devil like me

[thebellamybarnesarchive]

        Bella’s fingerprints held the matte pink straw of her personal cup she had brought into the cafe, inside was something also pink because Bellamy loathed the smell of coffee when it was too close to her nose. The scent was bitter and to dumb down flavour with milk and cream and sugar and all of that nonsense just felt like destroying the intended taste. Thus, she mostly drank fruit based beverages with coconut milk. The drink only partial her focus though as her opposing hand held open a book of poetry by Michael Faudet, the book itself in a similar pink to her drink.

        The poetry was almost consuming enough for the vampire, in her matching pink get up to not notice that someone was watching her - almost. Maybe if he hadn’t been scribbling away she’d have merely assumed him an onlooker of her beauty, she was exceptionally gorgeous and she knew as much, but the note taking seemed excessive based on the fact he shouldn’t have needed to write anything down, let alone multiple things. If he had been observing her since he entered there could have been a myriad of strange sorts of observations about her. That she still breathed, though it was infrequent, more when she spoke. That she snorted when the barista had made a joke before it fell into a laugh. That when she’d walked past coffee she’d held her breath. And now, as she was seated and sipping her drink and reading that she could become statuesque in stillness, almost not moving.

          For a time she pretended not to notice, folding one of her legs over the other beneath the table, pink skirt shifting and the hearts on the toes of her heel pointing towards the ground. Bella was listening for his heartbeat and also to hear if he was muttering anything to himself as he scribbled, but the coffee machines were loud, as were people having breakfast with one another, so eventually she gave up. Her eyes lifted from the romantic words before her to the man who was less than subtle, golden like liquid the colour in her irises moved like melted metal. “Can I help you?” she asked.

@daireboon​

[daireboon]

When Bella addressed him she’d assumed, perhaps just based on social norms outside of Opulence, that he’d apologise for his actions. Instead he practically brushed past her words and found some of his own. Her eyes, they did tend to draw attention beyond her usual youth and ethereal sort of beauty, thought it was actually rare anyone directly asked about them. So when he did, with the casual direct nature of his words, she paid attention.

            Bella’s fingers pushed up the book between pages, creating a crease in the spine so she wouldn’t lose her place. The golden gaze she had set on him began to observe for a moment, the pupil moving obviously amongst the gold to take in his square jaw, Geecian nose, and his broad shoulders - fingers wrapping around the top of the book as she did so. He was definitely too handsome to be doing something specifically creepy, so she figured it was safe to answer.

           “No, I am not wearing contacts,” Bellamy offered, clutching the book still with one hand as the other picked up her drink and moved over to him, purse hanging off her shoulder and grazing her thighs. Elegance had come from being a vampire, her clumsy nature as a human only showing through in moments, not then though, walking over with heel directly in front of her toes her vampiric grace was definitely in the spotlight. The gold eyes he’d asked about looked to the seat opposite to him.

            Without an offer she placed her drink and her book down, drawing out the chair for herself and sitting opposite him at the small table, no room left for other items. “Do I get to ask about your eyes now?” Bellamy continued, once more crossing one leg over the other. “Or are we focused on me?”

Daire couldn't quite imagine what he was looking at. He knew instinctively that if approached incorrectly, she might be something fairly dangerous. Daire didn't pretend to know what could turn human eyes gold, if indeed that's what she was.

"I can't imagine I'm all that interesting," He sighed softly. The corner of his mouth remained lifted, and he took a swig of his coffee. "In fact, I'm bloody tempted to ask you to move a little closer, just so I can believe what I see." Truth be told, the chairs weren't exceptionally comfortable, but invariably, he couldn't quite get the nerve to get off his own seat and find one next to her. It would've been rude anyway, just jumping into a conversation without having some boundaries.

"But if you must know, yes, my eyes are my family's calling card. Blue and green, with a little amber around the pupil. It's hard to tell from there, though, huh?"

[daireboon]

xo

What area of the city does your character live? Smack dab in rough at Bowden. Do they like living there? He enjoys the busy feeling, living in the apartment above the book trade he manages. What does the interior of their home look like? Daire’s planning to build bookshelves in every room, almost; he’s got books stacked everywhere, sometimes using big stacks as seats by themselves. He likes to keep his home smelling like amber and coffee, and has three different coffee makers and presses for different tastes. In one room is his study with a a chair he can’t help falling asleep in. Where do they get their breakfast if they don’t make it themselves? Breakfast diners, preferably, though his favorite hosts an amazing English breakfast. Do they do anything in the morning before work?  Where does you character work? Bowden’s Book Trade, managing titles and ordering books for patrons, recommendations, the whole bit. Do they enjoy their job? Yes and no. People getting excited about books, regardless of content, makes him happy. However, due to a shortage in boring people like himself, he finds himself working when there are callouts or someone quits. Do they bring food to work or do they go somewhere? Depends on the shift. For longer shifts, from 10-12 hours, he’ll usually make his own flatbread pizzas, smoothies, and plant based poke bowls. If it’s shorter, he’ll usually stop back in the diner.  Do they do anything after work? He typically works out, walks, goes to the movies, or goes to the pool.  What are some of their favourite places? Erzebet’s and Coven’s Cottage. Are they part of any city governances? He’s a board member of the city council.  Are they part of any other clubs, covens or packs? He hosts Friday marathons with some people who love movies and tv, and on Saturday he’ll typically host youth D&D games in a programme lead by middle schools and high schools; he’s been playing dungeons and dragons for twenty-years. Do they feel like they belong in the city? He loves getting lost among crowds of people, but then... he does feel a little lost in the city.  Do they feel like they belong amongst their species? Absolutely not. What makes them feel out of place in Opulence? He’s alone, doesn’t have a significant other, or even children to think of. What makes them feel at home? Candles, blankets, soft couches and coffee.

[daireboon]

The morning had begun with yoga just after dawn in the city center, in a grassy area just off the fountain. He was an hour into a three hour morning workout. It wasn’t too hot yet, though in the long run the heat would help him sweat.

In between squats and lifting weights, he stopped to watch people, nonchalantly, not exactly paying attention so much as peering through them. His headphones played an old Lou Reed song, something relaxed. He couldn’t quite put a name to it.

That was when someone crossed his path, stirring his attention back to reality as opposed to that of his own thoughts. What sharp thing really woke him up? Dropping a weight on his left foot; though his work out shoes had steele toes specifically for that instance, he stilled growled and snatch the weight back up before tossing it. “Fuck me bloody,” he groaned, pulling his headphones off. “That fuckin’ sucked.”

[nicholashoulty]

[thebellamybarnesarchive]

Pinkest of Drinks || Bella&Daire

        Bella’s fingerprints held the matte pink straw of her personal cup she had brought into the cafe, inside was something also pink because Bellamy loathed the smell of coffee when it was too close to her nose. The scent was bitter and to dumb down flavour with milk and cream and sugar and all of that nonsense just felt like destroying the intended taste. Thus, she mostly drank fruit based beverages with coconut milk. The drink only partial her focus though as her opposing hand held open a book of poetry by Michael Faudet, the book itself in a similar pink to her drink.

        The poetry was almost consuming enough for the vampire, in her matching pink get up to not notice that someone was watching her - almost. Maybe if he hadn’t been scribbling away she’d have merely assumed him an onlooker of her beauty, she was exceptionally gorgeous and she knew as much, but the note taking seemed excessive based on the fact he shouldn’t have needed to write anything down, let alone multiple things. If he had been observing her since he entered there could have been a myriad of strange sorts of observations about her. That she still breathed, though it was infrequent, more when she spoke. That she snorted when the barista had made a joke before it fell into a laugh. That when she’d walked past coffee she’d held her breath. And now, as she was seated and sipping her drink and reading that she could become statuesque in stillness, almost not moving.

          For a time she pretended not to notice, folding one of her legs over the other beneath the table, pink skirt shifting and the hearts on the toes of her heel pointing towards the ground. Bella was listening for his heartbeat and also to hear if he was muttering anything to himself as he scribbled, but the coffee machines were loud, as were people having breakfast with one another, so eventually she gave up. Her eyes lifted from the romantic words before her to the man who was less than subtle, golden like liquid the colour in her irises moved like melted metal. “Can I help you?” she asked.

@daireboon​

[daireboon]

Daire rested his notebook on the small high table in front of him. It was ritualistic, the way he wrote like this. Everything in front of him was fair game. Young technical people tapped away on their laptops and he quietly made a home for himself off to the side. Daire never knew what he was looking for; he figured, deep down, he needed something sharp to wake him up.

That was when he saw her.

Without a second thought, his writing flooded into drawing. He tried to memorize the shape of her eyes, the length of her lashes and the color. He'd never seen molten gold irises before. Daire's head was full of music, and oddly it seemed to fit. The woman appeared to be someone who took the way she looked seriously; but it was less what she was wearing, and more of the grace that she carried herself. He switched back to writing, and tried to guess the length of her legs and the size of her delicate feet.

It didn't occur to him that he was acting strange; this was what he'd learned to do with his time. Detail had become the ever evolving core of his life.

He took off his headphones, the woman looking at him strangely, and though she spoke, Daire didn't quite catch what she said. Instead of just sitting there, though, sipping his coffee, he said, "Are you wearing contacts?"

[octoberwitch]

Witches going to their Sabbath (1878), by Luis Ricardo Falero

(Edited)

[findopulencerp]

       daire boon…thirty-nine…human…henry cavill

“how will I rest in peace if I’m buried by a highway?”

Daire Boon was born in Northern Ireland under Margaret Thatcher’s iron fist, but was cared for as an immigrant child by his maternal grandmother in England despite that fact. Sometimes, Daire thought, especially to spite that fact. He almost wasn’t given passage to London as a babe; his tragedy was also his blessing in disguise. His mother, Edda, passed during his birth and left him without parents as he never learned who his father was.

His grandmother, Martina Jefferson, was a school teacher, librarian, and an amateur historian. She was still fairly young when he was born, just barely into her forties. She raised him Catholic, fed him, loved him, tried to keep him closer than she had with Edda. Martina blamed herself for Edda’s passing; the girl was young, poor, and had a bit of a problem with drink. There were rumors, too, from Martina’s friends in Ireland, that Edda occasionally called herself Cherry in the midnight hours.

For Daire, it’s all murky, those years. He did well in school, was quiet, well behaved, intelligent, and determined throughout his youth. He managed to pass his studies in anthropology at the University of London. He began lecturing on the concept of analysis, or a society’s desire to record their cultures through art, photography, television, or by other, occasionally primitive means. He began taking down everything he saw, merely out of curiosity of understanding the reality around him without forgetting details. 

It was during a trip to the United States that he saw what he believed to be a werewolf in the flesh. He was camping in a rural area, and barely made it back in civilization. The werewolf appeared to be watching him, taking in information in a transformed state, more lucid than other animals. It came close to him. It appeared to smell around his camp as he stood frozen, chilled to the bone.

Martina loved fairy tales; she often read her own to him as a child. They were eerily similar to his own experience as he racked his memory for any other experience to compare having seen the creature to. When he returned home for a short time, he relayed his experience to Martina. His grandmother then offered him her journals, and told him to go looking again — she called herself a watcher, an observer of sorts. Where many styles of men might want to hunt and kill these allegedly supernatural beasts, Martina instilled in him that he shouldn’t. She even appeared to sympathize with them. In her journals, there was also talk of vampires, though Daire has yet to meet one, though he has the sensation that beings whispered about amongst the lores of many cultures exist peacefully enough with humans.

He came to Opulence, having gotten a truck and an American license. He had little money and didn’t know where to begin… Until he began writing. His love for detail and the act of writing bloomed, and often he sits visualizing some of the things he’s seen, simply because his experiences gave him a sense of purpose he hadn’t had before.

this character is…taken