Dandelion, into the wind you go. Won't you let my darling know?

Rory. Genderfluid. '98. White. AU (GMT +8) Indie roleplay blog.@museandmutter DNI and Rules Character Cast

[tattlesandtales]

Tattles and Tales

This is an indie roleplay blog, run by an amateur role player who is also an enthusiastic and experienced writer.

DNI if a minor, terf, homophobic, transphobic, bigoted.

This blog has a strong focus on plot and storytelling, and exploring different themes, lore, relationships and dynamics.

Original and Canon characters.

*There will be mentions of triggering subject matters, but these will be tagged 'TW [subject]'.

I was born in '98.

I will not write with people under 20 years old.

This blog is plot based, and is not a primary source to release sexual tension.

Having said that, I can occasionally engage in plot-appropriate smut roleplay/head-canons.

My under-age characters are for exploring troubled childhoods and the relationships formed in youth and how they change as they grow up. I will NOT write smut with my characters under the age of eighteen.

I am happy to age up all my OCs/write them further along in their timelines for your comfort.

I operate with a multi-ship and multi-verse ideology for all OCs.

If an OC has an intro/blurb or is on a character cast list, they are open for interactions unless stated otherwise on the post.

Activity will not be constant as I am a time poor adult in the 21st century.

No expiry to prompts, ships, starters, memes, engagement, etc.

[barry-shillings]

Message me with "Hey there little one" to interact with my muse back when they were a child

[tattlesandtales]

New OC dropped. Meet Max. He's kind of a loser. Let me know if you wanna play with him?

---///---

Maxim hadn't technically been invited to the bonfire on the beach, but that didn't stop him from making his way to the party as the sun began to set. You don't really need an invite to a public place, and events like these usually drew a crowd, but Max had only known about it because a senior on the bus had mentioned it in passing to a friend that morning, and he'd overheard. He didn't know if it was a bonfire the high school kids had organised — and if it was, then he'd find something else to do — or if it was the university kids, or maybe the burnouts, but it could have been anyone and he wouldn't have expected to be remembered long enough to make it to a guest list.

That's what it meant to be Maxim Trudeau. If you're the boy who'd spent his life wandering on the outskirts of everything, you don't get remembered for anything.

It was about a forty-minute walk from his tiny house at the back end of Bluestone to the beach, and by the time his beaten-up white Converse were crunching on the sand of the sidewalk that ran along the top of the beach, the flames were licking up at a black sky. Max could see over the Pennywort and Morning Glories growing in the dunes down to the flat stretch of beach that it was a gathering made up, mostly, of people he knew from school, and he kicked the familiar ache of loneliness away as he picked his way down the dune towards the crowd.

As Max drew closer, he felt the invisible, impenetrable force that surrounded the group build between them. Max had been at school with most of the people there; he could even see a couple of guys he'd been on the swim team with, and Dolly Parkins from the religious school, who had tutored him in math, and Juliana Vidal from the private school, who had bought weed from him a couple of times. More than half of the people there had given him cash to borrow his spare bedroom for whatever they wanted privacy for since his sophomore year. Still, Max's feet stopped moving before he reached the gathering of people. They hadn't wanted him there, and he didn't know how to make them want him there — never had been able to figure that out — so he let the invisible force win again, choosing instead to sit in the sand nearby.

It was a clear night, and this far down the beach away from the busy casino and hotel and the other touristy highlights of the small coastal town, the sky was polluted with stars. Max followed flames and smoke upwards, trying to find the different constellations he had once known above his head. He could barely remember what they were called now, let alone where or what they were, and he knew his mom would be disappointed in him after having spent so many hours teaching him, but he'd not seen her in twelve years, so he didn't really think it mattered anyway. It had once been a cool party trick to know so many of the constellations, even the obscure ones, or it would have been…

Max's eyes were drawn back to the group when he heard Klaudia Vidal laugh. He knew it was her because he'd heard it filter to him in his own room a couple of times when she and Kasper, a former swimming teammate, had hired out his spare room. He found Juliana first, which he supposed was fair considering they were identical, but it didn't take him long to find Klaudia laughing in the sand where she'd clearly just been dragged down by Kasper. Max realised that, despite the pair of them having been at his house together multiple times, he didn't even know how they'd met. They weren't his friends. Maybe that was his fault, but they didn't really allow him to try when they were over.

So, Max stayed at the bottom of the dune a couple of yards from the fire and turned his attention from the smiles to the ocean, the ache back behind his ribs. Max closed his eyes and leaned his back against the sand after only a moment of watching the eerie black ocean, taking deep breaths against the tightness in his chest. The sky smelled smoky and warm, but beneath it was the salt and sand and the earthy smell of Dune Rosemary that would cling to his clothes and skin and hair as much as the firesmoke would.

Someone at the party turned on music, drowning out the pulse of the ocean against the shore and the crackle and pop of the bonfire, and it wasn't even music that Max liked, but it didn't drown out the talking or the laughing. Max heard some people get up and dance, and a glass bottle shattered as it was thrown into the fire, and Rosalind Myers shrieked at Cane Dawson to leave her bikini top alone, and Genevieve Crawley stumbled past Max, begging someone on the phone to hurry up and get there. Max heard a couple of people call out, excited that Tyler Zelnik had shown up and joined the party. A yard or so away, Kasper told Stevie Wolfe, someone else whom Max had competed with for years, to bug someone else, and Stevie replied with some violently slurred colourful language that just made Kasper laugh and, judging by the sound of Stevie's voice getting louder, walk away. Someone, a male voice that Max didn't recognise, asked Juliana loudly how much it would cost for her to dance at the party, which Max thought rather tasteless considering she wasn't at work, and he scrunched his nose up at the stars. Juliana handled herself like a professional, and the party roared to life with raucous laughter and teasing of the man who had asked.

Maxim just shared a smile with the sky.

[tattlesandtales]

Just a lil something I threw together a little while ago. @narrativestutter (you don't need to write a reply if you don't want to but it is about your lil lover boy).

Under a read more because it's over 4k words.

The music, which had been a jaunty mix of Irish pub and American country with fiddles and whistling and — of course — Banjo on the, well, banjo, fizzled out into silence and while everyone applauded Banjo's newest composition, which had obviously been inspired by his Irish mumma and his Wisconsin upbringing, Lemen unhooked her arm from Mack's with a smile. Mona had initiated a circle dance of skipping and spinning from one hooked arm to the other during Banjo's demonstration, and Lemen had somehow ended exactly where she'd begun, her arm in her sister-in-law's.

Twelve years ago, when Lemen first found her way to the backyard she was standing in at that very moment, the idea that she'd one day be dancing and grinning as an almost thirty-year-old woman would have been laughable. Not only had she been an almost fatally ill sixteen-year-old, she'd been violently angry and unforgivingly mistrusting. It had taken years for Lemen to trust the other teenagers and the adults who had lived in Mona's home, but somewhere along the way, they had become her family. For some, like Mack and her younger brother, it was more than just in spirit but also legally, as Lincoln had married Lemen's own brother some five years prior. For others, like Honey and Banjo, it was no more legal than the weed growing in the greenhouse 20 feet away, but even more real than she could have ever expected.

Thank you, Banjo signed after bowing, before putting his oldest possession neatly to the side so he could set up the playlist that he had interrupted for his impromptu performance.

The crowd that had formed the circle dance thinned out a bit as people returned to their half-eaten paper plates left on the long banquet table, or picked up conversations on the porch under the watchful eye of Saxon's two free-flying birds where they rested in the rafters. Saxon, Lemen's twin brother, had gone inside when Banjo had warned him of the string instruments to come because the fiddle was one of the instruments that grated on Saxon's sensitivities more than most, which was why Lemen had given up the violin when they'd left home at fifteen.

She wondered now what Saxon would say, what any of those gathered there that night might say, if they knew that she had picked up the hobby in recent years, playing only for herself and the little girl inside her who had once loved it. The little girl whom Lemen had been trying to heal.

As the music picked up again, this time a song Lemen recognised as being popular when she'd lived in San Francisco and experienced the traumas of middle school, she stepped to the side, taking up post near one of the tall black frame legs so that she could gather two points of her long cream coloured skirt and shove them back under the hem of her simple brown corset. Lifting the skirt like that, making it shorter at the front, showed off the matching soft leather boots she wore, and made the otherwise pirate-y aesthetic feel a little more modern — especially with nothing below the corset other than a sheer, cream-coloured balero. Untucking the skirt had been a conscious decision, so she could throw the ruffles around during the skipping and dancing, but she couldn't help but readjust her outfit to the way it had been intended for the night.

Attached to the four-posted black frame that ran between the raised porch and the banquet table were strings of alfresco lighting, criss-crossed intricately and waiting for the sun to set so that they could be turned on, much like the bonfire waiting to be lit a safe distance into the clearing before the woods behind Mona's began.

Lemen braced herself against the post, remembering a full moon years ago, just before Lincoln and Saxon began college, when Lincoln had run full pelt into the first attempt at an alfresco lighting set-up. The big white wolf had ended up wrapped in yards of black wiring and shattered globes that thankfully didn't worm through his thick coat to his skin, although Lemen still thought it would have served him right for being so stupid. The posts were thicker now, reinforced and sturdy, which was for the best considering it had been Lemen herself and Honey play-brawling with hands and feet that had broken the next attempt, but she stood by the defence that they weren't being stupid like Lincoln had been, they'd just been careless.

"What are you smiling at?" The question came from Saxon, and Lemen couldn't pinpoint when she'd stopped knowing exactly when and where he was in a room at any given time. It was strange, Saxon being able to get close enough to talk at her shoulder and her not realising he'd even come back outside.

"Where di—" Lemen paused to consider the question, knowing the question would get a literal answer from Saxon and not actually wanting to know where he had been during the music. "Did someone come and get you after Banjo's performance?"

"Yeah. Mack came and found us." Us.

Lemen knew that, if it wasn't Saxon's birds, then the us would be him and his husband. She hadn't noticed that Lincoln had gone inside with Saxon instead of watching Banjo, but it didn't surprise her either. She'd watched everyone else in the house bond with the youngest of them over the years, and she'd watched Banjo try to turn Lincoln into a big brother, only for the efforts to slide right off him like water on a duck. At least, over the past two years, she'd heard from Saxon that Lincoln had started helping Banjo with his homework over video calls, that they were beginning to bond, but she couldn't help but wonder if it was too little too late, or if, maybe, Banjo was disappointed that Lincoln hadn't stayed out to listen.

"You didn't answer my question."

Lemen tilted her head at him, raised eyebrows in question, trying to find the question he'd asked, before registering his greeting and smiling again. "Just remembering Lincoln tangled in all the alfresco lights."

It was Saxon's turn to frown, not pleased with the memory, which was fair considering he had been quite panicked seeing Lincoln like that. Lemen wished there had been someone with thumbs conscious to get a photo.

"He could have gotten seriously injured."

"He shouldn't have been running blind," literally, "through the yard after the installation."

Saxon conceded the point without further comment, just a mild incline of his head, and turned his attention to the informal dance floor below the lights as they blinked on one by one. Someone had decided that the orange afternoon had finally sunk into a violet dusk, and even though the sun had not yet completely disappeared below water level, it had well gone down behind the mountains.

"Keegan and Chuck will be lighting the bonfire soon," Saxon mused, then turned to look at Lemen's cheekbone to speak. "I have a feeling my husband will be there, so…" he left the concern to trail behind him as he walked towards the small crowd that was gathering near the fire structure. Lemen watched him go for a moment, but didn't find herself lingering cautiously to make sure he was okay, instead choosing to watch the fairy lights hanging around the porch railing blink on and begin twinkling.

Another girl, a new face in the gathering, was also watching the lights come to life in the rapidly darkening evening. Claire Davis was pretty, like a flower in a bouquet is pretty. Not very striking on its own, maybe not even the prettiest in the bunch, but still pretty enough to have been picked. Long legs, but not very tall. Fit, but not muscly. Soft, but not chubby. Slim, but not skinny. Her hair not quite blonde, but certainly not brunette, and her eyes were, as far as Lemen had been able to tell, simply hazel.

When Lemen had met Claire in Aldi a few days prior, her round face had been open and bright, welcoming and inviting as she'd introduced herself to Lemen, offering to show her around town, having mistaken Lemen for a newcomer to the town that had given Lemen life. When she'd realised who Lemen was, her sweet face had shuttered a little, her arm crossing her middle like a high schooler about to walk past her bully. Lemen had seen that expression, that body language, on girls before when they'd bowed their heads and hurried past her. It had been years since she'd made someone feel the need to protect themselves, and it had taken her aback to see again on a woman she didn't even know. Lemen had realised, before Claire had needed to explain, that she was close to Liam.

Lemen saw Claire shift her weight now, clearly aware of someone watching her, and Lemen turned her attention back to the dance floor before they could make eye contact. When Lemen had run into Liam the day previous, on the street outside Mona's coffee shop, and invited him to the Samhain bonfire that was doubling as her welcome home party (which, she assumed, was why the Lavenders hadn't been invited in the first place), she'd wondered if Claire would be the plus one she'd said he could bring after assuring him his mother wasn't a plus one, but instead had already been invited that morning. Lemen had not been surprised when Claire had shown up, hand clutching Liam's as she walked around the house into the backyard.

What Lemen had not been prepared for was seeing him on the street. It had been ten years since Liam had put his foot down and taken his heart off his sleeve to shove deep under the bulky layers he'd worn for as long as she'd known him. He'd looked so small, hollowed out, a boy grown tired of begging to be loved, and Lemen had told him too many times that she wouldn't. He'd tried before, walked away and told her he wanted more than she could give, had even had a girlfriend for a little while, before he'd crumbled under her hands like limestone turned to dust, settling back at her feet where she could walk all over him again. Every time he'd tried, Lemen would make a quiet bet with Lincoln: "Five dollars he's back in two weeks." "Ten on a month." "Deal."

She could remember the last time, when she'd asked Lincoln, "How long this time?" He'd looked almost pityingly at her before his gaze had wandered away, searching for Saxon like Lemen used to. "Everyone has a limit of what they can take before they break."

Sure, in hindsight, that was probably a lot more about what was going on inside Lincoln's brain, and Lemen wasn't sure now if he'd even overheard Liam's final bow, but the words had rung true, and Liam had never sought her out again.

In fact, the day before, when she'd exited The Crescent Nook Cafe and Bookstore and stepped right into Liam's path, she was sure he still hadn't been looking for her. It wasn't the first time she'd returned to Silver Springs since she'd left with Lincoln and Saxon to follow them to college, but it was the first time she was planning to stay for longer than a few days and hadn't stayed close to the Werehouse or kept her return need-to-know. She was there to stay, she was moving home, and the word had spread like wildfire—and running into Liam's girlfriend hadn't really helped that, she was sure. Still, he'd looked surprised to see her, just like she'd been surprised to see him. She'd heard the quick step of his heart, recognised the nervous shape of his confused little smile, the half-step backwards as if too frightened of what would happen if he got too close to her. The locks sliding home on the walls she'd forced him to build, keeping the conversation somehow even less welcoming than small talk without outright excusing himself from talking to her. She'd not been able to sit with how it felt to see him again until after they'd parted ways, the desperate wish for him to be at the bonfire in his ear, disguised as a carefree afterthought of an invitation. Watching him go, Lemen had been able to register the drum of her heart, the ache in her ribs, the guilt clawing its way up her throat, the sorrow like a seed sprouting roots in her stomach. She'd thought she was over it. Over the hurt she'd caused him. Over feeling sorry. Over wishing she still had him for a friend. At least she could acknowledge it now. Her therapist would be so proud.

Lemen's attention was snagged by Baby, Honey's wife and resident part-pixie of the Werehouse, as she broke away from the dance floor and beelined for her. Lemen raised a curious eyebrow and watched her approach, but not before glancing at Honey to see if she could glean any intention from her about why Baby was on her way with quick, precise steps. Honey was, as usual when it came to Baby, uselessly watching her walk away with no thought behind her eyes other than adoration.

"Hey, you alright? Hanging here all by your lonesome," Baby asked. "Do your feet hurt?"

Lemen, who had been about to reassure Baby she was fine, drew up short and looked down at her feet with a frown. "Huh?" They didn't but the question felt so out of left field, it warranted a question in reply.

"You're just leaning on the pole. I thought your feet were hurting. I was going to remind ya to take ya shoes off," she said with a flashy grin.

"Oh, well, no, they don't hurt. I was just…watching. Preparing myself to live here again, surrounded by the likes of you," Lemen teased.

Baby's grin grew and she put an arm around Lemen's waist in a tight hug. Lemen hugged her back, arm snaking around Baby's narrow shoulders and bending at the knees to rest her cheek against the much shorter woman's head. "We're happy you're back. Even if Honey hasn't said so yet, you know she missed you."

Lemen straightened to look at Honey again, to see if she'd overheard from the other side of the party, but she was sitting on the floor with the little boy who had arrived with Claire, Liam, and Liam's mom, Joe. The little boy had been introduced as Liam's little cousin Zeke, but everyone had been calling him Pip, and he was standing on Honey's thighs to better reach her mop of blonde hair, pulling the curls and letting them go, but Honey hadn't defined her curls in as long as Lemen had known her and all the kid was managing to achieve was even more frizz. Lemen knew Honey didn't care and would spend the rest of the night with Pip if she was allowed, or until Baby returned to her.

"I missed her too," Lemen promised, looking down at Baby who had stepped away from her in her distraction and Lemen took the opportunity to bend down and slide her boots from her feet. They didn't hurt, but half the party was barefoot and she wanted to feel the earth beneath her feet, dig her toes into the land that she'd returned to and called home.

Baby's smile was knowing, green eyes bright and full of mischief as always, and she opened her mouth to speak, but the next song began and the bouncy quartet with the synthetic piano on a fast beat had a memory clanging like a bell inside Lemen's brain and she felt her eyes widen as she straightened.

"Sorry," she said quickly to Baby before moving swiftly to the porch steps where Liam was leaning, watching Honey with his cousin.

Lemen's heart was racing as she bounded up the steps on light feet and slid in front of him. "Do you still remember the dance?" she asked, voice a little breathless and not from running the few yards to the steps. "The dance challenge, competition, thing, at the house party, when we were like…seventeen?" she pressed.

Immediately, Lemen felt stupid for the hope that had lit up behind her ribs and quickly extinguished it. It was over eleven years ago. What had she been expecting? That he'd jump up and say that of course he remembered, how could he forget winning with their silly little dance they'd come up with in her living room after they'd pushed the coffee table aside. Instead, Liam put his hand on his thigh and puffed his cheeks up with a breath he let out slowly, squinting up at her, calculating, thinking, maybe even remembering, and it coaxed the embers of hope back to life inside her.

"I could probably figure it out," he said, straightening up, the nervous smile back on his face.

Lemen grinned, resisted the urge to grab his hand, and ran back down the steps towards the dance floor as Chris Martin's voice crooned out "I used to rule the world…"

In the middle of the crowd on the dance floor, Lemen drew to a stop and waited for Liam to slide into place beside her before she began the dance they'd once created together, tipsy on red soda and high on being teenagers awake at two in the morning, laughing so hard they'd tripped over nothing until they had it memorised.

It wasn't a complicated dance, done entirely side by side apart from a point where she slid right and he slid left behind her, then back they went with her behind and him in front. With a couple of square steps, a silly disco move, turning in a circle while pretending to swing a lasso over their heads, planting their feet and knocking their knees together while they swapped their hands in front of them, and doing a skippy grapevine left and right, the dance was ridiculous and cheesy. The silly competition they'd entered at a house party Liam had been invited to, Lemen his plus one like always, hadn't been about challenging choreography but about fun, about being in sync with your dance partner, and about impressing the rest of the party however you could. The winners were the ones who got the loudest cheer, basically. Lemen hadn't exactly expected to win, she wasn't well-liked and the dance was stupid, but they had.

The dances had been recorded on someone's phone and posted to social media, and Lemen had watched it the next day over Liam's shoulder when he'd come across it, then made him send it to her. She'd watched that video over and over again. She'd never been able to explain what about it had kept her gaze, not even to her therapist, not even to herself, but she could see the short video behind her eyelids when she closed them years later. That video was filed away on a flash drive and tucked away in a small box Lemen didn't open anymore. Still, she remembered the easy synchronicity between them, almost as if they were one mind in two bodies, and it had knocked the breath out of her to see. There'd been a small, private smile only for Liam on her face while they'd danced, even though they'd barely made eye contact, and he was clearly enjoying himself despite the concentrated pull between his eyebrows as he made sure not to mess up.

That wasn't the case this time. Lemen's grin was wide, visible for the whole world if it wanted to look at her having fun, and instead of letting herself worry about what her childhood dance teachers would say about her form, she let herself relax into the music as it fell over her. She kept her attention on Liam's denim-clad legs, making sure she was remembering the same steps as he was, and when he messed up, she reached out with a gentle hand and circled her fingers above his elbow to pull him left. When she messed up, she threw her head back and laughed, leaning into the mistake with her whole chest before finding his rhythm and falling back into step with him. At one point, the claw clip that had been holding onto her thick blonde hair for dear life finally gave up, and she had to catch it and pin it to her skirt before it fell to the ground.

In that moment, all of Lemen felt at peace, buoyed by an unashamed joy, and she laughed again, bright and clear. She was laughing at the teenage version of herself who had been too serious for her own good, too frightened to want anything, so instead she had missed everything. What did she have to show for it? A little box of memories that made her feel too much to look at?

Seventeen-year-old Lemen had danced with her best friend in front of a crowd of their tipsy peers. Danced with a boy who loved her so openly and honestly that he was breaking his own heart. Danced around under strobing disco lights to music playing on crappy Walmart speakers with a broken subwoofer, and she had been more concerned about where she put her feet than where she put her joy.

The little girl inside Lemen, the one that she was trying to heal, danced with her now, free and wondering about the beauty of the lights above them against the night sky, amazed at the genuine smiles around her, and fascinated by the string instruments in the song that was playing.

The teenager inside Lemen was screaming at her not to look at his face. Not to feel anything other than the music.

The little girl wanted to see.

The teenager wanted to run away.

The little girl wanted to dance.

The teenager wanted to shove the little girl so far down, make her disappear, tell her she's a naive and useless little thing and tell her it was all for her protection.

Lemen looked.

Beside her, Liam fell into the last few steps, and she looked at his face, her blue eyes meeting his brown ones. The lighting was softer this time, no RGB strobe lights slashing against his dark skin or harsh white flashes of light making them both blink and squint through the dance. The lights above were warm, slightly yellow, and they turned Liam's beautiful face to gold.

The little girl giggled.

The teenager flinched.

Lemen realised she loved him.

She'd fallen in love with him all at once, the night they'd put the dance together and ended up in a giggling pile on her lounge room floor. She'd kissed him many times before that night, and kissed him many times after, but she'd loved him in that moment without any kisses shared. She'd loved him every moment since. She remembered every time she'd told him she didn't love him and that she probably never would, and the roots growing from her sorrow threatened to squeeze the life out of her heart.

Lemen hoped the grief didn't reach her eyes as the song ended, and she kept a smile on her face as they jumped to face each other for a final, cheeky shimmy between them.

She was breathless again, but not from exertion because it took more than a four-minute dance to tire a werewolf, her chest rising and falling a little too rapidly, and she took a step forward to give Liam a hug that she didn't linger in, holding her breath to not breathe in the smell of him she was sure would crush her lungs.

"Oh, Daisy, thank you," she said softly as she stepped away, doing everything in her power not to search his gaze. Not to look for something she'd once seen in his eyes. She didn't want to see the absence of it now. I love you. "Did you want…I should…thank you," she finished clumsily, unsure what she could even offer him now. I love you.

Lemen took another step away, letting him choose to be dismissed or follow her across the dance floor and away from the porch to the food or the drinks or the fire or even the woods if that's what he wanted.

[narrativestutter]

It had been a long month of over-stimulation after being pulled out of the grave, and the changes to his senses had only just started to settle into something he could understand. He could, for example, now sift through the creaks in the house and the movement of the air, which had immediately overpowered his ears and rendered him useless for weeks, and find the gentle thuds of Murphy's swift feet as he ran into position and then came to a halt.

The most interesting change for him, personally, was that having under control now he'd never been able to focus quite like this. Rune had never been described as easily distractable, and even before they'd stopped his heart he'd been known to creep people out with the way he would stare; but if he could get into a dark corner with those same people now he had a feeling they'd trade this new unsettling experience for the one before in a heartbeat that he could now gauge by sight.

Rune continued his path all but able to see that Murphy was waiting for him behind the wall to his left. And Murphy knew he knew. So it came as a surprise to neither of them when Rune simply leaned against the doorway and rolled his head towards the self-satisfied blonde brandishing a sleeve of garlic right in his face.

“ I banish you, I banish you with garlic. ”

Murphy, for his part, had always been able to grab his attention, and at some early point without his permission Rune even let him hold onto it, but now he truly understood what it meant to zero in. There wasn't a movement Murphy could make now that Rune couldn't track. The rise and fall of his chest. The slight but intentional movement of his otherwise steady hand so the garlic continued to sway like a hypnotists watch. The pulse in his neck. Rune's tongue pushed against his teeth, exploring the point of the now exposed fangs, curling his lip just enough that Murphy could see them behind his lips, eyes unblinking.

“ It's a bit early in my adjustment period to be tempting me with a well-seasoned husband, don't you think? ”

[ 𝙽𝙾𝚂𝙵𝙴𝚁𝙰𝚃𝚄 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟺 ]: accepting. ↳ @tattlesandtales

[tattlesandtales]

One of the biggest changes Murphy had had to adjust to after Rune's death and resurrection was, most likely, the opposite to Rune. Since they were teenagers, and barring their brief separation, Murphy had used Rune's heartbeat for everything. To judge truths against lies, to predict his moods, hear the way his heartbeat reacted to Murphy's presence or touch, and to locate where Rune was in proximity to himself. The thrum of life that was, literally, the heart of his love was gone, and it had been something Murphy had to adjust to. However, he knew that, no matter what the poets wanted you to believe, it wasn't the heart that made up the person or the love, it was the brain, and vampirism hadn't stopped Rune's from working. Despite Murphy's knowledge of anatomy, biology, and mythology, he had no true idea of how vampirism worked, but that didn't mean his husband wasn't still the maddening, mischievous, smart-assed, bitchy, brilliant, beautiful, man he loved.

It did mean, however, that Murphy had to rely on every other sense to locate Rune inside their home. The reverberation as Rune walked silently down the hall, the taste on the air of blood and death and earth that was fading but still clinging to Rune from when he'd been pulled out after his death, the faint smell of hormones being released as Rune's mind switched gears between tracking Murphy to wanting him, and whatever else it was that was going through his mind. He knew Rune had heard him come home and race through the house to wait inside the kitchen, and despite the harmlessness of it all, his own heart rate was kicked up a few notches at the feeling of being hunted and Murphy was grinning and wet by the time his husband came into view. The long, languid, lean frame of Rune leant against the door frame, lazily lolling his head towards him and Murphy was pleased as peach when he waved the garlic at him.

Garlic repelling vampires was apparently one of the myths, but gods Murphy was enjoying poking fun at Rune as they began to sift through what was true and what wasn't. He'd taken this particular sleeve from Mona's house with a giggle and a promise to replace it, and a promise to tell her if it worked although they both doubted it would.

Considering Rune's reaction was to give Murphy all of his attention, and to curl his laps back to show the thin white tips of his fangs with a joke equally threat as promise...it was clear that the garlic was not causing as much of a reaction as Murphy himself was.

"Hey!" Murphy replied, indignant despite his grin, and threw the mesh sleeve over his shoulder where it clattered, hopefully, into the sink. "No feeding on me if you're hungry! Not until you can control yourself," Murphy reminded him. There was plenty of fresh cow blood in the fridge to satiate Rune if he was starving, so that he could bite and drink from Murphy without losing control and draining him entirely.

"However," Murphy said, sliding forward the step that separated them, slotting the front of his body against Rune's where he fit so familiarly you could almost call it home, and tilting his head to the side to expose his neck. His heart was hammering, visibly pounding hard in his neck, and he blinked his big brown eyes innocently up at his husband, looking at him from under his eyelashes. "If garlic won't banish you, I must truly be at your mercy," he said coyly, balling his fists into Rune's shirt. "What are you going to do with me?" And it was all Murphy could do to not grind himself against his husband's thigh and let Rune take over. He wasn't sure if Rune had eaten, or if he was too overstimulated, or even too bored to want to sleep with him. Murphy didn't care if all that happened next was being carried into the woods for them to hunt together, or into the lounge to read, he was just happy to be back home with Rune after spending the day away with his family on edge of town.

[narrativestutter]

It was stupid, but she couldn't help the smile that curled up in response to 'Schrödinger's sneaking'. She was about 60% sure that was not how that paradox worked, watered down by casual cultural usage, and even if it did the idea of applying quantum mechanics to teenage nonsense was ridiculous on it's own. God help her, she might have actually been paying attention in classes. “ Schrödinger's sneaking... ” Orla repeated slowly, voice tinted with amusement as she shook her head.

Darcy raised an eyebrow at her and she raised both of hers in a challenge — not that he saw it; his eyes down at her feet as soon as she'd spotted it. By the time he was done scanning her in what seemed to be her entirety and he met her gaze again, it was her turn to raise one questioning brow. Did he just...? Surely he hadn't...

His words and level gaze settled it. Judging her outfit — not checking her out. Orla hooked the handle of her bottle over his fingers without much thought; the action hasty and a little flustered from both the aftershock of stupidly thinking he might have been ( did she want him to? ) and the new timer set to an invite that was just as confusing. Not something she was going to question, though. In a Looney Tunes style disappearance from the kitchen, the dust shape of Orla was left behind as she ran back to Aria's room to change, sliding a little in her eagerness as she tried to stop in fluffy socks.

Once inside, Orla was considerably more thoughtful of her actions — her brain having caught up with her just outside the door meant she could hunt for her stuff with speed but also relative silence. Phone torch illuminating the floor of Aria's room, Orla had managed to slip out of her shorts and into her jeans impressively one handed as she continued to look for her sneakers. One by her backpack, and the other...apparently overshot in the afternoon kick off and had gone just under the bed frame. With a grin on her face Orla shoved them on her feet and trotted back to the kitchen, spinning with her arms up to display the getup for approval as soon as she arrived. Her hair finally gave up on holding it's loose shape mid spin and she had to catch her hair tie with the same little loss of dignity that chasing a ping pong ball elicited, but the excited energy didn't falter once.

With the tie placed between her teeth as she gathered her hair into a tight ponytail, Orla watched Darcy expectantly for his lead. Despite the fact that she was definitely sneaking out, no questions to be pondered there, this was his ride and she intended to behave.

[tattlesandtales]

Darcy, whose own drink bottle was a re-used plastic bottle from a vending machine on the boardwalk, squinted down at the handle that was slid over his fingers, but before he could ask why girls seemed to insist on these gigantic things to carry around, Orla was out of the kitchen and down the hallway.

Darcy supposed that meant she'd accepted his invitation, and he turned back to the kitchen sink to fill up her bottle for her. After guzzling another mouthful from his hand, leaving her bottle next to the sink, Darcy crept back down the hallway to his room to collect the spare helmet and jacket. Both were a little small for him, bought intentionally to fit a smaller frame such as as Aria if she ever wanted a ride, or a date considering his type was usually smaller than him, but he was aware that they might still be a bit too big for Orla's skinny frame. He left his room, still pondering the situation, before deciding if she put her hair up and did the jacket's zip up she'd be fine. Besides, he didn't expect to crash, he liked living with his body intact, and was hyperaware that motorcycles were called donor-bikes by a lot of people in the medical field.

Darcy was putting the drink bottle down next to the collection of jackets and helmets on the kitchen counter when Orla reappeared with a grin, spinning for her outfit to get approved, but he was distracted by her red hair falling down around her shoulders. He swallowed the laugh at her juggling the hair tie as it flew from her hair, not wanting to wake Ariana up, or Aria if Orla had disturbed her when changing, but he could feel the amusement written all over his face as he waited for her to gather her hair up.

"Perfect," he said quietly, knowing there was nothing they could do about the sneakers because his own spare boots would be way too big for her. He picked up the jackets and helmets, gestured at her to grab her drink bottle and follow him out the side door so they could leave through the gate and not the front door next to Ari's bedroom.

Darcy didn't dare speak again until they were in the garage that he'd opened manually, only about halfway, and they'd been able to duck inside without any groaning of gears.

"Okay, hold up," he said, putting the helmets on the seats of his bike before shrugging the leather jacket on. It was padded around the shoulders and thick around the chest to protect his ribs and organs from impact, and after wearing it every day for over a year, it fit him more comfortably than anything else he'd ever owned. "Here," he said, holding the second jacket out by the shoulders so he could help Orla put it on. This jacket wasn't leather, and it was stiffer from lack of use, but it had the same padding to protect from impact.

"Make sure you do it up, and," he handed her the helmet, "I have a beanie in my bag if this wobbles on your head even with your hair up, just let me know." He was still talking quietly, but while she figured out the chin straps and visor, Darcy put her drink bottle in the bag strapped to the back of his bike.

Once they were both squared away he gave Orla a quick 'safe back pack' talk, explaining that as she was in the backpack position, her job was to hold onto him and not let go, and to follow his body with hers. Under no circumstances was she allowed to panic and try and straighten up if they were in a lean because it would make the bike over correct or imbalance and they'd both be sorry. With the giant helmet on her head, and drowning a little in the jacket, he was able to take the talk serious and not be distracted by anything like he had been in the kitchen.

"Okay, let's go," he said, kicking the stand out from his bike and taking its weight in his hands, muscles tensing. When they were on the other side of the garage door, Darcy glanced at Orla and decided that although she wasn't going to be strong enough to hold the bike upright, she would be tall enough to reach the handle of the roller door and pull it closed and locked into place. "Can you get the door?" he asked, not wanting to have to kick the stand back down and do it himself. "I walk the bike to the Dobson's on the corner before starting it up," he admitted, beginning to walk the bike down the street when she came back to him from the door.

"The Dobson's are assholes to Ari at work when they go in, and if I start the bike in our drive I would wake her, so it's a win-win," he explained, finally not bothering to talk quietly.

Outside on the street, it was easy to remember how early in the morning it was. The streetlights on, a slight cloud covering on the horizon blocking the moon, and no one on the roads. The tarmac was firm from the cool weather, no give like the middle of the day in Florida's summer, and the breeze was catching the curls in his hair, pushing them off his forehead. It was cool outside with his breath leaving little clouds in front of him, and Darcy's fingers were already getting cold, but he didn't mind. The only sound was a little dog barking a few blocks away, and Orla's steps in time with his own.

When they reached the Dobson's, Darcy held the bike steady as he threw his leg over it and got comfortable behind the handles. When the heavy machine was sturdy between his thighs, feet planted on the ground for extra support, he reached into the bag for his helmet and gloves.

"Hop on," he said, gesturing at the stirrup for a passenger to place their feet. "Use my shoulder for support, step there, and climb on. There's another on the other side," he explained, and went about getting his gloves on while she figured it out and got comfortable, and he would have been lying if he said he didn't watch her climb over in the sideview mirror. The bike shifted and rocked under the weight of a second person, but he was able to keep it steady with his legs. Next was his helmet, which he cinched under his chin, and then he unzipped the sheepskin lined pockets in the side of his jacket. He didn't have gloves, and when you're going 110 miles an hour down an open road, the wind loved to whip and claw at your hands as if trying to rip the skin from the bone, so he grabbed Orla's wrists and guided her hands into his pockets.

"Hold on, backpack," he called over his shoulder, then turned the bike on, bringing it to life under them with a loud roar. Darcy grinned, squeezed Orla's wrist with the hand he hadn't let go of her with yet, then took hold of the handlebars.

Darcy didn't give Orla a chance to change her mind or adjust to the thrumming of the bike beneath her, he revved the engine to stir up the Dobson family before lifting his other foot up and letting the bike drive forward. They were doing 80 in a 60 zone before they had even hit the end of the street, and when they got on the main road out of town, Darcy opened the engine up until they were flogging it 120 miles an hour, leaving everything behind.

Darcy drove along the coast for close to two hours, turning around at some point to head back towards Bluestone, but driving right past the sleeping suburbs to take a tarmac road to the beach without needing to weave around the roundabouts or stop at the timed stoplights. It was nearly four thirty when he parked the bike in the empty, circular lot used for the touristy lookout at the top of the cliffs that stretched out next to Bluestone's cove town. Within an hour, tourists would be filling the parking lot to get the best view of the sunrise, and throughout the day they would filter in packs to put a coin in the lookout binoculars to try and see the whales, but Darcy wasn't going to the guard-railed lookout. He locked their helmets in the bag after fishing out her drink bottle for her, then offered Orla the lined leather gloves he took from his own hands now that she didn't have the warmth of his pocket and the air had dropped considerably this close to the ocean.

"There's a little, uh, alcove thing...in the cliff face down there," he pointed past the 'no climbing or hiking' sign in front of the chain. "It's not exactly safe, but once you climb over some rocks you get sand, and it's tucked in enough that if the cliff falls it is unlikely to fall on us. It's a great view without the town in it, and it's quiet and out of view of the tourists. Did you want to come, or stay up here?" he asked. He'd been planning to be out there an hour and a half earlier, planning to sit in the sand and listen to the wind and the ocean and see if he could find the freedom in being still that he loved, but he'd wanted to give Orla the full experience of a ride on a motorbike. He wasn't going to give up his spot it in its entirety for her, she really would just have to wait at the top on her own if she didn't want to come.

[narrativestutter]

When Banjo wobbled and clawed for purchase at his limbs, Lincoln did a startlingly good impression of his older sister as his eyes widened to their fullest diameter.

“ Shit. ”

Lincoln reached in return for the panicked boy, managing to grip him just below the socket of his shoulder and doing his best not to pull the arm out of it. He pushed his luck with a lot of things, he knew, but he wasn't eager to find out what Mona would do if instead of, say, her straightening iron, Lincoln broke her son.

“ Woah, hey, you're good. You're good. ” Was he assuring Banjo or himself? It didn't matter. Lincoln adjusted himself in the chair to lend more of his body length to setting the boy down slowly. Growing as tall as he had was proving useful, if only for moments like this where he could play the role of a crane. Once feet were firmly on the ground Lincoln released him, and took stock of his surroundings for the first time in a few hours — the house was surprisingly empty in comparison to when he'd sat down. Only the Lockridge twins were in sight, and after Lincoln's eyes followed Saxon for a lap of the stairs, he turned his gaze square on Banjo once more.

“ Where are your trusted adults? ”

[tattlesandtales]

Banjo's mouth fell open in a silent squeak of fear before Lincoln had managed to get hold of him, catching him before the pillows completely fell out from under him and his feet were in mid-air. The grip Lincoln had on him hurt, but not nearly as much as cracking his skull on the floor would have, and despite being only six, Banjo was able to grasp that concept and not be mad at Lincoln for holding onto him so tightly.

Banjo nodded back at Lincoln, reassuring both of them that he was fine in return to Lincoln's own reassurances. He was fine, he just needed Lincoln to put him down so he could use his arms to catch him up. However, as as Lincoln had him on stable ground and released him, Lincoln's attention was wondering. Banjo, in exasperation, slapped his hands down against his thighs and shook his head at the teenager with narrowed eyes.

When Lincoln had taken stock of the situation and turned back to Banjo with, in his opinion, a stupid and irrelevant question, Banjo crossed his arms and blinked up at him for a moment to really drive home what he thought of that. After he was sure Lincoln had the message, Banjo, at length, unfolded his arms so that he could use his hands to explain to Lincoln what was going on.

Don't know. Hungry please. Saxon --

Banjo stopped signing to point at where Saxon had stopped running up and down and was lying on his back on the landing with his head hanging off the edge over the step below, his face going very red. Banjo grimaced and lowered his hand, looking back at Lincoln, hoping his point had been made. He run up and down since you sat here Banjo explained, then made the sign for Lemen's name as it had been taught to him, followed by cow today which was why he wasn't talking to her. She was grimacing at Saxon too, but had flounced out the back door before Banjo had even finished telling Lincoln why he had no intent to try and ask her for help.

Sleeping Murphy. Banjo added, and everyone knew if Murphy was asleep to let him have it because, like most of the occupants of the house, he never seemed able to sleep through the night.

I problem for you now. Juice and butter noodles.

Banjo quickly added please and gave Lincoln his best, most angelic smile that made Mona and aunty Bee melt a little, and took a step to the side so Lincoln could get up from the table without hindrance.

[narrativestutter]

It was the most graceful Stevie had been in a while — the little spinning top move to propel them away from the worker's line of sight neither unbalanced them nor had them knocking into another display. Was it subtle? No. But it was satisfying. Their fingertips tapped along the shelf as they listened to Cecily dob their handiwork in, and a small smile graced their lips as they heard the seasoned response of a woman who had been in retail longer than God had been alive.

Stevie looked across the aisle as the older woman diligently searched the shelf for any stray bits, and tried not to think too hard about whether this would be them in another thirty years — ginger hair fading into a wheat blonde thanks to aging under the cold light of florescent shopping centers. Would they still be at Kmart or would they have upgraded to Myer or David Jones by then? The woman briefly locked eyes with Stevie as she passed by, the automatic 'there's a customer' smile that graces Stevie's face all too often on her mouth and not at all in her eyes, and they offered something sheepish back, awkwardly lowering their hands from the shelf and holding their own wrist behind their back. It was a good thing she was in too much of a hurry to catch the admission of guilt, she looked tired of everyone's shit and not in a way that makes you chill about accidents. Stevie could make their peace with working in retail forever as long as they could keep from ending up like that.

It felt very sudden that Cecily was there, unhooking their hand and tugging them forward once more, but they just supposed the warning signs were there and they hadn't been paying attention. Stevie lazily bobbed their head in a surrendering kind of agreement to her words, though their shoulders corrected and their head snapped towards her in sharp attention when she revealed she knew all along about the Christmas Caper of '08. Truly surprising reveal, given Stevie had completely forgotten about it until right now. “ Okay, look — ” they tried to start a defense but were immediately disarmed by Cecily's grin and gentle hand squeeze, so of course they let it drop.

“ The car is fine, she's just like me in that sometimes she doesn't wanna move after being stationary a long time and is probably overdue a check up. ” Stevie kept their tone light because there wasn't a danger of serious mechanical failure, but the looming threat of having to use the Smartrider anyway was definitely casting a shadow on the conversation. They shrugged, keeping hold of Cecily's hand but walking themselves backwards in front of her briefly so they could playfully point at her. “ Which you can't hold against her when you've decided you're okay hanging out with me, so... ”

[tattlesandtales]

Stevie, as goofy and endearing as they were, had always been able to make Cecily grin until her cheeks hurt, and even after years spent apart, it sometimes seemed like nothing had changed. Sure, Stevie walked a little taller now, fitting in their body more than Cecily could ever remember, and they weren't hiding behind the bangs of a terrible haircut anymore, but it was still her Stevie under the loud clothes and disarming cheeky smile. And it was disarming.

Cecily felt a momentary breathlessness as Stevie stepped in front of her to walk backwards and poke fun, staying close considering they hadn't let go of her hand yet. It took her a moment to catch her breath to answer, but she managed to roll her eyes and pull Stevie by their hand back to their side first.

"Well, I guess I can let it slide this time. As long as neither of you are going to break down on me," Cecily said, only just managing to stop herself saying 'again'. They were having too much fun, and Cecily didn't want to risk ruining it by bringing up Stevie's high school breakdown. Stevie might be 'better', but Cecily had a feeling they were still fragile in there and she never again wanted to be the reason Stevie hurt.

Cecily didn't let go of Stevie's hand, but despite walking side by side, she still lead the way out of Myer onto the landing of the food court just outside on the first floor of the shopping centre. Cecily wouldn't normally eat before trying on clothes because she struggled to gauge how something would fit if she was bloated, but she trusted her alteration skills well enough that she supposed she could let it slide this time, and inclined her head at the small waffle shop. The air was thick with the smell of waffle batter and syrup, and it reminded Cecily of when they were little and allowed to get big scoops of ice cream in fresh made waffle cones after swimming lessons at a different store from the same chain.

"You have been so brave," Cecily cooed sweetly, mockingly, but she hoped the squeeze she gave Stevie's hand showed she appreciated Stevie's company regardless of the teasing. "Coming to a shopping centre on your day off, agreeing to help me choose an outfit for your party, and breaking a jewellery box that costs more than entire day's work for you so...let me get you some waffles before we go into the last two couple of stores."

[gloomglimmer]

›       TENSION   LINER   PROMPTS     

"I   dare   you   to   try."

"Do   you   always   get   close?"

"You’re   pushing   my   limits."

"Stop   looking   at   me   like   that."

"I’m   losing   control   here."

"You   have   no   idea,   do   you?"

"I   can’t   resist   you   anymore."

"Stay   back,   or   don’t."

"I   know   what   you   want."

"This   is   getting   dangerous   now."

"You’re   too   tempting   for   me."

"I   shouldn’t   want   this,   but…"

"I   don’t   play   fair,   remember?"

"Careful,   you’re   testing   me."

"You’re   just   making   it   worse."

"You’re   too   close   for   comfort."

"Do   you   always   push   buttons?"

"Stop   before   I   kiss   you."

"You’re   making   it   too   hard."

"I   can’t   stop   thinking   about   you."

"I   want   you   too   much."

"You   know   exactly   what   you’re   doing."

"I’m   not   playing   games   here."

"You’ve   crossed   the   line   now."

"Keep   pushing,   and   you’ll   regret   it."

"This   is   dangerous,   isn’t   it?"

"I’m   trying   not   to   care."

"Don’t   make   me   regret   this."

"You’re   playing   with   fire."

"You   don’t   know   what’s   coming."

"I   shouldn’t   be   this   close."

"We’re   getting   dangerously   close   now."

"I   can   feel   the   heat."

"Don’t   test   me   right   now."

"I   want   you   too   badly."

"Don’t   make   me   chase   you."

"You’re   distracting   me,   you   know."

"I   won’t   fall   for   this."

"I   want   you,   but…"

"What   do   you   want   from   me?"

"I’ll   never   give   in."

"I’m   trying   not   to   care."

"You’re   playing   with   my   patience."

"Don’t   make   this   harder,   please."

"I   can’t   stop   this   feeling."

"I’m   already   in   too   deep."

"You   won’t   walk   away   unscathed."

"You’re   walking   a   fine   line."

"I’m   trying   to   stay   calm."

"What   are   you   doing   to   me?"

[leneemusing]

‘TOL AND SMOL’ PROMPTS

feel free to combine these with dialogue whether it’s something you make up or from other memes your partner has reblogged. 

[ BEND ]  for the shorter muse to tug the taller muse down so they can kiss their forehead. 

[ LEAN ]  for the taller muse to lean down to kiss the shorter muse’s forehead. 

[ LIFT ]  for taller muse to lift up the smaller one and sit them on a surface where they can be eye level. 

[ CLIMB ]  for the shorter muse to find somewhere to perch so they can be eye level with taller muse. 

[ INTERRUPT ]  for shorter muse to stop during the middle of a conversation and stand on a chair/sit on a table so they can be eye level with the taller one. 

[ GIVE ]  for the taller muse to place their jacket around the shorter muse’s shoulders,  the garment essentially ‘swallowing them whole.’

[ TAKE ]  for the taller muse to find the shorter one has ‘borrowed’ a shirt/sweater/jacket etc.  which is oversized on them.  

[ GO ]  for the taller muse to pick up the shorter one and carry them away from a potential/just started fight. 

[ RIDE ]  for the taller muse to give the shorter one a piggyback ride so they don’t have to keep up. 

[ SEE ]  for shorter muse to insist on getting to ride on the taller one’s shoulders.  

[ FIND ]  for the taller muse to lift the shorter one by the waist so they can reach something. 

[ EMBRACE ]  for the taller muse to lift the shorter muse off the ground when they hug. 

[ CATCH ]  for the shorter muse to run and jump into the taller muse’s arms. 

[ CARESS ]  for the taller muse to pick up the shorter one to kiss them. 

[ GIVE ]  for the shorter muse to stand or climb to sit on a higher surface to demand a kiss from the taller one. 

[  PULL  ]  for the shorter muse to tug the taller one down by the collar to kiss them. 

[ URGE ]  for the taller muse to tilt the shorter one’s chin up so they can look at their face. 

[ LOWER ]  for the taller muse to kneel in front of the shorter one so they’re less intimidating. 

[ HELP ]  for the taller muse to use the advantage of their stature to shield the shorter one from something. 

[ AID ]  for the taller muse to pick up the shorter one to lift them over something  (  stairs,  while hiking, a large puddle etc.  ). 

[ INSIST ]  for the shorter muse to guide the taller one to sit so they don’t have to keep looking up. 

[ COMFORT ]  for the taller muse to tuck their chin atop the shorter one’s head while they hug. 

[ MELT ]  for the taller muse to lean down so they can bury their face into the shorter one’s shoulder. 

[ GENTLE ]  for the smaller muse to hug the taller one while they are seated so the taller one can hide their face against them. 

[ BLOCK ]  for the taller muse to stand in front of the shorter one to prevent them from having to see something. 

[ CUDDLE ]  for the taller muse to the big spoon. 

[ HELD ]  for the shorter muse to be the big spoon. 

[ TENDER ]  for the taller muse to kiss the shorter one’s head while they embrace. 

[ GENTLE ]  for the shorter muse to kiss the taller one’s chest while they hug. 

[ REST ]  for the shorter muse to lean forward and press their forehead against the tall one’s chest/shoulder while they stand in front of each other. 

[ TOUCH ]  for the taller muse to lean down and press their forehead to the shorter one’s. 

[ PRESS ]  for the shorter muse to take hold of the taller one’s face to pull them down so they can press their foreheads together. 

[ GAZE ]  taller muse is sitting and the shorter one who is standing in front of them takes their face into their hands while they talk. 

[narrativestutter]

Clink.

Clink.

Clink.

Lincoln's unfocused and heavy eyes tracked his hand as it moved, limply suspended by a set of handcuffs, between the poles on the hospital bed's side guard. He felt rotten. His stomach turned on itself, unable to keep anything else in it besides the activated charcoal layering his insides, and any time he thought about a part of himself it felt...softened — all indicators that the decomposition process had begun without him.

Most of this he knew was a side effect of the wolfsbane; it's toxins having excited his neural and cardio pathways into overdrive and leaving everything in it's wake numb and useless. Part of it, though, was just as likely to be the thoughts prompting him to consume the tincture he'd made in the first place.

Clink.

Clink.

Clink.

Lincoln had been more than prepared to deal with the poisoning process of aconitum before it even reached his tongue. He knew it wouldn't be pretty — convulsions, gastrointestinal distress, arrhythmia, burning of the abdomen — but he didn't need it to be pretty if at the end of it he was dead.

Instead, no thanks to the combined efforts of those around him, it was as ugly as he was alive.

Clink.

Clink.

“ You lied to me. ”

...Clink.

What little strength had been in Lincoln's arms to help him toss his hand back and forth on the rail immediately dissipated as Saxon's voice cut through the monotony. The reaction his mind and body had to that all too familiar sound was...unparalleled. His jaw clenched as he bit back the memory of Honey's fingers down his throat; he'd tried so hard to stop it all from coming back up. His eyes welled with tears for the second time that day; the first having been when he begged and screamed through his own vomit for them to stop as they took his failing body to Keegan. His hand clenched as it had when the handcuffs locked around his wrist, tethering him all over again to a recovery he didn't ask for.

In the background of these moments both past and present, and witness to the warning signs that Lincoln had told him were nothing, was Saxon.

“ You saved me. ”

The accusations of betrayal in their voices were equal.

𝙵𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴 › accepting. ↳ @tattlesandtales

[tattlesandtales]

Despite the murder of his parents and ending up in Mona's 'werehouse' with his twin sister and no contact to anyone else from his childhood, Saxon hadn't experienced grief the way one might expect. Even the murder of his parents hadn't emotionally scarred him because they had been monsters who deserved it. Saxon had never really come face to face with loss. So, the knot in his stomach, tight and roiling, that was making nausea shudder up and down his spine, was a new and sickening feeling. If it hadn't been for the fact that he'd not eaten in over twenty-four hours, watching Lincoln's fuzzy gaze following his cuffs up and down the bed rail would have made him sick onto the floor of the converted veterinary clinic room.

Up and down. Up and down.

Clink.

Drag…

Clink.

Drag…

Clink.

Saxon's gaze on Lincoln was hard and calculating as he tried to puzzle out what was going on inside his head, but he didn't understand and not understanding was enough to cause Saxon distress. Not understanding something paired with the knowing that Lincoln had intentionally tried to kill himself was enough to make Saxon's stomach bubble with this acidic poison.

'I hate you! I hate you! IhateyouIhateyouIhateyou! Just let me die! Letmefuckingdie!'

Those were Lincoln's words, thrown at Saxon as Honey pulled him back into the room through the window he'd tried to escape through when he'd heard them bolting towards him up the staircase. Saxon knew the words were meant for him because Lincoln's, all but unfocused, eyes had been on him when he'd screamed them.

'You are going to be angry with him, but you need to remember that he is in an agony that you don't understand. It isn't physical but it is just as real. Remember that. He is hurting and you cannot be angry at him for that.'

They were Lemen's words. Spoken to him fervently in the hallway outside of the bedroom he shared with Lincoln, while the chaos raged on inside. Saxon hadn't been able to focus on Lemen at the time, too busy listening to Honey shoving her fingers down Lincoln's throat, and Murphy pinning him down and forcing his jaw open while he barked down the phone, all the while Lincoln thrashed and fought and screamed at them all.

What was hurting? Why was he hurting? Why hadn't he told anyone about the pain so that they could help him? Why did Lemen understand when she didn't even like Lincoln? What could be so painful that only dying could fix it? How was causing grief to everyone who knew him the solution?

Saxon didn't have the answer to any of the questions, which was just making the bubble of upset in his stomach worse, and he could feel his eyes narrowing as he stared Lincoln down.

"You lied to me." The words were out of his mouth before he could decide to say them. Lincoln had been saying for days that he was okay, and when Saxon had asked what flower he was playing with on his desk…Lincoln had lied. Told him a different flower. If Murphy didn't have wolfsbane tattooed on his thigh, and if Saxon hadn't felt the need to confirm Lincoln's identification of the flower by asking Murphy what was on his leg, then Lincoln would be dead and not coming out of the grogginess of a sedative induced nap post-suicide attempt.

“You saved me."

Saxon's hands twisted in the stretchy fabric of his sweatpants where they rested in his lap, legs crossed in front of him. Lincoln was angry at him, which just compouded Saxon's confusion and his own anger.

He opened his mouth, ready to lash out at Lincoln and tell him off for being so stupid and selfish, and accuse him of causing a lot more suffering than just lying to him, but Saxon forced his mouth closed and looked at Lincoln again. This was his best friend, the other half of his own mismatched soul, and something inside Saxon broke. Saxon had been holding himself together with frustration and fear and held breaths for hours, nearly a day, but he'd been assured now that Lincoln would live, and Lincoln's first words to him weren't in gratitude but was instead in anger.

Finally, Saxon felt tears well in his eyes. He'd known Lincoln for a year. One year out of his seventeen years of life, but Lincoln had become one of the most important people in his whole world. He'd fought tooth and nail for Lemen to let them stay when she'd tried to convince him it was time they moved on nine months ago. He'd fought to stay with Lincoln because as much as Lemen loved him, she didn't understand him. Lincoln understood him. He made sense to Lincoln and, even better, Lincoln didn't seem to have to try hard to understand him. Saxon thought he understood Lincoln in turn, but clearly not, and that was enough to make the tears fall.

"I saved you, I always do. I save you from any serious trouble," he said, before his tears could choke his voice.

Saxon may have been the catalyst that got the adults up the stairs to save Lincoln's life, but he hadn't been able to stop Lincoln from trying.

When Saxon spoke this time, he was choking on the emotions: the fears, anger, and the tears. "But this time…this time…" Saxon had to take a deep breath in. "I failed you."

Lemen's voice, her words, floated through his head.

"You were — are — in so much pain, and I didn't even know. Linc…I'm sorry for that. I am, I'm really sorry for that, but I am not sorry for Murphy and Honey saving you." Despite his tear-stained voice, he tried to make sure his voice was firm when he spoke the last part of the sentence.

The seam of Saxon's sweatpants teared slightly, and Saxon forced his fingers to release some of the fabric a little, finally lowering his eyes from boring into Lincoln and watching the tears fall into dark stains on the light gray.

[tattlesandtales]

Closed starter for @bellespirits *** Nessa watched Jett hammer the board into place over the smashed window — his punishment for breaking the window being the hard labour to fix it — with her hands on her hips. Jett had never weilded a hammer before, and neither had Nessa, but he was certainly making it work to the best of his ability and Nessa didn't have the knowledge to correct him if he was doing it wrong.

"Do I need to board up all the windows?" Jett asked, the hammer hanging from his fingers with his loose wrist tilted backward, looking less than pleased at the idea that had just occurred to him.

Nessa felt her lips tilt up in a smirk at his disgust, and turned her gaze up to look at the facade of the building. It was run down and tired on the outside, needing more than a little bit of TLC, but Nessa's skills were not up to that. The old brick building had been a dive bar up until a few weeks ago when Nessa had taken over the lease and the regular business, and yesterday she had closed it down for a face lift. Inside the building, Nessa was confident that she could tear up the carpet because she'd already had a look under and seen the gorgeous hard wood beneath, and painting wasn't going to be too difficult. She'd have to renovate slowly, when she could afford it without chewing through the life insurance money from their parents that acted as a safety net to keep Jett clothed and fed.

"Ness?" Jett called, trying to get her attention, and she snapped her gaze back to him.

"No, all the others are in tact and hopefully they stay that way. Besides, I need your help to paint the frames and the doors before your soft little hands give up on me," she answered him, then waved her left hand at the window in front of him. "Get to it, the longer we're closed, the more money we lose, and I haven't even booked the inspections to make sure the place is up to code, or decided on a name to rebrand with."

"I still think renaming the place so soon after taking it over is a bad idea," Jett said with a scowl, but went back to hammering the nail before she could respond. Granted, Nessa didn't have much to say on the matter anyway, so she let it drop.

Instead, Nessa made sure her grey Walmart tank top was tucked into her thrited jeans — neither even remotely her style — and her hair was up in its loose bun to stay out of her face so that she wouldn't get paint on anything that mattered. Then, hesitantly, she bent down to open the paint lid, uncomfortable with her own indecision when she was usually so confident.

"Uh…aren't you supposed to sand the surface before you paint?" Jett interrupted, before she could pick up the can and pour it into the new paint tray.

Nessa paused and looked at him over her shoulder before sighing and straightening back up. Honestly, Nessa had no idea, but the wooden frame was definitely rough and weather worn under all the chipped paint. It would make sense to deal with that before painting so that the new coat didn't just fade into the cracks and look somehow worse.

"I don't kn—" Nessa cut herself off, the wind change bringing with it a new smell. Familiar, yet strange. Another werewolf was nearby, and coming closer. Nessa tilted her head and gestured at Jett to stop hammering for a moment so she could listen for the encroaching footsteps and see if she could sense danger. Nessa couldn't trust her instincts, so despite feeling no threat, she stepped closer to her younger brother to put herself between him and the oncoming werewolf, and tensed to wait. Jett, in turn, stepped closer to her back and she could hear him holding so tight to his hammer handle that his knucles creaked, his heart picking up in his chest to flood his body with adrenaline.

Nessa's own heart was hammering in her chest, but she took a slow and deep breath in to regain her composure and let some of the tension ease out of her body. Being immediately in the defensive would only show weakness, and distrust, and Nessa didn't want to get off on the wrong foot with anyone in the town she was hoping to make a home out of. Especially with the town not being that big. An elementary and a high school, an Aldi, a farm supply store that doubled as a livestock feed store, a handful of eateries and Nessa's bar, a post office attached to a visitor centre, a small sherrif station, a gas station attached to a motel and a fast food joint, and finally a small local library and youth centre with a basketball court was all that made up the main street. Apart from a large apartment block near the only entrance to the town was the biggest physical structure, and the houses around the main road were on small blocks of land. The blocks of land got bigger the further out you went until you were facing miles of farmland where you were lucky if anyone heard you scream. Nessa liked that it was small, she craved community and a sense of normalcy for herself her brother, and she liked that there was one road from the highway to Main Street so she wouldn't have to keep her head on a swivel to feel safe. The nearest city was a two hundred and eighty mile drive back down the highway. From what Nessa had been able to find online, the state itself experienced four distinct seasons, and the weather never got too hot to bother her and her brother's heightened werewolf sensitivities, and it would even snow in summer. Nessa was looking forward to adding a mulled cider and wine to the seasonal menus.

All of the comfort she was dreaming of would melt away if this werewolf brought with them a territory war, or a traditional — and in Nessa's opinion, outdated — pack mentality. As much as she believed multiple werewolves could live comfortably and harmoniously in this world, they were also human after all, she'd been proven to feel alone in that time and time again.

[narrativestutter]

It was always safe to assume that Lincoln wasn't paying attention, but with his cochlear connected to the Bluetooth, and his eyes glued to the screen, you would be hard pressed to get his attention right now. He was sat at the dining room table — one leg tucked up on the chair with him and the other stretched out — the house bustling about around him, and he couldn't pick out a single thing going on if he was asked. Lincoln's focus was entirely on the TEDTalk playing on the laptop in front of him. Sure, it was about five adjacent TEDTalk links from where he started, but he was looking for a little informational overload today.

Surprisingly pliable, his head was suddenly facing the ceiling as it followed the course set by the tiny hand gripping his hair behind him. A couple of tugs for good measure and Lincoln got the message. Don't ignore me. Now in tactile form. His fingers slapped at the space bar as he tried to untangle his curls from Banjo's grip with a head shake — if he was that desperate for Lincoln's attention, the self driven learning course could be paused.

He did learn one thing at least: he was due for a haircut.

Twisting at his hips, arms coming over the back of the chair, Lincoln signed at the young boy.

« What? »

𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂 𝙳𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝙷𝙰𝙸𝚁 › accepting. ↳ @tattlesandtales

[tattlesandtales]

The house that had taken Banjo in was always busy and chaotic, with an open revolving door of guests and occupants coming and going. Trying to get attention when you're as small as he was, with everyone moving a lot faster than he could, and with no voice to use, Banjo had learned within the first year that the best way to get something he needed was to find the person still amongst the storm. That, or stand on a chair and clap his hands and stamp his feet until Mona, Murphy or Honey came to him to help. Unfortunately, neither Honey or Mona were in the house and he wasn't sure where they were, and Murphy was asleep. With Saxon running up and down the staircase while he muttered to himself, and Lemen in a gloomy mood, that meant the eye of the storm at that moment was Lincoln.

Lincoln, zeroed in on his laptop in a funny sitting position and clearly completely unaware of what was going on around him, and who couldn't hear him even if Banjo did stand on the chair and clap for attention. Still, that was his best shot, and he reached out to touch Lincoln on the shoulder with no response. Next thing he tried was touching Lincoln's hand, but he was absently shaken away and Banjo wasn't even sure Lincoln realised he was doing it. Banjo wasn't sure he could even reach out to put his hand in Lincoln's view of the laptop to get his attention the way Mona taught him was appropriate. He could, however, stack up a couple couch cushions behind Lincoln's chair and yank on his hair. This managed to break Lincoln's attention away from his screen, and when the lanky seventeen year old turned to face him, Banjo let go of his hair. Unfortunately, in doing so, he wobbled and the cushions slid out from under him, and with his panicked eyes, Banjo scrabbled at Lincoln's arms over the back of the chair for help.

Honestly, it shouldn't be this hard to get someone in this house to make him some lunch and get him a glass of juice.

[narrativestutter]

Sitting in her best friend's room, scrolling through a thematically inconsistent but always joyous story of four friends that made her heart ache and her stomach roil, Orla thought to herself that she really ought to delete social media. Then again, did it matter if the account making her feel like shit was her own? It would just be her photo app or message history doing the stirring to her emotional waters. Regardless, she sat with her phone propped on the knees she had almost to her chest, and felt sick.

One friend smiling at her from the image had stopped talking to her when it had become apparent she didn't return their feelings and all she was doing was hurting them. Another she had to take a break from because he didn't return hers, and all she was doing when she spent time alone with his sweet face was hurting her own. That left the third friend, unmarred by inter-friendship attractions and untouched by Orla's stupid, messy hands, lying asleep beside her, smile nowhere in sight as she dreamed. Logically the lack of a smile in her sleep had nothing to do with their now disjointed friend group, but she'd made her displeasure known when she'd found out. Orla — the fourth smiling face in all the photos and the crux of the group's disbanding — was stuck awake trying to figure out how to hold the uneven weights of how everyone either felt or didn't feel, including herself.

After reaching for her water bottle and finding it empty, Orla's feet hit the floor and she was thankful for the fluffy bed socks Aria had insisted she put on before they tucked in for the night — she could feel the cold trying to sneak in through knit. The fact she was in pajama shorts and a scoop necked long sleeve shirt lead to an interesting thermal experience as she adjusted to being in the cool night air, but everything important was covered so after a quick shiver she began her journey to the kitchen.

Another thing about the socks she was thankful for — they muffled her steps nicely, helping her pass the other bedroom's in the house with ease. It was kind of eerie, the dead silence in the house, and the small fright she got seeing a figure tip toe around the corner at the end of the hallway did not help that fact. Following carefully —because as her inner monologue had already established for the evening: she was stupid — she was relieved to find that backlit by the kitchen window was just Aria's brother. Folding her arms beneath her chest, water bottle dangling in one hand, Orla watched him somewhat curiously. Did he know? It had taken Orla years to consider Darcy as The Older Brother, stubbornly refusing to believe that he was somehow more mature than her and Aria for the one year that separated them. It was just circumstance that he was older, nothing more. Each year in their teens, however, had felt more and more like a lifetime separated them — he'd always looked at them like they were annoying, but now he often looked at them like he pitied them for whatever they were going through too. He did...seem older. Sometimes he even had advice for them. Most of it unwanted, delivered flatly, and seeing him exiled from the room with the nearest object thrown. But all this in mind...did he know he was a fucking cliche? Watching him splash the water on his face while clad in moody monotones was like watching a Disney exec's idea of brooding older brother — now complete with a motorbike license! — come to life.

He finally turned, and she waved at him from her side, quietly glad to have given him a similarly small fright.

“ Morning sunshine, ” she returned a little too deadpan to be properly playful but matching his lowered voice. Orla was a naturally loud individual, but she knew when to pick her battles against silences. Unfolding her arms, she made her way into the kitchen; gently placing her bottle on the table before leaning her hands on the back of a chair and stretching herself on it, shaking her head at his question.

“ Can't sleep. And you've got a surprisingly light step in those stompy boots of yours, so don't worry about waking anyone else. Aria was also gone when I got up. So... ” Orla trailed off with a shrug as her eyes eyes darted down to the hand on his jacket, then moved the small distance across to his helmet. Her brain did the small jump to the fact he was making an early morning getaway and she barely restrained herself from letting out a whine. God, to be able to just leave. Closest she got to that feeling was coming here, and even then that came with her dad knowing where she was. That was without mentioning that these days it still wasn't quite right. Being in trouble with Aria didn't make it feel like the same kind of getaway that it used to, even if she did her best to not make Orla feel worse than necessary and generally tried to keep her in good spirits. Orla's freshly painted fingers — a dark green Aria had found in her polish collection that felt kind of like a pampering colour — rhythmically tapped against the chair back they gripped, betraying her thought pattern. Her head tilted, already loose bun getting dangerously close to undone with the motion, and she smiled at him.

“ Do they still call it sneaking out when you're eighteen or...? ”

@tattlesandtales › 𝙿𝚁𝙴𝚅𝙸𝙾𝚄𝚂𝙻𝚈.

[tattlesandtales]

The way Orla stretched on the back of the barstool, her slender neck elongated and the scoop of her long-sleeved tee falling forward to give Darcy a view straight down over the pale swell of her breasts. Darcy was grateful for the clock to divert his attention away otherwise he'd have been caught staring.

Darcy was glad that he hadn't woken her up, but he had a feeling she hadn't been sleeping because of what she'd been thinking about, which was a feeling he was all too familiar with. The mention of his surprisingly light feet had him smile again, just a small, amused smirk, again reminded of the comment about straight guys not tiptoeing.

The tapping of Orla's slim fingers on the back of the barstool caught his attention, and in the dimly lit kitchen he couldn't tell what colour they'd been painted, but he knew it had been done earlier that day because her finger's had been clear of polish when she'd shown up that morning. He wanted to get a closer look, see the colour properly and comment of it suited her or not, but he had a feeling that it would regardless of what it was.

The question had him grinning before he could hold it back and he looked up to her face to see her sweet, teasing smile and the loose tendrils of red curls falling around her face. Darcy considered the question, tilting his own head from side to side while he did so.

"I guess, because I am literally sneaking for Ari's sake, it would be sneaking out…" he confirmed, then shrugged with one shoulder. "But I am allowed to come and go as I please without getting Ari's permission now, so… Schrodinger's sneaking?" He wasn't even close to 50% sure if that was the correct analogy, but he couldn't take it back after he said it so he had to roll with it.

It was clear, in every enthusiastic line of her body, and the brightness in her eyes, that she wanted what he had. Freedom. A ride to anywhere. An excuse to leave whatever was going on behind for a little while. Darcy raised an eyebrow at her and looked down at her fluffy socks, trailing his gaze all the way up her thin legs in the cotton shorts pulled around her narrow waist, to the cold peak of her nipples under her t-shirt and exposed collarbones. He couldn't lie, the view had his mouth going a little dry, but he managed to level his gaze to hers before holding his hand out in a gesture at the water bottle and crooking his fingers for it.

"If you have closed in shoes and long pants, you can borrow a jacket and a helmet and ride along if you want," he invited her. "I'll fill up your drink bottle while you change, but be quick about it."

Six months ago, he would have never dreamed of offering to have his little sister's best friend tag-along on anything he wanted to do, let alone on a ride he planned to take to his favourite place in the world to watch the sun come up. Now, the urge to have Orla come along and sit behind him with her arms around his waist made his stomach feel warm and fluttery, and a little guilty that he was stealing Aria's best friend away from her for a while. Darcy also wouldn't consider himself an idiot, he knew at least a part of his body if not his brain, wanted her as close as he could get her, but that part of his body had gotten him into trouble before with people close to his inner circle before and he knew better than to listen. Except right then, apparently, waiting with almost bated breath for Orla to decide if she wanted to come with him.

[narrativestutter]

Bonnie winced from her chair even before Jordan's head cracked against the desk — she could see it coming the way a movie viewer might get foreshadowing in slow motion, but even her little warning “ Ah! ” couldn't curb the inevitable at that point. Checking in on her timer and the light that let her know everything was normal ( and hadn't been re-jostled in the apparent jumpscare ), she leaned forward onto her knees, tip toes gently swaying her to and fro in her chair as she watched him recover himself.

A small smile was brewing on her lips as he hit three whole words in one ad break. The most she'd ever gotten out of him was four on the day they had been introduced and he'd given her the ever professional nice to meet you combo. He was quiet — maybe in general, maybe just at work — but she didn't mind that at all. In fact, his general presence had grown familiar quite fast as a result. It was the only thing around here that was familiar at all, besides her operating systems, and she supposed that was her fault — uprooting your life to move to the middle of nowhere on a night shift routine will, without hesitation, be incredibly isolating.

“ Have a drink with me, ” Bonnie repeated plainly.

@tattlesandtales › 𝙿𝚁𝙴𝚅𝙸𝙾𝚄𝚂𝙻𝚈.

[tattlesandtales]

Bonnie's smile, as it grew on her face, was small and beautiful. Jordan looked down at his knees where they pressed into the carpet, unable to look at her for too long without feeling the blush creep up his neck to his cheeks, which he really didn't want her to see.

When she relayed her invitation to him, a request he join her for drinks, Jordan lifted his gaze to peer up at her with his left eye closed against the light above her head and his nose scrunched up a little in disbelief. When it became clear that she meant it, he opened his eye and nodded his head slowly.

"Yeah, that's what I thought you'd said," he told his knees before looking up at her again. "Okay...why?"

Of course he wanted to say 'yes', he liked her calming presence, and smooth, seductive voice as much as the other local people in their Iowa town. He liked the way she focused at her job, but clearly enjoyed it, and he'd spent months getting to know her without really needing to utter a word. He was well aware, however, that it was kind of extremely creepy and he hoped she hadn't noticed that despite his lack of conversational skills, he paid as much attention to her as he did everything that interested him.

Still, Jordan couldn't just outright agree to go get a drink with her. Not until he knew why she wanted to spend more time with him, and without clarifying if this was intended to be a date. Besides, Jordan had never been on a real date before, just the pre-date to be vibe-checked by his soon-to-be one-night-stands, and he wasn't sure he even knew how to hold a real conversation with people that weren't looking to get in his pants (or his siblings, but they didn't really count). So, Jordan blinked up at her, suspicion warring with curiosity in his eyes, and a nervous blush working its way up his neck against his will.

[tattlesandtales]

sender and receiver cross paths in the kitchen late at night . [ orla + darcy ]

Darcy was so tired, but he was finding it difficult to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the weight of the room pressing down on him. Chest tight, throat closing, pulse racing in his temple. Anxiety wasn't an unfamiliar feeling for Darcy, he'd been experiencing attacks since he was a kid and his father was imprisoned. The only difference between being single digits and newly eighteen was that Darcy could now leave his anxieties behind and get some distance from them ― he's not sure if his coping mechanisms had gotten better or worse, but that wasn't the point. The point was that he could get up out of his bed and leave. Leave the bed, the room, the house, the anxiety.

The floorboards were cold, sending his toes curling as he scrounged for socks before shoving his feet into his boots. Once he'd pushed the bottom of his grey sweatpants down into the boots, he grabbed his helmet and leather jacket and crept out of his room.

The hallway was the kind of quiet that said the occupants were asleep, which was unusual considering Darcy's stepmom was a chronic insominiac, and his stepsister had one of her friends over and they never really slept through the night, so Darcy walked on his tip toes. In doing so, he remembered someone calling him gay at summer camp for walking on tip toes because straight guys didn't do that. Darcy smiled a little, shaking his head to himself, because it was still one of the stupidest things someone had ever said to him, but Darcy had been unable to prove him wrong yet. At least, mostly, he'd never seen a straight guy tiptoe, but Darcy wasn't wholly gay either.

Darcy was still smiling a little to himself as he stepped into the kitchen to get a drink of water, pausing only to put his helmet and jacket gingerly on the countertop before going to the sink. The water that came out of the faucet was chilling, but that didn't stop Darcy from cupping his hands under the stream and drinking a couple mouthfuls before splashing the rest on his face to wake himself up enough to be safe on his motorbike. After shaking his head to get the damp blonde curls off his forehead, likely throwing droplets of water across the kitchen, he turned to his belongings and came face to face with Orla Duffy — Aria's best friend. Not asleep then.

Orla and Aria had been friends ever since Darcy and his family had moved to Florida, so Orla had always just been another annoying little kid hanging out around the house to get under his feet and into his things. It didn't matter that the pair of them were only a year younger than he was, they were automatically annoying. Orla had grown up since then, Darcy had noticed recently. He'd also noticed the dark cloud and unusual mood she'd been carrying around with her, and how frustrated Aria had been with Orla, but neither of them had told him what was going on. He assumed their friendship itself was in tact considering Orla was around as often, if not more frequently, than usual, but Orla had done something to unbalance their little world.

Darcy glanced away from her pretty, narrow face to the glowing numbers on the microwave, before raising an eyebrow at her. "Good morning," he said quietly, walking closer so he could keep his voice pitched low for his stepmom.

He put his hand on his leather jacket and offered Orla a small smile, almost invitational, but mostly just trying to be kind considering she was going through something and likely didn't need any 'big brother shit' from him. "Can't sleep, or did I wake you?" he asked, leaning against the counter to wait for her answer.

[tattlesandtales]

❛ have a drink with me. ❜ [ bonnie @ jordan ]

Jordan was so startled by the invitation, he didn't get far enough back out of the crawl space beneath Bonnie's desk before sitting and smacked his head in his haste.

"Shit," he hissed, and put his hand to the back of his head in an attempt to curb the pain shooting through his scalp.

Jordan had been beneath Bonnie's studio desk during the ad break of her graveyard shift radio show because one of the wires had come loose and he'd wanted to help. It was his job, as the second and only other employee on the ovenight shift, to stack CDs and clean, keep Bonnie adhering to the schedule set by the manager if she was at risk of missing an ad break, keeping her safe, and helping with anything else she needed — like when wires come loose beneath the desk or batteries need to be replaced in the wireless mouse.

What wasn't in the job description was drinking with the radio host, especially not when the shift finishes at 5am when the early morning news team took over.

"Sorry, what?" he asked when the pain subsided enough for him to ask.

Jordan was a quiet individual, he didn't speak unless spoken to when at work — keeping his head down and getting his work done, but this was mostly because Bonnie was an incredibly beautiful young woman that made his heart race and his mouth go dry. Saying three words to her in the span of a minute or two was quite dramatic for him. Their interactions were mostly her talking at him and him either laughing at her jokes, smiling and looking away, or acknowledging her with a nod. Nothing he'd done, he thought, invited an invitation to get to know each other better.