Azagi always wanted to commit murder, but she didn’t quite think she ever wanted to commit murder more than she did in this moment. She could feel every atom of her body burning with wrath and yet no input to let it out. She had stormed over to Asylum, all worry of whether Azarius would be there or not burned away by the pure rage she felt in her heart. Once she made her way to Jahi and sat next to her, it was clear the woman was absolutely seething, with rage. “Perhaps we shouldn’t stay here. I need to break things, or kill somebody, and I don’t think Azarius would be best please if I destroy his bar and his clientele.” She reached over the bar for a beer, opening it with her teeth before spitting the cap off onto the floor.
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Jack never regretted a lot of things, a curse in itself was to live and regret. Longer still was that unpleasantness for an immortal, extended and drawn out with its sole purpose to drive deep the message; learn from the mistakes of regret. He never really did, instead just wore them like badges of honour; a celebration of survival that nobody could physically witness. Except he was beginning to feel the sharp end of it all with Evanora’s dismissal – rejection, if translated another way. He didn’t think he was wrong, that she was throwing terms around without considering consequence. He’d just seen its price with Malcolm – and perhaps it made it all the more real, what she was suggesting to him; planting an idea in his mind that he’d never considered.
Never thought it was a possibility, Evanora cannot die. There had never been a reason to ponder alternatives, never been an existence where she wasn’t his witch, one of his oldest friends – a companion that kicked him, grilled him and loved him – in her own way, like he did her, some long standing thing that Jakoris wasn’t mature enough to ever put into words. But it was, that.
So she wasn’t allowed to talk about her death like it was real.
She was a powerful, near millennia old witch who’d put him down more times than he’d ever admit aloud. Epochs couldn’t destroy her, it wasn’t allowed to be something trivial like age – something so sickeningly mortal.
But even with magic, she was just that, a sub breed of a human – and it wasn’t like he ever forgot the fragility of her. It was simply, he never imagined her dying.
And fighting over text like they were lovesick teenagers bickering over dinner – which, Jack knew would be a later discussion, rather than argumentation. If he had his way. It was agonising, to have to battle his case – paint himself the monster, tell her all the horror stories she managed to avoid about him just to put her off – anything so she’d listen to him and how crazy her jibing sounded, after all she begged him for was the opposite.
He thought he always listened; he certainly had the senses for it. There was teasing – years of it, a back and forth that always seemed easy despite his own fears about it – about her fragility. An irony he knows, to never think she’d die, but be aware of how mortal she is. The ultimate lie he tells himself, because he’d seen her power time and time again. Convinced himself nothing but him could touch her. That he was close enough to the witch that she might not have the advantage; lose himself and in turn lose her, but he never believed he actually would.
E: If you went too far, I’d stop you… you know that.
J: And if you couldn’t?
E: Then you’d turn me.
J: Nora. That isn’t a joke.
And to him, he hadn’t been. Whether it was the implied lack of maturity to have the conversation, he could read between Evanora’s lines in messages, felt the plastic of the device crack in his hand when he’d read it – like her dying was just another blip. Another irony, he could kill and maim anyone, but she was not to be touched.
Evanora what have you done to me? The Davenport had bolted upright, out from beneath covers like he’d awoken from a nightmare.
Dawn was approaching, he’d been prepared to sleep through it, and then there was this. A childish debate about death. Right at the time where the West were already delicate. Like you really give a fuck. A thought not suitable for someone in his position – a Vizier because he should care; want to repair bridges and forget about dumb text conversations. Technology; still a curse as it was a blessing. The vampire still riled from earlier; Evanora’s transgressions with another that she’d use to get beneath his skin – and successfully, to no surprise.
This wasn’t that.
E: I’m not joking, Jack. Tell me you’d let me die. Make me believe it.
J: You’re not going to die.
Because he’d told her: you’re not like me, reminded her how good she was – and really that word meant better than him. There was a part of him that warred against his disapproval of the idea – a sick little twisted part that got a little hard over the idea of how strong his witch – or former witch would be if she sported fangs, wore his eyes and removed all invisible barriers that they’d never acknowledged in centuries. She’d understand him, the curse – the way fangs sunk into flesh; an aphrodisiac – but she isn’t you, Jack. If he let that part win and tell him that it was the easy option – turn her, make her like you, no magic; become equals in some ways. Different in others, the little specks of humour that he might enjoy teaching her as one of his protégé’s; satisfaction in how she was older, but younger in species. Share a bond like no other, both terrifying and thrilling to know her emotions; horrific that she would in turn, be aware of his.
He swallowed, dragged shorts up his legs, scooped a tee off the floor and sped his way to Nora’s – she protested that too. But he’d have knocked her door down if she tried to deny him. You’re not like me, Ev. And I’m not like you.
But she could be – she might. If he heard her out. And whilst he’d agreed, he didn’t fucking want to. Because he knew that each word against his would drive something sharp into the little pit of impulse that he hid away in the dark crevasses of his mind, tried to shut out the part of him that snapped like a switch when provoked – made messes, left corpses and made vicious desires surface that few could handle.
Evanora hadn’t been subjected to that, and he feared the idea of it – and Jack Davenport didn’t like to fear anything.
By the end, he wasn’t sure who was pleading with the other. It was denial that birthed it, she’d tried to tell him and whilst he knew what she was saying, he never believed it, never thought she could really be dying – or withering, or whatever age old witches did after so long. A faux immortality, the same as them all; playing pretend. He wasn’t a good person, he didn’t deserve the witch that tolerated him and stuck by him despite his conflictions, his less than savoury habits and a somewhat selfish and too prideful nature that kept him at a distance.
“Nora,” he’d called it before he’d even reached the door – let himself in like he was chasing a ghost that was already gone. Putting ideas in his own head only spurred a kind of primitive response, something defensive and possessive. Toxicity in most forms. She had centuries on him – and that air of wisdom when she was in one of her serious moods quelled Jack’s witty humour. But even then, her jokes that evening weren’t exactly making either of them laugh. His backlash to her had been unfair:
J: I can bring someone on the way, you can practice being a fledgling, Nora.
E: Come.
J: So now you’re not interested? Funny that, babe.
E: Oh, forget it.
Sarcasm easily read off a screen – and they knew each other better than most. He hadn’t kept any of his empty threats, didn’t intend to further his ideations to put her off the idea. Jack knew he could keep pushing, let it get out of hand, fly off the rails and watch her repulse at the idea of giving up her magic for bloodlust. But somewhere, deep down, he didn’t think she’d care if he did. She’d stuck with him this long.
It shouldn’t hit him this hard that she’d join him in death.
“I’m listening, you want me to listen, here I am,” Arms out, like a martyr on a cross – open and prepared to level himself to hear her, wouldn’t stop the desire of indulging in nature since she seemed unafraid of the idea of becoming it. What harm could talking do more than it already had, he would stop supressing his needs, just so she could see them for what they were. If that’s what it took.
So he hadn’t realised he was a little crazed with an overwhelming wave of warring thoughts, but a kind of revelation that was exiting denial – accepting the potential that there wasn’t exaggeration about Nora’s magic fading on its own accord, her age catching up with her. Dark eyes found skin, teeth itched to taste her. Listen to her first, Jack. Harder to listen to even himself when he seemed to have moved past the point of wanting to listen. Try. Let pride win, just once more. Enough of it that he could reign his control. He stepped back, found her doorframe and stilled, it had to end well.
Because if he left now, he was under the risk of the morning sun rising.
“But there was no rules about how long I’d listen for,”
It’s primitive, the growl that rips from Jakoris’ throat when the cooling body in his hands drops, thumps to the ground in amongst the shrouds of darkness and becomes buried beneath shadows of the late hours. He swears he knew where he was going, knows the routes of Calamity even if he were blind and inept. But everything’s red right now. That’s all that plagues his sight, a constant fever-ish need that only grows with every drop of crimson he consumes and he can’t understand it despite knowing that it’s not him. Not… entirely. A long past former self that’s forced to surface like an insatiable conduit that’s overtaken his body; infected his soulless being with some other entity that isn’t the man he is now – was, is, supposed to be. He doesn’t know anything besides the body that lays deceased by his feet and the ruby that stains his chin, trails down his neck and soaked his shirt like he’s encompassing every typical vampiric cliché of a creature on the loose.
Because really, he is. Zylers fucked with something. And whilst his mind handles the raging war of need and want, he’s entirely too lucid to learn of his own actions as he loses complete control of them. It could have been hours since he left the apartment Zyler trapped him in, the wound once adorning his chest fresh skin, hardly even a scar to remind him of the stake that brushed so close to his heart and left bones scratching at the oak like it could have splintered and punctured the vital organ; killed him swiftly. Instead, he’s a monster in the night that’s left bodies in the streets, throats torn open like an animal ravenous.
There’s an irony to be found somewhere.
And then Jessie comes to mind and his feet are fast moving again. Zyler’s threat ringing loud through the whispers of thirst. It’s enough to neglect the discarded beings on the ground, to be found when the sun rises. There’s enough shreds of rationality that keep Jack moving forward and home to the manor. A pain in his chest; ghosted like he can feel something stabbing him repeatedly, he tells himself he would know through their bond if something was wrong; if Jessie is hurt. He would, but, his mind isn’t quite there for some reason and it’s only when the manor comes into sight that he notes how much of a state he’s in. The Davenport slows when bloodied fingers rest on the door, no less than fighting his way through it like it’s pushing him out; stopping him from lashing awry in his current loss of control. Zyler Fane is a dead man.
A snarl that’s as inhuman as they come is the entrance he makes when he stumbles through the door, sangria feet leaving a nice trail when he’s forcing himself inside.
Frantic eyes scour the room, teeth bared, still hungry and aware of how easy it is to just give in to whatever he’s succumbed to. But he doesn’t see Jessie first, not through the matted vision of reddened eyes, outlined with a darkness that refuses to lessen.
“J –” but his voice is cut short on its own when SJ’s there and he steps forward, growls as though she’s suddenly an enemy. But he knows otherwise – his head does, and yet everything in his being tells him to lunge like a predator and devour prey. “SJ?” strained, softened where he’s not used to being; humour lacking in every way and Jack doesn’t know how to fix it. “Where’s – where’s Jess?” firm, demanding and a tongue prods his teeth where it takes mental coils to stop himself finding the nearest flesh to dig teeth, regardless of the blood inside. Or Ev, she can fix me.
He catches Mal in his peripheries, near catches him off guard and hisses; feral. Fuck, all of you, run. Shit. Internal cries that never make it to surface when whatever spell he’s under starts to root itself inside him; blossom another seed that seduces him into the pit he’s been dragged into all night. He can’t stop it, he wishes he could, but he lunges at the both of them, ideologies to bury teeth.
“i suppose it’s about time i apologise properly for half-destroying halfway to nowhere with jakoris. i figured we could start with a glass of wine whilst we discuss what the fuck zyler fane did to him, and what the plan is.” azagi spoke, a soft smirk coming to her lips as she looked across to the witch. jakoris was supposed to be nothing more than a plaything, and she would never admit more than that to the vampire himself, but perhaps she cared for him; enough that she was pissed off at zyler for whatever he had done to jack as well as the trick he played on her. “i meant to come and see him, but something told me a demon visit to davenport manor wouldn’t exactly help things.” she had only seen him to drop off a little present of a few humans to feed on, even stayed out of his way at the ball. she had more pressing things on her mind. “how is he, evanora?”
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Impromptu Self-Para, ft. @ilbuia
Jakoris & Scarlett
Davenport Manor, Basement.
Word Count: 2.5K + (Voluntary read)
Triggers: mutilation tw, violence tw, NSFW tw, blood and mild gore descriptions tw, toxicity tw.
Underneath flesh lies an infection; a virus formed of magic where dead cells suffer under its own insatiable desire to destroy. Endless it seems is the need where it demonstrates something more than an ordinary pestilence. Jakoris in chains; a method to disavow the spread of such a monster, stop it before it becomes all consuming and leaves only a shell of a beast; a creature that tears apart all in some prerequisite to devour. A virus that’s been reborn in a murderous form; reprograms the functions of the body to instead kill itself and behind it leaves more than apoptosis; a being that cannot be killed by the most mundane forms; The Ripper. The Davenport’s danger to himself and those around him, profound. He knows why he’s there, bound like an animal. The darkness doesn’t hide the man from his own histories, a basement a little too familiar, though, a voraciousness he’s never quite known before.
Never known before powerful magics invaded him at the hands of the High Sage. A replay of memories roll; it’s all he can do in such restrictions, think about his complete loss of control; consider the attack he posed upon his return; the ones he left in pieces on the streets, unrecognisable appendages discarded like rotten meat. It still hadn’t been enough, the nails that rake down his throat, leave ghostly punctures from within. If only there to encourage the Davenport to release all tendrils of whatever is left of him to retain.
The chains rattle when he shifts, a penetrating sound of the door creaking at the other end of the room. Leaves him with the aide-mémoire of why he has to be there; slumped like a lost warrior against the basement wall. Doesn’t stop the predatory eyes from finding the form that obscures the artificial light broken in from the open doorway. Streams in and causes the vampire to squint at the new presence.
SJ’s the last of all his figurations; he knows what he did to her, recalls that vicious attack as if it were only minutes ago. Understands that whilst he’s unforgiving in what he did; it’s a foolish move to send the little vamp in a room with him. Shadows from lack of light cast over the man and strange shapes made clear only by the way fangs glint of the new beams of light; faux and make evident the bloodstains that deface clothes. Soaked is the cotton on his torso, stained deep with a maroon where it’s dried and left him sticky; a discomfort that’s nothing in comparison to the urge that brings him to want to lunge at Scar. Binds the hinderance even an off-kilter man recognises wouldn’t break no matter how strong he thinks he is in that moment.
He doesn’t want her there. Prefers the solace of isolation, at least removes the temptation from being there just out of reach. Like dangling something sweet in front of him and refusing to let him have it, because even if Jack’s aware no matter what he chases he cannot stop the magic the High Sage has riddled deep into his core, she’s better than nothing at all.
It’s formed of desire that way Jakoris is on his feet again, teeth bared at the woman who’s made clear in teasing words that she’s there to play babysitter. An irony where she’s a child herself.
Well, I certainly never thought babysitting you would be on my list of duties.
“Then cross it off and get out,”
That’s how it started, rousing one another; venom so harsh that becomes a contradiction to itself. Jack’s mind doesn’t have the niggle that tells him, stop, the whisper in his mind that’s usually the level on his control, the one that wills him to remain in power. It’s hidden in everything he says, until she kept pushing. Maintains her distance against the man contained, stays aware where most might not – doesn’t let him take her so easily.
But she does let him, eventually.
One broken neck later and a darkening mind that can silver-tongue the manipulator.
She even changed his clothes whilst he slept.
“Enjoying the view now? How kind of you to leave me with some dignity,”
I much preferred the view without them, but I figured I’d play nice.
“Why’d you put them back on then?”
I shouldn’t have.
Words the weapons that clawed hands cannot be when steel grows tighter around Jack’s wrists; a captive in his own home, mercilessly taunted; teased by a woman he’s got no interest in. Only works to grind the cogs in his mind, she never gave him a shirt back in his impromptu defeat and the dark red smears that are sunken into his skin bury in the crevasses of his stomach discolour him like he might never get the crimson off. He deserves everything he gets. Even in the twisted mind of the Ripper, he wonders if she’s there because of what he did; an interest that’s formed of something primitive; an object of desire neither knew of. Jack’s tongue still picks up on the remnants of her blood; craves anything that might offer a reprise from the agony that the virulent parasite reaps on his body. Saps all the energy from him. Only knows to retrieve it from anything that teeth can bury in, that he can entomb himself in; she’s got all of that in front of him.
And he’s never considered Scarlett as that. But there’s a lot of firsts that come from a bitter witch’s spells.
There’s a game being played; chess the closest comparison to anything tangible. Every move they each make isn’t physical; nothing that lets Jack near her to let the beast play with the rules he’s prepared to break. She never listened to him coaxing her back out the room; almost lost beneath the warring of his mind split into two. But he’s not sure he wants her to leave anymore. A philosophical-like need to dig fangs into her once more, if only as a distraction; an excuse that isn’t the plummeting thoughts of how his body refuses to listen; to synchronise.
That’s how his mind begins to gutterball. There’s some rationality in the young vampire when she refuses to cave to his return provocations, forged truths that border a throwback to earlier that day.
“If you were afraid; if you never liked what I did to you, you’d have refused to come into this room, Scar.”
It’s a thought that’s spoken with such a victory that Jakoris’ pull on the restraints feel like they might break as though a code has been cracked. That from within the echoes of the dark they’re in, two sides of sanity – he figures, it’s a foul snarl of impatience almost, a captured vampire that balances on the threshold of his own thoughts. The younger version; potentially as broken as he is, tries to fix herself with something else even more broken.
So what, you think I’m back for more?
“I think you’re looking for something little vamp,”
The throwaway, bitten out through suppressed hunger when the walls feel like they’re closing in, that SJ’s the only thing left within them that matters in the grand scheme. Ideas of Evanora and Jessie out in the fray looking for answers to his affliction long crushed by the hiss of a man deteriorating; becoming heated by consistent taunts. It’s never been obvious to Jack until now that Scar’s as good at the game as Jack thought he was.
Only, she’s not got physical chains holding her back from acting on it.
Until, she suddenly does.
The Davenport never realised how much he missed the sensation of something else than hunger, Scar’s teeth in his throat like she’s finally decided to place his King in check leaves her in close enough proximity that a re-enactment of de ja vu flickers when he returns the favour and with a need he hates to admit is there, digs his own into her. It’s another bout of intimacy, stirs another kind of consciousness to the brink of overflowing. Lust forged from a blood exchange; the aphrodisiac that’s often addictive. Hardens muscles, incites Jack want to curl hands around her, touch her like she’s his if only for his own satisfaction – to balance the pain with the pleasure like he’s all too good at. If only for one evening; in a state of weakness.
Another thing he loathes about the room beyond the surface level of what it means, is how SJ irrevocably has the power over him by default. If he hadn’t been wrestled into chains, if being a word he can’t exactly enjoy in that moment. Not like how Scarlett crumbles to the one they’re playing and he can utilise the rage; the lack of control against someone who claims they can handle it.
The intimacy is broken when she retracts, lingers only in the way that her tongue leaves wet trails on his skin, laps up his blood where hers spills down his chin and leaves droplets on the concrete floor. Messy where he’s unable to govern the actions of the other. Jakoris’ head tips, dares her in a way that he’s not sure of the result, eyes flickering to the chain
“Unlock it Scar,” I fucking dare you. Offers the game with new stakes.
You know I can’t let you leave Jack…I never thought you’d taste so good, can I trust you, Jack?
Could she fuck.
“Probably not, but you really fucking want to,”
The way the tune changes on her side, the way she’s so confident to play the line of fire; dangle the victory flag and poke the viper until it bites. Jack sees that in the hues of her eyes; he’s not sure what lies hidden beyond, but the hands that fall on the chain is his own kind of conquest. And she releases him. A kind of dark chuckle that slips from his lips when she does, is fast enough to wrap around her throat and draw her to it. The consideration of how dangerous she wanted to play; with rules that have been crossed out and replaced with blood and flesh as the only notable pieces on the board, he squeezes her throat. It’s a fleeting image that passes his mind, the idea of just popping it off her spine, snapping it as some childish revenge to how she’d done it to him earlier; left him groaning and agonised as to make some lost point of valour.
Though she’s sacrificed her control and given it back to him; the Ripper that’s got next to none in that moment, but enough to at least choose distraction over the urge to simply tear the woman to pieces. He can do that after he’s done with her. Like her skin under his grip is a tease of its own, when he drags her forward, near makes his half naked body flush against her own, fangs raking down her lobe to follow the line of her chin, the urge to clench his jaw, puncture her like a snake almost wins against the desire that instead pulls him to her lips.
Then he draws blood, lower lip his where he finds an escape that isn’t the one that released him entirely from the prison he’s in; the room; his mind; the parts of his body that want something else completely.
“Take them off Scar,” A delay against her lips, a demand that’s primal. “Now,”
You’re not even gonna say please, Jack? What should I take off first?
Everything plays into his hand from then.
The hooded lids that find her face again, darkens when her hands ghost over his abdomen; run that theme of tease the monster that she’s been adamant to play all evening. And she’s probably still unaware what that leads to, the kind of thing that makes Jack stop understanding the word no and how Scarlett’s lost every opportunity she had to run out that door, because he’s not letting go.
“I’m going to ruin you, Scar.”
The kind of aptitude that drills deep; comes from the way she’s spent her duty as supervisor instead torturing him. The masochist who only feeds that fire with everything his mind allows.
I hope that’s a promise Jack.
If he cared to speak, to continue the toying, he’d have let the words: Oh you’ve no idea, baby, pass his lips when he drags his hand down her, lets her obey his order like submission is finally where she belongs. That she never quite understood the power she once had before she gave it away. On a fucking platter and let him reign over her body like she wants to be torn apart. Her antagonising implies as much, if not more.
Clothes are the first things to vanish, shredded by strong hands and there’s exposure between them both. A tension of bodies at war, one half free to play as the underdog of the battle; of lips, of skin of every time their teeth find a new unblemished spot on pale flesh. Stain it red as though the colour of their desire cannot be anything but. The same association as rage, cracking of bones where masochism hits its limitations; healed fast where fingers works rhythms in places that incite moans that in a vampire’s household, are probably heard if anyone’s fucking listening. And yet, the way blood spills onto the floor, decorates the basement like it’s paint on renovation is all that matters. Teeth on flesh, backs on hard floors, fucks in a way Jakoris could never with anyone mortal.
But Scar heals, and she knows it.
Jack doesn’t recover quite the same – because nothing he takes besides her body fuels him like it should, the weakening of joints that only enrage a ferality in him to go harder to compensate. The wounds she leaves on him, enjoyed in a sick way that leave him with a feeling that overpowers his hunger for nourishment; replaces it with a yearning for her that he can’t shake. And like hell does he care to understand it. The Davenport keeps his promise, leaves her in her own mess, by the third round; a hat trick, he’s beginning to notice the falter in both of them, that each other’s blood isn’t anything more than a turn-on, doesn’t satiate the vampire’s primordial needs to their core.
The rooms in disrepair, red more than grey; glows almost in the darkness of them, Scarlett’s skin shredded and healing, potentially to leave scars. Heavy rise and falls of chests that are heard between satisfied noises that are involuntary, still tight against each other when Jack’s last restriction allows; only imagines what could have been had he been completely free. Then comes the final plummet – after the rest of the countless comings, where Jakoris’ mind cannot process the pain with the pleasure and the hunger starts to viral it’s way back up his veins to pull the thick cords at his jaw. He can’t take anymore from her; he’ll kill her. That whisper of a voice screams at him, but it’s not loud enough.
The sound of footsteps outside the basement door, partnered with the final thrust given that near ceases the vampire fucking in some heated rage; a complicated partnership purely forged of magic and need; distractions and everything that systems the addiction of becoming caught up in a vampiric haze. Jakoris’ hands on Scar’s body, the marks left and the way they pant like animals loose; leaves everything but the carcasses all over the room, fluids that Jack’s likely to be left in when she goes.
Because she has to go and he knows that; the footsteps echo loud and like a desperate creature about to lose its prey, he digs his nails into her to stop her from running.
In their positions, she’s undoubtedly stronger, for once; the little vampire has a strength over the Ripper that can’t find satisfaction in feeding, no matter how hard he tries. And she does tear from him, stumbles where he notes how their legs near buckle under limbs exhausted and like it’s some loss for them all, Jack crashes to his knees, another crack resounds off the walls where Scar manages to catch herself before anything else breaks, a desperation in both their breaths where naked bodies dyed in each other’s blood; torn epithelium from one another’s teeth as they once hunted for that need.
It’s nothing in comparison in the way rabid eyes snap to the door when it moves with someone’s shadow casting a shape below it.
now, honestly Cody…what would you do if there were no limits?
normally & honestly:
“i don’t have limits. why should i? i do what i want, when i want, mostly. the only people i listen to are esme, zahara and fernando but they don’t try to change me and impose limitations; they just try to help.” a pause as she thinks, “flying would be pretty fucking cool.”
