the dusk of a curious mind.

           For some reason doubts hit Mason’s thoughts, that maybe this wasn’t the best idea– chances were that when Nolan sobers up he’s going regret this, or wherever this was going and things between them might get sour; worse than they were currently. Mason gave himself merely thirty seconds to worry, though; he didn’t let himself do that for longer, not when the other man was so close to him, not when Mason had his arms around his neck, pulling him in. This was not the time for doubting and worrying and thinking. The night was going so good, he was not going to let his brain ruin it for him.

At the push and pull on his shirt, Nolan slipped a hand between them to unbutton his shirt. One by one, until he shrugged out of it, throwing it somewhere into a corner. It didn't matter. In seconds, his fingertips dug into the pebbles of Mason's hipbone, dragging him close, again, while his hands wandered, taking in every inch of new, exposed skin. Mason was hot under his fingers and palms, and Nolan didn't want to keep him waiting for too long.

He kissed him once more, his mouth opening wider, and shoving him forwards. When they had reached the rim of an unmade bed, Nolan pressed a quick, impatient peck to his mouth corners, and pushed him into the pillows. He hovered over him, momentarily, before leaning down to let his lips brush over chest and stomach, pausing at the outline of jeans.  There was a rustle flooding the room, then, hands coming to unbuckle Mason's belt in clumsy impatience. Before long, Nolan tugged his pants to his knees.

Between ragged breaths and rising chests, he faltered, searching for Mason's eyes in their dark hotel room. Perhaps if Nolan had been anybody else, he wouldn't have doubted. But his question moments prior had remained unanswered. Now looming over them - unspoken, uncertain - he was questioning what they were doing.

Fingers traced along fabric until they ventured under, lingering.

"Last chance."

 Guess who’s written 900+ meta on why he likes the stuff? It me.

        “Whiskey is the life ofmen.”

          Disclaimer:I don’t know much about whiskey. Most of the information in this post has been acquiredthrough research, so I can’t vouch for the accuracy.

Now, first times with whiskey usually go horriblywrong and Nolan’s very first experience was no different. So, in lieu oftalking about burning throats and the vow to never touch whiskey again, let mestart off this meta post with a story.

Relationships

It goes without saying that someone who grew up having to earn affection might struggle and falter with expressions thereof. As it is, he’s not exactly the most introspective fellow either, instead preferring to bottle up his emotions in primarily adaptive ways. If he feels helpless and worthless due to weeks of not having made any progress, Nolan doesn’t dwell on these feelings. He files them away as irrelevant, ineffective, and unimportant before poring over research notes and coffee gone cold. The rule goes as follows: you have to work to make it, have to earn appreciation and affection because it is not freely given. Therefore, ever the workaholic, he works even harder on embodying the very image of a functional, successful and aspiring adult. Image being the key word here. Is he or does he pretend?

          He should just laugh and add a very sarcastic, over-the-top thank you here but Mason wouldn’t be himself if he did that, not right now, when the alcoholic daze hasn’t it him yet and that he was still pretty much himself. His other plan– the right plan looked completely different and he was going to work it now– one of Mason’s hands slid up, resting against Nolan’s chest, tugging slightly at the collar of his shirt, his other hand sneaked itself to rest against the side of the other’s neck, one second, two seconds, Mason leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of Nolan’s lips; softly, his lips barely there, just a taste.

          He pulled away, feeling quite proud of himself; again, the smile wide as ever. It didn’t really matter what Nolan was going to say or do, not right now. Mason didn’t pull away just yet, instead he shifted closer, enough so he could press his mouth close to Nolan’s ear. “Thank you.” He muttered, his voice low and husky.

But his grim, trembling mouth remained shut as Nolan's hazel eyes narrowed. Cold, rigid, hard. His temper, he knew, was a dangerous, treacherous line; abyss and ache simultaneously. As if on impulse, Nolan's lips curled into a disarming smile - a twisted, pale line. There were no cheerful crinkles, no dimples, no movement in his cheeks.

"And what makes you think you were any satisfying at all?" One by one, Nolan pried off Mason's fingers, his glance fixated on the kid's face. An eyebrow raised, he leaned forwards until strands of hair poking out of his pony tail brushed Mason's cheeks. "I must say last time was a rather piss poor waste." With that, Nolan moved backwards, pushing him away. "Don't you have a vampire to hunt down?"

Idk if I even answered the question or understood it correctly. Anyway, this is long. You’ve been warned.

@jackdawssilver

After this initial pause and uncertain delay in response, he swallowed. No, he had showcased politeness whenever possible. He cleared his throat, tilted his head to the side, giving the other man in front of him a blank, slack look.

" Are you referring to me? However might I have offended?" 

The inferior function is the hardest to understand and describe. It embodies the part of us that we are least accepting of. Although we are often unaware of its activities, it would be inaccurate to describe the inferior function as “weak” because all of our core functions are powerful in their own way. The power and force of the inferior function actually comes from the mistaken assumption that it has no power. We underestimate the inferior function at our own peril.

feel free to add more questions/options of your own!

1) when reacting to extreme pain or trauma (inflicted on THEMSELVES) your muse feels;

helpless | angry | afraid | shocked | defeated | detached | unreal | nothing

2) when reacting to extreme pain or trauma (inflicted on OTHERS) your muse feels;

helpless | angry | afraid | shocked | defeated | detached | unreal | nothing

3) in a life-and-death situation, your muse would;

save themselves first | risk their life for someone else | risk their life only for someone they care about

4) has your muse done any of the things mentioned in the third question (above) and regretted it?

yes | no   regrets it | has no regrets

5) has your muse ever;

lost a loved one | lost a family member | personally seen someone close to them die | personally seen someone close to them commit suicide | attempted to/successfully committed an act of suicide | been in a war

6) regarding past trauma, your muse is;

[ 💕 Would my muse ever be in a polyamorous relationship?

Why, yes, he would.His unwillingness to commit to a serious relationship aside due to validreasons (i.e. Dana and the fear of disappointing anyone that way again) Nolanwouldn’t be opposed to a polyamorous relationship dynamic in the slightest. Ofcourse, he would request to set up general guidelines to ensure that everyoneinvolved is happy and satisfied with how and where such a hypotheticalrelationship is going, but this would be no different than establishing decentcommunication to him either way.

👓 Would my muse ever lie for sex?

No. Not even underany given circumstance. It’s all tied to his own code of honor, if you will, tobe honest. This doesn’t end or exclude his sex partners in any way. In return,he expects nothing else from them especially if we’re talking about, say,regularly hooking up with one person for instance.

, 🎥 Who is my muse’s celebrity crush?

Why must you crushhis excitement in such a cruel manner? He had his list all prepared and at theready to nerd about his historical figure crushes! Of course, this is dependenton which verse this is targeted at. If we’re talking about his main fantasyverse, then there’s not really anyone Nolan cares enough about to admire (eventhough, technically, common celebrities do exist in my worldbuilding.)

However, in hisnormal verse where he is professionally required to stay up to date oncelebrity knowledge, there are a few. As far as actors go, it would probably bea tie between Daniel Craig and Sean Connery and Roger Moore. He has a lot ofrespect for this triad. Also, James Bond. Don’t question it. I know I don’t.

“your opinion on ______”  - accepting

I mean...what do you want me to say?

Nolan’s clothing style is first and foremost adaptable. Whatever is appropriate for the situation is what he’ll wear - without any complaints or buts. If a grey suit, for example, reflects professionalism and represents his seriousness during an important business meeting, then he’ll opt for the suit. Honestly, clothing isn’t an outlet to parade his individuality around (most of all because he doesn’t care about this perceived ‘nonsense’ in the slightest - save for one exception) and so his clothing style  or fashion sense, in most cases, can be described as fairly unspectacular. It’s practical, sturdy (depending on the verse) and proper for the occasion. Always. If I were mean I’d even go so far as to say Nolan’s clothing style isn’t something to look at with either disapproval or curiosity. Bland, if you will.

But randomly show up at his door and run into him during festivals and you’ll ask yourself: oh! So we’ve got another medieval festival for the nerds coming up?  And on his off days Nolan even wears his modernized take on medieval clothes in public, aka on the way to his favorite cafe or bar.

Send my muse “👀 + a question” and they’ll have to answer with 100% honesty.    - accepting!

          He pulled away, just slightly, their mouths just an inch apart. “Listen…” He breathed, his fingers once again finding their place on the sides of Nolan’s neck, softly brushing over its surface. He wanted more, from this, from him but this wasn’t the right place, not just now, with so many pairs of prying eyes around. “Can we go back to the motel?” Mason asked; a less drunk version of him would just say we’re going back, but this Mason, too many drinks in, figured he’s going to give Nolan a room to say no. 

          Mason couldn’t keep his hands off of Nolan right now, he couldn’t help himself. Getting to touch him, this closely, this intimately, was washing away the loneliness, giving him the sense of comfort he’s been longing for for so long now. The warmth from having somebody else at such a close proximity was spread all over his body and he never wanted the feeling to end.

           “I want you alone.” He muttered against Nolan’s lips before kissing him again, something soft and barely there this time, saving the rest for later, if or when  they end up away from the crowd and the strangers looking.

Eyes came into his view, and the space between them returned, slightly, and even that was too much. Nolan blinked. The blaze of lights pricked and burned at the corners of his eyes, making him avert his glassy glance from Mason to readjust to unfamiliar brightness. Too fast, too quiet did those words ring in his ears, a dissonant collision inside his skull. But Nolan leaned back and  listened to the Mason's moving mouth. M o t e l  they formed,  a murmured request, and he found himself nodding before lips brushed over his, again, light and soft.

Another pause ensued. Nolan raised an eyebrow at Mason, surveying his disheveled hair and reddened cheeks. "Are you sure?" They were both drunk. Even now something uncoiled in his stomach, tightening, making him doubt and question what he had agreed to. Mason was work. Rules compelled him to keep everything separate; rules so clearly defined, so elementary. The crease between Nolan's eyebrows deepened before teetering to his feet, the drinks paid in advance and their glasses emptied. Either way, they had to go back if they didn’t want to be politely asked to leave. They were foolish, reckless,  and beyond caring.  It was the reasonable, the sensible thing to do.

Holding the door open,  now ajar, he glimpsed over his shoulder, waiting.

"Well?"

          Mason leaned in, his hands resting on Nolan’s arms, sliding up to his shoulders, relishing the kiss. And the it was all over, too soon for Mason’s liking. His hands slid up to rest on Nolan’s neck; his fingers grazing over the pulse point, his thumbs gently brushing over the skin. 

         Maybe they shouldn’t and maybe Nolan was right but Mason really wanted to question it. He was going to question it; Mason wasn’t ready for this to be over so quickly, over before it even properly began. It felt good– to not feel lonely for one night, to have somebody he could kiss, somebody he wanted to kiss, really bad.

          “Why?” Mason was going to need an answer– probably a little bit too demanding considering their states but he wasn’t going to give this up so easy. With his body still so close to Nolan’s, barely no distance between them, with his hands and fingers still pressed softly against the sides of Nolan’s neck, Mason was letting him know that he wasn’t going to back out, not just yet. He was showing him that maybe they should.

          “Come on…” Mason whispered, his face was so close to Nolan’s again that the words were said against his mouth; their lips touching, threatening to lock in another kiss– Mason was going to make it happen unless Nolan pushes him away before then. Mason was hoping that wouldn’t happen.

They were in a bar, knots of people chattering away and yelling their orders from across the room and Nolan didn't care that they weren't alone, didn't falter under the reproaching glares in his back. Mason was here, between his legs, and he wanted to do more than just kiss him. Why indeed? Why was there a need to stop? Whatever doubts he should be having in this very second, they didn't resurface.  

Mason's breath was warm, a comfort, a reminder not to succumb to thinking. Long, deep intervals of it caressed his skin, and Nolan leaned in. Hands roamed, lingered, and snaked under fabric, drawing circles along Mason's waist before trailing downwards. On the rim of his jeans, Nolan's fingertips paused. He was drunk, too drunk - but he wasn't careless. Still in public, still in a bar. Losing all caution wasn't something Nolan could do straight away.

How light, how tender. Should there have been any reason not to want this? A light, light pressure. His lips brushed over his, slowly, barely touching before Nolan grabbed fistfuls of Mason's shirt and pulled him closer still.

"Damnyou."

          He should just laugh and add a very sarcastic, over-the-top thank you here but Mason wouldn’t be himself if he did that, not right now, when the alcoholic daze hasn’t it him yet and that he was still pretty much himself. His other plan– the right plan looked completely different and he was going to work it now– one of Mason’s hands slid up, resting against Nolan’s chest, tugging slightly at the collar of his shirt, his other hand sneaked itself to rest against the side of the other’s neck, one second, two seconds, Mason leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of Nolan’s lips; softly, his lips barely there, just a taste.

          He pulled away, feeling quite proud of himself; again, the smile wide as ever. It didn’t really matter what Nolan was going to say or do, not right now. Mason didn’t pull away just yet, instead he shifted closer, enough so he could press his mouth close to Nolan’s ear. “Thank you.” He muttered, his voice low and husky.

His feet shuffled; his hand rubbed the back of his neck, and he tilted his head away from the kid, from unknown response. Taking a few seconds to swallow, he faced him again, newfound confidence to steady their eye contact with a pointed, sharp grin.

"Am I that irresistible that you can't even keep your damn hands off me for one night?" A hand on Mason's shoulder, he jerked him around so that they were positioned towards the wild tangle of legs, dancing laughter, and stuttering bodies encompassing, cradling, holding one another to the fast, alive rush of music.  "There are so many gents and ladies just waiting for you. Why don't you try your luck again?"

He’s playing just for the sake of it; a quiet, drifting tune tinged with sharp melancholy. Sometimes the notes swell and crescendo in volume, long fingers plummeting into the keys with force weighed down in emotion. Abruptly turning into discordant chaos before looping back into soft tranquility. Aleister is lost to the world around him, utterly absorbed. The music he hears in his head, he doesn’t know where it comes from. But it comes from somewhere else. He’s merely a conduit; like now, fingers moving across the keys as notes seemingly just come to him.

It quiets something in him. Most of the notes have a sadness to them, certain chords evoking sounds of dread. But it reaches into his chest and seeps into his bones and softens the edges of the yawning black emptiness inside.

But then Aleister's question conjured up long, long forgotten lessons, an episode in his childhood spent locked away with an elder woman staring holes into the clumsy, clumsy back of his left hand, hunched over the piano in exhaustion. Before she had let him anywhere near the dusty instrument, however, her drawl had gone on and on about scales and notes until they, too, had infiltrated his dreams. Nightmares then, and shudder inducing reminder now.

"Yes," he replied. "It's been a while, unfortunately." Nolan's eyes widened, shocked, understanding. "You're not proposing to reintroduce me to scales all over again, are you?" His upper lip quivered, crooked, and showed signs of downcast insecurity. "If you think it necessary, then..." Bach's minuet in G major should've more than sufficed to satiate his curiosity. If it had been someone else, Nolan might have even voiced his dissent - but it was Aleister, and he wanted to keep his good graces. And so his mouth remained tightly shut, waiting.

Cautious steps almost tip-toed across the room, towards the piano and the small figure sitting in front of it. “Please don’t feel compelled to teach an old sport like me if you don’t want to. I’m sure I’m rather hopeless, I’m afraid.”