Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > A Little Less Lost Boys, A Little More Light
A Little Less Lost Boys, A Little More Light V - "Nightlights"
by ingrid
0o0o0o0o
Their plan, as far as William Beckett can tell, is to wait until he comes to them before making their move.
It's not much of a plan ... leaving control of the game in his far more experienced hands (centuries of existence have to be good for /something/) ... but in truth, it's the only one available and they know it.
He'd learned long ago, oh, hundreds of years before, that making moves too obvious in trying obtain what you want is rarely a good way to get anything. You had to play the game smoothly, with detachment and coolness, a strategy in which patience plays a very large part.
The One who turned Beckett taught him that simple rule, back in the day when vampires valued nothing but power. Power to grab and hold and keep for the eternity of their unnatural lives. Tangible things -- human playthings -- like Peter, were too ephemeral, too fragile to be worth the effort, but now that Beckett's turned him, shaped him into the powerful creature he was always meant to be ...
There was worth there. Great, priceless worth.
Besides, rules were made to bent to a leader's needs.
So, that evening, he calls a hunt.
A subdued hunt, nothing too flamboyant on the outset, just a night of nourishment taken by Beckett and his coven. He even leaves his walking stick at home, giving the impression he's not out to make a statement, just popping up for a light snack on the nighttime streets.
He even leaves his gloves at home. Getting his hands dirty, so to speak and he's infinitely annoyed when he arrives on the corner of Main and they aren't there yet.
Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy, he thinks, aggravated. He's suddenly glad he didn't bother turning the rest of them; they're obviously too stupid to live forever and he's just about to take off in a huff when ...
A small rock slips down from the roof of one of the surrounding buildings, clacking noisily down its facade until it hits the soft tar of the street.
Just one, small rock, but it's more than enough.
No one else hears it, not even the more astute members of his gang. A smile curves Beckett's lips and he has to bit the inside of his cheek -- hard enough to draw blood -- to stop his laughter.
No doubt they are up on one of the roofs, feeling quite clever and Beckett wonders if they are going to rappel down like Batman or perhaps they are wearing parachutes and oh, who were ones who are going to be surprised?
Not he, of course, but since his compatriots weren't paying close enough attention, they should rightly suffer the consequences.
Consequences that follow quickly, in a hail of special bullets and razor-sharp stakes flying down from above. Beckett's already moved out of the killing zone, leaping gracefully out of the weapons' path and atop a nearby car.
His companions aren't so lucky and Beckett chuckles as their flailing bodies jerk wildly with every strike, their shrieks of agony filling the night air.
It makes him wish he had a cup of tea. Instead, he contents himself with watching, when he hears another noise, this time a soft footfall behind him, so soft as to make him almost doubt his own inhumanly sharp ears, but ...
Beckett leaps down from the top of the car without looking. Above him, there's a thump, then a growl as Peter rolls off the hood, his fangs bared with rage.
/Ah, very good,/, Beckett thinks, impressed. More and more he's thinking he's made the right choice with this one.
He smiles sweetly at Peter. "Good to see you, my dear. I knew you couldn't stay away for long."
No response, except for another vicious attack, one Beckett fends off with only slight effort, not very concerned about his life being in danger. He knows the great secret, the Chancery of Materialization, so he can disappear if the need should arise, but ....
Not yet. Not while he gets to drink in the sight of his favored fledgling. Peter, with his slight frame and shining eyes, the rage that pours off of him in delicious waves. He looks simply edible and Beckett wants drink from his soft throat, then lick the blood back into his mouth, like he'd tried to do the night he turned him.
Peter had surprised him and run off, perhaps they only time he'd ever run and the turning hadn't been quite completed.
Not that Beckett's very worried about any of that. All it'll take is a sip of blood from living flesh and Peter will be his. His and only his, for unlike his other fledglings, Beckett has no intention of sharing.
Peter, on the other hand, doesn't seem as enthralled with the idea as Beckett might hope he is. The hatred on his face is pure and unadulterated and it sends a thrill up Beckett's spine, a sensation he hasn't felt since before the United States was a country.
"I'm going to fucking kill you," Peter snarls, his fists clenching and unclenching, his entire body trembling. "You and every motherfucker like you, but especially you."
"I'm honored to be singled out so," Beckett replies, with a certain amount of honesty. "It's always nice to feel special."
This gets the expected response and Beckett sidesteps Peter's attack with a little less ease than before. In fact, Peter comes close to grabbing him and Beckett wonders how he got so powerful so quickly or if pure anger was enough to fuel such impressive acrobatics.
Behind him there are more footsteps. It's the idiots his Peter still clings to, come down from their rooftop bunker and Beckett sighs. Most of his gang is down or fled and while he could take on the three stooges without much trouble, adding Peter into the mix creates too unpredictable an outcome.
No. As charming as this encounter was, further conversation would have to wait.
Lips pursed, Beckett blows a jaunty kiss to Peter before dematerializing, leaving behind his mortal coverings scattered on the ground.
Peter's wail of anguish follows him into the void, which will certainly make for most pleasant dreams to while away the sunlit hours by.
Most pleasant indeed.
~*~
"I can't fucking believe this."
Peter is pacing the street wildly, his arms flailing. His expression is a terrible mixture of rage, failure and grief. "How the hell did he get away? I don't understand this!"
Andrew and Joe stare down at the dark street, at the thin rivulets of blood slipping down to the gutters from the bodies of the dead goons lying behind them. Neither one of them say anything.
There's really nothing to say.
Patrick's gun is heavy in his hands. He has to shift it repeatedly, from shoulder to shoulder, his eyes not leaving Peter's frantic form. "He's got some sort of weird ... power, I guess."
Peter stops in his tracks. He offers Patrick a glare and shakes his head. "You guess? You're the one who studies these freaks, 'Trick. You should know everything about them. Why is he different? How the fuck does he disappear like that?"
"I don't know." Patrick's throat tightens. He's never seen Peter like this, so angry ... at him and the world. "It's something he's learned and kept to himself, because the other ones can't do it."
"Fuck the others," Peter cries. His fingers pull at his hair in anguish. "I just want him! I want him dead and no one wants to help me. You're my friends and you /won't help me/."
"Dude, that's totally unfair ..." Andrew interjects, annoyed, but Patrick's hand on his arm silences him.
"We're doing the best we can," Patrick murmurs quietly, whispering almost, as if he's soothing a wounded animal. "We have time, Peter."
Peter is crying now, harsh sobs choking his words. "You might have time, but I don't. Don't you get it? I want him gone before it's all over for me. Before I'm one of ...." He stops, unable to say the word. "I don't have any time."
At this, Patrick looks away. The street behind them is deathly quiet, filled with nothing but dead vampires. Any other time, this scene would be considered a victory, but even that's been taken away from them, turned into raw defeat by the sound of Peter's agony.
"We should go," Joe says finally. The car is parked a few dozen yards away with a dead goon hanging off its front fender. Andrew kicks it off without a second thought, jumping into the driver's seat, with Joe on his right.
Patrick climbs into the back, silent, as Peter slides in beside him. They take off again into the night, back home, to another restless evening of waiting ... thinking.
Peter's forehead is pressed against the window, as outside, a light rain starts to fall. Droplets slip down the glass in shining beads and Patrick thinks about taking his hand, but doesn't, knowing that might be a bad idea right now as the only comfort Peter really needs is the knowledge that Beckett is dead and gone.
The knowledge that he can't do to anyone else what he's done to Peter.
The knowledge that Peter might one day be able to die in peace.
This is something Patrick can't give to him. Not yet. But he'll be damned if he isn't going to die trying.
~*~
Unlike the others for whom daytime sleep is little more than a temporary death, Beckett still has dreams, just as he did during his mortal life.
Pleasant dreams, of feasting and bloodshed except tonight, he's not alone in enjoying the fantasy carnage.
Peter's with him, eating and killing and laughing and with a quick pull, he's in Beckett's arms, tangled and hot, letting Beckett lick the blood from his full lips, tasting him beneath all that glorious crimson sweetness.
It's like drowning in pleasure, making Beckett gasp with want even in the throes of sleep. His nails scratch deeply into the floor of his vault, leaving marks. He's so hungry for it ... so hungry for /him/, he doesn't think he can wait any longer.
He wants to trap Peter and lay him out, lick him and fuck him and make him scream in delicious pleasure-pain. His mouth, so perfect and it would be hot and willing, just for him and it would be violent, like a storm.
Blunt and cruel fucking and Peter would be utterly his. Someday.
But for now, there was patience. Beckett could wait, he knew he could and once the inevitable passed, he would be rewarded.
Rewarded beyond measure.
~*~
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by ingrid
0o0o0o0o
Their plan, as far as William Beckett can tell, is to wait until he comes to them before making their move.
It's not much of a plan ... leaving control of the game in his far more experienced hands (centuries of existence have to be good for /something/) ... but in truth, it's the only one available and they know it.
He'd learned long ago, oh, hundreds of years before, that making moves too obvious in trying obtain what you want is rarely a good way to get anything. You had to play the game smoothly, with detachment and coolness, a strategy in which patience plays a very large part.
The One who turned Beckett taught him that simple rule, back in the day when vampires valued nothing but power. Power to grab and hold and keep for the eternity of their unnatural lives. Tangible things -- human playthings -- like Peter, were too ephemeral, too fragile to be worth the effort, but now that Beckett's turned him, shaped him into the powerful creature he was always meant to be ...
There was worth there. Great, priceless worth.
Besides, rules were made to bent to a leader's needs.
So, that evening, he calls a hunt.
A subdued hunt, nothing too flamboyant on the outset, just a night of nourishment taken by Beckett and his coven. He even leaves his walking stick at home, giving the impression he's not out to make a statement, just popping up for a light snack on the nighttime streets.
He even leaves his gloves at home. Getting his hands dirty, so to speak and he's infinitely annoyed when he arrives on the corner of Main and they aren't there yet.
Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy, he thinks, aggravated. He's suddenly glad he didn't bother turning the rest of them; they're obviously too stupid to live forever and he's just about to take off in a huff when ...
A small rock slips down from the roof of one of the surrounding buildings, clacking noisily down its facade until it hits the soft tar of the street.
Just one, small rock, but it's more than enough.
No one else hears it, not even the more astute members of his gang. A smile curves Beckett's lips and he has to bit the inside of his cheek -- hard enough to draw blood -- to stop his laughter.
No doubt they are up on one of the roofs, feeling quite clever and Beckett wonders if they are going to rappel down like Batman or perhaps they are wearing parachutes and oh, who were ones who are going to be surprised?
Not he, of course, but since his compatriots weren't paying close enough attention, they should rightly suffer the consequences.
Consequences that follow quickly, in a hail of special bullets and razor-sharp stakes flying down from above. Beckett's already moved out of the killing zone, leaping gracefully out of the weapons' path and atop a nearby car.
His companions aren't so lucky and Beckett chuckles as their flailing bodies jerk wildly with every strike, their shrieks of agony filling the night air.
It makes him wish he had a cup of tea. Instead, he contents himself with watching, when he hears another noise, this time a soft footfall behind him, so soft as to make him almost doubt his own inhumanly sharp ears, but ...
Beckett leaps down from the top of the car without looking. Above him, there's a thump, then a growl as Peter rolls off the hood, his fangs bared with rage.
/Ah, very good,/, Beckett thinks, impressed. More and more he's thinking he's made the right choice with this one.
He smiles sweetly at Peter. "Good to see you, my dear. I knew you couldn't stay away for long."
No response, except for another vicious attack, one Beckett fends off with only slight effort, not very concerned about his life being in danger. He knows the great secret, the Chancery of Materialization, so he can disappear if the need should arise, but ....
Not yet. Not while he gets to drink in the sight of his favored fledgling. Peter, with his slight frame and shining eyes, the rage that pours off of him in delicious waves. He looks simply edible and Beckett wants drink from his soft throat, then lick the blood back into his mouth, like he'd tried to do the night he turned him.
Peter had surprised him and run off, perhaps they only time he'd ever run and the turning hadn't been quite completed.
Not that Beckett's very worried about any of that. All it'll take is a sip of blood from living flesh and Peter will be his. His and only his, for unlike his other fledglings, Beckett has no intention of sharing.
Peter, on the other hand, doesn't seem as enthralled with the idea as Beckett might hope he is. The hatred on his face is pure and unadulterated and it sends a thrill up Beckett's spine, a sensation he hasn't felt since before the United States was a country.
"I'm going to fucking kill you," Peter snarls, his fists clenching and unclenching, his entire body trembling. "You and every motherfucker like you, but especially you."
"I'm honored to be singled out so," Beckett replies, with a certain amount of honesty. "It's always nice to feel special."
This gets the expected response and Beckett sidesteps Peter's attack with a little less ease than before. In fact, Peter comes close to grabbing him and Beckett wonders how he got so powerful so quickly or if pure anger was enough to fuel such impressive acrobatics.
Behind him there are more footsteps. It's the idiots his Peter still clings to, come down from their rooftop bunker and Beckett sighs. Most of his gang is down or fled and while he could take on the three stooges without much trouble, adding Peter into the mix creates too unpredictable an outcome.
No. As charming as this encounter was, further conversation would have to wait.
Lips pursed, Beckett blows a jaunty kiss to Peter before dematerializing, leaving behind his mortal coverings scattered on the ground.
Peter's wail of anguish follows him into the void, which will certainly make for most pleasant dreams to while away the sunlit hours by.
Most pleasant indeed.
~*~
"I can't fucking believe this."
Peter is pacing the street wildly, his arms flailing. His expression is a terrible mixture of rage, failure and grief. "How the hell did he get away? I don't understand this!"
Andrew and Joe stare down at the dark street, at the thin rivulets of blood slipping down to the gutters from the bodies of the dead goons lying behind them. Neither one of them say anything.
There's really nothing to say.
Patrick's gun is heavy in his hands. He has to shift it repeatedly, from shoulder to shoulder, his eyes not leaving Peter's frantic form. "He's got some sort of weird ... power, I guess."
Peter stops in his tracks. He offers Patrick a glare and shakes his head. "You guess? You're the one who studies these freaks, 'Trick. You should know everything about them. Why is he different? How the fuck does he disappear like that?"
"I don't know." Patrick's throat tightens. He's never seen Peter like this, so angry ... at him and the world. "It's something he's learned and kept to himself, because the other ones can't do it."
"Fuck the others," Peter cries. His fingers pull at his hair in anguish. "I just want him! I want him dead and no one wants to help me. You're my friends and you /won't help me/."
"Dude, that's totally unfair ..." Andrew interjects, annoyed, but Patrick's hand on his arm silences him.
"We're doing the best we can," Patrick murmurs quietly, whispering almost, as if he's soothing a wounded animal. "We have time, Peter."
Peter is crying now, harsh sobs choking his words. "You might have time, but I don't. Don't you get it? I want him gone before it's all over for me. Before I'm one of ...." He stops, unable to say the word. "I don't have any time."
At this, Patrick looks away. The street behind them is deathly quiet, filled with nothing but dead vampires. Any other time, this scene would be considered a victory, but even that's been taken away from them, turned into raw defeat by the sound of Peter's agony.
"We should go," Joe says finally. The car is parked a few dozen yards away with a dead goon hanging off its front fender. Andrew kicks it off without a second thought, jumping into the driver's seat, with Joe on his right.
Patrick climbs into the back, silent, as Peter slides in beside him. They take off again into the night, back home, to another restless evening of waiting ... thinking.
Peter's forehead is pressed against the window, as outside, a light rain starts to fall. Droplets slip down the glass in shining beads and Patrick thinks about taking his hand, but doesn't, knowing that might be a bad idea right now as the only comfort Peter really needs is the knowledge that Beckett is dead and gone.
The knowledge that he can't do to anyone else what he's done to Peter.
The knowledge that Peter might one day be able to die in peace.
This is something Patrick can't give to him. Not yet. But he'll be damned if he isn't going to die trying.
~*~
Unlike the others for whom daytime sleep is little more than a temporary death, Beckett still has dreams, just as he did during his mortal life.
Pleasant dreams, of feasting and bloodshed except tonight, he's not alone in enjoying the fantasy carnage.
Peter's with him, eating and killing and laughing and with a quick pull, he's in Beckett's arms, tangled and hot, letting Beckett lick the blood from his full lips, tasting him beneath all that glorious crimson sweetness.
It's like drowning in pleasure, making Beckett gasp with want even in the throes of sleep. His nails scratch deeply into the floor of his vault, leaving marks. He's so hungry for it ... so hungry for /him/, he doesn't think he can wait any longer.
He wants to trap Peter and lay him out, lick him and fuck him and make him scream in delicious pleasure-pain. His mouth, so perfect and it would be hot and willing, just for him and it would be violent, like a storm.
Blunt and cruel fucking and Peter would be utterly his. Someday.
But for now, there was patience. Beckett could wait, he knew he could and once the inevitable passed, he would be rewarded.
Rewarded beyond measure.
~*~
Remember, feedback satisfies the hungry author. rowr
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