#nailgore

@nailgore paged: rachelle may or may not have a human heart in her hands as a gift for a certain doctor :3

evvie doesn't really know what to do as she stares at rachelle. "you... and..." she doesn't know if she can finish a full thought. the vampire brain, the human equivalent of what could be described as the neanderthal brain, takes over and she smiles. "for me?" she blushes, her cheeks and ears flushing red. "thank you." evvie briefly thinks about how she's going to have to explain this if any of the humans in her life see it, but she doesn't care.

Rogue Vampires were a problem, and sometimes Armand missed the old days when he used to be a coven leader. It gave him much more power to put other Vampires in place. Now that he wasn’t a Coven Leader anymore, he had no justifications to involve himself in someone elses business. Well, unless he saw their species in great danger, which was exactly the reason why he was here now.  This Vampire in front of him radiated violence and danger. Nothing that would set him off, but they don’t need another troublemaker like Lestat de Lioncourt in their community.

His gaze moved to her ringed fingers, noticing that her nails were longer and sharper than his own. A dangerous weapon he had to be careful of, yet he didn’t reflect this thought on his face. Yet, the mention of his own dirty hands forced a reaction on his face. The corners of Armand’s lips curled up into a lopsided smirk.

         rachelle's looking for something in particular, she thinks- but when in rome ... cj's ransacking the place for anything that might bring her even the briefest rush of entertainment. it's hard to keep track of her with the way cj slips away at every opportunity. to her credit, she always comes back.

         ... most of the time, anyways. so long as rachelle's got her leash on life, she will. it's a promise made with her fingers crossed behind her back. this time, she comes bearing gifts she might be willing to share. a bottle in her hand, fur slung over her shoulder, and a pipe sticking out of her mouth, between her sharp teeth- ridiculous. she's grinning like a little kid, caught up in the wind of adrenaline.

         rachelle seems to be found what he's looking for, sat in front of a duffel bag that he ruffles through. grace isn't in the question as cj hops up onto the bed, almost dropping the bottle in her hand.

         cj takes the pipe out of her mouth, waving it in front of the vampire. " have you ever used one of these? i don't know how they work, i've only ever seen my dad with it. " daaaaad is drawn out and sing song-y, but the wolf doesn't really want to elaborate anymore on the old man, so she doesn't. her eyes, amber, go back to playing with the pipe, flickering away from rachelle. " kinda' wanna' try it, though. d'you think it'll kill me? " the tip of it goes back into her mouth. more than anything- buzz or no buzz -she likes chewing on the end, it's fun enough. " how old are you, anyways? i'll show mine, if you show yours. " like they're talking about cards, instead of ages. cj likes playing with rachelle.

She's been in her head for a while now. It happens most often at night. In the dead of the quiet. No distractions, silence is dangerous, at least for her. For a cold heartless bitch she sure tends to dwell on a lot of pain in her past.

The familiar voice startles her, giving just the faintest hint of a jump before she tries to play it off by just turning around to address her. Normally you can't sneak up on her for anything, the fact that rachel managed means she was really out of it. Embarrassing.

"If I could sleep do you think I'd be out here pacing?"

"...."

She's been awful as of late.

Nothing new at this point. He's gotten used to her ignoring his texts. Dropping by whenever. Demanding a spell or two. Sometimes even just flat out stealing from his closet in the night.

Most would have cut her off by now. Even Chris had begun to return her actions back to her. His locks changed. Warding altars placed on his windows in case she thought about sneaking in. Texts ignored. But when she showed up at his door, he swore he wouldn't let her in.

"...I think we both needed that..."

So much for standing 10 toes on his boundries.

Here they are on his couch. Breathing heavy, clothes thrown all over his living room, bites and scratches covering both of them. Deep purple hues briefly get lost in Rachelle' coffee toned irises. Usually she's out by now, but he can't deny the welcome feeling of her forehead against hers.

He simply enjoys the silence for a moment.

"Is this a fuck me and leave dick appointment? Or are you staying?"

⸻ violence only begets more violence, and then even more, until it reaches an everest peak and ends in fatal injury. or, the next best thing when you're already dead, in a technical sense. with presently absent logic, buried worryingly deep in the recesses of his brain, jasim knows that firearms are a non-issue for him. he'll recover, he'll survive.

but consider: bullets really fucking hurt, and rachelle is really fucking fearsome when she's pissed off, specifically at him. he annoys her plentiful, yes, however it's increasingly less common for him to envenom her so profoundly that it escalates to this.

and this… is staring down the barrel of a gun, wide-eyed and disbelieving.

❛ oi, what the fuck are you doing, rachelle? ❜ it's accompanied with a tentative step back, as if it matters.

it's a poor choice of words, albeit justified. what the fuck is she doing? moreover, what the fuck is he gonna do? he doesn't doubt the sincerity of the threat aimed his direction, it's merely a matter of painting himself out of this corner he's in.

he can only hope to be so lucky.

𖤝 … @nailgore.

Here.

In an estate isolated from absolutely anyone, where he came to be alone on the occasion the night was too much in front of others. He came here to think, to strategize. In his darkest times, he was too irrational without pause. The wrong phrasing from his most trusted confidant, the angrier his reaction. His brother compared it to their sire, Mikael.

Really, in many ways he was like their father. Centuries spent together, roaming the realm as the undead. They were powerful but held under the oppressive thumb of Mikael. Rebekah, Niklaus, Elijah, Kol, and Finn. They were feared, yet they were forced together by fate. A family unchosen, somehow less so than their biological parents. As if immortality had shackled them into kinship more irrevocable than their parentage, a family stitched tighter than blood yet chosen by no hand of their own.

He could not even remember his 'real' family. Who he used to be, before he was neither beast nor parasite. He had the vanishing memories of being a warrior, learning to fight in villages scattered in an ancient world.

Mikael forged them into people that could only be as damaged as they were by a broken father. And so, Niklaus took to it, leaning into the harshest of his father's personality on occasion. Kol noted their resemblance, opting to stay away from him in the recent centuries.

The animosity was made worse by a witch they had the displeasure of engaging with in the 1800s. She spun stories of a prophecy, a concocted legend (or so Niklaus says) foreshadowing the Mikaelsons' demise by their very own hands. Rest assured, the witch croaked, your family will be your own undoing.

In a fit of rage, Niklaus killed her, refusing to listen to the drivel. His younger brother did not take kindly, opting to heed the words and supposed wisdom of witches. Since then, their relationship was less than stable. In moments like tonight, Niklaus wondered if Kol was right. If he was the man his brother painted him to be.

Niklaus brought a glass of whisky to his lips, letting the liquor burn down his throat as though he could drown his own temper with it. He wondered what preyed in the night. What the werewolf's story was and if they knew how acutely Niklaus could hear them.

The next morning he spent outside, speaking with various people on the phone. Soren, his most trusted and oldest friend, second in command within his coven, spent a considerable amount of energy berating Niklaus.

❛❛ You think you're the only one struggling? We're all dealing with the consequences of that meeting with your brother. The difference is -- we stayed and waited for your command. And instead, you took off. Then you wonder where the mistrust in you began. You leave without a word, and we're left to assume the worst. Loyalty isn't always unwavering, Nik. You and I are different than you and the lowest member in the ranks. ❜❜

The hybrid knew Soren was right, but he couldn't let himself admit it out loud. The phone call ended begrudgingly, with no real resolution proposed, and Niklaus's mood was left soured. The meeting with Kol, when both their covens had come together in New York City, discussing the future of their covens, produced a far more chaotic outcome than Niklaus had originally anticipated. The political landscape of their life had been changing, and with rivaling factions vying for their demise, Niklaus suggested Kol and him had to act. The situation was strained, made worse by Kol's insistence that the prophecy would come true if they stayed together.

Niklaus was frustrated, and he came here to think. Away from prying eyes and mistrustful remarks.

As he patrolled some of the surrounding property, he noticed someone from the corner of his eyes, suddenly alert and overcome with irritation. He sped to them quickly, stopping short as he processed the situation. She was naked and covered in soot. She had markings all over her body and looked as though the very ground she sat on was her bed for the night. His expression soured, finding a face to the mysterious werewolf he had heard yesterday.

She was a beautiful girl, he noticed. She looked meek, innocent. Confused. And a miniscule part of him briefly empathized with her. A flash of his first turning flashed in his mind, but he quickly disregarded it and opted for a more violent approach to the introduction.

Trent's puffing on a cigarette, sinking into the sand of a man-made beach on the edge of a city that's Eau de Downtown consists of urine and pot, neutralized somewhat by the salt air that drifts in from the bay, and nicotine on his breath. He never used to smoke as much as he does now, a desperate bid to insert himself into her smoke breaks, tag along when she dipped out the bar, like he couldn't be left alone for one second. If it annoyed her, she never said anything, or he didn't listen. And he can't, be left alone, doll — no purpose if he's not being played or played with, either one is fine.

Trent's thinking about the stars, how they're there but he just can't see them, suffocated by the light from the skyline in the distant horizon. He's about to tell her about it. Instead, his eyes prick with tears, an achey sort of feeling settling over his chest. Trent's not a maudlin drunk, and he's not even drunk, didn't even finish the Pabst that's wedged in the sand beside him, the last dregs now warm and stale.