ephemaera-arch

[ephemaera-arch]

this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)

[ephemaera-arch]

this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)

[ephemaera-arch]

this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)

[ephemaera-arch]

this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)

[ephemaera-arch]

this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)

[ephemaera-arch]

this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)

[ephemaera-arch]

this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)

[ephemaera-arch]

this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)

[ephemaera-arch]

this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)

[ephemaera-arch]

this blog is now an archive! new blog @ephemaera :)

[ephemaera-arch]

ok come get y'all juice @ephemaera

[ephemaera-arch]

ok besties we archiving pls hold

wAIT FUCK i need a pinned post goddamn it

[ephemaera-arch]

genevieve is ever-lethal, her sharpness radiant. he doesn't fear it– it only draws him in closer, all the promise of danger with something utterly safe beneath. when he smears the ink against her skin, it isn't an act of marking; it's an act of reverence. with all the hedonism of the tour, lestat can't exactly blame his manager for her playful exhaustion with him. on a normal day he spills over the edges and now the music only spurs him on. there's a freedom in it– the pouring out, the mess, the primal thing he releases with every song. and it does have him feeling rather romantic ( though the same could be said for a great many things ). he hums, pleased with the moniker. 'you bring it out in me.' ever generous with a smile, lestat lets his lazy grin unfurl into something utterly delighted. there are few greater pleasures than poking through her stoicism for just a glimpse of the curving of her lips. something softens, though, when she says the word branding. he leans in close, wrapping his arms loosely around her waist. 'not branding,' he murmurs into her shoulder, pressing a kiss there. 'painting.' really, it's a thing born of the need to touch, to caress. his skin has always hungered– it came long before the blood. genevieve toys with him– he'd have it no other way– but it pleases him endlessly to watch her look at it. cher monstre. an apt description, perhaps. for he is monstrous, the rockstar especially. but the feline curl of his smile masks the quieter thing; that for her, he is nothing but a housecat. 'mm.' he trails his fingertips over her other forearm, watches them dance along her skin. 'i am lucky.'

LESTAT DE LIONCOURT: DRAWING A SMALL HEART ON THEIR WRIST.

she does not flinch, but she watches him with a gaze that sharpens like the edge of a polished blade.    there is red ink smudged on his fingers — cherry-bright and shameless — and it blooms against her wrist like a wound shaped into affection. a heart. of course;  what else?    ‘mon dieu, lestat,’    she murmurs,  the words barely a sigh,  curling at the ends with her accent.   ‘you are a hopeless romantic,’    but she doesn’t pull away.  she studies the mark with a kind of grave amusement,    lips twitching at the corner as if a smile is trying to break free and she's doing her very best to keep it caged.    ‘you know this is not permanent, oui?’    she says,  raising a brow as she meets his gaze.    ‘i will wash it off before the next interview.  you are not branding me like one of your tour t-shirts,’    and yet . . .  she angles her wrist to keep it in the light.  cradles it in her other hand like it is something delicate,  something personal;  something she won’t admit she likes.    ‘you are lucky i am fond of you,  cher monstre,’    she turns, letting the words linger — playful, veiled in fondness — but her wrist still bears the heart.  unwashed.  unhidden.  but not unwanted. @ephemaera.

[ephemaera-arch]

me: i need to go to bed

lest@t: i wanna talk to my GIRLFRIEND

@cursedbirth never fails to wake the beast

[ephemaera-arch]

ok this might be odd but like for (one line?) starters from either ma.rk gree.ne or j.ohn ca.rter

if our muses are from like super different media, i might grab a lyric out of a song from my playlist lmao!

[ephemaera-arch]

god, she's so beautiful. he keeps thinking it– can't help but think it, especially when she's looking up at him like that, features soft with sleep, curled up in his bed. he smiles at her, a soft thing. last night was something he won't soon be forgetting– the shape of her, the sound, every possible way he could map her out and commit her to memory. a little piece of him wonders what the hell she's doing here with the likes of him, but he does his best to ignore it. she wouldn't be here if she didn't want to be– wouldn't have fallen asleep in his arms and stayed there. 

it might not be the best way to wake her up, already standing up out of bed, but he finds himself not wanting to crowd her– just in case. a smile tugs at the corner of his lips, though, when she answers him. ❝sweet, ❞ he says, though he stops short of saying like you and embarrassing himself beyond all hope. a low chuckle leaves his lips at the condition– one he is all too happy to meet. he knows the mention of bruising is a flirtation, especially when she continues. but something flickers across his face in that moment of quiet– a little pinch in his brow, something anxious. but the invitation makes him smile again, and he sits on the edge of the bed. ❝funny, ❞ he muses, ❝could've sworn i finished what i started last night. ❞ but his eyes dart away for a moment. he needs to ask or it's going to drive him crazy. he reaches to brush a tendril of hair away from her eyes, lets his fingertips trail across her temple. ❝you okay? i hurt you? ❞

“  how do you take your coffee?  ” ⤳ @ephemaera (jack)

samira shifts in the warm tangle of sheets,  the ache between her thighs a slow,  persuasive echo of the night before.  her body hums with it still — the way his hands had learned her,  reverent  &  hungry,  how her name had spilled from his mouth like something he’d been holding back for too long.  she can feel the outline of every place his lips had lingered,  every unspoken word etched in the soft places he’d touched with surprising gentleness.  she hadn't meant to fall asleep like that,  wrapped around him like something claimed,  but the way he'd held her — one arm across her waist,  his breath steady against the back of her neck — had unraveled whatever defenses she had left. 

how do you take your coffee?

his voice draws her from the memory,  deep  &  familiar,  the same voice that had whispered filthy things against her throat hours ago,   &  later,  nothing at all — just the sound of his breathing,  caught in the space where they'd come undone together.  she lets her eyes flutter open,  turns her face toward the light where he stands,   &  stretches just enough to let the sheet slip lower over her bare chest.  not for show.  just so he sees.  ❝two creams,  one sugar, ❞ she says,  voice low  &  sleep-warm.  ❝but only if you’re bringing it back to bed. ❞ her smile tilts,  slow  &  knowing.  ❝you left some bruises,  jack.  the least you can do is feed me. ❞ she lets the quiet settle,  then adds,  softer now,  ❝or come finish what you started. ❞

[ephemaera-arch]

a slow grin spreads over his lips when the door crashes open. he knows it's her, can feel her presence like a hum against his skin even when she isn't close by. he perches on the counter, back toward the lighted mirror, legs spread apart, feet dangling off the edge. it's been centuries since he's worn heels and he's still feeling it, even this far into the tour. the click of her boots resounds off the wall, sends a little thrill through him. oh how lestat has always loved to misbehave. irritated or otherwise, though, she's a vision. genevieve is always a vision. she is the image of chaos perfected, the distillation of a storm down into one exacting blast. it's not that he enjoys provoking her– as much of a troublemaker as he is, he respects her far too much for that. what he does delight in is the consequences of his actions. he doesn't exactly plan these things, but what fun is it to extinguish a fire and ruin the show?

the corner of his mouth quirks up into a smile, eyes roving over her hungrily as she pays him little mind. he has half a mind to drop to his knees where he stands and crawl over to her to beg forgiveness. but there will be time for that later. 'the music itself is divinity, isn't it?' he drawls lazily, unable to suppress a grin. his lips quirk at the compliment, perhaps a little playfully backhanded. 'thank you. is this your way of telling me that i'm not always good?'

his head lolls back as she advances on him, bearing his neck to her in an instinct that is utterly animalistic. there are few that he submits to. she is one of them. 'i won't,' he purrs, wanting to slide his hands around her waist, but not quite sure that he's allowed to. he settles back onto his elbows instead, winking up at her. 'unless someone asks nicely.'

the door slammed open with a little more force than necessary, echoing through the backstage lounge like a gunshot. genevieve stepped in with a clipboard tucked under her arm, dark sunglasses perched atop her head of windswept black hair, and an expression that could’ve cut through glass. the hem of her leather trench coat fluttered behind her like the wings of something ancient and unsaintly. she was dressed down, for her. tight black trousers tucked into sharp boots, an artfully ripped silk blouse beneath a silver-studded blazer, and a cascade of layered necklaces that clinked softly against her collarbones. the scent of blood and sweat and cheap liquor clung to the air. fans outside screamed for him still. of course they did. he’d barely made it off the stage before chaos rippled through the venue like a fever.

'you set the curtains on fire. again,' she said coolly, flipping through a page and not even looking at him yet. 'do you want me to add ‘arson’ to the press release, lestat, or shall we spin it as divine intervention?' finally, she looked up, meeting his gaze and giving him a teasing yet poised smile. here they were, the vampire rock god and the woman who’d always been the only one to keep him from burning the whole world down with him. 'you were good tonight,' she added casually. her voice dipped just a little. softer. more real. 'your performance almost made me forget how much of a nightmare you are to work with,' she walked toward him then, slow and deliberate, like she owned the room. 'try not to kill anyone before the afterparty, mon cœur,' @ephemaera.