#cafeonthecorner

━━━   repetition: the feast that his ever growing indifference gorges itself on until it bloats. She knows well now how to quench his thirst for a purpose. truly, this is how he prefers to live out his servitude to Her, by being given a task or two. such is the reason for moving through the familiar grey woods now. She remains there, hisses of petulant whispers flooding the inside of his hollow helm, until he nears the blurred edge of light radiating from the far-off campsite.

Find her, now! She demands with finality, whispers fading into a nothingness that holds no peace despite the sudden silence. he does not question Her as the fact is he is never in the position to. as directed, the holy apostle moves quietly along the forest’s edge - the only sound that accompanies him is the dry crunch of leaves to dirt & the drag of the great knife through the grass blades ( leaving it behind, even in the hallowed halls of midwich, is unfathomable. )

not too far from the campsite lies a makeshift shelter, built of sticks & leaves. it stinks of DEVIANCY, the sweat of fear & the burning of all hope. only half of it is covered with fallen branches that are laid atop the wooden structure as a roof. pathetic to its core, a gust of wind would destroy it if he did not. a boot, made not of leather or rubber, comes to the base of the structure until it clatters to the forest floor in a heap - not unlike its form a second before.

turning, the red pyramid is still as marble. there is the wandering deviant, bearing three small branches in her arms as if to complete the dubious shelter & a pitiful frown.

❝ Look, I promise I won’t tell anyone, alright? My lips are sealed! ❞

Brooklyn Nine prompts | accepting

"You are not the first one to say those words to me."

His retort was cold, a matter-of-fact note to challenge the woman's shorthanded attempt to reassure him from his sparked concerns. Of course, who wouldn't be willing to make the bargain to escape the bloodied carnage he had left behind in his hunt.

The vampire had presumed the lot behind a closed cafe was a safer place than any to bring down the man he had been tailing -- from the instant he had crossed adjacent to the leading backstreet, Vanilla had sprung to drag him back into the secluded space for the finishing blow: his efforts had been nearing it's feasted payoff, that was until the woman's startled gasp had caught his attention from behind.

Now, he had come to abandon his fatally wounded victim, those reflective, slanted pupils fixed firmly upon the woman's slight frame. This one wouldn't be difficult to dispose of at all, her words merely delaying the inevitable in his mind -- no way to outrun, nor overpower him. He could merely sneer at her more mediated attempts.

@cafeonthecorner​

It’s morning, and he’s not normally out in the morning, but the gentleman in white and silver who marks his territory with a tented napkin glides, more than walks, up to the counter of the cafe with a dignified purpose. A black parasol is at his side, sun shades as thin and shrewd as himself tucked into the flush pocket on his waistcoat. 

��������

Whatever agitation there was immediately vanished in a matter of seconds with the kiss pecking at his nose. If he was ‘cuter’ like this to Penny, maybe it wasn’t so bad~