinking lower the more be thought about it–and he thought about it a lot.

[salemfanfics]

A Vision of Beauty | Marshinao

Floyd walked down the hall of his home, starting down the stairs, and halting only a step or two down. His reason for halting his late night walk about the house was seeing someone standing at the bottom of those very steps, waiting, it seemed, for him. He didn’t reach for his gun, he didn’t tell the intruder to stop where they were. Even in the dark lighting he knew who it was. He could never mistake her for anyone else.

Yevette stood there, looking positively radiant. Her black hair was curled and spilling over her shoulders—like ink against the paper white of her skin. She wore a long dress that shined brightly into Floyd’s eyes, a contrast to the darkness of the room they stood in. But all of this wasn’t why she was so radiant. It was for a different reason. It was because she was her. An angel to the ragged man at the top of the stairs.

Floyd blinked and blinked again, but this seemed to be the only movement her could muster. He couldn’t reach his hand out and try to beckon her closer, he couldn’t move his legs down the steps, he couldn’t even move his lips or tongue in order to form the words he really wanted to say. Lucky for him, Yevette decided to move up the stairs, quickly towards him, stopping a step short of being on the same one as him. He blinked at her and she blinked back, then gave one of those impossibly beautiful smiles of hers. The one that never failed to make his heart seemingly speed up and melt all at the same time.

“Floyd,” she said and even though it was a whisper, the sound of her voice filled his ears. It didn’t seems quite the same, though. It was smoother and more melodic than the last time he’d heard her speak. He started to count the days, but then she reached out for him, going to caresses his cheek with her soft, delicate fingers. Floyd closed his eyes and imagined, imagined hard what those fingers—what that palm—would feel like in the moments just before she touched him. He had to imagine because that’s all he was going to get. Because she would never—could never—touch him ever again. Floyd was right as a moment later there was nothing but air where Yevette had once stood.

The more days that passed since Yevette was killed, the more often this happen to Floyd. If he was having conversations with his dead brother, then he was seeing his dead wife. He never knew when her jarring image—her in that dress, with her hair effortless, her voice like the ring of a bell, and an unnatural glow—would turn up. Usually it was at night, when his insomnia was just kicking in. She wandered about the house, never saying much more than his name. She was dancing to a song in front of the TV, beckoning him forth to an airy embrace. She dwelled on the porch, wishing on stars that she saw up in the sky. She was cooking in the kitchen and reading in their bed and singing in their shower.  Her laugh seemed to always be heard just around the next corner. And the next. And the next. And the next…