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6 yrs ago
Current rpg’s biggest issue? the gender binary
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im a fool in fool clothes
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pussi
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the nyc commute grind reveals why adults pass out at 9 pm daily
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its a dick suck dick world ya know
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F R A N K I E
Nonbinary || 20 || Gay || EST
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yes i am here 4 this
In Ѧasks 9 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay



Sunday
Collab with @murdoc



Skav was halfway to The Grotto when he heard the familiar roar of a motorcycle. Their first thought was ’How the hell can those dinky old things be louder than my music’ and the second was ’Bomber!’. The mask hid the road behind them snuffed it in the darkness of latex and feathers, and they didn’t feel gutsy enough to whip around and stare due to the slow-driving Jeep who’s ass they were currently riding. They had no wish to deal with any new lawsuits, not yet. So Skav leaned back into the leather seat, feeling the material warm them to the core, and they waited for whatever stupid mask was threatening to pull up beside them.

When they turned to cock their head quizzically at what they assumed to be a Bomber beside them, a familiar mask met their gaze instead. Blue was whooping along to the roar of their combined engines, zipping passed cars on their dinky motorbike. Skav really couldn't consider the Interceptor decent mode of transportation, not compared to their Qrow, but they couldn't help but feel impressed by its flexibility.

Senseless silence would drive the whole world mad, so Skav allowed their speed to linger and turned their full attention to Blue. “Hey, snake eyes!” Skav hissed over the pounding New Wave and growl of the engine, “What brings you up this way?”

“Oh, nothing much. Was just heading to The Grotto for a little pick-me-up. You know how it is, hm?” Blue replies airily, swerving dangerously close to the Qrow, though he doesn’t dare take his eyes off the road for even a second. More than anything, the question was rhetorical. He knew that the topic of drugs - even a mere insinuation - had always been a sensitive one for Skav, and he’s pretty sure he teases them about it far too much to be healthy. Why they chose such a profession despite their aversion to all things ‘sinful’, however, was a mystery to Blue, and would most likely remain so for the foreseeable future.

The combined roar of the Qrow and the Interceptor, plus the agitated, choppy licks of an electric guitar that blasted from the speakers were almost deafening, and for more reasons than one, he was thankful for the muffling effect the mask had on his hearing. He held little doubt that the commuters he’d so swiftly cut off would be none too pleased about the whole affair. “I could say the same to you, Birdbrain. Don’t you have more important, holier things to do on the Lord’s Sunday?”

“Pick me up, huh?” Skav’s shoulders were tense, only for a mere moment, as the memory swam through their head. Green liquid, needle, smile, smile, smile, darkness. They shuddered subconsciously at the ghost pain of being pricked slipped under their skin, and then all at once they were loose and relaxed again. The memory was shoved away in favor of feeling nothing and being nothing. Absolutely Skav-ish, and nothing more. He swerved precariously around a slow driver and then pushed back up against Blue, the mask’s glass eyes twinkling in the sunlight. “I just got out of Mass, so my holy Sunday is basically over.”

Skav could hear the smile in their own voice, replacing the usual apathy. The lilt was enough to make their southern drawl slightly more pronounced, chopping off the endings of most words as they continued on, “It's too hot to stay holy today, ya know? I'm itchin’ for a bit of sinning.” Skav threw their head back, dramatic and ironic. A complete jest of their usual demeanor. The engine revved again as Skav shifted gears and pressed down on the gas, speeding up their little conversation (literally).

Blue lets loose a harsh bark of laughter, shoulders shaking as he does so. With how Skav dresses, every last inch of their being shrouded in one manner of fabric or another, it’s almost a miracle they haven’t yet collapsed from heatstroke. Even as Blue sped along, sharp gusts of wind biting into his exposed skin, beads of sweat continued to roll down his temple and down his neck. The air was starting to get uncomfortably humid; and though he thought he’d never see the day, in weather like this, the air-conditioned interior of The Grotto sounded like a little piece of heaven.

“Looks like I’m headin’ your way, though.” Skav’s head turned forward, fingers unfurling and curling over the warm steering wheel, “Thank goodness, I was hopin’ someone fun would be there so I'm not just stuck drinkin’ with a bunch of drama queens.”

“Why, Skav. I didn’t know you thought of me that way. I’m worthy of having a drink with you? Fetch me my vapours, I’m swooning.” If there wasn’t a rubber mask hiding his features, Blue would’ve bat his eyelashes coyly at Skav, if only just to see what kind of reaction he could get out of them. Even if he couldn’t see the other’s face, their body language was usually enough for him to draw up some semblance of a conclusion. That was the thing about these masks, he supposed - they helped trim away all the unnecessary bullshit.

“Don't get cheeky with me, snake.” Skav hissed, apathy returning, and the silence that set in was only eaten away by the combined cries of both vehicles.

As they get closer to The Grotto, traffic begins to grow sparse, though it isn’t to anyone’s surprise. The Grotto was in the bad part of town, with most law-abiding citizens of San Marzano not seeing the need to venture out of their tightly woven webs in the heart of the city, putting their lives and belongings in danger. Not like they were to blame; even in broad daylight, the dank alleyways, abandoned buildings, and leering gang members lent the district an undeniable atmosphere of danger. Most folk would be afraid of getting mugged, or worse, having a knife slipped between their ribs, but Blue - along with the rest of the area’s inhabitants - have long since gotten past it.

Skav checked the sky above, squinting through the darkness their mask offered, and then made a show of pulling over onto a particular empty curb. They beckoned all the way over, hoping to attract Blue to stop as well as the ideas swam around his head desperately. They were a mere eight blocks from the Grotto, far enough away to make a race seem justified. The car rumbled under them, even when parked, itching to gain momentum. Itching to ride as far and as fast as Skav could push it.

They didn’t want to leave the poor girl waiting. The crow mask twisted around as Skav pushed himself out of the window, balancing precariously as he said, ”Wanna race the rest of the way? I wanna see how fast that dinky bike of yours can go again.”

Dinky? Blue scoffs, but fails to see the point in protesting. Compared to the Qrow, it really was a piece of work, the smell of charred grease filling his nostrils whenever he went pushed the Interceptor to go beyond its capabilities.

Pausing, he takes a short moment to consider the other’s offer. He wasn’t as skillful as Skav at maneuvering. Hell, if he didn’t know any better, he’d think that Skav was born at the helm of a car - burning rubber even before they learnt how to walk. Despite the bulk of the Qrow, there’s something strangely natural about the way Skav handles it, like it was an extension of their own being.

Still, Blue muses, pointedly ignoring the dull, throbbing pain in his legs and neck, perhaps a race was just what he needed to take his mind off things. With a nod, he agrees to Skav’s proposition, tightening his grip on the handle of the bike, and against his better judgement, decides to make a bet.

“Loser buys drinks?” Blue questions with a tilt of the head, a roguish smirk hidden under that scaled, hissing facade. After all, his pocket is heavy with dirty money, and what better thing to spend it on than glorious, glorious debauchery?

“Deal. See you at the Grotto, Bluesy.” Skav’s mask tilted, allowing the crow’s eyes to burn with a fire previously hidden by the layers of feathers. The faintest impression of a chuckle escaped them, a soft, breathy noise that was easily lost to the rumble of both vehicles. And then the mask was gone, pressed back inside the interior of the Camaro as they shifted gears and revved the engine. The clock that was their heart ticked down minutes, beating loudly in Skav’s ears. A mile a minute churned through their body, ticking down, and after a good long while they shifted gears and peeled away from the curb.

Skav stayed at a steady speed in the beginning, using their movement as an indication for the start of the race, but once Blue was up and moving behind them Skav cut down on the gas and shifted forward.

Street racing was a pastime for most gang members throughout the city. Most saw it as a fun way to gain some attention from the pigs, others actually bet money and lives into the practice. Skav liked the rush they felt when they were settled behind the wheel and breaking every law in the book. It was a sin worth being addicted to. The smell of burning rubber and gasoline was intoxicating; a high without actually having to rely on the nasty effects of drugs, and Skav clung to it hungrily.

Even if they didn’t win, the adrenaline bore from the speed and the sounds was enough to keep Skav in a cheery mood for the rest of the day. Skav tilted their head out of the window as they rushed through the almost-empty streets, calling out a soundless insult while wind whistled through the latex and cooled their burning face. More laughter, louder and breathier than before, formed as Skav just barely winded around a corner and avoided a telephone pole. Seven blocks to go.

Through intense concentration, Blue is able to keep up, though he lags a few feet behind the competition. His fingers are closed so tightly around the handlebar that his knuckles turn white - the only sign of trepidation visible to the naked eye. Once or twice, he narrowly avoids crashing into the Qrow at a turn, swerving out of the way with inches to spare. His heart pounds in his chest, pumping jolts upon jolts of adrenaline through his chest, burning a toxic trail through his bloodstream. The hangover from that morning is almost forgotten, having been reduced to a muted thrum on the left side of his brain. He’s pretty sure it hasn’t got any better, just that the chemical cocktail running through his veins is doing its job taking his mind off it.

Setting his jaw, Blue waits for a stretch of straight road, and squeezes the throttle.

The Interceptor lurches forward with a snarling roar, with Blue having to hunker down just to keep his balance. He could feel the vibration of tyres against asphalt, a low, near-imperceptible hum permeating his bones. As the wind picks up speed, so does he, and really, why didn’t he do this more often? He wants to go faster, faster, faster, the jet-black chassis of the Qrow becoming an amorphous blur next to him when he all but drills his eyes onto the road.

They pass a liquor store, then a block of shitty apartment buildings, the brick stained with chipping, white paint, and Blue realises that they’re getting close to the Grotto. He knew the neighbourhood like the back of his hand, perhaps even better than that, though he quickly quashes the thought, instead turning his full attention on making a sharp turn to the right.

There’s a brief moment of alarm - when his centre of gravity shifts a tad too far to the left, and he thinks he’s going to fall off the bike - but on sheer reflex, Blue leans in the opposite direction, steadying himself once again. A shuddering sigh of relief escapes from him, though he knows as well as Skav that it was not yet time to relax.

Of course, in Blue’s moment of panic Skav zoomed forward to meet him. Years of watching and waiting and planning made him a natural of realizing the mistakes of others. Blue made the turn too quick, too sharp, the classic mistake of every single racer on the road. Skav’s hand fell down three shifts automatically to take advantage of this opening. The wheel vibrated and was thrust from their fingers, but they twisted their wrists and quickly found control as they rounded the corner and rushed passed Blue.

Their hollering was lost to the screech of the Qrow. Fishtailing the back, Skav thrust their head out the window again to watch Blue’s reaction. Laughter and adrenaline choked in their throat, and they barely had enough time to cut the wheel around the next corner as they fell back in front of the windshield.

Blue dares to steal a glance when Skav shoots past him, turning just in time to see that feathery mess of a mask disappear back into the car. It’s easy enough for him to deduce what they’d been up to, phantom soundwaves of a sharp, breathy laugh filling his ears. With that last turn, he was surely teetering on the edge of disaster, muscles turning stiff as a board as he heaved the Interceptor back upright. But as the rumble of engines rattles his eardrums, the world starts narrowing down to the race and the race alone, the wild pounding of his heart slowly resuming its natural rhythm.

Three blocks to go. Skav took their new found lead with a grain of salt and kept up the speed. Above them the morning sun was beginning to hide behind churning clouds, and the humidity was enough for Skav to wrench the gloves from their hands and throw them in the passenger seat. They spared a single glance at their tanned, bruised hands. The knuckles were black with scabs and still sore from connecting with teeth. Their fingers tightened around the wheel, burning the injuries, and this feeling grounded them.

Here. I am here. I am no where else but here, in this moment, in this time.

Memories of fire and needles faded as Skav cut around another corner. Two blocks to go.

When the sun disappears behind it’s wispy, white canopy, Blue makes to swerve into the opposite lane. The eye-stinging glare previously cast by the Qrow had subsided, leaving a window of opportunity for him to push forward. Already, the Interceptor was falling behind, tyres screeching against the tar-laden road as he weaves in and out between oncoming cars, but he accelerates anyway. There was only a short distance left before they reached the Grotto, and despite his earlier nonchalance, nascent seeds of hope germinated into something more. Maybe he could actually win; all he needed to do was close the gap between them.

If Skav had the advantage of experience, the maneuverability of the Interceptor was what evened the playing field. Eyes darting here and there, Blue soon finds himself an opening, bursting from the pack like a bullet. He hears some sort of commotion behind him - likely some particularly disgruntled drivers cussing him out - though it’s swiftly drowned out by a loud rumble of the engine as he rushes forward to meet the Qrow.

He doesn’t tear his gaze away from the road, not even when he speeds past the other, eyes trained on the stretch of road before him. There’s only one more block to go before they reached their destination, and the last thing Blue needed was to let his carelessness do him in.

Skav watched Blue pull ahead wordlessly, fingers shifting over the wheel to find a better grip. The Qrow was coughing now, hitching after every growl and every rumble. It wasn’t fast enough. Skav wasn’t fast enough. Loss threatened to swerve their concentration, to kill the pump of blood in their ears and stifle their adrenaline. Skav felt disinterest swell, but they snuffed it in favor of jamming their foot down onto the gas pedal. PLastic hit carpet, creaking as Skav put all their weight into the gas, and with a startling loud clank the Camaro rushed forward. The gap between the bike and car was devoured, eaten whole in an instant as Skav blasted passed Blue and rounded the last bend.

Skav drove like they were outrunning the Devil himself, or as if they were actively trying to wrap the Qrow around a telephone pole. They cut the wheel so quickly Skav felt the car jerk, skid, and then fishtail around the corner and against the curb. The Grotto passed first, a swirl of familiar bricks and color, and then the world zoomed passed and the sky threatened to burst overhead and Skav swore they heard something pop or sizzle behind them. Clammy palms reminded them of their will to live, and Skav pressed back into the seat as they quickly released the gas and reached for the gear shift. A few stomps on the break actually slowed the car down, and Skav soon found himself very much passed the Grotto and breathless.

They won.

Skav ripped the keys from the ignition as parking and crawled out of the car, glancing back at the street with an impassive stance. Adrenaline made them shake and twist their fingers together, hoping to quell the tremors with pressure. Dust and smoke settled against the ratty street, and Skav watched quietly, breathing heavily, waiting. Waiting.

Barely a second later, Blue rounds the corner, slowing to a stop right behind the Qrow. Of course, there’s some disgruntlement at having lost to Skav, but the promise of an ice-cold drink smooths over most of the irritation. Deftly, he dismounts the Interceptor, heavy boots landing on the asphalt with a muffled thump. Skav is already there - he notices - waiting, watching, inscrutable as always. If it weren’t for the slight, near-imperceptible movement of their shoulders, Blue wouldn’t even have noticed how heavily they were breathing.

“Well, you got me.” He shrugs, though he doesn’t sound too disappointed, a huff of exasperated laughter escaping him as he strides closer. For a long moment, however, he doesn’t say anything else, a wordless silence hanging in the air. He squints through the eyeholes of his mask, gaze boring into the feathery visage of Skav’s own, though it isn’t long before he gives up the endeavour. Whatever he’d been searching for, he doesn’t find it, and this, too, seems to satisfy him in some strange way. The stillness is easily broken when he lands a chummy slap on Skav’s arm, brushing past them without a second glance. “Deal’s a deal. Now, c’mon - let’s get inside. I’m sweating my ass off out here.”

Skav’s shoulders fell, even for the slightest second, feeling at peace for once over shared nonconsensual touching. Time stood still, dust and smoke settled, and Skav breathed out a soft sigh. Then they turned on their heels and followed Blue into the club.
hello so I forgot I entered this contest and I haven't had time to review or read the other stories but,,, uh,,, I'm the author of the frog story,,,,, I'm so glad people like it I may be crying a bit I'm sorry I dOnt haVe Tim E to read or vote )))):




They found the fire escape by chance. A short venture for a window free of the grimy, wet bars led them to the fourth floor of the motel, and from there King found a human-sized pane free of shackles and locks. Just beyond the frosted glass was a red-painted gathering of railings and stairs and ladders. He hadn’t expected the motel to have safety means of any kind, infact he didn’t even realize it rose up passed two stories. His disdain for the drab establishment was lifted ever so slightly as he squeezed his way onto sturdy metal and sucked in a breath smoggy city air. The mist gathered mostly below them, though the fire escape was just as dew wet as the windows two stories down had been.

King dug his heels into the textured metal, carefully rounding towards the edge of the railing. In front of them sat a sturdy and high brick wall, and below was a messy alley. It wasn’t a long fall. King heard his mind repeat that thought, it wasn’t a long fall, and with an annoyed click of the tongue he twisted on his heels and held out an eager palm.

“This good enough? Gimme a cig already.” King said, pressing back against the creaky and soaked railing, “I’ll pay you back at the next store or something.” With his free hand, King twisted his father’s lighter out of his back pocket and gave the ZIppo a curious flick. Fire snapped to life and then simmered away.

Gravestones hung in front of his eyes. King shook them away in favor of glaring apathetically at Malcolm.

“Ask nicely,” Mal said, pursing his lips while his eyes sparkled with good humor. His gaze was focused on King, and it didn’t slip even for a second to stare at the pattern of wiggling, writhing symbols that filled the air around them. “You know – with ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. Maybe add on a, ‘Yes, Master,’ to the end of that.”

His fingers deftly worked through the cold to pull out two cigarettes, leaving only three more inside the carton. He stuck one of them between his lips, and moved to hold out the other one, ready to jerk back teasingly unless the magic word was said.

“Kinky.” King’s lips upturned ever so slightly, forming the shadow of his usual smirk, “I’ll give you a ‘thank you’ when I get the damn thing but until then--” He held the lighter between his fingers and rose his hands up in a fake prayer. One step forward planted him an inch closer to the smirking Malcolm, another allowed him to be close enough to hiss an emotionless, “Please give me a cigarette?” His palm upturned and fingers curled expectantly.

Malcolm passed it over, smiling fading into a serious expression for three heartbeats until he glanced away at a sprinkling of rust on the metal beneath them. The cigarette slipped from between his lips so he could say, “See? Clearly I can teach an old dog new tricks.”

His grin returned swiftly in a blinding flash of pearly white. “Here – show me how that fancy new Zippo of yours works. I even left my lighter in the room. C’mon,” Mal prompted, sticking the cancer stick back where it belonged, held in place by pursed lips. It left his belated, “Please,” to come out rather mumbled.

King shoved his own now-lit cigarette between his lips pointedly before passing on the Zippo. Acidic smoke coated his tongue as he breathed in, eyes flicking down restlessly to watch the cherry of the cigarette gleam in the misty-white light. Gray smoke mingled with water, heavy and deep in color, and King took two steps back to lean against the railing. “I’m not a dog.” He commented belatedly, one eyebrow quirked, “And don’t expect this manners bullshit to be a running gag.”

“You’d be a cute Golden Retriever. King’s totally a dog name.” And Mal had no idea where he was going with that, almost as if his concentration shut off in the middle of a sentence to save himself from future embarrassment. He busied himself by lighting up. Si vis pacem, para bellum,” Mal quoted, reading the engraving on the side of the lighter expertly. “Well, that’s some dramatic irony.”

King had tuned out Malcolm at the first mention of golden retrievers, but in an instant his attention was singled and burning. His father’s voice echoed in his head, along with the clack of a gun and the bang of it firing against his brow. Ash crumbled as he tightened his hold on the quickly diminishing cigarette, but he tried hard to make it last, taking a small puff instead of heaving in a gust of smoke like he intended.

“Sounds like you know what it means.” King let a hand fall back onto the railing of the fire escape, squeezing until his knuckles were as white as the air. Curiosity glowed in his bright eyes. “Well then,” He urged, leaning forward, “Wanna share with the class or not?”

“Really, dude? It’s a pretty generic phrase – ‘panem et circenses’ style. I’m sure frat boys all over the country have tattoos of it.” Mal didn’t even need to think back to his rudimentary understanding of Latin (the product of two years of hideous summer school lessons and some mild interest in old Roman alchemical practices) to understand what it meant.

“Dad didn’t strike me as the frat boy type.” King muttered, and louder yet he grumbled, “I don’t know what this panam it-- whatever you said-- is, but I don’t think it matters much.” He snatched his cigarette from his lips and waggled it in the direction of the lighter, dark smoke seeping out from his parted lips. “What’s that saying mean, Mal?”

“‘If you want peace, prepare for war,’” Mal answered promptly with a hoarse laugh. While the relevance of the phrase to their current situation struck him as ominous, particularly when the memory of the Vision Cave was fresh in his mind, he was certain it meant little to him. “Literally, the most basic phrase someone could Google to put on an edgy engraving. I mean – I’m sure it meant something to him, but it’s like… It’s like ‘carpe diem’.”

“Huh.” King reached forward to tug the lighter from Mal’s grasp, inspecting the stainless steel with a steady gaze. “Dad didn’t strike me as a ‘carpe diem’ type either. Full of surprises, full of surprises…” He rolled his shoulders, feeling the sting of a long-healed bruise just to remind himself that he was present and fine. The lighter flicked to life again. Flame licked high at the white-painted sky. Mindlessly, King let the flame grow taller and taller, muttering soft incantations to himself to allowed the fire to shift from orange to blue and back again.

Parlor tricks were a Richard King speciality, though he rarely shared them with anyone besides Astrid. His eyes flicked up to give Malcolm a curiously calm stare, and then he took a long drag from his cigarette and sighed into the morning. Black smoke churned from his lungs and hung heavy and damp in the air before him. “I heard dad say that to me in my dream.” He confessed, eyes still locked on the fire, “He said that and then I died. Maybe it’s bad luck or something to keep this thing around. Maybe I should get rid of it.”

“Maybe you should. Or you could keep showing off with it,” Mal noted as he breathed out smoke in such a way that it formed a precise ring shape – no magic required. He pulled out his faint black Sharpie again from his back pocket, and started doodling on his hand in straight, precise lines. The burn from the night before was still there, scarred in a triangle formation. “I mean, it’s not like anyone’s gonna see us using magic through that mist so we’re good but – try not to give me a heart-attack next time? It’d be just our luck if a cop appeared.”

King glanced down at the alley below. A short fall stared back, and then the fire licked high and gleamed bright green. King bit on the filter of the cigarette to keep it from falling as his now-free hand rose to skim over the tip of the fire. The color shifted again, green to purple, and King watched the odd lights formed by the light streak out against the fire escape. Aurora road roared out of sight. That little fact gave King enough courage to turn the fire to quiet, crackling sparks akin to the fireworks.

“No one's gonna see us out here.” King confirmed, “Whatcha doodling?” He breathed out a smoky sigh, eyebrows quirked.

Mal hummed distractedly, eyeing up the fluidity of the squiggles on the mist for inspiration. With his free hand, he snuffed out the remains of his cigarette, then returned to drawing two solid lines up his thumb and middle finger. “Magic stuff,” he returned. “Efficiency is everything in alchemy.” And with that, he snapped his fingers with a loud crack to produce a dancing, living flame in the palm of his hand.

It didn’t burn. One of the thirteen sigils he’d drawn negated that risk entirely, and he grinned smugly at King. He snapped his fingers again, and it winked out of existence. Snap, and it was back.

“Ha,” King said, watching the fire form and vanish, “You didn't even need my lighter. Mooch.” The lighter returned from sparks to flame and then finally smoke as he snuffed out the heat and turned to stare out at the brick wall. Mist swirled through the air. Behind him, King felt images of eyes and odd runes. A stiff lip sent the strange thoughts away, thinking them to be passing memories, but all at once he was left with the residual feeling of someone else’s mind invading his own.

King leaned over the railing slightly, staring down as the world tilted and then righted itself. Idly, he glanced over his shoulder and said, “What are you thinking about?” And then, after a brief pause, he hissed, “Or, what do you see?”

Mal quirked an eyebrow before looking back, reluctantly, to the psychedelic runes hanging in the air. How could he describe it? They were the same colour as the iridescent swirls inside a soap bubble, oily and thick and wholly unnatural. “The mist’s magical in origin,” he summed up after a few moments, allowing only a curious glance at King as if he didn’t expect the question.

“Oh? Should we be standing in it?” King eyed the foggy surroundings calmly, not doing much despite realizing that magical mist wasn’t the safest thing to be inhaling. He took one last drag before flicking the dirty filter of his cigarette over the railing, and then breathed out a dark cloud. This time he watched it get eaten away by the mist and fade away into more white. “And how would you know something like that? Have you been keeping secrets?” His lips curled to form a small, cruel smirk.

“Never,” Mal said, brows furrowing into a firm, fierce line. Despite his words, he didn’t answer.

King hummed a low note, twisting back around to press his hip against the wet metal. The air around them was heavy with an emotion King liked to call irritation. For a full minute King stared ahead, eyeing Malcolm curiously as he so often did. Both hands clamped down on the railing behind him, squeezing tight as he tried and failed to force more images from Malcolm’s mind into his own.

Blank canvases came up, as well as the occasional gravestone. Worthless. Cursing his ornery new found power, King withheld a sigh and glanced at the mist instead. His gaze lingered when he finally rolled his shoulders again and said, “It’s rather hard to lie with me around, don’t you think?”

“I don’t lie,” Mal said with a chilled smile. “I resent that.”

“There's such a thing as lying by omission.” King stated, take a step forward to be level with Mal’s cold grin. He returned the expression with a dazzling smirk. Despite the growing tension, King couldn't help but let his eyes flick down to glance at Mal’s lips. “I think there's something you haven't told me yet.”

Mal let out a long breath through his nose – a dragon breathing out fire. His thumb pressed down hard into the dark lines drawn on his palm to distract him, and the feel of sparking magic at the place of contact worked just as clenching his fist would have. “And that bothers you, does it? It shouldn’t. You’re not entitled to anything from me.”

The road-trip would be a problem, if this was starting already; if dislike was flooding his system in a wave of stinging salt.

King shoved his fists deep into his jean pockets, eyes dark and filled to the brim with curiosity. “That's true.” He paused to lick his lips wet and shift from foot to foot restlessly, “But I can't help noticing things about you, or Aiden or Jess or Az.” He tilted his head down, leaning in to glare unabashedly down at Mal’s gaze.

“It's in my nature to be bothered, and it's in my nature to worry about things that could hurt me or my sister.” King made a low noise, another energetic hum, and then he growled, “So I'll ask again: have you been keeping secrets?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” Mal replied with a glare of his own. Perhaps it would have been easier to just explain his newfound magical ability, but indignation pushed him on. He didn’t answer to Richard King of all people. “So you can fuck right off with your Spanish Inquisition. I don’t answer to you.”

King rolled his shoulders again, feeling the fire of irrational unfurl as Malcolm’s aura seemed to overtake his own. Phantom pains kept his face horribly twisted. A mocking smile pressed indefinitely against his lips and furrowed his brows to a dark glare. His voice was a low growl as he hissed, “I'm not asking you to answer to me, I'm just saying you should share with the class before–” King cut himself off instantly as he felt the twist in his wrist.

He wanted to throw a punch.

Such an instinctive response to being berated made King wince expressively. He took half a step back and waited, waited for a swap in emotions or a change of expression. Offhandedly, he said, “Philips is keeping a secret too.”

There wasn’t even the slightest change in Mal’s current tide of annoyance. “So this is what you do now? Spread around other people’s secrets, injecting yourself into every little thing people might be – you know – wanting to keep to themselves?” Mal shook his head, not in the least bit interested in Philips’ secret. “I don’t care. It’s none of my, and it’s none of your business.”

“That kind of thinking is going to kill all of us!” King tightened his fists, clenching down on the rage that was threatening to lash out, “We can't afford to keep out of everyone’s business; we are all we have.” He made a sweeping motion between the two, and then down towards the building. “If someone is lying or withholding information then– then we’re all fucked. This isn't a ‘you do you’ kind of trip.” King brought a hand up to bury it into his hair, tugging on the strands anxiously as he failed to meet Mal’s glare.

“We’re all in this together. Secrets aren't any use to us.” He muttered. The air simmered, red in color and taste. King hated it.

Mal stared up at him, undaunted. “Well, if you think like that, I might as well get my stuff and–” A second – if even that – was all Malcolm had as warning, and he interrupted his previous thought as quickly as it had come as the air around them thickened ominously. Energy malicious and malevolent bled through the runes and stole the breath from his lungs as he watched the jigsaw pieces of spellwork fit together expertly like a lock and a key meeting.

He could see patterns. Vengeance was one of them. Fire was another. And, despite the rumbling that started on the earth several feet below their position on the fire escape, Mal read Protection in the foreign tongue. “Hold on to something. King– hold onto something. Mal made a grab for the window they’d came from.

An earth-shattering, ear-shattering boom rippled outwards from the park across the road.






After a twenty minute drive through the outer ring of Seattle, King found himself in a very dingy motel room with a lighter in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The Marco Polo Motel was a 'quaint' two-star hotel tucked into the river-side lanes of Aurora Road, and while the officer seemed to be a local King wasn't quite sure if the man had understood his request for a "clean and safe" place to stay. Upon arriving the group had been greeted by lackluster smiles and tired eyes, and the key they had received was bent in more places than one and felt like pure slime between King's fingers.

The room itself wasn't bad just... Something a rich kid like Richard King wasn't used to. Two twin-sized beds were pressed up against a rather wide nightstand. Stained but otherwise clean-feeling sheets were melded onto the springy mattresses, and the single lamp plugged into the wall was their only source of light for when night threatened to fall. The bathroom was small and off-white, containing a toilet, sink, and tiny, tiny tub that harbored the weakest looking shower head money could possibly buy. King noted the lack of soap with a stiff lip. There wasn't a kitchenette and there wasn't a single TV guide or booklet in the available drawers by the beds. King only found a dusty and torn bible, which he promptly trashed as soon as he realized what it was.

As King padded against a crumbly shag carpet he began to notice the many things to hate about this room. The curled wall paper, the bars on the outside of the window, the odd blue memory of abuse that stood out on the TV screen. Everything was old and worn and treated horribly and, for some bizarre and sick reason, King felt himself relating to it. "Gross." He said suddenly, mostly to himself, and without another word he snatched a cigarette from Malcolm's back pocket and settled in front of the open window.

It was the quickest smoke of his life. As King stared out at the crowded, misty road and pressed his shoulder against the dew wet bars he found it was simply unbearable to sit in silence. The cigarette's cherry gleamed bright orange and ash crumbled as King finished off the smoke in two quick drags. He snuffed the remaining heat on the windowsill, noting the similar burn marks that had gathered over the years on that very same plane of wood with an apathetic look, and then turned to his companions. The taste of fire on his tongue had done well to quell what remaining nerves he harbored, leaving him instead curious and hopelessly mopey as always. Now wasn't a time to wallow, however.

King jutted a thumb towards the injured television and cocked his head, "We got the news and we got some locals downstairs, in case anyone is curious about these terrorist threats that are currently taking place in this very city." He wanted to ask why they weren't leaving right this very moment, because the thought of getting caught in attack shook him to his core, but instead he leaned in and whispered, "Is there anything worth staying here for? Anyone see Seattle in their stupid dreams or what?"





I dreamed that one of us died.

That thought wasn’t his own.

King watched in choked silence as his friends groped for conciousness. He had many things to say but everything felt too heavy to utter. His mind was slushy, much too muddled to wade through. As everyone stirred so did their words, spurred from their frantic minds. Dream and died was repeated over and over in varying voices, all yelled, all unrelenting. It took him a long while to realize his friends weren’t speaking over each other like his ears heard, and an even longer time to notice that Astrid’s eyes were stuck on him. King assumed she was looking for guidance. He had none to give.

Pushing away the voices in his head, King rose up and pressed a head to the hollow center of his chest. The warmth was gone, taken away with Malcolm as the other had ran to throw up whatever poison (be it the magic or the alcohol) was left in his body. Dark hair, darker eyes. King couldn’t keep his eyes on the retching boy, so he merely turned away and walked briskly over to his sister. King put on his most pleasing smile--a sliver of an expression that lit his face kindly-- and settled down in front of her. He fought off a pained expression, ignored his quickly approaching headache, and then said, “You good, Az?”

Feeling a bit guilty for prioritizing his sibling, though, King looked over his shoulder and called, “How about you guys? Everything intact?” It wasn’t his place to care for others, but really he couldn’t think of what else to do. He couldn’t think at all. Right now his body was leading him through the motions and he just had to be fine with that until he could focus his mind and snuff the foreign thoughts threatening to drive him mad.

“I think I’m dying.” Jess groaned, flopping down on the ground in her typical sarcastic and over dramatic manner. The queasy feeling hasn’t completely gone away, and even though she usually hated lying down on the ground without a blanket, the cold ground was soothing and helped ease the spinning of the world. “Did throwing up help, Mal? I’m tempted.”

Aiden on the other hand remained frozen, even after Jess had moved away from him. He was staring at one place, with his eyes glazed over slightly, not really seeing or hearing anything that was just said.

“Oh, absolutely. Here, let me make some room over by the puke bowl,” Mal replied glibly, and pulled one of the rubber bands constantly found around his wrist down so he could tie up his hair properly. His ears ached. It was an odd thing to complain about, even internally, but it was as if there was a heavy drum beat constantly thudding in it – not just a pulse, but a pulse of too much magic. Clearly, the cave had overcompensated from the power it unrighteously stole from him.

It was itchy. Decrepit would be perhaps a better word given how much older than himself his new and temporary burst of magic was. Malcolm was urged on, perhaps by the apologetic nature of the magical cave, to do something about it – to use up the gift he had been given. He would heal the others when they returned to the van, he decided. Mal did not want to spend a minute longer in the Vision Cave than he had to.

Wait – when had it been given a name?

“I’m good,” Astrid lied to Richard in a small voice as she picked at the scabbing over wound on her knee. “Yeah…” Considering how concerned her brother seemed, both with her and the others, it was definitely too much of a lacklustre answer – just how she wanted it.

Quietly, and after rubbing at her forehead, she said to herself (more than anyone else) that, “It was just a dream.”

But enough of that: she couldn’t sit around on the cave floor feeling sorry for herself for much longer; she couldn’t stand the thought of it. On legs as unsteady as a fawn trying to walk for the first time, she hauled herself up, stabilised by a supportive nudge from Malcolm who wasn’t a jerk all the time.

King sat back to watch. He tried to move but he couldn't, so he sat back to watch instead. He sat back to watch. Someone in the back of his head said Haven and Astrid’s voice was repeating the word dream over and over again. He sat back to watch. Aiden wasn't doing okay, he realized, as from the corner of his head all he could see were eyes and fire. He sat back to watch. Jess’ voice wasn't as grounding as it usually was, it left him chilled and lonely as it retold her dreams. He sat back to watch. Malcolm and gravestones were synonymous with each other.

“I want to leave.” King finally said, though he had no idea how. His body still wasn't able to shift and his eyes were filled with shimmery emotions and his mind wasn't his own. “I want to leave right now.”

“Right, let’s go. I don’t want to stay another second in this godforsaken shithole.” With superhuman effort, Jess forced herself to get to her feet. She supported herself against the cave wall for a moment, absolutely hating herself for needing to use the stupid cave for support at all. They had just woken up from a long ‘sleep’, why was she feeling so fatigued? Every inch of her body felt dull and heavy, with her heavy limbs not quite responding the way she expected them to. The cut on her cheek was throbbing, stretching painfully every time she moved her face. It had scabbed over while she had been dreaming, with dried blood caking over it. Stupid, stupid cave.

Forcing a little bit more conviction to her tone, Jess clapped her hands together as she called out, “Come on guys, let’s get out of here. Chop, chop!” Even without a talent for empathy like King, (or having the compassionate trait to be empathetic in general), Jess could feel the chokingly heavy air weighing down on them almost literally. She glanced at Aiden, who still hasn’t moved a muscle from his frozen position. Was he even awake? He wasn’t here mentally yet. There was an odd look upon King’s face and he wasn’t really moving either. Astrid’s voice was small, wavering, like a candle’s flame nearly getting snuffed out by the wind. Mal, to his credit was still himself — but it was nearly impossible to decipher what was going on inside his mind.

Stomping impatiently over to King, Jess tugged incessantly at his arm. “Come on guys, I don’t want to stay here!”

Turning quickly to face her brother, Astrid looked up in alarm at the vulnerability in his voice, and she was almost, almost the first one to him. A hug or a pat on the back would surely help, right? To her surprise, Malcolm was already there, dragging him over to the large stone door with a forceful arm around his shoulders and as far away from the enchanted bowl as was physically possible.

Light snuck in as soon as Mal touched the door, and it opened of its own accord. “Let’s get some air, buddy,” she heard him say and could only concur. It was a good idea. She needed some herself.

King didn’t like being compliant. Being unable to think his own thoughts and in turn being unable to move by himself made him almost physically sick. Holding onto solid people, however, gave him enough of peace of mind to keep him from retching. Jess had one arm, Mal had the other. Both were interestingly loud minds in their own right. Jess’ thoughts were to the point and unfiltered (and loud, God was she loud). Malcolm’s thoughts reminded King of neverending math formulas. There was just too much to take in.

Dawn light struck him first, along with a sudden weight being ripped from his shoulders as the group left the room. King heaved out a long held sigh, muscles clenching and teeth grinding as his brain resumed its usual task of keeping him alive. There was the faintest sensation of wetness below his nose, but he could only think to pass it off as sweat or cave-water. Ignore it. There was still the sensation of hearing things he shouldn’t and King focused his attention on that. “God, holy shit.” He growled, testing his own voice, “You two think too much.”

“My C in English begs to differ,” Mal said, though he looked at King with some concern in his bleary, bloodshot eyes. The sight of blood, even something as simple as a nosebleed, sickened him right to his very stomach – something he wasn’t entirely used to feeling. It was a new sensation, fear wrought from the contents of his hideous dreams. Mal pulled a tissue out of his back pocket to press into King’s hand. “Here, man; you got a nosebleed.”

“Mmm, whatever.” Is all King mumbled, pressing the tissue to his nose. Whatever gratitude he didn’t say translated well through his heavy-lidded eyes.

“Get the fuck out of my head then.” Jess hissed, “Fortunately for you, I like talking a lot more than I like thinking.” There was an edge of panic to her tone, as she thought back to being unable to say anything in her dream. Agitated at something that she couldn’t quite name, (that just agitated her more) Jess stomped away to blow off some steam by herself, leaving Mal to baby King by himself.

“Get Mal to kiss it better!” She yelled over her shoulder as she forged on ahead.

“Uh–” King shifted and tried to find balance as Jess went ahead, “Uh, okay? Sorry?” He wasn't sure if it was something he had said, as usual, and his eyes drifted over to Malcolm’s for guidance. Darker eyes. With a sudden swell of lights King untangled himself from the other boy and leaned back against the nearest wall. The tissue was blossomed with blood now, and he kept his eyes trained on it as he patted the space between his lips and nostrils.

“You had a dream too, then?” Was all he could think to say, and then in a quieter voice he said, “Did we all? It felt that way. There may be a few things to discuss soon.” Eyes and gravestones and magic circles were included in those “few things”.

“Yes.” It was a short answer, probably not what King was hoping for, but Mal couldn’t really find it in himself (despite the uncharacteristic gentleness of his bedside manner currently) to phrase it in a nicer way. “But… We’ll talk about it in the van. We need to.”

“Fine by me.” King pauses, then whispers to himself, “Let's just hope you guys can keep your thoughts to yourselves this time.”

---


Astrid crouched next to Aiden and shook at his shoulder with a tentative, barely-there touch. She worried at her lower lip. “Need a hand up?” she asked, unsure if he was paying attention to the world around him or if the dreams they definitely all shared had some extraordinary negative effect on Aiden and Aiden alone. Nothing could be discounted.

Aiden didn’t really respond to Astrid at first, whatsoever. There was a few moments of an awkward pause before a buzzing noise broke the silence. As his cell phone started vibrating, Aiden snapped back to attention, his eyes clearing and life returning to his previously frozen features. Slipping his hand into his pocket, Aiden quickly silenced it as he finally realized that Astrid was kneeling down next to him.

Hastily, he managed a half-hearted smile. “Sorry, what was that?” Aiden was distracted, he could swear that he felt his phone was still buzzing against his thigh, even though he definitely silenced it only moments prior. Reaching into his pocket, he pressed the volume button a few more times for good measure; it wasn’t vibrating… But why did he still feel like it was demanding his attention?

“I asked if you needed a hand––Aiden, are you okay?”

“Y-yeah, I’m fine!” Aiden responded quickly, “And yeah, that would be great.” He grasped at Astrid’s hand to supposedly pull himself up, but he ended up not needing it, standing up smoothly by himself. Unlike the others, Aiden wasn’t having any particular difficulty with movement besides a shaky feeling that was more mental than physical.

“How about you?” With a reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he quickly turned the conversation around to Astrid. “You doing alright?”

“Of course,” Astrid lied, but she glanced at Aiden out of the corner of her eye sceptically as if she couldn’t quite believe him. “Just, the sooner we get out of here, the better…” Come on, Az, you can do better than spew cliches right now. She swallowed silently as they trailed at the back of the group leaving, making it to the doors even as Astrid stumbled from the trembling of her legs underneath her. “Well…”

It turns out she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Aiden was a few steps ahead of Astrid, and he twisted around to face her, waiting for her next words. That was quickly forgotten as Aiden frowned at her unsteady form. “You’re not okay.” He stated as he returned to her side and placed a gentle hand on her back to steady her.

Astrid flinched at the contact imperceptibly – the phantom pain returning tenfold. “Yeah, well… Neither are you. Neither’s any of us.”
In Ѧasks 9 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
@MoiraElim gonna be collabing with MURDOC soon but after that Skav will probably be available for a race/more interaction ;D





King woke up.

Or-- was he awake? King was looking down at himself again, taking the position of a mourner at his own funeral. Looking down at the unmoving face of himself, trying to wake but being unable to. His body was no one's it seemed, seeing as he was staring wistfully at his dozing face without rhyme or reason as to how or why. King had no energy to reach out, to try to accept himself again. Whatever forced sleep he had just experienced left him feeling restless and euphoric. Ashamed. Without much else to do, he stared down at himself and felt wrath build. Richard King looked so peaceful asleep. That fact burned through King like a war; the mere idea of himself looking helpless in rest chilled him to the core. If only his angles were sharper, his mouth tighter, his scars self-gained and not given. If only he could be as prickly in sleep as he was in awakening, maybe then his demons could leave him be.

What a depressing thought. King pondered his need for a therapist, and then all at once realized he was running away from home and better off just dealing with himself in his own way. An airy, nonexistent laugh escaped him, and then all emotions were stilled in favor of receiving flashes of his rest. Right, right, something like that couldn't be considered a rest in the end. Dreams like that shouldn't happen, not at that level of ferocity and clarity. As he thought back on his dream, silent and invisible, his view shifted from his own face and the cave floor to a rocky ceiling dappled with torch light.

Nerves pinched all over, and then suddenly he was back in his own skin. Sleep paralysis wore off so quickly King forgot he had even experienced it, and as his eyes broke open and his fingers wiggled to regain circulation he realized where he was. The cave stretched out over head, unchanged from what he could notice, and below him the terrain was smooth and chilling. King made to move but his body refused, all muscles screaming out in anguish against him, and this feeling only doubled in intensity as he suddenly realized there was an unfamiliar weight on his chest. King flinched away from it (or attempted to), completely surprised, caught off guard because he couldn't remember seeing a body as he "woke up" originally and he still wasn't sure if his dream was over. Dark hair was all he saw when he tried to glance down, not enough to be Astrid's but long enough to not be his fa--

King tried to sit up again. His nerves twisted and his chest heaved but eventually he was propped up on his forearms and staring down at the sleeping face of what he assumed to be Malcolm. A bit of precarious balancing on one arm and hair-moving later cleared up King's assumption, and he let out a sigh he hadn't realized he was holding. King had no time to be annoyed or embarrassed by the situation, not yet, his mind was ringing wildly as his gaze swept across the rest of the cave. Three other shapes were nearby, all breathing, all warm. He wasn't sure if they were alive but, from his own experienced, King could only assume that they would wake soon with the same sense of sickness that seemed to come with magic-water-induced-hallucinogenic-dreaming.

Worry passed, replaced by a dead tiredness in his bones again, and King settled back comfortably on his arms to throw his head back. Nausea came and went, as well as questions. He was stock full of knowledge and had no idea what to do with it. Memories he shouldn't have yet were now gleaming in his mind's eye, ready to be put to full use. All he could remember about experiences like this were the words "prophetic" and "drugs".

Silence ate at him. None of the others were rising and worry threatened to rear its ugly head again. With a self-contained shudder, King lifted a hand to Malcolm's head (he let his hand linger for a moment, because his mind wasn't sure what to do, because he was slightly embarrassed now, because he always seemed to linger around this drunk asshole), and then reached down to roughly jostle his shoulder. "Dude, hey. Get up--" His eyes turned to the others, narrowed in the half light and blazing with a wish to flee this dark place, "Az, Philly, Jess? Guys? Get up. Get up now, please."
In Ѧasks 9 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
@jaybreezy this site here is a real time saver~ u just gotta write down the text u want in the small box available next to the color swatch and then u can right lick one of the fonts to copy and paste the url here if that makes sense~
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