𝗳𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗱 : shepherd & adrien ( @tintedswindows ) !
𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻: house #102: adrien, sawyer, and maximo's residence.
* ❪ 🔌 ❫ : 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝗸𝗶𝗻 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝗲. 𝗳𝗹𝗮𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝘂𝗽 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗺𝘀, 𝘂𝗽 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗲, 𝘂𝗽 𝗵𝗶𝘀 calves like someone had separated his nerves one by one, clipped them like the wings of a moth and let him squirm. watching as death nullified once purposeful life to fucking nothingness. his brain hasn't caught up with his mouth yet, usually careful and methodical about his next move. the next word. a chessmaster out of his depth when it came to the apparition that was his former reflection, sawyer standing on cooper's porch with luck of the draw, older man gone on a flight to washington for the weekend. manipulating young minds until they enlist in his orchestra of hollow musicians and coming back to revel in such treachery with the only man that believed he was different. sawyer had said nothing. no bouts of disappointment. no words of defamation. simply struck shepherd with the strength of a man who had been viciously betrayed for a millenia, a lack of mercy powering knuckles that crack against his septum and elicit a faucet of red. barely having the time to react as sawyer grapples him closely and strikes again, again, again, and again until neighbors rise and glance through their curtains. alarmed by the noises, the sick thud of a body being thrown down wooden stairs. an impending earthquake, evoked by the devi boys who hash out their differences, dirt and grass caking the linen of shepherd's pants as if he'd been thrown out into the yard like a trespassing mutt. bound by the chains of a doghouse that no longer served him, a brother that hovers over him with gritted teeth and a warning to not touch adrien. ever. again. a final discretion. he won't be as easy. as nice. as fucking kind. words that rip from his throat and sends shepherd reeling into a fit of maniacal laughter. confused at first, what this tantrum could possibly be about. a plethora of reasons surely. maybe even a last resort to get shepherd to talk to him, finally engage with him without the usual two word reply or an indignant shove away. no. this had nothing to do with shepherd. none of it. but everything to do with him. brown eyes that poisoned his psyche as the moon's shine masked him in silver, hand slipping below his briefs to stroke out every sick impulse, every sick fucking desire to know more, to feel more, to smell more, to eat, and eat, and eat, until adrien had no more flesh to give up. sawyer had left him to sink deeper into the mud that cakes their limbs, rain pelting atop their heads and slipping across eyes that mirror one another. the same look shepherd had given him once. when he'd first left him behind. gave his parents up, his sister, his home, abandoning what once was and what would never again be.
the last dance between a brother that willed himself to follow behind and bring his sibling home. instead, shepherd had found a way into sawyer's, infiltrating what he'd fought to create, leaching arsenic into the vents and beginning to kill off what family sawyer had begun to recreate; replacing the one he so desperately attempted to keep from threading apart. shepherd's rage is throttled by the thunder that booms overhead, fingers clutching thinly cut grass that threads through, squeezing until they're ripped by the roots. he's forced to think about the man he urged himself to omit, to forget until memory became dust. another victim staked and claimed for eternity. there's an almost warped sense of humor as adrien is lead back into his life. even as he feels his cheek swelling and his teeth chattering from the breeze that picks up, nipping at the sweat, or blood, that pools at his chest. his eye is nearly swelled shut with the blood that seeps into it, a cut just above his brow bone leaking its essence into haphazard hues so that only blue of the green remains gazing up at the sky.
there's no hesitance, despite there being an obstruction in his sights, as a palm wipes away at it. bothering him now as he lurks around the house that sits painfully loud in the middle of the street. a perfect display of fraternized men who threw lavish parties and allowed most anyone in their home if they showed them a good time. he's pacing in the shadows, though doing nothing to hide his intentions, livid as eyes bore through locked windows, seeing if any of the lights are on. seemingly, no one is quite home yet, using it to his advantage despite seeking out company, glancing through peeled back shades until he sees what made adrien's room his own. posters varied with niche interests, a punk band just below the screech of a winning racecar, the face of a woman he didn't recognize but demanded recognition anyway. a knee rises and he's driving his boot into clear aperture, kicking ruthlessly with a voluminous shatter of glass that bites into his ankles, adrien's sanctity violated with the way he knocks over a half empty wine bottle and lets it drop all over the floor with a solid crash. splotches of blood fall into the mixture of cherry red that pools under his boots, aiding with the footprints that mark across adrien's space, staring at the bed that's left unmade. in a rush, or simply by someone who doesn’t give a shit. the boogeyman upset that no one was using it tonight. he needs to tear into something valuable, something that adrien considered worth his time, and his ferrari needed to be salvaged as something that shepherd could use for later ammo. even as his rage consumes him, he's planning meticulously, vision spotting by the blood that obstructs his sight, searching for anything. scrounging around as hands find the laptop sitting upon crowded desk, charger ripped form the wall as electronic is thrown against the door, screen splitting in two as papers begin to fly.
his breathes come out as a wheeze, inheriting a broken rib that'd given way under sawyer's shoe, leaving him grimacing with every turn, as if being . . . stabbed. again and again, until the realization makes him stutter out a laugh that bubbles, blood seeping from the corners of his mouth, spilling all over adrien's desk and tainting the receipts that splay in a decadent array of work that he'd pushed himself into. a mockery almost, because he knew adrien didn't have to do any of this. didn't have to work, didn't have to fight to survive. it was handed to him. like everything was when useless cunts that decorated themselves in overpriced jewelry were fucking bored. the room's defilement is a consequence of terrorized narcissism, destroying anything that dares to gloat in his sight, television overturned and a helmet soaking up crimson fluid, memorabilia thrown out the window and into the rain that rakes and washes away the fabrics expensive quality. there are lighters atop the desk that he snatches, flicking one on with a natural ease, taking the time to pluck a cigarette from his pocket and bring it up to his lips. careless as clouds of gray linger above and trigger the fire alarm that shrieks a distress signal to every orifice of the house, a shriek that should've alerted residents not currently occupying it, and unfortunately arousing the neighbors instead. he's bringing the lighter over adrien's mattress, silk and cotton sheets helpless victims in a bright flicker of red and orange as he tugs them off, eyes unmoving as the door suddenly rips open and unveils the man of the hour. fucking finally. finally. though hypnotized now by the flame, cigarette bobbing between his lips as thunder strikes just outside battered windowpane, tree branches scratching across open frames like a creature wrestling to come in. envious of something more sinister that had let itself in. ❝ i really don't see what my brother sees in you. ❞ a delicate remark, despite the fire that cascades closer to his fingers, warming the room up in contradiction to the strobes of electric blue and white that splinter the room in a chaos of colors. his words are coated with a lick of hesitation, oxygen leaving him in increments as he wheezes out his words, the second set of his ribs collapsing, poking at the withering marrow that attempts to keep him straight up. he feels himself faltering, even now as he stumbles back, hand gripping the dresser behind him, accessories falling onto the floor in a rain of metal and gold. the fire alarm only seems to shroud shepherd's words, mince them into an overwhelming cacophony of hell descending down upon home 102. the devil refusing to learn his lesson. ❝ asking you directly seems to be the only fucking solution. better be good, or i'll fucking take you with me. and then he'll have nothing. ❞
