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@bittersculs-blog
I'll be good, I'll be good And I'll love the world, like I should Yeah, I'll be good, I'll be good For all of the time That I never could
My past has tasted bitter For years now So I wield an iron fist Grace is just weakness Or so I've been told I've been cold, I've been merciless But the blood on my hands scares me to death Maybe I'm waking up today
louisgarroux:
Louis doesn’t regret coming to New York, not in the slightest, especially considering he had met Azra along the way. He is thankful for two things from that night—the first, the fact that he had a beautiful woman on his arm who he actually liked, and secondly, that no one else was harmed. Sure, two people were bad enough for a body count, but it could have been worse. So much worse. He hasn’t even gotten a chance to tell Azra that he is happy they both got out safe, because now it means he can take her on a date—his choice, this time. He’s half busy planning out said date, half putting all his attention into hoping this cigarette will help calm his nerves when he hears a voice ask for a cigarette. He looks up at the woman and immediately pats at his inner suit pocket, trying to locate exactly where he put the pack. When he finds it, he holds it out to her and waits for her to take one before he takes hold of his lighter. He flicks it on, waiting for her to ignite her cigarette.
He almost had completely forgotten about the card in his hand, and he looks down at it and sighs. “Theories? No, not particularly,” he admits, taking the cigarette from his own mouth and exhaling. “What do your instincts tell you? I’ve never seen anything like this before. The fact that no one else was even remotely hurt is what I find the most absurd. Whatever it is, there has to be something else to come, surely.” He brings the cigarette back up to his mouth, only noticing now that his hands are shaking. “I suppose it scares me, hm,” he remarks, trying to steady his fingertips but ultimately failing. He shoves his free arm into the pocket of his pants, doubting the woman will be able to give him any absolution for the fear that he feels. Still, it might be nice to talk to someone about it.
She doesn’t bother with the lighter, ignites the tip of her finger to light up her cigarette and gives a nod - “Thanks.” The witch isn’t too concerned about her revealing identity as a magic user in that moment. She figures if he has a tarot card, there is a good chance he was at the Gala and thus was something more. If he wasn’t, if he suddenly flipped shit at the fact that fire had sprouted from her fingers - well, there was a neat little memory wiping spell for that.
He didn’t flip shit in the end, or if he did, he was pretty good at hiding it. Mazel tov, Cait thinks. You get to keep your memories.
“My instincts.” She repeats. As a witch, her instincts are all she has. As a private investigator, there is no way something like ‘instincts’ would hold up in a court of law. “My deductions,” She corrects, “lead me to believe it was a targeted attack. A message if I’ve ever seen one. Certainly supernatural and target to the community as a whole. And is it a coincidence that both incidents dealt with cards from the same suit and they came in a consecutive order? IX of Swords and X of Swords. Then there’s the bodies… one at the first scene, two ad the second...”
She sighs, but it’s not because she’s over the conversation. In fact, it’s nice to talk to someone, for a moment, that doesn’t know her. With her husband ( or ex-husband ) every conversation is an emotional minefield. With Jameson, ever conversation is a shit-show. Jack is always a chess game. Nice, to have someone completely devoid of all that. A clean slate, if you will. Though it does little to rid her of her untrusting nature, it gives her the slightest peace of mind.
I suppose it scares me.
Cait is almost startled at this statement. She’d never been the kind of person to openly state her fears much less do so in front of people she’d just met - people who’d just asked her for a cigarette and nothing more. Is that a thing people did? Evidently.
Does it scare her? She isn’t sure.
“Yeah… yeah. I’ll be honest, I’m probably the worst person to talk to you about this. I haven’t thought about what scares me in a very long time.”
She sticks out her hand for a take-no-prisoners hand-shake.
“Caitlin, by the way."
underwhvlmd:
It had been three years since he left the Godfrey home.
Three years since he’d fully embraced what it meant to be alone and to be free of his tyrannical mother. Most, if not all, of his family had refused to speak to him after he’d left. He was perfectly happy to be free of them- except for Blaise. He missed his twin every day but to pursue dark magic with him in mind would be enough.
When Cait walked into the shop, Aries’ eyes narrowed on her. A cousin who had a habit of making bad choices, they were kindred spirits.
“I think you could challenge me for that title.” He retorted with a smirk, glancing down at the books in front of him. He was thankful he’d left necromancy for the afternoon lest she learn why he changed in the first place or (god forbid) who his mentor was. “Just healing and teleporting today.”
“Probably, and it certainly looks better on me.” Cait tossed back with no malicious intent. Cousins, arguing. It was easy to fall back into old patterns. She knew she didn’t need to tell him that everyone missed him. The witch understood the call of dark magic, had even answered it herself like some call of the wild for so much of her life. It’s what her own mother had left the Godfrey’s for all those years ago. But the thing was, in the last year (in the last MONTH) Cait had stared into the abyss and some part of her had realized that most people who saw true power at the bottom of that particularly dark well were usually suffering from little more than teen angst. Maybe the naiveté of youth told Aries he was better than the inevitable ‘crash and burn’... In which case she hoped he wouldn’t burn too bad...
Jesus, maybe this why she was a terrible mother.
But just like the Godfrey’s were there for her when she’d craved every unholy rune (always the long sleeves with her) onto her body and just like the Godfrey’s were there after she’d put something dark inside her (something that was certainly still there, making her magic green and foul ) - they’d find a path to forgiveness for Aries too. What was that if not strength?
Time. Time was what was needed. It’s what he needed too, in more ways than one. She looked down at the tomes, peering at them upside down.
Healing and teleporting, huh? How specific.
“You got something that needs fixing? Or what exactly are you trying to run away from?” She turned on her heel, and headed back tot he shelves - looking for certain books, but not quite ending the conversation. He should be looking into the physics of time if was planning on traveling through space. She’d seen it while she was in here the other day, now if she could just retrace her steps...
What was my muses 5 last sent texts yours?
—-[Pops] Did a sweep of all the exits. Nothing out of ordinary. Leaving. [Pops] My phone died. What the hell happened? [Pops] Leaving for a hunt upstate. Fed the dogs. [Pops] [Location sent: Upstate NY] [Pops] I’ll look for apartments when I get back.
What was my muses 5 last unsent texts yours.? —-[Pops] We aren’t even going to talk about last night huh? [Pops] We just going to pretend that all didn’t just fucking happen? [Pops] Why wasn’t I good enough to tell? [Pops] Would you kill me too? [Pops] Love you pops
What was my muses last snapchat to yours?
What my muse saved your number as?
Pops
What contact photo my muse has set for yours?
What ringtone my muse has set for yours? Imperial March - Star Wars
How many times my muse has called your this week? 3 (he mainly texts) How many calls has my muse missed from yours? 35
📱
What was my muses 5 last sent texts yours?
Connie: You know I would help you hide a body obviouslyConnie: Are you running late? Literally I will send a car for youConnie: Can I help you kill that motherfucker?Connie: actually just killing him wont be satisfying enoughConnie: Make sure to drink that tea i made ok!
What was my muses 5 last unsent texts yours.?
Connie (unsent): You look so much like your mother it almost hurtsConnie (unsent): Whats on your arms cait its too hot for long sleevesConnie (unsent): You can tell me these things I won’t judge youConnie (unsent): if i lose another family member it will kill me Connie (unsent): what did he do to you? What have I done to you?
What was my muses last snapchat to yours?
Connie doesn’t snap
What my muse saved your number as?
Cait
What contact photo my muse has set for yours?
What ringtone my muse has set for yours?
normal
How many times my muse has called your this week?
None - she knows Cait can’t talk
How many calls has my muse missed from yours?
none
Heartbeat - Childish Gambino
@sundxrwhiispers
@bittersculs - MELCHIOR
Sian didn’t wait but half a second after the door swung open before she spoke. “—- the ONLY reason I opted out of committing a felony is because I have yet to be invited in, so, can we just hurry this up?” It took a lot for her to get out of bed and make her way halfway across town just for the bracelet Mel refused to cough up. So the least amount of time she spent there here the better. Sian WASN’T in the mood. “I have places to pretend to be.”
Sian ( S, in his phone, now and for so long.) Always with her barriers and her sarcasm. They rolled over him like water. It was good to see her - anywhere, really, but particularly here at the radio studio on this night. Melchior noted with some amusement that she would have to be invited in if she wanted to get anywhere close to getting her bracelet back. He wanted to draw that shit out and maybe, if he were a more patient man, he would have.
“Please, I’ve seen you commit felonies under far more difficult circumstances. I’m taking this as a compliment.”
What did he want from her? Sure there was a part of him that wanted her to do that thing with her tongue, but there was a much bigger part of him, the majority even, that was just glad to see her again. They hadn’t really talked at the Gala had they? A brief interaction that bloomed like spring, but one had ended almost as soon as it began - both being pulled off by their respective dates. Maybe that’s why he’d gotten a bad case of sticky fingers - find an excuse, anything to bring her back.
Find a way to reassemble the old bits of them.
"Right, right,” Melchior reached out to pull her into a hug and just about carried her over the threshold like he was her own personal straight jacket. He dropped her (she would no doubt be furious and he’d snicker about it ) and gestured to coffee table where the bracelet sat like a treasure on the pedestal.
“All yours. That fast enough for you, Si?”
What was he doing though? Why this whole show in the first place? He really should leave Sian in his past, he wasn’t very good at the sharing things and Sian was… flighty. In their early days he’d thought them to the be the same kind of flighty and that’s why they’d slotted so well together like clockwork. But time had proved that she would not follow to the places he went and he was opening his eyes to the fact that maybe he wouldn’t either.
He wanted to swallow that down. Not think about that. Wanted to think instead about how he had her, just for a brief moment, here in his small radio station, in this quite corner of the universe in a loud New York. He had her all to himself.
Effervescent, she was. Quite a feat for an immortal creature.
His hands went to his pockets as he waited to take it and leave. (She was rather good at that - leaving.)
“All good?” He grinned. “Wouldn’t want you to be late to those places you have to pretend to be.”
jackripner:
he finds foolhardiness a pointless exercise of dominance —– but it’s quite endearing on her. how her tongue swiftly latches to the bait he’s dangling, and swallows with a final bark. he imagines, this must feel as some type of surrender to her, a bruise to the ego she so adamantly attempts to smother under all that cheap fabric.
but he has no intention of making any of this easier for her ; without strife caitling an emptied woman ; she is left to the judgement of her own voice, a much harsher, unforgiving devil, than the one who stands before her.
“ clever. ” that conceited little lilt to his voice suggests otherwise, & just like that, the snake bites back, fangs dripping poison ; as it does, as it is its nature. but he’s not quite ready to swallow her, then. he’s not entirely sure when, if ever, that day will be.
greedy fingers, seldom exposed, now lay bare & it is not resentment nor repudiation she witness at her blunt displays of hostility. he looks thankful — for they can freely roam across the road she’s so carefully paved, trace the phantom imprints where her hands have lingered. — he doesn’t crack it open, yet.
ah. there.
of course, he’d never willingly sate her thirst with feeble admissions of guilt, but he entertains her with shadows of smiles, and the crinkles that form about his eyes. CURIOUS analogy, not that he’s opposed. likely, more accurate than she’d ever guess —– it seems as though he’s rummaging through some thoughts, recollecting an old memory before cracking open the file.
“ a love story… ” he points out, eyes not moving from the dull pages. “ —- how curious. ”
he doesn’t say any more, than. and he doesn’t expect her too, either.
it is unfair to embarrass her with any further enticement —– even if she so deserves for the comparison, for that careless analogy that implicates her and dangerously provokes him. how unlikely that she should inspire mercy in him.
to business, than —— what he sees is ritualistic. neediness. ambitious. wishful thinking, for the most part. the butchering is sloppy, the cuts are careless. is it curiosity, or a hunger for knowledge that grows wilder with each slice? there’s no sentimentalism , no remorse for the shambles left behind. one might wrongly assume jack would approve of such methords —– but the gracelessness, the lack of meaning into each random killing is terribly boorish to a man such as himself.
back to her, his eyes are searching. in a breath, he could swallow whole that jaded body of weary limbs and spit the bones clean ——– not a scream would escape her throat. he’d devour them too. but to watch her blossom , to watch her peel the very skin that coats her bones and crumble before him would be infinitely more pleasurable. rewarding. he’d sown her , and he’d reap her —- when time was due.
“ what a waste… ”
not bothering to elaborate, when he stands, the doctor has fallen silent. what crawls closer, all cat & canary like, preserves the gap between them by mere inches.
“ i do have a simple favor to ask. will you say yes? ”
She gives him a genuine bit of herself, you can hear it in the scoff that tries to cover up a real laugh. Did he just call ‘Silence of the Lambs’ a love story? If that were the case -
“What does that make us Jack?”
then she and him were -
“Star crossed lovers?”
A cruel snicker. Maybe ‘Midsummer’ was his favorite. Or maybe he read ‘Titus Andronicus’ like it was a love song. But as cavalier as this exchange is, she is certainly attentive at the way he examines the file, looking for any of the tells of his face that she knows so well. She looks for literally anything that would give her her own start to figuring this out. Cait itches to solve this. ‘What a waste.’ Yes! She’d thought the same. “Right? Ritualistic instead of reverent.” She can’t help and say - but any of the enthusiasm that comes with laying down the first piece of the puzzle dies cold in her throat as he slinks closer.
Her hands drop and immediately, her fingers move to fiddle with the sleeves of her flannel. Her magic jumps up like an instinct. Cait’s unconsciously going for that dark well that sits in her and she gets that feeling, the same one that struck her in the library at the Gala, as if she is nothing more than a marionette. It’s hard not to, when he’s so close, just hex him with a little bit of magic. It’s like reaching for a phantom limb and Cait winds up crossing her arms, just so there’s one more barrier between them. This stance also lets her surreptitiously thumb the spot where the rune for ‘destruction’ sits carved into her skin, under her shirt. How many times did Will have to catch her by the elbow when she was in uniform to keep her from doing something reckless? Would he do the same now, as she was mere inches from Jack? Without William, the force that is (former) detective Caitlin Godfrey is left unattended and unhindered.
A simple favor. She searches his face, finds nothing. This is crazy. This whole thing. She loves that. Has Jack ever been in a working partnership before? He doesn’t really strike her as a team player. She wants to take a guess at what he’s going to ask fo her. Wants to tap two fingers to her jugular or maybe take out her little pocket athame and slit her palm to tease him with the possibility of paying with blood. What could he even possibly want that was SIMPLE? Going back to her fantasies for a second, the ones she listed off earlier were absolutely taunting bullshit. But here’s one that’s true: She wishes she had his case file in front of her right now; the one she’s constructed over these last five years. She’d read it back to him and remind herself of all the things that made Jack get up each morning. Maybe if she had it right here, she’d know what he was about to ask for instead of drawing a complete blank.
Even after all this time he still has the ability to surprise her.
“I’m not really in the habit of writing blank checks, Jack.”
It’s the dance all over again. ‘But would you do it for me?’ Of course, she accepts.
“Just what did you have in mind?” Caution laces her words. Or, she pretends to call it caution. It’s more the speed of daring and downright distrust.
her skinny bow-legs come rushing through the greenery full-speed, scrapped and smudged by the damp soil, she’s got leafs tangled between ebony locks & a tightness in her lungs that cuts every breath short, and she proceeds to carelessly clash against them, roughly and suddenly like a thunder, looking like crazed mini-sasquatch, with all that hair in disarray and baggy hood. rolling to the floor and spitting out locks of hair that got in her mouth —- you might’ve heard a stifled “ow” as she curses her own dexterity and sense of direction.
❛ hey – you haven’t seen a cat, have you ? ❜ looking up, an eye squinted shut, she mumbles those words like a habit — she should probably apologize first. ❛ i mean … sorry and all … but have you seen a cat? ❜ @bittersculs / starter call x accepting.
If he was going to be honest, he thought he’d gotten away with it. He’d been creeping around, scales on, you know, full dragon and the stray had crossed his path. Maybe it was so easy for Melchior to burn and munch because he’d always been more of a dog person any way. He’d spent the day as a dragon, had lost track of time and was only reminded of how hungry he was once the creature had crossed his path. The thing had put up quite a fight too. Was 8 pounds of pure hate.
All that said, Mel thought he was never going to have to think about that stupid cat again. He’d stumbled out of the woods only seconds before, fully dressed, trying to get the crispy taste out of his mouth, considerably satisfied now that he’d stretched his wings. He hadn’t been counting on his little snack actually belonging to someone and he hadn’t expected that person to come looking - nor for her to stumble into his path the way she did. Melchior paled at the question from the stranger. He’d never been very good at the lying thing. But you know what he was okay with? Charm.
“I mean, have I see a cat? As in, ever? Sure. But recently? I mean, I suppose that depends on your definition of recently.” Really, just a terrible liar. “What did it look like?” He asked with a small laugh to hide his guilt. “I could help you look?”
lulelaw:
Something he could finally channel all his aggression into. The legacy his father tried so hard to secure. Lukas had to get away from the city and drove outwards further away from civilization. Perhaps he would hunt something that was different and he would be able to give his father a piece of it. Proof that he knew what he was, but he still felt a quiet turn in his stomach. He could never shoot Winter, he could never harm her. However, neither could anyone in his family since she was safe under the Founding Family Law. The only thing unsafe was their rekindled old friendship.
After he parked he hiked his way through the forest with his guns, a couple of grenades, the knives of course. He wasn’t sure what he was going to encounter. He walked back over to stock up on holy water vials just in case. Nothing could prepare him properly for what exactly had been there. Lukas walked intently in the direction semi-automatic rifle already loaded.
A shadow keyed him to a beast and he lowered himself down placing the AR gun in position. Once he looked through the target lens he paused a second. A fucking dragon? Well, couldn’t get anymore supernatural in thought. Without a word he fired the first shot aimed for the beast’s wing. It would be easier to execute if it couldn’t fly.
What -
Zip! The bullet rushed past him, clipping Melchior’s flank. Great. Great. GREAT. He was being shot at. Not his first time mind you, but it had been a few years. Most of his time traveling Europe had been pretty tame -
Fuck, that was a semi-auto. It would be a terrible idea to shift back now, his scales were armor, without ‘em there was a good chance he’d catch a stray bullet and that would be the end of him. He launched up and tried to get a better glimpse at the poor bloke. Had he just, unwittingly, unveiled the existence of DRAGONS to some poor human? No, this had to be someone already in the know. Most people’s first impulse, when confronted with a dragon for the first time, was not to immediately shoot it out of the sky.
Hunter.
Mel could hear himself and the other Dragons snickering in the back of his mind. They used to make a game of this, you know? Play a little chicken with danger. But those were the days when he was a mess of limbs, a gangly youth that was still getting used to his wings and his talons. Now the whole thing was just a pain. Why couldn’t this dick just leave him alone? Let him enjoy a little wind beneath his wings.
And to be clear - Melchior was no killer. Had been, also back then, but never again. He had no intention of killing this hunter in retaliation...but he also knew he could not let himself get shot out of the fucking sky. Everything he’d been taught, to what? Go down like some common pigeon? Absolutely not.
He zig-zagged - that was an easy tactic to remember - and let out another short jet of flame as a warning. ‘Don’t fuck with my fire bro.’ Another shot - Jesus! - and so Melchior dove, with no other plan, straight for the man. A large claw swiped out. He latched on to the hunter and lifted him up. Tried the shake the gun right out of his hand.
talkngdust:
( text ↬ zatanna p.i. ) len: business must be booming for you recently huh ( text ↬ zatanna p.i. ) len: i don’t know what you do all day but i’m picturing your face on columbo
( text ↬ Len “Darius’ guy” ) Caitlin: Man, I wish my life was Columbo. ( text ↬ Len “Darius’ guy” ) Caitlin: Way easier than figuring out this tarot card bullshit. ( text ↬ Len “Darius’ guy / Columbo fan” ) Caitlin: How old are you again? ( text ↬ Len “Darius’ guy / Columbo fan” ) Caitlin: Can’t remember the last time someone other than my father made a Columbo reference
bittersculs:
( text → s ) melchior @ 2:36 AM: kind of hoping you do
( text → s ) melchior @ 2:36 AM: don’t make promises unless you plan on keeping ‘em
( text → s ) melchior @ 2:36 AM: [ pinned location ]
*read @ 2:37 AM*
sundxrwhiispers:
( text → lizard boi ) sian @ 2:36 AM: you know
( text → lizard boi ) sian @ 2:36 AM: im really not opposed to breaking and entering
( text → lizard boi ) sian @ 2:36 AM: but i’ll bite
( text → lizard boi ) sian @ 2:36 AM: address?
( text → s ) melchior @ 2:36 AM: kind of hoping you do
( text → s ) melchior @ 2:36 AM: don’t make promises unless you plan on keeping ‘em
( text → s ) melchior @ 2:36 AM: [ pinned location ]
@bittersculs
this was certainly the first thing on her list of many things to do, yet it seemed to be the hardest. among her family, she knew it would probably be easier to get her nieces and nephews to open their doors to her. her brother was another fact. of course, she had her emergency key but she never wanted to use it in such a way. she wanted her brother to open the door to her, to have him let her in like he has done various other times. she couldn’t and wouldn’t let herself in when the matters in hand were far too serious.
“hermano, por favor. abre la puerta. sabes que tenemos que hablar sobre anoche.” she shouted once more as she knocked on the door and pressed the doorbell. what a security system, he better have heard her through this speaker thing.
‘We have to talk about last night.’
Did they though? Jasper was rather good at being efficient with his life. Burn something, move on. Move forward, carry tradition onwards. He’d holed himself up in his study and the pounding on the door reflected the pounding in his head. Far off, he could hear the doorbell. And then there were Marisol’s words. Those were clearer, they carried right through his second story open window.
It had all come out at the Gala. Like they’d gutted some large creature right there and pulled out its intestines for the world to see. Noel’s stabbing, Jasper’s curse. All of it. All that blood. Three years of secrets revealed - and Jasper just wanted to move on.
Why couldn’t the things he killed just stay fucking dead?
More pounding. There was the doorbell again. She found the button for the speaker. Where did she get these dramatics from? Certainly not him.
Jasper sighed and stuck his head out the window.
“No hay nada de qué hablar, Marisol.” He said. “What happened, happened. I don’t have time for this.”
Move forward, carry tradition onwards.
