Supernatural BSM

Unfinished Works 2

A/N: hey so this one might not all be Supernatural related. I've found some old stuff that I've written that is (kind of)  good that I wanted to share so.... yeah enjoy a glob of random writings of mine. (Btw the •••• are gonna separate the works, they're not all connected to one another by plot or characters)

Yours truly,
Whore.with.Wings

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Within the hearts of all, there is some form of evil. Some form of vile sickness, one that even a doctor cannot fix. If you're lucky, and you have a life filled with happiness, a life full of love and bliss, that sickness can be repressed. It can be tamed. It can remain hidden for years on end- even until your death. But not everyone is lucky enough to have a life as such. Not everyone can have both parents. Not everyone can have a loving life. Not everyone can have someone to hold. Even if you do, it's not a guarantee that it will stay forever. Take Elijah Peters for example, a normal child that vanished off the face of the earth. No, he didn't die exactly but rather suffered a traumatic loss, one he would never fully recover. But his story is for another day. The once young, lost boy is now a young adult- running the strongest mafia ring in the country. Some days he felt pain but most, he was numb. He felt no remorse for anyone who had suffered because of his wrath. He was unable to feel sadness. Happiness. Joy. He was unable to feel anything at all.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Unbelievable." He scoffed out in disbelief. "I- I just gave everything to you! I trusted you! I let myself believe that you really cared about me- I let myself believe that you loved me!" He shouted as more tears had made their way out. "Was any of it real? Was... was anything real? Any of your words? A-anything you did? Was it all real or was it a lie?" He asked, tears continuing their constant stream down his face. When he got no immediate reply, the expression on his face changed. It looked as if someone had been murdered before him. "So it was all a lie?" He asked in a heart broken tone, his voice cracking slightly. "You want me to stay? Then tell me why! Tell me why you lied to me!" He cried out.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Yes, but it is also a wicked game for you to resist. I am not the only one at fault. It is you as well. It takes two ideas to cause a conflict. Two conflicts to create two opposing sides. And two opposing sides to start a war. Do the math, there's one of me, but there are two sides to this. If I am one, then that leaves you alone. That leaves you the only other resisting side.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The room was quiet. The room was cold. The room was thick with sadness, thick with an overwhelming suffering that is too terrible to name. A split second decision changed multiple lives forever. One spilt second decision made by an unknown factor affected a driver/private security who swore to protect their employer even if it meant his own death. In one moment, that all changed. The lull of the beeping monitors inside the room seemed to keep the scene- seemed to keep it in an enchanted slumber that those trapped inside may never wake up. Elias: a tyrant known for more than just a company name- known for being a ruthless leader of the underground trade, has been stripped of all power and in replacement: white hospital bedsheets.
The sight of the male was horrific: dried blood seemed to be an art show on parts of his face. Stitches with bandages covering the worst danced across his chest. Bandages that tightly wrapped his torso seemed to be saturated in blood that seeped and oozed from his gaping wounds. His eyes shut, his mouth being held open by a tube that snaked down his throat and into his oesophagus. His chest rising and falling to the rate of a machine. His arm being invaded by plastic tubing that traveled from him to a bag that was held above his bed on a pole- a symbol of his chances of survival.
He looked exhausted. He looked pale. This was horrific. The great Elias- he whom had survived being born into poverty. He whom had survived the deaths of those who've raised him. Survived the unmentionable tale of the scars that covered over half his body. Survived being shot. Survived betrayal. He survived all his life by running and yet- he couldn't quiet as easily survive this. His chest rose and fell slowly in this sense the boy looked so frail, so broken, so... breakable. It was almost ironic, seeing how he held himself of his appearance, trying to mask his mental state with clothing that fit someone of his status. But currently as he laid unconscious in a comatose state, it was only then that he had matched his mental state: Broken. Messy. Alone.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

A/N: yeah so turns out none of this was Supernatural related.... oops. Anyway let me know what you think, these are old writings/works as well and if you guys like these non supernatural related things, let me know so I could release more of my work. (Believe it or not, I write every single day) I know, shocker, considering I barely update. Anyway, have a good day/night/whatever time it is for you.

Sincerely yours,
Whore.with.Wings