#r.interactions

[polcrity]

open starter || event || red

the beer in his hand gleams green in a way that looks less like beer and more like what comes after a few too many beers. but hell-- a beer’s a beer, right? an ice, cold reprieve from what’s surely felt like an entire month of goose chase after goose chase-- except in red’s world, a step off the treasure map trail means a bullet through the head.

it’s when the sludge-green concoction reaches his lips and he first tastes that sweet ( not sweet ), comforting taste of shitty, overpriced beer that he finds himself a little colder than he just was.

and wet.

very wet.

“Are you fuckin’ serious, man?” 

“Would it kill you to watch where the fuck you’re goin’?”

[ofhatstclls]

“and if you follow me right this way, that brings us back to the great hall and the end of our tour. if you have any questions, please ask someone else because I have more important things to do. good luck, have fun, don’t get too shitfaced,” rabastan said, his unenthusiastic voice barely raising over the excited chatter of all the first years huddled around him. he wasn’t particularly excited about being a prefect, he never had been, but since he hadn’t been lucky enough to be a skilled quidditch player, he had to do something to impress his impossible father. pretending to care about first years for one day was a lot easier than pretending to be able to toss a ball around in the air, and his job for the year was almost done. as the crowd began to thin out, he noticed someone who definitely was not a first year standing in the sea of people, and his lips curled up into a small smirk. “hey, how was your summer?” he inquired of the person standing in front of him.

[polcrity]

red >>> amelia

red [ incoming call ]: Hey, so, I've got some real important business to attend to with a Miss Amelia O'Shea. Would I happen to be speaking to her?

[polcrity]

closed starter || @crimsongodss​ || red

it’s a little weird, having actual seasons instead of just that tepid humidity that follows along the equator. yeah, cuba’s nice for a little while-- but twenty years? you miss the snow, the way your breath clouds around you when you exhale, the shiver in your bones that you can’t escape no matter how many layers you pile on. red may have arrived a little too late for the snow, but he welcomes the noontime run radiating through the flimsy jacket he picked up from a goodwill the day he touched down.

the sight of the pier feels like a long lost dream-- a sight only remembered with the help of his other senses: the smell of the water ( it’s a distinct one, with the gallons of green dye mixing in ), the sound of the hustle and bustle, the cold wind brushing straight through him. the taste on his tongue is the iron taste of nervousness-- or perhaps the blood still seeping from his chewed lower lip-- and cigarette smoke. 

it’s noon on the dot, and all that ol’ red can wonder is if the sound of approaching footsteps should calm him.

[polcrity]

closed starter || @crimsxnsins​ || red and liam

his fingers tip-tip-tap a little rhythm against the side of his thigh as he waits-- it’s not so much the motion that acts as a comfort, but the idea of a song that keeps his heart rate low and the sweat forming on his brow to a subtle gleam that reads healthy rather than nearing palpitations. call him a bit of a wimp and he’ll say hell yeah, buddy right about now. one thing mason taught him, though, was that you don’t back down from scary situations. you embrace them. you learn a little. even if you piss yourself in the process.

the knock on the door is still firmer than he expected it to be-- 

“Hey, Liam, open up. It’s Red.”