#jaegerstrom

Send me ‘6′ and I’ll write a Six Word Story about your muse!

Send me a random object and my character will come up with a creative way to seductively use it with/on/for yours

Looking in Constantine's kitchen, you might get the wrong idea about his palette. Cups of noodles, cereal flakes, and then the eclectic assortment of alcohol mostly comprises the pantry. The fridge houses milk, often a lime or pepper, and little to nothing else. The speculation would be his tastes are cheap to save up for alcoholism, but these are just vehicles in his pursuit of convenience and, in the case of the liquor, entertaining. In his daily living, the finest restaurants in New York cater to him, and he'll be able to spot what ingredients make up his dish with an exquisite and spoiled taste for detail.

Salami, for instance, has a varied flavor, and the one that catches interest is soon shared in a particular way. Jaeger's jaw fits in his grip, drawing him in as the lips are guided to separate. With pressure under his chin, they close around the nibble of food before sealed against Constantine's own soft pair. The hand doesn't remove itself, but one of the long fingers strokes down the throat with ease.

Smoky blue eyes stay connected with crystal ones as a peppercorn is cracked between the rows of teeth, spilling the sharp bite into both mouths. It's an introduction to a building piquancy, layering heat upon heat with a flick of his tongue and nip to his current partner's. The spice inflames with every single breath, causing it to travel throughout. The nose is tickled, the skin is pricked, the throat is gasping for relief. For each portion of the body that's inflicted, revenge is taken upon one spot as a driving force. The kiss is delved into deeper; a scratch arches up the neck from that once delicate touch; and playful nips are ravenous captures of flesh.

Send me ☟ for my muse to turn back into their younger self, with only the memories that lead up to that age.

In the kitchen of the Hull residence, latest renovations seem to date to the 1980s, where modern-day conveniences includes faux woodgrain decorating counter edges, ranges, and have matching cabinet handles. There’s an oven that occasionally works, stovetop that’s showing its wear-and-tear, and then there’s the four year-old Horatio standing on the laminate surface with the drawers pulled out to show his makeshift stairs.

Clothes are oversized, indecency not realized, as the nude boy has his toes gripping to the counter while the tiny hands leave every door open in his search. Shelves are looked through, accidentally knocking things over to fall to the floor. A ceramic dish is one of the casualties, watching as the fragments form before his grey eyes.

“Oh, shit,” gets muttered before looking up to see Jaeger’s appearance, causing his face to change. “CUNT-TWAT!” is yelled fiercely, oblivious of the redundancy when the words fail to reach understanding. “Don’t look at my junk bits!”

In his determination, though, the young boy turns back to his search, grappling with the very top shelf until a bag of flour gets tipped over to spill over him.

“GRAH! GODDAMNIT!!”

A distraught expression shades the young face, head lowered to sweep the white dust out of his watering eyes. Disappointment fills him, failure, giving the other brunet a saddened look. The entire body is drenched in flour, making the pasty male even whiter with a deep frown curving against his face.

Send me a ⌘ to hear what my muse’s last words to yours would be. 

Scenario #1

Fuck. Didn’t want to fucking die with ya hovering over me like this sorta shit. Ugliest goddamn angel ever saw if already gone. [Half-smile is given to his friend, contradicting the foul words, before there’s a serious look.] Don’t tell mum bout this. Won’t ever know the difference, anyhow. Never getting the hell out of where she’s at. After all this shit, go have one for me with the amazon ginger, yeah? Have any sort of sodding weep over this, come right back to choke your bleeding tears back down your scrawny throat. 

[A moment is taken, forehead creasing horribly before an empty bark of a laugh is given.] Christ.. Never was fucking scared of shit.. but don’t want this. ...Don’t want to see where she wound up in. Taking her own life like she did.. doesn’t save her a seat on a goddamn cloud up there, does it? ...Find out one way or another, could be headed down with her. ..Couldn’t be that bad, eh?

Scenario 2

Text: I’m honestly not, and I will be deleting that one text right now. 

Text: I'm remaining silent on this. We'll have a good time no matter what we do, and we'll bring back gifts.