She paints the skyline of the city -- glittering beneath her through the windows of the high-rise penthouse, she paints houses in the sunlight and dreams up of embellishments to add; children and dogs and mothers tidying. She paints dreamy little suburbs from memory, splashed in golden light and unbearably bright skies -- and maybe they become a little exaggerated, because she's spent so long in the darkness that she doesn't know what it's like anymore, save for random scenes on television.
Mako sometimes works on two paintings at once, large canvases popped up on twin easels, her sensitive nose no longer irritated by paint fumes because -- well, it's hard to when breathing becomes largely optional. She's restless tonight, in a mood where she feels, acutely, every year of her four centuries, from the burning of Kyoto to the hustle and bustle of New York City, her newest haven shared with her lover and fledgling-- well, relatively speaking; Raleigh was 27 when she took him as hers and turned him, 80 years ago.
Things went smoothly, as they're usually wont to do when transformations are mutually consensual, when being a vampire isn't the constant gloom and doom that books and movies all make it out to be. Even so, Mako particularly despises contemporary retellings; they added far too much romanticism, because which vampire in his right mind is going to be fixated on some barely-legal trollop with zero personality?
No, vampires chose carefully: vampires loved and killed and fought and fucked, and sometimes vampires had ready supplies of O-negatives in their fridge.
Mako leaves Raleigh sleeping in their massive bed as she mixes colours, naked as the day she was born; she prefers being undressed as much as she can, it makes the evening breeze taste sweeter on her skin, and contemplates painting him, her magnificently gorgeous childe, so beautiful in repose. She makes a decision, leaves the palette, and sets up a third easel with a blank canvas.
Enough about suburbs she would never see -- Raleigh is a far more worthy subject for the night. She adds colours and shapes, glass bottles of paint tinkling whenever she chooses new variations in capturing his likeness when he's on his side facing her, eyes closed in slumber.
He's the choice she never regretted, beloved and favoured above nearly all else. ]
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no subject
you can't be sure of
a n y t h i n g
in this darkness
no subject
She paints the skyline of the city -- glittering beneath her through the windows of the high-rise penthouse, she paints houses in the sunlight and dreams up of embellishments to add; children and dogs and mothers tidying. She paints dreamy little suburbs from memory, splashed in golden light and unbearably bright skies -- and maybe they become a little exaggerated, because she's spent so long in the darkness that she doesn't know what it's like anymore, save for random scenes on television.
Mako sometimes works on two paintings at once, large canvases popped up on twin easels, her sensitive nose no longer irritated by paint fumes because -- well, it's hard to when breathing becomes largely optional. She's restless tonight, in a mood where she feels, acutely, every year of her four centuries, from the burning of Kyoto to the hustle and bustle of New York City, her newest haven shared with her lover and fledgling-- well, relatively speaking; Raleigh was 27 when she took him as hers and turned him, 80 years ago.
Things went smoothly, as they're usually wont to do when transformations are mutually consensual, when being a vampire isn't the constant gloom and doom that books and movies all make it out to be. Even so, Mako particularly despises contemporary retellings; they added far too much romanticism, because which vampire in his right mind is going to be fixated on some barely-legal trollop with zero personality?
No, vampires chose carefully: vampires loved and killed and fought and fucked, and sometimes vampires had ready supplies of O-negatives in their fridge.
Mako leaves Raleigh sleeping in their massive bed as she mixes colours, naked as the day she was born; she prefers being undressed as much as she can, it makes the evening breeze taste sweeter on her skin, and contemplates painting him, her magnificently gorgeous childe, so beautiful in repose. She makes a decision, leaves the palette, and sets up a third easel with a blank canvas.
Enough about suburbs she would never see -- Raleigh is a far more worthy subject for the night. She adds colours and shapes, glass bottles of paint tinkling whenever she chooses new variations in capturing his likeness when he's on his side facing her, eyes closed in slumber.
He's the choice she never regretted, beloved and favoured above nearly all else. ]