09-07-2011, 05:26 PM
((wc:3+))
It kept coming back to him. He wanted a tattoo, and he wanted his own piercing. The idea amused him. And of course, his father would flip. Not that he'd seen his own father in ages. His old man didn't even know he could shift yet. He walked down the street, his hands in the pockets of his black jeans. He always wore the jeans and the tanktop now, no matter where he was or who he was with. His lips gave an involuntary twitch at the thought of Ayasha. She was sweet, she was wonderful, and she was everything he didn't deserve. The smile faded as the ever present butterflies reminded him of the last part. She was too good for him. He would only bring her heartache in the end.
He paused outside of a house that looked warm and inviting, like a family lived there. Not just a father and a self absorbed boy, but a real family. A mother, a father, and their three children. He blinked away the thought angrily. His mother and sisters were dead, all because of a black wolf. The shadow wolves were evil. They needed to be destroyed. But first, he needed to do something for himself, to remind himself that he was separate from the butterflies, that they didn't encompass his whole life. He had a picture, torn from one of his father's books, of the symbol he wanted. A claddagh, it was called. Love, loyalty, and friendship; the three things he gave to Ayasha, even though he wouldn't tell her he did in fact love her.
He realized he was staring at the house, and pulled his eyes away. A chilly gust of wind pushed past him, carrying the scent of the days frost to him. It was still fairly early, the first glimmers of dawn beginning to show on the horizon. He let out a soft breath without realizing he'd been holding it to begin with.
It kept coming back to him. He wanted a tattoo, and he wanted his own piercing. The idea amused him. And of course, his father would flip. Not that he'd seen his own father in ages. His old man didn't even know he could shift yet. He walked down the street, his hands in the pockets of his black jeans. He always wore the jeans and the tanktop now, no matter where he was or who he was with. His lips gave an involuntary twitch at the thought of Ayasha. She was sweet, she was wonderful, and she was everything he didn't deserve. The smile faded as the ever present butterflies reminded him of the last part. She was too good for him. He would only bring her heartache in the end.
He paused outside of a house that looked warm and inviting, like a family lived there. Not just a father and a self absorbed boy, but a real family. A mother, a father, and their three children. He blinked away the thought angrily. His mother and sisters were dead, all because of a black wolf. The shadow wolves were evil. They needed to be destroyed. But first, he needed to do something for himself, to remind himself that he was separate from the butterflies, that they didn't encompass his whole life. He had a picture, torn from one of his father's books, of the symbol he wanted. A claddagh, it was called. Love, loyalty, and friendship; the three things he gave to Ayasha, even though he wouldn't tell her he did in fact love her.
He realized he was staring at the house, and pulled his eyes away. A chilly gust of wind pushed past him, carrying the scent of the days frost to him. It was still fairly early, the first glimmers of dawn beginning to show on the horizon. He let out a soft breath without realizing he'd been holding it to begin with.