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@shitecassidy-blog
@shitecassidy
“You uh, want to maybe put some pants on or something before we have this conversation, pal?”
He flashes the badge, one of the ones that says FBI, because it tends to cut through the bullshit faster.Â
“Naw.” Cassidy sprawls obscenely over the bench. If the FBI has the nerve to come around asking questions when it’s barely past noon, the Cass is not about to make things easier.
“I’m all yours, agent.”
I am 119-year-old vampire from Dublin city. And I’m currently on the run from a group of vampire-hunting religious vigilantes who keep tracking me down somehow. What else? I’m a right-handed Sagittarius. I love Chinese food. I’ve never seen the Pacific Ocean. And I think that “The Big Lebowski”’s overrated.
“That’s because you didn’t eat dinner.”
“——No, I drank it.”Â
STARTER | WILD’S GRACE
The wind dances ; it plays ; it carries scent. It follows suit, where the Wild comes to wander. Silent are his footsteps, soft against the earth. He’s traveled far, and yet — there is no struggle there, no exhaustion on his face ( a wolf walks ; it wanders, after all ). Merely a curiousness exists, with a head that lifts. A pause, he stops and looks toward the door and sniffs.
Something amiss; the spill of blood familiar — old — too old to be just human and the spirit within him wakes. ( The proverbial paw at the door, claws sharp that dig light against the barrier made. ). The thought to stay comes to mind ; perhaps a small insult to the Wild within. He needs to keep his calm, breathe and maintain his stead as he walks inside.
He hears laughter ( ears prick ; a familiar voice ) , and protocol’s ignored as feet follow. To a man, and a cell, and a friend behind bars. Blood splatters and bags strewn across the floor, noise dulls for a moment when his eyes focus. Slow, where their gaze follows — bullet shells; the vampire; and there they rest on the sheriff. // @shitecassidy
This is a case where the lack of air conditioning in the cells of this shite police station works to his advantage. The creaky old fan on the ceiling makes a nice job of moving the air around, so that when a new scent joins their little party, Cassidy knows almost immediately.
A groan cuts off quite suddenly to become laughter, a mad cackle that gurgles in his throat with the blood trapped in his gullet. The sheriff’s confusion only makes it all more hilarious.
“You’re going to be sorry you did that.” He rasps, a bloody grin on his face, when the old wolf steps into the room.
     He talks quite a bit, this one. Loki’s temper is not an easy thing to spark. One must well and truly work at it, tirelessly, insistently, pluck and pry and wheedle until the barrier between his restraint and his understanding of what it and is not worth his time is all but destroyed. And so perhaps he surprises himself when the evening ends with his half-curled fist protruding from Cassidy’s back to the right of his spine, with forearm embedded near to the elbow below the wretched sod’s chest cavity.
@shitecassidy.
It’s a mistake to laugh, he knows that before the sound makes it out of his throat. Loki’s already drawn tighter than a guitar string, and Cassidy’s missed every single warning sign. Cackled right through them, more like.Â
So really, it’s no terribly big surprise that there’s a big bloody hole in his chest, is there? Just harder to laugh through a mouthful of blood.
I’m a man of the night, a real ladies delight . See my figure was chiseled from stone. One more for the gal then I’ll escort her home. Come last call, I’m never alone
“What’s the matter, Fangs? Never seen a guy with his shirt off before?”
“Me? naw, I’ve seen plenty of those, really. No, maybe it’s the smell, though, right? Honestly, I’ve never met anyone quite as metallic as you, mate.” He takes a deep breath, “Tickles the nose.”Â
@shitecassidy
“You puke, I’m not helping you clean it up.”
"What do you mean, if I pu—listen to me, if anyone’s likely to lose their dinner, it’s not gonna be me, mate.”
"You're drunk, take your ass to bed."
“————What? No. No, I shan’t.”
@shitecassidy | bite me
Did Cass just lick his lips? “Quit lookin’ at me like I’m dinner.”Â
“Mmwhat?” Sorry, he's a little bit distracted.
Preacher + text posts (3/?) - CASSIDY EDITION²
In honor of this post reaching 1k.. You guys are the best!
Leather Jacket ✓ Chest Hair ✓ The Murder Face ✓ Ability to Fly  ✗
In spite of himself Leonard’s stomach gives a flip. It takes a lot for him to be bothered by anything having to do with the humanoid body, but the guy is downing bags of human blood like it’s lemonade. Instead of watching it happen, he looks up at the readings and admits to himself that there’s already improvement. His patient’s needs will always come first, even if it isn’t pretty. “How do you feel?”
He’s made a right mess of the pristine room in a fairly short time — he almost feels sorry for it, even if he hopes they won’t make him clean it all up. Would be fair, though, seeing as the good doctor just saved him from a miserable evening.
“Fit to start doin’ cartwheels, doc.” More or less, though not quiet yet. He’d ask for more blood, but four bags really should be enough. “Jus’ don’t ask me to demonstrate yet." A scrutinizing look at his saviour, and a flash of teeth, "An’ what about you, eh? Keepin’ yer lunch, or losing it?”
“Stop bleedin’ on me then talk to me about nice. Do you need a hospital or somethin’?”
“Oh, muckin’ up the parquet, am I? Fair enough.” Cassidy shifts, pushes himself to sit up against the wall with a groan. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a pint to spare, huh?”
Leonard studies the readings above the bed, watching them decline rapidly. Gritting his teeth and trying not to think about the protocol he’s about to violate, he growls in frustration and pushes away from the bed. Blood and plenty of it is kept on hand in a wide variety of types from an even wider variety of species. Any that Starfleet has a record of. But this guy wants human. He shudders to think of the other methods the man would go to to get it if it wasn’t given to him this way. “Here!” McCoy shoves four bags of plasma at him, heart beating a frantic rhythm in his chest. “You didn’t tell me how much you need so this damn well better be enough!”
“Four's fine, four’s plenty—” Cassidy fumbles with the first one, and all but squeezes half the contents over his face in his rush to drink it. Probably not the best picture, he makes, but damage control can wait until he’s done with all of them.
“And you’re but an idiot.”
He huffs. Groans, laughs — some kind of sound. “That’s not nice.”
“Holy shit. —— What the hell happened to you?”
@shitecassidy·
“What, this? Tis but a scratch.”
