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[absentmorals]

[absentmorals]

[absentmorals]

WOLFF, F.

frankie had always loved the ranch , especially when she was a teenager during the summer – hence the reason she would randomly drop by after her shifts. at first she would shoot knox a text or call before she dropped by. however , lately , she tended to show up unannounced with a pack of beer to pass the time. the place felt like a second home to her , in fact she felt more comfortable here than her family home. it seemed only natural that she tended to gravitate towards here , towards knox as well she supposed , but that was a thought she refused to reflect upon.

so there she sat on his porch , a can already cracked open as she waited for him to turn up. honestly , she didn’t mind the wait. she knew he was most likely tending to the ranch. “ ah , there you are !! ” a grin tugs at her features once she catches a glimpse of him walking towards the porch , a hand raises to wave at him eagerly despite how exhausted she felt. “been workin’ hard , i imagine ?? ” she pats the empty spot beside her. “ i do believe i penciled in ‘hang with frankie’ into your schedule. ” she teases with a soft laugh before taking a sip of her drink.

His parents had picked up the habit of adopting strays even when he was younger, before his siblings arrived to fill the hollow of the house with light and laughter. If you asked Knox, it was because his mother needed something like the sunshine you found in the very souls of the innocent to keep her warm. His father had tried to fashion himself into the sun, but eventually he’d grown to understand that his wife had too much love to give, even with all the heart she’d left in both him and her children. That was only the beginning of the fond memories that flooded him when it came to her. Frankie was the last remaining piece from that time, the one that stuck, and somehow slid right into the foundation. 

The ranch was as much her home as it was his, but that did not define the edges of whatever bond they had formed. Her letters, every tattered edge, were still tucked into the back of his closet. They were kept safe in one of his old uniforms, cherished like the memory that had kept him alive and kicking. He’d been out in the fields like he was most days, which explained his lack of presence there. She knew that there was a key his mother had hid under a ceramic planter, still there through his now reign of the ranch. She knew, well, Frankie knew him and everything else. 

That was the reason that surprise didn’t grip him, shock didn’t shake his bones, when he started to make out a figure on the porch one he’d gotten close enough to squint into the the distance. The sun was going down, settling behind his bare back, deep tan seeping into his skin and highlighting it with his roots. The tan did nothing for his scars though, some a little less noticeable than the others. His persistence for work even when stitches hadn’t been healed all those years ago, the need to feel like he wouldn’t be useless and bedridden for the rest of his life....it had split him open with his own stubbornness. He smiled at the memory of her fussing, easily falling way to a grin as gravel now crunched under his boots as he made the final descent of the drive.

“That ain’t near enough beer interruptin’ my schedule.” Playful hint teased at the softer nature of his tone, drawl easily soothing when it was directed and composed by her smile. “But I reckon you were intendin’ on usin’ that as an excuse to break out the tequila later.” A dig at her, just as spry as his tone, hand leaning up to catch the awning on that porch and lean into it. The sound of boots on the wood was there, but not entirely, as he hadn’t taken the right steps to land him close enough to reach out to. Instead, Knox took the opportunity to appreciate her memory in time, illuminated by the setting sun.

[absentmorals]

KANE,L.

Playing cards close to the vest was the routine way Lorenzo Kane navigated the tumultuous trials of his adolescent life, a decision landed upon through trial and error periods, and to the present it appeared to be the fail safe method of keeping himself relatively safe. The less of himself he put into the world, the less ammunition there was to shoot back at him. A nameless, faceless boy was harder to miss, which meant he was able to slip in and out of situations with an ease so many others lost out on. His sense of self preservation was unparalleled by most due to his lacking emotional ties. Lorenzo never had to care about anyone else, never wanted to, but as with most things in his life, what he wanted hardly came into play. 

Sitting alone in a bar with his head hung limply over the neck of his umpteenth beer, he wondered if he would even be in Texas had he tried a little harder to cling to that way of living. He didn’t often allow petty things such as shame to cloak his shoulders, but on nights when the urge was overwhelming, he indulged the emotion by getting sopping drunk and willing the pain in his chest away. Though most were none the wiser, it was no great coincidence he found himself in this part of Texas. What seemed like a lifetime ago he’d found one of the only shades of happiness he would ever know not many miles from where he sat, but the turning table was the fact that the source of that light was why he found himself working undercover at all, why he ran headlong into danger and ended the career he loved.

In fact, he had been coming into this very bar to watch for that very reason every few nights since he arrived in the one horse town. Lorenzo didn’t react immediately when the slightly sniffling voice sounded behind him, for part of him had been waiting to be noticed too long to be alarmed. Raising his head, his smile was slow, rolling in with a tightening of his chest he hoped didn’t flush his cheeks. “Bold of you to assume I have a home, darlin’,” he replied, accent thick with a false twang before he took another swig of his beer. A deep breath steadied him as he turned on the stool, head tilting enough to give his dark eyes free reign of the man before him. Absently, Lorenzo wiped his now itching palm against his jeans before his eyes made it back to the top.

Time fell away, despite the lacking contact they’d had since the explosion, and as if he was still the same boy taken under Knox’s wing, Lorenzo felt a strangely warm sensation swell in his chest that was as overwhelming as the first time he’d felt it. He stood and roughly pulled the other in for a hug, a seemingly fitting act for two former servicemen to do when reunited, but the way Lorenzo cradled the back of Knox’s neck, rough fingers digging into warm flesh, said volumes of the emotion that actually lingered. Playing his cards close to the vest was laughable when Knox was near, and it was both a blessing and a curse to endure. “Took you long enough to find me,” he said as he pulled away with a laugh. The hand at the other’s neck slid down to grasp the shoulder below, squeezing as he spoke. “I was starting to think our time together meant more to me than it did you, which is crazy considering I saved your life a time or two.”

Survival was a fickle goddess. Sometimes, you were welcomed to worship at her altar with open arms, and others you were punished for the audacity to take a single knee instead of both. There was a irony he could taste, it was flavored with the desert heat and stand gritting into his open wounds, the memory of fire dancing through nostrils. A part of him saw God that day, the light at the end of the tunnel touche his fingertips with holy grace, and it was Lorenzo who pulled him back from it. Those last few minutes before he shut his eyes for what Knox assumed just might be the last time, they were spent memorizing the tiniest of irrelevant details. The way that the wind blew his hair around his forehead, the crease created by distress in his forehead, the way his hands felt as they tried to stop all the bleeding. Most people learned to survive, but his survival was synonymous with the name of the man that stood before him now. He would have forsaken every line in the good book for five more minutes with Lorenzo, every time, no questions asked.

He was jarred from the memory once again, clearing a throat that felt like it would close in on itself if he was allowed to indulge much longer. That was the secret, the one that his therapist has whispered over the liquor hidden in his coffee cup, repeated until it sounded like reality. You can’t dwell. Country could, he would, stand on those memories, knees shaking with terror that came from losing them, that came from losing him. It felt like his chest was getting a little bit tighter, a rippling side effect of post traumatic stress, he now knew. Deep breath sucked in, eventually shaking off the vice grip of his own mental illness, at least for now. He’d be its victim by the end of the night, but it could wait until he was alone in a house that was too big to fight off the crippling loneliness of his reality. 

“You always had a home, Candy Kane. Just took your sweet time gettin’ back there.”  Hand reached up until it met with cuff, rolling back the sleeve of worn button up shirt, checking a watch that wasn’t actually there. Knox could easily roll charm into any conversation, sweet talking was an art form frequently indulged, but this was romantic honesty, instead of warfare. This was the swell of pace and heart, and the southern sweetness to his twang was natural, they were words he meant more than the empty prayers he said before bed. The same prayers to a savior he’d stopped believing in years ago, but somehow still bent the knee, out of habit rather than real religion. If he was going to pray, he’d find those knees in front of Lorenzo, a worthy altar to sacrifice himself to.

When they hugged, he held his breath. Bad habit of waiting for hell to break loose, the other shoe to drop and land firmly on his head. When it didn’t happen, when he had to fight his hands from finding reward in flesh in bone, he knew. He was safe, right here, as he had always really been. Exhale came easier than any breath he’d ever taken before that, leaning too far into the embrace that had already lasted too long. People were going to start staring any minute now, but he couldn’t locate the fuck to give. 

“You say that like I was supposed to know what was waitin’ here.”  A look shot to him that said you should have came sooner, or maybe i miss you, but he didn’t give breathe into the words. “You oughta know I always like my reunions private.” An exaggerated look around the bar, illustrating his point as if he possessed paper and pen. There was nowhere near enough patrons to count as crowded, but even one was too many when it came to the way he had too much and nothing to say. It was too many when he would much rather navigate the road back to one another behind closed doors. 

[absentmorals]

FITZPATRICK, E.

just as Eris thought that she was having a remarkably smooth shift, somebody had to go and ruin it for her. patrons of the club being drunk enough to mistake her for one of the dancers had become a reoccurring event, much to her dismay. she generally found a way to handle the situation, and usually, somebody came to aid her in getting away from said drunken patrons; but the methods of those who looked out for her varied greatly.

“hey, miss, how much for twenty minutes with you in a back room?” a man at least fifteen years Eris’ senior leered at her as she passed by and stopped to clear their table, occupied by him and two others.

she carried on doing her job, a fake smile gracing her lips as she reached for an empty glass discarded on the table. “well, gentlemen, I’m flattered, but that’s not my job here.” all her years of living here hadn’t worn down the Irish lilt that carried through her words. “can I getcha anything else?”

“you sure can, honey.” the man who’d spoken reached out, making a grab for her wrist, but Eris shifted out of the way subtly, stepping back and trying to act like she hadn’t noticed his efforts to grab at her. the smile faltered slightly on her face, and she gripped the glass in her hand a little tighter, but before she knew what was happening, she was staring up at the back of Kennedy’s head, his unmistakeable figure planting itself between her and the offending customer.

“jesus, Kennedy…” Eris shook her head, placing the glass down on an empty table behind her, knowing exactly how this would end. with Kennedy riled up and attacking somebody, that was certain -

she jumped back a little as Kennedy swiftly headbutted the man who dared try his luck with her. why was she at all surprised at his violent reaction? “hey. hey! not here!” Eris stepped forward again, weaving between Kennedy and the man now reeling and reaching up to assess the damage to his freshly bleeding nose. she faced Kennedy, planting her hands flat against his chest - like she’d be able to physically stop a force like him - and looking up at him pleadingly. “please, Kennedy. not here.”

His rage was always going to taste like blood in your mouth. Jameson didn’t know how to turn it down, always scrambling the insides of the chaos in his head, trapped there with no release until something, or someone was bleeding by his hands. There were moments of cold reflection given, the ones that were begging him to come back from the edge of oblivion, the one that he flirted with mercilessly every time he allowed violence to be the only answer. Resolve was a motherfucker, and each time the sound of bone breaking was chipping away at it with an alarming sort of satisfaction. Clink, clink, clink. Soon he’d have nothing left to give, empty like the deepened hollows of his chest, home to nothing more than a heart that was slowly becoming more and more black as the days passed.

He had already pivoted on dominant leg, prepared for the fight that his body knew was coming, the turning of the tides of a two person war. It didn’t take much to coax him into a bloodthirsty burden, which made her standing in front of him an act of God. Maybe the miracle was written between the bible verses on her voice, the ones that were always trying to drag him toward the altar of salvation. If he were a righteous man, he could have believed the bullshit they sold en masse, could have believed that maybe she was the angel that skirted the edges of damaged fault lines, the one that could somehow navigate the mine field. Whatever it was, it didn’t stop him, he’d already be mid-follow through.

Her face, all of her, standing there like something that was always this close to begging to be ruined, it was narrowly avoided. He skidded to a halt, allowing air to be stolen from beneath proverbial sails. Breathe. The distant voice of reason echoed, pushing air out through nostrils like some sort of angry bull, still upset he hadn’t been able to chase the red he’d desired, but features did soften for her benefit. An apology was owed, but it could only be offered in the ringing of silence in his ears. He didn’t hear a word she’d said, instead shook his head. Hair falling out of place, over what was sure to be a knot on his forehead. It reminded him his head was now singing, the promise of both hellbent and whiskey bound.

Hands held up, the white flag waved personified as he backed up from both the woman he knew and the stranger that now regretted ever looking at her twice. That was the goal, so maybe he’d succeeded without further intervention. 

“Listen to the lady next time.” Statement made for both the first and last time, that much made obvious by the cool calm that had returned to him. It was a threat, even though it was phrased to be a warning, or a suggestion. A chuckle followed, highlighting the terror in his true colors. With his welcome clearly worn out, he then, and only then turns to acknowledge her presence. “Should think about a new job, Fitz...this one looks like pure shite on ya..” 

[absentmorals]

the only reason that you’re good at goodbye is every boy you ever met was too easy to forget

[absentmorals]

OPEN STARTER.

@ridereblogs​

One thing the foster care system had taught Malakai Behr, was how to play the picture perfect part. There were days where she needed to be the victim, to play the card that spelled out a damsel in distress. There were weeks where she would be rewarded for the brutality that her father had left behind, his last goodbye to a daughter he’d never loved as much as he’d loved that bottle. None of them were who she truly was, there were no honest lies, after all. The theory that little whites wouldn’t craft the very same heartache was bullshit, after all. It was just the excuse that sounded good, and felt better, when they needed it to.

Her award winning performance was so ingrained in her, that tonight it was hard to tell if there was seriousness dripping from the tainted words that rolled off her tongue. They seemed to be an invitation of sorts, the problem was, that same invitation was written in a language that no one could understand. There was nothing that didn’t get lost in the attempt to translate, and maybe it was a warning to tread carefully. Maybe, it was something else entirely. The subtle tilt of her head gave no inclination in either direction, only seemed to point further down the road, leading to a certain dead end. 

Vocal range kicked down a notch, words playing into the fantasy they were creating. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”  Her mouth twitches, like its contemplating the smirk that is screaming for screen time, but all that noise falls on deaf ears. For now, at least. Instead, she leans closer, and the space that had been between them evaporates. Again, it’s hard to tell if this is a threat, or a come on. She likes it this way, she thinks. She tells herself. The game is safer to play when you set the rules. 

[absentmorals]

KANE, L.

@ofvagabxnds​

If you asked Knox to assign a dollar amount to every single person in his life, he probably could. There were two exceptions to that rule, and one of them was currently sitting at the bar in his town, his goddamn bar. As much as he wanted to find a rhyme, a reason to be mad at the occurrence, the sharp twist of fate that had brought their paths back together, that’s the last emotion he felt. Instead, there was a hiccup to his constant heartbreak, a momentary relief provided by the sight for constantly sore eyes. It painted a Picasso on his features, a classic expression that was designed for the devil in his very details. The same devil that decided that sometime, Lorenzo Kane had become priceless.

Timelines were never a strong suit for him, it required self reflection that he didn’t even want to give to the mirror most evenings. Instead, it was easier to avoid, to compartmentalize that thousands of times he’s broken his own heart, fallen victim to his own stupidity. He’s struck as he stands there, at first it feels like lightening has been poured into his veins, mixing with the livewire that had always lived there, and creating nothing but unadulterated electricity, but eventually it begins to sneak in. It attacks the cracks in him at first, the scars that had once been full at Kane’s fingertips. By now, his conscience is singing, and he’s not sure if they are funeral hymns or hallelujahs. 

He coughs, followed by a quick clearing of throat, trying to will the cement on his boots to dry quicker, to kick up the dust and reclaim his reckless ways. Eventually, Knox is able to free himself from what had been playing like a movie scene across the back of closed eyelids. It’s Thanksgiving, and he’s bringing Lorenzo home for the third time. He’s telling himself, and the people around him, that they are just friends, that they were raised better than to let someone eat a microwaved dinner during the holidays. Both his parents are alive, and his mama smiles at the pair of them like she knows, and in part, she does. She was always the first one to call out anything with the capability to make his heart flutter in his chest, and Lorenzo certainly fit that bill.

The fleeting, the loss of the dream that felt, for one forsaken second, like it was real, and like he could still touch the warmth of his mother’s smile, or the reward of his fathers laughter. Maybe, maybe it’s Kane’s hand through his, hidden under the table, that he misses. He doesn’t know, but he’s sniffling away the aftermath as he steps up behind what could have been a stranger by now. 

“You sure are a long way from home, sweetheart.” 

[absentmorals]

FITZPATRICK, E.

@fitzpxtrick

The rage that boiled his blood was like coming home, after spending too many years abroad. It was the four walls that felt the most comfortable, unlike whatever the reason for it was. Eris was not planned, unavoidable because of the thread that lead him back to his country, and back to a time that didn’t seem soaked in blood stained memories. It was different, she was different. The why behind that was left in greener pastures, a truth he didn’t care enough to confront in the moment. Focus was more singular now, crystalline eyes watching the way she was fussing at the problematic customer.

Everything about his movements was eerily calm, terrifying in the same way a silent storm rolling in would be. Cigarette that was a constant staple in nicotine tainted fingertips was put out in the dirty glass ashtray sitting next to him. It stamped out similarly to a life, a likening that pleased him enough to encourage the ghost of a smile to haunt features properly, before it was gone with the wind. Focus shifting, standing, and smoothing hands over creased dress pants.

After righting himself, the last shot of namesake whiskey was drawn from his glass, and off he went. Footsteps didn’t take long to swallow up the cheap carpeting underneath them, and soon he was front and center, somehow putting himself between her smaller frame and the other clients.

“Ay, mate. Outside.” Thick accent rolled off the tongue as a demand, and it would not be mistaken for anything else. Violent cock of his head toward the exit. It, was a threat, matching the rhythm and sway of his earlier demand. Together, they would form the perfect tango, and the old adage wasn’t wrong, that always did require two. “I reckon they’d be proper pissed off if I make you bleed all over this fl-” Fuck it. Patience went out the window, giving into the grip of recklessness, forehead coming forward and smacking into the other mans nose. Someone always had to bleed before Kennedy was entirely satisfied, it was the only way lessons could be learned. This just happened to be the quickest way from point a, to point b. 

[absentmorals]

OPEN STARTER.

@ridereblogs​

Shit, shit, shit. If super powers could have been hand picked, handed out when most needed, he would have been begging for night vision. It would be a helpful tool in the ever present quest for relief from this awkward situation. His charm, working in unison with an accent that could have talked a nun straight out of her robes, was enough to at least try and save him. Reaching over the bed they had been sharing, a fatal flaw in his code somehow allowing sleep to find him there. A fuck up, he reminded himself. A royal fuck up.

The way grin shaped up his features was the devil, but it was also the reason so many were quick to sell their souls. This is exactly what being caught red handed looked like, a framed photograph of his ain’t shit tendencies, all outlined with a fear of both commitment and capacity. Knox Exposito was capable of terrible things, and the last beautiful thing he’d touched, those same hands had threatened to ruin. Lesson learned, message from someone else’s god received. His soul didn’t get a mate, probably to atone for all the sins that decorated his shoulders with vibrant color.

Fumbling, calloused hands finally found the material of his shirt. “Go back to sleep, darlin’. I didn’t mean to wake you.” Thick country drawl attempted to be convincing, but anyone could read through the lines. He was leaving, yet again, and he told himself it was for their own good. He did not know when he’d become such an expert liar that even the ones he told to himself were believable, but here they were. He flashes that same grin again, a crap attempt at an apology, even if it was barely visible in the moonlight seeping through the open window. The visual it created was unfair, painting all the hard lines of his frame in just the right ways. It made the man look like a walking, talking, God. It wasn’t until you noticed the scars, the ones from pieces of vehicle, from the explosion, that one realized the truth. He was a man, plain, simple...and fucking vulnerable.

[absentmorals]

[absentmorals]

[absentmorals]

In an attempt to actually do something with my life, give this a like and I will come to you about plotting, or throw you a starter sometime this week.

[absentmorals]

[absentmorals]

[absentmorals]

[absentmorals]

( CILLIAN MURPHY. FORTY THREE. CISMALE. HE/HIM. ) in texas, JAMESON KENNEDY is known to most as KENNEDY. they have been riding with the diablos for FIFTEEN YEARS. they originally from DUBLIN and the ENFORCER is known to be very BRUTAL & BLUNT but the other club members will tell you they are LOYAL & DETERMINED. as the years go by, they’ve gained a lot of respect in the club and around town. they rarely ever drive a car but when they do SMASH SHIT UP by DROPKICK MURPHYS is usually heard blasting. ( whispered prayers while a gun cocks in the background, grinning through bloody teeth, eyes that always seem to look through you and handwritten letters hidden in the back of a drawer. )

There was always a sort of balance in his life, even from the beginning. His father was heavily involved in trafficking, but his mother dictated he make it home for dinner. Her ideals were old fashioned, even if he did watch her threaten to break the jaw of the woman whose child blacked his eye in fifth grade. She made good on that threat, two weeks later, but the woman was still his absolute everything. A mama’s boy, she had known his darkest secrets until the day she died. In part, because of how he and his sisters were raised, but also because he wanted to make up for all the mistakes of his father.

They functioned, the Kennedy's, but not without fault. While he was always present at the table, Lucien was not a respectable man. He indulged in women, drugs, he drank too much but never raised a hand to their family. If he knew one thing, he knew this: he would never be that man. He would never grow into the shitty shoes that he’d left behind, he would be better, he had to be better. Once his father was killed, all in the name of the family business, Kennedy took his place.

He assumed the role of bread winner the only way he’d known how. He took care of the girls, he took care of his mother. He never really bothered to take care of himself, he was the last rung on the ladder of importance. It was then that life saw fit to bring him the one thing he had been missing, love. He didn’t really know what it was at first, their love was different from anything he’d seen. In a way, he was sick with it, in another? It was meant to save him. Three months after she took his last name; she announced she was pregnant.

For the first time in his life, he knew what it felt like to bring another life into the world. He knew what it was like to revolve himself around one person, and he knew that he needed to change. Again, he needed to be better, which meant he needed to get out. He needed to be legitimate enough to save them from harm, to keep them safe. Two years later, the day after his daughter said his name for the first time, he learned that in reality, they were never safe. Not then, not before, and not ever.

The two were murdered, left splayed out in the home he’d made for them, and a switch flipped in him. All the things he’d strived not to be, they went right out the window. His hands had never seen as much blood as they would taking out this tragedy, avenging it in the only way he knew how: an eye for an eye. It was only after all the dust had settled, after he ran out of names to cross off the makeshift list that he realized he had to leave. Ireland, was left behind, and he headed for the only other family he knew, tucked in the states, right in the heart of Texas.

His cousin introduced him to the diablos, and the rest was poorly written history. He eventually settled into the role of enforcer, where his appreciation for violence was truly utilized. After all, part of him had been taught to need it, and maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to protect the club better than he had his family. He was fiercely loyal to them, because they were his second chance, and club business, all of it, was made his business.

WC’S; 

I have no idea what I want for or with him but here are a few vague tries.

He has a whole host of sisters, probably around six, and some of them could have come to Texas with him.

Some “older friends” that he’d met when he first joined the club. These would have to be people with tenure, and age, of course.

While Kennedy is not opposed to sleeping with someone, anyone, emotional connections are going to be rare. He’s always blamed himself for the loss of his wife and child, so whoever would like to deal with this undiagnosed trauma, feel free to sign yourself up. He’s open to both women, men, and non-binary partners. Really, he’s open to someone who would remind him what it was like to let love in.

Reaper connections are welcome but they would be violently themed, because of his loyalty to his own club. Mostly fighting, enemies, all the fun things.

Sad dad club, he’s the low key president.