#waynecross.

“poor little songbird. no voice to sing, huh?” mary walks her fingers across the shitty fabric of the hotel couch, veering closer and closer to wayne’s arm. she hates it when he gets like this. that pretty face all empty, hollowed out. christ, the melodrama never ends with the new ones. kids these days.

she crawls forward across the cushions on her knees, crossing the unspoken boundary of her space into his. they had a big show tonight. wayne’s supposed to be all hazy, jittery, hopped up on adrenaline. they could’ve fucked. they could’ve feasted. instead, it’s the whining, the incessant fucking soul searching. she cranes her head down, makes sure to get to his eye level. the expression she gives him- it’s crazed, it’s wide-eyed like an prey animal. mary would know; she’s spent countless hours in front of the mirror, pulling at skin, categorizing each expression. she once spent a week inside the empty house of a former meal, standing in front of the mirror and wasting away, watching the facade of life leak out— her own corpse rot, an audience to her own starvation. she’s seen everything her mask of skin can do.

“what would you have done? cried? whimpered? begged for help?” maybe she’s playing more of an antagonist than she needs to. maybe she’s itching for violence and barking up a volatile tree. mary doesn’t have it in her to feel all that torn up about it. they don’t call her molotov for nothing— give her something flammable and she’ll blow that shit up. “you think vampire daddy was gonna come back and help you out?”

oh that's hot

is the first thought in daniel's mind, loud and amplified by the buzzing of all the various substances he's recently sucked out of some dude's neck. the sentiment is possibly intense enough to echo in wayne's own head.

daniel hasn't really gotten the gist of shielding his thoughts just yet. maybe because it wasn't ever a priority during his living days.

"what the fuck happened?" he asks, hopping off the bed with a cheerful pep in his step. "we got separated for like, less than an hour. you got in trouble without me?"

his eyes are dilated. he's sloppy when he's blood-drunk, and though he's stopped licking the bite, his mouth is a brilliant and vivid red and leaves stains where he rests his head on her thigh. her hand tangles in his hair, her designer skirt hitched up around her waist and her legs cold against the marble counter she's precariously balanced on. they're in the bathroom because it's easier to clean up in there.

she's a little dizzy with it. she loves it when he needs her. he could slaughter his way through the rest of the world and stay beautiful until the stars burn out -- as far as riko knows, anyway -- but right now, where it matters, she's in control. unconsciously, her fingers tighten in his hair.

@waynecross: WILL YOU MARRY ME?

his fucking baths. his non-negotiable ‘hotel room must always have a jacuzzi’, she’d know, she sent the contract over to the lawyers herself. a lot of people in her business have to deal with primadonna clients, but nobody’s walking the kind of high wire line that riko is. she tries to be always aware, to remember that he isn’t human. but she’s got a few wires crossed herself, and there is a kind of thrill to it. to being the only one with the secret. dancing under the knife every time she leaves him with all her blood still in her body and her composure intact. and on top of all that, there's her actual job.

while he lounges in his precious jacuzzi that added zero after zero to the checks she’d had to sign to the hotel, and there it is again, that hit of danger-lust-annoyance that has her either gritting her teeth or pressing her thighs together. (it’s the latter, now, but it’s an unfair fight. he’s naked, after all.) at least she hasn't spotted any blood on the tile this time.