Blake’s eyes shot up when the woman spoke, the question in itself, but especially directed at him, a stange-sounding thing in the haphazard clamour of panicked cries and angry shouts. He seemed to consider her for a moment, as if to gauge whether or not he was about to have his brain blown to bits by a stray Vasile, then decided she was either a Vasile staging a really good show before killing him, or a lost civilian. Either way. “Get down behind the table, we’re easily spotted this way.”, he went back to fussing with the torn lining of his suit jacket, attempting to secure it around the wound in his arm with teeth, “God damnit.” Then, as if in afterthought, “I’m peachy. No worries, I’ve had worse stuff puncture worse places than a shard of glass. Can you tighten this, as hard as you can? We need to move, now.” The glass was still in, and it hurt like a bitch, but removing it would be the dumbest course of action, so Blake had decided to leave it at minimizing the bleeding and praying for the best, as per usual. 

rylin had been shocked when the stage blew up. everyone was running and there were people at the doors with guns. she’d walked right into some sort of action movie. she couldn’t see hayden anywhere. but she couldn’t just leave the injured people in the room. “are you okay?” 

It reminded him of the army - that quiet, still moment, void of surprise, when everything went to hell - expected, rehersed. Adrenaline kicked, as adrenaline does, but it did nothing to change Blake’s stream of thoughts - a placid, vaguely irritated here we go again and oh, them again. He moved now, with mechanical precision, everything about him tensed and pulled taut like a bowstring ready to fire. It came as no surprise then when he heard steps ahead of him, behind the turn, that he felt ready to fire - except there were no guns, no firepower, just the warm metal of a heavy, expensive silverware in his hand. He thought vaguely of how stupid that must’ve looked - death by pretentious steak knife - was that shit even long enough to do some serious damage? With enough well-placed slices, perhaps. He’d killed with more absurd weapons before, he supposed. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see around the corner - a Vasile, barrel of a gun, a rain of bullets. Whatever it was, an O’Shea seemed quite anticlimactic in comparison - funny how things, when there’s something worse to compare it to, don’t seem as bad as they should. He tensed nonetheless - reckless, but not an idiot. “I suppose a Faust would be the better option, or even a civillian.”, debatable, he wasn’t in the mood for dragging baggage along, “But Irish is still better than Russian.” Now he eyed the man, knuckles white where he gripped the handle of his knife - a bonebreaker, but that was about as far as his knoweldge went. “So, what’s it gonna be?”, only his head moved slightly to the side, the rest of him stilled down to the last muscle, “I’m not going to go after you unless you go after me. There’s bigger fish to fry in this stupid maze. And I’d prefer not getting shot by one of them while I’m fighting an O’Shea, if it’s all the same to you.” 

open to: all location: the maze

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

Darren ripped his coat off and loosened his tie as he ran through the maze. He felt the walls of the maze pressing against him. His eyes scanned rapidly and ears were sharp as ever hearing the screaming and gunshots going through the gala. Remember that gut feeling he was having at dinner? He knew something bad was going to go down and something did. The Vasile’s had opened fire and chaos had erupted through the event. A fucking charity event. The bastards low blowed this one and caused a scene. He could hear random screams coming in his direction and all he could do was aim his gun professionally.

He heard footsteps coming closer. Now that Darren had learned how to at least protect himself close range he was balling his fists ready to fight. “Don’t take another step closer!” He shouted. His eyes were filled with fervid hatred. He was praying to God that whoever was approaching him wasn’t a Vasile.

Where was Kitty? Ophelia? Hell, where were any of his friends? 

He wanted to blow one of their fucking brains in. He wished he had a gun. He could feel the words of his mother praying over him. If he made it out of this alive, hell, he’d go to church.

gracelcssx‌:

“with how stressful the bride is being, screaming doesn’t sound so bad.” did she want the wedding to be perfect? without a doubt. after all, couples only had that one special day. and making sure it was perfect was her job. typing in some last minute details, she saved the document before closing her laptop. if the couple wasn’t satisfied with all that she did, then that was on them. chaeyoung had followed what they wanted for their wedding.  "I just hope that they don’t add anything else in at the last minute.“

“I’ve always wondered what kind of bride I would be. -- Not in a scrapbook sort of way. I’ve just seen enough brides going berserk days, even weeks prior to it to wonder.” It wasn’t like she’d ever been a scrapbook sort of girl, about anything, but with most things she could just go out there and try it out - weddings were a bit more complicated than that. “I mean you’d be involved - definitely. And you’d probably have to deal with me running off half an hour before the ceremony - so I’d get it if you said no. But you know - would I be sitting on the side sipping martinis or driving everyone insane by micromanaging.” She thought it was a rather scary thought - going insane by way of wedding dresses and cakes and types of papers used for invitations or name-cards. “Oh, they probably will. They usually do, don’t they?”, a cup was brought to her lips and she was now sceptically observing the lukewarm coffee, “You know, I actually never asked - how did you get into this whole gig?”

rosesjustdie‌:

location: chicago hospital staff lounge

open to: any staff of chicago hospital, anyone it would make sense to be in there. if you can come up with a reason, go for it.

Sixteen hours into a thirty-six hour shift and Ivy was dead on her feet. More so than usual at least. She’d just come out of a ten hour surgery, one that had been a hell of a lot harder than she had first thought it would be. Add that to the argument that she’d had earlier in her shift with the head of cardio that had her once again knowing that she deserved that job and you had an eventful call already. Some called it arrogance, she called it confidence and skill. Still she needed caffeine and stepping into the lounge that was all that she was looking for. The brunette barely took notice of her surroundings until she picked up the coffee pot only to find it empty. “God, does no one around here know how to turn the pot on once it’s done? No one?”

Blake had never been overly fond of that distinct hospital climate, with its piercingly sterile air and the neurotic way the lights seem to cast shadows, and something else that might have been panic or fear, distilled and fermented into the walls for decades. That, or his perception of it was particularly skewed - which was a possibility too - and which was why he left the first chance he got. Now he leaned against the edge of the desk in the lounge, looking like a black smudge in the middle of the clean whiteness and soft pastels. “In my experience - no.”, he wasn’t exactly sure if the doctor had even noticed him standing there, or if it was one of those ‘say it out loud to get it out’ sort of moments - but either way. “It’s why I got the fuck out.”, that and the whole rebelling-against-the-system thing, but that felt irrelevant, “The trick is to start doing the same thing, they’ll learn a lesson - eventually. Might lead to a few withdrawal-induced arguments but oh well, charms of the gig.”, he played with the energy drink he’d picked up on his way in, for nostalgia’s sake, and nodded towards the door, “Is Dr. Mayers in or did I miss his shift? If the old man’s even still alive.”, he seemed to think on it for a beat, then a slight smirk flashed across his lips, “Though to be fair I figure this hospital will collapse before he heads out.” 

whentheboughbreaksx‌:

“God you’re irritating.” It was the first thing to leave he mouth and she didn’t mean it, and thankfully it came out more playful than she was actually feeling. She’d spotted blake from a mile away, not that he was difficult to miss. She’d studied him enough to pick out the crook of his neck from a crowd, or recognize his sillouhette in the dark. But she didn’t assume he’d actually have the balls to approach her. It’s not like she’d disappeared on good terms. 

At least she didn’t feel like she did. 

But she rolled her eyes, a genuine smile appearing on her face as she watched the dog try and change the course of the day, only to be pulled back. Her eyes came up to meet his, her smile fading when she actually took in his face. “I mean, if you have the breath control you’re welcome to join me. Just try and keep up.” She shrugged, slowly jogging backwards, before turning heel and going back to her steady pace, glancing over to see if he’d followed suit. She didn’t know if she wanted him to, she wasn’t quite sure she was ready to talk to Blake. But he was going to do what he wanted, much like herself. 

“I try.”, it was said with a smile that tucked itself into corners of his lips, the kind of boyish flourish to his words that, for all its personability had that quality of being a bit frayed at the edges, where the reality was pushing in, forceful and inevitable like a tide seeking entrance. It was the kind of smile he would’ve given her the second, or third time they met, a prettily told story, reality warped until you could no longer tell it apart - it was a lie, and they both knew it. At least they were both good at it - silver linings, right? He’d had half a mind to say something like ‘And I’m full of surprises. Don’t seem so shocked.’, but that seemed like a perilous thing to do, too perilous even for a creature wired for it like he was. Instead, he buried his hand in the thick fur at the back of Ace’s neck, and squinted vaguely in the direction of whoever was getting away, “Who’s the game? Or is that a professional secret?” 

 And then the reality slipped in, like a small, almost unnoticeable inconsistency - like in a dream, or a nightmare. Looking, really looking, proved to be a bit too much for the fragile frame of their innocuous play to handle. Like an earthquake that did not disturb a single blade of grass, an eclipse that didn’t cast a single shadow, a vast, but invisible change. Suddenly, they were actors, forgetting their lines. “It’s Monday, isn’t it?”, he cast a cursory glance to his phone, more for the show of it and to have something else to look at, “Yep. Like clockwork, Mondays are the sassy days.” Glad to know something’s remained same. But that too, was a perilous thing to say - it seemed then, most words were. So he chuckled, because that was the sort of thing one could do in almost any situation and have it fit, an ambiguous sort of sound. “You know what I think?”, he said, his voice carefully maintained in that flimsy realm of neutrality - somewhere between genuine humour and distraction tactic - as he picked up the pace to follow her, “I think you’re just being ballsy because you know we can’t race since you’re on a job.”

whentheboughbreaksx‌:

Run.

Her feet tread lightly on the pavement, her pace steady and even as she makes her way through the park. 

Run.

Her mind is everywhere else. All sound being drowned out by the thumping of her heart, a reminder blood still runs freely through her veins, by the wind passing through her pony tail, by the voice crackling through her earbuds. “He’s on your left, Micah, ten o’clock.” Electric blue eyes casually scan in the direction she’s been given, the running path conveniently taking her the direction she needed to go. 

Run.

“I’m on him.” She mumbles, quiet enough for only her mic to pick up. Micah has a good pace, appearing relaxed and blending in with the crowd that’s gathered on the warm day. Old habits are hard to break, and she’s never been good at backing down. Her phone is out, as if shuffling her music, but instead she’s snapping a quick photo, about to take off again when a voice breaks her concentration. Fuck. But she puts on a smile and takes out one of her ear buds, eyes flicking over to her mark before back to the person. “Hey! How are you?”

@crimsonstarters

Throughout his life, Blake had been both the follower and the followed, and he’d been both enough times to be able to tell the subtle deviations from the normal behaviour that gave it away. Though, to be fair, knowing Micah kind of gave one an unfair advantage in discerning her normal strolls from her I’m-hunting-someone-down ones, even if the difference was a barely-there-sort that could easily escape its victims. It had escaped him once after all, hadn’t it? 

In all honesty - it hadn’t been his intention to follow her following someone else, it hadn’t even been his intention to be at this particular spot - but Ace had insisted, in his charming I’ll-dislocate-your-shoulder way. And since Blake had had no intention of going to war with an 80-pound, single-minded, furry bag of muscle, he’d found himself here, with Ace running at his side only sometimes. “Well, that seems like an interesting, new music app. And that is a very convincing smile.”, his eyes flickered briefly to follow her gaze, though to him the picture was only a generic sort of sight - people, going unassumingly about their day, flashes of colour, friends gathered in clusters, hiding an unseen target that was getting away by the second. There was also his dog, in that picture, terrifying a toy poodle into submission just by sauntering over,  “Ah, Jesus. Ace. Get over here.”, he took a few steps in his direction, which seemed to get the message across, before turning around, “You’re not giving up, are you? Stalk and talk. Try it, it’s way more fun.”

sinfxl‌:

she smiled as she tucked her wild hair back behind her ears. “vivi,” she nodded, settling on which version of the others name she felt the most fitting ⏤ vivi brought a smile to dylans face, so naturally it was the chosen one. “i’m dylan, and i don’t really have any cute shortcuts for it.” she shrugged, laughing a little as the realization of lack of a nickname set in.  dylan poured them each a shot, from the bottle that the bartender had left behind ⏤ filled to the rim of course, as that was really the only way to properly take a shot. she moved the bowl of cut-up limes he’d left them to sit between the two women. “so what brings you out tonight vivi?”

Vivi didn’t seem to give much thought to that conclusion, or rather, she didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with the lack of a nickname. “It doesn’t need it, I think it’s cute on its own. Besides - some names just don’t need it - mine definitely does though.” At this, she offered a shrug that said she’d figured this out a long time ago, as well as made peace with it, “Vivian just seems clumsy. It’s what my mother calls me when I’ve fucked up, and what everyone calls my grandmother. Not ideal, it’s an old lady name.” Picking up one of the lime slices, she started picking at a few stray seeds while Dylan poured them their shots, “Generous, I like your spirit. -- You know - Dee could work, don’t you think? Or Dillie. Like Dillie the Deer, she’s adorable. So you’re not nickname-less.” Flashing the girl a wide grin, Vivi set about the whole process with the fervour of someone who both enjoyed it and was more than familiar with it. It took her a few moments to regain her composure after the shot, before she could squeeze out a response through a scrunched-up nose and a burning throat, “I needed a change of scenery. Eden’s a bit too much if you want to drink in peace, especially when the patrons recognize you.” The version of Vivi from Eden would wear a dress, not a concoction of black leather and denim, and she would be sipping gin and tonic, instead of taking shots of tequila - present Vivi found this version of herself much more authentic. “And you?”, she chewed absentmindedly on a leftover lime,  “I’m guessing you’re either drowning your sorrow, or boredom, or both.”

Casey Deidrick in ‘Eye Candy’

gracelcssx‌:

there was nothing chaeyoung love more than going back to her old self. the one who had all of this energy. the one who was always out and about. with either her job, or helping out her family. one of those two. with her cup of coffee in front of her, chaeyoung looked at the laptop she had open on the table. with being so close to being done with her current clients wedding, all she could focus on in that moment was finishing up the last of the details. being so wrapped up in it meant not even knowing who was sitting across from her. “almost done.” she muttered, typing a few last notes. “ if this wedding doesn’t go smoothly, i swear, i’ll scream.��� she had spent the last week hauling ass on getting it all done. all with in a week. which was a record for chaeyoung.

Vivi sat on top of the worn vinyl of the booth, one leg folded under her and elbows propped on the table, right beside the steaming cup of coffee in front of her. She seemed disproportionately involved with the slowly disappearing foam of her macchiato, her observation interrupted only vaguely and intermittently by thoughts about the shipment she had incoming from Prague, or was it Krakow? Maybe it was both, wouldn’t that be a surprise? “Hm?”, she raised her eyes sleepily, then as if jolted by the sight of Chaeyoung laser-focused behind her laptop screen, rearranged herself to look a bit less lost in thought, “That’s actually not a bad idea - we should go to some open space and scream our hearts out. Scare a few birds with it along the way.” Given everything that had been happening in the past months that actually didn’t seem like such an outlandish idea. Vivi stirred the foam, destroying it before it could breathe its last dying breath, and then spoke around the spoon, “Tell me about it - the wedding, I mean. Is your own perfectionism stressing you out or the bride’s?”

crimsxndesire‌:

Grinning, “I only mean it in the best of ways. I mean, technically I’m part of it too, if not by blood.” She looked over at him, “I somehow always gravitate towards the brooding, moody type.” It was her kryptonite, honestly. Anyone that her parents would have hated and she had a feeling they would turn their nose up to Blake. She was soft? She had never been described that way, but her parents did coddle her, gave her what she wanted. She preferred the term delicate. Now she was in this world that was the opposite of soft and delicate. It was harsh, rough and entirely different than what she had known. She tried to act, but Blake saw through it, “Well, you’re still here, so I guess it’s not a bad thing. There’s no point in doing something, if I’m not going to do it all the way.” Turning towards him, with a smirk on her face, she continued to watch him, study him.

Nodding along with him, “Yes, I’ve seen your cars… loved to take a ride in one, one day. Alas, you are correct, there always will be things to fill up the space, but it won’t ever fill the hole.” Blinking out at the traffic below, she pondered her thoughts, she didn’t wanted more out of this life and this was the way to it. Hopefully. “I usually don’t let anyone get to me. I usually have the upper hand, so congratulations.” She grabbed the bottle out of his hands as she started chugging, never wanting the buzz to wear off.

Shaking her head, “I’m sure there’s been a few guys I could have brought here, but no one has caught my eye.” She wasn’t used to doing the chasing, men usually flocked to her and she had her pick, now it was different, maybe they didn’t appreciate her here. Or she was doomed to end up with her ex. Swallowing hard at that thought, she took another swig. She thought about him, when she shouldn’t have, he cheated on her. Which was a shock, since he was the one who chased her, but stranger things have happened.

“Please, no lies. Tell me the truth. Even if it’s shitty.” Laughing, “Oh, you mean you’re not going to do some grand gesture? Grab me passionately, fuck me right against this railing while the city below us continues?” That seemed like a typical guy response, but Blake wasn’t typical now, was he? “If you’re here for smoking, drinking, and what I think you’re here for… that’s why I invited you over.” Although they were joking, what he suggested was very enticing. It had been a while since she had a good fuck, and he seemed to want her in the same way.

He seemed to consider it for a moment, as if by watching her over the half-empty glass in the muted darkness of the terrace he might glean some underlying current of reason - and he might have asked, but that seemed like one of those slippery topics that lead to nowhere and left both with a bitter taste in their mouths. Instead, he smiled - one of those easy, elastic smiles that came as naturally to him as breathing, “That sounds awfully cliche.”, one of his shoulders rose and fell in a sort of vague, pensive shrug, as if he were just realizing, “Though I suppose that is a good thing for me. Things are cliche for a reason.” And this whole ordeal did seem to have that slight wear at its edges that all cliches had - but he’d worn them down himself, so why pretend now? They could be allowed this indiscretion, considering the whole city was seemingly drenched in those. “Never said it was a bad thing.”, his words were interrupted by a chuckle, “Though I wouldn’t bet on my abilities to pick between good or bad.” 

As if interrupted by his own thoughts his finger tapping repetitively against the glass now stopped, and he cocked his head slightly to the side, “But I have to admit - I am wondering what happens to delicate things when they stick around. Never seen it happen I guess.” They break, probably. But weren’t they all breaking, all the time, in all the small, imperceptible ways, unnoticeable because their baseline was to be fucked up? “Take your pick. Of the cars I mean.”, he said, then with a smirk, “I’d suggest the newer ones, if you’re not feeling brave. Wouldn’t want you giving up on your wild dreams in the first five minutes.” He watched her looking at the traffic below for a moment, something pensive about her expression behind where her hair created an insubstantial curtain, then averted his eyes to look at the gin as he swirled it. It had felt too intrusive to look, so he kept his voice casual as it always was, a carefully constructed neutrality, “Well I’m not about to stop trying, where would the fun be in that? Besides, maybe it’s not meant to be filled. Contentment sounds boring.” Though, if they were being fair - he didn’t think he’d ever actually tried the concept out. An eyebrow was raised, a display of amused incredulity, “Oh, and I got to you? Well, aren’t I efficient? What did the job exactly - the bad attitude?”

He pretended to think on it, as if it were some intricate concept demanding careful pondering, and reached to take the bottle out of himself and pour another drink, “Don’t I feel special? Well, I’d consider blushing, but it doesn’t fit the aesthetic I think.”, a smile was playing on his lips, amused by the way she seemed a bit out of her element, as if someone had placed her on the wrong side of the game, “I appreciate the bluntness though, you’ve got a pair on you Bisset.” With a wink he put the bottle back into her hand and took a sip, “Sensitive subject, huh? The whole truth-telling thing. Don’t worry, lying’s a lot of work - I don’t see a point to it.” But someone did - given how hard she went down on the bottle when the conversation steered in this direction. Blake, in a display of theatrical consideration, leaned over the railing as if to judge the freefalling height below them, “I mean I could. But it’s not my preference for women to scream because they’re being dangled over a towering height. But I suppose I can be accomodating if you ask nicely.” He leaned back and away from the railing, and sauntered over to the sofa, a chuckle following his movement, “I’m not stupid Bisset, despite the penchant for bad choices - I know why I’m here.” He’d settled down into cushions, one leg flexed at the knee the other stretched out in a half-lounge, and his head was cocked slightly to the side, smirk settled into the creases by his lips, “I’m just being a full package - you get conversation with it too. Great deal, two-for-price-of-one type of thing, zero strings attached. Sold on it yet?” 

sinfxl‌:

dylan smiled at her response, she was actually happy to have her words no go out into empty space. “ i guess just enough to get you to that level? ” she shrugged, chuckling as her response came out as more of a question than a definite answer. what was that level? “ i guess for me ⏤ that level is simply happy. ” her brows furrowed together momentarily but her smile was the main feature on her expression.  it was an awfully cheesy and somewhat sad response, but it was also the honest one. “ its worked for me so far, try it for yourself. on me. ” as the bartender made their way back towards the women and after she ordered her drink, dylan ordered two more shots, with lime wedges, the salt they had let her keep by her ⏤ probably better then her asking for it with every shot.

The bartender had recognised Vivi, and now there was a glass of whiskey on the rocks in front of her and she was watching the cubes spin as she listened to the woman next to her. A smile lingered in the corners of her lips, not exactly amusement, just a sort of ease that came with genial conversations between people who didn’t really know each other, “Don’t try too hard to answer that - it wasn’t really a fair question.” After all, would Vivi know how to answer it? Probably not. Maybe the point of it all was in the process, not the end result. Still, the girl’s answer stirred something in Vivi - it had that faint feeling of sadness about it, and seemed appealing on some familiar level. “Well, since you seem so convinced, and I seem to like you - why not. I’d be insane to turn down a free drink.” Viv lifted her gaze when the bartender brought the entire setup to the girl and let out a chuckle, “Well he seems to have given up on walking back and forth every time so...”, she caught his eyes and gestured vaguely to the tequila shots, “Why not? I’m boring myself to death with the whiskey. I’m Vivian by the way - Vivi’s cool. Or Viv.”

the lost boys (1987)

crimsxndesire‌:

Chuckling, “No, but I could be. Considering who your family is and that we associate with them.” Taking another deep breath of her cigarette with a shrug, “And you’re not wrong. I mean, if I’m being honest, I grew up well off. Mom and Dad gave me everything I needed, but it was awfully boring.” Smirking back at him, she imagined what Blake was like. She wondered how many girls he had fucked in his cars… and how she could be one of them. She hated the good guys her parents wanted her to date, they were lackluster and she had a feeling that Blake was the opposite and that grin of his was enough to make her wet. Running her hands through her hair, “I’m so tired of boring, Blake.”

Looking out at her own little oasis, one she built to make her feel comfortable in a world she wasn’t, she laughed, “Hey, Amara got this place before I even arrived, but she did good. What’s wrong with having nice things?” That was her whole life, she always had the nice things, her parents reminded her how hard they worked so that she could have a good life and she did: best private schools, best extracurriculars, best everything. She felt empty though and here she was trying to fill it. Smirking, “Amara has a private terrace from her bedroom too.” Alcohol was doing it’s job: making her playful, less stressed, and a smart ass. “This is my little universe. Nobody really comes here except for me, and now you.” Putting the finished cigarette out, she turned her attention back to the liquor, “It’s doing well.”

She watched as he observed the world below, from the safety of being behind the railing, he was curious. She was drunk, most guys would have tried to get her in bed as soon as there got there, but instead, they were talking about life. Walking up next to him as the sounds of life and traffic below filled her ears, “Why’d you come here?” She looked over curiously at the man that had joined her tonight, “Not that I’m complaining, you are good company.”

The metal of the railing was piercingly cold beneath his skin, drawing on his warmth like something black and hungry and gaping - it had that strange, grounding effect that made one feel more present. His mind drifted back to the terrace and to Gen and he let out a brief breath of a chuckle, “What are you trying to say - that my family isn’t a cheery, cuddly bunch? I for once am delightful above all.” It was a rhetorical question, but Blake could see the outsider appeal of that ragtag bunch of misfits, forged in and of this world, with that bone-deep loyalty of soldiers born. “I can tell.”, he’d turned around now, and was watching her with the small of his back pressing against the railing as he drew in a breath from the cigarette, the smoke a pearly twist as he let it out, “You’re soft. It’s not bad just...”, he cocked his head ever so slightly, like a predator animal observing something idly, an antelope running willingly into its line of sight, deciding what to do with it, “I haven’t decided what it is yet.” He supposed he just didn’t know what to think of such girl running head-on into disaster - he’d seen them do it before, seeking the brief thrill that he and his world represented, then going back to their polished lives and safe worlds. But Gen couldn’t go back, and didn’t seem to want to. “Oh is that what this is?”, a smile stretched across his lips, elastic and easy, “Boredom? Well, I can appreciate the boldness of the leaps you’ve taken. You have a tendency to go for the extremes. My family, this life, me. But I suppose years of... listlessness stack up.”

He swirled the clear liquid in his glass for a beat, then brought it to his lips to finish it, the burn a familiar, comforting sensation in that way every dangerous thing in his life was. His shoulder rose and fell languidly in a shrug as he reached for the bottle, “Nothing. I have plenty of those.”, he looked at her briefly from under his lashes as he poured himself a drink, smirked, “But nice things are never enough, are they? Or else you wouldn’t be here, and neither would I.” He would not love all his cars if he couldn’t push them to the limit or if they didn’t let him dance on the edge of a disaster every time he pulled the parking brake and made a sharp turn. They were not made to be driven safely, and he supposed life wasn’t made to be lived safely either. Not for him anyway.  “Well, this was easy. Wasn’t aware you get worked up so easily, it’s fun.”, he was back at his spot by the railing, amusement aligned in the corners of his lips as he watched her break into a flurry of alcohol-fueled explanations. He hummed idly in agreement, “I can tell it’s working. Calm down Bisset, you can have your terraces and your nice things and your bad choices, I’m not here to judge.” 

He could feel her eyes on him, could sense her wondering slipping against his skin, warm and prickling, and let her - he must have not been what she’d expected, but Blake had always liked that element of unpredictability about himself anyway. “Don’t I feel special now.”, his voice had a playful, less-than-serious lilt to it as he watched her head towards him, “Don’t ruin the illusion by saying you just haven’t had the time to bring anyone else here.” He turned around then, the glass dangling precariously from his fingers as he rested his arm over the edge, eyes on the faraway lights of the city. There was a faint trace of a smirk in the corners of his lips, and he cast her a sideways glance as he sipped his drink, well on the way of finishing it, “Don’t worry, I have a hard time interpreting anything as less than a compliment.”, he fell silent for a beat, then turned his head slightly to look at her, “I’m guessing you’re not the type to require me making up some pretty, romantic lie?”, it was precisely the raw, sharp edges of him that seemed to draw her attention. He shrugged languidly, “Why not? It’s either that or a race, and I’m feeling too high and too dangerous to be on the street right now. But if you’re asking because you’re frustrated I haven’t dragged you off to a bed or a table or whatever - obviously I have a bit more style than that. Besides, that sounds god-awfully boring and far too easy.”

whentheboughbreaksx‌:

“Dreaming hasn’t done anyone any good, has it?” A rhetorical question. For Micah, dreaming and being clever had never done anything for her besides get her into trouble. The events of the past day, weeks, and months being a testament to what everyone else around her already knew, and she was finally starting to see. The realization made her heart heavier and heavier and if it wasn’t the dull ache in her head that was going to make her throw up it was the full and complete sadness that was enveloping her. Her voice was empty as she spoke, more tired and strained than exasperated. Eyes fixated on anything but him, because looking at him was like looking at her father after a binge. Or like looking at her mother after every time she abused her. Or like looking at her brother the first time she saw him strung out; too much of the fact she had no control. 

Was she supposed to laugh at that? Was that supposed to be funny? She was sure at some point, she would’ve at least given a nervous giggle, or snorted at the idea, but tonight, this morning, whatever time it was, all she could do was shoot him a look before going back to making their drinks. Maybe it was the pain making her annoyed. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was the full force of metaphorical darkness dragging her down by her ankles, but the more he spoke the more she wondered if he’d ever just shut up. “God, Blake, just–” Her voice bit through the tension between them, the hoarseness more prevalent, and the raw emotions stronger than she intended for them to be. She let out a breath, hands going up in a defensive position, though she wasn’t sure what she was defending herself from. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t anything that was actually threatening. Then she realized it was herself. Micah didn’t like she was feeling angry. She didn’t like that she was feeling annoyed. She didn’t like that these ‘negative’ emotions were being directed at him, because she wasn’t sure that was fair. It was all stemming from fear, and that was something she was sure he wouldn’t understand anymore. Maybe at one point, but not in their current situation. Then again, she was on the opposite side now. A few months prior in the garage she was the one seeking him out, and now she was pretty sure she understood how he felt. Although, she wasn’t actively running from it. The biggest difference between them is Micah had no fear in confrontation, she was always too much emotion not enough control and that was her own problem. It always had been. Finally she breathed out, deep and slow, eyebrows furrowing together as tears threatened to spill over and her face daring to break like a fever. But she held it back, hands settling on the table as she collected herself a few seconds longer. A moment later, she also looked at him for more than a few seconds, composure having returned to her face, the light catching him just right and if this were any other situation she’d love it. She would’ve compared it to a Sixteen Candles moment or some love story where the make or break happens. Instead she looks at him and sees his pupils dilated and the scattered remains of adrenaline etched all through his body. Composure clean as a warriors kill, she isn’t sure she wants to know how long it took him to master that. The corners of her lips twitch up into a smile, a sad one, but it’s something normal. “It’s like you don’t know me at all.” She slides one of the mugs closer to him, going to the fridge to get some creamer for him, letting her tea steep a little longer. “I don’t know though. I’m assuming someone in your family really wants me dead, or one of the other families is a bad shot. Either way I’m bald in one spot and partially deaf… So if it sounds like I’m yelling, I’m not trying to.” She’s quick to point that out, not wanting her inability to control her volume taken any other way. For now, she tries to speak as softly as possible, a mix of exhaustion and an attempt to keep the peace. She puts the creamer down on the table and passes it over, picking up her mug and walking over to the couch. She pulls a blanket over her legs and makes room for him to have a seat. 

A few weeks ago it would have felt cruel to agree with those words, or rather, to say them to her - because Blake guessed Micah from that time would’ve never said it herself - but the dull edge of her voice made it feel like saying it now would just be another nail in the coffin, overshadowed and made irrelevant by others already holding the lid down. It would be easy now, an action oiled by her pain and disenchantment - and wasn’t that what he wanted? To make her just a bit more ready for what was out there, to make her see? Perhaps - but that would have required the utilitarian version of Blake he had tried to mould himself into all those years back, a version that functioned like a well-oiled machine and dealt entirely in reality and odds, certainty and chances. That did not have to be dragged bloody and screaming away from people he could not save, that didn’t sit by his mother’s bed believing deeply in his bones that she’d come back, that didn’t sit in a pew at 3AM trying to figure everything out. He could’ve done it. This Blake could not. This Blake dreamed and hoped and clung to things not made to be clung to - and this Blake, he guessed, did not want to hear those words either - not from himself, not from anyone and especially not from Micah. Funny. How things somehow sound more horrible coming from someone who should not have ever said them. “I suppose disagreeing would be lying.”, he’d found his voice, pulled it by a thin string from some deep crevice inside, found it quiet and distant, “But what’s a world without dreamers?” His world, he guessed. 

The sky behind the glass was the shy, pink-pearl colour of dawn not-yet-come and Blake lingered there for a beat, a silent sentinel watching over the dawning quietude, taut and aware of how fragile and fleeting that tranquillity was. His Mustang was a gaping, black shadow in the driveway, and he suddenly had a terrible desire to be in there instead of here, surrounded by the smell of old leather and gasoline, cracked vinyl and the deafening roar of the engine as he sped away. Away. Where? Misery and violence had proved itself present even at the other end of the world, and Blake knew the common factor was him, and this was a rather useless, childish impulse. What would he do without it anyway? He’d been made by this world and of it, perennial violence was both the question and the answer. He did not blame Micah for seemingly defending herself against it. He cast a glance over his shoulder when she spoke, tired, exasperated, irritated - but did not turn around or speak, somehow that felt like a threatening gesture and he’d taught himself to appear a bit less of everything back when he served, and startled people needed someone approachable, comforting, reassuring. But he was never made of soft things - the only reassurance he had to offer was when someone assessed he was the most dangerous thing in the room - so those attempts had always been limited in their success. 

The wood was cold against his skin when he leaned his head on the window frame and the cold dawn air leaked in, brushing against his hair - last he’d seen, she was braced against the table, everything about her tension and fear and anger. It had felt far too intrusive to look at her, at the world and thoughts unravelled being pulled back together into some broken semblance of calm and control. It was an almost-familiar thing for him, like a mirror image in a still lake surface - one could recognize it for what it was, but there was something slightly off about it. When she tried to pull herself back into one peace and suppress the anger, it felt like she was doing it because every atom in her body knew this was not its normal state. When Blake did it, it was because it was precisely its normal state, and an exercise in control was all that kept him off the edge. It was ironic then, how much he yearned for less of that control in her - perhaps because he wanted the punishment, or perhaps because this felt like a much crueller one. 

Slowly, as the fog left behind by his breath receded his unfocused gaze caught a glimpse of Micah’s outline mirrored in the windowpane, watching him. For a beat, he considered turning around, but then she smiled and she spoke and all he could do was let out a not-chuckle, like an echo of one, cold and empty and dejected, “Maybe you’re unknowable.” Maybe they both were. Doomed to the in-between place that held all those cracked in-between things - unknown, unloved, uncertain. Maybe she wasn’t yet broken enough times, maybe he was broken too many times. Or was it the other way around? Words felt like dangerous, feral things, his thoughts sluggish and muted, as if they were slogging through hip-deep syrup, “I’m sorry.” For what? Everything, everything, everything. He closed his eyes, willed his body to move even if it didn’t feel his own, approached the table only once she’d gone to tend to her tea. The cup burned his fingers when his fingers tightened around it - he let the pain ground him until smiling faintly didn’t feel like such an unfamiliar action for his muscles. Not even he was convinced by it. “I’d put my money on them being bad shots, but I’m biased.” Not everyone behind a gun learned to aim with care, not everyone cared, not everyone wanted to aim - a body was a body. But that didn’t matter now, did it? He kept his silence like a familiar, comforting thing. 

His body was a laden, precarious construction made of bone-deep exhaustion, muscles and sinews, edges dulled by chemicals and the vast emptiness that filled him as he folded himself on the floor, by the base of the sofa, his back pressing against the scuffed edges of it. “I know.”, he said, because he did, and because it felt like the comforting thing to say. Attempts, even failed ones, had to count for something, right? He exhaled, felt his fingers going numb, didn’t put down the cup, “I’d prefer it, but I suppose this is a more effective punishment.”, the back of his head touched the cushions as he leaned it back, closed his eyes. “But you’re not trying to punish me.”, it was neither a statement nor a question, but at an in-between thing for in-between creatures, he let out a breath that might have been a chuckle, “I can’t decide why I’m here. Because I want you to hate me, or because I’m afraid you will.” He fell silent for a moment, and the silence stretched thin and taut, like a living thing he could feel scratching against his skin, burying its claws deep inside his skull, “I can’t... -- Micah, I can’t lie and say that wasn’t me out there, or that I wouldn’t do it again, that I won’t do it again. For my family, for our people. That it isn’t... one of those things that makes me feel alive.”, he ran his teeth over his lip, felt like the skin might break, felt a bit too exposed, “I just didn’t want you to witness it. A selfish thought, huh? What’s another notch on the list of sins.” 

crimsonfaux‌:

@crimsonxrogue​

The Fire & Ice Music Festival was perfect minus a few casualties and injuries he hadn’t wanted.  Overall he thought it went successfully, and he couldn’t have been happier with the Fausts. Oliver had contemplated the hierarchy of his family for awhile, not that any major moves were needed to be made. He was still absolutely certain he had made the right decision months ago to put Teddy in second, and Darcy in third once Jasper left. Blake had reminded him of his twin brothers, in part he could almost pass off as a triplet if no one was the wiser. The choice was easy to figure out that he had deserved a promotion after his job at the North Coast Hotel.  

He had arranged to meet Blake in his office after Matty was dropped off at school. Just in case the business conversation skyrocketed elsewhere.  It was hard to tell when two Fausts got in the room where the chit chat would end up after all. With a whistle his attention turned to his cousin once he entered the room. “Have a seat, Blake. I wanted to discuss a couple of things with you. First of all, how are you doing?”

Blake had always preferred to deal in things like certainty, or odds - probability, be it numerical or formless and intuitive, assigned to missions and sharp turns of his car and people and feelings. There was a sort of method to his madness, though it wasn’t so much madness as seemingly aloof disposition, carefully crafted to hide the simmering hunger for having a grip on such slippery things as thoughts and impulses and fates. It was an Ouroboran sort of effort, doomed to the self-destruction of its pursuer every time he failed and began anew with more fervour, but otherwise fairly efficient for all intents and purposes. Like a well-oiled machine without a dent in its determination. Blake supposed that, at the end of the day, that was all that mattered, even if it made the uncertainty of those slippery things no easier to bear. 

“Matty’s at school?”, he’d asked, because an impatient ‘What’s going on?’ didn’t bear the required amount of aloofness. The truth was, he’d been mildly unsettled by the formality of it all, as far as unsettled goes with anyone in this world, and had spent the last hour reading and re-reading passages with Ace’s heavy, warm head in his lap, in some attempt to substitute perturbance with the boredom of a random, forgotten book on his shelf. Somehow the high of a win for the Fausts made something bad lurking on the horizon feel all the more possible. “Oh I’m peachy, but that is a very sad plant.”, a droopy, half-defeated leaf of a plant with an undoubtedly complicated Latin name was between his fingers, and he ran his finger gently across its velvety surface before turning around, “I’ll bring you some nutrients for it before it attempts suicide.” Irrelevant silence-fillers aside, he finally settled himself in one of the chairs opposite the table, the weight of a sleepless night settled deep in his bones, “You, though, seem positively glowing. Happy with the results?”, then, like a kid unable to hold back the pretence of casual nonchalance, “What’s up?”

Casey Deidrick in ‘Eye Candy’