open post 2025

[impractical]

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???

 

Comments

[searingbond]

[ 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. ]

[lendemains]

[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.]

[searingbond]

[ 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. ]

[lendemains]

[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.]

[searingbond]

[ 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?

[lendemains]

I've had a productive night, thank you, [Clea says icily.

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.