ars poetica

#{-cmenrps-}#{-Noah-}#{-NoahwithTex01 #{-Heated Rivalry verse-}#tw alcohol #tw drugs

Noah frowns, then pouts. "I'm not mean." He argues, still half breaking his neck to look at Tex in the eyes. "Pretty?!" He says, soft blush on his cheeks. The ice skater gets lost in his own blurry thoughts for a moment before the hockey player speaks again.

He hadn't expected the other man to explain, nor to learn how serious he'd been about watching him. Though, the more he speaks, the redder Noah gets. To think a guy that looks like Tex is actually interested in what he does... blows his mind for sure! Suddenly, Noah doesn't know what to do with himself. Who had the fucking audacity to raise some adorable Golden Retriever into this K9?

"Friends?! Do you live here?" Of all the places... "My coah is from here..." He answers after a moment of chasing the dizziness away for a few seconds. Noah doesn't want to lean on the hockey player, but he still does cause his own body won't leave him the choice.

They get outaide and the fresh air is nice. He groans. "You're really annoying." He complains. "And why do you smell so good?!" Barely a pause before he continues his intoxicated rant. "So lemme get this straight—" Noah giggles at the word straight— "you're fucking hot, you're apparently a gentleman and you smell good on top of that?!" He sighs. "Life's unfair. And can you stop all that..." He tries to—in his head—point up and down at Tex, but in reality, the up and down is him caressing the other's chest all over.

"I don't need to be any more attracted to you." He confesses, trying to move away and walk on his own... big mistake. It gets more than clear that someone else had slipped something in his drink... or maybe it'd been the same person...? His knees give out and he falls back into Tex's body. He looks up, bending his neck backward and giggles. "M'sorry." To say he looks kissable gazing back up at Tex is the understatement of the year.

"I forgot where my coach's house is..." He suddenly realises.

She glances between the two of them, with the knowledge now that they've both met and it went...badly. Robin rarely entertains people that aren't some flavour of magic, so therefore there must be something about Stellan that is completely out of the ordinary. Cleo blinks, and is struck by the idea that Robin probably means to drain him, and then give whatever's left for Cleo to eat.

And Cleo doesn't want to eat Stellan.

"Wait - Robin," She begins, ready to argue against whatever her elder brother has planned but, is silenced by his icy gaze. It doesn't matter what she wants. This is his eternal penance for daring to go against natural laws.

"She is a great person,"

Robin stirs his drink, and leans back in his seat, glancing at the ceiling for a few moments in contemplation. "Stellan, what would you do for the people you love? Persons you love - friends, family, those more intimate? You may say give them a kidney, your right arm, take the fall for murder, give them your life savings," He begins the tale, words coming easily.

"My father was a cruel man. I'm a witch yes but, I was never as...talented as he would've liked. Cleo suffered the same affliction, and in our ordinary-ness we found a strong bond. I continued to study, and practice, honing my magic...I wanted badly to prove my father wrong. That I could be special to, if given the chance,"

He takes a drink. Cleo is wringing her hands, nervously, gaze glued to her feet. She knows what's coming, and doesn't like hearing it. "Cleo was in a car accident 5 years ago that killed her. I couldn't live without my sister so, I performed profane magic. I crossed the veil between life and death, grabbed her soul, and brought her back. At a cost,"

Robin moves, taking off the glove that disguises his afflicting. Blackened fingers, the veins a similar colour, as if necrosis is setting into a perfectly healthy limb.

"My magic is eating at me. Cleopatra has begun to deteriorate. I do everything I can to keep her as she is - that is, alive and...fairly human. I grow weaker. I need power, and you - you have that power, Stellan. In abundance,"

Stellan misses the silent conversation between the siblings, too focused on leaving without sounding too much like a dick to Cleo. And he should’ve done just that, leave. Actually, that very night, he should’ve moved out, change country even. But that’s not the fate awaiting him. None of them sees how the threads of their destiny are already beginning to entangle together

‘She’s a great person,’

He could tell right from the moment he’d met her and still can right now. For some reason, Stellan listens. He doesn’t care at first, too set on his distrust and anger toward Robin. That man is too beautiful for the good of everyone around him and Stellan doesn’t realise how fucking true that thought is just yet.

But then he speaks of Cleo who had died five years ago and his gaze snaps to the younger woman—undead. That’s why she’d felt so different to him. He’s heard of undead, but has never been around them enough like werewolf, to be able to recognise them. Robin moves and his gaze falls to where said movement was. So Robin had defied the gods to save his baby sister and paid the price.

Stellan’s eyes move to Cleo as if trying to see the damages, but maybe it starts on the inside. “So this is the project you had in mind?” He speaks to himself as that question doesn’t need an answer. “Do you know what I am? Or did you just feel the leak that night?”

A leak.

It’s a dangerous thing to say and Stellan is too naïve to realise what he’d done. Someone as smart as Robin would catch on to it. All that immense power he’d felt had just been a small leak of the actual power Stellan had access to.

“I don’t want to end up like you, but I want to help Cleo.” His gaze has yet to leave the woman even if all his questions are addressed to Robin, she is the one he wants to help. A noble cause. To finally be able to help, to be useful. Maybe the power he cannot control will restore Cleo fully and she can live a normal life.

The moment the decision is made, Chester is dragging Mathieu off the dancefloor and down the side of the bar, to the back where the corridor splits into men's, women's, the oversized disabled toilet with its Out of Order sign emblazoned on the front with a sad face. Yet, it is unlocked, and Chester is quick to shove the older inside, locking it once the two of them are inside and practically leaping at the other -

It's fast, rough, messy, shoes sticking to wet tiled floor, backside barely fitting in the small porcelain sink. There is no prep time, only the act, the sound of skin slapping against skin, of heavy panting and moans that tumble into closed fists, and hair, anywhere to muffle the noise that won't be heard over the roar of loud music, people too drunk to put two and two together in terms of what they're hearing.

They're both still dishevelled when they fall outside and into a cab (back to Mathieu's, it'll be nicer, bed comfier, he doesn't have a dog), and at one point Chester straddles Matty in the backseat as the driver yells at them to please not fuck in the cab, or he was chucking them both out, and all Chester could do was laugh in that obnoxious way of his and press kisses over bitten bruises, over scratch marks on a chest. He shoves a crumpled $20 bill at the driver when they reach where Matthieu lives and Chester looks up - see's the pale figure in the window, looking down at him. Glaring, almost.

This one doesn't like him, this dead boy who hangs around his seller and bedmate. Family. That's what it reeks of, though Chester will never ask who it is. Nobody can know what he sees, lest they brand him a psychopath. He's not crazy, he's not a nutjob, he's not troubled, or odd he just -

A spiralling train of thought is stopped the moment the two cross the threshold and he's pulled back into the others arms.

The bed is comfier than the bathroom, and in the security of the home, hurried touches slow down to something almost tender...borderline, really. For every one though, Chester is quick to bring it back to filthy beginnings. He's tired, sore in the best way, staring at a familiar ceiling...what time is it? His clothes are all over the room but, he was smart enough to leave the phone on the bedside table. He checks the time - early morning, very early, 3am. What time did the two of them even leave the club?

"Matty," Chester mumbles, moving up closer to the other man for a short cuddle. He can't stay, it'd be bad.

#{-cmenrps-}#{-Mathieu-}#{-MathieuwithChester01 #tw drug usage #tw nsfw thoughts #tw nsfw mention #tw nsfw

Drugs, sex, rest—repeat. It’s always the same pattern with Chester. It’s always easier to blame everything on the drugs, though Mathieu isn’t really the type to be in denial… most of the time anyway. Like he might go to Chester cause he’s got good stuff, but sleeping with him has nothing to do with business. He’s not just a good fuck, he’s an addictive one and for someone like Mathieu, that’s not a good combination… or it’s the best combination for disaster.

Still—they fuck in the restroom stall. It’s messy, but he’d needed it. Needed it to make it back to his place. He should’ve stopped Chester in the cab, but the pill had kicked in and he couldn’t really think straight anymore. He feels bad nonetheless for the driver and gives him an extra bill for the inconvenience. Unbeknownst to him, Anthony frowns at the situation, glaring at Chester, but leaves, refusing to ever see his baby brother like that. His brother that had been forced into this cage of hatred and made powerless.

Mathieu is dominant in bed, but in a good and most importantly respectful way. He eventually stop out of exhaustion, which is very mild compared to the mess he’s made of Chester by that point. He remembers falling asleep, holding Chester, the other man’s back pressed to his chest.

As a light sleeper, the mumble and movement wakes him up easily. “What is it baby?” He whispers, just as his arms come around Chester and he smiles lazily at him.

His morning wood slips under the witch’s ball and between his thighs, making Mathieu hiss at the delicious friction. “It’s not even morning… sleep.” Or don’t sleep—but that’s his cock talking really.

"I'll come back," There is a tenderness in such reassurance, a softness in Rafferty's words and gaze as he confirms such, gathering the jug to fetch clean water, bloodied rags that had been used to stem the bleeding and clean Beau up.

"I'd be taking care of them anyways, if you die," It comes out harsher than the redhead means it yet, he still busies himself, not saying bye as he exits the room. The door shuts, and he lets out a slow, long exhale. He fears he owes a God he doesn't believe in.

Rafferty gets to work, always better using his hands in fraught situations, to calm the mind. Scout would come get him if he was needed, just as he had done yesterday. That was a rational train of thought as he began to see to things - explained to the barkeeper that the man who'd been shot was his brother, a courier, trying to survive in a harsh and unforgiving world. That neither of them have anything but each other, and family is the most important thing on God's earth. Such words earn a sympathetic nod, and mean a blind eye will be turned.

He's gone most of the morning, sorting out the horses, feeding and watering them. Brushing them, to, getting the bloodstains off Sentry, letting her know that her master is good and well, but won't be riding for a while. Rafferty thinks maybe he should, just in-case she gets restless. Unlike Brigid, who is perfectly happy to stay still, in one place, for long periods of rest.

Then, food. Bread, fried eggs, a little meat for Scout. A fresh pitcher of water, rags, to clean Beau down with. He feels...better, running around, keeping busy. He returns to the rented room, looking at dog and master together on the bed...and smiles.

"Got you somethin' to eat. Nothing fancy, kind of a shit-hole town here. Mind if I clean you up? I need to get yer clothes washed, to," The redhead talks quietly, acting out a scene of domesticity he isn't used to. Yet, it comes so easily...frighteningly easy.

"Told the barkeep we're brothers. It'll keep folk from askin' questions,"

#{-cmenrps-}#{-Beauregard-}#{-Lucky Luke-}#{-BeauregardwithRafferty02 #tw blood #tw partial nudity

"Thank you." He means it, truly. Not just about coming back, but also in the eventuality that he dies, he can go in peace knowing that Sentry and Scout would have someone to take care of them. He smiles as the door close behind Rafferty. If there was any ounces of doubt left in his mind about trusting the other man, it has now evaporated.

His day is quiet—a mix of rest and talking with Scout who is glued to him. Beau makes sure that his dog knows he is the best boy, cause he is! Eventually, he dares to stand up to relieve himself and to grab his satchel.

A trembling hand reaches inside and he pulls out a few photos; they are either family photos or the portrait of a single member of said family. His family is in there so is the portrait of his father—it's the latter he'd spotted while delivering his package. It's also that and all the papers underneath he'd managed to snatch beforw escaping. In all fairness, he had almost made it out without being caught until they'd seen the missing paper. The photos are hard not to look at, but he needs to see what are the papers... the letters actually... what are they about.

Warnings, threats, promises of payment if they look the other way and then to make them look the other way or simply to stop them. It's a lot to read and his brain cannot take it all, so he shoves most back in but for the photo of his family. He's 14 on it, a year before the massacre. He thinks of happier times and of Rafferty—his current happiness.

He falls asleep.

Scout wakes him up at the noises and scent of the redhead coming back. He sits up, smiling when Rafferty comes in. "It's the best shit hole to be left alone though." He counters with a small smirk. "You're asking me if I mind seeing you naked?!" He teases. He's tired—exhausted even—but flirting with the other is second nature. "Brothers?! Considering who is your brother, I'm slightly offended..." He chuckles then, tiredly so, but the light is back in his gaze—one that was quite dull the prior day.

"Whatever it cost you, I'll pay you back."

It clicks, and Tex laughs as Noah calls him a big meanie, about to tease him before the figure skater lets something else slip - much too personal, something he'd regret when sober, and probably find a way to blame Tex for it to. "Hey," There's a soft frown on his features, in his voice to, really listening and knowing what Noah was saying because...well, he'd been there too, once, when he was young. A supposedly playful jab had clearly poked at raw insecurity and fear...no wonder Noah lost his mind and nearly hit him.

A puts a hand on the other man's arm, leaning in slightly, giving them a small shelter of privacy in a busy club.

"I was joking. Winding you up, getting a rise. I...I didn't realise it hurt you so much,"

He takes a sip of his own drink, sincerity bleeding into his words. "Sorry. It was shitty of me," Tex apologises, giving Noah an encouraging half smile.

"For what it's worth, glad you're a guy. Couldn't stare at you if you weren't, women don't do anything for me,"

#{-cmenrps-}#{-Noah-}#{-NoahwithTex01 #{-Heated Rivalry verse-}#tw alcohol #tw drugs

Noah—even in this intoxicated state—hadn’t expected the other man to lean in, nor touch his arm. “You’re really big.” He says, head also bent backward to look at the much taller man.

He frowns as the other apologises and then pouts again. “Now that’s just unfair. I can handle handsome meanie dude, but nice and handsome… that should just be illegal.” He sighs and while Noah is being serious as hell, what he’s saying is quite amusing and kinda endearing too.

The walk of shame that is awaiting him if he ever learns of everything he’d said to the hockey player.

But then the subtle compliment follows and the ice figure skater turns brings red; starting at his cheeks that already had a rosy tint that turns darker to his ears than his whole face. “Y-you stare at me?” He asks in disbelieve. He knows he’s beautiful, but guys like Tex—yes, he’d learned the man’s name—aren’t usually forward with guys like him. Obviously, everyone knows about Scott Hunter, but his boyfriend is clearly not made from the same cloth as Noah.

“Why are you here?” He blurts out, trying to not look into the other man’s eyes, cause he’ll get lost in them for sure.

“I’m a bit dizzy.” He says, leaning against the larger man, to keep himself from falling over.

"So's my brother - gay, I mean. Not...violent," Cleo stipulated though, it didn't feel particularly truthful. She knew that Robin had a quiet, murderous streak a mile long...there was nothing he wouldn't do, and while some may find that devotion to family admirable Cleo...well. Wondered why, sometimes, quietly to herself. It was difficult, to have to choose between living with monstrous stipulations, or being dead.

Was it sibling love, or some form of obligation? She wondered, often, if her brother truly wanted her alive and well or, if he was just mad that the universe had seen his greatest trick and punished him for it. Prometheus, stealing fire from the gods, only to suffer everyday atop the mountain for it.

"Maybe I could play wing-woman, when he comes? Between us to, I think a good lay would be good for him," She says around a mouthful of coffee which tastes of...nothing.

He likes days like today, when things feel...normal. When Cleo is chatty and bright and human again, not the wretched creature that cries to be let go and feasts on flesh to sustain itself. Robin had absorbed enough magic from an aging sorcerer to keep his own affliction at bay and somewhat heal his sister.

There was the matter of that door, though. There hadn't been a leak, or he'd have been able to feel it in the air, and hone in quicker. Perhaps the guy had skipped town...how many had used, or tried to use Stellan for his limitless potential? He blew out smoke, chucking his cigarette on the floor as he approached the coffee shop. Fuck. Back to square one.

The coffee shop is round the corner, Robin's brogues clacking on the floor, hands carefully placed within the pockets of his coat, dressed conservatively despite the balmy weather outside. Ever since he pierced the vale between the living and the dead, he'd found himself colder than usual. The bell rings above the door when he enters, catching Cleo sat with...somebody, a back turned to him, he can't see the face.

She waves, and he does it turn, picking up a Chai and walking over to see. Oh. Stellan. Robin sits easily, pretends they haven't met. Smiles, says;

"I hope she's not been too much trouble. Cleo does have a habit of forcing the unwilling to become her friends,"

It earns him a sharp kick under the table.

He chuckles. "Good to know only one of you is violent then." He teases again. It's hard to believe they met barely—if even—an hour ago. They talk like hold friends that haven't seen each other in a while and catching up.

The comment takes him by surprise and he laughs. "You sound like a good friend of mine." The best really. He's not sure where he'd be without Chester in his life. "I might not be the best choice... though, for research purporse only, is he cute?" He chuckles again.

They keep talking happily even as Cleo waves her hand at whom he suppose is her brother, but doesn't turn around figuring that it'd be a bit stupid of him. But when said brother sits, his smile drops and his body tenses.

"She's a great person." There's bite in his words, like he's defending her. He gazes down at his drink and tells himself that once it's empty, he'll walk out of here and never cross path with either ever again... how wrong he is.

Fuck that guy—Mister project Management—is annoyingly handsome, fuck! It makes him angry. "No winging will be needed Cleo, it won't happen." He says to the woman, somewhat ignoring Robin. The other man makes him uncomfortable, everyone who wants something from him does... especially ones who voice it minutes after meeting him.

He's friendly when sober, even friendlier after a drink or two - easy smiles, bright eyes, a hand on an elbow, on a waist. Familiar, too familiar some might say but, it's just Tex. A bright optimism has always had a home within his heart, the glass is always half-full, there is always a dawn after the darkest night. Even here, now, standing with some friends at the bar, nursing a bottle of bud, blue eyes catch someone not unfamiliar to him...someone who was once unkind.

The ice queen himself, the picture of poise and elegance yet, sharp as the picks they use to hack at the glacier. Those jagged edges may cut but, Tex doesn't mind, so long as he gets to behold something beautiful.

And - Noah is beautiful, on the ice, disciplined and graceful, an artist at work. Here, though, under dimmed lights, with music vibrating through every pore, alcohol and good times flowing he looks disheveled...and devastating, in his relaxation. A smile comes easy, the crinkle at the corner of the eyes, and Tex has to drink his entire beer and order another one just to do something else that isn't staring.

Luckily, he is staring when something is dropped into the skaters drink, the bubbles from the fizz disguising that something is dissolving within it. That's when Tex acts, moving across to grab the drink without a second thought and Noah...giggles. Flirts. Oh, he's loose, so easily gives him a smile that the taller man can't think of what to say for a few moments. The spiked drink is still in his hand, trying to place it further down the bar for someone to take and chuck.

"Maybe once. I've seen you, on the ice before - did I stand out that much in the crowd? My mama does say I got a handsome face," Tex jokes back with a smile, not giving away the whole truth and lose...this. A nicer Noah.

#{-cmenrps-}#{-Noah-}#{-NoahwithTex01 #{-Heated Rivalry verse-}#tw alcohol #tw drugs

To say he'll be appalled and ashamed by his behaviour the next day is the understatement of the century. But at the moment, he's–now—happily drunk, moments before, he was mostly miserably drunk, or just minding his own business really.

He takes a step closer, frowning a bit. From an onlooker's point of you, it truly looks like a drunk and his poor sober friend having a chat. "You're a fan?" He says almost in disbelief that someone other than his coach's family would know him here. "I don't know if you stood out, but I don't usually forget faces and even less tall handsome one like yours." He's all smile, but all talking very factually which in itself is hilarious.

The smile on the other's face finally jog his memory and he suddenly pouts. "Oh! It's you. Beautiful people shouldn't be big meanie like you were to me. Why did you call me a girl?" He asks sincerely, but also very drunk. "I'm a guy, I promise." There's a small pause. "Though, maybe if I was a girl, things would be easier... easier to like men." He says softly and it shows in his gaze that this is something he's struggling with. If Tex is as handsome as he's smart, he'll understand that Noah is closeted and that it's why he reacted so strongly to being called a princess and Elsa.

There is soft and then there’s drunk Noah. Often called the Ice Prince, the ice figure skater has a warmth inside that could melt iceberg; he just hides it relatively well between polite smiles, doing a wai or just humble bows of his head. But when he’s drunk, the cold façade melts away to reveal the vulnerable man that he is or has been made into through hardships. But here in some city where he’s a nobody, but his coach’s family lives, it’s easy to let go, hence why he’s drunk. Last time he’d been in Quebec City where his choreographer was from and had loved the place, this is different, but still nice.

In his drunkenness, he doesn’t catch the man putting something in his drink and just when he’s about to drink from it, a hand comes over the glass to stop him and takes the drink away. He giggles in response and leans forward only to see a chest, then gazes up before grabbing the hand. “If you take my drink, I take your hand.” He says with the most adorable face not realizing who’s the owner of said hand. “You are handsome. Have we met before?”

@cmenrps

#{-cmenrps-}#{-Noah-}#{-NoahwithTex01 #{-Heated Rivalry verse-}#tw alcohol #tw drugs

#{-noah-}

I can tell your not fully human. The words, however brief, do something to Cleo - the way her smile falls, the shine in her eyes dulls and, for a brief moment, it's like there's nothing behind them. For a split second, she is the soulless undead, bound to half-living by her troubled brother, given sentience by the grace of flesh and magic. It's back as quick as it went, and Cleo just giggles in that awkward way, high pitched and nervous. What to say that won't scare him off? Stellan's easy to chat to, and she doesn't get to chat to many people.

"Great-Grandma shagged a demon for the privilege of magic. We're all his when we die now," She lies, just as easily as Robin would. He'd be proud. "Most of us are about as magic as a toilet brush, though. I can't wait to go to hell, and get nothing out of it,"

Cleo beams at the agreement to tag along, taking the offered arm easily. "Awh, you're really sweet, Stellan," She says. He's easy to talk to, and she has to take this advantage while she can...chances are, Cleo will never be seeing him again after this. Maybe that's why she keeps looking around, trying to take everything in on their short walk. Soon, only memories of today while keep her company and, even then, they will one day fade away to.

She's positive because, what's the alternative? Crying, and raving, and grieving, as she rots back into the living dead? Cleo has done that already, and it doesn't stop the situation.

Cleo grabs an iced Americano, sliding into the table opposite the man she's designated a friend. When her phone vibrates - Robin, asking if she's alright. Asking where she is. She knows her brother is looking for something...or, someone, important. Taking the phone, she snaps a quick picture of the plastic coffee cup with the cafe's logo on the front.

"Sorry, he's coming now. Um - he's a bit...difficult? So, don't get offended if he looks at you like shit. Ah - no, wait difficult is a bad word...protective, I think. New city, baby sister, you know?"

He sees the woman's reaction and feels bad about his comment. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything bad by that. Because I've been raised like a wolf, but I'm not one, I've learned to see details about supernatural and non-supernatural people. So I can tell when someone isn't strictly human... as in mortal wirh no power." He says, hoping to make her feel better as he's really apologetic a out it.

Though, when she talks of a pack with a demon, he leans back into his chair in shock. Strangely enough, it's like there's something familiar about what she'd said and he doesn't know why. "That sounds a lot like something from The Fall of the House of Usher." He thinks out loud. Though, doesn't comment on it more. Considering the strange nature of his own existence, Stellan doesn't question the veracity of Cleo's claim.

He smiles as she says he's sweet. Compliments get to him easily, but he's often awkward about them. But for a moment, he feels somewhat helpful or like his existence is meaningful—he's happy.

He laughs as Cleo's describes her brother. "So he's a bit overprotective, but he's a nice guy. I mean, if it can reassure him... it's a bit tmi, but I'm gay and last I checked, you're the violent one!" He teases her, referring to her readiness to fight him for a vinyl. "But yeah, I get it. Siblings love."

He wishes he could plead ignorance - a, I don't know why I'm compelled to do this. That there is some outside force that makes Rafferty to care for Beau, to stay by his side, to feed his dog, to groom his horse, to change his bandages. The truth of the matter, however, is much simpler ; that he likes him. The cheeky smiles, the sincerity in his touches, the flirty chatter that silences the lonely creature that makes a home in Rafferty's bones. It isn't good, to give so much of yourself away when, at any point, the barrel of a gun is pressed to your head, and then it's all over with the pull of a trigger.

He nearly lost Beau. He still could. And hadn't that been terrifying? A world without the one-handed courier.

The sharp look isn't lost on Rafferty, who knows the mask of revenge. He'll have to ask, later, what's within the pack. Something important, clearly. The redhead doesn't get a chance to, because Beauregard is kissing him again. He keeps his hand within those dirty blonde locks, letting it slowly slide down to the scruff on his jawline, thumb rubbing at the roughness there.

There were a few moments, a few terrifying moments when he thought they'd never do this again. That the next time he kissed Beau, those lips would be cold and blue, and it would simply be a gesture of parting. Yet, his skin is warm under his palm, and his lips are chapped and welcoming, and filled with everything neither of them are brave enough to voice. Even with death over his shoulder, it is still silent.

Rafferty takes in a breath, it shudders in his chest, he pulls back. Just enough to take in the other man, pale eyes tracing the slope of a nose, counting each eyelash, a little scar, as if making sure this was real. Hands move to his neck, collarbones, arms, chest and rest there, feeling the steady thump of a heartbeat underneath. Alive, alive, alive.

He sniffs, looks away, extracts himself from the bed, lest his feelings get the better of him. Rafferty can't cry in front of him, can't pry open his own chest and offer his heart on a platter...even if he's already done that without realising.

"I'm - I'm gonna go sort the horses. Get ya somethin' to eat, fresh water I...I'll be back, soon. You...rest. You're tired, you got healing to do,"

#{-cmenrps-}#{-Beauregard-}#{-Lucky Luke-}#{-BeauregardwithRafferty02 #tw blood #tw partial nudity

The moment is emotionally charged and it cannot be denied. He wants it to never stopped and for a short instance, he forgets about revenge—all that is left is love and care. Most importantly, he feels safe and that's ot something he's truly felt in a very long time.

The kiss is all he wants, all he needs; to have those lips moving against his own and those hands touching him. He thinks back to that night in the tent, of riding the redhead, of sleeping at his side and how his promise had been the only reason he'd left the shelter of the Red Death's embrace.

The kiss stops and he almost whines, but then Rafferty looks at him and it knocks the air out of him. By the time the redhead's hand is over his heart, he's close to trembling, but not quite.

He nods, accepting to be without a heat he shouldn't be craving nor missing so much already. "Alright—" There's a pause, before he asks, "You'll come back, right?!" Rafferty had already said he'd stayed, but in that momenyhe srill needs reassurance.

After Rafferty moves from the bed, Beau clicks his tongue and Scout crawls to him, tail wagging furiously and crying a little. He looks hydrated which reassures him. "Thank you for taking care of them." He says as he pets his dog. Scout and Sentry had saved his life. He'll visit his girl as soon as he feels better.

"I'll rest." He promises and leans back comfortably with Scout glued to his side while he lazily scratches the back of his ears.

Laurent cuts himself off from asking a question that he maybe knows the answer to. I felt something behind me. The tail had been real, then, the pearl had given something back which had been lost - the vampire does something unlike him, worries his lip between a sharp fang. What if this changes, things? Jean-Claude had been enjoying their arrangement, the tip-toeing around each other, the quick tongue, the passionate trysts. What would happen, then, if Laurent ate all the pearls? Who would he become...more, or less, like himself?

All this for a man you barely know. Pathetic, for the lonely vampire.

"Take a bite," His voice is soft, daring, as the man leans forwards, catching that sweet scent. It would only be fair, for he took a chunk from Laurent earlier...his blood had been rich, aged, a fine wine with a good year.

"Going through memories takes it out of me," It's an easier excuse than I don't know what that was, I don't know what you are, I don't know what you will become, and I don't know how that will affect me. "Ah, little bastard got my ankle, - here," Jean-Claude motions down to where it has dulled to a mild sting, pulling up the edge of his pant to reveal...little indentations. Small, sharp teeth. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"Like...better, or worse?"

#{-cmenrps-}#{-Laurent-}#{-LaurentwithJC02

For a moment, he thinks about taking a bite, but then he remembers drinking from Jean-Claude and that hunger... he cannot, must not. He has a visceral need to devour the vampire, but doesn't want to destroy him. "It's not a good idea for me to drink more from you, my Bunny." His voice is calm and tender almost, but there's also darkness in it.

"You're the one who needs to feed." He can give more of himself... after all, he might want to own this man's heart, but he also wants to belong to the vampire just as much. He barely knows him, but his obsession runs deep.

He gazes down and while he barely emotes, the shock is there. Two things—one, the bites from a dive in his memories had carried back to reality, so had that place actually been real?! And two, why had the vampire not healed already?! What type of powerful entity could do something like that to a vampire?! He couldn't actually be a nine-tailed fox...?

"Better... stronger, younger and—" He pauses thinking as he squads down to lift the wounded ankle to his lips and kisses it, then he continues "my senses are enhanced. It's quite strange and you really do smell divine." The last words are said almost in a transe again as if worshipping the vampire.

They fit together, slotting into place, the body remembering what the mind had forgotten. There was a place, somewhere within Maddox, that had the outline of Max and yet, nothing filled it. He could prod at the edges, inspire some ghost of emotion yet, nothing stuck. Even as his own eyes slipped shut, things rose to the forefront of his mind...blurred faces, slow motions...every time they pressed close enough to grasp, they simply slipped through his fingers. Nothing sticks.

Thus, he spends the night, and early morning existing within a place only of half-rest, trying hard each time his eyes flutter shut to keep the foggy memories front and centre...to clear away the haze.

Nothing. He presses his nose in the nape of Maxence's neck and breathes in deeply. The cobwebs stick, he sighs out softly and keeps him close. Is it manipulating, to be holding Max close, is it giving false hope? He doesn't want to think about it. Maddox is simply tired of trying to prop himself upright and continue living without the only person he thought he had in the whole world.

"You looked like you needed it," He mumbles out, still not letting the wolf go, his front pressed against the others back. He's warm, and it's comforting.

"You can go back to sleep, if you want,"

#{-cmenrps-}#{-Maxence-}#{-MaxencewithMaddox02 #{-Miami Vice Verse-}

This is a bad idea and somewhere inside of him, there's a wolf howling for his mate and for him to remain here. Let me die here, now—he thinks. But he knows the longer he stays the more likely he is to get caught by the bitch hold his leash. Before yesterday, he would've been mostly angry to die without knowing the truth, but now, he would be terrified, fearing for Maddox's life.

Because he knows someone like Siobhan would murder the undead in front of him before ending him or force him to live on again.

He presses his body against Maddox's chest instinctively and before he can stop himself.

"I should go..." He whispers before sleep claims him again, unable to stay awake in the other's arms.

Entire family of wolves, and Stellan was the odd one out. That sounded odd but, who was Cleo to ponder how supernatural genealogy worked? Her entire bloodlines magic came from a deal with a demon, and thus each of them were doomed to forfeit their souls to him in death...good old great, great, great Grandma Lovejoy, cursing every subsequent member of her lineage. Even those, like Cleo, who never had a knack for magic or, like Robin, who only ever tried and yet never reached the expected heights of their other siblings.

"No dog jokes, got it," Cleo nodded along though, would most likely forget and probably lose a limb...they'd at least get re-attached.

"Everything tastes the same to me - I have that thing, where you can't taste or smell anything? Like, if it's very salty, or sour, or spicy then yeah, I get a mouth feel 'cause it messes with my tastebuds but, that's about it," It totally wasn't because such things were dead.

The box was full of garbage. "Oh, I don't know, I'm sure...someone really wants The Best of Cliff Richards. Covets it, even," Cleo joked, looking at the severely marked down album with no takers.

"Sounds perfect. Can I get the name? My brother's coming to meet me later, just so he knows where I am,"

“I can tell you’re not fully human.” He says lowly but ratter bluntly. He’s no better than her. She’s no vampire that’s for sure, but someone who cannot really taste… Undead? But she looks really good if she’s undead.

If only he knows why she looked this good, but also how bad it’ll eventually become… he would’ve run far away, escape to another country.

But that’s not the destiny that awaits him.

“I’m sorry about that. It must be awful! If music is my first love, eating is my second.” Comes with being surrounded by werewolves really.

He looks down at the vinyl and barks another laugh. “I gotta be honest, I’d fucking love to see who buys this!” He says through laughter. There has to be someone! It’s one of those moments that he’d ask for a job here and work until he sees it being sold.

“I didn’t give it already?! My bad! I’m Stellan.” He says, not really bothered with remembering whether he’d given his name or not.

“Alright. How about I stay with you until he joins you again? That way you won’t be left alone and bored.” Too generous… that moment will cost him greatly. “Ready?!” He offers his arm. Stellan doesn’t know why he’s so nice to her. It truly reminds him of how quickly he’d taken to Chester.

The walk is short to the café is pretty short, but he’s happy to be inside with the heat on the street. And when it’s their turn to order, Stellan let her pick first before he orders an iced matcha latte for himself. They pay and find a nice table in a quieter corner.

The kiss is unexpected, sudden but, not un-wanted, lips upon his that leave as soon as they're placed there and all he can do is half-smile when the two of them part and Beau apologises afterwards, back to flirting even in such a sorry state as his. It feels normal, grounding after the events of the day before and it calms the franticness that had sought a home in Rafferty's bones. "I had to watch you," It's said simply. "Make sure ya survived the night,"

Beau still isn't out of the woods , Rafferty knows this. The first night is over, yes but, there are still many more to come. There is still infection, fever, pulling of the stitches...things that could all still befall Beau. The Red Death will not allow the reaper to pass through the door, no matter what.

He goes to sit up the same time as the blonde, reaching over to keep him steady before watching him give up, fall back into rough pillows. "Not so fast. You've had a rough ride," He cannot help a moment of weakness - he brushes long fingers through dirty blonde strands affectionately. "I got 'em off Sentry. Horse's outside, bags are in here, along with mine,"

Rafferty...doesn't pull that hand away, continues petting, the two locked in a private sanctuary. Just like in the tent. He keeps seeing him, waxy looking on the horse, the dripping of blood down his arm. Rafferty remembers the way his traitorous heart seized at the thought of losing him. That he still might.

"Course. Course," It's there again, that affection gets away from him. "I ain't leavin' ya. Rooms paid for a couple'a nights anyways. I'll go sort the horses, get Scout breakfast...get you somethin' ta eat," It's there, unsaid, underneath all that. I'll look after you.

#{-cmenrps-}#{-Beauregard-}#{-Lucky Luke-}#{-BeauregardwithRafferty02 #tw blood #tw partial nudity

“Here you are, adding another debt that I’ll owe you. At this speed, I’ll have to come back a couple times to pay you back.” He says mirthfully, but Beau is serious as he doesn’t take lightly to what the other man had done for him. Obviously, the first time, he’d been in a bad situation before of Rafferty, but the redhead could’ve left him in trouble and get away on his own… but no, he had actually helped Beauregard escape with him. “Thank you.” He’s not sure if he’s already said it, but he’ll say it again and again.

Falling back onto the pillow, he doesn’t expect the gentle touch that follows. He instinctively leans into in. “Perfect.” There’s something in his eyes as he says the singular word; some craze thirst―it’s something Rafferty has to know intimately; raging vengeance. And though it’s gone very quickly, it’s clear that Beau has something to settle and that whatever is in his bags, it’s important.

Surprisingly, the gentle petting doesn’t stop and Beau doesn’t dare saying anything in case it makes Rafferty stop.

Days he says?! And he won’t leave…?! He feels his chest tightens knowing that this won’t be a night he cannot remember, but something to last until he’s better.

He’s a stupid and foolish man to let the warmth fill his heart more and to let temptation win again, but he does―

He kisses Rafferty a second time. He can always blame his current state later if they need something to believe in, something to look away from what has been growing between them… something to pretend that it was nothing.

He tries to hold back his emotions, but they bleed into the other’s mouth, slip down his tongue and then down Rafferty’s throat and to the killer’s cold heart. It’s unspoken, but it’s there―I love you.

He’s wounded and weak… yeah… he’ll tell himself that later, even though he has known since that night in the tent that he’s madly in love with the Red Death.

It's not like Adz had pushed for a label, either, parts of him too worried about what it would mean to do so. To define more of what they were...that teasing, became flirting, became fucking, became...friendship. Appreciation, affection, melted into love before Adeyemi had time to linger on each. It had happened fast, and it had been frightening, to discover something about yourself you never knew. That a strong jawline, large hands, well-muscled thighs could made him ache in a way soft curves, glossy lips and perky breasts...couldn't. Never did.

He felt better about it now, then when he first did. So much of that anxiety had leeched out of him, especially when realising that he felt better with Teddy than without. Then, there was watching Scott Hunter on live TV, inviting a man onto the ice only to kiss him in victory...yeah, that had helped, to.

Adz squeezes him a little tighter, leans down to press a few more kisses to his temple. "Well, you proved it. And you'll keep doing so every match,"

He lets out a short bark of laughter.

"Nice to know we're on the same page,"

#{-cmenrps-}#{-Teddy-}#{-TeddywithAdz03 #{-HR healed-}#{-Heated Rivalry verse-}#tw nudity #tw nsfw talk

This is what he wants for the rest of his life―be on the ice with Yemi then come back to a place they call theirs together. What else could he ask for?! Well… he knows what he’d like more… but it’s not for now, but the future. He wants to be able to marry this man and do so in front of their loved ones. Stop seeing news outlets trying to pair them up with random people that are either strangers or just friends.

He sighs,, caressing the back of Adz’s head. He’s happy. “We both proved them all and when we kiss that cup―it’s going to be so fucking good!” He’s grinning, already seeing it in his head how amazing it’ll be.

There’s no doubt in his mind that they’ll win the cup.

“We’re just very horny I think!” He laughs with Yemi. He turns a bit in the other’s arm and smiles up at up. “I feel like we should hit the shower before I decide to fall asleep here. Yeah?!”

He does as instructed, silent as Madeline works, acting quickly and efficiently, getting her everything she requests with no argument. Each time she speaks, it eases the knot of anxiety and fear that's taken root within his chest. At least Beau is barely conscious during this whole ordeal, and Rafferty wishes that he could join him - the pained noises, how he flinches as the bullet is dug out, a clean needle threading through flesh as easy as it would do cotton. He clears away stained cloths and stands in the corner, a ghost of a man, ready for instruction.

He lost blood and needs to rest. He needs to be kept warm all night. You need to come get me if he runs a fever.

"May God be with you," It is the last thing he says to the woman, giving her a nod in thanks. The doors clicks shut. Rafferty chews the inside of his cheek and...leaves, also. Not for long - he secures the horses near the water trough, pulls the bags of Sentry's flank. There's blood on her flank, much like Scout's head...tomorrow, he can give them both a wash down. "Yer a good girl. Bringing him all that way, to me. Good horse," Rafferty coos to her softly, stroking the horses mane gently.

The redhead goes back to the room where Beau lies, bandaged up, pale and...alive. The steady, yet stuttering rise and fall of his chest, signals life, and the longer Rafferty stares, making sure that for each inhale, there is an exhale, he...calms, somewhat. He lets out a shaking breath, the anxiety of the last half an hour completely leaving his body in one swoop, a hollowness now there. If a few tears fall, at least nobody is around to see the Red Death shed them. Moving over to the small fire in the room, he chucks a few more logs on it, then searching through Beau's pack for - ah. Salted meat, he gives some to Scout, filling the washbowl in the room with water from the jug and placing it on the floor afterwards. "You too, Scout. Good dog, good boy,"

Rafferty settles, then, on the bed near Beau, to watch. It's going to be a long night, and he doesn't expect to get any sleep...

--- Morning.

It dropped in the night, the temperature - when Beau gave a shiver, Rafferty made the decision to join him, to get closer. He shed the shirt for skin-to-skin contact, being careful not to jostle the injured shoulder. Not once did he get sleep, every time those green eyes slipped shut, his mind replayed the days events, every way it could've been worse.

Every way it still could go wrong.

That's why he'd spent so much of the night talking to Beau, softly in his ear in Irish. Silly, sweet nothings. Saying he'd look after him. They'd ride together. He'd take Scout out with him. He'd patch his shirts, and rub soothing ointment where the metal hand bit at skin. They'd bathe in wild rivers, catch their suppers, take down any bounty hunters who tried to take them in. Beau just had to be okay, and it all could be his.

The sun rises slowly, and the blonde makes a soft noise upon waking that snaps Rafferty out of his doomed thoughts. His eyes are brighter than yesterday, his skin isn't clammy, he isn't feverish. He looks both like shit, and the most beautiful man in the South. Rafferty bets he looks like shit to, on account of not sleeping.

"Glad yer awake," The sincerity bleeds into his words, too exhausted to play the rough Red Death here. "Glad I ain't gotta bury ya. Try not ta move too much - you'll pull the stitches,"