#also the thing about strangling is that it’s the most intimate way to kill somebody

[broken-balance-baby]

vaas/ajay headcanons under the cut because i re-realized my love for michael mando and also remember i love ajay shhshhshh:

ajay always offers gives vaas his jacket when he’s cold. if they ever go to a cold place, ajay’s always the one prepared, CLEARLY vaas didn’t think he’d carry much up until they actually get to colder places and because ajay doesn’t want him to die of hypothermia he gives the damn thing to him

though they’re definitely morally the opposite, ajay’s a hypocrite when it comes to trying to justify the bad things he does and it’s always funny/entertaining to vaas whenever he’s looking to watch him do his so called “good things”. he’s not gonna admit it, nope, but in the back of his head he hates that vaas actually has the perception to see what he’s doing. 

“went back to your country and got the white washed off you? huh. good shit, isn’t it? refreshing?” - vaas, probably. 

ajay is, for the most part, mature. but he also can’t handle talking for a long time, he can’t even get the upper hand for his own sake and it annoys vaas to a degree because he can’t stand how much of a suck-up this guy is. he doesn’t want compromise, he wants a challenge, and he’s here to witness ajay slowly unhinge himself because he wants to know what happens if he’s pushed. 

affection is very hard, but they’re both doing something about it. ajay will come off angry and aloof with a guy like vaas, it’s the gang-boy attitude that keeps coming back when it comes to boys like him. except he cares for him, wants to make sure he’s okay, knows for a fact vaas has problems but he’s also caring enough for his own well-being to yell at him if he has to. vaas is blatant with how he shows he cares, his affections come off like direct jokes so it’s always weird to find him opening up. opening up about the same shit, ajay can work with that, but if he keeps insisting that things only get worse from it ajay’s going to yell at him to actually try doing something about it. (would vaas actually try? probably.)

ajay holds a certain fixation to people’s faces. a habit from kyrat, having to watch people’s expressions for their geniuity but always being so unsure because so many things could go different in so many ways. being able to read vaas is a pretty standard procedure, vaas doesn’t hide his emotions, he’s theatric, he’s dramatic, all over the place! so he likes that there are things about vaas he can trust. he’s beautiful, he’s wild, but he’s broken and he’s ruined and he’s also unpredictable and a pain in the ass but much less of a problem than an entire country, really. or maybe it’s worse. ajay can’t tell, and that’s what scares him, but he’s also excited about that part; all he really is used to is hard things but he knows how to work around it. vaas wants parts of his life to have been easy, he never knew it in the first place so he never really got to have that. they both had it hard. they both had it horrible. vaas has empathy for ajay because he knows he’d do things for his family but would also scream at him for the past and being a shit son, how even if that cancer wasn’t his fault it was more like a punishment for everybody and get a punch to the face for it. it’s not his business. it’s not his problem, furthermore, it’s not his family. at this point, ajay could see how he is from a mile away, and he hates that he doesn’t hate him, but it also helps him realize that there really was just nothing he could do. (though it still gives him his right so smack him)

again, affection? hard. even harder when they have to fight. harder when someone wants to apologize but all you can do is stare at each other until the other (or you) would break. ajay does the talking but vaas, for the first time, loses his words, loses his mind over the fact he can’t do what ajay does and furthermore can’t even understand what it’s doing to him. someone has pried him open in a manner that feels like he’s been robbed, like it was against his will, except it’s not. he can’t do words, not in his head, not in english, not in spanish. he has his hands but all they do is shake. all they could do is throw things, break them, hit something, someone, and when it’s all over he grabs onto something that’s alive but he doesn’t know if he’s crying or getting the life strangled out of him. emotions are so hard, for every rare instance he cries again he’s screaming into the night especially when they’ve run out of drugs. falling to the floor and being held down gently is different. the fact that he gets embraced, kissed and dragged down with for everytime he screams without getting degraded or abused or neglected or abandoned by someone who will never, never give up on somebody unless they do it to him has absolutely shattered him. they lost people, they fell alone. ajay doesn’t want to give up on somebody even if there’s an intrusive, cynical side to him that keeps growing, maybe thinking that killing would be the answer but he’s too tired to wash blood off his hands, too tired to realize there won’t be someone to come back home anymore everytime it happens, too tired to recognize the feeling of blades and guns and bullets and hands just taking one life after another. he’s forgotten what he’s meant to do back then, but with vaas, he remembers, he knows, everything about this man is a walking time-bomb that ajay can never forget about. it’s not just having the same arguments again and again, it’s the scars, the eyebags from drugs, the scabs on his hands, the tears in his eyes, the pain in every expression he makes, the anguish he keeps conjuring. ajay is not a source of his healing, but he’s proof that someone can love vaas again and understand that he doesn’t want to be left alone. he wants to be cared for. he wants to be reassured constantly he won’t be abandoned. he wants to be loved because of the things he does for them, the things he can do for them. what has he ever done for ajay? he doesn’t even know. ajay still grabs onto him, no motive (or does he?) no bullshit (or does he?) no lies (or does he?). everytime. everytime those questions just keep popping up. they will keep fucking popping up, because everytime he’s never left alone it’s almost like he’s having it for the first time again. he can never find it in himself to actually speak about it, because all he can do at that moment is break, and it’s... just a little bit of a comfort. to let go. feel safe, for once in his goddamn life, he’s not being tricked. he’s not being tossed to the side. he’s not being forced into doing anything out of compromise and he sure as hell isn’t forcing ajay into it either. and it’s intimate. it’s so, so hard on him, but... maybe he does love him. maybe he really is in love again. 

[trickstercaptain]

POSEIDON’S TOMB  /  ‘YOU CUT ME YOU CUT THE BOY’ DRABBLE

tl;dr; here i am torching the entire canon version of this scene nearly four years later. it’s actually been a creative urge of mine for a while to revisit this part of dmtnt, but i finally got around to it after a little nudge from @lighthouseborn and therefore this is specifically dedicated to hannah <3

                                                               ~ ~ ~

          If Henry uncharacteristically barrelling towards the two of them hadn’t been the first sign of something being amiss, then there were two others: the boy’s speed, and his stance. Henry’s tuition with the blade was something of a patchwork of several different influences back on Shipwreck, one of which being Jack’s own ( whenever the boy wasn’t more content to scrappily solve an altercation with his fists, which was always his go-to preference ). While not being the superior swordsman himself, and having adapted his form and bent the rules of the engagement over the years to suit his own whims, Jack knew the boy’s approaching stance right now was one of somebody who had been schooled in the art of precision fencing for years ---- more akin to the boy’s father or even the man with whom Henry shared a name. It most certainly was not, could not, did not belong to the lad who he’d had to chastise on several occasions for holding a sword more like a blunt instrument than a tool --------------

          No, Jack knew who this was. He didn’t know how it was possible ( when did he ever? ), but he knew.

          The next few seconds passed by in a blur. Jack could only remember drawing his own blade, shoving Carina aside, and throwing himself forward ( in a rash move that would no doubt win him both Henry and William’s approval ) to meet Henry’s first strike with a shattering clash that rung out throughout the length of Poseidon’s tomb.

          The fact of the matter was that Captain Salazar was a much better swordsman than him. He also had the benefit of years on Jack if he was indeed using Henry as some sort of vessel, as well as a seething, roiling anger at the supposed injustice dealt to him that would see his stamina extend further than it might have done otherwise. These were all the things that Jack was sizing up as he went through the motions, parrying each blow as it arrived, trying to figure out his strategy to buy Carina enough time to get herself over to the trident and solve the final part of her diary.

          And then there were the things not to size up, but to swallow down and put to the back of his mind. That this was Henry staring him down with the look of a man who had wanted him dead for decades. That this was a familiar, always warm, always loving set of brown eyes now regarding him with such contempt. It was difficult to meet them and not contemplate the less rational questions of the moment. How Salazar had accomplished this. How Jack might even start to think about reversing it. Whether there was a chance in Hell that the Trident might in fact help matters, not make them worse.

          How he was planning to live with himself should the unimaginable happen.

         The last question was enough to re-align his thoughts like tacking a sail back to windward. Emotion made you vulnerable to mistakes and sloppiness. Much like Salazar’s anger exposed his own weak spots. And, as Jack raised his blade to block another blow and, in doing so, push the boy away from him, he spotted the opening.

          It was a mere flesh wound, a nick across the boy’s cheek in the hope that it would enlighten him as to the limits of this particular brand of magic. But perhaps that in itself had been too great a risk to take given the potential consequences. Perhaps it was too reckless. Too callous. Particularly when the halt in Salazar’s counter-strike, and the words he levelled back at him made the blood turn to ice in his veins.

                  “ You cut me, you cut the boy, Jack. ”

          Jack faltered, and Salazar advanced. With every frantic block and step backwards, all he could focus on was the way his freshly-inflicted cut blended in with the mottled, cracked flesh on the side of Henry’s face. On the side of Salazar’s face. Despite the confirmation that was lodging itself somewhere in the levelheaded part of his mind that the two of them were now one, now connected, the conclusion he subsequently reached of this making the Spanish captain human was meaningless. Not when he could see that fresh mark on that face, and could feel the revulsion rising in him that he was the one to put it there.

         Jack didn’t care how fallible this made him. Not when the fallibility was Henry’s. So, that left him no choice but to try a different approach, and summon up the guile from somewhere to make it convincing.

        “ Shame that he won’t let you kill me. ” Said with much more confidence than he felt as he planted his feet and met Salazar’s blade with another loud clang. Leaning towards the gap between their crossed blades, Jack lowered his voice. “ He’s still in there, Capitán, Kicking and screaming and attempting to thwart all that you’ve fantasised about for years. ” At least, he hoped that Henry was in there still. If he was, then he most certainly was fighting, and perhaps that meant that this assumption wasn’t entirely --- well, an assumption. “ Reckon that makes it two against one, and I don’t fancy your odds on this one, mate. ”

         It seemed to anger him. Salazar --- or rather, Henry ---- pushed Jack away with his blade and, with a cry of frustration, renewed his offensive. The back of Jack’s boot came into contact with a coral rock, and as he carefully stepped around it, he only just managed to parry the force of his opponent’s next blow. “ Did he make me do this, Jack Sparrow? ” He swung again, with even more power this time --- and for the first time Jack caught sight of the man’s crew at the ocean’s edge, waiting on both sides of where it had parted to reveal Poseidon’s tomb. “ Or this? ”

          The distraction was the first time Jack had let his guard down. It took a moment for the injury to register: a slash from just below the nape of Jack’s neck to his collarbone, but when he spotted the blood soaking through his shirt and waistcoat the potential severity of it became clear. How many times had he aimed for the same area, hoping to sever the vein that would swiftly put an end to a fight? Of all the people to think of in that moment, Jack saw Robby Greene’s face in his mind’s eye, and the warning he’d given him after his first duel to the death.

          If that had gone an inch or two deeper, you’d have been lying there dead, right beside Christophe.

         Was this how he would come full circle? Certainly, in this case, he very much hoped that it hadn’t gone any deeper ---- and for now, the adrenaline was stopping the wound from doing little more than stinging at the spray from the rushing ocean beside them. The more concerning matter at present was his own laboured breathing, in comparison to Henry who was barely breaking a sweat. He was half-tempted to glance over his shoulder and verbalise his frustration at being the only one here to pull his weight. Has Carina not worked the bloody thing out yet?

           Whatever was going on behind him, Jack was running out of options for the problem in front.

           “ Then why make it a fight at all? ” He noticed that Salazar’s ( or was that Henry’s? ) gaze was, for the moment, preoccupied with the growing bloodstain on his shirt, giving Jack enough space to briefly catch his breath. To glance around him. To look down at the lightly bloodied sword in his hand and debate his next choice. One that he should have made hours ago, when the Pearl had first encountered the Silent Mary and Salazar’s crew. One that, until now, he’d been too cowardly to make. “ All you’d have to do is let Henry go and I might just stop resisting altogether. ”

            “ No, no no no, Jack, don’t you see? ” There was a peculiar softness in the way the words were spoken, an intimate whisper between the two of them that was the most he’d sounded like Henry since this had started. Salazar didn’t raise his sword to strike again. Instead, he crossed the scant distance between them, and pressed his ( Henry’s ) hand into his blood stained waistcoat. Jack hissed, and fought against the black dots dancing around in his vision, but otherwise didn’t say a word. “ Don’t you see? ”

           Jack might have been forgiven for thinking that there was something kind in Salazar’s expression, then, but it didn’t last. The look on Henry’s face quickly morphed back into rage, and a hand tightened with surely supernatural strength around Jack’s throat.

           As things went, it wasn’t the first time that someone had tried to strangle him, but having had experience of such things never made it easier to resist the urge to struggle. Ringed fingers rose in a desperate attempt to claw the hands ( Henry’s hands ) off of his neck and release his airway, but it ended up not being his efforts at all that spared him. Instead, it was the loud, rushing noise of the Trident being released from its perch; loud enough, and promising enough, it seemed, for Salazar to momentary abandon any desire he may have had to finish Jack off.

            Besides, it wasn’t as if Jack was in much condition to resist being finished off even if he’d wanted to. As the air rushed back into his lungs, so too did the sea floor rush up to greet him. And only when he’d finally pulled himself up into a sitting position, using one of the rocks on the seabed as an aid, could he finally turn his gaze on the commotion at hand: Captain Salazar picking up the Trident, and Henry seeming to slide out of his control and physically collapse at his feet.

          Carina was nowhere to be seen, but he knew where, or indeed whom, the focus of the Trident’s ire was about to be directed towards. He also knew that, physically speaking, he was just about spent.

          He could have rushed to Henry’s aid, but he didn’t fancy his chances of being intercepted before he got there. Or whether he’d even like what he found.

          All he could do, really, was wait. And it took but mere seconds before Salazar’s eye was once again trained on him ---- though this time, more importantly, looking much more reassuringly like his unnervingly ghostly self.

          Jack steeled himself. You’d better have a bloody plan, Carina. He drew a deep breath, carefully pulled himself to his feet, and had just enough time to slip the girl’s diary under his waistcoat. Just below the bleeding wound. Just above his breastbone.

           One final gambit.

[omgrachwrites]

Schooled (Bucky Barnes)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/OC

Summary: After the passing of Ava’s father she starts acting out which drives her right into the arms of one gorgeous Professor Barnes.

Warnings: fluff, mentions of sex, little bit of angst, characters are 21+

Words: 2042

A/N: I’m sorry for the delayed update! I hope you guys enjoy this and please let me know what you think! I love you all! xxx

Part Nine - Movie Night

Ava sighed in bliss as she felt Bucky’s teeth scrape at the sensitive skin of her neck and the way that his warm hand roamed up and under her dress, squeezing her thigh. She tightened her legs around Bucky’s hips and threw her head back against the wall as his deft index and middle fingers pressed into the thin lace of her underwear. They’d both agreed to try an intimate relationship to try and quell the sexual tension between them. Then maybe, just maybe they would be able to get back to their lives.

Ava decided that there was no time like the present so she’d pulled Bucky in the direction of one of the many supply closets. Unfortunately, the lock on the door had been busted but Ava couldn’t see anyone walking in and interrupting them. Besides, there were a thousand supply closets in the building.

“Bucky,” Ava whispered as she pressed herself against him, he hummed against her neck which made her pout into the darkness, that wasn’t the reaction that she had wanted. A smirk slowly spread across her face as a wicked idea filled her head, “Professor Barnes,” she cooed, smirking as she felt the kisses against her neck cease, “Professor Barnes, you feel so good.”

Her words coaxed a growl out of him and he put his fingers on either side of her underwear and pulled them to the side. Ava let out a shuddered sigh as his fingers stroked over her warm flesh, avoiding where she really needed him. Almost instantly, the door was wrenched open and a giggle rang out, Ava recognised that giggle, it was MJ. MJ and Peter.

A look of horror spread across Ava’s face, even though she knew that Bucky couldn’t see her. She had to do something. And fast, “there’s somebody already in here!” Ava called in a voice that sounded breathy and high pitched, unlike her usual voice.

“Oops,” MJ giggled and Ava heard Peter chuckled nervously as the door was slammed shut again.

Bucky laughed against Ava’s neck as he pulled her underwear back to normal and pressed his lips firmly against hers, “so, I guess the moments gone huh?” he put Ava down and she giggled as she cupped Bucky’s stubbled cheek.

“Unfortunately,” she felt a great pang of disappointment at the fact that they’d been denied the chance to get each other off, she was going to kill MJ, “come on, we should re-join the party before anybody notices that we’re missing and they put two and two together,” she sighed as she leaned forward with her hands on Bucky’s firm chest and planted a chaste kiss on his plump lips.

As the pair of them discreetly left the supply closet, Ava glanced up at Bucky’s face beneath the glow of the artificial lighting. His hair was a mess, and there was a sparkle as he regarded her with those gorgeous blue eyes. His lips were red and swollen from all their kissing. He just looked completely beautiful.

Ava grinned as she realised that she must look the same, “I’ll see you on Monday, Professor Barnes,” she sent him a wink as she walked past him, making sure to brush up against him as she did so. She smirked to herself when she heard him make a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

Back at the party she grabbed a flute of sparkling pink champagne from one of the passing waiters and she spied Wanda standing at the edge of the dance floor. Wanda took one look at Ava’s appearance and she shook her head with a knowing smirk, “were you with Bucky?”

Ava grinned giddily, it felt like she was on top of the world, “yep,” she giggled as she popped the ‘p’, “we were in one of the supply closets.

“Unbelievable,” Wanda muttered but there was a hint of pride in her voice.

A couple of weeks later Ava was walking down the hallway with Wanda and MJ, she was on the way to Bucky’s lecture hall. He had had called her and asked if he could see her, he’d sounded nervous. She hoped that everything was okay with him.

“Do you guys think I’m doing the right thing? Sleeping with him I mean, it’s risky I know but I just can’t help it, he’s so gorgeous,” she chewed her lip.

“Absolutely, this is the best thing to happen to you! I’m still mad at me and Peter for interrupting you at the party,” MJ grinned.

“I agree, some risks are worth it and Bucky is definitely worth it. Have you even seen that man’s face? Now, go and get your man,” Wanda added.

Ava laughed, grateful that she had two amazing friends, “I’ll see you guys later, drinks at the apartment tomorrow night, Loki is bringing the girl that he’s been sleeping with,” Ava grinned as she waved at her friends and entered the lecture hall.

Bucky was busy grading papers and Ava almost felt her heart sigh as she saw how handsome he looked today. Even though he looked completely gorgeous every day. He glanced up and smiled at her, causing her to suddenly remember why she was there, “hey is everything okay? Is this about the last essay, I know it wasn’t my best work,” she chewed her lip and walked up to the desk, placing her hand on his forearm, feeling his muscles jump beneath her touch.

To her surprise, Bucky began to blush and he carded his fingers through his hair nervously, “oh this isn’t about work, it’s something personal. And hey, I really enjoyed your last essay,” he chuckled and Ava instantly felt less nervous, “if you’re not doing anything tonight, do you want to come over to my apartment? We can get takeout and watch a movie, have a couple of drinks. Henry is staying with my mom.”

Ava chewed her lip, movie night just seemed like a big step for them, and it seemed too personal for two people who were just sleeping together. But she didn’t want to hurt his feelings, not when his big blue eyes looked so hopeful and vulnerable.

“Sure, I’d love to Bucky,” she took a deep breath, her voice sounded shaky. When did she become so nervous? “Though I’m volunteering at the hospital for a couple of hours so I’ll be at yours around 8 if that’s okay?”

Bucky looked extremely relieved as he leaned across the desk to give her a sweet and quick kiss, “that’s fine, just let me know what take out you feel like. And, you can stay the night if you want to,” he raised an eyebrow suggestively.

Ava laughed, a little giddy, she was actually feeling excited about tonight, despite her previous misconceptions about it. She thought that it was sweet of him to ask her, “wow Bucky, beer, takeout and sex? You don’t half spoil me,” she winked at him, blowing him a flirty kiss, relishing in the way he flushed.

Immediately after leaving the lecture hall she texted the girls group, ‘omg, you guys! He wants to do movie night tonight!’

-----------------------

Bucky smiled as he lifted the bottle of beer to his lips, swallowing the bitter contents of it before placing it back on his coffee table. He wrapped an arm around Ava as she rested her head on his chest, her warm hand resting on his stomach beneath his shirt. Bucky shivered as she ran her long nails over his skin as they watched the second part of the shitty action movie. They had no clue what was going on.

In the first part of the movie they were more concerned with having sex on the couch rather than watching the film. Despite that fact though, Bucky thought that movie night had been a success. He was completely content for the first time in a long time and it was mostly due to the beautiful girl in his arms.

Bucky grinned down at her as he tilted her chin up so he could kiss her, when he pulled away she was smiling right back at him but something within her smile looked strained.

“Is everything okay doll? You seem distracted tonight, was everything okay at the hospital tonight,” Bucky asked as he chewed his lip, pretty much all night she looked like she wanted to say something to him.

“Everything was fine at the hospital, everything’s fine with me,” she sighed before she sat up, crossing her legs, “but you do realise that movie night is a big step for two people who are in a relationship. We need to define what’s going on between us, you know that we do,” she gestured in between her and Bucky.

Bucky’s eyebrows knitted together and a funny churning feeling formed in his stomach, it was like the opposite of butterflies, he could tell that this conversation wouldn’t be an easy one to have, “isn’t this what this is, a relationship? We’ve been sleeping together and getting food together for about two weeks now, would you not call that dating?” Things might have changed since Bucky was in college but surely they couldn’t have changed that much. Bucky’s dad also thought that Ava was his girlfriend so hopefully they wouldn’t be invited to many family gatherings.

Ava shook her head and Bucky felt his face fall as his arm dropped from the back of the couch, he felt hurt and suddenly defensive, if this wasn’t a relationship, if they weren’t dating then what were they doing?

“Look, Bucky,” Ava started, chewing her lip, “you know I care about you, but you’re my Professor and I know that I agreed to this but it’s already risky that we’re sleeping together, without adding a whole relationship into the mix. I’m still worried what will happen to me and most importantly to you and your job if we get caught. I think this whole thing should be a no strings kind of relationship. If feelings get involved things are going to get messy, and I don’t know if I can be bothered.”

Bucky winced at her words, they stung but he knew that she was right, he had worked too hard to get himself into the teaching business, they should be careful, “yeah of course, I completely agree. No strings, just like we’re back in Greece, just without the glorious weather,” he chuckled but his laugh sounded funny.

Ava beautifully beamed at him, clearly not noticing the hurt that laced his voice, “are you sure that it’s okay? Like you can still see other people while we’re doing this, I don’t want there to be any pressure on us.”

Bucky sighed as he smiled at her and played with the ends of her hair, he knew what she meant when she told him that he could see other people, it was because she wanted to see other people as well. He couldn’t blame her, she was beautiful and young, exactly the right age when she should be playing the field rather than settling down with a man that was ten years older than her, “yeah of course, that’s completely fine,” he knew that his dishonesty would come round to bite him in the ass. Though, he couldn’t find it in his heart to care, not when Ava’s hand had drifted past his stomach and she looked at him with that smirk and that playful gleam in her eyes.

Ava giggled as Bucky pulled her to straddle him, he grunted as her pressed against him and suddenly their previous conversation escaped him and he didn’t much care that they were only sleeping together, “how attached are you to this pretty little dress?” he asked, playing with the flimsy material as his hands inched under it. He grinned when he remembered that she didn’t put her underwear back on after they had sex earlier on.

Ava smirked as she kissed him, her warm breath ghosting over his lips, “I’m not attached to it, it just makes for easy access,” she pulled on his bottom lip with her teeth and he groaned. She was going to be the death of him, though it would be a beautiful death.

-----------------------

@thejemersoninferno​ @theonelittleone​ @void-imaginations​ @mikariell95​ @lovely-geek​ @leclerc-stan​ @allthingswildareshy​ @writingkeepsmewhole​ @white-wolf-buckaroo​ @goodolbucky​ @rosemoonmist​

< previous part                next part >

[strechanadi]

Swan Lake - no longer a fairy tale

Right, so... Nobody asked me to, but something so marginal cannot stop me, clearly, so I went and translated the longest, the trickiest, the most profound review I have ever written. (And that includes POB Giselle, Swan Lake and Onegin! OK. Maybe not Onegin. But since I’ve done this one I can almost make myself believe I could give translating Onegin a go as well.) (She said and then promptly kill herself before she could made another clearly, completely and utterly deranged decision.)

Half of the things don’t make sense, I’m sure. And I can only hope they made sense in the original. (Which they probably didn’t, let’s be real, but since when this matters to me anyway?) (God, I literally cannot stop babbling, somebody strangle me or something. Or at least take the keyboard from my grabby and apparently very high fingers, that decided to simply vomit words after words for no real reason and with no brain to mouth/fingers filter whatsoever!)

It’s in times like this I truly wish to be able to write in an actual English language. Or for my mother language to be a world language, not some beautiful, hot mess, but a mess nonetheless, from the middle of nowhere. A mess I despite of everything love dearly and even live in this illusion of me being really pretty good in using (or more like playing with) it.

What is also clear - I, for a reason not known to humans, love to write absurdly, ridiculously long sentences. Be it just up to me, I’d write a whole review in one obscure linguistic construction I call a perfectly normal sentence. I was told however, that English doesn’t really do or like such things, so I tried to shorten them. Or some of them. Was really unbelievably succesfull doing so...

No reason to prolong this now, I guess?

So just, please be patient. Or benevolent. Or try to laugh in private at least! Look, I tried and I know it’s actually rather pathetic to be so spectacularly bad in English grammar, that I supposedly learnt from the age of 5 (but then spent more than 15 years actively hating the whole language, which... doesn’t make sense, I admit, but maybe explain some things), but... I mean, it would be better than google translate, if anything else. It HAS TO be!

As always - I appologize for anything and everything I did to the poor English language. It doesn’t deserve such a poor treatment.

Were there anybody who would feel personally attacked by my sheer ignorance of the basics of language of Shakespeare, Byron or Shelley and would want to make this thing better, let me know! (Even though I am afraid there are so many mistakes, your eyes will be bleeding around the end of 2nd paragraph...)

Last one - I have no idea how in/definite articles work!

(Good thing I don’t write fiction of any sort, ANs would be longer than the actual thing.)

Swan Lake, no longer a fairy tale

 Whenever the two words – Swan Lake – were mentioned, everybody had some universally shared idea of the final picture. Nothing has drastically changed with John Neumeier (1976, Illusionen – wie Schwanensee), who mixed the original fairy story with events from prince Ludwig II of Bavaria’s life, nor with Mats Ek (1987), whose prince was torn between imaginary princess Odette and real life Odile, nor with Jean-Christophe Maillot (2011, Le Lac) and new relations between his main characters, not even with Alexander Ekman (2014, A Swan Lake), who came back in time and took a look at the first premiere of said ballet in 1877 and tried to make a rather poetic story about what from certain point was started to be called a fiasco. As if the later Petipa/Ivanov version needs any more boost…

The unshakable certitude was irretrievably broken in 1995 by Matthew Bourne. His Swan Lake was new, daring, bold, with unexpected twists and one could not left theatre feeling indifferent after seeing it. Part of the ballet world turned its back to such profanity of beloved classic. The other part fell for its captivating charm, and since in 2018 Bourne’s Swan Lake came back to his New Adventure’s repertoire for umpteenth time, after hundreds of successful shows, many tours across the globe, adorned with every possible theatre and dance awards, it seems clear who were right then, 24 years ago.

  The most common characteristic of Bourne’s Swan Lake is „the male one“. Prince is in the centre of attention, black swan Odile is changed into unknown Stranger, and most obviously – all the swans became purely men’s business. Which opens completely new perspective for male dancers and saying that this ballet has a major influence to whole generations of artists is hardly an overstatement.

  Bourne follows the original structure and basic frame of Swan Lake. There are still four acts, act one follows the Prince, his character, the environment he’s living in, relations he has, act two is for the swans, act three still represents the ball, and in act four, where traditionally the Prince is coming back to the lake, here the swans appear in prince’s room. Many times even the formal structure is intact – the prince’s solo at the end of act one, pas de quatre of both little and big swans, or Bourne’s take on character dances in act three. Even the entrée of swans in second act follows the same space structure of the Ivanov’s original /aka swans are coming one after the other and crossing the stage from left to right (dancers‘ perspective)/.

  Oedipal Complex, repressed sexuality, low self-esteem

Bourne’s Prince, his personality, is more than ever influenced by his upbringing, by the estrangement of aristocratic background, his world constantly controlled, constricted by rules and rituals, with no spaces for affection, understanding, empathy, every emotion being replaced by duty. Bond between son and mother the Queen (ice cold, distant Katrina Lyndon for whom one cannot feel an ounce of sympathy, or more emotional, but still dismissive Nicole Cabera) is minute, almost non-existent, which has such a strong impact on the introverted, socially inept, insecure Prince, who is on top of all that haunted by strange dreams about swans. The feeling of lacking something gets even worse when he clearly sees his mother is more than capable of showing emotions, particularly towards another young men.

During yet another military parade or boat christening or exhibition opening, the heir to the throne is met with a bit silly, ill-mannered and completely unsuitable girl for his royal life (incomparable Carrie Willis, whose interpretation makes her character pretty sweet with candid, open-hearted warmth), who shortly after became his girlfriend and went with the family to the opera house to watch a ballet performance. Staging theatre scenes within the actual production /we call it theatre on theatre, which probably doesn’t make sense in any other language then ours, sorry/ is always very rewarding. Bourne is on top of that master of choreographic punchline and this scene (to pas de trois from Act I music) combines all clichés from romantic sylphs, awaken Floras, forest beasts to well-built male heroes one could think of and is a joy to watch for its grotesqueness as well as for the subtle details in gestures, ballet quirky manner or choreographic pattern for those, who know where to look for them.

The prince is trying to find his freedom in a night club, but to no avail. He’s met there unexpectedly with his frolicking girlfriend, then he got himself into a fight with one of her suitors (or maybe rather clients) and at the end his soul is beaten for good, when he has to watch the royal secretary paying some money to the one girl, whose affections he believed were genuine. (And it kind of doesn’t matter they most probably truly were.)

The only logical solution for the prince is a suicide. But before he’s able to throw himself into waters of a small park lake, majestic Swan appears and everything is changed at once. Traditional swans‘ corps de ballet danced by women is often associated with delicate elegance, crystalline beauty, dreamy atmosphere and aesthetics of homogeneously moving bodies. Swan is becoming a pure ideal almost as if from ancient Greece. Bourne’s swans are first and foremost animals, he’s not denying their grace, but is showing their slight awkwardness and ridiculousness in some movements at the same time. His swans are wild, independent, fetterless. Looking sinister when lining up to attack the prince, their physical, natural power strengthened by additional slapping arms, stamping feet, hissing and dangerously sharp, audible breathing. The Swan alone is very wary of the prince, uncompromisingly harsh, defensive, with sharp edges of aggressiveness that serves as self-defence of this imposing, powerful creature from anybody who would think of causing any harm. The almost imperceptible gestures calling the prince towards him are even more meaningful then, the moment when he nuzzles prince’s chest indescribably intimate.

Next evening there’s a ball at the palace. And even though it may seem the main reason of it is prince’s engagement thanks to all the ladies present, it’s the queen in her bright crimson dress amongst all black gowns who is in the spotlight. While her son doesn’t even know, what he should be doing with all said ladies. Break from routine comes with mysterious Stranger, whose raw, animalistic charisma draws every female’s attention to him, which he welcomes with great satisfaction. At the same time it also affects, quite unintentionally, the utterly unprepared prince, because Stranger’s arrogant dominance has something from Swan’s animalistic fierce. /Dear English language, you have many words. More than my mother language. But you have exactly nothing that would or could match prchlivost. Or at least I am unable to find it./ As Odile in original libretto, the Stranger dances his way through character dances (the Neapolitan one stands out with its light-hearted fun it makes of cliché Italian relationships) and finds his dancing peak in duet with the queen (music of so called Black Swan Pas de Deux). It is when prince’s psyche breaks and he, in his imagination, is thrown in arms of unknown to be faced with intimacy, sensuality, sexual tension and even the most basic physical contact, everything so strong even person of sound mind would probably find it difficult to cope. Therefore, when the Stranger kisses the queen, prince is there with gun in his hands and complete madness in his eyes. In chaotic situation gunshot is heard (although not by prince’s pistol), prince’s girlfriend falls dead and terrified young man is drawn away.

The tragedy is inevitable. To padded cell, where the prince is held, come doctor with the queen followed by group of nurses with queen’s face, whose hairstyle and white uniform may resemble the demonic nurse Ratched from the Miloš Forman’s film Flew over the cuckoo’s nest. After certain medical procedure (just shy from lobotomy) the prince is taken to his room, where the miserable, wounded Swan emerges from his bed. Shortly after he is followed by irritated flock of other swans, that throw themselves unbridled on the young man and then even on their supposed leader, doing so with brutality growing with every Swan’s desperate attempt to save his prince. The Swan dies at the end after their fatal, almost fanatical attack. And with him die prince’s illusions, dreams, hopes and then he himself. So when the Queen comes in the morning, all she finds is her son’s dead body, the sight of the Swan embracing his prince behind the bed the only, yet bittersweet comfort for the audience.

  As many other versions of this famous ballet, this too strengthens psychological aspect of the story and deepens characters‘ personalities. Here, more than ever, the contours of main characters are pretty blurry. The prince and the Swan are blending into one, they are reflected in the other, full of opposites they are complementing each other, one would say they are like two sides of the same coin. /Ha!/ Bourne on top of that let his characters to blend with different original ones. Where in traditional Swan Lakes it’s Odette weeping at the beginning of the last scene, here it’s the Prince, who is going through mental breakdown in striking resemblance to Giselle’s mad scene. The role of Rothbart, the sorcerer, is played by the royal secretary as well as prince’s own mother, who at the same time plays a part of original Siegfried during the act 3 ball, when being seduced by Stranger, who is Odile. What may seem as confusing chaos at first sight, makes perfect sense in the end and strengthens the unquestionably dark tones of Bourne’s choreographic vision.

  Artistic approaches or One man’s meat is another man’s poison…

As it always is with story ballets, individual artistic interpretation is something that has the power to change the final image of said piece. In case of Bourne’s Swan Lake and its current stars, the outcome may be completely different with each cast.

  Where Liam Mower was bored, annoyed, slightly defiant teenage Prince, Dominic North’s hero was more tired, depressed young man with no illusions, very well aware of all his flaws and inability to fulfil all expectations of his social role, while James Lovell, who seemed most out of touch with reality, emphasized prince’s childishly pure, honest naivety. If the suicide attempt of Mower’s prince was more than anything a dramatic gesture, North was simply resigned to its inevitability, and Lovell threw himself into the waters with absolute, desperate abandon, his mind not able to see any other solution. Each and every prince is then influenced by his Swan and Stranger (and every Swan and Stranger by his prince).

Matthew Ball, the newest principal of the Royal Ballet, can rely on his first-class technique as well as on his unquestionable elegant stage presence. His pliable body felt the music to its very last molecule, every movement full of regal charm and classical beauty, which in a way brought Ball closer to traditional, delicately soft, feminine portrayal of Odette. His Swan was untouchable in his impeccable perfection, icily confident, aware of every gesture he made, of every prince’s fascinated glance. Max Westwell, former soloist of English National Ballet, concentrated more on the raw temperament, natural animal distrust, physical power and ferocity combined with enigmatic magnificence. Dynamics of his movements escalated at all times, was full of unexpected turns and transitions from strong, energetic endings, to exhalation captured in casual, seemingly ordinary movement of hanging wrist.

As the Stranger Ball looked like smug dandy enjoying himself and all the attention, all too well aware of his own youth and beauty, that make everybody fall for him. Personally though I couldn’t help thinking he wasn’t as in charge as it might look at the first sight. He was mocking his prince, showing off ostentatiously. Weswell on the other hand was the embodiment of pure, uncompromising charisma. Interactions between him and Mower’s prince, who was impressed by Stranger’s unconventional, rough manners at first, was quickly becoming a tense fight for power, the prince trying to prove himself worthy of Stranger’s attention, to prove he’s his equal. With Lovell’s prince the seducing, open flirting, blatant sexuality was much more evident, which combined with this prince’s ingenuous innocence made the final picture unpleasantly sinister.

 Regardless of different casts, ending of the ballet became a real emotional roller-coaster. With Matthew Ball and Dominic North equal in their complete despair when being sure of the inevitable death of their partner. Ball’s total resignation the more palpable, the more he was stubbornly, despite his injuries trying to stay or at least look unaffected on the outside. Change of Westwell’s Swan, in act 2 so independent and powerful, was shocking. Now he was utterly, hopelessly, painfully broken. He was defending both his princes against furious swans with rabid determination, with no self-preservation whatsoever, with perfect, devoted abandon. Bond between him and James Lovell’s prince was then strengthened by certain feel of responsibility, by tenderness that felt almost motherly. He was not only trying to protect, but to sooth, to give some comfort to his prince as well with physical contact, with touches stronger, more frequent, more expressive, more meaningful. That was why prince’s positively hysterical, agonizing grief hurt almost physically then.

 Bourne managed something extraordinary. His Swan Lake with costumes by Lez Brotherson is as iconic, as legendary as the original ballet. His vision as strong as let’s say Ek’s Giselle. What’s more, Bourne’s ballet doesn’t age, it hasn’t lost any of its impact – thanks to slight costume, dramaturgic and choreographic changes, that only strengthen its drive. Prince’s hinted homosexuality won‘t shock anyone anymore as well as men swans won’t provoke such controversy, true. But thanks to these examples it is evident, that Bourne’s ballet is so much more than just a gay version of one famous story…

For everybody who actually reach the end of this madness - congratulations. And I am sorry.

[ya-boi-hawkeye]

Personal

It had started out simple enough, just a walk through the woods near the base to clear her head and calm her nerves. Ren was more wired than usual and it was making her tense. When Ren was on edge he tended to lash out, and she didn’t want to be in the way when he did.

She had been walking for maybe around a half hour when she came across it. A small tombstone in front of a slab of stone, with the name ‘Han Solo’ carved into it. The grave, empty though it must have been, has a presence about it, a strong one, and for a moment Ursa was lulled by it, held transfixed.

She only moved when she sensed Ren, his signature just as chaotic as it had been earlier, coming towards her. It occurred to her that this was the grave Finn had mentioned, the one Ren refused to allow most near, and Ursa panicked, climbing up into a tree and masking her signature.

Ren stopped in front of the grave, his shoulders sagging as he sighed. He looked like he wanted to say something but was struggling, and instead he just dropped do his knees, heedless of any damage the stone would do.

To the best of Ursa’s knowledge, people usually spoke when at graves. But Ren just knelt there, looking at the stone, and slowly his signature calmed. After an hour of silence Ren stood and left, and Ursa was finally free to make her escape.

—–

It occurred to her, both in the moment and long after, that she had intruded upon something deeply personal. She knew she would need to tell Ren, but kept running into the issue of not knowing how he would respond.

Or, rather, she knew exactly how he was likely to respond. He was likely to kill her for her transgression. Han Solo was not a subject which could be brought up lightly, even before the man’s death. Ursa had witnessed something intimate and personal, and Ren could easily kill her for it.

But as the day passed, and her guilt did not leave, Ursa found herself left with no choice but to tell Ren. She waited until he was near the edge of the base, and alone, before she approached him, the blood rushing in her ears.

“Give me your lightsaber,” Ursa said, holding out her hand. Ren looked at her for a moment, skeptical.

“Why?” He asked, taking the weapon off his hip, though he didn’t hand it over.

“Because I have something serious I need to tell you,” Ursa said. “And I don’t trust you armed.” The skepticism on his face changed to concern, then quickly to the start of anger. His grip on his weapon tightened, his thumb ghosting over the switch, but he held it out none the less.

Ursa reached forward, gripped the saber, and a flash of something, halfway between a borrowed memory and pure imagination, came to life inside her mind, of Han Solo’s last moments, and with a strangled scream she pulled the blade away from Ren and hurled it into the woods behind him.

Smooth, Ursa thought, trying to ignore the hammering of her heart, the tremor of her own breath. Now you look completely insane.

Ren watched the blade as it flew through the air before his attention snapped back to Ursa, his eyes hard.

“What did you do?” He asked, voice far too level for the anger she could sense coming off him. He took a step forward and Ursa took two back, intimately aware that he could kill her even without his saber. He was just as much a weapon as his blade was.

“It was an accident,” Ursa said, crossing her arms in an attempt to find some sort of control. “I want to make that clear that I had no intention of doing what I did.”

“What. Did. You. Do?” With every word he took another step towards her, and she took another one back, until he had soon cornered her against a tree. She was starting to regret doing this alone.

“I saw the grave,” she said. “The other day I went for a walk through the woods and saw the grave.” She swallowed. “And then I saw you at it. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get away at the time without you catching me, and I wasn’t sure how you’d react to my presence, so I hid. And it occurs to me that I invaded something personal so I’m sorry.”

“You’re…sorry…” There was a split second of clarity in which Ren realized that it was probably very smart of Ursa to toss his lightsaber.

That clarity was short-lived under the sudden, instinctive surge of pure rage.

She should have brought someone with her. A nice, safe buffer like Rey, or Finn, or probably Chewbacca maybe? Someone who would be able to prevent Ren from killing her, because Ursa had a general impression that he was going to kill her.

And true to form Ren didn’t even need his lightsaber; the Force closed around her throat in a sensation that was all too familiar. She wondered if it was a secondary protocol instinct for him now—in the event that lightsabering control panels isn’t viable, reach out and choke Ursa.

It probably was, the kriffing dick.

Fortunately for Ursa—or unfortunately considering your perspective—she wasn’t new to this reaction, so it was relatively easy to suppress her fight reflex. It was also easy to suppress her flight instinct, and at the moment she was putting all of her eggs in the freeze basket hoping that it would pay off. Hoping that Ren wouldn’t take it too far, wouldn’t actually try to kill her.

But the pressure on her throat increased, airflow slowly pinching out like a hole patched with poly-seal.

She let her Force signature dwindle before it completely winked out, eyes watering and face no doubt a particularly bright shade of red. Ursa couldn’t breathe, could feel the pressure of a phantom hand around her neck as Ren watched her unblinking.

“R……en….” It came out with a rough wheeze, her vision starting to fuzz as black creeped along the edge.

And then she dropped, like a sack of bricks, just on the verge of passing out.

“Shit.” It came out like a guttural snarl, and out of the corner of her eye Ursa could see that he had started pacing. “You weren’t supposed to see that. Why did you—”

I didn’t mean too, you kriff-ass. She thought, sucking in a quick, deep breath, lungs burning. Fuck hole.

She could tell, through the jerking pause of his stomps, that he heard her thoughts. Which was good because that was exactly what Ursa had intended.

“It was an… accident.” He cycled again, speaking more to himself than her.

Which was fine by Ursa, who at this point was just trying to catch her breath.

Ren was… conflicted.

Ren was always conflicted, actually, but this was on a whole new level.

On the one hand, he was really pissed. Livid even. It felt like—no matter how accidental—Ursa had intruded on something incredibly private.

Visiting his—visiting Han’s grave always left him feeling torn open, vulnerable.

He hated being vulnerable, and the thought of somebody else seeing it, even Ursa—especially Ursa who has seen him low before—triggered every violent instinct he had.

On the other hand, it was an accident. She had said as much, and it said a lot about the sincerity of her feelings that she had been straightforward and honest about her apology. Which was unlike Ursa, really, who was prone to hoarding her secrets like a shifty dragon.

Which was why he hadn’t taken it too far—which was one of the reasons he hadn’t taken it too far.

Ren knew that he was prone to overreacting, knew that he had a horrible track record of lashing out in a fit of rage, and doing something utterly unrevokable. And he cared about Ursa, as much as he might be loathe to admit it; she was the closest thing to a best friend that he had now.

And yet look at her.

He could hear her thoughts, still angry and buzzing and filled with such profanity as befitting a bounty hunter of her caliber. He had gotten close, could have done serious damage, and the anger was cut sharply with guilt.

“I’m.” He jerked to a stop again, facing the blonde. “I’m sorry.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” She croaked, the reproach undeniable.

He let out a sigh, lips twitching into the slightest hint of a smile. “Still sorry.”

This was the keystone of their relationship, as unhealthy as it might seem; they had been Snoke’s dogs of war, they really only knew how to communicate with barbed words and sharp strikes. There was a fine line between what was really too far, and they’d both crossed it once or twice and still turned out okay. Hopefully this would be just another notch.

“I hate you.” She reached up to take his outstretched hand with a groan, allowing herself to be pulled up. “Like so, so much.”

“You tossed my lightsaber into the woods, I have to find it now.” He pointed out with a scoff.

“So much.” She repeated with a roll of the eyes, pausing slightly to look up at him. “Are… we good?”

A loaded question, given everything that still laid between them, but in this… “I’m still upset, but I know you didn’t do it on purpose. That is, perhaps, your saving grace.”

He reached over, shoving her ever so gently. “We’re good.”

Ursa nodded at that, her hand reaching up to her throat. “Good. Good. Uh. I’d offer to help you find your saber, but, you know, fuck you pendejo.”

Ren snorted a laugh as she flipped him off, watching as she cut back through the woods.

[fruityfang]

Fang

1.

bleeding barmaid.

“I’ve been around for several, several, seeeveral, long years. I have witnessed the wars, the false treaties, births and deaths of the most important kings and queens, I’ve also witnessed some very ugly witches killing some poor old slob. I’m a myth that most can see, but can’t see through. I’m a myth that most think they understand, but couldn’t if they tried. I’m a myth that has drank blood of those who you once called family and am there the next day to tell you I’m sorry. I’m that myth, Vincent Caslova, dashing vampire at your service.”  

“So… You had a dream about this blurry woman and your psychotic girlfriend?” Vincent drank down his shot of Scotch. “"Ex girlfriend.”

“And… let me get this straight… It’s a twisted love triangle between the three of you?” Luciel, Vincent’s friend clarified, his tone was confused as he took a sip of his drink that Elise had always complained, saying it tasted exactly like nail polish remover, more commonly known as Vodka. “Ex, girlfriend.” Vincent corrected, then pausing to copy Luciel and sip his own drink.

“Wouldn’t call it that, I’m more of a mans-man myself, but I wouldn’t exactly turn down a dream threesome with my crazy murderous ex and a random fidget of my imagination.”  It had been the third time this week Vincent had a dream about an unknown woman, in the form of a huge blur, almost as if he had poor vision and was looking at her. She would visit him and they would speak, about uncertain things, some nights were more confusing then others. She didn’t speak riddles, but he heard them as riddles. He had been quiet about the repetition of the dream. It was the first time Luciel had heard of this.

Luciel rolled his eyes, holding back a chuckle. “You really would fuck your ex and this mystery woman?”

“Absolutey, I have a pain kink.” The sarcasm was oozing like honey off a spoon. The annoyed vampire then smacked Luciel’s shoulder, who hissed and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Then walked over Elise, a friend to Vincent and Luciel. She had a plate that had empty shot glasses on it, she set it down on the bar table and set her hands against the table. “I see you two are having a lot of fun.” Vincent leaned back in his chair. “Just living life to the fullest, Elise.”

“And I see Luciel is looking fed up with you as usual.” Elise teased as she leaned down and wiped the table, then standing up only to receive a kiss on the cheek from a stranger she had served earlier earning a giggle from Elise as the woman walked away. “You knooooow, they have back rooms for a reason.” Vincent remarked. Luciel looked away with a sigh. “Vincent, shut up, you use those much more then I or Elise do.”

“Well, you two are boring me to death. If you’re finished, I’m gonna go use back rooms for what they’re used for.” The vampire announced to them as he stood up and gulped down the last of his scotch and left the glass on the table then walked off towards the active dance floor. He saw many drunk and sober individuals, some drowning themselves in the alcohol and music to escape reality.

Vincent just rolled his eyes and walked to the actual dance floor, his body being grinded on minutes after because there were so many drunk people. The lights of many colors were flashing, hitting upon him. When he saw a woman dancing all alone, clearly sober but a bit tipsy, he walked over.

“Ohh hello! Who are you?” The woman immediately asked, taking a sip of her alcoholic beverage. Vincent started to dance sensually to the music, “I’m Vincent, and how about you, my dear?” He asked, getting slightly close to her.

It wasn’t extremely close however, although he was a vampire with obvious murderous intentions, if the woman he was with didn’t want to talk to him or sleep with him, he’d leave them alone. He wouldn’t sleep with somebody who was non consenting.

“My name’s Nataliaa…” She giggled as she started to follow Vincent’s moves to the dancing, them both in sync. “I see, I see… and why are you alone here, tonight?”

“Goin’ through a divorce, it’s pretty nasty so I came here to let off some steam.” She admitted, her tone was full of disgust. So she resents her husband, wife or partner. Clearly one of them cheated, you could tell because there was no adoration in her eyes for them. So they probably cheated.

“Well… If you wanted..” He started to get closer to her now, placing a hand on her bottle and looking at her with darkened eyes. “I can make you forget about them…” His voice started to tone down, get more husky and seductive. Natalia obviously liked that idea because she bit her lip and nodded.

Vincent then had a light smirk on his face, he led her out of the dancing crowds and walked to the back rooms, the bartenders and other staff clearly not caring as long as they didn’t burn the place down. Vincent went to the furthest one and opened the door, hearing the creaks from the old door. Natalia went in first, turning around to watch Vincent shut the door.

Straight after, Vincent grabbed Natalia by her waist and pressed his lips against hers, lightly at first to tease her, make her begin to crave him. He pushed her against the door, still kissing her as he started to undo her shirt, struggling with the buttons a tad but getting the hang of it. Right after her shirt was unbuttoned, he threw it to the moldy ground and he pulled his shirt off next.

Vincent’s lips traveled down her temple, to her cheek and down her jaw, making way down to her neck. Now, he lifted her up so he could gain better access to her neck, he started to kiss her neck better, lightly biting at the tender skin. Soft moans came out of Natalia’s mouth as Vincent fumbled with the back of her bra, eventually getting it off.

After a few moments of foreplay, he felt the urge of thirst take over his mind. Come on, Vincent… The blood is pumping just against your lips. All yours. The voice in his head taunted him, it started out soft then became an aching chant. He slowly became feral and felt the blood pump against his lips as fast as a heartbeat, the only barrier being the thin skin, he then slowly brought his fangs out which penetrated out of his gums and caused it to bleed. He saw darkness overcome his eyesight, meaning his eyes were turning black. Soon, the color of blood faded into the view, which meant his pupils were red. He then felt small tickles run down his cheeks, then harsh stinging. Those were the black veins, to tell him as a true vampire. He felt heat rise the sides of his neck, additional black veins, that only grew with the more blood he took.

He looked at the tender flesh, then wasted no time in clamping his hand over her mouth to silence her screams and stabbing his fangs into her neck. He sucked harshly, gathering all blood he could get with one harsh suck, he felt her screams vibrate against his hand, but slowly died down as he sucked away her life.

Her body in no time fell against his, limp and getting cold. He held her corpse up and dropped it to the floor, watching her lifeless eyes stare at him. Her jaw dropped, literally. All the muscles in her face just, relaxed.

She was meeting the creator now, and she would tell them how a man murdered her, a man she had become attracted too. The creator would either promise to punish the murderer or reward him.

He licked the tender, warm blood off his lips and under his lips then grabbed his shirt and slid it on then buckled his pants back up as he walked out of the room, leaving the bloody mess behind.

On his way out, he shut the door tightly. He then came up to Elise who was serving another customer, he tapped her shoulder which made her bolt up and turn around. “Vincent?” She called out. She then saw the red on his shirt and looked back to his face, which wore a grin of satisfaction.

“You know, this bar has a lovely scent of piss, vomit and oddly enough a tomato stench,” Vincent began as he took a glass of scotch Elise’s plate, earning a huff of annoyance from her. He quickly downed the shot and glanced at her with the same grin from before. “And now, I’ve added a lovely perfume like smell. Blood, I believe.”

He then placed the glass on the table again. “Just stay away from the room and you’ll be fine.” The unimpressed waitress raised her eyebrow and put the plate of glasses down and looked at Vincent with a death glare. “Vincent, by all means, I don’t judge your methods of getting blood but come on-“ Elise had used to judge Vincent, didn’t like how he had used sex as a method to get blood. It was cruel, you take somebody’s life during what could be the most intimate part of their lives?

“Do you have to kill people here?” She asked with a sigh, picking up the tray and walking it over to the bar.

“First of all, sorry mom. I’ll try to do it in the basement next time.” He followed her.

“I’m going to strangle you.”

“And second of all, you’re a witch. So you do all these virgin sacrifices and shit I’m guessing.” Elise rolled her eyes and laughed quietly, turning  her head around to wink at him and held a finger to her lips to ‘shush’ him. “Only sometimes.”

Vincent put his hands up in defeat. “Only sometimes, hey hey I’m not judging. I’m not.. erm, exactly in the place to judge.”

“No, sir, you definitely are not.

“Psychopath with a past.” He grinned.

“Quite the emotional man tonight, aren’t you?”

“The most emotional.” The witch then turned around, walking towards the bar where the staff worked, only to have Vincent follow her and continue engaging in conversation. “You know, you let me know if you ever want me to hook you up with one of these girls, I can do my fortune telling and tell you which ones are the lesbians.”

Elise nervously bit the inside of her cheek, turning to look at him. “I- I don’t think that’s the best idea, Vincent.” Vincent arched his eyebrow in confusion before knowing what she was talking about. “Ah… You know, I know I’m shit at reassuring things but… you are a girl. I and many other people don’t give a shit about your genitals.” This was one of the moments where Vincent was truly serious. “And if anyone tries to give you shit for being trans, I don’t give a shit who it is, I’ll kill ‘em.” He then nodded and pouted his lip out a little bit. “Literally.” He confirmed.

Elise snorted, starting to wash the bar table with some old rag. “Wow, how sentimental.”

Vincent shrugged his shoulders with a smirk. “I do my best, just for you.” Just as Elise was about to speak, there was a blood curdling scream, not like Vincent’s victim. Oh, no, not at all. The two quickly looked in the direction of the scream. Vincent turned back with an awkward look worn on his face. “I’ll take that as my que to leave the stage.”

“No shit. Out back, come with me.” Elise grabbed his arm and started to drag him out the back that led to an alley way where laid three silver garbage cans and dead animals, the place where the employees would normally go out for smoke breaks and hold in the gags for the dead animal smells.

Elise pointed down the street, the way towards Vincent’s house. “Get out of here, I’ll call you later.”