↻ J Ö R M U N G A N D R ↺ - - - The World Serpent - - -
Mythos-Based OC
21+. Indi. Semi-Private.
Open to modern
and historical threads.
( Main Blog: eddapoetic. )
( Sideblog: victoriautmorse. )
what's a king to a god?that's a god to a really big snake?
A study on the cycles of violence; breaking the fates; devouring the gods.
Written by JO (they/he), 21+, casual activity, selective. No affiliated fandom.
Available for both modern or historical threads.
ABOUT \\ GUIDELINES \\ PROMPTS \\ VERSES
// main blog: eddapoetic - will follow back from here
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&. KNOWING YOUR WRITING PARTNER CAN POTENTIALLY MAKE WRITING TOGETHER A LOT EASIER. REPOST. DON’T REBLOG.
– BASICS.
• ALIAS: jo
• PRONOUNS: they/he/he/heh
• SEXUALITY: queer
• TAKEN OR SINGLE: taken away (to a secret place, a sweet escape--)
– THREE FACTS.
I was a horse girl in middleschool, now I'm neighter a horse nor a girl--
Aside from writing I have a few art (and game) projects going on, which is why I'll sometimes go missing for days or weeks at a time.
I love sunflowers ✧。٩(ˊᗜˋ )و✧*。
– EXPERIENCE.
• HOW LONG (MONTHS/YEARS?): nineteen which means i'm legally allowed to write threads with alcoholic contents in most countries
• PLATFORMS YOU’VE USED: started in a swedish horse forum, went through various boards, rp forums, tumblr, discord, and now tumblr again /elmofire.png
• BEST EXPERIENCE: i've had the luxury and privilige to write with a few different rp groups over time, some of the people from which I sadly no longer talk very often to but still cherish, and others who've turned into persistent, long term and even offline friends <333 my current main squad is a small bunch of extraordinarily creative and wonderful people with whom i've had the joy to build a huge interconnected world-weave with over the last few years, and i can't express how much silly happiness i get just from coming up with new lore and playing binko blorbos in our heads together on the daily
there was also that one glee/supernatural crossover rp that was pretty wild
– MUSE PREFERENCES.
• FEMALE OR MALE: i don't know if I have a hard preference but incidentally I do find myself strafing towards characters with a nebulous, void or ambivalent gender identity (or characters of supernatural nature whose biology/structure and standards do not necessarily correlate with human norms, like aliens, andoids, etc) because i find them interesting to explore :0 do me genders like a dnd alignment chart, chaotic masc--
• FLUFF, ANGST OR SMUT: i like variety in all things but admittedly i am a sucker for action/peril and a combination of hurt/comfort at any given time 💦 i don't tend to incline towards smut or shipping so much on a whim (at least with people I have not written with very much before) but that is mostly because I really need the plot and character buildup to happen before the unhinged tomfoolery strikes me ( /// ..)///
• PLOTS OR MEMES: both!! all of my blogs are predominantly driven by pretty heavy plotting but I appreciate playing around with memes in between the hefty stuff ccc: i've also more than once had random, silly memes prompt some unexpectedly heavy character deep dives 🔍
• LONG OR SHORT REPLIES: a mix! short replies for casual/quick-fire stuff and longer/paragraph replies for anything significiant or plot heavy cc:💗i tend to struggle reading things with a lot of formatting/aesthetics but i do like to employ a simple icon or two here and there to split up text and help visualise the scene 'v'
• BEST TIME TO WRITE: too early in the morning to be sensible and too late at night to be responsible--
• ARE YOU LIKE YOUR MUSE(S): overtly, probably not, but i think it is inevitable when it comes to writing (drawing, most creative media etc.) that we keep sprinkling little parts of ourselves and our own experiences into the art we make, conciously or otherwise, finding ourselves in the themes that speak to us and the situations and relationships we like to explore in different ways. am i a man-eating snake locked in an endless cycle of strife between chaos and order leading up to a predestined death at the hands of cruel and unyielding gods? not really. do I have difficulty verbalising my needs, an easy crush on strong women, and a complicated relationship with my parents? well--
That, she knows. The plan had been too risky to to hand over to a group where sparks of dynamite had begun to light up cracks from the inside, threatening its structure. Though shameful, she accepts this entirely as her own fault, perhaps a spoonful of greed too big for one's belly that had nearly cost her everything. In spite of this, the gentleman's subtle groan prevents her from dwelling on such dour thoughts too long, instead travelling like the fingers of a ghost memory along her exposed nape, pricking her skin. Eyes dark as molasses watch as Jhin begins to melt from her gently teasing antics, raising light banter between them. How much she enjoyed him stoop for her was enough to line her soul up for salvation. How could anyone call a love like this a sin.
"Perhaps not." Dahlia agrees with a quiet smile, her focus almost entirely on their hands now, too entranced to think of eating when his hand cradled hers with shattering tenderness. And when he speaks of servitude, is she not to recall the intensity of his, every waking hour they'd ever spent in privacy? Her thoughts once more stray and she flusters, lowering her voice to an almost imperceptible whisper, the edge of a blunt fingernail lightly scraping the skin of his inner wrist. "Then serve me as you are." That would be enough. Too much for her heart to hold. Could he hold her still? Would he want to? Little else mattered; she would be overjoyed and overgrateful for his return to life. Oh, nothing else could matter.
She finds it prudent to let go of his hand then, doing so with a parting squeeze, then picking up her cutlery. Cold steel to cool the furnace of her palms, fanning the heat of unfulfilled longing threatening to crush her out in the open eye of the city. "You two had been bickering for a while." Though not surprised by this revelation, she is nevertheless intrigued. She begins to season her eggs with salt and pepper before plucking at the poached white to watch the yolk ooze all over the width of a slice of buttery, toasted bread, slicing a small chunk off of it along with a wedge of roasted tomato, then bringing a delicate bite to her lips.
Something swells in him-- at the fervor in her voice, serve me as you are, her grip, the scratch of her nail against the inner lining of his wrist, one of the few places still where even his skin remains soft-- and then it exhales, slowly through his nose, a measured sigh and wordless answer. Same as the one he gave before. The only one he can give her, right now, and so she seems to accept as she withdraws unto her end, parting the space, determined to at least try to eat before their food grows cold. It is not for lack of wanting. But rather than dwelling he lets the conversation carry elsewhere, wistfulness exchanged for lines upon his face as he recalls the days before their robbery.
She isn't wrong. They'd been at each other's throats before they even left the house. Garnering awkward, knowing looks from the rest of their crew as they with only the thundering of hooves into the west. Javier had tried to make a light of things and barely survived the sharpness of the Devil's retaliation and his own, long, silent stare with half his wit intact. Sitting at breakfast, now, Jhin takes the handle of the mug which had been idly steaming on the table, and brings it grudging to his mouth.
"You." The coffee's still hot enough to gently scald his tongue upon contact, but aside from a brief twitch at the budding crow's feet at the corner of his eye, Jhin drinks it anyway, letting the burn hit. Grumbling. "He wants you."
Fork found in kitchen. He continues once his hand - and the cup - lowers back down from a darkened upper lip and the grimace which has taken hold of it, emerging not so merely from the stark black bitterness of the roast, which is less satisfying than he can remember. Eyes seeking outwards through the faint, smudged grease stains on the window, he watches the morning bustle of the road outside, men headed to work, a ferrier struggling with a draft's disinterest to comply in getting shoed. Big, stubborn thing, set in its ways.
He knows that what he says is a surprise to not a soul in Winnemucca (nor the province), least of all to Dahlia, herself, and it hadn't been the first time that his and the devil's arguments had been incensed on that account--
In the past the old ranger's simply weathered it. Bit back, ignored it, fucked it out, whatever settled these incindiary flares in El Demonio and left them both too sore and stupid to remember what they had been fighting about in the first place. But the last time had been different - and not just on account of the literal trainwreck which succeeded it. No. There'd been teeth biting with intent to render flesh and not the sweetness of a kiss to make it better, afterwards. Hurt lingering with an uncertain twitching in his brow, like a wound that kept reopening. Or maybe they'd always been bleeding.
Dramatic arse shite, comes an echo at the backing of his mind.
It would be too easy to stay here, as she has before, during those five stolen minutes before they have to leave for a job and Dahlia pulls him aside, initiates a kiss, then brings his hand under her skirts to the open fire of her body. Something for the road. That same desperation that through her courses now, because while time is not an impediment there is the brunt of his extended absence to deal with. Tend to it. Make it worse. She grinds against the heel of his hand, sinking her weight into it as her breathing deepens and curls around low, melodious moans. He seeks precision and finds it too easily; like the Devil's fingers on that wailing guitar, knowing just where to hold and how to make it cry.
There is something to be said about the lock they keep each other in, this fervent desire to merge almost getting in the way of its own fulfilment. Hands everywhere, barely the room to breathe. Jhin pushes into her grip, a lapse of restraint she needs more of, rewarding it with a loving squeeze over the swollen tip of his cock, wetness smudging along her palm. She adds to it by turning her face to discreetly spit into her hand (there were limits to how much of her ladylike character she'd willingly break...) before resuming explorations. He's hard and deliciously heavy on delicate fingers, and with the right angling she begins stroking him against the soft ivory flesh of her inner thigh, her wrist moving in a fluid, unhurried motion, heedful of any rising tension or discomfort.
Instead, he's making jokes while actively destroying her every ability to focus. "No, all of it..." Wordplay? She replies with a whiny chuckle, having lost the thread of whatever conversation was going on between them that required intellect. His kisses are disorienting, the simmering heat he keeps her in, the little she can see in the dark. But, always, the light in his eyes when their paths cross, how his brow softens, how his voice comes like spring to winter. The shroud of her affection for him is almost too dense for her to notice him gazing back – where he may see loss she sees only salvation. Ground where there was none.
His words snap her out of that drunken, lovesick haze, short panic begins to rise– he soothes her by introducing another finger, and she's so distracted by how thoroughly she enjoys the blunt ache of being stretched by him that she almost forgets to respond. "This–" Dahlia stutters, struggling between voicing her own desire and needing to clarify his. Was this all he wanted for the evening? 'Could be satisfied'? Her face burns and her legs begin to struggle to stay put on the slope of his lap. "I'd give you everything. I'd–" Christ, it's too warm, there are too many clothes for how much time they're taking playing this game. Flustered, she frees her hands to hastily unlace her skirts, pulling them up and over her head, just barely dodging his face as she flings them aside, frustration coming ungracefully through.
She settles down in her torn chemise, sliding from his thighs to sit on her heels instead, mourning his fingers but needing a second to think straight. There's a disheveled and petulant sad look about her, head cocked slightly to the left, lightly pawing and clawing at his shirt to draw him nearer once more. "You don't want to fuck me?"
Between an exchange of their breaths and budding, dizzying warmth, the ranger's freed from within the prison of his clothing, a wavering exhale falling from his lungs and mingling with the sweet and wanting moans flowing from hers. Heedless of the somewhat unkept state of his beard, Jhin leans his head against the side of her face, eyes shut in momentary bliss - forgetting himself - and when Dahlia's hand so briefly ceases in her strokes he's left no time with which to despair before her clasp returns, clenched around him with new vigor, slick with something and directing him to rub against the fuzz and soft skin of her thigh. When her thumb flicks over his tip, he feels an eager clenching in his sack that could drive him half to foolery.
He's slow to notice any shift in her demeanour, the sudden fluster of her voice after he speaks-- too occupied by the tight, wet grip around his cock and the tighter, wetter squeeze around his fingers to play heed to her intial shift - only then to feel an exhale punching out of him as she retreats unceremoniously, as her hand withdraws once more where she has hold of him and he all but barely manages to avoid getting a face full of her skirts (which is not always such a poor thing).
Reeling from Dahlia's loss and faltering back, all six foot six of him blinks dumbfounded as the delving of his fingers slip mournfully free of her and she slides downwards from his lap, putting a distance inbetween yet never quite relinquishing her grip upon his leash, her tugging at his shirt. A brisk gust from the window exploits the lingering dampness of his shaft - the bead which gathers at the tip of it - and between a shiver and the way the woman cocks her head at him, Jhin almost passes by the meaning of her words entierly. Does he--
Hwuh?
"I have thought of little else since I returned." The ranger blurts, candid, confused, a little witless of the question whilst his dark brow twitches with puzzlement and he leans back against his haunches (wet hand tangling in the sheets), chest rising and falling with the light of their exertion while his cockstand juts abandoned from his breeches, equally stupid. He searches, watching her, waiting for his mind to catch up with the sight which is in front of him, willing his blood to flow back in the other direction for a moment-- then a low rumble builds in his throat, eyes grown darker at her pleading, at the quiver of her lip, a petulant kindling to his fires that both she and the devil seemed to have mastered when he wasn't looking.
Infuriating. Exhilarating.
He growls. Shirt shrugged too raptly and flung somewhere behind him on the floor--
"I would have taken you against the door." Jhin thrums, catching the slender of Dahlia's wrists within the handhold of his own and looming forwards, moving over her, pushing her bare against the bedding and the sheets. "The table--", if he'd thought Gloria would forgive him, "--the stair." Continuing with the woodframe creaking under them (again) he pins her back against the pillows with an arm on either side, exposing the mounting of her breasts framed by the torn chemise, the softness of her belly, maneouvering himself to fit between her thighs again. He spreads her with his hips, and in a rut presses the firm length of his girth against her folds. Slick with her wetness. Hard with his want.
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❛ i never planned to have you on my mind this often. ❜ / Thorne&Jormun
❛ you matter to me, fool. ❜ (gently edited--) / Thorne&Jormun
❛ i have been taught to kill, but never how to love. ❜ (gently editedx2) / Thorne&Jormun
any of these /peek
& Valentine's libations – accepting !
@varldsormr // Jormun
source (x)
There's something profoundly tragic about how they only seem to be getting words out when they're silly drunk and/or on the precipice of something – usually Thorne convalescing from injuries indirectly self-inflicted as a result of consistently poor life choices. It's a double-tragedy because Jormun so rarely opens up that, when he does, the devil is so thoroughly flattened that he can't respond with anything intelligent let alone mature. And by drunk he means... drunk drunk. So drunk he can hardly get it up so he's all hands and no game, but it's fine if the big man can still do it, because he can certainly take it. Jesus, no, head on straight, a shake and a hard blink. What had he been talking about?
"I'm hard to get rid of." He retorts, proudly, mouth all teeth and rum breath. Above them, an ocean of stars swirl slowly, blurring together in and out of focus. Waves lap at the shore a few feet in front of them as they recline against the dunes, Thorne's guitar long set aside, shoulder to shoulder. The night is peaceful and dark and cool, and he'd been thinking about his mother again. About Dahlia, and the ones who'd grown tired of him before death came. I'm just a toy, use me then lose me, the line comes back to him – the beginning of his downward spiral.
He mulls over his friend's gentle reassurance, a branch offered. Sheepishly, he looks at Jormun, so much sincerity in such a massive body. Between them, a tangled nest of feelings they continuously failed to make heads or tails of. They are precious though. This is. It doesn't need a name.
"I'm sorry to make you listen to Sad Hours FM. You're a good friend." He bites down on the inside of his cheek, swallows the discomfort that comes with the word. Friend is an anaemic term when you've loved someone for half a fucking millennium. Thorne's head drops for him to nuzzle his cheek against the serpent's shoulder, trying not to poke him in the face with one of his horns. He keeps it up for a while, groaning contentedly, inching up so his nose is pressed to Jormun's hair and the rubbing continues against his jaw and cheek like a starved cat. With a sigh he relents at last and takes another miserable swig.
"I don't know. I would love you even if you tried to kill me. You must be doing somethin' right."
There are diamonds in his voice. He speaks to her in prayer, something reserved just for her, just this once, and within her breast blooms the most formidable feeling. Like vines of love and longing taking root, consuming every beat of her heart, every trembling gesture; she steadies any clumsiness, she wants this too much to be modest about it. This isn't lust, it's possession. "Show me." Dahlia echoes back to him, her focus swooning with the shift of his hand, the dance of his fingers where she burns for him. He'd find her wet and aching, her greed all teeth as she takes his digit with a sway of lithe hips – there's always that first breach that feels transgressive, the breath gone out of her, body bracing.
Relief, too. As Jhin anchors inside, her knees bracing on either side of his lap, her mouth falls to his freely, openly. She kisses him with utter abandon, her reverence loosely flowing with each brush of tongues, drinking the salt from his lips, and wastes not another second reorienting her hands south, making quick work of his buttons to offer him some relief. In between wrestling layers of overspilling fabric, Dahlia frees enough space to glide her arm between them where her own fingers might reach to firmly claim him in her grip, dispersing any doubts regarding her certainty on the matter. Point made and her knuckles slacken to instead offer a gentle, more appreciative stroke, a hum rolling from the depths of her throat that sees their kiss momentarily part.
In the dark, she meets his eye with a look etched of pride and content; to know she held this much power over Jhin that barely any coaxing was needed. Sure, time and distance might have lent an extra hand, but the sherry wants her to believe her presence and touch are to blame. Of course, this is only what she hears on the street, in ladies' spaces when the gossip gets raunchy... "Point taken." She still teases, lighthearted, knowing she was calling the kettle back by how eagerly she beckoned more of his fingers. Her right hand rises to gingerly brush locks of coarse waves from his face, sight which she savours like a lovestruck fool, before resting her forehead against his, eyes shut, sinking more fully into their combined pace.
She beats him to the fore rolling her hips into his hand, against the delving of his fingers and the blunt press of the tip which lingers at the breach of her; dry save for the easing of the way which she provides, the ranger's pupils growing dark as the digit slick with wanting sinks within her. Half of it, within her sway, and to the knuckle with his greed. Whispers and sweetness in between them - plain yearning interspersed with plainer rawness - it is a crude reunion in contrast, the ranger's mouth felt parched where he regrets it is his thumb which slips between his lover's folds seeking the swelling underneath her hood, that it is the rougher flatness of his palm and not his tongue which provides an ample breadth for her to rut against, in rhythm--
Yet he is left to mourn against her kiss, into their leader's heated claim upon his being, mind and soul just as she readily lays claim upon his body for her own, whatever parts of him that she can wrestle and unwind whilst taking him deeper in herself. With every sigh and motion Dahlia unspools another thread, disrobes his reticence, and in return the arm around her back relieves to brace behind her neck, Jhin's own lips parting to greet her sudden hunger with his own. To swallow her passions and the liquor of her taste whilst she goes hastily at work between them, cue another round of ruffling awkwardly around the skirts to find her prize, the suffocating confines of his crotch a much more easy thing to stoically neglect before she wraps a hand around the aching of his girth.
With a flutter lids fall shut, and he drowns a hiss into her mouth; her fingers seizes him as such that for a moment he wonders if she means to choke the dregs of his restraint and all sensible thought out through his cock, and very well she might - to which he would not be unamiable - because the woman takes his breath as readily as if she'd grasped him by the throat, spurring a clenching in his haunches just as pitifully eager.
With Dahlia braced on her knees, her supple thighs parted aside yet clutching tight around his legs, the old ranger forgets himself enough to buck his hips shortly against her, into the mercy of her hand, against the back of his own which grinds the movement of his fingers back into her whilst the bed creaks out in protest. Outside, the weather spatters rain against the glass, and beyond the bedroom door, all step and clatter from downstairs is all but lost to him. Only her sounds, her voice rings to his ear - as does his chuckle, as she plays him.
"Only the point?" Jhin thrums against her - a touch of amusement in his hum - curling the finger nestled snug within her velvet with his words and swirling his thumb over the her nub, daring to toy. When she withdraws to give them air he's led to chase the wet and flushing reddening of her lips, stealing a quicker, chaster kiss before they lean to one another, resting his forehead against hers - and looking up to meet her eyes, caught with a thin light as she gazes at him through the dark, like a dream of many restless nights spent wishing for a sight that's half as beautiful as this. Briefly, he wonders what she sees, a man of nowhere, and of nothing, run and ragged as he is - still quicker too the thought is willed away.
"I could be satisfied with this." He speaks, seeking his solace in the flesh, and with the urging swaying of her hips conveying a request she does not voice, his hand withdraws from underneath her, two fingers sliding back between her folds, over her hood, until they both return to fill her once again in unison, pushing together at the tight rim of her muscle. Watching her face, with an intentness in his eye. "Anything you'd give me."
He is always half-stone, this one. The other lights up like a spark through a hayfield at the slightest provocation, but Jhin would endure the undressing and mounting and pleading stoically, immovable despite the conflict writ on his features, the edge of his desire slipping from his tongue. And thus Dahlia continued in her efforts to lure him from the cave before shame had a chance to strike her (for her status, for her body, for mere want of connection). She continues to grab more of his shirt as her neck rests into the cradle of his hand, eyelids fluttering, lips in prayer. At last, Jhin robs their kiss with a growl – there, there, thunder striking through the mountain, splitting his ground. The breaking point.
She yelps helplessly at the sudden, violent tear of her stays, the motion catching her off guard and spiking her heart with something dangerously akin to fear, there one second and... there the next. Jhin holds briefly still while his eyes trace the lines of her sternum and belly, her chemise caught in the rip and baring an indecent amount of skin. The lady remains partly frozen until he moves again, until that felt drop of terror sizzles into her burning desire, though her heart still races from the shock. She offers to assist him with the chatelaine, setting it aside on the nightstand so they wouldn't accidentally step on it in the dark, then lifts her hips and bends at the knees for the stripping of her intimates, which warrants a short laugh after feeling him look for his North under all those layers.
At last, she is relieved to be reeled back into her lover's arms, settling quite comfortably into the width of his lap and the most generous promise it held. Dahlia shakily peels off her stays to remain only in the torn cotton slip, stockings and skirts, and all pointy accessories cast aside she devotes herself to hastily untucking his shirt from his breeches, her forehead pressed to his. She seeks his warmth and comfort amidst the brute strength of his drive, and still, still, the permission to kiss him, which she requests with a series of– "Yes. Yes, yes." and gentle brushes, softly pecking the corners of his mouth, saying yes to his wandering hand, to his tantalising question.
Yes, though they always discover that it is almost invariably a no whenever they try to rush after such a dry spell, which frustrated her to no end. So yes, yes would be the answer, determined, shifting her seat to encourage the route of his fingers to graze the source of her heat and sample at will. A little help, just a little help and she could get there. Greedily, Dahlia sweeps her fingers under his shirt and up along his belly, splaying them across the plushness of his chest with a contented sigh that closes her eyes as she burrows against him, waiting.
Their breaths are one and the same within the space they share; warm with want and barely stayed from growing heavy with anticipation, his own catching a waver as Dahlia runs her hand beneath all pretenses of armour, smoothing the soft pads of her fingers over his skin. The wait for her permission is nonextant - and yet it seems an age whilst he must sit and feel her trail the path of darker hairs under his breeches to his chest, senses set shivering, just as they had when the band had stepped in from cold as they returned, opening the door to feel a gentle air of warmth rush out from within. Grazing, over all the cold and weary parts of them.
There's a fire and a balm for all his ails within his arms and yet the frost still bites, his need still aches, and it is not enough-- but Jhin would freeze joyously if she denied him, cast him out into the night, cherishing the gift of any embers she'd bestowed him. Her hurried answers come like relief, the cascading brushes of her lips like waves lapping at shore threatening to drown him if he dives too quickly, and he would let her. After these sleepness nights, he would let her.
But he has no more reach for eloquence than she does. That would require parsing his longing with a different kind of head.
"Then show me." He breathes for both of them, voice betraying that this is not a commandment, but a plea, as a hint of his own desperation nevertheless slips through into his words - the yearning heard in a tone that falls close to a whisper, strumming in his throat, in the arm around her waist which pulls her taut against him, and in the weathered hand which slips over the skin under her skirts;
With her assent he delves somewhere unseen and yet it might as well be home, the ranger's touch smoothing over the inner lining of her thigh into descent further beneath her, until the breadth of his palm can fit over the heat between her legs and fingers which were never made for fine work nevertheless sift gingerly through ginger curls. Ringfinger and fore slide down the outline of her lips on either side, parting them only enough to tease the length of his middle to the wetness in-between, and edging where it offer to slip deeper. Feeling his heart sieze, and a much more primal part of him ache at the mere suggestion of her want.
❛ if i kissed you, i do not think that I could stop. ❜
❛ you had my heart before i could say no. ❜ / Dahlia&Jhin
& Valentine's libations – accepting !
@varldsormr // Jhin
source (x)
Dahlia does not take lovers.
Because she is a woman, especially in her line of work, responsible for feeding eight mouths including her own, to keep a roof over their heads – she does not take lovers. A man would want her to back down, to marry, to bear children, to make him feel like he has a purpose on God's earth. And it isn't that she is strongly against settling down, but that there is more to her life than living in someone else's shadow, or being someone's wife. There is a whole community that depends on how she plays her hand.
For these reasons, and then some, keeping a companion becomes a fantasy for the lonely, early hours and holds no place at the table of her affairs. Before Thorne there had only been another – a boy, a journalist, pining across the street and exchanging sweets but nothing else. Boarding the train headed West put a quick end to all that.
"Did you know I made the first move." She had confessed to Jhin as they sat on the porch steps, away from the revelry of the house, boys being boys drunk on New Year's celebrations. Her words carry shame, the very same she so often held close to her body, womanhood she tried to wash, cut off, and then stitch back again. She had boarded that train just a girl. 'That is your most precious gift', meant for a husband. Meant for someone to take. So there comes a time when your body will stop being yours, and they will fight over it, who gets to be there first. Such commotion. Such violence.
She picked him. Someone who would never be a husband. Someone who wouldn't care, and who'd follow her regardless, and adore her, blood or not. In hindsight, maybe there had been something in the blood, because now the trouble was getting the devil to stop pestering her for a hot minute. At least it was done.
But ruin didn't come. Not then.
It came later, when Jhin washed up in town and her heart crawled up to her mouth. They took him in. For weeks she wouldn't eat right, think straight; she'd walk into corners, furniture, slam fingers, burn her neck on the hot iron while curling her hair. Wherever he was she had to nail herself to the floor to prevent gravity from taking her too. It crept up like a low, mad fever, robbing her of sleep and focus, too aware of the noises coming from the next room, learning the sound of his steps on the corridor, heavy and measured, wishing they would linger by her door.
Understand that Dahlia does not take lovers, and for her to ask, at the dawn of the new year, "Would you kiss me, if I asked you to?" it took several planets to align, endless moons and bleeding in between, two glasses of sherry and a gargantuan ocean of longing that she could no longer contain. There, on the porch, under the cosmic tapestry of the night sky, umber eyes glimmer, reticent but hopeful.
Jhin is quiet for a while. His tides move slowly but drag the earth beneath them, beneath her feet, and she wonders if he can tell she's trembling under warm layers of shawls and knits. When his answer finally pierces the air between them, she has half a mind to search for his hand in the dark and bring it tentatively to her lips, desperately refusing to break contact. God, let her be in the halo of his love, even if it's borrowed, even just for the night.
"You wouldn't have to stop." She holds his gaze with all the steadiness she can muster, the seam of her lips brushing gingerly over weathered knuckles. Her voice fans out over his skin. "I don't think I would want you to." Still, she was certain he would – that he'd never take anything more than what she put out. Restraint had been hard-earned with some of the joyful idiots in the house, but not with Jhin. He would halt at the lift of a finger, that much she knew.
What she doesn't know is how to process the idea that her feelings might be reciprocated, and that whatever grew in her, had grown in him too. A stubborn weed taking roots, blooming in the inhospitable arid land.
How many wrong turns did they have to take to find each other out here?
"Even if you had no choice, I hope you let me keep it."
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THORNE ASTAIRE. car crash of a velvet-clad demon, will charm you out of what you have and don't have. revelation or your money back.
tiefling OC, lifted from d&d and set loose on dash. ind/sel/priv. carrd.
♤ mature themes + incorrigible behaviour
♤ side blog est. 11/2023 + main
♤ puppeteered by marmelo (25+, she/her, gmt+1)
MINORS DNI.
– foreword –
01. he's a tramp, but they love him.
02. this is a mature & nsfw roleplay account. I’ll do my best to tag such posts as nsfw / as well as any trigger warnings as trigger tw.
03. I follow people I would love to interact with and whose writing I admire. I favour prose-heavy blogs. similarly, this blog will remain mostly iconless.
04. excessive text formatting is inaccessible for me, so I may not follow you based on this, sorry!
05. I feel uncomfortable when people post too much OOC content unrelated to roleplay. I'm here exclusively to take a break from the world.
06. IC ≠ OOC . I am not my characters and they do not necessarily reflect my personal beliefs.
07. plotting!!!!! preferred, favoured, highly requested. don't be shy to hit up my dms, ask me a bunch of questions, let's cook something together. that said, I do accept memes from mutuals.
08. I’m pretty bad at updating carrds and lore stuff, most of it lives in my head in a state of disarray but I will happily tell you more about Thorne via chat.
09. queer & neurodivergent. please respect my pace.
The question is posed to him as though Nis doesn't already full well know what he's after— something of more substance, a willingness to get stuck in and actually have a conversation about all this. Here he is, Christ he'd come all this way and taken the initiative to get something started here. As though he were about to turn heel and march on home with naught to show for his intent, it had taken him months to work over his own stubbornness and even get to this point of reaching out to him again.
Just thinking about it was getting him riled even more.
"You're not satisfied. I'm not satisfied." Euan raises his arms either side of himself before dropping them loudly against his own flanks in a form of bewildered protest, continuing to stare daggers at Nis' broad back. Certainly wasn't about to head home until he looked him in the damn face. "Is that how it's gunna be then? Just us both bein' miserable until the days ebb and we both see oblivion?"
He was impatient. It's been years now and already this had gone on too long, he's not about to let it wander so far that might threaten to venture beyond their reach.
"You seem satisfied enough with him." The serpent bites, snapping at whatever branch it is the other has extended, which feels more like an instrument to jab at him than an attempt at reconsolidation. With this suspicion of the Scotsman's recent whereabouts, his company-- his fist grows tight around the handle of the knife, hacking through grain more than he carves it, putting more force into his method than he ought until the blade slips and he hisses a curse beneath his breath upon the burn, the sting, the fickle metal cutting cleanly through the soft skin between forefinger and thumb. Blood stains the wood, and with a huff, he casts it aside.
Festering is easy with the distance of an ocean and the isles between them, but come to face him, there is only so long he can play these bitter parts. He cares for games no more than Euan does; He wishes to speak? Then they shall speak.
"You travelled far." The giant starts, voice low and rumbling with a hint of accusation as he pushes himself upwards from the log, hands on the weathered fabric of his knees and relenting but quiet grunt of effort. Moving to stand he turn towards his old companion, each of them stood indignantly against the trampled silt and gritted ground, and Jormun stubbornly resists the urge to soften as he lays his eyes upon him. Something hard, and cold, within them.
"Tell me, what it is you have been doing in the south."
Oh, she had had very little intention of withdrawing her hand. She was merely alleviating the pressure after that corrective smack, but before her limb can relax it is brusquely seized in the granite grip of her companion's weathered fist, commanding the attention of every fibre of her being. Thorne meets Jormun's eye, lashes faintly fluttering, a breath held between them alongside the burning knife of those words.
Those fucking words.
Flint strikes, flame coming alive in his core. They're so close he could have just reached out and kissed him, because he's in the bad habit of doing things without asking, because maybe he wants the slap and the shove and to be put back in Hell where he belongs. But he doesn't. He lets the moment linger and savours again the promise of what can't be. A velvety note, melted right over his tongue. "Sólo me quieres cuando tienes frío." Then the lamentation, because this is no conversation, just him prying and Jormun... tolerating.
He sighs and drinks, fiddles with his jewellery, gazes restlessly at the eclectic, living crowd. His hand abandons its perch, still uncertain if it's a fury he can tempt. Should they find a room, a bath? He has half a mind to offer a massage, oils, fingers in toes, mouth around– no, heavens, the nectar unravels him and the clock continues to taunt him. He says nothing.
"It's either this, the circus or the pyre, darling. Come, shall we dance? I don't think I can sit here and do nothing."
'You only love me when you're cold' are the words which flow from Thorne within that moment. Warm like an embrace, sharp like nails digging into his back; seizing the serpent, all the same. 'I'm always cold', he has a thought to answer, but does not, before they part - because there is truth to it which knits his brow and makes his tongue feel heavy, and because he does not know what that admission might do to them. The Fire and the Ocean, whose tempest is the only part worthy of wanting.
It isn't sentiment the devil seeks from him. It cannot be. Can it?
Jormun falls silent (furrowed, confounded), listening to the fidgeting which ensues next to him. Considering the meaning of the words whilst his sobriety rebels against him. He wants to offer something greater by a means of conversation, yet a part of him is weary of what else might tumble from his lips if liquor loosened them enough. Questions or embarassments or both. In opposition to the antsy spirits of the tiefling, he might've been content simply to stay there in their corner - with their comfortable tufted seats - and so when Thorne speaks up again, breaking him from his muddled train of thought to invite him out, Jormun's first instinct is to hrm and turn his gaze out to the gallivanting crowd with a look that's skeptical at best--
But to remain and to do nothing until the night whittles away (leaving them both where they began) would defeat the purpose of him being here. This much he must begrudgingly admit.
And, it is not what Thorne would want. If words will not abide him, let his actions do. It will either ease the tension or spill it over.
"... Very well." The giant relents, placing the glass against the surface of the table with a deterministic 'clack' before he then proceeds to offer up his hand unto the other. Arm. Whichever part of him he needs. The surety of his decision is, however, in stark contrast to the faith put in his legs, or his ability to manage anything resembling graceful prancing. Gods, but with their witness and the wine, he would let Thorne make a fool of him, tonight. "But if I stumble and crush you, do not whimper."
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It catches in his throat: an answer he doesn't want to swallow, because it will not assuage his misery. A hundred years apart and Thorne would have at least hoped for something more tangible than a vague remark. Yes, it'd been great, just what he'd been needing, he is rejuvenated and eager to see what else life may unfold – that sort of stuff. Not a thousand-yard rip in their timeline for nothing. The tiefling shuts his eyes to find his centre, and when he opens them he chases the feeling with a deep, dislodging breath, despondently reaching for his chalice to further partake in the ichor. Wouldn't call himself wise in any shape or form, but he wasn't naive either. Some things just didn't have a reason.
He dulls his unease with another intoxicating sip, letting the poison work through him, make him malleable. There maybe wasn't a point in discussing this further, certainly not with the clock ticking. She isn't oblivious about how her withdrawal kills the warmth between them, or how Jormun's eyes follow her like a trace of smoke. She means not to punish him, and needs only a moment to get to the root of what she is feeling.
When an unexpected compliment flies carelessly from bronze lips, the devil freezes. He swallows, then coughs, and grows flustered at an embarrassing rate, the bony fingers of his right hand steadying his throat. In all their years, he doesn't think he's heard that from the giant's mouth, certainly not aimed at him. If he has, it might have been drowned in a drunken haze, gone with the first rays of morning sun. Almost as soon as he comes to his senses he begins to tentatively melt back into his seat. The length of his thigh inches slightly left so it presses against Jormun's again, and he reacquaints himself with the hide lining of the serpent's jacket, some pleasantness returning to his face.
"Having a patron pays off then, if it makes you look." He purrs, morphing seamlessly between distraught devil and impish concubine. In the same breath, a particular thought registers that makes Thorne deliver a playful yet loud smack to his friend's leg, eyes narrowing in accusation.
"Did you cross half of France on foot simply because you're in heat?"
The choke alarms him at first, snapping the giant's gaze back with a start; senses alert and yet befuddled, he watches the sleek frame of the other try and vie for her composure (puzzled, faintly concerned) before he notices a darkness of her cheeks. A warmth reaching the sharp tip of her ears. Is that...? For all the devil's flirt she flusters with surprising ease, even at his stilted, fumbling words, bringing the subtle luster of a flush onto her exposed collars and deepening an already vibrant hue. It is... oddly charming, in a way. If not as ever merely curious to see his friend thrown off the smoothness of her paces, once in a while. Another thing he's missed, 'midst many.
Feeling a near threatening hotness in his own face, he tracks Thorne's movements when he shifts, idling uncertain where they're headed. Bittersweet yet entertained he dares allow himself a chuckle at her comment (taking it for an olive branch), a sound sunk to the bottle as the serpent wets his lips again, though this time slighter. There's something in the heavy frame of him which reacts against the purring lilting in Thorne's voice, something which feels faint, gentle relief when his friend sinks back into his nook, and wordlessly he meets the inching of her knee with a tilt of his own.
-- And then she claps his thigh hard enough to echo in their booth, and a twitch of Jormun's eye flinches comedically, the serpent snorting loud as though affronted by the accusation, aggrieved. Whiskey aside the serpent leans in closer, catching the haughty retreat of his companion's hand before it has a chance to fully withdraw, his pupils narrowed then grown dark mustering a rumble in his voice;
"If I were, we would not be having conversation."
A hard gaze laced with purposeful intent holds for a moment, and then he lets.
"Sore feet is a small price to pay for seeing you again." Jormun adds on, matter of factly whilst he relinquishes his grasp upon the tiefling's wrist and eases back again, same as he were. They might consider it a sort of penance, perhaps, his dull aches, meager as it may be - though with the way the wine is working he suspects he will be sore yet further still, come sun up. Faintly, he grimaces. "Don't know how you find these places, though."
THE PRE-ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP MEME 0.2
send me a ✿ and i’ll fill out the template below. bold for things i could definitely see or want, italics for things i could see or am unsure of and striked out for things i don’t want or cannot see.
FRIENDSHIP. childhood friends / work buddies or coworkers / family friends / friends with benefits / smoking buddies / adventure buddies (if lestat ever feels like mountaineering) / fake friends / recently friends (depending on timeline) / party buddies (drunk and rowdy) / friendship of need / dying friendship / circumstantial friendship / partners in crime (somehow he keeps getting sucked in by these flamboyant types) / old friendship / [ your muse ] is the good influence (frivolity is good for him) / [ your muse ] is the bad influence / [ my muse ] is the good influence / [ my muse ] is the bad influence / opposites attract / ride or die / frenemies / roommates or flatmates / penpals / exes to friends / enemies to friends (he starts a lot of his relationships like this) / other
ROMANCE. childhood sweethearts / [ your muse is mines ] childhood crush / [ my muse is yours ] childhood crush / exes / exes to lovers / forbidden lovers / highschool sweethearts / secret relationship / opposites attract / long distance / unrequited [ from your muses side ] / unrequited [ from my muses side ] / unrequited [ from both sides ] / skinny love / friends to lovers / enemies to lovers / spurious relationship / power couple / newly entered / soulmates [ metaphorical ] / soulmates [ literal ] / awkward / turning toxic / toxic love / cheating [ on your muse ] / cheating [ with your muse ] / other
FAMILIAL. siblings [ half ] / siblings [ step ] / [ my muse ] is an older sibling figure to your younger sibling figure / [ my muse ] is a younger sibling figure to your older sibling figure muse / [ my muse ] is a parental figure to yours / [ my muse ] is a child figure to your muse / guardian figure / legal guardian / adoptive child / foster child / [ your muse ] is taken under mines wing / [ my muse ] is taken under yours wing / other
ANTAGONISTIC. dangerous to each other (to shreds you say) / dangerous to others (their audience) / unpredictable (unstoppable force vs immovable object) / rivals / petty / developing into sexual or romantic tension / based off family matters / based of off circumstance / based of professional matters / based off misunderstanding or lies (infamously great communicators both of them) / conflict of ideology / betrayal / hero - villain dynamic / enemies / fight club (he's welcome to hit him again--) / friends turned enemies / lovers turned enemies / exes turned enemies / other