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SPECIES
Werewolf
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LOCATION
Kentucky
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Post by REINA P. MADDIGAN on Aug 27, 2015 22:12:37 GMT -5
the angels sang a whiskey lullaby | she put that bottle to her head and pulled the trigger | 0844 words  commentary she's wearing a red & black plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up, and denim shorts. it's midday, sun is hot, middle of nowhere kentucky. i literally only added the donut bit because i couldn't think of a title. #badpuns | She tilts her head back, foot jammed up tight against the wheel, and shakes the amber bottle briskly. A few drops fall into her mouth and with a sullen "God fucking damn it," she licks the brim of the bottle and feels the alcohol sting against her lips. She's out. Again. And it's only been a week.
"God fucking damn it," she repeats, sliding her elbow onto her knee and pressing her fingers hard into her forehead. She can already feel the dull ache of a hangover coming on and it's barely noon. "What a fucking shitstain you are, Reina Maddigan," she says to herself. "Can't even get to lunch without a drink, huh?"
She shakes the bottle again, just to make sure it's empty.
A half hour later she rattles her way into a town so small that she's pretty sure half its population of six hundred is cows. With a heavy clunking sound she parks outside of a liquor store that's covered in dust everywhere but its windows. The store owners, she thinks, know what's important.
Inside it's quiet and cool and there's just the faintest whiff of beer in the air. Hand pressed against her forehead (pounding, throbbing, god she wants to fucking trepan herself) Reina makes her way through a double-row of wine, ignoring the overpriced grapejuice for something a little stronger. There's vodka of course, but Reina isn't that far down the hole. Instead she heads for the whiskey section, trailing her fingers down the row of sepia glass. She stops like a clockwork by the bottles of Canadian Club, lingering for a second before she takes two of them. She's not a hungry drunk so really, she's just saving money this way.
She notices a kid staring at her on her way out. She stops walking and turns to stare at him. He stares back, apparently comfortable with being twelve and alone in a liquor store. "The fuck are you looking at?" she asks.
"Ma says you can go to hell if you use language like that," he responds casually, as if he regularly discusses theology in the middle of the cider section. He keeps his big, brown and way-too-fucking-innocent eyes on her, and Reina's reminded uncomfortably of herself at that age. The same ma says, pa says view of the world; the existential confidence that comes from knowing yourself, because, really, children are way more on track than adults ever were.
"Well fuck your ma too, then," she says, all bark and no bite, and ma chooses this moment to hurry down the aisle and grasp her son gently by the arm. She looks Reina up and down and finds her wanting. "It ain't a lie, the Devil himself will take you if you use words like around good Christian folk," she says, voice all acid. "And if not him then myself if I find you around here again, cussing out my child like--like--" and she has to stop here because Reina can tell she's seconds away from dropping down from saint to sinner and calling Reina all sorts of names that would make Jesus himself blush.
"No problem, ma'am, I already got a rendevous with Satan anyhow," Reina says with a laugh, clinking together the two bottles in her hands. "I'll save you and the kid some goddamn trouble, no problem."
What she doesn't say is that as she pays and walks out the door, she can feel the tiny cross around her neck burning against her cleavage (she's pretty sure there's some irony in that, or whatever) and that all that bravado is the only defence for someone who's already resigned herself to Hell.
Back outside Reina doesn't even make it to the truck before she opens one of the bottles, taking a swig before her nose can react to the caustic scent of alcohol. She heaves a breath as liquid fire slides down her chest and pools in her stomach, a little hearthfire she'll probably vomit back up later. She settles down on the curb, whiskey bottle held loose in one hand, taking periodic sips from her adult sippycup. Leaning back, she reads the one and only road sign in the town.
Magic City: 100 miles, exit onto Route 58.
One hundred miles until she hits civilization again or whatever passes for it in the middle of fucking nowhere Kentucky. One hundred miles until she's surrounded by the sweat and stink of thirty thousand humans and downworlders. One hundred miles until she has to go back to living undercover, dodging the local werewolf clan because they just can't stand loose guns (although they're fucking wolves, she thinks, but apparently they won't even lick their own ass unless the alpha gives them the go ahead).
One hundred miles and all she wants to do is drink herself into a stupor and melt into this God-fearing little hamlet where the people don't know shit about her.
She pauses in her drinking long enough to rustle around for the donut she bought earlier. Chocolate with sprinkles--her favourite. |
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SPECIES
Werewolf
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LOCATION
Kentucky
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Post by REED FINLEY on Sept 9, 2015 19:08:01 GMT -5
Knock me out, knock me out Saying that I want more, this is what I live for Humans think they're just so goddamn funny. He runs on all fours and his tongue lolls out of his mouth. The bang of a bullet leaving a shotgun makes his ears flatten against his head; his body shudders. They're young kids, fucking rednecks messing with him, but there's a fear inside of him that's making him quake and it is rubbing up against the monster inside his head. His vision is clouding and he tries to focus on the thud-thud-thud--thud footfalls of his paws.
"Heyyyy, doggy doggy! Heyyyy!" Another shot rings out and this time Reed yelps as it grazes his shoulder. Blood spurts and he stumbles, wheels around and rears up to full height. The kids are right behind him in a truck; his nostrils flare as he watches the kid behind the wheel scream a curse word and throw the wheel to the side. The wheels skid, can't catch on the wet mud from a Kentucky rain, but Reed leaps forward, claws screeching as he uses the side of the truck to propel himself up and over it as it comes towards him. He lands on the other side with a thud and then drops down onto his front paws. His cuspids glint as he bares his teeth. The shooter in the back is too jarred to do anything.
Reed hungers for blood.
His jaws snap. He slams his body against the truck and the kids in the bed scream. His teeth come inches from one of their faces before the wheels are spinning again. He watches them go with narrowed eyes, but he's too chickenshit to go after them and teach them a lesson. He'll mess with a lot of things, but guns aren't one of them.
His fur shivers and slinks back into his body. Bones snap and deform and reshape. The boy shakes out his white hair and curiously presses his fingers into his shoulder. The wound gushes bright red and he watches it, transfixed. "Piece of shit was a good shot," he mutters and pokes it again. His breath hisses through his teeth, a drawn-out, "Fuuuuck."
There's nothing around here for miles, that much he knows. Funnily enough, he hadn't even been looking for trouble. Some assholes had just seen him loping alongside the highway and decided to mess with him. With a sigh, he starts to walk back the way he came. Eventually he'll run into someone else on the road (hopefully) and this time they won't have guns (hopefully) and he'll be able to steal some clothes off their backs to patch up his wound. Yeah, that sounds good.
It takes him half an hour to reach the road again, and another half hour before he gives up on the thought of someone bumbling down it. Who's he kidding? There's no one around here for miles, damn it. He has half a mind to change again, but he knows his shoulder can't take the heat. So another, "Fuck," escapes his lips, except this time it's a fuck x 20. He mutters them under his breath as he walks, adds in a few other choice words just for a little bit of color, and soon enough he's cursing the whole world for his current predicament.
When he finds a gas station, he looks up and says mockingly, "Why, thank you oh so much for listening to me, Oh Holy One." His nose twitches. He smells food. And wolven. His face wrinkles in disgust, but he has a change of heart once he sees the babe SITTING beside an old as sin truck with chipped ass paint and more dents in it than he can possibly fathom. He trots right up to her and slouches into his back, hands in his shorts. "You got a shirt a wolven could borrow?" He raises his sticky, bloody fingers and reaches to stroke her face. "Maybe a little something sweet, too, sug?" He smirks.  | NOTES | 655 words | fck yeah downworlder hate. edit: he's such a douche and i'm so sorry about all of this. tagged: REINA P. MADDIGAN |
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SPECIES
Werewolf
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LOCATION
Kentucky
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Post by REINA P. MADDIGAN on Sept 9, 2015 23:20:49 GMT -5
THE ANGELS SANG A WHISKEY LULLABY | SHE PUT THAT BOTTLE TO HER HEAD AND PULLED THE TRIGGER | 0844 words commentary | The first thing she smells, beyond that whiskey haze that feels so fucking good, is blood. Salt and metal and dripping from the shoulder of someone whose presence at the edge of Reina's conscience is....feral.
Second is the unmistakable tang of wolven. So that explained the jitter in Reina's bones as he approached, invisible hackles raising and the hair at the back of her neck raising.
Fuck. She hates wolven.
Her shoulders shift back of their own accord, hand setting whiskey bottle down on the road with a clink. And then, because as much as her nose wrinkles at the presence of her own kind, he smells decidedly yummy, so she makes sure that her back arches just a little. Reina might not have much by the way of worldly assets, but her physical ones are worth showing off.
She waits for him to amble to a stop beside her before looking up, yellow and ochre eyes slitting as she takes him in, cocked hips and all. First thought: shit, you're small. Second: I'm probably tipsy enough to not give a shit.
"Only the one I've got on me, hun," she says, cocking an eyebrow (hours in front of the mirror spent perfecting this, using free time only pre-teens have), settling hands on the curb and leaning back, weight settling, mouth curling in a little vixen grin.
"You'll probably have to do a bit more than show off your goods to get it off me, though," she drawls, biting her lip as she glances at the stranger's hips. She can't tell much right now, the way he's dressed, but his hair is cute and wild and it's been so long and--god the smell of sweat and blood really shouldn't be turning her on this much.
Of course, it's not nearly the same when it's being smeared all over your face. Reina's mouth quirks and suddenly it's showing a bit more tooth and little bit less vixen and her fingers are going white with pressure where they press against concrete, because in her world, there are boundaries and barriers and locks and keys and--
fuck fuckfuck you don't you dare fucking fuck you i'm going totearyourgoddamnmotherFUCKINGfaceoff--
She reins it in with a whole-body shiver that starts in her toes and ends with a deep inhale, smile so wide her whole face hurts. That jitter in her bones is now deepseated quaking, the promise of a change.
"Darlin', I think I've got just the thing for you," she says, because this is the South and down here you're friendly and kind, especially when your sex drive starts to overrule all good sense and logic.
There are too many teeth in her mouth now, sharp and sweet.
Reina stands, abruptly, and she has to laugh because she's got a good six inches on him. She knows what she wants now. A night or two, he'll be hers, and then just when it gets good, when desire edges in on comfort, she'll leave him. Begging, hanging. Whatever.
She leans in, wolven teeth a little too long for her smiling cherry-red mouth. "I've got a shirt in the back, but you look like you could--" her eyes flick to his wounded shoulder (they're standing so close she can feel the heat pulse from the wound, aching) "--use some help. You need a lift?"
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SPECIES
Werewolf
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LOCATION
Kentucky
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Post by REED FINLEY on Sept 10, 2015 14:43:57 GMT -5
Knock me out, knock me out Saying that I want more, this is what I live for She's got great legs. He whistles real soft and low under his breath and drinks her in. He can taste the pheromones coming off her in waves and he's cocksure (hah) that he's gonna get a little something something tonight. Even though Reed's a shrimp in stature, he ain't a shrimp where it counts. He likes his women tall and demanding because he likes to put them in their place.
"Oh, I wasn't talking about the donut, sugar," he drawls. The scent of wolven becomes more prominent in the air and his eyes narrow, fingers curling. His lips fall into a pleasurable smirk at the realization that he's brought on some of her Change. She reins it in, but barely. He licks his lips when he sees the glint of too-sharp teeth in her mouth, cuspids stained cherry red from her lips. He doesn't trust red lipstick, usually, but he can't smell any disgusting artificial sweetness from her mouth (and he's damn well close enough to tell) so he decides there's nothing stopping him from locking his lips onto hers and showing her a good time.
Except he doesn't. He's a fan of the game and he wants to draw this out. The other beast that lives in his pants wants to protest, but Reed's still more man than animal and can control his goddamn urges (to a degree). It lessens some degree though, thankfully, when she gives in and asks him for a ride. Some of the tension eases off of him and when she draws his attention back to his shoulder fuck it really hurts now. "Yeah, ya think? Humans need to learn their goddamn place," he snaps as he presses his already-bloodied hand back onto the wound.
It doesn't bother him in the least that he's getting into the passenger side of a truck whose driver has just drowned herself in half a bottle of whiskey. She's wolven. She'll be fine. And he's wolven. Honestly, the worst that will happen is they'll probably swerve off into nonexistent traffic. He grunts as he uses his hands to haul himself into the truck. He twists around in his seat and digs through the piles of clothes and other possessions (not much) in the back. "Jesus, you ever clean this shit?" There are some rather skimpy outfits amid the mess and he takes his time running his fingers over those. Oh yeah, we're so fucking tonight.
He ends up using what resembles half of a black tank top to bind the wound around his shoulder. She has so much goddamn flannel that he throws one of those on, too, but he leaves the buttons unbuttoned. "Alright, Legs, you headed to Magic City? Or you going nowhere?" He raps his fingers against the dashboard and sings, "'Cause as long as I'm with you, it don't matter where we gooooo." | NOTES | 478 words | |
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