“I hate the term ‘an eye for an eye’. If you take my eye, let it be known that I’ll take both your eyes and your dominant arm”
submitted by anonymous
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@occidentally
“I hate the term ‘an eye for an eye’. If you take my eye, let it be known that I’ll take both your eyes and your dominant arm”
submitted by anonymous
SHIPPING INFO // answer the following for your muse(s) so people know how shipping works on your blog. REPOST. don’t reblog.
WHAT’S YOUR OTP FOR YOUR MUSE?: Jesse is a tough one because while she loves deeply, she keeps a distance between herself and everyone ( especially after the death of her immediate family ). My absolute favorite plotted pairings are with @adellaenchanted, @aureasadrisit & the weird platonic/romantic relationship she has with @bodythieved
WHAT ARE YOU WILLING TO RP WHEN IT COMES TO SHIPPING?: While I tend not to write smut with Jesse ( vampires and sex is a weird thing ) there is a constant sexual edge to her feeding that is downright disturbing, much more than average smut. So let’s say I’m comfortable with a lot.
HOW LARGE DOES THE AGE GAP HAVE TO BE TO MAKE IT UNCOMFORTABLE?: Okay, being vampires messes up this entire concept. Armand looks 17 but is 100s of years old, so my discomfort isn’t with age but mental maturity/capacity to choose. Any sort of dubcon or taking advantage of vulnerable or impressionable people makes me uncomfortable. I will say any ship with someone 40+ with some one >20 will make me squint really hard, but with plotting and careful consideration to timing and consent it can be done respectfully.
ARE YOU SELECTIVE WHEN SHIPPING?: Definitely. Jesse is hard to play off people, especially depending on time period. She is charming ( ish ) and can play the flirt, but she wants a wide berth between her and other people, save a select few. So I tend to look first at who she plays off of, and then who I’ve spoken with enough to feel comfortable. She’s a dark character, from a dark world. She may not be as blood hungry as the others around her, but she is still a vicious predator who finds pain amusing, and is very casual with death and suffering. Not everyone is up for that.
HOW FAR DO STEAMY MOMENTS HAVE TO GO BEFORE THEY’RE CONSIDERED NS.FW?: The second the clothes come off it’s time to slam down the nsfw
WHO ARE OTHER MUSES YOU SHIP YOUR MUSE WITH?:DOES ONE HAVE TO ASK TO SHIP WITH YOU?:
I only have two ‘ships’, one with adella and one with maxima, but Jesse has almost-ship relationships with several members of the ‘family’. the one that most strongly comes to mind is @faceofabotticelliangel, where the two can blur the line at several points. Vampire life yo.
At some point we will definitely have to talk about it. I don’t like to assume ever, and I can be a bit of a potato with subtlety. Usually I’m the one to approach, just because I really need to have consent to push forward and make sure that we’re both into it.
HOW OFTEN DO YOU LIKE TO SHIP?:
I like to have a handful of ships, 2-4 depending on character.
ARE YOU SHIP OBSESSED OR SHIP MORE-OR-LESS?:
hard to ship with, but ship obsessed when we get there. I don’t flood people with ship stuff, just because I don’t want to overwhelm and I have no idea how much is too much, but I definitely think about all my ships a lot, and like to be close to my ship partners.
ARE YOU MULTISHIP?:
yep!
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SHIP IN YOUR CURRENT FANDOM?: daniel/armand, david/happiness. TVC is full of really questionable ships, but these two are my little bastions of light in the mountain of bad choices. Also Jesse/people she loves not being dead.
FINALLY, HOW DOES ONE SHIP WITH YOU?:
talk to meeee. if we’ve written together/spoken, we’ve definitely got something started. I love creating stories with other people ( not just ships ) and this is the number one way to really push our muses toward an arc, ya gotta talk to me yo!
tagged by: @adellaenchanted & @aureasadrisit ( my girlfriends hookin me up )
tagging: YOU
vikanderalicia:
[On the controversy surrounding her ‘tiny Cinderella waist’] “On the one hand it’s upsetting, on the other hand it’s just boring because it’s - you know why do women always get pointed at for their bodies? And why is this whole thing happening and I’m constantly having to justify myself? International Womens Day has just gone and it just feels a bit sad that it’s still happening. You know I’m very healthy and I always have been.”
Reblog if you play a muse older than 30 years old.
immundiitiam:
immundiitiam:
nightvalerph:
I want to make a masterlist of muses of all and any fandoms and OCs who are 30 and up in their main verse*.
Please, reblog this post with the name of your character, their age and your fandom in the tags if you want to be added to the masterlist!
* For gods, immortals and other supernatural creatures that don’t age, your FC must be older than 30!
philosophy-pop:
Pop Philosophy: one post everyday, open to discussion
It’s a bunch of sad strangers photographed beautifully. And all the glittering assholes who appreciate art say it’s beautiful ‘cause that’s what they want to see.
firstbrood:
We - the very first children - had come to be called merely the FIRST BROOD who had spawned the rebels; but the Legend of the Twins was forgotten; and no one knew the names Mekare or Maharet.
independent and highly selective maharet and mekare of anne rice lore. canon divergent as fuuuuuck.
sublimetunes:
Stars Align - Lindsey Stirling
faceofabotticelliangel:
JESSE STOP EXPOSING US YOU’RE UPSETTING THE GINGER SQUAD @occidentally
exposing us is essentially my job! you’re looks, mamaret is the adult, and i bring the realness.
indigochildblackjaguar:
Party with your mind.
causeimadick:
@icxnholdon @incrediblyvexing (also, this would SO be Vex and Damon too. LOL)
adellaenchanted:
adellaenchanted:
her eyes were pearls, which gave her great beauty, but meant she was blind. her world was the color of pearls: pale white and pink, and softly glowing . . ☾ ⟡ ☾ . independent adella triton from disney’s the little mermaid ⟡ canon divergent ⟡ art credit ⟡ written by aqssa .
adella:
No, there isn’t any reason at all to be a horrendous bitch. Not today, when a morning runs this beautifully. A flawless macchiato? Waking up to the virtual chirp of alarm-clock iPhone alarms instead of the whining of her almost-dead cat? You’d think these sort of happy things put a person in a good mood, but what Adella does at this very moment proves that she can’t possibly be human. Not a good one, anyway.
Seeing a fashion-and-thus-god-less woman skid through the halls, she feels immediate insult, and by the deep furrowing of her brow, and her pert nose and chin lifting cartoonishly haughty, she makes it apparent. Where does a girl like her belong? She knows. She knows that that girl belongs loitering about the more artsy neighborhoods of the city, trying to revive a love for boomboxes and asking passerby’s if they knew that the apocalypse was tomorrow night, and that it was never too late to accept Kurt Cobain and their true Lord and Savior.
So what does she do? How does one channel this unwarranted, unfeeling, nasty hate in the most efficient way possible? Adella presses fast at the elevator button, of course, about a hundred times. And just before the doors close, she wiggles her one hundred and ten dollar manicured fingers at the girl, sure to keep her smile extra nefarious.
JESSE SPOTS THE ELEVATOR as she comes to the start of the long hall at a slow jog. She sees it open, and a girl with way too much time and money step inside. The red head continues her casual pace, taking a moment to catch her breath. That is until the girl turns, and hits the button once, then twice, then -. Jesse’s face screws up in an instant, first shock, followed by anger. “ Why you little ! ” She takes off at the gilded elevator at a run, no longer caring about the black tread marks she’s leaving as her shoes screech against the floor with every step of her long thin legs.
You ever see those movies where the running goes into slow motion, and the action hero jumps and you know he isn’t going to make it ? This is one of those moments. Staring down the girl in the elevator as she waves her glittering little nails, a smile that could curdle milk on her pretty pink lips. And Jesse putting every bit of strength she can without giving herself away into each squeaking step. “ Don’t you dare you - ”
DING
The elevator slides shut as her fists hit it, “ little bitch! ” it comes out as a quiet roar as the vampire Jesse Reeves looks around. No way is she getting played by some self important chick in a skirt. Oh, hell no. Flashing eyes catch sight of a small sign - stairwell access. She takes off at a bolting run, a blur as she taps into the powers of her dead blood and flies up the stairs. Her ears perk, listening for the sound of it slowing, listening for the sound of the girl’s vicious little heart beat ( if she even has a heart - which the jury was currently out on ), and for that damn mocking DING, as she chases the elevator upwards.
Finally she hears it, the squeaking grind of the slow as she shoulder checks the door and jumps her way to the pretty front of the sliding doors. Green eyes flash in the fluorescent overhead as she watches the door open and catches sight of the pretty little asshole who decided to slam the door in her face.
“ Didn’t ANYONE ever teach you that it’s RUDE not to hold the elevator? ”
Jesse;
“ Hey -” she says, voice quieter than she could remember it being, RAW with disuse. How long has it been, since she last bothered to speak? They didn’t need to, not in the classic sense, their minds used to each other from a time before the long endless black that is their world now.
It is always strange to see him, a little shock she may never become use to. He is reading but he should be wearing glasses shouldn’t he? Of course he doesn’t need them now, his body younger than hers, taller, stronger, filled with immortality to bursting from Lestat. His fingers don’t tremor when he lifts his tea, so gracefully with that old British familiarity - even as her mind imprints every moment it should slightly shake against the saucer. He doesn’t look up from the book, doesn’t need to, turning the pages with a soft fondness. Is it Faust again?
She doesn’t care to look at the binding, and even if she could pull from his mind what it was ( which she could not, despite her power his mind was a locked box with no key ), she wouldn’t. She didn’t want to know. Jesse, who has to know everything about everything, who could not tolerate secrets, DIDN’T CARE.
The red haired girl ( who is a woman, older than him, it still takes her by surprise every time, how could she be older than those old eyes ) moves to his side and sits close enough on the pristine white of the couch their shoulders brush in this beautiful little townhouse that is HIS. She doesn’t have things anymore, even the room he so graciously let her remain in is full of the imprint of David, the ex-Commander General of the TALAMASCA. Did she ever keep things of her own? Isn’t every place she ever stayed owned by some one else, some other vampire, or Maharet, or the Talamasca, and her? The happy little WANDERER with so little weight it is a miracle she didn’t float.
She leans closer, the cushion of curls so like as her Mother, her MAKER between them as she stares at the perfect art on the far wall, with it’s perfect mantle, with perfect knickknacks so carefully curated like his entire home is. If he only he could be the old fatherly figure again, or perhaps if she could only be younger, she would have crawled into his lap like a child would. Instead she allows this poor facsimile of intimacy.
“ It’s so QUIET.” She can hear the edges in her own voice, raw, and jarred like the edges of a WOUND. Red swims in her vision, but she forces it to not spill, to not run down her cheeks in it’s translucent pinky tones. Between Armand and Lestat she has had quite enough of tears for several more decades. Her hand slips across the hand on the bind of the book, like a glove but one that’s too small. His hands weren’t so big when he gave her tea back in the Motherhouse was it? It is like there is two people within him at all times, the old man imposed atop the younger. How long has it been? Which one is REAL anymore?
“ Talk to me about something, anything, it’s too quiet, David.” Her hand stiffens against him before she forces it to relax, “ PLEASE.”
|| @bodythieved / david ||
He knows she is here. He knows, without looking, and his eyes absorb words he does not read. David has ever been the adventurer at heart; ever the one to seek answers to questions most would not think to ask. He has seen his mysteries, he has born witness to ghosts and faced them without fear. But the one who haunts this room unsettles him most of all.
The white flesh of her skin turns pearlescent in the half-light; he has long since forgone the mortal dependence on illumination as he takes to his Kierkegaard or Zhu Xi or Proust. She moves like a corpse through turgid water, impossibly light upon the old boards, impossibly light as the weight of her indents only the gentlest curves in his perfect ivory settee. She might not have been here at all. And there was nothing, now, which seemed ALIVE in Jesse Reeves.
He was still a dying man when she breathed her last. He knows of the first great gathering in the Sonoma Compound mainly through that penned narrative, the first true chronicle of them all. The first assembly of the Coven of the Articulate. He cannot know. He was not there. But he has since glimpsed moments through the eyes of the ancients. Mere mortal heartbeats of time, witnessed through dark tunnels of millennial minds, all those who acquiesced to share with him the memories of the primitive tapestry in the hall, the shadows of the ancient redwood grove beyond the bank of modern glass. And above all else, Jesse. How like Maharet she was, pink seashell lips softened by the veil of tumbling red. How young; but she was a WOMAN, really. Older, still than even her great Mother had been when Mekare took her twin into the darkness.
A woman, yes, and so different even in the terror of that time than the in the shadow, now, of her grief. David, too, mourns them. But he will not know Jesse’s suffering. He will not pry into the eggshell fragility of her mind. He couldn’t possibly.
( But he worries. As he always has. )
He does not tremble as her hand, cool, so surprisingly delicate ( - has she always had such fine bones? she had always seemed so solid, but for those fragrant nights in the old French Quarter, chased by a terror of the Girl who was Not ) brushes across his own. She will find it warm, he knows, and soft to the touch despite the vivacity of the Brat Prince’s blood in him. He keeps himself well-fed, his skin smooth and flushed and brown beneath hers. The difference is more pronounced than it ever was. But his care has never changed.
“Hello, Jessica,” a gentle murmur, rolling in a rich and resonant timbre, clipped only by the same moderate cadence and measured accent he always had. His smile, teeth flashing so white in the semidarkness, is tender.
How young he looks, not even quite a man in his prime. But his hand slides free to close around hers, and the pages fan, collapsed, on his lap. He reaches with his open arm to thumb the curve of her cheek, twists to press a velvet kiss upon her brow. Black curls swim before his vision. He leans back. The grip of his hand is firm, sure. It is a crutch for him, a comfort, as much as he hopes it might be for her. And above anything else, he fears being weak before her. He will not be sickened, will not be made frail by loss.
“ ‘ The bramble sent to the pomegranate tree saying, ‘What good is the multitude of thy thorns to him that toucheth thy fruit?’ The pomegranate tree answered and said to the bramble, 'Thou art all thorns to him that toucheth thee.’ ”
He falls quiet, still as stone but for the slow pulse of his preternatural, stolen heart. A twitch pulls the creases of his lips.
“ How long has it been since we last talked of the Wisdom literature? Judges, I believe. Like so much of that ennobled text, the redactors pulled from the fables and stories of the world they knew. Exegesis always led me to wonder. So much genuine awe for a nonbeliever, really. ” His eyes turn down on her, bright and kind and alert as they had ever been. “ Was it known they recited the words of Ahiqar in their grand new scrolls? Or was it merely the mysticism of their time - so ingrained in human consciousness there was no true beginning of the Wisdom to them?”
His smile dims, but does not fade. It is regretfully acknowledging. “I never really knew.”
‘ I’ll have no wings that take me away from you. ’
the vampire armand starters
“never.” turned soft for only but a few —- she was most vulnerable for her jesse. daughter of heart, daughter of mind, daughter of blood. their cursed existence was defined by the depth of that which they felt. the despair and stunning loneliness. the rage. the hopelessness. but it was the love that was most lethal. the one thing to render even the most powerful of their brood to a simple, inexplicable nothingness. “you are the thing i hold most dear. i still regret ever attempting to turn you away from me.” a finger draws across the smooth pallor of jessica’s cheek, fondness twisting her unchanging face to something almost human. “any devil that would dare to steal you from me would meet a swift and utter death. we are family, eternally.”