Sofia "Skip" Hughes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wolfmarked) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
undergrounds2015-09-10 12:12 pm
wolfmarked) wrote in undergrounds2015-09-10 12:12 pm
Entry tags:
Bad Moon Rising
There's a bad moon rising
Newham, September 28th, night
In Munster -- and, to her knowledge, all of Ireland -- the packs served as law enforcement for the people. Where the police failed, the families didn't. Most never even knew they were being protected by werewolves. Of course, there were certain expectations. Money, loyalty, silence when the police started poking around where they weren't welcome. None of it really legal, but that had never bothered Skip, especially after she was forced to go home and not dance.
So, well. She knew people. Her father and brothers knew people, actually. Especially Owen, her oldest brother. He'd put her in contact with a friend of a friend, and she had a lovely pistol with a silencer and no discernable serial number on it.
Her aunt and two neighbours were inside. They'd wanted her to join them, locked in the basement, but she'd refused. After all, she smelled like a human to vampires. If there was a strike, they wouldn't have any interest in her. Well, that wasn't true. But someone had to keep watch, and she was used to being 'normal.'
"Don' take another fuckin' step." She snapped the words when she saw movement across the street, just outside the streetlight. "Who's there?"
I see earthquakes and lightnin'
Jolly Roger, early September, evening
And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate
Skip moved to the music as she cleared off the table nearest to her, sweeping the debris left by messy customers into her bin before she put in the dirty glasses. With a flourish and a sway of her hips, she wiped the table down then disappeared to get rid of her current weight and return with a tray of food and drink,
Two glasses there, a plate here, and another turn.
In a good mood? Her? Well, it certainly would seem so. A better mood, at least, than her usual smiles and sarcasm. If anything, she actually looks about ready to start laughing at a secret joke. And her mood is constant whether she's in the back room or up front.
"Another one, doll?" She asks the question as she takes up the empty glass.
Well, don't go 'round tonight
North Pole, early September, night
The North Pole is one of the finest clubs in London as far as Skip is concerned. The lights are right, and the music is good, and she is in Heaven. Or, at least, as close as she's getting to it.
Dressed in black jeans that look almost painted on and a top that shines like liquid gold when she moves under the flashing lights, Skip thinks she looks very good.
She almost always has a drink in hand. Nothing that comes her way, especially paid for by someone else, is turned away as long as she gets it from either the bartender or waitress. And she never seems to be dancing with the same man twice, even within the same song. She moves between individuals and groups, no hint of shyness t her at all.
When she's at a table, she always turns to face outward with the chair nearest her pushed out a bit, as if in invitation for company.
She also frequents the bar, leaning against it to order herself a drink when she doesn't have one bought for her by someone else.
I know the end is coming soon
Southwark, mid September, day
The end of September brings not only the Blood Moon but the beginning of the school year, so Skip spends a few days refreshing her memory on Southwark. It was one of the first places she went when she came here. She makes her way from the school to the various methods of public transport she'll need.
There are also businesses to stop in on. Places for lunch or coffee. Best to get in good with the staff now than wait until she actually wants something and is in a hurry. Establishing a rapport first? Can save a lot of time later.
"What do you suggest?" she asks a fellow patron at one of the places, considering the posted menu.
I hear the voice of rage and ruin
Greenwich, late September, day and night
The Blood Moon is in the past.
People have died. To her understanding, they aren't part of her pack, but she still feels a kind of kinship with them. Especially since some of them could have been like her. Marked as werewolves but still actually human. She doubts the vampires cared. After all, even those who hadn't activated their curse could still give birth to others.
She stops into a few wakes. The press has been told it was a church massacre.
Every family she visits gets a few flowers. She introduces herself, gives her birth pack and her London one, and she is embraced as a cousin. She listens to the memories, hears the stories, and asks for a photograph of the deceased. Often, she gets one.
She doesn't lie to them. The pictures are going to be incorporated into a painting she's working on. A painting that needs to be done.
"Crap!" She gives the cry as she takes a turn without looking, immersed in reviewing the pictures she's collected. Her shoulder has clipped someone else's, and her folder was upset. The pictures have scattered. The idea of an apology slips her mind. "Shit! Can you-- don't let that one blow away! Grab it!"
Newham, September 28th, night
In Munster -- and, to her knowledge, all of Ireland -- the packs served as law enforcement for the people. Where the police failed, the families didn't. Most never even knew they were being protected by werewolves. Of course, there were certain expectations. Money, loyalty, silence when the police started poking around where they weren't welcome. None of it really legal, but that had never bothered Skip, especially after she was forced to go home and not dance.
So, well. She knew people. Her father and brothers knew people, actually. Especially Owen, her oldest brother. He'd put her in contact with a friend of a friend, and she had a lovely pistol with a silencer and no discernable serial number on it.
Her aunt and two neighbours were inside. They'd wanted her to join them, locked in the basement, but she'd refused. After all, she smelled like a human to vampires. If there was a strike, they wouldn't have any interest in her. Well, that wasn't true. But someone had to keep watch, and she was used to being 'normal.'
"Don' take another fuckin' step." She snapped the words when she saw movement across the street, just outside the streetlight. "Who's there?"
I see earthquakes and lightnin'
Jolly Roger, early September, evening
And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate
Skip moved to the music as she cleared off the table nearest to her, sweeping the debris left by messy customers into her bin before she put in the dirty glasses. With a flourish and a sway of her hips, she wiped the table down then disappeared to get rid of her current weight and return with a tray of food and drink,
Two glasses there, a plate here, and another turn.
In a good mood? Her? Well, it certainly would seem so. A better mood, at least, than her usual smiles and sarcasm. If anything, she actually looks about ready to start laughing at a secret joke. And her mood is constant whether she's in the back room or up front.
"Another one, doll?" She asks the question as she takes up the empty glass.
Well, don't go 'round tonight
North Pole, early September, night
The North Pole is one of the finest clubs in London as far as Skip is concerned. The lights are right, and the music is good, and she is in Heaven. Or, at least, as close as she's getting to it.
Dressed in black jeans that look almost painted on and a top that shines like liquid gold when she moves under the flashing lights, Skip thinks she looks very good.
She almost always has a drink in hand. Nothing that comes her way, especially paid for by someone else, is turned away as long as she gets it from either the bartender or waitress. And she never seems to be dancing with the same man twice, even within the same song. She moves between individuals and groups, no hint of shyness t her at all.
When she's at a table, she always turns to face outward with the chair nearest her pushed out a bit, as if in invitation for company.
She also frequents the bar, leaning against it to order herself a drink when she doesn't have one bought for her by someone else.
I know the end is coming soon
Southwark, mid September, day
The end of September brings not only the Blood Moon but the beginning of the school year, so Skip spends a few days refreshing her memory on Southwark. It was one of the first places she went when she came here. She makes her way from the school to the various methods of public transport she'll need.
There are also businesses to stop in on. Places for lunch or coffee. Best to get in good with the staff now than wait until she actually wants something and is in a hurry. Establishing a rapport first? Can save a lot of time later.
"What do you suggest?" she asks a fellow patron at one of the places, considering the posted menu.
I hear the voice of rage and ruin
Greenwich, late September, day and night
The Blood Moon is in the past.
People have died. To her understanding, they aren't part of her pack, but she still feels a kind of kinship with them. Especially since some of them could have been like her. Marked as werewolves but still actually human. She doubts the vampires cared. After all, even those who hadn't activated their curse could still give birth to others.
She stops into a few wakes. The press has been told it was a church massacre.
Every family she visits gets a few flowers. She introduces herself, gives her birth pack and her London one, and she is embraced as a cousin. She listens to the memories, hears the stories, and asks for a photograph of the deceased. Often, she gets one.
She doesn't lie to them. The pictures are going to be incorporated into a painting she's working on. A painting that needs to be done.
"Crap!" She gives the cry as she takes a turn without looking, immersed in reviewing the pictures she's collected. Her shoulder has clipped someone else's, and her folder was upset. The pictures have scattered. The idea of an apology slips her mind. "Shit! Can you-- don't let that one blow away! Grab it!"
Well don't go 'round tonight
Then, she recognises him.
"What're you? A stalker? Turn the GPS on my phone?"
But it's said with a laugh.
no subject
"I think a stalker would have thought this out a little better."
As if it would explain everything, James gestures down to his clothing with a grimace.
"Didn't exactly think I'd be clubbing tonight."
no subject
"You look so fucking stiff," she replies, "and not in a good way. C'mere."
Not that she gives him the chance to obey. Instead, she's all but slid closer to him. Her fingers loosen then undo the knot of his tie with practised ease, and she pulls it off to one side. Before promptly letting it hang on either side of her neck. Then, she unbuttons the first two buttons of his shirt and pushes the fabric a little to the sides.
A bit grabby with a relative stranger? Definitely.
But she's feeling good, has had plenty to drink, wants to be forward, and has already accepted a phone from him.
no subject
When she touches his skin, James takes in a sharp breath - he hasn't stopped watching her since she tugged his tie into her hands and smiles crookedly once she steps back to examine her work.
"Is that better?"
no subject
There might have been a bit of a smile on her face then. Because, well, she's done what she can. Without even a thought, she takes his tie and threads it through two of her jeans' belt loops. Then, she smirks a little more.
"Planning on dancing here? Or just going to stand back and watch everyone else have fun?"
no subject
"I'll dance with you."
It was direct. But not without a point. He hadn't had anything to drink, but he almost felt tipsy the longer he stayed here. The dance floor practically exuded sex - it was hard not to feel it. Not a moment later, did her drink arrive.
Due to a stern lecture from his sister about date-rape and girls being drugged in clubs (she was a very active member of protest groups) James only gestured to it.
"Next song?"
To, ostensibly, give her enough time to finish it without rushing.
no subject
She flashes a smile as she lifts her glass. It doesn't take her very long to finish the drink. She doesn't down it like a shot, but it does only take her three mouthfuls, all of which blur into almost one motion. Years of being raised Irish taught her how to drink, especially when she has something else she wants to do.
When she puts the glass down, she reaches for his hand fearlessly. But she doesn't take it. No. She just trails her fingers down the back of it as she walks away, toward the dance floor.
no subject
Still, how hard could it be?
James wryly thinks to himself that he's about to find out.
no subject
When James gets close enough, she wraps an arm around his neck, claiming him, and shifts nearer.
nsfw approaching?
His hands fall to her hips in a shadow of where his hands should normally go. The scent of sex and drugs and her all mingling together make him press closer to her in what would, without the suit marring the action, be a sinuous roll of his hips towards her.
move to my inbox for her?
On the first roll of his hips toward her, Skip shifts. She never really disrupts where his hands are, but her body turns so her back is to him. Her hand readjusts, reaching back to touch just under his jaw as she slides against him, still swaying.