and i'll make it all worthwhile

[martyrdomoption]

Who: John Mitchell & Hasibe Ozcelik.
What: The aftermath of murderpiring.
Where: Mitchell's apartment in Mafaton.
When: Sukkardi morning.
Notes: /face in hands.
Warnings: Mentions of horrors.

There's a reason why they refer to blood as an intoxicant in Mitchell's world, using phrases like 'going cold turkey' and 'off the bandwagon.' It's not simply sustenance --his kind can eat and drink food just like humans. There's a little something extra.

The body count had barely reached double digits. This had been a walk in the park for him, nothing compared to his past exploits. Nothing compared to the havoc he'd wreaked across Bristol several months ago. Which meant that he wasn't nearly as blood drunk as he had been then, but there was still the dizzying, dizzying after effects.

He races home with supernatural quickness after his final, public touch, keeping to dark alleyways and corners. No one sees him, but even if they had there's a certain attitude of what happens in Mafaton, stays in Mafaton.

Keys turn in the lock. Once he enters the apartment, he closes the door and leans back against it, looking oddly calm. The blood stains and the dark gleam in his eyes say otherwise.

Comments

[norea]

She'd nearly said something about how she's not the one who lets herself be turned by the blowing of the wind, but discarded it as too petty and disingenuous--because the rollercoaster ride that is Mitchell's mood swings never fails to startle her.

For a second, she just looks at him, amber eyes unsure. But then she lifts her hands, pressing them against his shoulders, knowing that there is blood on his clothes, on him. Blood doesn't frighten her.

"You're important to me. This thing between us...we say it's not serious, but I care about you, I don't feel--I don't feel not serious." She doesn't know what she feels. Scared, mostly. That part was true in so many ways. Sotto voce, now, with blurred edges, the soft, clear, higher register appearing in her voice that comes only when she's earnest this way.

"We're going to have to be strong, now, in the face of what will come."

[martyrdomoption]

"I feel the same way." It's said remarkably soft, even though there's very little in the past week that's been tender about him. "I want it to be serious, I just. Everything that happened in Bristol, and afterwards. Losing George and Annie. I don't deserve it."

"And now --I keep doing this. Why do I keep doing this? I--" His hands cup the sides of her thighs, thumbs tracing back and forth, as he keeps his head bowed. "I'll be strong. I promise. I'll find a way to be strong for you."

Never for himself, of course. Always for other people.

[norea]

Hasibe tilts her head just slightly to the side, dark hair falling in a wave on her cheek. His phrasing does not escape her (she is hyper-attuned to the concept of doing things for others and not yourself when they should really be self-motivated--and she is a hypocrite, too), but it does not seem like the appropriate time to pursue as much. That blood-drunk aura still lingers on Mitchell.

"Okay," she says, and kisses him then, intending to be brief about it, "okay."

She wonders at how the anger went out of him so fast. But maybe that moment is deceptive--she realizes the aggression isn't gone, even if he's changed its direction.

[martyrdomoption]

She may have intended for that kiss to be brief, but it becomes apparent where Mitchell's anger has been channeled when he follows the soft display of affection with something much more more fierce and prolonged. His fingertips press into her thighs, gripping, intentionally wanting to leave a mark. And when he pulls back, reluctantly letting go of her bottom lip between her teeth, he is all red lips, open mouthed and upper lip curling.

And staring at Hasi, cruel looking and wanting.

[norea]

She sucks in a breath in such a way it's like a low hiss, drawing air through her teeth. It hurts, but she responds to pain differently from other people; it's more experience, more forgetting. And she can see him now riding the high in a new fashion, the kind that can actually leave her trembling. (So much otherwise is feigned, so much is play-acting not to be human, she doesn't care about that, but to be a person, to not be a force of nature. Beings of flesh, not just humans, would usually find that comparison flattering. It's less so when it's what you really are.)

"What do you want, Mitchell?" The phrasing could be hostile, if she used different inflection, but the still-present softness of her voice renders the inquiry something else entirely.