a lonelier version of you

independent rp blog for the vessel of the archangel zadkiel, named francis dufour. known best for his ego, leather jacket, cross necklace, and dirty personality. a supernatural oc. blog is nsfw & currently under co. mun is rewatching and catching up on the series. currently on ep. 200. mun and muse are of age. SIDEBLOG to fcrgiveandfcrget

[frederickchiltoon]

[resentcndremember]

ragestreaked:

   Finding himself pressed up against Francis again, this time in private, Fin allows himself to melt into the touch and gasp against Francis’s lips. It’s like waking up from a trance; he’s suddenly aware of every nerve ending of his body in contact with Francis. He suddenly feels real. Fin’s fingers clutch at Francis’s jacket to pull him as close as possible. Given the choice, he would never move from this position. If he did, as he suspected, have eternity ahead of him, this would be how he wanted to spend it.

  He can’t help it though, when the taste of Francis’s lips sends him seventy two years into the past, into stolen moments of shared heat, of desperation for grounding in a never ending ocean of fear, violence, and exhaustion. His grip on Francis’s jacket tightens as he tries to cling to the present, and he forces himself to pull away for air, and rests his forehead on the shoulder in front of him for a second.

    Though he didn’t want to break the rush of joy at seeing Francis again, Fin knew he’d need to get some answers soon. This was far too good to be true, and he hadn’t trusted anything that readily presented itself as good in a very, very long time. Everything came with a catch, and he dreads finding out what the catch is here.

       “Fran, some… explaining is needed,” Fin finally breathes as the doors of the elevator open, and he quickly steps away in case there was anyone to see their embrace. “On both our parts. I don’t         I don’t want to ruin the mood, but I need to know how this is possible.”

The way that Finley gasps against him is too familiar, too perfect. It's as if a single day hasn't passed between them when they finally connect -- the contact gentle, loving. Francis has missed him something terrible and to be linked again felt overwhelming. On one hand, it was like he finally had solid ground underneath his feet for the first time in decades, but on another, he felt himself honestly fear the moment where it was all torn away again -- should that moment dare to come. In his long existence Francis has learned to be careful about attachments and Finley was a soul he'd already mourned and yet to have him there, in his arms again, everything comes rushing back.

Seventy-two years and Francis' heart still races when the two of them are close like this.

It doesn't last long enough.

The elevator chimes and the younger man breaks away from him with a fear he understands; their love had been a very taboo thing when it started. So much of their lives had been a secret and the fear brought with the concept of being exposed. With old feelings suddenly rekindled it was possible that some of the negative ones had tagged along too -- that, or perhaps Finley had never gotten over being jumpy. It's something he wants to explore, for sure, but an even more personal subject is brought to the forefront as the two of them step from the elevator and into the loft.

"You couldn't ruin my mood if you tried, sweetheart." The tease is light and hardly meant to be used as a sugar coating for the things he wants to say next but he pauses as he looks Finley over a little better -- able to focus easier without as much excitement buzzing around them. "And I'll answer any questions you may have, but first we deal with you. You're hungry and you're dirty and you're tired. I can make you something while you wash up -- anything you'd like. We can talk while you eat and then you can sleep, here." Distance is lessened again as he lifts his hand so he can thumb over a cheek, loving in both how he stares and speaks. "I'll keep you safe."

[ruuuzek]

bonus: 

[stacksgifs]

[resentcndremember]

ragestreaked:

Fin wants nothing more than to press against Francis’s side, to be as close to him as possible, but he forces himself to temper the desire as long as they’re in the public eye. Times and views may have changed, but his fear has not. Holding hands feels risky and risque as it is, but the contact tethers him to the present, lest Francis let go and he drift away like a balloon.

He’s gripped by a sudden, quick worry that Francis had found someone else to receive his affections, but logic argues it away       he doubts that he would have asked to ‘steal him away’ if that were the case, and besides. How could Fin blame him if he had? Immortality was incredibly isolating, as he’d learned. Just because he’d chosen to fend of the loneliness with empty caresses and sex traded for money, doesn’t mean Francis couldn’t have chosen a healthier way.

“Where are we going?” He can’t help but ask, not because he needs to know, but out of a desire to simply hear Francis’s voice. To know that this is real and not just an incredibly vivid dream. The idea of waking up and realizing that none of this was actually real, that Francis was dead and he’d simply projected his longing for company and the man he’d cared about, scares Fin. It hollows out his chest, steals his breath and stops his heart for a second.

He can’t hold back a small, almost begging, “Tell me this is real.”

It's surreal, having Finley's hand in his own again. Something in him returns -- something protective and hardened. There's no war and yet Francis' first instinct is to shield the younger male away from anything threatening to the body or heart. To pull away from people who didn't deserve to share the same air. The entire world had been given the chance to do right by Finley Hartman and it had failed magnificently.

"This is real."

But he can understand the fear that it isn't as he guides Fin through familiar city streets. He's had dreams where the other was at his side one moment, only to end up lost in a sea of faces the next. It's something that keeps his grip firm, something that has him glancing over several times.

Getting separated once was more than enough, for both of them.

"We're going home." A place that they weren't far from when they'd bumped into each other. The large loft that Francis had splurged on so that he could fill it with whatever he could to make himself feel whole. Both he and Zadkiel took part in decorating the place and their tastes no-doubt clashed here and there when it came to furniture and art -- but it was theirs. It was safe. It would suit Finley for as long as he wished, should he decide to linger.

And Francis had a feeling that he would. At the very least, it is an honest wish as he keys them into the building so he can lead Fin to the elevator and hit the button for the top floor. When doors close he doesn’t hesitate to pull the other close again -- to find lips with his own. 

[kclina-blog]

        IT’S A TERRIBLE IDEA BUT I BELIEVE IN MYSELF.

( credit to strawpolls)

[fcrgiveandfcrget-blog]

                                                 my head’s in heaven, my soles are in hell

                             the archangel 🔁 the vessel

[resentcndremember]

⑁

send ⑁ to sit on my muse’s lap // accepting. 

There is no hesitance, no sign of anything other than pure interest the moment Jay swings a leg over and welcomes himself into Francis’ lap. Hands find hips as though they’ve always belonged there -- like he’s done it millions of times with the intention of doing it just as many more. It’s comfortable. Casual. Between the two of them? Inevitable.The way his lips pull into a grin radiates his lack of innocent intentions and when he shifts to accommodate the new weight it doubles as a suggestive rolling of his hips. The sound he makes at the sensation is that of being pleased and quickly melts into a chuckle -- one let out against the skin of the fighter’s neck.They’ve both wanted this type of escalation for a while, now. Francis had a habit of being handsy and flirtatious as it was -- but this? There would be no bouncing back to anything normal after this. Not with Francis mouthing against flesh and already buzzing with arousal.

“Mn. I made some good money on you, tonight. I ought to thank you, mon beau.”

[resentcndremember]

 ragestreaked:

Fin knew that even if he had somewhere all important to be, he’d go. To find Francis again, untouched by time and still caring about him feels like a dream     like nothing has changed, just their surroundings. Everyone Fin had known was either dead or very, very old, and everything had changed so radically in the last seven decades that he couldn’t keep up. The world was foreign, loud and far too fast, but right here with Francis, it had slowed down to a tolerable level. Even as he had been in the middle of hell, Francis was unparalleled in his ability to ground him simply by being.

He wraps his arms tightly around Francis, pressing his face into his shoulder and closing his eyes, heart thudding in his chest     time and distance seem to have done nothing to dull how he feels about him. Fin keeps the embrace brief, still unable to shake the fear of retribution for such a public display. He pulls back and all he can to is nod.

“Steal me away and don’t give me back this time.” He agrees, unable to keep the need from his voice.

It’s a greedy, possessive play on his part and --- oh, Francis Dufour is more than a little aware of the fact. There was no honest concern for anyone that Fin may have met over the past seventy-some years. For those that may have wanted any of his time. By the looks of it? Finley Hartman was not being looked after and he was going to change that, starting right this second. There were places he was expected to be. Friends at a bar who’d been hoping to spend time with him but they become background noise to the vessel so quickly it’s a wonder he doesn’t feel some sort of whiplash. Feeling Fin against him is almost like something from a dream and Francis allows his eyes to slip shut for just a moment to better block out the world around them. It’s short-lived, but his chest tightens at the flood of memories the contact causes. For a second he can smell gunpowder and blood, can feel the grit of mud and oil -- the weight of a gun, the pain in his throat from yelling himself hoarse. For a second there are worried whispers in his ear, he can hear gasped confessions and breathless encouragements. Their embrace breaks, but Francis lingers in Germany for a heartbeat longer.

It’s overwhelming. Old vices call to him and he feels parched in a way that only brandy can fix, tense in a way that only nicotine will undo. When his eyes open he’s greeted with the sight of Fin not in uniform but in a hoodie that he, honestly, has intentions of replacing. The buildings around them are intact, far from being rubble caused by bombing or cannon fire. The people around them are alive and busy. Civilians with their iPhones and coffees. “Never.” One of Fin’s hands ends up in his own and he pulls gently, squeezes thoughtfully. “Tu es à moi.” 

[gagaisthecure]

Visit Original Link

[resentcndremember]

"Why are you so damn hot? It's distracting."

The laugh comes out as more of a bark and his whole body moves from the force of it before he’s reaching to coax her closer. Affection wasn’t something Francis every seemed to hold back on and it was very unlike the archangel currently enjoying a nap somewhere deep in his being. Foreheads bump and he places a kiss to the corner of her mouth but remains close.

“Distracting? That implies there’s something you’d rather be doing, ma douce. I think we both know better.”

[nerd-girl642]

[jonasnightingale]

Visit Original Link

[resentcndremember]

ragestreaked:

“Seems like.” He agrees lightly, unable to quell the warmth that blooms in his chest at the nickname. The first time he’d heard it, Fin had asked what it meant and blushed with a soft laugh, absolutely endeared by the knowledge that Francis was equating him to a security blanket. It was a scrap of purity in the place where good things went to die, and decades later, the nickname still felt safe. “Though,” Fin continues, eyebrows quirking lower, “I wouldn’t quite say that I’m not human.”

He tilts his head to actually look at Francis for a few moments. “I thought you’d died, you know. It’s really good to see you alive.” He points out. It’s a somewhat clumsy shift off topic, but he isn’t partial to the idea of discussing the finer points of what he is on a busy street. Having barely escaped his first encounter with them, he’s always paranoid about hunters, as may be apparent as he glances around warily.

If he had a place to stay, Fin would invite Francis to come back with him so they could talk properly, but he didn’t. It would hardly be appropriate to call the dumpster he slept behind home, and much less to bring Francis there. He shifts uncomfortably, suddenly feeling very exposed and vulnerable- Francis looked like he’s done well for himself, and Fin is very aware of the fact that he looks and smells like he sleeps behind a dumpster.

It would only take asking to know; Francis could practically feel the archangel within him vibrating with the need to burst with information about the situation but they had reached a silent agreement. Finley was a special case; Francis didn’t want to know his secrets unless they fell from the younger man’s lips by choice. They had been equals when they met -- had earned each other’s trust in the worst of times and the Frenchman had no intentions of damaging it, even now. There were things about himself that he was hesitant to admit on the spot. Things he probably wouldn’t even admit in the dark, if given the chance.

“I’d hoped that you’d lived.” It is a strange exchange, for sure. One that he hasn’t had with others. One that he is happy to have, regardless. “I never found any sign of your death at memorials and I wanted to take that as a sign that you’d grown old, somewhere.” Oh. At the time his heart had ached terribly at the thought of outliving yet another lover. It was hard, to check in on people he adored to find them wed and with growing families. Bittersweet, in every way. There were times when he imagined Fin -- gray, but somehow content. Fulfilled.  To know the truth now has him feeling guilty about the years spent apart. Years they could have shared together. Years they could have grown closer. ”Come home with me, Finley.” It all but surges from him, expression hopeful. “Let me steal you away, for a while.”

[resentcndremember]

Francis was born in the year 1308 and is technically 709 years old.

[resentcndremember]

ragestreaked:

He can’t help but lean his cheek against Francis’s palm, exactly the way he used to all those years ago, eyes sliding shut for just a moment. Those hands still feel the same as they did, perhaps with less desperation behind them. It’s a comfort still, too, despite the gap of nearly seventy years since the last time they’d touched. A soft exhale of relief leaves his lips      it’s Francis. It’s really, truly Francis.

Which raises the question of how, though it’s already been asked.

“You haven’t aged a day,” Fin murmurs, as if the same is not true of himself. It’s not accusatory      in fact, he could almost be noting the weather, though the casualness of his voice is forced and hangs by a fraying thread. “The only thing that’s changed is your accent. How have you not changed?”

By deflecting with a question of his own, he hopes to avoid answering       because he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t understand, and had found no explanations in his many searches. He knows no more than he did seventy years ago, and honestly, it’s frustrating.

Times have changed. People continue to move around them, caught up in their own lives and doing little to acknowledge the heartfelt embrace the two men were in. It was something that Francis loved about things, now. Back when they first knew each other everything had been a secret -- like it was something dirty. His adoration for Fin was something he could only show when they were alone and there was never enough time. Kisses were brief. Moans were muted. Sighs were confined. But here -- in the middle of the day on the street in a big city, he was more than free to kiss the man he cared so much for. And he did want to kiss him. He really did. But there is a warning that comes with their contact. Under the surface, Zadkiel’s presence is a gentle jingling of bells. There’s something about Finley that had gone unnoticed all those years ago, something that has him curious --- but he ends up questioned. The observation is set aside for the sake of flirting and he wills the angel to be silent. To trust him with something.

“It seems like we both had a few secrets that never came up, doudou.” An old nickname. One that still sounds the same when he says it, even if the rest of his accent seems to be watered down with time. Time, and the fact that he’d been living in this particular country since the war ended. “Neither of us are -- how should I say -- as human as we appear to be?” 

[resentcndremember]

ragestreaked:

He knew Francis was dead. He’d been sure for a long time    they hadn’t come home together, and if the war hadn’t claimed him, Fin knew now that time certainly had. And yet, there were times he felt certain for a split second that he’d seen him in the last few years. It was ridiculous, Fin knew, to think he was seeing a man that had long since stopped looking like he had in 1945. Francis was dead. He was not walking around New York looking exactly like Fin had last seen him!

And yet.

And yet, that was unmistakably Francis, less than twenty feet away from him. Fin’s breath caught in his chest and his blood ran cold. Cautiously, retreating further into his grubby hoodie, Fin approached much like a stray dog ready to bolt at any second.

“Francis?”

@resentcndremember or @fcrgiveandfcrget

Not getting attached to people was a lesson that Francis Dufour never learned. Not when he was a child, not when he was a man fighting for his life in the 1400s, and certainly not when he was doing it again some five-hundred years later. The second world war had been a part of his long life that he wanted to forget -- but his attachments, the people, sometimes lingered.  Being on the planet for as long as he has, he’s come to understand that there is an almost cruel aftertaste to reincarnation. Familiar faces came and went. People he’d known. People he’d loved. People he’d killed. He’d occasionally catch them in crowds on the streets or hidden in the haze of smoke-filled bars. Memories came and went. Sometimes his heart ached. Sometimes he made the mistake of getting attached to the same face, the same soul. But he’d yet to find many from his past who remembered him. Old souls. When he hears his name, he knows the voice. Before he even turns, before his eyes even find Fin’s, his heart chimes out. It’s been seventy-two years. 

“ ----- Finley.” It feels like time stops. For just a moment. Francis’ mind wants to throw them back to a time where they were both covered in grease and mud -- to when they were exhausted and trying to whisper to each other over distant gunfire. But there’s no need. The sounds around them are not of war -- not of death and suffering, but New York city. Busy, but bright. “Regarde toi.” He almost sounds breathless but hands raise and immediately reach for cheeks -- for features being hidden because he has to feel them, has to know they are real. “How can this be?”