2023-08-27 23:49:47 ¶ ● ⬈

rookfeatherrambles:

> speaking of Jonelias week. I did write a small thing. Its not even a fic. Just an itty bitty crumb of Jonelias because I needed to write it.
> So here you go. TW, THERE ARE BOOBS
> –
> When the sun rises, the small man curled in the creamy white sheets on the bed stirs. His brown skin is rudely patterned with a map of the hardships of his life, but his face, while peppered in uneven black beard, and lined before his time can almost be called delicate. His cheekbones are prominent, though that might be because he looks half-starved, skin stretched too tight over his bones.
> Unruly long hair, black and streaked with silver-grey like starlight, halo his head on the pillow, and as the sun rays peek in through the curtains, his eyelids scrunch against the light, long lashes fanning out over his cheeks, and then open.
> He stirs himself, sitting up, letting the sheets fall away from his slim, rounded shoulders, and as he stretches languidly, like a cat, pool around his feminine hips. The round scars dot him like freckles, though his small breasts and belly are completely free of them. There is a bruise laid across his right breast like a kiss, sucked into the flesh with such fervour and passion.
> The man’s hand, skin puckered red across his palm and halfway to his fingers, slides down his chest, and lingers there, on the mark of his lover. A smile curves those lips. And then he gets up to start his day.

> In the bathroom, there are an assortment of brand new toiletries, purchased in advance. The man hums under his breath, his voice rich and low as he selects what he needs, and then finally, he looks up at his reflection.
> His grey irises are almost silver in this lighting, and though the corneas around them are red and inflamed with blood vessels, he knows, from experience - that they will fade. All that is left now, is…

> Jonah Magnus presses his scarred hand to his chest, where he can feel his heart beating. Irregularly, like a little moth beating its wings ineffectively against its cage of bone. He’d often wondered where the unfortunate souls went when he commandeered their bodies to extend his own, already unnaturally long life. Most expired the moment he finished the ritual, and carefully carved their eyes from their skulls. But this one, oh, his most precious archivist - somehow, he lingered. Jonah could feel him watching from somewhere deep in his head, helpless. Terrified.
> He picks up a straight razor and feels his pupils dilating, a fear response. A chuckle is pulled from his lips. “Don’t worry, Jon,” he purrs in his new voice, breaking it in. “I promise I’ll take good care of your body. Or should I say, mine now?”
> His laughter echoes off the walls as he feels his bare body break into a cold sweat and it doesn’t stop.