- ̗̀ ѕoмeтнιɴɢ wιcĸed ̖́- ᵃᵖ♪

random ask lovin’ !

                      This could go one of two ways. Temptation may rear its head and tell her to keep that drunken facade for a little while longer so that she may yet still want him near. Or perhaps he can go another route altogether and tell Kara to put the bottle down and face the reality of their situation and how wholly bleak it actually was. While under the influence, her world was undoubtedly a blurry haze of sugary warmth. Like honey on the tongue, he exploits that sweetness; swirling the senses with open-mouthed kisses and deep groans to set the body into a frenzied tingle. He’s eager to fill that outstanding void with penetrating thrusts of elicit pleasure; eager to hear the erotic moans of her mouth against his ear as fingers dig into his back, beckoning for more with unbridled passion. 

                     How terrible he is to pluck away at her heartstrings. But this is a give and take kind of relationship. Or so he believes. Are they not meant to simply give each other a moment of quiet and internal peace through visceral acts of sex ?  It was never verbally agreed upon, but it had been in other, less discrete ways. You are mine and I am yours. Body and soul. Nay. Nix the soul. She wouldn’t want anything to do with the tarnished fragments of a broken man. Don’t even bother picking up the pieces, dear. His edges are sharp and cut easily and quite frequently. Don’t bleed out for his sake. 

                       He fears there is no such thing as reality. Not for them anyway. He wants to stay ignorant of it as he smiles at her slurred words and curls a finger around a single loop of her jeans. A sturdy tug of it is enough to bring her close. Yes, dear. The foolish wolf has found his most prized possession and grins impishly as dark eyes find her’s. He wishes she would hate him. Hate all that he possibly represents. Hate his cocky demeanor. Hate that massive wall he’s built around himself. Hate the lies he spreads. Hate him now and forevermore. But he will not openly admit his own self-loathing for her to spit in his face. He’s grown to be greedy. He’ll allow temptation to get the better of him because he knows no other way.

The audacity!!! Lucifer was growing more and more frustrated since he was not used to somebody being so insubordinate to his face. Granted, she didn’t know who he was, but he had a feeling that she would still act this DISRESPECTFUL if she knew.

       ❝ The more I look at your FACE, the more I wish I were in Hell. ❞

                        She instantly throws her hands up as if a sense of inspiration had struck her with his words.

❝ Holy shit, bruh !  You read my mind. To HELL with you ! ❞ 

                       Where her lips trail, a tingling feeling of nostalgia follows. It’s unsettling to say the least. Not pertaining to where her mouth glides, but moreso the MEMORY instilled behind the reason of his tattoo. He could easily go down the route and say he thought it looked  ‘ cool ‘  and that’s why he got it, but there’s more to the monochromatic roses and skull etched along the side of his neck. Even more blatantly noticeable was the massive cross tattoo along his back, but that would be a story for another day. 

                      The warmth of her breath cascades across skin and he’s close to shivering - close to distracting her with a barrage of open-mouthed kisses to consume the last bit of air in her lungs so that she may release such curiosity even for a short while. 

                      He’s not the type to do anything without an intense reason. Kara will sense any sort of cliche bullshit he throws in her direction so it’s impractical to lie, but revealing the truth behind the tattoo would show a side of him and his past he’s not sure he’s ready to share with her - or perhaps with anyone. Unconsciously, a hand reaches up, gently rubbing along the ink as his gaze grows distant and destitute. 

                      Her name was Rose and she was DEAD and it was all his fault. The tattoo was a reminder of the woman and all that she did for him, but not only that. It served a purpose. It also reminded him why he should never get close to anyone. Of all the lives that he was personally responsible for, that’s the only one he could never forgive himself for.

❝ There’s beauty in death. ❞

                      The liar is present now; mischievous and unrelenting. He’s not TRYING to be condescending. There is no smirk garnished upon his features to make her roll her eyes tenfold. It’s said rather convincingly and almost embarrassed as if he was much too young to understand symbolism at the time. A subtle tilt of the head as he peers at her with an impish grin.

  “…I might know a guy. gimme some details and I might be able to help you out. any kids involved?”

                     Jesus, she wasn’t serious ...

           “I reckon it’s too soon to be certain about the latter.” His voice is calm; laced to smoothness which characterizes his tenor. Warmth of cup surrounds his palms; fingers carefully tapping upon pristine porcelain. A small side-smile slowly blossoms upon his lips, as if to SILENTLY tell the other that there’s still HOPE for that LIFE beyond WAR & BLOODSHED. “I understand…that what you do isn’t easy. I can’t imagine myself going through what you go through. Blimey, I’m hemophobic and my hands would tremble if I ever have to hold a weapon.” Tone changes to something playful, yet his words hold nothing but the TRUTH. He might HEAR about terrible nightmares; listen to people speak about their woes and the atrocities they’ve seen, and though he can PICTURE them all and LIVE through the projections they paint with their minds, all of that doesn’t compare to REALITY. 

       “And feeling stuck in the reality we live is common; especially with what you see on a daily basis. Say, you see the color RED all the time and you believe that is what you will always see, because that’s all you know. It’s ingrained to your brain; caging the concept in, not letting it go.” William carries burden he stalwartly believes will only grow bigger. All for the sake of PROTECTING mankind. A SACRIFICE he’s willing to take, even if that tears his life to SHREDS. The thought makes Domenic’s heart HEAVY, because William is a GOOD man; a BRAVE being whom DESERVES more than what he deals with on the regular. “But one day…you wake up and the red turns to pink, and you feel…out of place. Nevertheless, feeling out of place is not, consistently, a BAD thing. What if you end up liking pink more than red? What if you LEARN more with pink? Life throws unexpected situations at us; allows us to BREAK out of our habits. Perhaps you’ll get that BREAK sooner than later.” A pause. “And I don’t mean as in…halting your job, or quitting it. You’ll just…realize that you won’t die not knowing if there was more to life than you originally thought.” The hypnotist then blinks; proceeds to chuckle. “Am I making any sense here, or is the tea making me loopy?” 

                  Domenic says it’s too soon to be thinking about his own death, but William wants to believe he’s simply being OPTIMISTIC. He’s not blind to the danger that comes with his job. It might not be today, but it could be tomorrow or the next month. He’d never know. The most he could do was try to be CAREFUL, but that was nigh impossible. He was never certain what might unfold with each given mission. Yet he won’t argue with the man who is merely trying to life his spirits from the melancholic GLOOM that’s currently set in.

❝ Maybe this is my CALLING as much as helping people is yours. I can’t really imagine doing anything else, I suppose. Or if I’m stable enough to hold down any semblance of normalcy anymore. I’m not sure which is worse, though. That I’ll die doing what I think is right or that I’ll die not knowing if there was more to life than I originally thought. ❞

                  It feels as though he’s stepped all over Domenic’s original point of thought and sullied it completely. It wasn’t intentional. It was coming from a place of honesty. But perhaps his sense of honesty was more or less MORBID and self-degrading than anything else. He smiles, then, with a wistful sigh airing from his nostrils.

     “glad we’re on the same page.” a lie. it’s not as if she expected any less of a response, nor any more. her head on the pillow, she refuses to turn her head. instead, gaze fixes at the cheaply repaired ceiling of the hotel room they’ve checked into for today’s escapade. as toxic as this cycle between them may be, there’s something about each meeting that has been slowly healing the broken parts of her…only for those healed pieces of her to break open again in moments like this. she only brought it upon herself. kara nearly convinces herself that if she lays there for just a few more moments, the magic epoxy will come and mend the fractures. foolish.

      she swallows emotion trapped in her throat before shifting, swinging her legs over the side of the bed as she sits up, pulling discarded sheets from the foot of the bed to cover skin she’s willingly bared moments prior. she’s afraid if she speaks again, regret will come pouring out in the form of confession. for her sake, and for his: that can’t happen.

continued. / @thewillfulones

                       There’s a heavy, dwelling SILENCE that engulfs the room and he’s tempted to ask if they’re both truly on the same page - as she notes. The distance grows further between them as the weight of the bed lessens and he’s caught himself watching her get up and shift about for her belongings. Leave it alone, he tells himself. Don’t pry into it, he mentally repeats. Maybe he ought to get up and do the same - change into the clothes that don’t quite depict the man that he is and pretend to be something he’s wholly not: a dutiful killing machine made to be unfeeling and unrelentingly cold. No, that’s not him. There’s still too much of his mother in him to say otherwise. 

                      He may regret it later, but he can’t help the ascension of a raised arm and stretched out hand. Gently, his fingers graze against the bit of skin at the small of her back. His voice is just as equally soft and it’s disturbing how he can behave this way with the amount of blood that’s stained those very hands.

Cara stood there, silently watching as Tristan grabbed her right boot and pulled out a small knife. He retrieved the tracker from inside the heel before replacing it and snapping the tracker in two. She slid her boots back on, still using the wall for support, before she turned to completely face him. At his question, she couldn’t help but reply, “Now I want you to realize the risks that you took! They could’ve taken you with them - wherever they decided to build their nest next - and slowly bled you dry. Or they could’ve turned you into one of them, forcing you into a life where all you can think about is the next vein you can tap. …Or they could’ve killed you outright. Snapped your neck or torn you apart before you even realized what was happening.”

A beat passed and her tone softened, “And now you know why I work alone, why I can’t allow myself to get attached to anyone. …Do you realize what it would’ve done to me if you would’ve been hurt today? Or worse? You are the first person that I’ve had any sort of connection to or relationship with since…” Since her parents. Since Ari. “I can’t have any more blood on my hands. And I can’t have you subverting any efforts I make to keep you safe, lying and plotting behind my back. …I would rather have you alive and out of my life than dead because you were a part of it.”

                    The floodgates have opened and out comes a rush of unapologetic scorn. Deservedly so. He can’t help but feel like a CHILD. Not to say Cara reminds him of a stern motherly figure. He’s just not used to being admonished this way. As if on cue, he lowers his head like a dejected child - ever so slightly - and bears the weight of her words with slumped shoulders. He’s short of clenching his fists and holding in his tears, but he’s much too old to allow his emotions to get the better of him. Granted, it’s not as though he’s not sorry for his actions and what harm it brought to Cara. In fact, the last of her words seemed like the answer he was ultimately waiting for. Better to be alive and out of her life ... 

                    He’d be doing her a favor. It would be EASY for him to pack up and go, forget she existed, but it’s not that simple. He didn’t PLAN on being chased by blood-hungry vampires. Truthfully, he was afraid there would be more of them, but he doesn’t want to voice that aloud. She’s not his babysitter or his protector or ... well, he’s not entirely sure what to label her as. She’s just Cara. One of a kind and irreplaceable. He’d do the same thing had it been the other way around.

❝ You’re right. ❞

                    Tone downcast, he can’t hide his own disappointment with himself. He’s been an absolute nuisance to her. Not by choice, but it unfortunately led up to it. Tristan clears his throat, jaw tense, eyes to the ground, but with a swift step forward, he’s engulfing her in a warm embrace. She’s welcome to shove him away, but it’s the only way he believes he can properly say goodbye.

  “why limit yourself to just after hours? – sorry, am I distracting you from something important?”

MY HEART SWELLS WITH THE WEIGHT OF YOUR LOVE.

how long have we known each other now??? it’s kinda scary .__. I MEAN THAT IN A GOOD WAY. cause we’re not always on and it’s a miracle when we both are at the same time, but it’s like we never skip a beat when we talk to each other. does that make sense? i just think that’s a super rare thing when people connect so well ;u; ty for sticking by me ( and my lazy ass ) for this long.

  That little FACT has her smiling, such thing SOMEHOW reminding her about herself. Not because she constantly tries to search her reflection in others, but because it’s not COMMON for people to suddenly grasp onto SMALL DETAILS like the one Elizabeth decided to share. It seemed she is OBSERVANT ——– a similarity they undeniably share. Familiarity of trait makes her feel more COMFORTABLE; a gentle nod given as if to AGREE to her piece of information.    “That’s true…those are, uhm, very uncommon consonants to find in a name.” Her head lifts, watching the different pieces of SPACE around them. “I think…the stars wanted us to meet.” A light, melodic chuckle finds her lips, before she turns around to address her. Lexine isn’t exactly a huge fan of COFFEE, but how could she deny such an invitation? Elizabeth seemed like the kind of person whom had more THRILLING things to share rather than the old phrase of ‘the weather is nice’. Besides, she’s more interested in what she has to offer than the prospect of java.

  “I’d—I’d love to! I’m not busy at–at all. Uhm, I even feel I’ve wandering around for far too long…already saw most of the pieces in the exhibition twice.” She keeps her smile; moving to a side before meekly pointing toward her right. “It’s—the cafe is this way, right?” 

                     Oh, what an EXCITING prospect has reared its head !  She doesn’t want to show how overly thrilled she is that Lexine has decided to further their conversation elsewhere, but she truly is. Seldom does the starry-eyed lass push herself to venture towards that of future friendships, but something MAGICAL stirs between the two and she cannot help wanting to pursue it. As bizarre as it was to say  (( or even think )),  she finds that they share a similar bond that surpasses the typical meeting of strangers. 

                    Lips widen exponentially at her agreeable nature and she nods once directions are set to follow. She starts walking IMMEDIATELY, beginning at an easy pace and knowing full well there was no point in rushing along as Lexine was MUCH taller with legs that seemed to stretch for miles.

❝ Yes !  They have a great chai tea latte as well. ❞

                    She felt no embarrassment at the fact that it seemed to SHOW how often she frequented the museum in the way she had practically memorized the drink menu at the cafe. She fiddled with the strap of her messenger bag          the same one she carried around for all intents and purposes and the same one that housed her father’s journal for when he noted all his research studies. Suddenly she’s a bit shy about procuring her next words as she peers up at the girl from her lashes as they continue their leisurely trek towards the cafe.

Cara set the kettle on the burner, idly speaking as she started to prepare two mugs, “Nice to talk to someone who appreciates a proper cuppa as much as I do.” She paused, offering him a small smile before explaining, “My dad was British. He raised me and my sister to drink tea and root for Liverpool.” She started to search for some sugar before deciding to hell with it, rummaging around in her duffel bag instead. She retrieved a small plastic baggie full of little sugar packets poached from diners. “Hard to have a good cup when you’re on the road, though - haven’t had one made with a kettle in years.”

And she’d missed it. She missed the process of it all. Filling the kettle, hearing its whistle. Steeping the bag until the tea was nice and dark, just the way that she and her dad liked it. Adding that tiny pinch of sugar at the end. All of it transported her back in time, back home. To mornings with the whole family, or evenings in her dad’s study while he graded papers and she did homework.

Cara was brought out of her thoughts by William’s question, shaking her head, “Odds are slim to none. In the times that I’ve used them, I’ve never bumped into anyone else - coming or going. Honestly, I wouldn’t even think that anyone else used them if they weren’t so well-stocked.”

                     Normally when someone  (( in this case, a foreigner ))  tries to use English slang, it comes out sounding muddied and cringe-worthy as if they’re trying to be funny, but when Cara says ‘ cuppa, ‘ it rolls off her tongue rather fluidly. He wanted to be surprised, but the followup explanation said it all. However, it merely spelled out  T R O U B L E. It reeked of a  ‘ bonding moment ‘  and he feared dwelling into his own past for the sake of small talk. Immersing Cara into his life, let alone a redacted past, was something he had to veer away from. The less she knew, the better. Yet was it fair of him to constantly prod her own mind ?  He was a bloody hypocrite. Quietly, to himself, he thinks of his own father and wonders if he still thinks of his son fondly or if he had long since buried him along with his other son and returned back to work as if it was just any other day. 

                    He knows the feeling all too well. Of being on-the-go and forgetting to embrace the little things that make life worth living. It’s mechanical - life, that is. After a while, you settle into a routine and forget to stop, breathe and rethink things. Even now, he can’t bring himself to stop and smell the roses - as the cliche goes. She was being blatantly honest with him and he STILL had the audacity to question everything. It was a habit that would eventually die with him. Nonetheless, it set him at ease. In the time she made the tea and put the finishing touches, he was already straining the pasta and adding the powdered cheese blend, gently mixing as he spoke.