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[brooklynislandgirl]

Bottled a few years before Beth breathed into existence, the Chave Hermitage Blanc is a tiny ocean of golden hues, waves cresting and breaking time with each swirl of Lawrence’s glass. Barely a competition against the constellation of Manhattan at night, halogen lights twinkling through the panes of his own corporate monolith. A machine he only visits on occasion these, and tinkers with even less, letting the churn of worker bees buzz under Mary’s guidance and leaving him free for more interesting pursuits. It is, still, suitable enough for this specific parley.

“As I’m sure you are aware by now, many of those with power and affluence seek the obscene and the taboo to evoke any sense of excitement.” He takes note of the wine’s bouquet without tasting it. “I’m aware of one who spends a large chunk of his inheritance bribing women to allow him to be the one to ‘deflower’ her – his prosaic term, not mine. Not that I am suggesting you make his acquaintance, Beth. You need neither the money nor the tedium involved.”

Lawrence lounges upon an over-stuffed seat, one ankle to knee, the black of his suit only a handful of shades darker than the leather beneath. “I mention him because he puts great value on the concept of virginity. The motif of the value of virgin blood is hardly new, and yet, I am curious as to if there is any true merit to it. Some say virginity is a construct.” The flash of white teeth might be paired with a joke, if coming from any other man. “So, I come to the expert for the truth, before I start locking the young and innocent away to keep a ready supply on hand.”

~*~

A Will and a Way || -

She really wishes she could say his taste in wine is trash, but to do so would make a liar out of her, and he'd call her on the carpet for it. Her curiosity at his casual invitation unto his kingdom is enough for her to venture out once the sun has set much to the annoyance of her sibling for not telling him anything more than she's taking the car into the city and not to wait up for her. Now she's perched a hip against the edge of his desk, watching not his face but rather the motion of his wrist, the angle at which he holds the glass, and breathes in its aroma from her own glass. She has no fear that he will have any cause to poison her, not when all the things he wants most are so readily available to his reach in and with her. Even if he was feeling those particular oats, her body would filter out any potentially lethal toxicity from her blood, and she has a bezoar in her grove, along with enough amethyst to flood 5th Avenue. He'd be better off making good on his once-threat of throttling her, or expunging his innate rage by laying hands on her. He won't. Not when she can see the question burning in the coldfire of his gaze.

His preamble draws a look of sheer disgust from the delicacy of her features and she sets the glass down beside her, equally untouched. In the world he speaks of, many of her sisters and aunties, her countless mothers and daughters, even cousins ~both in the dream of shared Kinship and stranger alike~ find themselves in a place of no power. It was not always like this but the rise of Reason was also the turning away from equality; in a rush to fill the vacuum people like the one he tells her about rose from the mud and the dark and beat fists upon their chests. And then turned that violence on the life-givers, the wise-women. It makes her sick but she doesn't blame the women who must be so desperate to need the unknown stranger's money, attention, or whatever else he provides for their validation and continuing survival. She needs to know the man's name, though she can likely suss it out on her own with a little determination. A pack of her more militant female cousins would see it as a gesture of good will between Tribe and Tradition. She also makes absolutely certain that her face doesn't betray a single lick of dark humour.

She honestly cannot imagine Lawrence....deflowering any one. She inclines her head at his surprising gentility regarding what she may or may not need, and for once she lets it go without biting instinctively back, asking if he's got plans for what she may or may not have. Which she does, even now. Ah, and there it is. His gaze still burns, but his is the light of Diogenes. For the sake of clarity she sets aside her natural speech patterns, reaching rather for his or some reasonable facsimile. "Blood has always been a sacred thing, a liminal matter. It could empower or pollute, restore health or waste corporeal and spiritual existence. It was the Divine Mystery in the mortal creation. For a very long time, those of us who were Awakened, understood this bond and this responsibility. Even before my Tradition took it on as a formal responsibility, we traced the progeny of our forebearers, for in blood there was always power."

Her eyes see beyond him and beyond his glass, something deeply bitter that goes hand in hand with her magicksplaining. "A splinter group broke off and formed...the Hippocratic Circle and they were largely the ones who ruined it for the rest of us. Through them the world came to see that male blood and bleeding was a public experience, connected to heroism, lineage in familial relationships, and to sacrificial practices, while female bleeding is a private matter and that women's blood while connected with parturition and life, should be feared for its polluting qualities. "But that wasn't your question. Your question is specifically about virgins. And the only answer I have for you is...I don't know. Depends on what you or I or anyone else deeply believes. It isn't lip-service level, either. It comes down to what you know in your soul. I use my own blood in rituals, of course. And others, when the need arises. My Tradition knows and uses blood the most, be it animal or human. Some people believe virginity conveys purity, virtuousness. A sort of appeal to the Unseen forces in any mysticism. They might value it more highly than perhaps I would."

She pushes herself off the edge of the desk and pads barefoot toward him. She rakes him from head to toe with a particular sort of gaze; part feral and part threat, part oddly affectionate. Then, she smiles and only the darker aspects of her nature remain. "If you ever require virgin blood for any reason, just ask for it. A lot safer an’ easier for everyone really.” She then hunkers down into a vague sort of squat, until she can look up into his face. It is a look too keenly like her Cousins to be comfortable.  “Now, Larry, be a dear and tell me more about this...ah...friend....of yours.”

[brooklynislandgirl]

🔥 + forest

No Time To Wallow || Accepting

Every last ounce of tension in her slender frame has evaporated, drained by the sweet, soft, sharp kisses Mischa doled out over her limbs, her throat. From the way his fingers had chased the ache out from between her shoulders, down her back. The hours are growing small and she knows that he's going to cleave himself from her side to return home before the sun's first rays spark luminous on the horizon. She turns in the warmth of his embrace, nuzzling his collarbones with the tip of her nose. Her breath warm on his cool skin before taking on body and tone, low-whispered. "Summer's on our doorstep, knockin' politely." She's referring to Beltane, the first day of Summer amongst the Celts, and clearly a holy day of her Tradition. "Gonna be goin' upstate t' da cabin. Easier t' build bonfires an' an' dance sky-clad undah da open stars." She seeds in his mind the one thing she doesn't often bring up, communicating the idea of nudity. When they are together, she bares most of her limbs. Her face and throat and the upper portion of her chest, sometimes even the majority of her back are left uncovered that he can glide his fingers across her skin without interruption, but she always wears something however small or lacy to afford herself a sense of modesty. The only real exception to this is when it comes to bathing. "But even now, before I've packed, I find myself missing you." She won't ask him to leave the city, his territory. Doing so is akin in her mind to asking one of her finned cousins to leave Sea behind. Utterly unthinkable. But some small treacherous part of her wonders at just how hard her heart would beat, running naked through the woods, Mischa chasing her like the predator that he is. Catching her amidst the dark and drooping boughs with bark at her back before piercing tender flesh and drinking her vitality as it screams hot and scarlet in her veins. Would his elegant hands turn rough guiding her sand-hued thighs up along his narrow hips? Would he spend even the smallest portion of her blood to steal some human verisimilitude? Would she let him, when just the bite of his fangs is enough to shatter her inside out? One finger finds a perch along his lower lip, and she draws back just enough to lose herself in the endless depths of his dark eyes. She doesn't know if her thoughts are loud enough for him to glean, but maybe the faint tremour through the rest of her is an indictment of its own. "Will you be able to get by for a few days? Would you raddah I stay?"