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tamingthemuse2014-07-19 04:16 pm
naughty-bangles.livejournal.com) wrote in tamingthemuse2014-07-19 04:16 pm
Entry tags:
Prompt #417 Fireworks ~ naughty_bangles ~ Fireworks ~ Supernatural
Title: Fireworks
Fandom: Supernatural
Prompt #417 Fireworks
Rating: Teens and Up
Word Count: 614
Summary: her life is like a firework.
A/N: it's mostly toying around for a project about Meg.
It had been the seventies and she had been out of Hell for a few months. She had been working on and off for Azazel, a little pact here, a little killing there, all demon things that were part of her everyday life now. The rest of her time was hers to spend, in any way she liked as long as she didn't endanger Azazel's plans. And there were better things to do than messing up with the boss' schemes. A lot funnier things. It was the seventies, after all.
Pot was passing from hand to hand, and she felt the nice buzz of drugs running through her meatsuit's blood. She had chosen her pretty, not too tall, with long wavy hair reaching her well-rounded bottom. She had never had the patience to grow her hair that long before. Too much work. But that meatsuit was only for a few weeks, a couple of months at best. And if she got bored of al this hair before that, she could change it as easily as she could put on another shirt. Demon life was good.
"What are you thinking about?", Alvaro asked her, lying beside her in the grass. He was one of these hippies living in the community she was staying with at the moment. They were all stupid and gullible with their ideas of love and peace for everyone, but they gave her free meals and drugs, and their sexual freedom suited her well. She had had a lot of fun with Alvaro recently, and some others as well, enough to stand the peace and love bullshit.
She couldn't really told him about the next idiot she would be trapping into a devil's pact, so she looked up to the shy and said with her most inspired voice :
"I was thinking about the fireworks. That's how I like my life: like a firework, full of colors and explosions, but happy explosions, you know?"
Alvaro stayed silent for a while, meditating her answer through marijuana fumes. "That suits you, Little Flower", he finally said. "You're a real poet at heart."
She stopped herself from laughing out loud at his words. She had nothing of a poet, not more than she was a little flower. She was just good at faking it. Humans were easily fooled by the cuteness of her meatsuits. They were so easy to play.
Yes, her life was a firework, but it was made of other people's pain and blood, and it suited her just fine.
They had stayed silent after that, merely enjoying the explosions of color bove their heads and all the mind-altering substances at hand.
Azazel had asked her to dispose of a man later that week, and she had left the community – and her meatsuit – behind. Without looking back, like she had always done.
She saw Alvaro again, unexpectingly. Shortly after she left, he had discovered he was suffering from syphilis. Desperate at the idea of dying so young, so painfully, he had made a pact with a crossroad demon.
He was tied to a trestle when she saw him again, and he wasn't likely to get down anytime soon. He didn't have what it took to make a good demon. He was more likely to stay a tortured soul for the millenia to come.
He didn't recognize her, of course, and it was better that way. He didn't care about him, about all his stupid ove credo, about the time she spent in the community. She merely recon it was a waste of handsome meat.
She pushed back the memory of little flowers and fireworks, and turned away, forward toward her future.
Fandom: Supernatural
Prompt #417 Fireworks
Rating: Teens and Up
Word Count: 614
Summary: her life is like a firework.
A/N: it's mostly toying around for a project about Meg.
It had been the seventies and she had been out of Hell for a few months. She had been working on and off for Azazel, a little pact here, a little killing there, all demon things that were part of her everyday life now. The rest of her time was hers to spend, in any way she liked as long as she didn't endanger Azazel's plans. And there were better things to do than messing up with the boss' schemes. A lot funnier things. It was the seventies, after all.
Pot was passing from hand to hand, and she felt the nice buzz of drugs running through her meatsuit's blood. She had chosen her pretty, not too tall, with long wavy hair reaching her well-rounded bottom. She had never had the patience to grow her hair that long before. Too much work. But that meatsuit was only for a few weeks, a couple of months at best. And if she got bored of al this hair before that, she could change it as easily as she could put on another shirt. Demon life was good.
"What are you thinking about?", Alvaro asked her, lying beside her in the grass. He was one of these hippies living in the community she was staying with at the moment. They were all stupid and gullible with their ideas of love and peace for everyone, but they gave her free meals and drugs, and their sexual freedom suited her well. She had had a lot of fun with Alvaro recently, and some others as well, enough to stand the peace and love bullshit.
She couldn't really told him about the next idiot she would be trapping into a devil's pact, so she looked up to the shy and said with her most inspired voice :
"I was thinking about the fireworks. That's how I like my life: like a firework, full of colors and explosions, but happy explosions, you know?"
Alvaro stayed silent for a while, meditating her answer through marijuana fumes. "That suits you, Little Flower", he finally said. "You're a real poet at heart."
She stopped herself from laughing out loud at his words. She had nothing of a poet, not more than she was a little flower. She was just good at faking it. Humans were easily fooled by the cuteness of her meatsuits. They were so easy to play.
Yes, her life was a firework, but it was made of other people's pain and blood, and it suited her just fine.
They had stayed silent after that, merely enjoying the explosions of color bove their heads and all the mind-altering substances at hand.
Azazel had asked her to dispose of a man later that week, and she had left the community – and her meatsuit – behind. Without looking back, like she had always done.
She saw Alvaro again, unexpectingly. Shortly after she left, he had discovered he was suffering from syphilis. Desperate at the idea of dying so young, so painfully, he had made a pact with a crossroad demon.
He was tied to a trestle when she saw him again, and he wasn't likely to get down anytime soon. He didn't have what it took to make a good demon. He was more likely to stay a tortured soul for the millenia to come.
He didn't recognize her, of course, and it was better that way. He didn't care about him, about all his stupid ove credo, about the time she spent in the community. She merely recon it was a waste of handsome meat.
She pushed back the memory of little flowers and fireworks, and turned away, forward toward her future.