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@mortalrot
#𝑴𝑶𝑹𝑻𝑨𝑳𝑹𝑶𝑻 : featuring muses as ruined by bee ❪ she + her , 23 , est ❫ for macabrefm. .
azazel ( the corruption of the holy father ) , dean winchester ( the haunting is hereditary ) , famine / chaewon rhee ( a love like starvation ) , kiraz ' kate ' ardic ( love is where the knife goes in ) , noah stilinski ( we forgive everything but ourselves ) , rowena macleod ( to feel anything deranges you ) , scott mccall ( the moon has favourites ) .
@marhcel : ❛ 93 , sender gestures for receiver to sit down . ↳ ⸻ rowena &. marcel [ prompt ]
𝙰 𝚆𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝙼𝙰𝙶𝙸𝙲 𝙰𝙽𝙽𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙲𝙴𝚂 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙿𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴 in the form of doors blasting inwards. a gentle utterance of latin under her breath , and her finger still poised at the ready to direct her spellwork. strong hinges , what a relief , and her steps are entirely too confident as she sunk further into the hidey - hole he's carved out for himself. it's hardly the opulence of the french quarter as she remembers him , but she can hardly lay the blame at his feet when bon temps has so little to offer in terms of luxury. still : taking in her surroundings , she appreciates his ... efforts.
ignorant of the bodies milling about , she approaches as a bold mass of fiery red curls and pale skin wrapped in the dark blue of an evening gown. out of place for the majority of town , but fitting for an audience with a king. how many years had it been since they'd crossed paths last ? how kind those years have been , if the sight of him is anything to go by. ❛ now whatever could've dragged a king from his kingdom , yer highness. ❜ an overabundance of flattery , but it lacks the mocking edge reserved for most men. taking the offered seat , she's legs crossed and polite with her smile , not yet relaxing as she took catalogue of any and all changes.
@marhcel : ❛ 53 , sender buys receiver a drink at a bar . ↳ ⸻ famine &. marcel [ prompt ]
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝚄𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰𝙸𝚁 𝚃𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝚁𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙻𝚁𝚈 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙱𝚄𝙽𝙳𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴. in food , in drink. bodies fucking , bodies fighting. it wraps around her like a warm embrace ; fills her belly like a twelve - course meal. not a trace of her own powers imbues these souls ⸻ not yet , and somehow the bar is already reaching an all - time high. a den of deprivation , and she gets to sit there all pretty and eat her fill. ( it's incredible : how easy they make it to just ... gobble them up. ) it's enough of a distraction that she doesn't even realize she's hit the bottom of her glass until a body sidles up next to her , ordering her a new drink with a single motion. ❛ i guess i should say thank you. ❜ she doesn't , but the acknowledgement is still more than she bestows on most. grabbing for the last sour key on her skewer , the bite she takes of it is almost pensive , as is the look she turns on him. ❛ is there something you wanted ? cause let me tell you : there's not enough drinks in the world ⸻ i don't get drunk. ❜
. ﹠ — wihnchester ❪ john winchester .
(@mortalrot· // : 22﹕ sender finds receiver injured)
Time slips from him and he supposes this is what oblivion feels like. The black sky above him is starless and stares down at him lifelessly. The wind doesn’t touch the trees and he wonders if they are still reaching for something up above. The crickets have gone to sing to another dead man. His nose is broken and there’s an ugly molar he’s already spat out of his mouth. There’s cuts, scrapes, and a purposefully gaping gash to his stomach. As though wild dogs were searching for a fully belly and left hungrier than before. Saline and metal the only taste underneath his tongue and he groans as he attempts to roll to his side, dislocated shoulder following limply. The pain, however, is a welcome reprieve. Keeps those loud voices of the devils away from him. Keeps him from grinding down his teeth to dust and shouting until his esophagus chokes on his own blood. He’s not waiting for anyone simply because John Winchester doesn’t wait. He’s only outlining his grave with each moment he spends sinking into the dirt, a cough or two forming a cloud of dry clay up around his face. The body is broken, but the soul is on a burning pyre. A twitch in his fingers as he claws them into the ground, a grunt of frustration gagging out from his throat. The atmosphere shifts, there is a familiar sound of a roaring engine followed by the panicked pace of boots. His boy smells like musk and firewood, a scarecrow already prepared to be the one ignited by hellfire. He’d catch flames quickly too, happily. An eagerness for sainthood even while his own father is a goddamn sinner. ‘Dean.’ Spluttered out with a desperation that is blended with urgency. He didn’t need to see the face yet, knew what son it was by the way his breath curdled in the air - the inhale sharp and forced, the dying son and the buried father reunited once again. Deep red saliva leaking down his chin as he tries to talk again, control of the situation a far-off fantasy, but still alluring enough to try to grab at it. A wheezed out order even while head lolls to the side, lips meeting gravel. ‘You gotta get Sammy. Get out of town. It’s here. That fucking demon is here.’
𝚂𝙷𝙴𝙴𝚁 , 𝙳𝚄𝙼𝙱 𝙻𝚄𝙲𝙺 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙾𝙽𝙻𝚈 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙷𝙰𝚂 𝙷𝙸𝙼 𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳 ; the sight of a sleek black truck ringing all too familiar as his dad's new chosen ride. replacement is an ugly word for what he considers home , but he never quite manages to escape the curdling in his stomach when forced to acknowledge his dad's outgrowing of the impala ⸻ of him. he HATES the damn truck , but it still has him scanning the area around it for traces of his dad , for any sort of recognition from the darkened back alley.
the scene that greets him almost makes him wish he hadn't , the squeal from the brakes causing him to wince in apology to baby even as he's throwing himself out the door. ❛ DAD ⸻ ? ❜ a blood soaked broken body , and underneath the gore of it all : his father. he hits the ground hard enough to jolt hit knees , but the pain barely registers through the shock of panicpanicpanic. hands everywhere and nowhere all at once as he tried to prop his dad up without truly touching , out of fear of further hurting. ❛ dad we gotta ⸻ we gotta get you to a hospital. ❜ they've seen their fair share of hunts gone wrong , the blood of the father and the blood of the son , but this is worse , this is so much worse.
@kitsuhne : ❛ 19 , sender sits in receiver’s lap . ↳ ⸻ scott &. kira [ prompt ]
𝙸𝚃'𝚂 𝙿𝚁𝙴𝚃𝚃𝚈 𝙾𝙱𝚅𝙸𝙾𝚄𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙲𝙷 𝙲𝙰𝙽 𝙵𝙸𝚃 𝚃𝚆𝙾 : a clear memory of him , stiles , and both their parents sitting snug coming to mind. so there's no real reason for them to be sitting so close. ( thigh to thigh , a careful arm thrown over her shoulder to pull her even closer. ) she's halfway in his lap by the time they're ten minutes into the film , and the only thing he can concentrate on is how good she smells ⸻ how perfectly she fits tucked into his side. it's not a date , not really ... but isn't it ? ❛ i ... still don't really get all the hype. ❜ it's whispered softly , and out of refusal to admit that it probably has more to do with the fact that he's only half watching the screen.
@wihnchester : ❛ 52 , sender takes a [ punch / stab / bullet ] meant for receiver . ↳ ⸻ kate &. john [ prompt ]
𝙷𝙴'𝚂 𝙰 𝚂𝚃𝚄𝙿𝙸𝙳 𝚂𝙾𝙽𝚄𝚅𝙰 𝙱𝙸𝚃𝙲𝙷 , 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃'𝚂 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚂𝚄𝚁𝙴. stupid and chivalrous ⸻ and bleeding like a damn stuck pig from the hole in his arm. while the bullet itself had been a thankful through and through , it doesn't get past her , where the shot had originally been aimed. ( a skilful maneuver : with his arm where her head had been , pulling her out of harm's way , and his free hand already moving to hit bullseye on the return fire. ) it nearly causes her mouth to go dry , to reminisce on it for too long ; a rather fitting accompaniment to the sharp flutter of want it tugs forth. still : bleeding's only sexy until they skirt on the edge of losing too much blood , and so she focuses up on the wound itself. ❛ you know ... when i said chivalry's sweet ⸻ that wasn't a green light for you to eat a bullet for me , john. ❜
@thiehf : ❛ 27 , sender is caught wearing receiver's clothes . ↳ ⸻ noah &. bela [ prompt ]
𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚈𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙺𝚂 𝙱𝙴𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚈𝙻𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 , but nothing looks even half as good as the sight before his very eyes. stopping to lean up against the door frame , he's more than content to take the moment to simply observe. ( a flutter of white gauze over mile long legs , the silhouette of a curving waist that he knows would fit perfectly beneath his hands. ) the memories of chaos from the night before , from an event turned awry ⸻ they're thoughts that belong far , far away. ❛ think i might have to arrest myself if i ever ask for that shirt back , sweetheart. ❜ here in his kitchen , where nothing can touch them but the sun's morning glow , there's no denying just how right it feels , how much she already belongs. ( in his house , in his bed , in his arms ⸻ and the sudden realization has him almost desperate to close the distance between them. ) still : the fear of pressing any unwanted advances has him stopping just out of reach , bare chested and vulnerable where he left the choice to her. ❛ was worried you might've snuck out on me when i woke up alone. ❜
throwing a grenade and then immediately throwing myself on top of it to save everyone
i completely miss the grenade and everyone in the room dies including me
. ﹠ — wihnchester ❪ john winchester .
(@mortalrot· // : 34﹕ sender is found by receiver somewhere they shouldn’t be)
The days are passing too quickly. There’s something he’s forgetting, he’s sure of it. Realizes that emptiness inside of him each morning and reminds himself that he’ll eat something meatier eventually. Soon the belly will be fed and it’ll no longer be his compass. Except, the fields are scarce. No food grows here, no answers either - the brief taste of vengeance he had once held between his teeth is now almost dissipated. The gods are watching him and he feels it with each movement. The king slides across the board dressed as a pawn. Or is he a pawn? Introspective lid is rammed shut just as quickly as the drawer is to the sheriff’s desk. A few pens rattle upon the surface, but other than that it looks just as it was when he first arrived. Noah was a pleasant enough ghost to encounter, but there was still a path John was on. No matter what familiar tree trunk lurked in his way he must continue. Avoid the mirrors, avoid the wedding band aching around his finger, avoid the fucking truth. Lack of awareness on the office’s door comes to bite him, fingertips that were clacking on the computer’s keypad are paused mid-type. A guess in Noah’s password being correct. Predictable even after all these years - but fathers rarely change after all. Especially Noah’s father, and his father’s father. Especially not after seeing the war. Not after seeing how sharply the face can morph into something bestial. There is a pattern in everything, from the way the hunter tells the son to clean a bullet meant for retribution to the way the doe stood still in the meadow while Dean aimed for her on his first outing. A clearing of his throat while he nods his head in greeting, not necessarily moving from the screen, but certainly allowing a grim smile to slip along his lips. ‘Well, you sure ain’t Sheriff Stilinski. Much easier on the eyes.’
𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰𝙽𝚈 𝚂𝙾𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙵 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝚁𝙸𝙶𝚄𝙴 𝙾𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙸𝚁 𝚃𝚁𝙰𝚅𝙴𝙻𝚂 is to be considered as a rare blessing. after all : with eons of a lifetime lived and lived and lived again , what could possibly rouse interest within a being that's seen it all ? ( a mere man , a mortal man , and it has her chasing a trail of hunger like a dog with a bone. ) red strings of fate like a spiderweb , and famine continues to spin and spin and spin. the man tastes of deceit , of rage like a hurricane. trailing in his footsteps , leading her like a beacon ⸻ she steps into one such ' sheriff's office ' unplanned and unassuming. curiosity like a new flavour on her tongue , in the tilt of her head. ❛ you're not him , either. ❜ the statement holds no accusations , and instead comes out blasé. she's seen the sheriff , stinking of grief and lustful guilt , and he's nowhere near as appetizing as the man before her. ❛ you're not supposed to be here , are you ? ❜
. ﹠ — jackrippner ❪ jack rippner .
@mortalrot· asked : 39﹕ sender is caught following receiver . ( for famine !! )
the irony doesn’t escape him : to spend so long in a fox’s hole only to suddenly find yourself slipping into the role of rabbit through another’s eye —- it’s fascinating , how easily perceptions can be twisted . he first notices the shadow stretching itself thing behind the trail of his heel , somewhere near a vacant alleyway that had long been forgotten by god . streetlights flicker as he continues , foreboading danger , and the skies above promise no salvation , starless and painted black . what did it want? why this sudden coy demeanor? it feels awfully inadequate , to stand behind the other side of the fence , for once .
jack is there one moment , and the next he disappears behind a corner , taking a sharp turn . he settles himself against an ancient brick wall , crumbling to touch ; dusting off the specks of dry cement that pepper down his expensive blaze while waiting for the inevitable . “ i’m flattered , really , ” gloved fingers wave cartoonishly as she emerges , dimly lit and veiled in a mysterious aura . he accesses her from that same spot , without moving an inch . “ —- but you could’ve just said hello . ”
𝙷𝙴 𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙲𝙷𝙴𝚂 𝙾𝙽𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚂𝙴 𝙼𝚄𝙲𝙷 𝙵𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝙽 𝙴𝚇𝙿𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳. not the fastest , as so few could , but enough that it gives way for a momentary pause. he's like a little box of mysteries , wrapped up just for her ! and each new layer she peels back reveals further points of fascination ⸻ another piece of a puzzle she can't quite seem to solve. she's never been so pulled to anything like him in all her lifetimes , and the novelty alone is what keeps her from swallowing him whole. ❛ do you say hello to all your meals first ? ❜ flashing a smile full of perfect , pearly whites , her hands remain demurely clasped at the front of her body throughout the entire approach. while ' suck up his soul and be done with it ' might've been the usual plan of action , where was the pleasure in eating a fruit so unripe ? ❛ i thought it was rude to play with your food. ❜
. ﹠ — wihnchester ❪ john winchester .
[…]
Remember: lust doesn’t bring anyone back from the dead and there are certain women that were meant for graves. Maybe Mary was one of them. Maybe Mary isn’t watching through the window and wondering how a ghost is ever meant to find a body again. This sin will be swallowed and digested like the rest of them. He will safeguard it until his very end of this mortal life. Nothing more to do about it, nothing more to say about it. It’s been decades and he still feels that slight shiver of her company. A sickness that swells inside of him with the self-destructive desires one would nurse after the lifetime of war. War, continued war, retired war, delayed war. There is always an enemy around him and he supposes that more often than not it winds up to be his own goddamn soul. He suffocates those thoughts and enjoys the feeling of naked thighs straddling his clothed waist, tongue sliding along his bottom lip as if he could still taste her from the night before. He savours the faint richness in his mouth causing his saliva to over-produce as he brings fingers to grip into a fleshy dip of her waist. Another hand reaches around and pulls her down to him while lingering further down to knead a cheek of her ass. Face in the canopy of her dark hair while mouth slips into the usual smug form of a man who knew how to get her from this domineering empress to a quivering and wet over-indulger. ‘Y’like chivalry, sweetheart?’ Muttered out with a husky voice, gaze awash with something in between biblical reverence and hunger. Fingers on her cheek now dig in and spread her lightly in a show of soft arrogance before slipping them between both cheeks just to feel her warmth. His jeans feel too constricting now, but he refuses to show any ounce of weakening willpower. Not yet, at least. A low grunt as he shifts his neck on the pillow to a more comfortable position, voice teased out with a slacked half-smile. ‘Well, goddamn[…]what can I do for you this morning? You don’t feel like you need any sorta’ wake up call.’
𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚂𝙸𝙶𝙽𝚂 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙰 𝚂𝙸𝚁𝙴𝙽 𝚂𝙾𝙽𝙶 𝙱𝙴𝙲𝙺𝙾𝙽 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙾𝚁𝚃𝙷 , and all they ask of her is this : will she be the one to lead astray , or is she trapped already ⸻ unbeknownst in her own bewitchment ? with her eyes tracking the movement of his tongue slicking lips , she thinks she knows , and the answer tilts dangerously into uncharted waters. ❛ chivalry's sweet and all ⸻ ❜ but an unwitting gasp is what interrupts her words ; his prying fingers a welcome interruption. brazen of him as it may be : it only serves to stoke the embers at the core of her , furthering the urge to rock back onto the stretch of them ; to fall right back into his oh — so skilful hands. ( greedy in their grasp of her , telling in the way he pulls her close. )
❛ but this is ... so much more fun. ❜ with a gentle swivel of her hips to further emphasize the slow and sticky words , her smile turned all too pleased at the ever growing swell to be found beneath her. ( play at restrained all he liked , but the body just couldn't lie. ) brutal in its honesty , but encouraging where she started up a steady rocking of figure eights against him. ❛ looks like i'm not the only one who's waking up , john. ❜ arching into the fit of him , filling all the spaces between hands and hardness , her own fingers were insistent wherever they touched. trailing up his jawline , running through hair ; a slow tease of her thumb at his bottom lip turned into a weight at his throat. offering ⸻ challenging. ❛ think you can keep up for another round , handsome ? ❜
. ﹠ — wihnchester ❪ john winchester .
[…]
The demon hadn’t left his mind and he supposes it would have something to do with how his bones were welded together. How there didn’t seem to be any lack of obsession within the pink tissue and thick white of his marrow. There is nothing he does half-heartedly. No area of the world that he’d walk upon without first digging up his old skeleton and fitting it back along his limbs like armour. He nurtures this rage inside of him like a seed. He may water it daily with paranoia, but he keeps it from the sunlight. Keeps all warmth away from it as it grows into something ugly and utterly inhuman. Maybe he was monstrous in his greed, maybe there is something deeply unholy in the dedication he gives to this sweetened vengeance of finality. Was there any redirecting this man? Was there any way to set his feet back into the soft mud of summer and let him guide himself back to the river? Of course not. The sons tried. Those boys with their faces to the sky asking him if it feels like it’s about to rain. Those boys that are in the field and feel the blood underneath the ground and still refuse to believe the devil is coming for them. They’re still too innocent. Too unbled. John, however, is old. Ancient. A boar that rambles along all forests of the earth, desperate to get a scent of fresh grassland, but winding up empty-handed and sacrificial. He feels even dizzier here. The night air is sucked from his lungs, the cicadas have stopped chirping, the moon is half-shaded. The nickname spurs a memory from his stomach. The hunger remembers what gods fed it. The hunger remembers what the demon smells like before it feasts. Mouth a flat line, jaw clenching irregularly now - anger swells up in his throat like lava. An acidic spit on his tongue is burning him, but there’s only a twitch underneath one eye of his to reveal anything happening beneath the cold exterior. A drag of a breath that seems to last minutes before any response manages to be growled out from between gritted teeth, ‘You know,’ A heavy pause breeding carefulness in composure as shoulders roll back and spine tightens up. ‘[…]there’s not many assholes who call me that. Just the one. Always hated it.’ His eyes dropped to the ground now as he absently speaks only to keep the fixation off his inner thoughts, still keeping the form of the other in his vague vision. The gravel stares back expecting him to find an answer on his own, or at least find some way that his blood won’t be pooling down around him by the time the night is through. The colt remains in his truck, tucked up under a seat in a makeshift safe. Tongue presses hard against the inside of his cheek as eyes snap back up to the other’s. Rather than the cold fear that another hunter might bite into before a reunion like this, there was instead only boiling heat coming from his chest. A rage that taunted, strung him along to keep glare steady on his demon that now stands close enough to push his fist in its mocking face. He figured as long as the demon was here it would take all attention off his sons. Logic fading into the background as his pulse thunders through to grab all his attention, all his focus. John takes one booted step forward, a heavy footed shuffle just as a reminder that he is god himself, and there have always been smaller things to die for. The mortal orders the forked tongue messenger of the devil with a matched mock, head bowing as the stare deepens with an ending note of a challenge. ‘I said to try harder, didn’t I?’
𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴'𝚂 𝙰 𝙱𝙴𝙰𝚄𝚃𝚈 𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙸𝙽𝙴𝚅𝙸𝚃𝙰𝙱𝙻𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙼𝙰𝙽𝚈 𝙲𝙰𝙽 𝙰𝙿𝙿𝚁𝙴𝙲𝙸𝙰𝚃𝙴. falling forlorn to fate , playing right into the hands of destiny. mankind especially tends to sink into their sorrows , with eventual acceptance as their only reward ⸻ cold and comfortless though it may be. ( to hear : ' no matter what you do , you will always end up here. ' ) while a horrifying decree to many , for an agent of assured ruination such as he , no sweeter words would ever be spoken. not when he himself laid down the groundwork that would set such grand plans in motion. over a millennium of lying in wait , but here they finally stood , their predestined two. his righteous man with the impossible odds , and his damnation that called forth for their chosen offering.
❛ what'cha gettin at , johnny boy ? ❜ like a calling card , like god given commandment. watching the other watch him , the knowledge of drawing ever closer to collision sat cozy in his chest. ( and why not give away to revelation ? why not dangle the carrot further down ? ) here he stood with the utter assurance of plans that could not be led astray , and was it not time for him to have a bit of fun ? taking in the radiating anger , the furious heat ⸻ the desires to follow were purely animal in their longing. ( to sink teeth , to taste blood. ) a flicker of his tongue over his lips , and he made certain to keep their eyes level as they slow seeped to yellow yellow yellow. ❛ boo. ❜ allowing for the moment's pause , for the dramatic revelation to sink into his bones , it's barely a breath between the next before he has their positions flipped. not a hand upon him , and yet with all the powers of hell , and john winchester was well and truly pinned. ❛ ya caught me , john , ya caught me ! you're just gonna wish you didn't. ❜
. ﹠ — kohlm ❪ kol mikaelson .
[…]
The gods were cruel when they placed him in the mother’s womb and told him to drown. This is where he learned how teeth feel when they are the first thing that grows on the body. How they rip through the gums and demand themselves to be used. It is only natural to think of them first in the mornings. To run his tongue along the sharpness of his canines, to draw blood thick and black as it drips from his mouth. Pain is father and grandfather to him. Rituals of suffering are only the ancestors reminding him that while his heart is cold and dead in his chest, he still has an appetite to quench. He still has a sword to sharpen. He still has a deceptive tongue to curl around pretty words as they utter feigned gratitude. ‘So fearless in your obedience[…]call me simply transfixed.’ The compliment will irk her, as it would any sane person with a considerable amount of dignity. He is only speaking aloud the truth that she’d be willing to ignore. The weight of her acceptance of submission is merely his palm on her shoulder, grip loosening only at the presence of fresh air and brief reprieve of the ache inside of him. Hand fully dropped as he looms over her, height stretching tall and harrowing for any scattered prey in his eyesight. He doesn’t seem to have any desire to acknowledge the gun, and why would he? How many bullets would she be able to send into his flesh before it replenishes the lost tissue? How many times would she be able to pull the trigger before his nails dig into her body and dig out what a human values most? The fox has lured the hen out of the coop without any proper idea forming in his face with what to do with it. Dress shoes step carefully towards her, soles sinking into the gravel as though his weight itself was heavier than any old tree. A head tilt as his jaw cracks only slightly to reveal a wide smile, ‘I always favoured brunettes, if I’m to be honest. It’s a Mikaelson curse, I suppose. They do seem to bring the most trouble.’
𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙿𝙿𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙲𝙾𝙾𝙻 𝙽𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙰𝙸𝚁 𝙳𝙾𝙴𝚂 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚁𝙴𝙻𝙸𝙴𝙵. how could it , when she does so accompanied by a creature born of its own darkness ? with surety in every movement she tracks , and a weight to him , down to his very stare , this is not a fight she plans on winning ⸻ let alone one she plans on starting , in the first place. ❛ you want brunettes ? i'll bring you brunettes , tough guy , as many as your heart desires. ❜ her voice is surprisingly steady for someone bargaining to save their own life , movements assured in re - tucking her gun. she's in over her head , has been , from the moment she caught his eye , and now the smartest plan of action is to fall back onto her words.
❛ wouldn't you prefer to eat your fill ? all i'll be doing is whetting your appetite ⸻ hardly satisfactory. ❜ tipping her head back enough to meet his stare , her smile remains pleasant in the face of death ; handsome and overbearing as he may be. while the name mikaelson sparks recognition in her mind , her knowledge of them remains pitifully small from a mere lack of interest. ❛ oh , but you look like the type to enjoy some trouble , trouble. and not just the kind you can eat. ❜
. ﹠ — jackrippner ❪ jack rippner .
those are hands that ache for a pale throat to squeeze , long , thin , and impossibly smooth — the untrained eye would never deem it capable of such vile inclinations . they’re kind of hands that could easily mold itself into the shape of your jaw , covetous and greedy , filling and empting you all at once ; the kind of hands that bear no understanding of mercy , that’d dig its claws into your soft , tender flesh and take without ever giving back . he smiles , and something primal and insidious scratches just below the surface — momentarily placated , but never quite dormant . what would it not devour without rowena’s tight leash around its neck?
he’s not done toying with her hair when she turns — appearing like a ghost summoned by sheer will before him , or something worse – and his dark brows instinctively descend in a crease of perpetual disappointment , like a wounded child that had its candy unexplicably taken away . he looks into the flames of this complicated pleasure , slipping through the cracks unscattered , and the color that dwells in the strange glimmer of her eyes is that of a green-eyed monster , green like bottle flies that feast on corpses on empty roads that lead nowhere , and dead things , oozing and gently rotting away . she stands apart from everything he’s ever seen — those hungry eyes so eager , and uptilted nose , she was even prettier than he remembers . he pauses for a moment , to watch her within the safety of his confinements , but cruelty always finds its back back into mouth . “ hmm … but your hands have been so very busy , i hear . ” sharp eyes swivel to latch onto part of her mouth , gravitating towards her unearthly pull that keeps him bound . there is something undeniably cruel about his face just then : how it smooths itself over its bony canvas , sweet and pale as cream . “ i’d hate to burden them any further . ” velvety vocals smooth over carefully selected words , tempting her fury ; each syllabe drags itself across his tongue , sticky - sweet and lethargic , as if it’d doused in syrup . he holds the conversation hostage in this willing silence , allowing for it to linger as a subtle tormentor , if for nothing else , to savor her wrath . “ don’t be upset … would it comfort you to know it was not here all along ? ” nothing would to serve as comfort other than grasping that book in her hands , still he asks , and it almost sounds like a provokation . “ admittedly , it needed some incentive to reach you in this sad little town , —- which i was happy to provide . of course . "
𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴'𝚂 𝙰 𝙲𝙰𝙻𝙲𝚄𝙻𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙴𝙳𝙶𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙰𝚈 𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙰𝚃𝙲𝙷𝙴𝚂 𝙷𝙸𝙼 ; a twinkle to her eyes that promises upon him a reckoning for the presumptuous attitude. ( a part of her dares him to push , but a greater part of her ? knows he wants to. ) kneeling before her , he's just as much the image of physical perfection as he was the day he met her. cut from marble , beautiful ⸻ it equal parts pleases her , as much as it does peeve her. ❛ it's true , i've been awfully overworked. ❜ a mask of hardworking sincerity sits pretty on her features , lips pouting in self - pity as she brought forth a hand to examine. ( perfectly manicured , painted red. they're baby soft in a way that speaks of nonexistent labouring ⸻ or flawless spellwork. )
❛ and here i thought having you , was meant to free me of all my burdens , jack. ❜ same hand reaching out to cup his cheek , her voice is full with soft disappointment ; her eyes the only thing to betray her the true fervency of her situation. while there's hardly - a - many tangible things that she wants for with such frenzy , the amount of things that are able to elude her stack up to even less. the grimoire is an outlier , an exception , and she despises it with an ever growing , ever simmering rage. ❛ darling , ❜ rising up until she's properly seated and wrapped in her sheets , she dismisses the masseuse , still suspended in motion , with a flick of her fingers and murmur of latin. by the looks of the blood that continued to flow from the corners of their eyes , they wouldn't make it so as far as the next room over , but her own attentions were already turned back to far more important things. ❛ you're going to tell me everything. ❜
. ﹠ — harvehlle ❪ jo harvelle .
[…]
So the dead man offers up companionship for the walk to the gallows. This is something Jo would accept without question. Even a small journey with him such as the waltz to her death would be treasured for eternity. This is naive of her, of course, and entirely childish in fantasy. The heart cannot be a heart for her. It beats irregularly, belongs to another ugly god - it belongs to another hungry fate. Nonetheless, the faithful will fall in line for whatever small sliver of meat the worshiped will give her. Every piece of cruelty will be swallowed down with a smile, although sometimes the occasional stubborn mind will interrupt the process of heavenly suffering. Like now with the coldness of logic washing over her. Of course she wasn’t prepared to hunt down whatever lurked in the darkest corners of this town, but her pride kept her spine sturdy. Except now she isn’t turning back to the door. There is no desire for escape, but isn’t that how it always is before one drowns completely? Pulled under dark waters with a listless expression and a song about unrequited romance playing in the background through muffled eardrums? A huff of an exhale, shoulders rolling back to appear taller to him - desperate to be viewed as anything but a straw-stuff scarecrow waiting for the other haunted crows to come. ‘Really? You and my mom think of that speech together, or are y’just reading off the back of a goddamn ’how to be an overprotective dick’ book y’got lying around over there?’ A sting of more redness as it clusters her cheeks, but this time it’s not from the curve of his throat or the way he touches her with an unexpected fragility. This time it was birthed in a darker place, one made for daughters who would never be good enough for legacies - one made for lovers who are unseen and unheard. A sensation of being shrunk down to barely being two feet tall has her skin crawling and there’s a wave of shame heating her soul from the inside out. She avoids the double-meaning of her next words. Ignores how they slide from her throat like something forbidden and normally tucked away from the sunlight. ‘I thought you of all people saw my potential.’
𝙷𝙴 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆𝚂 𝙱𝙴𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝙽 𝙰𝙽𝚈𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙽𝙴𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙾 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝚅𝙴 𝙾𝙽𝙴'𝚂 𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙵. to unsatisfied gods , to disappointed fathers. there's now a familiar echo in the room with them , and it reminds him of his own young shoulders , once smaller and weaker ⸻ just begging to be seen. ( then again , the last time he'd been as inexperienced as jo , he'd been eight fucking years old. ) they're not memories he wants to remember , neither a sight he wants to see , and a part of him grows desperate with the need to be rid of it. ❛ so your mom tellin' you the first time didn't clue you in why ? ❜ going for the bottle of scotch at his bedside , he ignores the pull at his injuries , and the pitiful sight she makes at his doorway in favour of a large mouthful. equal parts burning as it is soothing , liquid courage urges him to form his next words to be somewhat understanding , if not explanatory , at the very least.
❛ you seriously tryna' blame her for wantin' to keep you safe ? ❜ sitting back at the table , he used a foot to scoot the second chair back in a silent invitation for her to do the same. while a part of him wants to be done with the whole exchange , there's a creeping fear that she'll run out and toss herself headlong into the first hunt she finds. ( it's what he would do , after all. ) ❛ having potential doesn't mean you should chase it , jo. ❜ picking at the label of his bottle , his tongue feels all too heavy with dismay , his features twisted into an expression of exasperation. ❛ all the shit you could do in the world , and this is what you're tryna do ? seriously ? if you're that desperate to prove yourself ⸻ go to college , actually make somethin' of yourself. ❜
