oh-the-hcrrcrs - Tumblr blog

[oh-the-hcrrcrs]

Shock seemed to have worn off in Cleric's mind, and Ira couldn't tear his eyes off of him as he brought his finger to his mouth and tasted himself. The strange eucharist, shared in the midst of the woods, felt, to him, something almost religious, biblical. Damn the dim light of the moon. It was the sort of image he would have loved to engrave in his mind. The wounded beast, licking his wounds, defeated but not done, not dead. He looked forward to meeting him again. There was no doubt that he caught him by surprise. Ira wouldn't have been so lucky otherwise.

But now, it was time to part. Both would return to the comfort of a cushioned home and they would think about tonight, about a strangler and an animal.

"It's my business card." Because he didn't want to invite him in his home, not yet. But he wanted to get to know him, immediately. How often did you meet someone equally troubled. Sanctity in it's most fucked aspect. It was worth worshipping, wasn't it ? "Insurance. I don't tell anyone what you did and you don't tell anyone what I did." There was the fact that he was a lawyer, to begin with, but nothing was quite as worrying as his confidence in this moment, was it? "And if you ever feel like looking me up, I'm sure you'll find some funny things online," assuredly...

It was strange, having just gone through what the two had gone through. Irritatingly enough, Ira (wait a second, Cleric was sure there could've been an ironic pun there) still didn't seem to be afraid of him. He stood there, easing his stance and maybe it was the animal drive wearing off from him but watching Ira blatantly express his lack of fear, in turn, eased Cleric himself up. He was still in pain, his finger's heartbeat spiking into his tendons, making his carpals and metacarpals ache. He was more cognizant of it - overall, it was such a small wound but it was executed so imperfectly that he was aware of every single exposed nerve, every single pore of the bone that was brushed with air.

Cleric, not having blinked in at least two minutes, lifted the remainder of the pinky and he stuck it in his mouth briefly. The coppery tang of his blood, with some remnants of saliva from Ira's teeth against his skin swirled in his mouth and his nostrils flared, the air from his nose cooling the heat and sticky crimson on his epidermis. He was frustrated, that duality he actually worshiped because it made him feel something lively and wriggling, biting, straining inside the husk. There were a handful of metaphors to relate to Cleric, the most recurring and common of which was that he was a shell and inside the shell was an animal of varying genus and intensity depending on the day and attitude.

But Ira was an animal, too. And a haughty one at that, talking of worship and self-importance, not realising how tempting it was to kill a god. For a moment, Cleric wondered if he really should leave - leave town, find a different hunting ground. He wondered if Ira would be enough of a bitch to rat him out, despite the fact that their wounds would speak for them. Ira's thin neck would heal.

And he was still sassy. Dismissive, like it was Cleric who would come crawling back. In retaliation, Cleric scoffed and pulled the torn flesh from his mouth where he spit the blood in Ira's direction dismissively. "I bet you can't." He replied. "Not every day that someone reminds you that you're still alive." It was his turn to lick his teeth clean. "...What's that." He asked, referring to the card that Ira had retrieved; between how dark it was, the distance between the two and his blurred vision, he admittedly didn't... know what it was.

[oh-the-hcrrcrs]

So obviously uninterested by the idea of leaving just yet, the man reached in his pocket, to drop the finger tip there and adopt a more relaxed stance. It seemed clear right now that the other had had enough for tonight. Ira perhaps could have been more worried about the fact that he had given his name and details on his profession to a man one could suspect of being a murderer or even the dreaded vampire everyone spoke of lately. What were the odds of so many killers being present in one town ? But then, with just his class and Leon Walsh, they probably already beat statistics. What was one more or one less gonna do to the equation ?

"And here I thought we had something here." Something. An appetizer. A mignardise. Something to give him appetite. Crimson lips were licked clean. A tongue ran against bloody teeth, polishing the blood away. If it weren't for the state of his neck, face, suit. Dang, it was also on his shoes. Well if it weren't for all of that, he'd have looked near normal. There was still that feral look in his eyes and he refused to look away from dear, sweet, darling Cleric. This man who attempted to kill him, moments after they spoke of worship and blood sacrifices. What a disappointment.

Ira sighed. What did it matter. Reaching for his wallet, he searched for his card. The eggshell paper got stained red as he decided upon setting it down on a window sill. "I cannot wait. Make sure you book an appointment," his smile was courteous, his eyes still devoured that handsome man. Truly disappointing, wasn't it?

Peripheral vision caught what it could as darkness edged around the two and if Cleric didn't know any better, he'd have the firm idea that Ira just spat what part of his pinky he'd bitten off into that hand that was now clenched around it. His own hand, sticky and stinging as the cool night air tickled exposed bone, trembled as he could feel his mind compartmentalizing the pain, the adrenaline still washing through him.

He could feel his vision spotting, though it wasn't from the blood loss. Lack of oxygen? He was breathing pretty heavily and there was rage emanating from him, the heat of sweat steaming in the pleasant evening breeze but he was still lucid and staring wild-eyed at Ira, who frankly had a more physically-domineering stance at the moment. If he were more reflective, they could've looked like interpretive versions of Shere Khan and Tabaqui, only if you related Cleric to Tabaqui and he knew what or who that was he'd probably have pitched a fit about it.

Even if it might've been a little true.

Just a little.

He managed to straighten himself up once he didn't feel as though Ira would advance on him, pulling his sleeve that'd been bunched up during the fight over his hand to stem the blood flow from the open wound. With every second of time that progressed, he felt more and more icy pinpricks of pain that shot through his hand, and each one gave him conflicting information on how to feel about Iraavanan. Pain receptors fueled anger, while the other man standing tall, coated in Cleric's claret blood was... attractive.

He was still decidedly more mad than attracted, though. "Téigh trasna ort féin," He slithered through teeth barely parted. "I'll do worse than give you attitude next time." He growled. "And fuck you, I'm not leaving. You leave."

[oh-the-hcrrcrs]

"Even if it makes everyone much more comfortable? Now, that wasn't very amicable of Maddox, was it? At least, he took his coffee the only acceptable way. There was one silver lining to be found here. Hurray. He sets the cups down on the counter, and opens a drawer to put a plate of amaretto biscuits nearby. Maybe he's not the best guest he's ever had, but he won't be a poor host either way.

Being awful is unfortunately not how he is going to make that one go away. And so Ira is kind. He smiles. "Steak tartare? I have had it. It's excellent. You add seasoning of course, but it's really surprising and a nice treat in the summer." The other deflects, to mention the very obvious: what has happened to make him so hospitable. "You're not the kind of rodent that gets scared by a stick. I'm changing my angle," and that's all he's willing to say about it. He's honest. How uncommon. "But if that's your way of asking if I'm giddy because of yesterday's burning man.. I'm afraid I'm rather unmoved by that."

"i make a point not to change for other people. really dulls you down, you know?" it's an equally pointed statement, aimed right for the back of ira's head. max stalks through the doorway after him, quietly shutting the door behind him. he's at least polite enough for that. he notes the number of steps it takes to get from the front door to the kitchen, turning the corner right as ira pops his question. interesting. he has to wonder if he's going to be drugged. the idea doesn't stop him from advancing, though. "just black, thanks." another thing he doesn't say often. it's almost like he's a guest and not just an intruder—who's to say he can't be both? he stares at ira's profile for several long moments—it's the first real break he's taken from speaking in several hours. too soon, it's over. "so you've had it, then? interesting." another pause, also much too short. "you're being awfully hospitable today. what's the occasion? if i didn't know any better, i'd think you were celebrating."

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"I would agree with this sentiment," had this man not suffered enough ? Wrapping this, all of this, it would be like putting him out of his misery, allowing him to move on even if he never would forget the void it had left him in. Ira might not have chosen the same path, he couldn't fault him for wishing to get this over with. He could tell the other man was feeling conflicted about all of this, now that another idea had been planted. What if, indeed, he made the university regret that disgusting fucking move ? Not out of greed but rather cause it was the just thing to do.

"Please have a seat, and let's have a drink," because he was too polite to let him drink alone. Ira stood up then, and picked up a bottle with a discreet label, hosting a warm amber liquid within. He poured them both a glass, and set them down on coasters before returning to his seat. "I've already told you what I would do. But here's what we could do : you could offer to pay the semester and I could put them on blast for even suggesting that it needs paying. I assure you..." he took a sip of bourbon and cleared his throat. "They won't be able to justify any of this given the circumstances." And Ira wouldn't hesitate to make some noise. "With your permission, I believe this could be a way to bring more light to those awful events your family and others have suffered. It might bring more fundings and it might help find the monster who did that."

Had he gone a bit far here ? The lawyer lowered his gaze briefly. "I don't mean to be out of line, and I apologize if I am. But Mr Morgan, this could help in more than one way."

Luke was almost taken aback by Ira's willingness to follow his lead; he'd only ever known lawyers to be stubborn and vain, locking their jaws like a pitbull, not letting go for anything until their own ends were met. That Ira was now reclined, smiling a charming smile as if business were concluded, managed to quiet that trapped-bird-nervousness in Luke...at least a little.

He knew he should have left then but something makes him stay, standing awkwardly in front of Ira's desk, running his palms along the sides of his jeans. "I, uh... yeah, truth is, the sooner the better," the older man said with his voice lowered. "All the communication with the school, seeing her name everywhere like she's..." Luke faltered, suddenly unable to meet Ira's dark, unflinching gaze. He took a weathered flask out of his coat pocket, tipping it up to finish off whatever was left. "What would you do, Mr. Parekh, if you were me?"

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When he sees Anna show up in his office, Ira wonders at first if this is going to be his first time defending one of his co-survivors in a court of law.

But she makes her intentions clear too quick for his peregrinations to take any shape and Ira just leans back into his seat and starts fidgeting with his (undoubtedly overpriced) fountain pen. "You could have met me at home. You know where I live," he points out. It's a bit offensing but what else should he have expected from her. They weren't precisely the best of friends.

" So you're not even visiting me to catch up or socialize?" He's not upset. He has a lot of work that needs getting to and he appreciates it honestly. "As honored as I am that you thought of me, I'm not sure why we're having this conversation." A pause. "The cops talked to me too, and they've noticed something about me as well." You could hardly see them from this angle but if he turned his head to the side, which he was doing now. A set of bruises covered his skin there, purple and nearly black in some spots. "I'm sure he won't want them to know he tried to strangle someone just two days before the festival.".

@oh-the-hcrrcrs

Ira wasn't someone that Anna visited often, or voluntarily, or at all unless the occasion called for it. Truthfully, she didn't know if he should be her first call or if it should be Evelyn, but they seemed her most likely suspects and she wouldn't even have cared if not for the chance of things turning into a mess.

"Since I'm sure your time costs more than I can afford, I'm going to make this quick." No hellos, no chit chat, just a quick warning as she glanced around for any potential eavesdroppers. Fingers tapping quickly against her elbow, Annabelle wondered vaguely if Ira had cameras in his home and just what kind of shit went down inside the walls.

"A guy came into the nurse's station during the festival, looked like part of his finger was bit off. I'm putting my money on one of you bitches doing it and I want to know if we need to be worried about unfinished meals. The cops talked to everyone that was at the festival, and you know they're going to remember a guy with a messed up hand."

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Once again, the other man spoke words foreign to Ira's ears. It sounded Nordic, though he wasn't sure how far up northern Europe they were talking. England, Danemark, Estonia or further north ? Was he cursing, apologizing, begging him to stop ? None of that mattered.

If the pain in his neck was any indication on the other's humeur, Ira would have ruled out an apology any way. It hurt, it would mark. The thought made his nose scrunch up in distaste, as though he wasn't about to leave a much more permanent mark on the other. Dark brown eyes met cerulean blues. Such pretty eyes, the kind you gaze lovingly at. But there was rage where there should be anything else, blood, on his shirt, on his neck, his mouth, his teeth.

When the last bits of nerves gave in, at last, the lawyer stepped back hurriedly, as though suspicious of the other's intention, most looking like a dog worried someone might take away the bone he's gnawing at. He spat it out in his hand and held it in his clenched fist. His tongue running along his lips, he stared wide eyed at the other.

Ira wasn't fully aware of it then. The adrenaline, the breathlessness. He looked like a comic book villain, one of those noir movies monster, his face sprayed with blood, his chin, his beard drenched it it. Barbe Bleue comes to mind. Blue beard. How ironic. He always was terrified of that tale as a child. "You tried to strangle me, you fucking animal. Don't give me fucking attitude." His eyes hadn't lost the storm in them, and his words felt like lightning. "If I were you, I'd leave.".

"Lig dom dul," Cleric hissed through clenched teeth as he continued to simultaneously push one hand while pulling the other, a similarly inhuman look in his icy blue eyes. The suits were gone, stripping the two to the animals they were underneath as they struggled in the woods. Fingernails dug into neck flesh, feeling the sting of pain increasing as Ira's teeth dug into his flesh. His arm moved wildly as it thrashed not unlike a snake attempting to escape from the talons of a hawk, his other hand unwilling to remove the purchase it had on Ira's neck.

This was not going the way he had anticipated. He could already feel his id barking at him, the psychotic defect in his mind slashing his brain open with useless words and tearing itself up. People had fought back before, of course, and he actively engaged in the adrenaline, long having since gotten used to the chase. The capture. The dismantling. He gouged a woman's eyes out once, then sloppily tried to put them back into their sockets. But here was Ira, now wrenching his head as though Cleric were the toy rabbit and Ira was the dog. The taller man pulling increased Cleric's own blossoming rage and he curled his lip in a guttural growl.

He was in control here, not fucking Iraavanan.

Iraavanan was HIS toy to tear the stuffing out of, to pull out his insides and string them up like Christmas garland. The ribbons on the Maypole. whatever metaphor you wanted to use. With both of Ira's hands on his wrist, slick with blood, fastening it in place while he shook his head, Cleric's other hand with its long fingernails clawed at one of Ira's - he would've attempted to pry Ira's mouth open but he was already in jeopardy of losing one finger, let alone any from his dominant hand.

The crack of bone splintering with finality along with the rather loud snap of what he assumed were his tendons, followed by the click of a jaw that was pressing down with all its force finally closing fully told Cleric through the haze of adrenaline and animal bloodlust that he had just lost a piece of himself. Using his own dash of strength and taking advantage of the blood that oozed down his hand, he twisted his wrist out of Ira's grip, spraying Ira with the crimson that leaked from the open wound.

Breathing heavily and hopping back, positioning himself almost like a cornered dog with his head low and back arched in anticipation for springing forward, Cleric cradled his blooded hand. He would've looked down to assess the damage, but his striking blue eyes with their pinprick pupils didn't dare remove themselves from Ira's visage. "Fuckin'... yeah??" He asked, his voice still steaming through his own tight jaw, blasting air through his nose and mouth. "That taste good, you fucking psychopath?"

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"Well, perhaps you should work on being clearer. Most people are too tired to solve riddles on their spare time." And that thought makes him yawn. He finally turns around, offering the other his back to head towards his kitchen. His Italian coffee maker awaits him on the counter. He pauses as he reaches for a cup, and decides to grab a second one. He's not an animal, even with his peculiar sense of morals. "Sugar ? Cream?"

He does not say much more and for a moment the kitchen is only busy with the sound of the percolator, the porcelain cups,and the coffee pouring in. He presses his lips together. "I believe the French call it steak tartare. It's delicious. I could make you some, some day," the choice of meat was yet to be decided.

"i usually do. most people just aren't clever enough to see it." or he's made a point to disguise it somehow. here, there's little in the way of disguise. he's here, boldly diving headfirst into a harassment campaign, purely for his own curiosity. well, maybe not purely. he's happy to move past greetings and into the meat of the conversation, though. literally. nudging his way further through the door, he makes his intention to stay clear. "i never thought you'd been eating them raw. the meat would spoil too quick to be worth it—but you already know all about that, don't you?" message received... but ignored.

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Perhaps he would have let go. Perhaps not. But as Cleric attempted to keep on strangling him, even though he knew from personal experience that you couldn't so easily be compressed, he listened first and foremost to the most feral parts of his being, beyond instinct, and held onto the hope that the ferocity of his bite would make him run away wishing he'd never met him at all.

From the blood dripping onto his chin, to the look of rage in his gaze, you could have wondered whether Ira was still recognizable. But they didn't have an audience and there was no one to tell. It was just the two of them, in a battle of rage to save one's life and one's finger.

Unjustifiable or immoral as it may all have been, Ira was certain that surviving death for the second time in one's lifetime was enough reason to latch onto him the way he did.

Both his hands gripped at the man's blood coated wrist. He broke eye contact, at last, to focus on what he was doing instead. To break a joint, a twisting motion was necessary, and a certain force.

A cracking sound was heard, and then a snap. His jaw clenched and a familiar texture, a familiar taste, coated his tongue near instantly. Victory.

Predictably, obviously, though he didn't know when, the struggle would begin but ideally by the time Ira had fully realised what Cleric was doing, it'd be too late. His hands were firm, and as he felt Ira start to protest, he moved with the taller man. It was strange though, and more than a little annoying - usually, as he started running the blade of the knife along the flesh tenderly, when his fingers would start to bruise the skin of another, lust and pleasure were replaced with confusion and fear.

There wasn't any here.

No, instead, Ira had moved his head forward as though to bite him. While part of Cleric would've been into that, teeth that close to his nose and eyes activated a different animal instinct inside him, the ugly human one that wanted to protect his face from damage. To that, without choosing, one of his hands pried itself off of Ira's neck and it was placed on Ira's face to push it away.

And the second he realises that he's done that, his pinky was between Ira's teeth. Pain receptors shot signals up his hand, through his carpals, spiraling to his brain and the scent of blood, his own blood, filled his nose which was still attached to his face. Cleric understood that if it wasn't his finger, it would've been that nose and while he certainly wasn't happy about this sudden arrangement - a victim had never bitten him before, and especially not with a face like Ira's which was... smiling at him - he was glad that at least it was something considerably less useful than any facial feature.

With his finger firmly clenched in Ira's bite, the other hand that remained on the latter's neck did what seemed to make the most sense; he pushed, hoping to crush Ira's windpipe long enough to make him catch his breath. His other hand, already slicked with blood, started pulling in an attempt to remove his pinky from the human-shaped beartrap it'd found itself in.

"Ar ndóigh. Níorbh fhéidir liom gnáthdhuine a phiocadh lena mharú." He cursed to himself as he attempted to free his finger delivered with all the intensity of someone mildly annoyed that they got stopped at a red light.

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"Oh, cause you had a point ? Well now that's a surprise." His lips curl into something that is too mocking to be called a smile. Of course he wishes the other would fuck off but that's not going to happen so easily. "Law man? That's the best you got?" Better than alleged cannibalistic asshole he supposed. Speaking of, he needs to find a place where to dispose of Cleric's finger bone. Or maybe he should just keep it. "So you've decided that we cooked people before eating them now?" Another détail of Max's rather accurate version of what had happened. If only he would have agreed to tell him more. "Now I don't mean to rush you but... Did you truly come here just to tell me that bones don't burn cause... You did that and if that was your mission..." His gaze strays to the front door. Please get the message Maddox.

max's gaze sharpens for a tenth of a second, irritation flickering in his expression. "yeah, yeah, yeah. people fucking die all the time in this town." why even pretend to care, at this point? "my point still stands." his irritation is quickly replaced by full on gawking—in the most amused, possibly flattered, way possible. "you think i would go through all that trouble to prove you wrong? look, spite motivates me as much as it does anyone, but i've already got my alibi, mr. lawman. i didn't even get to see the tinder man burn, let alone whoever got stuck inside." he sure can imagine, though... ugh, now he's the one getting off topic. "you were there, weren't you? i'm just surprised you didn't smell it," his voice is pointed, but not accusatory; "should have been familiar for you."

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If an effort is made to close the door before the other can walk in, it's reduced to dust near immediately. Ira's front door camera sure had told him who was on the other side. Maybe he likes suffering. It's not a maybe. He absolutely does. "I wouldn't say it is funny. Someone died," like he gave a shit. "I hope they find whoever did it," he adds. His eyes narrow as he looks at the other, shorter man.

The guy's mad. Maybe he is, at least. Ira highly suspects it. "Please don't tell me you went through all that trouble to prove me wrong," he deadpanned. There's a possibility that he did. "You have to quit being obsessed with me like that, Maddox."

starter for @oh-the-hcrrcrs ( for ira !! )

"hey, you seen the news?" he shoves his foot in before ira can slam the door in his face. "funny, isn't it? to think that they found a body in the tinder man. that fire got much hotter than you would have managed back in canada. really makes you think."

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Oh boy. He had long learned how to conceal his disappointement in the face of cold feeted clients but wasn't that a clear fucking home run here ? Oh, it all had to do with Ira's ego. He didn't like being told no, and he didn't like losing. This infuriated him, but in the end, their clients were always getting the last word. "You consult me for legal advice." He commented, leaning back into his chair with the look of someone who was neither surprised not upset.

"I would be doing a terrible job if I didn't let you know of your options." His expression warmed up and with an affable smile, he nodded. "I understand your position however and I will do what's necessary to settle this matter for you." He paused. "Discreetly." The lawyer reached over to shake his hand. "I'll send you my invoice once I'm done."

He was afraid this was going to happen... It was a rare courageous hair that saw Luke come up to this firm, bring up a legal issue because it unnerved him, risk running into his ex-wife, but now that push came to shove his resolve crumbled. The last thing he wanted was for the university to come under fire just because Luke Morgan saw the chance for a cash-grab.

Luke's momentary silence eased apart as he smiled, shook his head with a little gesture like surrender. "Y'know, this was a mistake," he said with a grunt. "I trust you, Mr. Parekh, but I don't think this is the direction I wanna go." He stood up then, offered his hand for Ira to shake. "Thanks for your time. Send the bill or, uh, whatever you gotta do, but I'd like to keep it off-record, if that's possible?"

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"Are you hitting on me Maddox?" Stepping on his flowers, intruding his house and calling him wicked ? He might as well have slipped a hand down his pants at this point.

You could wonder why it is that Ira's not reached for his phone yet, why he hasn't more forcefully asked the other to leave. Home intruders were not treated like a farce around here, especially not given the current mood of the city of Antioch. They still had no clue on that vampire and who better than a so called Satan enthusiast to make a prime suspect.

Truth is, Ira likes the attention. He craves it, he thrives in it. He aspires for greatness. When the vampire gets caught, you bet your ass he'll fight to be their defense. He's arrogant, but he's also efficient. Deadly, eager for the kill.

Now what is Maddox eager for? Not the truth. How can he know it's the truth. In fact... "It doesn't matter what I say. You already have convinced yourself that I'm a flesh eating monster and you won't accept anything different as the truth." Rightfully so. "You get a kick from being around someone like me," a touch of mystical. What is closer to pagan rites than a man who ate his own friends to survive ? They weren't his friend, mind you. Kali was the only one who had mattered to him back then. Bonds had been made through the months, and alliances became a lifelong connection linked in blood. "This is about you, getting a kick of adrenaline," he accused. While he spoke, he has approached Maddox. He's standing right in front of him now, staring down at him with defiance clear in his eye as he reaches down and palms at the man's crotch long enough to confirm his theory. "Get the fuck out of my house."

"suits you, i think." max isn't really pretending to be cut from a different cloth—after all, he's clearly perfectly fine with breaking and entering when it benefits him. right now, he's still waiting on the benefits... but at least ira hasn't made a move for his phone. there would definitely have been sirens by now if he had. it doesn't do anything to convince him to change his mind, of course—is he thinking of something a little more permanent than a potential prison sentence? that's what max is hoping for. monster4monster. ira does have a point. it doesn't matter what max thinks in the slightest as to what did and didn't happen during the accident. the people who were asking those kinds of questions had quieted themselves ( or perhaps been quieted by... others ) long ago. but the discrepancies are still fresh in his mind. and they all make perfect sense to him. who wouldn't take advantage of such an incredible opportunity? lost in the wilderness, there are no laws to bog you down. he knows he's not the only person in the world to think like that—looking at ira now, he believes in entirety that he can see the shadow behind his eyes. it pulses to the same beat as his own. "why even bother asking? should have been obvious from the moment i dropped in." and it's true—he has no intention of leaving the premises. if it's not cuffed or in a body bag, it's not happening. even facing ira's full stature again doesn't shake him. not in fear, anyway. "i can't share any secrets if you bite my tongue off, dr. lecter. don't ever put anything in writing, am i right?" it's impossible to hide the shiver that runs down his spine at the thought, though. "but if it's quid pro quo you want, it's quid pro quo you get. after you share." is it honesty? maybe, maybe not. even max hasn't decided yet.

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"two guys sitting in a hot tub five feet apart..."

Even then, with a cock scraping his esophagus, Ira managed to respond. He could only nod and mutter what must have been a yes. As far as the lawyer was concerned, it seemed that not much would be able to silence him, not even that. He took a certain pleasure in being mishandled and belittled in this way, in this rather restrained context, it must be admitted. He gulped, or at least he tried. Saliva ran down his chin and onto his wrist, all the way to the floor, which would probably be soiled a lot more than that at this rate.

Even then, with a cock scraping his esophagus, Ira managed to respond. He could only nod and mutter what must have been a yes. As far as the lawyer was concerned, it seemed that not much would be able to silence him, not even that. He took a certain pleasure in being mishandled and belittled in this way, in this rather restrained context, it must be admitted. He gulped, or at least he tried. Saliva ran down his chin and onto his wrist, all the way to the floor, which would probably be soiled a lot more than that at this rate.

His cheeks were flushed, wet with reflex tears. Every time he suppressed his gagging, more pooled at the corners of his eyes before rolling down. And yet, his moaning, and that fiery look in his eyes as he refused to break eye contact with the other man, left not a single doubt as to whether he was enjoying himself tonight.

One hand came to a halt, the other held onto the copier's edge to brace himself for a moment, and he sighed, out of breath, but not nearly spent just yet. "I..." He began, wiping at his chin again. "Will you please just fuck me already, Mr Kennedy?" He didn't mind if he took him against the xerox machine right now, the floor, that fucking messy chair or the fucking wall. As long as he filled him up, he'd be content.

AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES

"I hope you're aware I'm gonna remember that comment about my mouth the next time you ask me to shut up," his beard was covered with saliva. He didn't try to wipe it away. Why bother when he wasn't done with Barry? Time to catch his breath and… his own moaning interrupted his train of thoughts. That was probably why he liked him from the start. Arrogant asshole meets another arrogant asshole and… voilà.

He could have saved himself for later, ignored for a few more moments the feeling of discomfort that was gripping him in the crotch. He could wait, and he wasn't against a little frustration, but the words the other had chosen had the gift of undermining his convictions. Allowed. You little shit, he thought. "Oh I'm allowed. Well would you look at that." At last, he ran his hand against his sloppy chin and spat in it then lowered a hand to free himself out, letting go of the other's penis for now.

He leans into his own touch near immediately, he and his neglected cock greeting the stimulation as if it's some sort of blessing. He's sighing, softly panting. After a few solitary moments, his mouth is back against the taller man's skin, kissing adoringly the skin of his lower belly before it takes his cock again. How erotic is that. Stuck at work getting his mouth fucked by a man who could break him in half, on a carpeted floor that's bound to get permanently stained with both their semen. Oh fuck. Aroused as he is by the idea, the friction, the sounds they make, everything, he decides that now is a good time to truly get to it. He relaxes his throat and tentatively, slowly, lets him slip further, down his throat once, and twice, til he can bury himself to the hilt and slam into him. Reflex tears well up and fall down his cheek, but he keeps going, his head bobbing to the rhythm of his jabs.

[oh-the-hcrrcrs]

warning: sharp edges

What is that supposed to mean? Can't a guy like a pleat on his trousers ?

[oh-the-hcrrcrs]

AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES

"I hope you're aware I'm gonna remember that comment about my mouth the next time you ask me to shut up," his beard was covered with saliva. He didn't try to wipe it away. Why bother when he wasn't done with Barry? Time to catch his breath and… his own moaning interrupted his train of thoughts. That was probably why he liked him from the start. Arrogant asshole meets another arrogant asshole and… voilà.

He could have saved himself for later, ignored for a few more moments the feeling of discomfort that was gripping him in the crotch. He could wait, and he wasn't against a little frustration, but the words the other had chosen had the gift of undermining his convictions. Allowed. You little shit, he thought. "Oh I'm allowed. Well would you look at that." At last, he ran his hand against his sloppy chin and spat in it then lowered a hand to free himself out, letting go of the other's penis for now.

He leans into his own touch near immediately, he and his neglected cock greeting the stimulation as if it's some sort of blessing. He's sighing, softly panting. After a few solitary moments, his mouth is back against the taller man's skin, kissing adoringly the skin of his lower belly before it takes his cock again. How erotic is that. Stuck at work getting his mouth fucked by a man who could break him in half, on a carpeted floor that's bound to get permanently stained with both their semen. Oh fuck. Aroused as he is by the idea, the friction, the sounds they make, everything, he decides that now is a good time to truly get to it. He relaxes his throat and tentatively, slowly, lets him slip further, down his throat once, and twice, til he can bury himself to the hilt and slam into him. Reflex tears well up and fall down his cheek, but he keeps going, his head bobbing to the rhythm of his jabs.

THE MOST PLATONIC THREAD KNOWN TO MAN

He swallowed the not only false but also insulting comment that was on the tip of his tongue. Instead, his tongue came up to lick from the base to the head of his cock, and his mouth parted to envelop the tip facing him.

He did this slowly, not for fear of rushing him but rather because Barry had been generously endowed by nature, and while Ira had a big mouth in every sense of the word, he had known how to deal with these kinds of diameters for some time. With slight movements of his head, he slowly got used to it.

Rendered silent by the intrusion, he couldn't help but smile around his member, which reflected in his eyes more easily than on his mouth, as he raised them to look at Barry to keep an eye on his intentions. Yes, his comment made him smile, but also made him desire to be even more enterprising. His hand moved up slightly, and with a loud sucking noise, he released him for a moment, "just tell me already you'd be willing to pay me for my performance Kennedy." His sardonic smile was brief, and he wrapped his lips around his cock again, this time with a little more intensity.

He knew what he was doing, that was undeniable. In a while, he would relax the muscles of his jaw, his throat, and he would take it in until he could caress the hairs of his pubis with his nose. But for now, he let his mouth slide halfway, and let his hand do the rest.

[oh-the-hcrrcrs]

While he had no idea where they were going geographically, he thought he had a little more insight into the metaphorical side of the matter. Careful hands, soft words and a man's breath against his skin. He didn't move. He couldn't say exactly what it was, but the other man left him apprehensive, so he figured it was more correct to let him lead their dance.

“Am I a solitary creature?” Was it so easy to see? He felt a little ashamed of having let this character trait that he found annoying appear so easily, but rather than being offended, he preferred to smile about it. "I suppose I am. Not a lot of people are willing to tolerate someone who will put himself first," even his most selfless acts were done because he got something out of it, because he desired to do it for the kick, or because he had an agenda to carry.

"You know how to charm a man, Cleric," he had no intention of getting hands physically on it, but the lawyer didn't mind if he made his heart beat a bit faster. What he didn't see coming was for the other's heart desire to be closer to the secrets Ira hid under lock, or that he would have to contradict himself so soon. He had had no plans of sinking his teeth in the other's flesh tonight. Not like that, at the very least, but when it became clear that they hadn't walked out of the bar for the same reasons... Let's just say that what followed was done purely out of instinct, fueled by survival.

The first warning sign was his lack of fear in the face of imminent death, the second was how he didn't try to free himself of the other's grip, instead moving forward to take a bite out of his nose. He's unsure of what goes on next. It's all messy, chaotic, but he feels one of Cleric's hands slip, and that's when his teeth latch onto something, and they don't let go. He won't strangle him with just one hand, and he wants to see him realize his mistake. The taste of copper hits his tongue and his jaw tightens. He smiles.

His smile widened as the finger turned into a hand on his chest with the other on his back. His boned shifted and his muscles moved as Cleric's arms were fastened upwards, his own hands gently on Ira's face, feeling the hair beneath his palms and the twitching musculature at his fingertips. "No, I don't believe in luck." He admitted. He would've followed it up with 'fate', 'purpose' or 'karma' but none of those seemed to fit, either.

Cleric wasn't sure what he believed in, nor could he be certain of any lingering feeling or expression once whatever emotional fit had seized him drained from his body in the excess of a spontaneous decision that he never had to pay for. He was alone in the woods with Ira, two animals forced upright in outfits by society. Ira reminded Cleric of a bird, almost, with his sharp, glittering features and graceful way of walking.

"You have a nice face, Your Worship," Cleric started softly, and honestly for all he knew. His hands carefully, subtly shifted, running down Ira's cheeks. "Your ego is a starving thing; you're unappreciated in your line of work." They rested on his jaw as the lies tumbled from his full lips; everything he knew about Ira started and stopped with the superficial traits and what he could pick up from their incredibly limited interaction. The affection was legitimate, but so was the persistent desire to act on those impulses that plagued every animal forced upright in an outfit. "You're expected to go with the pack, when you're a solitary creature. And you're choosing to spend these moments with me."

His hands lowered more - he could feel Ira's pulse in the jugular. "I provide you with myself. A sinner, with a heart that's never functioned properly." Flowery terms, too graceful for him, something that was meant for his head at four in the morning as he went another night without sleep. "But I desire, too." He said breathily, his hands tightening around Ira's neck now like a leghold trap. It was quick and while he was at a height disadvantage, Cleric had the benefit of functioning much like a dog with an aggressively powerful bite force. He was a lockjaw as he unceremoniously began to strangle Iraavanan.

[oh-the-hcrrcrs]

"Wickedness is a pretty word." One that rolled off the tongue and sounded a lot more poetic than what it stood for. If Ira liked that word, he didn't particularly enjoy seeing it personified in a proper shit digger. What was that man trying to find here? Was it all about his own curiosity? Would Ira have to worry about him at all ? Was it safer to lure him deeper into his home and dispose of him ? Who would possibly have been made aware of his whereabouts? He probably did this on a whim.

The sound of his palms against the wooden table made him snap out of that stream of thoughts. He took a sonorous breath and looked him in the eyes, the pit of his peach curled in his fist, tightly. He can feel the little crevices of the little thing. He knows he could probably crush it, but not without making himself bleed in the process. One of them seeks the truth, wants to satiate his curiosity, the other never recovered from trauma and seeks pain and punishment for what was done, or for what he could do next. Every day, he wonders if he's gonna snap. "Why would I care whether you believe me or not?" The harshness of his tone carries his words further, and he finally stands up to come stand at the end of the dinner table. He looks down at that man, who won't stop until he knows the truth, who is not interested in getting a peak of his story but who would rather enjoy a full, front side nude. Nowhere to hide, only exposure.

"You're not gonna leave me alone until I give you the answer that you want, do you?" Which means that he can lie his heart out. Gory details, disgusting, gritty, sticky. But he doesn't want to do that. He's stubborn like that.

"You're a pain in the ass and I don't think it's fair I give you my life story without you telling me a secret about yourself first," his eyebrows furrow at the question and he scoffs. "Assuming that would shut you up most easily, I think I'd bite your tongue off."

"what about just wickedness?" in his world, the laws of good and evil only exist to inflate his ego. infamy is interesting only because they live in a primarily moral world. but put him somewhere none of that matters, and he'll still skew toward the same selfish, harmful behaviors—he just wouldn't have to pretend about it, anymore. not everything he does is wicked in the same way. it's arguably worse to allow someone he believes to be a murderous cannibal to roam the streets, to say nothing of the personal risk trespassing in his home. who cares? he's not afraid of fear—he craves it. "either way," he shrugs; "call my scheme neutral." isn't the pursuit of knowledge supposed to be some noble thing? it's never felt like that to him; it's very dependent on the knowledge you seek. max has never been appreciated for what he seeks, and for good reason. his methods in particular leave much to be desired. no doubt ira would appreciate if he grew more tact instead of spine. it isn't exactly a slam, but his palms hit the table with enough force to make a sound. "and i'm telling you that's a bunch of bullshit. cooking isn't burning them. but you couldn't just let your rescuers find all the bones, either. they'd be able to tell what happened. so you had to have done something with them, because they never did. i know whatever shitty campfires you could make weren't hot enough to turn them to ash. don't tell me you were using jet fuel to barbecue your classmates. i won't believe you." what, indeed? it's hard to fathom from any sane point of view why max is obsessed with this particular truth, let alone the lengths he's willing to go to get it—that's the problem. there really is no sane way to understand his way of thinking. "this is your story, ira. not mine. you're supposed to tell me what happens next." he's getting close, he thinks, to becoming a canvas. "where do you bite first?"