#astarablaze

“I know! We didn’t even do anythin’! But who’s to say we can’t make her come out and join us if we like, started fuckin’ without her or somethin’. I mean… It might not work, but it’s worth a try for science’s sake, right?”

Continues from [here] with @astarablaze

( “All you must do is learn…” ) – turning around to the unknown voice Nunnally is trembling inside; though on the outside she attempts to appear confident. The demon girl didn’t expect anyone to hear her words. It’s not uncommon for her to speak with herself. To talk to the wind. To the clouds. To the darkness. To share her hopeless existence with creatures (yes, they are "creatures" for her) that would not judge her. But she’s never expecting the answer; and none was ever given to her. ...unless it was not for a stranger. For a passer-by like this man now in front of her. She can feel he’s not a human; that’s all that she can say without violating his mind (and herself in a way). But Nunnally doesn’t need to know. She’s curious, but she’s getting replies to her answers so rarely that not knowing is a state that’s most common for her. Perhaps even a preferred one.

She looks at him and doesn’t know what to do? Should she leave? Should she stay? Should she reply? Should she ask? So many possibilities. All of them just wrong.

“What should I learn?” – she decides to ask – “To fly? Or to accept that I can’t.” – that was a valid question in her mind. Should she rebel against the hand that perhaps was cruel, but also saved her life? Or should she accept that she’d never find out. And understand. Why she is the way she is.

Should she simply accept the fate of so many princesses before her? Forced into submission, deprived of love, for their country, for their family, for their fathers and brothers? Should she silently and obediently walk the path of her ancestors and those women that would follow her steps?

"And what would you do?” – she asks – “Would try to learn and risk to lose your wings? To fall down and…become forgotten?” – or discarded is what she really means.

It’s easy to give advice to others. It’s more difficult when you risk to disappoint. But she’s already one, so how much risk is there really for her?

Perhaps there was want in him: want greater than need, yearning greater than logical thought; his sense of self-preservation, pale beneath years of seclusion, smothering his heart, snuffing out all hope for change. As such, it was not hope that had him cast this circle of salt and sit well within it, but a desperation felt even in the marrow of his bones. He feared not the consequence of a rite gone wrong or his mind long gone, and so he threw almost all caution to the four winds in his sad pursuit of a simple human right. But the candles were lit, the oils applied, his athame to his right to carve a sealing sigil—or stab whatever ne'er-do-well that may have thought to come through after hearing his entreaty. Indeed, the room was blustering intangibly—no gusts nor sounds to speak of—with magic that was hot and violet at his fingertips.

There was want in him, roaring louder than any demon that had protestations for being summoned hither. To be a warlock who dabbled in the diabolical was a lifestyle fraught with peril and promised eternal damnation, but V supposed that to be damned in the hereafter would never compare to the damnation he served against himself in life. And maybe it had been too late, too little, too late, to try to escape this monotony, this prison he'd built slowly over the years. It was his heart more so than his body that was caged, and he wished it free: to fly and to sing like a bird in flight, and to bleed from the cherub's arrow.

Rather an infantile thought, but he could not blame the poets who molded his heart after theirs. Besides, it is against human nature to keep from one's own kind. Man seeks the company of his neighbor, thrives in it and benefits the other in so doing. For V, however, that may not ever be. Man was as wicked as he was nurturing, and often did this little black sheep feel the lash of abandonment, the fangs of villainy. Thus, he turned to the darkness and the devils therein, and sometimes there were ghosts in the fog he chose to entertain. Be that as it may, his apartment was good enough for tonight. On his tongue was a wish that was simple, uttered into the darkness surrounding from a hollow hunger, not the hope, for fulfillment. He wished simply for companionship, protection, love—basic human wants that were denied him for one reason or another.

It came down to the strength of will and the sorcery that sent it through the cosmos. And when he least expected a response, he felt it forming through a tear in the fabric before him. Strong and alive, hotter than the air round his fingers, but oppressive in a manner that alarmed the warlock into prying open his eyes. He did not count on an answer tonight, nor had he prepared himself to see a full, material form spill from the spatial tear onto his living room floor. It took his breath and snapped his concentration, but it seemed that he'd done all he had to. The magic began breaking up, the air around him cooled, and before his staring eyes was a thing disoriented, much after man in shape and visage, but growling, and...

"Do you really have to do this blood transfusion every time to make you feel better?" The shackled Occult uttered with concern as she meekly reached for the iv bag to swirl in her palm. She's never seen so much blood before, felt like playing with a red water balloon. Just looking at it through the light felt meticulous morbid when their surroundings were bleached white, and yet she couldn't help think the same of the stranger. So pale. To think that someone who needed this much blood was so spry and endearingly flamboyant. To be truthful with herself, Lisa did want to keep up their playful banter for a bit longer but it felt it would have been disingenuous of her if she kept ignoring it.

"Stranger to stranger, if you're in a tight spot I actually grabbed this on my way in." She opened her jacket, just to reveal a baggy of blood she discreetly wiggled along with a pocket full of latex gloves under it for some specific reason. Like the world's worst drug dealer.

Gabriel wasn't the sort of people to listen what other people had to say--especially so if it was confusing--and what that guy had been asking him about back there had been CONFUSING so he'd simply growled out some harsh words before shoving off down the street.

Strangeness? Irregularities? Magic?? The hell was he even talking about? He already had enough problems as it was.

Sometimes he was warm, so warm for the briefest of moments in the cold AND THEN IT FELT LIKE BEING SLAPPED IN THE FACE WITH THE CHILL. Every time he turned around, there was a cat, somewhere, someplace!! Today, it seemed that he'd been lucky...! He wasn't sick from the weather changes, but he couldn't figure it out. And though he was a Werecat, he couldn't remember if there ever had been a cat around when he was younger...

This shit simply didn't make any sense to him and it was beyond aggravating, and on top of that, there was no good place to rest yet in sight. The money he had was weighing heavy in his pocket, begging to be spent as he adjusted the large pack on his shoulders, but he'd already done enough this past couple of weeks into the New Year, so no... no more spending just yet!!

As he passed by a brick building, he could hear the click-clack of shoes hurrying after him--that guy was STILL on his tail?!--before he heard the other man's voice. Again. Damnit. His touch again in next, and Gabriel tensed up, pausing, even though it was gentle only for his head to snap upwards at the sudden hissing of a cat.

There, above them, sitting before a window of the building he had been passing by was a white cat that was hissing, loudly, at that with its eyes trained upon Vayn. Ears flattened back against its head, it looked angry, but ... but ... it hadn't been there before! Gabriel had seen that building only a short while ago as he'd started down the street, and there was no way a cat could even get up there so soon.

Wh--... what the hell?? IT WAS ANOTHER GODDAMN CAT.

Momentarily thrown off by this, it was a struggle to get himself together as he spoke up, turning to the stranger now with narrowed green eyes, but he fumbled a bit.

send me 🕯️to hear my character's inner thoughts about your character.

"Snob. You are lucky breathing is an involuntary inaction, never seen a vampire be so lazy they would go to an actual hematologist for blood. Tsk, and is this foolish girl at least noticing the red flags coming out his mouth?! I swear it's like hearing the red herring equivalent to a magician pulling a row of handkerchiefs straight out of their anus!" He clenched his teeth.

"Bah! His accent is colonizing my brain!!" He spoke out loud before getting his head kicked in by Lisa.

“Sure.” – she shrugs; her blue eyes now curiously looking at him. Slightly narrowed in a gentle surprise. Not that Nunnally mind paying. But she is just not used to it. Most (if not all) men she knows would be offended if she even proposed to pay for herself, not to mention for them. But then most (if not all) of them would consider her a pretty ornament, a doll, an object to add to (or to emphasize) their status. So, Loux's question is not truly unwelcomed; it is even refreshing.

Though would Loux be that different from the men she meets most often? She knows him for a short time, so Nunnally cannot decide. So far, he was fun, so that is what should be important for her at this moment. She just wants to enjoy herself...until he's not fun anymore. And she is sure he just wants the same.

So, she shakes her head letting her blond locks dance around her neck. She is pretty; she knows that and she is not ashamed of it. She’ll be the prettiest girl in the club; and if not, definitely the richest and best dressed: --

“Truth to be told…” – she laughs – “I’ve never liked princes…” – she knew some of them and they were never fun; too proper for her or with her actually – “They’re boring…” – she pouts – “And especially the real ones…”

She giggles cheerfully while offering him a proper curtsy; the one she was taught when she was meeting some royals. As if he was a true prince. It is ridiculous for her, though she cannot deny it: she has a life of a princess. In fact, she is a princess.

Taking his arm as she continues laughing; Nunnally's not going to leave Loux without a tease. He needs to earn his drinks; that’s only fair: --

“So if not a Southern prince, who are you going to play for me today?”

I looked upon you once

And the saw the dawn

Of a thousand suns."

/ if you can tell me exactly which poem I'm referencing here, I will literally spontaneously die for you

My sweetest love.

Little could be said to the affection with which V was daily showered, it had become so everyday, habitual, even ritual without need for arrangement nor prompt. Committed kisses shared at close of day, a caress of the cheek at daybreak, the inappropriate but wholly intentional, sometimes mutual grope behind the bar, behind closed doors, and anywhere problematic eyes were turned away from them: these and more were all part of the norm, but when it came to art—poetry—there was a richness of imagination and a depth of feeling that transcended even the much loved norms that came like second nature to lovers as fiery and as devoted as Garrett and V. Simply, they took romance and made it romantic.

Perhaps effusively, egregiously, sickeningly so to some, but...

Weakly, sleepily, the fiend's handsome face was gathered in spindly hands, and a gentle tug brought him close for a peck on the lips. V could barely keep his eyes open; and while he loathed waking up at all, he found it difficult to keep cranky when his husband had artful sugar on his tongue. I've heard this before... It was a lazy day, more than likely a Sunday: wedded mates could afford to idle in bed, and V was happy to be awake for something stimulating that wasn't sex.

Not that he'd complain, much, otherwise.

"Sometimes," he said quietly, "I think you're worse than I." He let his arms drop from weakness alone, one to his left and the other over his stomach. "Now you've got me thinking." Because of course he had to meet Garrett there, to match him for poetic spark. This early in the morning (it wasn't, it was nine), his creative mind was not at its strongest, but he knew it also to be reliable. While he thought, he briefly brought up a hand to twist round his finger a tuft of Garrett's hair, and then tugged and brushed so long as his mate was above him. Seeking inspiration was not so hard; forming the thought and the structure was. And, by Jove, the sleepy warlock had done it!

"In my veins you live eternal... Something, something."

Partially. Only partially, of course.

"My every breath— Hm. Blood and breath..." He made a mental, though audible, note, there. His eyes were fleetingly distant before they were recaptured by the blue in Garrett's, and it seemed whatever spark was ignited did not die suddenly. A poet shan't allow his ideas to slip free! For his dearest and most beloved, and perhaps his favorite muse, he smiled enough to show teeth. "I'll have to figure it out. I can't, without writing." Ah, but poor Garrett if he'd gotten curious now. He would have to await V's fresher mind and time spent at a writing desk, but all the better to impress him. The longer V's consciousness recovered, however, the more strength he regained in his body, and that was proven true in the keen, firm way in which stick-thin arms wrapped around the demon's inked shoulders, all in the name of pulling him closer for that everyday, habitual, even ritual exchange of affection they could not hope to live without. They kissed again, longer, softer, with more of everything in it.