|
Post by GABRIEL DOBREV on Sept 2, 2016 17:48:06 GMT -6
There's little syllabic difference between viejo and soldier. They don't have to sound the same. Karma, sir. It almost gets out of him, snapped back behind a roll of his tongue around his teeth. There he went, getting too comfortable. Muscles rippled back to attention, that latent threat ever-present. It had to be. He regarded the new drink set before him with a mild sweep of distaste through his gut - impulsive impulsive impulsive - and let those eyes wander to Barkeep. He doesn't want to look at his curls anymore. He does, but he shouldn't. He should make up some lie about work in the morning. He should throw the drink in his face. He thinks for what seems like forever. And then he doesn't.
"Gabriel." He never gives his name first. It slips out before he can catch it, and he lets it go like it was nothing. Just a name.
He takes a long swig of the drink, sugar barely tasted, and blamed the clench in his jaw on the sour, wondering after what could possible follow. He didn't care for Barkeep's name - names never mattered - just like he'd never cared for the name of the cocktail in his hand. It ruined him, that cocktail. His large hands, worn with scars and age, looked young and new around it. He still wore Jimmy's letterman when he held this godforsaken drink. He could feel the black eye Pa gave him, the gashes in his lip from the driveway that sat like two parallel white, puckered lines from lip to chin now. It ruined him. He'd strived for years and the damn lemon sour is what tore it all down.
Through a sudden buzz around his stomach - he really hadn't touched alcohol in quite some time - he didn't care. Suddenly, he just. Didn't. He did, he did, in the aching black pit of his mind that festered in years of abuse and lives practiced in lies. But right now, he didn't care, and one single, hardened eye searched Barkeep's stance, the silver of his gaze as impossible as ice set ablaze. He leaned forward, nary a change in his face but the sudden intensity that rippled around silver brows, and reached one hand around to flip open the worn box of cigarettes in his backpocket, dragging one out with his teeth and placing it idly on the counter.
He's halfway reaching for his lighter when he stops, singular eye still unwavering on Barkeep. He can't feel his hands. He can't feel most of anything. He'd already unravelled whatever uniform he'd sewn for himself and practically lit it up with his Zippo anyhow. "Don't make me waste my lighter fluid," he grunts, stiff, like there's no option to argue (of course there is), and leans over the counter, fresh cigarette between his teeth, head angled, throat tight.
His eye doesn't move. He can't hear anything but the roar of his heartbeat in his ears. It's only sort of pathetic, but he doesn't back down. He never has before.
@david
|
|
offline
0 posts
played by
Deleted
|
Post by Deleted on Sept 2, 2016 18:42:57 GMT -6
[nospaces] [break] He keeps two fingers on the edge of the glass’ base; as if he’ll move it away should you refuse to answer his question. (No true threat, however, since he’s certain if you move fast enough the drink would be out of his reach before he can do anything about it.) The weight is heavy, he leans close on the bar, rolling the cigarette between his lips—keeps himself from chewing because this is no cigar. Doesn’t even have the taste of spice he likes so much. Eyebrows quirk; your muscles quiver—jump starting to attention. It reminds him of recruits; how used to ask the new guy what his name was.. Funny how the junior officer here is the one in charge. He grins. [break][break] “Gabriel,” he tests the name—accent rolling over it out of habit because he’s pretty sure he has a relative named Gabriel, but it didn’t suit him; hell, he isn’t sure he’d stare at you and think ‘his name must be Gabriel’ either. But it’s what you’ve given him and he likes the way it sounds on his tongue. So he decides that he’ll call you it whenever he wants. Maybe when they’re alone—in their own bubble like they are now—so no one else will know your name. He asked, everyone else is darting for hints of who you are like a stray dog hungry for scraps. [break][break] Fingers drum off the edge of the glass, letting you take it without complaint. You must really like those Lemon Drops. ‘You still know how to read people.’ Surprise. David would be purring if he could. [break][break] The moment you release the glass—and draw closer to him—David reaches his hand across the wood. His other arm still laying flat against it. The sticky surface not bothering him for once. It’s an offer for a shake, surely, but he knows he’ll challenge his limits and let the touch linger longer than necessary. It’s a quiet, subtle dance they’re playing. (Any locals would be screaming, likely, if it weren’t for most being dead drunk by now and others long gone with the morning hours drawing onward.) [break][break] “David.” Even if you don’t want his name, he gives you it anyway. (Though he’d be fine to keep to Curls because at least someone appreciates ‘em.) You grab another cig, part of him is greedy and glad that he can keep the familiar weight of the cancer stick in his mouth, but another is disappointed you hadn’t taken it back. When you hesitate with your lighter, his gaze shifts towards it in question. Til you grumble and bare yours upward; thirsting for the fiery touch. Eyes widen just for a fraction of a second before lips quirk on both corners. [break][break] He makes a show of pressing it forth to light yours with the end of the one he’s stolen; closing his eyes and exhaling a puff of smoke as he does so. [break][break][break] MADE BY ★MEULK
|
|
|
Post by GABRIEL DOBREV on Sept 4, 2016 18:30:37 GMT -6
Your eyes are doing that thing he hates. The look like I've scratched the surface and wiggled my way in. He's only opened up the screen door, kid, you've got forty more years to dig through.
The cigarettes connect, his sparks, he inhales still close to your mouth. Lung cancer and lemon sours. That's the title of the next convoluted teen romance, isn't it? You're both already hanging in a sea of smoke like its a metaphor for the tension roiling between thick chest and iron chassis. The machine stutters and steams and Gabriel rolls back to sit in his barseat with a flush of smoke out through his nose, nostril twitching.
His single eye loses an edge, and he glances down at thick hands, the outline of dogtags beneath a too-tight shirt. He takes his cigarette from his dry mouth and holds it in two thick knuckles when he takes the top of the glass in his hand, sipping it with a thick swallow, the jump of a scarred adam's apple. It's entirely possible to write this much about a simple sip of alcohol when the gaze over it is burning like molten lead, hot.
There's nothing about this that isn't inherently criminal, not to him. He's made himself quite clear way too fast. There's something... liberating about it, really. But he doesn't trust you at all. This is his story, the selfish old fart thinks over the rim of his glass, taking his cigarette back between his teeth. You're another side-character morality test from some painful higher power that had him on a leash from the start. Not a healthy mindset, Mr. Dobrev. He still has memories of leather boots kicking him to kneel, skin too hot to describe burning his mouth.
"Y'know, David," you have lost your mind but he lets his eye flicker down, tasting the cigarette on his lips, "I don't think this is very polite, smokin' up the bar in a crowded place." He doesn't linger on the chest, the arms, for very long, but he does, before he clunks one foot off the barstool, chewing at his cancer stick. "You got anywhere I can smoke this that won't bother my fellow patrons?" Subtelty's gone out the window at this point, and he's just as lame as you might think.
The humor of his statement doesn't reach his gaze. It's burning, and he hears his heart in his ears like gunfire. He's got to push to get shoved. Let's see how badly this trial of God was put together.
@david this is trash i am so sry
|
|
offline
0 posts
played by
Deleted
|
Post by Deleted on Sept 5, 2016 2:16:38 GMT -6
[nospaces] [break] The dance between the both of you is fair from graceful; too many unknowns with the possibility of stepping on eggshells around every turn. But it doesn’t stop either of you for succumbing to feverish touches. It’s a risk; a leap of faith. You allow him a peek of what could be underneath your hard mask. Soft. You want this too, it isn’t just him. Only, David doesn’t know how to think of this. A fling, if anything. [break][break] Nothing that is supposed to be permanent. He’s been there, done that. The promises of forever tend to fall flat; “We’ll be married one day, Dav. Both our families will be there.” David snorts. “Are you proposing to me, cariño?” Simpler times, before either knew what happens when bitter words and wrong decisions get the better of ‘em. Anything deep and meaningful just hurts. It was hard enough letting Ren get as close as she has. [break][break] It’s so easy to, instead, throw bullshit aside. He indulges where he pleases. Surely, you do mean something to him. The Eastwood is attracted; he just refuses to think of anything more. Too soon, too much. ( “You gotta stop having your heart on your sleeve.”) It’s just that you’re making him think of memories that were buried six feet under. He thinks of shared cigarettes, shy smiles and pale cheeks beet red under the slightest of touches. He thinks of nights spent laughing; of hanging off each other’s shoulders and sloppy make-outs next to dumpsters. [break][break] This isn’t the same; but it’s similar. [break][break] He thinks, dully, that maybe he can override this memory with something new; something good. [break][break] Cigarettes touch; yours lights before long. David is content to stay where he is; pressed up against the counter and admiring the red hue creeping up your neck and coating the tips of your ears. His lips are lax; expression softer than it has any right to be. But he feels good; he feels intoxicated. The way you say his name doesn’t help either. Closer. Closer. [break][break] Heart squeezes, just a moment as shoulders stiffen. Eyebrow arches in mild confusion; Rejection? Invitation? Smells like an excuse to slip from his grasp, however. Sneaky you, giving him a taste. But it looks like you aren’t leaving him willingly. David can take pride in that, at least, as your silver eye traces the lines of muscles hidden underneath fitted clothing. He relaxes again, taking a slow drag of his cig and tapping ash off the tip into a tray within reach. [break][break] “Suppose so,” he amuses. Brown eyes roam the “crowd”; not many were around, but he sees the interested glances flicking their way. It’s more-so because it’s Gabriel—how he liked the idea of getting used to that name—is here, socializing. Even his co-worker seems curious. [break][break] Subtle you are; it’s an invitation after all. Dedicate, cautious; dirty, needing. David withdraws from his perch; standing at his full height which to some would be intimating. To you, he must look small despite thick bulk and broad shoulders. He takes the cig from his lips, juts his chin vaguely back. Eyes leave you; instead, he catches the eyes of his nosy co-worker; “I’m taking my break.” Loud enough over the noise of the bar that they could hear. David didn’t bother waiting for them to comply before he began to slide from the embrace of red wood. [break][break] When he leaves it, there is no barrier between the two of you any longer. No excuse for being so near. He feels like a teenager picking someone up for the first time; giddy… nervous. Dumb. He exhales, filtering through the few that found quiet spots near the side entrance. It isn’t one used much by patrons; not off limits per se but most tended to waltz through the front door since the dull alley with a dumpster didn’t seem appealing to most. The staff used it their smoke break spot. [break][break] David cracks the heavy door with ease, propping his foot up as he retakes the near finished cig between his lips. Night air; crisp, cool and quiet greets him like an old friend. (He’ll never get used to how clean the skies are here though. Stars dotting the sky instead of being covered in smog had always been more his style.) [break][break] “Smooth,” he says the moment he hears the door close shut—the bustle of Morrie’s Bar now deafened by brick. ‘Now you got me all alone.’ David knows what you’re after, just wonders how you like it. You don’t seem the romantic type that wants to frolic in a field of flowers. (Maybe the type that likes sweet nothings and gentle praises.) But he doesn’t want you to tell him outright, either. He wants to find out for himself. [break][break] David twists out his cigarette on the brick wall; letting it fall and placing a boot on it— habit; just in case. (He’ll clean it later, always does.) Stance riles; predatory. But the heat behind his eyes is not violence alone. One hand attempts to pull your new cigarette from your lips, the other attempts to yank you down by your shirt. (Soldier, you’d know how to break this if you want to; David lets you have your chance to escape if that’s what you want.) If he pulls you down towards him, his head would tilt just enough that your noses wouldn’t mash uncomfortably. Eyes half-lidded. [break][break] He would freeze, a hairs length from pressing his mouth to yours. He glances up; silent request for permission. [break][break][break] MADE BY ★MEULK
|
|
|
Post by GABRIEL DOBREV on Sept 5, 2016 12:12:39 GMT -6
Smooth. It's the first thing he hears when his senses come rushing back to him.
He's sure that somewhere, some hackjob director with too many neon lights in his garage and an old 8mm camera is going nuts over the way this feels in his head. Everything narrows in, siphoning down to the sights down his nose, like gunfire. Both eyes open - but he lost that luxury a long time ago. This David slips out of the bar and the barrier shatters like glass, fragile as it was against two boiling point of tension on fire at both sides.
But he's not out of it, not yet. He knows how many people are in the bar, the number of steps to get out the door. He knew it was there. There's no subtelty in this, and normally, that wasn't a good thing. Don't ask, don't tell. It was all too obvious what a soldier wanted when he asked for a joint smoke break, help with the trash at night, whatever. He'd stopped trusting that sort of lame crap years ago; didn't hurt to turn it on someone else for once.
But the hand twisting in his shirt - that surprises him. They didn't do that. They let him incriminate himself, wandering hands and genuine sighs. This David is organic, or he's a really good actor. He gets too close too quick and has the initiative to take Gabriel's cigarette out of his mouth; could've burned your hand like that, he thinks, silvery eye narrowing. The hand in his shirt's not shaking, but adrenaline puckers the veins in the arm - in his, too. He's not shaking, but his body is buzzing.
He drops his head obligingly, and when Barkeep stops, he does too. Barkeep swoons like a recruit, too young to enlist in the poisonous scheme the universe had set up for him, too young to make mistakes. He'd always rejected them. Here, the soldier tilts his chin upward, appraising, with a twitch of his nose. He looks down through veiled eyes, the phantom white socket still, somehow, committing that face to memory. How could he let someone so new see something so spontaneously genuine? It was fascinating.
"You didn't have to follow me out here." Their mouths are barely touching, beards tickling, white on black. His lips curl at the corners, a smile he only feels sort of, the laughter in his voice deep and thick, but dry. It's more for show, than anything, though no inch of his body implies it. It's all too natural for the lumbering man in the dark corner of the bar to turn out some thick-voiced, baritone one-night lover. He's all too aware of the walking trope that he is - half of his mind sits stale-faced behind the look of intensity lording his eye, but the other scintillates with heat. He's not emotionless, and this is -- nervewracking, almost.
So he closes the gap between them. It's not fierce, it's not even deep. His lips touch dry heat and he doesn't close his eyes, bending his head to oblige the kid's original angle and slowly, slowly, watching the golden burn of his face. He only has one eye, the depth of field and the details of David's face going rough and blurry, and he catches a part of himself that's irritated, wants to fix that. He calms himself down. It'll be over soon. He knows no black boots will come to kick and shove and force him to the floorboards, but he's still tense under the smooth, relaxed shoulders thick with muscle and heat that flex as he moves.
His hand wanders - where in teen years it shoved in backpockets and scrambled up jerseys, it silently, powerfully aims to wrap around that tight black waist, smoothing the flat of his palm and fingers on the curve of a muscled hip. He pulls him closer, if he'll allow, but his kiss is light, the press of his mouth almost daintily around David's lower lip, the barest tickle of his canines against the skin. It's not without his promised passion, but it's - simply there, a vantage point for his gluttonous gaze on this David's face. It's for the trial to decide ( or the genuine human being scintillating and bright like a hard-to-look-at flame in the crook of his scarred arm ) what will happen next.
@david
|
|
offline
0 posts
played by
Deleted
|
Post by Deleted on Sept 6, 2016 2:51:27 GMT -6
[nospaces] [break] Younger times, David wouldn’t have stopped. He hadn’t been a man that asked; only one who took, took and took. You either bit the hand he grabbed you with or you fell into his embrace. Fight or freeze. He’s learned since then. Standing in control of a situation completely—strong, iron grip on arms and heated breathes—was his drug at the time, but it’s so much more satisfying to have you give him what he wants; for you to want it, too. Electricity shoots up his spine and spans across his shoulder blades down to the cut nails on his fingers and the tips of his toes. [break][break] Underneath his hand, you give into his demands; dropping down without fight. It’s bittersweet. Makes you different in a way, because the first time he did this it ended up with a broken nose and bloody lips. Kisses fevered, unpracticed and pure lust. Violence is absent from this; touches soft and teasing. Your nose twitches; David’s starting to think it’s a good thing whenever it does. Might just be a subconscious habit of yours, but oh, do good things seem to follow it whenever he spots it. He’s distracted by your mouth though, by the way it quirks in the corners. Your voice is unexpected, beard prickling against his own as you speak in private tones. [break][break] Dry laughter follows, but you don’t move away. Nothing screams that you hadn’t expected things to flow this way. David’s own lips twitch upwards. Thin scars stretching; a wound that used to hurt, but now he’s numb. When their mouths finally connect, a low hum vibrates against it. Tender, soft. Capped lips thick he’s sure taste of lemon and smoke move against his own, but they don’t press for more; not yet. They aren’t a mess of teeth and bite. An arm wraps around his broad hips; he indulges, twisting back against the heavy, warm weight until he melts in your embrace. [break][break] Cigarette is tossed haphazardly to the side; David takes more interest in roaming your lower back. The other, previously yanking at your shirt, slinks up; ghosting along your blind side until he attempts to cup your cheek. Nose shifts to brush against yours, too, he feels that canine more than he sees it. Thumb rubs on your cheek at the corner. He presses in; baring teeth to bite but they aren’t armed to break skin this time. Soft, exploring touches and gentle pulls instead. He pushes where he can, attempts to back you against the filthy brick wall behind you—he’s strong, gone against military before on a daily basis but unless you give, he won’t be moving you anywhere easy. [break][break] He didn’t have to follow you, but you wanted him to. He wanted, too.[break][break][break] MADE BY ★MEULK
|
|
|
Post by GABRIEL DOBREV on Sept 6, 2016 3:16:16 GMT -6
Taking implied that he had anything to give. He'd been told long ago that he didn't.
There are dull sensations here and there. He'd become numb to them all. Hand touch number three thousand two hundred and... But, if anything, he likes the way your hand feels. Hands that big have never touched him so tentatively. They knew what they wanted, and they took. Yours skirt the surface, wonder if it's alright. At least, he likes to think so. He's fully aware these are all just pathetic hopes wrapped up in tight-laced reality.
You wanted, and you took. You took him back here. You just took a little less. ( What, like you hadn't asked? The sudden self-review has him pause. Huh. )
Gabriel feels something like a hand touch his cheek, careful, like hers, and he makes a noise - throaty, guttural, an approval. It wasn't scripted, and he knows it, burying it down with a sudden impassioned breath as he fixes the angle of their mouths. That one was always a favorite, he doubts times have changed now.
He backs up as guided, no refusal in any thread of his muscle. He is easy, a well-timed slow and deep exhale breathing through his nose as he tilts his chin to oblige your angle, deeper, chasing the touch of teeth. A quirk of the lips, like clockwork. Yes, he felt that. You're not getting away with that. Some part of him sparks up with delight when he chases that small tap of teeth with a wrinkle of his upper lip, scraping canines over the curve of David's lower lip, fresh with cigarette smoke. He tries to bury it down, but it doesn't work, and he forgets about it.
His back is flush against the wall now, where you wanted him. He'll stay if you want him to. It's how you all work. At least with polished boots he knew what refusal would get him. He doesn't know what Barkeep will do at all. He doesn't like that. A part of him, though, thrills over that exact concept. That part of him had been a particular fan of the spontaneous kiss he'd given Jim Stevens beneath the bleachers at the Saturday night game, too.
Weird, that he'd think of that now. He forgets about it just as quickly, caught up in the smell and taste of his breath. And yes, somehow, he'd managed to think of all that while trying to bite, softly, temptingly, at David's lower lip. His arm tightens, fingers pressing in to the tantalizing black fabric of his shirt, the other going for that hip that swung just too far to the left when he walked - to squeeze, to egg you on that extra bit. He wants you to go for it. It's a weird feeling. He doesn't - for once - mind it too much.
@david
|
|