since your paper heart stopped beating,,

[samson carter mikkel]

I thought you said forever, over and over

[/i][/color]
A sleepless night becomes bitter oblivion.[/color][/font]
--------------------[/center]

[/i] that infuriated him the most couldn't - absolutely not for the lack of him trying - be choked, hit, slammed, punched, or kicked life out of. And that air - God, that overbearing[/color] air that bordered near arrogance, like each time he was done with her, still radiated smugness. Like she knew something he didn't about himself. That after over a hundred years, she knew something about Samson Carter Mikkel that he had yet to figure out, something that maybe no one woman had ever discovered, except maybe her. Even Harley knew better than to speak of her by name. Even she knew his temper wouldn't handle it, wouldn't so much as bear witness against the frail human that had gotten to him so deeply, flayed and skinned his soul so down to the core of his being, back when he had breathed himself. When he was still human, still weak. Well, he wasn't weak now by any means. He crushed human girls now, instead of being crushed himself. Felt the life tick slowly out of their hearts, ripped out like the country girl so long ago did to him. Or that's what it felt like. That country girl, all soft hair and secret smiles.

She had said he was the perfect gentleman. Her perfect little city boy.

Would she think so now? Would she smile the same smile knowing the trail of scarlet tears he had bled over her since? No.[/color] No, of course she wouldn't. And he didn't care.

Samson flexed his fist again, leaning back against the cold, damp wall of the alleyway. She would never smile the same smile towards him again, it was foolish to even toy with the idea; time would have killed her even if I hadn't. [/color]But he had meant to, hadn't he? Meant to slay, to burn, to watch with blackened eyes but never, never taste the blood himself? The thought, inevitably given he was only a newborn when it had happened, crossed his mind, but even then the desire to resist had been too strong. The agony over her and what she had done, even in her righteous death, had been too much to pull her from the flames and take her blood that was slain, and thereby rightfully his. His pain over the girl was too much, even for a scorching throat as the fire licked along his traitorous love, sending her ashes to the sky up above. To taint the air as the sky itself taunted him, begged him to breathe in even though he didn't need to, to breathe what was left of her in for the last time. Because even then, Samson had loved her. Loved the filthy betrayer like the wide-eyed city boy he was before he stepped into war, into the south that tangled his life into unfathomable knots. The civil war had been advertised as such a glamorous thing, to be suited finely, and he could still remember how his mother's eyes had sparkled bright on the morning he marched out of the free north. She had been so proud of her only son. She wouldn't be now.[/color] Mothers loved sons, not unidentifiable murderers. And that was okay. He didn't need her, either; had she not been the one to prod him forewarningly from the very beginning? That was why she had named him Samson, after all. She had said a woman's love was the most dangerous and life changing event to a man; as a representation of his namesake, a mockery of his being, Samson couldn't quite disagree.

But Julia, she was no Delilah. And he wasn't going to mutilate Phillistines while bringing upon his own death.

He was going to live his cursed life leaving as many of Eve's daughters to die alone.

They deserved it. They all did. Even her, his sweet country girl.

The Lucvii girl, she was no different. Even with her eyes that seemed to see more of him than what was on the outside, than what he portrayed and ultimately believed to be Samson Mikkel. As Samson Mikkel, the civil war soldier, had died along with his quadrant, along with Julia, along with the war he had ventured in as a boy and came out as a hardened man, one that was less man than monster. He had not yet been able to decipher her look when he had told her his story, snarled in good warning that if she should repeat it to anyone, her blood was as good as drained from every inch of her small body. It was no idle threat like the others had been. She had only had to look into black eyes to know that his human memories were not to be taken lightly. There was little that touched him, not dirty dogs that attempted to take him down alone when he had visited cities with his popular name, not other blood drinkers that had risen up in protest as he took claims in their towns more than they ever had, as his prey walked right to him, and not sob stories, certainly not; the cold night air rivalled nothing in comparison to his heart, or what could be left of such a useless organ that represented such meager, human things. Samson Mikkel, the city boy, had believed in such weakness.

DJ Mikkel, the murderer, did not.
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APPAREL -lazy- banner.
MUSIC paperthin hymn - anberlin
WITH harley lucvii.
SETTING port angeles alleyways.
NOTES so it begins.

[harley anna marie lucvii]

I want to be free from desolation and despair
And I feel like everything I sow has been swept away

You're corrupt...bring corruption to all that you touch...

The music slowly started to rise in tempo as Harley walked down the darkened street, her hoodie pulled up over her head, her eyes staring straight ahead. A determined expression, eyes that burned with some sort of righteous fury mixed with grim determination. Step by step. Inching closer and closer to the Monster.

And burn...you will burn...

Pausing on the street, Harley breathed in deep, the icy air waking her up, alerting her. The music from her ipod kept on playing, the steady beat of the drums beating as steady as her heart beat. One two. One two. Breathing out slowly, Harley tilted her face up to the sky, staring at the stars which twinkled above, oblivious as to what was going on in the world beneath them. What god awful thing they look on...

[/color] Returning her gaze back to the darkened street, her eyes glazed over the smashed bottles and trash that littered the place. The place where he probably lead girls out to die. The place where, only by the grace of some heavenly force, she got spared. And all the pain, all the broken bones and bruises she received, she got nothing compared to those girls. Squaring her shoulders she started her steps again, her breath floating into the air like mist. This was a battle she had to win, although really, either way this went she was going to win. If he didn't change, then Harley would have been right for all those years, and her ma would have been damn wrong. If he changed, well then, maybe Ma was right. Some people could improve themselves. Could get better. And there is somethin' about him. Somethin' in his eyes. He ain't.. evil. Not pure evil, anyway. I swear there's-...[/color] That thought trail was stopped as quickly as a mouse died when it got its neck snapped in a trap. She had to be objective about this whole thing. This.. experiment. Otherwise, how on earth would she be able to trust her results, or some shit like that.

And our freedom's consuming itself, what we've become, it's contrary to what we want...

Harley wondered whether Samson cared why she kept coming back. Whether he wondered what was going on behind her dark brown eyes. No. No, of course not. He only cared that she didn't give him the satisfaction of crying, of screaming when he hit her. That she didn't weep and clutch at his shoes, begging for mercy, or try to run, like so many girls had done.

He won't get that satisfaction.[/color]

No. He wouldn't. Couldn't, because she was Harley Anna Marie Lucvii, and she was made of tougher stuff than that. Her father had boasted that he had trained her right, that she had iron in her blood instead of the salty shit people call "tears". Her mother, on the other hand.. well, she hadn't been so proud. Not when Harley had been able to take slaps and not cry out, not when Harley could be shaken and not say a word. An admirable trait perhaps, but the way it had been achieved.. not so much. Still, it wasn't like the woman had ever tried to get them out of that house. And it wasn't like she couldn't either, the options were always there. Always. They'd even had a plan to escape together once Harley was set up at college. But when she came to collect.. she just wouldn't leave him.[/color] Perhaps this whole thing with Samson was a way to fight back against her mother. To prove that she, Harley was a different breed. A woman who could and would take the beatings, but be perfectly disconnected from her assailant. Be capable of walking away, of turning her back on him and his issues and content herself with knowing that in the end, you shouldn't give a shit about people who don't give a shit about you. But those eyes...[/color]

You bring death and destruction to all that you touch...

The streets were even shadier the farther she walked, the storefronts more dingy, the emptiness more tangible. But there was no fear in her eyes, no uncertainty in her step as she paused at the mouth of the alleyway, her gaze settling on the tall form of the murderer, the bloodsucker, the Monster. Breathing out again, the fine mist warming her face, she walked toward him, her steps even and controlled, neither speeding up nor slowing down as she approached. Her air was that of a person who was on a stroll, her hands shoved deep in the pockets of her hoodie. You must pay... Even though her shoes didn't make much noise on the damp concrete, she knew that he heard her every footstep, her every breath, even the pulsing beat of her heart. You must pay for your crimes against the earth... Not that he'd hear anything there. Just a steady, regular thudding noise that she seemed to time every footstep by. Feed the hex on the country you love.. One foot in front of the other, walking toward pain without so much as a whiff of fear. She stopped when she was a good ten feet away, her hand resting on the pause button on her ipod, waiting patiently for it to reach the good part. Now burn, you will burn... Eyes closing briefly, she listened to the music as the singer's voice rose to a pained wail, the instruments roaring into life with a passionate crescendo.

You'll burn in hell, yeah you'll burn in hell for your sins.

Eyes snapping back open, she pressed her thumb down on the pause button, the music coming abruptly to a halt.

"Evenin', Samson."[/color]
[/blockquote][/size]

Apparel[/color][/font] Clicky.
Music[/font] Take a Bow - Muse
Tagged[/font] Samson.
Notes[/font] ... Uhm. Let the fun begin?

[samson carter mikkel]

I thought you said forever, over and over

[/i][/color]
A sleepless night becomes bitter oblivion.[/color][/font]
--------------------[/center]

[/i] kind of reaction that was welcome aside from the life in her eyes that gleamed bright no matter how vicious a blow was. Yet… [/color]Yet that was what he had already been doing anyway, hadn’t he? Having her come back, time and time again, to be brought to her knees with no plea ever succumbing from her mouth, if it wasn’t filled with blood, anyway, it was the exact representative of a cold and stretched out torture. She knew she couldn’t run. She knew he’d find her if she did. Sometimes, he liked it better when they ran; it made it all the more pleasurable to see the fear collected in their very frames when he caught up to them. It was rather foolish: they should have known better than to try to outrun the devil himself.

Her drawl, however, brought out a reaction to him that was inevitable as usually noticed by her; his jaw twitched instinctively as venom collected in the cave of his mouth, warm and sickly sweet to taste, the amount of poison in just a few seconds enough to take out a room of people, probably. It was a reflexive action, one he couldn’t control, and it wasn’t that it was specifically Harley, or anything she said for that matter. It was how she said it: that Southern touch to her syllables that flared agony within him at a moment’s notice. It was something Samson had never, ever gotten used to in a hundred years, and perhaps that was why he had avoided being a guest DJ in the Southern states unless he was feeling particularly hateful, or more than usual, and it just so happened to be that girl’s luck to hold the accent he so dearly wished to eradicate from the universe. His head raised just slightly, and turned the barest fraction of an inch to appraise her appearance, as if her clothes were transparent and he could visibly see every bruise he was sure still lingered from the last time. His marks, of course. A body wasn’t nearly as beautiful when it wasn’t painted black and blue all over. It was art of the most delicate nature: to paint her, to twist fragile limbs in ways not meant to be bent, the symphony of a splintered bone, maybe two. A good day, maybe, that merited three or more.

“Harley.”[/color]

He had never spoken to her, surprisingly, as if she were beneath him, and as a matter of fact Samson often greeted her as pleasantly as one would have to an old friend. Somehow, though, barely underneath it, lurked the painful icy feel to his tone, full of knowledge, full of knowing, knowing that she couldn’t run. Though, unlike the others, it didn’t seem like she would have, but the control enamored his soul like a weary traveler’s ache for water, the principle need essential for survival. And if his survival depended on full control, mentally and physically, of another, then that was something he had learned to master the craft of. After all, how many adoring fans had walked into his hands so plainly? They hadn’t known who he was, where he was coming from. She did. In a way, it made it all the more gratifying. In a way, it thrilled him: she knew exactly how easy it would be for his fingertips to locate the hollow base of her throat, to puncture and feed from paper-thin defenses as the monster inside intended him to. But not yet.[/color] No, not yet. There was still business to attend to, after all. In what could be considered ‘less than the blink of an eye’, Samson had stepped away from the wall he was leaning against, to stand directly in front of Harley; he hadn’t expected her to flinch or turn away, assuming she would be used to such agile movements by now. His eyes were hard, and black as the night was soon becoming. He had a gig to attend to, soon, to weave his little playthings together at last. Samson placed a no doubt freezing hand under her chin, lifting it up, feeling the course of life through the weakest of barriers… He smiled.

“Still human, I see.”
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APPAREL banner.
MUSIC cry my love goodbye - bandcamp
WITH harley lucvii.
SETTING port angeles alleyways.
NOTES mm.

[harley anna marie lucvii]

I want to be free from desolation and despair
And I feel like everything I sow has been swept away

The heartbeat drumming steadily in her chest served as her new tempo, the constant, dull thudding proof that she was alive. For however many seconds Samson allowed her to remain so, anyway. Not tonight though..

[/color] No, tonight was not the night when her candle was to go out. She knew Samson well enough by now to know that he enjoyed the thrill of the chase, the acrid scent of fear. And as long as she kept denying him that little satisfaction, she would keep her own heart thudding its steady march. Not that she would outlast him. Harley was well aware that with every thud of her internal drum, she was taking one step closer to the end. It was like the thud of the drums as prisoners in the olden days were propped up before the muskets, or had the noose slipped around their neck. After all, this thing could only end in two ways: either his miraculous reformation ( Yeah, right.[/color] ) or her own demise. Harley had no sugar encrusted fantasies about her fate once Samson got bored. After all, Samson had a black void where his heart should be, thanks to the girl who had ripped it out. But was it really even her fault? Or had he always been a sadist, just one waiting for the opportune excuse to explain away his inclinations? Either way, he was cold, colder than his own touch. But Harley was anything but afraid.

Blinking slowly, like a cat, Harley watched as his face contorted the moment her drawl reached his ears. Not that his reaction surprised her. Few things about him did that anymore. After all, how else should he react to the sort of drawl that his beloved had spoken to him with? Well, ex-beloved, or whatever. And as per usual, she knew what would come next. As always he would look at her, as if he could see through her clothes straight to her skin. Not in any sort of romantic way, mind you, but rather like the owner of a slaughterhouse observes a cow he wishes to purpose. Appraising, coldly detached. She was a piece of meat in his eyes already, not a girl, just a play thing to be broken and discarded. Tilting her chin ever so slightly in the air, Harley shifted her stance, shoving her hands deep in her pockets, her entire posture slack, relaxed. ( Show no fear.[/color] ) As if she was standing in some bar somewhere, or some party, somewhere safe. As if she wasn't staring down a creature which could snap her neck in two within seconds if he had half a mind to. As if she wasn't marching to her own death in order to prove some stupid point. Not that she had any options. She could not go back now, Samson would find her no matter where she ran to, no matter how she tried to hide. And she wasn't, wouldn't[/color], die sniveling in some damn alley. She was going to die with her head held damn high, cool as a cucumber, with eyes burning with defiance.

He ain't gonna make me lose.[/color]

A slow smile spread across her lips when he said her name, as if he was greeting a friend for coffee. As if they were actually friends. There was some sick humor in all of this, if you knew where to look, and Harley was going to laugh it up whatever chance she got. She was going to laugh and smile in his face when he tried to play the Master Puppeteer, because he was in control here, and that was all she was armed with to defy him. He wanted fear, she would give him sarcasm and knowing eyes, eyes that burned, and smirks which he always tried to erase. Admittedly, the whole thing gave Harley her own sort of rush. After all, each day was a way for her to prove to him and to herself that in the end, she was stronger. She had a will which could not, would not, be broken, because she knew something he didn't. She had something he didn't. A heart.[/color] The capacity for believing in humanity, as scarred and flawed and god-awful as it was. Blinking slow again, she did not react when Samson appeared in front of her and took hold of her chin. And when he smiled that sick, sick, smile of his, she smiled on back, her expression easy-going and content.

" 'Course sugar. What else'd I be? Haven't found another bloodsucker who'll switch me over yet."[/color]
[/blockquote][/size]

Apparel[/color][/font] Clicky.
Music[/font] Tin Man - Animal Kingdom.
Tagged[/font] Samson.
Notes[/font] Something HAS to be wrong with this girls brain.

[samson carter mikkel]

I thought you said forever, over and over

[/i][/color]
A sleepless night becomes bitter oblivion.[/color][/font]
--------------------[/center]

[/i] Samson minded every shifting of weight on her foot, her movements, her breathing pattern, all of it; inhaled it and took it in as strategy, the careful construction of his final game in Washington to come into play whenever he chose to. And he chose, of all nights, tonight. He had already plucked his share of feeds from crowds in the city club, and there were only so many admirers to drink from before he became detached, uninterested, eager for the thrill of the hunt. Their hearts seemed to gravitate out of their chests, so inviting, so loud, when they tried to run from him. Of course, sometimes he felt generous. And sometimes, playing with food was more alluring than the actual meal itself. Dark eyes observed her coolly, her soft, calmed demeanor: she was not food. But she would be toyed with, to aid him to the real fun. The real intentions for not slitting her throat from the very beginning.

Haven’t found another bloodsucker who’ll switch me over yet. If Samson had been concerned (or to be precise, more on a level of boredom) of her speech, she should have known she would have been reprimanded with a backhand with such distasteful terminology. But as it was, Samson didn’t care, or rather, didn’t have the time to waste on roughing up the very girl that would make tonight possible. A rough, calloused chuckle escaped his throat, and he looked at her appraisingly, strikingly like a father admiring his naïve child. “No? That friend of yours hasn’t changed his mind, has he?”[/color] he hmm’ed thoughtfully, gauging her reaction; he had remembered her initial one when he had, during one of their first few encounters, recalled the name, birthdate, and occupation of the Greene boy she had lingered around; not that he had really cared enough to crush a newborn into undeserving splinters, but it was pleasant to phrase the implication. “And of course, you wouldn’t want me to sway the levels of persuasion in your favor.”[/color] But what friend would wish ill enough for that extent of punishment, anyway? He paused at the end of his sentence, as if to add more, but then shook his head, sweet, faux smile reappearing. There was no time left to play with petty little feelings between those who held strength in emotion, and there was certainly no patience left in him to allow such distraction.

He dropped his hand from her chin, good naturedly stepping back and allowing her a reasonable distance of respectable space: such little acts must have seemed highly unnecessary from the outside, but they were all for the greater effect of the grand show. His hands fell into the pockets of his overpriced, designer jacket, the warmth of the inside material never touching ice skin or giving it the soothing reaction on what would be relief for any ordinary human. His head inclined just barely, the pleasant features of his face never slipping in act; she would have to agree to his requests, it wasn’t as if there was any way to properly form a rebuttal that would not end in her subsequent injuries. Oftentimes, it hadn’t mattered: he would hit her when bored, he would hit her when she said something he disliked… but he had never asked for things. Never insisted to pull such requests, as what could a frail little body have to offer him that he could not gain himself? But there was something. There was always something.

“I’m in need of a favor.” His gaze forced onto hers, his meaning clear.

Obey, or fall where you stand.[/i]
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APPAREL banner.
MUSIC i swear, this time i mean it - mayday parade
WITH harley lucvii.
SETTING port angeles alleyways.
NOTES n/a

[harley anna marie lucvii]

I want to be free from desolation and despair
And I feel like everything I sow has been swept away

A sugary smile remained on her lips to mirror his own, her expression like the one all those housewives had in fifties commercials. Sweet to the point of almost being vapid, blissfully happy and always polite, the image of perfection. Or their image of perfection, more like. Not that she was vapid, or anything. If she was vapid, she would be dead by now. Samson didn't like playing with stupid dolls, they weren't worth the effort. No, the sick bastard liked screwing with people too much. Liked tearing them apart slowly, from the inside out. Literally and figuratively. Not that peoples torn bodies were really what she needed to be thinking about right now. No, she needed to think on the present and what Samson was saying about her. And Greene. Her expression did not change when he mentioned him, the smile still on her lips, detached and cool as ever. Even when he made that little threat of his, she didn't flinch. She couldn't flinch, not like she had when he'd first mentioned Greene. That had been a mistake, one she would not, could not make again. "Sweet of you to ask sugar, but I'm just going to let him go at his own pace. Wouldn't want to rush him, and I'm more than willing to wait."

[/color] A strike to the face for that comment was to be expected, but then again she expected a blow for any and every word that came out of her mouth. That was how he usually operated.

But tonight, it seems, was different. Usually the very word Bloodsucker would have earned her a good bruise, maybe a fracture or two. But he was letting her get away with snappy comments, for now at least. He was probably saving the bruises for something better. Something which he thought would be more traumatizing, more likely to coax a nice shriek out of her for once. Not that the shriek would ever come. No, Harley would survive tonight. Making predictions about surviving in the long term, that would never work. Making plans far into the future wasn't her thing anymore. Maybe Greene had noticed, or perhaps he hadn't, but whether he had or not was of little consequence to her. She just liked being able to spend time with her friend, if only for the few moments she could spare. In a way, Samson's presence was.. beneficial, in a twisted way. It made her appreciate things, appreciate people, a hell of a lot more. Blinking slowly, she kept her eyes on him when he dropped his hand, expecting that hand to come back up again and strike her. It would get rid of the suspense at the very least.

But no, he spoke instead, the force in his gaze making it clear that refusing was not an option. And with her stomach falling down into her shoes, she smiled blithely back at him, and spoke words which she would probably later regret.

"Of course, anythin' for you, sugar."[/color][/blockquote][/size]

Apparel[/color][/font] Clicky.
Music[/font] Starlight - Muse.
Tagged[/font] Samson.
Notes[/font] N/A.

[samson carter mikkel]

I thought you said forever, over and over

[/i][/color]
A sleepless night becomes bitter oblivion.[/color][/font]
--------------------[/center]

[/i] to her. But newborn vampires were hardly fun to play with, they tended to dawdle and go straight for the kill, and that was no entertainment. Samson nodded his assent, the small act of it even seeming slightly arrogant. “Noble,”[/color] was all he said, eyes glinting in familiar dislike; obviously her friendship with the newborn meant too much to give an ultimatum, but then what was she left with? Him, with an undeterminable amount of time, and her, her life slowly ticking away by the seconds? To love, romantically or not, was the most crippling self sabotage available, and the fact humans and nonhumans alike so easily subjected themselves to its cruel fate was, more often than not, foolish. “I wouldn’t expect anything more of you.” [/color]Undoubtedly, because she let herself feel, succumbing to what could very well be her downfall. Not that it mattered, it didn’t make her any different from anyone else.

The words, he knew, would have to agree no matter what – but the finalizing acknowledgement was what made him look towards her approvingly, the stark contrast of white fangs against ebony skin as he grinned lightly. He had been in town for at least a good few weeks now, maybe a month, but his time in Washington had grown short, as it always had when the excitement in a new city had faded, and it made the mark to end things with a bang, so to speak. There was one more gig at Club Ice – in about an hour, he assumed by the moon’s position – and with Harley’s help, things would begin to progress smoother. The night was perfect for blood to be spilled, and an end to his presence in Port Angeles. It was the beginning of new bloodshed, where the real game began.

“This is what you need to do…”[/color]
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APPAREL banner.
MUSIC scars - papa roach
WITH harley lucvii.
SETTING port angeles alleyways.
NOTES END to the thread.