slur these words {{ Sue x Wyatt (blitz)

Deleted

0 POSTS
last seen Apr 20, 2024 0:01:09 GMT -5

slur these words {{ Sue x Wyatt (blitz) Jul 2, 2015 23:11:04 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Deleted on Jul 2, 2015 23:11:04 GMT -5

S U E T A T E

Sue Tate's body was thrown across the corpses of his Allies, Death's hands on his shoulders, puzzle pieces scattered across flame ridden fields.

He screams, voice lost halfway between agony and fear, as the Cornucopia spits out the flames it was killed by, an explosion of metal bits and bloody corpses.

He watches, feels the flames lick at his back, scratching deep rooted fingernails into skin made of the trees of Seven, clamoring clamoring grinding down down down into his uprooted spine, burn marks and metal making their mark on a boy whose already got several marks of his own.

And as the air clears of dust and ~~death~~, his body curls into itself

limb by limb, lie by straggling lie

Bit by bit, piece by piece he pulls them closer and closer to his forest fire soul, flames of his inner turmoil burning away any sense of its gonna be alright he had left.

Noah's blood stains the left side of his face as he runs digits up to his own face, swiping blood and grime across cheek chin eyelids

He takes the mask off of his face and throws it as hard as he can.

It lands against the only thing left of the Cornucopia.

One breath two breath three breath, he feels like every one he takes, every single breath he clings to leaves him more and more exasperated, gasping for the air of his sanity as he sits, half alone half dead half beaten half bloody in between their bodies.

Sue Tate hunches forwards, burying face in hands and soul in a half-dug grave of his own actions.

There's no hand on his back like the girl from Seven, even though he wishes there were.

He screams as loud as he can with a one two three rhythm.

Im rolling for Word for later.

RFxf9uLJ1-4

1-4

Last Edit: Jul 2, 2015 23:14:31 GMT -5 by Deleted

Deleted

0 POSTS
last seen Apr 20, 2024 0:01:09 GMT -5

slur these words {{ Sue x Wyatt (blitz) Jul 3, 2015 16:43:05 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Deleted on Jul 3, 2015 16:43:05 GMT -5

W Y A T T O ' C O N N O R

Spiral from sanity we were all falling with rapid velocity.

Burden resting on Sue’s shoulders we were set to topple with the passing breeze. Built to fall I was stumbling with each step, watching detonation of decency the second that Sue Tate and the body of Noah Bowers going hurtling backwards. Terror at the touch of my fingertips I do not move away from its grasp as it sweeps my feet from underneath me and wraps its fingers around my throat.

Choking on the ashes of a fire burning in my lungs I roll to my side to watch the world swivel past. Tinging the edges of my vision I watch as Sue strips himself of his identity and slings it against the no-longer living flesh of the beast that fell with Noah and Maya’s lives staining its skin.

Tempting death by killing its hellhound I lay in the silence of disaster’s wake, one hand across my chest if for no other reason than to feel each breath still pushing its way to existence. I’ve always preferred the silence to the unnecessary technicalities of the unimportant— one scream in the air Sue’s voice pierces my being like the sword that skewered the bodies of the fallen.

It strains in tender ears; boils the blood in my veins until the ashes falling against his face seem to seep through the pores in my skin. I’ve always preferred the silence— it leaves no room for emotion.

Drawing myself to my knees I crawl until I’m resting my forehead against the corpse of the beast, reaching around to my back to pull the bottle of wine from the bag hanging from one strap only. Pulling the cork from its top I offer it out across the support of a quivering arm, “You look like you could use a drink, Sue.”

Deleted

0 POSTS
last seen Apr 20, 2024 0:01:09 GMT -5

slur these words {{ Sue x Wyatt (blitz) Jul 3, 2015 22:22:42 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Deleted on Jul 3, 2015 22:22:42 GMT -5

S U E T A T E

He clutches his skull, dry blood wet blood spewing out over the strands of hair that cling to his head.

Knees to chest, soul to pieces, he breathes so fast he loses count, a one two three breath going to four five six and seven eight nine

gasp

One foot in his grave as the other steps down on Death's creaking floorboard, squeaks and snaps gripping at the edges of whatever puzzle piece soul he had left, left dangling from the spun threads of his lies, desperately clinging to the webs he'd spun since childhood.

Eyes pan up and see the smokeless chimneys of the Abandoned Factory in the distance, tall tale chimney poles standing as a looming reminder of how puny these tributes were. And even though his eyes can't see it, theres a spider in the bottom corner, hidden beneath the cloaks of shadows and grime and dust.

It spins one thread, two thread, three thread, legs twisting and turning in a dance of life and death.

It spins one thread, two thread, before slipping from its spot and tumbling to the ground, body slamming into the shadowy abyss below, small dust cloud rising up around it.

Sue Tate slams his palms into the ground and watches the dust clouds the rise up from underneath them, beard hairs catching the spit off his lips as he spits a glob of bloody, death filled acid onto the ground.

Voice lost to the wind, soul lost to the void, lies lost to dead ears he watches a shadow cloak itself over him, one hand of Wyatt O'Connor extending an offer of death and alcohol in front of him, hand shaking within his reach.

“You look like you could use a drink, Sue."

His eyes pan down to the dirt below, blood droplets from bloody knuckles staining the territory below. One hand shoots for the bottle while the other shoots for stability.

One succeeds and the other misses, and a bottle lands in between his palms.

One gulp, two gulp, three chugs. A wave of alcohol, blood, and disgust washes through the beard thats sprouted around his chin, freshly trimmed the day prior by the claws of a mutt that he'd thought was the worst of the worst.

Gasp.

He hands the bottle back to his only living friend, arm shadow tracing paths along the bodies of Noah and Maya below.

"My dad and I, we used to drink like this."

Seven year old Sue Tate cringes as his dad slams the door for his soul, boot imprint the only gift he'd left.

Im rolling for Word for later.

5kEch7Hr1-4

1-4

Deleted

0 POSTS
last seen Apr 20, 2024 0:01:09 GMT -5

slur these words {{ Sue x Wyatt (blitz) Jul 3, 2015 23:58:41 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Deleted on Jul 3, 2015 23:58:41 GMT -5

W Y A T T O ' C O N N O R

Passed to my lips before the notion can be discussed I’m downing alcohol like I had done it every night of my life.

When your mother leaves you a book on five steps to fixing your child’s depression on your bedside table on the morning of your fourteenth birthday, you never really learn to appreciate the little moments shared between parent and son. Page one covered the notion of being your child’s friend but my parents were nothing more than my enemy, the general shouting orders at a sergeant who simply did not understand the command. So when Sue Tate hands me back the bottle that promises to teach me what it’s like to forget I take it from his hand like a wanted gift, savoring the burn in my throat as he speaks in a manner that stings the same, “My dad and I, we used to drink like this.”

I have never felt alcohol stream through my veins in place of blood, but the symptoms are nothing new.

Blurred vision into nothing I watch him spit blood and fire like normality as it spins into the ground beneath him— to lose the idea of what lies six inches in front of your face is not a side effect of being intoxicated by alcohol alone.

Nights spent in solitary those four white-washed walls blurred one into the other six seconds flat— a new personal record and I was toasting to the sky above the limiting ceiling like we were celebrating an old friend. But, alas, we were.

Eighty-nine, the bottle seems to slip in my fingers like liquid through the crevices of my skin.

The effects of alcohol and depression do not differentiate much, not if you look between the blurring lines to read the fine print that tells you how you’re fucked no matter how you choose to pick apart the meaning.

Slurred into that limitless sky I make eye contact with the boy wiping blood from his brow, “My parents drank to forget me— a problem of theirs, I suppose, but they never once offered me the same remedy for some reason. If you’d believe it, I always thought I needed to escape from myself much more than they did.”