ON HOLD WHILE I WORK ON SOME COMMISSIONS
IF UR JELLY, YOU CAN GET ONE HERE
this my main boy cortlyn
he's beautiful and i want to write about him harassing/befriending new folks
he has 19035839 au versions, but generally he's young and a prostitute/companion/moll/etc.
please post your character(s) and bios;
post more than you think you should, and then more,
because i will invariably ask for even MORE details. no anime/manga or homestuck fancharacters.
more s**t on cort
at first he seems almost laughably cliche --- the immaculate hair,
the coquette smile, the too many cheap rings glittering on skinny fingers,
the smug cocked hip he rests against your table ---
almost laughably.
but he's got the ego a true kanye narcissist,
a boy who can walk into a room and convince everyone
that he wasn't invited to this party;
you were all invited here to get the chance to meet him.
coarse filthy thing with no manners and no volume control,
a puerile streak of honesty that's vicious and endearing in turn;
he's both sides of all those coins: whimsical/temperamental, passionate/overdramatic, tempting/infuriating
he's instigated so much s**t that there's no reason he's alive right now,
except that he's convinced he won't die. not so much an optimist as a narcissist:
if he died, you know, how would the show go on?
loves pretty trinkets of affection;
can't much read or write;
hates probably a lot of things;
forgets most things that he's professed to hate.
his favourite movie is moulin rouge,
although he turns it off before the end
for transparently obvious reasons
warnings for language. so many warnings for language
i. fopfop's clawed kitty
"You want me to call the cops or your parents first? Your choice, kid."
Kitty scowled and jammed the wad of cash into her sweater's pouch. She spat, "Forget it," and gritted her teeth at the bouncer's laugh.
"Go home, little girl. No one on this strip's letting in jailbait like you through their front door."
She tried to hide her hands in the pouch as well, shoulders hemming her in. "Kay. You have a back door?"
"Get outta here."
"******** you too," she muttered and turned tail before he made good on the threat. Not that people hadn't called the police before, but that was more hassle (and slimy pity) and bribery than she could tolerate tonight.
As she hustled out to the street, the bouncer's little pig eyes still on her back, a hard slap of wind whipped her hair into her eyes. ******** terrific. She batted her hair away, trying in vain to contain it behind ears or pins. Futile: she abandoned the task and pulled her phone from her pocket. She could read the screen through inky bits of hair well enough to call up the usual cab company.
No one on this strip will let her in, huh?
Time to blow this shithole and find somewhere worse.
"Where you headed?" the cab driver asked, flabby hirsute arm stretched across the back of the passenger seat. Kitty had an image of selecting a bobby pin from her uncooperative hair and jamming it under his crusty fingernails ---
"I don't know. Drive that way."
"...straight down the road?'
"Yes. Now." Arms wrapped around herself, Kitty shuffled closer to the door.
The cabbie raised an eyebrow in the rearview mirror, but he shifted to drive and she lay her head against the sticky window. The bitter wind outside nagged at flags and fluttering advertisements, snarled through leaves in pursuit of something worthier to destroy.
"Turn right here."
With less hesitation than she expected, the driver guided them down a narrower street. Darker roads and darker faces watching them from behind the fog of cheap cigarettes.
"Keep going." Kitty sat up to watch the signs flare by. Cracked eggshell letters promised to buy her gold and silver at an inimitable rate. A laundromat next, the iron-red of dead blood. Loans, Chinese buffet, repair shop ---
"Over there." She pointed to a lighted spot in the gathering dark. It proved to be a few night restaurants and claustrophobic clubs, exactly what she had intended. "This is it."
"This?" He frowned at her.
"I'm meeting a friend."
"Thought you didn't know where you was headed."
"Yeah." Her voice tightened. "She texted me. Here." Kitty tucked a crumpled fifty between his palm and the back of the seat. "Keep the change."
He left her with a shake of his head, on the dim street lit by slivers of cold neon enticements. 'Sleepless', this club promised by name. Kitty had nothing against sleep herself, but insomniacs tended to make profitably bad decisions. She headed in. The bouncer glanced at her ID, and then the two hundreds beneath it.
"Club's 21 and up." Before Kitty could complain, the bouncer said, "I see the 2. Where's the 1?"
She rolled her eyes and added one more bill to his sweaty hand. In exchange, he returned her ID and jerked his head toward the dance floor.
The evening had gotten away from her, so much time wasted on snobby law-abiding assholes. So Kitty tackled her drinks, intent on catching up, with a single-mindedness that didn't escape the notice of her bar neighbors. Let them look. She never returned the favour, eyes clicking from drink to phone to bartender alone.
"You really old enough to drink?" he laughed after her third shot.
"I got in, didn't I?"
"Can't argue that. One more of the same?"
"Two."
The vodka caught her on chapter ten, or nine maybe. Letters transposed themselves and words flitted the page with coquettish evasion. She gave up reading and stared at the screen, eyes unmoving, for as many rounds as she could. After the phone tumbled from her loose grip, and she retrieved it with a sloshy, surly head, events started to blur.
She remembered the hands --- a hand on her knee, thumb rubbing over the bone. Didn't someone touch her neck too? Some lame pretext; you looked sweaty; the ******** did that mean, she had thought or said. The hand, her knee, her gushing head and breath as wet as her own, beer stinging in her mouth and nose, under her elbow cmon baby, baby, come on -- gone
She remembered distinctly the loss in balance, when that hand disappeared, and she swayed against the bar. Banged her hip on the fake, peeling wood. Then this voice, bright and fake and flickering vibrant as the purple sign outside, and way too loud to be in her ear so close, saying, "He's not your boyfriend, is he? Luv, is he your boyfriend?"
"No." (who?) go away
"Thass what I thought. You heard h
something, thought she'd be sick, another insistent yeah ******** off hand at her i said piss off back, forcing her go ******** yourse to stand on her own feet.
"She's fourteen, you sick son of a b***h."
The last thing she remembered was growling, "I'm fifteen," and thinking, 'well that was a dumb thing to say'.
---
Her head
had a sponge in it. The little sponge animals (usually dinosaurs? weren't they?) that came tinier than a fingernail. Drop them in water and watch them grow. And grow and bloat against her temples and hair, a pushing bloated pressure.
She preemptively shaded her eyes, but when she opened them, the room was cool with curtained darkness. So not a complete a*****e she had gone to bed with, or maybe one more hungover than her. She rolled to her other side to check, but the mattress shrugged at her. Empty. Also frameless, tossed on the ground like some unbudgeted halfway home.
Mm, water first. Mysteries later.
Kitty picked herself up from the floor, distantly amused to find her clothes still in place. A case of whiskey d**k, perhaps. She tried the bedroom door and it led into a cramped apartment, stale and rickety with much-needed renovations. The kitchenette, the little corner pretending to be a living room, the front door, and aha. A door that must be the bathroom. After a stop in there, water, shake head, dizzy, puke, water, wash face, water, alright, Kitty returned to the center of the apartment.
Head leveled out, this time she noticed a shine of brown hair peeking over the arm of the couch. Seriously, he slept on the couch?
"Hey." She tromped over there, rubbing her eye with a fisted hand. "Hello?"
The hair sat up, appearing now over the top of the couch. Dyed, she thought, a fragrant colour like the cubes of brown cooking sugar kept high in the pantry, out of her child self's reach. The hair's owner turned and draped an arm over the couch, peered at her with eyes bleary as her own.
"Oh," the boy sighed. (Boy, not man, she decided.) "Mornin."
"Yeah. I'm gonna go."
"What?"
"I am going to go," she repeated, leaning forward in case he had beer stuck in his ears.
"Now?"
"Yes?"
"Not much of a thanks," he grumbled, and slid back down behind the couch, pale arm trailing away like a cat's peevish tail.
Kitty didn't like guided questions. If he expected her to chirp 'oh gosh thanks for what! what happened', he'd be holding his breath right to the grave. She patted at her sweatshirt for her phone, annoyed instead by the crinkle of money still waiting obediently within the pouch. Why hadn't she put that in her wallet where it belonged?
The boy meanwhile had dragged himself to his feet, in a state of far less dress than herself. A shirt far too large hung over his bony frame, something old and softer than the shirts that Walmart insisted were vintage. It hung past his hips, so only when he moved did the fabric swing away and reveal a strip of white underwear beneath. He had scrubbed away most of last night's face too, although Kitty knew from personal mascara experience that he hadn't been sober enough to quite rid himself of all of it.
"You got cab money or something?" he asked, although between his accent and morning sluggishness, the last word came out as a smeared 'sumfin'.
"Yeah. Did we have sex?"
"Nah." He shuffled past her, fingers preening absentmindedly in his hair. "You remember anything?"
'any fin'
"I remember the club..." Kitty watched his back retreat into the grubby little kitchen. She narrowed her eyes, but couldn't make out the tattoo at the top of his spine. It looked Cyrillic, but the blurry ink had been a cheap mistake of a job, probably done in someone's home, with Mary J assisting.
"'member the b*****d grabbing at you?"
"No." Yes? "A little."
He pulled on the fridge door, forehead resting against the little freezer box as he squinted through the contents. Lukewarm bathroom water was one thing; Kitty wouldn't mind an actual drink and something bread-like to sate her stomach acid.
"Tried to take you home," the boy narrated. Either he didn't notice Kitty creeping into the kitchen behind his back or, wasn't bothered. "Was all for convincing me you was his and dating and I said bullshit."
Great. A savior. "I want a drink."
He leaned back from the fridge, swinging the door wider for her to take a look. "I dunno the ******** you were doing in a club like that anyway, but hardly the point, innit? Grown ******** man trying to carry you off like a Viking."
Kitty averted her attention, from fridge to boy. "...a Viking?"
"You know. Burning villages n s**t. Stealing girls."
gahhls. guhwls. g-- never mind, she couldn't transliterate that one. "...right."
"Yeah," He sounded pleased with his explanation.
"I'll take the apple juice."
"Have at." He abandoned the fridge and wandered to a cupboard, pulling down two plastic cups. As she brought the apple juice to the counter, he set the cups down there and they each had an amber glass of it before anyone spoke again.
"Cortlyn," he introduced.
"Did you say we didn't have sex?"
"No, Christ, we didn't have sex. I was nearly as pissed as you." He appraised her for a moment. "Maybe not even nearly. You were well gone when we left."
"I would have gone with him," she said into her second cup of apple juice.
"An believe me, you were sober enough to say so, I would've let you." He gave an equine little toss of his head, fluffed his hair into place. "But the sort of person who goes around stealing fourteen year olds from bars --- "
"I'm fifteen."
"Yeah," Cortlyn grinned, "and I'm twenty-one."
That caught Kitty's attention, and she glanced at him again. Now that she paid attention, it became apparent that not only was he a boy, but one not too much older than her. "So how old are you?"
"I just said. Twenty-one."
"Don't be an a*****e."
"Twenty?"
"******** off."
"Eighteen." Under the blight of her withering side-eye, Cort puffed a long surrendering sigh. "Seventeen. Honest."
"So why were you there?"
"Come on now." He dashed back the rest of the juice and left his cup vaguely near the sullen, unused sink. "I didn't ask why you was there, did I? You were there and so was I, and that's how it is, yeah?"
"I was there because the other clubs wouldn't let me in," she retorted. "I was there to get drunk."
"Can't you drink your parents' whatever?"
"What?"
With a shrug, he said, "You had hundreds falling out your pockets when it came time to pay the cab. I figure your parents keep a whole wine pantry, on top of your standard liquor cabinet."
Kitty frowned down at her hands, fingers tapping the cup. He wasn't wrong, but, "It's called a wine cellar."
"Alright," he allowed with a magnanimous wave of his hand.
"And I don't drink at home," she continued unprompted, "because that's not the point."
"Well you weren't enjoying yourself at the club, that's for damn sure."
She fixed sharp eyes on him. "How long were you watching me?"
"Not me. Another girl came n told me near the end of the night."
"And then you swooped in on angel wings."
His face split in a surprised grin. "Yeah, sure." ('shore', Kitty spelled mentally.) "A right angel, thass what I am."
But her mind was backtracking through his words. She left the cup on the counter and found a corner of the cupboards to lean against, arms snuggled into her sweater (beer-stinking, clammy with yesterday's sweat), shoulders unattractively hunched.
She repeated, "Another girl?" in a low voice, and her guess was rewarded with a tellingly awkward shuffle of his bare feet.
"Yeah."
"Like...a Girl. Who works at the club."
Carefully flippant, "Sure."
"Do you work at the club?"
Cort ran his tongue over his bottom lip, head cocked to the side. "Something like that."
"God," Kitty said in exasperation, "chill out. I'm not going to call the cops on you. I'd be in as much trouble."
"Not exactly as much..."
Her eyes flicked upward, bright in triumph. "So you are doing something illegal."
"Oh, Christ. No, I'm your perfectly legal teenager working at a ******** dive like that. What do you think?" He folded his arms over his chest. "Weren't you running home, you said?"
Kitty made a noncommittal sound in her throat. Her brooding fingers picked at each other, deprived of their usual toy --- that's right, her phone. "Where's my phone?"
"In your shoes."
She forced herself to relax her shoulders that had bunched up in abrupt panic. In her shoes. Fine. She scratched at a little bolt of scabs that ran across one finger. How accurate were the media depictions, she wondered? Would there be a client who whisked her out into the alley and ripped her underwear with drunk fingers, clamped those over her mouth as he ******** her into the bricks. Would there be a man with pretty dead eyes that paid double to take her home and slice slow strips of flesh away from her bones until he'd devoured her all, meal by meal.
Stranglers and Black Dahlias leered through her mind. It seemed gruesomely exciting, but a very roundabout way to suicide, if that's what she decided she was after.
Her voice surprised herself with its peculiar softness: "What's it like?"
"Not good."
"Tell me. What is it like?"
He sighed. "Not good. Not glamorous. Mostly it's ugly or bored or monstrous things that come calling. Least those're the ones you remember. The others are too routine to bother thinking bout. What's your name?"
"Kitty."
With a short laugh, he teased, "Already picked a stage name?" but she shut him up with a flick of venom eyes. "Alright then, Kitty. If you really want it, fine. But you've money and education. Go start at some escort service, not s**t like that club."
She exhaled and deliberately smoothed loose hairs back from her face. "They wouldn't take me."
Cort's smile was, to her relief, not grieved or pitying. "Not the cheap ones, maybe. A lotta blokes'd pay miles for that. People go ******** mental over something strange --- no offense --- but that's what you'll be. Fetish fuel."
Fuel burned up bright. Self-immolating funeral pyre.
She folded her arms across her chest and turned on him eyes as dark and calm as the swallowing night sea. "Do you know of a service like that?"
He grimaced, fiddling with the hem of his baggy shirt. "I..." He shook his head, mouth twisting in guilt.
"I'll find one on my own," she threatened.
"Why? What's the point?" His voice quickened with someone she couldn't put a finger on --- concern? frustration? offense? "You've got enough money already. If you want to be ******** and forgotten, I'm sure you've a school full of boys who'll drop at your feet."
Kitty shrugged, face composed with the distant, lofty irritation she had practiced to perfection. "You wouldn't get it."
"No," he agreed tersely. "I don't. Your phone's in your shoes; you've money for a taxi. Anything else you're missing?"
"Nothing."
"Alright then." Despite his quick clipped tone, the way he rubbed at the back of his neck spoke to indecision. "You'll get yourself killed drinking like that with no one to watch you. You know that?"
"Very well," she said dryly, and stepped away from the cupboards, ready to retrieve her things and conclude the overlong visit. Cortlyn frowned, but stepped aside to let her pass.
"Least take my number," he said to her back.
"For what?" She ducked into the bedroom, nabbed her shoes and precious beauty of a phone.
"I dunno. Case you want to do something stupid with someone who knows how to do it a little less stupidly."
"How many dealers do you know?"
"Prolly the same as a bored rich girl." She gave him a flat look, and he relented. "Quite a ******** few, yeah."
"Can you get discounts?"
"Sometimes, I s'pose..."
She nodded with the gravity and wisdom due to an mustachioed art auctioneer. Acceptable purchase: "Kay. Give me your number."
& sequel
She ended up there a couple times a month --- tried to be conscientious about choosing different days, so that he could never blame her for a regular, missed date. The effort was probably superfluous: Cortlyn didn't keep a calendar or track of anything but the hours, and his reaction to her phone calls was always pleasant, open-armed surprise.
A few times she called and he didn't pick up. After one of those missed calls, she had complained, "Texting is so much easier."
Cort had shrugged. "You can text me, but I'll call you to answer."
"That's stupid."
"It's faster to understand talking than words."
She had to look up from her phone on that one. "Talking and words are the same thing, dumbass."
He laughed, ever undeterred by his own logical fallacies. "You know what I mean."
What started as drunk crashing lingered into slow brunch talks. She pressed him for details of last night's work, still struggling to colour in her mental image of prostitution, but he rarely indulged her with more than a funny anecdote or some coworker drama. Not that Cortlyn wasn't talkative. He had plenty of wisdom to share on other matters, like
--- his concern about them sleeping during daylight, because light made you fat;
--- the fact that kool-aid powder could be used as a poor man's hair dye (not that he'd ever risked his hair to verify this) ;
--- his theory that the snakes left ireland because all the potatoes drove them out of their undeground hideyholes;
--- endless postulation on how to categorize shitty people into distinct, recognizable breeds.
Then one morning (they called it 'morning', despite how late they woke), he expressed relief that he had the night off. And one lazy thing led to another, and Kitty never left. They dragged themselves to a bakery, acquired snacks, Cortlyn dug out some weed, and Kitty spent the rest of the day comfortably high, grunting disinterest every time Cort played a new band and demanded her opinion.
As it turned out, he had a shitload of music, although most of it sounded like the same whiny broken hearts to her. She also learned that Cort couldn't sing for s**t, but (to no one's surprise) he still happily joined in during his favourite parts.
"You sleeping here again tonight?"
"No." Kitty pawed through the bag of pastries, sticky wrappers clinging to her wrist. "Didn't we buy two of the jam things..."
"Mm-hmm. An' you ate em both already."
"********."
"Mm-hmm." Cort yawned and wiggled his toes in a full-body stretch. "But you're Asian."
"What?"
"You won't get fat."
"I'm pretty sure that's racist," she muttered under the plastic's bag mocking crinkles.
"Even if it is, you're still the one who can eat six jam things and not get fat."
Kitty tossed the bag aside and squinted at Cort instead. "...fine. That's fair enough."
He hummed through a lazy smile. "So you're not staying tonight?"
"I said no."
"When you leaving then?"
"Why?" She dropped onto the couch, dangerously close to sitting on his head, and slumped against the cushions in pastry-less defeat. "You have someone better to meet?"
"I dunno." His smug smile hadn't faded. "Maybe."
"Yeah right, loser," she grumbled, but doubt took root in her stomach and she made her excuses pretty soon after. Had there been someone else he intended to spend his day with? If this was a pity hangout ---
"I'll call you again when I've a free day," he said, seeing her to the door. "Yeah?"
"Whatever," Kitty replied, which they both knew was as good as a yes.
The next time, he nagged her into paying for the weed. She agreed, on the condition that he would buy some extra for Kitty the next time he met the dealer. The time after, he didn't want to smoke, infected with a manic, fussy energy and hands nearly shaking with a need to be busy. He pulled her to the bathroom, ordered, "Sit down, sit the ******** down," and flung open a cabinet of colours.
"...why do you own that much make-u---what are you doing."
"You're always wearing the same s**t. We gotta try something new."
Kitty said, "No."
"Yeah. ******** you, it'll be funnn."
"For you."
"What," he huffed, "you can wash it off if you ******** hate it, cmon."
Now Kitty had no actual grudge against the idea, except that it had come from Cortlyn instead of her. Morally, she had to grumble and scowl and fidget just enough to make his job difficult ("My nose was itchy." "Next time your face starts s**t, you tell me and I'll itch it for you. Stop [********] moving. Christ."). She felt like a cat pooled across the floor, too regally apathetic to move even an inch to disrupt the harassment.
And the engagement calmed Cort as well, his fingers focused and neat as they selected colours. He couldn't quite shut his mouth, but the chatter narrowed into self-intended murmurs, the burble of an infant holding a very serious discussion with itself over what toy to gnaw on next.
"So lucky," he sighed a few times.
Kitty refused to ask.
"You're so ******** lucky," came again, as he sat back to evaluate his work. "Wish I had Asian skin. You can always wear yellow, whatever shade it is. You look like a ******** empress, you do."
Kitty scowled and tried to retort, but Cort told her to shut up and look in the mirror. It wasn't her, and it wasn't Kazuo's florid concealments. It wasn't her, the cold, proud gold streaking away from her eyes, tapering into something darkly alluring. It wasn't STOP red, danger red, defensive, angry, is this my blood your blood red, and it wasn't careless and bitter.
Cort rested his chin on her shoulder, watching her brows draw together in the mirror. He said, "Our eyes could be brother and sister."
Her mouth moved mechanically: "I guess."
"So? You gonna wash it all away?"
"It doesn't suit me."
He tsked and moved around her to start cleaning the counter.
"It's good." After a frowning second, she clarified, "It doesn't look bad. It looks bad on me."
"You're a funny girl," he sighed, "but thank you, I s'pose."
Kitty scratched at the pad of her thumb, glancing between the reddening skin and the pale empress in the mirror. "You never said why you have this much make-up."
"Hm? I dunno. I like it."
"You don't wear very much." Her thumb stung; she moved to scratching her palm.
"Nah. Used to. Then I realized what gaudy clown s**t I looked like, so now it's for ******** around with. Luv," he interrupted himself with a frown at her silent reflection, "if it's bothering you so much, take it off. Here's some remover. And leave your damn hands alone."
ii. pretty frightful things' demure dimitri
"You didn't have to stay..."
Dimitri nestled the keyboard into its case and tidied up the zipper. "You know I don't mind."
Standing on stage, they could hear the other band members by the back door, coordinating drum transportation from club to van. But the group's vocalist, a shaggy-haired vagrant who called himself Juniper, had wandered back to speak with Dimitri.
He insisted, "Still feel like I should say it every time," and held out a hand for Dimitri to shake.
Dimitri smiled and took it. "I don't mind. And stellar show tonight, I mean it."
When Dimitri released the guy's hand, it snaked immediately into his tangle of hair, concealed amongst the jungle of sweaty blond strands. "Yeah, man. Means a lot coming from you."
Even after the club had emptied, there lingered the humidity of packed bodies and warm breaths. Naturally, it must be that heat that was causing a pink sheen on Juniper's face. Not that a blush would look bad on him...
Juniper blew out a short breath and his hand dropped from hair to hip. "But it's getting late."
With a smile, Dimitri corrected, "It's been late. It's nearly four now."
"God damn, sorry for keeping you." Before Dimitri could interrupt with more assurances, Juniper said, "I'll catch you next time."
"Sure."
Juniper shuffled a step back, hesitated, and Dimitri had to bite down on a smile as the guy's hand crept anxiously back up to his hair. He blurted, "The twentieth. That's our next show."
"I'll be there."
"Yeah?" he asked, with the wide eyes and pattering pulse of a high schooler on their first date.
"Yes," Dimitri laughed. "Definitely. Now go sleep."
He shooed the guy back to the rest of his flock and waved off the band's van as it slugged away. Its red lights blinked around the corner, and though Dimitri tried to listen for an engine rumble, fading out, he supposed his ears were still ringing from the evening's program.
That said, for soggy, swollen-eared 4am, Dimitri felt pretty alright. Lately his other activities had cultivated the night owl in him, and he preferred not to waste the energy on kicking bedsheets around. So he volunteered often to stay past closing and help pack away instruments, recoil the wires, wipe off tables --- and if chatting with cute singers was part of the deal, he wouldn't complain.
After shouting a farewell to the bartender, Dimitri nabbed his jacket and slipped out his phone. The twentieth, Juniper said... He flicked over to his calendar as he stepped outside. But the relief of a crisp October night distracted him. He needed to take a moment and breathe in the cool emptiness of the air after the Nosh Pit's sauna. Another rewarding thing about staying up this late: feeling that placid satisfaction of a day completed, lights turned out, streets empt---
"You put a finger on me again and I swear to God I'll bite it off and spit the ******** nail in your face."
--- or that.
Dimitri kept his phone in a tight grip, tucked against his stomach. Debating whether police or his people would be better to call, he looked around for the fingerbiter. Not far from the door of the club stood a pair Dimitri hadn't noticed, a furious little whip of a boy squared off against a stocky redhead. Despite the memorable threat, the bigger man continued to swipe at the kid's hands, trying to snag one of his wrists as they fluttered through exasperated Italian gestures.
The man's low words, heavy and sluggish like the band's departed van, were difficult for Dimitri to catch. Things assuaging and demanding in turn, it sounded like, but neither carrot nor stick made a dent in the kid's bitter mood.
"You're a ******** mess," the boy was squawking, "look at you, you're a ******** mess and gonna drive home like that, ******** getoff me," as he snatched back a briefly-captured arm.
Patience spent, the man advanced a couple uneven steps. But if his plan was to pin the kid against the wall of the club, he had a long way to go and not much internal compass to assist him. Instead, the kid's backpedaling curved them closer to the road, and Dimitri had ample space to slide along the front of the club towards them.
"I don't care," the kid barked, and repeated shrilly over the man's attempts to speak, "I don't ******** care; you listening to me? You ******** heard any'this, drunk s**t -- "
Closer now, Dimitri could make out the man's rumbling thunder beneath the lightning shouts.
"How you gonna get home?" the man jeered. "How you gettin home? Suck someone off fer the twenny bucks?"
"******** you."
"You got no money. Cmon, kid."
"Maybe I'd have money if you didn cheat me out of it all --- "
Dimitri watched the man's irritation quicken into snarling anger: "I'm not your goddamn john."
"Could've ******** fooled me," the kid spat back. "I'm not going home wi'you; ******** off. Don call me later crying you're sorry. An don't you show up drunk at my door neither. I don wanna see you. Got it?"
The redhead went for a last hurrah, stepping in and clutching two handfuls of the kid's loose jacket. But it was handled before Dimitri had the chance to approach, never mind intervene, with a clumsy but heartfelt slap at the man's neck. The man grunted and let go, this final strike apparently convincing him that the kid meant what he said. Like a petulant school bully, the man swore something at the kid and then shoved him back a step. Only then was he content to turn away and jam his hands in his pockets, stalking blind past Dimitri as he headed for the parking lot.
On his part, the kid remained motionless. He watched the other guy leave, and with every step, another jolt drained out of him, rage winding down into irritation, condescension, and finally a tired disappointment. Dimitri slunk away a step, realizing the fight didn't need his presence, and that movement was his mistake. It caught the boy's eye (sharp for how drunk he also sounded), and Dimitri very casually jerked his phone in front of his face and inspected a fascinating message there within.
After waiting five seconds, he slid his gaze past the phone's screen and verified that the kid was absolutely still staring him down, waiting with the disgruntled patience of a child watching their mom chatter on the phone. Slowly Dimitri surrendered to his fate and lowered the phone, tucked it in his pocket.
The boy said, "You saw all that?"
"I...was coming out of the club, and..."
He was cut off with a succinct verdict: "What a mong."
Dimitri realized after a pause and raised eyebrows that he was meant to affirm this judgment. Instead, he opted for, "Are you alright?"
"Yeah I'm alright." He gave a haughty tug on his jacket, rolling his shoulders to smooth out the recent offense. "I'm fine. Have to find a cab, I s'pose."
Oh boy.
"You hear all of that too?"
Dimitri chewed at his lip ring, again hesitating on an answer. "I overheard some of it."
"He's a real b*****d," the boy nodded, as if agreeing with some insult Dimitri had flung out. "But he wasn't all wrong. I don't have much cash on me tonight, after the club and the drinks and that..."
Oh boy. Should he? Dare he?
He had to offer, at least.
Frowning, Dimitri pushed his nervous hands in his pockets and said, "I mean, my car is...still here. Or," he added quickly, "I could lend you a twenty?"
"Lend me?" His half-smile was a sharp slit in an unfriendly face. "And when'm I going to pay it back to you? Do we know each other?"
"No, we..." He took a small breath and shook his head. "Sorry. I'll let you figure things out."
And suddenly the kid was all bright eyes and a soft curved mouth: "I don't want to take your money, luv. But I could use a ride something awful. Even to a bus stop."
"The buses won't start for another hour."
"Oh." His gaze flicked to the side, considered, and fixed again on Dimitri with added imperative. "Then I really need a ride, don't I?"
Well, damnit. With a weak laugh, Dimitri agreed: "Looks like it."
---
On the way to the car, the boy offhandedly gave his name (Cortlyn) and acquired Dimitri's, as well as the latter's reason for hanging around so late.
"So you work there?" Cort tried to clarify, glancing out the window as they pulled away from Nosh Pit.
"Mm... I help out. Did you like the music?"
"The music?" He blinked at Dimitri a couple times, sorting back through the evening. "Oh. The band playing? Sure. They were fine. You know them or something?"
"Not really."
"Then they were fine."
Brow drawn, Dimitri tried to decide what that implied. But it was becoming a pattern with this kid that he wasn't allowed a long enough silence to puzzle anything over; the next second, Cortlyn was sighing and melting down in the passenger seat, jacket in a dark lump around him.
"You alright?" Dimitri checked again, splitting his attention between road and boy.
"Yeah," in his best imitation of a swooning soap opera actress. "Just tired. You know?"
"Sure, it's late."
Quick, "No," before returning to the leisurely, troubled tone, "I mean, tired from arguing and s**t. Exhausting. You have someone? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?"
Again, the insistent questions popped little thought bubbles trying to foam to life in Dimitri's head, and he stumbled in answering. "Uh, no. Nothing --- no one important, really."
"But you've had someone before."
"Um."
"So you understand." Cort nodded to himself, again in agreement with something Dimitri was very sure he had not expressed. But that concluded the strand of interrogation, the boy falling into strict meditation. For the next several minutes, he did nothing but watch the ghosts of passing lamplights and the twilight shadows straining to hold their territory against the idea of dawn.
The car eased up to a red light, and Dimitri could take a proper look at his passenger. Young, too young, something around his eyes that caught and glittered in the streetlights, baubles on his fingers, clear paper skin over bird bones.
"I'm sorry about tonight," Dimitri quietly offered.
"Hmm?"
"You're right. Break-ups are rough."
Cortlyn rolled his head slowly to look at him, eyes distant, and Dimitri wondered if the alcohol was pulling him under. But his words came out clear enough: "We didn't break up."
"He...wasn't your boyfriend?"
"He is."
"He is?"
Cort smiled, eyes still sedated in their faraway place. "Was only a fight. Nothing serious."
"It sounded like more than an argument."
"Yeah, an it was. I said it was a fight, didn't I." A yawn interrupted him. "He'll go be in his timeout corner, an I'll miss him a few days, an he'll come apologize and we'll be alright. Thass how it is."
Dimitri drummed his fingers on the wheel. "Well, that's..."
"It's fine. Green."
"What?"
"Green. Light's green."
"Right."
---
Dimitri tried to take Cortlyn home. He really did. But wasn't gas expensive, and how rude making Dimitri spend that much, and wasn't he tired anyway, didn't Dimitri want to go home and sleep, and the buses would start tomorrow morning, wouldn't they, so if Cort crashed a few hours, did it matter?
Best for everyone involved.
Dimitri failed to take Cortlyn home. Despite the transparent machinations, he brought the drowsy kid back to his apartment. What did it matter, right? They both wanted to pass out. As they walked to Dimitri's building, Cort was sleepy enough to miss a step and sway into him. Apologies came from both sides. Yet Cortlyn didn't correct himself, in fact stayed right where he was, happy to press into Dimitri's side at the front door.
Oh boy.
Upstairs, Dimitri preemptively pointed out the couch where Cortlyn would sleep, in case anyone had other ideas on the arrangement. Cort took the directive with a 'thanks' and dumped his jacket over one arm.
"You have a, um..." Cort patted at the side of his face, hunting for the word. "Um...why am I stupid, a bathroom. You got a bathroom I can use?"
"Sure." Dimitri showed him to it, and restated that he himself would be sleeping in the bedroom.
"Yeah, yeah," Cort waved him off, disappearing into the bathroom and clicking the lock.
So far, so good. Dimitri could wait until tomorrow morning for a shower, he decided. He texted Gloria to let her know he was home alright -- a new precaution, after a few B.R.I.G.H.T. crackdowns nearby -- and changed clothes. Thankfully, Cort gave him enough time to fully redress before he made his slinky way over to the bedroom and announced his arrival with a little tump against the door.
"...yes?" from Dimitri.
In Cortlynese, this translated to 'please come in', so the kid promptly did so, leaving the door wide open behind him. With an appreciative glance over Dimitri, he chirped, "You've changed already."
"...I told you I was going to bed." Twice.
"Yeah, rather, um --- what's the word. With a lot of emphasis, is how you did it." As Cort tried to scoot farther into the bedroom, Dimitri took a step to check him. "I figured, you wanted me to think on it a little. So," with a smile so friendly it would win employee of the month, "I did. And sure. I wouldn't mind a'tall."
"Mind me going to bed?" Dimitri said feebly, although he already knew better.
"Keeping you company."
"You don't owe me anything," was the wrong thing to say. The kid wrinkled his nose and picked at his hair with one hand, tucking irritated feathers back into place.
"I didn't mean it like that," Cort complained. "I like your eyes."
"Thank you, but -- "
"You know blue eyes are gonna die?"
Dimitri did not know, and this revelation sufficiently halted him in his tracks. He had the bedroom blocked off, but Cort had his attention, and the kid drew out the moment by languidly retracting his steps to the door.
"Mine'll die too. Green eyes, that is." Cort settled a hip against the door frame, arms folded across his chest. "They'll all die out. At the end of the world, we'll be nothing but brown. Sort of sad, innit?"
"Who told you that?"
"I dunno, someone or another. But I like your eyes an awful lot."
Right, he had almost forgotten how they arrived at this topic. "Thank you, that's kind of you, but I have to say no. Definitely, no. Sorry."
"What're you sorry for?" He pushed off the door frame, a jangle of bones falling into place.
Dimitri frowned. "Nothing, I guess. Or --- no, anyway. Thanks for the offer. It's flattering, but I'm going to go to sleep. By myself. And I'd like you to as well."
Cort shrugged, a lordling generous and flexible to his guest's demands. "If that's how you want it. You sleep well then."
"I will," he hoped.
iii. tricklesky's genie vs. dorian gray!cort
It looked good on his mantle, between the poised Czarist music box and French chocolate pots. He couldn't remember now who bought it for him -- some hopeful beau or another -- but he had kept it long after that man collapsed into the dirt. With company over, (the newest hopeful offering on bended knee fantastic Vera Lynn recordings, first run, he swore) Cortlyn sat across from the shelf and watched the guests' contorted faces glide over the lamp's surface.
One morning he came to, still slumped in that overplump chair, and the pre-dawn room was a ghastly shadowed blue, the strewn bodies painted like corpses. And there, the lamp, singular though not terribly exquisite. He imagined a native of whatever sweltering country that crafted the metal would laugh at him for displaying such a pedestrian object.
He tossed away a stranger's pale hand that had made it to his leg and rose from the chair. Somewhere outside, a thin call sparked up in the silence, the dirty newspaper boys racing each other down their routes. Cortlyn arrived at the mantle and reached up, the curved reflections of his fingers melding into real flesh as he retrieved the lamp. Heavier than he had imagined.
"You don't seem happy."
Cortlyn didn't recognize the voice, some lover of a friend of a guest, he supposed. "Don't I?"
"No."
"I'm not miserable," he decided, gaze caught in the lamp. The speaker behind him moved closer; he could feel a warmth prickling at his back.
"Certainly, but miserable isn't the topic at hand."
Cortlyn couldn't place the man's accent and finally, reluctantly, turned to see him.
Silence.
He blinked once, twice, expression stubbornly unmoved. A true patriot, he lived up to the reputation of the British stiff upper lip; his first response was a calm, debonair, "Well, aren't you something."
The genie's face split in a toothy grin. "I've heard more excited welcomes. But yes, I am."
"Am I dreaming?"
"No." The genie crossed his gilded arms across his chest. "Despite the impressive amounts of heroin and marijuana in this house, you are at the moment quite sober."
"And what are you meant to be?" Cortlyn's guarded neutrality faded into a frown, studying the fiery creature.
"Djinn. Surely some time in your many years, you've heard of genies?"
"If that's what you'd like," the genie smiled with a salesman's self-interested generosity. "I suppose you Westerners would like to call me a demon; so call me that, if it pleases. But I am a servant of no devilish master -- other than yourself."
"Myself?"
"The holder of the lamp is entitled to three wishes; whatever he desire, I shall grant it." The genie interrupted his own majestic proclamation with a shrug and smirk: "There are, of course, restrictions, but we can examine those rivers when you try to build a bridge there."
When Cortlyn remained silent, words slugging through the morning molasses of his mind, the genie continued.
"The usual wishes run along the lines of wealth, but," he waved a flame-flickering arm at Cortlyn's estate, "evidently you aren't in much need. Others ask for love. Or safety. Health, fame, power..."
"There's none of that I want," Cortlyn said flatly.
"Of course not. You have it all already."
After hesitation, Cortlyn nodded. "You been watching me this whole time."
"You did place me very conveniently."
"Then what? What ought I ask for?"
"I thought," the genie said, voice burning low, "you might wish for an end."
"An end," he repeated, voice faint, eyes hollow. "Death, is what you mean."
"An end. The mortal end you were cheated of."
There passed a long moment in the haze between night and morn. The sun would not break for ten minutes yet; it was something else that filled, warmed his eyes. Cortlyn looked up to meet the genie's gaze.
"No. I want a beginning."
"I cannot send you back --- "
"Not that beginning. A new start. I want to forget, all of this. Give me not death. I wish for life again."
l o l i've hit the character limit
gaia won't let me add more to this post ha ha ha orz
maybe this is a sign to make a new thread -strokes chin-
son, i'm not looking through fifty characters to write a damn freeb
don be like that
feel free to leave a handful of characters -- like three to five -- whom you think would be interesting with him, and i'll read their profiles tomorrow
son, i'm not looking through fifty characters to write a damn freeb
don be like that
feel free to leave a handful of characters -- like three to five -- whom you think would be interesting with him, and i'll read their profiles tomorrow
hnngg omgosh i wanna see what u can write
although this is going to be a hella bad description because im tired and about to sleep aha
name: levi
age: --
gender: male
height: 173cm | 5'6
skin: green with yellow and blue patches - nose is yellow - right arm and left leg are blue from the joints down.
species: idk like, a type of frankenstein monster haha o(-<
personality: hot tempered on the outside, gooey on the inside | drama queen | coward | teases people but is also easily picked on | starts fights
hnngg omgosh i wanna see what u can write
although this is going to be a hella bad description because im tired and about to sleep aha
ffffff just ask me more and i'll answer lol
i made this thread seconds before i went to sleep, so i understand
but i'm gonna need way more from you to even start asking questions, i'm afraid. that profile is like the title of the essay; now please hand me the full paper xD way way way more explanation of personality, examples of his traits in action, mannerisms (speech, gestures, movement), likes, dislikes, abilities, fears, aspirations, backstory if he has one, world setting if he has one....
i'm liking patch. can you tell me more about him? some more likes/dislikes/interests that might come up in conversation, particularly what kind of people he doesn't mind being around...
and some physical things about him: how he speaks (volume, speed, diction, etc.) and how he moves (body lang, gestures, etc.).
ugh s**t cort is ******** beautiful I am seriously stanning over here.
I'm gonna lurk around and maybe chat a bit, but I wanna read some of the stuff you write like so baddddd
ugh s**t cort is ******** beautiful I am seriously stanning over here.
I'm gonna lurk around and maybe chat a bit, but I wanna read some of the stuff you write like so baddddd
; ___ ;
th ank you
you are a very kind soul wow
edit: you're sure there's not a character you want to req or anything?
edit: you're sure there's not a character you want to req or anything?
Well, I wasn't, but nobody is coming in the thread really. >=| it's such a good ideaaaaa ugh okay I'll try a request. Need to write it up real quick, though. Don't really have anything written about my characters since I revamped them. Pick real quick, girl or boy preferred?
Well, I wasn't, but nobody is coming in the thread really. >=| it's such a good ideaaaaa ugh okay I'll try a request. Need to write it up real quick, though. Don't really have anything written about my characters since I revamped them. Pick real quick, girl or boy preferred?
-waves hand- writing freebs never get as much notice xD don't worry about it
uhhhhhh let's dooooo ilikeboysandgirls jfadsf boy, i guess?? but i'm good with the girl too
