invisible monsters

#bc this shit is fucking hilarous #like in the fact of their hair #why am I on here #ok sab u need to stop beind lame #fc

accurate view on Linden

#fc #muse

thesadistsbitch

[It’s a strange order to get someone’s clothes off, but Thom doesn’t care. He focuses more on Hamish’s hand and how his fingers have found their way down to his boxers. He pulls back from the kiss at that moment to stop himself from making any noises. Instead, he focuses on Hamish’s shirt and he brings his hand up it, quickly so Hamish can’t object because he knows he will. And it doesn’t take him long to realise what he was hiding. He can feel the bumps, scars from when Hamish was alive. He can guess what they’re from. Thom had his own form of self-mutilation. But he doesn’t make a note of it, only allows his fingers to brush over his chest and stomach as he hovers his lips over the other’s.]

[Time slows to an alarming rate, and the moment washes over Hamish as Thom’s fingers work their wave over him, it’s an astounding amount of shame, one that makes his hands stop working for a millisecond, and he fights all urges to pull his hand from the man's boxes with superhuman speed, and grab Thom’s wrists so hard they could probably snap. ‘No Fangs’ he repeats, before exhaling a non-existent breathe. Hamish takes Thom in both his hands, moving faster as he pushes his lips to the others taunting mouth, his body swinging over the others so that he is finally straddling him]

#convo:thom

[It’s a strange order to get someone’s clothes off, but Thom doesn’t care. He focuses more on Hamish’s hand and how his fingers have found their way down to his boxers. He pulls back from the kiss at that moment to stop himself from making any noises. Instead, he focuses on Hamish’s shirt and he brings his hand up it, quickly so Hamish can’t object because he knows he will. And it doesn’t take him long to realise what he was hiding. He can feel the bumps, scars from when Hamish was alive. He can guess what they’re from. Thom had his own form of self-mutilation. But he doesn’t make a note of it, only allows his fingers to brush over his chest and stomach as he hovers his lips over the other’s.]

[Time slows to an alarming rate, and the moment washes over Hamish as Thom's fingers work their wave over him. It's an astounding amount of shame, one that makes his hands stop working only for a millisecond, and he fights all urges to pull his hands from the mans boxes with superhuman speed and grab Thom's wrists so hard they could probably snap. 'No Fangs'. He repeats Before exhaling a non-existant breathe. Hamish takes Thom in both his hands, moving faster as he pushes his lips to the others taunting mouth, his own body swinging over the others so that is finally straddling him.]

[Thom lets the feeling of Hamish’s lips surge through him, a tingle at his neck that makes him pull back and connect his lips to Hamish’s again, but teasing. They teeter between light kisses, quick, deep kisses, and soft and slow ones. One for every emotion: vulnerability, lust, and the ever-misinformed ego. Het gets a word in before he breathes out when he pulls back again.] Hamish, you’re wearing too many clothes.

[Hamish takes a teasing moment just to linger away from him, grin still plasted against his lips, like he even needs to contemplate his response to that. Before moving he steals another half kiss, breathing in the scent, it was more in haste to undress than anything. He looks down between them to unbutton his jeans, head moving back up to catch the man's lips, he wants to distract Thom. He doesn't want him to watch how nervous he was. How scared of his own flesh he felt. So he pulls Thom closer again, hands palming over the others pants, as he struggled to slink out of his own jeans. Soon enough they were off and cast aside, lips returning to the others, bare legs hooking at Thom so he could press himself again him properly. Hopefully he would forget about the shirt.]

[Thom wants to utter out words like “I want you, too" or “I know" or maybe even some variation of that he’s happy and he likes kissing Hamish and he likes how his fingers can just slip through the curls of the other man’s hand. But he doesn’t. He just kisses him. He just moulds into him, feeling a little but more now like he should have put a shirt on, but just not caring enough to do much other than reach up and grip the collar of Hamish’s. He deepens the kiss, forcing them together like if he kisses Hamish hard enough, all of his emotion will pour out of him and into some other vessel. If he kisses him hard enough, Hamish will understand why he’s been so cold. He challenges it now, kissing him harder and harder until he knows their mouths will explode and the breath he has to pull back to take soon will be too much like a gasp.]

[Hamish likes the force, the way his body almost cracks underneath it. Hands lingering at first, unsure of where to go, or what part of the man to touch; hair, neck, chest. But he settles on pulling the man closer at the hips, hands sliding over the man's body. With Thom there was always urgency, but never a cause, never a means, what did he want from him? What could he give? But just the simple action of kissing, bodies intertwining left Hamish unable to keep a train of thought longer than 'No fangs'. Words he kept repeating to himself. But he has to pull back and let the other breathe. Let the human breathe. But he doesn't want to. He wants to suck all the air out and breathe in everything that's left, like taking up water. Breaking to contact, he removes his lips from the others, and instead he presses them against Thom's throat, just soft light kisses, drawing him back in. All the while grinning at the sound of Thom's mangled gasp. ]

[He’s cold so he can’t get under the covers? Thom looks away from him, his own face falling when Hamish’s does, but he doesn’t press it. He likes Hamish a lot and he’s trying to let himself be okay with it, but the comfortability feels forced, like even if he tried to walk on eggshells for Hamish, he’d stab his feet. And Hamish would care, it seems. He’d help pick the pieces out and prevent infection with his feelings, but in the fantasy the eggshell white turns into a powder and Thom’s the cause. But Hamish will blame himself.]

You don’t have to. But I… [What? “Want you" isn’t a way to finish that sentence. He leaves it open-ended, instead, shrugging it off.]

[The abrupt stop to the sentence makes Hamish linger for a moment. He's missing his chance and he knows it. Hamish realises he can probably get away with the shirt still on now, so he moves forward, his mind trying to catch up with the speed his body could exert just to get from point A, to B. Slipping his feet under the covers, and carefully positioning his body inches from Thom's, recovering both their bodies with the blanket. Impulsively inclining his head to catch the others lips just as he settled beside him. ]

Nah. No. I want to. I want you. [Hamish says it because he can't not. He wanted to come back. Wanted to know what it felt like to have Thom so close he could easily crush him the slightest movement. Hamish wanted all of Thom. Even when he was angry at him. He didn't mind. Hamish wasn't worth Thom's time. He should be grateful for any attention.]

[Thom’s lips curve up into a smile without his permission, but it only half exists. He feels bad. Hamish just wants to see him and all he’s doing is being a jerk. He moves over and pulls the sheets back as an invitation.] Shirts aren’t allowed.

[If colour could drain from his face it would. Immediately the dread begins to set in, it's intoxicating, more so than any other sensation, and Hamish is almost knocked down by it. He had thought it had gone with his humanity, with his ability to recognise, and then consider, the way Thom smiled at him. But the doubt was there with vengeance and already Hamish pulls on the edges of his shirt, anxiously looking over towards the empty space besides Thom. It's inviting, the way his skin seems to almost pulse, and it causes his insides to set into panic. Hamish want's nothing more than to hop in beside him, and press his lips to the mans flesh. But he can't show him. Can't let Thom see all of himself, it feels like he's being dishonest, because he knows if Thom could see all the scars, and flesh, and the way his stomach and chest weren't smooth like his, that instead they were like crashing waves, scars upon disfigured skin, and stab wounds, cuts so deep he thought he had found death between them. Because why wouldn't he be rejected for being ugly. People were rejected for a lot less. All Hamish could be was ugly. Even in this state.] I... Uh. I'm cold.

[Thom sits up, but he doesn’t bother with putting a shirt on. Or pants, for that matter. Hamish is just there. He’ll probably get up in a minute, but Thom doesn’t feel like moving. He feels like being in bed, low enough not to even snort a line. He wonders if Hamish can always smell the coke and if he smells different today.] So… why’re you here? [It sounds rude, he knows it, but he doesn’t feel like being nice. He should, however, because he’s happy to see Hamish and he wants nothing more than to ask him to crawl into bed beside him.]

[He cocks an eyebrow at the remark. Thom always pushing back, and Hamish never wanting to really play whatever game the other had on his agenda, merely smiled, bowing his head. It was stupid that he came, thinking Thom would like him even half as much as he wanted him to.] I don't know, man. I wanted to see you. [and it was an innocent as that. Hamish didn't have a reason, or a want beyond just being there. Just seeing Thom, smelling him, his presence, it was settling. Though not when he was grumpy]

It sounded a lot less lame in my head. [It sounded a lot less gay in his head too.]

You can come in. [It’s morning now and Thom’s spent the entire night laying there, no sleep, no rest, not even able to close his eyes for very long. For some reason, he’s paranoid, utterly paranoid and though Hamish isn’t in his room, Thom can sense him there. Sober, for once, he can sense what’s just beyond his door. And Hamish has been there for a little while. Thom guesses he’d been debating whether or not to knock.]

[Damn. Okay. So Hamish was never good at the stalking part. He couldn't get that down. Even surrounded by other vampires in his month away it was hard for him to stay quiet. He prattled, jittered, fiddled with his clothes. He'd been standing outside Thom's door for so long, unsure of whether to enter, whether to knock. He had half a mind to just crawl up in front of it like some sort of guard dog. But the instinct was terrifyingly foreign. Resting his head against the door he laughs as he turns the handle.] I thought I was supposed to have the extra senses.

Hangovers. Gotta love 'em.

[Cormac would advise against this. Cormac would say not to get involved with the socially inept, blood-crazy, lost vampire, but then maybe Cormac would really say yes, tell him to commit to something that isn’t drugs, open his heart again. Thom can easily say he won’t be doing that. He won’t be opening his heart to anyone. Not again. But at least he can kiss the boy.

Thom casually tosses his cigarette, then pulls Hamish forward by his shirt, slowly coercing him closer. When he’s close enough, Thom lets his lips hover near Hamish’s, a teasing second to let them be close, then he kisses him. He’d forgotten how good it was to kiss Hamish — how intoxicating.]

#does it hurt because lou is now here #ow #convo:Thom

[Hamish is admittedly thrown off, in a good way, and he's thanking whatever fucked up God, be that kismet or Buddha that he fed before he came back, because for once he can return the kiss with a force that had been missing His body feels alight, alive, for the first time, even when the others fingers brush through the cotton of his shirt onto him, there is not wanton need for blood. Well there is. But it's minimal. Hamish lets out a small gasp, as fingers search for the nape of his neck, and lower back to hold onto. He wasn't going to let go of Thom this time. Not yet.]

Hangovers. Gotta love 'em.

[And then again, he can’t be mad. He can’t tell if it’s Hamish’s face or the coke that’s making him bounce back and forth between angry and not.] Yeah, you did. You come back to say bye or are you stayin’?

[He wishes he could press his lips on the others as a response. That 'Yeah, I'm staying' could be translated into some a simple action. But it's been too long, and as much as his mouth wants to know if Thom's taste has changed he can't. At least without the very large, and real possibility of rejection] Staying. Yes. I mean, if... I- If that's okay with you? I could leave. If you want, but I.... Yeah. My way with words has not improved.

#convo:thom

Hangovers. Gotta love 'em.

It’s going brilliant, Hamish. [Thom rolls his eyes vaguely, the sarcasm dripping off his tongue. He is bitter, regardless. He left. Hamish left. He can’t blame him, though, he’d leave if he was in that sort of situation, too — newly dead and half-dating a drug addict.]

[Hamish shuts his eyes for a moment, focusing in on the scent. The way it felt to be near humans again. Thom smelt nice, like something so sweet it had been in ash to dull the intensity, it caused his nose to tingle. But Hamish could tell Thom was angry. Annoyed maybe, though he can't understand why. Surely it was his return, and not his departure that caused it.] I... I guess I forgot to say goodbye yeah? I forgot to say that.

#convo:thom

Hangovers. Gotta love 'em.

Covered my substance bases, yeah.

[His words are quiet, subtle as if he doesn’t want to speak them. He can’t be bitter while he wants to kiss him at the same time.] Welcome back.

How's that going for you? [He wouldn't know about illicit substances, and Hamish isn't ready to reveal that part of his naivety just yet. Instead he merely focuses on the fact that he's back and in the same vicinity as Thom.]

Hangovers. Gotta love 'em.