impractical | open post 2025

Entry tags:

!open

open post 2025

leave a starter or prompt; happy to plot first via pm or plurk.
muselist here.
spoilers and nsfw possible, will mark in tls.

wip list of tropes and stuff i pretty much always want to play:

lotus-eater situation, aka "you're living your perfect life and don't realize it's killing you!"
pining! you know the hand flex gif from p&p? of course you do
vampires...
misunderstandings between people who have feelings for each other, i.e. thinking one of them is interested in someone else and it comes to a head in heated admissions of Feelings
slow burn over a psl
ALL the h/c, whether one or two-sided
fwiw some of my favorite bstreet memes are morning after, train to the afterlife, drunk meme, find them dying, and insomnia
text is always going to be a yes from me dawg
classics: only one bed, huddle for warmth
amnesia???

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[It's all Clea can do not to sink her teeth into that pulsing artery. The hot salt-iron scent of the woman's blood is thick and inviting, calling out to her so loudly she can almost feel the pulse of it in her own chest, as though her cold, dead heart were capable of beating. She rests her lips against the woman's throat as she speaks, taking another breath to draw the smell of her deeper into her lungs. There's something there, something faint, that stirs a long-ago memory; but Clea can't place it, so she dismisses it.

She's well aware there are people in the world who, for whatever reason, crave the thrill of bedding a vampire. She's usually disinclined to indulge them. But the line between hunger and arousal is thin, and she'd have to be blind to deny that this woman is beautiful.

With the woman's heat filling Clea's chest where they've been pressed together and the sound of her pulse throbbing in Clea's ears, Clea spins her around and slams her back into the nearest wall. Her hand remains, vice-like, around the woman's wrist as she pins it to the wall by the woman's head like a butterfly pinned to a board.]

This is what you want?

[Her eyes scan the woman's face, searching for... something. Even she couldn't say what. Her hips rock against the woman's, one thigh finding its way between her legs.]

We are not lovers, [she snarls. Her eyes flick to the pulse in the woman's throat and back to her face. She can feel that same pulse hammering in the woman's chest as she presses closer, can feel it echoing in the hollow, lifeless chamber of her own chest.] You will not fall asleep tonight cradled in my arms, or wake tomorrow in my bed with the expectation of my company.

[Once, Clea had been in love. She will never make the mistake of bringing feelings into her bedchamber again.]

[ "What she wants." Sciel has to stop herself from barking out a laugh. She does still crack a smile, though: sardonic, flashing her teeth back at the fanged woman. Neither of them think any of this is what the lamb brought to slaughter wants. But that also isn't what her captor means, and so she tries to settle herself again with a deep breath, feeling first the cold lips at her throat, the pressing discomfort of the wall at her back, the painful twinge of her twisted arm.

What she wants is blood. Just not in the same way as the creature who would someday bleed her dry. ]

You're asking what I want? [ She's either unable, or unwilling, to keep from ribbing the vampire. ] How kind of you, mademoiselle fang.

[ Naturally, Sciel doesn't care to ask, or know, her name. Nor is she inclined to share her own. ]

It doesn't have to be that, if you're not interested. [ She may only bring men into her bed, if she brings anyone at all. But...the Dessendre woman's thigh is wedged between Sciel's legs, and there's something in what she says that makes her think this is a worthwhile avenue. Maybe there's even a defensiveness to it... ] But if you are, then that's not an issue.

[ She's not suggesting a long-term relationship, though she will try and draw this (whatever 'this' is) for as long as it takes to investigate and make at least one attempt against the life she seeks to extinguish.

Speaking of: ] Surely there've been at least a few others who had the same idea, while you still...entertained their company? I know most who signed up might not've been your type, but I also know your family has chosen some, here and there.

[Clea can't help but roll her eyes at the sardonic little nickname. But her attention is almost instantly back on the woman's neck, on the hard fast thud of her heartbeat, on the raging hunger that demands appeasement, one way or another.

She leans forward to press her lips to the woman's neck again, and it occurs to her as the woman speaks, as her lips draw back to expose her fangs – just a taste, just something to warm her from the inside, to draw this woman's heat into herself – that she can feel the pulse in the woman's neck and in her chest, but not against the thigh wedged between her legs. There is nothing in the world that Clea is more sensitive to blood, and she knows where blood flows fastest when a human is aroused, and where it's not flowing now.

This woman is... not earnestly propositioning her.

And then comes that strange question. She draws back, frowning.]

Does it really matter, who amongst your people I've shared my bed with?

[ The woman closes the distance again, that ravenous and dangerous mouth against her neck, and Sciel thinks, maybe, she's managed it. ..."It" being winning herself a little more time, of course, with some lying and light seduction. But the woman pulls back again with a frown, and her quarry realizes with a surge that...it's probably difficult to deceive a vampire in this particular way, all things considered.

Shit. ]

Like I said: I'm curious. [ Not untrue, but certainly not the priority. Right now, her immediate concern is navigating this part of the conversation without ending up dead because of a misstep. ] We don't have any information about your kind, so this is really my only opportunity to learn.

[ What can she do to turn this around? There's at least one thing, right, that'll be a more surefire bet? ]

Taste me. [ Sciel says, her voice low, now lifting her free hand to move any remaining wisps of hair from around her throat. ] Then see how you feel about anything else after.

[ Just a taste, to sate the hunger that Sciel assumes has the monster more on edge. But if she takes it too far... ]

[Just a taste.

Clea tries to keep focused on the woman's face, because her curiosity is piqued now. One doesn't offer oneself as a meal to a vampire out of mere curiosity, and she doubts the woman is purely self-sacrificing, or why would she bother playing at seduction? But her blood is singing a symphony that Clea can't ignore, that she wants to lose herself in, and every time she manages to fix her eyes on the woman's face, they are drawn inexorably back to her throat.

Just a taste.

She leans forward again, crowding even closer, pressing the woman between her own body and the wall. Her lips ghost gently across the pulse thrumming beneath the woman's skin, one brief moment to savour the anticipation, before her fangs suddenly, hard and fast, sink into the woman's throat. As she bites down, she catches another hint of that scent, familiar but forgotten. Where has she smelled that before?

But all her questions are soon wiped away by the rushing in her head and the heat blossoming in her chest and in her belly. A soft, satisfied groan breaks out of her before she can stop it, and she curses inwardly at the open need, the desire, on display.

She was right about this woman. She burns. And, if only for a few fleeting seconds, Clea feels very nearly alive.

Just a taste, remember.

The woman is lucky that Clea has a will of iron, or she might not be able to tear herself away.

Her fangs ease out of the woman's neck, and Clea licks a hard line up the strong column of her throat, catching any stray droplets of blood.]

Who are you? [she hisses into the woman's ear.] And what are you really doing here?

[ Ironically, as it turns out, vampirism is not very dissimilar from sex. There's some discomfort initially, but she's surprised how quickly the pain vanishes. Transforms, almost, into something that is so surprisingly pleasurable that she doesn't think twice about the needy sound that the woman makes against her throat. This is to placate their prey, to make you stupid, she hears in her mind, but it's so otherwise flooded with explosively alluring chemicals that any logic or instinct of self-preservation is carried away as if it'd been a leaf against a hurricane.

Time becomes muddy. When her mind is able to clear again, she'll realize with another dose of chilling fear that she could have been completely drained in that moment and wouldn't have lifted a finger to stop it. In the present, though, she's dimly aware that she's trapped between the woman and the wall, utterly at the other's mercy, but all she knows is the unnatural bliss that she feels, which courses through her and makes her blood sing as it's liberated from her body.

Yes, she's lucky. In this, at least: that the vampire does stop feeding, tongue catching any lingering beads that had trailed down after the wound. And Sciel crashes back into herself with a start, nearly shaking with the realization of what'd just happened.

Then comes the question. Cursing inwardly, she thinks that the feeding would've been one of her better opportunities to try something. ...Except, if she's honest with herself, she knows it'd have been impossible, with her enthralled so intensely. And now, with the Dessendre woman still holding her pinned in place and suspicious, she knows that her time is already up.

Even when she tries to summon her weapon -- the tool she'd once used for farming, with its twin deadly edges -- Sciel realizes another awful truth: wherever they are, she has no connection to the ability to draw the scythe into existence from nothing. She is alone, unarmed, and found out.

Her reaction is to tip her head back, cracking a strained smile. Putain de merde. ]

Sciel. [ She offers, sighing. ] I came to kill the monster that took my husband five years ago.

[ Deceit doesn't suit her anyway. So there's almost a relaxed ease to the way she admits the truth, faced with the near-certainty that she's about to be rent asunder by this powerful creature and join Pierre in death.

She'll at least get some of the things she wanted, in the end. ]

[The warmth flooding through Clea turns to ice. That's where the smell comes from. That dark flat, five years ago, the young man who had asked only one thing of her. Clea had been weak enough and tired enough that she'd agreed to his only demand, as long as he came quietly. She'd been starving, a dull ache behind her eyes and a lethargy in her muscles that was growing worse after weeks with nothing to eat. Lumière had volunteered a man so old and frail he'd hardly had any blood in him, and Alicia – poor Alicia, smaller and weaker than her siblings, and recently injured – needed every drop. So Clea had stolen into the city and found someone with enough blood to satisfy her and Verso. He hadn't begged for his life, as most do. All he'd asked of her was that she spare his wife.

He'd tasted sweet. And he'd died in much the same position that Sciel is in now: pinned against the wall, his hands clutching at her in a mockery of a lover's embrace. She'd given what was left of him to Verso to drain.

And, true to her word, Clea has never returned to that flat, though she has idly wondered what sort of woman could inspire such devotion. And, she must admit, she understands now. One can tell a lot about a person by their blood, and this woman blazes like the sun.]

I'd be a hypocrite to blame you. [Given what she's done to two of the vampire hunters who killed Simon, and what she plans to do to the rest.] But there's nothing in this place you can use to hurt me. [It's not a brag, or a threat, merely a simple statement of fact.

She pulls back enough to look at Sciel, allowing the woman a little more space. But her hand tightens even further on Sciel's wrist, causing all those little bones to grind harshly together, a warning that a moment of leniency is not a stay of execution. She doesn't intend to break the bones, but she will leave an ugly bruise and a painful ache.

Her jaw tenses.]

All he asked of me was that I let you live.

[But she's had a taste now, and her body aches to feel that heat again, to take and take of this woman until there's nothing left, to feel the thrash of a heart in its dying throes, so intense Clea might imagine it were her own heart beating. And so the question becomes: does she honour her word to a man long dead, or does she take what she craves?]

[ And there it is. The impact of those words is akin to an unexpected punch to her gut, and Sciel feels all of the wind leave her lungs with the imagined blow. The pain of what the vampire says specifically is so keen that there is no keeping it from her face; Sciel shows a blatant grief that is deep as a chasm, with old wounds being opened violently with a ragged, hateful blade. She slackens against Clea's grip as if there had been some hope that Pierre had been alive before now (there hadn't), not caring a whit if this fucking animal breaks her wrist or not.

This is the one responsible for her husband's death. Sciel has her right here, in front of her. Clea is more beautiful and more horrible than the formless figure Sciel had imagined when she'd lay awake at night picturing her revenge, because that idea had been the only thing that'd kept her going lately. ...But she has no weapon, and there obviously won't be something lying around nearby that she can use to end it. That would be too easy, and life isn't easy: it's cruel.

(Briefly, insanely, she wonders if she should've ingested poison beforehand. Something that would flow through her blood and into the vampire's mouth. But, of course, she has no idea what does and doesn't kill a vampire, and it's just a consideration in hindsight anyway.)

Sciel is shaking with rage, which Clea will plainly see when she draws back, though it's otherwise clear from the hammering of her heart. The puncture marks at her neck still bloom a little with fresh blood, and the pinned woman swoons slightly, intensely lightheaded from the feeding and the revelation that followed.

There is no thought. There is only the instinct of the animal she's supposed to be. And so Sciel uses that little space she'd been afforded to throw herself to the side with the intent of biting down hard on the arm that holds her own in its grasp. ]

You're honourable now, are you? What do you care about a promise to a dead human, connasse? [ Whether or not she's successful in her spiteful, fruitless attack, Sciel will bare her teeth at Clea at the first opportunity, seething. ] I don't care what you say: I will find a way to make you suffer. And if you kill me, I will haunt you forever.

[For a few moments, Clea thinks all the fight has gone out of the woman, all that fire reduced to a shivering, fainting mess held up only by Clea's hand pinning her wrist to the wall. It's a shame, she thinks, until she realises the shivering isn't fear or cold, but rage. Of course it's rage, that same rage that Clea is all too familiar with. But she realises too late to stop Sciel's teeth rending her arm, drawing blood thicker and darker than a living person's.

She wrenches her arm away, grabs the front of Sciel's shirt with both hands, and slams her into the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of her. There's blood flecked on the woman's lips as she vows her revenge. Not much, but it only takes a drop.

Putain. Putain de bordel de merde. How could she have been stupid enough, slow enough, to have allowed this? How could she have— Putain.

It's in their natures, of course: Sciel runs hot, Clea is ice cold. Her rage is not loud, not screaming death threats and attacking wildly like a cornered beast. Her rage is still, a tempest seething beneath a placid surface. She can still feel the heat of Sciel's body against her as she closes the distance between them, glaring from beneath a fringe that's become increasingly disheveled, every muscle in her body wound tight as steel as she tries to work through what to do now. Her promise is forgotten, and whether she intends to keep it no longer matters. They've shared each other's blood, she and this woman, and that means, if she kills her now, Sciel will become a vampire.

That's not something she can allow.]

Listen to me, [she says, her voice as icy as her demeanour, as icy as the hands pinning Sciel in place.] I'm going to send you home, and you will forget that any of this happened.

[She's still hungry, she still wants, every animal instinct screaming at her to bite, to take what's hers, take all that heat and fire for her own, but, even if she were willing to go back on her word, she can't. Tonight must end with Clea unsatisfied.]

He's dead. [Just as Simon is dead, and there is, perhaps, a thickness to her voice that shouldn't be there, that belies a weakness, a grief, she would never willingly acknowledge.] Throwing your life away after his won't change that. [Nothing can change that. And Clea has to keep moving, can't pause to tear the whole world apart for what it's dared to take from her, because the war in which her family is embroiled won't wait for her to catch up. Her knuckles turn an even paler shade of white as she clenches her fists harder, fingernails digging into her own palms through Sciel's shirt.] Take this one chance to walk away.

[ Sciel is slammed back into the wall with a harsh thud, her head cracking a little with the impact. Already woozy from the feeding, her vision swims in and out for a moment during which, honestly, she expects this woman to finish her off. ...But time drags on and Sciel absently licks her lips, inadvertently taking in the tainted blood, completely unaware of any possible implications.

When her sight drifts back into focus, she fixes it again on the vampire. ]

"You're going to send me home?" [ She repeats, and then she laughs, lolling her head back and baring her teeth again in a mocking grin. ] That's what you say to a student who's been naughty, not someone who wants to kill you. Where is all that fear that the Dessendre family has inspired for so long?

[ Yes: she's goading. Sciel has no desire, no intention, to return home. There's nothing waiting for her there, since she's made up her mind about enacting violence on her way out of this life, and there will be no reasoning with her.

Distantly, perhaps, the ever-insightful woman notes the way that her captor talks about Pierre...as if she isn't talking about him at all. Her eyes alight as she reaches for this possibility, yanking it up into the light to be exploited. ]

Speaking from experience? [ She can't, won't, think of Pierre. How he'd died, how this monster had been the last thing he'd seen. How he'd bargained for his wife's life. Instead, she adopts what might otherwise be a pleasant smile, cocking her head curiously. ] If you haven't, I'd be happy to show you what it's like to lose someone you love. If you're capable of feeling anything but hunger, of course.

[The barb about her family doesn't bother Clea; whatever reputation they have in Lumière is not her concern, as long as the Lumièrians continue to cooperate with them. But the insight Sciel gleans about her, the shattering of the facade she's so meticulously built and the exposure of the raw grief beneath, that burns. A weaker woman might rip out Sciel's throat for it. It takes every ounce of Clea's ironclad self-control not to react, though there is, perhaps, a telltale twitch in her jaw and her neck as her muscles tense with the effort of restraining herself.

When she speaks, her voice is still ice cold, still a little too thick, strained from the effort to keep it from breaking.]

Don't presume there is anything you can do that would hurt me.

[Not after what's already been taken from her. Not when Simon's screams still ring in her ears and she can't close her eyes for fear of seeing his last moments, forever seared onto the backs of her eyelids.

She releases Sciel's shirt with one hand so that she can run her thumb across the woman's bottom lip, wiping away a stray drop of blood. Hell, a weaker woman might rip Sciel's throat out just to taste her again. Even now, woozy and seemingly desperate to die chasing after her revenge, she is all but irresistible. The drops of fresh red blood beading on her neck are screaming out to Clea, and she can't help but yearn to run her tongue over Sciel's throat again.]

And I'm not going to hurt you, either. If you die now, you'll become what you'd call a monster. Just like me.

[Clea wouldn't consider herself a monster, of course. She's an animal, feeding on other animals to survive. No different from humans raising cattle for the slaughter, really; vampires are just higher up on the food chain. But Sciel has made her own opinion clear.]

You don't want that.

[ Naturally, Clea wouldn't betray any weakness, if it exists. And not the 'weakness' of her past loss, which is beyond them both. There isn't anything there to exploit, and though she has no issue trying to make this woman suffer in any way possible, she has to prioritize. The vampire says she won't hurt Sciel, but that isn't an assurance that the Lumieran can count on.

There must be something, though. Everything has a weakness. Would they not fall with enough violence? If you stabbed them through the heart, or cut off their head? There's not exactly time to experiment, and she doesn't have a weapon besides, but...

Her dark musing is interrupted by what Clea says next, which has Sciel frowning slightly.

What? ]

What're you talking about? [ That hawk-like gaze is fixed on Clea, studying every twitch of her features. ] "If I die, I'll become like you?"

[ Her tone is highly dubious, given how absurd an idea it is, and her own lack of knowledge related to anything vampiric. Besides, it's more likely that this thing is playing games with her, for...whatever twisted reason. Maybe fear changes the taste of the blood, she thinks, with another pang of loathing. ]

Right, fine, I'll go back. I'll go back and recommend to the Council that we no longer honour this agreement. You've been taking more than your share anyway, so if the threat was to open us up to attack from the Nevrons, then we'll prepare for that instead. You and your family would probably kill us all eventually with the excuse of this deal hanging over our heads, and, well...I'd rather go down fighting, knowing you're not getting what you want.

[ What they need, maybe. Because the frequency with which people had been requested, or were stolen away, had increased over time. And something about the way Clea has been looking at her tonight, as if she's starving...

What Sciel doesn't know, of course, is where she and the others in the city had come from in the first place. ]

[It seems to Clea that Sciel wants to die. She came here tonight with no weapon, no apparent plan, simply threw herself into the jaws of a predator in the vague hope that Clea that would choke on her. And now she's goading her, trying to strike wherever it might hurt or provoke ire: Clea's family, her losses, and now their agreement with Lumière.

(Not that the agreement matters much. If the Lumièrians become too unruly, they can always be erased and new livestock painted in their stead. But that would mean more time, more energy, when there's a war to fight and not enough time or energy to spare.)

She can't help but roll her eyes in frustration.]

You want to die, then, I take it? I'm offering you the rest of your life, for whatever that's worth. But if you're that adamant to refuse it...

[She gave her word.

What does honour mean here? Her word won't feed her, won't give her the strength she needs to keep her family safe.

Sciel's ingested Clea's blood. She'll become a vampire if she dies now.

Clea can destroy the body before she rises. It'll take time, time that's wasted here instead of in the outside world where she's needed, where there's a war to fight and where her family is relying on her. But if it means she won't go hungry tonight, perhaps it's worth it.]

I'll grant your wish.

[Her hand slips around to cup Sciel's cheek, fingertips pressing insistently against the side of her head, holding her in place, as her other hand releases its death grip on Sciel's shirt to trace downwards to Sciel's waist, grabbing on and holding the woman flush against her body. Were she not a predator and Sciel her prey, it might seem as though she were about to kiss her. And for a moment, her lips against Sciel's throat are almost tender.]

[ Sciel does want to die. She's wanted to stop having to live after Pierre disappeared, though she went on for years after in a reckless haze. And though it took a while for her to decide that dying in the course of getting her revenge was the way she wanted it to end, she'd managed to make it here.

...Of course, the revenge piece has already gone up in flames. But the vampire's teeth are at her neck, those hands pinning her in place, and to do nothing now would mean she could finally just fall into the inky blackness of whatever comes after and not feel this way anymore.

Just as she resolves herself (with some bitterness) to this, her eyes starting to flutter shut, she starts suddenly and those eyes snap open again. Because she sees her husband standing just over Clea's shoulder, exactly the kind, handsome visage she remembered from the last time she'd ever seen him.

Mon coeur, he says, and there's a plea in the term of endearment. Please. You know this isn't right.

And it isn't fair, of course, to see his ghost now. The frustrating, grief-stricken tide of it wells up in her throat, and she tries to turn her head so she can't see him, but Clea has her frozen in place. So she swallows roughly, trying to keep the emotion from welling up further and stinging her eyes. ]

I know, [ Sciel mutters, curling her hands into fists so the nails bite into her palms. ] but I...

[ Putain. It'd be so easy to give in, and then she could be with him again. But he's also here, staring at her with gently-begging eyes, and she wants to scream, she's so frustrated.

But she doesn't have a lot of time to debate it. So, with a rough, overwhelmed sound, she tries to pull back from the other woman as much as she can, teeth grit. ]

Wait. [ Now her attention is on the vampire again, face clearly lined with the anguish of an impossible situation. ] ...You can't kill me, fine, but consider what I said before: I can last. Make it so you don't have to take anyone else for a while. Maybe I can help your family, too, depending on how...much you need.

[ Is this the best scenario that remains to her? Not become a vampire, and also not have failed in being the sacrifice she intended such that someone else from home will need to be sent immediately?

Sciel stares hard at Clea, face a fresh mask of resolve. ]

Is that enough to satisfy you?

[Clea's lips part, the needle-sharp points of her fangs prick through skin, blood begins to well up, tantalising. She wants to devour this woman. She wants to hurt her, for daring to make her think of Simon. For daring to notice her weakness.

Once, she and Simon might have shared this woman, held her between them while they drained every last drop, but he's gone and Clea is alone, holding together the fraying strands of her family with what little strength she can muster as it becomes increasingly difficult to find prey that can feed her the way she needs to be fed, when she's so hungry she aches—

She grunts in irritation as her food suddenly has a change of heart and tries to wrench herself away. Clea curls her fingers through Sciel's hair and latches on hard, daring her to move her head again.]

Has anybody ever told you that you're insufferably difficult to deal with? I brought you here tonight for one purpose, and one purpose alone. And, seeing as you're uninterested in clemency, you're going to fulfill that purpose.

[Without waiting for a response or giving Sciel the chance to react, she bites down suddenly, her fangs piercing the artery that gushes searing hot blood into her mouth. Clea wants, she needs, and so she takes, takes until she feels the faint blush of almost-colour staining her cheeks and the warmth of living blood spread through her body, until the hands holding Sciel in place are no longer quite so deathly cold.

It was this wall, she remembers vaguely. This is the spot where she killed Sciel's husband. Funny, the ways in which the world sometimes rhymes.

In the end, it's the thought of Alicia that stops her.

Maybe I can help your family, too.

She's under no illusion that Sciel holds altruistic feelings for the Dessendres; she probably just wants to stay alive long enough to get some semblance of revenge. But that doesn't mean she isn't right.

Alicia. Alicia injured, Alicia lying in bed all night and refusing to come out of her room. Alicia needs this even more than Clea does, and part of protecting the family means making sure the entire family – especially the weakest of them – will not starve. With a soft groan, she tears herself away. There's blood coating her lips and staining Sciel's throat, oozing from the twin puncture wounds on Sciel's neck down to the collar of her shirt. Sciel will be dizzy, no doubt. Disoriented. So Clea is quick to brace the woman between her own body and the wall.]

[ Sciel has been told a dozen times in the past that she's insufferably difficult. ...But, it's always been borne of fondness and affection. A friend teasing her in a bar as the group around them laugh, or Pierre shaking his head with hopeless adoration as she histrionically bat her lashes at him. Generally, Sciel is one of the most easygoing people you might have the fortune of meeting.

...Or, she had been. But, after Pierre...everything had seemed darker. Even her own, sunny light had been dimmed, and she'd retreated into herself in search of some way to escape it all.

Life is insufferably difficult. It seems death will end up that way, too.

This is what you wanted, she reminds herself dimly as the vampire bites down again. It's in earnest this time, and Sciel realizes she is, in fact, going to die. Drained beyond repair by a woman she'd threatened, then probably tossed into the pile of corpses that undoubtedly exists on the property somewhere. Maybe she would lie not far from her husband, even. Or perhaps they've got an incinerator, which is vastly preferable. She doesn't want to exist in their rotten, damnable house any longer than she has to, even just as a body.

Through her increasingly-swimming vision and the haze of almost dreamlike bliss that again floods her system, Sciel recognizes that Pierre is still standing over Clea's shoulder. Though she can barely make out his form, she knows what kind of expression he has. He doesn't speak, but her heart aches anyway.

I'm sorry, mon amour, she thinks weakly, pleadingly. But I'll see you soon.

As it turns out, though, there is no reprieve. The woman pulls away before the job is done, though Sciel isn't even close to well enough to recognize it. Scarlet winds its way down her neck, the little wounds again blossoming with fresh blood, but the woman herself is barely aware. Her chin lifts a little just to make eye contact with her captor. Strangely, disarmingly, she parts her lips to smile: almost wolfish, almost triumphant.

And then she loses consciousness, weight falling against Clea. ]

[Clea returns that smile with a scowl, teeth bared and dripping blood. With Sciel's blood coursing like liquid fire through her veins, she feels stronger than she has in a long time, and she has Sciel at her mercy. Yet Sciel found a chink in all the layers of coldness and indifference and rage that Clea's built up around her heart like armour, and now Clea can't help but feel that, in some way that matters more than it should, this woman's gotten the best of her. She should never have let her speak; she should have taken what she wanted and let that be the end of it.

When Sciel falls, Clea catches her, sweeps her up in a bridal carry and brings her to the bed, where she unceremoniously drops her. The impact of Sciel's body hitting the sheets kicks up a cloud of dust.

With a few deft movements of her fingers, Clea paints a pair of manacles, chaining Sciel's wrist — the wrist she'd bruised earlier – to the nearest bedpost. She doubts Sciel can hear her, but she says it anyway, her tone curt and irritated:]

Don't worry, I won't let you starve to death. You'll be drained dry before that happens.

[It's not a threat. It's certainly not a reassurance, either.

And with that, she starts to dissolve into chroma, leaving this world behind for her own. Clea will tell Alicia of the meal awaiting her and then, well. Despite everything, Sciel's given Clea a gift. There's so much heat blazing inside her now, so much strength in her, that perhaps, for this one night, she can spare a little time, just an hour or two, to indulge her anger. Perhaps it's time to hunt down another vampire hunter.]

[ Sciel doesn't hear Clea's words after she's dumped onto the bed. Her consciousness is a complete void: one not haunted by nightmares, nor graced by sweet dreams. It's just a stretch of blackness that holds her in its embrace for an indeterminate amount of time.

When she comes to again, it's with an intense, disorienting grogginess. Her sharp, bright eyes flutter open first, squinting up at the unfamiliar ceiling. It's a long moment before she seems to remember to breathe, and her chest rises and falls with deep, slow movements.

Pain. There is a stinging at her neck, on top of everything else. The Lumieran frowns, but when she tries to bring her hand up to investigate, she cries out in another unexpected jolt. It's easy to diagnose this one, because when she rolls her head sideways to look, her wrist is both ugly blooms of black and blue and is chained to the bed.

Unfortunately, this is where he memories return. The teacher-turned-sacrifice inhales sharply, working as quickly as she can to return to her facilities even when her body continues to resist her. One hand is still free, and it's this one that she uses to investigate the manacle (securely locked, and what the fuck is it made of?) and then press to the sensation at her throat, the mystery of which is now clear again.

No fresh blood comes away with her fingers. She is thinking, though, of what the vampire woman had said: "If you die now, you'll become like me." If it's true, it's...sickening. Turns her stomach immediately in a way that, with how cold and light-headed she already is, makes her feel deeply ill. But she manages to hold it together...for now, at least. Because she's still alive, and she needs to focus on what she can do next.

First: to free herself. Then...to find a way to kill the Dessendre woman, no matter how impossible she'd alleged it to be. ]

[It's hours later, very near morning, that Clea returns. She materialises in the bathroom and yanks aside the collar of her shirt to examine her injuries as best she can. This would be so much easier with a mirror, but being a vampire does come with its downsides: a very pertinent one at this moment being a lack of reflection.

Her shoulder and the side of her neck are raw and a dull grey-red, the skin mangled and still smoking in places. There are a few shards of glass embedded here and there, remnants of the vial of holy water that the vampire hunter had hit her with. She picks out as many as she can, and the pain of each one tugging at her injuries is another piece of kindling on the fire of her rage. Rage at the man who did this to her, of course. Rage at her parents, for being upset with her – a rash of bodies chained to cemetery gates and burned alive draws attention, never mind that attention should be drawn to the punishment inflicted on those who would dare cross the Dessendres. And, most of all, rage at herself for not being fast enough to avoid the hit.

In the end, she'll heal. The man will not. And for a little while, at least, the memory of his screams will drown out the memory of Simon's.

She doesn't know whether Alicia's been here or, if she has, whether she's killed Sciel or merely had a taste. She had warned her sister not to fully drain Sciel unless she wanted to waste time in here dealing with the body to prevent her rising again. But Alicia isn't always the most reliable, so Clea will need to make sure that either Sciel still lives, or dismember and burn her if she doesn't.

Once she's picked as many bits of glass out of her shoulder as she can find and readjusted her shirt to cover most of the injury, she reaches for the knob to the bathroom door. For a moment, she listens, trying to hear breathing, or a heartbeat, or anything that might alert her to her captive's status.

And then she opens the door into the bedroom.]

[ Sciel doesn't know it, but Alicia has been here. Of course, the only evidence to that fact is that there is now a second set of piercings on the Lumieran's throat, and...obviously some amount less blood in her body. It'd contributed to her deep and hazy unconsciousness, to that persistent daze that she feels even now, but hadn't been fatal (as Clea had advised).

When the vampire reappears, Sciel rolls her head that direction. ...Right. This. This is what's going on, what she's gotten herself into, and somehow it's all more thorny than she'd anticipated.

Probably should've figured it wouldn't be simple, given that it involves immortal monsters. Fortunately, she's usually good about rolling with the punches. ]

You played so coy, and yet...here I am. [ Sciel adopts another easy, slow smile, lifting the battered arm that's manacled to the bed. ] Mm, why don't you give it a try next time, see how you like it?

[ It could be a flirtation in any other situation, but they both know, now, that she intends it as a threat sitting just behind the smile.

Their situation is fraught. Sciel knows this in spite of her flippancy. If she dies, she's betraying Pierre's last wish. But...if she goes back, then she'll lose her opportunity to do any of what she'd come here for. So...what's the alternative?

Her chest rises and falls in a lightly-frustrated huff. Lune would probably have a plan by now. All she has (so far) are bruises and bite marks. ]

But you still managed to have a nice night, from the looks of it. No?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

open post 2025

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject