carnivcrcus-blog

[carnivcrcus-blog]

Turn ask replies into threads.

If you like a response I made, you are more than allowed to just take it and make it into a thread. Some of you do this already, but others might need a bit of a verbal confirmation to let them know that they are more than allowed to do so. When I put a lot of effort into something, I really do enjoy when it sparks the need to turn things into threads with people. Whatever random situation I put our muses in normally something that I’ve wanted to write for a while, and I assume that you do too because you sent me the thing in the first place!

Write out a thing and tag me or mention me. I want to see where things go from there. Plus, who knows, if you wanted something with our muses, breaking the ice tends to make it easier to get that thing.

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"It will be more convincing if you carry me."

❝ You know, Claudia, I’ve never wanted children. And YOU are precisely the reason WHY. ❞

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"Let me tell y'something."

THE RANK AROMA of London air rolled in with the abrupt opening of the shop’s door. Not even bothering to look up from his work, the tailor rolled his tongue and flicked the smoldering ashes from his cigarette into the tray beside his sewing machine. 

               ❝ —Rough day at the office? ❞

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Aballach spares a glance at his pocket-watch. ❝ tailoring isn’t my only venture. were it, i’d not be able to afford such a lovely abode. or your company, for that matter. speaking of which, we’ve not settled up for last time. ❞ 

From the breast pocket of his jacket, he produces his check book and a pen. ❝ i believe five hundred was the commission agreed upon. ❞ 

     The witch breaks a bit off the warm cookie in her hand, melted chocolate sticky-ing her fingertips.

“What sort of business trips do tailors make? A pretty duchess need a fitting?”

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❝ it’s just aballach, thank you. and no-- ❞ The vampire slots a cigarette between his lips and shakes his head. ❝ --no, i’m not much of an eater, i’m afraid. ❞  

“Well, you told me not to climb into your windows anymore. It was a kindness.”

“Biscuit, Mister Aballach?”

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@verfuhrerin

❝ you made a copy of the key to my flat while i was away on business, didn’t you? ❞  

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  Tea isn’t going to soothe what ails him, for his PLAGUE is no malaise of the body. Though the war has long been over, it has never left his mind. When everything is quiet, he can still hear the screams of dying men crying out for their loved ones in the night. When he shuts his eyes, he can still see the piles of dead men congesting the hatchbacks as they drove away from the battlefield. 

Death is life’s inevitable truth. One might think that a vampír, a cruel, carnivorous creature such as Aballach--a predator of mankind--might well understand this after so long a span of life. But the act of taking a single human life to sustain his life has never shaken him like the war did. 

   The vampír have had their own wars, but they have been to SURVIVE. The second human world war was fought for nothing more than petty ideals and eleven million people paid the price. Killing is killing. Death is death. But your paradigm shifts when you see a people slaughtering one another for as simple an idea as the god that they believe in, or the person they sleep beside. 

   Aballach looks up, his stare listless and blank. Rolling his neck, he takes the cigarette out of his mouth and pushes it into the ashtray settled upon the coffee table in front of them. The feeling of his lover’s hands pressed against his shoulders, the sound of her soothing voice in his ear brings him back to reality. 

At least for the moment. 

❝ some coffee would be nice. ❞ He tells her, but the voice does not sound like his. It is a dull rumble, like the final words of a man on his deathbed. 

@carnivcrcus

“Baby,” 

     Cooed the witch, fingers lovingly kneading the tense muscles of his shoulders, words a honeyed whisper in his ear. Her mouth was caked in lipstick and blood, which ran down all the way through between her breasts, staining her cream slip. The smoke from his cigarette billowed around the pair, the scent fighting her perfume for dominance.

“Oh, baby blue,” Came a sing-songy whisper as her eyes followed the crudely strewn trail of organs and body parts in their flat’s living room, “What did you do?”

     He’d overdone it. 

     Something had set him off and made him more AGGRESSIVE about this particular kill. He didn’t kill this man for food. No, they couldn’t eat much of the bloody mess he made. She’d been lucky to get a small bite. He did this for primal pleasure, an old itch that resurfaced and needed to be scratched. Perhaps he reminded Aballach of an enemy soldier from that terrible war. Aeva could only assume so.

     Thankfully, she’d gotten quite good at calming him.

     Her lips pressed to his hollow cheek, coiling her arms around his broad shoulders as her head rested against his. A gentle squeeze told him they were here in the present where he didn’t need to be afraid. Nothing would hurt him here. Not while she was present.

     Despite her affection, he was stiff, cold, and distant. But that was normal when this happened, she’d learned. The things he’s seen and been put through would break even the hardest of soldiers. She’d been forced to watch this metamorphosis through his letters, fearing each would be his last.

“My poor, sweet love. Shall I ready some tea for you?”

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Blue orbs drift from the task at hand, a simple patch-job, to the source of a familiar sounding voice. It belongs to none other than Ariella, one of his higher-end ( and notably, more friendly ) clientele. Pulling the cigarette from his mouth, he smashes the smoldering cherry into the crystalline ashtray beside his sewing machine and turns his body toward the doorway. Returning her smile, he stands up and gestures for her to come in. 

❝ i’m no marc jacobs, but i may have something that will catch your eye ! ❞

“And so we meet again, my dear man. Have you anything new and expensive for me to wear?” Ariella stood in the doorway of the shop, a wide smile on her face. It was a guilty pleasure, shopping, one that she was finding less and less time to indulge in. 

“My afternoon is yours, if you wish.” 

@carnivcrcus

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"Your demeanor is that of a pouty child. Fix your face, it isn't becoming of a man your age." Aetheria scoffed.

❝ and just what IS becoming of a man my age, then? ❞ Aballach points his brow, jagged teeth grinding against the end of the filterless cigarette between them. Brooding is what he does best. 

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"We're going to Mongolia. Be done packing in an hour."

❝ MONGOLIA— ? why mongolia? ❞

Clothes are lazily folded and shoved into a carry-on. Other amenities, too. Cigarettes, a lighter, vials of blood. Everything he’ll need to survive for a week abroad. He tucks away a few threads and some needle as well, just in case. 

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"Your skill in dressmaking pleases. Thank you, master tailor."

❝ i’m glad you enjoy it. ❞ 

Aballach runs his fingers over the fine, velvet of the regalia one last time before handing it over to the one they call, ‘the mother of dragons.’ He doesn’t put much stock in the rumblings of the common folk, who claim this woman has hatched and is raising three, infant dragons, but something about her tells him that there may be some merit to the whispers; a certain, unmistakable FIRE in her wisteria eyes.

❝ damask is quite fashionable these days. ❞ He remarks, putting a cigarette between his lips. ❝ no doubt, you’ll be the talk of the town. ❞

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So delicate, so fragile… Carefully I caress your smooth porcelain skin, claws ghosting over the marks and bruises I have left decorating you, so easily marred by my monstrosity. 

Yet still you love me, your glassy eyes ever seeking mine, craving my touch and the kiss of my fangs… And how deeply I love you too, my precious little doll – with every bit of my dark and blackened being.

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❝ –JESUS CHRIST walks into a hotel. 

                                 He hands the clerk three nails and tells him, “put me up for the night.” ❞

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He is exhausted, but it hadn’t hit him until she said it. He hasn’t fed in days, hasn’t had anything to drink in even longer, and that train ride took more out of him than he thought. Running his hand over the cheek she’s kissed, he smiles and takes a seat as the witch suggests. 

Adjusting the lapels of his coat, he settles into the chair and lights a cigarette. ❝ you’re actually going to cook? oh, good. i’ll prepare a bucket before we retire this evening. ❞ he teases, blowing a bit of smoke in her direction. 

❝ speaking of which, i must regrettably retire early this evening. i have a meeting with the attache from the group of werewolves i’ve been dealing with first thing. ❞ He pulls back the sleeve of his jacket and notes the time, teeth chewing on the filterless end of the cigarette hanging in his mouth. He doesn’t want to meet with the wolves; he’s never been comfortable around their kind, but any peace between them is to last, treatises must be signed and resigned. 

❝ i believe your friend rodrigo is the ambassador. ❞

     She bends down and plucks the pen from his neck, inspecting it.

“You’re in luck. The pen’s dry.” She follows him, kicking off her heels as she made her way over. Aeva reached up and put her cigarette in his mouth, knowing he wouldn’t care about the red end. “You always say that until you smell the sage and rosemary.”

     Anyone looking in would think they were a perfect couple. And they were. If perfect couples ate their guests and drank their blood like British royals drank tea. Still, they played the part well. Perhaps they both longed for a normal, more simple existence.

“I love you, too, Don Juan.” She teased, offering a smile before getting on her tip toes to place a kiss on his hollow cheek. “Rest love, take a seat. You look exhausted tonight. I’ll get the table ready and our guest situated.”

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                           m o n s t e r s  don’t live happily ever after,                            but when your  l i p s brushed against hers,                                 you almost believed you  c o u l d.

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Feeling like the director of some macabre snuff film, Aballach imagines how he would have done things differently if there roles had been reversed. He certainly wouldn’t have killed the poor chap with a bloody writing utensil. Crossing the room with the grace of a cat, hands half-thrust into the pockets of his pleated trousers, he shakes his head. 

❝ i’ve never been partial to ink in my blood, ❞ he says, walking around the man’s body as he crumples to floor. Sparring a glance backward, he shrugs his broad shoulders. ❝ i’m not hungry for flesh. ❞ Not yet. ❝ just the blood. take whatever you like. ❞

Patting himself down, he searches his person for the tin of cigarettes that he’d given Aeva back on the train. 

❝ give me a cigarette. ❞

     The words send a familiar chill up her spine, and it hurts not to kiss him. He will be thoroughly kissed once this issue is dealt with. Now inside, she feels her coat being tugged off, the man saying something about being a gentleman.

     But the moment she feels the stranger’s hands trying to pull open her blouse, and breaking one of the pearl buttons, she quickly reaches for a fountain pen resting upon a small table by the door.

     It now rested deep in his neck.

     Her face was hard, unfeeling. He’d brought on his death much quicker than necessary. Letting the body slump to the floor, blood gushed around the pen, onto the hardwood floor. They didn’t keep many rugs anymore.

“You’re bait next time,” She stated, eyes on the crumpled, warm corpse, feeling the thread were the button had been. Her hunger remained, but had she not a need, her appetite would have perished. Perhaps she’d come across too willing, she assumed. Still, she knew nothing would have happened.

“What parts look good to you, my love?”