#designedparadigm

hunting was a little easier when he was first turned. security cameras didn't exist then, nor were the police everywhere he went. at least in his time, the law were less likely to believe stories about vampires. they'd just think you hit the whiskey a bit too hard. regardless, arthur was hungry and he had to feed, otherwise he'd be over-hungry and that would be a problem for both him and whatever poor soul he had his sights on.

arthur has a little system. hit a bar, saddle up to someone and offer to buy them drinks. if they weren't interested, he'd back off, but if they were, then the drinks would keep coming until he thought they were inebriated enough to let him walk them out of the bar and right into the dark alley between said bar and another building. the man was too drunk to fight back as arthur pushed him against the wall and sank his teeth into his neck, the warmth of his blood flooding his mouth and spilling down his throat. what a revitalizing rush it gives him.

since ghost confronted him, the dynamics had shifted, and it had coiled a knot in danny's gut. the ruse is up and it leaves him in a strange middle ground, still jed but still acknowledged as MORE than what jed could ever be. ghost can see him and as thrilling as it is, it meant that his performance would be hollow from then on out. and as desperately as he craved to be seen — a craving that sent him overseas, leaving everything he knew behind to work alongside the men with the highest chance of knowing him — it has proven more jarring than he expected.

because what truly lay behind the facade of jed? danny can't claim confidently that he knows. yet ghost allows him to stay, allows him within arm's length of those he holds most precious, even knowing what he's capable of. it sobers him in a way he'd rather resist. they are left alone, as they've been before, but enough time has passed that danny has overcome the shock of the wolf being spotted from within the sheep's wool. if he came here seeking connection, at some point, he must make an effort.

"...you never did tell me what gave me away." his voice tears through the silence as he peeks curiously at the taller man, twirling his pen nervously, his notebook resting in his lap.

Dwight merely blinks, his dark stare trailing along the rugged man's movements as anxiety rises in his throat. He's never been very good at this kind of thing . . . and admittedly, he's wondering why he's even here. Swallowing thickly, idle fingers trace around his own glass, its contents relatively untouched. Too many nerves, and he doesn't really trust himself

"Like, uh . . ." he clears his throat nervously, heartbeat accelerating as his gaze lingers on the idle beverage. "Like . . . a date?"

agatha doesn't have much faith in dating apps when it seems most are in it for hookups and not real relationships. still, her friends insisted she put herself back out there if she actually wanted to find someone to be with. they argued it was better and easier than being a hopeless romantic and waiting for the right person to simply come into her life one day. she is a hopeless romantic, though, but she wants to be little more hopeful about it instead. agatha has had a few successful and a handful of unsuccessful first dates, none of which went anywhere. it tempts her to delete the app from her phone, but... oh, just one more chance can't hurt, right?

with the shop empty at this current moment, agatha leans against the counter, looking through tinder while she has this little bit of free time. there were a lot of handsome guys and pretty women, of course, but none that strike her fancy until she comes upon one profile that stops her swiping all at once. cash forscythe, hm? she looks over his profile, scrolling through the little obligatory biography and his likes and interests and what he hopes for from someone. agatha scrolls back up to look through his pictures. he's really cute, isn't he? tall, handsome, and quite the dazzling grin. she takes the chance and swipes right on cash's profile before setting her phone aside to help a customer that came into the shop.

once that was all over, she checked her phone to see cash had swiped right on her profile as well, blinking in surprise at the message he sent her. her features soon relax and a smile forms on her lips.

"Johnny, stand down."

Moving behind him, a dangerous position but he trusted the other man just enough to know he wouldn't attack him and gripped his shoulder. He had paid a heavy price for him, to save him from whatever else someone might do to him or force him to do, but he'd never willing admit to that. He had to appear ruthless, ready to maim and murder at all times, never showing weakness or softness to onlookers. Especially not after taking out the Punisher. ..Frank..

This was a different ballgame he was playing, one he might not have liked but it's the lot life had dealt him and he wasn't going to lose everything now he had exactly what he's always wanted.

It came in exchange of his soul but.. Maybe not he could help change the world for other kids like him.

And here goes nothing.. @designedparadigm

Times like these he's grateful for the balaclava that conceals much more than his face. He doesn't need anyone seeing the way his eyebrow arches onto his forehead and the thin line his mouth draws tight into. No one needs to see that where it counted.. He still had some emotions left. That they hadn't all been stripped away. No, he wasn't without empathy. But he'd be damned if he let anyone in on that little secret. Can't be used against you if everyone was positive it didn't exist in the first place.

Except Konig was a sleeper agent just like him. He watched, he saw and when he spoke it was usually with a purpose. Tonight.. He apparently thought this was a good reason to break the quiet that came so easy to the both of them. "...You trin' to ruin my good mood, big boy?"

because that would make it easier on everyone clearly that isn't grave's play.

soap could tell that the entire time he was watching, everyone was on edge, and it didn't take long for someone to split up from the group. pints shrink johnny's bladder considerably, and even despite the wordless warning from the man in the balaclava, he just smiles and shrugs it off. he's not scared of commander fucking graves of all people. god knows he's done everything he has in him.

but, maybe he should be.

lucky for him, soap was just as, if not slightly less inebriated.

the one time he'd went up the chain and didn't buck back at authority. the one time he'd tried, for his sake, to deal with things the right way... chastising himself as the world becomes muted through doors, and the world starts spinning just a little. for a second he doesn't expect graves to walk through that door... although what happens at first is pretty much par for the course. until it's not.

and maybe it's because soap is drunk, and the contact feels good at first, but his mind gives way until it's all smells and the faded madonna song playing in the main room. he doesn't pull back right away. lips forming unmistakably against the insistent mouth, with hand jutting out to grasp onto porcelain as he's tugged forward. brows pinching in the slow building of disdain clawing up his throat. growling deep from the gut, while the fist in grave's civilian clothes is then used to shove. soap braces himself on sturdy legs as he sneers back at the red-faced man before him. "wha' the fuck, graves?" it sounds similar to the way he had said it on that day. barrel chest heaving in confusion as to what the hell just happened, and a flare of anger within features at the spoken words. displayed in neck pulling backward.

his fingers are flexing but he relents. more flustered and irritated than anything else. and finally, he grunts in surging forward and pinning graves against the bathroom door. knee is pressed between his legs with a stern look solidifying shut lipped anger. nostrils flaring as forearm presses to pectoral. his head tilted in his head being brought forward in primal anger that could quickly be confused. lip curled. "'why don' ye give me one good reason not ta' beat ye bloody right where you stand, ye bastard trai'or."

IT HURTS, BADLY. he can't pretend it doesn't. not only the sting of being pushed away -- after finally having been accepted, no less -- but that of seeing the man he adores so deeply, cry on his behalf. it twists his guts every time he even so much as worries him, &. he catches the emotions captured in the soul's windows. that which he's allowed to see. let alone looking past his own reflection in the broken mirror to see the remnants of tears messily streaking his cheeks. his blond hair disheveled, knuckles bleeding as the startled weightless feeling still slowly dissipated in johnny's chest. replaced with anxiety, hurt &. well, the steadfast, bullheaded sergeant inside of him that cannot back down from what he wants.

the fun-house mirror of cracked panes of glass separate soap's image into a kaleidoscope of narrowed brows &. clenched jaw. having followed the lieutenant from the bed like a stray without his leash, with admittedly good intentions. his wide legs exposed, with a shirt clinging to his upper body. he knows nightmares. knows what they look like . . . ever dutiful in his attempts to soothe, as soap wishes he had in such scenarios.

but he hadn't expected this. even if maybe he should have.

soap shakes his head, light but obvious. his chest inflating with a further scrunching of his features. he's unable to stop the sear of anxiety. worried that ghost would go nuclear, &. actually kick him out -- or worse. put a hand to him.

"no." he speaks. "am stayin' here." he takes a step forth towards him with a prominent sway of his shoulder. "don' shut me ou', si. let me help ye, please." he tilts his head as he studies him. hand half-reached out, but stalled. mouth pausing slightly open, momentarily.

"yer not scarin' me away" when he speaks again it's much softer. quieter, &. earnest. his expression showing the worry he harbors. odd, to be afraid of retaliation from someone whom has the capacity to treat him so tenderly. . "now c'mere. let me get a look a' those knuckles . . ."