𓆓TIIMEWARPED!𓆓

"I'd wager you could still write the checks if it was taken down just to the knuckle."

Greed, it turns out, could be one hell of a vice. He could sum it all up as survival, but he knew it wasn't quite that. Beau possessed restraint because it profited him; however, that level of tolerance only extended so far. His smile was tight and his eyes brilliant, a distinct buzzing in the back of his mind cautioning him to reason - if he killed his employer, there would be too many people sniffing in his direction & he would have to find a new one.

Something about handling the animals you were already familiar with, Beau reasons with himself. Mason was a lame dog that couldn't bite.

"Let's remind ourselves while this arrangement works, Sir." He was quite an entertainer, able to wear his dissatisfaction under something nicely polished and courteous. He leans down, eye level to Mason as if reeling in his employer's full attention for a second. He presses one pat to the man's head with a small, unfriendly smile. He sighs wistfully, cooing. "I do your bidding, the things you're in no real position to do yourself, and you try to remain as cordial as possible. If anything - even your lovely antagonism gets in the way of that, where do you think that leaves you?" His voice is clipped and light.

"As fish food once again!" He laughs, rising to his full height. "Now that we have that knowledge down..." Time for it to sink in Mason's thick, gnarled skull. "Would you like it to be painful or quick? For your blonde, of course."

If it weren't for Beau's outstanding excellence in his field, Mason would have scolded him for making these kinds of threats the first time he had been so daring. He'd have felt around for the little security buzzer he kept discreetly in his clothes and had the fellow escorted off property or fed to his pigs.

There was a tremendous difference between recreational pain-seeking and actually being threatened. For all the fun of it, and as tempting as it was to push and push and push, Mason had a nagging, creeping feeling deep down that the other man meant what he was saying.

"Oh, boy," Mason hummed. "Then I'd have to point at you with my middle finger, and I'm not so sure you would like that."

His eyes flicked upward, just to be met with a sudden hand on the head-- one that made him wince, if only because it was completely unsolicited.

"Excuse me?!" Verger balked.

The drowning thing was off in a whole tier of its own-- he wouldn't be able to pay Beau if he was dead, and Beau wanted money, he rationalized.

But Mason's hand balled into a fist on the arm of his chair.

'I am not a child or dog! You don't do that!' is what he wanted to say. He had half a mind to do it, too, but visible distress was a treat to this kind of person.

Mason knew; he was one.

"... Wow. That was bold," was what he said instead, melting back into a tone that was calm and aloof. "Y'know, I kinda liked it once I got over the initial shock. You have strong hands. Felt good."

Oh, he could make himself gag!

He would not, however. Quickly, Mason skated past that and back to the business at hand.

a  highly  selective,  mature  &  depiction  of  beau  monroe  crafted  from  original  lore.  written  as  a  villain’s  obituary  ╱  as  destroyed  by  nic  (they/them,  31,  CST). 

It was all a means to an end. Where he was interested, Mason was a steady and promised paycheck. It made all the more agonizing qualities slightly more palatable. Imagine how thoroughly undignified it was to be contractually bound to someone he could simply squash if he wanted to. However, the indulgences he so much enjoyed came hand in hand with the dirty work. "Watch your finger," he says, exhaling slowly as if admonishing a child. "You wouldn't want to lose it."

"Oho-- that's quite the gall you've got there, Mr. Monroe!" Mason exclaimed. "Let's not forget that this finger writes your paycheck..."

With a click of his teeth and a satisfied cackle, he wagged the offending finger. What a shame he had not his face! He could have pulled such a brilliantly goading smile, egged the larger man into saying or doing something more— Mason adored seeing how far he could push someone, even if it ended poorly for him.

... Perhaps it was for the best that he couldn't, then. That was how he had gotten in this situation in the first place.

Verger turned his eyes away.

"As I was sssaying," he said, and as best as he could, he looked down his nose at him. "I had a meeting yesterday. One of those men just wouldn't stop looking at me. I have a feeling it's a bad thing..."

Mason could talk his head off if the universe let him. About a minute passed of more filler and tangents before he finally got to the point.

WINTER HORROR -> A collection of prompts for scary winter scenarios

Change pronouns, etc, as needed. Add "reverse" for sender/receiver roles to be reversed.

[Highway] Sender and Receiver are stuck in their car on an icy highway.

[Cabin] Sender and Receiver have been snowed in in a remote cabin for several days.

[Power] It's snowed so much the power has gone out in sender and receiver's [home/office/school/etc]

[Lost] Sender has ventured out into a snowstorm and is found by Receiver.

[Blue] Sender finds Receiver so cold that their fingertips are starting to turn blue.

[Remote] Stuck in a remote location, Sender and Receiver huddle for warmth against a raging snowstorm and frigid temperatures.

[Miss] Driving through a blizzard, Receiver has to swerve to miss Sender.

[Shelter] Desperate for shelter against the snow, Sender knocks on Receiver's door for help.

[Trek] In need of help, Sender and Receiver have ventured out into a snowstorm to find it.

[Unknown] Sender and Receiver spot something they can't identify in the snow.

[Mountains] Sender and Receiver are stuck on a snowy mountain with only a tent for shelter.

[Barren] Nothing but snow and stretch out in every direction, Sender and Receiver are stranded.

Don't go down to the basement

we all know what happens next.

Female-centric horror based multifandom multimuse. ©. PSD.

Faust didn't seem too terribly phased. Or at all, for that matter. Out of anyone, he supposed Mason would have more than enough resources to dig up who the younger man was; but all one will ever get on paper were not things he cared about or were they things that could be used against him. Perhaps if it were anything related directly to his father that could bring him harm— he'd flinch. But his father was a capable man. Will was, too. Just not as protected.

He knew what this man had done.

Knew more than anyone, and more than itching to bruise his knuckles. But alas, a drawback of a well trained dog was that— even if someone really deserved their jaw ripped open, without its master's permission, nothing could be done about it. And Faust had yet to received any order.

The threat was there, “ Wonderful,” he hummed, instead, “ Less things we'd have to talk to each other about, I hope. ” A slight tilt to his head, observing Mason back in kind. “I've heard enough about you too ”

"Then let's cut to it, shall we?" Mason hissed. "Why are you here?"

His research ('spying' would have been the more appropriate word) had lead him to discover that the man who stood before him was not only some kind of fed, but was suspiciously familiar with a certain Will Graham, which is how Mason had come to find him in the first place.

That, and that their fathers had known each other. Mason couldn't recall anything about the fellow's dad. Perhaps he'd seen him around as a child-- perhaps not. That was neither here nor there.

Something in the far reaches of Mason's mind was screaming at him; had the government decided that his bribery was no longer enough to spare him their justice? His money went further than whatever twisted sense of honor those corrupt officers in charge over there had. It had to. He had taken comfort in that for years. He could get away with anything.

Why send this man to his door?

Meet me at the Event Horizon

Together In the Deep Down

This place gave Thistle Calhoun the CREEPS and it wasn't because of no ghosts. No, there was a certain vibe rich folk themselves carried with them that never sat right with the Southerner. He'd cast a brief glance behind him at his truck that sat in contrast to it surroundings, harshly juxtaposed against the rich and elaborate grounds of the mansion. It looks like a fleck of dirt that needed to be wiped away from the otherwise pristine picture of wealth.

Thistle sucked his teeth and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. God, he was having second thoughts about this. Obi should have been the one for this session, not him. It was his counterpart that had all that fancy media training, that ability to smile and dazzle even when the person he was with made him sick to his gut. Thistle was too truthful, even when he was trying to slather on the fake charm and manners.

He straightened immediately as Mason opened the doors to greet him and tossed on what he hoped was a genuine enough smile in greeting.

❝ That'll be me. ❞ He inched his way inside and stood with some strange combination of both confidence and awkwardness as he waited for his host to take the lead again.

The thing about the elite and the rich and the upper echelon of society was that they couldn't help themselves. Whether t it was intentional or not, they always had such a talent for saying some wild and off the wall offensive shit right out the gate and when you least expected it. Of the blue-collar persuasion? Jesus christ.

❝ Yeah, I 'spose you look the martini sort, don'tcha? ❞ He smiled through it, made his tone all sweet and dripping with the Southern drawl and charm. Maybe that's what that darker side of Southern hospitality had stemmed from. Maybe the lower class had needed a way to talk down to the rich fucks without them realizing it. ❝ Lemon water'll be fine. I'm tryin' to watch my figure. ❞

He continued with his lop-sided and almost boyish smile as the ghosts were mentioned. He knew a skeptic when he saw it and that was fine. Truth be told, just about everything they did was bullshit and fake. The real shit never made it anywhere because it got dealt with. There was Thistle Calhoun the quirky little content creator and then there was Thistle the hunter. A day job, a night job.

This place wasn't haunted. He didn't get any weird crawling feeling up the base of his skull. No shivers, no unsettling feelings. This was all business. It was a mansion and people loved haunted mansions.

❝ Not a bad idea when we set up. Research some of the previous occupants, y'know? Set out things they liked from when they were alive. Pretty common tactic to try and rouse the spirits. ❞ Thistle Calhoun did believe in ghosts and more because he'd seen it all. But he was more than happy to entertain Mason's skepticism if only because it really was better that folks didn't believe. There was safety in ignorance to a degree.

❝ I really appreciate you bein' so generous with all this. I know it's a lot to deal with, lot of time to take out of what I assume is a busy schedule you have. Lot of correspondence and prep. It's just this is a really big property so we wanna make sure things get done right. We're thinkin' this episode is gonna be a big hit. Pullin' out all the stops for it, y'know? ❞ That meant a tour beforehand, that meant research, that meant keeping the owner in the know and including them as much as possible for that added authenticity.

As the guest was lead toward the kitchen table, Mason stepped past him and began scrounging around in the liquor cabinet. He'd have had his employees do this for him, but he didn't want to risk any chance of them letting slip that the place was not indeed haunted, so he'd decided not to have them on the property at all for the duration of Thistle's visit.

A martini person? Right on the nose!

"Oh, I am!" Mason trilled, turning round with a bottle of gin in hand. "One thing about me, Mr. Calhoun: I love martinis. Lemon water, though. That's, uh... " He clicked his teeth disparagingly, and laughed afterward-- it was a horrible attempt at humor, funny to likely no one but him-- and Thistle's jab flew right past his head, as intended.

Mason went to fetch a glass.

"You're gonna have to cut your own lemon," he teased, "Or get ready to settle for a martini!"

Olives were taken from the fridge.

"Past residents, that's all family," Mason said, as he prepared his drink. "My father, his father, and his father before that..."

Conveniently, he left out the female relatives.

"I've got more than enough heirlooms to pique their curiosity." Mason hummed. He did, but he didn't even need to risk allowing them to be tampered with for something like this. He didn't believe in ghosts at all, so surely he could just pretend that any object was of importance to them and see what happened. "Not quite sure I wanna summon ole Dad, though."

His father had been something. If Mason was horrid, if Mason was violent, the man that came before him must have been the Devil himself! Mason idolized him and boasted about him and quoted him constantly, but it was more complicated than that.

His father, bless his rotten heart, had slipped a stipulation into his will that Mason could not fathom the gall of. Thank goodness ghosts weren't real-- his old man would be displeased to find that Mason had not borne a son yet!