#deathbade

@deathbade // to be continued...

.  .  .  he  never  need  apologize  for  showing  up  at  her  door;  she,  the  lonely  abyss,  waiting  for  the  void  to  consume  her.  she  with  open  arms,  always  turning  to  receive  him.  vanya  is  all  apologies,  but  tara  is  beaming,  relieved,  overjoyed  by  his  surprise  visit.

the  moment  he  steps  inside,  she's  squeezing  him  tight,  only  pulling  back  to  cradle  his  face  in  her  hands.  "oh  my  gosh,  are  you  kidding?  you  can  come  over  any  time."  she  doesn't  linger  here  often.  maybe  it  would  be  better  if  he  called,  but  he's  caught  her  at  a  good  time  -  so  she  doesn't  mention  it,  just  ushers  him  over  to  the  couch  and  drapes  him  in  a  neon  cheetah  print  blanket.

"you don't- you don't, that's." Baxter wants to dismiss the advice outright. Instead, he wrinkles his nose, crosses his arms and says after a few moments, "i don't do cocaine, you know."

Nor does he have a yacht, but he gets that's not the point. He knows that's not the point but it doesn't make his annoyance drift away like he thinks it should. Instead he feels more like literally ripping his hair out. Another good reason why he shaves it so short.

"any- hey, any-anyway," he glances over to a woman sitting at a table near them who keeps sniffling. God, it's driving him nuts. It's worse than this shit advice. He pulls his cup to his mouth and takes a tiny sip of water then puts it back down almost as quickly. "she, the, the waitress didn't give us straws and, look, and i get it! save the turtles! i get it, but the ice, she put too much ice in this drink and it keeps hitting my teeth."

He runs a hand over his face and leans back, shifting in his seat a little. He should at least make an attempt to stay on topic.

there  is  a  high-pitched  squeal,  at  a  frequency  only  a  mutt  could  attune  to,  emitted  by  her  parted  lips.  her  hands  grab  his  face,  swarming  him  with  touch,  and  little  kisses  of  her  own.  she's  trying  to  steady  him  too,  cause  she's  getting  ticklish  every  time  his  hair  brushes  the  nape  of  her  neck,  so  reggie  can  hardly  breathe.

To  be  loved  was  to  be  known.  Or  was  being  known  correlated  with  being  feared?  If  he  flayed  open  her  skin,  would  he  still  adore  what  was  underneath?  Pretty  visage  masked  a  malevolent  entity  that  claimed  her,  took  hold.  Pretty  blood,  pretty  meat,  and  all  the  viscera  simmering  underneath.

Could  Vanya  turn  her  inside  out,  and  love  the  vessel,  the  skinless  shell?

billy remembers feeling this. once.

static. he's turned curious in death. years of simmering in him. vanya's in bed and billy's right in front of him, legs folded. he unfolds them, movements slow and calculated, a focus unseen before him, usually hidden behind a mask. he leans forward, hand reaches out to wrap itself in vanya's hair. holds him in place.

it's been a long time coming.

but billy connects his lips with theirs. billy's been told that he kisses like a maniac, unravels with his tongue and he isn't afraid to use teeth. he's gone bored with just watching, when vanya's indulging in some sick fantasy just like he did when he was alive. all the barely snuff films don't compare to the real thing, the warmth of the blood, how red it truly is, how much of it pours. that's for sure. and he's kinda sure he wants to show vanya that nothing on that silly little screen can reach what they have going on now. billy doesn't need to breath but vanya does, and so kisses vanya until he's breathless. something about kissing the life out of him sounds fun.

It was an hour no self-respecting vampire should be awake for, and yet here Astaria was—lounging in the dim dorm, pale legs folded under her, watching the pup fumble his way into the fold. New drummer, freshly plucked off the street after the last one mysteriously disappeared. Likely bled out in some church cellar, sanctified silver still smoking in his veins.

This one, though? No mystery at all. She didn’t need to puzzle him out like she did mortals. The reek gave him away instantly. Wet dog wrapped in human skin. The blood rushing in his veins made her lips curl back from her teeth in something too close to a smile.

Their little band was an odd symphony—keyboard, their winged fallen tyrant of a leader; guitar, the nonbinary changeling with smoke for a voice; her, the fanged temptress who carried centuries of hunger in her bones. And then poor human Stu, strumming his bass with the sleepy innocence of a lamb who has no idea he’s surrounded by the uncanny. Astaria almost pitied him. Almost.

That crimson stare moved over to the pup, and the corner of her mouth twitched—mockery dressed up in something dangerously close to flirtation, as was her usual M.O.

“Ohhh… fresh blood.” Her tenor carried a lazy purr—not quite the kind of voice one would expect to hear from a woman of her assets, but… “You’d smell delicious if it weren’t for the wet dog stench clinging to you.” She tipped her head, long, ashen curls spilling like cold smoke over one shoulder. “But I suppose I shouldn’t be ungrateful. You’ve got some talent with your sticks. Tell me…” her smile widened, hungry and mean, not unlike a cat toying with its kill. “Are you good for anything else besides banging on things, or is that the full extent of your charms?”

@deathbade // to be continued...

"stop, you do not!" tara protests, smacking his arm lightly. she’s nowhere near as phased by the workout as he is, though they’ve been at it for the same amount of time - which she would argue is a bad thing, since it probably means she’s not giving her all. her head’s in a million different places. "don’t you dare say that to me with your little face."

flushed and grinning, he glows, and she won’t be hearing anything else. "trust me, ives; you’re hot! total heartbreaker. you better go get some ice before you burn the whole place down."