[ there's willingly submitting yourself to something you're scared of, and then there's willingly submitting yourself to something you've had horrific nightmares of since adolescene. for the record, being tethered and having the life force sucked out of you is absolutely as bad as it seems, and worse. and severing said tether feels a lot like having his spine ripped out on a spiritual scale, so that's nice too.
but elliot is alive, and well, and entirely himself, currently nestled snugly to max's side. and max, while perhaps not entirely well at the moment, is on his way through recovery, and going to be fine. somewhere around the massive house elliot owns in london (don't think we're not going to have a talk about this, btw), paya's puttering around, mixing herbs and brewing tonics, muttering old spells the world forgot centuries ago. worth it. everyone's safe and well and happy, and max would be easily do it again, if he had to.
for the time being, he is worn as fuck. he's never felt this sick in his life, rapidly swapping from feverish to bone deep chills as his magic ebbs back to him, body feeling achy and sore all over, like he'd been pulled inside out and stuffed back together. he's at least not delirious anymore. the first couple days he'd sort of lost to being out of it, and largely passed out for most of it. waking hours, between fever and the medicinal tonics paya'd been feeding him, had been a weird mix of asking the same questions over and over again every ten minutes ('is elliot ok' 'did the spirit go away' 'did someone call dani' 'where are my pants') to strange babbling and occasionally oversharing. but that's magic-morphine for you.
now, about three or four days after the fact, he's lucid, fully conscious, and mostly aware of the nonsense that comes out of his mouth. he's also incredibly clingy, now that he's had time for it all to sink in. it worked, everyone's safe, elliot's here and max has had him curled up half on his chest and half flush to his side for an hour or so. ]
I want to nap for centuries. [ he murmurs, voice rough and low, with lips pressed to elliot's hair. ] I want to hibernate.
[ Everything had happened seemingly so fast when Max became involved again, when Elliot realised there was something still very wrong with him, something wrong that none of the witch doctors could (or perhaps would) help him with, it lead him to Max's friends and ultimately Max.
He'd gone through seemingly hell for him, and Elliot could only assume how terrible it was with how sick he's been. Guilty. Is a great word for what he feels. He owes Paya and Max his life, and there's nothing that could ever change that, no matter how much he tries to repay them, he knows this. He gave the woman free reign of his estate, called the staff in and told them to give her whatever she needs.
He ends up at Max's side about as sleepy, still trying to recover from an ancient river spirit deciding to use him as a taxi cab. Of course, he isn't as sick as his friend, just tired. Nothing about the experience has been pleasant except for perhaps this...
At some point he's managed to nest far too many plush pillows and blankets around them.
The lazy words cause Elliot to grin half against Max. He lets out a small hum in response at first, acknowledgement. ] Okay, as long as I'm allowed to too.
[ His hand slides over Max's chest, before he pats at it gently as if to say me 2 buddy me 2. ] But you might start to smell and I don't want something smelly in my room, let alone on my bed. [ Ah, there's the Elliot we know and love. ]
[ every time max had woken up in the past three days, he'd noticed that the pillow trench around him had grown taller. by the time he was present enough to think on it, the pillow nest had already grown more sizeable than could be protested. not that he particularly minds it - dani had maybe instilled an favor for nests of soft things in him by now.
besides, after the last week-ish they'd gone through, max is more than happy to sit in a pile of soft things, with a slender, smarmy little thief curled up to him, and soak in the few days paya will be cutting him some slack for being lazy, and elliot won't be stealing his shit.
being a shit, however, seems to be out of the picture. max snorts, corners of his lips quirking in a small smile, and a hand runs fingers over elliot's forearm idly, as he pats his chest. ] What'll you care? You'll be asleep.
[ under the thick layers of blankets shoveled on top of them, max's feet kick at elliot's playfully, knees bumping some. he's totally bare under the sheets, because that's just how he sleeps, and it's nothing anyone hasn't seen besides. even paya's been unfortunate witness to his streaking adventures on occasion. ]
Fine. We wake intermittently for bubblebaths. [ the fingertips tracing along his friend's arm venture higher, over a shoulder, up his neck, and max brushes some of elliot's hair back, tilting his head some to look at him. ] And there'd better be rubber duckies, or I'm sending the manservants out.
[ and now he's just making fun of him and his fancy palace-house. ]
I've got a sensitive nose, I won't be able to get any kip with you stinking up the place. [ His eyes fall closed as he lets his hand still and rest against his strange German friend's chest. The pillow nest is a must, how else is Max supposed to get better? That's how Elliot knows to solve problems, ignore them until they go away and nesting.
He doesn't seem to pay any mind to the goosebumps that come to life over his skin with Max's fingertips. Instead, he seems more interested in tangling his legs up with Max's. The only reason he has boxers on are the trips he's made to the kitchen to ask or procure the occasional bite to eat or glass of water. Water. He can drink water again without it looking like blood or something far more putrid. Max would even notice on the nightstand next to his side there was a glass for him in case he needed it. ] So intermittent bubble-baths are a must.
[ When he feels those fingers make a new path over his skin he melts even more against Max. Dark eyes open again to watch Max. It's as if Elliot can't keep his hands to himself, because his hand slides up, so he can thumb over Max's jaw. ] There's 132 rubber ducks in this house, I got them as a prank when I was younger. [ The words are said matter-of-factly before he turns down and - oh, he's supposed to be nice, but those sure are teeth nipping into Max's skin as if to protest the mockery.
He's sure there are a thousand questions pertaining to this place alone, probably the main one being why don't you stay here instead. Or maybe, why do you steal from people like me? But Elliot doesn't exactly see this as his life, his parents have always been distant because of their jobs, which he understands and he's never really wanted to be some posh little brat. The world has enough of them. ] But if you need anything don't hesitate to ask.
Sensitive, oh, I'm sure, after all that whining you do anytime I take you on a job. [ old places smell bad, most of the time. they just do. sad fact of life. elliot's hand is a welcome weight against his chest, with the soothing the warmth of his palm and his fingers splayed over his skin. for a moment, max's eyes slip closed again, humming softly at nothing in particular, just a low, rumbled sound of contentment.
his lips pull wider, small sated smile stretching to a grin as he imagines a younger elliot sneaking around this massive house, playing pranks and getting into trouble. shuffling 132 rubber ducks into the various bathrooms of this mansion of a home. he wonders, though, how much elliot considers it a home. he never talks about his family here, doesn't seem to visit often, and there's a cold kind of feeling to it all. max has yet to see a trace of elliot's parents, or anyone, outside of the house staff. huh. ]
132, exactly? [ he muses, as he turns his face into the fingers touching along his jaw, always such a glutton for contact and sensation. his lips find the pad of elliot's thumb at some point, parting so that he can nip at his fingertip with teeth, playful. ] Any special reason for the number, or was that just all Bed Bath & Beyond had in stock?
[ and that soft nip turns more into a bite when he feels elliot's teeth against his shoulder. rude. but not actually, considering it sends a little spike of warmth flushing over his skin, already sensitive just by the wear of the last several days, but now, at least, pleasantly so. max chases it, ankle hooking around the back of the leg elliot's tangled with his, and dragging himself up to push the other boy's back to the mattress, max slipping a knee between his thighs. not the easiest of movements, considering the achiness all over, but worth it to settle himself comfortably half-blanketing him. ] Anything? Absolutely anything? You want the list now or later?
[ Bacteria is a gross part of life, Elliot is well aware. After all, he deals with dead things far too often. Though, oddly enough, that's a scent he's learned to 'tune out.' It's just all the other ones that annoy the hell out of him. After forcing life into corpses, you start to lose the general scent of decaying rot and just get used to it, otherwise you'll suffer from constant stomach upset.
This house isn't a home, not really. Maybe if his brother was still alive there could be a possibility for that, but after his passing any semblance of happiness in this place went down the drain. ] It's all we could fit with us on our bikes. [ Something akin to a smile finds its way onto his face for a brief moment, but it's gone as quickly as it appears. He can remember they stuffed as many as they could in their backpacks and rode their bikes home. The staff had to have known they were up to something when they'd went straight for the master bathroom backpacks bulging.
He tugs his hand away reflexively, frowning at Max, but then his heater is moving and the pillow nest is being shifted and it's a German sized earthquake. With every movement Max makes, Elliot tries to hover his hands by his shoulders, allowing himself to be pliable whilst trying to offer any support Max might need. He winds up with his back against the bed, a turn of events he doesn't particularly mind, and then that knee. ] I'll take the list whenever, [ He pauses and shifts slightly, it's taking a lot of self restraint not to chase after his lips, not to touch him. ] but are you sure you should be moving about? [ Oh, look, concern, it's an actual thing he's capable of.
He's certainly not going to try using any magic anytime soon, so he can only assume what Max feels like. Sure, they'd been in a similar situation, but Elliot had an ancient river spirit draining him like a Duracell when it got angry, which to be fair was like 90% of the time, it wasn't for some super strong juju, it was just to punish him, he assumed. He's still not completely sure, it sure as hell felt like the thing was prepared to kill him when Paya was trying to tear it out of him. Which had been an awful experience, one he'd never want to repeat ever again if at all possible. Even with the concern, Elliot's hand finds Max's cheek, thumbing over it. It's gentle and kind, and while he's fairly certain Max has more on his mind, he wants to be certain his dick isn't going to get him in any more trouble than he already is in. Besides, if he breaks Max more, and Paya finds out it's his fault, that'd be terrifying. ]
Edited (dont mind me adding more to stuff and thangs lori, no this is not me nagging for a tag i just thought of something to add shush) 2015-12-15 23:35 (UTC)
[Whether Elliot realises it or not, he's on Dante's home turf. Rome: its own unique world of gods and demons, hidden sanctuaries in the form of quiet cafes and seedy gatherings of chairs in dank, gloomy bars. Elliot isn't in anywhere noticeably seedy, at least not on first inspection. In fact, he's in a tourist trap, a big, open restaurant just off the Colosseum, with overpriced sandwiches and purses ripe for picking. It's tough to notice Dante at the side of the room, sitting next to the kitchens as he pretends to be one of them. However his Breitling and the cut of his shirt tells a different story. The map that he has spread out on his table isn't of Rome. The slight padding underneath his jacket isn't a wallet but a holster for his gun. The waiter doesn't speak to him, but instead silently serves him Kronenbourgs as soon as the final sip has been taken. Something is just a little off. But that's all difficult to notice when you're busy planning the best route to St. Peter's or if it's worth paying a taxi fare to get there.
In fact, very few people are paying Dante very much attention at all, apart from those who are paid to do so. He likes it that way: quiet in the noise. And so he's too calm, too careless, too smug to realise that his pockets are vulnerable, that if someone managed to distract him, the contents of his jacket would be susceptible to sticky fingers. Oh well. You live and you learn.]
[ Italy is an interesting change from Africa an England - of course, Elliot sticks out like a sore thumb in his brightly coloured clothes and his odd accent. It also doesn't help that he looks no older than fifteen or sixteen at best, large dark eyes only setting him up to look far younger than he is.
Anyone familiar with the occult may recognise the few tattoos that show. The long sleeves hide most of his tattoos, but a close eye might be able to spot the white ink in the center of his palms and it takes no effort at all to see the one on his hand and the bands around his wrist. When he speaks, it's in Italian, up until he says that he has an easier time speaking in English and asks if it is okay if he continues in that.
Somehow he's managed to charm the restaurant owner even with his strange accent, into allowing him to put on a show for the diners -- magic. Or well, sleight of hand, really, but the way he does it, looks as though it's magic, effortless and untraceable. It's obvious that this isn't his first or last rodeo when it comes to magic tricks. From getting coins into sealed cans, cards folded up into salt and pepper dispensers, and various other tricks that seem to have captivated his audience enough to distract them from what he's really doing - robbing his volunteers blind right in front of everyone without anyone even noticing.
The thing about magic tricks is that either everyone is focused on what he does because they're trying to find the trick, trying to prove him wrong, or because they're amazed. It leaves them easy targets to focus their focus away from pick-pocketing. A watch here, a wallet there - he never steals anything important, no rings, no jewelry. Sentiment isn't what he's after. Sentiment makes people human. Materialism destroys humanity.
He's not Robin Hood though; Robin Hood never forced malicious spirits into people. Robin Hood didn't feed off the deceased spirits like they were Kitkat bars.
When he's done wooing the diners, and he's lovingly made mention of his tip hat, which surprisingly got tips, (Italians were far more kind than the English) he was almost on his way, until a certain watch, on a certain someone caught his eye. It's a statement - one that will be noticed if stolen. But it's a statement that means this guy has money, and whilst Elliot really wants to steal his watch simply to spite him for the statement he's making with it, he'll settle for stealing the rest of his stuff since he has precious little time before people begin to notice their wallets are missing. Most of what he got honestly is used to pay for the sandwich he seemed to order in the beginning, to go, and the rest is used to tip rather generously. He sets it down at Dante's table, hand reaching out to wrap around his wrist, ah, he is a touchy feely one isn't he? ]
Nice watch. Was it expensive?
[ The words are hummed out as he turns the stranger's wrist this way and that. If people are getting uncomfortable with him bugging this guy, well, he's not noticing, and if he is, he doesn't seem to care. But unfortunately for him, it's the former. ]
[ When Elliot had heard about his so called twin from Thomas, well, he didn't really expect it until he saw the kid in person. Sure, he's used to seeing his brother... But it's different, it's easy to tell he's dead with the field of death that surrounds him like a thick miasma. This... Newt, he didn't have it, he was alive, well, at least here, from what he's heard from Thomas, it's not a pretty end for the kid.
Maybe the best introduction wasn't sneaking up on the poor thing, wrapping a tattoo'd arm around his shoulders and pleasantly adding an all too friendly: ]
Y'know, mate, you look like someone I know.
[ The rare grin that graces his face free of charge as he steers them towards the tea shop he'd intended on going to before his attention had been stolen away. ] Actually, you look like a couple people I know. Tea? I'm buying. [ There's nothing forceful or violent in his behaviour, quite the opposite, giving the younger the ability to shove him away or whatever he pleases. ]
[ tommy had mentioned there was someone in eudio who supposedly looked a lot like him. newt thought it was a load of klunk, had clapped tommy on the back and told him to quit dreamin' and moved on with his life. maybe he saw someone else with a limp like his? he puts it up to greenie dreamin and sets it aside, and that's well and fine until someone wraps an arm around him, newt looks over, and the guy looks just like him. ]
Bloody hell-- [ he swears, jumping an inch underneath the arm--he's fidgety and untrusting as ever, and seeing his own face staring back at him (are those tattoos) is a bloody shock. newt stares at him for a second when he steers him over to the tea shop, blinking in shock, and it's only a beat or two later that he squirms out from under the arm, picking it up and off his shoulder before it tries to drag him any further. ] What the shuck--who're you?
[ Dark eyes watch as Newt turns into stress personified before finally removing the arm. ]
Elliot, and you're Newt, right? Didn't mean to scare ya.
[ He doesn't look very sorry about scaring the hell out of the younger more standoffish version of himself. Yes, those certainly are tattoos, it's not his fault he's committed to necromancy, Newt. Witches gonna witch or some shit. A hand is offered, in a less invasive way, this time, to shake. ] Nice to meet you, finally.
[ Oh, but he's back to his main mission. ] If you prefer coffee, [ By the face he pulls, its clear that he's Not A Fan. ] they sell it too, couldn't tell you if it's good or not, since all of it tastes like dirt to me. But to each their own, yeah? [ #Rambling ]
[ Elliot isn't sure if Thomas is mocking him or not, so he keeps any comments to himself, only speaking again when he mentions how he wants to believe he's safe. It puts a sour taste in Elliot's mouth, one that makes him want to hurt whoever's hurt his new found friend. ] Well, you can believe it because I've got this nasty habit of protecting my friends, it's awful really, terrible. [ A laugh bubbles up from his chest, at Thomas' words. ] Oh, planning on ditching me out for a less drunk shower buddy? [ Probably too familiar dark eyes flicker to Thomas' attempt at matching his smile. Okay, he's Mac and ur drug store brand, but it's okay, he'll work on it.
Oh, hi, Tommy, don't mind him, stepping into ur personal space to reach past you and, snag up the bottle in question holding it up between them with one hand, the other moving to rinse off in the water before brushing his bangs from his face so he doesn't look like a drown rat. ] Yeah, it's a thing. You try being a theatre student with oil based makeup on your face for hours and not get spots. It's impossible unless you take measure, this [ He wiggles the bottle. ] is measures.
[ The offense washes from his face though as dark eyes flicker over Thomas'. ] You know if you want anything in return, I can blow you or something if you want? [ That's probably way too forward, but the thought didn't sound as bad in his head... Welp, it's not like he's ever really met a guy who's complained about being offered a blowjob. The offer seems friendly enough though, like a simple no thanks really would be accepted without offense and that's because it would. Maybe he should have offered to make him food or something... Though he'd probably burn the kitchen down right now if he tried.
Oh, but it probably doesn't help that he's kinda close, does it? Probably not, sorry, he's not, really thinking that you're a complete virgin just a sorta virgin. Blowjobs totally don't count. ]
[ the small flash of a smile melts max's heart a bit. not that he isn't already feeling squishy and loopy from the heavy heaping of medicinal herbs and magic whatever coursing through him. though, it's with a bit of sadness, as he knows the elliot, the one riding around on bikes with backpacks of rubber ducks with his brother, is gone. like the kid that chases chickens and rode cows on his mother's farm is gone. but that's a fact of life. bad shit happens, and it changes you forever. you learn to live with it, to carry it. because lord knows there's no setting it down or trying to bury it behind you.
either way, it has him bringing a hand up to cup the side of elliot's face, thumb brushing under his eye softly, before he leans in to kiss gently at the corners of his lips. ]
I'll have my secretary put it on your desk in the morning. [ the list, he means, as he kisses down the side of elliot's neck lazily, shoulders a bit achy, but otherwise not bothering him enough to deter him from smothering elliot with gross affection, heading towards explicit things. which elliot seems to be concerned about, so max lifts his head up enough to peer at him at a tilt, with a pffft sort of look. ] Please. This is like a cold to me.
[ not it's not. it's like a flu you have to be hospitalized for. max is just terminal in his tendency to understate every injury he's ever had, physical or otherwise. but there's also the fact elliot's pretty well out of it as well, and maybe max should go on the gentle side of things. shifting some, he lays part on his side, pressed up to elliot, as he idly smooths his palm down elliot's side, over his hip and thigh, and back up again. ] We could go slow. Soft and cute and everything.
[Dante is typically far from averse to touch (he is Italian, after all), but normally he is the one to do the touching. He slaps his colleagues hard on the back as a form of encouragement, presses his forehead to theirs when he has something important to say and invades personal space when it suits him. But normally others aren't quite so touchy feely. Yet there Elliot is treating Dante like an old friend or, even worse, a family member. Elliot is not a family member. That combined with the fact that a stranger is touching Dante's five thousand dollar watch like a pickpocket and Dante is a little concerned. His guards are even more concerned and they lurch forward when Elliot reaches out for Dante's wrist, a firm look of "not yet" being the only thing stopping them from pulling him to stand by the fabric of his jacket and taking him outside, or into the cellar depending on how poorly he behaved.
Dante is...curious. Good god, the boy has balls if he knows what he's doing, although Dante half expects that he doesn't. To notice someone's wealth is one thing, but the danger and power of them is another. You don't accost and/or act chummy with a crime leader in their regular haunt while they're surrounded by their men, not if you want to keep your throat intact. Elliot makes a definite change.
And so Dante's eyes narrow slightly, curious, wondering, letting Elliot touch his watch as he pleases, like person with a cat pawing at their arm.]
You know the answer to that, I am sure.
[It's a challenge, a small one, a call of "let's stop the bullshit, please". Dante has always been keen on frankness over pussyfooting. He can see the tattoos on Elliot's hands and at least half understands their meaning. It's enough for him to know that there's more to this boy than he's letting on. If he wants to continue touching Dante, he's going to have to let on a little.]
our eyes well acquainted with the darkness; the mind was made to illuminate the heart
Though it was far from the first time Stiles had traveled to a new country, the culture shock hit him all the same. Maybe it was because South Africa was so different from all of the other places he had visited; Macau, France, Japan, and a long list of others regardless of whether or not they had some kind of magic school. Every culture had its own take on magic, so why not new theories on how to solve his problem? Druids in Wales and Norse runes mingled in his memories with witch doctors in New Orleans or geomancy from Korea. He'd even taken his chances with Spain, though it had been a risk. Even in America, he'd heard of the shady things that the Vatican got up to, and though he wasn't a Heavenly, he didn't like the idea of them poking around at his strange case. Johannesburg felt like a gamble as well, though he couldn't put a finger on why. It was perhaps the most likely place to find someone who understood the dark magic swirling through him. Africa was the birthplace of humanity, after all, so why not the magical motherland? He knew that some part of him, in the darkest corner of his soul, was scared of the possibility that finally, after years of adapting and growing strong despite his possession, someone would give him what he'd been searching for: the chance to take it all away.
First, though, he needed to find someone willing to talk to him. During one of his brief stays in the States, he'd talked to Max about Johannesburg. Along with raving about the food and complaining about the pickpockets, he'd brought up a name: Elliot Richards. As Max had stumbled through a story about having his wallet stolen while being distracted with stories of a non-existent dead aunt (pathetic) and hunting down the Necromantic (okay, impressive), Stiles had gotten the distinct feeling that Elliot might be more trouble than he was worth. Max was far more friendly and understanding than Stiles, even if he had forced a possession in order to chase him through the city streets.
But in the end, it was the only lead that he had. If he didn't have to go through the Johannesburg Collective, it was all the better for a sense of privacy; the thought of being studied before being helped wasn't the kind of thing that got him out of bed in the morning. More than driven purely by necessity, though, Stiles had to admit that he was curious about the reportedly scrawny witch with messy blond hair and deep black eyes. And if a Necromantic couldn't help him with the creepy shit that was rotting him from the inside out, it was doubtful much else could.
The trouble was finding the infamous Elliot Richards. He had an address from Max, but it was a few years old and there was no telling if Elliot was still calling the place "home." He could check with the Collective, but again, hit or miss and it would put them on his radar. Maybe he could catch the thief in a similar fashion that Max had, roaming the streets and looking a little too tourist for comfort. He could handle himself against any threats, of course, so it was more a case of if the strategy would work or he'd have to get his hands a little dirtier.
[ It was the time of evening when the streets had just cleared of most signs of life and the lights of petrol stations and streetlights still came alight to shine their off-white light down below them. Stiles probably should have called it quits by then, any sane person would have. But then, any sane person would have missed Elliot being thrown through the window the second floor of a building across from the apartment complex that Max had passed along as where Elliot lived.
The crash of glass is followed by the sickening sound of a body hitting pavement from far too high up. The blond lies there, the taste of blood in his mouth and on his lips; he's in far too much pain to even try to figure out what's causing that.
When the air refills his lungs he can't help but groan. ] Ughhh. [ He stays there, looking up to where he fell from. A sound draws his attention from the building he'd been in and suddenly pained dark eyes are on Stiles. Great. He had an audi- That sure is a lot of death surrounding that lad.
He was dying. Elliot sure felt like he was in the same fucking boat. If only he could reach it. The Necromantic wanted to tell him to fuck off but all he could do was let out a rattling breath. Give him a minute, he's busy trying to mend the broken bones that all scream at him. ]
Stiles is contemplating the long-distance charge to call Max when a body explodes out of an upper story window. He ducks on instinct even though it's a little ways off, little bits of glass tinkling to the concrete and a few stray shards bouncing over towards Stiles. Taking a step closer purely out of curiosity—was it enough of a height that this man was already dead?—he noticed the body was moving. Not dead, though probably well on the way after a fall with nothing to soften the landing.
Here's were the problem starts. Stiles, the old Stiles, would have instantly rushed to the side of someone in danger and done his best to help even the most hopeless of cases. The newer, colder Stiles was tempted to just move on and let natural selection take its course. If this guy was getting himself thrown out of windows, or even worse if he was falling out of them on his own, he deserve death. But the two sides of him still struggled against each other, and in the end he sighed and moved closer.
"Anyone alive over there?" he asked even though he could see, yes, this stranger's chest was rising and falling with very shallow breath. As he stepped closer, he also registered the scrawny build, the blond hair, and the bright wardrobe. Barely daring to think that the man he was looking for had quite literally fell down in front of him, he crouched down at his side. From this distance, he could definitely feel something pulling on the energy around him. "Did it hurt when you fell from heaven? Because you look like hell."
Elliot didn't bother to notice him struggling with what to do, because he was too busy closing his eyes and trying to force mended bones to heal faster. Of course, watched pot never boils. Stiles' voice startled him out of his concentration. "No." Elliot rasped out at the question, just barely loud enough to be heard. And then -- really? That's what he chose to say? Either way, he didn't mind too much for the time being, he sucked in a deep breath, feeding off the energy that surrounded Stiles. Maybe it was rude, maybe it was good for his health somehow, maybe it wasn't either. It didn't stop him from stealing energy the boy wasn't using.
The back of a tattoo'd hand wipes at his mouth, wiping blood away. "May I help you?" Elliot recognised the accent that Stiles had to be something other than South African, it made him scoff, and then wince. Fucking tourists. Maybe he should have been asking Stiles for his help, instead of being stand-offish. Goood, his head hurt, and his back. His bloody hand moved to dig into his pocket, shakily pulling out a metal cigarette case, the front decorated by a black ouija board. Someone thought they were funny. Elliot dropped it on his chest and it took him a moment to get it open one handed, but when he did, he pulled a cigarette out, putting it between his lips. It was a perfect time to smoke a fag apparently. His other arm - broken - was healing at least. There'd be no need to call Magdy or Kit to scrape him up off the pavement.
He groaned a bit when he had to search for his lighter, but when he found it, it was smooth sailing from there. Sucking down nicotine and tobacco smoke, he finally turned his full attention on Stiles. Almost black eyes started from the top of his head, sliding down each of his features as if he were committing them to memory. "Want a fag?" Okay, and maybe he wouldn't normally offer one of his cigarettes to some rando, but the guy wasn't leaving, and maybe he was kind of cute in a weird, pale, deathly sort of way. He held the case out towards Stiles, open so he could take a cigarette if he wanted one.
Though he was about as far from being a doctor as he was a pole dancer, Stiles figured that the ability to talk was a good sign. The fact that this man wasn't dead was partially explained by tattoos of unfamiliar design but familiar purpose—Stiles had gotten enough work of his own to pick up a thing or two from his artists. The tug on his magic strengthened as well, and it didn't take a genius to work out that the necromantic witch was taking some silent assistance. Stiles didn't mention it, just pushed from his end a little to encourage their planes to harmonize and help with the healing.
Chuckling at the question, Stiles settled down on the curb and rested his arms on his knees. "I think that's my line, but you've already helped yourself to this walking death buffet." He watched him struggle with the cigarette case, not bothering to help; he'd been there before, when all you want is a bit of control and agency when the rest of the day has gone to shit. Clearly, this man just wanted the simple pleasure of lighting up a cigarette without a tourist trying to do it for him. He barely blinked at the exhaled smoke that engulfed him, silently reaching out for the offered cigarettes to take one. He imagined a time he would have freaked out about the word—fag, said so casually compared to in the States—but his time in Europe had conditioned him to all sorts of unfamiliar slang. "These things'll kill you," he said with a smirk as he waved the peace offering in silent thanks before reaching for the lighter.
He took a deep draw on the cigarette, feeling the thick heat of smoke in his lungs before slowly exhaling. "You're Elliot Richards, right?" he asked, figuring there's no reason to beat around the bush. It was obvious what they were, even if his only visible tattoo was turned away from Elliot and hidden by the collar of his jacket. Stiles was always cold, and the sleeves of his leather jacket were cut a perfect inch longer than the sleeve of tattoos covering his left arm.
Walking death buffet. Elliot liked the sound of that, and he let out an appreciative hum. Even if he was slightly wary that Stiles knew what he'd been silently up to. It didn't go unnoticed that Stiles tried to help, offering it silently - and Elliot took it, but he had no intention of saying thanks. He could have easily sorted this shit out on his own. Another groan passed his lips, around the cigarette as ash fell on his face. Lazily, he wrapped his fingers around it and pulled it away to burn and rest by his side. He exhaled another large puff of smoke. Ash rested on his cheek, unbothered.
"They can certainly try," he mumbled, eyes drifting from Stiles to the sky. "Worse things have tried before." And it was true, he's seen a whole of a hell lot worse than a cigarette. A chuff of a laugh, that was certainly painful if the wince that followed didn't give it away. He was really hoping this guy wasn't some sort of killer, and then his name startled him out of his thoughts. That, made Elliot think that maybe he was some sort of serial killer. Elliot Richards, his own name, this stranger, this tourist stranger knew his name. He closed his eyes, keeping his facial expression schooled into his annoyed neutrality.
"Who?" And, silently, he was thankful for the acting classes he took when he was younger, and the theatre experience he'd had. "Is this some weird pickup line, mate? I'm not interested. You haven't got the right bits for my interest." It was a flat out lie, but one that didn't waver or sell him short, but dark eyes fixed on Stiles again. They didn't hold any nervousness in them at all. "Name's Jack." Oh, Magdy would be pissed if he learned of that little lie. At least with Jack, he couldn't track it to Magdy or himself. If someone knew his name, that was probably bad. If another witch knew his name, it was definitely bad. He was feeling alive enough he could attack him if he had to, and run. Instead of moving, he waited, settling for bringing his cigarette back to his lips and sucking in another deep breath.
Stiles noticed the ash on the man's face but made no move to brush it away. Something about the grey peppered over pale skin, that bit of imperfection, satisfied the void buried behind his sternum and quieted the voice deep in the back of his mind. "Worse things like whatever threw you out of that window?" he asked, tilting his head back and up to eye the shattered glass several stories up.
Studying his face for a reaction to the name, Stiles is pretty impressed by Elliot's ability to dull the natural microexpressions most people aren't even aware of. By the time he meets Stiles' eyes, he's calm and collected. Stiles just sighs, taking another drag on the cigarette rather than arguing. When he exhales, the smoke is thick and black, looking more like a suspended oil slick than tobacco smoke. Stirring two fingers through the stuff, a scrap of paper solidifies between his index and middle fingers.
"Funny, Max Kiesler spoke of you fondly and in great detail." He drops the card onto Elliot's chest for him to inspect when he wants to, or when the bones in his arms fully heal, whichever might come first. The handwriting is distinctly Max's, at least to anyone who knew him, and since it's likely that Elliot doesn't trust him enough to read it, Stiles dictates the description he'd memorized. "Skinny as hell. Hair's always a fucking mess. Looks like a rainbow shat all over his clothes. Mandala on right hand. Smokes self-rolled death sticks from an ouija board case." He pauses, cocking his head to one side, and adds, "Max couldn't spell ouija, isn't he adorable? Anyways, where was I... Black eyes you could fall into. Will probably try to steal your fucking watch if you're not careful."
Elliot let out a wheeze of a laugh, a sardonic burst of noise, the action shaking his entire body. "Nah, that was nothing," he replied behind a frown that overtook his features. His own dusky eyes trailed up the offending building, lingering on the shattered window that he'd fallen out of. But then he moved so that his head was pressed into the concrete, Adam's apple pointing to the sky as he looked behind him. Definitely looking for an escape route, away from the other witch. He could make it if he bolted for it, even if his bones screamed at him for the idea.
Stiles' movement had Elliot's eyes back on him, picking at every little movement for information. Though, watching his hands, or how his lips wrapped around the cigarette or how his chest expanded when he inhaled probably wasn't helpful at all. But then something else happened, something that really shouldn't have, and Elliot watched, morbidly curious. Maybe he was the one that died in the horror movie after all... Stiles looked like he exhaled pure death itself, but Elliot knew it wasn't, no matter how much the thought made him hungry from deep in his soul. His dark eyebrows knit together in confusion, it wasn't a trick he'd seen before.
The mention of Max caused Elliot to narrow his eyes, a piercing and calculating look for someone who looked fifteen. He glanced down at the letter before back at Stiles. Well, fuck. The suffering sigh that escaped him was met by him bringing his own cigarette back up to his lips to inhale. He didn't want to give away that he was curious about the note, or that he even knew Max, so instead he stayed still aside from smoking.
Fondly? Sounded fake.
Honestly, it was a great description, and it had him down to a t. The Mandala on his hand felt heavy against his skin, and he knew, if it wasn't everything else that gave him away, that was certainly the straw that broke his back. Boy, was he getting tired of strangers knowing more about him than he did himself sometimes. "And you think that description fits me?"
Eyes tracking Elliot's, Stiles didn't make any motion to keep him in place. It was pretty obvious that he was assessing the area, probably looking for a way out as soon as he was healed up enough to make a break for it. Stiles knew something of his magic, and even if his own would provide energy for the necromantic, he wagered that he could hold him in place if needed. It would be worth the risk, knowing that these streets were Elliot's backyard and he could easily lose Stiles with enough distance between them. Feeling eyes heavy on his skin, he focused back on Elliot and his reaction to the thick black smoke. Even among witches, Stiles' brand of magic was neither common nor enjoyable to be around.
He huffed out a laugh at the harsh look in Elliot's eyes, enjoying the juxtaposition of his youthful exterior and decaying interior. Though Elliot was still keen on denying his identity, Stiles was certain that he'd found his man; now all the had to do was convince him not to run off the second his legs stopped jutting out at impossible angles. "Necromantic witch with a protection mandala on his right hand? Yeah, and the neon pants sort of give it away," he replied with a crooked smile just wide enough to show one sharp canine. "I mean, he also told me you were a bitey bugger in the sack, but I'm not fucking you just to find out if you can help me. Maybe after," he added with one raised eyebrow.
Elliot scoffed, turning his head away from Stiles, making note to punch Maxwell in the face when he saw him next. "You're not my type, mate," he said smoothly, even if it was a lie. "I don't help people." With a groan, he finally pushed himself up with his arms, so that he was at least sitting up. His cigarette case and the letter fell into his lap, ignored for the time being. "I wouldn't steal your watch either, it's shite." Ah, there it was -- an actual truth.
"What is it you need help with then? I'm not a doctor, I can't sort out whatever terminal illness that's killing you." It was a blind guess, one that he was shaky about at best. His posture was hunched, spine still hurting. His legs were still busted, he wasn't going anywhere for a little while. "Uuurgh." His hands moved to his hair to ruffle it in his own frustration. His own sharp teeth were pressed together, jaw tensing and relaxing in thought.
"I need a bloody pint. Haven't got any hidden in your weird black portals, ay?"
Stiles rolled his eyes before examining his nails—bitten short but surprisingly clean after being knuckle-deep in the floating sludge of his portal magic. He chose to ignore the jab, neither believing nor caring if it was yet another comment on Elliot's sexuality. Straightening up a bit, no longer needing to loom over Elliot just to meet his eyes, Stiles took another pull on his cigarette, exhaling normal smoke a few seconds later. "Yeah, think it's dead anyways," he said as he glanced down at the watch face. His dad had given it to him for his birthday freshman year of high school in an effort to keep him from missing classes, and he hadn't been able to part with it.
"Nothing that easy or boring," he replied with an annoyed click of his tongue. Rationally, he knew that Elliot didn't know him nor owe him anything, but he couldn't help wishing he'd be less of a dick to the witch he was siphoning energy from. "Max is a friend from school," he explained as Elliot groaned and appeared to take stock of his legs. "He told me about Nyaminyami," he added, hoping that it would at least get Elliot to take him seriously.
Elliot didn't bother comment on the other guy's watch, not emotionally invested in the situation. Fuck, a ghost could stroll by any time so he could fuck off back home... His lips parted, mouth about to open and rattle off something cocky and sarcastic - the other guy was bringing it out in him - when he hears the word Nyaminyami. Everything he was about to say died on his tongue, leaving it a graveyard. His hands busied themselves with stuffing his cigarette case back in his pocket and actually grabbing the note, finally. With mild hesitation, he opened it, looking at the message that Stiles had relayed to him.
He stayed silent for a good thirty seconds before finding it in him to speak up. "You've got a possession problem? Isn't that what Max does. Vessel things? Did he tell you he was the one to pull the fucking thing out of me? Well, him and his weird gran." It was the most he'd said all night, probably, which probably meant the rest of his night was going to suck too. "Is that what's killing you? A spirit or sommat?" Eyes that looked black in the night scanned over Stiles, not looking for much of anything other than answers. "Came an awful long way to be told to ask for Max's help." Elliot was eternally grateful that Nyaminyami hadn't begun feeding on his soul whilst possessing him, he hadn't had to cut any decay out of himself, or puke maggots. He'd just been left with a horrific fear of the water and far too many experiences of drowning.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
very careful snuggles and boning while recovering from possession/being tethered etc
but elliot is alive, and well, and entirely himself, currently nestled snugly to max's side. and max, while perhaps not entirely well at the moment, is on his way through recovery, and going to be fine. somewhere around the massive house elliot owns in london (don't think we're not going to have a talk about this, btw), paya's puttering around, mixing herbs and brewing tonics, muttering old spells the world forgot centuries ago. worth it. everyone's safe and well and happy, and max would be easily do it again, if he had to.
for the time being, he is worn as fuck. he's never felt this sick in his life, rapidly swapping from feverish to bone deep chills as his magic ebbs back to him, body feeling achy and sore all over, like he'd been pulled inside out and stuffed back together. he's at least not delirious anymore. the first couple days he'd sort of lost to being out of it, and largely passed out for most of it. waking hours, between fever and the medicinal tonics paya'd been feeding him, had been a weird mix of asking the same questions over and over again every ten minutes ('is elliot ok' 'did the spirit go away' 'did someone call dani' 'where are my pants') to strange babbling and occasionally oversharing. but that's magic-morphine for you.
now, about three or four days after the fact, he's lucid, fully conscious, and mostly aware of the nonsense that comes out of his mouth. he's also incredibly clingy, now that he's had time for it all to sink in. it worked, everyone's safe, elliot's here and max has had him curled up half on his chest and half flush to his side for an hour or so. ]
I want to nap for centuries. [ he murmurs, voice rough and low, with lips pressed to elliot's hair. ] I want to hibernate.
precious princes
He'd gone through seemingly hell for him, and Elliot could only assume how terrible it was with how sick he's been. Guilty. Is a great word for what he feels. He owes Paya and Max his life, and there's nothing that could ever change that, no matter how much he tries to repay them, he knows this. He gave the woman free reign of his estate, called the staff in and told them to give her whatever she needs.
He ends up at Max's side about as sleepy, still trying to recover from an ancient river spirit deciding to use him as a taxi cab. Of course, he isn't as sick as his friend, just tired. Nothing about the experience has been pleasant except for perhaps this...
At some point he's managed to nest far too many plush pillows and blankets around them.
The lazy words cause Elliot to grin half against Max. He lets out a small hum in response at first, acknowledgement. ] Okay, as long as I'm allowed to too.
[ His hand slides over Max's chest, before he pats at it gently as if to say me 2 buddy me 2. ] But you might start to smell and I don't want something smelly in my room, let alone on my bed. [ Ah, there's the Elliot we know and love. ]
chiiiinhaaaands
besides, after the last week-ish they'd gone through, max is more than happy to sit in a pile of soft things, with a slender, smarmy little thief curled up to him, and soak in the few days paya will be cutting him some slack for being lazy, and elliot won't be stealing his shit.
being a shit, however, seems to be out of the picture. max snorts, corners of his lips quirking in a small smile, and a hand runs fingers over elliot's forearm idly, as he pats his chest. ] What'll you care? You'll be asleep.
[ under the thick layers of blankets shoveled on top of them, max's feet kick at elliot's playfully, knees bumping some. he's totally bare under the sheets, because that's just how he sleeps, and it's nothing anyone hasn't seen besides. even paya's been unfortunate witness to his streaking adventures on occasion. ]
Fine. We wake intermittently for bubblebaths. [ the fingertips tracing along his friend's arm venture higher, over a shoulder, up his neck, and max brushes some of elliot's hair back, tilting his head some to look at him. ] And there'd better be rubber duckies, or I'm sending the manservants out.
[ and now he's just making fun of him and his fancy palace-house. ]
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He doesn't seem to pay any mind to the goosebumps that come to life over his skin with Max's fingertips. Instead, he seems more interested in tangling his legs up with Max's. The only reason he has boxers on are the trips he's made to the kitchen to ask or procure the occasional bite to eat or glass of water. Water. He can drink water again without it looking like blood or something far more putrid. Max would even notice on the nightstand next to his side there was a glass for him in case he needed it. ] So intermittent bubble-baths are a must.
[ When he feels those fingers make a new path over his skin he melts even more against Max. Dark eyes open again to watch Max. It's as if Elliot can't keep his hands to himself, because his hand slides up, so he can thumb over Max's jaw. ] There's 132 rubber ducks in this house, I got them as a prank when I was younger. [ The words are said matter-of-factly before he turns down and - oh, he's supposed to be nice, but those sure are teeth nipping into Max's skin as if to protest the mockery.
He's sure there are a thousand questions pertaining to this place alone, probably the main one being why don't you stay here instead. Or maybe, why do you steal from people like me? But Elliot doesn't exactly see this as his life, his parents have always been distant because of their jobs, which he understands and he's never really wanted to be some posh little brat. The world has enough of them. ] But if you need anything don't hesitate to ask.
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his lips pull wider, small sated smile stretching to a grin as he imagines a younger elliot sneaking around this massive house, playing pranks and getting into trouble. shuffling 132 rubber ducks into the various bathrooms of this mansion of a home. he wonders, though, how much elliot considers it a home. he never talks about his family here, doesn't seem to visit often, and there's a cold kind of feeling to it all. max has yet to see a trace of elliot's parents, or anyone, outside of the house staff. huh. ]
132, exactly? [ he muses, as he turns his face into the fingers touching along his jaw, always such a glutton for contact and sensation. his lips find the pad of elliot's thumb at some point, parting so that he can nip at his fingertip with teeth, playful. ] Any special reason for the number, or was that just all Bed Bath & Beyond had in stock?
[ and that soft nip turns more into a bite when he feels elliot's teeth against his shoulder. rude. but not actually, considering it sends a little spike of warmth flushing over his skin, already sensitive just by the wear of the last several days, but now, at least, pleasantly so. max chases it, ankle hooking around the back of the leg elliot's tangled with his, and dragging himself up to push the other boy's back to the mattress, max slipping a knee between his thighs. not the easiest of movements, considering the achiness all over, but worth it to settle himself comfortably half-blanketing him. ] Anything? Absolutely anything? You want the list now or later?
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This house isn't a home, not really. Maybe if his brother was still alive there could be a possibility for that, but after his passing any semblance of happiness in this place went down the drain. ] It's all we could fit with us on our bikes. [ Something akin to a smile finds its way onto his face for a brief moment, but it's gone as quickly as it appears. He can remember they stuffed as many as they could in their backpacks and rode their bikes home. The staff had to have known they were up to something when they'd went straight for the master bathroom backpacks bulging.
He tugs his hand away reflexively, frowning at Max, but then his heater is moving and the pillow nest is being shifted and it's a German sized earthquake. With every movement Max makes, Elliot tries to hover his hands by his shoulders, allowing himself to be pliable whilst trying to offer any support Max might need. He winds up with his back against the bed, a turn of events he doesn't particularly mind, and then that knee. ] I'll take the list whenever, [ He pauses and shifts slightly, it's taking a lot of self restraint not to chase after his lips, not to touch him. ] but are you sure you should be moving about? [ Oh, look, concern, it's an actual thing he's capable of.
He's certainly not going to try using any magic anytime soon, so he can only assume what Max feels like. Sure, they'd been in a similar situation, but Elliot had an ancient river spirit draining him like a Duracell when it got angry, which to be fair was like 90% of the time, it wasn't for some super strong juju, it was just to punish him, he assumed. He's still not completely sure, it sure as hell felt like the thing was prepared to kill him when Paya was trying to tear it out of him. Which had been an awful experience, one he'd never want to repeat ever again if at all possible. Even with the concern, Elliot's hand finds Max's cheek, thumbing over it. It's gentle and kind, and while he's fairly certain Max has more on his mind, he wants to be certain his dick isn't going to get him in any more trouble than he already is in. Besides, if he breaks Max more, and Paya finds out it's his fault, that'd be terrifying. ]
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In fact, very few people are paying Dante very much attention at all, apart from those who are paid to do so. He likes it that way: quiet in the noise. And so he's too calm, too careless, too smug to realise that his pockets are vulnerable, that if someone managed to distract him, the contents of his jacket would be susceptible to sticky fingers. Oh well. You live and you learn.]
oh god im so sorry for how long this got
Anyone familiar with the occult may recognise the few tattoos that show. The long sleeves hide most of his tattoos, but a close eye might be able to spot the white ink in the center of his palms and it takes no effort at all to see the one on his hand and the bands around his wrist. When he speaks, it's in Italian, up until he says that he has an easier time speaking in English and asks if it is okay if he continues in that.
Somehow he's managed to charm the restaurant owner even with his strange accent, into allowing him to put on a show for the diners -- magic. Or well, sleight of hand, really, but the way he does it, looks as though it's magic, effortless and untraceable. It's obvious that this isn't his first or last rodeo when it comes to magic tricks. From getting coins into sealed cans, cards folded up into salt and pepper dispensers, and various other tricks that seem to have captivated his audience enough to distract them from what he's really doing - robbing his volunteers blind right in front of everyone without anyone even noticing.
The thing about magic tricks is that either everyone is focused on what he does because they're trying to find the trick, trying to prove him wrong, or because they're amazed. It leaves them easy targets to focus their focus away from pick-pocketing. A watch here, a wallet there - he never steals anything important, no rings, no jewelry. Sentiment isn't what he's after. Sentiment makes people human. Materialism destroys humanity.
He's not Robin Hood though; Robin Hood never forced malicious spirits into people. Robin Hood didn't feed off the deceased spirits like they were Kitkat bars.
When he's done wooing the diners, and he's lovingly made mention of his tip hat, which surprisingly got tips, (Italians were far more kind than the English) he was almost on his way, until a certain watch, on a certain someone caught his eye. It's a statement - one that will be noticed if stolen. But it's a statement that means this guy has money, and whilst Elliot really wants to steal his watch simply to spite him for the statement he's making with it, he'll settle for stealing the rest of his stuff since he has precious little time before people begin to notice their wallets are missing. Most of what he got honestly is used to pay for the sandwich he seemed to order in the beginning, to go, and the rest is used to tip rather generously. He sets it down at Dante's table, hand reaching out to wrap around his wrist, ah, he is a touchy feely one isn't he? ]
Nice watch. Was it expensive?
[ The words are hummed out as he turns the stranger's wrist this way and that. If people are getting uncomfortable with him bugging this guy, well, he's not noticing, and if he is, he doesn't seem to care. But unfortunately for him, it's the former. ]
c:
i'm sorry i'm sure this isn't what you had in mind but i couldn't help myself
Maybe the best introduction wasn't sneaking up on the poor thing, wrapping a tattoo'd arm around his shoulders and pleasantly adding an all too friendly: ]
Y'know, mate, you look like someone I know.
[ The rare grin that graces his face free of charge as he steers them towards the tea shop he'd intended on going to before his attention had been stolen away. ] Actually, you look like a couple people I know. Tea? I'm buying. [ There's nothing forceful or violent in his behaviour, quite the opposite, giving the younger the ability to shove him away or whatever he pleases. ]
this is just fine :3c
Bloody hell-- [ he swears, jumping an inch underneath the arm--he's fidgety and untrusting as ever, and seeing his own face staring back at him (are those tattoos) is a bloody shock. newt stares at him for a second when he steers him over to the tea shop, blinking in shock, and it's only a beat or two later that he squirms out from under the arm, picking it up and off his shoulder before it tries to drag him any further. ] What the shuck--who're you?
c: c:
Elliot, and you're Newt, right? Didn't mean to scare ya.
[ He doesn't look very sorry about scaring the hell out of the younger more standoffish version of himself. Yes, those certainly are tattoos, it's not his fault he's committed to necromancy, Newt. Witches gonna witch or some shit. A hand is offered, in a less invasive way, this time, to shake. ] Nice to meet you, finally.
[ Oh, but he's back to his main mission. ] If you prefer coffee, [ By the face he pulls, its clear that he's Not A Fan. ] they sell it too, couldn't tell you if it's good or not, since all of it tastes like dirt to me. But to each their own, yeah? [ #Rambling ]
cont'd
[ Elliot isn't sure if Thomas is mocking him or not, so he keeps any comments to himself, only speaking again when he mentions how he wants to believe he's safe. It puts a sour taste in Elliot's mouth, one that makes him want to hurt whoever's hurt his new found friend. ] Well, you can believe it because I've got this nasty habit of protecting my friends, it's awful really, terrible. [ A laugh bubbles up from his chest, at Thomas' words. ] Oh, planning on ditching me out for a less drunk shower buddy? [ Probably too familiar dark eyes flicker to Thomas' attempt at matching his smile. Okay, he's Mac and ur drug store brand, but it's okay, he'll work on it.
Oh, hi, Tommy, don't mind him, stepping into ur personal space to reach past you and, snag up the bottle in question holding it up between them with one hand, the other moving to rinse off in the water before brushing his bangs from his face so he doesn't look like a drown rat. ] Yeah, it's a thing. You try being a theatre student with oil based makeup on your face for hours and not get spots. It's impossible unless you take measure, this [ He wiggles the bottle. ] is measures.
[ The offense washes from his face though as dark eyes flicker over Thomas'. ] You know if you want anything in return, I can blow you or something if you want? [ That's probably way too forward, but the thought didn't sound as bad in his head... Welp, it's not like he's ever really met a guy who's complained about being offered a blowjob. The offer seems friendly enough though, like a simple no thanks really would be accepted without offense and that's because it would. Maybe he should have offered to make him food or something... Though he'd probably burn the kitchen down right now if he tried.
Oh, but it probably doesn't help that he's kinda close, does it? Probably not, sorry, he's not, really thinking that you're a complete virgin just a sorta virgin. Blowjobs totally don't count. ]
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either way, it has him bringing a hand up to cup the side of elliot's face, thumb brushing under his eye softly, before he leans in to kiss gently at the corners of his lips. ]
I'll have my secretary put it on your desk in the morning. [ the list, he means, as he kisses down the side of elliot's neck lazily, shoulders a bit achy, but otherwise not bothering him enough to deter him from smothering elliot with gross affection, heading towards explicit things. which elliot seems to be concerned about, so max lifts his head up enough to peer at him at a tilt, with a pffft sort of look. ] Please. This is like a cold to me.
[ not it's not. it's like a flu you have to be hospitalized for. max is just terminal in his tendency to understate every injury he's ever had, physical or otherwise. but there's also the fact elliot's pretty well out of it as well, and maybe max should go on the gentle side of things. shifting some, he lays part on his side, pressed up to elliot, as he idly smooths his palm down elliot's side, over his hip and thigh, and back up again. ] We could go slow. Soft and cute and everything.
BET YOU THOUGHT I WAS DEAD. WELL NOT YET, BITCH.
Dante is...curious. Good god, the boy has balls if he knows what he's doing, although Dante half expects that he doesn't. To notice someone's wealth is one thing, but the danger and power of them is another. You don't accost and/or act chummy with a crime leader in their regular haunt while they're surrounded by their men, not if you want to keep your throat intact. Elliot makes a definite change.
And so Dante's eyes narrow slightly, curious, wondering, letting Elliot touch his watch as he pleases, like person with a cat pawing at their arm.]
You know the answer to that, I am sure.
[It's a challenge, a small one, a call of "let's stop the bullshit, please". Dante has always been keen on frankness over pussyfooting. He can see the tattoos on Elliot's hands and at least half understands their meaning. It's enough for him to know that there's more to this boy than he's letting on. If he wants to continue touching Dante, he's going to have to let on a little.]
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our eyes well acquainted with the darkness; the mind was made to illuminate the heart
Though it was far from the first time Stiles had traveled to a new country, the culture shock hit him all the same. Maybe it was because South Africa was so different from all of the other places he had visited; Macau, France, Japan, and a long list of others regardless of whether or not they had some kind of magic school. Every culture had its own take on magic, so why not new theories on how to solve his problem? Druids in Wales and Norse runes mingled in his memories with witch doctors in New Orleans or geomancy from Korea. He'd even taken his chances with Spain, though it had been a risk. Even in America, he'd heard of the shady things that the Vatican got up to, and though he wasn't a Heavenly, he didn't like the idea of them poking around at his strange case. Johannesburg felt like a gamble as well, though he couldn't put a finger on why. It was perhaps the most likely place to find someone who understood the dark magic swirling through him. Africa was the birthplace of humanity, after all, so why not the magical motherland? He knew that some part of him, in the darkest corner of his soul, was scared of the possibility that finally, after years of adapting and growing strong despite his possession, someone would give him what he'd been searching for: the chance to take it all away.
First, though, he needed to find someone willing to talk to him. During one of his brief stays in the States, he'd talked to Max about Johannesburg. Along with raving about the food and complaining about the pickpockets, he'd brought up a name: Elliot Richards. As Max had stumbled through a story about having his wallet stolen while being distracted with stories of a non-existent dead aunt (pathetic) and hunting down the Necromantic (okay, impressive), Stiles had gotten the distinct feeling that Elliot might be more trouble than he was worth. Max was far more friendly and understanding than Stiles, even if he had forced a possession in order to chase him through the city streets.
But in the end, it was the only lead that he had. If he didn't have to go through the Johannesburg Collective, it was all the better for a sense of privacy; the thought of being studied before being helped wasn't the kind of thing that got him out of bed in the morning. More than driven purely by necessity, though, Stiles had to admit that he was curious about the reportedly scrawny witch with messy blond hair and deep black eyes. And if a Necromantic couldn't help him with the creepy shit that was rotting him from the inside out, it was doubtful much else could.
The trouble was finding the infamous Elliot Richards. He had an address from Max, but it was a few years old and there was no telling if Elliot was still calling the place "home." He could check with the Collective, but again, hit or miss and it would put them on his radar. Maybe he could catch the thief in a similar fashion that Max had, roaming the streets and looking a little too tourist for comfort. He could handle himself against any threats, of course, so it was more a case of if the strategy would work or he'd have to get his hands a little dirtier.
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The crash of glass is followed by the sickening sound of a body hitting pavement from far too high up. The blond lies there, the taste of blood in his mouth and on his lips; he's in far too much pain to even try to figure out what's causing that.
When the air refills his lungs he can't help but groan. ] Ughhh. [ He stays there, looking up to where he fell from. A sound draws his attention from the building he'd been in and suddenly pained dark eyes are on Stiles. Great. He had an audi- That sure is a lot of death surrounding that lad.
He was dying. Elliot sure felt like he was in the same fucking boat. If only he could reach it. The Necromantic wanted to tell him to fuck off but all he could do was let out a rattling breath. Give him a minute, he's busy trying to mend the broken bones that all scream at him. ]
I'm gonna prose but carry on with brackets!
Here's were the problem starts. Stiles, the old Stiles, would have instantly rushed to the side of someone in danger and done his best to help even the most hopeless of cases. The newer, colder Stiles was tempted to just move on and let natural selection take its course. If this guy was getting himself thrown out of windows, or even worse if he was falling out of them on his own, he deserve death. But the two sides of him still struggled against each other, and in the end he sighed and moved closer.
"Anyone alive over there?" he asked even though he could see, yes, this stranger's chest was rising and falling with very shallow breath. As he stepped closer, he also registered the scrawny build, the blond hair, and the bright wardrobe. Barely daring to think that the man he was looking for had quite literally fell down in front of him, he crouched down at his side. From this distance, he could definitely feel something pulling on the energy around him. "Did it hurt when you fell from heaven? Because you look like hell."
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The back of a tattoo'd hand wipes at his mouth, wiping blood away. "May I help you?" Elliot recognised the accent that Stiles had to be something other than South African, it made him scoff, and then wince. Fucking tourists. Maybe he should have been asking Stiles for his help, instead of being stand-offish. Goood, his head hurt, and his back. His bloody hand moved to dig into his pocket, shakily pulling out a metal cigarette case, the front decorated by a black ouija board. Someone thought they were funny. Elliot dropped it on his chest and it took him a moment to get it open one handed, but when he did, he pulled a cigarette out, putting it between his lips. It was a perfect time to smoke a fag apparently. His other arm - broken - was healing at least. There'd be no need to call Magdy or Kit to scrape him up off the pavement.
He groaned a bit when he had to search for his lighter, but when he found it, it was smooth sailing from there. Sucking down nicotine and tobacco smoke, he finally turned his full attention on Stiles. Almost black eyes started from the top of his head, sliding down each of his features as if he were committing them to memory. "Want a fag?" Okay, and maybe he wouldn't normally offer one of his cigarettes to some rando, but the guy wasn't leaving, and maybe he was kind of cute in a weird, pale, deathly sort of way. He held the case out towards Stiles, open so he could take a cigarette if he wanted one.
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Chuckling at the question, Stiles settled down on the curb and rested his arms on his knees. "I think that's my line, but you've already helped yourself to this walking death buffet." He watched him struggle with the cigarette case, not bothering to help; he'd been there before, when all you want is a bit of control and agency when the rest of the day has gone to shit. Clearly, this man just wanted the simple pleasure of lighting up a cigarette without a tourist trying to do it for him. He barely blinked at the exhaled smoke that engulfed him, silently reaching out for the offered cigarettes to take one. He imagined a time he would have freaked out about the word—fag, said so casually compared to in the States—but his time in Europe had conditioned him to all sorts of unfamiliar slang. "These things'll kill you," he said with a smirk as he waved the peace offering in silent thanks before reaching for the lighter.
He took a deep draw on the cigarette, feeling the thick heat of smoke in his lungs before slowly exhaling. "You're Elliot Richards, right?" he asked, figuring there's no reason to beat around the bush. It was obvious what they were, even if his only visible tattoo was turned away from Elliot and hidden by the collar of his jacket. Stiles was always cold, and the sleeves of his leather jacket were cut a perfect inch longer than the sleeve of tattoos covering his left arm.
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"They can certainly try," he mumbled, eyes drifting from Stiles to the sky. "Worse things have tried before." And it was true, he's seen a whole of a hell lot worse than a cigarette. A chuff of a laugh, that was certainly painful if the wince that followed didn't give it away. He was really hoping this guy wasn't some sort of killer, and then his name startled him out of his thoughts. That, made Elliot think that maybe he was some sort of serial killer. Elliot Richards, his own name, this stranger, this tourist stranger knew his name. He closed his eyes, keeping his facial expression schooled into his annoyed neutrality.
"Who?" And, silently, he was thankful for the acting classes he took when he was younger, and the theatre experience he'd had. "Is this some weird pickup line, mate? I'm not interested. You haven't got the right bits for my interest." It was a flat out lie, but one that didn't waver or sell him short, but dark eyes fixed on Stiles again. They didn't hold any nervousness in them at all. "Name's Jack." Oh, Magdy would be pissed if he learned of that little lie. At least with Jack, he couldn't track it to Magdy or himself. If someone knew his name, that was probably bad. If another witch knew his name, it was definitely bad. He was feeling alive enough he could attack him if he had to, and run. Instead of moving, he waited, settling for bringing his cigarette back to his lips and sucking in another deep breath.
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Studying his face for a reaction to the name, Stiles is pretty impressed by Elliot's ability to dull the natural microexpressions most people aren't even aware of. By the time he meets Stiles' eyes, he's calm and collected. Stiles just sighs, taking another drag on the cigarette rather than arguing. When he exhales, the smoke is thick and black, looking more like a suspended oil slick than tobacco smoke. Stirring two fingers through the stuff, a scrap of paper solidifies between his index and middle fingers.
"Funny, Max Kiesler spoke of you fondly and in great detail." He drops the card onto Elliot's chest for him to inspect when he wants to, or when the bones in his arms fully heal, whichever might come first. The handwriting is distinctly Max's, at least to anyone who knew him, and since it's likely that Elliot doesn't trust him enough to read it, Stiles dictates the description he'd memorized. "Skinny as hell. Hair's always a fucking mess. Looks like a rainbow shat all over his clothes. Mandala on right hand. Smokes self-rolled death sticks from an ouija board case." He pauses, cocking his head to one side, and adds, "Max couldn't spell ouija, isn't he adorable? Anyways, where was I... Black eyes you could fall into. Will probably try to steal your fucking watch if you're not careful."
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Stiles' movement had Elliot's eyes back on him, picking at every little movement for information. Though, watching his hands, or how his lips wrapped around the cigarette or how his chest expanded when he inhaled probably wasn't helpful at all. But then something else happened, something that really shouldn't have, and Elliot watched, morbidly curious. Maybe he was the one that died in the horror movie after all... Stiles looked like he exhaled pure death itself, but Elliot knew it wasn't, no matter how much the thought made him hungry from deep in his soul. His dark eyebrows knit together in confusion, it wasn't a trick he'd seen before.
The mention of Max caused Elliot to narrow his eyes, a piercing and calculating look for someone who looked fifteen. He glanced down at the letter before back at Stiles. Well, fuck. The suffering sigh that escaped him was met by him bringing his own cigarette back up to his lips to inhale. He didn't want to give away that he was curious about the note, or that he even knew Max, so instead he stayed still aside from smoking.
Fondly? Sounded fake.
Honestly, it was a great description, and it had him down to a t. The Mandala on his hand felt heavy against his skin, and he knew, if it wasn't everything else that gave him away, that was certainly the straw that broke his back. Boy, was he getting tired of strangers knowing more about him than he did himself sometimes. "And you think that description fits me?"
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He huffed out a laugh at the harsh look in Elliot's eyes, enjoying the juxtaposition of his youthful exterior and decaying interior. Though Elliot was still keen on denying his identity, Stiles was certain that he'd found his man; now all the had to do was convince him not to run off the second his legs stopped jutting out at impossible angles. "Necromantic witch with a protection mandala on his right hand? Yeah, and the neon pants sort of give it away," he replied with a crooked smile just wide enough to show one sharp canine. "I mean, he also told me you were a bitey bugger in the sack, but I'm not fucking you just to find out if you can help me. Maybe after," he added with one raised eyebrow.
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Elliot scoffed, turning his head away from Stiles, making note to punch Maxwell in the face when he saw him next. "You're not my type, mate," he said smoothly, even if it was a lie. "I don't help people." With a groan, he finally pushed himself up with his arms, so that he was at least sitting up. His cigarette case and the letter fell into his lap, ignored for the time being. "I wouldn't steal your watch either, it's shite." Ah, there it was -- an actual truth.
"What is it you need help with then? I'm not a doctor, I can't sort out whatever terminal illness that's killing you." It was a blind guess, one that he was shaky about at best. His posture was hunched, spine still hurting. His legs were still busted, he wasn't going anywhere for a little while. "Uuurgh." His hands moved to his hair to ruffle it in his own frustration. His own sharp teeth were pressed together, jaw tensing and relaxing in thought.
"I need a bloody pint. Haven't got any hidden in your weird black portals, ay?"
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"Nothing that easy or boring," he replied with an annoyed click of his tongue. Rationally, he knew that Elliot didn't know him nor owe him anything, but he couldn't help wishing he'd be less of a dick to the witch he was siphoning energy from. "Max is a friend from school," he explained as Elliot groaned and appeared to take stock of his legs. "He told me about Nyaminyami," he added, hoping that it would at least get Elliot to take him seriously.
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He stayed silent for a good thirty seconds before finding it in him to speak up. "You've got a possession problem? Isn't that what Max does. Vessel things? Did he tell you he was the one to pull the fucking thing out of me? Well, him and his weird gran." It was the most he'd said all night, probably, which probably meant the rest of his night was going to suck too. "Is that what's killing you? A spirit or sommat?" Eyes that looked black in the night scanned over Stiles, not looking for much of anything other than answers. "Came an awful long way to be told to ask for Max's help." Elliot was eternally grateful that Nyaminyami hadn't begun feeding on his soul whilst possessing him, he hadn't had to cut any decay out of himself, or puke maggots. He'd just been left with a horrific fear of the water and far too many experiences of drowning.
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