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This programme may not be suitable for Younger or More Sensitive Writers - Diary of a Necromancer
Excuse me, I'm making perfect sense, you're just not keeping up
robling_t
robling_t
This programme may not be suitable for Younger or More Sensitive Writers
{sigh} Yet another installment where I'm left sort of wondering at myself, and whether I need to put separate content warnings on some of these bits when y'all who are still reading along already know that hey, it's about vampires and cannibals anyway...


***

The year is grinding down to its dreary grey nub. Jason announces that he'll be gone for a few days back to his Mum's ancestral seat to show off his education; "House to yourself, dude," he adds with a suggestive lift of the eyebrows.

I do owe Jill a dinner. Just don't touch my stand mixer, Jason says.

I half expect him to leave a note for the child-minder, No sugary snacks after eleven and don't let him watch programmes about the war, it only upsets him. "I would have said 'House Hunters International'," Jason remarks when I voice this fancy, and leaves still chuckling.

(I like home-shows, really, it's the people on them who don't appreciate what a wonder it is to have however humble a fitted kitchen or bath that get up my nose.)

When Jill arrives she takes a deep breath of the curry-scented air: "Mmm, traditional British home-cooking. Or am I about to find out there's a reason you live with Jason?"

She hands me her portfolio to begin unloading bottles of beer from a rucksack. She's been practicing drawing me from memory -- because it's hard, as she says. The images are developing a consensus that I have an inclination towards an expression of puzzled worry, and rather less nose than I'd have thought. I come to a fine watercolour of myself in her red robe, lounging at my ease in a chair, quite at my ease in fact -- You can blush, she says.

Not the first time I've posed nude. But I don't think I'll show that one to Jason.

Naturally this means I spend the meal trying to explain such an outrageous statement. Paris? To work with artists a tiny thing amongst it all -- common dodge amongst us, craving as we do our lost faces. And when a threadbare purse couldn't be stretched to pay in mere mortal coin...

(How we would gather in the shabby flat when one of us had made good of an evening, and share the bounty amongst ourselves, that I don't think I'm ready to speak of. Won't ever be again, I don't think. Cecily's rosy lips as she slept in Francois's dark arms beside me, until everyone woke up when Iosif started griping at Marianne to put out that cigarette -- )

We settle in front of the telly after supper, because it seems to be becoming a habit. (Our habit, there's a thing.) I've acquitted myself satisfactorily: Poor showing of myself if I hadn't learnt to cook by now. Jill puts her long legs up on our steamer-trunk table, sipping at the last of her beer, and wants to know why her two manly-even-if-one's-secretly-artsy blokes have a programme about Van Gogh on the recorder. She looks thoughtful as I abashedly admit that I'd saved it on the thought she might like to -- ?

She's weeping openly by the end: It's what you want to think, that you haven't just been photoshopping cheese-doodles all this time, she says, dashing the tears away with the base of her thumb. It's good, it's just... No, it's good.

...Come to bed?

I thought you'd never ask.

She's ferocious, nipping at my skin. I can't bear it, suddenly, unexpected release leaving me shaking and muddled in her arms as she apologises. No, no, that was... completely me, I try to explain.

"Biting, huh. Every time I get tempted to think of you as all straight-laced and Victorian. Should I be insulted now that you never try to bite me?"

"Well, if that's what you'd like..."

She chortles as I slide in closer to her neck. Clean scent of her hair round my face as I draw my teeth gently across the surface of her skin, teasing up the smallest beads of warm wet life.

She tastes of one of us who hasn't fed, thin and lacking virtue. I pull back, try to smile. Yeah, sorry, lost the thread a bit, I think. Glass of water?

Jill murmurs accord. I slip out of bed and go to the kitchen (the one sloping about the flat naked for once), running water from the tap with one finger at the rim of the glass like a blind man rather than dazzle my eyes with a light. The water tastes as thin and icy.

Once I've regained some of my composure I go back to the bedroom to find Jill's not been idle. It's quite the come-hither look, if I could draw her, eyes gathering the dim light into embers: "Come to bed?" she says, and I do.

We don't speak of it in the morning. Jill stays as long as her work will allow, but inevitably I'm left to my own devices. It's a bit jarring once Jason does come home to fill the kitchen with excited chatter about his extended family as he squares away a cooler of turkey particles he's brought back "so you wouldn't feel left out". I gather his great-grandmother is recovering well from the minor stroke that had kept her from attending the wedding but it's left her sounding like a Swedish William Shatner.

She's made him mittens. Two sorts: one pair with thumbs, and one set of four without. I wonder if he'll risk leaving them on to change, or if I've just acquired another responsibility.

***



And, since it's particularly apropos here, ankewehner's portrait of Trevor from a small-art project:

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ashnistrike From: ashnistrike Date: October 10th, 2012 01:01 pm (UTC) (permalink this entry)
Interesting... T not being able to effectively feed from Jill makes sense. I'm getting more and more curious about Cecily (I suppose that's the point).

When they're talking in bed, there's a point where I'm pretty sure you mean "If that's what you'd like."

-Nameseeker
robling_t From: robling_t Date: October 10th, 2012 08:16 pm (UTC) (permalink this entry)
When they're talking in bed, there's a point where I'm pretty sure you mean "If that's what you'd like."

...DANGIT. :) {fixes}

Yeah, there's quite a lot going on there, innit? {Ominous Look}
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