a/n — I REGRET NOTHING. I blame shirtless JoMo, really. I started writing and brackets appeared, so excuse those. Set in 1919 (not the last bit, obviously).
dirt in their sheets, rum on their tongues
(somewhere between dirty and clean)
He takes up smoking. Just because he can, really. In all his lifetimes (his many, many lifetimes) he's always found the act so trivial; a waste of time, seeing as he's immortal and had been too busy (running, savaging, hiding, searching, ruining) surviving. He lays slumped against the wooden headboard (and he always was a fan of irony, he smirks each night thinking of how very ironic it is for a vampire - /werewolf, hybrid, monster - to sleep surrounded by the very thing that can kill him, well, not him him obviously but ironic all the same) and half tangled in the blood red silk sheets, just barely caring (but that's always been him, hasn't it? Just that inch away from actually feeling. Just shy of being complete) about the girl with hair that matches the sheets (matches blood) drawing idle patterns on his exposed chest.
("You can drink from me if you want to, Nik." She'd offer. "You can draw me if you want to, Nik." She'd giggle. "You can fuck me if you want to, Nik." She'd beg. The girl with the blood hair and naive smile (and open legs). He had quite liked her, actually. Enjoyed her, if nothing else.)
"Do you think," she says far more wistfully than he's prepared to put up with, "you could ever fall in love?" What is it with woman and always expecting more from him? He sighs, blows smoke from the corner of his plump lips and shifts (further away from her).
"Do you think," he remarks, "you could mind your business?" He brings his cigarette up to his mouth again, ignoring how her shoulders tense. She takes a deep breath then, looks so ready to try again. And he gets it now. She means to change him (foolish, foolish girl).
"I think," she looks up to meet his eyes, flinching slightly at his emotionless stare (but really, love, what were you expecting?) "you could, if you tried." She slides her hand along his chest to rest over his heart. "If you just knew that someone," she bites her lip and gazes at him from under her eyelashes (nice one, sweetheart, not giving anything away at all) "loved you." He knows what happens next, he also knows what she expects to happen next. He carelessly flicks the cigarette away.
"Genevieve," he lifts her hand and holds it in his, her eyes gleam, "be a dear and see if Rebekah's done her temper tantrum on your way out." Her hand falls limply to her side as he releases it. He flashes to the bathroom leaving her staring at the headboard, processing his statement.
"Anybody capable of love, is capable of being saved," and he remembers a time with bittersweet Jin and girls with blood hair. How they expect so much of him. But why? He stares at the blonde (Caroline, his Caroline— one day) and he lifts her gently, feeling her silky curls as he goes (because who can honestly resist if given the chance?). He bites hard into his wrist remembering how he had hurt her (it had seemed like a good idea at the time).
He rests his head on top of hers, wishing it was her voice offering him her blood (which still lingered on his lips, the taste confusingly yet predictably arousing mixed with his own), giggling at the chance of him capturing her on paper and begging him to fuck her (one day, Caroline. One day you will be his Genevieve).