Hello ! I have returned from the void once again to bother shower your muses in love! This is Noise with a multi-muse OC blog! Most of the muses here are fandomless and original story or lore based, but I do have a very tiny handful of fandom-based OCs as well! This is blog is strictly 18+, but I am open to canon, original characters, and I am AU-friendly ! For the small price of a ❤ or  ↻ to let me know you’d be interested in writing so I can check your blog out, you too can sign up for a lifelong subscription to my obnoxious and somewhat questionable creations my love! 

Soft Hiatus. 

I just wanted to hop on here to say: I will be active here again, but work is stupidly busy and took away a decent chunk of my hours off phones which means I have very little time to write at the moment. Normally, it’s less chaotic this time of year, but it’s just not slowing down. As a result, I’m mostly sticking to where my muse is most present to make the most of my time. I do intend to reply to things here once I have more time/muse (but I totally understand if you need/want to drop something as a result of the wait as I really do not know when work will calm down). I may or may not be on to post randomly on here until things calm down, but I can’t make any promises with that at the moment since writing muse is low and it gets to decide where I am when I have time.   

Right now I can mostly be found over at @aaetherius and its respective side blog @caeruleis. I am also somewhat active on @moon-caught, but very, very scarcely and at random. 

Anyway, thank you for your patience! I love my dumb kids here and I’ll be around, hopefully, after this next new wave of hires starts taking calls and, maybe, they put me back on emails again/whenever my writing muse is a bit strong as boy my creativity is sorely lacking at the moment! 

thorn-kissed​:

Melany was surprised that her lame joke went over so well. Maybe she did stand a chance after all if Lillie was telling the truth. It was nice hearing that Uriel had flaws too, even though she was shocked by how forgetful he seemed to be. “I would have never guessed that,” she mused. Though at dinner there wasn’t really an opportunity to misplace anything. Other than her dignity. “I don’t trust morning people, so that’s good,” she added on half joking. Anyone who had their life so together was a force to be reckoned with.

Lillie then started trying to convince her that she wasn’t plain, but she knew better. Living a while made one see those sort of things, and she would never be considered attractive or beautiful. Just plain old average Melany, who was immortal and working for a god, so maybe not so average. She groaned in frustration as Lillie told her to be herself, fearing that the most.

“Yeah, but I’m basically a 200 year old great-great-grandma, what if he also realizes that I’m a cougar, flirting with a young, spry 26 year old? He already reacted poorly to my age,” she announced rather dramatically before shoveling more cake in her mouth. How many people are you just going to blurt your immortality to? Her god asked but Melany was too busy wallowing in despair over how Uriel reacted to her age. It was horrible realizing that even though she looked 24 she would always be a cougar now. A horrible inescapable truth.

The wallowing was broken though as LIllie asked for a sampling of her awful flirting. Though Melany would argue that it was rather good, she could now feel her god bracing for impact. It wasn’t as bad as he claimed it was, or at least she hoped it wasn;t. “Alright,” she said, clearing her throat. Melany leaned over in what she hoped was a seductive manner and looked at Lillie.

“Does it hurt coming here often? Because you’re so attractive it’s… hurting me…” It took a lot of effort not to end the statement in a question and admittedly it wasn’t one of her best lines. Her god had abandoned her offended by the statement apparently. All she could do was wait for judgement and wonder if it was bad enough to woo Uriel. 

 “I know it must seem difficult to believe given how perfect he seems, but even Uriel has his flaws.” Most of which, frankly, were rather tragic, but he’ll keep that little bit to himself. He is, after all, attempting to help Uriel with his love life not ruin it. And, he imagined, anything worth knowing was something Uriel might one day tell her himself. Or, at least. he hoped so, but he would admit the other could be rather taxing and dreadfully stubborn at the end of the day. And smile lingered at her offhand comment - it was a given that most vampires wouldn’t be morning people. The sun, after all, was always at its brightest right after the moon fell. Being yanked from the comfort and embrace of nightfall and forced into the gleaming grip if day was hardly something any of them enjoyed. Though, there were those amongst them who despised the sun more than others. While Uriel wasn’t amongst them, he still suffered a bit as he adjusted to the shift - slower than usual, a bit weaker than normal, at least for the first few hours. He harbored rather...extensive knowledge concerning vampires - their strengths and weaknesses included.

     There’s a flicker of something akin to surprise in amber irises as he regards her, but that flicker is quickly dashed away as a laugh he tries to swallow rattles against the very bones of his chest. Spry 26-year-old - oh that was rich. He was laughing so hard he might actually choke on air, his arms coming down to wrap about his side in an attempt to contain his laughter, though it was a pitiful attempt and served next to no purpose. Cougar - 200. Oh, you really couldn’t make these things up. So Uriel had lied to her about his age apparently, and allowed her to believe she was nearly two centuries older than him instead of almost two centuries younger than him. No wonder he can’t keep a lover when all he does is lie. Still, he’s not cruel enough to out Uriel when it’s likely, then, that she’s blissfully unaware of the fact that Uriel is a vampire and, by extension, is likely unaware of the fact that everyone, for the most part, who lives within the bathhouse is also a vampire.      

      “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that too much,” he said as his laughter finally began to die down - waving his hand in his air in an attempt to dismiss her concerns because, well, they weren’t realistic to begin with. “I doubt he minds your age, he was just surprised.” Or, and he’s guessing but also fairly confident in that assumption, that Uriel had pretended to act surprised by her age to convince her he was human - well, it appeared to have worked a bit too well. “Besides, for someone two centuries old you don’t look day above 24. So, if it makes you feel any better, you look two years younger than him.” That, probably, wasn’t very helpful, but it was difficult for him to pacify her concerns when Uriel had lied to her in the first place. Not that he’s surprised.

      His smile widens as she accepts his challenge, and he straightens out his back - arms coming to rest neatly upon the table, as if he’s preparing for a business meeting rather than getting ready to hear whatever pick-up line she could conjure up. Really, though, he was looking forward to it. It couldn’t be that bad could it? No, no, the worse the better. Uriel wasn’t one to get tripped up by sweet, poetic lines. No, it took a hammer and a stone to make Uriel fall head over heels in love with someone. And, ah, it would help her case. After all, Uriel’s former wife had been a bad flirt, as well.  

     And, oh, it’s worse than he could have imagines, but oh so wonderful in how downright awful it is. He all but beams, hands clapping together as he stands up from where he had been seated. “That’s wonderful! I’m certain a line like that will have Uriel at your beck and call in no time.” It may have just been the worst pick-up line he’s ever heard before, but that’s what made it perfect for the job. Excitement getting the better of him, he leaned forward slightly where palms had come to press against the table. “Tell me another one, if you know of any. While I have no doubt that one will make his head spin, you can never be too prepared when it comes to seducing that man.”    

thorn-kissed​:

Everything fell quiet for a long moment as Uriel continued examining her brand. His cold fingers kept tracing the outlines of it and she honestly had no idea how to react. Nobody ever focused on it too long, it was usually her scar that brought the mood now, this was a completely new experience. Even her god was silent and she wasn’t sure what he thought about all this.

“Yeah…” she said quietly as he repeated she was born with it. She didn’t think it looked that horrible, but when was the last time she had seen it. It’s not like Melany made a habit of checking herself out in the mirror, in fact she often avoided that. Then he suddenly kissed it and she was really thrown into a loop. This wasn’t the usual reaction at all. Melany wondered how he would react now if he found out her scar was from a village murdering her if he reacted like this to a birthmark. 

Uriel’s voice almost sounded playful again as he went back to complimenting her and she was almost relieved. Melany still wasn’t quite sure what was going on with him, or if she was the weird one for under reacting to it? Maybe it looked worse than she thought. “I don’t know how I managed to trick you into thinking that.” Why can’t you just agree with the handsome shirtless man? Oh now he was talkative. Great. 

“Are you okay?” Melany asked and had originally planned to add more onto that sentence. It was cut off by a rather embarrassing noise leaving her lips and her eyes widened in horror. She hadn’t intended to do that and shoved her face back into the mattress hoping she wouldn’t further embarrass herself. Her muscles didn’t seem happy that after 200 years of ignoring them, that she was trying to offer them comfort. At least his hands felt a little warmer now. “I am so sorry,” she muffled into the mattress still embarrassed by the sound that came out. 

He probably didn’t even register it considering his work. Uriel probably heard far more than his fair share of noises in other more compromising situations. It was just her own flustered self that was bothered, making him win more. Lillie had told her to be herself but she didn’t stand a chance. Melany didn’t stand a chance especially with a god laughing at her.

    By now, he had managed to calm the clammer of his mind, though the constant drone of his thoughts remained. But he would tread with caution. There are a thousand ways he can explain that brand away in a manner that won’t lock his still, dead heart in a vice grip and there’s little reason to torture himself without further proof - no matter how much that worthless organ has convinced itself that Melany is, in fact, her. And he finds himself, even as he starts working his way around her back and shoulders, glancing downwards at the brand more than a handful of times - finding excuses to brush his fingers against it from time to time which, truly, isn’t difficult. She’s never had a massage before from what he’s gathers, she wouldn’t be able to tell right from wrong and he’s confident she won’t notice a handful of extra motions thrown in just so he can appease the ache that has settled into his chest. An ache that shouldn’t persist, the logical half of his brain tells him, yet does no matter how badly he tries to push it away. 

      “While I trust that there wasn’t a trick involved, it seems you’ve managed to bewitch me.” His voice remained light - having resumed its typical airy and promiscuous nature. Yet, as always, he chooses his words carefully and with reason. He has always been calculating, even as a human being he had made for a fine villain. And the label suited him. He had failed to save her as she had burned. He was no better than the men and women who had dragged her from their home when they were well aware he was away and had set her aflame to the sound of joyful cheers. He had earned the title he know bears and will have to live with his own demons for as long as he remains in this world. But, if she truly is alive and here right now, what will he do then? What is Orpheus plotting for her? Why was he so interested in her? With doubt having been woven into the back of his mind, could he kill her if ordered to do so? Ah, he best be careful unless he wants that man to be privy to his thoughts. 

      “I’m fine,” he reassures, though quick words are cut off by the moan that slips out from her lips as he slowly works a rather tense bit of skin about her shoulders. And he can feel her muscles grow taut again, smile, one true this time, slipping onto pale features as a laugh fluttered from his lips. She sounded mortified as she buried her face into the mattress. She must be aware that such a small thing wasn’t even worth batting an eye over to him, but, still, she managed to get herself worked up about it. It was endearing, though he still tries to stifle his laugh for her sake. Much as he would love to ruffle her up a bit, he doesn’t want - on second thought. he does want to ruffle her up a bit. She really does resemble her too much for her own good. 

     “No need to apologize.” His voice deepens a bit, fingers splayed against her back where his palm now rests between her shoulder blades. For now, he’s managed to push away the thoughts that haunt him most - allowing them to linger in the back of his mind but no longer nip at his heels as he tries to move forward. In time, he knows, they’ll bare their fangs once again and tear him limb from limn. But right now, just this one, he wants to selfishly allow himself the freedom of believing that, perhaps, she’s alive and that, perhaps, he can enjoy her company once again without the overwhelming fear of losing her a second time around. And he knows it’s a stupid way of thinking, but hasn’t he been wicked for too long anyway?

      He leans forward, one hand on her back and the other on the mattress beside her hip - body purposefully looming above hers. The tails of his open shirt ghost over the exposed skin of her back as he leans in close to her ear. “I know I’ll hear more from you soon enough,” he whispers in her ear - the chill of his lips almost touching her skin, yet not a single breath expels from his lifeless mouth. His hand, still pressed against her back, begins to move again - slowly kneading against her skin; with ease he can find the most sensitive parts of her body and carefully work those muscles loose again.     

“ ᵀʰᵉ ᵖᵃᶦⁿ ᶦⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵒʳˡᵈ ᵃˡʷᵃʸˢ ᵒᵘᵗʷᵉᶦᵍʰˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖˡᵉᵃˢᵘʳᵉ. ᴵᶠ ʸᵒᵘ ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ᵇᵉˡᶦᵉᵛᵉ ᶦᵗ, ᶜᵒᵐᵖᵃʳᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵉˢᵖᵉᶜᵗᶦᵛᵉ ᶠᵉᵉˡᶦⁿᵍˢ ᵒᶠ ᵗʷᵒ ᵃⁿᶦᵐᵃˡˢ, ᵒⁿᵉ ᵒᶠ ʷʰᶦᶜʰ ᶦˢ ᵉᵃᵗᶦⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵉ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ. “

Orochimaru Rp Blog - Written by Sara Canon compliant. Oc & Au friendly. 18+.  Naruto / Boruto Rules. About. 

xheartpages​:

She felt almost bad for interrupting the other; she had seemed so in-grossed in her novel that it had admittedly made her curious as well. Dominique took a small step back, mindful of her personal space as she smiled kindly, listening to her go own about the content of the novel that she was reading. Bright eyes noted the title of the book, feeling the corners of her lips twitch upwards even more in amusement. Oh, how humans loved to include them in acts of fiction while generally being so distrustful of them. ( Or perhaps the ones who loved to write about them didn’t automatically hold distaste for them? )

“It sounds very…. interesting. Perhaps I shall pick it up for myself when I have the chance.” There was genuine honesty in her voice; she already wrote it away in her mind to stop at a book store before returning to Altus. If anything, it would be a good little thing occupy her time at night before bed.

But also…

“It’s a bit ironic thought, is it not?” Hands circle behind her back, fingers interlancng with each other as she turned herself slightly to glance at the small crowd of people coming and going behind her; various sounds of conversation filling the darkening air. “– A vampire reading a novel about a human’s perspective of them.”

The girl’s smell gave her away almost from the moment she approached; perhaps it was the reason why she had taken it upon herself to approach her. Dominique always felt a sort of kinship when coming across another vampire while out among humans, she always felt a sort of urge to come over and introduce herself.

Another soft laugh escaped her lips as she waved her hand, on the off chance that the reaction to her observation would be taken negatively. ( Although, it wouldn’t surprise her if she knew, too. ) “But hey– I’m the same way. Sometimes it’s simply entertaining to see what they truly think of us and our culture. And… Okay, I must admit, the stories are certainly interesting as well.”

Maybe it was because she was fostering an unrequited love herself, but she couldn’t help but be a romantic at heart. Maybe that was why she was able to gander so much positive attention from women; with her charming characteristics borrowed from some of the characters in her stories.

“– Dominique de Sade.” She introduces herself, black hair softly swaying behind her when she turns back towards the soft pink haired girl, her smile gentle and welcoming. “A lovely lady such as yourself surely has a name, non?”

    “Oh you should, I highly recommend it,” she beams despite the fact that the writing, overall, is clumsy and riddled with mistakes that span entire pages and the characters stumble into cliches more often not. With the love interest a brooding, towering vampire being who claims incapable of love while the protagonist is a cheery human with a troubling past who claims love will surely open their nonexistent heart to the world once again. But she’s a sucker for cheesy romance novels, and was, despite all of its glaring flaws, thoroughly enjoying this one. It was fast paced and the romance moved quickly, it made for an engaging though mind-numbing read that was more about having a good time than walking away with any new life lessons to spout to one’s friends and families over dinner. Or, well, in her case, a drink, but that was beside the point. 

     Her head tilts at the question; curly pink locks swaying against her chin with the motion as the book found itself resting upon her lap. Scarlet eyes wrinkling a bit in confusion until realization dawns on her and lips part briefly in surprise. Her words sending a chill down her spine. She hadn’t noticed, truly, until now that the other was a vampire. All things consider, she was dreadfully young for what she was. Turned just two short years ago, her senses had yet to hone into what they would be eventually, and she was still adjusting to life as a vampire. She still came off more human than monster.Feet shuffled somewhat nervously where she sat on the bench as fingers picked at the cover of the book. 

      She was a bit nervous about vampires who weren’t members of their coven, and she wasn’t a fighter. She wasn’t incapable by any means of defending herself against a human, but if she were to be attacked by another vampire she would likely be entirely at their mercy. Her picking at the creased edge of the book continues as that thought settles in. She had heard of vampires getting into disputes over territory before, but they were little more than gossip to her as the stranger vampires within the coven typically took care of such incidents before they could even be within earshot of her. But there was a faint comfort in the blood pact that kept her tied to Orpheus that eventually made lithe shoulders relax and smile return to her features. If something were to happen to her, Orpheus would know and, surely, he would send someone to protect her so...everything was fine, right? And the other seemed nice enough. 

     “I guess it is, but I haven’t been one for long so I still find these things enjoyable. Besides, everything is better with a decent sense of humor, right?” She relaxes even more at the laugh and wave of the other’s hand. Her head nodding in agreement with every word that came from her mouth. It was interesting to hear what she had to say. Save for the vampires within the coven, she had never met another one before. And, after living with someone for centuries, she imagines most of the thoughts and opinions on one another and what they enjoyed had been set in stone while she was someone new and refreshing. 

        “Dominique de Sade,” she echoes, though she stumbles over the name a bit despite trying her best - smile tugging a bit wider at the compliment, but she’s not as bashful as she might seem. “My name is Felicity, it’s nice to meet you. You’re not from here, are you? As far as I know we’re the only vampires in the area.” But she didn’t, frankly, know much at all. “Will you be staying for a while?”       

go-forth-and-live​:

He had started to shift to get up off the couch–but forgets what he was even standing up to do when he feels that hold tighten on his shoulder. Hazel moves to turn his head, a question in his eyes, but he forgets that too the moment Jareth leans in. There’s a split second, the length of one skipped heartbeat, that Hazel almost thinks he’s going to kiss him, starts to close his eyes on instinct. Then all he feels is the brush of hair against his cheek as Jareth’s head lowers, and the cool touch of lips against his skin that makes him shiver. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, a soft, trembling, needy little sigh. His fingers twitch around Jareth’s, and he bites his lip. 

“I… what…?” Already a bit off balance, the question takes him even more off his guard. He thinks distantly that Jareth shouldn’t be asking questions he actually wants an answer to while kissing someone’s neck, especially when–oh–that’s definitely one of Hazel’s weak spots. He feels the light pressure of teeth against his skin, and shudders through his next exhale. 

There’s so much about this that Hazel knows, on some instinctive level, to be wrong. The fact that Jareth could have bled so much, and still lived. That Hazel still has no idea who he really is or where he came from. The downright unnatural coldness of his body. Even the brush of lips against his neck–Hazel has been kissed there before, he knows what it’s supposed to feel like, knows that he should feel the warmth of breath tickling his skin before Jareth’s teeth. But looking at them on their own, keeping from considering the whole picture (that Jareth is, unholy spectre of the night or not, just plain bad news), he can think of a million reasons and justifications. Maybe he’d just been at the wrong place at the wrong time that night. Maybe it hadn’t been as much blood as Hazel thought. Maybe his teeth are just naturally a bit sharp.

All of it seemed more feasible than the thought of Hazel sitting in the living room of his penthouse condominium, getting cozy with a literal goddamn vampire.

All of it seemed more feasible than the thought that Jareth might–actually hurt him.

“… Well, I don’t know.” His tone is uncertain but his touch is sure. His hand lifts to touch Jareth’s cheek–the gesture undeniably affectionate, but with a certain desperation behind it, a need to keep him where he was, with his lips at Hazel’s throat. “I guess technically speakin’ I’ve invited ya in, right?” He tips his head slightly, as if to give him better access, and suddenly he’s very aware of how loud his own heartbeat sounds to him. He wonders if Jareth’s is this loud. He wonder if his heart even–no, of course it does, of course it does, now he’s just being stupid. “If I’m rememberin’ the stories, I think that means I’m at your mercy.” 

   Every skipped heartbeat that fails to hum within Hazel’s chest, every hitched breath that escapes beside a shudder, and needy gasp that heaves past the other’s lips, he can hear with the same clarity and undeniable certainty that a human would hear the slam of a door as old wood rattles within lofty walls or the squealing of a tire against pavement when a car takes a sharp turn. And he can feel the bob of Hazel’s throat as he stutters to speak, the twitch if fingers where they’re tangled within his own, and how shivers at fangs that had brushed over delicate flesh with that same intensity because every simple, fleeting touch is like an iron that’s being firmly pressed into his frigid skin and serves to warm him in what little way it can. It makes him want to chase to it; makes him want to coax more stunned breaths and strangled sounds from the other man. Makes him yearn for warmth he can’t ever have, but can feel all too much with each lingering touch - even with lips now hovering slightly above the other’s throat. 

     Caution reminds him that he shouldn’t be doing this right now - outside of the safety of the bathhouse where that precious secret, believed or otherwise, should firmly remain, but he has already thrown that thought aside. Had to the moment he had parted his lips. He is tense; however, waiting for a proper response from Hazel that isn’t a tepid breath at the sensation of his touch or a jumble of words at a question that was less of a question than it was a confession thinly nestled into one. And fingers tighten their hold somewhat where their hands are held; there’s something about the meager strength he displays - how careful and precise it is, that implies just how much power he harbors within sleek muscles. Suddenly, the scarlet gleam of his eyes seems all the more apparent against deathly pale skin that screams an almost gentle danger. 

      Hazel’s voice is uncertain when it leaves his lips, but the hand that comes to rest upon his cheek is anything but, and it keeps him where he is - lips pressed gingerly against Hazel’s throat. A throaty, yet soft laugh trembles against the other’s adam’s apple - he has, but he hadn’t intended to use that fact against him. For all that he is: chilled skin, sharpened fangs, dripping bloodlust, he is not inherently cruel. But he does have to swallow, hard, when Hazel tips his head back - fully bearing his throat to him as the sound of his heartbeat drums loudly against his keen ears. It’s enough to make his lips dampen slightly where they’re still pressed (had he been a far younger vampire, he wouldn’t have been capable of lingering there for so long - he wouldn’t have been able to maintain the impressive level of control he harbored, even now, even Hazel’s throat was full exposed to elongated canines). If he wished to, tearing away from Hazel’s hold would be easy for him, but he doesn’t want to. He feels that admission from Hazel almost as plainly as he hears it. 

     “Not technically, you have,” he teases. For all intents and purposes, carrying a vampire into one’s home with the express desire to allow them passage is the same as inviting that vampire within one’s home verbally. Hazel should, he thinks not for the first time, be more mindful of the strangers he allows in his home. Then again, it doesn’t much matter. He doesn’t actually need to be invited in to enter in the first place. That little tidbit is nothing more than a common misbelief out of the hope that one is safe within their home from the undead. But he doesn’t have the desire to inform Hazel of that right this moment when he’s willingly put himself at his mercy. “Perhaps,” is all he says instead before his hold upon the other man’s shoulder slackens.   

       “Then, if you are, trust me, but know that being at my mercy doesn’t mean you can’t stop me if you wish to,” he urges, that hand snaking around to tangle long nails into Hazel’s hair to firmly hold his head into place. Legs shifting onto the couch so he’s now straddling the other. It’s the warning he gives before lips part against feverish skin once again, sucking at his throat for a moment to dampen exposed skin before the very tips of his fangs press into bared flesh. The faintest trickle of blood brushing against his tongue. His bite, not piercing even nearly half as deep as it could have,  is far from painful - it’s numbing almost and harbors an aphrodisiac-like effect (if anything, it should feel pleasant); this little gesture, a ghost of what it could be, is nothing more than him asking permission - to see if Hazel will stop him or if he’ll allow him to continue.   

For me, life may well continue in solitude. I have never perceived those to whom I have been most attached other than as through a glass, darkly.

Vincent van Gogh, The Letters of Vincent van Gogh (via weltenwellen)

dansemorosity​:

  (  — ʟᴏsᴛ ᴋɪɴᴅ. ✥ ) ┊┊ It’s the gentle sweep of soft fingers through his damp hair that awakens him more so than the soothing lullaby or the general ambiance of the bathhouse. Sore muscles stiffen and a hand missing one finger immediately gropes downward towards his hip where a sword is usually kept sheathed. When he feels nothing but the robes covering him and the plush linens beneath him, the stiffness of his body starts to slacken, but doesn’t entirely disappear. His good eye cracks open slowly. It feels as if his eyelids were sewn shut. The interior of the room remains blurry even as his one-eyed gaze slowly peers around. The scent of perfumes, rich soap, foreign incense, and a stranger’s peculiarly strong personal smell threatens to overwhelm his senses. His head feels as if its stuck underwater. The words spoken to him, so soothing and gentle, sound murky and nearly unintelligible at first. He carefully turns his head to the side. Even that small motion is enough to send sparks of pain shooting up his spine and pricking into his skull. His nose wrinkles and he bites back a groan. 

      “You can… tell me who you are. That’d be a– good start.” He doesn’t bother trying to hide the cracking of his voice, nor the gritting of his teeth as his jaw struggles to work. His tongue still feels cottony and numb; it’s a wonder he’s able to form understandable words. He peers over, only managing to catch sight of the other man’s thigh and the curve of his wrist. He tilts his head but only manages to catch a glimpse of a seraphic smile and lilac eyes before another wave of nauseating pain hits. He sucks in a short breath. Damn. He’d taken more damage than he’d thought. Normally he would be able to sit up and stretch his aching muscles by now. Annoyance sparks in his stomach, but it’s not enough to motivate his body into moving. He manages to lift his head and, painstakingly, prop himself up on his arms. 

      Now that his vision has adjusted, he can study the interior of the room more carefully. The decorations don’t strike him as anything he’s familiar with– European for certain, but he can’t put a finger on what country or culture they may be inspired by. All he knows is it looks damn expensive. Inwardly, he sighs. Could he not have chosen somewhere less conspicuous to lick his wounds? Oh well. Nothing he could do about it now. At the time he’d hurt like hell ( and granted, he still did even after passing out into a dreamless slumber ) and knew he wouldn’t have gotten much further than the bathhouse. He can’t quite recall his line of thinking at the time other than knowing he needed somewhere to recoup, and needed it fast, lest he keel over on the open streets. What good, seasoned journeyman would allow for that? 

      One whose quest had ended successfully but at the dire cost of nearly dying for a third time, that’s who. 

        Feris tilts his head back, sending white locks only partially dried from his bath falling down around his shoulders. He breathes evenly so as not to aggravate his burning chest any further. Eventually, he cracks his eye back open and gives his visitor ( employee, must be, he thinks as he surveys the other’s garb ) and drawls, “So were you sent to make sure I’m not dead? Or have ya got a habit of singing to men knocked out into next Wednesday?” He chuckles at the expense of his raw throat. “Not saying I don’t appreciate it, Mr…..?”

   Heat pools into the calloused tips of his slender fingers; a faint glow radiating against ivory skin that’s still stuck between damp, white locks - mindful of where the stunned base of horns are nestled upon the other’s scalp when he feels a tug at his wrist; the man mustering up what strength he could in order to crane his head towards him. He can see, after all he’s not terribly far from the other, how his nose seems to wrinkle in pain at such a muted motion. Soothing, one could describe the gentle warmth that radiates from fingers both too frigid to be wholly human, but much too hot to be wholly vampiric as well - enough, perhaps, to dull the ache just a bit. But not enough to make it entirely apparent that magic was seeping beneath his nails - light pulsing and pushing; a healer’s touch that should have been impossible for a creature of the night possess, yet, he did, and did in spades. It’s why he keeps fingers combing through long hair long after the stranger’s lone eye had cracked open - unbothered by the purposeful closeness he had created and continued to maintain because, frankly, discarding it as this man was now would only serve to further tug at thick bruises and bandages wounds until the ache he must already feel is unbearable once again. 

     “Lilliale is my name, though you’re welcome to shorten it if you wish.” Smile remains on soft features; amber irises glowing in almost the same, faint fashion as his skin though against the stark white of the room - sheets, mattress, pillows, walls - it’s difficult to notice. Even the clock upon the wall and the vases adorning sleek shelves are various shades of ivory and off-white. The plants climbing from their pots the only real pop of collar in the room save for the golden trim highlighting the folds of his own robes and the thick, black collar clasped tightly about his throat. Perfume clings to the air, alongside the scent of burning wax where candles are propped in the far corner of the room - a distinctly floral scent masking a tint of iron and copper that doesn’t seem to cling to him nearly as much as it does the others. “Though, if possible, I would like to know your name in return.” Voice retains its pleasant tone; not far off from the way it had sounded a moment ago when he had been filling in the silence with a whispered melody. 

     Fingers fall slightly from the other’s scalp when props himself up upon his arm, but don’t leave his skin - instead they slide downwards slightly to his temple; gentle glow humming faintly against his skin - use of magic increasing ever so slightly with time; a slow process, as if he’s testing waters rather than dealing with a life because his body is tattered. All magic has limits, push too hard too quickly and even the most gentle of spells can become wild, violent things that burn instead of heal. The strangest of people, he thinks, always manage to find their way to this bathhouse. He’s uncertain if Orpheus is simply unlucky in that regard, or if he’s mastered the art of owning a business after crowning himself a God within these walls for so long. Tongue almost threatens to click against the roof of his mouth at the thought, but he stops himself - every other part of him is devoid of anything but an overwhelming calm and heartfelt kindness. 

      A wispy laugh bubbles up from the depths of his hollow chest - just the softest thing. A ghost of something more. For a man who had passed out - a bloody heap - upon the slick, marble floors of the bathhouse he certainly asks more questions than he gives answers to explain his current state or reasoning for seeking solace within their walls. Though, he suspected the latter is little more than a whim of fate for he doubted this stranger would have been capable of dragging himself much further than their doors, in the state he had been in, if he had tried. Even now, he imagines he won’t get terribly far. 

      “No, I cannot say it’s a habit of mine, but I would argue you might be giving yourself a bit too much credit - I would argue you were knocked out into next Friday.” Hand turns so knuckles brush against skin instead of fingers; magic still brimming consistently even as he speaks - there’s a certain level of control over it that matches his overall demeanor in a manner that is almost unsettlingly. “And I chose to make sure you weren’t dead.” He doesn’t do favors for this bathhouse’s owner, though there was no denying he was easily the most well equipped to care for someone suffering such grievous wounds when a vampire, those who are plentiful within these walls, shouldn’t possess a lick of healing magic let alone be capable of the control over it he displayed as it it came naturally to him. “I would like to ask you how you came about such wounds, but I’m not one to pry much. But I will ask, how are you feeling? Where is the worst of your pain?”  

thorn-kissed​:

As Uriel got out all of the supplies Melany realized that she wasn’t prepared for how legit this massage was. She was expecting just some sort of back rub or something, but there were oils and lotions. Even a nice smelling candle was lit and she felt like this was far too expensive to be free. Though Melany knew absolutely nothing about massages to begin with so her surprise wasn’t that shocking.

What was surprising to her was how soft this bed was. It had nothing on the cheap hotel beds that felt more like laying on cardboard than an actual mattress. This was luxurious and with how broke she was it was probably the last time she was going to be able to lay on a bed. At least for a while. There was a future of sleeping on park benches and rooftops, which made this bed all the more bittersweet.

 As his fingers touched her back she shivered a bit, not expecting him to be so cold. Now that she really thought about it he always felt cold compared to her, which was a bit odd. Usually Melany was always the cold one, leeching warmth from those that offered. Her thoughts were distracted by the rather lackluster response about not plunging a knife in her back. That wasn’t reassuring in the least bit but honestly if she was stabbed on this bed she would accept it. There were harder surfaces to be stabbed on, that she had been stabbed on now that she thought about it. Please at least try to fight back, her god begged as she fully embraced dying here. That didn’t require a response.

His hands traced her back and she couldn’t help but shudder again as a chill went down her spine. Hopefully she would get used to his cold hands or else this would be a very wiggly massage and she didn’t think that would be helpful. Her eyes widened as he asked about a brand and her mind scrambled. “Brand?!” she asked, startled turning her head as much as she could. Melany thought she would remember getting branded, that seemed like a painful experience. Eventually she realized what he was talking about from the placement of his hand and breathed out in relief. 

“Oh that. That’s just a weird looking birthmark. Everyone who’s seen it says it looks horrible but I was born with it, can’t really do anything about it,” she explained forgetting about its existence half the time.It’s not like she could see it without posing awkwardly with mirrors. She just had to take everyone’s word for it that it looked awful. 

“Guess I should have mentioned that my entire torso is not pretty,” she added on trying to lighten the mood. He seemed slightly off since seeing it, and Melany wasn’t sure why he seemed upset over it. Though branding wasn’t really common in modern times, so maybe seeing someone who was branded would be distressing. Whatever the reason she hoped that he wouldn’t actually stab her in the back and was just distracted by the birthmark.

    Fingers lingered on that brand; dull nails tracing the outline as if he was trying to match it to the almost photocopy image if it that had been burned into his mind. Every nook, every bend, every curve was the exact same. Not a single line out of place. It was just as twisted and ugly as he remembered it being. Lips purse - fangs drawing against soft flesh that he nearly ripped open with how hard he bit down upon his own skin in a pitiful attempt to stifle the thoughts clogging up his frantic mind. He was aware, if he had a heartbeat, it would be drumming wildly within his hollow chest - a ceaseless clamor that would smash against bone and tissue and muscle until it had managed to tear through flesh to toss itself uselessly upon the bed before him. But that didn’t mean that his chest didn’t ache. That didn’t mean it didn’t throb and yank and lurch. The pain so much worse than any physical wound he had ever felt before. Quite frankly, he would have preferred to be stabbed in the chest over whatever he happened to be feeling right now because it had been centuries since he had managed to feel anything close to agony and this agony was blistering, festering, and blinding. 

      He barely hears her response over the ringing in his head, and fangs only let loose his bottom lip as he doesn’t drop lukewarm blood onto her tattered skin. His gaze, though, could’t leave the sight of that brand - a memory so deeply burned into his very skull that it feels like he’s greeting an old friend instead of his worst enemy. And she didn’t even appear to be aware of the fact that she was branded, something that, as she went on, made that pain deepened within the very core of his being. She was born with it. Yet, he tried to explain it away logically. Of every person who had ever carried that brand, how could he know, for certain, Melany was her? She wasn’t the first nor the last witch they had settled melted cast iron against - he doubts, as well, that she was the only one to have it in this exact location. Wasn’t there a chance, then, that he ached for nothing? 

      Knowing that, why did the illogical part of him continue to creep ever closer to convincing him that, no, this was her - she had come back from the dead. Reborn into a new life with scars from the miserable one she had lead before. And those scars, that brand, they were his fault. He was the one incapable of producing a child - not her. To think that, even in her next life, she would be stuck with that horrid brand tainting her skin. Don’t get your hopes up, he chides himself, think about this logically. But he can’t. She reminds him too much of her and, he knows, it could just be old demons playing tricks on him because there isn’t a day that goes by where he doesn’t think of her. A day where he isn’t still madly in love with her. And now that there’s even a thread of a chance that she’s here, right now, he can’t bring himself to snap the only scrape of hope he had felt in centuries. 

       “You were born with it...” he parrots, voice almost cracking as he forces the words from barren., raw throat. He knows he’s allowed his carefully crafted persona to melt away; he knows the mask he had been clutching like a lifeline has cracked, if not shattered, but he can’t stop. Can’t peel his gaze away from how exact a match the brand she carries is to the one they had burned into his wife’s skin before they had set her aflame. He needed to know. He needed a way to confirm his thoughts, but he could swallow around the lump in his throat as he lowered his head - frigid lips brushing against the horrific brand as fingers trembled ever so slightly against her back. She was born with it.   

       Slowly, he eased himself back to reality with the press of her heated skin against his own. Head lifting as tore fingers from where they had come to rest upon her back. He wants, more than anything, to know without a shadow of doubt, but realizes if he comes across too strongly now he might lose her all over again. And that thought is unbearable one. Almost more so than the knowledge that there’s a chance Orpheus wants her dead. And why? For what reason? It doesn’t matter. He can’t let him take her. His wife or not, now, she reminds him too much of her to watch her die again. The thought keeps his mind hostage as he leans over to coat his hands in a thick layer of lotion - using the flame of the candle to warm his skin ever so slightly. Focus. He has nothing these days, but time. 

       “No, I still stand by what I said earlier,” he manages, voice slowly returning to something far more level and closer to the playful tone he had been using around her the entire time. Lips tugging into a smile that is both forced and painfully sincere in the very same nonexistent breath. “That you are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on.” This time, when he says, he’s being honest. He wants to believe that she is her. He wants to believe he’s saying these words to her. And, if it turns out he’s wrong, at least he was able to live in his own twisted fantasy for a few hours. He inhales uselessly against the scent of the candle and presses his hands against her back - easing motions into her tense and marred skin. He had promises her a free massage. And he owed her that much and so much more.  

“We’re born from people’s wishes. Once those wishes stop, a god’s role is over.” - Kofuku - Happy birthday Uliana! ( ´ ♡ ` )

spurnedadulthood​:

     Perhaps it was only to be expected at this point, but it wasn’t like Kensuke could conjure a name to go along with her cute face, for the cook didn’t do much else besides cheerfully bring him his meals and smile at him whenever he did thank her. Why, come to think of it, this was actually the first time they ever had a real, tangible conversation, because up until now, he couldn’t remember his visits to the bathhouse ever lasting this long. Frankly speaking, he doesn’t even come here regularly, except maybe during the weekends on the off chance his mother couldn’t make lunch, and even then, Kensuke had intended to leave before the cook had dragged him  AWAY.  As it turns out, however, her name happened to be Felicity - yet another Western sounding one that seemed difficult to pronounce; then again, he is and has always been Japanese, so it’s just natural the ‘L’s and ‘C’s would be syllables he deemed difficult.

     “ …Ferishiti-san, huh? Sorry, I’m afraid names like that aren’t quite easy for me to properly enunciate, ” he’ll go on to admit, allowing his lips to form a straighter line. “ And you can just call me Kensuke, really. It’s a pleasure to meet you. ” While he could have added in his surname at the beginning, it seemed rather unnecessary to introduce himself as ‘Hibiki Kensuke’, especially since Felicity wasn’t even Japanese to begin with; therefore, he’ll simply leave it at that as he patiently waits for her return. By the time she does come back, however, he’ll manage yet another smile. “ Personally, I think it’s pretty impressive you managed to successfully bake a cake you’ve never made on your first try, ” Kensuke goes on to reassure her before slicing off a  SMALL  portion off the cake with his fork and ferrying it through his lips.

     After a few seconds of chewing, he’ll then swallow with a contemplative look  meandering it’s way through his bespectacled features. “ Hm…  it has a rather refreshing aftertaste; only, it’s kinda sour, so maybe you should have added in a little more sugar, yet other than that, I have no complaints. Was this supposed to be a key lime cake? The filling seems… how should I put this? Tarter, compared to that of a lime. ”

    “Oh no, it’s okay!” She waves her hand dismissively in front of her chest when he apologizes. She’s far from perfect by any means. She trips over names and words constantly, but hides it well with a bright smile and flushed cheeks most of the time. “You can just call me Feli if that’s easier or even cupcake, some of my friends call that me so I don’t mind if you do.” She preferred nicknames anyway. Being called by her full name made her feel like she was swiftly approaching 30 and, despite now being an immortal vampire, she really wasn’t ready to have her midlife crisis just yet so she might as well cling to her youth while she still could. Even if that train of thought made next to no sense as she was now never going to look a day over 20, but it was the thought that really mattered in this situation and by the grace of Ingram for turning her, she was going to live out extended life as a young woman with energy and vitality to spare. Ah, it’s only been two years since she’s already feeling old. She can’t imagine how Ingram must feel, not having been changed until he was 30 and being alive more centuries than she cared to count. “But it’s nice to meet you, too, Kensuke,” she beams. She doesn’t know if she pronounced his name correctly either, but she tried her best. “Do you have a nickname you prefer to go by or is your full name fine?” 

     Scarlet eyes all but sparkle at the compliment - features tinting rose despite the fact that most vampires, to her knowledge, couldn’t blush. The unusual trait of hers was something Ingram had passed off on her being young so she would flush with pride. If that was, at all, possible. “Thank you, one day I hope I’ll be able to make every flavor of cake at least once in my life, but perfecting every last one of them is my dream.” She seems to have tossed aside her earlier concerns and doubts about him - throwing herself wholly into her work and his willingness to try it. There really was nothing she adored more than making a decent cake, but a fantastic one was even better - one that could bring a smile to the lips of the taster. Her mother’s cakes had always done that before and she was determined to become just like her. Well, minus the being a vampire thing, but that had done nothing but help her in her pursuit, strange as it was. 

        She; however, was quick to deflate when words of praise turned into gentle critique - shoulders slumping and head lowering. It seems her dreams were still far off. Lips quivered and eyes threatened to water - why she looked as if she might cry as arms hung loosely at her sides. “I-I see,” she stutters - hope drained from her bright features that had been vibrant a mere moment ago. “So I’ve failed, please forgive me for serving you such a lackluster cake after all of the help you’ve been.” Too salty? Too tart? How could she? Oh her mother might come here this instant to strike her down for soiling the family name. A shame! A failure! She looked like she might melt into a puddle then and there. But, just like that, she lifted her hands to slap her cheeks and straightened her back - life igniting in her eyes once again. “I’ll just have to do better next time! I promise the next cake will blow you away!” She doesn’t even give him the chance to respond before she all but slams down a piece of chocolate cake before him - complete with ribbons of fudge and sprinkles of chocolate pieces upon its milky frosting. 

Duo Multi Muse blogs feat. Canon and Original Muses + Beastkin lore!

Written by Shampoo and J

Selective, 21+ only

Writers 25+, low activity

Art .:. Quote

dokuhebi​:

Orpheus / plotted starter. @nxctiphany​

Streetlights eat away at the mist hanging thickly over the pavement, banishing beams of darkness that night has brought with it. Moths gather at the illuminated bulbs, mad fluttering, an almost deranged congregation. There is only one other shadow around, with slender arms folding over their chest, brought close to their body. A feeble attempt at retaining warmth. Europe, a land that reached such chilling temperatures in the winter months. Not the ideal home for someone like them - the pale individual never the most resilient to even minor chills. So why choose this continent then? Why not one of the many others with warmer weather and sunnier skies to offer? Well - fugitives simply couldn’t be picky.  The svelte criminal has found refuge in this land, even without the paperwork needed to be a citizen or resident here. How risky it is, should the law sight them. But would anyone be looking for a runaway hailing from Japan in the heart of this place? They can only hope not. The beige fabric of their kimono cardigan is swept up by a chilling wind, the black turtleneck shirt not offering them the warmth it promised. Nor do the black calf boots or equally dark jeans. There is a light shiver to their form, every passing wind hitting them like a fist.  Strange to think the sylphlike one navigating these dark streets is a killer themself. An unintentional kill perhaps, but murder nonetheless. They had known the man may perish at the hands of their medical work, but they had done it anyway - for science, for human advancement. How the sound of every passing car has them tensing, recalling the chilling sound of the police sirens outside their door, the barking of officers, the howling of trained dogs. Enough to startle them. Capital punishment was a certain possibility - and execution simply tasted too bitter to bite. Running had been their only way out, and so, here they stand. Flinching at the sound of traffic, tensing at the passing cop car. No matter how oblivious these citizens and law abiding people are of the criminal in their midst. 

But they are in search of a particular venue, they seek refuge somewhere more private than a country oceans away from their birthplace. A bathhouse and inn - or was it a brothel, mixed messages heard from other illicit travelers. They didn’t know what precisely they were looking for, only that it was a hard to find place. How tempting for someone like them. Oblivious are they to the fact that it is not a human den at all. That their hopes of disappearing there are not so simple.  It wouldn’t matter of course, this place is starting to seem more myth than tangible. They have searched for weeks now, and every direction offered by sources, admittedly unreliable ones, turned up a mere dead end.  Disheartened, but certainly far from giving up, they have no idea one fateful night that they run in to the establishments owner. Less informed of his true nature and species. He looks so human here, beautiful undoubtedly, with sharp eyes that hold the same amber as their own, but human as far as they could tell all the same. They have escaped the pale moon to take cover at a bar, one of the few venues still open at this hour. Long black hair tumbles around them, swept briefly in the breeze when the door open and channels the wind with extra voracity. Orochimaru has found that drunk men are the easiest targets to steal from, men either swayed by their pretty face and charming tongue, or simply too smashed to even notice a slight of hand.  With all the credentials and qualifications of a doctor and scientist, they have no ability to work regardless. Not with a warrant out for their arrest, and their license revoked due to ill practice.  When they spot Orpheus, the scent of perfume catches their interest first, then the wealth presented in his dresscode. For a moment, the sharpness to his eyes, the intelligence there, makes them doubt targeting him. But the rowdy crowd is offering slim pickings tonight, and so they gracefully make their way to the bar near him. An error they could never have guessed, that the one they would try to steal from would have senses superior to any animal or person. Putting to shame the hearing and scent skills of hounds, and the eyes of hawks.  First, they speak with the man behind the bar, unaware of who Orpheus is despite him being near to them, asking the bartender whether he had heard of the elusive bathhouse owned by the present immortal. Again - it is as if nobody has. Their questions leave them empty handed. So they move on to their next go to for the sake of survival - petty theft. The baggy sleeve of their long kimono cardigan works wonders at concealing items, and it would do so tonight. Right under the bartenders nose, such experienced hands are they in theft. They had stolen when they were an orphan, stubborn in the face of constantly changing foster homes, and now, it seemed the streets had reclaimed them once more. Like their mother and father, who both fell to crime in desperate times - the catalyst for their orphaned child - it seemed the apple never would fall far from the tree. “Sorry dear,” they say to the vampire, excusing the light touch when they bump him. An action used for the sake of pick pocketing, pretending they had lost balance when another man moves past, when he bumps the slender one, and their far lighter form naturally loses a bit of balance. It would be so fluid and graceful, so seamless a motion, that a normal man would never be able to tell they were using this ‘blunder’ to steal - a great pity the eye catching man they target is not ordinary. Brilliantly hued long hair tangling around a handsome visage, tall, bewitching. But it is not his good looks that make him exceptional - how they would have been better off if they were wrong about their initial instincts telling them to back off.

      A distinctly musty stench clung to the stagnant air within the stained walls of the bar, mixing with the ever present scent of barley and liquor that seemed to seep into the cushion of every elongated chair and the very wood - tinted a faint burgundy from one too many glasses spilled upon its splintered surface - of the tables crowded all around the counter. Flaxen lights buzzed with muffled vengeance where they hung behind rattling blades of the fan smack center of the looming ceiling that did little but push and pull the smell of tobacco until smoke all but lined the floorboards. Warm was the air that filtered in from the street just beyond through cracked windows that hummed softly against the gentle breeze that knocked at foggy glass - still damp from dew that had yet to be cleaned off and made their sheen dull in the dim lighting. Chatter bounced casually from table to table - the crowd today was thin and huddled in different corners of the wide room. Not unfriendly by any means, but more keen to keep to themselves than to allow strangers in. On an off day like this, the bar wasn’t nearly as crowded as it might have been on a blistering weekend. 

      He stood out where he sat at the counter - calloused fingers folded against the sharp line of his cheekbone and expensive silk robes draping smoothly from broad shoulders that sagged beneath the meager light cast upon tall, muscular frame. A glass of wine sat upon the countertop between his index and middle fingers as scarlet locks hung in front of golden irises that almost seemed to gleam in the dark, and cascaded down his back to lick at the table’s surface. Sharp gaze fell primarily on the bartender who rambled heedlessly about customers, but keen ears unraveled every conversation - hushed, giddy, or loud - that swirled about the bar. Rumors that gave birth to hidden truths and intoxicating lies. Stories that were as tragic as they were humorous. Heated disagreements that threatens to turn into a fistfight when no one bothers to look their way. He made a point to know everything that happened within this city because it would be his. Everything and everyone, unknowing, unwillingly, or otherwise, would be belong to him.  

      When the old bell chimes as the door is opened, not a single soul bothers to spare the newcomer a glance. They’re already absorbed into their conversations - their bickering and their fights. Long fingers with nails as sharp as claws and as hard as the diamonds that he wears around his knuckles lift to wrap about the neck of his glass - swirling the red liquid within idly a the stranger approaches the bartender. Glass is held against pale lips as its contents are drained - a smile tugging at the corners of his eyes behind the shimmer of his glass as he easily picks up on their conversation. The bathhouse, to them, is both something of myth and an everyday presence. It welcomes those it desires within its doors, but rejects those it harbors no interest in because it bends to his will and his will alone.   

      And how curious it is that this stranger would inquire about his domain. Gaze flickers towards them as his glass is set, empty, back down upon the table - head leaning against his knuckles; earrings of gold and ruby catching light with the motion. Their questions turning up nothing but puzzled words from the bartender who remains fixed in place - eyes unwilling to meet his as they continue to rub at the mud clutched within their hands. He can almost taste the anxiety that radiates from the man who had been questioned - back rigid, sweat threatening to pool between his brows as friendly smile quivers until this new customer ceases that line of thought when there is no information to be gained.    

       Fate is a mistress he has been in touch with time and time again - commanding her troubled whims, and tonight, she would swing, once again, in his favor at the expense of another. The stranger withdraws, brushing against him as another man makes his way to the counter - using the slight push as an excuse, and it’s hardly a bad when their form is so lithe in contrast. Their motions are fluid, graceful even, but are almost comical, not to mention sorely ill-informed and dreadfully unlucky, when they’ve made the mistake of choosing him for a target. The hand upon the counter lifts to grab slender wrist - hold tight and powerful though effortlessly. He could twist and shatter bone if he so desired, but didn’t quite grip with enough pressure to do so. 

       Smile remains upon his features as he shifts - free hand falling into his lap as he leans closer to the stranger. The telltale scent of copper and iron clings to his lips. “Be careful, darling,” he returns - deep voice vibrating within his throat yet it spilled like honey from his tongue as his thumb traced nonsensical circles against the vein nestled beneath their wrist. A motion that was far from comforting - a veiled threat as the tip of his nail pressed into delicate skin. “You never know who might bump into. Fate has a thrilling way of bringing two people together, wouldn’t you agree?” Venom drips into his voice, yet its tremor never lows into one of hostility. The bartender pays him no mind, and the glossy eyes of drunken customers don’t even lift from their glasses. 

       “You look like you could use a drink or two. I suggest you have a seat and enjoy yourself for a bit. I would hate to have to break your pretty, little arm.” Grip is just tight enough to bruise, but voice remains pleasant. He doesn’t pull the other down, though he easily could. No, he waits. He observes. And he commands through velvet-coated words that are more unsettling than they are comforting and far more vicious than they let on. His thumb does; however, lift ever so slightly off of that vein where the rush of a pulse nestled beneath flesh and the sensation of blood flowing through their body makes his own frigid skin feel lukewarm. “Now then, won’t you tell me why you’re searching for this bathhouse? Perhaps I can be of some help to you.”