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impractical) wrote2025-03-17 02:48 pm
impractical) wrote2025-03-17 02:48 pm
Entry tags:
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???
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
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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. ]
no subject
(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.]
no subject
...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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
...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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
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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?
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She pointedly ignores the comment about the manacles; the threat of it doesn't perturb her and the innuendo behind it doesn't interest her. Right now she's tired, and angry, still a little hungry and in more than a little pain every time she shifts and her shirt scrapes against the raw flesh of her shoulder. She hasn't got the energy or the patience to be entertaining threats.
A quick glance to the window confirms that the sun is beginning to rise. There are heavy curtains on every window in the house, and heavier shutters, all of them locked. None of the Dessendres want to take a chance at letting in a stray ray of sunshine. But the faintest glow of dawn light is visible even through all of that, just around the edges, enough to let Clea know that she's stuck inside until nightfall.
She stalks over to the bed and grabs Sciel's chin, yanking her head to the side so she can get a good look at the marks on her neck. Alicia has been here, then. Good.
But that still leaves her with the issue of what to do with someone she doesn't want to leave lying around unattended and can't kill.]
You. [She digs her fingertips in a little too hard, blunt fingernails scraping along Sciel's jawline.] Are a problem.
no subject
This woman may seem in some ways to be human, but she isn't. She'll never be. She's dangerous, and the rest of her family -- the rest of her kind -- is all the same.
Case in point. It isn't long before the Dessendre woman closes the distance (sending Sciel's heart rate up in a natural response), though she only tugs at her captive's chin to...admire her own handiwork, maybe. And though Sciel isn't exactly able to quiet the thudding in her carotid artery, she does quip: ] Still feeling a bit woozy. I don't suppose you've got any juice?
[ Yes: they've both got a problem. Because it's been an indeterminate amount of time and the Lumieran still has no idea how to successfully kill this woman. Assuming she can first escape from her bonds, that is, which she'd barely had time to consider when the vampire appeared again. ]
I think we've got a lovely arrangement, actually. Works for everyone. [ Quite the opposite. ] ...You know, you still haven't told me your name, and it feels like I can't really know you until I know it.
[ Her face is still wan, her situation still dire, but she manages to bat her eyelashes in an expression of maddening innocence anyway. ]
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[Clea doesn't make a habit of socialising with her prey, and the simple fact that she needs to keep Sciel around for at least a few days won't change that. Her parents might call her impolite, but why should she care if she's not sufficiently courteous to someone she plans to kill? Some self-aggrandising, misplaced show of manners is nothing more than a waste of time.]
Despite your lacklustre attempt at seduction, I told you that we aren't lovers. And we certainly aren't friends. You're my prisoner, until that blood leaves your system and I can finally be rid of you.
[But she can't allow Sciel to starve to death or die of dehydration any more than she can drink her dry, so, barely clinging to her patience with every ounce of strength she can muster, Clea says flatly,] Is there anything you'd like besides juice?
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"Lacklustre attempt at seduction" actually earns her a surprised laugh, and Sciel rolls her head away from Clea as much as the other woman will allow. ]
We aren't anything. On that, we agree. [ Particularly since Sciel would love nothing more than to drive a blade through Clea's heart and, probably for good measure, burn this place to the ground.
The question elicits another sound of amusement: a small scoff. ]
That was a joke. [ She states, gaze flitting back to the other woman's. ] But I'd love any wine you'd be willing to part with.
[ This, at least, is the truth: she badly needs a fucking drink. It's why she doesn't add something flippant onto the request, like "your most potent vampire-slaying knife, please." ]
Did anyone else take you up on your generous offer of sharing the cattle? [ She asks, because Sciel is unable to completely stop her prodding. ] It's the...five of you, isn't it?
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[Sciel was unconscious when Alicia came by, then, and Alicia drank without waking her. That does sound like Alicia, who can be so very quiet and small when she wants to be. Regardless, Clea doesn't bother to share that with Sciel; it isn't really her business which of the family has been drinking from her, as far as Clea's concerned. It doesn't matter to the cow who ends up eating the steaks cut from it, why should a human be bothered with which particular vampires are drinking their blood?
She lets Sciel go when the other woman pulls her head away.]
Alcohol thins the blood. [There's not going to be any wine.] But, despite what I imagine we both want, I do need to keep you alive. So you're going to eat what I give you.
[With that, Clea exits the room, leaving the door open a crack so she'll be able to hear if her captive decides to get up to anything, and sits at a small table in the hallway. And, with a certain lack of enthusiasm that's superseded by the attention to detail with which she instinctively does everything, she begins to paint.
The steak is a bit of a joke, but a rare piece of meat ought to do well for someone who's lost quite a bit of blood. She takes her time to meticulously craft it, every fibre of the meat, every vein of fat, the precise shade of the red juices oozing out of it. And then she paints the juice. It's sea buckthorn juice, which looks a warm, inviting shade of orange and tastes of what Clea would imagine is the flavour of nitric acid.
Let Sciel enjoy the worst cup of juice she's ever had.
Plate and cup in hand – there's a fork on the plate, but no knife, given that she's well aware that Sciel wants to kill her and, though a standard kitchen knife probably wouldn't get the job done, she's not foolish enough to provide her would-be killer with a weapon – she reenters the room with the intent of laying both down on the table next to the bed.]