#attxckdog

Ryan had simply been talking with the woman as a business-only venture. She was apparently a rather notable arms dealer and could get her hands on some military-grade weaponry he’d been trying to track down for the Crew for a while now. Of course, in times like these, it takes a little bit of his old Southern charm to win someone over. But, it’s definitely a bit of a surprise when Gavin latches to his side. It isn’t like his Gav to get jealous like this. He gives a little hum, eyebrow raising as his arm moved from where Gavin was holding it to his waist, pulling him in close. “Well enough, I was just speaking with this lovely lady about some supplies for the business.” He commented, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to Gav’s temple. Then, with a sly little smirk, he shifted so that he could whisper in his ear: “What? Don’t like someone treading on your territory?”

Gavin knew it was stupid to be jealous. Knew that he had no reason to be, but he still couldn’t help himself. Just standing there, smiling charmingly and leaning even closer to Ryan, relaxing a bit as he heard what they were talking about. He was right, it was just business and he was stupid to be jealous, but at least he wasn’t mad about it. 

“Oh lovely. I’m so sincerely sorry to interrupt,” He said, flashing his sincerest smile towards the woman. As he heard Ryan’s whisper, he shuddered a bit, but tried to hide it by shifting on his feet and shooting a glance to Ryan, leaning up to kiss his cheek. 

@attxckdog

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From her stance in the kitchen, Meg sets her coffee cup down and places her palms flat against the granite as a voice drifts into the room. Usually, it’s days like these that Meg tries to wake up early. Days right after a heist when everyone’s hungover or sleeping in, and the FAHC house is quiet. So, needless to say, it's a surprise when Ryan walks in on a coveted quiet coffee morning. She takes a deep breath and smooths her hair before she turns from the coffee pot to face him.

There’s a weak intake of breath, the sound of skin being pinched between teeth. The lad shuts his eyes when it happens, as if opening them will stop the contact. It’s a sort of good pain, the kind that reminds one that they are alive, that blood is rushing through their veins and currently being brought to the skin through means of a love bite. The mouth pulls from Ray’s collar, dainty enough to leave no traces of saliva but rough enough to show what Ray perceives as ownership. He quite likes it.

   Warmth spread down to Ryan’s fingertips, heavy breath leaving his body as the other man seemed to finally relax into the kiss. He had been worried that Geoff would shove him away, particularly because of how close he had pressed himself to him. The feeling of a grip at his hips made him gasp against his lips, eyes fluttering shut. Pulling away made him pant, staring up at Geoff with red cheeks. “Just… wanted to kiss you.” 

      Ryan had been sitting around, not doing much around the house. Most of the crew was out and about, leaving Ryan to occupy the safehouse on his own. Though, the sound of a voice ringing in his ears made him perk up. “Meg?” He pushed himself up, a bit of a grin spreading across his lips as he drew closer. He registered the sound of Meg talking to someone, finally reaching where she was and letting loose a full bellied laugh.      “Well, it seems that the cat has caught a mouse. What’d the poor fuck do, aside from breathing too close to you?”

The more this guy talked, the more irritated Ray was becoming. A 'good', 'happy' life? Please. That ship crashed harder than the damn Titanic the moment Ray turned 14. It just wasn't a thing that was meant to happen to him and he had accepted that a hell of a long time ago. Ray hadn't even tried to be romantic in his life. One night stands? Yeah, that he could do, but actual relationships? What was the point? He knew he was heading down a shit path from the start, why bother dragging others down with him? If Ray was being completely honest, he almost expected to just.. Not have a damn tattoo. What a surprise it was finding out that he did, indeed, end up with a soulmate tattoo after all.

Just his luck that this fuck's just as much of a mess as he is.

"Apparently you don't understand because that's a load of bullshit right there. What a fucking joke. Settling down? Starting a family? Fuck, man, at least you're right about one part. Yeah, one day I might come home in a body bag, but it wouldn't be because of you, you moron." He snarled, staring the man down. Staring his soulmate down.

Wait the.. Oh. Okay, so maybe the whole Vagabond thing was a tad.. Startling. Ray has absolutely heard of this guy. He's pretty damn well known even in other places- People all over want this fuck dead. But you know what? Who fucking cares. At this moment, Ray absolutely doesn't so you know what he does?

Something stupid. Surprise.

"Oooo, look at you, Mister Big and Scary!" Aaand there he goes. Throwing his hands up, Ray stormed over to his forgotten bag. When he had he even set it down? If he set it down. Probably dropped it after their little introduction. Can't remember the details right now, but fuck it. "The Vagabond." He spat, snatching it up. Turning on his heels, Ray headed right towards the Vagabond. "Excuse me for not being that well known in Los Santos, but if you ever decide to pay a visit to where I'm from, I bet you'd hear about Brownman. I may not be on your level, but I've made some kind of name for myself. Enough to gain my own enemies. To have people scared of me. I'm not going to end up dead because some dumbass thinks that just because I'm some stupid fucking kid that I'll be an easy target. So what if people try shit because I'm the Vagabond’s soulmate. I'm not pathetic. I'm not weak. I'm- I'm tired of this shit. I don't need to depend on anyone. I don't need anyone worrying about me. I've lived this long by myself- Without a crew, thank you very fucking much- And I can keep fucking going by myself. Finding this out isn't going to stop me."

Man, was Ray shaking.

Thankfully, his anger was slowly simmering down to.. Defeat? No, that couldn't be the word. That would mean he's completely given up, but for some odd reason, there's still some hope in him. A very very small amount, but it's there. Why, though? Clearly Mister Vagabond over here wants nothing to do with him, but Ray's kind of a stubborn asshole. He admittedly likes the idea of having this guy at his side. The possibility of not being alone anymore. Someone that can cause confusion and chaos with him. Someone to have calm nights with.

Someone that would actually care about him when things went wrong.

This was a peculiar problem.

In truth, Ryan wasn’t entirely sure whether it was a problem or not yet, but it certainly seemed like one. It was enough to give him pause, settled on his stomach on the flat rooftop of a 7-Eleven, shrouded in the contrasting dark behind all the striped neon, with the whirr of an air conditioning unit perhaps too close to his ear.

With his elbows on the ledge, and a pair of binoculars nestled comfortably in his palms, his intention had been a stake-out on the pawn shop across the street, one he already knew kept a safe heavy with the burden of secondhand necklaces, undervalued wedding rings, and more than a few nice watches. Not a big haul, comparatively speaking, but this was a pet project.

That plan, however, had been waylaid, when he caught a figure on the street. That in itself wasn’t unexpected on a Friday evening -- he picked this night so that it wouldn’t be unusual, so that he could slink into an alleyway unseen, and make it to his viewpoint undetected. He’d succeeded, of course -- but now there was this, a man on the street in a black and blue jacket, with a gait that seemed eerily familiar, and a scruff of hair that made Ryan reach back and pull his own.

Ryan lowered the binoculars, gripped the ledge on which he rested his hands, and squinted.

He squinted at the man who looked just like him.

Squinting soon turned to scrambling -- scrambling, to put his binoculars down; scrambling, to wipe the dirt from one hand; and scrambling, to roll off the concrete just enough, to run a hand down his chest and check the scars.

Stabbed. Shot. Died. Lived.

At least, he assumed so -- but how to explain this, then?

Sticking his clean fingers in his mouth, he figured there was only one way to find out, grabbed his tongue between his index and thumb, and gave the sharpest whistle he could manage.