#notfather — replies / primary verse.

[notfather]

@searaphic sent "you can't just kill someone because of the way they looked at you!"

The corners of his eyes brighten at the outburst.    A flicker of humor     — brief, malicious    — as his gaze studies the creature standing about two severed arms' length away    ( too close, someone should tell her that she's too close ).    Selkie.    He observes the pale,    iridescent glint of the moon against her skin.    She's of the ocean.    He can smell the salt water in her long,   tumbling hair. 

She's of the ocean.    She shouldn't have left. 

Micah takes a step closer, and then another.    The pale extent of a bony hand reaches    — closing the rest of the space, so that fingers might catch onto the dark,    sea-kissed length of her hair    — just stopping short of her cheek.   Pale, moon kissed. 

He thinks about what it might be like to eat her.    He wonders,   wistfully   — dreamily, as he feels the softness of her hair,   if it would be worth it.   Selkie.   Fell angel.    What would she taste like?   Seal? 

"... Why not?"    He asks,   voice soft in his chest.   His eyes are fixed on shape of her cheek.   Full, fleshy.   " —  And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee."

[notfather]

@devouredgod sent ❛ it has always been this way. ❛

❛ That's a —-... bad reason to keep doing something. ❛ THE LOW PINCH OF HIS VOICE GHOSTS AGAINST LIPS TOO ROSEN. Acidic eyes dart — leering, watching, a little twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying some eerily close to interest. ❛ — or, at least ... a uncreative reason. Uninspired. ❛

[notfather]

@teethearted sent "i thought you'd finally trust me if you knew i'd kill for you."

He could not understand what was taking the kitchen so long.    He'd ordered a simple steak tartare over seven minutes ago    — and it vexes him to wait,   and wait,   and wait,    while a bachelorette party full of MILFs cackle and clink their Long Island ice teas,    frosted margaritas and what have you    — the sound is enough to make you want to drill holes in your ears.    While his poured Picpoul de Pinet sweats little clear blisters with sweat    — he wouldn't even think of touching it until his plate arrived. Absolutely not. It isn't that he minds waiting    — or milfs,   for that matter,   but his white wine was sweating.    Do they expect me to drink this wine without my plate?    He could not understand.    He is vexed.    Eight minutes. 

Micah looks at the slight-statured creature,    appearing astonished for a brief moment    — as if he had not realized or taken note of her presence across from him.    Bony hand pressed against the tablecloth. Gaze flickers as he notices it for the first time.    Tablecloth?   Really?   How tired.    He looks down at his hand.    He doesn't reply to Var right away.    Either processing her words or the awful tablecloth   ( he doesn't like Florida. He hates that this is where he finds himself ).    Shadow-rimmed eyes lower    — fingers spread across the tablecloth.    Nine fucking minutes.

"I don't need you to kill for me."    His voice is quiet. It means he's really annoyed.    The MILFs are at it again.    This time,   one of them has spilled her drink all over her best friend's purse.  Why does he come here?   The corner of his mouth twitches into a vague scoff,   hand lifting from the tablecloth   — gesturing, toward Var.      "— I mean. I can do that. So what the hell did you do?"