#xmultimusesx

(CLOSED STARTER)

@xmultimusesx

It had been two days since the blood. Since the screams. Since the moon lit Remmick like something out of an old warning tale— and she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since.

Azha hadn’t meant to end up near the joint. Not really.

She’d left barefoot, told herself she was just walking to walk— letting the dirt cool her soles, trying to quiet the thing inside her that hadn’t rested since that night. But the air felt different again. Heavy. Expectant. And when the low thrum of music drifted to her from down the hill—gritty, sweet, sinful— it curled its fingers into her and pulled.

Then she saw him.

Remmick.

[Azha ducked back, slipping behind a splintered porch post wrapped in rusted wire. She watched from the dark.]

[The bouncer squinted at him, unimpressed.]

VARYING KISSES PROMPT || OPEN

The morning began in a quiet lull, with the sizzle of eggs and the bubbling of a kettle ready to whistle. She woken up before Remmick, and decided to let him sleep in while she got their youngest up and changed, and now they were playing in their play pen within their mother's sight as she prepared breakfast for the family. She didn't hear anyone else stirring in the house, humming softly to herself, but the giddy giggles of 'Da!' from Irene and Isla brought her attention out of her cooking, turning around to see Remmick in his sweatpants and bed head approaching her.

"Good morning, baby.", she smiled, and her smile grew in the kiss he brought her in, wrapping her arms around his defined shoulders while sharing the act of affection. His skin was still warm from slumber, and it still held the scent of his body wash from the night before. His arms fit well around her waist, they always had, and she only broke the kiss to nuzzle him sweetly.

She didn't have a lantern that evening; the moon's light was just enough for her and the horse. When she finally got the guitar tuned just the way she wanted it, she softly hummed as she strummed before singing:

Time rolls by, the clock don't stop I wish I had a few more drops Of the good stuff, the good times Oh, but they just keep on flyin' Right on by, like it ain't nothin' I wish I had me a, a pause button

She then stopped, laid the guitar beside her, and pulled something from out of her pocket: it was a gold coin. His gold coin. She softly sighs, turning it in her hand a couple times, "Moments like those... Lord knows I'd hit it and give myself five more minutes," she huffs, wiping her eyes, "Fuck." It still hurt.

She stuffs the coin back into her pocket and watches the horse graze, but her eyes soon feel heavy. She knew she needed to stay awake but it was just... so relaxing out there, she just couldn't help herself.

While Stevie slept, her horse continued to graze quietly until he sensed something, or someone nearby , enough to make him uneasy and lift his head in alert.

Mrs. Westenra had taught her daughter that it was a woman's duty to push through pain. A women would face many pains in life: blood, cramps, bloat, childbirth, and heartaches. It wasn't a woman's place to show her pain too much for fear of causing a fret and fuss for the men around them. Lucy had been raised with those thoughts. While Remmick didn't seem to be making a fuss, she had felt the pain through their connection, the hive mind.

Settling beside him at the tub's edge, Lucy was careful in her movements as the washcloth moved over his bare back. Her heart ached for him. He'd been so brave and fierce. He'd been protective with predatory nature.

With little thought, she slid into the tub behind him -- night dress be damned as she settled in behind him. A kiss was peppered against his back as she carefully wrapped herself around him while she slid the washcloth over his still bloodied chest. Blood mixed with the water creating a sickly pink shade.

She knew they'd have to leave this place -- their temporary home, but a home nonetheless. She kept silent on that fact.

manicured  fingertips  tap  gently  against  the  porcelain  handle,  her  mossy  hues  locked  onto  his  lips  as  he  murmurs  something  to  her  in  his  native  gaelic.  she  hasn’t  the  slightest  clue  what  the  hell  he  just  said,  but  judging  by  the  eager  lift  of  his  brow  and  the  sly  curve  tugging  at  one  side  of  his  mouth,  she  can  hazard  a  guess.  it  was  something  sickeningly  sweet  or  gloriously  suggestive,  something  @xmultimusesx  wouldn't  dare  to  repeat  in  english,  least  of  all  in  front  of  her.

the  thought  alone  makes  her  grin  into  the  rim  of  her  cup,  eyes  peeking  from  beneath  ink-black  lashes.  a  girlish  chuckle  breaks  out,  her  cheeks  warm  with  a  blush  she  doesn't  even  try  to  play  off.

Fleabag

"I know a king may roam wherever he so chooses... but is it wise to do so without your guard?" A curious voice inquired from the opposite side of the creek. She had been enjoying the sound of the running water, a quiet moment she stole away from the festivities.

For the second time in those short hours, the world as Joan knew it narrowed to the density of a single thread. She could hear him in the back of her mind - her husband, whose voice she would know even if she were deafened; whose connection to her went beyond sire to sired, beyond the realm of spirit and soul. She could feel his every word reverberating like they were being written on the inside of her skull. I don't give one good god damn about his plan, get back inside this goddamn buildin' b'fore I come get you.

The thought passed from her mind in the flicker of a heartbeat before it all went to hell. What if he does it? As if she wasn't privy to the flame-flicker of Remmick's memories in her periphery -- the Celtic Hare, North Carolina, Neshoba -- what if he does what he's been hopin' t'do? What if I can see her?

Not like this.

The stake didn't land where it should've.

That was what she told herself as a wave of agony overtook her, a pain so intense it congealed the hazy present into part of a memory. Fever-sick and trembling, gripping a fistful of his shirt. The nausea of wrongness; the pressure of a too-small infant struggling her way into the world.

She had gripped Pearline. Taken a handful of the youngest vampire's dress as though the silk would be grounding. All the while mixing the past with the present - pale-gone lips parted over too-sharp teeth. The way he said her name when he needed her to focus. Familiar pain, worse than backin' up into the potbelly stove in the old house when she an' her brother played too rough - but almost the same. Heat.

Like a physical sensation, she felt him struggling to move. To get up and go to her; to drag her back inside by her sleeve if he was capable. The whirl of panic, bein' beside her while she was in labor, blocking the door as Remmick's teeth sunk into his tender throat. Only times he hadn't been able t'save her.

Seconds. Precious seconds. Still holding on, barely conscious of the act, Joan pulled. The hoarse sound she made might've been coherent. It might've been run. It might've been directed at the others. Cornbread. Mary and Stack. People she should've felt all wrapped up in her, but couldn't. Everything was a swirl of Remmick's pain amplified and multiplied by the sweet new kiss of flame.

Little heels not meant for digging into soft earth sunk deep only to pull out jagged. Lungs that didn't need air struggled to push out enough. Go go go please I'm comin' Jo-- please I'm comin' heat God pain no.

The door.