BANG.

INDIE MULTIMUSE. PRIVATE AND SELECTIVE. MUN 25+. EXP 10+ YRS. WRITTEN BY BASIL

[gomezisabellas]

“fuck you my child is fine” your child is on tumblr rp

[illumynare]

me, writing my own OCs: idk. was that out of character?

[mancandykings]

I eat with my hands when I am home alone.

[snakerps]

i see a darkness // whitby & hyuntae

[snakerps]

hollowedteeth‌:

Though trying to focus on a single scene from his dream-image was like discerning a needle from a haystack, Whitby’s cheek sparked the clearest memory to date. This was Iscariot’s first time standing on the cutting edge of the phoenix’s snark, but not this body’s. It remembered. Out of sheer muscle memory, it formed a reply he only just kept from spitting back at him. No more than yours is burnt chickenshit, would have said a voice, one that sounded awfully like his, if this had been a different time, a different place, Harsh words barely carrying a half-hearted bite softened further by the laugh following a second after.

His smile tightens, twitches, grows into a portent of something terrible. “Your… friends?” Iscariot pretends to mull it over, as if utterly baffled, pacing in a circle around the phoenix like. “Why, who could possibly matter enough for Whitby to abandon his precious little farm? Leave it undefended? Vulnerable? Or are these other friends more important than its protection? Don’t correct this one. It’s hazy, but it’s true. Your peace loving family would not stand a chance against any conflict beyond bartering.This raven wouldn’t have thought Whitby was one to play favorites with his friends. That’s quite irresponsible, these days. Someone your age should know better.”

“Unless…” He stops, one foot yet to finish its descent into a step. “Oh Whitby, oh no. It couldn’t be. Could it?” Iscariot’s turns sharply in Whitby’s direction, clapping his hands together in realization, looking sickeningly delighted as the lines connect the miserable dots leading to the wretched conclusion. “ Has the sun finally set on your sanctuary?” says Iscariot, giddy almost, relishing a little too much in the hypothetical carnage, partly to salt Whitby’s wounds, partly to ignore the way his own, hidden deeply but not entirely forgotten, threaten to ache.

Iscariot doesn’t answer right away. A shudder runs through his wings, rustling the feathers like a breeze would the fur at the tip of a frightened animal’s tail. There’s a pensiveness to his smile and averted eyes now. He ponders over a million ways to phrase his answer, put into words the unjust atrocity done to him, on him, how they pulled him apart and rebuilt him, nightmarish, a ghoul possessing just enough of his former glory to be worth keeping on a leash. He can worry the details for hours of the scalpels, the needles, all the other sharp devices he couldn’t name and only told apart by how much pain they caused and the depth of their cut.

They broke him, slowly but surely, as water weathers down stone.

“Ah, this raven is not free to answer that question. Perhaps for the best. But…” He hums, shaking his head. “How about a story, instead, old friend?”

Iscariot chooses his words with care, speaks softly, detached, like he spoke not of his past, but of someone else he was vaguely acquainted with. In some way, he supposed, it was the truth. “A boy is given wings fashioned from wax and feathers. His father warns him before they fly, says the work of his mortal hands is no match for the sun’s might. But the boy’s head is too full of pride and arrogance to make room for the old man’s words. So he flies higher, so high the sun is close enough to touch, and he thinks his father is a fool. Then the feathers scorch, the wax melts, the wings come apart, and the boy falls, and keeps falling and falling and falling, until his fall is broken by the merciless, or perhaps merciful, waves.”

He laughs, a shrill and rickety sound, hands clutching his arms. “But the boy doesn’t drown. Whitby. He doesn’t die. He doesn’t die.His father’s enemies find him broken, washed up on the shore. They take him, what’s left of him, rearrange the pieces, all the while deaf and blind to the boy’s agony, and once he’s made into an image that suits them they stitch him back together into something… something.”

The surgical objects, the clinical, sanitized torture, every face in the room looking down at him cross his mind with each blink. It threatens to choke him, overwhelm him, but he tells himself the story is almost over. “They graft new wings on the boy’s back, a pair of black, awful things so dark they appear to swallow the light around them, and they fill him a new purpose the same way a snake fills its prey with venom. The boy lives, but at the mercy of others. Strung up like a puppet. Played with like a doll. Disposable like a toy. The boy lives, Whitby, but the boy is hollow.”

Before he can catch his breath, collect himself, drag himself back from the past, he hears Whitby utter the name.

“No!” A wordless cry tears its way up Iscariot’s throat, a wounded, ragged pathetic sound, All pretense of composure thrown to the wind. His face twists, indignant, snarling furiously before a violent sob escapes it as his fingers curl to claws and wings give a single, threatening beat. “No, stop, you can’t– ”

But Whitby continues. The phoenix’s sincerity hurts in a way Iscariot almost believes is intentional. Whitby couldn’t possibly be so blind so as to think this husk, this shadow’s shadow housed any fragment of Hyu– of him. It’s punishment. It must be. For breaking his promise. For being alive but hollow. But Whitby looks at him so earnestly, so full of hope that this whole mess is one measly heart to heart away from fixing itself…

It’s too much.

The weight in his chest suffices to bring him to his knees, Iscariot can’t bear to raise his eyes and watch Whitby speak his name like a judge announcing his guilt to a slobbering mob ready to rip him to shreds. So he curls in on himself, eyes screwed shut, muttering weepy, rambling apologies to names with half a face to them through the hands covering his trembling head. The phoenix falls blessedly silent at last, and when Iscariot dares a peek through his fingers he’s met with Whitby’s gut-wrenching earnest display of good will. Of course this phoenix would jump at the first chance to help anything he considered a friend, braving the risk of an ungrateful jaw snapping shut on his helping hand with the gentlest of hearts. Of course he’d do this for him. For a friend who’s as good as dead. Someone who doesn’t deserve it.

Iscariot yelps. flinches as though he’s been hot iron branded. He half crawls half scampers away backwards from Whitby like the phoenix has given him the fright of his life until all that’s left between him and a lethal plummet to the ground is a couple stacked bricks at the edge. “This is it! Drill that into your head.” he spits out, hateful, like a forced confession, “This is all that’s left of the man you’re looking for. This raven is what lives when he should not..”

A wing falls protective over his body, hiding him rather ineffectively beneath a blanket of pitch from Whitby’s compassion. Iscariot’s shoulders slump, and he looks, and sounds, very suddenly, exhausted. “Does Whitby see Hyuntae in this one? Can he really, truly, call what he sees by it?” Iscariot’s eyes glisten with tears, a thin line of blood trickles down his mouth from where he bit his lip in his distress. He tries to smile again. “Anything worth addressing by that name in this raven is gone, Whitby. Please. The sooner he accepts that, the better for both of us.”

While the wound was by no means fresh, it burned him all the same. The shame. The guilt. For all his memory failed him day in and day out, it kept every detail fresh as though he could still taste the ash upon his tongue. And the thing before him could read it plain as day. Got in one. How much of it was--

There is no It and Hyuntae. They’re one and the same. The world keeps on changing while you stay still, grow old after you put down roots. 

His palms grow hot, the spark of fire dancing just a breath away as he breathes in deep. He hates that the thing that wears his friend’s face revells in this. Seems to find some sort of sick satisfaction in his pain. Hates that he’s so easy to read. 

You’ve gone soft. 

As if he had any idea of who he used to be to gauge before and after. 

“It was your sanctuary once too.” he says instead, a hair above whisper soft--the pain of a wound that had still not healed.

Would likely never heal. 

Until he forgot about them. Like everything else. How many other tragedies had he witnessed? Play a part of? Woke up in the ashes of another life shed, reborn to the overwhelming stench of death? Maybe his ailing memory was a kindness, something developed to deal with so much loss. 

A broken mind, curiously mirrored by the other across from him. A state not developed by age but by trauma as his horrid story spills forth. His chest feels tight. His shame grows tenfold. I should have been there. I should have been able to do something. Another weight strung to the shackles at his feet. A low anguished whine, tempered by clenched teeth. There’s no pity. Because the horror devours that. Along with something so curious.

Anger. 

How dare they. 

How dare they.

These people. These monsters who claimed to be anything but.

The light sparks further at his hands, they curl into fists as liquid flame drips from between clenched digits to the ground underfoot. At least, for the moment, it has him holding his tongue. His anger swallowed back, like his sorrow, like his pain; his guilt, his shame. His gaze left to behold the thing--no, to behold Hyuntae as he breaks down further. As the massive black wing forms a barrier between them as though it alone would be enough to keep the phoenix at bay. 

No. As if to force feed the truth to him further; so often did he play at being blind--this new chapter was--was he supposed to be disgusted? He remembered, brief flashes, hard to grab hold of; slipping free--failing memory, head trauma stealing precious things--

Please. The sooner he accepts that, the better for both of us.

He unclenches his hands, shifts forward--the distance for the other’s benefit more than his own. Like a cornered beast (be wary of teeth, be wary of claws) the flames remain burning, near white--too pure when at odds with the darkness of the other’s wings-- his name, at the tip of his tongue, more a bullet than a way to address. Lips pressed thin as he stops his approach, out of arm’s reach, but what’s an arm to a being of the sky? “I recognized you,” he says softly “You’ve still got his…” he falters and crouches down “Your face. I ain’t never forget that.”

He keeps his voice soft. Said cornered animal, something wild; poisoned. Trapped. The pain that rolls off the other, so palpable he can taste it. It’s a bitter taste. Still, he swallows it anyway and something in him croons. Seeks to soothe. To heal. “I recognized ya’ the moment I saw ya’ old friend,” he doesn’t look away from the sliver of his visage that he can see and reaches out where his hand--devoid of flame, of light now hovers over the inky feathers “I can fix this. I can...I can help.”

Whitby doesn’t touch. Doesn’t bring himself to cross that line no matter how much he aches.

“Please let me help.”

[snakerps]

gxldhearts‌:

“It’s nice to know you remember my name.” 

The familiar sneered from where he was trying to keep himself upright still. His chest was heaving, scraggly hair falling in front of his dark eyes. He had figured he would be hard to recognize but the witch hit the nail on the head pretty quickly, though Dante hadn’t been too stingy with the information of who he was.  Those had been pretty obvious clues. 

The expression he had seen though, it had evoked images of the man he had loved, the man who was clearly no longer the one standing before him anymore. This cutting accent, the hair, the gun. Hell, even the stance of the man was different than what he had used to. Time had changed and warped his witch. Though, he guessed Jason wasn’t his anymore. 

A brow rose at the accusation. He hadn’t slung a hex, he hadn’t even casted magic. All of his magic was supporting his life right now, Dante had no means to do anything but try and keep his body going at this point. The frail body was shaking, and it was visible. He was like an unstable molecule, barely hanging on in a almost volatile fashion that was painfully obvious. 

“You used to call me special.” 

He threw it back in the blonds face again, using the same pattern, his words against him. Dante’s dark eyes were narrowed, jaw flexing as he tried to figure out what to say. His plan had failed and now there was a weapon pointed at him. If he was hurt too much more he wouldn’t be able to recover. 

A hiss left the mans mouth as he dipped his head, letting the black hair fall forward and try to hide his face, an arm raising to aid in that as the light burned him. Light, he hadn’t been bathed in this much light in years. Honestly, he looked a mess. Tattered, bloody and dirty. A large part of Dante was regretful he had let Jason even get to the light, but there was no going back about it now. At least there would be no mistaking who he was now, even though he was malnourished and unkempt, he was still Dante. He would be undeniably recognizable now.

“Dead?” This brought surprise to the familiar as he dropped his arm, just openly gaping at Jason for a moment. “Is that why you never came for me?” Even with the gun pointed at him Dante was taking short steps forward towards the man he used to love, a conflicted look on his face. “You thought I was dead? All this fucking time? Didn’t even question it? Just went: oh yeah he must be dead for sure. I’ll just move on with my life, forget he existed and leave him to rot.” His voice rose with every question though they ended up framed more as accusations. 

The conflicted expression had turned back to the rage that was what Deacon had opened his eyes to a few moments earlier. “Your blood can fucking die for all I care.” He spoke of the witches family. “They kept me for years trying to get to you, you fucking prick. I went through hell and you didn’t do jack fucking shit.” His voice wavered with the burning fury. 

“How self absorbed are you, Jason?” The steps advancing towards the blond were quickening. “Too pretty huh? Well I’d love to see that pretty body on the fucking floor. It’s only right with all I’ve gone through for you.”

Tears. They were starting to prick at the familiars eyes as he lurched forward to grab at Deacon again with his newly fueled rage.

Deacon didn’t like letting people in. More often than not, their bodies were laid at his feet. Their blood, on his hands. The kind of thing he didn’t usually mind. Deacon, Jason, whoever he was--was saturated in blood. Heavy on his tongue, staining his teeth as he grinned wicked as sin. Chaos. He lived, he thrived in it. He was not made for a quiet life. Domesticity. The idea of it, a funny little fantasy to pass the time in between one breath and the next--chasing a high that was getting harder and harder to reach every day. Be it from his magic, or his own mind; he didn’t know.

But there was one thing he did know.

Dante had died. 

That great, yawning chasm inside of him had been more painful than anything else he’d experience. To wake up and just be...empty. A hole, a hunger he tried to fill with numerous sins. Vices. Nothing worked. Ain’t nobody supposed to wake up from being dead.

His magic was a boon more often than not, a curse only in passing jest that he could not truly reach the high he so desperately craved. To forget. If only for a moment. A sneer again, his rage plain as day--this joke was starting to get old. When was the punchline coming? 

His finger hovers over the trigger as if waiting, temptation; the bullet would be that then. What about your answers, boy? He spits and retreats backwards. Wanting to look anywhere but at--

Is that why you never came for me?

Is that why you never came for me?

“Wha--”

It’s like a punch to the gut, and he’s been hit low more times than he cared to count. He reaches for that connection, comes up empty. He reaches and reaches and reaches and reaches--

There’s nothing there.

Fucking empty inside. 

Dante (?!) approaches him, malice twisting his features and there’s only so far back he can retreat as he continues to reach, to scrape at his insides “There’s noth--” he shakes his head, his free hand going to his bare chest, blunt nails catching on tattooed flesh to dig--to tear, wounds that heal; knitting themselves back together with only a momentary spark of pain; a burn “There’s nothing fucking there!”

His voice cracks, desperate. This fucking ghost. This fucking--

His back hits the wall and he moves alongside it, keeping as much space between them as possible. Despite a new hunger. A want. A need to close it. “Dante died when I died.”

The words, his most closest kept secret. 

His heart beat steady and strong in his chest, his blood ran through his veins healthy and clean; despite the poisons he desperately sought to pump in at an attempt to feel something. Despite everything he did to his body. It was healthy. It was whole. It was alive. 

His gun lowers, drifting downwards and he wets his lips though no words come forth. He averts his gaze. All the shit you’ve put up with so far and you’re gonna let some fuckin’ spook do ya’ in now?

Is that why you never came for me?

Jason drops his gun.

It clatters to the floor underfoot, useless. 

“Weren’t how things were supposed to go but,” he lifts broad shoulders in a helpless sort of shrug, his usual levity vacant from the exchange “But ain’t nobody can control what happens when black magic is slung at an aircraft carrier, not even me.”

Especially not me.

A sigh as he finally,finally looks back to the vision before him. Tries not to look too closely or else a pain so intense grips his heart. He rubs at his chest absently, free of any wound he’d tried to inflict prior while looking for an answer. Though the blood on his fingers is still warm, thick under his nails. “Not even him.”

Not even you. Lingers atop his tongue. 

Maybe he’d finally attained the state of bliss he chased damn near every day. Maybe he really was talking to Dante’s ghost. 

The thought almost makes him choke. 

But…

The things he said. ‘Bout his blood holding him hostage, a plaything to seek out Jason...that wasn’t a surprise. That could explain…

That could explain…

He looks to him now. Because he can’t help it. As though caught in his orbit, he shifts forward minutely. Tempted to go forth and steady him like the better man he ain’t. His hands flex uselessly at his sides. The only thing he’s left with, the only answer is the obvious. And his shame weighs heavy about his neck “I….” he wets his lips feeling half his age, hell feeling like anyone but himself “I don’t understand,” plain honesty spoken in a pained breath; a whispered secret he was afraid to share as he looks at him.

Lost. 

“I died. You should have died too.”

[snakerps]

hey if i owe you a reply and you're still okay with me replying after all this time please like this post.

i am going to be coming online today after work.

i apologize for not responding prior but i was just getting accustomed to a new full time line at work prior to the pandemic...and now said full time line is an essential front line job so i have been incredibly busy.

but, writing is a major source of comfort for me and i miss it greatly so!!! yes i will be online after work around 9am EST for a couple hours before bed!!

[snakerps]

i see a darkness // whitby & hyuntae

[snakerps]

hollowedteeth‌:

He still dreams of the farm.

It often comes after the nightmare-memory of his family. A hundred years of a gently guided journey to adulthood, where the soft earth caught his falls the times a father miscalculated the reach of a fledgeling’s wings, the rare anxieties soothed by a stern but understanding mother who taught him pride, taught him why, if given the choice, he should die rather than lose it. A brother and a sister pass by the dream, too. They love him. They are loved by him. Even in their goodbyes, even though he will forever bear his brother’s farewell on his back in the marks that betray claws once flayed the otherwise unmarred skin, even as they swear to treat each other as rivals should they cross paths again. He loves them. He is loved by them.

The dream is beautiful, and he despises it precisely because of it. Only in dreams is he tempted to long for the life of a dead man. The dream ends. Another begins.

The next scene vastly differs, but the warmth remains, still, the same gentleness in a different shape, in another voice, in a handshake with a man as old as, he suspects, the written word. The man’s– no, no, the phoenix’s words, that was important, that was the whole reason he agreed to stay, for back then he’d have only allowed a phoenix, gloriously immortal and clad in the sun, to address him so casually and with such familiarity.

Could be that’s why he’s able to remember so well. The memory sharpens, cuts the dream, more details enter the picture. The phoenix’s face, though still blurred and hazed by the lens of the past, focuses. Iscariot can almost recall the exact timbre with which he commanded peace without commanding at all, relying on the authority innate to the immortals, trusting in bonds, friends, in the found family that resulted from prolonged exposure to both.

If he ran into this raven, Iscariot thought, before wakefulness washes away what-ifs and regrets like a wave, he might have to kill him.

He already dreads having to close his eyes and seeing him again.

Iscariot wouldn’t really call what he does ‘sleeping’. Sleeping implied rest, not watching a kaleidoscopic, repetitive adaptation of half remembered flashes of a past life (the only life he should’ve had, says a dying remnant of sanity). Perhaps it’s not just reluctance that drives him to test the physical limits of his broken body, of depriving himself of rest until he has no choice but to collapse, of starving until he was so hungry he couldn’t think, of stripping himself from the luxury of feeling. It’s something else. Something spiteful that survived the watch’s purge. A delayed, self-loathing response to his servitude, born out of a need to punish himself for his inability to fulfill a promise: Die before you’re humbled.

But that’s enough of that. Patrol now, self-reflection later.

Iscariot was, however, quite mistaken in thinking that he’d have a say on when and which ghosts would come back to haunt him, in this, of all stages of his life,

He hears him before he sees him. Ever smiling, ever calm and composed, like a clockwork doll with every part moving in perfect, synthetic harmony, Iscariot turned around to watch a spectre from someone else’s memories come to life in a fumbling, clumsy run. A phoenix… the phoenix was here. In London, A long way from home, all alone, far from his community, (Did he leave them behind? How unusual.) Unknowingly, gleefully, approaching one of the Night Watch’s terrible boogeymen full of the meekness that stemmed from guilt, as though it’d been him that moved on from that farm, and not Iscariot. The phoenix stops, just shy of arm’s reach, and opens his mouth before Iscariot can,

Then he says it, speaks his name like a question. Iscariot hears an accusation. Who are you? Why didn’t you die? A couple syllables is all it took to encompass his greatest shame, an identity he shed so he could bear to continue living as a rott. His treasured pride, surrendered, all because he was too weak to pry his claws from where he’d sunk them into life. Why didn’t you die, asks the phoenix, asks his mother, asks his father and brother and sister and anybody who ever knew him. Why didn’t you die, Hyuntae? Why didn’t you die? You promised you’d die. Iscariot gasps, stumbles, bends over like a man who’s been shot, takes one step back to regain some semblance of balance while his hands fly up to cover his face, head shaking. Humans would notice, and stare, and if they knew what was good for them they’d leave them alone.

Then the grief gives way to anger, indignation. How dare the phoenix say that name, how can he stomach it when the creature before him clearly is not who he thinks? The phoenix mocks him. The phoenix, too, knows he should have died. Iscariot looks up at him from between his fingers, wide eyes near brimming with tears. Why didn’t you die?

He barely remembers to process anything the phoenix said beyond his name. Iscariot hisses, “What does it look like?”

Quick as shadow, while he had the advantage of the first move, Iscariot struck the side of the phoenix’s head as twin nightmares grew from his back. He didn’t want to cause any real damage, only stun him enough for his clawed hand to grab the collar of his shirt and take to the sky with him, battering onlookers with gusts of air.

Iscariot knew he was flying on borrowed time with a phoenix in tow, especially one this old and with undoubtedly more than one trick up his tacky denim sleeve. Once the surprise wore off, a fair one on one fight had high prospects of ending poorly. He flew fast, sacrificing greater altitude for speed, until he spotted some high rise’s rooftop garden and figured they’d just have to put up with whatever consequences his impulsive actions brought. Iscariot brusquely let go of the phoenix before landing himself.

A memory hits him like the phoenix hits the floor tiles on the roof.

”That’s right… Whitby… Whitby… Why…”. He practically chews the words out, tone dissonant from the twisted, grimacing mouth that says them. Iscariot tries again, straightening his back, positioning and repositioning his pitch-black wings as if fidgeting. In a few breath’s time, Iscariot transforms into a smiling, bladed tool again. “Whitby called the name of a dead man. The raven Iscariot is speaking to you. Do not–”

He closes his eyes. Breathes in. Opens them again. “Do not make that mistake again.”

Hands folded, the predator glint is back in his eyes. The instinct all griffins are born with, and exacerbated by the raven process. “Why has Whitby come to London?”

What does it look like?

He doesn’t want to say. He doesn’t want to give voice to anything further and exist within limbo. A momentary regret. Would it not be easier if it had been another moment of mistaken identity? His ailing memory to once again take the blame. Then again even if the griffin before him were a stranger (is he not? Is there not something amiss?) the pain that radiates off of him is palpable. Maybe that’s it. His own bleeding heart will be his downfall yet again. There’s an aborted step forward, it’s instinctual; to comfort, to soothe--anything to lessen the burden the other carries. Another question begs to be asked, is it my fault? But it finds no voice, the speed at which the other moves is not wholly unexpected.

The blow is.

It’s not the first time he’s been hit in the head, certainly won’t be the last; he’s sure. Whitby’s memory is already a grab bag at the best of times and there’s a burn of shame that simmers on low, distracting him just enough that he barely notices they’re airborne. He’s lost his hat in what he’d shamelessly call a tussel, and he knows without a doubt that it’s the last he’ll ever see of it. A shame, he liked that hat; it was old and well worn--and he’d once had a dozen others but that was his hat first and foremost and the only reason it’d be spared from the slaughter was because he’d left it behind in his truck.

The ringing in his ear has not subsided, his teeth grit as his hands grip tight to the forearms of his friend the man that bore them upwards. There’s a call for a rebuttal, a demand for the palms of his hands to grow white hot and burn away flesh and fabric alike.

It doesn’t happen, and he hits the rooftop flat on his back with a grunt of impact and a rush of air from his lungs.

Whitby had never shared his true form with any other before, it was a whole other way of being laid bare. Akin to bearing his soul and while he wore his heart on his sleeve; it wasn’t the same. Suffice to say, it had been an awful long, long time since he’d been airborne. Let alone crashing down again like this.

But, it’s not the first time he’s been knocked down; like the head injury...it likely won’t be the last.

He’d seen Hyuntae fly before, Sanctuary’s remote location often called for unique forms of travel of those capable. And what he saw in glimpses, slivers that threaten to spill from his aching head--were wrong. He scoots back along the ground, until his back hits some concrete cropping and he uses it to stand. Palm landing flat in dark soil but he does not dare turn away from the sight before him.

The monster that wears the face of his dear friend.

He pushes strands of blond out of his face, and blinks rapidly as if to clear his vision and...and set things right.

And then The Thing That Wears Hyuntae’s Face speaks his name.

The phoenix may not remember all that he has seen across his many, many years of life but he knows, he knows he’s looked upon his fair share of nightmares with gritted teeth. Some still haunted his sleeping hours, hell; he was still walking off the remnants of the last episode. The ash, the ichor still coats his tongue; weighs down his lungs. Dark as the blackness of the other’s wings (they're wrong, so very wrong) and his voice drives spikes of ice into his being.

Iscariot.

His lips twist but a sneer does not come. Only confusion. Hyuntae had spoken of family once, of siblings; perhaps all this really was a case of mistaken identity. He knows your name. It’s childish of him to want to stick out his lip and say or what? “It’s your name innit?” he says instead, some unspoken instinct keeping him from testing his luck; though away from prying eyes he still knows if this were to come to…

To violence.

Then it would be a spectacle.

He is without a weapon. All his gear, all his supplies, left behind in his truck and all he’s got is his flame. And his wits. They would have to be enough. But he’s getting ahead of himself, The Thing That Wears Hyuntae’s Face is steeped in an air of malice. He calls himself Iscariot, he has named himself and asked you to say…

He attempts to regain his lax air, arms held loosely at his side “I came looking for my friends,” he answers because it’s the truth while also keeping...vague “Haven’t spoken tuh some of them in awhile figured I was due to visit.”

It’s worth noting that...he doesn’t include just how long it’s been since he’s seen them. That most of them have passed. That most of them are also...missing. He wants to say, you’re one of them, you’re one of them that has been missing that’s gone; even though you’re right before me. “Your wings,” he says “What happened?”

It’s easier than asking…

No, no he can’t hold his tongue “What happened to you?”

There’s a punchline here, just waiting; even though he’s well aware that the other was not one for such things. Beneath him. Some survival instinct tells him to keep his distance but he ignores it, in favour of taking the first steps towards closing the distance between them. His hands flex, open and closed as if ready to...fight. It’s that instinct again, keeping him on his toes. “Couldn’t it just be that I missed ya’?” he offers and adopts a crooked grin that lasts only a beat “Which is why I’m gonna say I probably deserved that.”

The blow to his head, the quick beat to the rooftops. His hat.

“But, com-mune-eye-cation,” he drawls slow “Is a two way street ol’ friend.”

And that’s where he leaves it, standing once again out of reach--acutely aware of the wingspan; the violence with which The Thing That Wears Hyunate’s Face is capable of without hesitation “Hyuntae,” he says ignoring that screaming something inside of him like nails on a chalkboard “Your name, Hyuntae Yang, ya’ drilled it into me how important it was that I remembered it.” he points at him, the gesture sharp “This ain’t you. An’ if ya’ wanna throw down over it, work out whatever nasties ya’ got kickin’ ‘round inside…” he opens his arms as if going in for a hug, the gesture wide and open; a clear invitation “I’m ‘ere fer ya, Hyuntae.”

[snakerps]

i see a darkness // whitby & hyuntae

@hollowedteeth​

It seemed since the mysterious group set his home ablaze and left the earth to rot heedless of all the life that once flourished there; Whitby’s life had gone to shit. Loathe as he was to be a pessimist, so often did he spend time battling such thoughts between moments of clarity...he sits in his truck, crossing out yet another name with one quick red strike of his pen. He tries not to let his mounting frustrations get the better of him, on edge of such thoughts is a powerful sadness that leaves a sour taste in his mouth with every name crossed off.

He’s paid for the minimum parking sum of half an hour, his walk to the brownstone and subsequent let down had barely scratched three minutes. So he...decides to take a breather. Something of a generous title for it as he rests his head back against his seat. He closes the book and tucks both it and his pen away in the pocket of his jacket. He had dozens of names left on the list. Some, he didn’t even recall the faces of and he was…

Losing hope.

It was a terrible feeling.

Had the names crossed out on the list met a fate similar to Sanctuary? Or had time simply claimed their lives. Not every species was immortal, though a generous sum of those that populated the list did have lengthened lifespans...he’d not left himself any notes for the earlier entries. Only the later pages had a date of meeting and date of departure. As if he had finally taken notice of his failing memory. Pinching the bridge of his nose he let out a sigh, it feels heavy; like the weight that rests on his shoulders.

Rolling his head to the side, he stares out the window to the streets. Despite the hour, the streets were terribly busy. Then again, he hadn’t been around an urban center like this...ever before. He feels distinctly small. Unimportant. His truck seems cartoonishly large amongst all the small compact cars of the city, maybe he’d feel more at home in yet another rural community--he’d seen photos of English villages...memories of similar scenes make his brain itch. He scrubs at his beard, the bite of blunt nails against his jaw as he closes his eyes against a memory that threatens to overtake him.

There’s probably a professional somewhere that could help him with this proper.

But I don’t have time for that.

He almost scoffs aloud as he drops his hand to his lap, funny that; all he’s got is time. Not right now ya’ don’t. He looks outside again in a vain attempt at avoiding the obvious and it’s only just that he catches a glimpse. But, it’s enough.

Hyun.

A face, the face of a friend that he remembers; the memory does not escape him--does not drift through his fingers like smoke. He’s already out the door of his truck, all but slapping his hat back upon his head and slamming his door as he goes at a jog through the crowd. He’s distinctly foreign in a way that is almost American--head to toe denim and flannel and heavy workboots eat up the distance between him and the griffin as something so very much like excitement bubbles within.

Perhaps it clouds his judgement. Silences the warning sirens that warble in his mind at something is wrong. One hand keeps the hat on his head and the other gently parts the crowd before himself with the odd pardon, excuse me, excuse me; though their time together had been brief and the other had been about as partial as a cacti in bloom--the warmth was real.

His name was too far down the list, he’d not thought about him; and that makes him feel guilt most powerful. It happened, it happens. He had had an awful lot on his plate after all. When had they last spoke? What had they last shared? When had he last seen the other in the flesh? He could not recall the touch of the other’s hand in his (his customary handshake) time is ever so cruel old friend, I’m sorry I’m sorry. Maybe the other had heard him coming, maybe something else had nagged at his mind like whatever it was that was scratching at Whitby’s brain like an over eager feline friend.

Whatever it was...whatever it was it had him slow his approach; his budding smile (warm and fond) and his arm coming up in an aborted gesture to touch to make certain the other was real.

Something was wrong.

It was subtle. Like looking through a foggy glass. Was his memory truly so wrong? Had he misplaced the pieces? His hand atop his head holding his hat in place slowly lowers to his side, alarm bells chiming in his head; some long ago honed response to danger. What danger was to be found standing here before his friend? It’s an itch between his shoulder blades, a cold breath at the back of his neck and he shifts his stance while confusion wars with relief--birthing forth caution “Hyuntae?” he says, asks it more like a question than the greeting he intended, spoken in a vocal just above a whisper.

As if something was keeping him from giving further volume.

He clears his throat and tries to recover, floundering internally and his smile isn’t quite the same. Senile in your old age. He aims for levity, falling flat even as he speaks “It’s been awhile...are you...alright?”

The feeling is still there, creeping up his spine with one cold claw; a warning, something deeper within him (a bird’s cry) begging him to leave, to run, run far away before...before what?

[snakerps]

@gxldhearts​

What are you doing man?

It was a sentence he’d been steadily repeating in his mind for the better part of the entire day thus far. Along with the ever faithful companion: do you really think this is a good idea?

Yes, well no. But he tried not to think about it too much. A part of him also wondered if perhaps he was going a tad overboard. Dressed in his crisp dress blues, gloves, hat, and all he knew he cut quite the imposing figure. It was the kind of thing you didn’t do unless for ceremony, both good and bad. Of course one did dress as such for the odd gala but he didn’t attend so many of those these days, if his mailbox had his way he was certain he’d be attending one every other day. 

But this was almost equally important. 

The eight by eleven simple white sheet of paper was held with care in his gloved hand, or rather it was carefully filed inside of a folder held in one white gloved hand. Just to be sure it reached the intended recipient without error. 

The document in question?

A terribly childish yet joyful artistic piece done by his niece who had been over the moon by the good doctor’s kindness towards her. Sure, TC had just about been skinned alive by his brother when he and his wife arrived off a red eye but the whole ordeal, in his mind, was well worth it. Yes, yes he felt incredible guilt and the depth of the pain he felt knowing that his blood suffered while on his watch was...crippling. But it was the eye opener that they needed, he didn’t ask too much about the private lessons her Father had given here over the course of a week; had something of an idea they were eerily similar to the kind his own parents had tried giving him a long, long time ago. 

Of course, he hadn’t expected getting to the wondrous Doctor MacCabe would be an easy feat. Especially arriving as such (and he so hoped his presence here didn’t cause the doctor any trouble) but this was just a tad ridiculous. It was easy to don his public mantel, to glad hand and speak with those that approached. Far harder to slip away from their attention after obtaining the room number he needed, he was told MacCabe wasn’t in his office just yet; busy with something or another but that as soon as he was done...they’d send him his way. This was all spoken with something of a conspiratorial smile, TC grimaced; sorry dear Doctor I’m afraid I may have landed you in some kind of hot water with the local gossip mill. 

Well, it was some kind of comfort to know that the hospital was nearly identical to the police precinct in terms of word of mouth. 

The office was closed, locked too he found out after trying the handle. So he propped himself up against the wall adjacent before just...sliding down it to sit upon the polished floor. It was probably terribly poor of him to seat himself on the floor in his blues but, he rests his arms on his knees and rests his head back--he was the police commissioner, which meant he could do what he wanted in this regard. 

It was longer than he expected before the male’s scent reached him, perking him up some in place and he turns his attention down the hall towards the source. He offers a wry smile from his seated position “Good day Doctor,” he says and begins to climb to his feet with a muffled grunt of effort “I hope I’m not pulling you away from anything. I promise, I won’t take long...could we speak in your office?”

Once standing, he brushes himself off with his free hand. Uncaring if his gloves are sullied by the act before he holds one hand out “I...hope you remember me,” cause I sure as hell didn’t forget you “Reyes. TC Reyes, I was here semi-recently with my niece, Elise?”

[signspin]

me on the dash every 5 minutes:

[rpshopkeepers-blog]

WHAT LOW ACTIVITY & SLOW REPLY MEANS:

it means i want to be here, i really do 

it means that i have, whether i like it or not, more important things to do than roleplay at the moment

it means that replies are going to sit for a moment

WHAT IT DOESN’T MEAN:

that i care any less

that i don’t want to talk / plot with you

that you aren’t allowed to IM me or ask for my disco

Sometimes Tumblr has to take a back burner, and that’s fine! Roleplay will still be here when we get back. So take that day to yourself. Don’t worry about drafts. Don’t worry about how “slow” you are being. Everything is okay!

[gxldhearts]

Just seeing the glitter shed onto the expensive fabric made her face light up in glee. She was a tricky one, always liking jokes and pranks, especially when aimed at Drake. Her smooth talking, immortal Captain covered in craft store glitter. It was worth everything to her. It was her little gift to herself, she always loved to do something to mock him at the holidays. 

Her glee only grew as he opened the package. She had known him for hundreds of years and had most of his idiosyncrasies down pat, this included his taste. While it evolved as the centuries did many things remained true, his love for the sea and his love for rarity. It was what had led to her finding those.

They were perfect. Heather considered herselfJquite the collector, hell she had a vault in Switzerland filled with her finds over the years. Sometimes it paid off to be sentimental. Hell her first sword as part of Drakes crew was in that vault. 

Her little secret was that anytime she saw something that would be of value to Drake she picked it up, there was a whole corner of that warehouse vault that was dedicated to her captain, to her best friend. She gave him them every once in a while, but bigger finds like these cuff links were left for holidays such as this. 

She waved off his words with a scoff. “Kelly and I made a deal years ago.” Heather said like it was common knowledge, ignoring that Kelly had told her to keep it a secret. During the month of December Heather had access to one of Drakes most expensive credit cards and she flashed it all month long to get what she wanted as payment for this thoughtful gifts.

Drake was not a mystery to her, she knew he did not think of gifts in the same way she did so it wasn’t like it hurt her feelings. Though the vampire was not delicate anyways. She was strong and had thick skin, it was what had kept her as his right hand girl through the centuries.

  “I mean, if you’d like to give me more I wouldn’t be opposed.” @snakerps​

[snakerps]

Gifts were like the finest of wines to the demon of greed, and fine wines may make a mighty fine gift but this spoke of something deeper. An additional layer of value added unto the gift from the clear thought, the clear knowledge of the recipient included. Rare indeed was he, to feel touched by this. Uncomfortable in a way, or it might have been had the gift giver not been one whom he’d spent more years with upon this earth than off of it. 

Kelly and I made a deal years ago.

He makes a sound of interest that doesn’t quite temper his mood. What kind of deal? How had Kelly kept it from him all these years? Dark eyes narrow in thought as his hand curls tighter round the delicate, soft box in hand and holds it close to his chest (as if afraid another party might steal away, brave yet foolishly so). He did feel some echo of guilt banging around his chest, evidently Heather had taken some degree of care in selecting her gift for he and he just...doled the task out to a lesser soul to do for him. 

It wasn’t as though he didn’t think of the vampire, quite the opposite really. He thought about her an awful lot. An awful, awful lot. He liked to think it was simple due to the length of their relationship but even he was not so foolish to deceive himself such. Drake knew that what he felt ran much deeper, the kind of deeper that demons ought not to feel. 

Must have been the original Drake’s influence hanging over him still. 

A wry smile pulls at his lips then at her parting words and he leans forward, closing the space between them to brush his lips against hers in a simple gesture of open affection. “Rare as it is for me to say my dear, name it; and it’s yours.”

Within reason lingered upon the tip of his tongue but...he managed to swallow it back, like a bitter swill; because twas not some random scalawag he was promising such to...it was Heather. His Heather. “Shall I have a shopping trip planned for us then?” he quirks one brow, thumb gone back to idly smoothing over the ornate clasp “A stay at the finest hotel for the weekend to accompany such?”

[snakerps]

heathenmicah‌:

The bathtub and walls echoed back every little sound to him, the rasp of his own voice, the gentle rustle of clothes anytime he shifted, and ten feet across the room and beyond the solid wooden door, the thud of a mostly human party. It was bizarre how quickly he had detached from the hypnotic social swing of it. Even the rare few supernaturals in attendance and those in the know didn’t seem too shaken by the video. Was he overreacting? His relationship with fear was so twisted up and strange, and he wasn’t scared exactly, he just had a gut feeling that only a handful of people had picked up on how truly ominous it was. The music changed, from a pulsing beat that was danceable and bouncy, to something softer. Some B side from a Top 40 princess that he listened to without remorse, usually only when he was high and needed piercing imagery and soothing notes. Only muffled sound reached through the crack at the bottom of the door, but he knew the song, so his traitorous brain filled in the lyrics and the words stuck to his ribcage. I don’t want to look at anything else now that I saw you. I don’t want to think of anything else now that I thought of you. Been sleeping so long in a twenty year dark night. But now I see daylight.

Fuck, why was he lying to himself? Pretending like he ever planned to stay away. Sterling had gotten under his skin. Now he just had to figure out what he wanted to do about it. How much trouble he wanted to kick up to be able to keep this amorphous thing with Sterling.

“Right. Extremist groups are run-of-the-mill, Special Agent Sinclair,” he practically drawled, putting a little extra spin on the title that Sterling himself had used when he first picked up the phone. He had given so little thought to the ins and outs of what Sterling did for a living when they were together, but now it was painfully obvious. Dangerous, complicated, and a little hot. He had so little agency as a human, very little to offer besides a few trinkets and some blood and he had already offered it all. Although if things escalated, he would have to be a little more persuasive about it, especially if feeding from Micah gave Sterling a competitive edge and more protection.

When either of them could get caught in the crossfire at any second, it was easier to let himself sink into the moment, to forget that they weren’t just two people with chemistry and no complications flirting. Especially not when he could hear the note of affection in Sterling’s voice. As if Micah knew how to do anything but fuck and chase after a demon. But. That last meeting at the hitman’s lounge seemed to have shifted their footing for good, irrevocably. Perhaps his chasing days were over, but it was also possible he had pushed too far and made a very powerful supernatural enemy. “Wealth, status, good looks. Sounds like you’re just bragging, but sure.” When he listed off all the ways that he wasn’t an easy target, Micah felt better, settling further into his bathtub nest with a gentle sigh. “Are you alone? I mean. I know you have your sire. Are you the only one he turned?” Did vampire siblings carry the same weight as normal siblings? And he felt fairly certain that it would have come up if Sterling had turned someone himself by now.

A promise, something tangible he could hang on to. It was enough. He listened patiently as Sterling explained he wasn’t sure how long he would be tied up with the case, digging deeper into the implications. “You shouldn’t be on your phone,” he realized, frowning. Just like that. He should stop talking. If he wanted to see him, he would have to be patient and wait another small eternity, or show up like the trainwreck he was now. Instead he was playing with fire and talking over open air waves, and the vampire was letting him. Again. He made a mental note to cloak everything in coded language from now on.

Luckily they had veered into territory that was practically harmless. Kitchen fires, renovations that maybe held the promise of a longer stay. “I paid for an art degree,” he agreed, rolling his eyes at himself and the giant chasm between what his life was and what he thought it would be. “I think some people would claim there’s a difference.” Micah wasn’t sure when exactly creation took a backseat to destruction for him, but learning more about the supernatural had consumed his entire being for a few long years. The teasing lilt to his voice didn’t disappear as he caught on, throwing Sterling a bone when his words stopped coming so easily. “Yes. I can help you decorate your place.” So utterly domestic.

If only he didn’t have to always drag them back down to Earth. He couldn’t help it. He was fascinated by this man and who he was, and the blood curse that was the only reason the two had been allowed to meet at all. Otherwise they would have lived out lives and died in their separated times, never crossing paths. It wasn’t all just selfish data collection for his own potential turning that felt further and further away from reality with every word. If it was possible to get Sterling’s voice any closer to his ear, he tried, pressing the phone into his skin harder so he could focus on the quiet rasp. He could practically picture the scrunch of his brow, the tension he carried in his jaw and shoulders that always made Micah want to dig his thumbs in until the muscle unclenched, relaxation by sheer force of will.

Best to never be turned, by the sounds of it. Micah knew instinctively that it would unlock a darkness he preferred to leave untapped. But that was a conversation for another day, when it wasn’t so presumptuous to bring up. He needed to know Sterling could stand to look at him without picturing his inevitable death.

“Well. That disease is the only reason I had the privilege of meeting you at all. It’s small, but it’s something. And it’s never too late to figure out who you are now.”

Giving Sterling the smallest whiff of a crime seemed to snap him into business mode right away, questions Micah hadn’t bothered to ask flying his way immediately. Truthfully, he had noticed things had been moved around and he had simply fled until he figured out who it was and what they’d come for. “Really, I just need to know the species. If it’s a demon, it’s honestly more likely to be a friend than a foe. They’re fucking sociopaths, you know? Can’t even drop by without a subtle reminder that lock are useless.” That was the answer he was hoping for. “And I’m not, anymore. Or, I’ve kept what I want from my collection, and I’ve been slowly selling off the rest. Got a bartending gig for a few weeks while I figure it out.” It felt like a lie, a half truth, meant to make Sterling feel better because he wasn’t risky physical harm every time he picked up some new cursed thing. But the bartending gig was a supernatural hotspot that the vampire could view as equally dangerous, even though Micah didn’t.

“Your scent is still there?” Of course his human nose couldn’t detect it, but after all this time he didn’t think it was a possibility. Or a possibility he would enjoy so much.

Micah…the sooner I can come by, the better.

He hummed into the phone, not committing in either direction to buy himself time. “Say my name again,” he flirted instead, voice pitched low as he let his eyes flutter shut. Why was he still hesitant? He knew the answer, he just didn’t feel like digging into it. But he had run out of stalling time.

“About last time.” It had fully become a pattern at this point, Micah having to apologize for the time before at the top of the interaction. But it felt like he had to address it, at least a little, to breathe shape into it so Sterling would know. “I don’t….like letting people see me vulnerable. So I shut down a little, when it felt like like you were trying to take back the feeding, right away. It might happen again. You just have to tell me I’m being an idiot.” He let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, a warm gust of air. Maybe he had been holding it since the last time he had seen the vampire. “I’m fine being your dirty little secret from your sire. I don’t mind being your mid-eternal-life crisis. But I don’t want to be something you regret. So if I’m simply the first person to come along who is very good at pushing your buttons and exploiting your bloodlust, that’s fine. I’d just like to know.”

Was that too much honesty all at once? At the moment he was emotionally exhausted, tired of not having a single person in his life that had all of the information about him. And it felt like the drug had finally kicked in at full force, at the most inconvenient time, making him needy. Maybe keeping Sterling at arm’s length until he had finished his work was an unsustainable plan.

“Need a sanity break from that hotel room?”

He wants to ask him where he is. Where he’s been. But it was a bed of his own making, words twisting up and forcing him to flee take his leave. Regret had set in later. He can just barely make out a distant sound, of music, of life; only faintly distorted by technological interference if he focuses too hard. It’s frustrating in a way, something that he would otherwise consider a boon...hindering him like this. The music he can only just hear doesn’t sound like something he knows, the melody was slow but not the sombre kind of slow that was the tempo he was accustomed to. Maybe his taste in music was outdated but he felt that sort of thing came with the territory, on the other hand; maybe he just had a lot to learn. 

I wonder what kind of music Micah likes…

In that vein, there was an awful lot he didn’t know about Micah. But was very eager to learn. So very much so. He feels on the edge of his seat, a bubbling of nerves he hadn’t felt since he was young. Young and human. He feared the chill of his immortality seeping inwards, the sort of inhumanity he’d witnessed consume many of his fellow vampire fade to. What was the point of an immortal life if you were numb to the world passing you by? He feared becoming such. 

And it was just another way in which he found himself appreciating Micah. The nervous energy that befell him when in the other’s company, the warmth of life that the other sparked in him. Let him forget for but a moment, his nature. Even as his very nature fought to do the exact opposite. To listen to his heartbeat like a predator tracking prey, at the very same moment as said heartbeat brought him immeasurable comfort. Serenity. 

When Micah uses his title however he finds himself standing a bit taller, almost on call and finds the use of it from the other’s mouth...well it does something decidedly funny to him. He’s not sure what to make of that. He didn’t want to correct him, there weren’t his usual jurisdiction but they were hardly anything new. The statement had been intended to sooth, as if the other might be concerned for his well being. He almost scoffs. A vampire had nothing to worry about surely, he doubted the other worried. Though would it really be so awful if someone cared? If someone noticed your absence were it to come to that? He stares down at his loafers as he stands, drifting in thought while still unable to make heads or tails of the general din of noise beyond the other’s location. He’s all too aware of the noise outside of his own windows. 

A city on the tail end of a video full of malicious promise. 

The city was already full of such horror that he truly didn’t know what would come of this. Nothing good, he knew that for sure. He worries his lip with his teeth, sharpened canines lightly sinking into flesh as his brow furrows. Frustration. The open display of emotion for an empty room. What did he have to hide in his solitary state?

Wealth, status, good looks. Sounds like you’re just bragging, but sure.

He huffs out a breath in amusement, brow smoothing as he moves over to one of the floor to ceiling height windows “I don’t think I said anything about good looks,” he murmurs in amusement but preens inwardly at the comment anyway; he wasn’t above it and took pride in his outward appearance to a professional degree “But that is kind of you to notice.”

Nice of you to say so. Bold of you to. But they were already beyond the usual courting song and dance, decidedly modern of him. Loathe did he find himself to let this opportunity pass. To let Micah slip through his fingers, always left wondering what could have been. Soured by the thought, the notion; that the chill he so feared had already reached his heart. 

At the next question he frowns some, one hand coming up to gently nudge the curtains aside to stare out onto the city--the building was tall but he wasn’t terribly far up. Even so, at this hour; the view was marvelous. “No,” he answers truthfully even as something inside him twisted against answering “I’m not the first. Nor will I be the last. I told you, I was selected for my skill set; who I was at my core. He had been watching me for some time prior to inflicting the bite,” it’s spoken dryly in a detached manner though he’s not quite above it all “We’ve all a part to play, a role to fill, and sometimes pieces fall or get taken out of the equation one way or another,” he lets the curtain close as he turns away crossing back over to his desk to lower himself into the chair with a sigh “Why? What good will knowing my tale do you?”

The weight of his words, the emotion in them is refreshing. Despite the exhaustion with which tugs at every syllable as though aimed towards regret for ever spilling such secrets. “My sire is very, very old and very, very powerful,” he says “His reach is long and his goals are lofty.”

No. No he shouldn’t be on his phone but he doesn’t want to let go. His grip tightens on the device in response enough that hears the phone groan in response. Gently he eases up and in a rare display (empty room, alone alone) slouched in his seat. Half reclined back as his legs push back, feet planted firmly “No,” he echoes “I shouldn’t be.”

Not just because of this. This video. His job. But a greater danger, his sire was hardly so ignorant of modern technology and the fear of forever being watched was drilled into his very being. Under his thumb until he no longer had need of him. And then what? And then what? “But it’s a risk I’m willing to take, they’d be more interested in tracing me than you.”

What of collateral? Black mail? A novice could read the fondness in your voice, trace the hour and time of call born from their video. Two and two together…

He closes his eyes. “But it is not a risk I’m willing to let you take.” 

With that, he should hang up. End this. Micah had his current address. And even the knowledge of the building his apartment was in. Even as the conversation drifts towards levity, an art degree...he wondered about that. He wondered an awful lot about Micah for someone he barely knew despite the strong connection he felt. Still the phone remains at his ear. “Thank you,” he says “I was simply going to copy something out of a magazine without outside help.”

And really, was that such a crime? Some of the magazines he’d looked at featured many beautiful homes. Homes. Less so apartments of a bachelor but…

Well. That disease is the only reason I had the privilege of meeting you at all. It’s small, but it’s something. And it’s never too late to figure out who you are now.

He closes his eyes, as though pained. But again there’s no one around to witness. Which is a relief. Grateful. Because he’d thought those very same words before. His curse had brought about many a great thing. Wondrous, beautiful things that were beyond anything he could have ever dreamed of. And sometimes he let himself get caught up in the wonder, those rare fleeting special moments before the sour note crept in. Before he felt the leash at his throat. “Yes,” he says, breathes more so like a confession before the altar “Meeting you has been one of the very best things to ever happen to me since the bite.”

Yes the words were a confession. 

One he did not regret. 

But...he starts to fold it back into himself, drawing it close and returning to the business at hand. The dire situation. Asking after the bar was on the tip of his tongue, but he hadn’t drank a drop of liquor in sixty years. Micah broke your vow from the vein, could he not do the same to your sobriety? Dark gaze downcast he rubs at his furrowed brow “Were I not a sober man I’d ask after the name of the joint,” he sighs, from relief, from exasperation; he doesn’t know. 

He hates how much better he feels knowing Micah isn’t dabbling in the dangerous (and very much illegal) cursed items trade. Again, another factor he doesn’t know enough about in regards to the other. But the kinds of questions that he wished to ask were better done in person, less a chance of prying ears to overhear through a possibly tapped telephone connection. Micah seemed surprised. Of course it was a supernatural factor not many humans took into the equation, another low hum of acknowledgement by way of reply “I also fed from you,” he says and his attempt to keep it as a statement fails as it’s spoken low, a rumble “The scent will be stronger. But not entirely fresh. Perhaps they weighed the pros and cons of testing if I planned to return...if this interloper was indeed not a friend of yours.”

And he had spoken that a demon would be his friend. Did he have many demons as friends? While his own friendships were few and far between...he couldn’t name a demon among them. He served no interest to them, not as a meal or a soul to corrupt. 

Say my name again.

Sterling sits straight in his seat at the request. Ever eager to please “Micah.” 

Speak boy. 

And with this he was awarded clarification. Though it did little to ease him, his hand flexes open and closed over the arm of the chair as he speaks “No...no,” he begins to soothe and he’s back on his feet once again “It was my own hang ups my own…problems with my being getting tangled up with how I felt. How I still feel.” he’s pacing, the nerves are back “I..I-I don’t regret it,” how curious to have Special Agent Sinclair in such a state “You have helped me more than you can ever know and I…” he swallows thickly, slowing to stand in the middle of his room with his free hand tangled up in his hair, such a mess, such a state “I’d like to do it again.” 

He couldn’t comment on all of it. Couldn’t sway to the contrary. Because he would have to be a secret from his sire. Because this was not a part of his role. Connections. Do not get distracted. But he’d take a thousand lashings if it meant he was able to continue...whatever this was between him and Micah. “No one has ever pushed past the first no,” he says “Losing interest. I’ve no interest in casual dalliances which oftentimes clashed with their wants, their desires; so they moved onto other targets. Many of which I’m certain were all too happy to serve,” he drops his hand from his head to rest loosely at his side “To which...I’m surprised you’ve stuck around.”

Perhaps he’s not the only one who feels a connection.

Smoothing down his hair he hesitates before answering “I am open to one,” he shouldn’t be, he should be getting to work--he should be doing a dozen different tasks “What did you have in mind?”

[gcdgiven]

“why haven’t you been more active?”

[cuthalions]

I’m Owen, by the way.

[gxldhearts]

snakerps‌:

The Doctor was something of a mystery to TC. Though he got around well enough in all sense of the word, he couldn’t recall ever really seeing many a wolf in a hospital setting. Something about seeking out adrenaline, some baser feral instinct lending hand to a more exciting lifestyle. Are you sure you’re not just projecting? He frowns at no one in particular as he continues to pick the shards of glass from his shoulder so the wound could closer properly without obstruction. The dull ache of such an injury had faded to background noise, his concern for Elise overshadowing all else. Even the emotions that lingered around Abigail. 

But once he was left alone with the other two, occupying himself with his own injury was far easier to cope with than facing dealing with the serious nature of his niece. His niece who was still sitting, simmering in her roiling emotions with a stubborn pout on her lips. At least Carver was easily contented with the offered sugary treat from the other wolf that all worries surrounding him were laid to rest. 

TC sighs. The final shard falling to the linoleum floor underfoot and he watches the wound finally close before he turns to face Abigail fully. He rolls his sleeve back down as he approaches and folds his arms over his chest, stance a display of strength. Power. She doesn’t look at him. It’s not his place. It’s not his place. Despite his badge. Despite his status and all his power. He’s not her parent. Not even her Godparent, as if you’re brother still remembers clear as day the fuckup you used to be. So he goes for a low blow, the kind of threat that seems to stick more than anything he could try; because she’s just a child, there was still time to reshape and mentor and every other trick he had involved brute strength and violence. And that wasn’t who he was anymore. 

Or at least TC desperately hoped it wasn’t. 

“Once Elise gets back, I’ll be calling your Father.” 

Of course that also meant he had to say that all of this had happened on his watch. And that was a whole other issue he didn’t need to deal with. But he would. Abigail sunk in her seat, he can smell the fear. Fear of punishment. Yet still decidedly clear of remorse. Or if there was any, it was so faint; and likely only felt that doing so would earn a reprimand. Not over the pain itself that her sister had–

Dr.MacCabe had returned with Elise and TC immediately feels himself relax even as he moves over to the pair. Not that he didn’t trust the doctor, he was obviously very capable and Elise and her family trusted him but…pack instincts. She looked peachy keen considering the situation and even tolerated him lifting her up to balance on one hip–the pungent aroma from the grape sucker had him wrinkling his nose some but he was too damn relieved to even care. 

He offers the doctor a warm glance, hand reaching out to clasp his hand over where he offers the clipboard with a squeeze “Thank you Dr.MacCabe,” his lilt is genuine, soft with open fondness and gratitude and he lets himself…linger for a beat further, holding the other’s gaze in a moment that feels…more than it had any right to before he retreats with the clipboard in hand; clearing his throat with a cough “I can’t really speak on future promises as I’m sure as soon as my brother hears what happened he’ll be home ASAP to hand me my own a–” he glances down to Elise in hand “To give me a firm talking to but…”

He wanted to see him again. 

His professionalism. The fact that he was one of them. A wolf. In such a setting. Fascinating. Everything else about him being here for this ordeal had been a great boon. Comforting in a way he hadn’t ever anticipated a medical professional being. Gods know he’d given them enough grief over the years with his lifestyle. But now he doesn’t want him to go, he doesn’t want this particular interaction to be over when he’d only just gotten a taste and–

“I’ll try and bring her by again.” it’s spoken like a promise, an excuse for a want he doesn’t dare give voice to the simple statement; I want to see you again, is swallowed back “I know it’s your job and all but I would really like to grab you a coffee or…something by way of thanks for when that happens, yeah?”

Wells could almost feel TC relaxing as they came into the line of sight, the Alpha’s eyes moving over them and almost making the doctor want to squirm. He steeled himself though, almost grounded by the little girls hand that was clutched his own. She quickly released him in favor of her Uncle who lifted her up without even a hesitation. Wells was almost taken aback by the simple display of strength. He wasn’t around his own kind often, which was done on purpose, and he couldn’t help but be surprised as he had forgotten some of the power of normal wolves.. Especially Alphas.

“Of course.” He says passively, waving the thanks off like it was nothing. Which is was, making a cast was stuff he did in school, it was no trouble at all for him. What wasn’t nothing though was the other mans warm hand clasping around his own and squeezing. For a moment the surgeons eyes went wide as dinner plates, but he quickly schooled himself and just smiled kindly at the other man. He couldn’t avoid the gaze of the other, gulping a little as the hand was just lingering on his own. Wells was like a statue in that moment, only moving to smile in response until finally TC pulled away. 

There was quick nodding as he understood what was happening here, that little girl was in a heap of trouble. Pushing your sibling off a high place just because they were of a different standing. It drudged up memories that he had long forgotten, had purposely forgotten. His heart ached at the moment for his own two siblings. It had been years but he still missed them anytime he let himself remember. He pushed the thoughts of his older siblings from his head and focused on the family before him instead. “I understand.” The smile was still present though for just a minute or two it wasn’t reaching his eyes. 

Wells leaned in though, urged by the memories of not his siblings, but fellow wolves in his youth and whispered for just TC to hear. “Therapy is on the third floor. Dr. Yoon is like us and can help if the little Alpha gets more out of hand.” He almost leaned too close, breath hitting the elders ear before he pulled back, the warm kindness back in his gaze. 

The nodding returned, the other was right he was nothing if not professional. In all honestly he was uncomfortable and terrified, at a very low level. Ever since the unfortunate time that had been his twelfth year Wells had rejected all things wolf, including wolves themselves. And all other supernatural. His hard teen years had created a distaste for all that weren’t human, he assumed they just brought chaos and death with them wherever they went. It was stubborn of him, he knew. But he had taken enough Psych classes to know it was his way of blaming his parents and family for being dead. 

He really should blame the human hunters that killed them, but that was a can of worms he wouldn’t touch.

“I would like that.” Elise was the first wolf that he had enjoyed being around in much too long, she reminded him of all the good sides. She was a regularly spectacular kid and one he wouldn’t mind looking after as many times as she needed. It was children like her that made his job and all that came with it just that much more worth it. 

“I-What?” Wells blinked a few times as he tries to process that. To him.. It sounded like a date? Was he being asked on a date? No, no. That’s not what was happening here. He shut down that thought process and practically locked it away as he tried to regain his decorum. TC was sending him on quite the roller coaster of emotions today. 

“I’m usually quite busy.” He was trying to let him down easily, taking a step back. “I’d love to see Elise if you have the time, but I am usually here.” There was a pause as Wells quickly tried to think of continuation. “Doctors don’t have much of a life outside of work.” While that was true, it didn’t need to be. He had finished his schooling and things calmed down enough, being a surgeon, that he could do things out of work, he was just feeling a bit shy and uncomfortable right now. 

“It was nice to meet you.” Wells hoped he was far enough away by now that TC couldn’t see the blush that was starting to rise on his cheeks. “Please take care. Remember, no getting it wet.” And with that the surgeon turned and retreated quickly down the hall. He was supposed to go to the nurses station but he needed to get out of few, get the man’s eyes off him. His heart probably sounded like a jackhammer. He pressed himself against a wall as he tried to compose himself. 

Oh, he was in trouble with that one.

[snakerps]

Thread End. 

[gxldhearts]

🎁 + surprise me muse wise!!

Send 🎁 for a christmas present from my muse

“You’re silly if you thought I wasn’t going to get you a gift.” The vampire’s lips curled up as she smiled, exposing glinting white fangs. It wasn’t a menacing look, but a warm one as she gazed at the other. She outstretched a delicate finger, hanging off the end of it was a gift bag. The glittery green and red bag swung a bit from her movement. She had purposefully got a heavily glittered one, just so she could see the other covered in the stuff. 

“I’ve heard you mumbling and lusting over this for weeks so you better be damn grateful I got it for you.” Heather was never shy about speaking her mind, especially when it came to someone she was close with. She was fairly meticulous when it came to gifts and to pleasing the people in her life. She would take weeks to pin down the perfect present, not caring if she blew a small fortune on it. Heather had lived long enough to amass a bit of money that she kept in old banks scattered across the world. 

“You can start thanking me now.”

@snakerps

[snakerps]

There was just something about the twenty-first century that made it feel like a whole other plain of existence. Which was quite the feat when dealing with an embodiment of sin that clawed their way out of hell. He hadn’t expected this, torn between snatching the absurdly glittery bag away before Heather could think better of it and…accepting it like a normal meatbag proper. Maybe his twisting thoughts was his way of trying to rationalize this…strange feeling inside of him as he gingerly accepted the bag which…proceeded to shed all over his Armani suit. “Really?” he asks without heat and looks down at the near celestial display spread now across his lap. 

Cheeky. 

He had an assistant for gift giving, from what he understood he was very good at picking out excellent gifts on the Drake’s dime…he never knew exactly what the gifts were and he’d never asked. Maybe he should. But what if it was really, really good and also something you don’t have? It had been a very, very long time since he’d had to fight against his nature. 

Before he can think better of it he digs through the bag to uncover the small box within, dark brows furrowed in confusion before gaze raising warily to observe his companion from his seat. 

It was small, kind of heavy and expensive feeling. The matte black surface was cool to the touch and the clasp holding the box closed was a fine gold thing elegantly carved and his thumb idly worked over the lines absently appraising every detail in the way only a collector could. He thumbs it open and is just…

Speechless. 

Nestled within were a set of beautiful cuff links, fashioned like a ship’s wheel with an ornate detail of the highest level. Obvious care had been put into making each piece, wrought in gold and bronze, a perfect sapphire set in the eye of each piece and he just…stares. 

In some ways he supposed the original Drake had shaped him more than he’d ever thought. He didn’t know where the human ended and he started some days. Maybe it came with age. The kind of hindsight that only the elderly were privileged to. Elderly? Ha. But he couldn’t help it, he’d come into the human world a pirate and had sailed the seas until the bitter end. There was no love and wonder in the practice anymore, just violence and greed. Which was a funny notion to be sickened by, given that he was Greed given form. 

“I…” he runs his thumbs over the velvet interior with open admiration before he quickly looks back up to her, a guarded look overtaking him feeling rather exposed “…What did Kelly send you…?” now wondering if maybe the guy had made him look bad–in that vein he felt a lick of guilt, his oldest friend…and he couldn’t even spare the time to pick out something for her.

He closes the box and holds it close to his chest, seated across from the only living soul who had known him in all stages of his life (minus the stint in hell because only other demons and the damned could claim such) he’s inexplicably…touched. “Whatever it was…it wasn’t enough, thank you Heather.”