#polyfacetious | ekon

[kingofdirtandnothing]

polyfacetious asked: tokyo

Return of The Sin: (Accepting)

There’s good ideas, bad ideas and worst ideas. 

Angela is pretty sure that fucking in the closet during the high warlock’s holiday party is on par for the worst, especially given the fact that this is the first holiday she’s gotten to spend with her second born. 

But Ekon has smelled territorial and warm since the second they walked into this place and Angela is only human...mostly.

She’s already shaking her way towards coming apart again when Ekon turns her around to face him and lifts her up off of her feet, arms sliding around his neck on muscle memory. 

There’s no shame, no remorse in the steady, breathless chant of yours yours yours that follows every thrust.

[kingofdirtandnothing]

polyfacetious asked: ❝ ✏️+ note ❞

Note Meme: (Accepting)

She doesn’t even know if he can read. A good portion of the town can’t. But Rose knows that even if the words may as well be puzzles to him, that he’ll understand the swipe of perfume from her thumb onto the page, and the careful way it’s folded and tucked into his saddle bag while he sleeps. 

[kingofdirtandnothing]

polyfacetious asked: SPOTS TO KISS + 10 Kiss Meme: (No longer accepting) 10.  a kiss on that space where jaw connects.

“That’s seven.” 

He’s at Ekon’s elbow, dark head just at Ekon’s shoulder. He casts no shadow as he rocks onto his heels and back onto the balls of his feet. Five sucks on his teeth, green eyes moving from the pale arm poking out from beneath a police tarp, to the detective standing next to him. 

“Two more since me and it hasn’t even been a year. He’s escalating.” This victim had prints in the system. A name, a place of birth. All the others did too. Except for Number Five. 

Number Five, found in the mud beneath a pier on low tide. No clothes, no identifying marks aside from twin moles on his cheek. No return on the finger prints. No matching dental records. A ghost, even before he died. 

The first body Detective Abar was on case for. The first one he saw on the slab, unable to forget the sightless green eyes staring up at the waterlogged wood of the pier. 

Or maybe Number Five was just too stubborn to stay dead. 

“Seven victims. All aged between twenty one and twenty five. All male. All white. All brown hair and green eyes. Somebody is working out a fantasy. Or a frustration.”

It’s surprisingly cavalier from the image of a young man who died cold and alone, with a stranger’s hands around his throat. 

(Maybe that’s because this is all in the Detective’s head, and if he wasn’t so stubborn, he’d see a doctor about it.)

“You should, by the way.” Five picks up the thread of the thought and carries it into words. “After you catch this prick, you should absolutely see a doctor. This isn’t normal.” Pale skin dimples just on the left side of his mouth when Number Five smiles. 

“But for now...” He drags the words out, slow and teasing. “You’re all mine.” The young man leans all the way up onto his toes, and still is only close enough to press his lips against Detective Abar’s jaw. 

For one wild moment, there’s pressure. 

But it’s only a raindrop, tracing its way to where phantom lips had just been. 

[kingofdirtandnothing]

polyfacetious asked: [text] The ticket read “Found nude in a tree”

TFLN: (Accepting)

Angela was going to kill that boy. 

She rubs the tips of her fingers against her forehead, counting down from ten before she writes out her reply. 

[Text; Ekon] Tell Justin we owe him one. And tell Evan his ass is grass when I get home. 

[kingofdirtandnothing]

polyfacetious asked: why do you have a gun?

Aaaaaangst!: (Accepting)

“I know you have no reason to believe me.” Bertram’s voice shakes, but his hands are steady where he holds them upright. He’s not afraid, not really, dying can’t be much worse than living, but he’s always been too emotional. It’s hard to control. 

Harder still when a beautiful woman is aiming a pistol at your head. 

“But I am not here on behalf of King or Company.” The woman’s gun dips down a little, but the dark skinned man at her side is still watching him with open scrutiny. “I mean, I did work for the King, but-”

There’s the gun back up again, and Bertram hurries on, voice warbling as it picks up speed. “I heard what you were doing. Not specifically in the council meetings that it was you but that there was someone out there who-”

Captain Ekon says say your piece and be gone and the words settle inside of Bertram’s chest into something a little more manageable. 

“My mother was a slave. And I was born a bastard to my master in Antigua. The only reason I’ve made it as far as I have in service of the crown is...” Bertram gestures to himself with a wry smile. His skin was light enough to pass as something else. Italian. Spanish. 

“And I can’t live with myself another day knowing I’m not doing everything I can to try and help people. I know it sounds ridiculous, like I’m here because of my mother or my life, but it’s not.  It’s not. I’m here because I need to do the right thing. And I may not know much beyond the basics of sailing, but I can learn. And I can tell you everything I know that the King knows about you.”

For the first time, Bertram’s voice is even when he speaks. 

“Either shoot me or let me join your crew. Because I will not walk out of here any other way.”

[kingofdirtandnothing]

polyfacetious asked: SPOTS TO KISS + 1

Kiss Meme: (Perpetually Accepting) 1. a kiss on the top of the head.

“Hello, handsome.”

He’s fucking lucky he doesn’t get a gun shoved in his face for his cheek, because Robert has leaned himself in the bloke’s open window, where he was keeping an eye on the building. 

Couldn’t be sure if he was a copper, or a private detective, but he had eyes on Mr. Cholmondeley’s place, and Robert couldn’t leave that be. 

(Even playing the Rent Boy on the corner was better than sitting inside in the fucking fumes.)

“Are you lost?” He makes the words almost obnoxiously breathy, leaning in close. Still no gun in his face. PI, most likely then. Detectives always got antsy about the closeness.

“There’s not much to see in this cozy little street.” Except the closest thing he’s ever had to a father, and his illicit drug trade. But maybe he’d get lucky, and the handsome bloke with the big, dark eyes would be looking for someone else. 

Anyone else. 

Robert has never been shy about who he was. And he’s got a fondness for the closeted ones. Which is the only reason he catches that brief look down at where he’s biting his bottom lip. Gotcha. 

“Go on then, darling. Go home to your wife. You’re not ready for what we have to offer ‘round here.”

And just because he can’t help it, Robert ducks in close and plants a loud, smacking kiss against the top of the might-be-a-copper’s head, laughing as he hops backwards and makes towards the alley.  (Away from Mr. Cholmondeley’s building.)

[kingofdirtandnothing]

polyfacetious asked: just breathe.

Aaaaaangst!: (Accepting)

“What was I supposed to do, Ekon?”

It would be so much fucking easier if he yelled. If he threw something. Growled. Shifted. Anything but this fucking softness. Because it’s making her want to scream, and she doesn’t have the fucking right. 

(She wasn’t able to scream then either, a seraph blade to her throat.)

“Evan was six months old. We had just started our family. We were happy.” And that’s what she can’t admit, the guilty, nasty secret sitting underneath her breast. That more than anything she was terrified that her husband, the love of her life, her mate would hate her. 

That he would blame her. 

“I went to every warlock in the city. I took moon tea and potions, I sat there for spell after spell, but they couldn’t get rid of it. Nephilim blood is resilient. That’s what one of them told me. There was no getting rid of that.”

She’s shaking, arms wrapped around herself and she knows, she fucking knows that if she opened her arms, that Ekon would take her in his. He was always so goddamn kind. Even when she didn’t deserve it. 

“And then you could smell it. The pregnancy. There was no hiding it then.” 

Which meant she had to spend the next eight months pretending like she was happy. That this was something she wanted. That she wasn’t being held hostage by the life growing inside of her. 

“I wanted to hate him, Ekon.” The tears spilling down her cheeks are as much angry as they are grief stricken. “You don’t know how much I wanted to hate him. I wanted to look down and see nothing but the son of a bitch shadowhunter who did this to me, but-”

Her voice breaks there, a sob caught in her throat. She’s so fucking sorry that it hurts. 

“He was just a baby. Just this tiny, helpless thing who looked more like me than like him, and I couldn’t do it.”

She couldn’t hate him, and she couldn’t leave him in the hands of the people who raised the kinds of monster who could do this to her. “So I got a portal to New York. You know how we always heard how accepting they are there.” And how there was a story when Angela was a little girl about a baby warlock being left on the steps of the Institute who was raised by a shadowhunter and a warlock together. That baby was the High Warlock of Brooklyn now.

“I knew they would take care of him there. So I left him. I left him, and I came back and I lied to you.” Grief smells the same, no matter the reason. And it wasn’t a lie, not really. Because she did lose a son that day. But Ekon didn’t. 

“And I’ve been lying to you ever since. And nothing...nothing I do can ever make up for that.”

[kingofdirtandnothing]

polyfacetious asked: Liberosis Obscure Feelings Meme: (Accepting)

Liberosis: The desire to care less about things.

“We’re going back soon.”

Vanya is saying goodbye to her girlfriend and her girlfriend’s kid. And honestly, with the Handler and all her minions, her shithead daughter included being mopped up by Herb and the Commission, there’s no reason to be in a hurry. 

The fight is over. The Apocalypse is gone. Here, and in 2019, if Herb is to be trusted. (If they jump back into smoke and rubble and blood, Five is going to shove the briefcase so far up Herb’s ass that the zipper gets caught on his teeth.)

They had nothing but time. A problem Five has had all his life, aside from these last fourteen days. 

Ekon is a goddamned oak tree next to him, even with the bloody lip and the bite marks. (Those weren’t from the fight. Those were from Five. Ekon finally stopped laughing at him, for the time being.) Five doesn’t know how to reconcile these two parts of his life occupying the same space. 

And Ekon, the bastard, is still too good at his job, even retired. Five doesn’t have to point out and name his siblings. Ekon has heard enough stories, and he watches them move around each other, dark eyes hyper focused. He names them with a pointed finger, one by one.

Vanya. Luther. Allison. Diego. Klaus. Ben?

Five shakes his head. He jabs at the split skin on the corner of his lip for something to focus on. “Ben died after I left.” And Five had been so damned focused on doomsday that he didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to him. 

Left is a hell of a word for it. Like it was a choice. Like he was anything other than a goddamn acorn in a hurricane. 

“Apparently he hung around as a ghost for seventeen years, but he finally got the hell out of this godforsaken family.”

Sometimes, he wonders if he’ll ever be able to look at his family and see anything other than their bodies. Outside of the Academy. Being sucked dry by Vanya. Being swallowed up by nuclear blasts. 

Five glances down at the briefcase at Ekon’s feet. “Back into retirement, huh? Must be nice.”

There’s a pressure building in his chest that Five won’t put words to. Because he knows what happens when they leave here. Everyone goes back into the wind. Back to their own lives. 

And he’s back to being alone. 

[kingofdirtandnothing]

What Is Your Lifetrap?

SUBJUGATION

You experience the world in terms of control. Other people in your life always seem to be more powerful than you. You feel that you must please them. Sacrifice yourself and submit to them. The only person you do not feel obliged to please is yourself.

You feel trapped in your life. You are constantly meeting the needs of others with so much attentiveness that life loses its freedom. You are passive. A sculpture being shaped by others. Life happens to you.

When your needs are constantly frustrated, anger is inevitable. At some level, you know you feel used or controlled. But you feel your needs do not count. It is hard for you to connect with what you really want or prefer in a situation. You feel overwhelmed and confused. It is easier for you to do what others want. You rationalize your tendency to please others. You tell yourself that it doesn’t really matter.

It is rare for you to express your anger directly. It is far more common for you to take it out in a disguised fashion. You procrastinate, show up late, or neglect legitimate expectations that people have for you. It is difficult for others to know whether you are irritated or simply weak. Many conclude that since you act unstably, you are in need of more control and direction from them. In this way, you perpetuate your pattern of putting others in roles where they feel they must control you.

tagged by: @wemultitudinous​

tagging: @polyfacetious​ (for Ekon and Weasel) @likeprotege​ @bloodsings​ (for Dmitri) @allpurposebogeyman​ @whcwashe​ @talentedliarloki​ and @wemultitudinous​ (for Alex)