#⁽ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵒᵗʰᵐᵃᶰ ᶤˢ ᵇᵘˡˡˢʰᶤᵗ⋅ ⁾ — v. peri-game.

[regretmade-blog]

—  @paperflowerlullabies . ❜

              “COME ON, MORGAN. Not that far to go.” He’s lying, of course --- it was naturally all his idea to come trekking through the woods of Maple Bay at this hour, the sky turning a deep shade of ripe burning orange, dragging the brunette along on his quest to try and prove the Dover Ghost’s existence to someone who’ll actually listen to him, and not shoot him a look that reads nothing more than ‘HOW MANY SHOTS OF WHISKEY HAVE YOU HAD?’. The answer is a lot. He’s had a lot of whiskey prior to stumbling up this hill and pulling Morgan a long after him, vision hidden behind dark sunglasses, bag thumping against his side with every long step. What’s he got in there? Knives, probably. Knives, a bottle of Jack Daniels, and some sort of professional ghost-hunting equipment. Professional by eBay standards.

            “I saw it around here, y’know. I think it’s drawn to me.” Maybe that’s the alcohol talking, who knows. Speaking of alcohol --- he makes to open up his bag, producing the bottle from brown paper, and begins to unscrew the lid to lift the rim to his lips, swigging heartily. “Brought Betsy up here many a time. But I think it prefers it when I’m alone.”

[regretmade-blog]

@solucius:

            It wasn’t hard to convince Robert to stay behind once they were done with the exercises he was helping him through. Usually they would lie on the grass and stare up at the clouds and not say anything, letting the sun keep them warm. The heat from it was far too great that day, however, so they found themselves under the tree he had in the backyard. Robert was lying with his back up against the bark, Lucius sitting right next to him with their shoulders touching, hands brushed up against each other and fingers loosely interlocked. After a while, Lucius found himself raising Robert’s hand so he could press a kiss to the top of it, smiling when he felt the man’s head rest against his own as they leaned against each other more. It was amazing to think that he felt he could spend the whole day like this. If they had nothing better to do, he would gladly have sat there with Robert as the hours passed.

            After a few moments, he found himself turning his head when Robert shifted a little. Looking up to the man, the smile kept to his lips as he leaned in to kiss the man, slow and chaste. He pulled back after the one and smiled once more before resting his head on his shoulder.

                “I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU, but I don’t feel like moving.” Not for a good while, at the very least --- there might be other things to do, but Robert would rather not spoil this perfect moment, blessed with the right level of noise, a nice shady spot to sit, and his favourite kind of company to boot. He could quiet easily doze, take a nap under this tree for a couple of hours; they’re right in the middle of summer, so the warm weather is out while the sun stretches golden, glimmering rays over the expanse of Maple Bay, giving people the ideal excuses to go out to the park, take the kids fishing, or, in their case, lounge around lazily like a cat in the simmer of summer heat.

                 Russet eyes sit heavy, half-lidded as he makes to slip one arm ‘round Lucius’ waist, press him closer to the bulk of Robert’s side. For once, he’s not wearing his leather jacket, but that’s only because he couldn’t, not in this heat, and not while taking part in yoga --- he’d be sweating worse than a guilty Joseph Christiansen caught in the unpleased glaring gleam of his darling wife’s eye. A scarred index finger raises to curl carefully under the yoga instructor’s chin, attempting to angle his face upward a little as Small leans to return the kiss, noses brushing as lips meet, gentle and tender. He feels too tired to manage anything else, anything more passionate, but they’ve worked hard with their exercises. Perhaps they can afford to be lazy, even for a short while before the duties of real life come knocking.

[regretmade-blog]

—  @freexmedic . ❜

                “I’M FINE, ANGELA, REALLY.” He’s still in a state of denial, still believes it’s not as bad as it looks, even though his hand is positively gushing with scarlet because his whittling knife struck way, way deeper than he thought it initially had. Make no mistake, Robert’s no rookie when it comes to whittling. He’s got years of practice under his belt, he’s used to getting sliced and stabbed by little knicks here and there, the scars on his hands are testament to that... but this one really takes the cake. It’d been hard enough for him to decide to swallow his pride and acknowledge maybe it was bleeding a little more than anticipated, he’d grabbed his first aid kit from the depths of his truck and decided to pay a visit to someone who really knows their injuries. Thank God for a knowing a doctor so close to home, right? “Okay, maybe I’m not fine-fine but... it could be worse, right? I’ve still got all four fingers and my thumb still there, yeah?”

[regretmade-blog]

—  @archerwhiterp​. ❜

            “YOU’RE THE GUY WHO JUST moved into the cul-de-sac, right?” Not that Robert’s been keeping a close eye on the newcomer or anything, but he’d spied the removal van and everything while he was out of the house this morning, busy getting a cup of coffee to try and aid the whole crashing from lack of sleep scenario. Yet here is he is, out late again, and he probably won’t crawl into bed ‘till the early hours of the morning. Such is life. Some habits are just so deeply ingrained into the system, they’re impossible to kick. Picking up his glass, leather-boot-clad feet carry Small over and a slow stroll to drop himself into the seat next to Archer, bringing the rim of the tumbler to his lips and swigging.

          “Thought I saw you in Matt’s place this morning.” Not alone --- he was with a girl, but Robert assumes she’s his daughter --- though he doesn’t really dwell too long on that concept. Makes something flare up inside of him, the burn of bad memories. Leaves a putrid taste on the tongue, like venom. He downs some more whiskey to try and fight the fire with another sort of flame. “Just a brief glimpse, though I could be wrong. Could’ve been someone else.”

[regretmade-blog]

“So, you ever kill a man?”

*   DREAM   DADDY:   A   DAD   DATING   SIMULATOR   SENTENCE   STARTERS   !!

               “SURE HAVE.” No, he’s just shit-stirring, as usual; spinning a tall tale to see how Archer’ll react. The only thing he ever got arrested for was breaking someone’s window and going over the speed limit as a reckless youth back in the day — more recently, he’s pretty damn clean ( though all that drink he pours into his shell of a body could suggest otherwise. ) 

               Robert’s tattooed hand, littered with small, dirty white, raised scars, makes to delve inside the deepest pocket of his leather jacket, retrieving one of his ( many ) blades before flicking out the sharp end with a swift flick of his wrist. “With a knife just like this one. Before I came to Maple Bay, years ago, I got into a fight with some guy in a local bar, down in New Jersey  — I wanted to know more about the Jersey Devil, so thought it best I talk to the locals about it… but this loud mouth was adamant the thing didn’t exist, and wasn’t taking push off for an answer. I’m not exactly a saint, but I’m no sceptic, either; I wasn’t gonna listen to someone who didn’t even have credible proof. Words turned ugly, things started heading south, and before I knew it the guy tries to hit me in the face with a glass bottle. Self defence and uh, primal instincts? That shit’ll make you do some… wild things, things you didn’t even know you were capable of.”

                   Small makes to bury his nose in his drink, tries to focus on downing his whisky. He manages to suppress the laughter for a short while, but upon making eye contact with the newcomer of Maple Bay, his shoulders start to shake. And then comes the burst of laughter, the loud snigger of: “I’m just pulling your leg, Archer. I’m kidding. I’ve never killed anybody.” A pause, and he turns to properly face him, a glint in umber eyes. “Or have I?”

[regretmade-blog]

— @beautyveined. ❜

              “BETSY. BETSY!! BETSY, COME AWAY FROM THERE.” Goddamn, that dog. As much as she fills Robert’s heart with a sense of love & pride, the adorable, clumsy ball of black and white fuzz that she is, he can’t help but wish the Boston Terrier didn’t have such a vast energy expansion pack ---- it’s like the damn thing’s running on triple A batteries, zipping here there and everywhere, sometimes tripping over her own legs. She’s only small, but without a doubt, what she lacks in size she sure as hell makes up for in speed. When he finally catches up with the brown-eyed menace pestering some poor young woman sat on a bench, front legs up on the wooden seat, little rump wagging violently & tongue lolling from her mouth, Robert bends to gather her up in his arms, scolds her for running half way across the park without him. 

              “Betsy! That damn ice-cream isn’t for you, silly girl.” Still he can’t blame the dog for having a sweet tooth; dare he say, she may just have got that from him. “Sorry,” Umber eyes flicker from the dog’s features onto the girl’s, offering a slight, apologetic smile. “She’s uh, all too eager to make friends, it seems.” A vast contrast to him; he’s the whiskey smelling shadow of Maple Bay, clad in mystery; nobody knows much about him, where he came from, what his story is. And that’s just the way he LIKES things. This in itself, a daylight appearance of him, is a rarity. He usually spends his time cooped up indoors --- but Betsy needs the exercise. 

[regretmade-blog]

—  @solucius . ❜

                        HE BARELY GOT UP a couple of hours ago, still wandering around the house in his boxers and a shirtless top --- but such is his way. He’s never been a man to usually get up any time until after the sun’s set & the Bay is engulfed in darkness... but admittedly he’s found himself getting up earlier since meeting the yoga instructor. He isn’t really sure what’s got his body clock jolted up --- he’s still downing as much drink as he ever did, still enjoys his peace and quiet while hunting in the dark for cryptids late at night with Betsy, but maybe it’s all the yoga he’s ( reluctantly ) started taking part in, thanks to Lucius. Ha, he knows how that sounds --- Robert, doing yoga? Funnily enough, his favourite position isn’t ‘curled-up-drunk-in-a-corner-cradling-a-bottle.’ It’s actually proving to be helpful. Relaxing, almost. A good way to release tension, and help him come to terms with some bigger problems he carries around inside his chest, weighing him down like stones in the pockets of a dead man sinking in a river. He always feels a bit better after taking part in those sessions --- actually, he’s felt better about himself since meeting Lucius, period.

                                           [  SENT  TO    →  LUCIUS  SO  ] :  hey                                            [  SENT  TO   →  LUCIUS  SO  ] :  am i still gud 2 come over?

                      Fingers tap out the messages on Dadbook in quick succession, hitting the enter key of his laptop without properly proof-reading what he’s said. It’ll be fine, even if there are any spelling errors. He’s just double checking, even if he is due to leave the house in a few minutes or so. Amanda’s out of the house, he thinks she might be at a friends house for the night ( she’s reconciled with them, Robert knows that much. ) He’s bringing across a couple of his favourite dvds and a bottle of something good. Or maybe two. He likes to keep a surprise up his sleeve. While he awaits his response, Small makes to search for his leather jacket among the discarded clothes and a stray bottle littering his bedroom floor, wondering what movies he aught to bring across. Would Breakfast At Tiffany’s be considered laughable?