OPEN RP POST

[loyalless]

send a prompt, a starter, images, words, music, whatever you like.

Comments

letter to moira (for shitship classic psl)

[loyalless]

Moira Dear Moira Moira Hello,

It has been some time.

You know I’m no good with I have no talent with You’ll forgive me for I’ve begun a dozen letters to you, burned each before I could risk sending.

I’m overdue in writing. I won’t deny, and I won’t make excuses. With luck, you’ll entertain this letter in spite of my long silence.

I expect by now you’ve heard about my family. It’s true they’re dead; a sudden and unresolved affair. I needn’t dwell on their so-called loss. You saw well enough what they were.

You may also know that I’ve married. She’s It hasn’t been so wretchedly I am less

Do you remember I believe I recall You told me that I’d do well not to think about my life as ended. That even in Manhattan, I might find others worthy of my regard who would do more good than harm.

You weren’t so far off. These days I feel Around her I find myself The girl’s name is Katrina. She has been good to necessary for me welcome.

You would, I think, like her.

If you might care to find time to happen to send word of how you’ve fared, I would receive it gladly. I won’t say that I don’t think about you. You were a good friend when a good friend when all else proved arduous. Please, give my regards to your spouse. And be as well as you’re able.

Fond Not Un-fond With Regards,

Treavor

word association meme

[sweatycoward]

for Alice

[sweatycoward]

((the morning after this thread.))


[ He remembers…

The harbor.

Looking for stars.

(The stars… gone. The stars were somewhere?)

(A sensation at his head, the wind (or… fingers?) through his hair. Assuring, easing, light.)

(Stars like a… (river).)

(Feeling welcomed in. Being pulled toward. And no jarring to follow.)

(The stars brought back, laid bare before him, stars that stole his breath.)

He remembers drifting off to the bass of a song. Covered in warmth and feeling like he’d been wrapped in safety, a weight around his shoulders like an entire convocation of blankets or like, maybe like, somebody against him, and feeling, only feeling…

Oh, at peace.

(He remembers laughter, he thinks.)

The memory of it. The aftermath of what did or didn’t happen. It’s like soft sunlight filtered through sheer curtains to settle on his skin. Spreads comfort through him, and Treavor’s inclined to drift in this space, feeling touched with gold and almost okay, feeling almost - for the moment, for the moment, even in spite of an aching head and rising nausea - right with the world.

(What happened after - if there was an after; there must have been an after - doesn’t come clear right away. A jostled ride home or a shambling, staggering walk. Heaviness in his head. A… cat? Maybe? And… And…)

There are sounds nearby. Not jagged; also not familiar. This… Place he’s sleeping. Doesn’t feel familiar. (It’s comfortable. A couch? That makes sense. But. Whose?) And he’s pretty sure these aren’t his clothes.

(Pretty sure there's a gagged and noxious feeling in his head, his chest. Needs a drink. He definitely needs a drink.)

It’s probably not worth asking how he got here, and he’s not sure he wants to know or look around and risk breaking the morning’s (afternoon’s?) warmth. Waking up means dealing with wherever he is and whatever he’s done. Means reality seeping cold over him, leaving him to stare down a biting hangover and a patchy memory.

Like it or not, his brain starts running dim and halting calculations. Not pressing, but active, a half-assed means of preparing himself for whatever might be waiting. So. He crept into someone else’s home again, curled up on their couch, only that doesn’t make sense, strangers don’t cover him in blankets or take his clothes away, replace his clothes with other clothes, and this isn’t Sheldon’s place (which means - a stinging thought - no Amaryllis) or the place of anyone he knows, and if he hooked up with someone why is he still here, why would they’ve let him stay, or…

Or he could. Crack open an eye, flinching against the world in color, world with whatever spots of light. Could catch sight of a perfectly arranged room, apartment, something, and a figure off across in some kind of kitchen, a figure that is… Does this person not notice him? Not know he’s here? Did Treavor blend into the couch (which is, he’s realizing more and more, a pretty comfortable couch) and avoid getting chased off? And why does that figure look not not familiar?

That figure. Is actually, recently, one that’s begun to become very familiar.

…Huh.

He doesn't...

Huh.

Was (the intern) (Alice) this guy there last night? Did (Alice) this guy come scrape him up out of some sense of obligation or pity? Did his brothers send the guy after him?

(No.

There’d been messages. This guy suddenly saying he was going to show up. This guy showing up and… Yeah, he had been there. Had sat with Treavor. And. And. There are pieces he can’t quite draw together, the ache in his head growing, the haze of morning still holding him.)

(Alice sat with him.)

(It’s? Confusing. He doesn’t want to think about it now.)

He’s watching the guy. Has been watching the guy for a little while now, reluctant to speak, part of him still clinging to the quiet of the morning, but if he lets silence sit too long he’s going to start trying to think, trying to wonder, and he could try sneaking out of the apartment but that doesn’t seem feasible, the maybe-exit being visible from where the guy is, and also Treavor doesn’t know where his clothes are and isn’t in a mood for running around in a blanket and whatever he’s got on now.

And also. He cold use a drink. There’s definitely, definitely that.

So. Trying to raise his head a little, letting his head fall back down when the effort turns him dizzy, opening his mouth once, twice without sound, he finally manages a ragged-sounding effort. ]

Hey, it’s you. Fly-guy.

for alice

[sweatycoward]

[ The decision comes upon him suddenly, as he’s wandering back from Sheldon’s place, still feeling the bright of seeing Amaryllis (trying to keep out the misery of leaving Amaryllis, of knowing he can’t keep her with him, knowing he has to visit her and leave her every time), feeling like the world’s not the worst place and maybe Treavor isn’t ready to go back home or let the day turn chaotic and jagged with drinking. Maybe the bright feeling doesn’t have to end, because the sun’s glowing warm and he doesn’t hate it, got shades to protect his eyes, because he’s smiling a little and no one in the crowd around’s telling him to back the fuck off, no one’s telling him he looks like an asshole, and wouldn’t it be nice to maybe share this feeling with Alice?

Yeah. Yeah. And that’s exactly what he’s going to do!

It takes some time, some walking, some stopping by a shop to pick up a ‘hey just thought I’d swing by’ gift, but finally he winds up in front of Alice’s door, a bottle of Perrier in hand (which he felt kind of stupid carrying over; which in Treavor’s opinion is kind of the jester’s ghost of a drink, but if Alice is into sparkling water, then fuck it, Treavor can set aside some pride and buy the shit and even be seen with the shit), his grin returning. Yeah, this was a good idea. Yeah, maybe Alice’ll even like it, having a little company.

Maybe Alice’ll like having Treavor’s company. It’s been a… pretty nice couple of weeks, hasn’t it? The guy still hasn’t gotten sick of Treavor and Treavor’s starting to not hate going in to work, because work means hanging out with Alice, watching Alice, fixing focus on the guy and almost forgetting where they are.

Treavor would definitely, definitely like Alice’s company right now. (It feels good, being around the guy. Treavor feels almost good, being around him! It’s a feat, and Treavor tries not to question it, only really wants to curl himself into the reality of this (more-than-?-)friendliness.

He shifts his fingers against the bottle’s neck, hopes it’s an okay kind for Alice. Treavor finished his own drink on the way over, tossed the empty bottle aside (nearly pitched it into an alley because why the fuck not, then - on an impulse he does and doesn’t connect to a certain someone with a certain penchant for cleanliness - dropped it in a garbage can, instead), and didn’t even bring his flask. (He’s a little unsettled knowing he’ll have no recourse if he wants a (needs a) drink. It feels like asking for trouble, like the worst kind of unpreparedness.) (He’s a little - dimly, vaguely, almost - proud of himself for managing it, the way he’s managed not really drinking in the office, mostly managing to step out out if he needs something.)

Anyway, it’s worth flying precarious if it means seeing Alice. Who is… Probably home? Treavor hadn’t texted to ask. Treavor had decided to surprise Alice, and has been running on the blind faith that probably Alice is home right now, Treavor feels like Alice should be home, which okay isn’t stellar evidence, but it’s something! Maybe.

He could open the door and step on in. (He could open the door because Alice gave him a key, just like that. The gift of a safe space, sanctuary if he needs it. Sanctuary, because Alice is a good goddamn guy, and now Treavor keeps Alice’s key right next to Sheldon’s key, and looks at it sometimes, thinks, shit, shit, he can be safe any time now. And isn’t he a little more secure always, these days, knowing Alice is around?) He’s got a key, but it’s polite to give warning, right? Alice seems like he’s into those kinds of signals. Also, judging by Treavor’s experience, people don’t especially, especially like when anyone stumbles into their home unannounced. So Treavor knocks, adding— ]

Special delivery!

[ For a pretty, pretty special guy.

…Who doesn’t answer.

Who doesn’t come to the door, even after Treavor knocks a few more times, waits what must be the span of a whole minute.

So maybe Alice isn’t around. (A thought that starts to sink Treavor. A thought that showers chill upon his warmth.) Maybe Treavor fucked this up, showed up to no one, hoped too high—

Or, no. Because you know what? Never mind with the sad sack story. If Alice isn’t around now, Treavor’ll chill with Hope for a while and leave a note with the Perrier, or he’ll just hang around until Alice shows up. Not so bad, right? If nothing else, he’ll get to take in a little bit of Alice’s space, feels the traces of the guy in every dustless corner.

Opening the door, Treavor takes another try at alerting Alice, just in case the guy was asleep or listening to probably some news podcast or something, not bothering to muffle the noise of his voice. ]

Alice? Hope?

Hey, anyone home?

[halfdozenoftheother]

From the airport to the cab; from the cab to Darius fucking can’t keep his glomming hands to his putrid fucking self fucking Scarlett’s fucking door.

Morgan seething. Morgan blank beyond livid eyes. Morgan subtly disheveled, after the plane and after the furious ride to the hotel. Morgan held like a searing knife, ready to ruin.

He hadn’t wanted to come to this asinine excuse for a wedding in this first fucking place. Waverly doesn’t merit the support. The miserable shitstains gathering don’t mean a thing. Better to have remained in the wilderness with Lydia. Better to have extended their trip, and avoided this work of overdressed nonsense.

—Or not.

Or not, because there’s been a complication.

A mistake.

Because someone’s got to burn this mistake and all its fucking traces to the ground.

What the fuck, what the fuck was Custis thinking, was Alice thinking, or was it their wastrel of a fucking brother that brought this into being, a supposition that fucking fits, because Treavor’s got a history of just this kind of fuck-ups and Treavor was supposed to watch the boy, and of course it’d be the waste of fucking space’s doing, and of all the fucking people for Enri to take up with—

Morgan is furious.

Of course he’s fucking furious, hearing where the boy (Enri) (their son) has gone. (Been taken? Been lured? Morgan will rip the bastard’s throat out.) Morgan scarcely notices anyone as he passes through the hotel. Doesn’t spare a look to half-familiar faces or attendants or worried-looking strangers. He has his goal; nothing beyond matters.

The boy can’t stay there.

And Morgan will rend Scarlett readily if the shitweasel shows a single fucking hair of himself.

He pounds on the door upon arriving, three heavy knocks, sharp, his voice a bellowed command: “Enri!”

If there’s no response he’ll break the fucking thing down, and never mind who’s watching.

dialogue prompts!

[onefellswoop]

1) “I should have warned him, yes, but I wanted to see how it would play out.”

2) “Where on earth did you learn to do that?”

3) “We’re about to turn this room very uncomfortable.”

4) “Oh, that’ll cost extra.”

5) "Did that shithead just give us a look?"

6) "Tell me your sins. See if I absolve you."