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updated human au tags
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Posts by DARKPUP.
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/ whoo hey we're doing good + lmao my posts are always a mess, don't worry
++ wow this got... kinda weird?? idek half of what i wrote, whoops.Was living worth it if it only brought you all of this? Sure, if you managed to get out of this intact, you'd missed out on a lot of the points of life, but is it really necessary that people experience those? Fuck, he'd be glad to die without a broken heart. That's not an option anymore; his is already shattered beyond belief. Tim's an orphan, he's an orphan (with a weird familiar figure he can't label, though), and Bellona was raised in the goddamn sewers. Yeah, of course they're all running. They all have something to run from. Maybe there's not a name for it. Not a person directly related to their injures, anymore. Not a particular memory they're constantly forced to relive. Everyone has their ghosts. If he's in one of his worse moods, Jason would bullheadedly argue that he was the ghost here, the thing that most people were trying to avoid. Win was, at least. It felt like the people who had raised him were, in general. But Tim didn't. He was the lonely boy who talked to the lonely ghost and sometimes, if the sun shines the right way and Tim smiles a certain way, he doesn't feel like a dead man's shadow anymore.
Whatever they have, he's glad for it. Jason can't say that he doesn't understand the relationship between the other two, because on some level he's still connected to both of them — Win through a shared history and Dick through that bond with Win. It doesn't matter what they call it, because there's no point in really comparing it to anyone else. They're not the same as them. It's Jason and Tim, this time, and maybe he's a little too glad to give his heart to that combination. The boy who befriended the ghost. It was mutually beneficial, and they had yet to tear each other apart like the other two were inclined to when things got too heated. No, Tim had been making him grin a reckless grin since he was a child, and Jason heart's had leaped to see him take the challenge. They're good for each other, all three of them. Calming the vertigo is a good way to put it, because before the younger two had ended up falling into his life (again, in Tim's case), he'd been... Dangerous. He didn't see himself as something worthy of living, and with that came a disregard for life in general. Empty eyes, empty heart.
Maybe it was better like that, because he wouldn't be losing everything he wanted to hold on to. It was his own hand tightening there, around the throat of someone who had once said some of the nicest things. Jokes that made him laugh, low remarks that had him stifling that same response. Tim could hardly breathe and it was his fault and as soon as things clear up, he feels as if he's torn himself to pieces, as if he's been standing on that same ledge between life and death. He was on the ground finding some way to blame himself, saying that he didn't know enough, that he somehow didn't try — how could he have known something that someone wouldn't share? Nightmares were common, but he thought that he had better control over himself. It had nothing to do with him, really. It could have been bell, it could have been an absolute stranger. He doesn't care. His brain doesn't care. What he finds most abominable about the whole situation was that he knows Tim. Knows what his touch feels like, knows what he sounds like, how he breathes, how he sleeps and laughs and hurts, and he's made it worse.
"Tim." It's become something of a mantra now, a plea that comes in a higher than what his voice usually rises to. Seeing him there, gasping for breath, is enough to drive him closer, but even still he pauses. Can't touch him, can't bruise him anymore. He's so small. Not delicate, not soft, not easy to beat in a fight, but he almost died. And it would have been his fault. Jason's laugh is hysterical, hand tugging at his hair, wanting to turn away, climb out the window. He could manage it. Fire escape on one side; wouldn't take too much effort to reach the roof and run from there. It's only something like pure instinct that allows him to answer the way he does, breath coming fast and harsh. "You couldn't — don't think you would've been able to say it anyway. I'm —" Rocking back on his heels, giving in and kneeling next to him, hand lingering somewhere between the two of them, listening. "Don't do that. Don't you — you can't just. This isn't your fault." Stupid, stupid, stupid. Living and dead don't mix, real and fictional.
And Tim is so very real.
Stuck between running away and fixing something, for once, it's only his request that keeps him from begging Bellona to make sure that he was alright instead. Water. They still have a few bottles, and that's better than the shitty-tasting crap they have from the sink, so he nods and stands up in a bit of a rush, the world spinning around him. Vertigo, nausea. Jason almost just hands it to him right away, but somewhere along the way the motion changes and he sets it down, back to kneeling at his side. "Let me — Can I —?" Help him to the couch, at least. Should get him an ice pack, stick around long enough to make up for this, but Tim's right — he's ready to bolt, scared of what he just did. But it's not the action itself that he's running away from right now. Hurting him like this is something only a monster would do, yes, but that's not the point. He can at least try and make up for that. It's just that this isn't fixed. It could happen again tomorrow, the day after. This wasn't over yet, and Jason doesn't know what he'd do if he did this again. "I'm sorry." That would never be enough.
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/ please wait for jaybird/red robin to post first, thank you!There was some part of Darkpaw's heart that would always be uncomfortable with the smell of this border. They were an enemy of WindClan's and considering that that was the first place that had claimed his heart, a section of him would always belong there. A tiny little sliver, maybe, but something. Still, he's moved on. A Vanguard of ShadowClan now, he understands that there is no point to be made in clinging so tightly to a place that had failed him, in the end. They no longer knew him, and he no longer knew them. No, the only person from WindClan that mattered was by his side. That alone was making this journey a good bit easier, enough so that the mixed canine was grinning around the basket he carried carefully between his teeth. His head was tipped in a manner that hurt his neck and he didn't like the atmosphere of this place (seriously, rotted corpses? disgusting), but Red's good company, and he's always been someone who likes long walks. All seems well, when he set it down and stretches, turning an all too easy smile towards the collie, considering what he says next.
"Think they ever get used to the smell of rot?" Then he shrugs. "You wanna do the honors?" Announcing their presence, or whatever. It seems fitting, that's all. He's that kind of person.
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It's not really a secret that Darkpaw had been feeling more and more irritable as of late. He keeps it hidden with sharp smiles and witty jokes, but that doesn't mean much when he's still itching for a fight. It's not like he wants to hurt someone, necessarily. it's just — well, maybe that's it, to an extent. The canine had always felt as if he had to prove himself, first to the people in WindClan, and now here. It's easier here, at least, because they don't know who he used to be, or what he'd been like as a child. If anything, he can put on a mask. He's good at that, isn't he? That idea doesn't feel too bitter anymore, so Dark just accepts it, treats it as it is. And so he accepts that he wants a fight, too. And short of starting something real, this is the best he can do. From sitting still to pacing, he finally forces himself to stop shifting his paws and do something about this. "Does anyone want to spar? Constructive, not just for kicks." Despite his reluctance to call himself one, Darkpaw was an apprentice first and a Vanguard second. Even if he has sections of an assassin's soul melded into his own, there's always more to learn.
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Darkpaw could not say two things for certain: whether or not he was one person, and whether or not he was as old as the body was. While he knows that there are fragments of someone else in him, had they been accepted fully? Had they melded in with the rest of him, become a part of who he was? And if they had, did that affect his soul, his age, his very being? Thinking about things like this only results in more questions than answers, and so he simply doesn't. Others are welcome to those thoughts, but he has better things to do with his life. Such as greet joiners, apparently — even if he's supposed to be of a higher position, everyone fills the basic duties as well as their secondary ones. That's not an issue for him, seeing that he rather enjoys grunt work (that's not even sarcasm, however commanding he could be), yet it can get boring when you're constantly seeing the same type of person standing there, saying the same things to get the same responses.Wolfsbane says the regular things, but he is certainly not one of the regular types. The apprentice finds himself staring up at someone much larger; a scarred bengal tiger that he instantly assumes to be a powerful warrior. No matter what the person he came from could do, Dark knows that he's no match for the older male. Not that he intends to start a fight — not with him. "Welcome, then," the canine says, none of the buried awe making it to his tone. Instead, there's a sly, crooked grin showing off white teeth and hiding a contemplative stare in it's place. Part of him is sourly reminded of Win, but he wouldn't hold that against him. "I'm Darkpaw. Do you need anything?" Would he be of much help? Probably not, and Wolfsbane didn't seem to be the type to ask for help, but the least he could do was direct him to camp or something.
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[color=transparent]———————–——[color=#141414]WE'VE GOT SCARS ON OUR FUTURE HEARTS
BUT WE NEVER LOOKED BACK, NO WE NEVER LOOKED BACK[/fancypost]
[align=center][fancypost borderwidth=0;font-size:7.65pt;color:#141414;margin-top:-12px][font=georgia]i don't wanna be the one that's left behind; don't blame me, don't hate me / [color=#B6D2DD]darkpaw / actual mess -
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"Drop that." The command comes in a short voice, eyes narrowed towards Jester when he joins the Cartel member besides the corpse. He had never dared to trust the other male in the first place, and that certainly didn't happen now with the scent of another creature from his clan standing there. If he didn't know any better, he'd call the scent familiar, but that was — Darkpaw chooses instead to focus on Jesse. "If I hadn't been here to see you pick that up, I'd consider you the murderer." There's nothing new about the way he speaks now that he's been given a promotion, this is all exactly what the canine would have said otherwise, but now he's somewhat certain that he has some authority over him. As it is, he's simply wishing that he could have gotten his request to Fayina through earlier — he can't help from here, but he won't even be sure if he can help at all until she answers. The thought has him biting his tongue.The male bites his cheek at Paintedpaw's voice, because he has an idea. Maybe his memory's just not that good. Maybe he's not quite the detective he had always wanted to be as a child. "Some of your clanmates would do the same thing," he tells her instead. While he takes no pleasure in taking away some of her innocence, his is long gone. From now on, it will only be a hindrance with her given rank. "We need to bury him. The pillow's evidence. We need to wait for Fayina before we do anything." Maybe this was all just a big mistake. Maybe he was getting in too deep already. It's all just a bunch of maybe, but somewhere in his head, there's a kid just like the one in Jesse's head, crying out for his parents, for justice, for the mystery to be solved. He's not sure which part will listen — the one that says he's just doing what he needs to do, or the one that says that every action has a set consequence, and the other collie can't avoid that.
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/ also tracking !
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Dark couldn't help but narrow his eyes at the sight unfolding in front of him, but the frown that mars his features isn't directed at Jester. Or Fayina either, for that matter. "Nobody here can trust you if you're a member of both groups — you just said that you wouldn't tell us who the murderer was yourself." Part of his mind is worrying at his honest side, because he has a guess, from a scent he just barely managed to remember. It was more of a hint than anything else, and he was desperately hoping that he was wrong about it. He liked Jesse; he was funny. "What would you do if you heard of a raid between ShadowClan and the Cartel? Who would you support?" Unlike Fayina, though, the younger canine doesn't see that as a reason for him to leave. The fur along his spine rises in a small sign of irritation as Sango jumps in to her automatic threats, and he quickly bares his teeth towards her. "Why do you insist on speaking to everyone like that?" Well — actually, with the plan he has in mind, that might be a good thing. Darkpaw would save that for later, instead turning back towards Jester and Fayina. "You're not exiling him, are you? There's no reason to run him out like a thief for what he didn't do."
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Hearing those words, he's such a sweet boy, has Dark's heart plummeting farther. Why nobody else was connecting Jesse to this was beyond him, seeing as the drug dealer had already been here once. Maybe they just hadn't seen the other kid the way he had, seeing the danger instead. Yesterday, he would have said that there wasn't any. "He killed someone, Jester. That's not innocent. That doesn't make him bad, but don't you see why people are upset?" Even now, where he would normally be snapping words and spitting them out angrily, the canine speaks calmly, as if he was simply attempting to reason with him. He doesn't want him to say the name, not really, but — the apprentice was a clanmate, and he was supposed to protect him. "And what would the Cartel tell you if you said that you refused to fight us? Would they be kind?" They're not the Cartel, god, he knows that, and here is where Darkpaw's tone gets a bit sharper. They may not be the same as that group, but they have to protect their members just the same.He turns towards Kelseylace with ears flicking backwards, blue eyes narrowing. "Would you say that to any other joiner that showed up here?" The Vanguard sighs heavily, feeling like he was the only one who didn't blame Jester for what he didn't do. "Just... Calm down, please. This isn't your fault, but you're just making people mad at you."
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Things here had taken an odd turn, that was for certain, and the farther things went, the more irritated he seemed to become. "We're letting the point of this get away from us." The canine flicks an ear, allowing his irritation to drain from him as best as he can. The murder itself hardly bothers him — it should, maybe, but Darkpaw is better prepared to argue about results. He cares where this leads, not what happened in the past. "Jester hasn't done anything wrong beside protect a friend, why are we even so focused on him? There's no point in herding him around like a prisoner, and Painted's right: our clanmate is dead. Can we not argue over his body?" It's not angry, loud, or irritated. While he manages to make it a mere statement of fact, something in the words is a borderline plea. He doesn't want to see Jesse in trouble any more than Jester seems to. Why he cares about the fate or someone who's a stranger is beyond him (he made him laugh, maybe that's enough these days), but Dark is tired of seeing people argue, even if he's the argumentative sort."If it's that big of a deal, we can sort it out later, right? We need to bury him. He deserves that."
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Lovely was one word to describe them, wasn't it? Everyone here was either too prickly or sickly-sweet, not that Darkpaw was averse to either personality. He could manage alright with however anyone acted. Really, it didn't matter too much. He had no interest in "golden boys", perfect people. Those with flaws were the ones that interested him, and those who went against the world around them had his automatic favor. So maybe Darkpaw's starting to like Jester than some of his more honest clanmates (it's not like he has a problem with the dishonesty, no matter how snappy he can be). He's glad to be the first one here, crooked smile set easily in place. "Got anything for me to do?"
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/ no worries, that happens to me all the time. c:See, Darkpaw had a plan to change that. It wasn't much of a plan, at least for the moment. He would need her approval for that and hey, look at that, here he was. The idea of specializations appeals to him, at least when it's done correctly — but even if she takes them away, he would hope to continue working along the same line. It's best for him like this. The canine shifts his paws as he gathers his thoughts, head tipped slightly. "I'd like to work with espionage. I have... Experience with that, and I'd like to put it to use well enough. And it sort of ties in to the rest of what I'm asking." He sighs and bites at his tongue. There's an actual plan in his head, tucked away. There's always a plan, though sometimes Dark will admit that he prefers simply smashing heads. Now wasn't the time for that. "I want to join the Cartel. Undercover. I believe that I've appeared sympathetic enough that they should let me in, especially if Jester can vouch for me there. I want to know what they're up to, and what their plans for ShadowClan are. I don't see the point in murdering someone without a rank, especially if they're hoping to do business here."
Now came the trickier part: explaining how it would actually be done. "I have no control over shapeshifting — not yet, at least, so I can't go as someone else. If it would be too risky for me to get a dual alliance there, there are other ways to assure that they let me in." Namely, he would ask Fayina to pretend to exile him, but again, he would only explain that when it became necessary. "I'd come to you with anything I hear, but if you'll allow this, I would like to keep the fact that I'm there between you and I. It would help my image with the Cartel if people here don't have to fake being angry with me." The idea of not telling them — not telling Red — that this had all been planned was a rather painful, considering that they were growing on him, of course, but this was for the good of ShadowClan, right? How close the Cartel is getting to this place worries him. While he has no qualms with the work itself, they're an enemy group. Until they can promise a ceasefire, he won't appreciate their presence here. Even if he likes a few of them, to an extent.
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/ WHOA. I don't know how to respond to this but... I just wanted to say that this was magnificently written and captivating. Wow.. And congrats on the 500 posts!!
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Darkpaw was quite familiar with running away from things. People, places, ideas. There was no one left to chase him, nobody that knew where he was or that he was even alive anymore, but he finds himself grateful for that. The idea of someone chasing him back into a time he thought he had left was something that terrified him, haunted him. As it was, that idea itself was chasing him. The apprentice ran away from the life behind him as best as he could, until he might as well have been running from something that could breathe. This time, though, the canine wasn't running alone. He was stuck in a spiral with Red, and that was all that he could ever ask for. A companion to go to hell with — or for, if it was necessary. No matter who Alfred is protecting, Darkpaw understand what it feels like to think that of someone. There's no question about it: if he needed to, he would put himself in danger to keep the people close to him safe.While he has a heart of gold, though, he would not do the same for a complete stranger. Get them out, yes. Stall the person hurting them, yes. Knock them out, sure. Kill them, fine. But die in their place — fuck, actually, he might. Because as soon as the stranger is calling for help from somewhere within the territory that was slowly becoming familiar, Darkpaw was racing towards it. It was loud and desperate, something that reminds him completely of his own calls a long time ago. Calls that nobody had been there to heed until he was a sobbing heap on WindClan's border. That was a long time ago, now. Too long. "Hey," the younger male calls, voice a snap in the air as he searches for the source of the voice. "Where are you? I'm not —" Just as he's about to assure the stranger that he's not a threat, he finds him, looking like he'd been dragged from hell. The mutt raises a brow, ears swiveling towards him. "What the hell happened to you?"
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Life was one great balancing act, and Darkpaw had fallen from his wire a damn long time ago. He'd never really had a chance to walk it, had he? No, he was an echo of someone else's life twisted into a nightmare that had a life of its own now. He didn't really have a counterpart, someone who kept him balanced. Red was more... The two of them were spinning in tandem, dragging each other down, down, down. But that was fine — he quite enjoyed the feeling of it. What would happen if he lost that? Maybe he would fall still. That wasn't good for someone who had to be constantly in motion, because the very second that he slows down, he's forced to confront all of the thoughts that he would rather leave buried. The insecurity that came from simply vanishing, the lingering fear that came from hearing laughter echo in the dark, bold and too bright. He doesn't want to think, and ever since he's been a child, Darkpaw had ended up running away from things that he didn't like. Running away from his old home, running away from WindClan, running until his paws were numb — he never really stopped.Even now, the apprentice is running. Rather, he's trotting, having been slowed down by the curiosity that comes from hearing his clanmates speak. They're simple things, both of the comments he can hear coming from familiar voices. From that, he can at least assume that someone is joining, and so the canine slows his trot to a walk and approaches, ears perked and gaze watchful. The stranger here is an odd thing; another canine, but not a breed that he can recognize, and carrying some equipment that he hasn't seen others with. It doesn't worry him, at least not that bit — rather, Darkpaw is focusing on the other's injuries. "Uh, yeah, pal, you really should not be moving," he finally comments, glancing from the worst injuries and back to his face. "I'd rather not watch you die." Sure, he can be a sadistic bastard at times (or so he's been told), but Hanzo hasn't done anything wrong that he knows of, and even if he did know, he thinks that he would allow time for penance. "Darkpaw, Vanguard of... Something, if we're talking rank. Welcome. Whatever." He almost rolls his eyes. "Think we can find a way to make this any easier?"
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Another week, another meeting. Dark remembers what it was like back in WindClan, and even though the clan status and leader (and territory and people and personalities) had changed, he finds that this is one thing that hasn't. There are announcements, promotions, congratulations, demotions, those murmured apologies. He doesn't find much of it interesting, but the Vanguard slides forward anyway, a little closer to his clanmates than he had stood the week before. They were good people, for the most part, though really he's mostly just glad that they're interesting. He had never much cared for stagnancy./ mobile
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[color=transparent]﷽﷽[color=#9795BC]ONLY A QUITTER WOULD LET IT GO
I'M YOUR FOOL IN A ONE-MAN SHOW; I WAS SO BITTER 'TIL [color=#fff]YOU
CAME ALONG; YOU SET MY SAILS WHEN THE TIDE WAS LOW [s][color=transparent]—– -
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Espionage it was, then. He thinks that he'd do pretty well with that, though it means that he has some thinking to do. More questions to ask, things to sort out. While some of his memories carried that of someone with a position of power, Darkpaw wasn't Darkknight. He couldn't do the same things that he did — he knew how they worked, though. This would be the easy part. At her nod, the canine simply nods back, knowing that she can't really see it. "Thank you." As for the rest of it, he finds himself shifting both in thought and anticipation. "Can I be sure enough of Jester's loyalty to ShadowClan to say that I'm planning this?" While some part of him likes Jess, the rest of him is well aware that someone appealing to his rather messy sense of acquaintanceship doesn't make them a friend. He's not willing to trust anyone so easily. "But what kinds of things do you think need to be planning? I can explain anything you'd like, at least for what I've already thought about."
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Darkpaw had been doing a lot of thinking this week. Planning, more like, but he didn't want to be thinking about that outside of the other talk with Fayina. Still, the canine looks rather fidgety when he stands near her, managing a short little smile but not much else. He wanted to ask what they were going to be talking about, but it was probably best to just be patient./ mobile track
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