frnoialles

[frnoialles]

Eyes, like dripping honey, washed over the other vampire; devoured them, wanting to swallow them whole, drink from them on her knees, while Vera moved like something out of this world, like an angel that's lost their wings and had plummeted to the pits of hell. Then risen from the ashes, and wrapped themselves in silky darkness, the same color soul adoring the insides of their ribs. Nothing beated in there. Both of their chest empty, and black, but Frankie surely felt like that dead thing had lodged itself in her throat, and was trying to thump thump thump out of there.

Back arching off the lounge, Frankie moved closer, allowing the other more space, like that could be her throne, where Vera was so comfortably seated now. Hands on their thighs, palms spread wide to engulf them whole shamelessly, without the usual 'can I' or 'let me', because Vera sure was a different breed, the older vampire couldn't simply take from whenever she pleased. But this— now, this was their doing.

They've walked into the lion's den, knowing how hungry he gets.

Cold fingers skimmed up, up, up— "Oh, I don't think you'd be here, if nothing was an option you were ready to provide me with." by here, she meant on her lap, getting teased by the roll of her hips.

One slight push with the heel of her boot was enough to let the meaty statue in her feet fall to the floor, like a sack of potatoes, taking with them the handkerchief that was not long ago on her lips, when it was a mouth she craved for, and that mouth she was going to get. She leaned forward, one hand peeling off their body to snatch their chin between thumb and forefinger. Then let her tongue flick to sweep at their mouth, steal a taste before Vera had the chance to speak.

Lord knew the sound of their voice was annoying.

        the slip of french comes off largely undecoded, but vera doesn’t give it much attention. they’re neither hers, nor little. the last word comes to be unimportant. after all, francoise is absolutely useless at teaching them the language, and always tries to derail it into the kissing style of the same name. still, there is much for them to say about her mess. how it, indeed, could be a problem if she stepped foot from her light-up kingdom. where there might be consequences. she can see it in her eyes, the way hunger dances within them. it’s not that kind of night to try prompting critical thinking from her, or otherwise to drop the harsh veil between francoise and vera’s reality.

        the gloves they’ve adorned for the evening come into view, black as everything else, brandishing a silk handkerchief of the same color. they do anticipate the disobedience, the only question is how. naturally, if francoise hadn’t protested in some way for the sake of her fun, it wouldn’t have been her at all. vera’s only trying to build her a tolerance to boredom, to see what they can satiate that burning hunger with, besides what she thinks she wants.

        vera allows the door to click closed behind them, a cruel gesture given that they have no intention of staying nor fulfilling francoise’s desires completely. then, they cross the room, their eyes completely trained on her and holding darkness, movement unfortunately feline as the word comes to them. chaton, kitten. a look isn’t cast down to watch for their step as they walk over francoise’s new footstool, slipping into a straddle on her lap instead, with each knee on either side of her waist, pressing her into the lounge. they, additionally, have half a mind to hold her wrists, too, to ensure their escape. however, they need their hands, too.  “ after … ”  they address her demand for encouragement, wiping away the blood intimately kept near her lips with the handkerchief.  “ or nothing. ”  the statement ends coldly, vera turning in her lap to drop the fabric on top of the body in front of them. they watch as it flutters, then falls precisely over the wound that had been made. it doesn’t do much to conceal the blood, but it’s just so in a way that’s satisfying enough, for now.  “ francoise, it’s your choice. ”

[frnoialles]

Her agreement made her buzz with excitement, smile wide and menacing holding the promise for a night well spent, if Aelin was to give in and offer her goods on a silver platter, instead of having Frankie take from her without permission, because where was the fun in that, really? She wanted her craving the taste of her blood, like a woman starved. And that much was clear, from the way lust flooded her eyes. "I love it when I'm someone's first. You're so lucky, ma pêche— to have me, set up that high standard for you." fingertips ghosted over her pale neck, where her teeth ached to sink, then they spilled down her body, to map out the nicer spots to bite next.

There was no where to go, really even if she changed her mind and chose to run instead, if those hands on her felt a little too eager, too soft or too hard— "Choose one of those rooms." she said, voice dropping low, when a hand snatched up her chin to force her eyes on the private rooms at the back of the place.

The other vampire had the senses needed to pick up on a heartbeat in there, if she wanted a third party. Frankie didn't mind having an audience. "Then you lead the way, hm?"

"You did say that there would be fun involved." Aelin was leaning into living dangerously, embracing the lifestyles of the vampires. It was what she was and there was no going back. If she indulged enough she might convince herself to move past the one she used to love. She might even convince herself she didn't deserve her anymore if she found enough trouble or at least towed the line between the dark and darker.

"How thoughtful of you to chase down bliss with death," Aelin smirked in amusement. She had little feelings concerning the human, or was that what she was now? Aelin didn't give a shit either way. She had held up in her little tower for too long, chasing away the bloodlust with vermin. Aelin wasn't sure when her morality began to slip, but it had. It was evident by the way Aelin's eye shifted from the blood on her chin to the side of her neck that she was interested, practically salivating for that unknown thing she had teased.

When she reached, her finger twirling at a lock of hair, she was caught. Aelin was too excited for what was to come; if it was death, she would beg for it. "Tell me what you would have me do."

[frnoialles]

She didn't really care if he had any actual sisters, yet her big eyes stared at him as if she expected for that sentence on his mouth to be finished sometimes between now and tomorrow. Instead, — Say again— like he had just been diagnosed with stage four earwax blockage in the ripe old age of — twenty six, twenty eight? She could play dumb, and say that again louder, then inevitably pull her sister's attention and face the consequences of her actions, like she didn't know how to avoid them. No, she wouldn't repeat that, not while her sister was still around. "It's the drugs." because who wouldn't buy that, really?

"They make my hands feel like jelly—" she giggled, all candy sweet. Her arms swayed, as if they lacked bones beneath that skin, bent left and right, and wiggled to the beat of the music. "And I get all happy, and tingly." and he looked like someone who could use one of the giggly pills. He was human, so half of the amount she used for herself would be perfect for him.

Frankie hooked two fingers on his waistband and reared him in, like he was a slippery silly looking fish. His blood drummed in her ears, hot and sticky, and she felt thoughts drift to the thump thump of that heart working double time, right in his throat.

Tongue swiped over the sharp tips her fangs, when a hand came to pull a tiny pink pill and hold it on the tip of her finger. "Want one?"

“Should I have?” He isn’t sure if this is a euphemism or not. Tomás’ inebriation means that brain fog doesn’t care for either result. Really, there’s the briefest hope there’s no stick up any asses — if in literal terms, it sounds terribly painful. Ouch.

Speaking literally: “You tried both hands…?” There’s a wince at the imagery and Priestley is not following the French (entirely lost actually), because she’s speaking too quickly, and he’s unable to pull apart the Latin similarities. He's about to ask for a repeat in another language but he thinks he understands enough, with her intense gesturing. Nodding, he’s somehow agreeable to this.

The writer turns to follow her gaze, almost knocking into another club-goer as he does. He is quickly apologising as he catches the stranger's questions — “Yeah I—“ he has sisters, but it’s not a conversation when he’s running out of liquor and it stings.

Blinking, Tomás double glances at the woman, mouth opening like she’s flicked a switch, “Say again?” He’s heard her — he thinks he’s heard her, anyway. But doubt has been a worm wriggling in all his soft spots lately.

It’s not a priority, but he’s floating the question regardless. A part of him, in that apprehension, needs to have a fallback in case she screams crazy at him for his pursuit of knowledge. He doesn’t want that, not tonight. “… You can’t pull a stick out after two hundred years? Weird.” Surely it's loosened some.

[frnoialles]

A photographer. No, that wasn't it— unlike her sister, Frankie didn't care about arts and crafts. Photographers, painters, sculptors— boring, boring, boring.

Eyes turned to slits, head tilting to one side to look at her better. "No, bébé, I haven't heard of your art or whatever it is you call you taking photos of yourself." she dismissed the whole thing with a throw away gesture of her hand. There was a thickness to her accent, now that she was less focused on pronunciation and more on fishing out a name to that familiar face from the neon, cocaine stuffed depths of her conscious.

That girl wasn't far off her type too, ball park at least, especially if high. The possibility of her being just another woman she hit on while pretending to work at the bar, still hung in the air. But she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more. The distance between them shortened, "What's your name, again?"

Whoever this person was, Aria could already tell that there was an air of eccentricity about her-- and she'd never seen the woman before in her life. Of course, there's always the fear that it, again, has something to do with Kiri Stephens. She doesn't exactly want to offer that up on a silver platter to people who might not know, though.

Instead, she offers up her occupation - "I'm a photographer?" That does usually fly- she's been recognized before, though not that often for it to be something she's used to.

"Most of my self portraits are on socials, so maybe the algorithm put me on your feed?"

[frnoialles]

👗 - An outfit my character would wear.

[frnoialles]

"There's this little witch—" someone had mentioned, and it was enough; those four words were just the right amount of encouragement she needed to organize another kind of soirée. She didn't know her name, that wasn't of much importance, only the address where she could be found. Frankie couldn't remember if she'd been here before, there was nothing too familiar about the place, not until their palms met, on each side of the door suddenly stopped from closing. The vampire pushed slightly, just to remind the other that she wouldn't give in easily, not without her applying a bit of magic, and even then — Frankie was faster, stronger, by the time magic could prick the witch' fingertips, she'd already have her bleeding red. And what kind of magic was that exactly, staining her blood? She couldn't wait to taste.

Euphoria swam within large hues, "Coffee, Dom Pérignon, 1945 Château Mouton-Rothschild—" she had an expensive taste in both wine and blood.

The charm of her smile hid sharp tips of pearly white fangs. Come on now, little witch. "You won't leave me out here in the cold, will you?" accent laced tongue spun words into soft pleas.

closed starter for: @frnoialles

Though things felt a little more skewed and off-kilter these days, Nadia was trying her damnedest to keep her life in order - trying to not think about the woman turned to crystal in the caverns or the way she didn't think anyone would be able to get her back on track with things.. Maybe Miyazaki? But he didn't really seem like the type of guy to talk things out.

She did appreciate the soreness and the discipline, but she did need someone to talk to. Jamie and Kore didn't really seem like the types either.

Moving out of the coffee shop, she turned and locked the door behind her - all routine. Key turn in lock, flash of blood red in her mind, following by her clutching her forehead and gritting her teeth. When she turned, someone was a little too close for comfort.

She blinked against the rush of magic in her mind, and stared at the person. "Uhm. Were you wanting coffee? I just closed."

[frnoialles]

Their friendship didn't stretch much further than inhuman, vile jokes and bets, spoken between puffs from a shared spliff, where "i'll fucking do it" promised murder every time. That broken plastic doll on her lap was the result, of a night spent with the witch, at various different locations, where Frankie dragged her around like a poodle on a leash. When she liked something very much, she had to have it. She had to have everything she desired, before that desire washed off as easy as her make up at the end of almost every night, and she was left to look for other thrills.

Oh, the blind-scrolling and fake-reading was purposeful, and almost as convincing as those awful 19th century actors. Her career as an actress was brief, and entertaining while it lasted, but men were genuinely bad at walking around with a skull in their hands and words no one knew the meaning of. AJ's bad performance was a boner killer.

"Poor show? You don't think that was a poor show, do you?" there was a visible pout on her lips, where she appeared innocent and hurt, shaking the poor girl's head from left to right, meaning "no, you're the best."

Then she beamed — a sudden, yet familiar switch to the witch. "She says I rocked her world, bébé."

A single long, slim leg extended in his direction, kicked the boot right off and knocked the phone out of his hand with ease. "I am cute, thank you. And you're boring me to death, Ozma." his phone scattered somewhere under the couch, where she knew he was too lazy to reach for. "And that says a lot, 'cause you know—" a click of her tongue, and a swiping gesture to her throat to emphasis on the fact that she was already dead enough. Frankie's attention snapped to the doll, the poodle, the too dead to be played with anymore, whatever she wanted to call her. "He's so boring, isn't he? You wanna get in his stash, chaton?"

Frankie has always been one of those who announces the obvious when there's little need because she's done six hundred things that detail exactly what she means. Speaking her intentions louder than her words ever could. I don't like rules, whilst she talks idly at her dinner with every plan to brainwipe all those who don't like it. AJ's slouched across the lounger, half-drank champagne in one hand and his phone in the other. Frankie's got her thing, so he busies himself with his.

Their businesses don't always align and their morals may be the only thing that comes close to being equally as undressed as the plaything on Noialles lap.

Astor's gaze lifts at the prod a light 'Hm' puffs out of him. "Do you now?" He almost teases her to enlighten him on that. AJ's shoe almost clocks Fran's nodding doll in the head when he stretches it out, almost to check the pulse by tilting the girl's head. But, that would involve too much consideration for the poor thing that's made friends of Frankie.

AJ's face shifts into that faux surprise when she continues to poke, "God, love. You think my heart's capable of that? Small, blonde woman can't judge, because she's on your lap. Poor show, Frankenfurt." He thinks he's funny and it's not even where they met (It'd make more sense, probably). But it's stupid enough to annoy the French. And that's his favourite game of the week. If it's not Lilia, it's Frankie who's getting his shit. And it's no secret that AJ doesn't like rules either. They're for the weak-minded. "My heart doesn't care who you make a bobblehead for the night." a beat, to snark. "Cute though."

[frnoialles]

Filthy. Ha—!

"You say that like it's a bad thing, mon p’tit chaton." as if she had not tasted the filth she spoke of, right on her lips. Dark eyes gleamed with something devilish, lingering on the other until she's had her fill (they were exceptionally beautiful draped over the door) and then tracing down to the girl she's already bored of. The two were worlds apart; now that Vera was here, the vampire didn't need much of any other distractions, they'd only fade in comparison.

Body leaning slowly backwards into the lounge, Frankie crossed her feet to rest on the lifeless form, presumably dead on the floor. "Oh, really?" She didn't care much for plans, and she didn't really feel like lifting a finger, not for the next twenty minutes, at least. What she wanted — involved far less movement on her part, and a lot more coming over and wiping the blood off the corner of her mouth, with her tongue on Vera. Index finger moved lazily in her direction, beckoning her to move closer, and closer — "I think I'll need a little encouragement."

        her presence is usually easier to find in a crowd, she likes to be buried in it. so, vera heads to the private rooms, banging one door open after another until they find her, weighed down by a body painted in red.

        they keep nothing out of their tone, “ you’re filthy. ”  and high. as usual, which means this will be both easier, and harder. it means she’s going to whine, but she’ll be bored enough to follow. even still, if she stays behind, francoise was the one who taught them compulsion, they’ll find someone else to tie into this. the girl has an infinite amount of lurking fledglings, so many loose ends they could use for the same purpose. vera imagines they couldn't be hard to find. in fact ... the backup plan isn’t as interesting, or particularly delicious, but it’s there, as always. vera finds the look in her eyes, definitely bored, ripe for the picking.

        the body crumples to the floor, and curiosity pinches in their brow, wondering if she had fed the fallen corpse any of her own blood, before feasting.  “ i have plans for you, get up. ”

[frnoialles]

Did it really hurt? Was she about go find the blonde and ask her herself? No, that would put an end to a very fun night, too early. "That stick has been there a while." a series of giggles erupted from her mouth, matching the ones on the other's lips. "I'm pretty sure my dear sister is used to it."

It had already slipped her mind — why exactly she was looking for her. Not important anymore, in the presence of miss blonde and perky. Distractions, distractions, distractions — so many of them, like the scent of her shampoo, or was that her conditioner, maybe her fabric softener. Is that — jasmine?

"Right? Like they've all been called here for some giant orgy." They, like she wasn't a part of the french committee in Port Liery. They, because she wouldn't be caught in a french orgy. Would she? No, fuck no. She was related to half of the french in this town. Was that like fucking your second cousin?

Her mouth was stretched in a permanent grin, that might have looked painful to anyone that wasn't shitfaced. "Oh, forget my sister. Tell me your last name, and I'll tell you if you've been invited." because that little game was better, than spilling truths about her relatives. Then she won't hear the end of it.

        blue eyes dart sharply away from the conversation she’d been so emersed in. the sudden sound of slamming induces the slightest of flinches, but it’s followed by curiosity, not fear. it means she watches as the door opens again, a whirlwind of curls and striking energy that draws her in like a magnet. the woman’s question leads to a few small murmurs of uncertainty from the two others, their names not coming to mind. she remembers the conversation, but they turn blurry with disinterest, fading to the background, they might’ve actually left. allie’s shoulders shift, angling just slightly towards the new most interesting thing in the room.

        “ wait, like, really? that sounds like it hurts. ”  a giggle peels from her, she absently twirls a strand of honeyed blonde around her finger.  “ there’s, like, a lotta’ french people here, isn’t there? like, in town? i guess my last name’s french, too, but i’m not … actually … french? um, anyway, what’s her name, your sister? ”

[frnoialles]

Yeah, it felt like a long shot, but she had to try. "I did say, it was going to be worth it, did I not say that?" Frankie was almost eager to see that pretty, little head roll down the entrance stairs. A pretty, little head with a mouth that only shot questions at her, all accusatory, which naturally only drew the older vampire in.

She stepped closer; bottom lip clasped between sharp teeth, eyes burning brighter than the neon lights above them, tracing over the woman displeased with her offer. Her voice was smooth, velvety almost: "Someone who likes to have a little fun. And that girl had plenty of fun with me, thank you very much. She came twice on my face, before I killed her." Don't say I never gave you anything. Well, technically, she wasn't entirely dead. Just transitioning from dead, to — half dead. Or would that be — deader? Who the fuck cares?

Oh— Oh, now she was talking. And it wasn't just blah blah annoying blah —

"So now, you want to be part of the fun?" she reached for her, letting a single finger wrap around a loose strand of hair framing her face; twisting and twisting. "You've got to be a little more obedient, and then I'll let you."

“Pay me to walk up to my own death? Fuck that.” Aelin hated what she was, but she did not have a death wish. However, for the sake of her pride and the need to keep the zero fucks attitude she’d thrown up in self defense, “Don’t need money as an incentive to speak the truth.” The vampire didn’t want to appear weak, not now. Maybe it was instincts driving the desire.

“I wouldn’t say dying was worth it the first time. I’m not keen on giving it a second go. Was that girl you fed from drunk off her ass or something. Who the fuck would agree to that, insulting someone for money when you follow with oh they will kill you anyway?” Aelin could use several strong drinks herself because this was going in one strange direction. So many sides to one, murderous little vampire.

Was that French? Was she hitting on her, damn, Aelin wasn’t mad at it, but Shit her days of taking French had long passed. The idea of this vampire calling her a little dear was both unnerving and intriguing. “You gonna let me bite back, my dear? I’m hungry too. And it sounds like a fucking fantastic time.” What happened if a vampire fed on another vampire? Why was she so fucking intrigued by it? This would be a night Aelin would not soon forget.

[frnoialles]

If she was bored enough, Frankie could see herself considering teaching the man where exactly you put your tongue, to avoid butchering the french language. But she was restless and high, and she had no time to waste on silly men and their silly tongues.

One hand flicked the remaining drops of blood from the corners of her mouth, like it was something she didn't need to hide; nonchalant and all. Bright, big eyes flickering between him and the rest of the group he seemed to be with.

"Well, new guy, seems like you're hanging out with the wrong crowd." because they seemed boring in comparison to her, but so was half of this place' population. Especially her sister. The only fun thing about her was that stick up her ass.

"I'm way more fun." her index digit, still stained with red, disappeared into her mouth.

"Non, ma petit," he says in poorly practiced French, digging at her accent with a wry litle grin as she clambers across their table. Attention torn away from the set of flailing strangers next to him; Daniel's not terribly bothered to be pulled away from the poor display; the dancing equivalent of dull politics and talk of the weather.

Bit of rust on his French, for sure - he's not much occasion to use it. Looking down into her eyes, he feels safe in assuming she's one of the shepherds and not the sheep, as it were, all that manic energy and the red spots flecked across her skin and outfit. "I'm new here, I don't know anybody, not really. Always in favor of changing that, though. "

[frnoialles]

Long fingers found the ends of her mouth, where she wiped the red off. Then she licked them, two fingers coming in and out of full lips, clean of the blood she stained herself with earlier. "You've never seen anyone with a stick up their ass?" she asked, in all seriousness, like they were discussing politics or something equally ridiculous like that.

Now, his question had matched the grossness of the actual imaginary of an actual stick up her sisters ass. It looked grotesque, like a badly drawn cartoon. "I'm the one who tries to constantly pull it out, but it's stuck, t'sais— " then she went on a two minutes long rant, in french, using large gestures to describe all the ways she's tried to pull it out of her, but to no avail. She was powerless, against her sisters well rooted stick.

Then she noticed the familiar shape of the back of her head. "Ah, there she is." there was a brief nod in her direction with her chin, not at all enthusiastic about having her circling her orbit once more. "You have any sisters? It's like she's babysitting me, mimi — I have to reminder her, I'm two hundred years old."

Tomás has been spending more times forgetting his own name since his last paper. Smiling though his confusion, it makes him feel better when he drinks — there’s a logical, rational reason to forget everything. It makes sense. If he can touch it and taste it, it’s real. A tangible thing, real. The haze of the club lights, the bodies pressed against him, front, back — side, hands he ghosts digits along until he’s able to forget the memory fog.

He’s got all of tomorrow morning to regret his decisions and work up the courage to pick up a pen again. Until then, he’s drinking, smiling — and trying to not look at his missed calls or his texts. His siblings en mass, feeding him updates he’s too scared to read about. The last time they all texted him, in quick succession, it was bad news.

Not tonight. Tonight, he’s looking for a blonde Frenchie with a stick up their — “Woah, what?” An uneasy chuckle as he blinks to capture the features of the stranger. She’s not blonde. He’s got a faint image of one in the back of his mind, but nothing he can pluck to the surface. He’s not quite sure why the method — or the literal translation comes to mind first: “Did you put the stick there, or did she do that herself?”

[frnoialles]

Maybe, that whole stick thing was too literal, and now that bouncer was going to go flash his light at every ass in the club. She could almost hear his voice in her head, and imagine the order he was going to give out to every woman under the flashing lights of the place — Spread your cheeks wide, I wanna take a look. Okay, not all women. She did mention her sister being blonde. There it was again — his voice but this time with the correct order — All blondes, spread your cheeks wide, I wanna take a look.

Frankie laughed, at her own made up scenarios, that lived so vividly inside her head, as if she was watching a movie, where she was the star, the director, and the screenwriter.

"Are you gonna make all the blondes spread their ass for you?" she said, the most atrocious things, when she was high. Smile bright, where he could still see the fresh blood on her fangs. Do I have to pay you for this? After all, she was the manager of the club. Not that he knew that. Did he know that?

"Are you gonna get paid extra for this? Do they pay you enough in here?"

Malcolm worked as a bouncer for almost any club that would take him, having come to Port Leiry with little to no money to his name, he needed to in order to make rent, have money for essentials and save; that was top on his list of shit he couldn't believe he still had to worry about as a vampire. He was talking to a couple of the patrons that were telling him about a guy that needed kicking out when she came over, and his brow raised. The girls left, and he looked to the stranger.

"I'm going to need more than that, but I think I'd remember a French accent and someone with a stick up their ass." He responded with almost little care, his eyes flickering around to scan his surroundings to see if he could see the guy the other women mentioned, or the blonde French woman the other was speaking about. "Did she come here with you and you've lost track of her, or are you just asking if I've seen her in general?"

[frnoialles]

Busted. There was a sound, a single "uh oh" with the identical high note of a chipmunk. In the same voice, she continued: "We're in trouble, boys. Run, before she pulls that stick out and whacks you over the heads."

There was something about her sisters presence that commanded respect. Unlike Frankie, who looked like a woman, all coked up, who'd show you a good time, and then eventually kill you in some freak accident. But that last part was a guessing game, nobody could win. Narcisse's intentions were clear, plastered on her face, for everyone to see. There was nothing mysterious, or enigmatic — nothing fun and surprising, not to Frankie.

So the three left, wearing the faces of horror. And the younger vampire turned, clicking her tongue, letting that tsk sound really click against pearly whites — slow and faux critical. "Look what you did."

It was all in good fun, she was sure the blonde wouldn't mind a bit of her sisters dramatics. Narcisse was familiar with her circus acts, Frankie didn't know why she still got butthurt over the smallest of pokes.

"We have the same mother, asshole."

She knew she'd find her here, and she had seen her walking into the private room with the girl on her arm, a smile on her lips. She didn't need to ask where Lilia was. With the dog, most likely. And as she lounged around the private booth, a glass filled with blood in her hand, she wondered if her mother knew what Frankie was up to in her club while she played throw the ball with the mutt.

She only moved when she saw the girl leaving the room, blood on her clothes that blended in with the club's lightning and the many other vampires around. Narcisse could even smell the strong scent of tequila as she walked down the stairs to the main floor.

It isn't hard navigating the floor, moving between bodies lost to the music and the euphoric feeling of the room. Many of which will not even remember being here by morning.

The words reach her ears with ease, blending with the music around and an amused smile reached her lips as a daring eyebrow rose up. "Charming, ma chérie... don't you know how to talk to a lady."

"Got that from your mother..."

[frnoialles]

Both hot and lame. Francoise laughed, loud and childlike. Because whoever that stranger was, she wasn't far off. Society and that poodle she kept hearing about, did consider her sister to be hot. And according to Frankie she was mean and lame. A glorious, genius idea popped into her head. One, she had to voice out loud immediately: "Can I pay you to say that to her face?"

Then she felt the need to elaborate on a few details. "She will kill you, but it's going to be so worth it. I promise." Her face lit up like a child on Christmas morning. Who could really say no to that face?

She was bored and suddenly reminded (thank you strange woman) that pissing off Narcisse would provide her with great entertainment for the night. Especially when it wasn't her own head on the line.

But then her eyes ignited with something else. An opportunity was arising, for something else. No longer harmless fun, her eyes no longer childlike, but something a lot more monstrous. "You could make it up to me, and become my meal? Qu'en dis-tu, ma biche?"

The only explanation in being here was that she was bored and irritated due to lack of sustenance, it was comical to imagine a hangry vampire, but here one was. These clubs for vampires often had a never ending buffet of options. Aelin could feel her instinct leading her to the private lounges. She could smell the blood and her insides rumbled in want, no need.

Her hand pulled on the door. This was her own fault. After 10 years she still let herself go too long between meals and it led to her making mistakes. Aelin was met with the exquisite smell of blood as she faced the bloody mess of a vampire shouting surprise like she’d just walked into her own private party.

“Oh Fuck me.” Aelin groaned, eyes lingering over the color red, zoning in on it with building desire. The thoughts that took over left Aelin mortified. She forced herself to turn and walk, but the vampire followed.

“I don’t fucking know your sister, but she sounds both hot and lame.” Aelin gripped her fists so tightly she could feel her nails cutting skin. “…. Sorry for interrupting your meal.” Some might say Aelin had a stick up her ass too. She was not one to embrace her feral side, not like this vampire. Though, tonight, the hunger might win.

[frnoialles]

The vampire only knew of the place, because a long legged looked-like-a-model-could-be-a-serial-killer with a very thick german accent, left her hanging with a promise of some girl-on-girl action, if she bought her half the store. A deal that didn't sound too bad in Francoise's head, especially when the money she was about to spend were not her own.

Heavens, she smelled like spilled pumpkin spice latte and sin. In total contrast with the scent off that record store.

There was only so much interest she could fake, into a Bon Jovi vinyl, before she looked for a better kind of distraction. How long was this going to fucking take? Oh mon dieu—

The door swung open sharply, startling the other woman and allowing Frankie to trace curious eyes over her frame, and her face that looked oddly familiar. The lack of heartbeat, too. "Eh, I've heard better." she spoke, dismissively. If only to jump onto a subject far more interesting.

Index finger swirled before the other's face, drawing slow circles in the air. "Where have I seen you before?" No, I haven't fucked that one. That's not it—

who: open to everyone where: earshot records

The winter months make the 'no sunlight' issue so much easier to navigate. She'd just come back into the record store from a smoke, trying to ignore the chill settling in, and listen to the local band working through their second song of the night as people still continue to trickle in. It's a good band, not at all polished, but that's not why she came. It's the atmosphere that feels good, reminds her of college on the east coast.

But of course, with memories come that flash of anxiety that always fucks her over, no matter how much she tries to tamp it down mentally or with prescription help.

Sliding out of the crowd, and making her way towards the bathroom, she checks the stalls to make sure they're empty and heaves out a sigh when they are. Her attention turns towards her reflection in the mirror - there's an existential dread or depression or something in her eyes that, despite it all, never seems to go away.

Her hands move to the porcelain sink and she grips hard enough for the thing to crack a bit while she tries to breathe through that thrumming feeling sitting at her sternum.

The door of the bathroom swinging open startles her out of her thoughts, and she sits up quickly, trying not to look like a deer caught in the headlights or like she'd been just working through yet another mental breakdown. "Uh, sorry. Am I in your way? I'll, uh.."

She shifts backwards out of their way and gestures outside, "Good music, right?"

[frnoialles]

closed — @ajastor

She didn't care about the clan hierarchy. Rules and laws made to chain and gag beings of hundreds of years. Frankie was only part of it, because her mother was, and before she arrived to this party central, she was only Pretorius in spirit. Like the name has been tattooed into her skin, and only started itching when she walked past the Welcome to Port Liery sign.

That didn't mean shit. Just another itch to scratch. Did they expect her to take her foot off the drive all that the clan held dear into the ground gas pedal? Where was the fun in that?

"I don't like rules." the champagne sparkling with small, specks of gold swirled within her glass. Eyes, big and chocolate brown undressed the last pieces of clothing left on the woman before her, spread on her lap like a broken barbie doll. There was nothing better than to leave some things to the imagination. "Do you like rules, chaton?" her question received no answer in the form of words, just a weak nod. Good, that's what I thought.

The woman was compelled to answer every question with a nod. Every need, and every want with a kiss.

She leaned in over to brush lips stained with red against the pink ones of her victim for the night. Then murmured: "And I know your opinion on that—" the heel of her boot poked AJ in the thigh.

The couch was big enough for the two of them, and their guests.

Her hand snatched the woman's chin and cheeks, long fingers digging into her skin, snapping her face around so the two of them looked at the witch. " — or have you had a change of heart?" a sharp, dramatic gasp. "Small, blonde woman is judging you."