drifter developing self-regeneration thanks to the void/all that time in duviri and causing mass confusion amongst the hex because lettie could have sworn quincy said they'd been stabbed over comms. mid-mission they got shot a few times out of transference and there's no bullet hole an hour later, just a faint circular scar.
casually shrugging off injury after injury until they can't. a scaldra blade sliced off more than just a line this time. techrot tried and failed to rip through their body and left a chunk missing. their body - not them, mind you - is trying to repair itself, really trying, yet all it can manage is a vague outline of what the body used to be before turning into a mess of void-gunk and silver. and that's if they're lucky.
if they're unlucky? what's an eternity or so of gaping wounds and bleeding to death? the void can only rebuild so much from memory.
{ a/n }: part 1 right here but if you dont wanna read the context is that dude just walked up to reader at the bar. please give constructive criticism i havent written in 4 ever
The lengthy (frankly awkward) pause you unintentionally put the conversation in dawns on you when you notice the corner of his lip quirk up. It earns you the faintest glint of his teeth, and your jaw clenches as you clear your throat to try and ease some of the tension in your shoulders. If asked, you’re sure you couldn’t put a pin on what feeling is looming over you right now. It’s almost visceral. This strange, undeniable pull that keeps the thought of just getting up and leaving far from your mind, as if it's the last thing on your mind. There’s literally no way in hell that this guy is some sort of nightmare made manifest, because if that was the case your survival instincts had to be absolutely terrible. The energy around him feels.. uneasy. Charged and steady, like a volatile electrical current just behind a wall. The dim lights overhead flicker when a particularly loud beat pumps through the speakers, and you swear for a split second that his eyes almost look like they’re glowing.
You suppress a shiver that threatens to rip through your back, shifting on your seat instead to help ease the anxiety from his attention. “Nothing you just… you look familiar.” The response you stammer out doesn’t seem to convince him as he raises his brows a bit and hums. Instead he peers down into his own glass, a dark, viscous drink that almost looks black in the bright blue light behind the barn (it coats the side of the glass when he sways a bit). You don’t remember watching him order one, but you are tipsy. “Familiar?”, he repeats, and he chuckles again. “Don’t get that one too often. Don’t look like it’s a good thing either; you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” You push your hair back from your face. You hadn’t noticed how pallid you felt in here, but when your fingers make contact with your forehead you feel the slight bead of sweat at your brow. “Maybe not. I know I haven’t seen you here before, at least.” The hand that’s propped underneath his chin falls, crossing over his other arm. “Where else you seen me, then?”, he drawls, sounding deceptively indifferent despite his frankly shameless prying.
The way he looks at you makes you feel strangely transparent, as if he already knows what you’re avoiding thinking about, but it seems too foolish to consider that seriously. Sure, something about him is definitely off, but to go so far as to assume he’s a mind reader is worse than the nightmare thing. Still though… you know you’re a little drunk, but it’d be dumb not to trust your instinct. No matter how charming he is with his accent and aloof disposition. “Would it be corny to say my dreams?” He smiles fully now, wolfish and amused as he leans back a bit. “Maybe in worse company.” “I’m just… not sure what else to call them.” You sniff a bit and take a sip of your drink. It’s probably not super normal to tell a stranger this but you’re not the one who started the conversation. “Maybe.. nightmares? Or.. something dirtier?”, he asks, and you find yourself rolling your eyes to shake off the flush. You could surely blame it on the alcohol (or the way his deep drawl draws out the words and settles somewhere deep in your belly without your permission), but something tells you he’d be able to see through that. Not that you’d confirm it, but the way you stiffen up a bit seems to tell him all he needs to know.
“Something like that.” You let the conversation trail off. You’re not sure what he’ll do next, but you don’t feel his presence leave. The track on the jukebox changes and you notice the crowd has thinned a bit, even if not by much. It’s slower this time, a bit quieter than it was a few moments ago. You’re sure you’d feel awkward about the pause in conversation in any other case as he watches you glance around, not failing to notice the way your eyes flit towards the exit. No fear, just keeping an eye on it, making sure it’s visible. Smart. “I’ve been comin’ here since I sailed in and I ain’t seen you once, even though you talk like a regular.”, he says, and you find yourself perking up a bit at that. Sailed in? Hm, you figured because of his accent, but you can’t help your curiosity. “From where? If uh.. you don’t mind me asking.” The stranger waves a hand dismissively as if batting your caution to the wind. “Well, I’m from all over cher. Everywhere and nowhere.” Sketchy. Squinting your eyes a bit at him and tilting your head seems to give you angle to look for something he’s unsure of, and despite his previous nonchalance you see him lean back the smallest bit at the sudden scrutiny.
“Your accent says otherwise. I’ll guess Louisiana? It’s got a little bit of everywhere and is in the middle of nowhere.” A surprised brow quirks at your rebuttal, slight glint of teeth catching in the light overhead. “Clever. You know it?” “Yeah, I got family from there. Boudreauxs.” The smile that crosses over his face doesn’t seem all that wolfish this time around. You can’t help the little flutter in your chest at it, the slight stain to them doing nothing to overshadow just how handsome it looks on him. You want him to do it again, especially when he tilts his head a little bit as if leaning into it.
“Boudreauxs! Look at that, found a little piece of home all the way out here. Where they stay?” You think you catch a hint of something a bit.. flat(?) in his voice, but you shrug it off. You find yourself pursing your lips a bit, trying to remember. It’s hard to keep tabs on all the cities and parish names since you don’t exactly live there, but you do know where your mom grew up for the most part. “Uh.. Lawtell I think.” He sucks his teeth a little bit, still grinning. “The sticks. Ain’t nothin' out there.” You snort a little bit, and despite your prior unease you feel the last of it fall off with the laugh he draws out of you. “Seriously. They have pretty good food and their Mardi Gras is fun. Nothing like New Orleans though, of course.” You bow your head in acknowledgement, and he readjusts in his chair with a grin. “Nothin’ is. No place on Earth like her. These other places got their charm, though. Don’t have any bars underground like this one. On account of the flooding and all.” “Ah, yeah. Not really good for business when your customers have to swim to the counter.” It’s his turn to laugh now, subtle but with a bit of a rumble to it. The beginnings of a slow song cut into the gap left between the conversation, an oldie. You think you remember hearing it in the kitchen as a kid once. Or maybe walking down the street? The dim orange of the squirrel-cage lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling almost seem to sway with the music, casting a warm glow over the dancefloor like an invitation. Pairs of patrons gather around, offering just large enough of a space for one or two more. When your stranger casts a glance at where you’re looking he looks back at you with a tilted head, leaning just over his shoulder in a slightly lower tone. “You dance?”
The question makes you widen your eyes a bit as you look back at him, almost sure he’s making fun of you. The clear tone of harmonization from The Platters’ ‘My Prayer’ almost lures you in like a choir of sirens, and you can feel yourself doubting your ability to resist the pull. You don’t dance, at least up until this point. And when you look back up at him you can’t discern an ounce of insincerity, your resolve waning further. Whether it’s the liquor in your system or the burden of being isolated to your apartment and a mundane routine, you decide you might as well. Hell, when’s the next time an attractive stranger is going to ask you to dance? When was the last time one did? “Hell no, but I’m gonna.” The response makes him draw up from his seat, large hands resting on the counter and chair’s edge respectively as he stands to his full height. He’s.. tall. And a lot burlier than you thought. Was he hunching over just now, or are you a bad judge of size? You could’ve sworn sitting he couldn’t have been that much taller than you, but here you are nearly 5 inches underneath him and feeling awfully small when you’re in such close proximity. A slight heat draws to your cheeks and you find yourself nearly tripping over your feet to get some distance in hopes he doesn’t notice. He watches with interest, and even though it’s not audible you swear his shoulders shake a bit as if chuckling at your surprise.
You scrunch your brow and look away for a second out of embarrassment, but it doesn’t stop him from drawing closer, hand resting just above the small of your back as you both move to the floor. It trails from your back to your arm as you turn to face one another, that tension you felt in the air coming back when you have to look up at him to make eye contact, and you quickly dart them away. The scent of something almost like metal and mist (?) hits you as you draw in, undertones of his natural scent making it so that you can’t really pin exactly what he smells like outside of it being,, him. Dim lights dance him as you move, almost shadowing you and blocking any view of the other patrons behind him. It’s impossible not to focus on him, no escape from the way his hands draw up your forearms to guide your wrists up to rest at his neck. He tilts his head a bit as he draws the left one upwards, almost as if smelling you in turn. Something in his face- small and imperceptible -twitches, and he draws the other one up to meet behind his neck. Your hands flatten just below the nape of his neck, and you feel the tail ends of his hair tangle between your fingers. If the action bothers him, he doesn’t show it.
The slow pull of the music moves you to sway at first, but you feel it’s slow pull guide the both of you into a slow rythm, drawing closer. He’s large, but you wouldn’t quite say that he was ‘warm’. More of this encompassing force that cast his shadow over you as if it were trying to consume you. You didn’t really think about how many drinks you had until you stood up. The room isn’t spinning, thankfully, but the lights do feel a little fuzzier. It seems that as soon as they start feeling too bright his shade alleviates it, your head resting on his chest before you can really stop yourself. You feel something tense almost as soon as it relaxes, almost like he flinched. But your slow rhythm continues, mindlessly letting him sway you as his head goes to rest on top of yours. You’re both quiet, his head shifting. The slight rise and fall of his chest shows you he’s probably smelling your hair, fingers flexing where they are in your hips. His nails don’t rip your clothes, instead poking just enough for you to feel their sharpness through the fabric. Restraint.
tell me what you think im having fun writing these :]
These may suck, but I don’t care, still wanted to share because this trash man has completely taken over my life
His name is Leslie. Someone as cool and roguish as himself needs to have a dorky ass name. I mean come on ‘the Drifter’? There’s no way he doesn’t have a name he’s embarrassed of (also I’ve taken this headcanon so to heart every time I mention him I call him Leslie or Les for short, like, it’s bad)
Middle name Dorian.
He’s a Warlock (don’t @ me but please get out of here with the whole he’s a Hunter bs because he’s not) His whole ‘embrace the darkness’ bit? Literally screams Warlock.
He’s high key a hoarder. Taking in consideration how much crap he has at his tiny little station in the Tower, I can only imagine what his ship or apartment looks like.
He is nearsighted as hell. Say what you will but there’s no way this dork doesn’t wear glasses (this headcanon mainly branches from me wanting to see him wearing glasses)
He’s a momma’s boy through and through. I saw a bounty with him saying he loves his mom and I can’t get the idea out of my head. It’s just so cute?? I can only imagine him being forced to wear the sweater his mom made him because it’s cold out. He can make fun of the too big, sloppily knitted sweater his momma made him, but as soon as a Guardian starts snickering and opens their mouth to say something about it they’re dead.
He’s a surprisingly good cook. Not in the sense of him being the Gordon Ramsay of modern Earth days, more like he can make an amazing and delicious dish out of whatever ingredients he has at hand. All you have on your ship is wormspore and and a couple Hive worms? No problem. He’ll make the best damn stew you have ever had (totally learned all of this from his mom)
He has one of those really loud and obnoxious laughs, like those hard ass laughs that you can’t control when you’re genuinely laughing? That’s him. And he’s always amused by everything so you’ll hear it a lot.
Drifter is an absolute top. No questions asked. He is one kinky man. Definitely not for the faint of heart (this one is a no brainer tho)
I saw some fan art of him with tattoos and honestly?? Totally headcanon him having two full sleeves.
This man sings in the shower. And he’s got a surprisingly good voice. It’s like your own little personal concert if you’re around while he’s showering ;)
we have exhibit a: the cat bite. he loves you, he's gonna bite you, it's gonna hurt for like five seconds, but now there's a drifter gnawing on your arm. no he is not going to let go. better lay down for this one.
then we have exhibit b: the cat bite but it's not a housecat. he hates you, he's actively leaving transference to bite through your goddamn skin, it's gonna hurt for a solid while, and now you have a chunk of arm missing. genuinely i feel like there was an intervention in the mall after he came back with bloody lips and mouth for the fifth time.
