hadriel_logs | Event Log: Speak Your Truth

Entry tags:

Event Log: Speak Your Truth

Who: Everyone in the city
What: The event log for the Speak Your Truth
Where: All over the city
When: April 3rd-April 9th
Warnings: None

There's a secret burning in your chest. It's hot behind your ribcage, and you need to let it out or else it might consume you- but who would you tell? Who could even begin to understand what you need to say? Your closest friend? Your significant other? Maybe even someone you don't get along with very well? It's hard to know who to trust and who will even understand, but in a strange way, neither of those things seem to matter- all you can think of is what will cause someone the most pain.

Maybe you're trying to get it out in the open so you can put it behind you. Maybe you just need to come clean because the guilt is eating you alive. Maybe you just really want to hurt someone- regardless of the reason, you're aching to tell someone else your darkest secrets.

Will they understand? There's only one way to find out, and it won't be pleasant for either party involved. Good luck, Hadriel!

► This log covers April 3rd-April 9th.
► Please tag headers of threads with content warnings where they apply
► Please put your character's name and open/closed in the subject line of your starters!
► If your secret gets a bit bloody, please let us know here.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

They do.

[But she steps forward, one foot and then another, leaving the door half-open behind her. Her own nightmares always lurk at the back of her mind, too realistic to be easily dismissed. It's one thing when it's nonsense, based solely on day residue and childish fears; it's another, she's learned, when it's based purely in reality.

What does he dream of? She thinks she knows, but the truth is, she only barely understands him. She'd tried to research him, only to find that this place wouldn't let her, refusing her to go back beyond when she'd arrived. So she has only her own observations, and the knowledge that somewhere, some version of her had felt something for him.

She wants to know. She wants to understand him, lonely little thing that she is. She wants companionship, and who better than a man who had been proven to adore at least some version of her?

Another step, as that itch grows worse and worse, until she's sitting on the edge of his bed.]

What did you dream of?

Dying.

[It's an easy answer, at least. She already knows what happened with Peter, how it's been haunting him. He's grateful that he doesn't need to elaborate again.

He can only just make her out on the edge of the bed, more aware of her presence by the weight of her on the mattress than sight. It's nice, actually, that they can't quite see each other—or, at least, he can't see her, and therefore he can pretend she can't see him.

...Come to think of it, he's not sure what she's doing. She could easily have been curious and concerned from the doorway. The Rosalind he kn—

No. Stop.]

Are you okay?

[What a question. It's so stupid, so wrong, that she almost laughs, except she's certain if she laughed, she'd do it too hard, too long, a breathless burst of frantic energy that he'd be horrified by. Instead: she scoffs softly, her head tipping back, her eyes going hooded as she stares at the shape of him in the darkness.]

I haven't been okay in half a year, Newt.

[It's the truth. And maybe that's what does it: that first stark honesty, said not to elicit pity but because it's true. Maybe that's what forces her tongue, pushing her over the edge. Or maybe it's less magical than that: maybe it's just that she's been alone for six months, isolated and hurt, and there's only so long she can bear carrying all this around on her own.]

Do you want to know what happened to me these past six months?

[It's coming out regardless, spoken softly, her tone eerily even. The secrets pile up on her tongue, one after another, tasting bitter and harsh, awful to remember and even worse to articulate. But there's no grief in her voice, no shakiness.]

I've been trapped in a world obsessed with sex and status. Where debauchery was the norm, where you were forced to indulge or you’d be punished harshly for it, reconditioned until you lost all sense of yourself.

I’ve lost count of how many times I've been forced by a man. The first month it was . . . two at first. One who rendered me helpless, who made me perform for him; the other who made me beg him to let me go after he'd enjoyed himself.

[One, two, three secrets out now, and she stares into the darkness, her red eyes piercing, her eyes locked on his expression. He can't see her, but it doesn't matter, not right now.]

The third: a man who threatened to break my knees if I brought him trouble. Who was furious I wouldn't obey him, and so who took advantage of the city's event to make me obedient. He forced me to strip down and stand before the city, Newt, and there was not a thing I could offer him to make him change his mind.

[It's dull, rote, murmured sentence after sentence. Not a tragedy, but a dull, sterile little report. Four.]

I didn't suffer Christmas' charming event. I did have a panic attack over it, right in the middle of the street. I nearly killed a man then, because he tried to drag me up to a stage and do something particularly repulsive, and I refused.

[Five.]

In January, they brought us to a camp. For reconditioning, you see. Some of us weren't blending in as we should. So they brought us, and they injected me with drugs, and I was forced again, as some man caught me and took me for his own, over and over.

[Six, seven. Thank god he can't see her, thank god, thank god, because her voice is still even, terribly so, but the half-lit figure's grown blurred.]

And when I took steps to stop it all from happening again-- to protect myself, to keep myself from harm, when I became this-- I was told that I was little more than a child. Stupid and immature, acting in emotion instead of logic, and that I in turn had become equal parts a child and animal: that I was bound to act on my impulses, to feed on everyone and everything, stupid thing that I was, and when I inevitably did, all those clever men who knew so much better than I would come with their stakes and their crosses and their fire and kill me.

Edited 2019-04-19 16:06 (UTC)

[Do you want to know what happened to me? He doesn't, he realizes. He's been curious, sure, but now that she's offering the details... It's going to hurt, hearing this. And maybe he'll get lucky, so selfishly lucky, and her story will numb him in the way that one injury will sometimes mask the pain of another. Maybe it will distract him and he can stop reliving in slow motion how his throat collapsed in on itself, his vertebrae splintering. He's always thought of himself as a fighter, someone who would never want to hurry up and get his death over with. Living is always better than dying, he thought. There's too much finality in death.

He listens as she talks, of course, and it doesn't hurt as much as he expected it to. She lists the atrocities one by one, her voice a metronomic monotone that pushes forward before he has time to settle on any particular detail. There's something reassuring in knowing the steady clip is purely for her sake, not his, though he happens to benefit as well. It's reassuring too that she's chosen to level this at him at perhaps the worst possible time for him. How is he supposed to react to this information? She's a version of the woman he... He cares about her, that much he's made clear, and yet they barely know each other, and he's obviously too busy stewing in his own trauma to shoulder hers as well. He's exhausted and sticky with sweat and, god, hearing her voice makes him miss her, which is absurd, she's sitting right there, but also, she's not, and it's complicated. He wants to go back to sleep and brave the nightmares. He wants to wake up hungover and sore on his too-thin mattress in the Shatterdome, his left eye still blurry with popped blood vessels, Hermann's cane tapping faintly in the next bunk over and a warm indent on the bed next to him, soft billows of steam venting through the cracked bathroom door, and maybe he'll drag himself out of bed and meet her in the shower...

It's a bad time for all this, and she doesn't care. After a story like hers, why should she? She's been forced to give too much of herself already, and Rosalind has never been a selfless person. Most people would consider it a flaw, but it's a trait he loves about her. He never has to guess with her, never has to stumble over his own selfishness in order to meet her halfway. They can both take care of themselves, and he can count on her to lay out exactly what she needs from him, and that's one less variable for him to trip over. His reaction isn't important, then—she wants to tell him, so she's telling him. That's that. Simplicity.]

People are always gonna be afraid of what they don't understand. Men especially.

[This is hardly new information, but it's easiest to just let himself talk.]

I mean, all of that... It's disgusting, but of course they're all going to want power over you. You're brilliant, so you're everything they're afraid of. No one in that shitty place could've ever hoped to understand you.

[He pauses, picking at a loose thread in his sheets. That's not quite what he means. He's not sure what he does mean.]

I'm not saying you had it coming or, um. Obviously you didn't deserve any of that. I get why you chose to, you know, become a vampire. Hell, even if I didn't, I'd trust your judgment. And, like, I know I don't really know you, but... I don't know, that kind of thing seems like it's true across the board. You'd never sacrifice logic, not for anything. That's not your style.

[He lets out a little laugh, remembering all the rules she'd set in place for him to make sure their secret didn't get out. He's never been good at keeping secrets, but he would've died before letting that one spill.]

I'm glad you got out of there, I guess is what I'm saying.

[She didn't want to tell him. She didn't mean to. But maybe there's relief to be found in having done it anyway, because now at least it's out there, blurted for this strange man to hear, but more importantly, out of her system. All those secrets and quiet hurts, all those traumas forced down-- at least now she won't bear them alone.

He speaks. They're good words, especially for a man who barely knows her (and yet knows her so intimately, or at least knows someone just like her; a man who owes her nothing at all-- but aren't they both acting like he does? living together, quiet conversations that are a little too familiar, uncertain laughs and little tangents of jokes that die when they realize what they're doing, and it's so easy with him, deceptively so, so easy to just talk about science or the other residents, back and forth, drawling and cutting and so, so soothing, so easy, so safe, oh, yes, oh, yes, this is no normal friendship). He speaks, and she goes all tense, not because what he says is wrong but because her mouth wants so badly to tremble, and that isn't allowed, not at all, not ever.

What does she say? Me too, well, yes, of course she is. And yet even that doesn't quite ring true. She's glad she left, of course. But . . .

She isn't home yet.

That's it, isn't it? She left, and yet in some ways it's as bad as if she never had, because this isn't home either. This is just some in-between place, half as horrible but twice as lonely. The man she's sitting across isn't the man she adores, the man she's been dreaming of (the man who still has not found her and why? why not? was it something she'd done? he'd sworn to leave her once before, but surely he wouldn't just abandon her without another word, surely not, and yet he isn't here, and there's no other explanation save for one, and sometimes at night she wonders what did I do, but there's nothing, nothing, just grief and an echoing loneliness that has not abated in six months).

There's silence between them, awkward and sticky, and she feels her stomach twist horribly. Her words hang between them, vulnerable, a childish plea for assurance, and the more time passes, the more her face heats up in humiliation.

This was a mistake. It was a mistake to come here, to barge in on him-- he feels things for her, yes, but that doesn't mean she has any right to just vomit feelings all over him like some kind of emotional child. This was a mistake, and she stumbles to her feet, not vampiricly quickly but humanly so.]

I-- I apologize, this wasn't-- I hadn't meant for--

[One hand comes up, wiping briskly at her cheeks, as she shakes her head sharply.]

Forget I said anything. Good night, Newton.

[He out of bed before he fully processes what he's doing, naked save for his boxers, and his fingers catch in her nightgown. It's a soft motion, a kid tugging on his mom's skirt to get her attention, just enough to ask her to come back.

It's lucky he has enough measure to keep his voice level (or maybe that's just exhaustion), because actually, he's angry.]

Hey, no, it doesn't work like that.

[How quickly he turns on himself, honestly. Wasn't he just waxing poetic on the majesty of her selfishness? All things have a limit, he supposes. Even good things.]

You can't— I mean, what am I supposed to do with this? Forgetting isn't really an option. It's not like it needs to come up again, but what do you want me to, like...

[He lets the sentence die, at a loss for what she wants from him. Did he fuck that up, somehow? Should he not have talked like he knows her? Shit. What did I do? It's a thought that's echoed in his mind more than once.]

Just—just tell me where you want to go from here.

I--

[What does she notice in that moment? First: the way he smells, first and foremost. Like sweat, yes, like male, like acid and too much coffee and ink smudged on his fingertips, but more than that he smells familiar. Someone she knows, someone she's used to. Pleasant, in a vague sort way.

Second: The warmth of him, the heat of him, so much a contrast to her own chill. The way his fingers feel, brushing lightly against her body, the touch absent, pulling at her nightgown just to get her to stop. No lingering, no subtle brush, just a purely platonic touch.

Third: how she wants it to linger, just a little.

Fourth: the way she must look, tear-tracks on her cheeks and her expression hidden in the dark, hair tumbling around her, just as confused and angry and grief-stricken as he is.]

. . . I don't know.

[Soft, and admitted reluctantly. But she turns, facing him more.]

And I can't ask anything of you, because you owe me-- me-- nothing. Another version of me, perhaps, you would be beholden to, but as it stands, I can hardly ask you for comfort, can I? Or-- or a lack of judgement, or--

[A warm set of arms, tugging her in close, letting her wail in privacy; a soothing voice, fingers brushing through her hair, and when she's spent, a promise of vengeance, no matter the form. No, she can't ask that of him, because how could she?]

. . . I don't know. I just-- I'm simply--

[A beat, and her traitorous mouth trembles again.]

Tired, that's all.

Edited 2019-05-02 06:03 (UTC)

[Oh, god, the way she relents. He was expecting a little more fight than that. There's a twinge in his chest as she practically sighs her words. She sounds so, so tired, to the point where he's almost willing to believe her when she writes this off. It would be easier to let her get away with the weak excuse, but what would they do in the morning? Just do what she said and forget—or, rather, pretend—that nothing happened? No, he's done that once before. He knows better now.]

This isn't a business transaction. I'm not gonna expect, like, payment or something for being friends with you. Not to mention you don't have anyone el— Um, I mean, that's not— I'm just saying, most people end up here by themselves, and you probably...

[You know what, forget it. It doesn't matter. It's not like he's swimming in friends here either, and he's had a lot longer to build himself a network than she has. He licks his lips and drags a hand through his hair, shrugging a shoulder toward the bed.]

We don't have to talk about this crap anymore. But, um, if you want to hang around for a bit...

[He pauses, glancing back at his bed and remembering what she just got done describing to him. Hm. He motions instead to the living room.]

Or we could go out there, if that'd be, uh, better.

[Stupidly enough, it's his little faux-pass that does it. The clumsy, utterly honest way he blurts out that she has no one else here, it's so blunt and so honest and so stupid she nearly sputters out a tearful laugh.

What a stupid man. What a stupid, brilliant, delightfully strange man, so at odds with the men she's known these past six months, so clumsy and so smart, so adamant that she doesn't owe him a thing.

She moves past him. Sits on the bed-- and then, further, draws herself up, feet up on the mattress, one hand pushing her hair back absently.]

The bed is fine.

[Clearly. And it feels a little easier to say that than her last sentence had been. It's not a lie, either: it doesn't register as a threat, because he isn't a threat, not at all. Not even with her dressed the way she is; not with the way he's wandering around in nothing but his boxers.

Still: she tugs at his sheets, hoisting them up around her lap a little. It's more about comfort than anything. She misses beds.

Does she want to talk about it more? But the thought seems exhausting. And yet whatever else she tries to think of seems trite and meaningless, and so she simply ends up shift, scooting until she's lying down, all but claiming a side for herself. And the pillow. Deal with it, nightmare boy.]

Don't fuss. Come here. I'm not afraid of you.

[. . .]

The truth is, Newt, I'm not very good at having friends. I don't know . . . I've never really known how this sort of thing works. Any of it.

Edited 2019-05-02 06:48 (UTC)

[He's not expecting her to fully get into his bed like she does, but he did basically invite her to do so, so... He spends an awkward beat trying to determine where she's expecting him to go, but then she finally answers the question he has loudly been avoiding.

I'm not afraid of you.

He exhales heavily, shoulders releasing the tension he hasn't realized he'd been carrying until just now. It's not that he's been worried about that specifically—after all, she's already told him in no uncertain terms that she can and will snap him like a twig if he goes dark—but there's a large expanse of grey between threatening and comforting. He'd been assuming he fell somewhere in the middle, he himself not qualifying as dangerous but still serving as enough of a reminder for her to keep her guard up.

But, no, she knows he's genuine. He's not angling for anything, lewd or otherwise, and he's certainly not going to take advantage of her vulnerability. It's a relief, honestly. He can loosen up.

He moves around to the other side of the bed, crawling in next to her. He lies down on his back, fingers laced behind his head in lieu of a pillow, and chews on his lip.]

I'm not either, if that means anything. I like plenty of people around here, and I work well with a couple of 'em, but it's not like we're close. I'm not gonna go running to them about what, um, what happened.

[He wonders how many of them even know he died, come to think of it.]

What I'm saying is, I'm cool with winging it. Trust me, I know you're not, uh, the Rosalind I know. It's weird as hell, but I know. So it's not like I have expectations or standards or anything. We can just... Do what we want to do and figure it out as we go.

How very unscientific.

[That's almost a joke, though she doesn't smile as she says it. There's traces of her tears on her eyelashes, in how thick her voice is, but she isn't on the verge of sobbing, so . . . progress, maybe.]

These events remind me a great deal of Duplicity. There's the same air of-- of helplessness. Madness. You can hardly blame people for what they've done, except of course you can, because it still . . . it doesn't matter if they were out of their minds or not.

[Now, is she talking about her trauma, or his?]

[He notes the tears in her voice and decides not to say anything. What good would that do, anyway? He'd probably just send her running again. Instead, he stares at the ceiling and tries to resist the urge to curl into her. It's an impulse that's hard to shake now that she's lying right there. He can't even be sure if it's because it's her or because it's someone, another warm body to cling to so he can pretend he's a little less alone. A little of both, maybe. He's not sure which would go over better with her.]

You're right. It doesn't matter.

[He assumes she's still talking about her own experience, but of course it hits too close to home. He's thought about the concept of blame quite a bit in the past few days, wondering how much of it he can apply to Peter. Rosalind's right in that he both is and isn't responsible, but then, who cares? There's nothing to be gained by assigning blame, as gratifying as it may be to do so.]

I like Peter, you know? He's a good kid, and I know that wasn't... It wasn't really him. I know how these events work by now, I know that, but... That doesn't mean I owe him anything, either.

[To borrow her words. Friendships are not business transactions, but that doesn't mean murderer/murderee relationships can't be.]

The event screwed both of us over, sure. He never would've done what he did if he was in his right mind. That doesn't mean I'm tripping over myself to be alone with the guy again.

Edited 2019-05-02 08:16 (UTC)

To say the least.

[Peter, hm? It doesn't mater, not really, but still she marks the name in the back of her mind. Idly, like one might with an interesting tidbit. Her tongue runs absently over a fang, a bad habit she's picked up over the past few weeks.]

I, ah. I took my revenge on one of them. It was . . . I don't know if it helped. But it was gratifying to see him whimper for me.

[She doesn't regret it, not at all. Takasugi had deserved all that she had done to him and more. But she can't properly say if it was therapeutic. Certainly not as helpful as this.]

Not that I recommend that for Peter. That man used the event in question as an excuse for his natural sadism.

[. . .]

I threatened to castrate him.

[Newt's eyebrows tick up. He... Yeah, he would pay money to see Rosalind actually threaten a guy in that way, specifically a guy that abused her like that. If Duplicity was anything like Hadriel—and to a degree, it sounds like the worlds have some things in common—then it's not as if she could count on anything like a justice system to avenge her. May as well take matters into her own hands, then.

But, it is different, just as she says it is. Newt doesn't want to take any revenge on Peter, both because it wouldn't help and because it's not really Peter's fault. Punishing him wouldn't do anyone any good.]

Good for you, honestly. Gratification is helpful enough in my book.

[But maybe it's just easy to say that because he's removed from the situation. Who knows? He's still going to validate her.]

For, uh, what it's worth, we don't tend to have sexually-bent events here. Some of the events suck a lot, but they're not all terrible, and we've never, uh... Had anything like what you're describing.

[He shrugs, still very pointedly sticking to his side of the bed. It's an odd feeling, just laying around with someone. It's not something he's done with anyone else here (regardless of whether or not they were sleeping together; those were strictly sexual arrangements absent of pillow talk and the like) and it's not something he did all that often back home, either. He and Rosalind might lay around a while after sex and every great once in a while she might actually fall asleep in his room with him, but those nights were relatively rare. They were still something mostly bordering on casual, after all.]

The gods aren't, like, pointlessly cruel.

A difference, then: you're controlled by god-like beings. We were at the mercy of mere men. The LIEs corporation was ostensibly scientific, but it was more like a group of boys with a magnifying class and a colony of ants.

[And maybe someday, they'll compare the two in detail. Maybe someday she'll be okay enough to do that kind of work, to go over each event in detail, to quiz him on things from Hadriel and have him ask her questions in return.

But for now, the wound is still raw. And so she does what anyone might: she changes topics, drifting away as naturally as she can, for his sake as well as her own. She shifts beneath the sheets, enjoying the softness of the pillow beneath her head, pleased at the little details in his bed.

All of this is . . . what? Comfortable? Yes, oddly enough. Or maybe comfortable isn't the right word, but . . . easy, that sits a little better. No matter that there are still tears drying on her eyelashes, that his heart rate is only just settling-- this is the most at ease Rosalind has been in half a year.

Why? But he feels so safe. So very pointed about not leering, not touching, not making an excuse to get too close or take liberties-- and it isn't out of fear, either. He doesn't creep around-- god, he'd never walk around in just his boxers if he was afraid of her. Instead, it just feels normal. Casual. Sane, and she almost laughs, because look at how low the bar is, that she's over the moon about a man who knows how to respect personal limits.

And that's not even getting into the rest of it. The way they talk, the way he knows her . . . it's easy to talk to him. It's easy to fall into conversation, to bite back smiles, to even tease a little, drawling out this remark or that. She knows why, she most certainly hasn't forgotten-- but that doesn't mean the result isn't just as pleasant.

She thinks about that as she looks at him in the dark, listening to the insects chirp in chorus. Her fingers push through her hair, smoothing it back, before she speaks.]

Ah. In any case . . . I meant to ask you something yesterday.

[This isn't exactly an easy-breezy topic, but on the other hand, when else is she going to bring it up? She might as well do this in bed with him.]

If you'd be comfortable with my drinking from you.

[He's about to comment on the gods versus men things (along with how stupid it is to name a corporation "LIEs") when she drops that question on him.]

Yeah.

[He says it way, way too quickly, especially given that he barely knows what that means. It can't entail dying again—he doubts she would've brought it up if death were the end result—but it sure does involve her teeth piercing his jugular, probably. If he knows anything about vampires.

Which, he doesn't, he realizes suddenly. Not real vampires.]

I-I mean, uh, what does that mean, exactly? I thought you had, y'know, synthetic stuff.

[...]

You still totally have to teach me how to make that, by the way.

I do. But it tastes . . . mm. I can survive on it, but it isn't pleasant. Rather like having to subside on an apple that's nearly spoiled as opposed to a crisp one. Both will do the job, but one is infinitely more preferable.

[She internally hesitates for just a moment, and then extends her arm, reaching for him. Cool fingers slide very gently against the crook of his neck, tracing just above his collarbone.]

I'd bite there. It wouldn't hurt. It would feel good, truthfully-- rather like growing tipsy. And I would drink a little, just enough to sate me.

[But then she pulls her hand back, and more briskly:]

I'll teach you tomorrow. It won't take you long to pick it up. It's rather easy, honestly, once you understand how it breaks down.

[He shivers, both from the sudden touch and the temperature of her fingers. It's not like it's the first time they've touched, but it's certainly the most intimate, and wow, she's colder than he realized. Knowing himself, he'd have figured that would be a turn-off for him, but actually... It's fascinating, the sensation of being caressed by something so cool yet so definitely alive. Her fingers are still soft, still moving with that beautiful blend of grace and imperfection that so often exists in the natural world. He'd thought she'd feel like a robot or something, but god, he couldn't have been more wrong.

Right, but, she's answering his question. It'd feel good? What?]

Would it, like, leave a scar or anything?

[He's having trouble seeing the downsides to this arrangement.]

No. It will heal faster than a normal cut, frankly.

[And it won't be a very big cut, both because she's efficient and she doesn't want to hurt him. Her eyes flicker down just once, sliding over the curve of his neck, and it's almost wholly because of her hunger.]

You don't have to. I don't need it to survive, and I certainly don't need it to be happy. But. If you'd be amenable . . . I'd like to.

No, I, uh. I don't mind. It'd probably be a cool experience, actually. I mean, how many people can say they were a blood donor for a vampire? Hah...

[It's a dumb joke and he knows it, but he's not sure what to do with this. How intimate of a request is this, exactly? It seems intimate, especially for someone like Rosalind, but then, reading into it would be a mistake. Even if this was the equivalent of asking him to marry her, drawing attention to that would be basically fatal. Nothing sends her running faster than calling her out on feeling feelings.

So, he ignores it. He'll just... see how it goes when it happens, he supposes. That will be an easier situation to get a read on.]

So... If it doesn't hurt, it doesn't scar, and it doesn't kill me... Why do people have an issue with you being a vampire, again? Honest question.

[She huffs out a laugh.]

Because people are extraordinarily stupid, Newton. Surely you know that by now. You're not a child, and with your intellect? You must.

[He's as intelligent as her, or at least very close. He must have gone through the same things she had, never fitting in, always surpassing everyone so terribly easily . . . she sits up on one elbow, tipping her head, regarding him with a startlingly familiar half-smile.]

They see something new, something uncertain, and rather than admire it, they shy away. They project their terrors onto it and think the worst of it. And yes, the things they think are certainly possible. I could go mad and drain this city. But I won't, just as most humans aren't going to turn into serial killers.

[She shrugs one bare shoulder.]

People are stupid, and cowardly, and pathetic. That includes some newly turned vampires as well.

[She shifts next to him, and he can just make out the contours of her face in the dark, the slight upturn of her lips as she condescends to him. A year ago, he would've scoffed and rolled his eyes. This little display would be annoying, she'd be jumping to conclusions, assuming he genuinely didn't understand a concept as simple as mob mentality and fear of the unknown. Come on, Ros, he'd groan, and yank her down to kiss him or go back to sleep or pay attention to some movie she had insisted on watching because she always gets to pick the movies, even when they watch something he wants to watch it's because she lets him pick, she's so careful to specify—

He can't help but laugh, as there's that funny feeling again, that odd mix between missing her and not missing her because she's right there. It's a feeling that complicates as time goes on, as he gets to know this version of her. She's shockingly different from the Rosalind he's used to, partly due to the vampirism but mostly due to how she carries herself, how she speaks, how she's still just a hair out of place when it comes to modern technology and customs. It's all subtle, and he probably wouldn't even register the differences if he wasn't searching for them, but they're there and they're impossible to ignore. They're a glaring dividing line between her and her, as stupid as it feels.

And then, sometimes, she eclipses herself. She props herself up on an elbow in bed, taunting his intellect with that self-assured grin, roasting every single person in the known universe that exists outside of this room. This should annoy him, but instead, there's an ache in his chest and he can't help but admire her for it. She's the only person that could ever hope to get away with implying that he's an idiot.]

Yeah, that's true. Obviously I'm aware that that mentality exists and all, but like, what a dumb way of thinking, you know? Stuff we don't understand is totally scary, but I think of it as scary in an exciting way. It's potential. Knowledge you get to collect, stuff that nobody's ever known before. That's so cool. Why blow all that over a quick assumption? It doesn't do anybody any good.

[But he kind of got off on a tangent there. Whoops. He swallows.]

But, uh, all that to say, I'm cool with it. I trust you.

[She's very, very familiar with that line of thinking. That fascination, that delirious wonder at what others find horrifying or at the very least off-putting . . . oh, yes. Oh, yes, she knows that, and she laughs softly in return, glancing down at him.]

Mm. Remind me when I'm done to tell you a story of my sire. I think you of all people will appreciate it, biologist.

[But first . . . but first, her smile fades, and she shifts, edging closer to him. One hand sets on his shoulder, gently pushing him back, before she slips over him. Her body is as cold as her fingers, a slight chill seeping through her nightgown, but her breath is still hot as she leans in, lips brushing against the crook of his neck.]

Don't move.

[Soft, and she waits for just a moment. But there's no protest, no sudden balking-- and so she sighs softly, her eyes closing as she sinks her fangs in.

And it feels good.

Of course it does for her. But for him, too: it ought to feel like that first delirious, delicious hit off a joint; like when you drink just enough to grow warm and silly. Dazed, delighted, dizzying, and only growing the longer she lingers there. He might feel a bit of heat on his neck, and he'll certainly feel her tongue sliding over his skin, but she's a neat eater. She won't spill his blood needlessly.

But oh, oh, he tastes so good. Fantastically so, like water after a long few days of nothing but substitutes. Her lips tighten, and she leans over him further, body resting atop his own, her breasts against his chest, her thighs next to his hip, and it's indecent, she can feel the heat off his skin, the quick thrum of his pulse, the tremble of his breath-- and it's intimate, it's all so intimate, and she moans softly, unconsciously, her tongue so insistent against his skin.]

[Biologist? That's rude, he's letting her drink from him, she could at least call him by his name, and he's about to say so, but then she's pressed against him. Oh, this is happening now. Foolishly he had assumed they were discussing an arrangement for the future. He obeys the soft command, keeping still out of surprise and uncertainty more than anything, waiting for the prick of her fangs on his skin.

But it doesn't come. Her lips press into his neck and he braces himself, and then it's like one of those falling dreams, when you're just teetering on the edge of falling asleep and your mind wanders into a canyon, the ground not so much crumbling out from under you as ceasing to exist suddenly, except he doesn't jolt awake, he sinks into the mattress, wondering if he's blurring the lines between states of matter. Did she bite him? She must have. He can feel the hot throb of his pulse churning against her mouth, his blood pressure fluttering as it tries to reckon with... whatever she's done to him. He'll have to ask later. She might not even be aware, but, biologist, as she pointed out, and maybe she has some sort of venom. A neurotoxin, given by how he can't quite feel the edges of his body anymore—though he can certainly feel hers, the silhouette of her shape hugged tight against his side, and he can't help but hold her there, his arm slotting into the small of her back—what was he saying?

On second thought, a complex hemotoxin could produce this effect, and there must be some sort of anticoagulant mixed in... Laced with hormones, amino acids... Tetrahydrocannabinol. He misses chemistry, the elegance of it, the structure. Rosalind. Her name's always sounded vaguely chemical to him, and it suits her. Her moan is muffled by the surge of blood in his ears and this is all chemicals, is the cool thing. A body's response to a stimulus can be boiled down to elements and electrical impulses, to atoms, to his fingers pushing through her hair on reflex, she even smells the same, how incredible is that, and memory is intrinsically linked to scent so he can't be blamed for losing track of himself when she did not warn him that this would be a side effect.

He tips his chin down before remembering he's not supposed to move. He wishes he could see her, but then again, he doesn't; he'd get caught up playing Spot the Differences. Could he even spot the differences right now? Is there a difference? Not at the molecular level, and there's something warm about that.

This can only go on for so long, of course, but part of him hopes she'll forget. The way she's mouthing at him, she's already distracted by the taste. She could drain him and he'd fall asleep and wake up against in a few days, good as new. It'd be better than last time. It'd be a reset. This is the best he's felt in weeks. Months, maybe. It's chemicals. Maybe he could find a way to alter his chemicals, the ones in his brain, the ones that keep replaying Peter's hands on his throat and combusting. Memories have to be written in atoms, somewhere, and he can move them around. Like a Lego set.]

Ros—

[He forgets again and presses his nose into the top of her head, closing his eyes. There, now it's like he never left.]

[Once, impossibly long ago when she was still a child, she'd gotten sick. Some stomach bug that meant she couldn't eat or drink anything for days for fear of vomiting it back up. And it was awful, yes, but what Rosalind had taken away from it afterward was not the lack of food, but the thirst: her body desperate for a glass, a gallon, a whole sinkful of water, always so tantalizingly close, and yet so terribly inaccessible all once. Baths were torture, and yet she clung to them, lying with her head beneath the surface, hoping somehow she might simply absorb water that way.

She remembers, too, the relief that came with that first eager gulp when she'd been healthy again. And that, that sheer joy from something so simple, that craving so deliciously satisfied, that is what she remembers right now, as she hovers over Newt and savors his blood filling her mouth. She eats well here, always curbing her appetite, but it's nothing, nothing compared to the sheer joy of this.

She drinks. She isn't mindless about it, not the way some people want to think. She's very aware of him beneath her, which is why she lets out a soft noise of surprise when his hand is suddenly against her back. It isn't possessive, nor intrusive, which is why she doesn't yank away-- simply gentle, mindless, keeping her close, not captive.

Another mouthful, and then he murmurs her name, and oh, god, but it's so soft. Almost impossibly so, who knew he could be this way? He's so loud all day long, arguing and yelling, playing his music, working at top volume, every bit of him screaming I'm here, notice me every hour of the day.

But he sounds so gentle here. And she knows, deep in her heart, that the name he utters isn't hers, not really. That entreating tone belongs to a woman from another world, and if she was any kind of decent person, she'd ignore it.

But she isn't. And she's so starved for comfort.]

Newt . . .

[She whispers it against his skin, pulling back just enough that she can lick the wound one final time. It seals it in an instant, the blood stopping, and she tips her head up, nuzzling back against him.

Wrong. So very wrong, so very cruel to them both, and yet she shudders atop him, her eyes squeezing shut as he noses against the top of her head, because she's so desperate for something to take the pain away.]

(no subject)

completelycrazy - 2019-06-24 07:30 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

originallutece - 2019-06-24 08:09 (UTC) - Expand

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Event Log: Speak Your Truth

no subject

no subject

huge ole cw for noncon

cw for death talks

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)