𝙼𝙰𝙽𝙾𝚁 𝚂𝚄𝙸𝚃𝙴𝚂 🦟 2:00AM [ closed starter 4 @inesxl ]
The lease agreement's ink had still been wet when Victorine procured a copy of Inés' apartment keys. What's yours is mine. There was no place the blonde could resist traversing, not when it came to her. Not a question, nor a threat, so much as it was an inevitable pulse of belonging which called her home. A side effect and fact of the life she was reborn into. She had long ago abandoned any polite lip service or awaiting for things as rudimentary as invitations. When she wanted Inés, she’d show up. When she didn’t want Inés, she’d show up anyway to remember why denying her would forever be a damn lie.
It would have taken a silver machete to Victorine’s windpipe to cease the incessant circling, bound like a magnet to crave every waking hour Inés spent in the company of others’. Distractions were plentiful, dulled the addiction until it bit like ice rather than burning up her insides. But her extra curricular activities had cruelly intersected with Inés’ tracks on a recent unfaithful occasion, souring her night and the indefinite beyond. The scarlet woman had a unique way of claiming every stretch of future imaginable.
Victorine was your starving moth, gnawing through the expensive thread count of your clothes; a blue pen left in your back pocket, bleeding through your wash of delicates; black mold growing at the back of your couch during summer; fresh meat, gone rancid overnight. There was nowhere off limits to poison, directly fed by the roots entrenched in luscious green beds of envy. Her entire body so thickly criss-crossed by strangling vines she could no longer see herself.
The full moon was still over a week away, but Victorine already felt the caged beast of it burrowing beneath her skin. A parched desperation, urges that could not be fed pebbling nerves to the surface of her humanoid body, comparably, maddeningly, powerless to rip anyone to shreds so long as the limitations of her bones existed. Everything was that much more unreasonably more incensing, purely for having the audacity to exist. Every encounter, a mockery of paranoia. She wanted nothing more than not to think, not to talk. Instead; to submit to her vampirism’s transformational core, leave her brain behind and return to consciousness hours later to find blood on her hands with no recollection of how many veins she’d torn into. She was not one to lecture about neatness, promiscuity, boundaries...
And yet.
Inés’s stamp of a mouth had evaporated rationality from her being, replacing it with desire that ran red, purple, and blue. Bite marks. The image flits across her mind with the effect of a branding iron assualting bare skin, scarred on her retinas all the same. In the elevator up to the suite, Victorine drags the tip of a claw across Maxim's skipped floor, dog-earing it for a later date. She had larger prettier scabs to pick and siphon from. There was a filthy butter knife, lacking her usual serrated edge, to bend back into shape. Sloppy. An appetency for revenge that rivalled her need for blood, for Inés’ devotion to be undying and individual. Bite marks. The ticking hand of the minimalist clock five doors down mocked her. Bite marks. Bite marks. Bite marks.
Uninvited, nearly always, Victorine swept into the apartment like a howling phantom. Crossing the threshold immediately pressed a weight to her shoulders, stole the anger from them and replaced it with an equally trite sadness. The familiar territory caused her eyes to sting, containing her bonfire onslaught into a pitiful and reductive bunsen burner. You will always come to sulk at Inés’ feet, no harm will ever befall her. Victorine’s spluttering grief carried her through the unlit space until she was able to pry open one of the sliding doors. There, she parked herself outside on the wide expanse of balcony, elbows leant on the bannister with an exhaustion no sleep could cure, chain-smoking through half a rainbow’s worth of sobranie cocktail cigarettes until Inés tired of playing games with rotisserie women and retired from the cold night.
