Lyna\Lina, 23, she, bi
self-taught wannabe artist\hobbyist, nameless ghoulette, Sleep worshipper, CEO of Leon S. Kennedy, bearer of the Outsder's mark, Fen'Harel's pawn, proudly fat and lover of women
I hop from fandom to fandom like a wanton beast so you might see something very unexpected come out of nowhere
Ghost | Sleep Token | Dishonored | Dragon Age | Cyberpunk | VTM | DnD | Resident Evil | Fallout | TES | Destiny | Stardew Valley | GoT | Dandy's World
Sympathy, empathy, a godforsaken pathology
A path of collision within brain topology
And longing and sorrow feel fucking pathetic
Lips warped into constant apology
Forgive me my yearning, I won't seek too much,
Behind that mask I won't try to find
The man, I need only the source of your rhymes
I know in your eye sockets a mirror lies
Mine is the look i'll see in your eyes
And the verses on our skins in the same tongue of red lines, the same signs
A prayer that runs down forearms and thighs
Why, oh why can I read yours
And you know what's written in mine?
Palms of a broken god, soot-clad
Fingers softly threading where's my heart at
While I dream of my lips on your stigmata
To know how it feels to love such marks for I can't love my own image
The paths of your imprints - my pilgrimage
Oh please, claw in, i give you this feast, open my ribs
So tender and sweet, my chest is that of Pandora's, let out its disease
For I am only alive when my heart's in your hold
How gentle you are with it, as if it's not vile at all
My world feels like Babylon
I speak yet there's no single maw that sings the same as my own
Cept' at your fingertips I feel lucid and the sun stops to fall
Like making sense of a colour when you've been born eyeless no use through and through
No concept of vibrance when all you know is perpetually dull
But you suddenly sang, and I knew you could see it too.
I'm city-born, and the sky's favourite hue
Is the colour of an aged bruise, the great above we pollute
A consequence of our ascent, it's a guilt we can't ever make right
We ruined the sky, desecrated with light
Yet it can't be lovelier for me, all twisted and doomed
Will anyone see that beauty
When I'm ruined?
Will you?
my first poem in english i wrote after june ritual. worship.
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.
