mysticdeath

[mysticdeath]

"I'm so tired of waiting - aren't you? - for the world to become good and tolerable and kind." / to bonnie

they sit upon a knife's edge. a place where the air is heavy with all the words once hurled like stones and the unspoken ones that lingered like ghosts in the hollow spaces between breaths. bonnie stared at kai, his words— tainted with the sharp, metallic tang : BITTERNESS —coiling around her like smoke. her chest tightened. the weight of his question, rhetorical and raw, pressing down heavy against her ribs. WAITING. for kindness. for the world to bleed gold instead of red. she hated that his question made her hesitate. made her feel. “you want kindness, but you don't know what it means. you think it's softness, don't you? easy, clean. kindness isn't that. it's choosing love in a world that only gives you reasons to hate.” her jaw clenched, her voice like silk stretched far too thin. SOON IT'LL BREAK.

but the ache in her chest didn't belong to kai — it belonged to the part of her that still wanted him to choose, even now. “you've never chosen it.” her words dropped like stones into a the chasm between them. silence stretched, and for once, bonnie didn't fill it. she simply sat. WAITING, TOO. for kai didn't speak— he rarely stayed quiet this long. it leaves this silence louder than any retort, deafening in its own kind of chaos. she hated him for that, too. for making her wonder if, buried beneath the wreckage, there was something real in him. something worth saving. she draws a breath and turns her gaze to stone, as hard and unyielding as the prison they once were trapped in. “you want the world to change, but you can't even change yourself.” at last, the break comes. the crack in her voice that allows her words to fall like exhausted embers into the space between them. “and you talk about waiting, but i've spent my entire life waiting, kai. waiting to forgive. TO FORGET. to stop fighting. but i don't want to wait anymore. because i know better … i know people like you? you don't change. and you won't make me believe it.”

i'm not your final girl, accepting.

[mysticdeath]

something inside her shifts — not fractures as freya's heart has, BUT UNFOLDS, slow and delicate. a blossom coaxed to life by the rarest light. rebekah listens as her sister speaks, and the words twine around her like threads of silk. they soothe her, yes, but they also unearth something long buried. something raw, trembling. something aching to be held. she tilts her head, freya's hands warm against her porcelain skin. "you speak as though you owe me the world," like a violin bow trembling over the strings, the vampire's voice is low and unsteady as she murmurs. "but freya, you've already given me more than i ever dreamed i could have."

lashes sweep down, hiding her eyes as memories rise unbidden : centuries spent tethered to her brothers, who loved her in ways as jagged as the shards of a shattered mirror. niklaus, with his love like iron chains. SUFFOCATING, BRUISING, UNYIELDING. kol, a blade cloaked in charm, his affections always tinged with danger. as deadly as the sharpened edge of a wooden blade he'd press against her heart. elijah, whose care was a quiet indictment, a shadow of unspoken disappointment. finn — well, her eldest brother had made it plain he did not see her at all. "and yet," a sigh through the cracks, she breaths. "i never realized how much i craved this. a sister." her gaze lifts now, crystalline blue meeting freya's with the weight of lifetimes. "someone to soften the sharp edges, catch me when i fall, to love me simply because i exist. not in spite of my flaws or as an extension of a duty."

she pulls back ever so slightly, but only so she can study her sister's face. there's a tenderness there she doesn't know how to name. IT FRIGHTENS HER, and it anchors her. "do you know how strange it is, freya? to have love that doesn't leave scars? i didn't know it was possible, sister." pink lips curve into a tremulous smile, though her eyes brim with tears. "you've made me greedy. i want this— US —forever. if i lost you now …" she swallows hard, the admission sitting heavy between them. an unspoken promise carved into eternity. "i wouldn't survive it. i wouldn't even try, for you are a part of my heart, too. you've made me whole."

@mysticdeath, rebekah said, you've been so kind to me , freya .

SOMETHING IN HER HEART FRACTURES, and repairs itself all at once. freya feels the dams of the water of life breaking at the corners of her eyes, a breath screeching to a halt in her lungs before it rushes out like a gust of wind. she raises her palms ( calloused and smooth, years of witchcraft creating a woman riddled with contradictions ) to rebekah's cheeks, cupping her ageless face: countenance of a young girl unmarred, eyes that have seen the rise and fall of empires. ❝ my dear sister, ❞ freya breathes. only sister. her flesh, her bone, her blood, born of the same tree ring ― kept from her for so long. the gods would weep if they ever saw the ravine in freya mikaelson's very soul. ❝ i have done little in regards to what you deserve. if i could spend the next nine centuries making up for time lost, i would in a heartbeat. ❞ their parents should have been razed to the ground centuries ago for what had been done unto them all.

a watery smile stretches tremulously across her lips, which she presses to the original's temple for a beat. ❝ what else are big sisters for? ❞ the humor is purposefully clumsy: rebekah, older than freya ever will be. but she would still take the burden for them all. ❝ you are a part of my heart, rebekah. understand? ❞

[mysticdeath]

“ Come on, I'm taking you ice skating." // For Rebekah

twin pools of cerulean blue blink. a tired mind cannot comprehend even the simplest request, leaving stiles' words to hang in the air like delicate snowflakes, each one a whisper of something precious. ICE SKATING. in over a thousand years of living— surviving —she had never once danced upon frozen water. instinctively, her hands sought the soft fabric of his coat, grounding herself in its tangible warmth against the sudden chill of her nerves. “i've never …”

rebekah started, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. it betrays her vulnerability; her breath caught in her throat. was it fear? or that intoxicating feeling he stirred in her, the sensation of being utterly alive? — she threads her fingers with his and finds she does not need to finish the sentence. HE KNOWS. somehow he always knew. “fine, but i warn you—” lips curved into a smile, tentative yet full fo something rare : HOPE. “if i fall and you laugh, you'll regret it.”

[mysticdeath]

" how long did it take you to paint this ? " / for klausy

how long? the words are nearly laughable as they danced in the air between them, an errant leaf caught in a breeze. THEIR SIMPLICITY MOCKED. their pellucid nature laughing at the storm of his process — klaus's fingers traced the erratic strokes of crimson and gold on the canvas : his latest battlefield disguised as beauty, AS RELIEF.

"a lifetime." atypically, the hybrid's answer is soft. his voice steeped in something between regret and derision — OR MAYBE IT WAS SIMPLY DISILLUSION? though his fingers continued to brush carefully along the edge of the frame as if it were fragile. as if he knew that it had endured his rage. "and yet … only a day." klaus's eyes finally flicked to the doppelgänger, a stormy gaze of something unnamable. "time is a cruel artist, elena."

[mysticdeath]

" Why do your paintings look like knock off Monets for Temu? "

storm clouds unfurling over a doomed village : a wolfish grin. klaus tilted his head, taking in the human's comment — such audacity was a spark in the dry tinder of his centuries - old pride. "knock - off monets?" he repeated the sentence like it was sour, voice dripping with mock amusement, though his grip on the paintbrush tightened until wood splintered.

"for temu, no less. truly a connoisseur's critique." stiles' irreverence was maddening, and yet — the slightest flicker of admiration danced in his chest. SUCH DEFIANCE WAS RARE. still, his gaze lingered on the canvas. chaotic swirls of color, agony disguised as art. "careful stiles. even jesters bleed."

[mysticdeath]

nicole wallace and gabriel guevara in culpa mía (2023)

[mysticdeath]

༶ bites (for sustenance) — aurora, klaus, rebekah. ༶ bites (for affection) — bonnie, lizzie, liv, davina, rafael. ༶ bites (for pleasure) — vicki, jenna, hope, davina, bonnie, kaleb, rebekah, hayley, rafael. ༶ bites (for claim) — stefan, hope, hayley, rafael, klaus. ༶ bites (for violence) — hayley, hope, kaleb, vicki. ༶ bites (for a confusion tactic) — liv, jenna. ༶ has weaponized the bite — klaus. ༶ does not bite — vincent. ༶ can/will bite but prefers to be bitten — aurora, caroline, lizzie. ༶ does not bite but really likes to be bitten — landon.

[mysticdeath]

the onset of mockery and fraternal arrogance. "oh, henrik, forgive me. did i strike a nerve? fancy yourself too ancient for discipline? REMIND ME — how many centuries of wisdom have you accrued in your oh - so - lengthy mortal existence?" klaus tilts his head, the smirk on his lips widening into something darker.

"shall i fetch you a mirror so you can see how adorably petulant you look? or can we skip to the part where we no longer have to pretend, little brother, that your antics don't warrant intervention?" he steps closer, hands clasped carefully behind his back. "now, be a good lad, and humor me, won't you? after all, grounding you is the least violent option available to me."

Henrik stared at @mysticdeath as if he had two heads. ❝ I beg your pardon, dear brother, my ears must be deceiving me, because it sounds like you are trying to ground me right now as if I am some BLOODY child.❞

[mysticdeath]

❛   company .   silently  sit  with  my  muse  to  comfort  them. To bekah

the perfect portrait of porcelain and ruin : rebekah sat curled on the chaise, an unforgiving frost creeping through her chest as she clutched a centuries - old bracelet she could not bear to wear. klaus's words still echoed, sharp as the dagger he'd once used to silence her / YOU WILL ALWAYS WANT WHAT YOU CANNOT HAVE, LITTLE SISTER. LOVE IS NOT FOR YOU. — it's a betrayal that rings sharp in her mind, a place where promises of loyalty often turn to ash. she was never meant to win at life. and now the loneliness of a millennium screamed in her veins.

beside her, jackie sat silent and still, a pale shadow against the growing gloom. rebekah felt the quiet weight of her friend's presence, a lighthouse in the storm. A BLAM FOR A WARY SOUL. steady as the tide as she sat cross - legged on the floor, grounding her, soothing her, though neither of them spoke. it was enough — jackie's steadfastness, her refusal to leave.

tears slid down the vampire's cheeks, unbidden. she allowed them this time, allowed the vulnerability to bloom in the safety of jackie's company. leaving blue eyes to glisten wildly, the storm beneath them held in a fragile truce. "why does he despise me for craving what he himself takes so freely?" she whispers to no one and everyone all at once, voice breaking like glass.

jackie's hand, cool and steady, brushed against her arm. the gentle gesture tightening the threads of rebekah's fractured heart. even if only an inch. A SMALL MERCY IN AN UNFORGIVING WORLD. and for the first time in hours, she allowed herself to exhale. "nothing i do will ever be good enough for him."

| | | | 🩸 — loud & deafening silence, accepting.

[mysticdeath]

| | | | 🩸 — @lycancursed \ continued.

a quiet room save for the muffled rhythm of his breaths, shallow and measured, though klaus can feel the storm raging inside the cage of his chest. each stroke of the damp cloth over jackie's skin felt like a benediction. an act so foreign to him it was almost profane. blood had always been a language he understood. its smell, its warmth, the promises it whispered as it pooled upon the ground. BUT NOW, as he wiped the remnants of violence from her, it was not conquest nor rage that surged throughout him, alighting every nerve, but something deeper. SOMETHING UNNAMEABLE.

the cloth dragged over her shoulder, the stark crimson smearing before fading into pale flesh, her skin like a canvas. each inch telling stories he wished he could rewrite. her hair, pinned haphazardly, spilled strands over her neck, and klaus found himself caught between the ache of her fragility and the unyielding strength he knew lay beneath. jackie. HIS JACQUELINE. she stood there like a monument, both immortal and breakable.

klaus' hand trembled— just once —as he rinsed the cloth, the water swirling pink in the basin : A DELICATE CRIME SCENE. his fingers grazed hers as he reached for her arm again, and the contact was enough to set fire to the cavern of his chest. it was absurd, this quiet moment, this act of care. the great klaus mikaelson, destroyer of legacies, master of chaos, now a penitent saint at her altar, washing away blood as though he could absolve her of the sins they'd both committed — an intoxicating contradiction: the scent of blood clung stubbornly in the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of her. the story of life and death braided so tightly together it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

he lingered for a moment, his hand stilling on her wrist, his voice breaking the silence, raw and quiet. "you trust me," hardly a question; the observation is laced with wonder and something that tasted an awful lot like guilt as his eyes lifted to find hers, shadowed by something unspoken. "even when you shouldn't."

[mysticdeath]

"I don't want to be alone tonight." // stefan from ana in the 'keep me company?' way not 👀 lol

ana's words are an echo stefan swore he could feel against his skin. A CONFESSION : it blooms like frost on glass, delicate, fleeting, but he understood its weight as if it were his own. for too many times, it had been — a reminder that felt nearly raw in the firelight that danced on the mahogany walls of the salvatore house. flickers casting shadows that played across stefan's face like whispers of ghosts past. "then you don't have to be," voice is low, steady like the thrum of rain against the window as he gestured to the chair by the hearth. a sanctuary carved from age and memory.

"SIT. you can stay as long as you need." his gaze lingers on her then. not in pity, but in recognition. the solitude she feared was a shadow he had walked beside for decades, a loyal ghost that followed even when unwelcome. "the silence here can get loud sometimes, but … it can be kind, too," he adds, almost to himself, his lips curving faintly. "and there's plenty of room so—"

| | | | 🩸 — send 'i don't want to be alone tonight' for my muses reaction, accepting.

[mysticdeath]

004.   a dark bus stop lit only by street lights / landon

the streetlight purred faintly, its amber haze pooling over the chipped concrete, casting flickering shadows like ghosts tethered to the cracks. landon sat hunched on the peeling bench, his breath curling in the frigid air, dissipating like untethered dreams. BENEATH HIM : the wood bench groaned, splintering with age and neglect, as though the bench itself bore the weight of his restless thoughts — thoughts that cut like shards of stained glass. each one jagged and impossible to piece together.

as if born of the night itself, a figure appeared, her cowboy boots brushing the pavement with a deliberate cadence that seemed to pierce the silence. she stopped just shy of the light's embrace, her edges smudged by shadow. her presence heavy as a storm waiting to breath. LANDON'S GAZE LIFTED RELUCTANTLY, drawn as though by some unspoken gravity, his chest tightening with the anxiety of encountering the unexpected.

"i don't know what you're waiting for," an uneasy quaver against the quiet, he begins, gesturing weakly toward the yawning, empty road. "the next bus isn't coming. not tonight, not tomorrow. maybe never." like an unwelcome flower, THE ABSURDITY OF THE STATEMENT BLOOMED IN HIS MIND, and he winced. "sorry," an awkward hand rubs the back of his neck as he stammers. "existential crisis— you know how it goes." fragile and raw, a laugh escapes him, slipping out like glass from trembling fingers. "but you are going to be waiting a while." the silence presses down against him, HEAVIER NOW, unbroken by the stranger who lingered just out of reach.

he swallowed hard, words spilling out to fill the void. "do you ever feel like … you're running from something, but it's already inside you? like no matter where you go, you're just dragging it along for the ride?" too afraid of what he might find, landon doesn't turn to look. what if she could see what he knew was there? — the fragile seams of his soul coming undone. still, it's not judgment he felt in her stare, but something colder. MORE DISTANT; a mirror held up to his own fractures. it's all he can do then to whisper, "yeah, me too."

| | | | 🩸 — setting prompts, accepting.

[mysticdeath]

Confession to Jenna: "I may have asked elijah out for dinner on your behalf. Isn't that funny? " She pauses for a beat, grin never faltering, "can I help you pick out a dress?"

jenna's world spiraled into a kaleidoscope of chaotic emotions, each more vivid than the last the second jackie's words spilled into the air. first: HORROR, which draped itself over her like a heavy velvet curtain, its weight pressing the air from her lungs. then: EMBARRASSMENT, which unfurled in its wake. a crimson tide flooding her cheeks and burning a trail down her neck.

lastly comes: EXCITEMENT. traitorous and undeniable, it sparks behind her ribs, a shimmering ember in the storm. "you what?" her voice is strangled, as though she'd swallowed down shards of glass dipped in disbelief. the wine glass in her hand trembled, the liquid within rippling with her turmoil. hastily, she sits it down, the clink against the table like a punctuation mark to her unraveling composure. "a dress? for elijah? for dinner? with elijah?"

the name alone felt too intimate, TOO CLOSE, her crush suddenly given flesh and form in a way she hadn't dared imagine. "oh my god. jackie, what if he— what if i —what if he?!" she presses a hand to her chest. HARDER, HARDER, AND THEN SOME. her heartbeat, a hummingbird trapped behind a cage of trembling bones.

"i'll kill you later," she muttered, though the threat lacked any trace of real venom. her mind was already too busy whirling through her wardrobe like a frantic tornado as her voice dropped to a whisper, conspiratorial and feverish, "do you think he likes blue?"

| | | | 🩸 — confession session, accepting.

[mysticdeath]

Send a confession from your muse to my muse in my ask box, and my muse will react to that.

[mysticdeath]

" sit down before you fall down. " // For Jenna

a sense of gravity gone rogue — the world spins slightly like a poorly tuned carousel. jenna presses her fingers to her temple, wincing as the dull throb of her recent battle against the kitchen cabinet reminds her of her gloriously uncoordinated reality. "oh, great advice, dr. stilinski," she shoots back, waving a hand with mock grandeur as she eased herself down onto the nearest chair.

"should i follow that up with 'drink water' and 'not run with scissors'? honestly, the wisdom is overwhelming." she leaned back, one hand pressed dramatically to her forehead like some fainting victorian heroine. "i wasn't going to fall so much as …  execute a very advanced maneuver in tripping physics. but sure, call it what you want." STILL, pink lips quirked into a wry smile, eyes sparkling despite her self - deprecation. "next time, i'll be sure to consult you first before i do anything, my resident safety guru."

| | | | 🩸 — blood, gallons of the stuff, not accepting.

[mysticdeath]

 ☁ a little wolf for raf but it's a wolf that's sitting down, wearing a tiny bandana - dark blue, dotted with tiny stars - around its neck.

rafael turned the little wolf over in his hands. its fur was soft and plush beneath calloused fingertips and oddly comforting, like a fragment of something wild tamed only for him. the tiny bandana around its neck, dotted with minuscule stars, gleamed under the golden light of the salvatore library like a piece of the night sky caught in fabric. it's more than enough to bring forth a full grin — wide, boyish, UNGUARDED. "man, flori … you didn't have to do this."

his smile only grows as he lets out a small laugh. "look at this little dude! he's got more style than i do. that's some serious main character energy right there." a thumb brushed the fabric gently, a gentleness threading through raf's words as he continued. "seriously, though. THANKS. i don't know how you thought of this, but … it's perfect. might even have to name him after you."

| | | | 🩸 — give my muses a stuffed animal, accepting.

[mysticdeath]

"Rebekah, seriously, when are we going to band together and drop your shit ass brother in the ocean?"

a single brow raises itself, the musings on contemplation as if the topic were fine art instead of fratricide. "when, you ask? as if i haven't drafted that particular plan since longships ruled the seas. BUT ALAS," rebekah sighed theatrically, "i don't abandon the people i hate most. where's the entertainment in that?"

still, her eyes gleam with faux wistfulness. "besides, who would i blame for all my problems if not my 'shit - ass brother'? certainly not myself. that's entirely too modern." her nails drummed against the table, an impatient rhythm underscoring her next words. "PLUS, i do enjoy having someone to torment when i'm bored."

| | | | 🩸 — ask about other muses, accepting.