05-29-2008, 07:37 AM
So, here she was, once again: wounded, beaten, and so fucking confused that she couldn’t see straight. Oh, did she mention that she’d humiliated herself? It was shaping up to be one hell of a day.
As she peeled the torn leather away from her shoulder, letting the tattered folds fall over her half-exposed chest, her eyes surveyed the damage caused by Seventeen’s power sword. The wound was neat and clean, that is, if you ignored the blood pouring from its gaping maw. Her fingers touched the swelling flesh, wincing as pain shot through her shoulder. She’d have to get stitches for this one. Why was it shit didn’t hurt until you seen blood?
Rising from the weather-beaten park bench, Violet limped towards the back entrance of the bar. Music blared from the speakers affixed to the walls, but the dance floor was deserted. On the other side of the establishment, a huge, jagged opening tore its way through to the outside, where the missing patrons had amassed in a panicked mob. Blinking stupidly, Violet felt almost embarrassed as she strolled up to the bar and greeted the rough and rowdy looking employee.
“Uh, you got any towels back there, hot stuff?” she flashed her winning smile, hoping he wouldn’t point out the damage she’d caused just a few minutes ago. He gave her a strange look and disappeared into the mysterious beyond known as the kitchen. Different scents assailed her senses, but one fought its way to the forefront: the rich, earthy scent of a particular Saiyan that hung in the shadows, his eyes transfixed on the injured female that he’d just begun to search for. Her eyes veered into his direction, not because she saw him from the corner of her eye, but because she just felt him, smelled his distinctive scent like a pungent, sweet perfume that assailed her nostrils with its raw masculinity.
Standing there with an open wound seeping freely, all pain was forgotten when she saw the raw look in his charcoal eyes. He was as disturbed by their brief encounter as she was. Averting her gaze as the Bartender emerged from the kitchen, she noticed the stack of white towels piled underneath one arm, and a very displeased frown plastering his bearded face. “You better be lucky Synex is paying for that damage.” He growled unhappily. His eyes were cold as she took the towels from him, muttering a rather flat “thanks” as she ambled off to an empty table.
She’d made a friend.
The impromptu ER was set up: she had her hot water, the clean cloths, and her new buddy, the Barman, had provided some string, a needle, and a nice bottle of booze to wash away the pain. She did it in a pattern: sip, dip, suture, sip, wipe. The wound wasn’t so much wide as it was long, and all in all, she’d stitched in all of twenty three stitches into her shoulder, and just like a big girl, she didn’t cry. Not once.
Maybe it was because she could feel his eyes on her the entire time as he stood quietly away from her. A part of her was bothered that he didn’t come to at least poke fun at her for being such a newbie, but the other part, well, she just didn’t know if she could handle it. She should have just kissed him and be over with it, she wanted it so badly that she could feel the ghostly impression of his lips against her earlobe as he spoke in the softest, most benevolent voice she’d ever heard emanate from the rather standoffish man.
One of these days, she’d quit being such a pussy and do it. Just to see if the spark he had ignited deep within her very core was as genuine as she felt it to be. After that, well, she didn’t know what she’d do.
Heaping the bloodstained rags together, she disposed of them in a nearby receptacle and left the brooding bartender to his business as customers began their cautious reentry through the rear entrance. Grabbing the remnants of the alcohol, she sloshed it back in one solid gulp, and tossed it in behind the soiled rags.
The sad thing was, the alcohol did nothing to dull her senses. Her entire being was tingling with the sensation of his gaze, but she didn’t dare approach him. If he wanted her, she’d let him come to her, but until then, she didn’t think she had the gumption to go to him.
Spotting an empty chair within the deeper recesses of the establishment, far away from the almost solid haze of cigarette smoke and sweaty bodies, and him.
As she peeled the torn leather away from her shoulder, letting the tattered folds fall over her half-exposed chest, her eyes surveyed the damage caused by Seventeen’s power sword. The wound was neat and clean, that is, if you ignored the blood pouring from its gaping maw. Her fingers touched the swelling flesh, wincing as pain shot through her shoulder. She’d have to get stitches for this one. Why was it shit didn’t hurt until you seen blood?
Rising from the weather-beaten park bench, Violet limped towards the back entrance of the bar. Music blared from the speakers affixed to the walls, but the dance floor was deserted. On the other side of the establishment, a huge, jagged opening tore its way through to the outside, where the missing patrons had amassed in a panicked mob. Blinking stupidly, Violet felt almost embarrassed as she strolled up to the bar and greeted the rough and rowdy looking employee.
“Uh, you got any towels back there, hot stuff?” she flashed her winning smile, hoping he wouldn’t point out the damage she’d caused just a few minutes ago. He gave her a strange look and disappeared into the mysterious beyond known as the kitchen. Different scents assailed her senses, but one fought its way to the forefront: the rich, earthy scent of a particular Saiyan that hung in the shadows, his eyes transfixed on the injured female that he’d just begun to search for. Her eyes veered into his direction, not because she saw him from the corner of her eye, but because she just felt him, smelled his distinctive scent like a pungent, sweet perfume that assailed her nostrils with its raw masculinity.
Standing there with an open wound seeping freely, all pain was forgotten when she saw the raw look in his charcoal eyes. He was as disturbed by their brief encounter as she was. Averting her gaze as the Bartender emerged from the kitchen, she noticed the stack of white towels piled underneath one arm, and a very displeased frown plastering his bearded face. “You better be lucky Synex is paying for that damage.” He growled unhappily. His eyes were cold as she took the towels from him, muttering a rather flat “thanks” as she ambled off to an empty table.
She’d made a friend.
* * * * *
The impromptu ER was set up: she had her hot water, the clean cloths, and her new buddy, the Barman, had provided some string, a needle, and a nice bottle of booze to wash away the pain. She did it in a pattern: sip, dip, suture, sip, wipe. The wound wasn’t so much wide as it was long, and all in all, she’d stitched in all of twenty three stitches into her shoulder, and just like a big girl, she didn’t cry. Not once.
Maybe it was because she could feel his eyes on her the entire time as he stood quietly away from her. A part of her was bothered that he didn’t come to at least poke fun at her for being such a newbie, but the other part, well, she just didn’t know if she could handle it. She should have just kissed him and be over with it, she wanted it so badly that she could feel the ghostly impression of his lips against her earlobe as he spoke in the softest, most benevolent voice she’d ever heard emanate from the rather standoffish man.
One of these days, she’d quit being such a pussy and do it. Just to see if the spark he had ignited deep within her very core was as genuine as she felt it to be. After that, well, she didn’t know what she’d do.
Heaping the bloodstained rags together, she disposed of them in a nearby receptacle and left the brooding bartender to his business as customers began their cautious reentry through the rear entrance. Grabbing the remnants of the alcohol, she sloshed it back in one solid gulp, and tossed it in behind the soiled rags.
The sad thing was, the alcohol did nothing to dull her senses. Her entire being was tingling with the sensation of his gaze, but she didn’t dare approach him. If he wanted her, she’d let him come to her, but until then, she didn’t think she had the gumption to go to him.
Spotting an empty chair within the deeper recesses of the establishment, far away from the almost solid haze of cigarette smoke and sweaty bodies, and him.
![[Image: visigjune08_v2.jpg]](http://storm.novahost.org/mysigs/visigjune08_v2.jpg)
Fuck you, Photobucket.