shadows

It seems all this signs, It seems like they steer you the wrong way Fearing your own face. They know all your moves, You realize the faster that you run the more space you run out of. eoin no-moon of the ℱianna [ independent OC set in the World of Darkness. private roleplay, not accepting new partners at this time.]

[foolsdeath-blog]

                                             ❝ i’m not your friend ❞                 eoin’s hand is wrapping around his wrist and he still can’t get                 past  those words.  wrong, they’re wrong, he knows it, they’re                 wrong. the coyote is tugging  against the grip the wolf has on                 him,  trying feebly  to shake loose. but it’s so »tight, that hold,                 and   he        can’t                 b r e a k                         f r  e   e.                                   he ends up slumping against the wall, and with a heavy sigh every                                   ounce  of fight  leaves him.  [(  tired,  so very weary of all of this  )]         p l e a s e                                                he says. the younger man’s head tilts;;                                               his  brow  furrows at eoin.  he’s said  so                                               many  things  tonight,  and the  young                                               nuwisha somehow seems sure that this                                               is  the o n l y word that’s truly mattered.          “if  I’m  not  your  friend,  why  bother?”  he  asks.  he’s         stopped struggling against eoin, but more importantly,         he’s no  longer struggling  with himself.  tears slip over         his  cheeks  in  languid  tracks,  and  for  a moment, he         considers dropping everything.                                                         the accent,                                                                  the name,                                                                        the everything.         (( oh, what a dangerous thought. ))                                                                 “but…” he sighs, slow words escaping plush lips,                                                                          ”can’t and couldn’t.                                                                                                        that’s different from                                                                                   don’t want to,                                                                                                        you know.                                                                                                 can’t                                                                                                        doesn’t mean                                                                                    I don’t want.”                                               he wants to, he wants, he w a n  t   s              ”you’re  not  my  friend,”  he repeats, his head              tilting  back to hit the wall.  ”but you’re  asking              me  to  stay.”  it’s  not  for  eoin’s  benefit,  this              repetition.   the   younger  man  tells   himself              again that the other wants him here. he needs              to  believe it. and  t h e n,  the  funniest  thing              occurs  to him,  and a soft  chuckle  leaves his              parted lips.                                                                “oh, who’s the liar now, eoin…?”                                                                                                                    he whispers,  the                                                              chuckle  dying in  his throat.  somehow, he  feels a                                                              little better, now. they aren’t so far apart, are they?                                                              one a liar, the other a lie.  maybe he does belong                                                              here, after all. 

                    a few moments of  heavy silence pass  between them                     before  he’s suddenly  speaking again,  his  voice  still                     so very low, barely louder than the heavy breaths that                     seem to echo in his skull.                                                                                                                   ”I’ll stay…”                                                               i’ll take shelter from you                                                                                                                          ”but”         brow furrows, pain tugging at such pretty features                                  so lonely;;;                                                                                          ”won’t you stay with me?”                                                  please accept my presence,                                                               won’t you,                                                                                                     p l e a s e ?

[adhlaic]

                                  liar,    liar                                                             l    i    a    r                   " lying is my best talent. "                                                                              ( who would lie about such a thing? )                             " you should know that by now. "                    a sharp smile tugs his lips as he averts his gaze, hand dropping from Callum's                    wrist. the words themselves are a fallacy,  another  denial to  wrap  himself in.                    deception brings with  it  a  sense of familiarity, a cold comfort that brings the                    mind to bitter memories and makes the body feel diminutive and small.                                                   friends? his eyes narrow as his head cants to the side, tilts up                               to level a half-blind gaze at the younger man. Callum had been no more                               than a target;;  he had been a useful tool to save the pack;;  he had been                                 a curiousity for a bored and restless mind. is he a    f r i e n d    now, have                               they truly come so far?                                                                        " uhm. "                                     genius, he reprimands himself.                                     when was the last time he shared a bed with someone                                     without expectations? when was the last time he trusted                                     someone enough for that? long enough ago that trust                                     had been a mistake.                                                                           are you worried about his actions or yours?                                                                       " it's... i'm not... "     his heart  hammers in his chest,  his throat constricts, cutting off speech.     a hand  raises to the back of his neck,  shoulders  hunching  forward  as     he tangles his fingers in his hair. i've never slept with someone without                                                                                                                       sleeping with them.                                             the  older  man tugs his lower lip between his teeth, warmth                                             spreading  to  his  cheeks  as  he  scowls  inwardly.  it's a sad,                                             pathetic  little  thing to  hesitate over, isn't it? the possibility                                             that the man beside him might touch him, might press close                                             or run fingers over his skin or---------                         " if you steal the blankets or get sick, i'm kicking you off the bed. "                                                                                             impulse answers where reason falls. 

[foolsdeath-blog]

It’s a frightening thing, this realization. The idea that he doesn’t know what he likes. Oh, he could say what Callum would like.                                                                                ( fun sex filled with laughter and                                                                     teasing, a man that yields beneath him ) Or the English one, what was his name…?                                                                     ( he favors seduction, a slow dance and                                                       sultry words, kisses on necks and slow indulgence ) Even Drustan has his preferences.                                                ( quick, carnal, teeth and bruises and blazing passion )                      But this young man, the one seeking comfort in the arms                      of a man who in all likelihood  barely even considers his                      existence,   this person beneath the carefully constructed                      layers,  the skeleton  upon which  the tired  suit  he  calls                      ’callum’ is draped…                                                      he hardly knows himself well enough to say, now.                                 No matter,  he thinks as  lips press to his jaw.  That                                simple  action  has  his  insides   fluttering  with  a                                warmth  so very  different from  the heat of arousal.                                Closeness,  it must  be, tells himself as he’s tugged                                to his  feet.  And not  for callum, not for that shade                                of a man that c r a w l s atop his muscles, stretches                                across  him like  a skin  that was  never meant to fit.                                Closeness  for him, despite the fact he’s given Eoin                                nothing  of  his  true self.  That doesn’t  mean  the                                other man can’t  help him discover what’s beneath.                                For as long as he doesn’t speak, he can be himself.                       Himself… what a terrible prospect.                                And how strange that taking this                                            night for himself feels so very                                                                                          s e l f i s h.              They reach Eoin’s room and he’s stepping closer               to the other man.  Closer,  until soft  words leave               somber lips,  freezing him  to the floor. He might               be drunk,  he might  be dulled  past good  sense,               but  he can  see the  posture of  one who  is n o t                                                                                              interested.                                              “Oh,” he breathes, and the twist in his gut                                           is colder and sharper than any silver that’s                                           ever pierced his flesh.                                                                                           It’s such a little thing, and yet…                       it’s just the right little thing,                                                                                   isn’t it?                       right thing, perfect time,                       a crushing blow to one already thinking himself at                                                                                                      rock bottom.             ”Y-you don’t…” he murmurs, nearly forgetting that damnable            accent so deep within this haze of drink and rejection.            ”You don’t want…” Lips press together and he pulls his wrist            from Eoin’s grasp, his other hand reaching up as if he            could possibly rub the other man’s warmth off his skin.                       You don’t want me.                                      That’s fine, he thinks.                       He doesn’t want me.                          No, it’s fine, he tells himself.                                                 This was a mistake, anyway.                                        You don’t need to know what you like.                                   You don’t need wants or desires of your own.                                                   They’ll get in the way.                                                           Forget it all.                                                               ”I’m-I’m—” he stammers, ducking his head                                                             too late to hide the moisture tracking down                                                          his cheek. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have…” A shake                                                                         of his head, and he’s stepping back,                                                              retreating from Eoin’s room. Ordinarily, he                                                           towers over the Fiann. Now, he feels like the                                                    other man could crush him under a careless heel.               Pale eyes close to fight back a wave of hazy              dizziness, and the room spins around him. A shaky              breath escapes tight lips, and he reaches up to              hastily wipe at his cheeks. “Of course you don’t,”              he says under his breath. Of course, of course.              No desires, only fears. You’re not even a real person,              are you? Slender fingers move up to slide              through brunet locks, tugging briefly to leave it all              more riotous than before.                                                            Drawing himself up with a deep breath, he turns                                                       grey-green upon Eoin. He can’t even see the other                                                              man through such blurred eyes. It doesn’t stop                                                         him from attempting a knowing smile, though he                                                                     hardly knows enough to convince anyone.              “I…” he starts, and finds himself faltering already.             A breathy, nervous laugh escapes him.                                                                                                                    Run, run—             “I-I didn’t mean to— to make you uncomfortable,             Eoin.” A half a step back.                                                                                                               More distance.              “It’s the last— you’re my friend, I don’t—” Pain             flickers across pretty features. He’s callum’s friend.             But could Eoin ever be his friend?                                                                                                                               Run.             “I’m—” An idiot. Terrified. Sorry. Drunk. Lonely.                                        Run, he thinks. He turns away from Eoin just as                                                   the cold grips at his chest again, fingers                                              tugging at messy hair, struggling to find his                                                  way through clouded vision and crushing                                                                                         disappointment.

[adhlaic]

                            an exposed nerve can send  paroxysms  of  pain  through the body at the                             slightest sensation,  the  barest  of breezes sweeping past an open wound.                             a frail, sickly body can feel a heavy,  agonizing scratching from the softest                             and lightest of silks. a raw throat can feel a burning like flames and smoke                             starting in the  lungs  and rising to choke the life from them, with no more                             than a single cough.                                                  he rather feels that way now, he thinks.            discomfort,                  a clawing that threatens to rip its way out from his body,                                                                                                                wrong, wrong, wrong.          the  younger  man before  him          is a  broken  sight  and  should          not be here;; not with him. not          with  the  poor,  pathetic  little          boy  who'd  never   learned  to          fight back.                          his chest tightens until he can hardly breathe, gaze steady on the          other man, on the downfall happening before his eyes.  were the other truly          an enemy,   this would be a weakness to exploit.   question,   prod,   act the          friend and comfort;;         another weapon at his disposal.               ( that's what he should do, instead of standing here feeling like a waste. )    what would someone normal do?                then,              what cruel torment, what merciless     genuine comfort. tight embraces.              a word             torture.   eyes  narrow  in  response,     kissing,  always  kissing.  what  is                 from              lip  twitching in a sneer that's gone     that like? it's not for him to know.          Callum's lips.       from  one   heartbeat  to  the  next.                                                         f     r     i     e     n     d                                                                                                  we are not friends.                              he has none   i have Sioned          he would betray them all   not her never her          even the man before him  i'm not like that          for any small benefit, for any rise in status.                                                                             " i'm not your friend. "                                                                             how cruel, how merciless. cut the ties that bind                                                                             them. cause pain to Callum, anything to make                                                                             the other see. he is not to be trusted. he will                                                                             betray the younger man;;                                                 you're smart enough to know that, god damn it.                      he can't let this drunken young fool lose himself somewhere else.           the no-moon reaches forward, grip hard around Callum's wrist.                                          " you're  s m a r t e r  than this. you--- i can't--- "                                 can't do it, can't be what you need.                                                 ( broken, shattered, not whole )                                                        [[ is it really so naive to wish for more? ]]                     " you said you couldn't, remember? "                                    fuck-up, pathetic,                                        you'll lose him,                                    it's better that way, for both of them.                                    you're nowhere near as smart as you think you are.                            " just stay here. for the night-----                                                                                                                  please? "                           such a pleading tone, a slight whine pitching his voice higher.                                      pathetic, weak.                                                              he's grasping at straws, isn't he?                                       always hoping for more than you deserve.                                                                                                                worthless little creature.

[foolsdeath-blog]

                                                Eoin’s skin  feels warm beneath callum’s                                                 hands  as  the  ( younger )  man  clumsily                                                 explores. He wishes he weren’t so drunk;;                                                 maybe he’d be able to truly appreciate the                                                 man  astride  him. Then again, maybe  he                                                 would be smart enough not to put himself                                                 in  such a  dangerous position with a wolf.                                                 Especially  one  so   dangerous  as   Eoin.             This could mean having to leave                                                                                               would that be so bad?            He shouldn’t go so far                                                                               just so lonely.                          Fingers tangle in soft hair, and at first,                          callum  h u m s.   Then  those  fingers                          tighten,  his head pulled  back sharply.                          Pretty lips part to suck in a  g a s p; the                          rake of nails down his chest turns that                          gasp into a whimper.  His own fingers                          curl  against Eoin’s hips,  digging  into                          flesh  and denim as pale eyes search                                                                   the other’s face.                   He hadn’t expected to hurt.                  Pitiful  confusion  flickers  across  the coyote’s                  face as he shivers,  his slender  body squirm-                  ing  beneath  Eoin’s nails.  He  hadn’t  wanted                  to hurt  ( he already  hurts so m u c h )  but the                  fire trailing  down his torso  in lines  of red are                  already pooling deep in his abdomen. It hurts,                  but it also feels…                                                  right.                                                       As right as the fingers wrapping around him,                                                         even, and with no reserve of will left to draw                                                                from, callum lets his eyes flutter closed.                                                                          Breath escapes him in a shudder,                                                                                    and he swears he’s melting                                                                                               right into Eoin’s couch,                                                                                                                hips rocking                                                                                                                        into that                                                                                                                            touch.               ❝ t e l l  m e  w h a t  y o u  l i k e ❞                                                                                         the scratch of whiskers                                                                                        as wise lips trace stories                          egyptian cotton                                             across soft skin                                                         caressing his body,                                 a home,                             the scent of pages                                        a home                      from books far older                                                                          than the young thing                                                                          reading them aloud                                                                               to a lover he            scotch on plush lips,                                doesn’t deserve          eyes of crystalline blue                                                 slow-dancing on birthdays                                                                                                 cracking open his heart                      rejection                                                         abandonment                                                                                                                no, no                                                                                              that’s [[ love ]]                        but what do you »like«?                                               Laughter,  soft at first,  then crashing against                                               the walls.  Grey-green eyes open to look »up,                                               but he’s  not looking  at Eoin.  He’s looking at                                               some far-off place, some distant point where                                               his  heart isn’t  b r o k e n  and he has all  the                                               answers.           ”Would you like to hear something funny?”  he asks          softly, tongue sliding over parted lips to leave them          glistening. “I have no idea.”                                                      And still, he thinks, he hasn’t lied. 

[adhlaic]

                           that sound is jarring to him,                            or unfamiliar,                            it  {( w a k e s )}  him from a trance instantly.                                                                                                           l   a   u   g   h   t   e   r                    what is he supposed to do with that sound,                    except what he does?                    his hand releases its grasp on  Callum's arousal, lifting instead to                    scratch uneven nails over the underside of his own jaw. eyes nar-                    row thoughtfully, one the  colour  of bright gemstones, open and                    expressive. the other, hidden underneath a curtain of hair, milky-                    white with creeping red and black veins that threaten to spiral, to                    throw his spirit into despair and decay.         both hands drop, thumbs hooking into the belt looks of his own jeans as he leans back.         his head tilts  low  after  a  brief nod in response to the question, then he's tugging his         lower lip between his teeth. like cold water, freezing ice, the amusement hangs in the         air around him.                  [[ && whoever heard of                      && whoever thought a ]]                   [[    a Ragabash who                              ℱiann would shy     ]]                  [[    dislikes laughter?                              away from sex?      ]]                                                  "You have no idea."                an echo is all he offers, then he's looking to his left, turning his blind eye to the man                on whose lap he sits. the younger man is drunk;; there's no question of that. elsewise,               he would never be here. he would never seek the no-moon's company or find comfort                   among the quiet, desperately lonely ruins that eoin has carved out around himself.          shoulders hunch forward to create hollows behind his collarbones and a defense against                                           drunken young men with pretty faces and lips that beg to be kissed.                         none of them                              n o n e   o f   t h e m                                            really want him.        just a body to warm their beds, hands to grasp their wrists and hold them down,        teeth to leave rough marks that they can use to pretend someone loves them.        ( their search is hollow when it leads them to people like him. ) it's a part he plays        well, but something about this particular encounter rubs him raw, leaves gaping        wounds in his defenses that could be exploited by any passing wind. it brings heat        behind half his vision.                       ( half of everything,                                                                 the other sees him too well.                                                                 the more they get to know each other,                                                           the more they're able to hurt each other. )                                     and they know quite a bit about each other already, don't they?                                                                                    the wolf scowls, exhales a breath. self-                                                                                    loathing fills his throat, leaving a bitter                                                                                    taste to overflow into his mouth.                                    not tonight.                               i want to, but i can't.                                                                                                   not with you.                     palms press to either side of his legs as he pushes himself from the couch, getting                       to his feet before leaning down to grab Callum's wrist. "Get up." husky, his voice,                  and rough. he has never been a gentle lover, nor a gentle friend. "Come with me."                  pausing, he leans forward, leans up, to press a kiss to the underside of Callum's jaw.                    then, unspoken promise and lure between them, he leads the way to his bedroom.         he must look an impossible wretch, the floor littered with abandoned pursuits and         neglected clothing. the bed unmade and a scant few faded posters on the walls.         books are plentiful, but as abused as anything else in his home, with yellowed and         curling pages, and no bookcase to rest themselves on. a smell at once alluring and off-         putting lingers in the room, a thick richness with a soft floral undercurrent that could set         a body to hunger. a dimmer switch grants the room only minimal lighting.                                      "You should       "                                        awkward, suddenly. he reaches up to scratch the back of his neck,                                        head tilting down to obscure his features. then his hand is raising                                        further to sweep the hair back from his face, only to allow it to fall                                        over the right side moments later. ( hiding, always hiding. )                                      "You should get some rest."

[foolsdeath-blog]

     Parted lips seek, seek, s e e k the warmth of      Eoin’s  mouth. They find nothing.  Pretty eyes      open, blink, search;;; they find the wolf’s face,      then  narrow slightly.   Why doesn’t he want a      [[ kiss ]] ?  Callum huffs out a soft whine,  his      brows  furrowing.  » M a y be  the  older  man      doesn’t  want a  kiss,      but  he  does.  When                     Slender  fingers are reaching for Eoin,       Eoin   moves   again,                    tugging  at thin  fabric  until  movement       Callum tries to catch                     finally catches his attention. Not Eoin’s      his lips; their cheeks                     shirt,  his own;;  he  realizes  the  older       brush             instead.                    man is pulling  at  »Callum’s« clothing.                                                                Awkwardly  he  lifts  his  arms,  slender                                                                                              body   giving   a   slight                                                                                             shiver before he leans      Were   he  truly  himself,   he’d  be  sliding            back into the cushions.     his   hands   beneath   Eoin’s  shirt.  Were            Callum  k n o w s  he’s      he  feeling right,  he’d drag his  nails  over            well off his  game.  For      skin, he’d  get that damn  k i s s  he wants.           so  recently  having his      Strong   fingers  over  denim,  wolf  on  his           entire  world  upended,      tongue,  he’d give, he’d  t a k e, he’d  enjoy           however,      he       tells      the  older  man  to his fullest.  But  Callum           himself he’s doing well.       is  n o t  himself,  and   when  fingers  tuck      beneath his chin,  he  tilts his  head  back,             [    He  needs  Eoin      half-lidded eyes  finding one of aqua. Lips                  far   more    than      part,  close,  part  again ( he wants to s a y                   Eoin needs him.    ]      something— );; he lets out a shaky breath.                                   For once,  Callum  does as he’s told. Gripping                                  at  the  hem of Eoin’s  shirt,  he tugs it  upward,                                  clumsy   and  slow  in  his  drunkenness.  Still,                                  bleary  eyes  are  greeted with pale skin  when                                  he lifts the other man’s shirt away, and Callum                                   would  be  a [ liar ] if he denied the rush of heat                                  that surges  through  him.  That’s  want  that he                                  feels,  looking upon Eoin’s skin.  That’s  desire                                  gripping at him, urging his hands to the other’s                                  hips,  squeezing  before  sliding  up  the  wolf’s                                  sides.   That’s  guilt,   a  voice  within  whispers.         Desire is far stronger.                                                               Eoin shifts »closer and Callum's  arms                                                              wrap  around  his  slender form.  Warm                                                              fingers  explore  their  way  up the older                                                              man’s  s p i n e,  tracing their  way  over                                                              muscle and bone alike. Fingers sliding      So many  things  he                    through  riotous hair  elicit a warm hum      wants   to  s a y,   he                    from    the   Nuwisha’s   throat,    eyelids      wants  to ask of  the                     fluttering  softly as he tilts  his head into      man who might just                     the familiar heartbreaking perfect touch.       be the only friend he      has left in the whole tribe.  Yet, when his mouth opens,  he’s      leaning  forward,  his tongue dragging over  scar tissue and      skin alike. Breath is heated against Eoin’s neck;;  it escapes      Callum  in  a rush.  Teeth scrape gently in a  brief bite,  short      nails drag  over the back of Eoin’s shoulder.  It’s a plea,  just      as unspoken as the older man’s earlier command.                                                                                                         Please help me                                                                                                                      forget—   

[adhlaic]

                                 it wasn't so long ago that  claws  still  heated from flames had                                  sunk into his skin.  the Garou heal quickly;;  it is nothing more                                  than scars now  ( more marks on his skin, more damage to skin                                  he never feels right in ).  the  ugly  red marks remain sensitive,                                  though, and stimulation from the younger man's tongue sends                                  tendrils of heat shivering up the no-moon's spine.           his hands move to rest on Callum's chest, uneven nails digging           into flesh as his fingers curl. lips barely part before they're pressing           together, suppressing any potential sound of  p l e a s u r e  before           it has a chance to surface. Forward, pressing forward so that his skin           is against Callum's, the wolf buries his face in the other's hair to           catch the scent. it's an oddity that there is none, a mild frustration           quickly forgotten.                                              he leans back once more, shoulders rolling back as if that might                                              get the  other's  hands  off  of  him. tingling sensations find their                                              way to his midsection, the arousal settling under his skin. but the                                              sensation has always rubbed him raw, made his throat burn with                                              anger and fueled a need to hurt.                                       answering temptation, he moves a hand up to grasp at dark strands of                               hair once more, grip as tight as the muscles in his jaw. his free hand roams                              down Callum's chest, nails still hooked in flesh to leave angry red welts and                                pinpricks of crimson spotting. a scant couple of inches from the hem of the                              younger man's pants, he lifts his hand, fingers tucking underneath the waist-                                                                                           band after deftly undoing the button.          fingers wrapping around Callum's length to offer firm,         gentle strokes are a sharp contrast to the tightening grasp in the younger man's         hair. look at me, that grasp says, one eye narrowing gently at the other man.                                                                                  "Tell me what you like. Show me."                      his gaze flickers over attractive features, cunning focus                                             offset only for a moment by uncertainty.                          (            maybe he was wrong,                             after all, the younger man beneath him has enviable looks.                                                                                 and eoin is scarred, short,                             b  e  n  e  a  t  h     n  o  t  i  c  e                            for one who could surely have his pick at any ℱianna party.                                                         even if his pick was another of their kind. )

[foolsdeath-blog]

                                                     Nails dig into flesh, red lines drawn in their                                                       wake across taut skin.  Callum hardly even                                                       notices. He’s too far into his own head, lost                                                       in too much  f e a r  and self-loathing.  Every                                                       heated  pulse  of arousal through  his  body                                                                     feels a betrayal to the man he loves.                                           and yet,                                        ( and yet )                                                       he is just                                                                     so                                                                         l o n e l y .             Eoin speaks but grey-green eyes            blink  slowly,   betraying  only  the             slightest hint  of recognition.  Liar,             he says,  liar,  liar.                               ”No,” Callum breathes,  shaking his head, brows                              knitting together.  It’s an earnest look  on his face                              as he  latches onto the thing  least painful to him.                               ”I don’t lie.  I never. Fucking.”  Parted lips let out a                               heavy breath;  determination to finish the thought                               escapes as well. His hair released, the Nuwisha                              lets  his head flop  back to rest against the couch.                                                           Heavy breaths lift his chest, pretty eyes                                                          closing   as  he  rides  his  »inebriation.                                                           Head  spins,  thoughts merge, desires                                                          spread.  He  wants  contact,  he  needs                                                           skin  beneath  his  fingertips…   But  it’s                                                           supposed to be Ciaran’s, isn’t it?                         ( Cool air hits his skin and Callum                       blinks, eyes opening to stare upward. )                                                           He fought so hard to get Ciaran back,                                                                                                  and he did, he did.                                        ( Hot moisture threatens his vision, forcing                                                  the young man to close his eyes once more. )                            He got Ciaran back and has  n e v e r  felt so alone.       Stop me, then, he says.        Callum doesn’t want to.                                                   He wants heat, he wants pain. He wants                                                  relief for the hatred in his head, momentary                                                  as it might be. Never in his life has he                                                  understood his heritage more than today,                                                   and never in his life has he hated himself so                                                   deeply. The alcohol doesn’t drown it out,;                                                   the alcohol doesn’t even come close.                                                                It’s cold, this hatred, it’s cold and it                                                                                needs the heat of another.                    Warm breath startles callum and his                                   hands fumble at Eoin’s hips.                                                                                 Ciaran, he loves                                Ciaran, he misses                                                                     Ciaran—                                                                                           You need to forget him.                                                                                                   He’s  l e f t  you.                The younger man lifts his hands, one                clutching tightly to Eoin’s shoulder, the                 other pressing almost tenderly to                 the side of the older man’s face. Leaning up,                              leaning in, Callum chases those lips,              chases that brief taste of closeness he needs                 more than the breaths growing heavier each                    moment. Closer, he thinks, he needs to be                    closer to hide the emotion in his eyes, to                     block out the ghosts in his mind.                                                                            A kiss, that is what he needs.                                                                A hushed “oh,” leaves pretty lips as                                                                  he moves to press them to Eoin’s.             Closeness, intimacy, weapons against             the loneliness gripping him like a vise.                                                He wants this, yes. He needs this, yes.                                         It’s not why he came to Eoin’s side tonight, but…                    isn’t that just like a good ragabash,                            to know what one needs                   when they haven’t the slightest clue?

[adhlaic]

                                  t e n d e r    k  i  s  s  e  s                                                         &&                                                s  w  e  e  t    e m b r a c e s            it's  all  unfamiliar  to him. unsettling,            like a [[stranger]] pushing themselves            into  his  space. like this  stranger,  so            close  that he can  feel  the  younger            man's shaky breaths. plush lips chase            his  own    and   the  wolf  pulls  back,                   heat  floods   his   face  as  his   brow            releasing  the  lower  tier and turning                   furrows,  a scowl  twisting  his lips. his            his  head to the side,  unable to  stop                   cheek brushes  against  Callum's own            the  brief  shudder  that  ripples down                   almost    g e n t l y    as   he  tilts  his            his spine.                                                              head  lower,  tongue  darting  out  to                                                                                         taste   the   earlier   bruise  he'd   left.                                                                                          Garou  shall  not   mate   with   other                                                                                         Garou.  the  litany  rings  in  his  ears                                                                                         even  as  he  leans  back,  lifting  the                                                                                         other man's shirt to toss it negligently                                                                                         to the ground.                                                      the smooth motion of a stalking predator brings one hand to                                                  Callum's  n e c k  so that thumb and forefinger can dig into the                                              skin underneath the sharp angle of his jaw. urging the other to tilt                                                   his head up, eoin narrows an aquamarine eye, measuring. his                                                 tongue darts out to wet his lips, then they're tugged into a smirk.                                                                      "I told you so." liar, liar, can't, he said. but he will.             his grip on Callum's jaw lightens, releases. there will be no             bruises left behind ( though how he loves to see his fingertips             leaving dark   s  t  a  i  n  s   on someone's neck ) from his             grasp, for now. fingers find their way around the younger man's             slender wrists, guiding them to the hem of his own shirt. it's no             less a command, unspoken though it may be.                                  perhaps he's misled others;; perhaps they've misread him.                                              part of the game is allowing his partner to read him,                                                     seeing if there's any wits behind a pretty face.                                 there seldom is, with the partners he chooses.                                 "Callum." As his  back  arches  to bring his torso closer to the                                 other,  as he  shifts in the younger  man's  lap until  they  are                                 near  flush  against  one  another,  both  his  hands  move to                                 brush through riotous strands of hair. impossibly mussed, just                                 long enough,  soft  between  his fingers.  ( a brief pain in his                                 chest, a brief thumping of his heart. )   "If  you  never  lie..."                                 then       why       did       you       come       here       tonight?                      no, don't ruin this. with a shake of his head,                                                   eoin dismisses the question.                                                   better to let it lie,                                                   better to let them both be distracted.                      if only for a little while.

[foolsdeath-blog]

            Eoin remains silent for long enough that Callum                                             is sure he will be rebuffed, scolded,                             pushed aside. Fingertips                                   drag over warm skin as he pulls his             hand away, letting it fall to the couch. His other still                   clutches the bottle,                                    a last lifeline to keep himself from simply                                                                                                 floating a w  a   y.                  Pale eyes even begin to move, the Nuwisha’s                                                head ducking forward.                           Why should Eoin listen to him?                              What weight could his plea carry with                       a man who barely knows him?      Not that anyone r e a l l y knows him.                                                                        Movement catches the                    edge of his vision, and he turns his                                            head just in time to see Eoin                                       climbing into his lap. Bleary eyes widen                      to follow Eoin’s face, a sharp inhale                                       audible even to his own dulled                  senses. Whisky bottle slips from his grip, tilting                                               to rest forgotten on the cushion beside                        him as his hands fumble at Eoin’s hip, his arm.                   ”Eoi——” The name [ dies ] on his lips                                                       when teeth find his neck. In its place,                         a shuddering gasp, his                                 back arching away from the cushions. The                                          sensation is dull, dull, dull, then                       suddenly so very sharp, the pain flooding his                                                       system for an instant; then it’s gone.        He wants this, he needs this.                                                                        But is it why he came to Eoin’s door?                                                                        Even Callum can’t say  with certainty.                Wants, needs.                                                                                                 [( Can’t. )]                          Callum grabs at Eoin’s arm, clumsy                       fingers tracing over flesh, searching for the hand                                                                             buried in his hair. His other                  hand grips at the back of the Fiann's shirt,                                    holding tightly, thin fabric bunching in his grasp.                                                   [ What sort of a person                                                           would he be                                                      to deny his body to                                                               Ciaran;;;                                                       then give it freely                                                                   to… ]                        ”Eoin,” he breathes, voice catching on an                                                                                    inhale. He finds the wolf’s hand,                 tangled in messy locks, his fingers                                                  clutching ineffectually at such a strong grip.                              Neck bent back, he squirms beneath                                                                             the other man, trying to get away,                                            trying to get closer, trying.                                                      ”No, I don’t… know,” Callum mumbles.                It’s not why he came here.                                                                           ( but it’s making him want to s t a y. )                        “I can’t,” he whines softly, tugging                                  at the older man’s shirt.                                                                                                          I want to, but I can’t.                                                                                  Not with Ciaran, so not with y o u.           A shuddering breath betrays                              desire, Callum’s head        tilting, tugging at that hard grip in                his hair. Bloodshot eyes crack open            as the Nuwisha tries to turn his head                                towards Eoin’s, for a glance, for a—                                                                      ”Eoin,” he says again, the wolf’s name                                                    leaving his plush lips in a husky whisper.          Want, need.                                                                                        ”You don’t understand. I-I can’t…”                                    … r i g h t ?

[adhlaic]

    hot desire floods him from thighs to the pit of his stomach, midsection     flaring with his interest as the slender fingers of the younger man grasp,     pull, push. a twitch of the wolf's nose pulls his expression into a sneer,     heat reddening his cheeks. his free hand lifts, fingers dragging lightly     over the younger man's shirt until they dart down far enough to tuck     underneath the fabric. nails scrape over skin, digging in, though eoin     hardly seems aware of the damage he's causing.                               there's a vice closing around his throat, a narrowing of his vision.  h a l f  o f                        e v e r y t h i n g,  the no-moon had said. shoulders twitch as if he could shrug off                               arousal;; the motion is futile. a [[target]] is just that, but Callum has become                          m   o   r   e    than that, much to the ℱiann's dismay. his perversions, desires, his                        proclivities aren't meant for his kind to know. resistance does no more to dampen                                                     the urges than the younger man's whines, gasps, weak protests.     "Can't," he echoes contemptuously,                                "Liar."  the  word is spoken  in a hiss     his breath  warming  the other's skin.                                before  he   releases   Callum's  hair.      you   could   barely  even  take   off                                 you're  a  tease, that's all you are, a                                  your fucking coat.                                t e m p t a t i o n.                                    one hand drops to  meet the other,  thumbs hooking on                                  fabric  to  lift   the  hem  of   Callum's   shirt.  the  wolf's                                  aquamarine  gaze  lowers  to  study the  torso  exposed,                                  the  marks  left  behind  by  his  nails.   (  he  hates  this                                  feeling, hates  the  keen edge  of wanting that compels                                  him to   h u r t   and to get ever closer.  )  he  can't  get                                  enough  of   pained   gasps,   of  grasping  fingers  and                                  arched  backs.  of  disingenuous  pleas  urging  him  to                                                           stop;; those, most of all.                                  the wolf  sits  straighter, eye  narrowing  at Callum,  studying the fine                                  contours  of  that  face.  the thing  about eoin's  size is that it  makes                                  power a hard thing to grasp. a struggle at all times;; he can't play any                                  hand. he has  to cheat and  lie and steal.  and if Callum truly  wished                                  to strip him of his power, well... the younger man could easily dissuade                                  him, he's sure.          "Stop me, then." a lick of his lips, and eoin gives the no-moon a sharp            smile. hands continue to tug on the hem of the other man's shirt until           most of his chest is exposed, but instead of following through, the wolf          tilts his head down. breath hot against Callum's lips, his own part, eyes          narrowing to slits. then he grasps the younger man's lower lips between      his teeth, a low hum not far from a growl surfacing from deep in his throat.

[adhlaic]

              I said sorry, I never promised you                     Roses or any happiness forever after               I said sorry, I never promised you                     Roses or any happiness forever after               What if I were you                     What if I were made from                             All of your mistakes               Could I fill your shoes                     And feel like you                           Fill your shoes                     And feel like you

[ajmxl]

The scent is faint enough that he nearly misses it amongst the patrons &drink he would be a liar to say he had been a little disappointed at the delay  rare breeds in different territories deserve at least some attention   and the Bubasti are loathe to leave Egypt for some reason                                                                                                                                        he just didn’t expect it here Green eyes take him in, and there is a flicker of a smile, ”Many like me?" the meaning behind his words was not hidden, wolves, he heard, were not for clever words, not like the Bastet were however, that didn’t mean this couldn’t have some other element of.. fun                                                                                  ”Tell me, does that line actually work?”                                                                                    dry amusement&such a catlike smirk                                                                                                 

[adhlaic]

                                              visible brow perks above an aquamarine gaze, smile growing                                                       almost imperceptibly. this is a cat with [[claws]], it would                                                 appear, and it would be a lie to claim not a spark of interest                                                                                                     in response to the attitude.             a drink is placed in front of the wolf and he raises it to a scant             couple of inches from his lips, slanting a look at the other.             "As this is the first time I've tried it... that would be a no." A             short, quiet laugh brushes past his lips.           "Normally," he starts as he leans closer to the stranger, the glass in his hands           seemingly  forgotten.  "I  would  ask you to  dance  first.  But I don't like to be           {(   laughed  at   )}   so..."     eoin  trails  off,  his  shoulder  lifting  in  a  shrug.                                                  it is the honest truth, for once;; mockery cuts him raw.           "I think I'd find conversation more                                                                       s  t  i  m  u  l  a  t  i  n  g                                                                                                                      with you."

[adhlaic]

﴾ the trickster ﴿:

           Faded sage follows Eoin as the other moves,                                               bleary vision making his movements       jerky, halting, sudden. And then he’s on the                         couch beside Callum, and the younger man shifts,                                  turns, scoots so                                                    that he’s leaning his shoulder                     against the cushions, head resting atop them. One    slender leg curls up beneath him, his                                                  other stretched out beneath the coffee table. 

                         Deep breath drawn through flared nostrils,               the Nuwisha regards his friend                                                    carefully for a few long moments.        His eyes narrow as he studies the other’s                                                               face, the way dark hair provides a             perfect backdrop for a pensive profile, the way the slightest                        of scars still peeks out from                                                                                          behind that curtain.          “You don’t have to be far away to be alone,”                                                         he says casually, fingers                     still idly toying with the bottle in his grasp.                                                      Shifting against the couch cushions,                          he ducks his head, gazing                                          downward. It’s true, he thinks, so very true, both his                     greatest [ gift ] and most profound loneliness.                                           ”Though,” he says, looking up to Eoin                   once more, gaze blurred                                                                               ( by the alcohol, surely )                         “New York isn’t much better than London.                                                                  It’s a shithole.” A heavy sigh, and he’s               bringing the bottle towards his mouth again. It stops                                                                 halfway there, and he’s setting it down once                               more, glass resting against faded, worn denim.                                                                                        “I wish I’d never…” he starts,                 then falls quiet. Heavy blinks hold back                                                           the welling moisture, though                                the grimace on his features makes the emotion                                            clear as day. He cannot finish                                                                         that sentiment; it would be a   l i e.                     Head lolling back against the                                 cushions, back and forth, Callum gazes upward,                                               letting the ceiling spin high              above. Eoin in New York.                                                                                             Can he see it?                                                      Perhaps.                                                “Don’t go there,” he says finally,                           shaking his head. “That place would waste you.                                                                 Someone as good as you… needs a                  place like t h i s. A place you can…” Huffing                                                     out a breath, he moves his hands,                           gestures, struggling to find a                                                   word that just doesn’t want to grace his lips.                               “do things. Make a difference. There’s no                                                helping those wolves. They don’t want                                    to do better. Let ‘em fucking destroy                                  themselves if that’s what they want. You.”                  He turns his head, one hand reaching                                         to touch Eoin, to wrap around his arm,                            giving a gentle squeeze. He has                                  to listen he must listen he can’t                                              go there——                                 “You are too good for them.                                     Don’t you dare fucking waste                           yourself on a place like that, Eoin.”

                                                                  he doesn't have to be far away, no---                                                                                          but he prefers to be.                             remaining close to Silver Tara so often starts to feel stifling,                         not least because he normally borrows his sept leader's couch.                                 it's better to put distance between himself and the others,                      best to stay out of sight as much as possible. best for all of them,                                but most of all, himself. his habits are a carefully guarded                                                  secret;; he will never give them away so freely.            he shakes his head as he directs his gaze to the ground, lips                           twitching at one corner in the shadow of a smile. it's cynical,                                         lines drawn into his face to  reveal  the tension beneath the                           deceptive  expression. the   ℱianna  are a social bunch, the            Garou  are  pack  creatures.   isolationists   are  few  and  far,                                                                                                                                                                                                  f a r  between.               ( he happens to like shitholes,                 he thinks. he grew up in one,                 he  remained   in  one,  and                 he's   barely    managed   to                 claw  his way  out of one. to                 step  back in willingly would                a thought  trailed  off before it completes grabs                 at    least    bring    him    to                the trickster's attention. he turns an aquamarine                 familiar                    territory. )             gaze  back  onto  Callum,  head jerking up and                                                                             brow  raising.  he  wishes  he'd  never  gone  to                                                                             New   York?  judging  by  the   rumors   littered                                                                             around  that  eoin had been able to snatch, he                                                                             could make a few guesses why.  but he's not so                                                                             naïve to  believe  the  first  opinions  he comes                                                                             across;; there's a deeper mystery to those words,                                                                              to the silence that follows.                                                                                                                      [[he   wishes   he'd   never   gone   to   Scotland.]]                                                     sometimes, when he's dragging fingers over the scar                                                                                               that lines his face.                 Callum starts to speak once more and a moment quickly                 passed nonetheless  betrays vulnerability on  eoin's part.                 his  visible  eye  widens, lips part,  then  the lower tier is                 tugged between his teeth before he'd directing his gaze                 back  to  fraying  denim.  ( of  course  he's  good;;  good                 enough to  completely  change  the landscape  of  New                 York  if he so  wished. )  but  it  would   w  a  s  t  e   him,                 the other trickster says.                                   what's the trick,                                                                          what's the [[trick]] ---------              a hand wraps around his arm,                          eoin shrinks back ( not  f a s t  enough ),                                  and his stomach twists with resentment.                                                                             aimed at himself, not at the other. aimed at                                                                             how those  words  catch  him  off-guard, how                                                                             his head tilts  up and his lips part once more.                                                                             a   muscle   in   his    cheek    twitches    and                                                                             aquamarine  flashes in his eye as discomfort                                                                               settles heavily over his skin.        then he's shifting, feet lifting onto the couch and one palm        pressing to the surface as he moves towards Callum. the        wolf settles himself astride the younger man's lap, gaze        narrowing as he brushes the backs of his fingers tenderly        over Callum's jaw,                                               then                                                                   in a quick and jerky movement, fingers move                                                           back to tangle in riotous dark hair, to grasp strands                                                             tightly, hand curling into a fist for a grip firm and                                                            unyielding, he tugs the younger man's head back                                                            and tilts down to press his lips to the slender neck                                                         revealed, to sink his teeth into flesh hard enough to                                                           [[bruise]]. the wolf pauses long enough only to say,                             "This is what you  c a m e  here for, right?"

[foolsdeath-blog]

          Pretty lips part to release a s i g h of relief when                  Eoin finally steps aside and welcomes        Callum into his home. Well. Perhaps “welcome”                    is not the right word. Allowed, he                                   thinks, he’s been allowed to enter the place where                 Eoin lives.                                                                                       Even so little                                                       is more than he’d hoped for, however,                                                                                 and he carefully steps                                                            past the threshold and into                                                                            the Fiann's apartment.                        Wait— shoes.                                       He should— shoes, he                                           should take off his shoes.                                                                               Polite. But—                                                                                                             sit down.            Nodding along to Eoin’s good idea,                               he stumbles over to the couch and sinks into               its cushions abruptly.                   His head swims at the sudden shift in elevation, and he blinks                                                                                            heavily. Then,                                    (( suddenly ))                                                                     he remembers his shoes                   and leans forward, upper body draping over                                                                    his own slender legs. Bottle of            whisky set carefully onto the floor, he takes to his                                                                                                             shoelaces.              He only gets one und o n  e   before Eoin                                                 is returning. The older man              is saying something, he’s saying something                                                             about                     Logan, and he’s holding…                                                                                                       water?                                  Callum sits up, shoes forgotten, to                                                                   look up at Eoin.               Eyebrows raise slightly, reddened                                               eyes gazing up at the wolf                                                                              with a look of almost-gratitude.                         Lips part, and he takes in a deep breath before                                                          l a u g h i n g .                            The sound bounces off close walls as Callum          tilts his head back,                                                              slender shoulders shaking. His                                  head follows suit, shaking in amusement when he leans                forward to grab the bottle off the floor,                                                                     then very pointedly touching                      it to the glass of water in                                                                                     a mocking toast.                                     ”You’ve watched Logan for years,                                       Eoin, I know you know better,”                                             he says, his voice low.                                           All traces of amusement                                           leave his features in the                               blink of an eye, and he’s leaning back                                           into the couch, long legs                        stretching out before him as he slumps down.                  Bottle to lips, Callum glances                                         around the apartment. If his wits weren’t so              dulled, he might have an opinion                                       about the place. Right now, though,                                                       it’s warm, and that’s all that matters.                 Warm. Very warm, Callum realizes, and with                                               a huff he places the bottle of whisky                            between slender thighs to hold tight as he                                                                                begins to squirm his way                             out of his jacket. It’s a more difficult                                           prospect than he’d expected, though, and it takes             a good deal of concentration                                                               to accomplish. Eyes squeezed shut, he                        finally manages to free his arms                                                       and shove the jacket to the floor.                       A heavy breath leaves plush lips as                             Callum directs bleary vision to the                  Fiann once more. Fingertips trace                         their way over the bottle, both hands                       idly worrying at the glass, at the label,                          at the liquor dripping down the neck.                         His brow furrowed, he stares at the                         other man intently for a moment, then                                                                                        asks suddenly,                                     “London, really? For fucks’ sake, why?”

[adhlaic]

                      laughter echoes off the walls and crashes into his ears, settling uncomfortably                       and  painfully  behind his eyes. it's a  mocking  sound, the  cutting  words that                       follow  only allowing  the insult to dig  talons under his skin  as the bottle taps                       against the cup. lips press  together in a thin line, hand dropping to place the                       cup  abruptly  enough  on the coffee table that water  floods  over the sides in                                  small    rivulets.                                  he's watched the alpha for years;;      he's tried to encourage the alpha                                  to [[change]], but it is hard to bend that which so easily breaks. alcohol                                  had  never   been  eoin's  choicest   escape, but  it  hadn't  taken  long                                  among the  ℱianna for repulsion to override any desire to ever partake                                  again.                        ( the fact that it is easier                          to   u s e  someone far                          past  inebriated   when                                         one's own mind is sharp                                         and   clear  is   only  an                                         additional         benefit. )         in stony silence, the older man watches his unexpected charge         struggle  out of the coat,  one  brow rising.  characteristics  that         would seem  encouraging  if he allowed himself to be tempted         seem   rather  less   endearing   when  he  denies  himself  that         pleasure.  unfocused,  pale  green  eyes find their way to eoin's         features and he  lifts his own gaze to the ceiling, breath huffing         from between his lips.              following the question, though,              his lips twitch at the corners as he looks down at the younger man once more.              a slight shake of the  no-moon's head precedes a few steps forward, then he's              dropping  onto  the  couch  beside  the  other  man.                                                                                                 ( close enough to touch. )              fingers of one hand worry at fraying denim that threatens to become a  h o l e                over his knee, head  dropped  low enough that his hair acts as the backdrop to              his profile.       "Normally," he starts, his tone dry with sarcasm,           shoulders  lift in a  careless  shrug as       "London  allows me to have a place of my own           eoin shifts until he can cross his legs       where my sept can't find me."  he tilts his head           in  front  of  himself,  leaning back in       up,  to  the  side, to slant a look at the younger           his  seat.  "Although,  I did  like  New       man beside him.  he lives such an isolated life,          York.  Maybe  I  should  get  a  place       one   where  he's  free  to   {( i n d u l g e )}   in           there  instead."   he  could   infiltrate       whatever   things  he  might  wish   to,   without           another pack again;;  the ℱianna are       worrying    over    how   to   keep   it   a    secret.          so few there.                                             [[   t  e  m  p  t  a  t  i  o  n  s   ]]

[foolsdeath-blog]

         The door opens quickly enough to startle          Callum; as if that would take much right now.          Pale eyes half-lidded glance to Eoin’s face,          and the younger man slumps against the          door frame with a heavy sigh.                                                        “Good memory,” he says, lips curling                                               into the ghost of a smile so empty it never                                                    reaches his eyes. “I’d say you’re a hard                                                      man to find, but…” Trailing off, his grin                                                                 pulls wider and he holds up the                                                       bottle in his hand before leaning in to                                       whisper conspiratorially, “you should probably                                                          not tell an alcoholic where you live.”           To Callum’s credit, he stays where he is.          The young man wants nothing more than to          push past Eoin, to impose himself on the          other’s home, to find solace in the company,          the warmth of this place. But he remains, out          in the hallway with a door between himself          and the only person he could even think          of running to when his world finally cracked.                                                         Is it bad taste to take a drink from the                                                                     bottle on another’s doorstep?                                                         Callum can’t figure it out, and brings                                                        the alcohol to his lips. Eyes flutter as                                                                 the stuff burns its way down his                                                     throat; he hates being so very pathetic,                                                                           but he hates feeling more.           ”Mmn, you’re—” he starts, then pauses          to wipe at his mouth with the back of his hand.          ”You’re well within… your right to tell me to          fuck off.” Muddled words, lips too numb to take          care. “But. I would very… very much like if          you didn’t. Eoin.” Callum’s voice drops softer          with each word, until the other’s name falls from          his lips in little more than a whisper.                                                       Pale eyes rimmed with red gaze at the                                            other Ragabash as lips press together. His                                                         entire posture spells defeat, leaning                                            against the wall for support for fear of falling                                              altogether. Riotous hair, barely dampened                                         by the rain, flattens as the young man lets his                                                                    head thump against the frame.           ”Please,” he sighs, his free hand moving          to rest against the door, fingers curling          ever so slightly. He does not push, he does not          beg. A simple plea is all the vulnerable          young man offers his new-found friend.                                                                                             Please let me in.                                                                                      I have nowhere else to go.

[adhlaic]

                       fingers tighten around the grip of a dagger held loosely at the small of his                        back. of course it was Logan;; there was never any other possibility. eoin is                        circumspect in his actions,  discretion the greatest of his virtues. he doesn't                        share his home   {( his self )}   with others. not even gorgeous, drunk young                        men desperate for company                                                                                   except that's not true, and it's the very reason why                                                                  his eye narrows gently as he watches the other no-                                                                  moon.  he  has  a   weakness   for  loneliness  and                                                                  inebriation    packaged    with    pretty    lips   and                                            ( his gaze flickers down to catch at worn denim ) pretty h  i   p   s.             simple wariness gives way to sharp suspicion                            as his gaze moves  up to catch  the bottle  meeting the other man's mouth.                            there's a dull ache in his left shoulder,  pressed  so firm  against the side of                            the door;;  there's a  tightening  in his chest that  strains  measured breaths.                             tension in his  chest  gives way to a  flare  of  warmth in his  midsection  as                                             Callum speaks, as his own name falls from those lips to linger in                                             the air between them.  lips press up in a  moue  before one side                                             twitches  in  a  sneer  ( or is that a leer ).  met  with  a  plea he'd                                             describe  as  pathetic  out loud, the  ragabash  cants his head to                                             the side, temple hitting his door.                                              and then  resistance gives  way  to surrender,  the  wolf  stepping                                                             back and  pushing the door to let it swing farther open.                                                             "Come  in,  then."  sharp words give off the impression                                                              that an  onerous  task has been requested of him, and                                                              the  wolf  looks  up  and  down  the  hall one last time                                                              before shutting the door behind Callum.                       a careless flip of the blade speaks to idle practice as the no-moon                       drops concealment of it. after placing it back in its position on the                       small end table, he motions towards the couch.                       "Sit down. How drunk are you?"                         [[ he's  n o t  tempted;; even if he is, he will deny himself. ]]       steps carry him to the kitchen, torn and faded       linoleum cool against bare feet.                         [[ not with another like him, not with another so much like him. ]]        he takes a plastic cup from the cupboards,       red at the top and fading to dark blue at the base,       and turns a rusted tap to fill it with water.                         [[ he has too many secrets to give any so carelessly away to the other trickster. ]]        back across the cold surface to the carpeted one,       back into the living room to offer cold water to       his abrupt companion.                    "You shouldn't try to keep up with Logan."                                           a reprimand, or a statement of fact?           "He'll drink himself to death                             so long as you're the one under the table by the end of it."

[foolsdeath-blog]

               It’s funny,                                               isn’t it?       You think you’ve                                                                                 lost it all                                     [( you think, you think )]                                                                                       and then you get                                                             it all back——                   only,                                     not »all« of it                                                   not the part that really                                                                                 m a t t   e   r     s                                                                                          [( he’d known it was broken,                                                                                                      he’d known.                                                                                          he’d hoped,  he’d known. )]                          The empty silence of that borrowed home still echoes                          somewhere  between  Callum's ribs,  a cold  quiet that                                           feels as if it should be filled with                           something                                                    (anything)                          Broken, though together, he’d thought they  could find                          a way (together).  They had  passed through corruption                                       and death and come out the other side.                                         Surely  this  will  fall  before  them.                                                          ❝Dear Callum.❞     Knock, knock. The sound is hollow, muffled;                     the door sways. No, that’s not right. It’s Callum          that’s swaying, enough that he places one                       hand on the door frame. Bleary eyes try to         focus on the door’s number again, not even entirely                                                   sure he’s knocking on the right one.                                                           But, no, Logan had said three-oh-six, and                          here he is. The Nuwisha removes his hand from                                                    the door frame to reach into                                                           his jacket and nearly loses his balance.                             A slender shoulder presses                                                to the door instead, allowing the young man                                        to pull the small bottle of whisky                                                                           from his pocket.                        It’s only polite to offer alcohol to your host, yes?           Knock, knock, this time a little louder, and                                                 Callum does try to stand up                         straight. Nice and straight, with the door frame                                          to support him, arms hanging at his sides, temple                        pressed to the wood.                                               There’s something making him sad, he knows it.                                There’s heat in his eyes every time he                                                holds still for too long. But his head is                                swimming too much                                                    now for him to quite hold onto the sadness.                           Well. Almost, he thinks as he clumsily                                             unscrews the cap and brings the small               bottle to his lips. Another drink, that will help                               to banish the despair creeping                                           at the edges, whispering his                                                                  name, pulling him d o w n.

[adhlaic]

            a cigarette burns its last on the lip of an ashtray,                                           a cup of coffee grows cold,                          yellowed pages of a favourite book are turned by worn fingers.                                    he sits cross-legged on the ground in front of the coffee table,                                    the latest  episode of a period  drama  denied a voice on the                                    television. the apartment is silent,                                  ( he likes the silence,                                                               he likes to be free of the distraction of sound )                                    the only  interruption  to words  read  aloud in his mind being                                    the light spatters of rain against his windows.            that is, until a [[knock knock]] interrupts him. shoulders tense, he inhales            a sharp breath,  and one aquamarine-coloured eye moves to watch the            door warily. brunet strands are tangled as if he hadn't bothered to brush            his hair  with more than  his fingers this  morning, though  they still  fall            haphazardously over the right side of his face.                 denim jeans with the bottom hems hopelessly frayed pool at his feet                 as he rises. the sleeveless shirt hands from a small frame as he leans                 down to pick up a  s i l v e r  dagger from the table to the side of the                 small couch.                    left hand pressed against the                    door,  eoin  leans  up  on the                    balls  of his feet  to  look  out                    the  peephole.  the  (( face ))                    on the  other side is  familiar,                                                            but               does he ﴾ trust ﴿ it?

                                                                               pale eyes and pretty lips, cheekbones                                                                                to  cut  diamonds  with and  hair  long                                                                                enough to  grasp tightly in his fingers.           eoin drops back to the flats of his feet, forehead                resting against the wood just in time for a second [[knock knock]] to reverberate                in his skull.  his lower lip is pulled between his teeth,  worried, instincts warring.                then, reluctantly,  he steps back far enough to pull the door open;;  the dagger                is  kept in  hand,  though  held  behind  his  back.  his gaze  moves  first in one                direction, then the other, assurance that Callum is                                                                                                   a l  o   n     e                     shoulders pressed against door and doorframe, the ragabash looks up                     at the younger man, wide-eyed with features drawn;; a muscle tenses                     in his cheek before plush lips part to allow speech.                                                 "I don't recall ever telling you where I live."                      Sioned, then, or Logan. his money is on the latter.                       "What  are you  doing here?"  as if it might not be                                                                          obvious                                                                                in such a lurching stance.           inebriation often gives way to foolish desires,                                                      though what Callum could                                                      possibly  desire  of him, he                                                            could hardly guess.

[adhlaic]

Stay awake until the morning smiles  And finds you lifeless;  So lifeless and still so alone.  Stay awake until the sun burns through  And leaves you lifeless  So lifeless and still so alone. 

[adhlaic]

What was the best thing in your character’s life?

             there was a  time when eoin was  among the              Shadow Lords of Russia, of Poland, Slovakia,              Belarus.  he  wore a  different  personality  in              those   days,   one   cold  and   ruthless   and              distinctively  ﴾  c r u e l ﴿.  how influential he              grew  among  those  dour  wolves,  how  he'd              enjoyed the  opportunity to  fully  unsheath a              cutting, unkind sense of humour.                                                                                           ( it had been tempting to defect, but )                                                                                            eventually he'd had to return to the                                                                                             ℱianna,  to reveal  himself for what                                                                                            he truly is and bring his secrets back                                                                                            to his alpha.                              ﴾( some secrets, though, he kept for himself. )﴿

[adhlaic]

1. What would completely break your character?

    eoin  would  never admit to  truly being                 but  even  eoin could  not  possibly  hide     broken.  he  is   [[ damaged ]]   perhaps,                 behind  defenses  if  control  and agency     nothing more.  he is  burdened, scarred.                 was   stripped   from   him   in  a   violent     there's  nothing   deeper  to   his  issues                  fashion.  it's  something  he  experienced     than   a  strong  need  for   privacy  and                  too much of when he was powerless, and     space,     nothing     more     than     an                  it's something that  would shatter him if it      unwillingness to and a longing for love.                 were to happen once more.

[gcralt]

Wonderwall.  Of course he bloody well  knows what it is, but that doesn’t  mean that he ever wants to be made to  play the damn thing.  He’d honestly rather not be  forced to subject  the  world  to  that  sort  of punishment— even if he is convinced that he’d do a damned good rendition of it.

                                           Better not.                                            Think of the kids, right?

                                                                                             "Try again?"  he asks,  brows perked.                                                                                               There’s an amused look on his face,                                                                                               which is probably a good thing. No                                                                                               one wants an offended musician on                                                                                               their hands, after all. “Dunno it, see.”

[adhlaic]

         the smile that breaks out over eoin's features;; as if          he has won some sort of battle. he hasn't spoken to          Cathal  but  passingly  before  now,  and  there is a          perverse pleasure to be found in being snarky.                                         "Kelly of Killane, then. There's too many bloody                                           Brits  in  this bar, aye? Let's  remind  them  who                                                                                      they're drinking with."                              ( says the man with a home in London. says the man who doesn't                                even  live in Ireland, though he stays here with his pack so often.                                an Irishman  anywhere in the world is still  an  Irishman, isn't he? )

[gcralt]

A look of great offense  flutters across the  Galliard’s features, though it’s followed by a grin, so he clearly isn’t too bothered by the younger man’s words. That being  said,  it would take  far more  to turn  the guy  sour;  he simply doesn’t care enough to be insulted.

                                                                                       ”Alright.”                                                                                         Brows perk, and he almost looks like                                                                                         he’s challenging Eoin for a moment.                                                                                         ”Any requests?     ‘Fore you get even                                                                                         more dramatic on me.” 

[adhlaic]

dramatic, there's something eoin isn't often accused of. lips quirk into a smile of amusement in response to  Cathal's words,  brow rising above his visible eye. "I'm never dramatic."  if ever there was a  ℱiann  to             "All right,  here's a request for you." exist who wasn't  dramatic,  though , the songs have             he leans forward, one elbow resting entirely forgotten them.                                                         on  the  table   as  his  eye  narrows                                                                                               gently,    aquamarine  peering  out                                                                                               mischievously   through    the    slit.                                                                                               "Play   Wonderwall  for  me.   That                                                                                               seems like something you'd know."