[ DEAN MCCOPPIN ]

( tag dump )

Smooth baritone sax drifted quietly through the metal graveyard, only amplifying the closer one might get to the office. Within the makeshift home, Dean McCoppin began his morning routine. Of course, he couldn’t start without some jazz & coffee. They were the staples of any new day. Snapping to the rhythm, the little-to-do mechanic placed a glass carafe upon the hot plate before spinning away from it, socks sliding easily against the tiled floor. The loose ties of his scarlet robe whirled with him as he danced a jig closer to his record player. Twisting the volume knob, the bubbling of coffee was drowned out by the music that filled him the room. “Don’t you know little fooooool~ you never can win...” Grabbing a bottle from off his desk, the paint water inside sloshed around while he used it as a makeshift microphone. “Use your mentality! Wake up to reality!” His hips moved in ways he’d probably regret later, having not stretched first. “But each time that I do, just the thought of you makes me stop before I begin~ and I’ve got you... under my skin.” Before the trombone had it’s chance to belt out a solo, a solid rap came to his wooden door. Putting his ‘microphone’ away, he quickly turned the music down. While it was a business day, he didn’t expect a customer to come knocking this early. Loosely tying his robe shut, Dean yawned & threw open the door. The smell of freshly brewed coffee spilled out into the open air. Lips set tightly together, he arched a thick brow at the professionally dressed individual standing in his scrapyard. “Uh... yeah? Sure thing, G-Man. My schedule’s clear.” Gesturing inside, he half smiled. “Coffee?”

written by Coral

Hogarth: I love you Me: /wails like a baby

( TFW YOU FINALLY REMEMBER THE LOGIN FOR ONE OF YOUR OLD MUSES OOOOOOOO LOOK WHO’S BACK )

{ outofcoffee } Hey there, followers. I’m afraid I have come bearing some bad news. I doubt this will upset too many people (especially since this blog’s activity has been fickle for the past year anyway)— but I'm leaving on a hiatus. This time, I don't know if I'll be back. It isn't that I’ve lost the desire to play Dean. I'll always have muse for Dean. It’s simply because I have other rp blogs that occupy more of my attention and tbh, I’d rather concentrate on those characters rn than let Dean collect dust and have people waiting on me. You all deserve better than that. I never even have time to answer asks, let alone devote myself to this muse like he deserves. To those of you who have interacted with my Dean, thank you for all of the memories! It’s been a great run. If you wish to find me elsewhere, I can be found at sxphir, singingforsun, and kingofthefortythieves. ]

      Nope, it was too late.       Dean watched as his newest sculpture toppled       over and hit the hard ground in a metal clamber.       He sighed. Great. 

     "'ah didn't exactly have time to think about it, lil' lady.         Imagine the critter scratchin' up your important parts.         Y'wouldn't waste a second gettin' it outta there neither."

   The man’s words didn’t stick. He was too preoccupied with the rapid blinking of glacier blues and mulling over the way he called him by his last name instead of sneering, ‘dirty beatnik’. The attempted explanation fell on stubbornly deaf ears, because as soon as their lips had touched, Dean was returning the kiss with more fervor than the ex-government agent could have possibly foreseen.      ”—m’ I beg to differ.” The artist mumbled against Kent’s mouth. He twirled the redhead’s tie around his fingers, gripped tightly, and dragged him inside the house— all the while silencing any sort of rising argument by peppering affections down his throat and slamming the door directly behind them.