experimentation
(or: she's just nudging them towards the inevitable, really.)


Sam wakes up to Allie's weight across his hips, to her hands on his arms, to her lips against his.

It's. Probably not right that he notices her lips last. But Allie is... well. She's heavy. Vampires generally are. It's not a trait most people expect. Her lips are feather-light, and soft; the rest of her is threatening to break his spine.

He's confused. It's a normal reaction.

She's still kissing him. Sam tries to speak; she runs her tongue inside, instead, over the ridge of his teeth and his bottom lip. Then she straightens, looking thoughtful, and says, "Hm."

"Allie," Sam says, very, very patiently. "Get off me."

She grinds down. Sam doesn't react. He says, "I have a wife. Get off."

"She's dead," Allie reminds him, as if he doesn't know.

"I have a wife," Sam repeats. His concentration coils like a whip; the next moment, it strikes. Sam imagines he can hear the air crack as Allie is thrown across the room. He pulls his anger around him like a cloak; it's unexpectedly cool.

He sits up and looks at Allie; she looks back, one arm pressed across her torso. Her expression is blank; Sam reaches up and touches his lips, feeling the residue of feelings there. He reads curiosity, mostly, and yearning.

As if to confirm his findings, Allie says, "I was curious." She stands. She isn't hurt. She could be pretending, but Sam's too pissed to care if she is or not.

Sam says, "I'm going to have breakfast."

He stands, and walks past her. Allie watches him go, head turning slowly with the motion like an owl's.

She doesn't apologize, and Sam doesn't ask her to.

Labels: _fiction, c: allison fencer, c: samuel gray, verse: darkcity

No, I don't know why her hair is blue, either. Nor do I know why she's apparently in Sage Mode. I just wanted to draw a girl, okay, and that girl happened to be Naruto's sexy-no-jutsu form.

This picture is, okay, just a bit depressing when it comes to the colors, but in my defense, there is a bit of hot pink. And gold! That totally makes up for all the blues and grays.

And, yes, I know that it's sad how active I am during exam month. I just seem to get a lot of inspiration when I should rightly be dedicating to hours and hours of study. Maybe I'll go burn a few candles, sacrifice a few virgins, kill a few goats, and hope that that somehow earns me straight sevens.

You never know.

Labels: _fanart, c: uzumaki naruto, fandom: naruto

Labels: _art, verse: misc.

I'm going to get down on my knees and beg forgiveness for not using quotations with dialogue in this one. Except, well, not.

1692 is a reference to the Salem Witch Trials, which was a mess that resulted in a lot of innocents killed or imprisoned because of false accusations, or grudges, or paranoia.

So. This is... Sam adding another member to his harem coven. I have no idea who she is. 834 words, unedited and unbeta'd--I didn't even look through it lawl.

-

breathe, and it comes

They have tied her to a stake. It is a scene from 1692, except that she is not a witch, and they are not killing her based on any wild accusation. They know what she is; and she knows what they are. They are the people gathered around her in a fair number, though there isn't enough to call it a crowd. They are dressed in jeans, sweatpants--dark-colored clothes, so that the stains from previous hunts don't show.

They are annoyed. They want to go home. She is going to die tonight, and they are discussing what show they missed that evening, what they should buy for their kids' birthdays, when can we leave forfuck's sakes, it's past midnight.

Midnight.

She tilts her head up and imagines she can feel the moon, although she knows that, even if they were outside, it would be hidden from her. She would call it neglect, or abandonment, but. But.

But.

She is not trying to free herself from her bonds. As a predator, her foremost attributes are cunning and intelligence. If she attempts escape, the hunters around her will strike, and....

Well. Kill her, perhaps. Disable her. It is a fate that is near-certain; she would rather prevent her impatience from hastening it.

They are going to burn her alive. It is not so bad. She has suffered through worse--berserker rages in the sun, burning outside and inside. Childbirth, long and hard, only to find the child had long been dead inside her.

She is waiting for an opportunity, although it is increasingly likely that there isn't any opportunity to wait for.

Hurry up, one of them says.

Another one, this a bare two meters away, shakes a tired head. No, we're waiting for another one. It makes more sense to burn them together.

What? Another? --Really?

It was a good hunt tonight, comes the reply.

She does not move a single muscle, in the single, expressive way of someone trying very hard not to react. She wants to believe none of them notice, because they are tired.

Another one. They are bringing another one, another one like her. It is, if not a good opportunity, at least an opportunity. Her fingers are curling slightly. Her claws unsheathe themselves. Around her, tension coils thick in the air, waiting and expectant. They fall quiet. They are all waiting, together, she and them, prey and predator.

Then the other one arrives, only it is not the other she expects at all.

It is a human, not a vampire, who steps into the warehouse.

He is looking around. He is not scared. He has a knife, and the blade is dark. His gaze tilts up, and she is startled to find him staring at her. He is ignoring them, the hunters, but perhaps he can because he is human. Perhaps he is one of them.

No. He isn't. He is walking towards her, and although they are parting, creating a path through negative space, it is not a gesture of submission. They are drawing guns, the glint of metal dull in the vacant light of the warehouse. She can sense the tilt of their thoughts, although they are unvoiced: What the fuck is he doing here, and who is he, and is he a complete nutcase?

Sorry I came so late.

He is speaking to her. Or at least, he is looking at her, and his mouth moves while he looks, and words come out. There is intent directed at her. But the words die out, and make no sense.

She is curling her fingers again, slowly, and she realizes the true reason she has not acted: She is injured.

She does not feel injured. She feels no pain. But she is injured. The thought is unfolding itself in her mind, new and wondrous, and she thinks, ah.

Sorry I came so late. But I'm going to rescue you now.

Coupled with the extra sentence, his words are making more sense. But. She is still confused. And now, she is watching; the blade of the knife presses against her bonds, and then stops, because the human has a gun pointed at his skull, pressing into his hair.

I'm sure none of us want the mess of your brains blown out all over the floor, says one of them, and then, like an afterthought: Motherfucker.

And then, smooth like silk, a voice she knows, because it is the voice all of them have: I wouldn't touch him if I were you.

Her gaze is moving, from the human to the door, and standing there are two others.

And then the human says, Well, actually, I have a condition. As if there is no gun pressing itself against the back of his head, as if they are not surrounded by them, by hunters, all of them palming guns.

He is smiling.

She says, I accept, because she does not care to wait for an explanation. She was expecting an opportunity; this is an opportunity.

They are not going to burn her alive, because the human says, Okay, and his knife slides through her bonds, and then everything erupts into motion.

Labels: _fiction, c: allison fencer, c: dark, c: samuel gray, verse: darkcity

How Allie and Sam meet. 606 words.

-

"And what will you be having?" the girl says, and she looks, sounds, so completely natural that Sam almost doubts himself. Almost.

She's good. He'll grant her that. Her hair is messy, and she looks ridiculous in the hat. But her smile isn't right, not for a girl working the fast-food track; there's a certain line to the way she moves, a tilt to her voice that is slightly too flat. She's too put-together, like a model posing in a magazine or an actress playing a role.

Still. She's good. Sam wonders what she is, if she's even anything he--or anyone--can shove into a neat, black-white label.

She isn't feral, and she isn't a ghoul. Socks was a ghoul, and the girl in front of him isn't exhibiting any of the signs. Sam wonders where she gets her blood from.

He glances around, making sure noone's near enough to hear. He doesn't bother being discreet. Then he leans forward, elbows on a counter slippery with who-knows-what, and says: "So what's a vampire doing busting her ass off in a place like this?"

She smiles at him. "So, a medium Coke and a cheeseburger?" she says.

"Sprite, actually," Sam says. Her smile widens, and shows teeth.

Sam says, "Thanks," and opens his wallet. She gives him his food.

Thirty minutes later she's sitting across from him. She's taken the hat off, which is bad, or maybe good, because it makes her look slightly less ridiculous and it reminds Sam of what she is. She's a blonde, and attractive. She has a pink bracelet on.

Sam has already finished his meal, and gone for a refill four times, and went to the bathroom twice. He's probably going to feel off tonight, from drinking so much soda.

"I don't see many of you guys around here," Sam says. He puts his cup between them, like a shield, as if plastic and paper could ever stop a vampire.

"No," the vampire says. She's still playing the teenaged girl, and slouching like a pro.

Sam tells her his address. "Come any time," he says. "But make sure I'm there. Dark's kind of territorial, and he's probably older than you."

"... Why?" the girl says.

Sam grins at her. "I'm... gathering a coven. Sort of."

"You're a human," she says. "Humans can't rule."

"Yeah, I'm a bit young, huh?" Sam says, as if the issue is age. "That's why I said sort of."

"You're scared," she returns. "Your heart is beating faster than normal. And you're sweating. Your breathing is too controlled. And the skin below your eyes is twitching."

"Uh," Sam says, "I knew I was scared already. No need to give me a report. Seriously, though," he adds. "Come any time."

The girl straightens. She's forgotten herself. When Sam stands up, he finds himself looking down at a predator. He forces himself to smile. "See you," he says.

He leaves.

He's entirely, entirely unsurprised to find Dark waiting for him outside, because the guy is an obsessive, paranoid freak. He's smoking. Dark will never admit that he smokes when stressed.

"She'll come," Sam says in reply to Dark's unspoken question. Dark walks with him, and, side-by-side, they make their way to Sam's car.

"That makes three," Dark says. "It's hardly a coven."

Sam laughs. "It's enough, for now. Minimum of three, am I right?" He reaches into his pocket, curls his fingers around the receipt he feels there. He touches the flimsy paper and feels traces of the girl still lingering. Vampires feel different from humans, the taste and color of their thoughts different--cooler, and less chaotic. They burn less.

Sam smiles. "She'll come," he says, again.

Dark nods, and follows his lead.

Labels: _fiction, c: allison fencer, c: dark, c: samuel gray, verse: darkcity