Dante and Virgile in Hell, detail (1850)
William-Adolphe Bouguereau
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@mikaherikson
Dante and Virgile in Hell, detail (1850)
William-Adolphe Bouguereau
❝ the woods are supposed to be peaceful , so would you mind being quiet ? or at the very least , speak softer ? ❞ his voice was as polite as he could manage , his eyes narrowed slightly as he looked over his shoulder at his companion. it was difficult to enjoy the sounds of nature when someone was speaking or stepping on a branch every two seconds.
“And here I thought you wanted to catch up with your big brother,” he says, easy like Sunday morning. His hands are in his coat’s pockets. His demeanor masking the inner workings of a restless mind. Forever alert and expecting an ambush.
there’s a quiet kind of MENACE to the past she’s tried to bury. that’s the best word she’s found to describe it, the only one that captures the futility of trying to keep it six feet under. the fact is that her past follows her, stalks her. the threat of it is very real; the threat of it clawing its way out of the graveyard of her memories and rising to haunt her like some phantom she can’t quite shake. here and now, however, the manifestation of it is much more literal. t a n g i b l e. And she knew this because she’s stood in the aftermath of such an encounter.
sloane hadn’t been prepared. that might’ve brought her family some twisted sense of joy if only they’d been around to enjoy it. the part of her that was still a hunter – the part of her that was proving harder to K I L L than any of the lives she’d taken in her lifetime – was in some way ashamed she’d allowed a werewolf to get the drop on her. she wasn’t sure how he’d managed to recognize her, but he had and his attack had been sudden. too sudden for her to anticipate with four drinks already in her. in the end one more body was added to the count, one more nameless figure to aid the others in wresting any sense of peace from her entirely.
he didn’t part from this world without leaving behind some CARNAGE in it, though. carnage and something to remember him by. as sloane staggered through an empty alleyway, one hand clutched at a nearby wall to right herself and the other cradled her side. C L A W S had torn four deep gashes into her, tearing muscle from sinew and the blood seeped through the spaces between her fingers. not enough to rouse a panic, but in the absence of a truly life-threatening wound the panic of still being on the streets and vulnerable to discovery was present in its stead. she needed to get out of sight and this alleyway wasn’t going to cut it. she stayed resting for a moment, trying to clear the f o g in her mind, a mixture of the hit she’d taken to her head, the fading adrenaline and comingled pain. probable concussion, but she’d contend with that later. she couldn’t afford to deviate her attention. just as she’d sucked in some breaths and decided to move forward, the footfall of a stranger’s approach sounded out behind her and she stilled completely. ❝ Јебати, ❞ the redhead uttered lowly under a shaky breath.
@mikaherikson
They say most cravings average three to five minutes. After that, you’re free. This is if you’re lucky. If you can tame the darkness inside of you. Stitch yourself up before it comes spilling out. You can resist the urge by timing the length of your cravings. Science trumps the urge, it was written. Let the minutes pass. Count them. Think outside of yourself. Close your eyes. Don’t look at the clock. Don’t think about it. Stop, you’re thinking about it. They say if it lasts more than fifteen minutes, you may still be exposed to the stimulus causing your craving. You ask an addict to remove themselves from the equation, see if they tell you logic dictates.
Commit to those fifteen minutes they say. He stands, reformed. Back straightened like a priest offering mass. One hand clasped around the other wrist like a handcuff (hah - get it? a handcuff) behind his back. He stands in front of clock tower. Eyes closed. Jaw tight. And it’s silent. silent except for the quiet ticking of his clock. He’s counting the seconds as they pass. 894. 895. 896. 897. 898. 899. 900. Like counting sheep, praying he won’t become one.
There’s breath interrupting his seconds. 901. 902. 90-... Heavy and wounded. From here, we imagine he says Ava Maria thrice. His steps, silent and steady, navigate a labyrinth of alleyways. The heartbeat strange but familiar. He heard it in this way before. Shaky. When he sees her, he is hungry. Remove yourself from the stimulus. But her face will not allow it. He knew it well. The face of a girl who had lost an uncle. The face of a girl who had hunted his sister. The face of a sister who was once a vampire. “No rest for the wicked, huh?” He examines the wound from where he stands, whistles, shoulders relaxed, “That’s a pretty nasty wound you got there. Werewolf?” His fangs are kept at bay. What kind of cosmic bullshit has aligned for this? He wonders if he owes her for a dead uncle. Knows she probably thinks so. “I gotta’ say. That was real stupid what you did to my sister,” he’s circling her, “I didn’t appreciate that, nor did she, for that matter,” a sigh, “But I do apologize for my lesser half.” He bites his wrist in spite of himself, his own blood washing away the blood on his hands, “Losing family is a goddamn kick in the head. Never meant to inflict that kind of pain on anyone,” he stops, offering his wrist to her. “Drink up. You’ll feel better. Boy scout honor,” he smiles, eyes locked onto hers, “And let’s try to keep any malicious or ill-intentioned antics to a minimum,” he waves his hand around as if bored of his own voice, “Y’know, respect your elders. I don’t want to hurt you, you get it, right,” he asks, drops of blood flicking from his open wrist, “Look, now I’m just wasting it. Here.” The blood dripping down, ready to heal.
Alive With The Glory Of Love || Say Anything
Should they kill me, your love will fill me, as warm as the bullets. I’ll know my purpose. This war was worth this. I won’t let you down.
“I know,” he starts out strong, as strong as anyone can be, but his voice wavers to a whisper anyway, “I know.” Saying sorry again felt cheap. It got caught somewhere in his throat. Choking him. He could say he was here now, but it’d be an empty promise at most. It wouldn’t fill that aching wound between her second and third rib. It wouldn’t answer any of her questions. It wouldn’t bring Alec back. And it wouldn’t guarantee his extended stay. “I would trade places with him if I could, Effy,” the truth, “believe me, I would.” His fingers sink into her hair. This was all too messy. He could feel himself getting too entangled, too quickly. "I'll figure this out," he says under his breath - more to himself than her.
elvirastark:
before reality has the chance to set in, FURY seeps through the cracks, searching for SOMEBODY to blame; seeking an easy way out. ❛ DON’T SAY HIS NAME, ❜ her voice comes out bitter & broken, tears gathering in her eyes. she hasn’t CRIED for alec in years, for she knows that if she starts, it’ll never END, and effy isn’t mentally ready to travel down that road. she wants to FORGET, to MOVE ON. with mikah around, it’ll be nearly impossible. ❛ you don’t get to say his name. you’re not REAL. you can’t be ——— !! ❜
He pins his bottom lip between his teeth. There is a disconnect between his body and mind - soul too, while we’re at it. A humanity that he keeps on display - for show - to blend in with the crowds felt violated. The glass case cracked here. “Effy,” his arms enclose around her, curling a hand around her skull, jaw clenched, “I am, unfortunately.” He wants to say forgive me. Perhaps Alec would be here if he hadn’t known Mikah. If they had kept to their respective worlds. And he wondered if she knew, what she knew, and how much.
i keep falling asleep between writing replies for mikah and oliver.
pcnelopc:
the invitation was a mere condition that came with royalty, which she formally declined earlier. but nevertheless, the brunette found herself rushing giddily through the bustling streetswith a peach toned mask in hand. a disguise. her dark waves flowing around her face as she weaved in and out of the masked civilians. she pushed through more shoulders, begging her pardon as she moved closer to the scene. the roses, masks, city life, and the atmosphere made her eyes light up with a mix of emotions. a moment in life when she could pretend to be what she was not. penelope carefully tied the ribbons of her mask to her face and secured her hood around her cheeks.
later in the night, she’d been approached by many lively and jubilant people. all too drunk or high on life to really comprehend anything she would respond to their questions with. truthfully she’d been enjoying the event from afar, an onlooker. and the next man who interrupted her silence gave an eerie feeling. as she denied his advances and pushed at his chest harshly, he became frightening. demanding she accompanied him immediately in his drunken ventures through the night. she shoved his chest again with more force and he snatched her wrist and began pulling her closer to him. the strength explained that he could have been a vampire or she was just being careful.
another soldier commanded the stranger to back away and it gave penelope the chance to release her arm from his grip. she tilts her chin down and studies the floor, “ t-thank you. i swear i did not mean to cause you any trouble — ” she muttered in response to fill the silence but just as quickly her words were cut short by the man going on about how he was simply seeking a good time.
His hand releases the shoulder of the drunken soldier. Mikah doesn’t want to hear it. His eyes are darkening under the mask, blending into it. The man was considered “good” by his peers. By the others. Though good often translated to fun and not much else. “Go. Now,” his words short and sharp - they have a sobering effect on the man. And once he leaves, the vampire turns to the lady, “No trouble at all,” he takes a bow as long as the words, “I apologize on behalf of France. He is as stupid as he is drunk. Please, enjoy the rest of your evening.”
rcsurgent:
a chill ran through her spine at the mention of marie for samaira knew her all too well. it was so odd to think that she shared an eerie resemblance to a soul that was so wild and full of power. a woman that in a way was having such a huge impact on her life despite having died long before mai was even conceived. “believe it or not you’re not the first person to look at me that way,” she said with an laugh that bled of irony. “marie, yes.” the witch muttered with a small smile, remembering how gracious her ancestor had been to her in the afterlife. the same could not be said for the rest. “ she’s my ancestor.” eyeing the male for a moment, samaira was trying to decide what to make of the stranger before eventually just giving into her curiosity and asking. “how did you know her?”
“And here I was thinkin’ I was special,” he smiled. Could almost taste the blood in his mouth when he first met Marie. But from their meeting he knew he wasn’t special, she had the type of power that made their own waves. You could fight them and drown or learn how to ride them. He did both. “I figured,” it was a half-truth, because he had half-wished it was her. Another thank you owed. He shrugs under the weight of inadequacy, “It’s kind of a long story,” his steps leading him nowhere in particular, ‘I’m in her debt.”
blood is better
stargczcr:
“It never does.” He responded with a sigh. It was only a matter of time before chaos erupted – again. “What did you expect? We aren’t exactly warm people.” Both figuratively and literally. “We’re immortal, too late isn’t something we have to worry about.” Which only made it easier to neglect relationships and the like, something Nicklas was quite prone to avoiding. “We’re all here now. No need to dwell in the past.”
He nods in agreement. There was something strange about the coincidence. One he hoped was nothing more than that, but he knew better. “Call it wishful thinking,” he laughs through the words. Nicklas had been the easier of the family to return to, in the past and present. A Hail Mary in the eyes of Mikah - he was grateful. He pats him on the shoulder twice with a smile, “And that’s why you’re my favorite.”
elvirastark:
effy sees alec in him — in his voice, in his eyes. she sees the LIFE in him that her brother no longer has, and for a moment, it eats away at the minuscule part that almost wishes that HE could’ve taken alec’s place instead. after all, what significance does he hold to effy? she only knows him as the best friend; the one who STOLE alec away from her. mikah doesn’t look like he’s aged a day since their last encounter, whereas her BROTHER is six feet under, rotting amongst the soil & worms ( IT’S NOT FAIR IT’S NOT FAIR IT’S NOT FAIR ). through gritted teeth, effy lashes out with nothing but pure hatred. ❛ what the HELL are you doing here? ❜
Where she has become thorny and poisonous - all bramble rose - he softens. His edges sanded down. He knows this pain and thinks of his youngest sister. Long withered away into a dusty memory. He takes steady, sedated steps towards her. She had grown up. “I used to call this place home,” his voice calm. Eyes wet and darkened with the sadness of understanding. “I’m sorry,” he says, already knowing it is not enough and never will be, “about Alec.” He hadn’t spoken his name. It flitted around his thoughts along with the circumstances of his death. Another unrest he had welcomed. Another wrong that kept him alive.
@mikaherikson
Davyn could count all the people that could stun him to silence on one hand, and of those people, there was only one man who he could call a brother. That man was responsible for giving him his immortality and though most regarded it as a curse, Davyn saw more good out of his long life than bad. Sure, he was not a sinless person, but for the most part, he usually found the entertainment that could only come from being nearly indestructible and immortal. The former soldier lowered the gun into its place on the rack. “I certainly didn’t expect to see you again, Mikah.” He was serious for once. Davyn thought of himself as a jovial jokester, but the last time they ran into each other, the situation hadn’t been exactly very good. “Welcome to the New Orleans Indoor Shooting Emporium and Center. NOISEC for short. Are you here to purchase gun related goods, or did you miss me?”
“I’ve come to be unburdened by the immense loneliness your absence has caused me.” His steps are slow and easy as he enters the shop. Like nothing but time had passed, despite both of them knowing much more had happened between. There was something biting about his progeny’s words, though he knew many shared the sentiment. The vampire he had become was a strange, solitary creature. Jovial and carefree with eyes upon him, but a world away within. His whistle fills in the room, “Well, color me impressed. Quite a place you got here.”
→ @pcnelopc, VENICE; 1576
Was there ever rest in politics? The soldier did not think so. Balls were thrown to sway the minds of royals, ignite a spark of sympathy in their souls by distracting them with the spoils of a foreign nation. King Henry III of France being the most recent of pursuits by the Venetian Court. They had arrived in the floating city just as the sun had begun its decent. The cortigiana onesta sprawled over the boats of the Rialta - roses thrown to steal a glance, the cortigiana di lume wilting over the Ponte delle Tette - teasing and taunting onlookers. A city on fire. And where most had their gazes stolen and enraptured by the Venetian pageantry, Mikah examined all else - searching for monsters in plain sight. The masquerade come nightfall to be no different.
He stands in front of the mirror. Mask straight, lacquered black - as dark as the River Styx. The resemblance is uncanny. Rough hands juxtaposed against the unblemished breastplate. He is one of seven to accompany the king in such close proximity. The bells are ringing. The night has come alive. He turns his body away from his reflection and the mirror stares back.
There is a flurry of feathers and frills. Plums and golds, turquoises and emeralds. A feast for the eyes and senses. Too many distractions. Relax, they tell him. Enjoy the masquerade. And he laughs. I’ve been wearing my mask for much longer. It sticks to him, a permanent fixture now. So he softens his shoulders while he looks at the neck of a courtesan being caressed by the clergyman, imagining his blood spilled onto the floor. He smiles as a noble stumbles with his wine - berating the staff, hoping he gives way to more violent tendencies. All this divine justice waiting to be doled out by the vampire lying in wait. He plays the part, but stands on the outskirts looking in. Then he sees one of his fellow soldiers, feral with liquid courage, his hand clasped tightly around the wrist of a young woman. From the outside, in he goes, “That’s enough,” he says, a low growl from the Underworld. His fingers threatening to break the scapula beneath the soldier’s armor.
rcsurgent:
samaira remained unmoved from her place as her chestnut hues eyed the stranger. “it’s fine,” she said in a nonchalant manner as her arms crossed over her chest as her gaze briefly broke away from the male and fell upon the morning sky. “it’s not as if my thoughts provide me much silence anyways.” that had probably been the most honest statement she had offered up in awhile. “i figured as much the way you looked at me kinda gave it away.” gaze fell upon the stranger once more as the woman slightly tilted her head in a curious manner, brow slightly raising. “what was her name?”
There were always the two extremes: the deafening silence and the chaos of thought. A mutilation of the mind in either case and Mikah attributed it to a divine retribution reserved for only the mutated, hell forsaken race of God’s children. The vampire. “Ain’t that the goddamn truth.” The words slipped between a clenched jaw, wired shut with past demons. “Hah, that obvious, huh?” He pauses before the name slips through, “Her name was Marie.”
#NowPlaying Blood on Me de Sampha
I swear they smell the blood on me I hear them coming for me
Now I’m not afraid to do the Lord's work You said vengeance is His, but I'mma do it first
pcnelopc:
her favorite cafe in the garden district was run by an elderly couple. she visited every weekend and offered her help around the shop, “ there are a few actually. i can lead us to ( in my opinion ) the best one. i help the owners out sometimes and they’re always pleasant to be around. ”
“ i teach kindergarten at the elementary school outside of the city — no, no you’re fine. it’s not challenging to grade a six year old’s quizzes. ” she shifted her coat, pulling it closer around her frame. she raised an eyebrow, “ what are the main changes ?? ”
“Please,” he said, a hand hanging in the open air for her to lead, “our lives are now in your capable hands.”
“Touché, I’ll give you that,” a lightness in his laugh, “Have you always been a teacher? Is that what fills you?” Too much responsibility. Especially at a young age. He could ruin them before they even had a chance.
He looked around at all the streets and signs, lights and concrete. “There was more room to breathe. Something sacred ‘bout untouched earth. Quiet.” He wondered if he could say it was it was more wild - given the circumstances - New Orleans seemed to be brimming with new energy. New sacred grounds. But it had always been a battle between life and death. Probably always would be. Forever haunted.