#yareachlibrary

[sircrocodillian]

followed for: Ra's vs MK things. discovered [LOCATION] via incredibly specific intel.

stayed for: our friendship! you're great to have a drink with, go to The Events with, and/or kick back and watch the movies and shows with. I love seeing you on dash, keeping up with the Croc Woolf, and mumbling about OP and my annoying characters. You're a great friend. ilu.

Cory!! I'm so glad we are friends, and I'm glad you're along for the ride here! I love hanging out with you! ILU!

[voicestm]

“  they made me bleed on my shirt—  i fucking loved this shirt!  ” Soldier's bleeding other people's blood. Fangs flash in the streetlights, the maddened red of his eyes eclipsing the black. "Made me real thirsty, Reese." Growls rip from his throat. He scoops his girl up and carries her back to their nest.

Blood - @yareachlibrary - Always Accepting

Busy moving to him, concern etched into her deep walnut feature as the distance between them is eaten with silent steps. She has seconds to discover the blood belonged to others before she's in his eyes and her gaze weights heavy on his face. Beautiful face. Beautiful man. The red glow of his eyes enchanting to the vampiress who had accidentally turned him. Midnight mission side quest got wrong and a false friend a traitor. Just another day in a life no longer ordinary.

Her protests to be put down drown out as that growl rolls down her spine, little sparks of her hunger flickering to life in the depths of a crimson gaze. She's familiar with that expression, the hidden secretive meaning behind the words and truth of what they were slipping out into their carefully crafted world. A fine line between reality and self soothing lies that kept them guarded from even themselves. Tonight would be .. Better left explained, better left explored in the safety of the haunted house they called home. Where no one would hear them scream, where no one would see the glint of fangs and flashing eyes. He gave into his hunger even less than she did and yet.. It's glorious when he lets that beast awaken. Devouring her, devouring them.. Painting white, holy walls red.

[echoestm]

Rage fueled, adrenaline junky toss regardless, the family photo album's absence from his Holy of Holies lightened his shoulders. Pouring over yellow stained pages, torn plastic, 4-3-2-1, duos and trios had been genug enough. Steven mixed and formed like an overgrown student glossy copies from old negatives and originals.

Young dark haired boy dressed in his Shabbat best, snapshot taken before nightfall, stood behind a lighter, chubbier cheeked brother. Tan smiling down at Benji like he's the elder serving the younger. Lots of befores.

His name was Mr. K. He could stand this; Spector couldn't. Tit for tat bury the hatchet in the soil or his back.

Mr. K passed the photo to Sam. Take a picture. Circulate to the children. Older brother knows best crowing. "Can you imagine this baby becoming this annoying?"

Thing One and She Too study their boss; Thing One awwing face, She Two's gaze too sharp, smile too toothy.

[Mr K re: baby Rand to Sam and whomever else in the Mission wishes to coo]

@silverjetsystm && @voicestm && @yareachlibrary

Sam is, as is becoming part of her usual, knitting cable bridges across wide margin of age ranges, interests, and beyond. Baby Reese to toddler Randy and everyone in between. Weirdly enough, it isn't the oldest among them that act like it. Still, she tries to sow happy enough middle ground. Reese and Sat take to video game propositions like ducks to water, Randy and Rewind not far behind but charged with a slightly different energy about it. Poor long-suffering Soldier exists at the periphery as always, would-be bouncer that isn't often called on. She's got an idea to take the whole gang on an outing and give Mr. Hero a break from their noise and chaos.

Speak of angels and hear the flapping of their wings. Flapping might have been nice, Mr. K is eerily quiet even when he doesn't mean to be. His sudden loom and handover make Sam laugh nervously. "Eviction notice?" she posits playfully, confident in the knowledge that it'll be anything but that. Just keeping him in the playful teasing loop.

From the gallery come the jeers, boos, protests and denials to go with her query. They don't buy it either. At least the ones that'll make some noise about it. Some of them have manners... or something like it. Sam just laughs. It's nice here. Warm and loving and... well...

Scrap in hand is finally studied. Faces are not her strong suit as a certain trio probably laughs about. Half-brothers. Ha! Context does the heavy lifting here. Old picture. Back in the day relic of film and processing... aged things in the background. Retro set for period piece film. Smiling boys with still similar distance between them. Height, age... older/younger status. Sam knows this picture. She used to have her own. LOOK AT THEM! No helping a tiny squeal. "Awww~!"

Randy is too cute not to squeal at. No changes for him. Maybe a little taller if she's forced to concede that much, but the toddler in the picture is the same one she feels like she deals with far too often. Following her around her apartment, making his demands, asking his million questions, needing the minding and the care and just... so much. A so much she just so happens to have to give, since her own tiny satellite is orbiting elsewhere.

"And look at you!" He wont be left out, Mr. Hero. Today he is white suited and too cool for school in his dapper duds, masked and hidden from view but Sam sees him. Big brother antics. The most sacred of sibling vows broken— as the prophecy always foretells. Threats made in the yesteryear. ONE DAY THEY'D SHOW THE WORLD WHO THEIR LITTLE SIBLINGS WERE... just when they got cool and snobby and thought too highly of themselves. There they'd be to knock them down a peg. Sam elbows him and then plays at having hurt herself on stone.

Picture gets circulated to her right hand vampire to join in the reverie while Randy, slow to take his nose out of his book only just begins to question what everyone is on about.

When the howling starts, Sam makes sure to take that first tackle.

[echoestm]

@yareachlibrary || sweet sounds

His blood has been simmering for too many hours, cooking him from the inside out, steaming his brain to veritable mush. He's so much more used to a different high coming off of a job well done. This is.... new; and not.

The truth is that she's had him between her jaws since early into her own capture and contain mission. The second ever exception he's made and requested. Completing a never before had team. Did he know then? Was that why? No. No, his conscience is clean of that, at least. He enjoyed the challenge— not unlike now; liked being able to handle something difficult, being trusted with it. At least as much as he could be trusted by those he worked for. Beyond that, he'd enjoyed playing with someone his own size.

Now they thread needles blind, smirking at each other over map laden conference tables. Consideration exists, on his behalf at least, for third coworker but the sparks still fly. He welcomes her every question, challenge, and alternative. He's never been happier to be the guy with the answers for each. It used to get him in trouble, breed resentment; now it just makes her... sparkle. Like she approves. He can imagine. She wouldn't follow for long if he was an inefficient leader... or a fool. He may still be the latter, but not in ways that make her consider deserting.

So they trade words, looks, roles... She is as fine a soldier as he's ever worked with, barring one or two. Not trained in the same places he was. Naturally. Their differences and similarities flow together well enough. He trusts his back to her. She doesn't disappoint. Her stealth tickles him. Her demeanor the ember that catches the wind and rides it to... this.

Slow unnatural fire flowing through his veins. The memory of her keeping him company on cold lonely transport back stateside. Metal walls between them. Individual pods for basic maintenance and rest. Is this that? Habit not often indulged. A want that rarely visits him this insistently. It feels wiser to control the burn than let it break containment. Lights get dimmed, eyes shut closed. A night with her would be anything but ordinary, so he doesn't try to conjure it with imagination. Rather he thinks of the fast rap of her manicured nails against tabletop when she is bored and impatient, listening but eager to move on. Optical illusion. Fine-boned thing that looks so delicate. Expensive artwork. Museum worthy. That's what she looks like, but it's not what she is. She is... clever cutting mouth. Daring eyes. Sharp angles and jagged edges, a siren's ruinous beckoning for wayward fingers. His own drift only down the line of his own body, parting buttons, rucking up cotton undershirt. No idea if this is the path she'd take, but it's the one he walks.

Clever mouth features. Glinting eyes. Amused and knowing. Yes, he knows that she knows. He's conceded that much of the game at least. There's still so much more to go— and she'd earned it fair and square. She wouldn't be surprised by this, by him, at all. No, she'd tease him. Wicked mouth. Terrible words, taunting but in just the right way. Winner's privilege.

And what of that long wild mane she styles so sleekly for the office but has let loose when she deems it the right moment and usage? Curls, he thinks. Something she takes the time to tame and straighten in that magical way women do. Bathroom secrets. Cabinets of potions and... things. Her, using them in her clever hands to put the dark waterfall away... no. He reverses it. Plucking pins out, teasing holding gel into breaking and dusting away. Dry hand wraps his shaft and puts to use what's leaking to ease the glide. In mind he holds the image of her, wearing nothing but her hair down, covering her in the kind of mystery that primes him up, has him groaning and throwing head back into thin pillow.

Heels grind borrowed bed as he fucks fist, chasing the brighter burn now— faster, more suffocating. She is... bitten lip, flushed skin seen only in glimpses, little peeks... maybe she'd concede a sound. If he earned. If she liked what she saw. And oh does he want to earn it! That and so much more. Hand flies now, wringing the pleasure out of him hard and fast, cacophony of noises competing with his harsh breathing, complaining furniture, skin on skin...

When at last the pleasure crests and takes him? Who is to know what sound he makes or if there is a name buried within it?

[horroreverent]

@yareachlibrary sent: unfortunately , you made the mistake of underestimating me . [Ascended Frau Hutter to Orlok]

Against the brilliance she had become, this psychopomp who walked between both death and life, dreams and reality, he was a barren beast. He was a naked creature, bent over bare with all skin and sinnew exposed; flesh ripped from ligament like thin, ancient parchment. Yet, against her light, he did not falter. Instead, that Hunger rumbled deep inside of him. His ribcage sought to stretch wide, maw unhinged, and plunge around her to pull her deep inside of him.

Against her brilliance, he was a wretched thing. It did not falter the predatory smile that lingered over his lack features.

"Did I not state that you were not meant for this world?" Orlok wheezed, voice cracked and dry. "With mortal flesh slipped away does your true form now show."

A form he would still will to have draped between his claws. Now he desired her even more.

[echoestm]

Chris finds Sid drunk. BECAUSE THERE'S NOTHING TO DO IN WOODSBORO WHEN YOU'RE A TEENAGER.

@yareachlibrary

"I'll be right ba-aack~" She's laughing and there's a little bit of a door wrestle going on and no one can know that she's thinking Wes would deserve it if he got his finger smashed. He doesn't, which is good, because then she'd have to spend the rest of the night babying him about it and she's already doing THIS— ducking into one of the upstairs bedrooms to "fix" herself up; convenient girlish excuse for needing a little break from the rowdy energy downstairs. She loves it, right up until she doesn't and needs a breather from it.

The last thing she's expecting to come of it is a wasted and slightly miserable looking Sidney Prescott having beat her to it. Chris startles and visibly jumps a little at the sight of her, one hand going to her chest about it and teeth quick to clamp down on expletives wanting to burst out. "Uh, sorry?" Not really, but it's better than demanding what the hell she's doing there just creeping on half a moment. Chris has got about just enough brain left to remember neither one of them are entitled to a room in somebody else's house. Weird to think they have this in common though. Weirder still that it's Sidney fucking Prescott of all people.

"You... okay?" They are not friends. Chris isn't even sure they're friendly. Different class tracks, different peers— they'd be strangers if Woodsboro was half a fart bigger. Town too little for that, Chris is as aware of their high school's It Girl as anyone else. She has no idea if Sid's got something like that in return. Some townies do, know a weird amount about her dad and his holdings all over the place. Some don't. He has a chip about that half but Chris has yet to be called a gardener in her life so she's pretty sure he's just on the early train to the nice old folks home or something. "I didn't see Tatum downstairs." Where there was one, there was usually the other. Maybe that was why Sid was alone and hiding though, waiting on her girlfriend to show up or mourning detachment for six seconds of the day.

Still, Chris doesn't have to be a friend or even like a girl overly much to do her a basic solid— especially around parties, drinking and boys. She just locks them in so no one can barge in, stops by a mirror to straighten up a little from make-out messy and cops a seat near drunk white girl.

"You're not going to upchuck, are you? Girl. I will hold your hair and all, but if you get it on me... or the rug or anything else in here but the trash can, you are on your own."

[echoestm]

i'm just asking. you don't have to answer. [Adult!Sid to Adult!Chris re: if Billy was a one-time thing or a relationship.]

@yareachlibrary

"You get to ask," it's only a conversation Christina has been dreading since 1996, sneaking around with Billy fearful of the ass-kicking she'd be in for if they were ever caught. Billy thought himself too smart for that, too careful. Christina remembers telling him there was no such thing when it came to girls. Wine glass in hand is polished off for courage, regardless of the fact that these days she's no longer scared of a fight— especially from a Sidney who seems over it and removed. Christina thinks she can understand the morbid curiosity. She'd want to know too. More than that, Sidney's been there for her girls when she herself couldn't be. That merits an answer, maybe even more.

Chris cracks neck, inhales and shakes out her hair. Only then is she ready. "We were dating behind your back. I was supposed to debut in the sequel. Poor Billy, so sad... lost his girlfriend to her own father. Got scarred in the process. I'd be there to wipe the tears, console... etc. It doesn't hold up as great now we've got developed prefrontal cortexes, but it was romantic at the time. Being the girl in the wings. I was going to be so good for him, after you had been so "bad" for him." Fingers make air-quotes around Bad. She knows it was make-believe bad, just part of the script. Sidney as the girlfriend who had doubted her boyfriend and had him arrested when it was her own family that was the problem. Billy was going to be so heartbroken and pitiful. Ha!

What comes next is likely too little, too late but she says it anyway. "It wasn't personal, from me to you, Sidney. At first we were just nerding out over The Exorcist at Bradley's. Then it was more and I couldn't figure out why I had to be stuck with Wes or him with you if we found each other and liked it better. But that's how town was..." She's preaching to the choir, she knows. They couldn't just be a Netflix true crime series, they WERE one. Woodsboro was one of many towns following some preordained script and in most of them... the first boy you went with, if he didn't die or move away, was the one you stuck by. What Was Done was a big theme. She had gotten caught in it, tried to fight it and failed— thankfully, since it meant Wes was there to pick up the pieces and help for a while. What can she do but shrug?

"If Samantha had kept her trap shut like I told her..." They wouldn't be here. She would have let sleeping dogs lie and taken secrets to her grave. Would it have made the memory of Billy any sweeter? Probably not. It would have spared them all the renewed interest in vintage story trotted for a new generation to dissect over make-up tutorials on YT though. "Sorry." Empty glass is raised ironically. "Here's to him letting us both down. The pretty bastard."