( JAW-DROPPING! )

fear     didn’t     even     cross     her     mind.     it     didn’t     even     start.     all     she     did     was     look     at     him     ,     watching     how     the     blood     smeared     between     them.     a     racing     heart     beat     nearly     out     of     her     chest     as     she     looked     at     down     at     the     body.     the     jaw     hit     the     ground     with     a     violent     crash     and     persephone     eyed     the     bones     before     her     eyes     looked     back.     the     alley     was     almost     silent.     in     the     back     of     her     mind     the     ‘     I     SHOULDN’T     BE     HERE     ‘     was     screaming     at     her.     but     it     didn’t     scare     her.     her     hand     went     to     her     cheek     as     the     blood     continued     to     smear.     ‘     am     i     next     then     ?     ‘     she     asked     ,     clicking     her     tongue     to     the     roof     of     her     mouth.     ‘     or     am     i     going     to     be     spared     ?     ‘    

@jawtrophy continued from xx

          He gasps against the grasp at his throat, head tipped back. Why? If he could get a proper lungful, he’d have laughed, but instead, it comes out as a puff of wheezing air. He struggles minutely, for the illusion of life. Illusion. If he took those gloves off he’d feel nothing but cold skin beneath his hands, if he listened close, he’d hear the desperation in Roman’s voice.

          “To    feel   something–” he grits out, “To feel alive.”

          On the precipice of his own murder, not even his first murder, he is able to taste what he can never have. Life. He feels that fear and that pain, those entirely human emotions. Life. Right at his fingertips. It’s just as good, if not better than drinking from someone else.

          “You want me to struggle? I can make you work for it… But it’d be empty. Wasted effort.”

        Feel something. Feel something. He’s--there’s some measure of understanding, given that Lincoln feels something now, with hands clutching at someone’s throat. That aside, however, he wonders if inevitable death is really the best means to feel alive. It’s desperation or it’s stupidity.

        He’s not getting the thrashing that normally comes and above all else, it makes him want to grind his teeth together. It’s in that moment that he realizes just how much the struggling is a major part of his temptations, the violent flailing of hands and feet in retaliation that has come to be as much a part of each hunt as the mutilation. Lincoln isn’t used to this-- docility. He hates it.

“Because gods tend to take favor on those who worship them.” Antony took flight, then, his lips grazing the corner of Lincoln’s mouth, edging along the perfect bow of his lips, along the bridge of his nose. He let his lips drag everywhere except where they needed to be. To seal a deal that was in the making. “Because I only ask. I want to see the beauty of the act in your eyes and know it was a gift for me, freely given.” The words were just above a hushed whisper, gentle in their flow and caressing. Antony made his words wrap around Lincoln’s soul, hold the matter and mold it into a beautiful shape, holding but never confining. One could not confine what Lincoln was. Antony’s eyes stayed open, though they were lidded. A demure kind of look that beckoned them closer. Briefly the felt their chests bump, hips knock against each other in the hold and it was an intense atmosphere. More intense than the words Antony spoke. “Would you give me such a gift, Lincoln? Bestow upon me something that no other could give me?” In return I will write stories of your adventures, sagas and poems to lift the spirits of those who need dark wood for kindling. Lips brushed just so against Lincoln’s, awaiting an answer.

        Antony was witnessing his godhood, then.

        Being equated to a higher power was a flattery like no other and he couldn’t figure out if it was genuine, or if the poet was deliberately appealing to him for what he wanted. What he wanted, however, was nothing more than a gesture of tribute that wouldn’t benefit him otherwise. There was no gain to be had for him other than the knowledge that it was for him.

        The press of lips everywhere but his own was a certain way of taunting the beast, who leaned in, canting his head for a graze of teeth against Antony’s jawline. A warning, teeth bared. A wordless I can gnaw you to the bone. And he would.

        Granting someone the blessing (because it was nothing less) of indulging in his most violent urges for them might earn him the same contentment in knowing that someone had watched. Lincoln felt there was an appeal in being seen beyond the superficial appearance of an average businessman, but he could never quite shed that skin entirely. Getting to was----enchanting for an exhibitionist of a different kind.

        Ghosting his lips against Lincoln’s own was a misstep on the writer’s part because it wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy, so his response was a tilt of his head, what might have seemed like an intended kiss before teeth nipped at a lower lip sharply. He withdrew afterward, but still hovered close.

❛   DREADFUL,  isn’t it?  ———  ceasing to live,  that is.   ❜

@jawtrophy liked for a starter.