#kxllerblond

✦✦✦ ───────… AND THAT WAS EXACTLY what greeted Clark then, just as a blow hit Howard square in the stomach and a leg hook drove him down to his knees. Clark was a quick learner, if not for the dirty tricks he'd also learned to employ as he went.

"Ah, fuck," he held his stomach, doubling up mostly from the shock of the impact of it all. This cheeky bastard has got quite the punch in him, Howard thought, as he tried to catch his breath.

@kxllerblond

I hadn't been up into the living areas of Clark's house since Howard came into the picture. At least, came into the picture for me. That one day when he breached the property and I came up to intercept him.

It was on that day that I realised just how little Clark actually needed any of my protection. Clark didn't need me to protect him from Howard. In fact, even if Howard attacked him, they had stated very clearly that they both would prefer for Clark to take Howard down than for me to intervene.

The only one in this house that needed my protection was myself... And so I had retreated to downstairs, to the media room, and I had monitored the house for myself. Because what else was I supposed to do? What else could I do?

In time, I even ended up leaving my intel drones in their box because, again, what was the point?

But Howard had come to bother me here and there, and then he'd dragged me out for that junkyard operation... He'd gotten me moving and thinking again, much as I hate to admit it.

He had insisted I was 'part of the team'.

And with everything that was moving around me, I was now abruptly realising that something was brewing. Something was moving, setting up, preparing. And I was wholly uninformed. Mostly because I hadn't cared to listen in, especially not after the first time I realised those two were in a relationship and always being gross making eyes at each other, but that was beside the point. I was uninformed, is what the point was.

And that bothered me. Now, it bothered me. Howard had mentioned a war, and I had no clue what he even meant. And Jay's cryptic words had only made the feeling worse.

I needed to get back into the loop too.

And so, despite my hang-ups about it, I took my drones with me and warily climbed the stairs to the living areas.

I hadn't see Clark since that last time I came upstairs. I had talked to him, but not in person. But even then, I knew his schedule. I knew when he was home, and when he was at work.

It was hard to catch him when he was alone -- read: not wrapped around Howard -- but I knew this was one of the rare moments when he would be.

I had been hiding in the media room so much, being out there in the open left me feeling weirdly vulnerable, my throat tight with nerves. But I pressed on, and I knocked on the man's office door.

Armand crushed a black centipede underneath the worn sole of his shoe and left behind a dent of a withered logo in its innards. He looked upon it a while longer while standing nearby a bar entrance. It just rained and the air was filled with a weekend catharsis. Today was Friday. This served as an honorable relief for humans who rushed to their favorite places. Armand discovered the concept of being a regular many years ago, but hadn't practiced it because of distractions. Now freed from an environment where each day was a predictable routine, the ancient vampire was on the road again, seeking a strict schedule for his rituals. This was his third time here. Armand found it it easy to show his face with a seat waiting for him at the bar by the corner where he could observe. The menu changed since the last time he visited. Each cocktail had a new set of arranged ingredients that did not match the aesthetics of the bar. Armand found the inconsistency puzzling as he swiped his fingertips over a name 'Bullet Shot'. A thought came to him, one he considered appropriate to share. The bar was the eye of the storm where the bravest gathered to share a common ground. Here, Armand watched friendships birthed, and a lot more strangers turned enemies.

Armand's 'usual' was an unassuming rosemary negroni. A smoky finish of scorched leaves created an ambient aroma that lulled Armand into a trance-like state. He would have two of those drinks throughout his stay, enjoying a perfume of Deja Vu he failed to trace the source of.

He shared his befuddled musing with a stranger who carried himself with a sober posture. The vampire could feel the eyes trace him, and finally he offered a gaze of his own. A meeting of two otherworldly beings in a small bar. Armand wondered if this was the premonition he felt traveling over his spine when the sun slumbered. He knew neither would confess outright.

The vampire was seated with his forearms pressed to the edge of the counter, cradling the red-tinged delight between his hands. Cold against cold. When the man turned, Armand followed, angling his shoulders toward the blond. Now, they faced each other without full commitment to the motion. An initial step.

"A firearm suggests violence," Armand spoke. "Do you suspect me as violent?" His pupils were covered by black contacts, gifting Armand an appearance of a foreigner who wandered into a local joint by mistake. A mistake he hoped to correct. "There is a drink on the menu named Bullet. I wondered if there was a reason. I suppose, now I know." A short chuckle flew off his parted, slightly upturned lips. "I think the norm is robbing a bank." Armand added, caressing his glass with his thumb before slowly sipping its contents.

INBOX PROMPTS ╱ 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.

Will pictured Clark as a luxury car enjoyer, something obnoxious and completely extravagant. Pretty but useless, only ornate. His brow raises slightly when the other says he doesn’t have a car. He wants to know how he got here, but he doesn’t really think he wants the answer. Did he fly? Could he teleport? Sometimes it was easier to accept that reality was beyond his own imagination and leave it at that.

“Are you asking for a ride?” He asks with a tilt of his head, “‘Cause I don’t think that’s how you ask.” His keys twirl in his hand; his old but well-loved Volvo could get the job done. “No, please? Tsk. You’re lucky. You’d look ridiculous walking in a suit.”

He jerks his head in the way he parked, mind already pivoting sharply to why Clark was here. He didn’t know much, but he did know Clark stood out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of the mundane. “What’re you even doing here?”

"I said that I am not currently accepting bodyguard gigs." Han reiterated slowly, like the careful honing of a knife. The blade of his tail, by contrast, twitched quickly in annoyance. "But if you want to put that fine a point on it: okay. I am."

He took inventory of Clark Thompson: rigid posture, pinched face, crisply dressed despite the hour. Hair coiffed and collar ruffled just so. Immaculate composure--other than the predictable defensiveness creeping into his voice. Emotionally, the man was smooth and featureless, and yet under that image Han could still make out the jagged edges of a neurotic control freak. It made sense enough, given what Han knew of Thompson second-hand, and what he saw before him now: a half-demon playing demon games. Not even full-blooded denizens of Hell could afford to relax around their own kind. Being a tightwad was a basic survival skill.

Be that as it may, a tightwad was still Han's least favorite kind of client, and the worst type of client to bring along anywhere. He tapped a black claw on the chipped, cigarette-burned formica desktop (it came with the place, or from a curb somewhere) that cut his dingy little loanshark office down the middle. It wasn't often that money flowed his way over it. Thompson's cash was as green as anyone else's, and an IOU from him could be worth its weight in gold.

( @kxllerblond )

[ his only answer for a time is a hum of low laughter, attention remaining fixed on the cigarette he's rolling. ]

" --- no real reason to be seen much lately, mon cher." [ he looks up at the cambion, gaze taking its time. Clark, as ever, looks much the same as the last time they met. and the time before that. the wolf isn't surprised. creatures like them hardly seem to age as they should. his glance shifts, taking in the passerby, the small group lingering at the cafe on the corner. ]

[ it's dangerous for him to be this far south, but here he is. ]

@kxllerblond || inbox meme or message reply || i'm too lazy to look rn!

"you haven't called me dipshit all day."

bottle of booze and a cigar in hand, soldier boy leans back in the padded, velvet seat sitting with his boots propped up on a posh table (one ankle crossed over the other) in a place that makes his skin crawl but seems to suit him like a second skin. opulent. crystal chandeliers. mid-shelf liquor being sold at fuck-you-in-the-ass-no-lube prices. ashes get tapped into a try that costs more than any of the staff here make in a month. maybe longer.

the voice coming from behind him offers the sort've approach that puts a broad grin upon his mouth. head falls back and he takes sight of clark upside down. coming at him with a statement that issues a challenge. one he's happy to accept. green eyes follow his movements. liquid. practiced. they're a pair, aren't they? whoever let them come within ten feet of each other, much less sit down and share a drink? should be court marshalled.

"thanks for the reminder, dipshit. where were you? not often i keep my ass waiting for just any numbnuts to show up. please tell me it was worth my time and you were at least getting your dick wet somewhere that's not gonna make it burn when you take a piss later."