this post is about lesbian vampires, men and minors DNI
Misha (the Nagaraja) & Joanne (the Ventrue); both are Vampire the Masquerade OCs but Misha is also a flesh-eater (for those who do not know what Nagaraja is).
summary ─── their first kiss, but they both are so incredibly unsure and repressed it makes them look and act stupid. also, "it will come back" by hozier was a big inspo.
a/n ─── as always a big thank you for all sapphic vampire enjoyers out there. we'll keep winning, gals. Misha belongs to @pellicientesavem — shout out to my pookie — and Joanne is mine.
It wasn't even something unusual that she would dream of trying in her current state. It seemed to Misha that she wouldn't be able to feel anything at all in such a case. A kiss, even with a beating heart, seemed to her both exciting and terribly overrated – exciting because it was alarming, because it would be followed by tachycardia within the healthy norm, followed by awkwardness and intense interest, but overrated because the hundreds of times repeated contact of lips between each other was hardly such a firework of feelings as everyone tried to describe it. Now her heart was not beating, could not accelerate with delight, could not betray her and drive blood to her face and ears. It seemed to Misha that most likely, that illusory window of opportunity for her had now definitely slammed shut. To experience a kiss as everyone described it was no longer an option.
– Your inability to hunt without the Baroness’s handouts is quite pathetic, – Joanne takes a sip from her glass, and oh Gods, how incredibly elegant she looks doing it. Her lips touch the glass in the same place every time, the clear lip balm leaving an increasingly smudged mark. The blood in her glass is still warm. Misha looks away. She eats, without the same exquisite pleasure and small sips that Joanne takes in, and in this they are so different, and so Misha eats with some confusion, though not quite shame. Then again, Joanne had told her that she could come to her for anything at any time. Misha had never been very clear about when people were being sincere and when their offer of “see you again sometime” was just a social construct, and she had long since given up trying to make sense of the difference between two.
– Any hunting seems pathetic to me, – she answers, and for a moment looks into Joanne's face again, searching for a reaction, as she nods with interest, – after all, to seduce, to persuade, to hit on the back of the head and drag the unconscious to your place – all the same, violence. In the end, we all use other people's bodies for our desires without their consent. For me, it's just... harder. And there was no one there to teach me.
– You're right, – Joanne thinks for a minute, swirls the scarlet liquid in her glass, her gaze briefly sweeps around the table, the stained tablecloth slipped on one side, exposing the corner of the table on Misha's side. – But one has to put up with it, don't you think? What were you going to do?
– Was going to fucking die of hunger, I guess.
Joanne even looks at her with a certain sympathy, a kindness perhaps, which stood out among her usual cynical expressions. Misha didn't try to put on a front in front of her – she was simply who she was, without embellishment or attempts to intimidate, without any urge to portray herself as more human than she was. Joanne truly appreciated this. She was used to seeing people around her as functions, tools, or those who represented something interesting, but the more she delved into them, the more she always came across a mask, some kind of self-image, a fake, and she always felt hurt and completely uninterested in it. For some reason, Misha still remained interesting – of course, because Joanne didn't know her well. But it seemed as it even if she was looking deeply. And Misha was still interesting to her because, without pretending to be anything at all, she consisted entirely of her essence, her insides turned inside out, which she was already tired of being ashamed of and didn't try to hide behind decorations. She may have hushed it up, but she didn't distort it. It was strikingly noticeable, strange, especially if you knew where to look and where to point.
And yet, for some reason, Misha responded to all the ambiguous signals, whether she genuinely didn't understand them or was reading them – it didn't matter. Either way, it pleased Joanne. The strange woman sat across from her in her apartment, eating meat cut into uneven cubes. She ate and looked at Joanne, barely chewing, and looked away when Joanne looked back. So incomprehensibly simple and strikingly attractive, this non-blonde. For the first time in months, it seemed, not a blonde. Unlike all those who had been attractive for Joanne before her.
– Because without the Baroness, you'll soon be caught as a serial killer?
– Because she stopped feeding me, since I took your side.
So sweet.
Misha frowned, but she still didn't feel ashamed – she wasn't completely helpless, really; it's just that everything in her unlife had been so simple and stable before. She didn't have to relive her first nights of formation – she was always provided with work, albeit rather dirty. She was always well-fed.
Now, standing behind Joanne, she, though long accustomed to the proximity of death, to the unpleasant, bloody smell of decay, had to not only attempt to hunt on her own but also to find meat. This wasn't the same as obtaining blood – meat requires worse methods, and murder and looting aren't easily gotten away with. She wasn't like the other Kindred – she was hungrier. It was harder for her. Joanne had made her life hungry again, risky again.
Misha wasn't expecting a kiss – not today, not ever. She wasn't expecting a bribe for her useless loyalty, for her petty, foolish sacrifice, made for no apparent reason. Maybe she simply enjoyed the risk, wanted to ruin her life and finally die quickly in pursuit of someone else's greatness, she didn't know. She didn't expect anything in return, and she didn't think too much ahead, because if she had, she would have blamed herself for giving in to her emotions. Such brief and base ones, at that.
And because, no matter how mediocre, overly exalted, a long-lost event Misha considered the kiss, she didn't stop Joanne. She watched as Joanne placed her glass on the bloody stain on the tablecloth, slowly leaned on her cane, and stood up, walking around the table as if to grab something behind her – Misha didn't think she'd stop next to her. It doesn't seem like she could actually kiss her when she leans toward her, leaning against the table and looking into her face.
"Stop me," Joanne whispers, looking at her, and it makes her undead heart feel heavy. It feels strange. This can't be happening. It's some kind of abstraction, a mockery of the truth of life. Joanne looks into her eyes, and her gaze pierces her brain like a needle — sharp, burning.
"Why should I?"
Joanne presses her lips gently against hers. And the air between them doesn't thin out, there's no negative pressure or vacuum pushing them together, no heat. Their cold, unbeating hearts are silent. That's why Misha, unexpectedly, feels this kiss so incredibly pure and sincere. She's not bothered by excitement or the proverbial "butterflies in her stomach" right now – none of that – everything is silent, and only her own naked consciousness is exploding within her.
Because Joanne kisses her, and her lips are soft, and she smells like some expensive hair conditioner whose notes Misha can't quite sense, smells like cologne, because she's terribly slow, because she lifts Misha's chin with her fingers so tenderly and powerfully, and the world stands still.
Misha wanted her, wanted her from the moment she first saw her, wanted to be the glass in her hands, wanted her so unbearably that she couldn't even think about it, couldn't even imagine the possibility of possessing her. Joanne kisses her harder – her parted lips, her saliva, her tongue, her teeth, everything that might seem unappetizing outside her body – Misha reacted to all of it and closed her eyes, opening herself in response, just to focus her whole being on this sensation. To remember the taste of her lips, filled with the aftertaste of blood.
And only Misha's hands remained on the table, her elbows politely dangling over the edge. The moment seemed so fragile that Misha was afraid to touch it, to destroy it, to ruin it with her soiled fingers. Even the loudly ticking wall clock seemed to have fallen silent.
And yet, the moment ended.
Misha opened her eyes slightly – Joanne was already a little further away. She stepped back a little, turned away, and touched her lips with her fingers. It still felt unreal – so surreal, like a dream. Or even that drowsy state minutes before an antidepressant-induced sleep. How disgustingly hungry Joanne made her. How horribly devastating that kiss had been, sweeping through her soul like a hurricane, breaking dishes and scattering books, knocking over nightstands and a chandelier to the floor. Leaving her a vacant, empty mess.
– If you're full, you'd better leave. Dawn's in a few hours.
Joanne becomes distant and thoughtful. She looks savoring this sensation, or perhaps regretting it, which seems entirely possible to Misha. She no longer looks back at her; it's as if she's avoiding her gaze, while Misha stares at her, ready to explode.
But dawn really shouldn't find her on the road. Misha wants to choke from helplessness and give herself a good slap in the face, lest she again violate the now-broken boundaries between them. Joanne retreated back – which means there must have been a reason. But how can she remain silent with this actions? How can she just let this pass her by now?
This irritated Misha, and she threw on her jacket, angry and confused in her rage, without replying. She slipped her feet into her shoes at the threshold and walked out the door without looking back, though she was perfectly aware that Joanne was watching her from the other side – watching her back and pondering what she's done.
Misha was angry because she thought Joanne didn't even begin to understand how badly she'd messed everything up, what a blow she'd dealt to her self-control, how she'd unsettled her already exhausted self. How deeply she'd stirred that hunger deep within her that simmers beneath the stomach – a hunger for touch and possession, a hunger for someone, not just something. Joanne watched her, and for just a moment she hesitated to close the door behind her, filled with fear and uncertainty, because she'd crossed a line and taken liberties that were probably so damn wrong, after all, you can't feed wild animals – they tend to always come back.
THE WELL (1997)
dir. Samantha Lang
A young woman named Katherine and her older friend Hester live on an isolated farm run by Hester and her father Francis. Katherine works as a maid and wants to leave because there’s too much work. Hester, however, becomes attracted to Katherine and holds her there, promising to give her less work in the future. When Francis dies, Hester decides to sell the farm for cash. They move to small cottage on the edge of the farm and plan to go to Europe. But a tragic accident and the theft of their money change their plans.
(link in title)
this post is about lesbian vampires, men and minors DNI
Misha (the Nagaraja) & Joanne (the Ventrue); sapphic bloodbonding, kinda cannibalistic but they are vampires so it's more of a Kindred thing, almost angst if you tilt your head and squint a little, spicy if you squint very hard, no "y/n", both are Vampire the Masquerade OCs.
summary: They say that Ventrue blood tastes like luxurious, expensive wine compared to the blood of any other Kindred. But Joanne gives more than just her blood—she allows Misha to taste her body.
a/n: a big thank you for all sapphic vampire enjoyers out there. we'll keep winning, gals. Misha belongs to @pellicientesavem — shout out to my pookie — and Joanne is mine.
She clenched her teeth and tore. Flesh makes an oddly crisp sound when ripped. Blood—thick, murky brown—began to stream down, pooling briefly in the curve of the collarbone before trickling across the chest. A cold glance followed, the quiet sound of chewing—Misha swallowed, and when Joanne stroked Misha’s cheek with a relaxed gesture, she was practically ready to purr.
"No more," Joanne’s hand fell from the pain, and with the other, she pressed against the wound. "Many things in un-life can become addictive."
"You, for example."
"My dear," Joanne chuckled hoarsely, leaning back against the headboard as Misha followed her. "Want me to kiss you?" And in that moment she halts Misha softly, holding her by the shoulder. "Give me a cigarette first."
"You’ve been smoking in bed a lot lately." Misha tilted her head slightly to the side, animal-like, expressionless, never breaking an eye contact. But after a couple of seconds, she obeyed, walking over to the table and returning from the other side of the bed.
"Really? Have I?" Joanne lit the cigarette, savoring the heat of the smoke beneath her unbeating heart. She smiled.
Misha remained silent for a while, looking down at her, clicking the lighter’s lid shut to extinguish the flame. Darkness settled between them—only pale moonlight streamed through the massive windows. Smoke curled in a spiraling ribbon.
"The sheets are soaked," Misha noted, and indeed, the blood had reached the edge of the fabric by Joanne’s thighs, spreading in an uneven crimson stain.
"Not for the first time, though."
"Want us to move to another bed?"
"Let’s stay," Joanne murmured around the cigarette in her teeth, reaching out with her free hand. "Come ‘ere."
The embrace was heavy, almost weary. Painful. When they pressed together, body against body, the blood—already drying, sticky—left its imprint on Misha’s face, her hands, everywhere they touched. She swallowed.
And it wasn’t sexual; it was intimate. Too close. When they kissed, Joanne flinched slightly, tensing as her dead flesh forced the wound closed—not perfectly, grotesquely, leaving a deep, aching mark. This was why it happened so rarely—it left scars. It left gaping wounds, hollows. How lucky Misha was to love her of all people, to crave only her—the one who healed so slowly, with such difficulty, and yet still allowed almost everything.
It was hard to say when they should have stopped—but they wouldn’t stop anyway.
The ashtray on the nightstand—Joanne flicked her wrist, tapping off the ash without looking, wincing when Misha tilted her head to the side, kissing her neck, licking up the blood carelessly, shamelessly.
Pain.
"Sorry," Misha whispered in her ear. Joanne closed her eyes and smiled in response.
This wouldn’t have been possible if they were truly alive. Not like this—no, truly, fully alive. Would they have even met at all?
Misha was afraid. She knew—whenever she fed, she always wanted more. She knew that if she had fur, it would bristle at the taste of Joanne’s body—anywhere. She knew that year after year, something inside herself slipped away like sand through fingers, something that had once made her human, leaving behind only a hungry, cold something, forever seeking, forever hunting.
Joanne never left her alone with that something. She stood beside her when Misha looked in the mirror while dressing, distracting her, not letting her stare too long at her own distorted, ruined features, the loud reminder—"You don’t control these changes." Joanne controlled them. The beast quieted in her hands, whimpered and begged for mercy, granting Misha just a little more time—a few more minutes, stretching into hours, into days, into years.
The curse of un-life wasn’t even in the fact that everyone Misha once knew would die like ordinary people, that everything around her would crumble to dust—no, not at all. Such things never troubled her; she had always felt somewhat detached from the world.
The curse was that in living endlessly, one could only spiral downward. And intimacy—intimacy was a dangerous game in the face of an infinite descent into hell.
Because the most human thing left in her, the one thing that stood like a pillar inside her, burned like an unextinguished candle, the last light in an empty cathedral, was restraining herself—and that choice is so tough when to drain to the last drop, to devour to the last crumb, was the highest of un-life’s ideals and desires.
Nothing compared to it. The triumph of the animal, the drowning of consciousness in that dark, opaque haze beyond life and death.
Misha sometimes thought about how, after diablerie, the consumed soul remained inside the killer forever. Perhaps Joanne’s presence—indivisible, eternal—was meant to be the main course after it all.
But not today.
For God’s sake, not today.
Tonight, she was still not close enough. And she was silent, finishing the last of her cigarette in the blood-soaked bed, sliding down the pillows, slipping from Misha’s arms as she turned onto her side. She stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray—smelling so good of smoke, of cold air from the open window, of blood.
It wasn’t the fear of becoming a beast.
It was the fear of forgetting the love that had once stopped her from becoming one.
"Mine," Misha purred heavily, in love, obsessed, wrapping her in an embrace like in a snare.
"Mine," she whispered again, drowning in the scent of Joanne’s hair, pressing kisses along the crown of her head, down her temples, murmuring into her ear, "Mine," as she slid lower through the sticky, bloody mess, nudging Joanne’s knee aside with a gentle motion, touching her carefully, asking permission and receiving it so easily in the answering tilt of her hips.
"Mine."
And in the next second, when Joanne lay defenseless, soft, so beautifully vulnerable in her hands, Misha was scared again. She was angry at herself, salivating, losing herself in that impulse, biting, caressing, kissing.
"Yours," Joanne moaned in response, pressing closer.
She always had been, it seemed. From the very beginning.
Fated. Destined. To be a torment, a temptation, or (and?) the only possible salvation.
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