#longliveyourqueen

Akasha: The Oresteia, by Aeschylus. Romance, decadence, and judgement in the mythical times of Ancient Greece. It has everything— a family curse because of a sacrificed daughter— the female fates and their divine captain starting democracy—crime and punishment. It’s a positive clusterfuck of feminism, assassination, and incest—and you’d be one hell of a Clytemnestra. 

Kissing Akasha is, more often than not, a battle of attrition. It was less to feel good—the goal was always than to make the other person feel more. It was to render the other person psysically and physically weak through lust, more about gaining power rather than sharing—well, anything. Not that Victor minded. It was a fight, but it was just a game. He didn’t even get sore (in a manner of speaking—one never knew with Akasha) when he lost. It was fun.

That was a unique sensation, not to mind losing—once in a while. When he kissed her, he remembered why he wanted to keep her alive. Firstly, because he wasn’t sure he could kill her, and secondly, because to defeat her in this (in anything!) would never not be satisfying. A loss would make a victory in the future sweeter. She was good to kiss. Of course she was.

He pushed her up against the wall and she dug her nails into the skin of his back and pulled. Kissing Akasha was never just a kiss. It was a promise, an invitation to something more, something dark and decadent and dangerous.  It’s a deal with the devil—a Faustian frottage. Then again, Victor had never lost any sleep over the state of his immortal soul.

[||text] I want to tie you down and cut you up. I want to see your eyes change from teasing to terrified. I want to hear you scream for me and know that nothing about it is fake, that even YOU can’t dissemble while being disassembled. I want your blood. And then I want your silence.

✘ NEVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN SENT

[||text] You should suck me off while I’m at the shooting range and see if it reduces my accuracy. Wait, better, or if I can still hit all the major arteries first try. Bet I can.

✘ NEVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN SENT

Aamon was confused. This place... this battlefield... it befuddled and mesmerized him in so many ways. He had arrived on this warzone recently, by sheer chance, and now he found himself unable to leave.

Large walls were erected around the proximity, making escaping difficult. Towers which stretched up to the heavens, constructed of alien looking ore, restricted his movements greatly as he held no affiliation to either side. This was not even to mention to vast groups of creeps and monsters which potentially awaited him around every corner. If he were to be asked, and answer honestly, the demonkin was scared.

He had little more on him than a backpack full of supplies, and sage-like cloth armor which served only to protect against the environment, and not the beasts that dwelled within. He needed help from someone. And he thought with all these defenses, surely there was something or someone strong enough to help him escape. 

Having wandered into the dire jungle, he began looking for anything that might aid him. The demon began to inspect the ward spot on top of the cliff, curious as to what meaning the ancient markings held. It looked similar to an eye, but he had no idea why. Was he supposed to stand there? Stare at it for a while? Watch someone else who is standing there? Too preoccupied searching for an answer which he could not find, he wouldn't hear the telltale signs of another being approaching....

Victor lingered outside of the bar, a cheap (well, New York cheap) cigarette dangling from his full lips. He hadn’t been back to the city for years—not since the murder spree that had made a media darling into a tabloid terror. There was a certain pull about the city he had once called home, a bustling, gritty liebestraum that twanged the chords of his memory. He had spent a week on the streets, gauging the efficacy of his disguise, wandering the Upper East Side avenues that had been his teenaged stomping grounds. What had started as a quick, sentimental (if he could admit it) trip down memory lane had turned into a six-month metropolitan trek. A few weeks ago he had taken the L down into Brooklyn, where hipsters mixed with blue-collar families, and culled the ancient owner of a broken-down Bedstuy townhouse.

He blew a stream of smoke into the warm summer air. Most of the man was still in the freezer. He should have gotten some of those vaccuum bags. When he eventually displayed the body, freezer-burned meat was unlikely to impress the jaded residents of a city that had already suffered the slings and arrows of his outrageous fortune.

“Hey, Faust, I wanna leave a little early and see Erica, can you take the tail end of my shift?”

 Victor turned and nodded at Calvin, a late twenty-something with a fade and meticulously clean sneakers.

 “Sure,” he said, cracking his neck and extinguishing the cigarette with the toe of his boot. For a moment, his hands trembled, longing to circle Calvin’s throat, to feel his Adam’s apple push against his palms, his body writhe and jerk and kick. Maybe after work.

 Bartending was Victor’s go-to whenever he needed money. It was easy to pick up victims, and drugs, and The Gentleman’s Drink (funny name for a dive, but he liked the inherent nostalgia) let him play his own music. He wondered what his former employees would think to see him here, in jeans rather than slacks, collecting two-dollar tips. 

It was dark in the bar, and mostly quiet, only a few regulars lined up in front of the greasy counter. Victor crossed to the sound system and put on Ted Hawkins, waving to the patrons who recognized the new beer-slinger with the short black hair (itchy fucking wig). He got easily into the rhythm of things, and as he slapped yet another lime wedge onto a Corona, the thought suddenly occurred to him that he was—stagnating. This city, this big, beautiful, busy city, full of the filth of undeath, had unwittingly tamed an angry god.

 He slammed the beer onto the counter with more than usual force, foam slopping over the rim. Fuck. A familiar itch crawled up the back of his neck, coaxing him, turning his mind towards bloody redemption. He would not go gently into the good night of the city that never slept.

The door opened, and he looked up. 

Well, well. 

❧ describe their usual sleeping position

on right side to keep off of bad hip / sometimes back

⌆ a nervous tic or habit they do