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[damnati-hominis]

What an interesting bloke! He flicked the beginnings of ashes from the end of his smoke automatically, one of the robotic habits a man picked up when he smoked too many of the cancer sticks.

"Then I'd hate to be you." He remarked, leaning against the brick wall that stood behind him. "Was it worth it, then?"

He would’ve lit one for himself, but there was blood filling up his mouth, and he turned and spat it out. You could swallow a pint of blood before you got sick, and he was nearing pretty close to that pint. 

Tyler crushed the match out underneath the heel of his shoe. 

"Maybe I am the other guy.” 

[damnati-hominis]

John laughed when she called him a gentleman. "You know what they say about when you assume." He wasn't a gentleman, not by any means. "I just got here first." His arms crossed his chest idly as he followed her inside, looking over to the seat she chose. He followed along, slumping into the stool next to her and leaning his elbows on the sticky countertop.

"So, what's your poison?" He asked, glancing around the place, but just barely. Enough to take stock of where he was but not enough to really care for the decor. The people were only slightly more interesting, but only in the sense that none seemed to be anything foul that might try and kill him later.

Just the way I like it.

"And maybe after a drink or two you can tell me about this friend of yours." He was nosy. Bad habit.

"That too." Her Latin wasn’t remarkable, but she could work her way through the Bible. Still, even being a proud Englishwoman, she vastly preferred Irish. First. It wasn’t a pressure. By birth, she was alpha and omega; by life she was secunda. It wasn’t so remarkable. “I could go by my middle name, but Una is better. It is simple. Easily pronounceable in most any language—and that’s the important thing, John.”

His response had intrigued her. “I know exactly what you mean.” She didn’t. Being constantly on the move for business ventures was far from his intended meaning, not that she was aware of it.

Una had expected him to hold the door for her—he was a man, that was what men did—but smirked regardless. “How fortuitous! I’ve got a gentleman on my hands.” She motioned with her head for him to follow her in as she pulled up a seat at the bar.

The Screamin’ Lobster was not shabby by any means, but to call it much more than rustic would be too generous a compliment. Drawing influence from its location and name, the flashier bits of decoration along the walls were of a nautical theme, one such wallmount being a bronze swordfish. It was neither crowded, nor empty. The stop was more of a venue for the locals, tourists flocking to places more well-reviewed and world-renowned.

[damnati-hominis]

"I don't see why you would. You seem like a nice enough kid." John replied, thinking of how he'd dabbled in the dark arts for far too long. He was getting old.

"I don’t see how its a joke?" Sansa replied, a auburn brow rising. 

[damnati-hominis]

[damnati-hominis]

"Thirteen followers? Sounds like a damned joke without a punchline." John laughed, and loudly.

[damnati-hominis]

"Una." Eyebrows raised, he gave her a second look. "Means 'one', too. I don't know what's worse, the pressure of being the First, or being called a lamb at all." He replied, probably quite rudely. He didn't bother to care how people took the things he said--and more often than not it ended in trouble.

"'Course it is. Can't find anybody who doesn't want to be found." He was one to talk. How often did he try to escape the grid? Even Ritchie, the poor bastard, had showed him how difficult it could be.

John laughed. "I've never been one for manners. I'm John, no interesting story behind the name. Not from here either, though these days I don't think I'm from anywhere. Can't stay still." Too many bad memories.

As they reached the door, he surprised himself by opening it for her. He never knew when he was going to be chivalrous.

She snorted derisively. “Come now, that was hardly lengthy. But no, the story of my name is quite short. Father’s little angel, little lamb. And so that’s me. Una. Meaning lamb. Irish—but I’m not.” She chewed the inside of her cheek uncomfortably. Her name in full was on the wordy side. How troublesome.

As they turned the corner, her face looked toward the heavens. No, her friend was not up there. “I have not found them yet, but there is still time. Though technology might be working to connect the globe, it is still easy to lose someone you have not spoken to in over a year.” And that was that. No further explanation necessary.

"You mind answering those questions yourself?" Una chuckled. "I’m working off the assumption you have a name…and, well, it’s obvious you are not from here either."

[damnati-hominis]

"Mic, interesting name you've got. Short for something?" Wasn't everyday a woman had a name like that. Though as he looked at her, he remembered why. Women with strange names got him into trouble.

If she'd been giving them the non-verbal 'fuck you' with her eyes before, she was giving him something much worse now. His brows furrowed, looking her over again. "You were glaring." Jerking his thumb back towards the door behind him in a simple human expression, he replied to her very welcoming question. "Do you want me to sod off, then?" Judging by his tone, he was incredulous.

"Mic." It was curt and her teeth were still clenched. "Now you know and don’t ever call me that again." One of the things she hated most was the pet names that humans gave each other, especially when they didn’t even know them. Normally, her manner would push most people away but there was something about him that made her think he wouldn’t give up that easy. She decided that she hated him already. But he might be just what she was looking for. "I wasn’t glaring. That’s just how my face goes. Why are you still here?"

[damnati-hominis]

If she was going to talk so much now, he was almost worried about what she might be like if she had a drink in her. It wasn't that he didn't want to listen, but he wasn't in the mood for wordy stories right now.

Christ, I shouldn't have asked.

"Er, glad he started the joint too." He muttered, resisting the urge to light up again. It'd been two packs already (in the last three hours). "Does your name have a really long story too?"

Her remark about an old friend felt a little like salt in the wound. He used to have old friends here too, years ago. Dead now. "Did you find them?"

Una shook her head, willing wisps of hair to fly back from her face. “Yes, it is quite the name.” She resorted to removing her hands from her pockets to tuck her hair behind her ears. It wasn’t as though she really needed the warmth the fabric provided. Autumn weather hadn’t yet hit and even by the sea in the latter half of the day the temperature was warm enough that long sleeves were far from necessary.

"Here’s a bit of local history for you: it’s a joke. Or rather, it’s the man’s name—sort of. About twenty years back a man called Harold Scream came all the way up here from Liverpool and set his lofty aspirations to operating a pub. Bit of a fool thing if you ask me, which you haven’t, but I suppose I ought to be glad. If he had not done any of that then we would have to travel several blocks farther."

It was then that she finally took a breath, her previous words having been rattled off ceaselessly with the secret talent native to adolescent women. “That is a very good question.” Her head fell down to her shoes for a few paces as she gathered her thoughts before her mouth fired off again. “I was born on the coast, aye, but not here specifically. Spent some time here before though. Suppose I’ve come back to look for an old friend.”

[damnati-hominis]

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In the dark, he couldn't really tell how very young she was. He took her for her mid-twenties, well above the age even in the States. Besides, while she never turned down the offer for a drink, he rarely turned down the offer not to drink alone, especially if it was with a woman.

"Wouldn't've made it otherwise." He remarked, turning to follow her lead. "Screamin' Lobster. Now there's a name." John laughed again, catching up to her. What's the hurry? Coach turning into a pumpkin?

"So are you from here, or just stopping by?" He asked as they walked.

Well, that was something. Una didn’t think she was quite that funny. “Right.” One eyebrow lifted a hair. It was the escort bit that she’d intended to be a joke. She didn’t exactly want to pull away from the seafront—she’d been having such a good time brooding in solitude.

"I won’t turn a drink down, if that is a serious offer." It was a serendipitous proposal. Nevermind that she was only borderline drinking age by most laws. The heels of her boots clopped heavily along the ground as she began to walk. "You’d best come along then. The faster we get to The Screamin’ Lobster, the faster we’ll both be satisfied." 

[damnati-hominis]

The face of an angel and the tongue of a sea-bastard. He had to appreciate it.

"I don't look the part for top of the line, now do I?" He didn't know why he found it so funny, but he laughed, his hand at his temple. "The drink's all I'm interested in, though I wasn't going to presume I'd have an escort." He answered, but smiled anyways. "I could always buy you a bottle for your troubles, then."

"Aye?" Pet names. What a joy.

She hooked her thumbs into the pockets of her skirt and nodded in acknowledgement. “As long you don’t expect anything fancy. Seaside pubs, not exactly top of the line.”

Her lips curled into a sneer. “Suppose if you just care about the drink then the look of the establishment doesn’t quite matter.” She shrugged. “Would directions suffice or did you require an escort?”

[damnati-hominis]

Who? | via Tumblr na We Heart It http://weheartit.com/entry/73509827/via/vera_idk

[damnati-hominis]

Bruises like that, Constantine knew well enough. He'd carried loads over his lifetime, usually well-earned. And he knew how people stared too, like they didn't have enough going on in their own business so they had to nose into his.

"Thanks, mate." He replied, holding out his cigarette to light off of his match, before taking a long puff. After exhaling a long ribbon of cancerous smoke, he grinned, motioning at the man's face.

"I should see the other guy, am I right?"

The best sermon you could get on a Sunday was in the basement of Lou’s tavern, with someone’s fist in your mouth, or your cheek on the pavement, and the animal screaming of the crowd like the choir praising the Lord. His cheek was torn and bleeding, and his mouth tasted like copper, as if he’d been swallowing coins.

A voice brought him out of his reverie. 

  " - Sure." The smile was blood stained. He was in a good mood, great mood, even if it’s likely he needed stitches. “Sure, sure. Anything for a brother in need, am I right?” Fingers found a book of matches, brought it out of the red jacket, lit one, held out the flickering flame without any hesitancy, without any fear of getting fingers burned.

[damnati-hominis]

youmakemenauxious started following you

Don't know why I came out here. The harbor stinks of rotting fish carcasses.

John kicked at some husk of a crab left behind by a seagull, and then turned to look at the girl walking by.

"Hello, love. D'you know the way to the nearest pub?"

[damnati-hominis]

aspiritualwar started following you

Didn't he look like a sorry bloke? John could see a split brow held together, a black eye to match it, and various less interesting injuries. Looks like he was on the wrong end of a bar fight, or maybe the wrong end of an SUV.

"Got a light, chum?"

[damnati-hominis]