#malefikant

[amberedcorpse]

@malefikant: „Kiss me“, it finally spilled. Almost too abruptly, carried by newfound wind for his wings, as though he was in a desperate hurry. As if he could no longer waste any time;chest and shoulders heaving lightly with each following breathing. Signs of the beginnings of lost control, of slipping composure. Of logic and reason finally leaving and making space for something new, something else. Pleading, he would go down onto his knees. For that bit of touch and bit of moment. „Kiss me—“ Would sell his all just to be wanted, by the same that was offered to him. Whether it was wise, whether it was fair, whether he was running headlong into what he thought was but was not. He could not kneel, could not break from this presence. Did not want to bring new distance when it was almost entirely gone. Quick his hands shot up only to land in Duke's shoulders, from where they slid further up to the nape of his neck. To guide and lull for the taller man to come closer while whatever broke through of him through those glacial eyes begged him. „Erase everything that is in my head and fill it with you—“ Even more eager through thoughts that urged him, through that quickly beating of his heart in its bone-cage, to take that step and leave behind what he should have shed long ago. Eager; he could not wait any longer and instead was the one moving in.

Their hands were at his nape, and their gaze had fallen over him like a heavy curtain, stealing all other sights from him. Because in that instance, Alexander was all he could see, and all he’d ever need to see again. There were no candles or shadows wavering in the corner of the room. No hills in the purview of the window, nor stars or moon– only the light of their skin in the darkness. The flush of their lips and the silver gleam of their eyes the only trace of color left in the entire world. Closer, closer, the gold coin spun in its socket and glimmered, mirroring the strange gallop in his chest. There were horses tumbling from his ribs, crying out in painful ecstasies as they rushed and pushed, spurring him to grab and pull the other to his chest. He’d restrained himself up to that point, he realized, not wanting to succumb to wickedness in the face of such virtuous and clean beauty. Duke knew himself to be a monster, but his heart was just big enough to be careful of someone so immaculate, and of not being like– 

The breath of urgency behind Alexander’s voice, the heave of their chest and shoulders, thrilled him beyond imagining. He’d thought of them gasping beneath his fingers before, had fantasized what it would be like to taste and claim them as his own. But this was greater than any vision, stronger than any pleasure half-felt in his dreams. They had closed in for his mouth, but Duke had been quicker, pressing their lips together with a burgeoning hunger. He wrapped his arms tightly around the other man, practically lifting them to deepen the kiss even further. 

Already he felt that his body was begging with the same frantic urgency, his flesh seething, the fire borne of his loins surging outwards and making him sweat. He broke away slightly, just enough to whisper against their teeth. 

“Say my name.” He placed further pressure at the small of their back, pressing their hips flush to each other, hinting, questioning, no longer sure of how to leash himself. “Say it, think it, tear it apart, do whatever you want– it’s yours as much as I ask you to be mine.” 

Another kiss, just as voracious as the last, as he thought of their bodies blended together, blurred in the pitch of nightfall. “Say that you’re mine. Even if you don’t feel it- just say it tonight.”

[yellowfingcr]

What does her rage look like? What triggers her rage?

// bad! ridiculous! baffling! dreadful to look at! turn your stare! gods! heysel would probably say something along these words. out of all the emotions a human being can feel, rage remains the most unwieldy, downright uncomfortable one for her to experience; she doesn’t know what to do with it, it’s such a cumbersome thing. she’s not really an angry person! murderous, yes, gratuitously violent, but not angry. there is not a whole lot to be angry about, to her, and plenty that might boil into that shape can be just laughed off, really.

which is why when anger does happen she’s… well, not having a good time for sure! if it rises from personal hurt- something aimed so very precisely at her person and her person only- then you simply do not get the privilege of witnessing the spectacle of her reaction as well. a stiffening of her posture, a tightening of her hands into fists, the clenching of her jaw, maybe the first hint of a bitter tear, and she’s already gone to hide somewhere and tend to her wounds in peace. you best never expect a frontal explosion in such situations. you will receive nothing. 

once alone, of course, is where the burst can and does happen, with sobs and screams and the occasional throwing of something hers and breakable. she may propel herself into situations in which hurting others and especially herself is guaranteed. it feels ugly. it looks awful. she feels awful. wholly useless fury.

in situations that involve hurt aimed at beloved others, on the other side, is where you get to see the fire. it depends on the degree of the offense, of course. she will threaten, flashing teeth and low voice and perhaps grasping fingers at your collar, if she believes you smart enough to understand that the looming possibility of the actuation of any of her words is very real and very close and only leashed by her good will; if not, then your only source of understanding must be action, and gladly she will spend her fury by beating you senseless. all too many do things with the certainty that no repercussions will ever happen- well, you should do no thing to whoever she cares about with that assumption, because heysel loves to teach by punishment. all cases in which rage is still controlled, you might have noticed! it’s very hard for her to be brought to points in which it isn’t. you’d have to push her to certain precipices to press her into a situation in which rage just expels itself like that, unbidden. you’d have to use such specific words and specific actions. you’d have to do something she cannot forgive at all. then perhaps you’d get all I’ve said above but uncorked and outpouring without method. just shouts and tears and hands around your throat, squeezing. 

ultimately anger doesn’t feel good. she doesn’t think it ever will. it leaves her incredulous that some people seem to delight in steeping themselves into their own rage. why! it’s terrible and it makes you feel so hollow after! it truly burns you! bad. ridiculous and baffling.

[blixtrandetorst]

Starter for: @malefikant

Peculiar in how the scent, or rather a feeling presented itself. Moving through human veins with full force of glaciers behind it, as if the frost wasn’t invading the viscera. Spiking in geometric shapes the very tubes that bore it. Ice as if impregnated with blood that stained throughout its marbling. It gave him a chill that stopped him immediately. Were those veins black with its bite? Those around him shuffling in, about, and around him, gave him no mind. Off to this stall and the next, chattering about that mug and this tchotchke. All as he stood motionless. Unblinkingly, over his fur collared shoulder, to find the source. In its gratuitous warmth the place had in its plethora of warm bodies to radiate heat. He scoured by instinct to find the cold pocket’s source. Even the lighting seemed to take a colder tone around him from the honey shade they normally had. The inviting nature of these nighttime shops was cooled in his wake.

Body heat is around ninety-eight degrees, give or take for the individual. Blood, by extension, about the same. By extension, those fed on warmed the drinker. It’s what helped it stay so fragrant for beings like Dieter. A biological invitation of sanguine health. But this one smothered the heat. No, rather, pushed it out. Expelled it from itself. Heat had no home with him. No home indeed within the black haired man he spied stopped at a stall. The rest of the crowd melted away into their shared heat. The mass’s undulating mirage slowed in time with the folk music. The blurred together as dieter’s senses fixed. An anomaly. Anomalies he loved. Anomalies were to him as exotic animals to trophy hunters.

He thought better of hunting this one though. He was already cold himself. It’d do no good as he wouldn’t spoil as normal dead things do. That would’ve happened ages ago. Long gone into the soil Rittmeister Bergström of Jasta ten. Like many a good flier before him. Now he was here, decades later, in a winter night-market, watching a man who should be frozen solid buy trinkets from a vendor who probably couldn’t even tell. Clever man taking advantage of the cold outside. Gloves shielding the closest contact between others. Would the old shopkeeper’s hands instantly freeze without them as he gave back change? How far did that glacial air extend? Could Dieter get closer?

[hawksblooded]

 🌿 hehe

↣ ITS RED AND DEADLY BITE.

SHE’S NEVER LIKED DOING business with witches. They seemed to be all strange to her, stranger even than she found people in general. With their queer beliefs and obscure rules, it was as though they existed in their own little society, and she was ever unwelcome. But she needed their wares terribly, like most anyone did, and so she shut her mouth and put up with them. One such witch, affiliated with her order, had said the occult demanded respect, and so they required it in turn. She understood that, of course. But was this really necessary?

She’d seen it, of course, the sprig of mistletoe hung above the cottage’s entrance. She’d seen Alexander glancing up at it, his eyes darting to it as she left. “You forgot something,” he called to the hunter, standing in the wooden frame as she made her way out. “Got everything I need,” Alizebeth replied brusquely, unwilling to play whatever game he had on his mind. But she looked back, and that was her mistake.

“You shouldn’t leave a witch wanting. Someone like you knows the power of curses. Maybe I’ll turn you into some wild beast with little more manners than you’ve already got,” the witch chuckled, half to himself, and half to Mara, who lingered at his side. “At least you’re good to me,” he spoke with a light scratch behind the wolfhound’s perked ears. She turned to lick his hand.

In what seemed like an instant, the witch’s slim face was shadowed by Alizebeth’s towering stature, cutting the sunlight that fell lazily in the doorway. “What do you want,” she growled, and for only answer he pointed to the mistletoe, and then presented a pale cheek, his index tapping the gaunt flesh expectantly. Cheeky bastard, she thought. She’s already spent more than a fair share of gold buying herbs and oils, and he wants a bloody kiss from her? Maybe, just maybe, she could make him regret playing with her like this. Maybe, if she did this, he would leave her alone.

A gauntleted hand grabbed his chin, turned his face around. The hunter’s mouth met Alexander’s with force, all fangs behind her tightly closed lips. It was less of a kiss and more of a threat, brown fingers firm enough against his jaw to leave a mark when she redressed. “Don’t pull that shit on me again. Not unless you wanna say goodbye to that stupid smile.”

She whistled as she left him, and Mara dutifully followed.

As if.

[desertbled]

🌺 send this to ten muns you think are wonderful!! 🌺 for u

KICKING MY FEET AND GIGGLING. tysm vro. and i also think u are so wonderful <3

your writing is so good & detailed i wish i was on ur level I NEED TO UP MY GAME LMFAOOO

and ur OCs are so lovely. i love how much thought u put into every detail abt them. i cant wait to rotate them in my brain some more. we def gotta do more writing 💪

[meadowlarksabove]

What if he was drunk. Like, really drunk. Drunk enough that his legs are unable to properly carry him, let alone hold his weight. What would you do? Help him up, help him stand? Mock him his his silent weeping, those soundless cries over a broken heart? Be there, just be there, for him? Or not letting it slip through your fingers, this almost-too-easy opportunity at slicing a throat? What will it be? How would you use that power?

😈😈😈😈

The profligate was heavier than he’d anticipated, but Gabban preferred to carry them than let them stumble over their own legs with every fumbled step. He could afford to turn a few heads as he struggled toward the elevator, clicking his tongue impatiently as it slowly bounded back to the lobby, and opened with a curious, but otherwise discreet, white-glove member. One of Mortimer’s rats, fortunately. The frumentarius quickly leaned against the back of the lift, thighs tensing as he adjusted the drunk in his arms and gruffly called out the number of his floor. 

Soft words spilled out by the side of his face, a tipped glass over a table, clumsy as can be, as if they’d been willed back to consciousness by the sheer volume of his voice. Yet as soon as he made out the words, soaked with wine and other regrets, they were gone again. Drawn back into the shadows where none could follow, not even the cunning hunter. Gabban thought of the knife in his pocket then, how he’d held it to their throat the moment he caught them in the midst of their stupor, pressed it against the base of their jaw a hair’s away from splitting flesh. But couldn’t- wouldn’t- realizing they were blind even to the approach of death. He’d kept this game up for so long, risked his position at the Strip for the electric thrill of this chase, and the chance of them remembering who he was. Could he actually cut it all short in a single night? Without so much as a clear sign of recognition? Without their gaze duly focused on him? 

Their head had only swayed, eyes wandering unsure of who’d even pinned them to the wall, and Gabban lost the motivation to kill. This wasn’t what he wanted. The prize wasn’t as sweet if they weren’t in their right mind. –At least that’s what he told himself after his own moment of weakness, his brow furrowed by the weight of too many emotions. If only they were as much a stranger to him as he was to them… 

The doors slid open with a gentle ring and he labored the rest of the way to the suite. He didn’t bother with turning on the lights once inside, but rushed to the bed to finally release himself of the burden that was this man and their forgetfulness. His joints sounded as he stretched and the corners of his lips twitched with the simple relief of being freed, pressure vanishing from his back. Yet he hadn’t stopped moving, already searching beneath the bed for his suitcase and everything that laid within. Gabban pulled out the rope after a brief pause, hand gliding over his tools before it clutched the length of twine. Then, he took control of the other again, flipping them onto their stomach and keeping them flush against the mattress with the force of his knee. It’d been a while since he last used this method on anyone, even a beast, but he remembered well how to hogtie a rowdy creature until it was left writhing with animal fear. Entirely restrained, something sparked again in the gray haze of that stare and it fought against him just a moment too late. 

He stood back and watched as instinct urged them against the binds of their new prison, shifting with envigored strength but nonetheless awkward. The bed creaked, their breath chuffed, and suddenly they were alive. Perhaps not as conscious as he wanted them to be, but this was close enough. They turned painfully onto their side and as soon as they locked eyes, he smiled. 

“If you can manage to untie yourself, I’ll give you every ounce of that love you so desperately want. I’ll make you happy.” 

Gabban crossed his arms, “I’m sure you can do it.”

[hisgrief]

@malefikant sent “ don’t ever let anyone make you feel ashamed of who you are . ”

his  attempts  to  befriend  the  other  patrons  have  been  unsuccessful.  woefully  so.�� it  seems  everyone  is  running  from  something,  but  only  he's  the  type  to  seek  out  company.  sue  him  for  needing  that  connection.  even  a  quicky  against  a  dirty  bathroom  wall  would  be  better  than  him wallowing  in  the  cruelty  of  his  thoughts.  he's  on  the  prowl  for  something  careless.  something  blunt  and  harmful.  something  to  replace  the  pain  with  a  new  ache.  he  has  pills  in  his  pocket  and  a  metaphorical  clock  ticking  down  to  the  next  full  moon.  if  he  can't  find  comfort  here,  he'll  find  it  elsewhere. 

he's  nursing  wounded  pride  and  a  double  shot  of  liquor,  having  once  again  been  told  to  fuck  off,  when  the  bloke  he's  been  avoiding  all  night  says  something  that  gives  him  pause.  don't  be  ashamed,  eh?  the  grunt  of  laughter  he  chokes  out  lacks  humour.  he  doesn't  want  to  be  a  prick.  sober  him  is  always  so  embarrassed  by  how  he  acts  when  he's  drunk.  he's  not  the  gaz  that  claire  fell  in  love  with.  he's  some  disgusting,  broken  imitation. 

“i'd  have  to  fist  fight  meself  for that  before  anyone  else,  mate.”  he  chugs  back  the  rest  of  his  drink,  shakes  off  the  burn,  and  squints  at  his  company.  fuckin'  pretty  boy.  gaz  is  bitterly  surprised  that  he's  deigned  to  acknowledge  him  at  all.  all  put  together  and  shit.  in  contrast,  gaz  is  unkempt and  developing  an  tangled scruff  along  his  jaw. 

maybe  that's  why  no  one  wants  him.  claire  had  always  preferred  him  to  be  clean-shaven  too. 

"cheers for the advice, though. it's not like bein' lectured by a bloody model at all."

[pupil-of-law]

"Can you open a wine bottle without using a corkscrew?"

@malefikant

'Yes,' Sebastian reported, after he had glanced at the bottle he'd been holding by the neck, swung it at a nearby wall, and shaken the dripping liquid from his fingers that its detonation had caused.

[cantuscorvi]

ღ stumbles in and falls on all fours

attraction meme. // @malefikant

“Frankly, you seem. . . fragile.”

Romantic attraction: none | very low | low | medium | high | very high | extreme Sexual attraction: none | very low | low | medium | high | very high | extreme Aesthetic attraction: none | very low | low | medium | high | very high | extreme Sensual attraction: none | very low | low | medium | high | very high | extreme

[dernarrleid]

TELEGRAM FROM @malefikant READS: How does Wolfgang deal with loneliness? Has he ever felt completely alone before? Does he act differently when there is no one around to see him?

Depends on how old he is. Wolfgang currently deals with loneliness well! He's not especially wanting for a companion, but he keeps himself sane practicing daily interaction with kindness. When he was a child and put through the Kinderheim program it was by design a place for which he could find no solace. Some of his only memories involved another boy he was friends with, but after a few years of brainwashing and strict authoritarian discipline, he never sought to make anymore. It was mostly about how useful he was to the organization (and by extension the government).

Around early 20's, late 30's he had a family and a child, but wasn't necessarily attached to them in the moment. They were apart of his job and a large role he had was to make everything as convincing as possible so he wasn't snuffed out. He has a huge complex surrounding his emotions and whether or not he's exhibiting proper social cues because he's capable or if he's still employing the same tactics of his past self. Wolfgang doesn't act all that differently when he's by himself either! He's been pushed to his Steiner persona a few times after his unofficial retirement, however it's nearly impossible to do so alone without any variables. He is quite alert when he's found a place to lodge for a length of time; those heightened senses will likely never go away.

[amberedcorpse]

@malefikant wants compensation from Felix.

 „What makes you think you have the right?“ It was the same hum-soft voice, soothing and perhaps a little too gentle, unbefitting a man that had caught another red-handed going through his belongings. His things. Carelessly scattering them about and leaving them strewn across the ground, like they were of no worth. Not only that. He took. Took without asking if he could, without permission and even with paying the price for this indecency did not learn his lesson because he simply got back up again after ingesting a substance he should not have. The truth was — if listened closely — one would be able to tell that instead of offering too much sentiment, his voice was instead lacking. Lacking something crucial. Underlined by another tone, a hinting at a seething that bubbled just so beneath the frozen surface and was not brought to the light through sheer will of his. Hindering the showing true colors of angered emotion, the demonstrating that his overall softness displayed was merely that — a display. Etiquette. Good manners more than a soft spot within the heart. Alexander cast a scrutinizing gaze, cold and piercing, as though he could see right through and past what laid under the skin of the man before him. Silence filled the room after the closing of the door behind him, only to then be filled by the characteristic clicking of iron heels on solid floor with every slow step he took. A good while he had just stood there and had watched, had remained unnoticed (or worse: ignored), which had caused the smile on his face to grow wider. Hardly noticeable but it was, stretched-thin and painted in false greeting, odd and strange in the way his eyes did not offer warmth but cold. A looming, warning chill that always grew in intensity when something was wrong. This was not a smile. It was a sneer. There was something peculiar about the way the witch moved as he approached. The way in which he behaved and gave himself, with a glacial pride stitched to his spine. The way in which he carried himself did not quite fit, was slightly off from how he usually was. There was something dangerously off about the air that usually engulfed him (something about him seeming hardened, sharpened). Whatever it was that he was missing, that took away from that light elegance he carried himself with and instead filled it with more masculinity, something about him spelled trouble.             „I did not give you permission. I demand compensation.“

His shadow perked up and raised its head up the wall, watching without a proper gaze, consuming everything in its purview with a subtle but far-reaching darkness. Its tropical warmth collided with the nipping chill of the witch’s magic, drawing a clear circle of mist and condensation around the body. 

Permission, he says. 

The god smiled, rows of sharp teeth hidden between layers of spatial and spiritual distance. Yet it made its own amusement felt, like a needling sense of unease filtering the air, the certainty that something lurked at the corner of one’s eye. There was something funny about this witch, beyond the fact they didn’t belong in the bounds of this world, or that over their shoulders it smelled traces of a long fated doom. They could have easily cast Felix out of the way, harmed him in some way– or even killed him. But they had frustrated the shadow’s  every attempt at baiting them into violence up to that point. It was clear to them they searched for something, were lured by some malformed curiosity, a thread tangled with its own puppet’s strings. The very nature of that curiosity, however, strangely eluded it. 

Felix felt all of his muscles pulled taut, and he knew to brace himself for what was to come. Both arms gathered round the other's things and pulled them out in a single, reckless sweep. Though many of the baubles survived the careless fall, others cracked or outright shattered around his shoes. Pools of strange potions spread across the tiled floor, thick and ill-smelling, like oils that had long expired. He blinked a few times, like a cat frightened by its own negligence, and looked at his hands which had gone back under his control. There was a reason his god had acted through him, worn his skin like throwaway gloves, and he found it in Alex’s subzero stare. 

For a moment, he attempted to take a step back, but was stalled by the will of his precious shade, who turned him to face the other instead. Glass crackled under the soles of his boots as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, all while the instinct to scurry away was also being suppressed for him. Trapped in an infinite and divine snare, he quickly took to worrying the inside of his cheek, wondering what other horrible tricks Mischief had up its sleeves.

“Compensation? But I don’t have anything. You could take the clothes off his back.” 

Rage flashed across his face, and the subtle, annoyed twitch that had lifted his lip now turned to a snarl. He made a low, feline sound to something invisible over his shoulder and fretted with the thought of having to wander out naked again, until his face was harshly moved back to position. Faint pressure marks on his cheeks left the impression of an invisible hand, its claws nearly jabbing the flesh there, until everything faded as quickly as it had appeared. 

“What am I supposed to give you?” 

[yellowfingcr]

What is the worst thing Heysel has ever done with magic?

// Sometimes you’re a darkwalker knighted by the onyx lord who taught you in first place how to pull and weave magic to access the interstices between realities, in-betweens in which lies just an endless nothing less than nothing fundamentally averse to the concept of you existing in any manner and so being, and so having things like a body, or a mind, or time, or history, or any shred no matter how small of proof that in fact could provide an answer to the question who are you, all in the name (at its most basic use) of traversing long spaces very very quick. Sometimes the crux of the entire spell is less about cutting the skin of the world to access this horrible place and far more about cloaking yourself in spell so that preservation of information can happen, even when it shouldn’t, and so permitting to darkwalk, and be like an astronaut who walks past the event horizon’s edge and emerges unscathed. Sometimes you know that so this is about the possibility for conversation, not certainty of successful persuasion. The void might yet try to argue you are never to leave this place for you are not a thing that is real. But at least you have made yourself a fine padding of math and sorcery and all the resources a darkwalker like yourself has, and so you might yet state that you are real, and you wish to go. 

Sometimes you know that to excise that armor component from the spell means that the astronaut goes past the event horizon and the black hole swallows them without ifs or buts to be raised. Enter the portal naked of magic like that and no conversation will happen at all, and you won’t happen again. And sometimes you may think about the spectacular cruelty of it. Every layer of you just pointed at and told no and no and no, no to your flesh, no to the atomic bonds of you, no to your history, and no to you. Just a final last no, total and indifferent to your pleas and proof. Then silence. 

But sometimes you think that someone deserves this, and you grasp them bodily like wounded deer and drag them towards the portal open and sighing with magic, and blood draws a steady path along their passage like an inverse carpet for kings, unrolling not in welcome but for leaving. They are Tarnished, aren’t they? They will come back by divine want. But does the voice of god reach where not one thing exists? Does anyone yet know?

Sometimes your name is Heysel, who was Goldfinch, and you excise that part of the spell, and throw the body inside the portal. 

[blixtrandetorst]

does your muse lean more toward “forgive and forget” or “resent and remember?”

Resent for sure. Even little things though in those cases it’s more fleeting. Giving a malicious side eye after being insulted, etc etc. Dieter wouldn’t sit and brood on it though but he does think there’s a certain level of respect he should be paid and when it’s not given he gets testy. Most times if he’s given a more interesting engagement to worry about Dieter will forget those.

More egregious transgressions will be remembered. Maybe fondly in some aspects. But he’ll want whoever it was to feel what he felt. In whatever way he feels fit for the next meeting. It’s usually like that. (Not that he doesn’t expect something done back to him. He knows with everything’s he’s done it’s bound to come back. Just a matter of when.)

[rxgalbullxt]

“How is it that one match can start a forest fire, but it takes a whole box of matches to start a campfire?” He is a little frustrated. Actually, a lot but there is no way he will show that.

He holds one large hand out, beckoning silently for what is left of the matches after that last failed attempt. It's miserable out. The kind of cold that gets deep into your bones and makes you feel damp long after the sun comes back.

High above them the trees offer some shelter from the downpour. Though the steady drip of water everywhere you turn is a rather miserable sign of the long night ahead.

"Just bad luck." He concludes calmly.

Only because he doesn't wish to go on a longer tangent about the circumstances, the poor timing, the sheer impatience of it all. Instead he merely shrugs. There is much worse they could contend with. There's a lot more he's had to tolerate than just rain.

"Cold night ahead."

[desertbled]

@malefikant ♥️’d for a drunk mailman

[ 𝟛 ] —- - Wolf was sitting at the far end of the bar, inside the Big Horn Saloon. A glass full of amber liquid sat in his right hand; perhaps his 6th or 7th round of the night, he could no longer remember.

A heavy patter could be heard, falling hard on the old building & rattling the windows. While most people found the rare weather pattern an inconvenience, Wolf had found it soothing, listening to the wind howls & drops of rain.

The inside of the bar was of stark contrast to the outside, with its soft light & warm heating. It was a simple place, with not much to offer in the way of decorations. The walls were mostly barren, save for a few sentimental photographs here & there. The faintest of tunes could be heard from the jukebox to his left, underlying the loud chatter that filled the bar.

Wolf didn’t pay most of it any attention, other than nodding in acknowledgement at the soldiers who recognized his face. All he wanted tonight was to be left alone. The only company he considered entertaining was the whiskey in his glass.

Leaning back in his chair, Wolf downed the two shots, not bothering to savor it anymore. He’d been sipping on his liquor for most of the night, but by now, he was too drunk to give a damn what it tasted like.

What had started off as a shitty day was turning into a nice night, with alcohol warming his bones & buzzing under his skin. This was what he needed; a small reprieve from the harsh wasteland outside.

Unluckily for him, duty called when he least expected.

The courier had finished off his drink when he noticed a stranger had slipped into the seat directly next to his. Despite his desire to keep to himself, Wolf was polite; raising his empty glass & giving the man a faint smile.

[meadowlarksabove]

Slides Gabban a cherry with a stem

🍒🍒🍒🍒

He drew the cherry to his lips, first smelling the scent of its thin sugar glaze, before chewing the fruit clean from the stem. It could have been poisoned– unlikely given the circumstances, but a frumentarius could never be too careful, not out in the wild. Yet he found himself willing and eager to take the risk, it wasn’t every day a soldier was offered a taste of sweet crimson. And you'd do the same if you've ever had their atrocious rations.

The flavor wasn’t as pleasant as he'd expected, however, every lick ending with notes of a strong, alcoholic aftertaste (rum maybe). They must have picked this right out of their drink. How considerate.

Still, Gabban’s nose wrinkled prettily against his mock smile. “Thanks, I love cherries. Let me give you something back.” 

Quickly, and with little to no thought, he placed the stem on his tongue and closed his mouth as if to swallow. He remained like that for a while, lips sealed, eyes focused, and his tongue often pressing against the inside of his cheek as if wrestling with something loose. Until at last he pulled the stem from the clamp of his teeth, this time perfectly tied in a tight knot. 

Gabban placed the knot on the counter in front of them, offering them little more than a nod and a wink.