#threemoonflowers

[threegoldfish]

@threemoonflowers sent: { DANCE 🪩} // jake to either boy? maybe being silly with them in the living room while the little radio plays Meme || accepting

"...I don't do the whole dancing-thing, Jake. You know that."

Of course Jake does, and yet that little radio of theirs plays comfortable jazz music and the Jake in question is standing in the middle of the room like he's on a stage instead, an expectant gaze within those dark eyes, accompanied by a smirk that's certainly telling everything one needs to know without that man even having to speak out a single syllable; Marc inhales, then exhales, where he's sitting on their couch - and tries to act unaffected, annoyed, as if he couldn't care any less about what's happening in front of him.

In reality, however, he can feel his cheeks heating up as a tingle appears within the pit of his stomach - no matter how hard he's crossing those arms in front of his chest, no matter how much he forces those brows of his to knit into a bit of a lopsided frown, accompanied by what could best be described as a pout.

"---I'm a terrible dancer anyways. I just step on everyone's feet and make a fool out of myself... you wouldn't want any of that, I promise."

Yet Marc is eyeing that gloved hand that is extended to him anyways, waiting for a connection to be made; He swallows, clears his throat, glances to the side while feeling very sheepish here.

Steven's at work, and of course Jake's made some plans (apparently) to have Valentine's day be... well, something instead of nothing.

Cheeky fucker.

"...Yeah, no, I'm no good at dancin'. I'm really not. I suck at it. I really do, yeah."

[monenblogi]

❛  what's so funny? wipe off that smile.  ❜ - @threemoonflowers

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Says she who clearly can’t stop smiling in some vague attempt to bite back a snicker. “But... and that’s a pretty big but...” 

Now it was a bit of effort to go full tippy toe in her sneakers, they weren’t the most comfortable of shoes but one never had many choices when it came to tumbles. Literal ones at that, Layla couldn’t help but pluck the remnants right off the top of Marc’s head. And maybe finally lose the battle, but at least now he looked significantly less silly. 

“Sorry just—the branch was giving you an antennae—” 

[preemptivejustice]

@threemoonflowers \\ plotted

─── ⋆⋅⚖️⋅⋆ ─────────────────

The building was old, Arthur couldn’t help but note. Most things in this area felt that way, old in a way that wasn’t worth preserving; there was little to be fond of, in London. The hallways of the apartment building echoed with the same hollow acoustics he remembered from temples; every step was a soft echo, every creak was an invitation. 

Marc’s apartment was at the top, and Arthur had taken his time with the climb. Using the stairs while the man chose to take the elevator, likely needing to as he worked carrying his items up into the room; Arthur had been watching for all of the morning. It felt as if fate were walking hand in hand with him, offering him such a lovely entry into Marc’s apartment. 

The door being propped open in preparation for the next few boxes was all he needed. He stood in the apartment, now, lit only by the rectangles of daylight that filtered through the dirtied windows. The air was dusty with movement, unsettled by change. Boxes lined the wall, stacked nicely yet quickly; it was a life in transit. 

Arthur didn’t touch anything. None of the boxes, none of the things in the room, absolutely nothing was bothered by his touch; it felt disrespectful to even consider. This wasn’t his space, it was somewhere he was invading - and calmly, he understood that. 

The door moved. He heard it, but he didn’t look up right away. His hands were gently hanging on either side of himself, polite despite the obvious threat he carried alongside himself. His gaze moved slowly, calmly. He was so still that it almost felt as if he weren’t in the room at all. 

Even his voice was quiet, as if he were continuing a thought from earlier rather than speaking to pull attention to himself. “Do you know what a god sounds like, when it dies?” 

There was no rush. No sign as to anything he may be carrying with him, be it divine power or a physical weapon. 

“Not silence. That’s the lie that the living tell themselves, that gods die with dignity and peace. But there is screaming. Not just sound, something beneath it too. A kind of… light, you could say, that you can’t quite shut your eyes to. Something that turns your thoughts inside out, until you can’t remember who you were before you heard it.” 

His head tilted. His eyes were tired, sunken — used. He didn’t belong to himself, not anymore - perhaps he never had. 

“But I do remember. I remember all of it. I remember her voice, I remember her last command. I remember the weight of judgement as it collapsed into nothing.” 

The light caught something beside him, just barely. There was a glimpse of something metal resting beneath the folds of his coat; a shape too square to be ceremonial. Too modern to belong here. 

“You took her from me,” he said, simply. “And I’m not angry. Truly, I’m not. I’m… balanced.” His lips twitched into something close to a smile, though it only flickered across his face before falling.

“But I think… as you put it, it’s your turn.” 

[winters-shadow]

Street Rat

@threemoonflowers

Ok, so...mistakes were made.

Like how he had just been caught stealing the wallet of someone he thought was a pushover from the museum, and who clearly was not a pushover at all, if the way he had been caught was anything to go by.

And he was pretty sure something had shifted in the man's eyes.

"Look, I'm sorry. It's not for drugs. I..."

Adam's stomach gave an obnoxiously loud growl.

"haven't eaten in like..."

He started counting on his fingers.

"Ten days. At least."

[alwaysxinxtrouble]

@threemoonflowers liked for a starter

"I'm just curious, and I'm not judging at all, but I've been biting my tongue for awhile now and I think I've earned some insight here." Clint was leaning back against the kitchen counter, bandages covering his latest injuries scattered over his arms and back. "Why the Colonel Sanders suit? I mean, it's spiffy and all, totally British. But I'm not going to lie, if I see you chasing chickens, I'm really going to start questioning things."

With the sound of boiling and coffee gently pouring behind him, he gave a quick glance over his shoulder then back to Steven. "Coffee? Or do you prefer tea? Do you even have coffee across the pond?"

[threegoldfish]

@threemoonflowers continued from [here]

Jake smirks.

That big guy is what gets him here, has him feel amused, entertained even; Perhaps that man's whole attitude is only adding to it, the way those big yet tired-as-fuck eyes seem to drip with all the damn coolness he's shoved up his ass there, doing good in coming across as suave, collected, firm. It's easy for Jake to spot some attributes sticking to him there - the fact that he's not just another random guy but someone who's got a little spice to him, knows how to handle a weapon, has seen shit in his life.

Interesting. Jake enjoys to take a closer look at interesting things.

A blink, a tilt of a head, a gloved hand that's lifted, followed by a snap of fingers; The bartender's by his side within mere seconds, leaning forward and coming closer, putting herself on display - the sound of her chewing on gum cutting through the music playing, the people talking, as her icy blue gaze lingers on Marc first, clearly checking him out, before it switches over to Lockley.

"---One for me.", he says, basically purrs, smooth and nonchalant, without ever taking his eyes off of that guy he's decided to approach first. "---And one for him. Gracias, señorita."

She hums out a noise, her gaze returning to Marc's frame as she stands, then makes her way back to the bar. Jake's attention does not follow her, remains on his inpromptu guest instead, as he leans back in his seat - and fishes for what turns out to be a cigar being placed between full lips.

"---Yeah." There it is then, an answer given to the unknown one's previous question - unashamed, without fuss. "I keep an eye on everyone who's enterin' this bar."

[threegoldfish]

@threemoonflowers continued from here [x]

Kissing Steven always makes Jake feel a certain way - warm and fuzzy around the beating thing behind his rib cage, solely his now that they're separated, living within their own bodies. And sometimes he misses that fuzzy sensation, craves it...

---Just like he did right now, upon watching the other rummaging inside drawers and shelves, probably trying to sort through some of his stuff; Had promised Marc to take a look at what he actually owns, just to possibly get rid of the really unnecessary stuff, now that all three of them occupy the living space rather than just one of them.

... There's just something so utterly domestic about... this - about watching Steven mumble to himself, putting books from one side to the other, contemplating whether he wants to get rid of that very old looking spoon he's just found; That's why Jake has appeared from where he'd been sitting on the couch, decided to kiss this man - because he can, after all. Can kiss him any time, whenever he wants, nothing stopping him from doing such.

"---Eres increíblemente adorable, precioso." And that's the truth, and enough of a reason to give, no? Jake smirks, gloved thumbs massaging circles into sharp cheekbones as dark irises gaze into equally as dark ones. "...And very distracting. Had to do something about that."

[threegoldfish]

@threemoonflowers continued from [here]

As much as Jake pretends to be a tough guy - a cool, collected one who doesn't need nobody, who can handle stuff pretty well himself, can exist without any form of emotional attachment - he is, quite literally so, the exact opposite of it, somewhere deep down inside himself.

Because he loves it to be close to his partners, loves to touch, to feel, to smell, to taste. Loves to listen to a heartbeat, loves to offer - and receive - all kinds of physical attention. Loves to... love. To be loved. To share his warmth and be warmed in return.

He's soft, vulnerable and very fragile at places most aren't allowed to ever see. Places so deeply personal that Jake himself hasn't dared to notice them for a very long time - ignored their existence, thought that doing such would prevent them from being real.

---However, with him being able to have this - his boys, his lovers, the most important men in his entire life - he has since embraced said softer parts... somewhat, at least.

That's why he's here and why he gives in to the urge to pull Marc against his chest - to claim him as his own, have that arm wrapped around a strong body, hand splaying on the other's stomach, feeling up naked skin, brushing through tiny curly hairs that begin to grow there, lead further down.

Holding him. Feeling him. Melting into the curve of that man's back like they're meant to do this each and every single second of their lives.

You're a clingy bastard, y'know that? anyone ever tell you?

Jake could give a verbal reply to that... but what he does instead is to nuzzle his nose against the nape of Marc's neck, presses lips to the tissue there, one kiss at a time. Slow, unhurried, almost a little lazy - kiss, kiss, kiss.