text ↪ un: torontonian

[hallowing]

important q


if u were a dnd character


what class would u be



if u dont know wat dnd is (wow sorry for ur life) a class will be assigned for u randomly. no i dont make the rules.

Comments

[blyat]

[He stares now, incredulity in the look, though eventually it slides off and focuses on the path ahead.]

I mean, it's not all gonna be about fighting. Probably. I can't do half the shit some people can. [Everyone has something they're good at, even if it isn't combat, Cain thinks.] Guess that's why they wanted you here. To look pretty for our morale.

[hallowing]

Awh, CeCe, you think I'm pretty?

（ he leans down and in just a smidge, and bumps his shoulder into cain's. gently, mindful of that guarded side. ）

I guess if I can bring your （ the world's most pointed pause. he clears his throat, and then continues effortlessly: ） morale up then it's all worth it.

[blyat]

[The amount of obnoxious nicknames this guy would invent if he knew his real name... it can never happen....

Against better sense and reason, as they near the exit on the other side of the room—another pair of automatic doors accessed by a panel on the wall—he makes a bad decision. It's stupid, yet Cain does it anyway in defiance of several shitty facts, the most primary among them that he's here, now, starting over again. And because he's done this for far less in the past, it feels effortless. He hasn't really changed at all.

Maybe it's just talk. Flirtation on nothing, on a thread of charisma, to make Cain more amenable to teamwork and conversation and everything good, buddy-buddy, beneficial. He'll find out in the seconds it takes to step sideways and intersect Cy's path, getting a gloved fist in the front of that ugly, patterned shirt. The difference in height is both absurd and frustrating; he realizes he's never actually tried to kiss someone taller than him, because most people aren't this fucking tall unless by deliberate fault of genetic modification. He pulls Cy down to him and lands a kiss hard on his mouth.]

[hallowing]

（ purpose is always the same, and you learn to recognize it. sometimes even before the people themselves do. certain things are coded into microexpressions and motions and people are often way more predictable than they're willing to accept about themselves.

(a few thousand years' experience helps, too.)

so cy's not exactly surprised when the kid does an about-face and hauls him in. he's more intrigued, pleasantly amused, and of course he kisses back, one hand lifted up to let his thumb catch at the edge of his jaw, fingers fanned against his neck. cy lets him to be the one to call the shots not out of any especial dislike or inability for doing it himself, but because hey — he's the injured one, he knows his own limits and what he's after. the kiss, therefore, is exactly as slow and languid as cain wants it to be. cy tastes like cheap beer and whatever candy he's been eating apace, and the cigarette he's still holding in one hand. ）

[blyat]

[Cain's hand remains twisted in the front of a shirt long enough to take what he wants from the kiss, which is not slow or languid. That isn't how he kisses strangers. It's hard pressure, tight lips, daring edge of teeth and brief, wet slide of tongue. It's hot and combative, and if it didn't hurt to move, he'd be pushing Cy up against the wall by the door. It's pleasant. More than pleasant—an interruption to the furious, churning thoughts in his mind, removing him from the moment by the warm press of a mouth and the physical proximity of another body. No expectations. He doesn't know Cy, and Cy doesn't know him. So why does it feel like he's doing something wrong?

After a few slippery seconds of that, he backs off with a lingering, evaluative look. He rubs his tongue against the inner line of his own teeth, tasting smoke and beer and something sweet. Apple?]

Thanks. [A word punctuated when fingers steals Cy's cigarette and perch it between his own lips; he turns away.] I can get to the kitchen from here on my own, big guy.

[hallowing]

（ he laughs, and gives the guy a bit of a jaunty little bow, like a ballet dancer. amusement is writ plain in his expression as he straightens up afterwards, and he doesn't even make any obvious lamentation about the loss of that cigarette. he does, however, smooth down his shirt where it wrinkled up into the guy's closed fist.

he knows the type — and he isn't going to push. the guy wants to crash into his boundaries full tilt and bolt like a spooked cat, that's fine by him. ）

Yeah, yeah. Don't be a stranger. Hasta mañana.

（ and off he goes, casually as you please. whistling, off-key. ）