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 [ +18 ] Yea, Though I Walk Through the Valley [ for Mara ], vampires??? who knows???
totally lame idiot
 Posted: May 30 2015, 11:46 AM
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To Gwyn, his house smelled like home. It smelled like him, of the memories he held here. It was an extremely comfortable place for him, one that he didn't let others into easily. He was an open man for the most part, but with his home he was protective over it.

It was the one thing that stayed stable over the years of his life and it kept him rooted in today, living his life like he really should, being that he was basically dead and all. The walls of the entrance were painted a deep brown, the floors were hardwood and creaked when he walked over then. It was old and worn and it was his home.

He was quiet for the most part as he began to clamber around his kitchen, pulling out bits and pieces of utensils for himself. Gwyn rummaged around in a cupboard above his stove, grabbing out a basket of miscellaneous utensils, and a pearl handled knife that look ancient. He grasped the knife between his fingers, his mouth pursed in a unsure expression. He didn't want to do any of this, and Fate had to fuck up his life again.

Gwyn just hoped it wasn't for the worst, that this time maybe something would go right for once, because Fate had fucked him up so many times in the past. He was chewing over what Simon had said to him back in the parking lot that maybe- just maybe, Simon deserved what was being handed to him. It made his stomach burn with a recognition he hadn't felt in years. He paused with his actions and pivoted around, his eyes locking on Simons face.

"One," he started, his voice calm and steady as he picked up the pearl-handled knife. He pointed the tip of it to a chair at his counter, tall like a bar chair without a back. "You need to to sit down."

He turned back to the stove, pulling out a mug and a small, blue sauce pan. There was a printed smiley face on the side of it, making it seem like it was much too happy to be where it was in its life. "Two, you never, and I mean never deserve what is happening to you in this moment." He said, his voice low and strict. "No person deserves to be changed without a guide- without someone there to help them through what they're going through. It makes my chest hurt just to think about it." He was working as he spoke, his shoulders high and tight, like it was an almost uncomfortable topic for him. "It is a disgrace to out community that this would happen- and close to my home makes it even more personal."

"Now, i'm assuming you haven't had the blood of- well, anything. Since you've been changed- where exactly is your bite?" He asked, keeping his back turned to Simon. Gwyn turned his head to glance at the boy, his eyes squinted for a moment in concentration before he shrugged. "It doesn't matter now- it's your food. Just. Don't pass out- you'll see what I mean, the first time the smell hits you, it's like one of the best highs you can obtain."

"I'm going to give you some of my blood," he murmured after a moment of silence, picking up the pearl blade. "If you jump me, I will kill you. I'm not giving you it from my vein- you'd drain me dry. Little bit at a time, you hear?" The blade was dragged against his wrist as he explained himself and he finally popped through the barrier of skin and membrane, the metal sinking in a short cut that would heal before the day end.

Gwyn was holding his wrist over the mug in front of him- a cookie monster mug, complete with a hole below the handle the perfect size for a cookie to be slipped into. He didn't choose the decor of his house, he usually allowed his family to choose it. The deep red of the blood in the cup contrasted starkly with the blue of the mug, swirling in a hypnotizing pattern. It only took mere seconds for the cup to fill halfway- about as much as he wanted it to and he pressed the wound to his mouth, sucking on it to staunch the flow.

"Here. Drink. Slowly, or you'll just vomit it up on my counter." He paused as he held it out to the other, a frown on his face. "And after this you're going to show me your bite, i'm going to clean it up, since I really doubt you've done that. Then you're going to shower, yeah?"
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Lar
 Posted: May 31 2015, 09:10 PM
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Simon is acutely aware of more than he would have been before this nightmarish thing happened to him; he feels in his bones that the knife is a sacred thing, sees the reluctant twitch of Gwyn's lips. It reminds him of his childhood—the sour look on his mother's face on the nights she'd sit at the table and watch Simon and his siblings eat, her own plate empty. There is a reluctance in Simon's walk, a hunching in his shoulders, but he takes the offered seat all the same and watches the measured motions of Gwyn's hands, watches the tension grow in the vampire's shoulders.

"Maybe I did something to earn it. You don't know what happened." Simon pauses ruefully, hands clasped between his knees.

"I don't know what happened."

Gwyn's ideals are charming in a way that a cynical Simon may never appreciate; the dreams of a prince and a pauper are so far apart. That there would be rules and laws, that there is a community to speak of seems laughable to Simon. What justice is there for dead men—or anyone in this godforsaken town? Gwyn can take this as a personal affront, and Simon... He takes it as something else entirely.

The pause when Gwyn asks where his bite is seems to stretch on, with Simon staring at the floor the whole time, refusing to make eye contact. He looks young in the moment, abashed, prepared to be scolded, until the vampire turns back to his work. The uneasiness in his stomach is less nausea now and more nerves.

Then it is like a switch flips in his brain.

At once he is aware of the blood running in thick rivulets down Gwyn's arm. The pungent smell clouds Simon's mind like heady wine, like sick sangria. He thinks of steaks, undercooked but satisfying; of molten iron crawling through his veins. Simon stares outright, and licks his lips like a cat. Only animal instinct keeps him in his seat—the bone-deep instinct that he is in the presence of a more powerful predator, that he would only make it halfway across the kitchen before Gwyn put an end to him.

There is nothing left in his mind to wonder about the morbidity of the cookie monster mug, the sentimentality of it all. Simon only knows the red that glows at the heart of rubies, only hears the absence of his heartbeat, only knows that he is deeply, deeply starving.

He reaches out with trembling hands and all but folds himself around the mug, eyes intent on Gwyn. Again Simon is a caged animal, waiting for something to come steal his nourishment.

He sips slowly, cautiously, and the color begins to come back to his lips. Residual warmth traces through him like a drug, limbering his joints and easing his muscles. His nailbeds grow pink again. Simon loses himself entirely for a minute—ten minutes, maybe—and when the mug is empty he blinks owlishly at Gwyn and unfolds himself, laying the cup aside.

Fed, Simon is long and lithe and moves with grace.

"I'll clean it myself," he says. "It's just a bite."
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totally lame idiot
 Posted: Jun 2 2015, 04:56 PM
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There was something in the pause that made Gwyn raise his eyebrows. The silence that followed his question, the refusal to look anywhere but his floor, it was easy to tell the Simon was embarrassed about where the bite was. He mulled over that information, watching the younger boy perk up at the smell of his blood, his predatory instincts taking the wheel for the small moment between handing the mug over to unsteady hands and the first sip.

He gives Simon the privacy Gwyn himself would want when feeding for the first time in days, he turns his back and wipes his own blood off of his knife, he starts straightening the kitchen. It had gotten to be somewhat of a mess since the last time he had cleaned it and it grated on his nerves that he would invite someone—a stranger no less, to an untidy home. He knew in the back of his mind that Simon really could care less, he was just happy that he was somewhere safe, somewhere that he didn’t have to watch his back. It was a few minutes that Simon lost himself in the blood-filled mug.

Gwyn tilted his head slightly at the change in the other, it was almost immediate, the change in his posture, how he moved. It looked like every move was calculated and thought out. It was a relief that only a cup of blood had helped that much, although, he still did really want to know where Simon had gotten the bite.
“What,” he began teasingly, picking the mug up off of the counter. He was surprised the boy had the pride to not lick the inside of the cup- he never did. “Did you get bit on your ass or something?” It wasn’t the first time it would have happened, and he’d seen bites in all of the nooks and crannies that were available to vampires.

It was interesting to see where they could bite, interesting and… grotesque, in a way.

“But, if you really think you can handle it by yourself, be my guest. I can set you up in the bathroom, can you stand yet?” He had already started to walk down the small hallway that led to his bedroom and his bathroom. “I can get everything set up for you, either way—wait, shit,” he popped his head back into the kitchen for a split second. “Are you allergic to anything? Like, soap? You’re still such a new-change it can be triggered and… allergic reactions aren’t fun when you can’t stomach the medication you need to control ‘em.”
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Lar
 Posted: Jun 12 2015, 08:39 PM
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Simon's bark-brown eyes flick to Gwyn—and narrow, calculating. His lips are stained a vulgar red.

"Not my ass," he says. Simon doesn't clarify.

The world tilts when he stands, reminding him of drunken nights up in the woods: the smell of pine and puke and perfume, the fleeting warmth of shots, laughs, campfires. He feels queasy at the loss, but now his stomach is sated. It's a waste to retch, though he feels it crawling up his throat.

"Not allergic," he mumbles, as if from a distance away. His eyes are clouded with some unspeakable emotion, some wordless grief. For a moment, Simon thinks to run from here, away from Gwyn, back to whatever tenuous ties he has on a normal life. By the time he's made up his mind, the bathroom is tidied and ready, and the shower seems to call him. It's been days—nearly a week—since Simon had this creature comfort.

Simon has the grace to murmur a hushed thanks to Gwyn before he disappears down the hallway.

With the door locked behind him, Simon strips in the bathroom, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor. He turns the faucet and lets the shower warm up, and stares into his own hollow eyes in the mirror. His clavicles protrude, poking skeletal at his papery skin, and he can nearly count his ribs. Other than dropping weight and losing color, Simon isn't so far from his living self.

Aside from the gaping wound on the inside of his thigh. Even now it bleeds sluggishly, messily. Where, in movies, there might be two delicate fang marks, Simon is missing a mouthful of flesh. His femoral artery is somewhere in the wreckage, pierced and mauled. Without thinking, Simon traces the marks left by his maker's teeth—

He wonders, in some dark part of his mind he would never admit to owning, if that person can be found again. Simon showers until the hot water runs out and the purulent mark on his leg runs clear. Gwyn's shampoo smells strongly of eucalyptus; his bodywash of sharp, clean soap. The scent clings to Simon as it strips the grease and dirt from his skin. It bothers him to smell like somewhere else—someone else.

He scrubs the stink of soap off his skin with a towel and clambers back into his same scuffed jeans. Everything else stays on the bathroom floor.

There's that after-storm humidity hanging in the air of Gwyn's house, the smell of newfallen rain offset by the sugar-cookie sweetness of the home. Simon's feet move silent on the hardwood, and he stops like a cautious deer when he catches sight of Gwyn.

"I never got your name," he says somberly, soberly. "But thank you."

There is a hesitance in him then; his eyes flick towards the front door, the great uncaring world outside.

"What do I do now?"
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totally lame idiot
 Posted: Jun 14 2015, 08:46 PM
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Gwyn didn’t respond verbally to anything that Simon had said to him, instead, he responded with a small, private smile at the thanks. It was part that he wanted Simon to get clean, and feel rejuvenated and part—well, the kid smelled like a wet dog. He busied himself with cleaning up the mugs and setting them on the drying rack besides the sink; it was halfway through the motions that he realized that Simon didn’t have any extra clothes. With what little he knew of the boy, he could tell already that Simon would just slip into his old clothes without complaint, like he did it every day.

It took a few moments for Gwyn to into his room. It was above ground, with black tint on the windows and a black-out curtain in front of them so that no sunlight even thought of penetrating the barriers. His bed was pushed into a corner, a mound of pillows and blankets balled up in the corner where he chose to rest. He walked past the windows, past his dresser and into a closet where he stood with his hands on his hips, contemplating what Simon would fit into.

The outfit that Gwyn had picked out was a simple one, sweats that could be rolled up and a T-shirt that was worn and comfortable. Both of them smelled strongly of him—and he hoped that it didn’t throw the other off. There was no way that any of his briefs would fit Simon, so, he supposed the other could go without. While Gwyn was walking back to his kitchen, he swiped a pair of socks off his dressed and added it to the pile.

Comfort clothes, because Simon needed nothing but comfort at this moment.

He busied himself with getting another mug of blood prepared for the Simon and warmed it. He added a tap of cinnamon and stirred it in and set it on a mug warmer that sat next to the sink. When the door to the bathroom opened, the steam that rolled out smelled strongly of Simon—his natural scent was mingled with the steam and the smell of his blood was prominent in the air.

“Hmm? Oh, don’t give me that look,” Gwyn mumbled in response to Simon’s voice. It was sad, like he expected to be kicked out to the curb. “My name’s Gwyn. And, surprise, you’re not going anywhere, kid. Here—“ he pushed the clothes into Simons arms and tilted his head down to where the mug sat. This one was a normal one, with a small brand that didn’t exist anymore. “Put those on, they’ll be big. What, you thought I was just going to let you shower and then kick your ass to the curb?”

He already knew what the answer was, but it hurt his pride a little, knowing that Simon thought that so prominently.
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Lar
 Posted: Jun 17 2015, 01:59 PM
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Comfort comes, ultimately, from familiarity—from a lack of anticipation, a deep understanding of the way things work. Simon is unaccustomed to this kind of hospitality, a standing invitation to make himself at home. He takes the clothes from Gwyn, but not without suspicion. Though the cotton smells of Gwyn—of clean linen, pricey detergent—Simon pulls the shirt over his head and lays the pants and socks aside.

There is another smell that is more pressing. Without a word, Simon is entangled with the mug, hot rich redness plied by greedy lips. This time he's aware of the taste, conscious of the copper and iron and cinnamon and sweetness. And he is aware of Gwyn, too; the fatherly look on the other man's face, the attentiveness with which he provides.

"I'm Simon," he responds, lips scarcely moving from the mug as he drains the last of its contents. This time he's sated, not so greedy to bite the wrist that feeds him. Now that he's no longer starving, Simon is quicker to look a gift horse in the mouth. Everything has strings attached.

"No, but—" everyone else I know would've. Canfield isn't the sort of town where there's food and space and money to spare—it is the place where a young Simon was forbidden from feeding the stray cats born under the porch, where friends' mothers would grow weary with him staying for dinner.

"What do you want from me?"

Quid pro quo.
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totally lame idiot
 Posted: Jun 18 2015, 02:17 PM
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What do you want from me?

The question sat heavily in the air; it left a bitter taste in his mouth and Gwyn swallowed a few times before he was able to open his mouth and respond, his tone different than before.

"Want? Why would I want anything from you?" Gwyn asked, changing his posture so that he was leaning against the fridge, his hands hooked in the loops of his pants. "I mean no offense, Simon, but why on Gods Earth would you think that I would want something from you?" He swooped a gesture to indicate Simon himself and shook his head. "You have nothing to give me, nothing that I can't already get for myself and I don't want anything from you."

He stepped forward, his socked feet not making a sound against the tile in his kitchen; with a hand he pulled the mug from Simon's grasp, pleased to see that he drained it again. The kid had to of been feeling much better—especially if he was starting to think about consequences of going with strangers and doing things without thinking.

It was, Gwyn thought with dark amusement, probably what got him turned into this mess in the first place.

The clank of the mug being put into the sink was louder than he intended for it to be and his gaze sharpened on the sink in annoyance, as if it was the items fault. “I think you need to lay down, I have a bedroom that you’ll be left alone in and it’s dark and quiet in there.” Gwyn spoke like it wasn’t a suggestion. “I also think you need to actually clean your thigh. Did you bandage it? Or did you just leave it for infection to come and get you? You’re still early enough in the transition that these things can happen, and they are not fun, Simon.” He used the name that he was given to ground the other and to keep his attention from straying.

“Put those pants and socks on, you’ll be cold until you start to feed regularly. You can rest for a few hours and then you can get up and ask me questions—which, I know you’ll have. You probably haven’t even come to the fact that you’re a vampire, have you?” The realization was sudden and Gwyn licked his lower lip and brought a hand up to scratch at his scalp. He felt like he was going about this all wrong, and he knew someone who could do better but they were dead, and it all felt so damn unfair.
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Lar
 Posted: Jun 21 2015, 05:51 PM
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Simon's eyes narrow at Gwyn, his mouth curling into a frown. If he trusts anyone, Gwyn is not among those people—and Simon does not trust easily. Every inch has been a battle thus far, all the way from the bingo hall that now feels a million miles away. While the storm outside has calmed and mellowed, the storm in Simon's eyes still rages, flashes.

"Everyone wants something," he says with a shrug—as if this deeply-held belief is simple fact. "Especially the people who say they don't want anything. I'm not an idiot." Not anymore, five days on and five days dead. A handful of days ago maybe Simon would've hoped for good-hearted hospitality. Why would he now?

"No free lunch." And then, as an afterthought: "I'm not a charity case."

This is Simon's glass armor: pretending that he doesn't need help. Pretending that he hasn't spent the last several days sleeping buried in grave-dirt, eating what he can forage, puking in the woods. Pretending that the wound on his thigh isn't so serious, that he still has somewhere else safe to sleep.

Gwyn sees right through it and snipes each pretense, like a father scolding a son, and though Simon sits with his chin up like a petulant child he knows he's caught. He thinks of the humid forests outside, the unforgiving mountains, the clutching mud, and thinks—maybe this one night he can spend in Gwyn's house. And if it's held over his head later on, so be it. When the time comes he'll pay the price.

Simon yields, ducking his head to pull on the socks, and then stands and turns his back to Gwyn as he strips off his grungy jeans in favor of sweatpants. For a moment the wound on his thigh can be glimpsed before Simon is covered again, and he turns back to Gwyn sourly.

"So now you're going to put me down for a nap, and then we're going to have a Q&A, and then what?" His voice raises, trembles, cracks. "Whatever the hell I am, I shouldn't be."
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