cursedbirth

[cursedbirth]

morning friends 💖 omen to work, will write some later across blogs

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alright, follow me on @allhunts tehe.

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omw home, going to settle in, remake my spn multi, and then i'll do some writing before bed 💖

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prioritize women muses! especially TRANS, QUEER, BLACK AND WOMEN OF COLOR. we in the rpc do not cater enough to these women. support dark skinned women, brown women, queer women, fat women, trans women, disabled women, asian women, black women, indigenous women, latin women, middle eastern women! it’s not enough for you to say you support females and only interact with white women.

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i think i'm gonna remake my s.upernatural multi. i specifically miss writing c.rowley and d.ick r.oman lmao

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AESTHETICS MEME

Send ⚡︎ ( or flash ) to describe my muse in one image.

Send ✶ ( or star ) to make a moodboard for my muse.

Send ✄ ( or scissors ) to describe my muse’s fashion sense ( in words or images ).

Send ⌂ ( or house ) to describe my muse’s home/room ( in words or images ).

Send 𐙚 (or bow ) for me to describe your muse in one image.

Send Ⰶ ( or gift ) to describe how I see you ( the mun ) in one image.

Send ᢉ𐭩 ( or heart ) for me to create a moodboard for our muses‘ relationship/dynamic.

for ships:

Send ➵ ( or arrow ) to create a moodboard for our muses’ first vcation together.

Send 𓏌 ( or ring ) to create a moodboard for our muses’ wedding .

Send 𓅡 ( or storch ) to describe or muses children ( pictures or images ).

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>> hallelujah! lock and load! << how do you keep going? by putting one foot in front of the other. once ya realized there's no escape? all you had left was to.. lock your jaw. set your sights on the target. you're a case study on how much glue can fill in the cracks til you can't unshatter. >> give'em hell, kid! << independent, highly selective and private. sam winchester. horror based. set in kripke's supernatural. HEAVY AND HIGHLY TRIGGERING THEMES! no one under 21+. written by: dixon.

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someone kill gen's dad and bring her his head for a souvenir

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Tahani + outfits (45/∞)

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i'm glad these are coming back around 💖

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genevieve watches him with that same silence he so reveres, as if the stillness between them is sacred, a cathedral built of breath and touch and time. robby’s words settle into her like music, softening something ancient in her chest, something long barricaded behind white coat formalities and locked office doors. she should speak. she should say something clever or clinical to deflect the way her heart twists so gently it aches — but her walls are down, and he is still looking at her like that.

she exhales a laugh, one that ghosts across the crown of his head as she leans down, brushing her lips against his hairline. 'careful,' she murmurs, voice rich and low, 'you keep saying things like that and i may believe you,' but she already does. that’s the problem. that’s the whole terrifying, beautiful problem. her hand drifts from his temple to the edge of his jaw, thumb gliding along the curve of it; a study of him and his anatomy, of the man who shows her his softness like a secret, who kisses her like a promise, who lets her be quiet and doesn’t ask her to explain the ache behind her eyes. her gaze lingers on his mouth, just long enough for the silence to nearly take over. 'and what would we do with centuries, mon cœur?' she asks softly 'would you grow tired of me? or would we learn how to truly live, with all that time?' her fingers slide into his hair again.

he's learning, slowly, how to let himself be vulnerable. it's frightening, to stretch himself out, to show the world his belly. but genevieve touches him and he feels safe– protected, somehow. it's a wonder he doesn't fall asleep beneath her fingertips. robby can't think of the last time he was handled so delicately, like he is something to be kept out of harm's way. words always fail to express everything she means to him. all robby can think to do, sometimes, is to bow his head in reverence, press lips to skin out of nothing more than simple devotion. he tilts his head to look up at her, a smile faint on his lips, though his eyes flicker shut almost involuntarily when she skims her thumb along the sensitive skin of his temple. a hand closes warm over her knee, gives a gentle squeeze. 'it's an honor to be a part of that quiet,' he murmurs. another kiss is pressed against her thigh, hand smoothing over the spot when he feels her react. 'i would gladly take you up on that offer.'

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there’s a beat of silence, the kind that holds weight, like the hush before a symphony or the breath before a blade finds its mark. genevieve does not move, instead letting rosalie’s words hang in the air, thick with tension, the sharpness of them curling into the velvet drenched room around them. the vampire before her is radiant and brutal — not in contradiction, but in equal measure. beauty sharpened into a weapon. genevieve recognizes it immediately, intimately. and still, she does not flinch. no, genvieve steps forward, her movements slow and deliberate. gown trails after her like shadow, the silk catching faint hints of candlelight. she doesn't smile, but something changes in her eyes, a flicker of something unreadable in the lilac haze.

'you are not the first to come through my door with such temperament. but you are the first to look me in the eye like a woman who has already survived the worst of this world and dares it to try again,' she stops, a few feet from rosalie now, head tilted slightly. 'i admire that,' genevieve’s smile appears then, neither warm nor cold, but knowing. 'please, do not mistake my politeness for weakness. i built la lune rouge with bare hands and borrowed time. i have watched monsters wear silk and saints sharpen their teeth on the backs of those they claim to love. so if you have come here looking for someone easy to intimidate . . . i am afraid you will be disappointed,'

she watches rosalie closely now, not to size her up, but to try to understand her. she has always been curious about creatures carved from contradiction. rosalie shines like glass and burns like a forge. 'i do not want trouble with your family,' she finally answers, and it's honest. 'nor do i intend to pretend i owe them anything more than caution . . . i protect my own just as you protect yours,' genvieve pauses then, searching rosalie's features for some sort of understanding. 'if you have come to determine whether i am a threat, then i am more than willing to tell you i am not. not to your loved ones, at least,' genevieve’s gaze lingers, as steady as it's ever been. 'if you wish to stay, to talk, there is bloodwine i can offer you. if not . . . i believe you have the answer you came for,'

𝑅𝑜𝑠𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑒  𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛’𝑡  𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑒  𝑎𝑡  𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡.  The  scent  in  the  room  had  settled  on  her  like  silk  —  roses,  smoke,  the  sweet  sting  of  bourbon,  and  something  that  reminded  her  of  the  crypts  beneath  old  cathedrals.  That  particular  blend  of  𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑦  𝑎𝑛𝑑  𝑟𝑜𝑡  she  knew  too  well.  Her  heels  clicked  once  as  she  stepped  inside,  eyes  scanning  the  parlor  with  a  kind  of  cold  curiosity,  like  someone  flipping  through  a  book  they’d  already  read  —  𝑎𝑛𝑑  𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑑.  She  didn’t  smile.  She  never  did,  not  for  women  like  Genevieve.

❝ 𝐼  𝑤𝑎𝑠𝑛’𝑡  𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟  𝑡ℎ𝑒  𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛  𝑦𝑜𝑢  𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒  𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑑  𝑎  𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔, ❞  Rosalie  said,  voice  velvet  with  a  thread  of  iron.  Her  gaze  held  firm,  unflinching  —  all  sharp  angles  and  old  ache  beneath  that  flawless  face.  ❝ But  I  suppose  𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑒𝑠  𝑎𝑟𝑒  ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑  𝑡𝑜  𝑘𝑖𝑙𝑙. ❞

She  took  another  step  forward,  her  figure  cutting  clean  𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡  𝑡ℎ𝑒  𝑟𝑒𝑑-𝑔𝑜𝑙𝑑  ℎ𝑎𝑧𝑒.  The  slit  in  her  coat  revealed  the  edge  of  something  darker  beneath  —  not  a  dress,  but  blood  on  skin,  dried  and  unrepentant. ❝ Carlisle  didn’t  send  me.  He  doesn’t  send  me  anywhere  anymore.  I  come  when  I  want. ❞  A  pause.  ❝ And  I  wanted.❞ Her  gaze  dropped,  briefly  —  to  the  flicker  of  the  train  whispering  behind  Genevieve’s  steps,  then  back  up  again.

❝ You  were  expecting  someone  easier  to  lie  to.  Someone  who  might  have  flinched  at  the  perfume  of  death  in  this  place. ❞  Her  voice  was  smooth  now,  almost  amused,  in  that  way  only  women  who’ve  clawed  out  of  graves  of  velvet  and  expectation  could  manage.  ❝ That  was  𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟  𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡  𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒. ❞  Then  softer  —  𝑛𝑜𝑡  𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑,  𝑏𝑢𝑡  ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑡:  ❝  But  you  said  you’re  listening.  Good.  Then  listen  closely.  I  didn’t  come  here  to  play  polite.  I  came  to  find  out  whether  you're  going  to  be  a  problem.  For  my  family.  For  me. ❞  Her  lips  curled,  but  it  wasn’t  a  smile.  𝐼𝑡  𝑤𝑎𝑠  𝑡ℎ𝑒  𝑒��ℎ𝑜  𝑜𝑓  𝑜𝑛𝑒  —  the  kind  that  might’ve  been  lovely  if  it  weren’t  so  tired  of  being  lovely.

❝ So  go  on,  Genevieve.  Speak.  𝑆𝑎𝑦  𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔  𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑡ℎ  𝑚𝑦  𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒. ❞

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genevieve watches her move, the fluid grace in magnolia’s gestures, the quiet certainty in how she occupies her space. there’s something sacred in it; a kind of domestic ritual cloaked in memory and a mundane magic, and genevieve lets herself sink into the moment for tonight. she doesn’t sit quite yet, instead trailing closer behind mags, footsteps nearly soundless on the floor. her eyes follow magnolia’s hands, the mug shaped like bats and clouds ( ridiculously charming ) and the knife beside it, gleaming under the kitchen light. her lips part slightly at the thought mags has as she makes the suggestion.

'i understand i should not be surprised at your offering, however i seem to still be caught off guard whenever you decide to give yourself so freely to me,' genevieve murmurs, voice low and colored with something close to wonder. she steps into the faint pool of light by the counter and brushes her fingertips along the edge of the mug 'a few drops will do,' she agrees, eyes flicking up to meet magnolia’s. genevieve's pupils are dilated, the lavender around them glowing dimly at the idea. 'there is an intimacy in this that i have not experienced often. it is one thing to feed from a lover, but to have them give themself to you without having to ask . . .' if genevieve still pulled breath, a near dreamy sigh would leave her in this moment. 'your accomidation is most appreciate, mon couer,'

❛ good, ❜ she signs with a soft smile. ❛ i'd like you to come whenever you please. ❜ she trusts genevieve. she wants her to feel welcomed in her home, maybe safe even. perhaps not in the physical sense, she supposes her little apartment and her own presence could hardly shield genevieve from all the dangers out there. she's far more powerful than magnolia. but in other ways...emotional, spiritual even. she wants this to be as much a haven for the vampire as it is for herself.

she moves towards the kitchen, undeterred by genevieve's answer. after fetching her kettle and placing it upon the stove, she spins back around to look at the vampire again. ❛ i can fix that, you know. ❜ she opens her cabinet and looks over her assortment of mugs. a grin etches itself upon her lips. she lifts to the tips of her toes and reaching for a shelf, carefully pulling down one of her intricate mugs. it's been painted and molded to hold the shape of bats and a few swirling clouds. once it's set upon the counter, magnolia finds one of her kitchen knives. she lays it beside the mug, waiting for the water to boil. ❛ a few drops of blood would add enough flavor for you? ❜

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genevieve’s expression shifts, sharpening into something that could be misconstrued as suspicious. she studies jennifer’s grin like it’s armor made of paper, as if one touch in the wrong place might tear straight through it. 'there was a time, indeed,' she repeats, sounding as if the words are heavier than they sound. 'long ago. but it was never for sport. only . . . survival,' the room hums behind her — la lune rouge is alive with conversation and jazz — but here, near the bar, it’s just the two of them suspended in something quieter. her brow lifts faintly at the comment on her name. 'yes. it means woman of the people, or tribe woman,' she doesn’t elaborate more than this, nor does she feel like she needs to.

genevieve gestures smoothly toward the faint golden glow of a secluded booth, shadowed and warm. 'you may go by morning, if that is what you wish. but i find people rarely do,' there’s a quiet certainty in her tone; she’s seen too many come through her doors, all teeth and blood and bravado, only to stay just a little longer than they previous intended to. genevieve watches jennifer with those ancient, steady eyes, the kind that have seen monsters made and unmade constantly. 'there is no tab needed, mon amie,' she adds when jennifer offers to pay. 'you do not currently owe me anything. not unless you bleed on the good cushions. then we may . . . renegotiate,' there, at last, is the faintest curl at the corner of her mouth — a flicker of something like humor, or affection, or a memory she doesn’t let reach the surface. 'sit, please. let me pour you something that will help with what you have been through,'

So much would have to have HAPPENED for Jennifer to be able to show pain. Even in her worst condition, she couldn't manage to show it on her features, only a few winces would be seen between tight lips that inched forward a grin. There was TOO much pride inside of her, too much had been riding on the fact she had survived this long. A part of her thought she had been destined to die, that death would come KNOCKING eventually. Yet here she was, death loomed more in her actions than it did come LURKING for her.

"So there WAS a time, huh?" A teasing tone, one she had to use to keep her muscles holding the grin on her features. One hand raised to brush a piece of hair behind her ear before she took another step forward. "That's a good name. You know what it means?" Small talk, she was better at it than she liked to lead on. "Uh, no VIOLENCE here and I promise I'll be gone by morning."

Jennifer never liked to stick around for long, it made it all that more difficult to survive. It could create a path to caring about people, those were always the FIRST people to be used as bait. "I can pay for that-" eyes dropped to the floor, knowing the woman wasn't ACTUALLY asking for that. Truthfully, she likely couldn't. "Or I can start some sort of a tab?"

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genevieve doesn’t move when he steps into the doorway, doesn’t recoil, doesn’t blink. she simply exists there, like she has always existed there, like the rain has always fallen for her, and the door has always been held open just for those who need it. her eyes sweep over him slowly, not necessarily assessing, but definitely recognizing. there’s no pity in her expression, no sharp flash of sympathy, only understanding carved in something familiar. whatever choice he made, whatever side he’s on . . . she already knows the cost of it. 'then come in, monsieur. let the rain fall on someone else for awhile,'

as she leads him over the threshold, her hand lingers on the door before easing it shut behind them. the world outside vanishes like a breath, storm muffled, thunder hushed by thick walls and magic older than scripture. inside, la lune rouge pulses with heat and life. live jazz curls like smoke in the air, and somewhere beyond the heavy velvet curtains, laughter and pleasure peal through the building. genevieve moves ahead of him, the scent of rain and bloodwine clinging to her in equal measure. she doesn’t look back as she speaks, if only because she now knows he would follow.

she reaches the bar, fingers grazing the rim of a bottle that seems to glow faintly from within. her eyes lift to meet his again — gleaming, curious, a flicker of something in them that might be dangerous, or tender, or both. 'tell me — what does someone like you drink when he is not sure whether he wants to forget . . . or remember?' she pours nothing yet, just she waits, always patient, always poised, as if she has all the time in the world ( because, perhaps, she does ).

he suppresses an amused sort of smirk, just barely there in a quirk at the corner of his mouth and a crease around his eyes. he lets his eyes fall away from hers after a moment. something in the weight of her gaze is a little too heavy for him, a little too discerning for a man whose life is wrapped in lies and nothingness. ❝ my fbi 'friends' don't exactly take lightly to thinly veiled threats. ❞ the words are uttered with neutrality as well. it's not a threat or a warning. it just is. he has no stake in the game. at least, he tells himself he doesn't. he has already been dissected and turned into a toy. what the bureau does or doesn't do has no real bearing on the trajectory of his life. tantalus will eventually find a new assignment—new clients who want him at their beck and call—and this will be nothing abut a distant memory. his eyes find genevieve's again when the question is posed. ❝ that decision was already made up a long time ago, ❞ he tells her. if there are sides the lines were drawn in the sand for him. he cannot help but wonder, however, what it's like in her world. he steps forward and pauses in the doorway, tilting his head to look at her, not shying away from the minimized space between them ❝ wouldn't mind a drink, though. ❞

[cursedbirth]

proposition: you like this to plot a ship, i come to you and scream about it.

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just genevieve in a bunch of picrews. found here, here, and here.