#writings.

[nessfang]

@wulfhart whispers: " don’t you know how dangerous this is ? "

" of course i do, i wasn't embraced yesterday. " and yet, she has placed herself directly in the line of fire. some might call it heroic, the way her empathetic nature presses her to help old people cross the street and save childer from burning buildings. but in reality, it is some sick compulsion the beast has to right the wrongness of her embrace, penance for her very existence.

it is this need that compels her to accompany him in her high heels and pantsuit to another baron's territory. a young brujah, one of thjazi's, had talked their way into some trouble and needed a way out and it just so happens that nessa is very good at convincing people to do what she wants. ( a ventrue trait, one she has be honing for years. )

look at how low you've fallen. once a prince, now one of thjazi's errand runners. it would just be easier to rip his throat out and lap up his blood.

the receptionist at the front desk talks quietly into her desk phone, presumably to some lacky of the valley's baron. " just, follow my lead. we'll be in and out in twenty minutes. "

[nessfang]

@bleedsthrough / occtis spits out: " you have to believe me , i didn’t do this ! "

" then why risk showing your face at all? " it took her thirty seconds to spot him, ten to pin him to the cracked cement of the alleyway. her fingers wrap around his neck, nails digging into the soft flesh of his throat. it would be so easy for her to dig them in, to draw blood. it would be the ventrue thing to do. but nessa is not a ventrue. and somewhere in the back of her head, behind the anguish and the rage, behind the beast itself, a small voice poses a question: what if he's telling the truth?

" why are you here, occtis? you really cannot expect me to believe you weren't involved in what he did. " nessa can feel him, squirming beneath her, grasping for some sort of leverage. she presses down harder. " answer me and answer me true or i will rip your throat out! "

[nessfang]

" the night remembers what the sun forgets. " @l1felike .

she has come to miss the sunlight. the warmth it brings, the life it imbues. the memories of its' presence come to mind at his words. but as soon as they rise to the surface, all of them are pressed away from her and buried deep beneath her consciousness. they do not belong to her anymore, those memories. neither does the sun. no feeling stirs within her except fear. the beast stirring, prowling anxiously within her. " then, for as long as you walk this earth, you and your children will fear the dawn. hide now ... for the sun rises to take its wrath on you. " the words of the book of nod reverberate throughout the room, said with reverence, said as an omen. does he know them, nessa wonders, the prophecies. has he heard them before or has thjazi kept those truths to himself? " the sun has not forgotten us, azune. it waits its' turn for us all. " the hum of traffic outside soothes the beast, a reminder that los angeles is blanketed in darkness once more & there is nothing to fear. for now. " but tell me, do you miss it? you must remember it better than i. you are so young. "

[dhufeainnewedd]

the world splits itself in shades of red. neither of them has slept, nor will they now that the day imposes itself loudly, with the chirping of birds and the road ahead's activities. istar doesn't know whether to talk or not-- finds that the urge to do so is a strange thing, almost like a second person sitting between them. it wants to poke at eliana's soft belly: she must be weak, now, witnessing the world as it wakes up. people tend to be, when faced with the impossible sight of a world that does not wish to shatter them-- it's a cradle, that's what it is, this world when it wakes up. it wants to hold you gently, and so do you.

"baldur's gate's close." she tells her, though it's less of a piece of information and more of an emphasis on an uncomfortable truth, "you should have slept a little." then, because she can't help it, the shadow of a smirk on her face, "the wizard certainly would have made some space for you in his bedroll."

&&. @lattehearted : ( 🌅 ) : for our muses to watch the sun rise together.

[dhufeainnewedd]

@divineviclinist, ( 🧾 ) : for our muses to argue over who owes what.

"darling nicki," she coos. the endearement slips out of her mouth like a snake waiting to bite. definitely something borrowed. she taps him, once, claw digging between two ribs because that's approximately all she can reach from where she stands. one day, she'll finally voice a complain about the sheer size of the vampires following lestat like baby ducklings-- something to say about his type, surely, but she is still walking on a razor-sharp edge since the last time she voiced any complaints outloud. so she'll refrain. to maintain the peace!

"ya owe me, yunno?" he probably doesn't know; the witch-vampire counts tallies in a way that neither mortal nor monster completely fathom. your fate is an ugly thing she keeps in a dark corner of her mind; all you can do is believe her when she tells you she's steering you away from the worst parts of it. of course, you could forsake her entirely, and meet your destiny head-on... most actually do. "and we both know he'll prefer to hear it from ya than lil' old me... come on! have i never done anythin' for ya?", she takes a surprised breath then, completely fortuitous, a glance upward to see nicolas' face. "--ain't no need to answer that, actually."

[favoriteache]

the night spreads wide above them for longer than he cares to count; his eyes are on her. they follow the rising of her chest, they linger on her mouth with every breathy sound, thick and infused with sleepiness. a feast that knows it's being hunted and still let their eyelids fall closed. how dangerous. he doesn't understand the trust; hunger hums its own lonely tune and for a moment he wonders about attaching clawed fingers to her shoulders. keep her down while he drinks. let her thrash against his unyielding strength. the idiot girl would welcome it, surely, for she told him so…

but a shake of the head and a blink, and he lingers there, watching, until daylight comes and she breathes into her own wakefulness with a stretch. how strange, to want the meal to be given… to want her like this, awake. to want the lamb and the slaughter and the kindness that comes after, not in spite of, but because of the care that has been put into taking only what is given. for the throat to be extended, for the small tilt of her face, for her hands at his thighs while he sits behind her, face buried in her neck. the sweet perfume of defeat; her unbearable liveliness a smell he wants to bathe in. he smiles, teeth peeking out. "breakfast, darling?" baldur's gate will wait a bit longer, it must.

&&. @cht0nia

[favoriteache]

( 🚿 ) : for our muses to shower or bathe together. (midnight dip in a moonlit lake action between the Druid and the Wizard per chance)

night reflects into the soft ripples of the lake; the moon, bright above their head, illuminates indigo's silhouette as they walk toward the water. the wizard moves to escape, a movement born of habit at this point, but the druid shakes their head before it can be achieved. like a spell spoken, its effect is immediate. he does not move, his feet buried in the soft clay surrounding the lake. he can barely breathe as he sees them ridding themselves of their blood-battered clothing. the soft thump of fabric falling to the ground is deafening; nearly as loud as the beatings of his heart as his gaze linger on the druid's silhouette.

they're beautiful. he, a man of observation, keen on details, knew that already. it would be foolish to pretend he has not written a few sonnets about the tender way light hits their eyes, or the gentle slope of their shoulders when, sitting against tree bark, they observe the wide horizon. if he were an artist, he'd know the curve of their hips by heart; he'd draw it blind, from all the times he has walked behind them, suffering the distance but willing himself to keep the pace, if only to maintain the sight. but this… this is more than a glimpse in haste, with indigo taking off their robes before the wizard gets a chance to turn around. the usual way to watch them is a shameful thing; either from afar or in the wild second it takes to look away. he is not proud of it. he doesn't recognize himself in it; doesn't know where the hunger for such a thing comes from. their history is one of silences stretching while they take their full, looking at each other, as if the rest of the time it was a treat he was not willing to indulge in.

right now, it's an invitation to bathe in the vision, to watch as it unfolds, to discover the shadow cast beneath their breasts, or the intimate notch between the clavicles. for a wild moment, he wonders what it could be like to be close enough to press a kiss there, where the flesh is at its most tender. the thought, of course, spreads like wildfire; he must be blushing a thousand times worse than that cruel day they gifted him a flower. he has it still, dried and spread across his favorite book. he should leave. he knows where that particular urge comes from: he would rather keep his eyes closed at all times & get to love them than watch them & risk indigo misunderstanding his attentions for lust.

but they asked, in their way. they shook their head. it has to mean something.

the sight of them is enough to steal his breath away, but it is also the rest of it. the body as it disappears into dark waters. the way moonlight spreads around them like a cloak of shining diamonds. the shadows of the trees high above their heads, swaying with the night breeze,like hands reaching down. in this very moment they seem to be a part of the scenery, another creature of the forest, bathing at night. the moon kisses them home, lapping at exposed skin with the kind of gentleness that gale struggles to understand-- the night had been, up until that point, a moment in time. with the druid, it seems to be a creature of its own, holding them in their loving arms.

if it weren't for the warmth of his cheeks, the bruising of his body and the aching of his knees, he would think it a dream. it certainly has the hazy foundations of such a thing. he doesn't know what he is meant to do, but it seems not to matter: his gaze is ensnared, and the rest of his body is just a slave to the sight. he has been on other planes and has bedded a goddess-- he should be used to such marvels. how foolish of him to think so. perhaps it is more jarring that there is no scent of rosemary, no flickers of magical light. it is nature; mud and water and the buzzing of insects around them. it is desperately alive. it is desperately lively. how the goddess pales in comparison. how mad she must be, to realize that the magic holds this moment in time, that it is breathing. that it can be reached, and held. that it can hold them back, their gazes intertwined.