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

[lendemains]

You don't know?

[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 And, with a certain lack of enthusiasm that's superseded by the attention to detail with which she instinctively does everything, she begins to paint.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.]