i'll burn this whole city down

brittany. twenty-four. southern as fuck writer. caffeine addicted insomniac. this is a multimuse rapid fire roleplay account. i'll write with anyone but please read guidelines before playing. surgeon general's warning: this blog is nsfw and contains potentially triggering content.

[sergeantpelican-blog]

Convenient || Bradley & Mischa

[sergeantpelican-blog]

What could be more embarrassing than getting his own damn bill rejected right in front of the hot guy down the hall? It was like some weird euphemism for inadequacy and Bradley felt his cheeks getting hotter when the drink machine spit it right out back at him. On average, Bradley probably thought about hooking up with someone else maybe three times a year. At a bar, he could be hit on countless times before he finally went home with someone, or left alone just to be left alone. He wasn’t prepared to deny that he’d thought of Mischa in that take home for the night sort of way. Which was odd for Bradley, considering he just wasn’t that sort of guy. Usually, at least, but maybe it was because it’d been a while (longer than a while, probably) and Mischa was wearing those dumb tattered jeans that looked like he’d had them for years and worn them down to nothing.

The hand extended toward him surprised him, only just because it meant Mischa couldn’t be anything like Zoya. Who hadn’t offered anything more than a shrug when he’d offered her a job and sometimes didn’t even glance at him when he walked into work most days. “Just her co worker. She’s not really under me or anything, just takes my phone calls occasionally and reminds me when I should be working instead of playing Bejeweled on my phone,” Bradley said in his thick Irish brogue of a voice, giving Mischa’s hand a sturdy shake before letting it go and looking down at his crumpled dollar bill. He could tell he was grinning, but was struggling to force himself to look normal.

“Machine’s fuckin’ up,” he said, jerking his thumb back toward it, shoving his money back into his pocket and rolling his shoulder. “So, you might wanna try the one on the ground floor.” He looked back to it and then back to Mischa. “So much for connivance right? All I wanted was a damn root beer without having to drive.” He realized he was one, talking too much and two, complaining at that, so instead he shut his mouth, stepped to the side and gestured. “Unless you wanna give it a try.”

[onlostcoastlines]

“Coworker,” Mischa repeated, admiring the strength in Bradley's hand shake, “right.” For some reason, he'd always assumed the Irishman was Zoya's boss. Maybe it was because he'd gotten her the job,. Or just because there was something in the way he carried himself, maybe the his walk or his posture, that gave off the “in charge” vibe. And for some (other, yet not entirely unrelated) reason, Mischa found some sense of reliefe in knowing that Bradley was, in no way, his sister's superior. But he wasn't ready to let himself go there. Not yet, anyway. Maybe ever.

“Yeah, she cracks a mean whip,” he laughed, brushing back strands of hair out of his face. It was too long. Unprofessional looking, his dad would say. And Mischa was suddenly very aware of how disheveled he must look, when normally he wouldn't have given it a second thought. He stepped around the taller man, in a smooth motion approaching the problematic machine. “Bejeweled is my weakness too. That and Candy Crush. It's amazing that anyone gets any work done when you can play that shit on your phone.”

Mischa pulled a dollar out of his wallet, keeping his back toward Bradley as he flattened it against the corner of the hard, plastic casing that advertised PEPSI© on the iconic blue can with condensation beading up on the sleek looking, iconic blue surface. “This one's really finicky,” he muttered, slipping the bill into the slot. It made a low pitched, electronic humming sound, as if considering whether or not to deem the dollar worthy of being accepted. After a few seconds, when the machine hadn't spat the bill back out, Mischa let a satisfied smile settle on his lips.

“You said Root Beer, right?” he asked, craning his neck to look back over his shoulder. His finger hovered over the button.

[sergeantpelican-blog]

No Sleeping at the Bar || Jesco & Shiloh

[onlostcoastlines]

sergeantpelican:

The cigarette in his mouth had to be old—stale from weeks, maybe months of just being left on the floorboard of some truck. He could taste it in the smoke, the way it sat heavy on his tongue, almost sticky. But Jesco couldn’t complain, the nicotine made him feel more relaxed, a little less tense with a stranger in his truck and after all, it was free. While he drove, Jesco kept one arm out the window and the other on the steering wheel like he had one eye on the road and the other watching the drunk next to him entirely too careful. Luckily for Shiloh, Jesco had a great memory. Once directions were said to him, he had them memorized and wouldn’t need to ask again. Which might have been lucky for Jesco too because by glancing over to the man in his car, he wasn’t exactly sure how long he’d actually be awake for. Jesco couldn’t imagine how he was even still awake with how much alcohol had to be in him, and truthfully, he wouldn’t mind if he fell asleep.

Jesco was okay with comfortable silence. For some reason, he had a feeling that Shiloh wasn’t enjoying it as much as he was, though, or maybe that it just wasn’t comfortable like it was for Jesco. All silence was comforting for him, though and it made him feel more at ease than the cigarette in his mouth did, with its stale terrible tobacco leaves. He operated better in the quiet, felt like he could think better when he didn’t have to focus half his attention on a conversation he didn’t care at all about. Most people could get a couple grunts out of Jesco on a good day, but now he felt like he was supposed to be talking. Instead, he looked over and let the younger man (he supposed he was younger, he looked younger) rest a little. 

It wasn’t until he was driving along a stretch of road into a neighborhood that looked like it’d seen better days did Jesco start glancing over to Shiloh more. Wherever he was (and it wasn’t a place Jesco had ever visited before) was dilapidated at the very least. It appeared like it had once been a nice enough area, maybe suburban, a place people where people came to raise a family. But now, it just looked sad, like it’d fallen apart. Someone had left and it’d never gotten a nice enough attention afterward. “Uh,” Jesco started, withdrawing his hand from the window and holding the steering wheel with both. “Hey, kid,” he looked over. “Shiloh,” he paused, looked at him for a little. “Where do you live?”

He wasn't sure when he fell asleep, or if he'd actually been asleep. The truck made for a bumpy ride but something about the motion seemed to ease Shiloh into a state of comfort. If the bartender was a dangerous man, he was damn good at hiding it. And at least he'd die drunk and hopefully unconscious. God willing. If there was a God.

Shiloh knew there wasn't.

He'd managed to hold onto his cigarette, despite drifting off into the drunken void. A feat which was, altogether, pretty impressive. It had burned down to little more than ash and the smell of stale tobacco had consumed the cap of the truck, despite the open windows giving it somewhere else to go. His thoughts wandered around his head, settling on the pack of cigarettes he'd found in the glove box of his car. And as he rested with his head cradled in the strap of the seat belt, he wondered vaguely if old tobacco could kill him. Probably not before the arsenic and rat poison laced in it, was the last thing he remembered thinking before his mind went silent...

“--Huh?” he said, he jolted up at the sound of his own name. The motion knocking loose the cylinder of ash that was left of a cigarette he'd lit... how long had he been out? Shiloh tossed the butt out of the open window and made an attempt to scoop up the tiny pile of ash off of his pants leg. “Uh,” he stalled, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands. He mumbled a small “sorry” as he glanced around, gaining his footing in familiar surroundings. It was almost impressive that the man had managed to find the right neighborhood without having to ask twice, even more impressive that the man beside him hadn't dumped him off in the woods somewhere, if only because Shiloh had a hard time convincing himself that stuff like that didn't cross most peoples' mind.

“Here's fine,” he murmured, pressing his thumb into the seat belt release. “You can just stop here, I can take it from here.” He felt gross and groggy and they were still two blocks away from his parent's house, but the fear that there was even the slightest chance that Jesco might recognize the infamous suburban two story turned his stomach worse than stale cigarettes and stale alcohol ever could.

[quillandquire-blog]

Property Virgins | Jude & Jarvis

"We need to stop meeting like this." 

Jarvis hadn’t intended to be cute, coy, or referential. He meant every word of it, said in the most deadpan way he possibly could. He was seventeen and, frankly, his grasp of social cues was minimal at best. He knew no other way to get his point across without resorting to going stony. Emotion was a weakness he possessed in spades, and one of his few strengths was reigning it in. He hated being called sarcastic and snarky, hated his stoic view of emotion being mistaken for having an attitude — he was impassive, nothing more. Anything more was vulnerability.

The only thing that might have slipped through was utter resignation. They couldn’t keep booking Multi-Purpose Room 4 every time they needed to have a meeting. He knew it wasn’t as easy as going through the classifieds at the back of the paper, but they were too old to have a tree fort and too young and poor to join a country club. There had to be a better alternative. One that wouldn’t involve having to sign up with the mean receptionist at the community center a week in advance. They needed somewhere to call their own.

What they needed was a home.

And fast, because his parents were starting to get concerned by the burning plastic smells coming from their son’s bedroom.

He couldn’t rightly say why Jude was the one he thought to voice this opinion to, but the plan was already in motion and Jude happened to be there at the time. Jarvis sat perched on one of the rec centre’s tables, legs crossed and his backpack sitting on his lap, both hugging it against his chest and using it as a chin rest. “I’m tired of coming in here after the Homestuck fangirls leave their Doritos bags everywhere. I’m tired of the receptionist woman looking at me like I’m going to steal her pen. There’s a whole bin of pens behind her! I don’t need her pen!”

It dawned on him that he was ranting, but that’s how annoyed he was. “The Avengers have a tower and a Mansion,” he said matter-of-factly. “There’s got to be somewhere in Boston we can use that isn’t government owned and probably wired.” His finger spun around into a small circle. Call it a hunch.

Once ranting turned into outright anger, Jarvis realized he needed to compose himself. He closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, and counted to seven before releasing it. Zen. Cool. Collected. He remained stock still for a few seconds, channeling the anger into something more productive. Creativity. Slowly, a smirk crept up on his lips, and he peeked open one eye. “Wanna go house hunting?” 

[onlostcoastlines]

The community center had seen better days. Probably better funded ones, with better staff that did more than stare idly at their computer screens and give kids like Jude sour looks when they dared interrupt the games of Solitaire that reflected off the glasses perched on the sharp nose of the perpetually angry receptionist. “You're friend's already here,” she had told him without looking up from her game. Her voice was flat and her patient already running thin, even though it was still way too early in the day to be this irritated.

And sure enough, his friend was waiting for him. “Ugh, Jarvis, don't.” Jude exclaimed, complete with a dramatic sweep of his hand to his forehead. The whole act was rounded off with a fake weak-in-the-knees stumble. “If this were a movie, you'd be hanging upside down and I'd peel away your mask and kiss you,” he laughed at the theatrical scenario running through his own head. It wasn't what Jarvis meant, he knew. But that only seemed to make the statement all that much more hilarious. Jude pulled a chair away from the table and, in a smooth (practiced) motion, swiveled it so that it was facing the opposite direction. With his legs straddling either side of what was supposed to be the back of his chair, he slouched down low, folding his arms across the top and resting his chin in the crook of his elbow.

“You know, I still don't know what Homestruck is?” he said, mimicking the disdain in Jarvis's voice. “Or why those girls who leave here when we're coming in always have weird hair. They have such strange hair...” Jude thought for a minute, chewing on the inside of his mouth. He watched his teammate compose himself. It seemed to take him no time at all to go from raving to chill, which was pretty impressive to Jude, who tended to get mad and stay mad.

When he spoke again, all hints of playfulness had left his voice entirely, “The Avengers have a Mansion and a Tower because they're really fucking rich. Not to mention, backed by government agencies and shit.” His eyes darted around the room, following the motion of Jarvis's finger. He'd never considered the possibility that the room could be bugged, just because, well, who would want to listen to all the other dumb stuff that took place in this room when they weren't using it? There was a senior citizen chess club and an AP European History class from their school that always studied here on Fridays. Anything else that happened couldn't me any more or less interesting than those. Surely a group of teenage superhumans was the most excitement the dingy community center saw all week.

“Who's gonna rent to a bunch of teenagers?” Jude said, in a rare moment of realism. How many teenagers run around in spandex fighting muggers and dirt bags? He'd wager not many. They were a rare breed and someone willing to rent them a lair would have to be equally rare. A smile crept across his lips and he shrugged. “I'm stealing the receptionist's pen on the way out.”

[themerchantofdreams]

On Wednesdays || Elle & Elijah

[themerchantofdreams]

Elijah was, in fact, of a like mind: getting out to Brooklyn seemed like a much better plan than dealing with massive injuries both internal and ex-, but he was a bit biased. Fortunately, Elle apparently had his back on the decision, and if he’d been torn between possible ways to spend the evening, that made up his mind.

Some people couldn’t handle the city. They felt lost, felt small, felt as though they were too caught up in the rush of bodies and business not their own to stand it. The little artist had been raised amidst the bustle, though; perhaps his sense of size was skewed, or maybe he overestimated his own importance in the scheme of things, but New York—and everything that came with it—had never been his adversary.

It was, occasionally unfortunately, a mindset that carried over into a regard for the people of the city as well. Which meant that his own cursory inspection of the subway car was barely half as clinical as his companion’s, though he had the common sense to keep a grip on the handle of his bag. Thank goodness for small mercies. “Hm?” A slight lean to get a better look at the small screen before he nodded. “Yeah, between Bedford aaand… Kent, I think?” His lack of concrete directions was, in retrospect, not a thing likely to inspire confidence.

Too late to back out, even so. “It’s mostly Manhattan that gets the attention, y’know? With all the business and stuff, paint’s not a good look.” A bump in the tracks made his backpack clatter, and Elijah was quick to clamp it between his feet, for all the good that did. “Besides, from the sound of things, Williamsburg used to have enough trouble with graffiti wars that cleanup didn’t need to get involved. 

“You oughta hear some of the older taggers: a couple years back, there was a- a Dadaist movement that capped a whooole bunch of pieces, including a Banksy. Had a manifesto and everything.” He shrugged.  “They’ve quieted down since then, but it’s hard to get motivation back up and running after a while.” Neither the most entertaining nor complete of stories, but backstreet gossip and retellings never were.

[onlostcoastlines]

“Huh,” she said—half said? Made a noise?--as if she were turning the new information over in her head. Elle pulled her phone back towards her, shifting her hips to the side to shove it into the pocket of her jeans. Elijah was the history person. And the art person. He was basically the person. And Elle was, more or less, the tag along. It was a place she accepted, four steps behind him and just excited to get to watch. “So why'd they--”

The metallic sound of paint cans rattling against each other made Elle stop for a moment. Her eyes darted down to Elijah's back and then back to her own. Rationally, she knew the subway cars made enough noise on their own to keep anyone around them from hearing. And even if other people did hear, what could they do about it? Still, she waited a short beat before continuing again.

“Why'd they stop? The movement. With their manifesto? Sounds intense.”

Her knowledge of graffiti culture was minimal, but growing. Elle had decided that if she was going to tag along with Elijah while he threw his stuff on walls around the city, she should probably know a thing or two about what he was doing. What she was getting herself into.

[onlostcoastlines]

Teeny Tiny Savior Complex | Jude, Oliver, & Bora

“He went this way,” Jude called out, shooting around the corner of a building into the narrow alleyway. He didn’t bother glancing back to see if his brother was behind him because he knew he would be. Oliver never stayed more than a few steps behind. His sneakers pounded against the cracked and worn concrete, sending powerful jolts up his frame, echoing off the walls that seemed to get tighter together the further they went. He’d lost sight of their target, a tall guy, spender with dark hair that poked out of the bottom of his ski mask. He had a gun, or something that looked like a gun—who really knew with muggers these days?—but Oliver and Jude had delt with worse.

He heard the rattle of metal coming from above. A fire escape, clanking hard like someone was trying very hard to get away from someone. There wasn’t time to slow down, Jude knew his own velocity would throw him off balance if he tried to put the breaks on now. The last thing he needed was to hit the concrete only to have his brother run him over. Now, that would be embarrassing…

It was a snap decision, throwing his body to the side. His shoes grabbed at the pavement beneath him as he spun around, kicking up dust as if he were a human turned race car from one of those Fast and Furious movies. His fingers dug into the ground and propelled him forward, scraping against the jagged surface of aging concrete. He’d worry about the stinging in his hand later, knew his body well enough to turn the pained feeling off as he flung forward, gripping the fourth step and scrambled up.

Jude’s arms did most of the work, pulling himself up instead of pushing with is legs. Still, the grit and grime soaking into open wounds on his palms made him cringe. He didn’t know what was entering his body, but he knew energy was being expended, already fighting off infection as he left a trail of bloody hand prints behind him. “You still with me?” he called behind him when he finally reached the first flat platform. His lungs were burning for more air, he could feel them begging to stop and rest for just a second. But at this pace, he could reach the roof and still have energy to apprehend the assailant before he actually needed to take a breather. Jude scrambled around the sharp turn and latched onto the next ladder.

[crownofcoins-blog]

Trench friends are best friends || Tex + Isaac

[onlostcoastlines]

crownofcoins:

Tex had principles. Maybe not morals, because who the fuck could have those in this hell hole where every day you spent wondering if you would be killing someone, or if someone would be killing you? Where you wandered around with a gun because it was as close to a bible you could get, considering half the others got puffy with condensation ruining the pages. So no, fuck morals. Tex had no morals. He had bullets, knives, letters from home and prostitutes. But he had did have principles, ones he followed very closely. And anyone who could take his insults without rising hackles and a clenched fist to his jaw were good people, point black. Anyone that was strong enough to throw a couple back themselves, hell, they were the few that Tex could consider friends. Isaac made him grin, his wicked tiny grin as he leaned against the wood frame that opened into their miserable little shack of a home.

“Your big dick?” Tex joked, voice high and teasing, loping into the shack. “Your giant ginger dick? I could not miss that big ol’ cock, you motherfucker. Swing it like a baseball bat at the gooks next time we’re on the battlefield, might give some of them slant eyed fuckers a concussion. We’ll win the entire war with that thing, broth-a,” Tex said, his combat boots punctuating each word as he walked over to his friend (and what a word to be said in Vietnam) shuffling the cards more. “I’m playin’ with you, we all know it’s like a roll of dimes when it’s hard, you ain’t foolin’ nobody.” More shuffling of the cards in his hands, letting them slide together. They were so beat up by now, puffy like the bibles from heat, dirty from being played on the ground most of the time.

He tossed one onto Isaac’s chest. An ace. “I promise I’ll stop making fun of your dick if you come play a fucking round with me,” he said, arms dropping by his side, eyes wide, mouth gaped open like an idiotic child who wanted attention—which sometimes Tex was. But if he was a child, he was the Antichrist just waiting for his father to bring him home to hell. “I wanna play across the nurses station, ‘cause sometimes you can catch Nurse Babe cleaning and she always leans over real nice when she starts cleaning and it gives me wank material for weeks.” He punctuated that with a hand on his crotch, grabbing fabric and grinning wider.

In the beginning, Isaac was certain he was going to hate Tex. Most days he still wasn't sure why he didn't. He was abrasive and rude and loud. Not to mention the slurs that flowed freely from his mouth, each one making Isaac's skin crawl like he was covered cockroaches. Tex was exactly the type of person he would have withdrawn from, avoided like some unholy plague. If anyone had asked (and some people already had) why he put up with the man's insults and still called him a friend, Isaac couldn't have given any straight answer. Maybe it was because Tex was the first person he'd spoken to when he was dumped on his ass in the middle of the base. Maybe it was the slight feeling of protection like maybe no one was going to fuck with him if he stayed slightly behind the other soldier.

Isaac never spent much time thinking about it. It was nice to have a friend. Especially after months had passed since he'd arrived in Vietnam, and still not a single letter from home had arrived with his name on it.

“You keep yelling about my dick,” he laughed, letting his feet fall to the side of the bed with a thud that kicked up dust on the packed dirt floor, “and everyone's gonna thing you're getting it.” He moved the book he'd given up reading to the side as he sat up, palms braced against the flimsy mattress. “'Prostitutes? Tex? Nah. He spends most of his time with his mouth on Ginger's dick. I hear that kid's really packing it.'” There was the simple fact that maybe the jungle had made him just as crude as his companions. Whether they weren't educated enough to filter their thoughts (his mother's voice was in his head and that made him cringe even more than Tex's flippant use of the word “gook”) or they'd just stopped caring. Because why the hell should they? And why the hell should he.

It only took Isaac a few seconds to get on his feet, ducking under his cot to find his helmet and his riffle, two things that were never out of arms reach. “One of these days, Nurse Ryleigh's gonna kick your ass for staring at her.” There was a half empty pack of cigarettes and a Zippo (not yet engraved like those belonging to other soldiers—Isaac figured he hadn't earned the right yet) in his helmet. He fished for one cigarette and clamped it between his teeth. “I bet she could, you know. She's gotta be pretty tough right?” He said through his teeth as he rolled his thumb over the strike wheel and filled his lungs with the sweet smoke that he'd never craved before coming here.

[onlostcoastlines]

What a Douche Bag | Colt and Zoya

[onlostcoastlines]

sergeantpelican:

It was so useless to deny that he was good looking and Zoya always tried to pick out the shallow flaws that made men uglier to her. It was mostly those big blue eyes, though. Dreamy, she thought, and so damn blue. They were dreamy and soft looking, full of mischievousness and glee like hidden behind them lay all those playful evil thoughts. About her, maybe. She could only hope and she could only wonder why she would hope for anything out of him when he was so clearly below her maturity level. Which was saying something, considering Zoya didn’t particularly consider herself mature at all. Zoya watched, never blinking, as he dragged his duffle bag back with his feet, finally paying more attention to her and the situation than to his dumb game. The sound of scraping fabric against their tile floor made a shiver run up her spine and her teeth clench.

She rearranged herself, walking so she was in front of him, stepping back so she could lean against the wall. Zoya folded her arms over her chest and stared down at him. She was short, even in her heels, but with him on the ground it was hard to survey and carry on any sort of conversation, half a mind to tell him to stand the hell up when she was speaking to him. “I’m not impressed at all,” she retorted with a quick, sharp raise of her eyebrow. Zoya stood for a moment, chewing on nothing in particular before she gestured at him. “Well? What sport do you play?” she asked, snapping her finger and pointing at the duffle bag again as though he should have already told her by now. 

“Too shy to continue a conversation?” she continued, hardly giving him room to speak with wide eyes on him. “You can whistle at me but not talk to me? Men,” she scoffed, but her tone was surprisingly teasing, like she was doing just that—teasing. And was she? Maybe. Instead of insulting and yelling at him, maybe all she was doing was engaging, in the first time, some mean spirited flirting.

Colt wasn't sure if her sharp tone was supposed to carve her quick response into a dagger aimed at his chest or if it was meant to match his easy tone. Colt wasn't sure which and honestly couldn't figure out which he was supposed to be internally hoping for. “Hockey,” he stated, raising his eyebrow curious as to what her next response would be. He nodded his head towards the doorway, where a worn out stick was leaned against wood, cradled in the angle where door met frame. “Bruins winger,” he continued, wondering if she'd know anything about the team or the position. She didn't look like the hockey type, though the kick-his-ass-for-cat-calling type suited him just fine.

“C'mon,” he laughed, waving his hands in front of him as if to surrender. Or maybe defend himself. He wasn't sure which he should be doing. “I wouldn't have whistled if I didn't wanna talk to you.” Half true, though she didn't need to know that. Initially it had been an impulse. Eyes had traveled up and down toned legs, sent a signal to his brain, elicited an external response that he would swear he couldn't have stopped even if he wanted to. “If I wasn't trying to get your attention, I would have waited 'til you were out of ear shot.”

His cellphone vibrated in his pocket, rattling against his thigh at the most inopportune moment. He'd never been so pleased to have forgotten his keys, but damn if his friend didn't have the shittiest timing for bringing them back. He ignored the call, bracing his hand against his bag and pushing himself to his feet. “Colt, by the way,” he said, holding his hand out to her as he rose. From his previous angle, craning his neck back to look up at her dangerously sharp features, she'd looked like a giant. Now, as he came to his full height, he realized that she was several inches shorter, even in heels.  

[sergeantpelican-blog]

Convenient || Bradley & Mischa

This was supposed to be for connivence. That was the entire point of a soda machine. So that Bradley wouldn’t have to haul his ass all the way out to the parking garage, sit in the middle of Boston traffic (in the car he spent far too much time in already) just to pay for an over priced soda at the local 7-11. This was supposed to be easier than that. And yet, there Bradley was, flattening and re-flattening his dollar bill against the corner of the soda machine just like how he saw some twelve year old boy do it once in order to get the creases out so the god damn satanic thing would finally accept his payment. “I jus’ want a root beer,” Bradley pleaded with the machine, furiously rubbing the billy clenched in either fist. The corner was folded down slightly when he tried to shove it into the little slit and once again, the demonic machine spit it back out at him.

“Son of a fucking quaker whore,” —a string of harsh gaelic he’d never say in front of someone’s mother— “I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you and yer little fuckin’ money family. I’ll find all the little coin children and kill them too,” Bradley snarled in a harsh brogue toward the ugly green piece of paper, straining his body against the sharp corner of the machine just like that little kid had. Once that was done, he inspected the one dollar bill for any imperfections, smiling triumphantly. The damn thing was about as flat as it was going to get and Bradley once again, tried to slide it into the slit, feeling hopeful at first before watching it feed back to him in a defeating way. Just when he was about ready to start punching the machine, he caught movement from the corner of his eye and stopped in an attempt to make sure his neighbor wouldn’t think of him as some strange angry person that yelled at inanimate objects. 

Mischa, last name something Russian he couldn’t pronounce, was Zoya (a scary stick thin woman with a fierce face and even fiercer eyes) older brother and that was about all Bradley knew about him. Except of course, that he wore suits some days and other days, when Bradley was lucky, he wore those tattered jeans that hugged him thighs and ass in wonderful, heavenly ways. Despite Bradley finding no luck whatsoever with the soda machine, he was finding all the luck in the world with Mischa’s outfit. Hopeful he’d walk past to the elevator so Bradley could crane his head around and watch him go, all that hope drained out of him when he realized Mischa was headed his way. Likely to get a soda himself. Muttering a curse under his breath, Bradley attempted his bill again, only half hoping it wouldn’t work again so he might have some reason to talk to the mysterious man he’d only ever spoken a few words in passing to.

[onlostcoastlines]

Admittedly, the drink machine hadn't been his planned destination. The little nook in the wall that housed convenient snacks (over-priced, but still convenient) just happened to be across the hall from the elevator. It was Saturday afternoon, the kind of day when Mischa couldn't be bothered to put on decent clothes just to hop in his car and drive fifteen minutes to browse aimlessly at Barnes and Noble's out of nothing but pure boredom. His flip flops made almost no sound on the carpeted hallway except the splatting noise of them hitting the heels of his feet as he rounded the bend in the hallway. He was greeted by the harsh sounds of a man's voice seething words he didn't understand.

“Privet,” he muttered cautiously in Russian, easing into place behind the man. The, strangely, familiar man. It wasn't until he was standing almost directly behind him, that he recognized the guy. He was Zoya's boss. Or, her coworker at least. The guy who'd gotten her the job at some detective agency downtown. They'd seen each other in passing, on days when they both happened to be in the hallway at the same time. Or other times when he'd visited his sister for lunch or picked her up from work. It seemed strange now that the two had hardly ever exchanged more than three or four words to each other—just a friendly hello or a wave as they passed each other on the elevator.

Just last week, Zoya had sworn she'd caught the man checking Mischa out in the hallway. An accusation that he still wasn't prepared to allow himself to believe. “This machine's kind of a bitch sometimes, man,” he said, watching over his shoulder as it spat out the dollar, probably not for the first time. “Bradley, right? Zoya's boss?” Neither was really a question, though the inflection at the end of both sentences would have lead anyone to believe otherwise. Mischa offered one hand to Bradley while the other dipped into the back pocket of his worn out, faded jeans.

[onlostcoastlines]

Walk in Traffic | Lena and Émile

[athievesplayground-deactivated2]

"Lena." Émile repeated her name, smiling at the weight of it in his mouth. It was a good name. He’d never quite met a name he thought was bad, but some of the American ones could be incredibly bizarre. The first time someone had introduced herself to him as Jynx, he’d done a double take, unable to keep the shock off his face. That sort of thing simply wasn’t allowed in France. You didn’t make up names, give your children appellations like Pepsi or Scorpio when there were perfectly good, normal names to use. It stunned him that this was an acceptable practice, and though he’d never think of someone’s name as wrong or unusable, Émile had trouble reconciling himself to it. “It’s good to see you again.” He was sincere in saying so. The unpleasant sort of people who came in, Émile did his best to forget entirely, keeping around only memories of those he’d liked working on. There was no value in keeping around the memories of things that made him unhappy. The most they could do would be to make him unhappy again in the future, and that was well worth avoiding.

Her nervousness was palpable even from across the counter, and Émile gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s fine. I don’t have anything scheduled for the rest of today. So long as the tattoo you want touched up isn’t completely out of my art range, I’d love to go over it.” He didn’t bother mentioning that he usually didn’t take walk ins. The studio itself did, passing people between different artists when they just showed up out of the blue, given that the artist they wanted might be busy and some weren’t all that picky, but Émile had never taken part in that. His own variable health didn’t allow for such freedom. A good day could turn bad all too quickly if he went maxed out his available energy, and he would still need to get through the rest of the afternoon and evening. In this case, though, all it would do was make the girl feel bad for asking something that Émile was willing to give, which seemed unkind and petty. Causing harm had never been Émile’s style, if it could possibly be avoided.

"Why don’t you show me your tattoo?" With a gesture towards the back of the shop, Émile moved out from behind the counter, heading towards the entrance himself. "I can take you to where I usually work." She’d been there once before, if his memory had fixed her in place alright, but he had no expectation that she’d remember. Émile could not have, with a place he’d only been once, maybe twice, and he was more than happy to take the lead.

[onlostcoastlines]

“Thank you,” she said, following after him through the back corridor. The relief in her voice was obvious, though she still worried that she might have come at a bad time. There was still the fear that she could have caught the artist on his way out the door. Done with his day and headed home to whatever waited for him off the clock. She had to put it out of her head though, because if she let herself worry about it too much she'd end up pulling her hair out before the whole thing was over. “It's really simple. Kinda dumb, actually. I got it when I was eighteen.”

Lena eased herself into the chair, a familiar seat that she'd been in not all that long ago. “I really appreciate this,” she said, probably not for the last time, as she eased her delicate ballet flat off her foot. She leaned forward to roll her boot cut jeans just above her ankle, so Émile could get a good look at the thing on her foot. It was a sparrow, just a simple black outline with something akin to a paisley design swirling inside the thick black contour lines. “It's really not much,” she shrugged, leaning back to let the artist examine it.

“But, I mean, if it's going to be there, it might as well look nice right?” she said, laughing nervously at herself, as if already bracing for the pain of the needle that would come. “It's just getting a little faded. Someone told me after the fact that foot tattoos fade really quickly. That would have been nice to know before I got it.” Lena laughed again, casually leaving out the fact that the ink marked the single, solitary act of rebellion that she'd ever committed. So, naturally, it at least held some sentimental importance.

[sergeantpelican-blog]

No Sleeping at the Bar || Jesco & Shiloh

[sergeantpelican-blog]

One would think that with a job like ‘bar owner’ that Jesco would be at least a little comfortable around people; at least a little skilled with them as well. But he wasn’t. And that worked out well for his job, incredibly enough. The Blackhouse Pub was located on the outskirts of town, a little ways. Just enough that most people could drive home drunk and not crash and die, though Jesco tried hard not to let them leave when they were stumbling the way his drunk stranger was. Called their wives to get them or girlfriends, siblings or aunts. Anyone sober and in charge. But the best part was that no one really needed to talk to him. His bar was kept open by regulars that came in, got the same drink every time, drank until they didn’t want to drink anymore and left. Jesco didn’t need social skills just to fill a glass up with whiskey and leave someone alone. He certainly was wishing he had some now with Shiloh in his truck.

It was a nice name. Reminded him of that sad dog movie, though the man next to him was pretty damn sad looking too, so it seemed to fit. Droopy eyes, dark half moon marks under each. His skin was pale, almost greenish. He looked sick, but that was to be expected of someone who was so drunk they could hardly handle a walk across a parking lot. Jesco felt sorry for him and for some reason he couldn’t stop staring at the way his lips curved around the cigarette that hung just as pathetically from his lips as the leather jacket he wore. “Uh,” he paused, looking down at the pack of cigarettes, slowly pulling away the safety that was his bar. Jesco shrugged, reached for them and nodded. “Yeah, I—yeah, I smoke, you can…too.” He fumbled to get one out of it’s beaten down carton and into his mouth.

Instead of asking for Shiloh’s lighter, he found the pack of matches in the left breast pocket of his army green jacket and pulled them free. He could do an easy and nifty trick where he lit a match against the strike pad with one hand, but he doubted Shiloh would be impressed or even paying attention, so instead he let go of the steering wheel for only half a second to hold the packet of matches, light one and then hold it to the end of his cigarette. Hands back on the steering wheel and correcting its path on the road, he inhaled harshly. “You’ll have to give me directions,” Jesco said, taking the cigarette and hanging his one arm out the window of the truck. “I don’ go out this way much.”

[onlostcoastlines]

With Jesco's spoken permission he ran his finger over the wheel of the cheap lighter. The flame cracked and fizzled and burned low against the metal. Almost out of fluid, but enough to ignite the end of his cigarette and that was all that mattered for the time being. Shiloh watched out of the corner of his eyes as the other man lit his own cigarette before inching his hand across the empty center of the truck bench to retrieve his pack. The smoke that filled his lungs was almost a relief. Anything was better than the nasty humidity that hung around the night air. Being outside at any point in mid-summer Alabama felt like getting spit in the face repeatedly. God forbid it actually rain. That was like standing fully clothed in a luke warm shower that felt more nasty and refreshing. It left his lungs feeling sticky—at least smoke was dry.

“Left at the light,” he muttered, pressing his head against the window that felt cool against his temple. His words came around the cigarette, held between his lips, “Interstate going towards the city, four exists down then take the first right.” He spoke slowly, hoping he wouldn't have to repeat himself as he watched the bar and his truck fade away into the distance. The truck moving over gravel felt jarring, and more than once his face collided with a little too much force into the plate glass window.

But the movement, all together felt soothing and Shiloh's eyelids were heavy with sleep and rum and whatever burning hot alcohol he'd found to drink when he crawled into the back of his truck. He took another drag on his cigarette and for the first time noticed that it left a stale taste in his mouth. He'd found the pack in his floorboard and wondered how old they were in silence. Awkward silence. Silence that probably should have been filled by conversation but instead was interrupted by the sound of burning paper and tobacco and steady rhythm of tires moving across pavement.

[themerchantofdreams]

On Wednesdays || Elle & Elijah

[themerchantofdreams]

“You mean you wouldn’t follow me into a car accident?” Elijah jibed lightly, tossing the mock-question over his shoulder rather than turn back around and actually be the cause of a crash. “And here I was, thinking your loyalty’d go that far! Silly of me, tsk tsk.” His tongue clicked off the roof on his mouth twice, but the admonishing effect was ruined by his grin. Still, with no objections voiced, his steps gain a more purposeful direction, and rather than mindlessly and aimlessly wander across the city in search of no place in particular to leave his mark, he headed towards the subway.

The A and C ran along mostly the same line, straight up and down the west side, and it was easy enough to catch one and swap to the other when it was necessary. Besides, it wasn’t as though they’d exactly attract a lot of suspicion, even with the paint stains spattered down his jeans and their backpacks (his own a bit more rattling than Elle’s, but not uncommon in a city where public transportation ran until the wee hours of the morning and catered to anyone from businessmen to students to migrants until it shut down.

A plan, though. Elijah rarely had a plan, persay. No piece, that was certain, if only because it would be a first go at it and in such a public place, that that was a surefire recipe for nerves and disaster. “Get a tag up somewhere, if I can’t manage anything else.” Less exciting and probably less fun to photograph, but it was something. “Throwie if there’s room, which is probably better for you?” It came out as a question, but wasn’t, not really. Would have been nice to make his mark that way.

[onlostcoastlines]

“I'm just here for the photo-op,” she laughed, nudging Elijah genly with her elbow, “but I'd definitely rather make it to the train than have to spend the night scraping you off the side walk.”

Her footsteps felt heavy but the sound of rubber soles hitting concrete stairs was drowned out by the late night commotion of the running trains as the pair descended into the depths of the subway station. More people seemed to be emerging than entering. But no one paid any attention to the two kids, too busy minding their own damn business to care that one of them had a backpack full of spray paint. Anonymity was an awesome thing that allowed them to slip onto the C train with not so much as a single glance in their direction.

The train was far from empty, but not as crowded as it might have been at a decent hour. Easy enough for Elle to find enough space for the two of them to take a seat facing the exit. She spared a quick glance around the train, as she'd been taught to do, taking brief note of anyone immediately near her as she looped the strap of her backpack around her ankle. If someone wanted to steal her bag, they'd have to take her with it and most late night riders looking to score a wallet wouldn't bother.

“I'm surprised they didn't cover it up,” Elle pondered aloud, attention diverted to her phone, thumb flipping through a google image search of the exact place they were headed. With their former mayor's crusade against graffiti and artists alike (among other pointless things and all while blissfully ignoring actual problems, but that was neither here nor there), covering street art had been made a top priority at some point. “This one, right?” she asked, tilting her screen so Elijah could see.

[onlostcoastlines]

-

NAME roman jeremiah wyatt / DOB may first / HOMETOWN chicago, illionois / NATIONALITY american / JUNG intj / ENNEAGRAM type nine / MORAL ALIGNMENT chaotic good / HOUSE hufflepuff / ORIENTATION asexual / RELIGION atheist / ANIMAL hedgehog / OCCUPATION computer programmer / FULL BIO currently unavailable

-

POSITIVE friendly, helpful, educated, accommodating, hardworking, kind. NEGATIVE neglectful, absent minded, non-confrontational, easily taken advantage of, passive.

-

soon

-

soon

[onlostcoastlines]

-

NAME benjamin jude ellstrom / DOB may 19th / HOMETOWN stockholm, sweden / NATIONALITY swedish / JUNG enfp / ENNEAGRAM type three / MORAL ALIGNMENT chaotic good / HOUSE gryffindor / ORIENTATION pansexual / RELIGION atheist / ANIMAL bobcat / OCCUPATION masked vigilante / FULL BIO currently unavailable

-

POSITIVE dedicated, heroic, moral, diligent, protective, fun loving.NEGATIVE intense, ruthless, undisciplined, uncontrolled, reckless.

-

soon

-

soon

[themerchantofdreams]

On Wednesdays || Elle & Elijah

[onlostcoastlines]

themerchantofdreams:

The sigh was heaved and huge and melodramatic and made the shocked expression with which he tried to follow it up a complete and utter failure. Not that it mattered; he was mixing reactions, mixing references, and half-wanted to brother, captain, king after Elle’s deference to his leadership at least in this case, but had the distinct feeling they’d be alluding to very different films. Even so, chances were that he’d be perfectly alright answering to Gretchen Wieners for the evening, just as he would respond to being addressed as Aragorn. Or his actual name. Whatever came to mind and tongue first.

"I’m thinking a trip out to Brooklyn," Elijah mused, still walking backwards and apparently not noticing in the slightest when he narrowly missed careening into a sign that declared there was to be no parking here. "North Sixth? By Bedford? The walls are mostly graffiti by now, but Nick Walker left a couple pieces and so did Banksy, when he was here." Big name company, even though he shrugged and felt compelled to add, “‘S stencil stuff, both of them, but still cool-looking." And with quite a different result from his own tagging.

Half a sightseeing trip, then, and half a chance for Elijah to leave his tag in impressive company. Not without risk, of course—a thousand dollar fine was nothing to sneeze at, especially in a city whose police force liked to claim that they slept as little as the city itself, but it was like playing the stock market. Risk versus reward. And in his book, they measured off pretty equally. “C to the L and that’ll let off on Bedford. Little bit of walking, but totally worth it.” The last two words came out sing-song, wheedling, as though he was trying to convince his friend of the trip, still.

“Wherever you go,” she said. Elle cringed in anticipation for the impact of body meeting street sign, the rest of her sentence cut short half expecting their trip to be cut short by a blow to her friend's head. It was like watching something in slow motion that she knew she wouldn't be quick enough to stop, but somehow Elijah managed to avoid the collision altogether, despite appearing to pay no attention to what was behind him as he moved. “I follow,” she continued with an exaggerated sigh. Both hands jutted forward to grasp Elijah by the shoulders, “But watch where you're going before you walk into a moving car.” She physically turned him around with a friendly push forward.

Being friends with Elijah had done nothing if not increase her knowledge of various street artists and their work. She'd known Banksy even before she started following Elijah around with her camera in toe. Because who in the world didn't at this point? Especially when their former mayor seemed to have defeating graffiti artists on the top of his agenda that should have included more pressing matters. But that was neither here, nor there.

“Big names,” she said, walking at the artist's side now, “Got something planned?” The entrance to the subway came into view and Elle's walk had morphed into something a bit closer to a bounce. “And I've got my camera, if you don't mind a photosession.” Getting pictures of the work in progress was way more entertaining than getting the final product—something that literally everyone would inevitably take artsy sepia toned photos of for their instagram accounts.

[crownofcoins-blog]

Trench friends are best friends || Tex + Isaac

It was always too hot to wear a shirt in Vietnam. Half the time Tex and other soldiers opted out of it, even if the sunburn could kill them. There was always the aid station where a cute nurse (if you were lucky and didn’t get stuck with some old bat) would rub some aloe vera on your aching skin. Tex usually asked for a happy ending, but he’d yet to receive one, but he was holding out that Nurse Babe would eventually give in. Either way, he strolled the base shirtless, with his cigarette pack shoved in his pockets and the playing cards in his hands. One hung from his lips (a cigarette of course, not a playing card) lit and wafting smoke in front of his eyes, but Tex was already used to smoke and usually the smell of bodies burning that came with it. Luckily just the reek of sweaty men today and Tex found himself wandering back to his own ‘home’ in Vietnam, a little shack with four beds and no one occupying it currently but one of his favorite little draftees.

On principle, Tex hated draftees. Everyone else had signed up for this godddamn massacre, wore the marine sigil with pride and faced death knowing they had asked for it. But draftees were usually a bunch of pussy cowards that hid at the first sign of danger. Isaac, however, Tex liked him. He wasn’t as obnoxious as the others, didn’t look like he was going to piss himself or cry every ten minutes and he put up with Tex’s good old fashioned marine berating.

“Oi, firecrotch,” Tex said as he opened the screen door and stepped inside, shuffling the cards. “Get the fuck outta here. Come play cards with me, you faggot. Stick yourself up in here all day and you’re gonna get weak and lazy and I ain’t dealin’ with that, you hear?” Tex said, insulting him with all the love he could muster.

[onlostcoastlines]

Waiting was always the hardest thing for Isaac to get used to. Initially it had been the unbarable heat and humidity, the food that tasted like plastic on a good day and animal shit on a bad one. It had been the constant fear creeping up the back of his neck that someday he'd have to fire the rifle he kept so close. But that had come and gone and now it was just the endless stream of uneventful hours that weighed on the soldier's chest. He'd spent the last three of those laying on his cot.

Having given up any sense of propriety and modesty months ago, he'd discarded the dirt stained white t-shirt somewhere on the ground of the bunk he shared with four other men. His normal pallor was gone, replaced by an out of place looking tan that made the freckles that dotted his face chest even more prominent. If he could see himself in a mirror, Isaac might not even recognize himself. Not that he was thinking about that as he starred up at the ceiling of his tent, eyes fighting sleep as the heat tried its best to sooth him into unconsciousness.

He'd just nearly given in too, when the screech of the screen door ushered in a barrage of insults that, after a while, had become more endearing than offensive. Tex used to make him cringe, but now it was hard to find his obnoxious voice anything more than comforting. Isaac barely opened one eye, glancing in his direction. “I go out of my way to keep you from seeing my dick,” he said, the corners of his mouth tugging into something of a grin, “and yet you seem to go out of your way to check out my pubes.” Isaac rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm, trying to erase the last bit of drowsiness from them.  

[onlostcoastlines]

What a Douche Bag | Colt and Zoya

[sergeantpelican-blog]

Her entire life, men had whistled at Zoya. Cat calling had practically been a rite of passage the day she turned sixteen and the following week when she decided to walk herself home after debate club at school and men from construction sites called out to her lewdly. Grown adult men who had turned their heads to watch as she stepped by them and whispered words to each other and then laughed. She had never taken any pride in the way men had entitled themselves to her, but she had never hated the attention either. She had never felt the revolting disgust she probably should have felt. After all, attention was attention, and she didn’t get that at home from her father. 

Years later, at thirty-two, Zoya still fought to be completely angry at the man sitting on the floor beneath her. Vicious was a knee jerk reaction. To snap at people was second nature to her, but she couldn’t bring it in herself to berate him like she probably should have. Slapped the word feminism into his face so hard it branded him. She just couldn’t do it. The way he smirked, thumbs still mashing the buttons on his little gameboy, or whatever it was called, made her chest tighten and her smile turn into an evil sneer. Nope. She didn’t want to kick him in the face or yell at him, she wanted to relish in the way he so obviously found her attractive. Attention was attention, and he obviously wanted to give her some. 

She straightened, her hands still on her hips as she raised her foot and stabbed it into his duffle bag. If he could look at her like she was his to stare at, she was going to treat his things like they were hers to touch. Using her heel she jerked it out from under his legs and stared down at it. “You some sort of hot shot athlete?” she questioned, taking her foot off and putting it on the other side (with a sharp clack to punctuate her sentence) so she was practically straddling it while standing, looking from it to him and then back again. “Or is this duffle bag full of your dirty laundry? One of those answers is going to impress me, so choose wisely,” she said, her striking eyes rolling back up to his face, daring his gaze to meet hers. “And I’m really good at telling when people are lying to me.”

[onlostcoastlines]

For a split second, Colt thought she was going to kick him. Or jam the spiked heel of her stiletto into his thigh. He cringed before hearing the sound of her foot thud against the surface of his bag that might not have offered the same satisfying sound if it wasn't packed with pads and a helmet. Once the fear of having his leg impaled, the fear ebbed away into something close to excitement. Whatever it was, it made his heart beat faster and forced his lips to twist into a sinister grin as he closed his hand held game. The beautiful stranger was suddenly much more interesting to him than his struggle to assemble a team.

“Would you believe me if I said both,” he said, looking up at her in a way that was almost a challenge. Nothing about him screamed “hot shot.” Not the faded Bruins t-shirt or the ripped jeans or tattered sneakers. And sitting on the floor in front of his apartment door playing a Game Boy certainly didn't make him look like a “hot shot.” He sure as hell didn't look the part, but he flashed a wide, toothy smile and used his feet to pull the bag closer toward him. “I'm a hot shot athlete with a bag full of dirty laundry.”

His fingers drummed against the stiff material in his lap. “Just got back from playing a game against some kids at the community center. I'd pull out my jersey to prove it, but it's been stewing in there for a while with a bunch of other gear so I'd guess it's pretty rank by now.” He probably should have stood, or at least paid better attention to his posture. Instead, Colt slouched even more against his door frame, propping his arm up on one knee. “Impressed yet?”

[sergeantpelican-blog]

No Sleeping at the Bar || Jesco & Shiloh

[sergeantpelican-blog]

When Jesco saw the man shifting, all he could think was finally. Any more resistance and he would have said fuck it, and he’d have to call his brother. And that was one thing Jesco never liked to do. Not just because calling the cops on people got you a bad reputation and made it less likely for someone to come to your bar but because Jesco’s brother, Johnny, was the sheriff and Jesco had no intentions of seeing his brothers asshole face that night. If he could, he’d prefer to not see it for another few weeks or so either. His random visits were okay here and there, but Jesco and Johnny both prolonged seeing each other for as long as they could—and it always worked out fine. So when his drunk stranger started to shift and move, Jesco let out a long winded sigh of relief and shrugged himself off the bed of the truck.

For a moment, he thought about helping the guy out. He looked far too drunk to be walking, let alone shifting his central gravity from sitting to standing; which usually lead drunks to careen to the left, start doing a strange little dance while they tried to keep straight and plummet into the gravel to bust a lip or their nose. Surprisingly, the other man did fairly okay, with his feet planted on the ground and that only told Jesco one thing; he was used to being drunk. So used to it that he had perfected the art of moving while drunk, at least as perfected as it could be and by that, it meant he wasn’t falling down on his ass. Jesco attempted a smile, but he wasn’t sure of how friendly it looked, so he dropped it.

Making sure he kept a careful eye on the drunkards hand shoved deep into his pocket (the man was a terrible drunk if he thought Jesco was unaware that some sort of weapon, be it a knife, broken glass or a screwdriver, was hiding in there), Jesco began to lead him toward his own truck, a few steps away from where the stranger was attempting to fall asleep. “I’ll drive you as far as you need to go, so long as you ain’t sleeping in my parking lot,” Jesco said, looking back over his shoulder. It might not have been the smartest idea to keep his back to the man, but Jesco didn’t put much thought into it. If he wanted to attack him, he would have already and even if he did, it wouldn’t be a fair fight, concealed weapon or not. Jesco was huge compared to him, and he was sober. Even a drunk could tell this wasn’t one to start, or it’d finish ugly.

Once he finally reached the truck, Jesco pulled open the passenger door, gestured to it and walked around to the other side. Climbing in like a lumbering animal of some sort, he situated himself and adjusted his mirrors, glancing over every now and then. “So, what’s your name?” Jesco asked, starting the truck and throwing an arm over the back seat to glance behind him and watch as he pulled out. “M’Jesco,” he introduced, a sorry introduction, but the most the other man could ever hope for, all things considered.

[onlostcoastlines]

Getting to his feet was the easy part. Firmly ground them on a solid surface, and he could slide off the tailgate of his truck and already be on his feet. The difficultly came when it was time to put one food in front of the other. Forward motion, gathering momentum to actually move his unsteady frame from one vehicle to the other. His feet slid again, rocks giving under his weight and sliding as they pleased. Still, Shiloh managed to stay mostly upright with one hand flat against the side of his truck for balance as me followed slowly after the bar owner.

It occurred to him, as he was halfway in the strangers truck, that the man was essentially just that. A stranger. Someone with no name and no connection to him at all. Someone with no reason not to rob him and dump him off in the middle of no where with no money and no sense of direction and maybe sans a few body parts. The guy didn't read as psychotic but it was hard to tell on a normal day and even harder to make the distinction when his head was surrounded by a rum soaked cloud. He'd seen the guy, obviously. He'd spent enough time in the man's bar that he rarely had to speak to get a drink. It had hardly occurred to Shiloh that he would have a face behind the covers of various novels he always seemed to be invested in. And he never thought he'd have a name.

“Uh,” he stalled, gently patting down the pockets of his worn leather jacket. Too many pockets, too many places to hide and lose things. “Shiloh,” came as a mutter when his fingers found the flimsy cardboard of a pack of cigarettes and the cheap, plastic Bic lighter tucked away inside his coat. He moved one cigarette to his lips before considering for a moment, whether or not he was actually allowed to light it in Jesco's car. “Smoke?” he paused with the lighter positioned at the very tip of his cigarette as he nudged the pack across the seat towards the other man.