#Latchkey Saints|Mage the Ascension | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

US Tumblr user growth rate is estimated to slow down to 4.1%.

#Latchkey Saints|Mage the Ascension

tarnishedhalo · 1 year

Note

Truth serum question from Mikhail. "If we were to play the hypothetical game, I wonder, do you believe your will so great it shall never be blessed by the insights I can offer?"

"Mikey. Can I call ya Mikey? Let me tell you something, you're a good looking kid far as that goes, and sure you have that whole mysterious Eastern European/Russian thing going on for you. And I'm sure you've got some hella bag of tricks up your sleeves. I respect that, I do. "And while I'm sure you've got my sister eatin' out your palm with all the poetry and I never drink wine bullshit, you do realise, she's pretty low hangin' fruit, right? She believes all her fairy tale crap, Guardian of the Mythic Threads blah blah dragons and princesses and blood magick and it works for her, she's cute and all. She wants you to be real. She wants to save you. "Me? I think you're a disease. One I don't ever plan on contracting. And unlike her, we'd be playing on a level playing field. I'm already enlightened, and I doubt there's anything I could find fascinating by it all." For all his bravado, for all his talk, there is a subtle undercurrent if one knows what to look for. Does he think he can take Mikhail? Oh absolutely, but no one would be walking away unscathed, plus...then he'd have to get into it with his sister, whom he knows is smitten even if she won't say it aloud. "Hypothetically, what kind of game are you proposing, and are you ready to lose?"

2 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 4 months

Text

@morgansmornings {{xx}}

Jay will never know just how deeply unsettling her joke is to Beth. The little Verbena is a master at concealing her facial expressions and for a moment she simply looks at Jay like she belongs in a box in a Disney Store, ready to be taken home by a little girl who watched Lilo & Stitch or Moana one too many times. She also doesn't court paradox by acknowledging where the fresh coffee comes from. They both know it wasn't there just a moment ago, and they've both played the coincidental game for a while now. "Okay but," she begins. "Firs' you wouldn't be lef' alone. Dere's Andy, an' dere's Luc, an' Faddah Vinnie, an' Tabby an' Cory, an' Spooky Carl, an' da Duke…" The last name is carefully spoken. Neither woman typically speaks the Sluagh grump's name aloud if they can avoid it. She goes on to include "…an' Gamble, an' dat guy ya met in Chicago ~don' t'ink I no can smell him in here, sometimes, an' Larry…an' a lot of people. Hardly would notice me gone, especially since I come back and haunt you in spirit." Beth lifts her fingers and waves them at Jay pairing it with the softest, but highest pitched little warbling 'wooooo' sound imaginable. "But for real, you an' me probably be da last of us all to go full Barabbi, an you know it. Honestly I could see Andy snappin' first wi' his anger issues an' havin' to be right…eous….alla time. "Or mebbe wassisname… Tall, dark an' kinda like Jaffar if he were super hot." Now she's absolutely pulling Jay's leg as she takes a moment to sip the Kona latte, with its triple shots of espresso and organic coconut milk. There are some who would argue it would put Beth into an early grave but Jay knows she needs it as much if not more than she needs sunshine and a breathable atmosphere just to survive. "An' lastly, Mastah of Life. I'll die when I wanna, an' not a second before. I still have so much t' live for. Like…da day Eddie Veddah realise he no can live wi'out me because he so madly in love." They both laugh at this. "Or…mebbe I die from full t'ickness burn because you jus' said I no can even make a cup of coffee and forgot f' give me aloe. WOW..." A look that was all toothy smiles. "So, wha' we do tonight, Brain? Am I decoratin' cookies or buildin' gingah-bread habitats?"

#morgansmornings #Hanai Sistah|Jayden Morgan #The Janissary and the Gardener|Jay and Beth #Latchkey Saints|Mage the Ascension #Brooklyn Stories|New York

4 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 4 months

Note

🥂💋 because Mikhail can never say no to this kind of thing.

Champagne Kisses || Accepting

Beth has never been the sort to be wholly interested in fashion. She has closets full of designer dresses that were mostly foisted on her by the Admiral for this event or that, gifts from her Auntie because every girl simply needs millions of dollars to look pretty, and her own comfortable threads are considered by most to be vintage classic but that look is so twenty or more years ago. But tonight she even with a princess's dowry worth of jewels strewn at her ears, wrists, and fingers, Beth feels like a tiny brown sparrow. It isn't that he's done anything more than worn a stylish, classic tuxedo. The black raw silk strikes the same wound against his shirt as his hair and eyes do the pallor of his skin.

He is lush.

He is the very flame that can take him away from her.

She is dust-motes and ashes as he takes her securely by the waist and the hand and loses them both between the music and the onlookers. She half wonders if he would be so flawless amidst his own kind, and what whispers would arise. Certainly there'll be comments in the morning's paper about them though no photographer will be able to sell the once in a lifetime photo of the heiress and her beau. A little magick amongst the sleepers, the Kine, takes care of that. "…It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. It's pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical…" When he dips her, her hands become stronger than they appear, and she pulls herself up to be but a breath away from his lips. "S novym godom, lyubov' moya." She seals the kiss between them with the faintest prick of her teeth as the twelfth chime dies.

#thebiggestlies #Left the Belltower|Mikhail Alkavich #White Translucent Black|Mischa and Beth #Mists at Midnight|Vampire the Masquerade #Latchkey Saints|Mage the Ascension #Dangerous Creatures|Kindred and Awakened #Brooklyn Stories|New York #{{also..excerpt from Poe}}

3 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 6 months

Note

Ask anything: "So, was there ever a point where you thought about being something other than Catholic, or was there never any doubt? I don't want to pry or be rude, so sorry if it's crossing a line. Just you had.. have a stronger connection to Hawaii, so I figured you might have to make more of a choice, I guess."

Beth finishes the stitch she is working on after Tabby makes the first peep in about an hour and a half. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see her friend is wrestling the weight of the Creeds in the second section of her catechism book. There's notes in the margin though she can't tell at this distance if it's Andy's handwriting or Tabby's but in the grand scheme of things, that hardly matters. Tabby also has various highlighters, and a small notebook that already seemed crammed with personal asides. She puts the yarn and the now-starting-to-look-like-a-blanket in her knitting basket but the needles ~long, sharp looking, and metal~ she winds her hair into a bun and uses them to keep it loosely in place. She does that with her glasses at times and Andy loves to tell anyone who'll listen that she tends to forget them there and spend time searching for the 'lost' lenses. Jay has told Tabby that it's a dick move, and he's being mean, an assessment that Beth's never vocally disagreed with. She pads to the kitchen and pours them both freshly brewed coffee, then joins Tabby at the dining table. "I s'pose you could say every one have some kine crisis of fai'd. A point where dey question mebbe da existence of da Almighty, even dey can recite Apostle's Creed verbatim. F' me? I don' see why Kane, Ku, Lono nevah same-same as Faddah, Son, an' Holy Spirit. Why Mary no can wear face of Pele or Hina. Every religion I know all boil down to same kine: Love everyone like ya love God, an' don' go around bein' a....jerk." Beth smiles and takes a sip of her coffee. "But den you know, I've always been more fluid dan Andy could evah possibly be, an' I follow where he wants to lead us. Guessin' ya got some doubts or questions an' he's not really very open minded wi' dat kine. An' as sweet as Faddah Vinnie is, doubt it's comfortable talkin' to him eiddah, cause he a priest. So...give ovah. What's on ya mind? Wha' sort of kine don' ring true?" Beth has read her brother's version of the bible, and she keeps her own, written in pidgin. Some of her rituals and beliefs lay with her ancestors and others hold the same resonance and reason as those of the Wyck, the Aeduna, passed down mouth to mouth from mother to daughter since the Mythic age. Maybe she's just the right sort of bridge to help Tabby with the gap between her own beliefs and her brother's desires.

2 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 6 months

Note

Autumn Starters: (from Mischa) "The longer the nights, the better."

Autumn Offerings || Accepting Beth sets down the copy of ~The House of the Dead~ she had been reading. Not that she saw any correlation between Dostoevsky's novel and her beautiful Kindred, rather its written in the author's native tongue. Beth suspects that if not the original, it is at least a first printing and one she hasn't read yet. Mischa is a dragon, his horde of words are as vast as the night he speaks of, and there is always something new to captivate her when she makes those seldom and distant visits to his domain. "I don' disagree," she murmurs with the faintest of smiles. Her reasons are purely selfish. Night is the only time they have together, dawn robs her of him as surely as if he were dead. And he is a dead thing, his life stolen in crimson sips, usually from her own veins. She wonders if its potency offers something to him that he cannot find amidst his herd. If there is something special about it that isn't simply the fact that she can give and give without succumbing to her own demise. "I've heard stories dat...dere is a place in Alaska...Utqiaġvik, dey call it but used to be Barrow. Dey say dat sometime in da middle of November da sun sets...an' no rise again until sometime in da middle or end of January. Not a single peep of daylight for two monts." She rises from the settee and crosses the floor with soundless steps, her poetry simple motion as she approaches her Poet. Her slender arms encircle his waist, and she presses her cheek to his back, eyes half closing as she takes a breath. "If I were brave, I'd walk da razor's edge, where fools an' dreamers dare to tread. I'd nevah lose fait', even when losing my way. What step would I take today, were I brave?" A song, no more or less but the question lingers within the lyrics. Would they dare make such a trip? She would give up what warmth autumn might bequeath winter, if she had a wealth of days that they might be together.

2 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 10 months

Note

Á : Is your muse loud in bed? (Mischa verse)

Sin a little Sin || Accepting

Beth is not loud. If anything, she tries to take up as little space as possible, and the room she does have to by virtue of being a person, is forever accompanied by apology. Mischa paints her in faery hues, sometimes seems to think of her as some small sliver of sunlight that he's not been privileged with for centuries. And Mischa holds all the mystery of night and dark that she doesn't have to fear. He lives within himself, and part of that life comes from her veins. She becomes lost in the music of him, the unheard refrains and the poetry that falls from his lips. When he finally bites into her ~this is a courtship, an endless dance where he woos her each and every time~ the most that might be heard is a blissful sigh. A whispered intonation of words in her native language that even most of the kama'aina do not remember, the words like the stories behind them stolen from them when Mischa was still a living man. She might, in a particularly wicked mood, murmur encouragement into his hair or along his brow. She might tell him to drink deeper, or perhaps slower, and sometimes she's as silent as nothing else can be, only a breath and a lost into a sensation she can barely describe. Some day, she'll sing. Some day, she'll possess the ability to whisper back every glorious bit of poetry she knows.For now, though, she cannot bear for Andy to overhear. She cannot allow herself to be a threat to him, her beautiful Kindred. The loudest sound comes though, only when the threat of dawn steals him away. But then, she reminds herself of the old Verbena adage: blood will always call to blood. He will never be gone so long as to break her heart.

For now, she's simply content to curl up and lick the tiniest splash of her own fluids from the corner of his mouth, her hand all but curling around his throat.

2 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 1 year

Note

a risky kiss between forbidden lovers (for Mischa and Beth)

I Ask No More Than This || Accepting

The rules of Elysium are strict, he tells her before allowing her into the car that he's hired for the evening. The Masquerade must be kept at all costs when mortals are around, something he promises she doesn't know, and if it looks like she does, he will regrettably have to make it so. She is both radiant, sparkling like a jewel hung before him as she meets his gaze, and eager to please, nodding just so that the faint glitter on her skin catches the streetlight's glare and refracts the light. His little sprite, indeed. They go over other bits of rules and regulations ~she can't help giggle at the formality of it all, and then more soberly compare it to many of the military functions she's been subjected to~ while she curls up at his side, occasionally tracing patterns against the pale flesh of his cool hand. She agrees to abide by every one, questions why others exist or what a particular word or phrase means. There are certain things though that Mischa cannot share about his nocturnal world. He softens the rejection by bringing up the scandal of her turning up at one of her neutral places with him on her slender arm. When he kisses her inner wrist, it hardly seems to matter at all. The night proceeds to go well. She makes him smile more than once over an observation here or comment there. He never confirms or denies which of the gathered are his kind and which are not. She promises either way she isn't cheating. And she isn't. It would be unsportsmanlike. Toward the end of the evening though, when he's glutted on gossip and pageantry and watching others try and curry favour ~she did pick out the Prince as one of the most fascinating people here before the entire retinue retired~ there's an incident that thankfully had nothing to do with her. Unfortunately, she won't remember a single detail later. What stays with her is when he bears his teeth on full display to the offending leeches. One dangles from his hand, feet unable to touch the floor. "If you cannot even control yourself on Elysium grounds, then it was a mistake to release you from your Sire. You are no longer recognised by the Primogen Council as a Kindred and you will need to seek a sponsor to teach you our laws and ways again until you earn the right to be seen!"

Mischa is utterly stunning in his wrath...

...And he barely makes it out the door before she's taking hold of him and pressing him into the brick and shadows that adorn the salon's edifice. She is half afraid he'll turn to ash from the heat of her skin as her lips find his throat and she leaves deep kisses that would mark for weeks if he were human. His hand grasps her chin, raises his face so his lips crush into hers. Each kiss becomes hungrier than the last and his head dips into the space between her jaw and her shoulder, his fangs caressing the pulse of life so strong it drowns the echoing bass from the music inside.

His arms slide under hers and around her back when her knees weaken and she finds herself in the very same spot he'd been a moment ago. Her thighs clamp around his knee. Nothing that's never quite happened before, just not nearly so public. At least until there's the sharpest pang that sweeps through him, and she draws a drop or two of turbid blood into her mouth, despite all his prior laments of how that could not be...

#thebiggestlies #Left the Belltower|Mikhail Alkavich #White Translucent Black|Mischa and Beth #Mists at Midnight|Vampire the Masquerade #Latchkey Saints|Mage the Ascension #Brooklyn Stories|New York #blood tw #Mischa tw #Dubious consent?#{{She is NOT sorry}}

3 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 11 months

Note

12. What pet names would your muse want to be called?

It Came From the Lost Meme Lagoon || -

She had known that Mischa was in the apartment, even if she couldn't see him. One thing she'd noticed about him is that his disciplines might fool her eyes at times, but this does not extend entirely into her more magickal perceptions. There is absence where he stands; not merely of life, though that is certainly an aspect, but dust motes don't dance in the open air and light bends but only if one looks closely. Human senses do not reach that level of scrutiny, they can't. But. He must have his reasons for haunting her space rather than presenting himself in totality. She might have questioned how long he had stood there as she put down the days thoughts in her journal, snippets of thoughts and ideas, events no one else will ever bother to read though it helps her on the days she's more disconnected from the world around her, at least until he manifests in his full dark glory. Until he bids her the question. It tells her that he heard Andy on speaker phone telling her his flight is being delayed by another three days. He calls her jelly bean, like he has since before she was born. Family mythology is that he once asked her mother how big the baby was, and she'd answered that Beth was maybe the size of a jelly bean. It had made him, four years old and so curious about the world, laugh and imagine that she would always be so small. She finishes her passage and then sets the pen and journal on the window ledge. Turning her face toward him she tilts her head in contemplation. "What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet." She teases him by stealing the Bard's famous words. But she scoots closer to the window and lifts the afghan affording him a place to ensconce himself at her side. "Quite like when ya call me 'sprite'. Makes me feel soft and dreamy. I found my blood turning to ice dat one time ya called me 'Yelizaveta', but den, really, only one who uses da haole version of my name in full is da Admiral. Like 'Ljúšik' an' 'Ljúšečka' mo' beddah." She slicks her lips with the tip of her tongue before that innate timidity rises to the surface, and she ends up looking away from him. "Or ya could, f' like, call me...yours."

2 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 1 year

Note

“The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality…”

Tennyson’s words continue, telling the tale of a man gifted unending life and cursed with endless aging. Unlike Tithonus, Mikhail’s hair stays black. He more closely claims peerage among the portraits they stroll through, a Tudor-era collection on loan from some British gallery, all of them faces frozen from a lost time.

The Toreador primogen has arranged the night-time access. Art, so important, and while he must attend for political reasons, there is at least Beth’s company as reward. “Perhaps arrogant of me to think there is no better partner for you than myself, dear sprite.”

The poem ends and his thoughts begin, spun from an invisible tangent. “I can keep your mind fed and your body sated. I know all that you are and aren’t, and would raze this city to ashes before any could harm you. While I cannot join you in the sunlight, this is true, I do not claim to be a perfect being. Only that I am as ideal for you as any undying creature can be.”

A Million Reasons || Accepting

Tawny fingers slither around his bicep with the wool beneath doing little damage to her as she's temporarily altered her own body to compensate for the allergy. She leans her head closer to him. The slender column of her throat exposes itself for a single flirtatious moment of throbbing pulse before her hair hides it again. In so many ways it is a microcosm of what Mischa's voice does to her, wrapping her up in the silk of its measure,and warms her throughout as so little else in the world does.

She listens closely. Navigating intent and art to find the truths that he wishes to share. More often than not, Beth aches for him. Even if she extended her own life beyond any conceivable measure, she too, will have to leave him. That is the point of a life measured against the Tapestry. But that's not what she wants to think about, not when everything around them already whispers of death and time. She slows their measured tread as they pass one particular painting, and for a moment she half wonders if he'd not sat for it, though this one does surpass even his formerly human years in age. A relative perhaps. A doppelganger. Some Sidhe who dreamed Mikhail into existence across centuries. "Arrogance is the exaggeration of one's own importance and ability or skill, Kuluaumoe. When you speak as you do...is called truth." She enunciates carefully so that her meaning isn't swallowed up by the cracks in her native pidgin. "I would like to think, for so long as you wish to keep me, that I can feed your body and quiet your mind. I know what you are and I stand not afraid. And I know that if...if you were to be taken from me, that the world would drown in blood until I raised you back up, or else I would be content to twine my roots in your earth. I don't need the sun, when I have you."

He is perfect to her just as he is, and even he can't dissuade her from that. She gives his arm the slightest squeeze and stares up into his midnight gaze. "Why I love thee? Ask why the seawind wanders, Why the shore is aflush with the tide, Why the moon through heaven meanders; Like seafaring ships that ride On a sullen, motionless deep; Why the seabirds are fluttering the strand Where the waves sing themselves to sleep And starshine lives in the curves of the sand".

3 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 1 year

Note

😏 - Mischa, with sex being a broad word

Love, Love Me Do… || Accepting

How physically attracted they are to your muse:

"…if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me…" She whispers the poet's words with each stroke of her brush. Each dab of oil paint caressing the canvas to tease out the shape of him. The beauty of his bone structure, the gleam in his eyes like polished dark tourmaline. The candlelight casts its shadows on him and he envelopes them in his stillness. Porcelain skin. Supple curve of lip. Long lithe muscles. Even as she is she can see he is beautiful, in body as with soul. Even as she is, she knows better than to sink down beside him and while away the night. But she grows moth wings still. Dares to flit closer and closer. She sets the brush and her palette down. Pours herself over him and casts her head to the side. Lets life thrash and pulse beneath her skin and speak to him.

2. How romantically attracted they are to your muse:

…Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores… She drinks the words of Keats from his tongue, copper-tinged her essence wets it like honey, instead of what now flows in his veins. These are entirely different sorts of kisses between them. His of satiation, and hers the eternal hunger to partake of him as easily as he does of her. But he won't allow it. He brushes his knuckles over the arch of her cheek and maybe just once she sees a certain kind of sorrow in his eyes. He tells her she is Enlightened in her own way, that his would drive the light straight out of her soul. She acquiesces for the sake of peace but her dreams remain fitful. She would not mind so much the consequences, even if he swears it could strip her of her will. Doesn't he see it is already done? And this is how all the cautionary tales are born. With a smile, with the softest touch of a hand, with the desire to be more than a passing occupation of time. She cannot be the first of her kind to become so enchanted by his, otherwise there would be no whispered rumours and dire warnings to try and dissuade. Her ancestors tell that nature is all things but even in nature is balance between life and death. And what are they if not this dichotomy made flesh?

3. How often they would like to have sex with yours:

…Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to count thy minutes.

Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou knowest how to wait.

Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.

We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for a chance. We are too poor to be late… His head is buried in the crook of her neck and she glides her fingers through his hair as the ecstasy of the Kiss sweeps through her. She doesn't know if its minutes or if its hours strung together and pulled apart like liquid glass. She only knows that no matter how long they remain like this, it is never enough. Dawn comes far too soon and for maybe the first time in her life she wants to curse the sun in all its entirety for stealing Mischa away from her. Though he does his level best to keep himself warm, his skin is cool except where it rests between her thighs. And she finds herself daydreaming of what it would be like if…just once… he could redirect his efforts elsewhere and let her feel him sink into her with something other than his fangs. But even as he licks the wounds he's made until they close, as they come back down into themselves from whatever aetherial realm they've climbed to outside of themselves, she doesn't ask. She doesn't know if it is even possible, all things considered and so, she remains as shut on the matter as the gates of the Winter Palace that he's described down to the smallest of details. And in the grand scheme of things, maybe it's better this way. After all, that desire only seems to crop up when he drinks from her. Otherwise she enjoys his companionship for what it is, and his mind is more than enough for her. 4. Where they would most likely have sex with yours:

…Upon my flowery breast, Kept wholly for himself alone, There he stayed sleeping, and I caressed him, And the fanning of the cedars made a breeze.

The breeze blew from the turret As I parted his locks; With his gentle hand he wounded my neck And caused all my senses to be suspended.

I remained, lost in oblivion; My face I reclined on the Beloved. All ceased and I abandoned myself, Leaving my cares forgotten among the lilies… She wonders if his sanctum, that place where he sleeps the day away, has space enough for two. It isn't that she objects to him coming to her, makes it easier not having to find continual excuses about where she's going once the sun is set. She knows it's more than coincidence that Andy is often out on shift or busy with something else when he chooses to spend his longest hours with her and they aren't out soaking in the false day of Manhattan's brightest lights and billboards. She doesn't ask about that, either, as it feels so intrusive, so pushy that it would make her feel somehow dirty. Besides, he's given her free reign over his library and has hinted that there might be, amongst the tiered treasures, some written in his own hand. That alone could keep her occupied for years. 5. Whether they think yours would be “good” in bed: …I had sat within that marble circle where the oldest bard is as the young, And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the lyre's strings are ever strung.

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out the poppy-seeded wine, With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, clasped the hand of noble love in mine.

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the dove, Two young lovers lying in an orchard would have read the story of our love;

Would have read the legend of my passion, known the bitter secret of my heart, Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as we two are fated now to part… The pangs of passion, he tells her, close to her ear, his mouth moving against her skin, were wasted even in his youth…and while she writhes like a living kelp bed swayed by his currents, Beth cannot help but to think of what a sad, lonely existence that he must have lead. She reads enough romances ~classic literature and lurid modern tales~ to know that part of the human condition seeks to find a mirror of itself in pairing off; love is love and nearly every person is fundamentally programmed to dream of such things. Even a bonafide monster still retains that spark. After all, wouldn't he have simply drained her and discarded her remains somewhere if she'd not captivated his imagination? If she did not provide him with something he could lose himself in? But in many ways she thinks they are alike; the sensations and the emotional nourishment of the Kiss goes beyond mere flesh and the ways they can interconnect. It is fulfilling in and of itself, and even if Mischa could, she is not so certain she would want to…well. Make love to him in a conventional sense. It would be a waste of his limited resources in that regard and…she's honestly not sure that either one of them would be very good at it. The idea of taking so much time and care to do…it… and then it turning out to be a monumental disappointment? It's a little more than she can bear. It has absolutely nothing to do with her being able to tell herself that his fangs in her flesh and her blood in his mouth is perhaps less sinful than sex outside of marriage, and the will of the Church. 6. What titles / nicknames my muse would like to call yours during sex: …What is my name to you? 'T will die: a wave that has but rolled to reach with a lone splash a distant beach; or in the timbered night a cry …

'T will leave a lifeless trace among names on your tablets: the design of an entangled gravestone line in an unfathomable tongue… "…Jus'…no." "Mmm?" Like a wave, one sleek dark brow raises above an eye, and there is a hint of amusement in both his tone and his expression. She hadn't realised that she'd broken the silence for the first part in over an hour. Theirs is a companionable sort of nightly ritual, each allowing many hours to the other to go about their interests and business with the constant need to interact. Hence the bright flourish of colour in her cheeks as she looks up from her phone, guilt stricken. "I…a friend…jus' aks me if…I had any pet-names for my secret paramour. Dey gettin' nosy about you, apparently. I'm a little mortified t' admit…dat she suggest I call you…" A shudder of revulsion shakes her from base to summit of her small frame. "…Daddy." She can already see him starting to inform her that they have no familial relationship, paternal or otherwise, and that he'd have no intention of claiming her for his tradition in the future but she holds up a hand to stop him. "Please…jus'… let's pretend I nevah say any kine li'dat." In her mind, she associates him with the word Naʻauao, which means enlightened but it isn't really so much of a pet name as it the virtue she sees most in him. She already has the diminutive Mischa that he's come to accept over Mikhail, and if she might venture off the beaten path, she might let slip a soft miliy, or darling.

7. Up to 3 kinks they would like to explore with yours ( with consent of course ):

…Moments after you curated my undoings on your tongue, we lay in silence. My bed sheet a museum

of introductions—your palm greeting the ditch between my thigh and backside, your two-fingered

come-hither to which I said hello, hello, and oohh—the silence in which my neck buttered

itself with your teeth’s sickle-curve. I should tell you, no one prepared me for this; the tension…. She's never seen Mischa sleep before. She can't call it anything else, it hurts to know that while the sun sails across the sky, he is as dead as any of her ancestors, but also still alive in the same way. And while normally he would never be caught in so vulnerable position ~on his back, his hands folded in funerary fashion above where his unbeating hear is lodged~ this is a testament to his trust. While she'd bought the most expensive black-out curtains and put foiled cardboard into the windowpanes to blot out the sun's rays to any normal eye, she's also woven enchantments from the Arts of Elements to ensure there are no mishaps. No light pours in. No sounds drift up from the Brooklyn streets. No slight inconvenience to disturb him. And better yet, the Crone's Cloak that protects her by fading her from the memories and thoughts of others ensures that there will be no uninvited guests. Even Andy. Maybe especially Andy. He's flown Tabby out for a weekend in California wine country. He proposed it as a business trip, and maybe he'll actually incorporate her work into it, but Beth knows her brother better than that. Which means she has a blissful week to herself with no surprises or intrusions. She looks down at Mischa's arresting features. He is achingly beautiful. She wonders what it would be like to watch him feed off someone else. Would his face hold ecstacy or would it be a mask of intense hatred and self-disgust? Would he feel it a chore? Would he shy away from the mere suggestion? Would she feel murderous envy that he'd be so intimate with someone else? She can't say for sure but as curious as she is, she can already feel the teeth of jealousy nipping at her heels. Maybe she's not ready for that kind of openness after all. Despite the chill of his flesh, she curls up beside and rest her cheek on his still chest.

8. What sort of sex they’d prefer to have with yours ( slow & sensual, quickie, etc) : …Desire to us Was like a double death, Swift dying Of our mingled breath, Evaporation Of an unknown strange perfume Between us quickly In a naked Room… Mischa's fangs retract and ever so carefully he licks the last traces of blood from the inside of her thigh, then closes the wounds. Somewhere in the passion-fogged recesses of her brain she wonders if it's a matter of habit or if he simply let her be if the wounds would seal up of their own accord, even if they didn't quite so quickly as when he does it for her.

He kisses his way back up to her shoulder, tracking the expanse of her skin the way a man might wander the desert. Contemplative to his existence and his place in the world. She never knows what he's thinking; not where lover intersects with monster nor where madness is merely heightened inspiration. Regardless, Mischa tries his best to ensure she is sated, she is nurtured by the castoff of his dreams, that she is welcoming him back the next time they end up in her sheets. When he collapses back onto the pillows, she nestles her head onto his chest.

The tentative question hanging off her lips catches his eye and he nuzzles her hair, bidding her to ask. "You're…always so careful. Like I know ya nevah wanna hurt me an' it's all very roman'ic, you know? But…what would it be like…ya equivalent of quick an' dirty an' gone wi' lust or hunger or…ya know. Wha'evah ya call it?"

9. What type of relationship my muse would like to form with yours. ( typical couple, friends with benefits, etc.) :

…To live in this world

you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it

against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go…

She pushes her food around on her plate with the ease of a chess grand-master plucking victory away from an opponent so as to hide the fact that she's not really eating it. The last thing she wants is for Andy to start some kind of Inquisition about why she's not hungry, that she's looking a little pale and run down, that she's not been herself lately.

She can't tell her brother that she's having boy problems. First he'd insist on meeting the man and putting a Templar and a Vampire in the room together is not exactly what she would consider a good time, especially knowing only one of them would be likely to walk out from it.

She and Mischa haven't had a falling out, nor has he been in any way inattentive. If anything he's oft willing to give her as much time and space as she might ask, is very aware of her work schedule and they make time for each other more often than most couples.

But Nan from Radiology was flashing her new engagement ring at work. Sherryl in Maternity asked if Beth could cover her own leave and considering the woman's as big as a beach house, Beth couldn't say no. Other happy occasions flow around her. Anniversaries, group dates, lives lived openly. She's happy for them all, really, she is.

Until she gets home. She and Mischa will never get married. Even if she weren't broken on a fundamental level, they'll never have children. They will not grow old and grey and retire to some quiet place where they'll sip coffee together in their rocking chairs on the porch and watch the sun come up.

Beth knows that they can both be killed ~and if each of their Traditions knew about them, the likelihood of that would skyrocket~ but she doesn't know how many mortal years she has. If like her maternal grandfather she will swim Sea or rove grandmother's land forever unchanged, or if she will have more or less a human lifetime, or most likely…something in between.

Mischa…will remain Mischa until he is consumed by the beast inside or he grows too weary of the world, unable to stomach centuries of sleep. There is too much treachery in his circle of associates and some day he might be toppled from his throne before he can abdicate to someone more envious of it. So many things could happen but the most common thing she can imagine is simply… he grows bored and disenchanted.

"So what do you want?" Andy asks her.

She blanches. "Wh-what?"

"I said… what do you want? For dinner tonight."

"Oh."

She doesn't really know, and certainly can't ask him, can she?

"Wha'ever's fine. Not really picky."

#thebiggestlies #Left the Belltower|Mikhail Alkavich #White Translucent Black|Mischa and Beth #Mists at Midnight|Vampire the Masquerade #Latchkey Saints|Mage the Ascension #Brooklyn Stories|New York #blood tw #which of course it says it right there in the tag...VAMPIRE so don't be shocked

2 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 1 year

Text

Advent Calendar: Day 18 @morgansmornings

It isn’t the fact that Jay lives above her coffee shop that makes her loft smell like a gingerbread house. It’s the fact that she has sheets and sheets of fresh baked bread in carefully shaped walls and floors, roofs and a whole host of things Beth doesn’t really have names for. There’s coloured frosting of every type, gumdrops, peppermints, and enough other little treats and tasty bits that could incite hyperglycemia for the entire state of New York. Her tree is up, there’s lights in all the windows and several other places. She’s got stockings hung and Jenna’s is possibly the biggest of all, as befits a queen of the Tervuren’s nature. Currently, they’re listening to a mix of new and old classic carols and holiday songs, and Beth can’t help but to sing along around a mouthful of peppermint bark. Tomorrow will be the official Jayden Christmas party, an annual tradition since Jay was a freshman at Columbia, and everyone they know is invited. But tonight, it’s just a more or less quiet evening with just the two of them. A chance to reconnect that they often miss these days because of their insanely busy lives. Beth does wonder though if sometimes Jay ever wants to celebrate Hanukkah, or if maybe Harvey had kept things secular. She knows Jay made Uncle Luis two dozen sufganiyot, and spent at least one of the nights at home with him. She can imagine them singing together and cooking, lighting the menorah with all the solemnity that one might feel at mass, but as far as she can tell, there really aren’t any nods to it in Jay’s home. And maybe she’s just a little too shy to ask out loud. “Head’s up, kid,” Jay calls out, interrupting her thoughts while at the same time warning Beth of the incoming set of pot holders flung her way. Beth manages to catch them ~only just~ and sets them on the last remaining clear surface that isn’t specifically set aside for construction of the village about to begin. “Good catch.” “Mahalo.” Sticky grin and all. “Now, your job is going to be taking those three silicone baking mats, and I want you to cover them in the white frosting. That’ll act like the glue and the foundation, so it needs to be a couple inches thick.” Panic screams from behind Beth’s eyes. “Ya sure you wan’ me t’--” “Do you want me to text Andy and tell him you just couldn’t-” Beth’s already got the white buttercream and spatula. They don’t even need to finish their own sentences. Jay could absolutely be an evil mastermind if running the world depended on manipulating extremely competitive siblings. And maybe the thing that absolutely escapes Beth is that this is exactly what it means when it comes to the tradition of spending the holidays at home with one’s family.

#morgansmornings #My Hanai Sistah|Jayden Morgan #The Janissary and the Gardener|Jay and Beth #Latchkey Saints|Mage the Ascension #Brooklyn Stories|New York #Merry Christmas 2022

4 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 1 year

Note

🔥 + forest

No Time To Wallow || Accepting

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

#Mahalo!MM <333 #She's Talking to Angels {Bethisms}#Making Wishes on Passing Cars|Answered Asks #White Translucent Black|Mikhail and Beth #Mists at Midnight|Vampire the Masquerade #Latchkey Saints|Mage the Ascension #Brooklyn Stories|New York #blood tw #Lost in Translation| N S F W

2 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 1 year

Note

truth serum (from Mischa): My dearest sprite, while I find a certain delight in you being so free with the truth, I would enjoy knowing most who gave you this serum, and if it was by your own choosing? Because if not, I know of some sewer rats in need of feeding.

Something I said? || Accepting

There's something utterly romantically chivalrous about the way Mischa threatens to murder someone or more than one person in defense of her honour, especially when she knows that he is not only willing to follow through but also make it the most bloody spectacle to boot, arousing all of her passions and interests. And if she were asked about it, she'd admit that she's enthralled by that fact, and more than once, she wishes she could give him a name or an offense just to see him do it. "Surprise you to know," she murmurs sweetly, her gaze upon her pale poet as adoring as it could be, two of her slender fingers trailing along the length of his arm, "dat I have no earthly idea who she was? A tall woman, an' pale. Haole, I assume, with eyes dat gleamed like da heavens, an' hair red as Tutu Pele's fires. She brought me coffee an' tole me it was her way of sayin' mahalo for all da hard work I do. Was draggin' my tail aftah long shift a' work an' she seem really nice. Wasn't til it was gone an' our director of nursin' aks me if I wan cover t'ree short shifts on my days off dat I realised somet'ing was wrong. "I told her I'd sooner drive red-hot railroad spikes into my eyes because I already got like ovah twen'y hours of overtime in jus' da las' week. It's not dat I don' wanna help, don' wanna be a team player, it's jus'... I'm exhausted, worn too t'in. "Besides, much raddah curl up in bed a while an' lissen t' ya read more William Blake, an' Mallory, an' Spencer, an' like you could hones'ly read me back of one cereal box an' it would be mos' beautiful kine I've heard." She hadn't intended that last part to slip out, gushing about her own desires and how he was enmeshed in the centre of them, her beautiful Kindred.Nor does she tend to talk so much in one go without pause or thought behind the words she chooses. So perhaps to mitigate that, or because now she's definitely teasing him, she offers Mischa her most radiant smile, and slowly starts to nuzzle his throat. "But if ya find her and do decide t' give her to dem sewer, you'd of course invite me along to watch, yeah?"

#Mahalo!M <333 #She's Talking to Angels {Bethisms}#Making Wishes on Passing Cars|Answered Asks #White Translucent Black|Mischa and Beth #The Dead Travel Fast|Vampire the Masquerade #Latchkey Saints|Mage the Ascension #Brooklyn Stories

3 notes · View notes

brooklynislandgirl · 1 year

Note

♡

...Knocking Outside Your Door... || -

She teases him about turning up in the car. She might say jump but only because she does not know the finer points of his ability to use the Crone's cloak to hide himself away from the world ~and her, with it~ and so that is how her mind explains that particular feat. It is not the poetry that so oft drips honey-like from his lips but it still makes her all but glow in the dim light. The dress that bares her from crown to the start of her slight swells? Intentional as well. She steals the aspect of Frost, uncaring of the rain or the reaches beyond her home to this Elysium, nor does she seem to have eyes for anyone but Misha, luminous in their rims of kohl. Whether it is that she is acquainted now with the night or that he gives her the feeling of being safe within its darkness is almost impossible to tell but there is a new degree of boldness. Perhaps it is her own spark of enlightenment, that fevered madness that buoys her upwards. Perhaps it is his seeming inability to quench himself completely of desire for her company. What is visible to anyone who cares to look, so easy to understand, is Beth is utterly enchanted by Mischa, besotted. {{Dunno what you want from me, but Misha is a monster. A creature of darkness and wonder. Who doesn't mind a little blood or...come to think of it...a lot of it. And Can only come around at night, giving her 12 hours to herself, give or take. And who reads her poetry and doesn't think she's crazy and isn't interested in her money, her reputation, or her...yeah. He's really perfect and I'm sorry, Andy. Oh, oh, oh. Maybe one time, Mikhail could let her drink from him!}}

#Mahalo!M <333 #She's Talking to Angels {Bethisms}#Making Wishes on Passing Cars|Answered Asks #Mists at Midnight|Vampire the Masquerade #Latchkey Saints|Mage the Ascension

2 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

thewildbelladonna

Dedicated to Stevie Nicks & Fleetwood Mac 🌙

orphans-of-coldfront

Back from the dead to raise some hell.

cosmicalley

c.smichally

alakeeffectgirl

Lake

detective-with-one-arm

"I'm not a pig. I'm a wolf in pig's skin."