Is anybody ok with my muse mentioning your muse in a thread they have with somebody else?

       YESSSSSSSSSSSS. 

       this is a pretty big issue for me actually. 

        and not just because it’s really amazing to see what other muses         say, think and feel about your muse when they’re not around but         because I WANT SOME CONTINUITY. i am trying to create a          continuity for my character where everything that isn’t an AU          has feelings and actions making sense depending on a timeline         and people they know and love. actions have consequences.          relationships and events change people. 

        roleplay without that is… well, repetitive… & not very fulfilling to me. 

A pair of wide, glowing eyes peer over at Kylar from the opposite side of the table. Fuzzy antennae twitch a few times, and then the little girl climbs into the chair. She stands on the cushion, gigantic claws resting delicately on the table. She opens her mouth, and at first only a sound similar to distant chimes and piano comes out. She clears her throat and tries again. "What are you reading?" Candle asks.

A thoughtful frown addresses her, the screen of the computer monitor dulling the curious glow of her eyes across the table.

No matter how much time has passed, Kylar had never managed to repress the instinctual unease he feels when Candle is around. After a few minutes the feeling tends to lessen, but the alarm was always faintly blaring in the back of his head, an itch he couldn’t scratch. It wasn’t the insectoid features, having grown up in the slums didn’t leave much room for the privilege of squeamishness. Nor the memory of her using those very sharp claws to gut him the first time they met—no he hasn’t forgotten.

Despite the feeling, he angled the computer to let her see, “perfluorohexane, it’s a liquid that animals and people can breathe.” He points to the words, mentioning a couple of the medical studies being down regarding liquid ventilation, drug delivery or blood substitutes. “I’m trying to determine if it’s worth exploring for less… benign functions.” He shrugs. “Still, kinda cool how far science has come.”

💝☆ put this star into the inbox of your favourite blogs. it’s time to spread positivity!! ☆💝 // your boy might be a lil sh*t, but he's an adorable lil sh*t & i adore him as well as your writing. hehe ~

OH THANK YOU SO MUCH ;w; I adore your writing and Envy is SUCH a unique and well-written character that I always get excited when I see him interacting on the dash!

celestialspitfire​:

Judo, boxing, bare-knuckle brawling, they were only a handful of styles that he had been taught within the Prime, so it was no surprise that he could effortlessly switch into a grappling style, one previously unseen by many. The strength of his thighs and legs was near overpowering, ergo combined with the pressure that Noah kept on Kylar’s throat, the threat of danger loomed ever closer. Elbow into stomach, head slamming back into his face, pressure points assaulted, it was a wonder how Noah hadn’t passed out, let alone keep his grip on Kylar to prevent him from wriggling away and disappearing.

Again.

Physical pain was nothing in comparison to the snarled words being exhibited from between Kylar’s lips. They did nothing short of cripple those firm arms surrounding Kylar’s neck. If he had much struggling power left in him, he either chose to reserve it for more-important skirmishes or the heavy weight of emotions had overtaken much desire to exude strength to his extremities. His pressure points, stomped and manipulated by Kylar, blossomed with pain. One nostril spurted blood from the slam of that raven-haired head to his face. His arms, devoid of energy from exuding much of it in keeping Kylar stilled, throbbed as they loosened gradually from around Kylar’s neck.

He was panting like a wounded animal, upper back pressed to the wall while the remainder of his body laid outstretched upon the cold ground. Potions, concoctions, and varying papers now having fallen from the tables, they laid amidst a bed of chaos, one to match the conflicting emotions budding within Noah’s chest.

Conflicting emotions of guilt, anger, sadness, and above all, empathy.

Sapphire eyes shut halfway.

He’d been a dick.

But apologies never came easy.

“… you know I can take care of myself. You don’t need to worry about me.”

For several seconds, Kylar said nothing, did nothing. Stared into space as his back and shoulder sagged against Noah, until finally, he scoffed. It was a cruel, bitter noise. The emotion behind it curled his upper lip and curdled in his stomach. 

You don’t get to decide what I do or don’t need. 

I just want to be there--

Let me help! You don’t have to be alone in this....

Those were the words he wanted to say and many more, instead what came out was a quiet and hateful, “right,” that led to Kylar leaning forward, back to Noah, agravating a coughing fit from his bruised throat that he choked down, letting his torso jerk from the effort instead. That was about as far as he got though. 

Tears burned and threatened to spill but he blinked them back furiously. Gritted his teeth to keep from choking up until painful white spots blinked in his vision . Death before he let Noah see him like this. With robotic movemetns, he reached out and grabbed the nearest tincture and began scooping powder back into its container. Everything had to be picked up, put back together, assembled, rebuilt....

He corked the bottle and set it aside, fingers shaking as he tried to scrape notes off the floor, unable to pinch the edge of the first sheet.

... fixed, healed, mended, repaired....

There was a strange thrumming growing in his ears. A headache, surely. It was messing with his vision, making everything blurry. Harder to think clearly. The paper crinkled in his tightened grip. He reached for another sheet.

... Unbroken....

... Unbreaka--

“CRUN--ch!”

First, there’s ringing. Then there’s pain. Hot and blinding, shooting up his arm, bursting from his fingers and hand as if there were barbed wires wrapped around the bones. He cursed, harsh and sharply, as he pulled his arm in and clutched it against his chest. Pulling it free of the hole he had made in the wall on the opposite side of the room, away from the cracked concrete behind the plaster and drywall. By the time he realizes what happened, the pain is almost gone, the bones in his hand nearly mended. 

In that yawning quiet that followed, something inside him, like the many vials scattered around the floor, broke.  This was selfish. He knew it was--he should have just walked about and disappeared--for good this time. It would be one less variable, one less tragedy lying in wait, ready to take more of Kylar’s mangled soul and heart.

“... Is it so fucking hard to rely on me once in a while?” It came out so quiet, that Kylar wasn’t sure he said it aloud. He really was a coward deep down, unable to turn and face a at Noah as he finally let this piece of him go. Worried that he already knew the answer. 

He still could. Turn invisible, run out into the night and Noah would never be able to find him. That was safer, smarter, in the long run. Be the quiet shadow that he was in the old days, helping raise up kings and overthrow demon lords. That’s how he could be reliable now, helpful even.

"I may be just a human... and I sure as hell don’t have your strength, but god dammit I’m not fragile, Noah.” 

Hey all~

Just checking in to let you know the blog isn’t dead. Work life is kicking up for the coming holiday season and I’ve got school on the side so that’s where most of my focus has been. Feel free to comment if you’d like an ask prompt from this tiny jerk of a muse!

Otherwise I may have some time tonight to work on drafts :)

Kylar stepped out from around a thick tree’s trunk, hands resting into his pockets as he saunted over, disturbing a bit of leaf litter before stopping a few feet away. A ghost of a smirk playing a lopsided game on his face. ‘Believe me pal, if I didn’t want you know know I was around, you wouldn’t.’

“My bad, wasn’t sure what the protocol for approaching one of the fae folk was,” he shrugged, “thought it’d be more rude to walk up and spin you around by your shoulder.” Or shove a knife against their throat. “Lot of stories and theories, not a lot of facts to work with.”

“Speakin’ of theories, heard the fae are pretty good at collecting or getting information. Interested in a trade?” From the left pant pocket, a small baggie was pulled out and held up. Inside are freshly cleaned teeth of the human variety. Molars, incisors, the whole array. From the right pocket, another baggie, but this one had more traditional currencies within. A wad of cash the side of a baseball, a couple gems, and even some odd coins of an Aztec origin gleamed in the dappled sunlight coming through the branches overhead. “I’m looking for a group that’s been snatching young women in the area. Heard anything about it?”

@nxghtangel​

   “Listen, if you got somethin’ with me, say it. Don’t be a creep and follow behind silently. This isn’t a fuckin’ horror movie, I’m not oblivious to footsteps. It’s also daytime, maybe plan better next time.” Sharp words targetted the man further along the path of the park as the fae turned on his heel and set both hands on his hips to convey his annoyance. Wings adorning his back remained folded, although any more of the following would certainly have pissed him off enough to even think of leaving the realm. He would only reconsider that thought if he was given reason to.

.

“Get up.”

“Don’t you get it? You won. I yield.”

“Like hell you do. I know you’re a better swordsman than that. Get up.”

celestialspitfire​:

Noah, ever the flighty kind of presence in the lives of all those around him, was used to the prospect of up and vanishing out of nowhere. However, combined with the tumultuous lifestyle he lead and the imminent danger in which Kylar was put simply from being in his presence, it was only natural for him to expect that Kylar had fallen off the face of the earth or had been buried somewhere so deep by the Council that Noah would never be able to find him. His frustrations were understandable, albeit a little bit hypocritical. With wrists wrenched above his head and the material of his combat suit pulled up to his neck and chin, demonstrating the flexible nature of the fabric, those furious blues remained affixed upon the wetboy’s own.

“I’m not backing the fuck off, so you can piss the fuck off if you expect to get off scot-free. This vanishing game is getting real fucking tired and real fucking old,” he snarled while an arm went upward and his tricep came down to collide with the hands gripping at his collar, using his weight to suddenly launch both of them not into a pinned, pressed position against the wall, but suddenly toppling to the floor where, like a vice grip (and perhaps none too unlike a spider monkey), Noah wrestled, wriggled, and clamped his arm around Kylar’s neck.

“If I…” Heaving from exertion, sweat coming to the surface on his forehead, “didn’t give a shit, then I wouldn’t even say a goddamn word to you about it in the first place, you ass. Let go of my hair. Kylar.”

There was no time to scramble back, cursing loudly as the angel somehow managed to tangle up one of the wetboy’s legs and send them full send crashing to the floor. His hand clawed at Noah, trying to keep his grip on their obnoxiously slippery tunic, but there was no breath left in him. His chest began to arch back and then flat against Noah’s much broader chest, unable to keep his chin tucked as Noah’s arm dug in under the tip to yank it up. Legs buck, keeping the same tangled one locked around the angel’s in order to keep both legs from locking around his waist from behind. 

Breath gasps out of his clenched jaw, struggling against his windpipe getting squeezed. “F-fine!” As Noah wished, Kylar let go--right after slamming the back of his head straight into the point of Noah’s chin. The sound of snapping teeth and popped bones filled his ears, his world spinning from the pain reverberating around his rattled skull. Using the chance through gasping coughs, he throws his elbow straight back into the soft spot of Noah’s navel as hard as he possibly can, which is quite hard thanks to the Ka’kari. 

From there he manages to almost get Noah’s arm off and away from his neck, both arms pushing hard at the inner joint of the elbow where the muscle is weakest, trying to flip and break free. 

“Thhh-that’s real fuck-in cute ccomming from you!” Came the snarl as he digs the heel of his foot into the pressure point located high on the calf of Noah’s tangled leg. “Youuuu never fucking stopped... to consider... god dammit GET OFF OF ME!” In a wild  surge of struggle, stomps on the pressure point as hard as he can, knowing full well how much of a bitch the blinding pain was.

“You... of all people...” fueled by fury and the sneaking stealing of Noah’s divine energy, somehow he manages to halfway twist around against Noah’s grip and glare down into that face and ground out, “... you don’t get to talk me about fucking vanishing. At least you know I’ll come back yoU GOd DAMN HYPOCRITE.” How could Noah know that, how could anyone know that when he had to hide the truth so close to his chest in order to keep everyone safe? he doesn’t want to think about it, the words are already out, the anger having already been thrown back in the angel’s face, covering the hurt and anxiety that plagues the wetboy day and night; knowing that he can’t be there always to protect Noah--to help him when needed most. Knowing deep down that the words, while he meant them whole heartedly, were a reflection of his own self-loathing. Hating his short-comings that robbed him of lovers, friends, allies, everyone in his 600 years of struggle.

The seething gradually slows, the clench of teeth growing less and less vicious until even the resistance against Noah fell through. Those storming eyes close and his head droops, black hairs ghosting against Noah’s chest. “...Let go... for fuck sakes, Noah, please just fucking stop.”

18) one muse has just killed for the first time and the other more experienced muse is there to help them in the aftermath. (with micah:))

Interactions; Accepting

She ran. The horrible, adrenaline spiked running of the hunted. Kylar could see the prinkling between her shoulders readying for a blow in the back, the daring angle of her head to catch the quickening slap of the phantom's footfalls echoing off the rooftop cement and into the alleyway bricks behind her. He pulled out the gun, twisting the silencer onto the barrel. The chase was on.

High, night blackened buildings flashed past on either side, windows doors, neon signs, and fire escapes. People too, shouting as they dived out of the way or flattened themselves against the walls. He had no idea where she was going, what part of town they were in, but he cannot lose her. Not this time. A man stepps out of a doorway right in front of her. They almost crashed, he almost jumped down to tackle her. Ducking and flipping, she skids past and Kylar curses sharply.

Her legs must be starting to burn--and he wasn't even out of breath. Boots skidding, he braces and lines up for the shot-- sparks shooting off the wall on the other side, just short of blowing out her knee cap. "Fuck!" She charges through an archway up and to the left and the night angel sprints after her, head down, boots flying across the rooftops, skidding as he turns the same corner. A great shadowy space, dilapidated double doors clinging to their hinges having been thrown open, layers of graffiti almost completely obscuring the sign above the doorway. From what he could see up on the roof, there was a faint light inside, sparking like a busted bulb. Kylar jumps down, nimble as a cat, tucking the gun back into its holster, replacing it with a curved dagger and the short sword Curoch that manifested from the palm of his hand. He grips the weapon like the hand of a familiar friend and stalks bodly into the dark. Annabel was just beyond him, turning round slowly, breathing hard. The two of them were in the middle of a wide open area, cobweb covered chairs stacked along the walls, used water bottles and beer cans and discarded plastic baggies littering the greasy concrete floor.

He knew where they were now. There were people everywhere, bumping to house music. Servers crawling amongst the throngs, trying to make rent via tips from the rowdy clubbers. He had worked here, as a security guard, undercover for a job. Kylar stalked towards a bloodied Annabel, bent at the knee, blades shimmering against the black fire that had begun to consume and lave his arms, shoulders, and eyes. Light flickers, his head snaps to the right--

"--Micah?" The dark fire gutters as if strangled.

His chest hurt, his mouth suddenly sour. There's a coldness in his stomach, a feeling he hasn't felt for the month since he's come back. It pours out of the mangled corpse on the ground, seeping out and spreading across the floor like a low fog. Kneeling next to it, their ripped open face twisted in a foreign rage, gaped down at it, smoke still curling from the burnt hole where the sternum used to be. Bloody moths and static swarming their torn clothes, pouring out of their slobbering, disfigured maw. Beyond Micah, Kylar caught the outline of Candle in a heap against the far wall. Even draped in long shadows, he could see the faint rise and fall of her chest, the startling red of congealing blood that trailed from her temple to the floor.

The sudden slap of shoes against the concrete startles Kylar, but his dagger is already flying. By the time his eyes catch up, the dagger was lodged in the trim of the doorway next to the stage. Annabel is nowhere in sight. Before he can even curse his lapse in focus, he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Micah’s eyes were already on him long before Kylar turned back around.

“Micah…” he tried, voice hoarse and heavy but not from the chase, “it’s okay, it’s me.” Purposefully, his movements became slow and deliberate, the Curoch gradually liquifying and slinking back into his hand, disappearing up under the sleeve of his mottled jacket. Step by step, he inched closer towards Micah, watching the glazed fury fall away, the light returning to his increasingly bewildered expression. “Micah--” he barked sharply to keep their attention, trying to keep the other from hyperventilating as realization began to come crashing down. More gently, still firmly, almost within arms length of the corpse now, “Just focus on me. Focus on my voice, nothing else. I need you to tell me you understand--can you do that? Yeah? Okay, okay good….”

Moisture squelches under his boots as he squats down on the other side of the mangled body, feels the sticky liquid rippling out, ignoring it since it could only be one thing in this concrete coffin. His gaze flicks to Candle’s prone form and back, “Micah, Candle is hurt-- no, no she’s fine,” he cuts off the wild panic before it can surge up into his stricken lover’s throat, “I can see her breathing from here, but she might have a concussion. I need you to go check on her--you need to open one of her eyes and see if it constricts against the light and then I need you to tell me if it does. Can you do that?” He watches Micah’s face, reading the emotions pushing through the shock until he gets a nod out of them. “Alright then. Go do that now and stay with her for me. I need to take care of…” he glances down, just a flick of the eyes, “of this.”

If one has never seen the transition from human to corpse, the moment the soul passes on, it is a very moving experience. If it is one you love there is a moment of grief, as if all the love you ever felt for them, every good memory sparks up, as if the soul makes this SOS for them to return. The cadaver, the corpse, the body without them is so very different. If one is responsible for the passing of that soul, it is a very different, horrific feeling. Especially when it’s the first one. As he set to grabbing the corpse under the back of the shoulders, dragging it across the room towards the stage, he remembers not the first kill, when he tied a rope secured to a stone to Rat’s neck and threw the stone off the wharf, but his first mission under Durzo Blint. He had succeeded in killing the man who robbed the Sa’Kage, but ended up fighting with an innocent woman who had walked into the room at the wrong time. He’d been fifteen at the time, barely a man, when he drove the dagger into her mouth, staked her to the floor to keep her from screaming for help. Durzo had been there, watching, always watching to make sure his prodigy didn’t fuck up his reputation, and when the woman had finally stopped twitching under Kylar, Durzo baptized Kylar in her blood. Proclaimed him a ‘real’ wetboy as he smeared coppery red onto his forehead. With a grunt, Kylar heaves the body up onto the stage, dark smears trailing up the wall onto the platform. Hopping up, he grabs the body by the ankles this time and drags it into the darkness behind the partially drawn curtains to the left of the stage. What followed was the tearing of fabric, the shuffle and thump of meat being rolled- ‘thwump...thwump… thwump!’-followed soon after the quiet pad of his boots as he came back into the meager bit of light from the caved in ceiling illuminating the center of the open dance space. He’d have to come back for it later and properly dispose of it. His fingerprints would never be found on the body and while he was back behind the stage he made damn sure neither Micah’s or Candles DNA would show up in a forensics screening should the police stumble upon it before he could finish the job. Already a mental list of the chemicals he’d need, the contacts he would be soon calling to assist with the task, were being filed away in his brain as he approached Micah and Candle.

Cautiously, he crouches down near them, but far enough away so that he could dodge should Micah still not believe he’s real. Black fire still flickering about his shoulders and arms. The slash wounds he'd received from Annabel during their brief fight before the chase close to healing entirely. “Listen to me, this is not your fault, Micah,” he wished Durzo had told him that back then, even though he knew it would have been a lie in that scenario, “something… something dark possessed that body. I can still feel its power even from over here.” A bout of nausea attempted to surface, but he quickly swallowed it down. “We need to get Candle home, okay? I can treat her there if she does have a concussion, but we have to go now. Think you can carry her?” It’s safer for them both to keep his hands free, weapons at the ready, senses fine tuned in case the night has more in store for them. “Come on, get up, we gotta move.”

prompts for specific scenarios that make me chef’s kiss 

can be used as starter or plotting prompts! 

1) one muse putting their hand over the other’s mouth while they have sex.

2) our muses with unspoken feelings forced to share a bed and end up cuddling. 

3) our muses have unspoken feelings but one of them is upset so the other holds them.

4) our muses have a very strong bond, but haven’t admitted to romantic feelings and one of them just comes and cuddles up to the other for comfort. 

5) sender is in a vulnerable state and the only person they trust is receiver,  who approaches them to try and help. 

6) receiver is in a vulnerable state and the only person they trust is sender,  who approaches them to try and help. 

7) our muses shower together after something traumatic for comfort and emotional intimacy, bonus points if they aren’t even together romantically yet. 

8) receiver’s muse kills someone to protect sender’s muse.  sender approaches to gently calm them down.

9) sender’s muse kills someone to protect receiver’s muse. receiver approaches to gently calm them down.

10) one muse has been brainwashed and the other one refuses to hurt them,  trying to bring them back with a gentle touch. 

11) muses who aren’t together yet or simply have a gruff/sof dynamic: sender’s muse is upset and receiver’s sits next to them,  leading to sender leaning against them and finally breaking down. 

12) muses who aren’t together yet or simply have a gruff/sof dynamic: receiver’s muse is upset and sender’s sits next to them,  leading to receiver leaning against them and finally breaking down. 

13) one muse is sporting injuries,  the other takes a hold of their face and demands to know who did it so they can take revenge. 

14) our muses aren’t together yet but one of them asks the other to stay the night so they won’t be alone. 

15) our muses aren’t together yet but one of them insists on staying the night so they won’t be alone. bonus points if its to protect them. 

16) gruff muse is being grumpy and the other one just crawls into their lap and kisses them. 

17) softer muse makes the first move for sex and rides or tops the gruffer one who looks at them like they just found god. 

18) one muse has just killed for the first time and the other more experienced muse is there to help them in the aftermath. 

19) one muse is dangerous and has a soft spot for the other one, who approaches them to prevent them from hurting someone. 

20) receivers muse is touch starved and sender gives them affection they aren’t used to. 

21) sender’s muse is touch starved and receiver gives them affection they aren’t used to. 

22) receiver’s muse is the first person sender’s muse turns to and hugs after something traumatic happens. 

23) sender’s muse is first person receiver’s muse turns to and hugs after something traumatic happens. 

24) one muse shows up at the other’s doorstep looking for comfort.

25) one muse shows up at the other’s doorstep because they need help and are in danger. 

26) one muse thinks the other is going to hurt them but instead they protect them. 

27) dangerous or antagonistic muse gently caresses the other’s face who is surprised by their affection. 

28) one muse is in danger and the other, who is usually antagonistic, shows up to help them. 

29) dangerous or antagonistic muse is gently caressed by the other,  surprising them with affection they aren’t accustomed to. 

30) one muse sees the other’s scars for the first time. 

@incinerating-aureate-tora​ continued from [X]

From her vantage point, all she can see of the man on the ground level is the stormy eyes watching her every move. Everything else about him is dressed in fitted, mottled grays, the cowl about his shoulders and head pulled back just enough to glimpse strands of black hair along his forehead. The fabric covering his mouth crinkles upward, “As charming as ever I see.” Came the gravelly grunt, his voice disguised to hide his identity further. 

Three times these two have crossed paths, three times both have managed to walk away. Somehow, they always managed to be on either side of the coin when it came to a job. To kill this person or bring down some governing power that had gotten too big for its britches, steal this gold, sink that ship... last time she damn near broke his left leg. Had him squealing like a stuck pig. In the back of his mind, Kylar wondered how shocked she had been when watching him stroll up the wharf without so much as a limp these few short months apart. If she had been startled, she definitely hid it well.

“Well if you came down, I wouldn’t have to squint.” He quipped back, force of habit. The only sign of trust she’d get out of him though was the crossing of his arms over his chest. Not immediately ready to snatch the only visible daggers from his belt, but not cocky enough to flash his palms either. “Anyway, yeah I’m interested. What kind of job does the ‘great’ Tanaka have in mind?” 

if you ever feel stupid or weak or powerless, just remember that I, am not. And I am out there, very dangerous and I am looking for you. Good luck

art

“ i’m afraid that if i let you see every side of me, you would shrink back in fear or disgust. ” (since kylar saw micah's scars that one time AND the residue of his vices... :3c)

Interactions; Accepting

Was... was this part of why Micah was so adamant the other day? Asking Kylar what he actually wanted in life? Having tabled the discussion after another thirty minutes of heated back and forth, he wasnt' expecting Micah to come to the plate to batter up first. So, when he hears his lover's voice from the couch, the night angel raises his chin from his knuckles to blink at the side eye he's receiving, momentarily forgetting about the book he'd been skimming at the table near the kitchen. Against the linolium the chair squeaks in protest as Kylar goes to get up. Hands flexing at his sides, uncertain what to do with them. In the end he stuffs them into his hoodie pockets and creeps over to the couch, gingerly perching on the arm at the opposite end so that two saggy seat cushions sat between them. Not that he wanted to be so far away, but he was no stranger to how anger and frusteration made you want to shove everything at an arm's length even further away.

"Well," chewing on his bottom lip, he searches for the words to best fit his thoughts, "I would hope that..." 'you'd have a little more faith in me than that', were the words on his tongue, but this wasn't the moment. While the fire may have settled between them enough to talk, it only takes a spark to start a forest fire. He sighs, trying again, "... Micah, whatever you want to show me, I can promise will not chase me off. And if it's things I discover by accident or over time, for me they are non-issues." Slowly he eases onto the first cushion, head turned just enough to study the other's face, scanning the clues in the creases of Micah's brow, the tilt of his mouth, how steady the breath came from his chest and out his nose. "We can talk about these things, if you want. I'm told I'm a decent listener. Or if you'd rather write your thoughts down and let me read them, or... not talk at all, I'll respect that."

"Would..." Picking at the lint in the hoodie's pockets, Kylar has to will his leg not to start bouncing. Keep the concern and anxiety from manifesting in his body language. Choosing to stare at the black screen of the television instead of facing Micah when he mutters, "would if help... if I told you things about me? The gods know I've collected enough dirty laundry over the years." There's supposed to be a smile in his voice, but the gears are jamming. The offer coming out robotic, muttered nerves flashing neon. It's only fair, he tells himself, that it doesn't matter anymore....

“ for once in your life, what is it that you want? ” -micah

Interactions; Accepting

Whatever retort was about to come snarling out of his mouth suddenly lodged in his throat. Brows shooting high at Micah's palms slamming down on the kitchen counter, frusteration reverberating long after the clatter of the utensils nearby. To the flexed shoulders, the back of that dark head of hair hunched forward, Kylar's wide eyes lingered, unsure how to respond. The pair have had arguments in the past, spat heated words in the midst of battles, but rare was the day these sort of outbursts were directed fully at the night angel.

The cold of the fridge felt good against Kylar's healing skin as he leaned against it. Soothed the spark of ire behind his closed eyelids. His body still not having fully recovered since waking up in sewage weeks ago. Once he opened his mouth just to shut it again. Tried again and it was the same flabbergasted result, the words refusing to come easily. Fought the lump in his throat for elbow room.

After scrubbing his face till the skin around the stubble was flushed, he sighed heavy into his palm., "...When I was a kid, I wanted to be strong." Memories, figments of rare happiness, Jarl, Doll girl, and him talking about their lofty dream to get out of the slums. To be knights, nobles, people to be feared and respected, no longer bullied by the "Bigs". By Rat. "I wanted it so bad, I told myself I'd kill to make it happen." Pain tingles in diagonal lines across his face, doll girl's cries of pain behind the cellar barrels, the bigs making him watch that bastard, Rat, as he carved into her, there was so much blood that he couldn't tell the rust apar from the red on the knife's edge. Jarl disappearing in the night, only to reappear with clothes torn, bruises on his face, arms, hips.... "I begged a man to teach me, his name was the most respected and terrifying in the city. Hell, probably the whole damn continent." After all these years, he can still recall the moment he lured Rat to the wharf, carnal promises under a starless night, the cruelty flushing the Big's face. Absently he rubs his thumbs against his palms, remembering how the rope blistered his hands tying it around that sausage neck, how loud the splash of the stone dropping into the water was, dragging Rat screaming with it into the depths.

"And he did. I got what I wanted. More than I realized at the time." Pain chokes him, he clears the nonexistent phlegm with a sharp cough. Tickling in the same exact spot where the arrow had skewered Jarl years later, killing him in seconds, fingers still scratching at the arrow shaft after the gasping had stopped. "What I want now...."

Through his nose he breaths deep, shoulders dropping shamefully. He refuses to open his eyes, he doesn't want Micah to see those parts of him. "Honestly I'm scared, Micah. I'm terrified of what will happen if I say it aloud. I know that's not fair... I'm sorry."