raven's child. @foolsdeath-blog - Tumblr Blog

in passing

Close enough to feel the warmth of the stranger’s skin, Szymon’s lips tug into a slight smile as the other indulges him with an answer. ( don’t think, just act;; it’s led him down dangerous paths, but never boring ones. ) He releases a breath against the skin so close, then leans back once more, head canting slightly to the side. Something unusual, some teasing sensation that there’s something not quite right about the other but he can’t figure out what it is. So he’ll have to stay in the other man’s presence until he figures it out. The accent marks the other a foreigner. British, maybe;; he’s never had skill with guessing where exactly each person is placed by an accent. The words are clear enough, though, fluency speaking to long practice. Good, that’s good, he doesn’t like being forced into another tongue. ( he prefers control, really. he would rather choose. ) A sip from the glass allows Szymon to watch his new companion over the rim, teal eyes doing nothing to conceal his curiousity even as they narrow gently. Then he reaches up to leave his glass on the top of the machine, hands moving to tuck into the pockets of a leather coat. Buckle, zippers, and buttons flash when the dim lighting catches them, taking attention away from the muted colours of a faded v-neck t-shirt underneath. As the machine releases a disappointed mechanical whirring, his lips tug into a smirk. A glance over his shoulder tells him the last score before he slides his gaze back to the stranger. “ too bad. i don’t think that’s quite good enough for a high score. “ Not that he’d know. Judging by the atmosphere of the place, tonight could be the first time someone’s touched the machine in years. ( and how fortuitous, to have such mystery dropped right in his path. ) ” i always play games i know i’ll win. “ A slow smile spreads over his features, eyes glittering with barely-suppressed mischief. “ but then again… “ He pauses, stepping closer as if revealing some great secret. When he speaks again, it’s in English, his tone quiet and conspiratorial. “ i cheat. “ Another pause, and then, “ what’s your name? “

foolsdeath-blog

it's been a long time since he's felt a spark upon meeting someone. he's known some truly magnificent people in his lifetime, and anybody new always gets compared. it's rare that anyone manages to even come close. this one, though... there's something in his teal eyes when he leans in close. that smile makes the nuwisha want to see more, and he feels his own lips curling into a grin in response. ( it's not the same, no, nobody will ever be the s a m e, but—— ) "tell you what," he says, this time in accented english, one eyebrow arching. he turns away from the handsome stranger to grab his beer and take a drink, relishing the chance to draw out the encounter. one hand returns to the pinball machine, allowing the slender man to lean as he watches his new companion over the lip of his glass. "tell me your name," he says, tongue darting out over his lips. even now, it feels strange to speak in his real voice, the welsh accent at once unfamiliar and comforting as it tumbles from his tongue. not that he expects a stranger in the middle of poland to be able to tell. "and i just might tell you mine," he continues, his own pale eyes sparkling with mischief. it's not a test in that there's any right or wrong answer, but he's curious. to see how the man will react. how he handles such a refusal. what his name is.

#;p #xochiplli #;years

haematophilics-blog

in passing

haematophilics-blog

Thumping bass grows louder as the door to the bar opens. And what an arrival the music heralds;; Szymon opens one eye, then the other, to study him. Young, attractive… exciting, intriguing… something to wake him up from a seeming slumber of boredom. Perfect timing, too;; he’d just started to consider regretting the choice that had brought him to a seedy bar instead of a raucous club. He leans forward, hands clasping the empty glass before him loosely, teal eyes narrowing with a devious glimmer as they follow the other man’s footsteps. His lips tug into a slight smile when he’s noticed, before he snaps his gaze away to the bar instead. As mechanical taunt- ing emerges from the arcade game, his head tilts, a breath released in amusement. ( A playful type, then. ) Weary, weary, [[ some nights, he prefers the deafening quiet. ]] ~ [[ And some nights, temptation steps in his path. ]] Szymon gets to his feet, glass in his hand, but it’s the bar that marks his first destination. Once he’s holding a new glass with a new dark ale, he strides quietly to the arcade machine, circling around to lean against the side. Eyes flicker over the glass top to watch the ball, to watch the bonus one spinning out onto a field of glowing stars and flashing planets. Just as one of the pinballs falls down the board, Szymon presses his hand over the other man’s to trigger the paddle, sending it flying once more. A pause between threats gives him opportunity to lean forward, voice slightly husky, definitely taunting, as he speaks. " You’re going to lose. ”

foolsdeath-blog

he's well aware of the other's approach. though his attention is mostly focused on the game before him, he can see movement out of the corner of his eye, and the scent that hits his nostrils is far more pleasant than what followed the much less appealing humans at the bar. pale eyes remain locked on the game, even though he wants nothing more than to look at the stunning man moving closer. lips pull into a grin when skin touches his own, and he chances a very brief glance in the man's direction. a breathy laugh leaves him before he's forcing his gaze back to the game. what a turn of events, he thinks. what might have awaited him at the club? is this the best outcome, or simply a prelude to some twisted path? so uncertain. it's been some time since he's felt such. the other man leans in and murmurs. the nuwisha inhales deeply. so forward, and so soon after walking into this dismal place. is it really so boring, or is he that alluring? both, he decides as he leans in as well. definitely both. "of c o u r s e i'm going to lose," he murmurs back, his own voice just as husky. his polish is good, and he's proud of how much his accent has improved. but he's not a native speaker, and he'd never reached his lover's fluency or precision. still, he's far from ashamed as the polish words leave his lips. "nobody ever wins pinball," he explains. one ball slips past his defenses but the other is still in play, and he narrows his eyes. the man is a welcome distraction, but the nuwisha has never taken well to failure. "you play until you can't play any more, and hope you did a little better than those who have played before you." a difficult shot very nearly connects, but the ball ricochets off one paddle and out of play. letting out a sigh, the nuwisha finally turns pale green eyes on the stranger beside him. "don't tell me you're the type that only plays a game they know they'll win," he says, a touch of playful disdain in his voice. oh, how fun.

#;p #;years #xochiplli

#;h

haematophilics-blog

in passing

As far as dive bars go, this one isn’t so bad. The lighting could use work. The place is dark enough that making out fine details of anyone’s facial features would prove a unique challenge unless one was sat beside the other. The tables are spread around with little rhyme or reason, patrons moving them closer or farther apart at will. The floor is stained with old spilled drinks and old spilled blood. Of course, the dim atmosphere makes that hard to tell. Two arcade machines occupy a back corner, one with an ‘out of order’ sign plastered over the top. ( Never mind that the sign’s been there for the past few years. ) The other shows signs of life, a pinball game with lights that flash intermittently. The few patrons scattered around the bar don’t take much notice, though. Kinfolk may as well be a dirty word, for the disdain Szymon Sówka greets it with. The wolves have changing forms, wars… s e c r e t s. And there is very little he wouldn’t give to be granted access to a few of those. Tantalizing hints are all that’s afforded to him, intrigue and mystery. A truly gifted human relative can find relative renown among the Shadow Lords by using guile and trickery to the tribe’s advantage. ( But the wolves are so arrogant, so unwilling to give respect to those they consider beneath them. And a wolf considers everyone beneath her. ) He occupies a booth no more than a few feet from the pinball machine, sinking into the faded seat as he drops his head back to look at the ceiling. An empty glass hits the table before him with a soft thump, his hand lingering over scratched wood as his eyes close. A sigh brushes past his lips, followed by the breath of laughter.

foolsdeath-blog

p o l a n d . he's always wanted to go back, ever since his love... left. they'd had to leave so quickly, far sooner than either of them wanted. but the screams of the dead were far too powerful for the older man to bear. and now he is among them. it's impossible to escape the darkness of his thoughts, especially in this place. they haunt him true as any ghost, and he finds himself unable to explore as he'd wished. the sights are lost to such melancholy. ( it's been years, he tells himself. y e a r s. ) seedy bar to the left, pulsing club to the right. the nuwisha finds himself at a crossroads, in more ways than one. something innocuous, some place he's been countless times. a bar that could be anywhere, a club that could hold anyone. not t h i s place. not t h e s e people. but which? pale green eyes turn downward to catch sight of a coin, then glance from side to side, almost expecting to see a coyote laughing in his direction. alright, we'll leave it to fate, he decides as he crouches down to pick up the coin. a flick of the thumb and it's in the air. pale eyes watch as it rises, then falls. heads, left. tails, right. excitement flutters within, what a thing to leave anything to chance. he catches the coin, then places it on the back of his hand before revealing it with a flourish. heads. bar it is, he thinks as he tosses the coin into the air again. walking across the street, he continues toying with the coin, flipping it up, from one hand to the other, letting it dance across his knuckles. he's not sure if the thing's lucky, not yet. once inside, he's sure he's getting a few glances but, well, he's rather used to that these days. after quietly ordering himself a beer, he does some glancing of his own. sadly, this place doesn't seem too promising. aside from the rather handsome young man at the back of the bar, he thinks himself in rather boring company. at least he knows where he's going. does he want to even try, he wonders? he's come back to poland to connect with a part of himself that's been missing ever since and yet here he is, in a bar, walking past a man with stunning eyes, a smile lighting his lips. oh, what a gorgeous gaze, he thinks, and it's difficult to pull his own away. setting his beer down on the closest table, he slides the lucky coin into the pinball machine and smirks at the groans sounding from the other side of the bar as the thing beeps and buzzes to life.

#;p #xochiplli #;years

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

❝ 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 ?

#;p #adhlaic

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

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.

#;p #adhlaic

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

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.

#;p #adhlaic #nsfw

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

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—

#;p #adhlaic #nsfw

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.

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?

#;p #adhlaic

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.

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?

#;p #adhlaic

adhlaic

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

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 ?

#;p #adhlaic

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

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."

#;p #adhlaic

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

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?"

#;p #adhlaic

ancestralwings-blog

;free

ancestralwings-blog

╔The Jaguar arches a brow sedately in response to the torrent of questions to fall from the younger man’s pretty, plush lips. The dance with these wolves is one that allows for no loss of his »guard«, no dropping of the layers he’s wrapped himself in. It isn’t just in the hiding of his skills, his birth, his family and rank. It is in (( secrets )) of his kind, as well, and there is a silence between them as René wonders how close to the line he can step in providing answers. Of course, the wolves of the Americas know them well enough. The leader of the Get of Fenris so insistent on claiming the Amazonia for his own knows some of their weaknesses. It is information that any who lingers in that area may find out eventually. But that does not mean he will offer it up to Callum on a ﴾ silver ﴿ platter. Lips press together as dark eyes study the counter of the young wolf’s features. Sharp cheekbones, lines under the eyes that betray r e s t l e s s sleep. Open curiousity, the same inquisitive nature apparent in so many felines. A little bit of melancholy, perhaps. ”Dens are not near so grand and powerful as your caerns.” The word is foreign on his tongue, unfamiliar. He knows what they are;; he has seen the Wheel in all its brilliant glory. Morocco holds a distinct appeal for the Jaguar, though the caern there is quite different from this Silver Tara. No less grand, no smaller. He prefers the Wheel of Ptah, though. Another pause stops him, the words experimented with in his mind before he allows them to pass his lips. “We step sideways as most breeds do.” Oh, but they are limited. More so than even the wolves of the Amazonia are aware of, save possibly for the Asura-damned Uktena. How frustrating it is, to look into the spirit realm and know that he cannot cross over, not as freely as his cousins. How infuriating to know that the dogs are the reason, them and their wars. ”There is one difference,” he adds, with the thought that it is wise to show some of a cat’s strengths. ”It does not matter how far I go. We can always find our home again. It’s a skill we share with our kin.” Home is not so far from him, assuming the moon shines down. Assuming he does not drift too far from the caern. Assuming the dogs do not kill him before he can run.╝

foolsdeath-blog

It has been some time since Callum last had the opportunity to learn anything truly new. The Fianna are remarkably simple to understand, he's found. Their strength lies in their passion, not their complexity. Coming to Silver Tara has been a remarkable opportunity, but this place has not given him the exciting newness that he craves. René, though. He is foreign in so many ways. His accented speech is a welcome change from the Scottish, the Irish, and even the rare Welsh he hears in this place. The cat moves differently, chooses his words far more carefully than the boisterous wolves here, and there is a coldness behind his eyes that the young Nuwisha finds utterly fascinating. What other knowledge might this man hold? "That's got to be handy," he says, smile on his lips. "Not that I've gotten lost in years, but that's cause I stick to places I know, really. But wh—" Another torrent of questions is stopped before it can rush forth, when a flash of movement catches Callum's gaze. He turns his head to see Logan striding in their direction, and the young man sighs. It's selfish, he knows, but he's rather enjoying this conversation, and he'd been hoping to stall enough to talk to René a while longer. But in a sept with so many ravens, word travels fast. "Ah, there's our fearless leader," he says, scuffed Converse bringing him to a stop. With a small smile gracing his lips, he turns to the Balam, tilting his head in Logan's direction. "The two of you have much more important things to talk about than my pointless questions, so..." Callum tilts his head down, his upper body dipping almost imperceptibly. It's a sign of respect, but he wonders if a cat will catch such a canine display. Maybe, he thinks, as he turns to walk away, to leave René in the company of the Fianna leader. A few paces away, though, he turns again, taking a few steps backward so he might get one more glimpse, say a few more words. "Maybe I'll catch you around," he says, hands firmly in his pockets, his posture as youthful as René's is dignified. "Good luck. yeah?"

#;p #ancestralwings

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.

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.

#;p #adhlaic

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.

#;p #adhlaic

The park is so [( q u i e t )] this time of night. All the activity of the small, hidden town has migrated to the areas more prone to nightlife. If he tries, Callum can hear the faintest sounds of far-off revelry. Best they remain there, and he »here«. Bare toes of one foot wriggle in the dewy grass, struggling to keep his slender form balanced. His other foot is raised off the ground, football nestled in the crook between his ankle and shin. It's not even his sport, really, but having something to do with his body on such an anxious night is g o o d. Feels good, he thinks, tossing the ball upward, pale eyes watching as it falls only to be kicked gently skyward again. The cool air on his skin, the dew on his feet, the quiet isolation of being so far removed from the rest of the tribe. One more, he thinks, one more before going home to the empty silence. One more.

#;p #;solo #??#;open #????? we just don't know

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