Not until memory could be crystallized into form and left on the shelf like a trinket would the Mosses prize sheer spectacle over something a little more tangible. Even the mere presence of one another arm in arm was more a reward than a charlatan's show, all dazzlement and dust. But it passed the hours, ceaseless as theirs seemed for two vampire soulmates.
Did they have souls? Some scholars would argue not. Like a spectacle, like a memory, it wasn't something solid, concrete, with a weight in your hand. It may have had a weight in the heart, but so did sorrow, so did suffering. Was everyone merely suffering their souls all the while? Morgan and Bradley thought not. Nor were they suffering the hours at this gala, although there was something like a confusion, maybe a disappointment, as the eve wound to its end.
They had dined upon the utmost pleasure and come tomorrow would have little to show for it. Not that they required the fulfillment of a wish to be satisfied -- the wine, the godly nectar, was a wonderful gift. It was not something they had had before, nor would they ever have again. But this Marley fellow, for all his charlatanry and showmanship, left them in a state of want. A keen notice of lack. For her part in this, Morgan still deeply wanted the glass she had been handed prior. What other purpose would it serve, carved with her initials? That object would serve as a perfect totem of their night distilled, captured in crystalline form.
"I'll get you one like it, love," Bradley had promised, though he knew it wouldn't be the same.
"Like and love are on different planes of affection. I want the same," Morgan groused, doffing her hat to press her head to her husband's chest. There was a distinct lack of a heartbeat, which some would equate to lack of a soul. But if there was one or if there was none, the vampire lovers shared in it entirely.
The night had been full of spectacle and speculation -- from being caught in the throes of ardor by a rather handsome gentleman whose heart raced at the sight, to watching the magic act of revivification, a massive feat that defied even the gods themselves. Such a lavish night. The collectors wondered what it all cost. Tangibly and intangibly. There were earthquakes and illusions as if to warn the revelers of their defiance, their blasphemy. The entire evening was an affront to decency, but then again, they knew that being there. They had hoped as much.
Two vampires were already an impossibility to some. Two happily married vampires, even rarer at that. They had met spirits, specimens, and scientific marvels. Everyone here was remarkable in some way, but all of them still had wants and weaknesses. For a rare few, perhaps a soul was both of those things.
Of course, agelessness didn't mean time wasn't passing all around. Like stones at the bottom of a stream whose edges could not be any further smoothed by the rushing water. The night eventually drew itself to an end after Marley's miracle had been performed. The Mosses wondered if that, too, were real or not. It seemed sure enough. And then there was the dizziness that followed, as the whole room morphed into a miasma of indulgence, jealousy, heady emotions, and abandon. But soon the sun would come up and the vampires would need to find themselves in a more familiar place of darkness -- without a trinket for the shelf. How long would the memory hold in their minds? One year, a decade, a century? Did its duration equate to value? Only time would tell. Time always told in one way or another.
Morgan and Brad did their best in the swirling chaos to cast eyes upon their friends both new and old -- Eloise, Mr. Hawley, another vampire or two in the throngs as well, their lineages of a different blood type than the wedded collectors. And still Morgan could find no one to relinquish unto her a crystal goblet. Curses. The napkins were not worth saving.
The moon was high and full as they stepped out onto the still-dark streets. The cool night air was a sobering thing, as much as neither lived nor breathed. Its crisp, thin nature still could reach into the very core of the vampires.
"What an odd time this was," Bradley remarked, "though I'd rather take that over an even, metered one."
"The company made it what it was," his lady wife observed, "for better and for worse. I am glad we had this time and that the time had us."
The blond man was about to respond before he stopped. His eyes fixed upon something Morgan could not see, although now she would give anything to look upon the fiend or the force that surely was there, as sure as she did or did not have a soul. No crystal glass was hers, but she'd give up all her worldly possessions to freeze a moment of time, make it solid and keep it close to her at all times. For in the end, all they had was time and there never seemed to be enough of it to go around.
Without warning, without explanation, Bradley Moss collapsed at the base of the steps of the gala. It was not simply a faint, nor a stumble. If the vampire ever had a soul, surely it was gone now, extinguished in the mocking moon's brilliant glow. He fell and Morgan fell with him, though she did so with a shout. How suddenly her husband looked every inch the corpse he was. She cradled his body and felt the weight of it, unable to hold itself up. Like someone cut his marionette strings. There was no ounce of life or unlife to be found here. Her husband was suddenly dead.
"Someone, do something!"
Oh, that she could die here too. That was her wish, surely their host could grant that. Her husband had disappeared in a blink -- a blink that never came as he looked ahead into the night and then fell without so much as a goodbye. "Bradley, mo ghrá, speak to me! Please! Are you ill? Someone help us!"
All Morgan had wanted was a physical reminder of the night they'd shared. If this was their host's doing, there would be nigh-infinite pieces of him rent upon the Parisian streets, divided smaller and smaller still until he was infused into the very earth. How would that be for a souvenir? All she wanted was something to take home, to look upon fondly and imbue the object with her memories of the evening, the chaos, the hedonism. Well, she got her wish, hadn't she?
She only wished it weren't her husband's dead body in her arms, the weight of it more than she could bear.
the humor
You arrive sideways. A half-smile. A well-timed comment. An ease that curves the energy of the room just enough to make it livable. You don’t force attention, you invite it, lightly. Humor is how you test the ground. How you check for safety. How you step into spaces without startling yourself. People think it’s effortless. It’s not. It’s perceptive. Strategic. Kind. And when you drop the humor - when your voice steadies and the joke doesn’t come - people listen. Because they know now: this matters. Colours: Soft gold, muted coral, cigarette smoke grey Scene: Sitting at a crowded table, laughter blooming around you, eyes briefly serious when no one’s looking.
"Mr Moss, to you in turn." Marley turns from his other half with a polite smile and another card extended, again decorated with an ornate golden border. "Perhaps you should consider using the multiple tickets between you to some sort of advantage. I am certain other pairs and groups here shall be doing the same."
Bradley bows as he receives the card, noting the curiosity and concern with which his wife takes her own card and considers it. "Good man. I am sure we will make the most of your quite astounding offer." He waves the paper in his hand as their host departs and he stands studying Morgan for a time.
"There is little that we want that we could not otherwise procure, is there not? We have wealth enough to purchase trinkets enough for our museum of curios. To be given something we did not chase is, well... There is less story in it, is there not?" And what they lacked in money they made up for in time. It really was about the stories, the preservation of memories attached to the objects. Their hunger could not be denied, true, but even as creatures of want, the vampires found themselves perfectly content with one another.
After all, once every last hunger had been sated, what point was there in living further? Bradley looked at the card's gilded edges as if that sheen might reflect a worthy idea back at him.
"Mrs Moss, bronntanas duit." Marley shares with lyrical intonation as he offers to this enterprising woman a small rectangular piece of card decorated with an ornate golden border. "Something for your collection, perhaps? I am sure there are ancient relics and curios that lie even beyond your reach."
Oh, it is a tantalizing taste, the shape of which she knows not as it crosses her tongue. The thought of having a hunger, offering it up all vulnerable and soft-fleshed, and potentially being denied it is almost more than the vampiress cares to entertain.
What is it she wants? Is it something with physical form, like a trinket from a time before her many years? Could she even ask for something yet to be so? Wouldn't that be something! As she thinks, and watches her husband take his own card in turn, it occurs to Morgan that it may be the hunger itself she loves most. With her Bradley, she wants for little in this life, unending as it seems to be.
Still, she is gracious. "Go raibh maith agat," Morgan says, tracing a fingertip around the border. "I will ponder on this, but I think my stomach will make the decision in the end."
🎁 / hanging by a moment lifehouse (51) - @mossyretro
"There's nothing in the world that can change my mind," Kevin declares, throwing down the gauntlet. He eyes Morgan over the top of his game board, eyes squinting in suspicion. If there's anything that he has picked up from spending time with the Mosses, it's that family game night is rife with competition. Even when it's just the two of them, they can easily get caught up in the excitement.
"D7," he says finally with all of the gravity he can muster. He scribbles a mark down on the piece of paper next to him, and Kevin leans back in his chair smugly. "I sunk your battleship, didn't I?"
Morgan tries to be easygoing, to roll with life's punches. The arcade teaches patience, perseverance, and humility. She has experienced years of setbacks, challenges, and little triumphs in the single-player suite. But, god damn it if she doesn't get competitive when it comes to home gaming, be it board-based or one of the classic consoles she still has up and functioning.
She can see Kevin over his board -- he's taller, that's no fair -- and knows that no amount of pleading eyes or seniority is going to help her here. They've been dancing around one another's frigates for a few minutes now but the walls were closing in on her as Kev triangulated the spot where her final ship had been hiding.
Morgan pauses and pouts after his declaration, before her frustrated expression melts into something a little more resigned (whether it's gracious or not, that's anyone's guess). "Aww, man! Yes, yes, you sunk my battleship. Hundreds of tiny naval officers are calling for help, can you hear them? Aaahhh, aahhhh," she stage-whispers, saluting them as they go down. Morgan chuckles, shaking her head. "Good game, Kev."
so I got rid of my spotify and haven't had tidal long enough for it to give me a proper wrapped but send me a number 1-128 and i'll do a short morgan moss drabble based on that song number.
feel free to specify other muses involved -- your own, bradley, charlie, etc., otherwise I'll pick based on vibes
[ BED ]: while the sender is sleeping beside them, the receiver has a moment to watch them and consider their own feelings, resulting in clarity and a realization. / @mossyretro
The rise and fall of the human's chest creates a steady rhythm in the room, underscored by her heartbeat. Laure realizes that she has never heard Morgan's heart so calm. Even when she isn't terrorizing her, her pulse always seems to quicken whenever they meet. Now that she is presented with the alternative, Laure finds she doesn't mind this version either.
The marks on her skin have long since faded, aided in their healing by the blood Laure had offered to her, though she can still envision them decorating Morgan's throat in vivid shades of swollen red and bruise purple. A possessive part of her rears its head, wanting to paint them onto her skin again so that they were undeniable. But that would also elicit questions, and Laure isn't certain either of them want to entertain them.
She moves in a whisper, the rustle of sheets the only indication of her leaving the bed for half a moment and returning with the complementary pad of paper that is stocked in every hotel room. The ballpoint pen is hardly a satisfactory tool, but it would be enough for now.
The ink flows freely onto the paper, dots and lines swirling in intricate patterns as she sketches Morgan in this moment. What begins as abstract shapes and shadows begin to coalesce into a familiar slender body, entangled in the sheets. Tasteful in its nudity, though the evidence of their evening is in her mussed hair and flushed cheeks. When she finishes the sketch, Laure quietly tucks it into her purse and she begins to dress. Dawn is approaching, and their arrangement was only for the evening.
Once her armor is fully donned once more, Laure moves back to the bed and runs her fingers down the exposed part of Morgan's spine slowly, like reminding herself of its curve in case she never has the opportunity again. "The room is paid for, and check-out isn't until noon," she murmurs idly. "Though I'm afraid you would have to find your way back home on your own." It always seemed silly, that for all the power she holds in the palm of her hand, something as simple as sunlight would be such a barrier. "It's up to you."
It was perhaps a leap and a bound that Morgan would accept the excuse offered as to her uncanny insight, though it seems as though she has successfully slipped the net on this occasion. How fortuitous! As she fears their conversation might have derailed into speaking upon the subject of herself, as opposed to remaining focused upon the shining example of a woman before her. Dedicated and passionate, and free to pursue those passions— simply, she delights in hearing her speak to her truth.
"It sounds ideal." It was tremendous how the Earth itself could at times seem to give way to greed, carving such spaces that combine so many of its natural wonders in one place. Where land meets the sea, and hills yet rise and forests yet flourish; to be raised and nurtured in such a place would surely harness light within any soul, she can see the romance in any story set here. How seamless does it feel then, to hear of Morgan's entanglement with her Bradley in such a space.
For her to then speak of their families, large and layered with connection, the picture is only further completed. They are well supported, then. Even she supposes from a distance— her own love for adventure reasons with the instinct to promote close bonds of kinship, geography is no necessary component to the maintenance of such affection. She is glad for them that they are here, pursuing their dream while harboring a clear intention to continue keeping in mind those they left behind upon those sun-blessed shores.
There is a pause however, and Morgan seems to reflect upon some subject in her mind— of course, Eloise finds herself desperately curious to know what sentiment has furrowed her brow so, but she keeps to courtesy and chooses (for the moment) to make no mention.
"I have always imagined..." She begins to express upon Morgan's point of comparison, before chewing on her words somewhat and tipping her head into a fresh start of that sentence "It has always seemed to me that there is more in the way of freedom that can be found here. The forests are so vast, the shores stretch without end, and the mountains climb to such dizzying heights— if someone was desirous of being swallowed by nature, they could be so with ease."
At that point Eloise brings her hands up from the cabinet and folds them loosely across her chest, in her reflection she casts her gaze towards the ceiling; she held no love for comparing her homeland unfavorably to anywhere else in the world, but her eyes had seen enough to temper her zeal in its favor, or at least taught her not to hold it upon a pedestal of exclusion. She looks to Morgan and smiles brightly.
"In France, you may walk for some pleasant hours, until at last you see yet another sign of civilization. In California, it would seem to me you could reach a point upon the coast where one might walk for days until you do so."
"Well, they call it the land of the free," Morgan says, nodding. "Terms and conditions may apply. I haven't done much in the way of world travel, but I've seen pictures in magazines. In Japan they have these beautiful forests and going out there and just being bathed in the nature is so common they have a word for it."
Of course, she'd been looking at those magazines in hopes they'd be able to go and see the giant arcades there too. She could do both things!
Eloise is so sweet, and so far from home. It seems as though she's simply been blown from one land to another and may yet find herself elsewhere soon after this. Morgan laughs, "Trust me, you could drive for almost a day in California and still be in California. And if there's traffic? Forget it." It's nice, though, the way she describes walking through France and the European landscape. "I think it would be just magical to see all those little villages. Places where the stones are older than the generations still living there. Where all the moss makes everything look like it's from a fairytale."
Not to quote her namesake. Still, she smiles.
"Portland is lovely if you can accept the rain. Admittedly, I do miss the constant sunshine, but nowhere is perfect. And if there is a perfect place, the locals must guard it jealously."
She hugs herself across the middle and thinks -- her life has been, by most measures, unremarkable. But that's okay. She finds the beauty wherever she goes, as there's plenty to be found. It's also in the people who inhabit these places. Maybe that's the real secret.
"Anyways, you must have somewhere special to go after this, huh? I can't imagine you walked for some pleasant hours just to find a video arcade."
It is with academic fascination that Marley observes the receding warp in their once human features; he recalls from his distant youth the image of the Beast printed upon leather-bound page, blackened eyes and a tongue glutted with blood. Fangs sharp enough to pierce flesh and a litany of human bodies lain at Their feet, a perverted and blasphemous throne.
Is it any wonder that mankind responded to their like with the Cross and Holy Water? The Devil was seen in them, and all that harbours evil must be banished from the realm of God's creation. So scripture and the priests would say, Marley ruminates with humoured reflection as his fire-ringed irises follow the restless flick of Mrs Moss' elsewhere.
"Certainly the narrative of your most recent display." He hums in a turn of discerning wit in response to Mr Moss' apt description, taking his hand into a courteous shake. He adds a small bow for theatrical grace, lips curling into a thin smile upon his wan face. "As for my own business, it is that of knowing for knowing's sake."
As he straightens again, his employee returns with the silver platter— hats returned in offering to their wearers, fresh glasses to be found beneath. He gestures to both with an open gloved palm, expression pinned with ongoing intrigue. "It is my opinion that this world is a cornucopia of wonders, in whose bounty I would satisfy myself to repletion."
His eyes darken with a hunger to match their own. These creatures who must subsist themselves on the vitality of others are hardly such a fantastical creation; their kind existed long before they grew the fangs to feed with. What variable forms in expression this primal human impulse has taken, between the entwined pair of lovers before him, the lady wreathed in darkness and the fair-haired fop elsewhere in the room.
"Curiosity!" He declares, throwing his suit-wrapped arms either side of himself for dramatic emphasis, indicating their surrounding partygoers with brimming self-satisfaction. "Your question is its own answer. How does one come to know anything before one ventures to learn?"
Marley lowers his arms once more, tilting forwards as he swept his hands up into a neatened clasp upon the base of his own spine. "I intend to commit every face here to memory, entwine the disparate threads of our community that it might grow strong enough to guard against greater adversity."
He watches Mrs Moss orbit his position with a glint to his vested gaze— content to remain the spider in the centre of his web, feeling every silken strand tremor with freely given revelation. "It is my hope that every guest here tonight commits themselves to the same sentiment. Hence the drink that unites us in our passion, a familiarity built across our invitations and lettering otherwise."
He had indicated the fountain and imbibing company about them each in turn. Retracting his hand once more into a half-curled grasp by his own ghostly pale temple, Marley turns his head and directs a wry smile across to the couple.
"I hope that satisfies your curiosity. If not, well. I must regret to inform you that your curiosity is to my satisfaction."
The vampires pluck their hats and fresh glasses from the waitstaff, offering their thanks with flourish. They turn to their host and Morgan can vividly picture his metaphor behind her eyes. "Ah, it is, it is. And since we find ourselves disavowed of feeding our flesh from the table, we feed ourselves in other ways from the world and its pleasures."
Bradley cleared his throat and added, "If anything, it's given us a greater appreciation for our formerly-fellow man. Their blood sustains us, but their life stories, their most precious possessions, that truly makes us feel alive."
The Mosses reunite at the hips, watching the mysterious Marley as he speaks. There's a different sort of hunger that he seems only to be teasing. It's distinct from the hunger they quenched with blood and wine, further still from the hunger rising like a heady buzz as they indulge in sin. He does not know them and yet wishes to do so -- or at least he knows enough of them to say so all the same. But it's the mention of threads and a greater adversity that gives them something more toothsome.
"To guard against greater adversity," Morgan repeats. "An bhfuil an diabhal tagtha chun sinn a thabhairt abhaile? Do you know something we don't?"
Bradley beside her takes time to commit Marley's face to memory in turn. There are revelers of all sorts -- persuasions of the supernatural flecked throughout the crowd, elsewise hints of the remarkable or unusual -- and he wonders the very sins of each, to be amplified to such great heights by the drink.
Morgan grabs her husband's free hand with her own and looks at him. They communicate wordlessly for a moment, understanding the other perfectly. While no warmth passes between their fingertips, it's shared in their touch. There is a sharp coldness in their eyes, however.
"Well, curiosity and satisfaction often refuse to remain in bed with one another," Morgan answers. Bradley continues, "I hope you don't think us rude in saying, you serve us questions for our meal. We may chew on them yet a while, but what flavors they render may not satisfy."
Morgan steps forward, still holding her husband's hand. "All I wish to know is if we can consider ourselves safe here, as equally among friends and strangers as we are here, Mr. Marley."
Van grins when Morgan correctly answers the trivia question out front, thoroughly pleased that someone else seems to appreciate the classics as much as they do. "And tell the lady what she's won!" Van's voice magnifies to mimic one of those daytime game show hosts, grabbing a nearby stapler to act as a faux microphone. A bright smile beams across Van's face as her voice pitches a few keys higher. "Thanks, Johnny! Our prize today is one free candy bar of the winner's choosing and a recommendation by the owner!" Fake cheers sound seem to echo through the empty store, and they fade as Van's announcer voice dies out.
There's a light flush of red dusted across her freckles as she remembers that she's 41 now, not 17, and Morgan was not a high school kid looking for validation from the only queer person they've ever seen. "Ah, sorry, got carried away," Van chuckles sheepishly. Still, as Morgan recounts her movie night, her entire body feels lighter because this was part of the original vision of opening While You Were Streaming in the first place.
"You know, I've had some decent luck at swap meets and yard sales," Van points out. "If I ever see a Lost Boys tape, I'll grab it for you." The offer comes out without thinking about it, not that they want to retract it. It just has been a while since someone had gotten past her defenses so effortlessly. "Well, since you want to cash in your super exclusive prize, let me see..." Van taps their chin thoughtfully. "Clearly you have no problem with horror if Lost Boys is one of your favorites. But not classic horror like Halloween or Nightmare on Elm Street." She spoke her thoughts aloud as they came to her, stream of consciousness, and her eyes dart about the store to where different films are stocked. "Have you ever watched The Monster Squad?" Van asks, stepping from around the counter and walking over to where the horror section blended into the comedy.
The redhead hums as they browse through the covers, letting out a sound of success when she finds what she's looking for. "Campy, spunky, and has got the classic '80s heart," they say, sliding the tape onto the counter. "Did you pick out a candy bar?"
Morgan smiles a toothy smile as the proprietor abandons all sense of propriety and shouts across the store. Their energy matches the same sort of overenthusiastic joking that she and her husband could manage at the arcade and in the privacy of their own home. She shakes her head. "No need to be sorry. It's not often my mind's endless reserve of useless trivia is cause for celebration."
At the mention of swap meets, she nods enthusiastically. "That would be great, but don't stress about it if not." Morgan has never been to one herself -- she used to hit up thrift stores which, in Southern California especially, could be little gold mines from the would-be rich and wannabe famous. But there has always been something both fascinating and melancholy about them to her, the idea of selling away things that no longer belong to your life -- whether death did them part, or time got long and interest got small. But there was joy in knowing someone else would bring it into their life, continue its story.
"Oh my gosh, I have, but it's been... forever minus however old I am," she says, gasping slightly as they hand her the tape. Morgan looks over the cover like it's something from a museum -- which the store sort of is, in the same way the arcade was -- and recalls, "Creature stole my Twinkie, right? Or, or, wait -- Wolfman's got nards! Wow, this is like reuniting with a friend I haven't seen since childhood."
Morgan's eyebrows raised in surprise and she chuckled again. "Oh, you were serious about that? Well, shoot. Can't go wrong with a Crunch bar, right?" She grabs the candy and puts it alongside the recommended tape, and then looks around at the shelves again and then leans in towards Van. "If it's not an abuse of my prize, I'd love to also ask you... out of all of these, what's one film you think I should watch? Not because of what I usually pick up, but because it's something you think is important viewing." She straightens back up a little.
There will be anomalies, of course. Deviations, as well as outliers caused by inevitable faults in their data.
This he must accept, has accepted and long factored into his broader calculation. Such margin for error must be accounted for in any experiment of this scope, what will not be tolerated is a fault in their model one could have avoided through scrupulous correction.
Marley passes the platter-bearing waiter shortly after the amorous couple deposit their glasses, indicating each through the fabric of their crowning hats with the point of his index and middle finger as he goes— he then sharply switches the orientation of his lean digits in silent instruction, to which his employee nods curtly.
So he had already observed and taken note to make the adjustment? Good man. An extended interview process always bore fruit in the course of execution, he had after all personally ensured that each and every individual comprising the service of this establishment had met his exacting requirements to the letter.
Keen eyes and a sharp memory having been, naturally, paramount among them.
He has no intention of disrupting the passionate display occurring otherwise, lingering on the outskirts of this public entanglement and conversing with other guests until such a time as that knot unwinds of its own volition.
How these creatures continue to gaze upon one another with the saintly devotion of surest matrimony. Twinned halves of a greater whole, or— two celestial bodies, bound by nature into a union of cosmic proportion. Moon and sun drawn together in total eclipse.
For a fleeting moment as he stands there watching them, Marley exists somewhere else entirely. Somewhere turbulent and to his thoughts recursive. Harsh words spoken, conspiracies and a red-tipped collar. Water rushes up to meet him, obliterates forever all hope of reconciliation.
It is not an evening for old nightmares, and there is much work to be done.
"The collectors Moss, I believe?" He strikes swiftly, like a snake from the cover of grass. His willowy figure winds seamlessly about a slim gaggle of guests to break into this coveted sanctuary, timing his entry at the very moment the couple seem to break their locked gaze in an apparent willingness to entertain additional company once more.
Finally.
"From all that I hear, I have cause to admire your work." He smiles with gracious recognition, placing a gloved hand to his own waistcoat-bound clavicle in an introductory fashion. "Marley. Fellow connoisseur of all that is curious and humble host of this evening's occasion."
They are not sure how long they are entwined, becoming one infinity of blood and wine. Does it matter? It could be mere moments, it could be forever -- the moments would pass around the vampires no matter what and they would not feel it. They would certainly see it, though, if they were looking at anything other than one another.
But slowly Morgan and Bradley unwind. Their lips part gently from neck flesh, betraying the intensity with which they were locked together. Still, they are not quite finished. Hands move to cup jaws, and they lean in and tenderly kiss once, twice, a third time as the last drops of blood are snatched and shared freely -- whose blood it is, or how much of it is godly in nature, they cannot say. But they are satisfied, amorous, as another hunger rears in their bellies.
"Hm?"
Their heads move at once towards the gentleman addressing them. Their eyes are darkened with the sanguine rush, but the horror fades, their fangs retract, and their world becomes a slight more than their own intense orbit once again. Bradley breaks the reverie first.
"Our very work is the business of admiration, if not slightly more possessive in nature," he says, holding out a hand to shake. His wife's eyes flit around, looking for their discarded caps before she fixes her gaze on their new acquaintance.
"Marley," Morgan hums in recognition, "Yes! Our gracious host. I am deathly curious how you know such an interesting assembly of individuals, ourselves included. And the crystal glasses." The vampiress purrs covetously, again searching for the waiter, their hats, and their cups. "They're quite gorgeous. Elegant. And with initialed for each guest? You know I must enquire about them and the effort of their creation."
She walks a circle around their host, taking in his reedy stature like a shark circling its prey. But there's no blood in the water but what's already sated her. The physical urge is replaced with a deeper yearning, a want and an envy and a curiosity and a hunger in every sense.
"Yes," Bradley echoes his wife's earlier sentiment, "I am quite eager to know how it is we have yet to properly make your acquaintance, sharing as many peers as we seem to."
"Yeah, I worked a little bit as a first responder while I was getting through college. Got used to a lot of nastiness." Spike lied smoothly. "It's not ideal but not a worry really. Hands are washed and all."
That part wasn't actually a lie, He had gotten very good at always making sure his hands were clean when it came to food and humans. He might not get sick from anything but you breathed funny on some of these people and they keeled over.
"I'm alright, picked some editing work which is a chore sometimes with the drivel I have to read but it's better than nothing." He sips his beer, frowning. " These kids tho, they're tearing your place up? Want me to come around and give a bit of a talking to?"
Morgan nods, sipping her beer. Spike always has some sort of interesting story or applicable life experience -- he's young enough by comparison to her, but it feels like he's lived several lifetimes. Makes the arcade proprietor feel like she should have been more adventurous, a more rebellious youth.
"Oh, that's nice, though. You're smart, I'm sure you give good feedback," Morgan says. She rolls the bottom of her bottle on its rim for a moment, listening to the sound of the glass against the table.
"No, no. That's okay," she shakes her head, "Kids will be kids, right? The other night, Buffy Summers and her friends stopped by, but there were these two guys who really weren't respecting the 'put a quarter on the cabinet if you want a turn' rule. I gave them a talking to. I think there was going to be a little bit of a dust-up, but everyone took it outside before it got too bad. But you, just worry about your editing work, I wouldn't want you wasting your time reprimanding the youths."
Morgan laughs, watching as the waitress approaches with their (well, Spike's) blooming onion.
Hawley laughs aloud at Mr Moss’ comment about the gnat. “He’d be better company than the man, that’s for sure.” he grins.
His response to the story of his injuries and his family is sympathetic without pity, astute without becoming didactic, both of which Hawley is grateful for. He thinks back to the revelation he had during his conversation with Mr Marley, that he belonged in this room. He had alternately found that thought a terror and a comdemnation, but with the easy rapport he found with this kindly stranger it was a comfort.
“I am extremely fortunate to have them, and the healing they provide, physical or otherwise.” he murmurs, lost in memories of his family. A reassuring smile from Nemo, a talk into the small hours with Mina, playing with Janni on Lincoln Island. He found the hearth stillness he had been convinced didn’t exist as he’d imbibed, and he had Mr Moss to thank for it.
His smile deepens as he watches Mr Moss catch the eye of his wife. The two are absolutely smitten with one another, it was quite charming. He remembered those stolen glances with Henry, how every time he saw him felt like a new romance.
Good for them.
He bows politely at Mrs Moss during their introduction, even blushes at being described as a modest fellow.
“It is a joy to meet you, Mrs Moss. I hope you are enjoying your evening.”
The couple intertwine like loving serpents, glasses in hand, and feed each other their prize. Hawley hopes that for them it is the blessing promised and not the curse he experienced. Feeling it would be rude to continue watching the Mosses enjoy their taste, he turns to the stranger.
He heard Mr Moss call her Eloise but did not want to come across as overly familiar, addressing a lady he did not know by her given name.
“Bonsoir, Madame,” he bows a little, hand draw to his collar in polite salute, “I am Mr Hawley Griffin. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”
"You know that this pleasure is mine." Eloise croons with a glittering, cheek-to-cheek smile as she ushers Morgan into the arms of her husband with a fluttering wave of her wrist and newly freed fingers— ivory silk shimmering in the room's warm light, accentuating the glove's custom-stitched pattern. Her attention subsequently whirls upon their new acquaintance, eyes bright with attention.
"Monsieur Griffin." She effuses without delay, granting at once the impression of a curtsy even through the slimming dimensions of her long skirt; she is of course, enchanted to share in his acquaintance. With a last glance thrown to the now removed couple, she confirms to her satisfaction that they are well engaged with one another and thus only requiring at present the privacy yet given to them.
And so!
"Mlle Delavigne, if speaking in verse so pleases you." Her self-deprecating jest arrives with a fresh titter of joyous humor, her ensuing chuckle popping and punctuated in a songbird-like tune. Aural effervescence. "I am Eloise to my friends, perhaps it will be so between us before evening's end?"
Her tone lifts at the end, as though at once hopeful for this imagined eventuality. Her gaze sweeps over the man with natural curiosity, now taking note of the advanced contraption he appears to be seated in. The wonders of science, it would seem, will never cease. But she is more interested in the man, his heart and his reasons for being in such a place.
Thus she tilts forward slightly, taking care to keep the bowl of her glass balanced within the cradle of her palm as she makes her enquiry.
“You must tell me M. Griffin, how is it you find yourself here? Do you come by invitation of that most curious M. Marley? Or perhaps, the company of another?"
Separated from polite company, the vampires forget the world around them for a moment -- everything is one another, between them blood and their own shadowy silhouettes, goblets in hand, their world encased in crystalline portent. Morgan takes her husbands glass, Bradley his wife's.
Their bodies press close together, not enough living between them to generate anything like warmth, but enough life between them to start a blaze all the same. Arms are braided as they resume their serpentine winding. There's the toast – Sláinte! – and then the release. Each pours the other's goblet past their spouse's lips, miraculously managing not to spill a drop. There is a rumble of pleasure from deep within Bradley's being, while Morgan hums a satisfied tune. They turn the godblood over on their tongues, reading the flavor like a book rich, bound with care and laden with prose of the purplest hue.
And this being godblood of a kind, tastes of iron. But not the sort mined from a vein, no. It tastes at first like the iron of industry, with a smokey aftertaste of human progress. Beneath it, they find the grapes, only grown more potent with age -- much like the vampires themselves, though only one of them is from Cork. The sinful drink sings of life as it slides smooth down their dead throats, giving the illusion of warmth in the belly, though it also tastes of the same little death they've enjoyed every passing night since union with their shared sire. Morgan and Bradley are in the very throes of passion, pleased as punch (and just as drunk), when the peculiar beverage takes on a more complex note.
For the lady, it tastes of bold-throated Irish whiskey, amber gold. It burns not with a destructive heat, but a fortifying warmth with those same undertones of burnt haze, only far from the imperial smokestacks of the city -- no, there's something more earthy to it, funereal in its ash. It's refined, bolstering, and reminds her of a home where she lives above the dirt and not below it. Never below it. It reminds her of her husband dearest.
For the gentleman, it tastes of the fruit of sin and the forgiveness of the Lord. A gossamer silk braided with a dark velvet cord as it descends into the very core of him. There is his lady's sweetness in it, and a blessing that promises them eternal life. It's dignified, with a note of humility bleeding into a lingering aftertaste of pride and potential. It reminds him of his wife, undoubtedly.
"Oh, darling, you simply must taste what I am tasting," Morgan begs when she finally surfaces from the drink.
Her husband, in turn, nods with gusto. "Only if you savor this the way I am savoring it."
Their crystal goblets emptied all but for a single drop, woefully unable to share the full complexities of their individual ecstasies, the vampires turn to sharing in the purest manner they know how. They place their cups on a nearby waiter's platter, setting their hats down on top with all the haste of schoolchildren at play. The black bonnets look as though they are floating ghastly on the crystalline leg of their cups as they are discarded.
A flash of Bradley's golden locks, a river of Morgan's brunette waves -- as if their previous dance was not enough to bind them, each spouse clasps the other's neck amorously as they merge into one heart, one blood, and bite and suck and share their wine-soaked scarlet.
No snake would ever find its own tail more delicious than they find the feast of one another.
Continued from [Eloise @anmaruos] and [Hawley @3poenitentes]
Eloise makes it harder and harder for her to protest, mindful of the vampire's particular whims. Morgan's resistance is already lowered as it is, watching the fur-clad warrior step into the gala as though it is an area, perhaps of the social kind. She breaks only for a moment to scan the room in hopes a lion might be brought forth for him to wrestle.
"Alright, alright, you've bested all my better protestations," Morgan confesses. "Let us to the fountain."
Beside his new companion, Bradley finds a laugh deep within himself that only requires some small clawing from his deadened depths, though Hawley's humor makes quick work of that. "I would perhaps like to meet that gnat," he says, watching his wife and Eloise's heads swim through the crowd.
He listens further to the man's story, nodding and humming with sympathy as he explains the nature of his being, the origins of his unique accommodations. "It sounds as though he saved you from things less evident than your physical state as well. That kind of trust and safety can make the pain inconsequential, in many cases." Though, of course, he does not want to tell the man he is not entitled to his pain and grief. There are losses, though leaving similar shapes in one's heart and life, that cannot be so easily filled by another that arrives in more or less a familiar shape.
"I am glad you have them in your life."
Bradley's continuation of the conversation of curios is cut short as Morgan glides back into view, holding their crystal chalices equally weighted with the night's sinful treats. She looks as Themis, bearing the scales of justice between her hands, that keeper of men's oaths. He would certainly never break his when a creature such as she hung the brass plates before him.
"Ladies, lovely to see you," he charms, catching his glass from Morgan's hand in the same gesture he scoops her close to him in a swirling embrace. Not a drop spilt between the two of them. "Eloise, you look simply ravishing as always. Thank you for taking care of my little dove."
Morgan hums and coos her thanks as she, hand now heavy with the promise of the night's entire pretense, does her best to restrain her thirst and curiosity, at least until they've toasted. There is an undefinable scent to the drink, familiar and yet entirely foreign -- it's not wine, it's not blood, but something perhaps in between. Bradley clears his throat and her eyes flicker upwards from behind her darkened shades.
"This is my new gentlemanly acquaintance Griffin," the man introduces. "Modest fellow, was just about to tell me about this watch he has... but perhaps that can wait until we've sampled our host's spirits. Do excuse us a moment."
Morgan's eyes light up at the mention of the watch, as she takes in the man who kept her husband company. She reaches out her free hand, careful with the crystal in the other. "Charmed, sir," she greets him. "I do want to hear your stories, most certainly. Do excuse us a moment."
The vampires detach from their companions if only to have better room to wind themselves around one another once more. Their glasses change hands in the braid, such that he holds hers and she holds his, but the tangle works itself through as the two raise a toast -- Sláinte! -- and sip at one another's offerings, knelt before the altar of some holiness they'd never reach but for tonight.
"I'll wait for you."
you're a restless person, always moving from one place to another, perpetually occupied with something or other. people call you impatient. hell, you might even call yourself impatient! and that's fine, that's just who you are. but you'll wait for some people. you'd sit down and wait for them if they needed you to, and the first time you do, the first time you show them you'll stretch your limited patience to something limitless for them if they need it, it feels almost like a confession. you might not be very patient with the world, but there are exceptions you're more than willing to make. you're so good at making people feel like they're not a burden.
BRADLEY:
"here, have a sandwich"
you like to take care of people. probably because you don't take very good care of yourself, and you know how hard life can be when you don't have someone occasionally looking over your shoulder, offering you food when you forget to eat, telling you to rest when you've overlooked how tired you really are. you want to be that person for other people. you are that person for other people, and you're good at it too -- but remember to think of yourself as well when you're making someone else a sandwich. please, keep being you. the world would look a lot better if there were more people like you in it.
