[redacted]

Y'shoulda seen the look on your face. Happier'n a pig in shit.

Drink, then? I promise I won't start any fights unless ya want me to this time.

Ugh. That's a rather... disgusting analogy. I would hope I didn't look that way.

I'll hold you to it. Just a drink.

C'monnn, lighten up. Crow might think it is, but Carter? Havin' the time of his life.

Y'looked stunning, if it's any consolation. Drinks're on me.

#crow.exe #graves <3 #he may be a bit red in the ears from the praise.

Tsk. You make a lot of assumptions.

Fine. Pick the place.

Let me buy you a drink. Or did ya just want the 5 bucks?

@cmdr-graves

Last time you bought me a drink, you threw me to the wolves.

Y'shoulda seen the look on your face. Happier'n a pig in shit.

Drink, then? I promise I won't start any fights unless ya want me to this time.

#crow.exe #graves <3 #listen crow is like u better not get me in trouble with a bunch of drunk americans again

Ugh. That's a rather... disgusting analogy. I would hope I didn't look that way.

I'll hold you to it. Just a drink.

Let me buy you a drink. Or did ya just want the 5 bucks?

@cmdr-graves

Last time you bought me a drink, you threw me to the wolves.

#crow.exe #anonymous_crow.exe

I've heard you met Vale's family; how was it?

It was... nice. His grandmother was very accommodating. It was very... what's the word... domestic?

Never thought I'd get that.

the base is a whole lot louder all of a sudden.

It's been a while since you left for the op. How did it went?

It went all right. Mostly reconnaissance. Hopefully there haven't been too many fires here while I've been gone.

A handful. Got them handled in your absence.

Good to have you back

Good to be back, Kieran.

#crow.exe #lt vale

the base is a whole lot louder all of a sudden.

It's been a while since you left for the op. How did it went?

It went all right. Mostly reconnaissance. Hopefully there haven't been too many fires here while I've been gone.

#crow.exe #lt vale

the base is a whole lot louder all of a sudden.

#crow.exe

#BARKBARKBAKRBAKRVKSBRBARKBARKBDALR

I like it when the bite marks cut through the skin I like it when the bite marks cut through the skin Tell me the walls are closin' in Into the fire and born again Taste the pain and drink it in I like it when the bite marks cut through the skin

-Bite Marks by TEYA _________________________________________________________

@lilcthuulhuu did their magic again and finished yet another comission aundiuawhdlawd

kieran in a bunny suit will never not serve us and his bf hehehehhee

oooohhhhhhhh you really wanna buy a comission from hulu now oooohhhhhhhh

Of course his eyes dip to freshly exposed skin - Phillip Graves can be many things, and a man with desires is one of those. Scar tissue is pulled tight against Crow's skin, and when Graves thinks he can escape the way his pulse jumps by looking back up at Crow's face, he's wrong. The small spatter of blood on Crow's lips, the hint of pink across his cheeks-

He clears his throat and puts the truck back in gear to make a left at the stop sign.

"Gotta make a quick stop 'n then I know a place we can go. I promise y'won't get inta anymore fights." He pauses, kicks his mouth to the side. "Unless you're tappin' out?"

No matter Crow's answer, he'll sleep satisfied tonight knowing he's made a significant effort to break arguably the most capable member of the 141. Poor guy'll be paying for it tomorrow.

Crow sees--he isn't sure, actually. It's the kind of look he'd gotten before. Before he'd been scarred up and fucked up. Before, when he'd catch someone's eye at the pub and wake up hungover and bruised in their bed. It's... desire. But that just... doesn't make sense. Even if he were sober, Crow wouldn't believe it.

He rubs his mouth for a second, accidentally smearing blood to his cheek, as he turns his gaze to the window.

Protocol says to go home. To drink water, to take paracetamol, and hope for the best come morning.

"I'm... down," he says instead, eyes returning to Graves. "Wouldn't... mind more--more fights."

And it's true: Crow's got this itch under his skin thanks to Ernie. He needs... an outlet. Usually, sober and on base, he'd just go to the gym. Here, drunk--he eyes Graves almost like he's meat.

#cd c://ghost/#i'm okay!! just feeling a bit insecure rn.#such is the creative process. feeling like it isn't good enough #yadda yadda.

What are your OCs favorite...

1.) Color(s)?

2.) Season(s)?

3.) Time(s) of day?

3.) Critter(s)?

I find yapping about my OCs helps me feel better. Here to listen uwu @thebardrp

[ colour: red!

season: fall, he doesn't like heat but too cold and his wounds hurt

time: 0100, he's awake very late into the night

critter: cats!!! he loves cats. ]

*smooches your forehead*

[ smooches u back ]

#cd c://ghost/

What better way to give Crow his humanity back than with the love of doing something utterly idiotic, with no consequences other than maybe a split lip and a bad headache. All just for the rush of it.

At the question, his hand slips from the gear shifter to playfully shove Crow's arm, another feel of that jacket he's got on. He would, truthfully (and not Graves' idea of truth) enjoy having a man like Crow on his side. Say what anyone will about his men, they got things done. And so what if Crow got a bit of fun out of it?

He's getting used to that ragged voice of Crow's, quiet and gravelly. But he's not drunk enough for this, not nearly.

"'S nice t'dream tho, ain't it?" He pauses for a second, idling at a stop sign with no other light on either of them than what shines down from the mood. "How're ya feelin'? Gonna puke any time soon?"

Crow breathes out, a contented little thing, as he stretches his arms above his head. His shirt rides up, just a bit, but he's too drunk to give a damn. Graves has probably seen plenty of scars, who cares.

He's sore. His lip hurts. His throat hurts. His stomach feels like it's trying to set a rotational world record. But he feels. He feels.

"I suppose," Crow rasps out, eyes flicking to Graves.

The moonlight casts strangely on him. It makes Graves' eyes striking, almost beautiful, with lashes that glitter like stars. And that stare's focused on Crow, of all things. Crow--a man disfigured by captivity and hideous. It makes his skin crawl, that attention. It makes him more nauseous than the alcohol.

Crow clears his throat and feels the muscles struggle. "Can't puke," he says. "Feel fine."

If he's avoiding Graves' stare now, that's between him and God.

[ feeling a mite insecure ab my characters atm so be a tiny bit gentle with me if you would. ]

#cd c://ghost/

There was that laugh. The only bit left of Carter, Graves things. That humanity that Crow said he'd been searching for. As discordant as it was, the sound still managed to put a smile on Graves' face.

Thank God for his piece of shit truck - say what anyone would, but Graves puts the key in the ignition and the thing turns over with no problems. The engine sputters to life, still warm from when they left it less than an hour ago. Gravel spits under his tires when he peels out of the parking lot onto the road, the backend kicking out just slightly.

In the safety of a confined space under streetlamps, Graves finally lets himself laugh, too. It's a release of adrenaline while he bangs his palm on the wheel a few time, throwing a glance over at Crow, now maskless.

"Christ, Carter. If I crossed my eyes, y'could be one o' us."

Carter peers out the window, watching as the bar grows small with distance. There's a grin on his face, there's the flush of life and alcohol on his cheeks, there's the spatter of blood on his lips. He remembers this, running from the cops after getting into a tussle at the pub. Used to be he'd start it, but this works too.

He laughs again, scrubbing a hand over his face. It stings a bit.

"One--one of your... your Shadows?" He asks, his smile lopsided and almost teasing. "So you--can order me around? You... want that?"

What an idea. Philip Graves ordering him around. Taking the leash off. Letting him be alive because being alive won't be an international incident.

Sober, Crow wouldn't even consider it. Drunk, Carter longs for it.

His eyes slip closed a bit. Carter lets out a low laugh. "Ah. Can't. SAS would--would never let me go. Not--not with what I know.

#crow.exe #hehe <3 #hehehe.

chews on you

Ah... hello. Take what you need.

The only thing Graves needs to make his exit from the restroom is the clamoring of bar patrons from the other side of the door. The sight that greets him a large group circled around what he assumes is Crow putting up a fight against good ol' Ernie. It's blood in the water, some cheering on the fight, others shouting derogatory things about a scarred man that Graves doesn't care to listen to, and a good few with their phones out to document the mess.

Graves pushes through the crowd to find Crow in a fighting stance, reminiscent of their own match. His eyes immediately connect with the lack of mask and then flick to the bigger man in front of him. Ernie's face, on the other hand, has certainly seen better days. From what Graves can see immediately, he'll be sporting a broken nose tomorrow. And really, what did Graves expect against a man with military training?

From the edge of the people, he shouts Crow's name, the one given to him in the passenger seat of the truck.

It's not a second later before Graves steps forward from the crowd to take the collar of Crow's jacket in his hand to tug him away.

"We gotta go - 'fore cops get here."

Carter's got a split lip. Carter's got adrenaline pumping through his veins. Carter's alive and drunk with the taste of blood on his tongue and bad choices on his mind.

Ernie didn't know Carter. Didn't know shit about him. Didn't know Carter used to do this for fun. Used to cruise the pub for fights or fucks or whatever he felt that night. Didn't know that Carter was well trained and hard as fuck to kill.

Ernie didn't know any of that. Graves didn't, either--at least not before now. Now, Carter looks entirely in his element and he's certain Phil will know.

The tug on his jacket knocks Crow loose, just a bit, just enough to nod and go with Graves. To let the man lead him out, through the throngs of jeering and yells, pushing and shoving to get through. To jog just behind him, hot on his heels, back to the piece-of-shit truck.

When the door slams shut behind him, Carter lets out a low laugh, pushing hands through his hair. He licks the blood from his lips, his teeth, and tips his head back. And he laughs. It sounds terrible, truly. Scraped up and fucked up and raw. But it's a real, genuine laugh. One that borders just on unhinged, just on the edge of being really unsettling and fucked. One that mirrors when he'd laughed at Graves, staring down at him on the mat.