It didn't matter that Ayden needed to be dealt with. She'd wanted to do it, had wanted him gone early on, and she couldn't determine if it was her innate, hibernating sixth sense that had clued her in to his devolving nature if she just hadn't liked him. He'd tortured Jaxon for so long, had twisted the knots so tight J Believer (Shes So Hazy) - Leo Nine - Give A Little (CD) almost broken, and for that, he deserved to-- "--to have you get hurt.
Now everything's fucked up and I was the one who--" who killed your brother for the second time. Right in front of you. Before she could stop herself, the words erupted, scorching her tongue with their heat. Jaxon hadn't known what to say on the heels of Kara's apology, and he simply ran his tongue over the back of his teeth, finding that perhaps it was because he couldn't speak at all. He knew he should reach out, reassure her that he didn't blame her, that he wasn't angry, but to do so would be directly acknowledging the events of the last few minutes.
Would let his brother's fate drill through the carefully placed, though hollowed, wall upholding his composure. There was a siege a phone call away, and he couldn't risk coming undone now, not when he didn't have the anger that had defined his life to fall back on. But her rage broke through his defenses as if they had never been there at all, and with one statement, he began to free-fall. And it-everything-became real.
Yet Kara hadn't ended there, spilling out next a fury fueled promise, and it echoed the same one that had fallen from his lips the day before. Had it come from anyone else, he would've felt the need to puff out his chest, assert his capability for taking care of himself, and reject the notion that he'd ever need someone at his back. But she was hardly just anyone else.
The pain was still there, spreading more freely now because he wasn't trying to contain it. But it reminded him that he wasn't dead, that he could still feel something. He had spent a lifetime staring into the dark with a single, dangerous question at the back of his mind, eating away at him: why?
His head tilted, searching with his unshielded green eyes for her own. His hand reached out to stroke her cheek, and explore the lines of her face with his callused fingers. The fire on her tongue. The heat of her skin. Kara was unquestionably alive. And so was he. He swiftly leaned over her, lowering his torso so that his lips could reach hers. The kiss burned without lust, spoke of desire for something that went deeper than skin.
It served better than muttered, broken words to let her know that he was still all in, that he accepted her warning to the world that there would be hell to pay if it fucked with him.
He would do the same for her; he'd fight until his knuckles were bleeding, every bone in his body was broken, and he was physically incapable of going further.
Because she gave him purpose. With a reluctance, he pulled away for breath, and shifted his weight to one arm. It wasn't that she flinched at his hand's movement; Kara wasn't expecting him to strike her, nor did she have the kicked-dog response that would have caused her to shrink from him. But her body tensed and her breath seized in her throat, because a caress didn't always guarantee safety.
He still Believer (Shes So Hazy) - Leo Nine - Give A Little (CD) have condemned her. Ties could have been frayed, needing only time and a lack of trust to sever them altogether. His kiss caught her off guard. Kara squeezed her eyes shut tight and twisted herself so that she could wrap her arms around him, unable to stop the tears from burning her cheeks. It had been so much, so sudden, all of it. The life, the death, the destruction, the becoming and the undoing.
So much gained and so much lost, with everything at stake. His answer was in the kiss; the words that followed were window-dressing of the same color, while containing the truth she knew all too well.
With her fingers still twined in the fabric of shirt, she took a long and shuddering breath while she searched his face. Hold my hand against the night Show me all the demons left to fight. Last edited: Aug 23, What else was there to say, besides what was already known? Though others might have taken it as stumbling blind around the problem, Jaxon was grateful for the strained humor.
It offered him a chance to slowly slip back into his own skin, to fake a sense of normalcy, and to simply hold himself together. His eyes focused first on the clear, liquid lines that streaked down her cheeks, before finding her own. His smile lost strength, and with a slanting of his jaw, he lowered his gaze until he was examining the dark nails that rested against the sleeve of his shirt.
His teeth pressed into one another, not hard enough to grind, but enough to ground his mind. Scared, because the back of his mind was overly cautious in the aftermath of his loss. Because he was afraid to admit that he needed comfort not to her, but to himself. She had pointed out it was just the two of them. Falling against the sheets of the bed, he reached out an arm to hook around her waist and drag her with him.
Softly, as gingerly as she could, Kara nestled into the crook of his arm, all too aware of the wounds to his heart and overly-cautious of the ones upon his body. The world owed them a moment to catch their breath, no matter who might say otherwise, and she'd pull columns down just to make sure Jaxon could rest. Moreso than she, he'd overpaid his dues and he was going to keep paying until there was nothing left to give; Leo was downstairs without an explanation. The cops were hours away.
The impact of what she'd just done to Ayden might finally hit home, and if nothing else, J's muscles were going to rebel against movement once they Believer (Shes So Hazy) - Leo Nine - Give A Little (CD) what had happened to them. Kara stroked Jaxon's sweat-streaked hair while she whispered a prayer of contrition against his neck. The words didn't matter, not anymore, save to remind him that she was here--a strange and tuneless lullaby meant only for him.
Its rhythm brought her comfort, its cadence stability and she hoped the same for him. She cradled him in the quiet that fell around them, fighting to ignore the anger coiling inside her. It would do no good to rail at whatever karmic machine had pitted itself against Jaxon, but exhaustion and a throbbing headache kept her rational side from having much of a say.
Exhaling, she closed her eyes and willed herself into a place of peace, if only for Jaxon's sake. Or as close as she could manage, for as long as this precious respite might last. In the stairwell, the temperature dropped. It formed into a centralized column that slid toward the first floor in a rush, only to hesitate on the threshold. Silence held less sway here among the battered stools and booths. Leo's redoubled efforts at breakfast brought a semblance of normalcy back to the building.
A neon sign hummed a single note to itself left of the door, safe for now from the specter who passed beneath it. Outside, a snow plow grumbled through the street, shaking the walls with its weight, Believer (Shes So Hazy) - Leo Nine - Give A Little (CD). Bernard didn't waste energy on materalizing in full. Still little more than a hazy blur, he would be undetectable to all but a trained eye--but perhaps not his fellow dead.
He gave Alessandro only the barest glance in passing, although that was done with an arched brow and a scowl, the gangster's character sussed in an instant. Drawn to the sounds of the kitchen, the monk peered in through the plexiglass window at the Northman who'd joined in Kara's fight.
Time flowed around Bernard without touching him, as if he stood outside its sphere. He inclined his head, heavy lids half-closed, masking what thoughts might lie behind them. A moment later and he was inside, hovering a foot away from Leo's exposed back. Took a breath. Closed his eyes. There was pride in the battle, even if in the end it was hopeless, so deeply defining that he had painted it into his skin, but it was so tiring. The fear that there was a monster inside him.
Paying in rest long overdue, his breathing and heartbeat slowed, and for the first time in years, his mind was silent. Last edited: Aug 25, Small things of this nature had happened before, and he usually shrugged them off as harmless. Or so he had thought. Felt the shaking, gut-clenching presence of something vile and dark and inhuman? Part of his mind wanted to shift blame onto Kara, whose appearance gave the impression of being closely tied to the shit that had gone down within the last half-hour.
But he knew that was unfair. His pace had quickened. But this was his damn bar. Stubbornness was magnetically drawn to these walls it seemed; Leo wondered sometimes with baffled amusement how the place was still standing. Recommitted to his task, and seemingly determined to not give his surroundings the light of day, Leo did his best to ignore whatever was causing the chill at his back, besides giving it an occasional muttered curse under his breath.
Yet someone else did. You should hear the noise the other one plays. I fear for this generation. Brows puckering, he turned the phrase over in his mind for a moment, wondering what context the jab had when it came to him. He had no control over which objects were affected by his moods, and therefore couldn't possibly pick any of them, but then, those who hadn't died couldn't possibly understand that. The Northman must have meant the radio, for he silenced it by yanking its tail, although the voices which had found a mouthpiece continued their undead chorus a sliver of a second after the music ceased.
Jaxon's friend was like most humans; his mind wrestled against the supernatural. He'd just seen its underbelly and the ramifications of carrying on after death had snuffed out all but the basest of emotions, and yet here he stood, puttering over breakfast. Like a child who'd toppled a vase but caught it before it shattered, guilty relief flooded the monk.
There were still graces to be had. Leo could continue pretending the last ten minutes didn't happen, Kara could have her peace, and there'd be no blame to take for upsetting any of it.
Lips closed, Bernard let his jaw drop, then snapped his teeth together, a habit held over from a thousand years. It was time to make his exit and sit quietly in wait for her to return.
But nothing was ever that easy. The phantom he'd ignored in the ale hall's main room had flitted in. Too eager to make a show of his own importance and needful of approval, he was a moth drawn to a kindred flame.
Crisp clothing, fuzz on his cheeks, and a cockerel's swagger masked what lay beneath. The boy was a blade. With agonizing slowness, his body rigid, Bernard peered over and down at the youngling.
And blinked. He didn't need to, of course, being dead. The time it took to do so while still maintaining eye contact exaggerated that fact. Craning his neck a little, he stared at Alessandro. With no pretense or invitation, he popped his eyebrows toward his hairline, turned on his heel, and faded through the door. Not even a word. Barely a look. Another in Alessandro's position might have taken to mind the saying 'beggars can't be choosers', but that was an idea foreign to him, and one he inwardly sneered at.
He had never begged in his entire life, and neither had he ever asked. He gave demands, hidden behind a devil's smile, phrased and coated in his soft, pleasant voice as a request. And his reputation did the rest, carrying him through life until his untimely demise. He was a man used to attention, craved it, for didn't the gangster who tamed the city deserve it? Perhaps it was God's perfect punishment for his sins, entrapping him so in this silent purgatory, yet, despite the fact he was raised a Catholic, he couldn't fathom that idea: the thought that he ever did anything that wasn't within his birthright.
Immediately afterward, the boyish phantom straightened his jacket as he exited the kitchen, stepping out behind the bar and walking the length of it. Fingers running across the countertop, he came to the end, knocked his knuckles against the wood, and raised the same hand to tilt his hat back. His slightly narrowed eyes searched out the image of the other deadman that had entered his domain, before traveling over the rows of empty booths and tables set out in front of him.
The edge of his lips tilted downward. With a sigh, he resigned himself to his predicament, deciding that speaking to someone else who certainly heard him was better than just doing so to hear his own voice.
Snowfall had done its best to cleanse the city. Although Bernard had been gone but a matter of hours, plows and vehicles had blackened the piled-up slush along the curb. Clouds peeled away from the sun, scattering patches of shadow across sidewalks and storefronts, promising illumination without quite delivering it.
The scenery did nothing to elevate Bernard's mood. It was as if the whole world were struggling along with him in an attempt at betterment, and failing. Standing at the edge of the plate glass window, fingers twined behind him, he watched the passers-by without expression. He'd done as much during the decades he'd been trapped in the attic where Kara had found him.
Part of humanity but withheld from it, close enough to touch it but incapable of doing so. Such an existence forced a serenity upon him that was tinged with longing, although that longing had narrowed its focus to one bright and shining point. Peering up at the rough-hewn ceiling as if he could see through its source, Bernard frowned. Things were different this time. His fourth milestone had changed him, infusing him with life and need and strength, and he'd done nothing with it but nearly served his darker urges.
Now, with the dust clearing from his brush with Leo, Bernard didn't want to put a name to the larger beast chained to his heart. He would not be that man again. There was glory in working toward perfection, love in servitude. If he couldn't be perfect, he could at least be better, even if he wanted to shake the walls apart because of it. The young specter's knuckles on the bar top knocked on the door of his brooding.
Swiveling a fraction, chin inclined toward his breast, Bernard watched him approach out of the corner of his eye, his lids so low that his lashes meshed. He'd seen so many like him in the past. In his old life, his first life, when gold and position made excuses for barbarity.
When being a fourth son meant being invisible yet indulged, neglected but pandered to, free to let jealousy turn deadly. And there were so many things to be jealous of. Like companionship and being seen. I see you. I hear you. Bernard turned to face Alessandro, lips tightening into a small smile at having been corrected--chastised-- by the man who was his junior. Motioning to the nearest table, he waited for the young man to accept his invitation, then shifted his palm to chest with a pat.
Although he spoke Saxon, the word hadn't changed much in over a thousand years. He made his way around the bar instead of through it, reached down to unbutton his suit jacket, and once seated, removed his fedora, placing it to the side of the table, though the hat vanished as soon as his hand was removed from its crown. Al could relate with the sentiment; playing his small tricks on the crew that had commandeered his bar served to keep him sane and entertained during his eternity.
His brows lifted in disbelief, his smile slanted just so as if he wanted to frown, and he tilted his head toward the table, looking down at the scratched surface of the top to keep from rolling his eyes. His eyes and smile lifted. He considered the thought behind a mask of pleasantness. The puzzle that the monk had just presented him with rivaled the pleasure of company. Oh, the headaches my brothers and I gave our priest growing up.
Dio perdona. Lowering his chin, the smile on his lips was tinted with amusement meant only for himself. Bernard had never played poker. He'd heard it mentioned, seen it in passing on the picture-box Kara put on the background as noise, but hadn't had the pleasure of sitting down to learn its intricacies.
That didn't mean he didn't know the one rule that governed it: bluff or lose. Sitting in the quiet bar gave him the advantage of focus. Knowing Alessandro's type lent him a decent A decent hand to play. And they were playing a game. Although there was no proof, Bernard could feel it in his, well, marrow, even if he no longer possessed any.
How many boys had tested his mettle in his lifetime as cantor? How many had thought themselves cleverer, imagining him either too old or too naive to know what pranks they were up to? Almost as many as had had their ears boxed for their troubles. But what sort of trouble was Alessandro capable of? Youthful appearance aside, he was no child. His mind wouldn't turn toward sneaking out of Lauds to scatter the sheep on the hillside or to mingling with the lay brothers' daughters--especially not if what he boasted of once being was true.
Bernard didn't like casting the first stone, but during the brief decades that blood had pumped through his veins, he'd lived among brutal men with brutal ambitions. Even the walls of the monastery weren't a shield entirely.
He knew this man's type. Bernard rested his hands on the table, fingertips splayed but touching, thumbs pointing toward his body. Underneath his pinkies, someone had scrawled two sets of initials and framed them in an imperfect heart. He studied them for several moments, considering the situation with a placid expression. Aces and eights. Alessandro had been witness to Bernard's slip-up in English. Aunties and houses and flushing things. The boy would tie him to Kara--there was no reason not to.
As of now, however, those were only two of the four words the lad had heard him speak. English or Latin or Saxon--a step toward any angle could point to his secret, yet that significance couldn't be known.
That didn't mean Alessandro wouldn't make a move if he sensed an opening, even if it he did it merely out of boredom. Light rippled through the monk's frame when he sat back and smiled blandly at his fellow ghost. Using the precious little energy he had at the moment, Bernard reached out and separated the salt shaker from its mate on the table with a nudge, then slid it an inch forward as though maneuvering it across a checkered field.
That wasn't his game. Repeating Alessandro's name with just as much importance as it had been spoken, he tipped the edges of his lips down and nodded, seeming impressed if not knowledgeable about his past. A sweeping gesture encompassed his companion's former empire before his face fell. Slowly, Bernard lowered his arm, a look of empathy deepening the natural melancholy that tinted his features, and indicated himself and Alessandro with a single back and forth of his hand. He knew it was happening, sure, by the sound of sliding glass, the image of the moving shaker out of the bottom of his vision.
But this was part of the way he played, cloaking his mien with a sort of cordial naivete that invited walls to be let down, for steadfast guards to be weakened. All the while, he noted that it had been salt sent in his direction, and, being a possible, subtle threat, was catalogued and filed within the reaches of his mind.
Most people went through life with the notion that they should hide their weakness, play to their strengths. Yet Alessandro had learned to turn his personal downfalls into something that could be used. There was a certain invisibility that came with being young, small, and of a boyish frame, at least in what had been his world.
And there was power in being able to remain hidden. He missed the game. More than he missed women, wine, perhaps even his status itself. The monk wanted to know about his death, Al assumed.
His grin widened. He welcomed the comparison to the great General, even if it did little to encourage his answering of the question. The blink Bernard had affected earlier in the kitchen had conveyed a message; he had no use for such theatrics now. Staring across the table for a frightfully long time, the monk kept his expression so blank that one might doubt it had ever been shadowed by distrust, disapproval, or outright irritation.
He sat in beatific impassiveness like the saint he'd once been mistaken for, untouched by Alessandro's covetousness. And indeed, the boy wanted by both definitions of the word. Need and lack the were the twin gaping maws that most likely tied him to this place, starved for acclaim, desperate to make something of himself no matter the cost.
If he couldn't be the Leviathan in deep waters, he'd nip at every ankle he possibly could in this little pond Bernard eventually nodded a tad, although it wasn't a nod of accord. A decision had been reached and an assessment made, punctuated by a knuckle tapped against the tabletop. No sound accompanied the motion. Gazing out at the Cadillac that still idled outside, the monk watched a thread of cigarette smoke slither out of the partially-opened window, then snapped his eyes back to Alessandro.
His head followed suit a second later. Tracing out the misshapen heart etched into the table top with his thumb, the monk spoke gently, deep and low in his chest like thunder on the horizon. You, too, it said. Without preamble, he switched to Latin--let the boy struggle to follow, if he thought he might add the monk in front of him to the list of priests Believer (Shes So Hazy) - Leo Nine - Give A Little (CD) bedeviled.
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strong in love and that love dose give you strength and that strength will keep you as stong as you feel if you truely belive in your self you can acomplish anything and that is the most powerful thing of all. So this song is about strength and power to belive in something as strong as your self you got to have some since to be pegaternatheza.pingbeetvantgistvisanrerolabdiopase.cog: Leo Nine. ucd bryan adams - so far so good / - a&m 1 ucd bryan adams - so far so good / - cd a & m 1 ucd bryan adams - waking up the neighbours / - a&m cd 1 ucd 48 oleta adams - circle of one / - fontana 4 ucd 49 adams farm - rock music machine / - rainmaker 1Missing: Believer · Leo Nine. View credits, reviews, tracks and shop for the CD release of Believe on Discogs/5(5). Label: WEA - 6,WEA - WE • Format: CD Album, Unofficial Release DVD Single • Country: Malaysia • Genre: Electronic • Style: House, Downtempo, Euro House, DiscoMissing: Leo Nine. Sep 08, · She give me neck like a noose Too easy Fuck on that bitch and she please me Leo - Believer Bass boosted to perfection - Duration: Lissam Recommended for you. Dec 12, · Since Wendla does not understand what sex is, or that she could become pregnant, she cannot give consent, making it rape. "I Believe" Track Info. Written By Duncan Sheik & Steven pegaternatheza.pingbeetvantgistvisanrerolabdiopase.cog: Leo Nine. Jun 05, · Hoping it can give a little encouragement to others, and especially those that emailed me unsure if they are qualified as an 'artist'. YES you are! it comes from within so BELIEVE in yourself. Girls Generation (Hangul: 소녀시대; Hanja: 少女時代) is a South Korean nine-member girl group formed by SM Entertainment in Its members include (in order of official announcement) Yoona, Tiffany, Yuri, Hyoyeon, Sooyoung, Seohyun, Taeyeon (the leader), Jessica, and Sunny. International Girls' Generation fans usually refer to the group as SNSD, the acronym of the group's Missing: Believer. Oct 24, · Believe Lyrics: Ohh, welcome to the Heat Academy / I came home after a trip to Atlanta, a different planet / Is where they thought I came from after my ship had landed / Truth is I had thisMissing: Leo Nine. Jan 28, · View credits, reviews, tracks and shop for the CD release of Believe on Discogs. Label: Warner Bros. Records - 9 • Format: CD Album • Country: US • Genre: Electronic, Latin, Pop • Style: Eurodance, House, Techno, Dance-pop, Disco4/5(68).
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