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[text] Could you be anymore dramatic?
@yidhra-thedreamwitch || Send my muse one of the following texts
[text; morphe-yes] I mean, probably, if I put my mind to it.[text; morphe-yes] not my fault you sent me some bullshit fucking dreams[text; morphe-yes] what did you call that last one...‘Fuck you Johnny’?[text; morphe-yes] and you wonder why I’m so bloody mad
@yidhra-thedreamwitch || continued from (X) She rolled her eyes, “As if you couldn’t talk her into selling you her own skin and make her think it was her idea all along.”
Yidhra glanced at the corpse, and resisted the urge to nudge it over with her foot. “And if you don’thave a spell or concoction to dispose of the body and get rid of the stains, then Fear has equivalently been occupying the fairy daydreams of young children this whole time.”
She flicked her claws, letting the blood splatter onto the body until they stopped dripping. “You don’t seem particularly surprised about this scenario. Were you expecting to walk into the tail end of a murder?”
Johnny shrugs with a flat expression. “Maybe not from you, but I’ve been away for a long time, and you learn to get comfortable with all kinds of unpleasantness down there. ‘Course, the owner, not so much.” He growls softly, frustrated at the mess. “I’ve got a tarp. I’ll go get it, and you can do the honours.”
He doesn’t know if she will, but Hell, it’s worth a try. He stumps off into the back and brings it back, laying it down with kicks of his feet to spread it.
“He had it coming.”
“Yeah, I’m sure I can tell that to the bloody landlady, then. Who really cares, after all, it’s just my fuckin’ lease, right?”
DREAM ||slightly nsfw
@yidhra-thedreamwitch submitted:
The smell of stale cigarettes and bad beer is almost foul enough to curdle milk. But the two of them are making the most of it. Sixth slam of the best whiskey in the house [which is a step above god-awful] and he finally asks her, “How’d you swing this then, love?”
“Owner owes me a favor,” she answers, tossing hers back, “gave us the whole place to ourselves for a night.”
“Oh really,” he asks with a raised eyebrow. He looks at the scratched counters, stained pool tables, and a bloody jukebox that hasn’t seen its heyday in four decades. “I’m sure he’s weeping buckets at the loss of revenue."
She snorts, thankfully after she’s already swallowed her drink. Her hand suddenly goes out to cover his, running her thumb over his dry skin.
"There’s, uh, always been something I’ve wanted to do on top of a bar.”
It’s not that he’s not interested. The idea of the indulgence and the filth of it is actually hitting him in all of the right places quite nicely. But he wouldn’t be who he is if he didn’t give her shit about it.
“Seriously? Here? Sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in the back alley? Or inside of a skip?"
She looks unimpressed but also like she sees right through him. Clearly there’s a damned good retort she’s about to reply with, but it flees her mind when she catches sight of the opening door.
"Shit,” she swears with quite the emphasis, jumping off of the stool. He moves an instant later, ready more for some sort of hellhound or lamia, rather than the group of thick browed thugs that are all trying to simultaneously squeeze through the door.
“Hey, um,” and that tone of voice is one that he’s very familiar with. It means they’re hip deep in shit and she forgot to mention to bring shovels.
“Remember how I said the owner owed me a favor? I meant that I thought he’d be in jail way longer than just five hours.”
One of the men who’s got more beef on him than a skinned cow manages to break through. After that there’s no more talking.
It’s just fists and broken glass swinging through the air. It’s a few blows to his face and sternum, but a great deal more dealt out to their noses and ribcages. It’s the sharp crack of bones and the smell of blood. He moves like a scruffy underdog that knows a thing or two, while she moves like a sodding dancer.
It’s really, really hard not to get distracted when she vaults over goons like she’s a kid playing leap frog, with a grin that could light up this shitty city block from its perpetual bleakness. It also doesn’t help that she’s wearing the fitted black jeans that are practically painted on and-
Ow. Okay. Less ogling. More-avoiding-getting-teeth-punched-in-ing.
Soon it all becomes a blur of adrenaline and the visceral satisfaction of watching someone’s face contort under your fist. He must have gone deep into the head space of blood lust and survival instinct, because one second he’s making one poor bastard’s future dentist insanely happy, the next she’s wrapping her legs around his waist and is taking the edge of the bar against her back.
He has a stunned moment where he wonders where the bruisers went, but then she’s doing something to his neck with her tongue and teeth that makes him very much not care anymore. She’s murmuring something in his ear that he can’t quite understand, yet his fingers dig into the cheap wood by her hips anyway.
They’re getting in each other’s way by trying to take off the opposite person’s trousers simultaneously. He growls about her impatience, and she laughs in his face at the hypocrisy. He gets impatient enough that he uses the literally damned strength he was given and rips the stupid jeans open down to her crotch.
The way her breath whooshes in startled and unrestrained arousal makes it worth the new pair he’s definitely going to have to get her.
There’s no more talking after that. Just the sounds of the both of them in an empty shithole bar, engaging in something as primal and thoughtless as the fight they just got done with. It’s unrestrained thrusts and grinding, mixed with more biting than is likely healthy. It’s pure and raw and not at all tender, but it’s what the both of them thrive in.
The climax is a winding and burning coil of tension in the both of them. It tightens until they’re both going mad with it, until all that’s left is just to—–let go.
All that’s left is the fire.
It spreads down the counter from the paths of his fingertips. The bottles explode in flash-heated glass and flaming alcohol. The acrid smoke of burning rye and cheap plastic climbs up his nose. It doesn’t block out the scent of charred meat.
She’s crumbled to ash underneath him by the time he realizes what’s happened. It would be better if she slipped like sand between his fingers, but ash clings to what it touches. He’s covered from neck to groin in flaky grey.
He collapses as a wave of dizziness washes over him. The fire licks its way up the walls, cracking open the ceiling while the pipes go molten. The music player in the corner splits in half from the heat, the strings inside of it wailing from the strain.
No. It’s just screams.
It’s hard to tell if they’re coming from him or the gaping faces taking shape in the smoke. The ground trembles, fissuring to show a place that isn’t as warm as fire, but burns more than the sun.
The ghosts are being sucked down, and he feels the gravitating pull of it. A black hole would lead to nothingness, which is infinitely preferable to what is waiting underneath.
One of the wisps takes the shape of her terrified face, and he wakes up before he can reach for it.
He comes to, shaking. He can find her, he can find her down-- it was a dream.
It was a goddamn DREAM.
“You--- bastard, you utter bastard,” he mumbles, rubbing at eyes stinging with the acrid smoke or... or just tears. Down below you fucking forget how these fucking things can make you fucking feel. Forget how real they seem, deep into something primal in you, something that just eats you up and all you can do is submit to it, LOST in those depths.
Except this isn’t some fucking random flex of his subconscious. His dreams are custom made, tailored and delivered for him. By the Dream Witch herself. He’s going to fucking strangle her.
ツ
|| Send me a ツ to see a tweet my muse would post/make about yours
Pretty sure jst met real life acid trip. Only qu; Y she gotta b hot?
✔
Send me ✔ and I will bold my preferences for your muse!
My muse(s): the demon Constantine
Do I know your muse(s): yes | no | a little | tell me about your muse
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Feel free to: message me ooc | message me ic | tell me your ideas | write a starter | answer one of my opens | send a meme | reblog this with your preferences - let’s find common interests!
☠- for an angry text ✘- for a text that was meant for someone else ツ- for an envious text ➳- for a fearful text
Text messages from my muse to your muse
☠- for an angry text [text:morpheyyess] what the fuck was that dream about[text:morpheyyess] I thought this was supposed to be part of a deal[text:morpheyyess] what the shit happened in my brain
✘- for a text that was meant for someone else [text:morpheyyess] just want you to know John, I fucking hate you
ツ- for an envious text [text:morpheyyess] so you just have free roam of your own realm, then?[text:morpheyyess] just do whatever you want to whoever you want?
➳- for a fearful text[text:morpheyyess] but seriously if you don’t like the intel just say so?[text:morpheyyess] rather than planning to do whatever you’re planning to do to me?
➳- for a fearful text
Text messages from my muse to your muse
➳- for a fearful text[text;morpheyyess] there may be a slight flaw in our plan[text;morpheyyess] which is that you’re going to kill me when I tell you the news I got
