#jyargal ; erron

[mcnypieces]

@jyargal || SC. ♥

     Double takes, some worn-out parchment stained for effect crinkling beneath the stroke of a quill tip making small, chaotic marks on its surface. Nothing but black ink on lower palms, a sense of dedication with all the wild makings of a pup expressing loyalty in a volatile manner. Still his hand remains steady, pressing ever forward, taking a firm grasp of the opportunity to make a portrait of a precious memory despite the lack of real practice .

      ❝ Yeah, yeah. Just sit tight right there. ❞ One wave of the hand, not quite dismissive but only moderately reassuring in sincerity. Bellamy’s focus remains centered around his work, only ever looking up from it to gather another set of details and return to action. A mischievous smile, only just offering a peek of teeth from the angle at which his head gazes upon his progress. ❝ Too bad I can’t see your pretty face. It’d look a lot better if I could . ❞

[xmenageriie]

— @jyargal​ / starter call

“Was it Maxson that hired you?”

The very moment the subject of synths was brought up, Danse seemed to be on edge. His jaw was set square, and his movements as he packed his bag were jerky. There was a distasteful growl behind his voice, one that held obvious disdain and hints of regret. His every attempt to hide that he had once been Brotherhood seemed pointless now, as he was far too obviously holding onto several emotions connected to the organization.

“What did he say this time? That we.  .  . that they’re manipulative, deceitful abominations that will lead you into believing they’re loyal friends before stabbing you in the back? Did he tell you to annihilate every synth with extreme prejudiced?”

Danse brought his vigorous packing to a halt, eyes moving towards Erron’s. “Are you going through with it?”

[khasmc]

Even when Erron is looking for it, the faint curve to the man's mouth is hard to catch, satisfaction and ego traced through the subtle expression. As far as tells go it's useless to him, but at the rate the man's been winning and losing, almost as reckless as his own tendencies, it's something to start with. He leans back in his chair, arm slung over the back of it as he throws down his impressive hand on the table. "I wonder why somebody hasn’t taken a rifle and blown your head off." / Gojyo!

RUMBLE FISH STARTERS [ accepting ]

| Runaway | Low-lit taverns and alcohol-infested walls spelled a home away from home, the latter of which was wherever the weather took him. Gojyo was never picky in that regard, though he did have a huge preference for water. It spoke to that yōkai blood in him - the one he hated and wanted nothing to do with, even though it saved his ass time and time again. There was an inevitable hate-love relationship about it, one that required too many single-serving beds and cartons of cigarettes to figure out, to come to terms with. Now, his semblance of peace appeared as the moon hung high. It glittered as bright as a winning hand and the juxtaposition of this never bothered him any less these days, nor did he plan for it to, again.

It made the player’s comment from across the table all the more hilarious, not so much an empty threat judging by the blatant string of bullets across his chest - compensation, Gojyo wanted to drawl - but one could never tell. Threats never worked so well, never appeared efficient, and they wouldn’t start now. For a moment, when the other players equally folded their hands and Mr. Cowboy exposed his own, Gojyo grinned past the cloak of cigarette smoke to regard him directly. It carved around the sharp corners of his jaw, fit like a warm gun in his hand. A rasp of laughter, smooth as chilled whiskey, cracked the tension at the table while tracking the cards currently laid out.

“Friendly fella, aren’t ya.” It wasn’t a question, wasn’t voiced as one, but the delight glowing in his gaze was all too apparent. “Every consider putting your mouth to all those sweet, fancy words, cowboy?” he drawled, laughter creased in his voice as was the amusement dancing in his blood-fire eyes before slapping down his own winning hand, much to the dealer’s chagrin. The grin across his features widened, tugging the pair of scars into focus while carding back bright red locks.

“Just sayin’ many have tried and all have failed. Bad streaks for the whole sorry lot. You think your luck’s any better?” A click of his tongue paired with another casual pull of smoke, expelling a plume across the table while the dealer dealt another round and chips rattled the table. With astounding patience, plucking the cigarette from between clenched teeth, he tapped the end into the nearest ashtray, already choking underneath a mountain of ash, and took one last drag after a vague gesture at the crooning character across from him.

Everything from the bend of his words to the lackadaisical crane of his neck bespoke of an uncaring nature, which was undoubtedly true. A train of recklessness thrived in those veins, tried and true, and tonight it hummed a little crooning ditty reminiscent of rowdy dives. “How about giving more substance to wager, my friend? That hat worth anything good? Unless ya got nothing else in ya.”

[mcnypieces]

@jyargal​ ferried:  Scoundrel. Vagabond. Erron never did do much to announce his presence anywhere, walking through territories far as and vast as nothing more than a ghost, bagging another bounty—dividends exclusive for one. Though, the spurs of his boots rattle to life, indicating his arrival in the cozy little shop as gloved palms smoothing over the undulations of unfinished fabric. "Howdy." With a rough rasp, he leans over the counter, fingers traversing the valley of Bellamy's knuckles. "Miss me, mutt?"

     Thumbs a temporary tack, splayed digits over an uncovered cover. It’s a humble beginning, same as always; a template and searingly bright colors clustered just close enough to stay together and never mix. Every vial clean as the other, white always half empty with every new project. None ever strayed from that familiar symbolism. It was an emblem; a dangerous message to the masses. No matter the adornments set upon a bleached white skull, the pride it carried was always the same. There was no room for mindlessly smudging honor’s ink. That scalp beneath wheat-blond hair was already running out of space for disciplinary welts .

     Felt like weeks, months, since something different was on the table. Eyes fixated on the same mundane pattern, numbers fit for a fleet and nothing less. Weary was an attention span unfocused. Pricks of quill into the skin to check for a flow and it’s back to personal projection. No anatomical judgment, no sense of definite end. The ticking of a clock doesn’t register. A light transfer line by line makes a rough shape and a rolling landscape to follow. It would fly more like a living tapestry than a flag. With proper tacks and an empty wall, perhaps it would pass as something tasteful .

     There’s sound in colorful musing. A baby blue, the rush of waves in a birthing sea. Stained palms fold and curl like broken ripples. The scene suddenly shifts. Clattering metal, a shake and a rattle. Handmade wind chimes on a seaside cabin? No ─ too jarring. Inspiration cracks and eyes filled with all the vastness of the waves in the mind behind them peer towards an open door. Bellamy knows the sound, he’s heard it near a hundred times. It rings differently against a laminate floor than the hardwood of a bar. The smile tucked behind a tilted head stays mostly out of sight, a marginal peek in that moment and then back to feigned ignorance. It’s as if he can’t quite bring himself to heel to the reality of it, a gentle thump of a shoe against the floor in place of a tail. He drags it out, long like the memory of that voice producing a single word. From the wandering of hands across an unfinished blackness to knuckles it finally draws his attention upward. Curled fingers into palm, a subtle grin asking for a variety of things directly to the kisser, immediately discarding an unused brush in the opposing hand into a glass of clean water. His frame leans not at all cautious, unmoved from Erron’s touch but now hunched and standing. There’s a look that speaks impertinence and another soft as the cloth beneath them .

      ❝ Been awhile. ❞ Affectionate, dipping low, a loosely clothed chest dangerously near a work in progress. The meager amount of fresh paint on fabric is an unspoken blessing in an unpredictable situation. ❝ That really how you greet an old partner ? ❞

     Maybe he’s just some sort of special. But in that little shop is nothing more than a couple of good-for-nothing wanderers. Bastards, maybe, if you could remember the term lying about in a grave. That’s all the encouragement a mutt needs to drag his feet around the counter and sink a taller frame lovingly into leather. Just the sort of therapy a mess like him could ask for ─ a ghost that only comes back to one place .

     ❝ Of course I did. ❞ Mumbled into the rugged surface of a warmed shoulder, along with an inaudible profanity destined to be lost in the moment .

[mcnypieces]

Taking a nap outside beneath the trees was an ideal pastime for such a nice, lazy day. Erron shoots him a wink, hat tilted in a casual manner as he approached, and promptly lays down on Bellamy's considerably comfortable bosoms. Hat tossed aside, arms folded im front, he looks over, smile apparent by the crinkle around his eyes. "Howdy."

@jyargal​ // : ↯ ↯ ↯

     Even with eyes closed and drowsiness already blurring the line between conscious and unconscious does Bellamy hear the shifting of grass beneath footfall. A lazy stroke of the thumb to lower lip, the dribble along which is minor and hardly noticeable beneath the shade of trees but still present. But there was nothing quite as rousing as the familiar sight of the gunslinger strolling up to him. The shuffle of hair against the tree in which he had made himself comfortable against makes a sound similar to scratching, a crane of the neck into the curl of collarbone until a satisfying pop rings in his ear. Had it been anyone else to disrupt the pleasant beginnings of that nap he may well have been quite cross. So close and yet so far. But there was plenty of lenience bestowed upon Erron, especially given the gesture naturally presented to him in exchange .

     He knew that look anywhere. Even beneath the guise of casualness there was intent. He was looking for something with every intention to take it. Back straightens with a grunt that doesn’t make it past crooked lips. In time that listless expression perks into something a bit more presentable, just in time for the other to make himself at home against the peak of his chest. An arm taken from its position behind Bellamy’s head to the cross of Erron’s arms, a graze of skin into fabric and the cusp of his elbow. It hovers still, for a moment, until fingers dig into cloth in a cuddled fashion. That tilt to peer behind him only exposes the content, leisurely smile smoothing away the usual creases in the blond’s face. Be it one listened closely in that position, they would hear the exponential rise of thumping beneath the surface .

     ❝ Come here often? ❞ As if that question warranted an answer. He gives no warning before settling his chin into dark locks of hair, burying it like a bone until he feels bare scalp. What arm still remained aloft snakes along his side and just under the bundles of a hastily tucked shirt. Fingers search momentarily, perhaps eagerly, before giving up the search for an opening and coiling around his waist. Firm is the hold he keeps, tugging the other closer and further solidifying his place above him. Already Bellamy’s mind begins to drift off again as the heft of his weight begins to slowly but surely press against Erron’s back. That quickened beat slows momentarily only to skip a time or two before finally beginning to settle . 

     ❝ Don’t leave, ❞ half commanded and half implored through a sleepy grumble. Half-lidded eyes shut with a satisfied breath through the nose to blow along stray strands of hair. A wider smile, soft and unseen by the eye but ever so clear in the drawn out words that follow, ❝ Just what I needed… a softer pillow . ❞

[mcnypieces]

"I cotton to the notion of learning something new about you every day, sweetheart." Laughter low, eyes curved with vicious amusement, Erron leans forward and hooks his finger into the waistband of Bellamy's pants, tugging him closer. "Reckon we will get along just fine with this little nugget of discovery, but I think you need to settle on a safe word first, darlin'."

@jyargal // : ↯  ↯  ↯     

     ❝ Guess that means I’d better keep that knowledge coming, then . ❞ 

     A winning, secretive smile; one always on the fine line of being a snicker. It was a personal signature. When the other simply wouldn’t do, Bellamy was always signing things with this one. The yank of waist is disruptive enough to change that recognizable penmanship into something more zealous. It’s a devoted script of creases and lines that belie carnal suggestions hidden at the cusp of his throat. It translates to quiet growls only known by the vibrations rippling along the edge of a broad collarbone. Indistinguishable from a breath, perhaps, against thick enough material. But that doesn’t stop the hyena from pressing himself even closer .

     ❝ That might take awhile. Should probably be something special, shouldn’t it? Got a lot of things that are off limits. ❞ Specifics draw to a less-than-innocent mind. There would be plenty of things getting called out and he didn’t want any of them to be a sign to stop. On the contrary, he’d hope that pleased vocal equivalent of chicken scratch would be more of a prod to keep things going. ❝ You know nothing that comes out of my mouth is safe . ❞

     Thumb and remaining digits curl beneath Erron’s chin in a firm clamp against opposing sides at the back of his jawbone. Free flexibility of the neck, as much as the stallion’s willing to let up on without bucking him off. ❝ Picked yourself a real wanted man this time, hon. ❞ Head tilted upward, fingers brushing slowly along hidden abnormalities. The blond wonders, momentarily, how often it curves at the sight of his own rascally grin. ❝ Might need one yourself before I’ll wind up needing one . ❞

[mcnypieces]

🌻🌻🌻 - 🔫

send me a 🌻 and ill just tell you whatever the fuck i want // : ↯  ↯  ↯@jyargal

     ❝ I bet you could kill me with a water pistol if you really wanted to. But you won’t, because you like me too damn much . ❞

     A back-handed compliment was still a compliment, even through smarmy smiles and unapologetic teeth. It’s hard to imagine any sort of earnest ill will comes from the mouth of such a happy looking dog. Nothing yaps quite like a man looking for something to occupy his attention .

     ❝ They say you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink ── but wouldn’t refusing that be looking a gift horse in the mouth? ❞ Snickering slips through a clenched jaw in sharp, breathy whistles. ❝ Heheh... I say drink the whole thing dry. What kind of animal doesn’t take whatever they can get? I’m not saying they’re stupid, but maybe they should at least think about it a little bit. It’s no wonder they all have such long faces. They’re all mad at themselves because they didn’t drink when they had the chance !! ❞

     Still, he continues. Statements and questions are quicker than bullets and he’d sooner shoot his own off before anybody else could do it for him. Excitement spreads teeth apart and knuckles pressed into the soft skin of his cheek. ❝ Actually, I wonder if horses like being ridden. Don’t think anybody ever gave us permission to hop on and take them for a spin. I’m not sure a horse would be able to handle me. How much does it cost to take a cowboy out instead ? ❞

[khasmc]

@jyargal​: “Folk call those imperfections, but no, that’s the good stuff.” Drawl low, slow— filled with an appreciation of the moment, Erron gestures at the scars running down Gojyo's face, eyes crinkled. Humoring him, perhaps, but nothing about his body language spoke of guile; only contemplative with that slouched spine. "Shows 'em you've lived this long, helps you remember the good and the bad and the ugly moments. Reminds you that you're still human after all."

Good Will Hunting || Lessons learned

| Runaway | The uncorked wine bottle sat between them like a dare, hardly daunting, yet the reddish hue within drew enough attention akin to the locks Gojyo sported. It didn’t mean he cared for it, no matter what troubling time had passed, which proved a strange affair. Even after all this time, all of it trickling as slow as a single grain of sand in the most rigid of hourglasses, he could not find it in himself to feel he deserved to live. What did it mean after all, at the end of the line? Standing on the wrong side of a blade had always elicited an instinct for survival, even after—

Let him smoke for ten hours and peel the skin right off his bones. He ‘ought to taste mighty tender after all that.

The morbid thought, fleeting as the exhale of smoke from his lips, surprised him as much as Erron’s thoughtful drawl.

“Oh yeah?” Gradually, the slow stretch of his lips revealed the slyest of grins, fox-like in its mirth, though it did not fully reach the full red of his gaze no matter how hard he tried. He didn’t bother to hide that fact. “Ya live long enough to remember you’re human or something like that, hunh?… Can’t say that I’m much colored impressed by that, big guy.”

Mark of death, of failed kill–Gojyo had speculated time and time again if his existence was solely meant for death. Why else should he exist in this world in the first place, if not to live in it like anyone else? His thoughts stirred a storm, kicking a cluster of sand aside. Time smothered the waves. Time wouldn’t tell.

A wry look dropping half mast, considering his company, Gojyo lowered his gaze further to stare pointedly at the mask strapped around the lower half of Erron’s face. He scratched at an absent spot along his jaw, fingertips tracing the hinge as though to mirror the outline of the strange contraption on his own face. The brand on his neck burned, a constant searing reminder of his existence. Leashes, collars, fetters alike.

“Well. Who knows what can remind a person of bein’ human, anyway? C’mon, Quick Draw, enough gabbin’. Show me a trick with that wine bottle, why dont’cha? Don’t miss and maybe you’ll learn a new trick from me,” he drawled.

The words this time eased across his features and reached his eyes, crinkling the scars and the brightness of the red that stained him.

[mcnypieces]

♗ if you want - just one (1!!!) icon of bellamy and erron being cute ʕ*ﾉᴥﾉʔ

@jyargal // : 🐇 🐇 🐇icons, bunny style

     That’s where it all STARTED, isn’t it?

[mcnypieces]

Staring at him narrowly for a moment, gaze flickering to his hands and then back, Erron tilts his head forward before patting the vacant spot next to him. Bench creaking, gloved fingers crooking around the stretched collar of Bellamy's shirt, he pulls him in closer with a critical glint in his eyes, as if he's searching for something in his expression. Another moment dragged out, and then Erron leans back. "Ain't you a sight. Cool yer heels a while, y'wanna let on what's gnawin' at you, sugar?"

@jyargal // : ↯  ↯  ↯ 

     Dark, cloudy. The rolling sound of a passing storm and a low hanging fog. Thin, creeping like a mist against pavement exposed in distant lamps already lit for the night. Palms soaked, whether from sweat or condensation uncertain. A highlighted brow, the loose, swift strike of flimsy knuckles against the creases of the opposing hand. Certainly not shade weather, certainly not the time of day either. A fleeting sense of irritation left fluttering behind him in a brisk run, overcast eyes focused ahead. The cool, damp air is the only thing that seems to chill Bellamy’s scarred face .

     What sort of day had it been? Ordinary, rather uneventful; the usual slog in which everything was the same and he had done circles in his cage and called it a day. But in a lap he had turned and at the door was an unfriendly face and an up-and-coming smile. Unwelcome, unprovoked ── as intrusions by pirates tend to be. Looking to make a mockery of the hyena but he refused to down his own medicine. For a time he had hunted a pursuing crew but not another soul came. No one else ever came. Still he felt the loaded coil of a spring in his arms with the soreness of muscle. It was always one disastrous thing after another, never one or two. Nothing came of the scuff but a sore body and a bruise just shy of his pectoral. Difficult to perceive in the growing dark, it peeks just above the dip of a dark tank top. Unsightly, and now out of mind .

     Yet still another happenstance comes. Nearly missed in focus, but a wary eye caught everything that darted by its corner. A run slows to a jog and then a walk, ending soon in the silence between him and Erron sharing a passive glance. An ebbed pain, for a moment, as his mouth cracks a smile as though he plans to be the first to greet him. Then again, not everything ever goes as planned. There is far too little time between the pat of a dried spot and fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt. The stammer of a breath and mild confusion, off-set only by the look in his eyes. Beneath is physical exhaustion, a subsided rage, and memory of a thrill long past. The other leans away and he blinks as though to clear the uncertainty from them. He takes the invitation without any further delay and creaks back in his newfound rest. A breath of relief from worked lungs and the same charming, lopsided smile finally greets him .

     ❝ Not a bad sight yourself, ❞ a loose, carefree remark burdened with the weight of his fatigue. ❝ You think I just got time to sit around and talk about my problems every time I run into you? Well… ❞ an arm stretched around shoulders as though he’s known the other far longer than either truly had. ❝ Not a bad thought, Erron. I got all the time in the world . ❞

     Thumb presses to the welling bruise blossomed against his skin. Tender, still. But he wears it upon matted fur like an unsafe prize. A ginger press, a light graze and a retreat. ❝ Got a little visit today. Said he was gonna kill me. ❞ Resisted laughter, though the grin of his teeth is nothing short of an impatient gatekeeper. ❝ Feels like the past keeps coming back to me, cowboy. Brought up that damn name again trying to rile me up. Gettin’ sick and tired of hearing it . ❞

     Although humored and perhaps even excited by the change of pace, there is a flash of unwanted memories laced in his smile; like a sour taste forever stuck on the tongue never to be forgotten. Hearing it made his ears burn. But the night is young, his one-armed embrace as nonchalant as one would always expect it to be. He shakes his companion a touch before patting the opposing shoulder firmly. ❝ I haven’t fought like that in months. Can’t die before you’re supposed to put that special bullet in me, you know? Heheh … ❞

[mcnypieces]

Erron laughs, warm and startlingly pleasant, and for once the mask is missing. Instead, the lower part of his face is covered by a simple bandana, the outline of his lips apparent as he mouths the words, "Been a while since my croonin' days, but since ya asked nicely, sweetheart." Boots tap a rhythm against the floor, chin propped on the fiddle, he starts with a few notes to be reminded of the feel of playing an instrument again before he winks. "But I'll be due a /payment/ afterwards."

@jyargal​ // : ↯  ↯  ↯

     ❝ Heheh ─ hey, honey, I think you left something at home . ❞

     The brightness of eyes equally bared in the same simplicity. How much calmer they were, eased far more even in the presence of a hunter than the musk of a lonely bar. Index finger waves flippantly in a gesture towards his own beaming as if to indicate the lack of decent coverage of his face. It was often so that Bellamy went scavenging for the things he desired but felt no bruise of shame to be handed it instead. Sometimes less was more, but he was greedy. One day Erron would lean in much too close without latches and leather to protect the sacredness beneath. Bluntly stated, the hyena would tear it off .

     Tilt of chin towards the sun and that once only robust face catches rays of geniality. Perhaps with such a bright, welcoming expression he might’ve once in his life looked approachable. No weight to harry broad shoulders, a sprawl of limbs open and inviting. It is as if for a moment he’s forgotten the reality of things at the offer. A knowing roll of the eyes as the other drawls his terms and gains footing, a relaxed roll of the head along the curve of the shoulder an indicator of his awareness of the possibility .

     ❝ ‘Payment’? I should’ve known you weren’t just gonna let me listen out of the good of your heart, ❞ a snicker, throaty but light. Erron was truly a man after his own heart. Right hand lays itself across pectorals. ❝ Okay, okay. Sure. If that’s what it takes to get you reminiscing and forgetting . ❞

     A single finger readies itself amidst the ones now laying against his skin, already so keen on following a rhythm meant only for recollection. Bellamy cuts any losses therein and reclines further back into his seat as if to permanently settle in. There he waits, patiently, with eyes slowly shut to take in the lull before the music starts. For once there is no worry of the thoughts of the past, no wariness of exposure. Vulnerability in this state came only in a few moments of a lifetime. He was going to bask in it awhile .