play with fire and you'll get b u r n e d -- valentina

[Fairytale dreamer]

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Valentina Moscovitz


"What are you looking at?"</center>

[Fairytale dreamer]

[taken from live play.]

They always said that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned -- but that didn't begin to describe the rage that lingered underneath the surface of an already fiery woman. After yet another fight with Gian -- and truly it should've been the last fight with all the blood they shed and the angry words they used to tear through each other's defenses once more (it was no good - fighting with someone who knew all of your weakness). She fled Prague in a whirl of silk and Romanian curses, nursing a broken heart -- it had never really been put together correctly after the first time it broke -- and running all the way to another continent. He would not chase her, he had said so as his final threat, and she used those words like a lifeline, her own special prayer. It had more power over her soul then all of the Hebrew scriptures and Latin prayers combined. She made her way through this new city, charming some and intimidating others until she had been set up in a nice little flat and had enough to indulge her shoe fetish (fashion was her oasis - it was always changing and gave her something to look forward to when yet another life ended and she did not find heaven or hell but merely another day in another body). That was, of course, until the news of a firebird in the city spread to the Master of the City's ears and he sent one of his men - a rather nasty man with ice blue eyes - to fetch her. "What is your problem?" She snapped when Micah thrust her into a room before closing the door. "Wait -- you get back here!" The words that followed were in Romanian and far too obscene to be translated. Micah's only response was to snap the lock into place.

Rising to power in such a city as New York was no easy feat. It had taken years to properly secure his men [and various creatures, as it were], and lay low until the time was right. Ages had passed, and always the vampire hid his true power, his strength. Masters came and went, and he served each faithfully - at least to their face. In secret he conspired, whispered, he twisted and turned and formed every bit of his surroundings to suit his personal taste and just what he would need to secure his place in the city. Oh, but that had been such a reminder of his early days, when, at 27, he had been taken over by his maker - a young woman he found gloriously beautiful, and in his frenzy of lust-filled youth, he wished nothing more to bed her. But she had other plans. - and made into what he is now. But there was no point in lamenting the past, now was there? He had been in power less than six months when his faithful leopard [angry, obnoxious and vicious were much better words, but that was kept silent] brought him word of a myth. A firebird, in his very own city! Certainly, this was fate. Luck could not be so good to one man! Plans were made, and it was decided - they would bring her to him, as soon as the moon hung low in the sky and he rose his black lacquered coffin. Micah, for being a lycanthrope, made an amusing amount of noise, and from the various obscenities being shouted [he didn't speak Romanian, but the tone of voice said everything] he had no need to use his vampiric senses to gauge their arrival. Soon the door of a small cell was forced open, only to be slammed shut. Lock in place. Plans were set. The vampire, being the devious sort that he was, let the creature sit in the darkness for a long moment, letting her stew with anger and worry before he slowly, silently, made his through the stone hallways lodged deep underground. Knuckles rapping gently against the steel as soon as he found himself in front of the door - he didn't want her to panic and do something stupid like burn him to death, you know - he slowly cracked it open, startlingly dark blue eyes peeking around the edge. "I do apologize for my dear leopard. He does not have the charm I wish to bestow him with." Voice deep, smooth. The accent was strange - obviously French, but with an underlying hint of mortal days spent under the Spanish sun. Stepping fully into the room, he tapped the light switch, rather enjoying the sharp illumination, no matter that it tended to distort the true colors of the world. Tall, but not horribly so, he was an easy six foot, the very picture of lean muscularity. Dressed to the nines in black linen pants, which were tucked neatly into knee-high leather boots, and a simple crimson shirt [silk, you know. He wore little else], he seemed ever the worldly gentleman, face nothing but serene and polite. "I am Diego, the Master of this city. And you, my little dove, are of interest to me."

Oh, it was never a good idea to let a firebird stew -- she would scream and scream until her voice grew raw and flames licked at her insides, heating her up from the core and spreading outwards -- global warming, baby. It was funny, Valentina had the ability to manipulate flame in any way she pleased but she never thought to use it on her enemies. Gian never taught her that and she never thought to try it while fighting for her life whenever a silly vampire came to try and get a taste of her sweet blood. A taste of a firebird was like eating spicy food after months of nothing but bland sandwiches and soups - it burned but felt so damn good. She fell silent when the door opened, nose wrinkling at the scent of vampire and eyes blinking at the sudden appearance of such harsh lighting. She eyed him for a very long time, taking in everything from the point of his shoes to the mess of his hair with such disdain glowing in her grey eyes - like melted mercury and just as harsh. It was the look she used on men that dared to flirt with her, the look that brought them to the knees and made them feel like the trash they were. For really - who was better then Valentina? (You must forgive her vanity, she is a bird, after all.) "And that is supposed to mean what to me?" Romanian accent made her voice husky and warm, like a tiger's throaty purr.

Say what you would about Diego, he was blessed with an incredibly infuriating ability to weather all insults and threats with charm and grace. Simply smiling calmly at her, if not warmly, his eyes strayed from her lovely face only once she had finished with the brunt of her assault [i.e., flesh-melting glares]. Glancing about the room, a sigh escaped him suddenly, the drab surroundings suddenly wearing on him sense of reality. Best to cover the ugly with a beautiful mask, or so the saying goes. "My deepest apologies, ma cherie. Please, let us adjourn to my sitting room, hmm? It is only down the hall." Extending his hand to her, encased in thick black leather, though the coolness of his flesh still seeped through the glove. "It is never wise to talk of matters when surrounded by such blas? walls." Hint of a smile, once olive but now alabaster skin glinting unnatural in the light. "I mean you no harm, I merely wish to speak to you." And he bowed then, hand still extended, but his eyes were plastered to her face once again, as if it were incredibly dangerous to move them away. Perhaps it was.

She was afraid, of course - who wouldn't be? Trapped in a room with a crazy leopard outside the door, more then likely sharpening his teeth and drooling over the thought of ripping her apart, and a vampire inside the room. She was taller then most women at 5'8 but lithe and with a runner's build, not a fighter's. Her heart was racing, but perhaps he would blame that on the temper warming her veins and lacing her gaze with venom. He was right to watch her closely, for a scared animal is always the one that poses the most danger to the hunter. "Indeed -- you should drain your decorator." And not me! Lifting her chin to a haughty angle, she ignored the offered hand and made to step around him towards the door. She was smart enough to know that there was no hope in escaping from this room, so perhaps the sitting room would work better.

Oh, but how he loved her fiery nature! Perhaps that should not have been so very surprising, given what she was. But he enjoyed it, nonetheless, and made no attempt to hide his amusement. When she snapped her quip about his decorator, he threw his head back and laughed openly. Deep, smooth, almost ... erotic. Call it a gift, or a flaw - it really depended on your outlook. Watching every move of her lithe body as she stepped around him, he was quick to wave away the leopard that was standing in the hallway, pacing and looking rather ... irritated. Micah was always irritated, or so it seemed to Diego, and he simply glared the man/cat away. Good thing, considering the lycanthrope would no doubt have been an enemy had the leopard not been Diego's animal to call. Anyway, he was keeping pace with her as she walked toward the sitting room, though his steps often feel a pace or two behind her. Just for good measure. Her power was intoxicating - pure heat, and so very full of life. All the things he lacked. All the things he craved. Once they had both brushed past the hanging curtains that served as a doorway he was on her. Gloved hands wrapping tightly around her wrists, vampiric strength [it was a secret none of his enemies ever learned until it was too late - Diego hid his power. Constantly. He served when he could rule, and he fought only when he knew death was inevitable. For his foe, that is. The only person who never how strong he'd been was Gabriel--- well. That didn't matter now.] throwing her against the wall, until her back was flat and she was pinned beneath his weight. Sleek muscularity pressed against lithe curves, hip against hip - it would have seemed utterly sexual if you didn't understand his true motives. "Do not fear me, little love - it will do you no good." Was it meant to be comforting? Perhaps, perhaps not. He was not going to harm her. At least, he didn't find it harmful. But he didn't strike, no, not yet. He just watched, waiting for a reaction.

She was fire and brimstone - the kind they whispered about in churches while frightening children to keep them on the straight and narrow, but there was nothing demonic about her lineage. She was a creature of the light and therefore always be coveted by darkness. The spanish colorings of her new face matched her tempestuous nature well (she hoped that she got to keep this body for a long time - but time would tell when she had vampires sniffing at her heels). Offering a disdainful sniff when she passed by Micah, she paused long enough to sharply inform the cat that he needed a bath -- or did he like looking like a rat? A grave offense for someone of the feline persuasion. Micah growled and looked close to attacking, but Diego's presence forced him to check himself, though surely the beast inside was tapping its tail with irritation and glowering. Sailing into the sitting room, she had barely enough to look about for something else to complain about before he was on her and slamming her back against the wall. "Bastard," hissed sharply while the firebird glared at him from underneath a veil of dark, dark lashes. He could probably feel the warmth of her temper heating her skin through their clothes, like the ground steaming before a volcano began spewing lava and rock. If she were less then a lady then she would have spit in his face, and from the narrowing of her eyes she was still considering it. "If you want to be able to have sex anytime in the next century you will let go of me." She warned while one leg shifted in a silent warning -- nevermind that they were pressed too closely for her to reach her target, men usually were so afraid of such a thing that they took her at her word.

The warmth of her skin caused him to gasp. Or at least it would have, if he didn't have centuries of practice covering his emotions. Owning a face like a mask was nothing but a blessing, he'd come to understand in those first few years of his change, although it'd taken him several - with the help of Gabriel. That thought crossed his eyes, made him flinch, but then it was gone again. - to truly gain the control he needed. "Your nature will serve you well in our game, ma cherie. As will your beauty." She was the perfect addiction to his little menagerie, wasn't she? Ducking his head down with a startling preternal swiftness, it might have seemed he had struck. But he didn't. Far from it, actually. Dark hair falling gracefully against her skin and shoulder, his mouth found the tender flesh of her neck, and only the press of sweet kisses ever touched the skin. No teeth, no pain. Simple adoration, although perhaps 'simple' was not such an accurate word. Fingers loosened their grip on her hands, for he found contentment in resting his hands on the firm curve of her waist. Nevermind that this left him open to clawing and scratching, which didn't strike his as the most enjoyable past time. "How many times have I told you? Do not fear me. Take strength from me." Ugh, did anyone else want to kill him? Micah was watching all of this, rolling his eyes and muttering about vampires and their strange sex lives. Diego, on the other hand, looking like some sort of French-Spanish Prince, and sounding like he'd just walked out of an 17th century romance novel, paid no attention to this. He had what he wanted, was absorbing her heat through the touch of his lips, scenting her blood through the thin cover of her skin. She was perfect. "Most important, little love," his voice broke through the long, thick silence once again. "Do not fight me." And then his teeth her buried in her neck, though he attempted to spare her as much pain as possible, and the coolness of his body - his essence, his soul, whatever you wanted to call it - was a tangible thing. It was clashing and melding with her warmth, red against blue, winter against summer, washing over both their bodies and bringing the world into some sort of confusing frenzy. Some sort of painful euphoria, where all was blood and death, wine and sex.

She would have burned him if she didn't fear melting her own organs and torching this precious little body of hers. There was that little pesky side effect, after all. But then again, perhaps Gian had told her that to scare her so many years ago in the hopes that she would stay. To let him take care of her. The thought of caused a similar flash of age-old sadness to creep into those mercurial depths while she stared at his own eyes a hairsbreadth away. Shifting restlessly -- fire could never stay in one place for long; it flickered, grew, spread, devoured -- it did nothing to free her from the cage of undead flesh and she tugged her wrists when he lowered his head to go for the kill. She tensed and a swift intake of breath could be heard when his mouth touched her skin; lips as cold as ice meeting feverish flesh. She closed her eyes and waited for the sharp slice of fangs that was sure to come, the dizzying feeling of having her lifeblood sucked out through the hole he made -- Gian, you were right.. I'm sorry, I'm so sorr-- But the pain never came and its place were soft, soft kisses and firm fingers gripping the blades of her handlebar hips. Her hands swept down to grip his shoulders, nails digging in sharply -- but their prick was nothing in comparison to the sharpness of his fangs when they finally ripped through her flesh and opened a vein. One yelp was all she could muster before she was swooning back against the wall and fighting him with hands pushing against his shoulders. The ice melted her fire and the flash of images in her head were too many to drown out -- minor memories on the surface of his mind melding with her own.

The word orgasmic came to mind, but that was a crude title to give what they now shared. Memories flashed through him, ones of another time, another place. Another firebird! A male, this time, although he did not catch the name. Love and hate and fire and sex and death. Likewise, she was no doubt being filled with images of his own long life - four centuries of the struggle for power. Of Gabriel, his beautiful love, and Amelie, their--- Oh, Christ, don't think of it. Horrid, how it still effected him after so long. Still made his stomach clench and his eyes water. Even the heat of her blood burning on his tongue and down his throat couldn't tear the pain away from him, couldn't make it disappear. No doubt she was feeling it too, although he tried to shield her from it. Somewhat out of concern for her well being [being marked was stressful for the body, you know] but mostly out of his intense distaste for ever revealing himself. He had only done that once, to two people, and never would it happen again---When he awoke, the annoyed face of his leopard was staring down at him, hand on his shoulder, shaking him. He'd lost time, although only a matter of minutes. The firebird - he'd forgotten to ask her name! How rude of him - was passed out on the floor, bleeding from her neck. Did firebirds scar? He didn't know, and didn't want to risk it. Nipping the tip of his finger just hard enough to draw a single droplet of his own blood, he smoothed it over the puncture wounds in her neck. They healed almost instantly, as he knew they would. Her power him, made his dizzy, but he managed to get to his feet. Still a bit wobbly, he stood, only to bend down and scoop her up into his arms. The walk to his bedroom seemed longer than normal - the aftereffect of her power, no doubt. Laying her gently down on his bed, he removed her shoes so that she would be comfortable, but otherwise left her fully clothes. Quilts tugged up over her still form, he made to leave and shut the door silently behind him. "Go back to whatever it is you do, but send Jonah over. I want him to watch her, make sure she is well. When she wakes, he is to give her whatever she wants." Which meant, of course, clean clothes, food, a hot bath. Not a wooden stake and a large axe. Jonah knew that. Micah might have known that, but Diego didn't think he'd care all that much if the opportunity arose. Waving the leopard off, Diego was gone.