#conjobbed

@conjobbed​ |  “  i can’t find my shirt. ”

John was standing by the foot of his bed (their bed? This was all sorts of new and exciting and terrifying at the same time), scratching his blonde hair without appearing to look too hard for his shirt. His wrinkled trousers were barely put together as it hung low on his hips, just under the reddening mark he’d left on his skin the night before. He wanted to kiss it. Scratch that, he wanted to kiss him. Hold him like a precious thing. Sentimentality, he thought. Or simply endorphins from really good orgasms.

     “So, weird question - I got a patient right now that’s not. . .I don’t think it’s anything I can help with.”

ʙᴀɴɢ! ╾━╤デ╦︻    ʟᴜᴄɪғᴇʀ ʀᴇʙᴏʀɴ ᴀs ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ          This isn’t living. It hasn’t been for a while. The world owed him an reason for all the pain that it put him through. How those bad cards he was delt just seemed to get worse when the deck was already stacked. But no one was stepping forward with an explanation. He was jaded. All the anger inside him boiling tonight as he sank deep into the parts that riled him most. How no one seemed to care. How no one seemed to want to talk or had any good reason why he was chosen as god’s fuck up, a disgraced martyr who wasn’t allowed to be angry about his circumstances.

She's been in less savory situations before, the nature of who she is as a person certainly guarantees frequent danger, but most of those instances are her own fault.

It's not even that Haven doesn't want to do this. Rather, she jumps at every opportunity for a little mischief, especially the conspiratorial variety. She just has a quota of complaining to fill.

"Remind me again, what's our cover?"

BIRTHDAY SHENANIGANS!

@johnconstantfine​ asked: “So wot are y’plans f’the big day? I kinda remember my fortieth. Some mates came round at zero hour and got us well an’ properly wasted.”

            Though it’s a simple question, she smacks the other on the arm, making a face. It was a stark reminder of how long she had been alive, constantly fighting to remain as such. “I fully intend on gettin’ shit faced and maybe finding someone who doesn’t know I’m old as dirt,” Faith muttered before tipping her bottle back to wash the taste of calling herself old out of her mouth. “But other than that, nah. Don’t got nothin’ planned.”

@conjobbed​ |  ❝ I was feeling very groggy and I didn’t want to be answering questions, so I played drunk. ❞

Throughout their relationship Rupert had regarded John with a variety of looks—longing, love, lust, fondness, and sometimes, exasperation and concern. At the moment exasperation was bleeding into and overpowering the fondness in his eyes.

There was a persistent ache behind his left eye. It, he supposed, was the byproduct of the hunger eating at him. Keeping a scientist’s mind about his whole vampirism had made it bearable, up to a point, as he gradually found out. He had two days between his last meal of lukewarm blood from the butcher’s when John took note of his dour mood and the source of his plight, took his hand and told him in simple terms to drink from him. A question of ‘Are you insane?’ hung silently in the air but wasn’t that the reason he fell in love with him in the first place?

And so that night he locked the door, thinking about the rush of heartbeat he didn’t have, as he sat on their spacious sofa with his husband in life and death, pushing him down with a deep, lingering kiss.