#reportist

⟡ @reportist

Alice rolls her eyes, scoffing slightly, in a way that disguises the amusement, batting gently at Daniel’s arm. One upon a time, so many years ago it feels like another life some days, she might have linked their hands together, but that’s not been in years. Instead, she falls back her half a step beside him, slipping one hand into a pocket.

There’s a lot she could say, about pretending between them. “I don’t need you to,” she says instead, something halfway between a laugh and the mock posh accent she learned years ago slipping in. “But sure, we can both pretend that I do,” she says, nodding towards the door with tacit approval as she readjusts her bag higher in her shoulder. “I won’t say no the company anyway. Not exactly a scenic route after all,”

"Is that what you are calling this now?" He swipes a stray droplet of blood rolling down Daniel's chin, licking the sweetness off his fingertip. Amber eyes remained fixated on Daniel, following the premature creases that marred youthful flesh like footprints on a newly paved sidewalk. Vampirism saved the body not soul. Old proclivities continued to influence actions. Hunting grounds resembling mortal haunts. The reek of piss and sewage reminded Nicolas of Paris, he supposed it brought the boy a similar comfort. "I pity anyone daft enough to say "yes" to a second date." He swallowed at the sudden dryness in his throat. The satiation from their previous kill had already begun to wane leaving his senses on alert for a second course.

San Francisco's underbelly held an infinite garden of wandering degenerates and it was not long before the staggered footsteps of an unfortunate soul ventured the back alley with the aimless disregard of someone who either wouldn't or shouldn't be missed. "Still hungry?"

        ❝       you don't need me,          ❞         dismisses the brat prince with a wave of his hand, glass - like nails glinting in moonlight. the boy, daniel, is not his fledgling, though in hearing only tales – no matter how tall – of lestat from louis, in possessing the blood of armand – such aforementioned tales likely towering -- it makes perfect sense his unshakable fascination should be passed on.         ❝       what have you already learned from my example ? what did you learn from the things i said last night ?           ❞         

@reportist [ ℒ ]

ㅤㅤ“ Hell is subjective— ”  The response is as instantaneous as whiplash with the same degree of a blow. Here he comes, the brunet crawling back with his tail tucked between his legs, an argument that had blown way out of proportion still ringing in Lestat’s ears, the elevated fevered pitch of the singer’s own voice in indiscriminating anger having almost startled him  (  …presque  ).  It had been a few long nights since they’d seen one another post frenzied upheaval, but it wasn’t enough time to curtail the manner in which the elder bristles with the sudden company, half startled and half irritated, antsy while an ache about the jaw denotes the strain of monstrous aggression threatening to take hold. A dip about the chest, a shaky breath is expelled while an innate thread of resolve forces the proud raise of the blond’s chin, cheeks hollowing with a considered pause to quell the heightened discomfort from spilling into vitriol. 

‎‎˖     ˚     ♚     ▌  𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅  𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎   .

At  the  question,  Astarion's  brows  raised.  Why  not  end  it?  What  a  pointed  question,  a  stupid  question,  a  question  @reportist  was  certainly  better  than,  but  he  supposed  all  beings  struggled  with  such  thoughts.  Sighing  softly,  Astarion  turned  his  head  to  look  over  at  Daniel,  his  red  gaze  studying  the  reporter  thoughtfully.  "Off  the  record-"  The  vampire  started,  fully  knowing  that  there  was  no  such  thing  with  Daniel,  "When  you're  a  vampire,  one  of  the  only  things  you  feel  is  hunger."  Astarion  hummed,  turning  his  gaze  back  to  the  twinkling  lights  of  the  city  beneath  them.  "There's  this  ache  that  no  amount  of  blood  in  the  world  can  fill.  You  spend  your  entire  existence  starving,  and  yet  people  still  long  for  this  gift  of  immortality,  and  those  who  are  turned,  well,  there  aren't  a  particularly  large  number  of  vampire  suicides,  darling."  He  laughed,  flashing  the  other  a  teasing  smile,  keeping  the  details  of  his  ascension  to  himself.  No  one  needed  to  know  that  he  had  been  free  of  that  ache  for  a  long  while  now.

“Not  having  satisfaction  isn't  a  reason  to  end  your  life.  Not  having  satisfaction  simply  means  you  can  search  for  new  highs,  my  love.  Hell,  when  you're  a  vampire,  you  have  all  of  eternity  to  find  out  what  can  truly  satisfy  you.”  He  shrugged,  "For  some,  that's  love.  For  others,  it's  sex,  money,  petty  vanity,  you  name  it,  and  it's  probably  someone's  kink."  The  vampire  hummed,  red  eyes  falling  to  Daniel's  face  once  again,  "Considering  this  is  off  the  record  and  I'm  sure  it  won't  come  up  again..."  Astarion  trailed  off,  his  playful  expression  falling  as  his  eyes  met  Daniel's.  “I  had  given  up  for  over  two  centuries.  I  never  thought  there  could  be  anything  better,  never  thought  I'd  be  able  to  regain  the  person  I  had  lost  and,  well,  I  didn't.”  He  laughed,  a  bitter  sound  that  rose  above  the  noises  of  the  bustling  city  below.  "I  don't  know  who  I  was  before,  and  while  satisfaction  might  be  something  just  out  of  my  reach...it  does  give  me  something  to  strive  for."  Astarion  offered,  waving  a  dismissing  hand,  “And  anyway,  it's  very  puritanical  American  of  you  to  think  that  if  something  isn't  working  for  you,  the  only  solution  is  to  ‘end  it’.  I  find  that  murder  and  unchecked  hedonism  work  wonders  too.”

𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚜.

daniel is perceptive for a blood drinker so young, even with the chorus of screams & hot, beating hearts filling the vanue packed tight for the vampire lestat's big night ; not surprising, considering the boy's profession prior to his flashy, new immortal life, nor his near constant closeness with his maker who no doubt is lingering a handful of heartbeats away. jesse should feel at least some semblance of unease being surrounded by all these vampires – & perhaps she will, once she's able to make her way onstage & lay a hand on the glittering frontman, himself – though, why should she ? if they are properly real, she's been living among them all her life ; she knows more about these creatures than most of them would expect. where there should be fear, there's buzzing adrenaline, like being in a shark cage.

⟡ @reportist | late nights

“I’ve never been much for fights,” Denis admits. And it’s mostly true. He didn’t learn the Little Drink out of a moral disagreement, so much as a practical one. He was only turned because he didn’t question, and didn’t fight against the coven. It’s always just seemed like the least useful choice in any given room.

“Not much for confession either,” he adds, nodding his head in a way that makes his hair, cut shorter today, paired with the endless string of piercings he’s gotten adept at stabbing in. “Just curious, I guess. I’ve got no quarrel with you,” he says, cracking a grin, toothy in the awkward way of a predator trying not to bare its fangs.

bianca's smile does not reach her eyes. it's an unkind one, sardonic. it's one she probably should do her best to wipe off of her face, well aware of daniel's houndish qualities. like a dog with a bone -- or better yet, one tied to a pole during a thunderstorm, a juicy t-bone steak held directly out of its reach. perfect quality for a journalist. even better quality for a vampire. if he gleans any sort of entry point to bianca, she doesn't believe he'd stop scratching at her defenses until he got whatever it is he wanted. he reminds bianca of a very annoying pomeranian, yapping at whomever would give him light of day. like a child abandoned in a park, crying out for its parent to come back. ❝ yes. ❞ she acknowledges, voice controlled. tight. ❝ means i suggest you tread carefully. or, better yet, don't tread at all. ❞ she doesn't know much of who he was before all this, has never cared much to ask. bianca's no spy, despite a contentious association with the certain unnamed group that they share. daniel doesn't know much about her, either, she figures. bianca remembers the evident confusion radiating off of him the first time they met, introduced by a much too-social raglan james. she didn't need the ability to read minds to know he was wondering why she were there in the first place, why he needed yet another individual looming over his shoulder. it must be for lestat, bianca figures he rationalized. yes. there was no point in correcting, or altering this belief. besides, it's not wholly incorrect. bianca can double her time, eyeing both of them the way they want her to. the vampire lestat and the son of armand. loose cannons, the both of them. the leash around her throat is tight. ❝ you want to interview me? ❞ her tone is mocking, displaying the little respect she already held for his journalistic crusade. ❝ why would you want to do that? is it boredom? or do you have so few volunteers, and you're realizing how thin your little documentary actually is? ❞