the same old trip as before;
another complicating suicide;
and it's the same old trip;
the same old trip as before...

She loved this view, and not only because it was one that almost no mortal eye ever got to see for themselves, but because it was the closest to a bird's eye view of the city as she could gain when in her own form, and the closest that she could come to sharing that experience, the gift of hers, with her brother, and lover. So many times, they had found this place, or one just like it, and never had something as simple as the danger of it, or such things as rules, regulations, or locks, get in their way in their travels across the world. If such things had never stopped them when they were human, who on the earth would imagine that it would do so now? They had always challenged, always dared to go where no one else would, to see what no one else wanted to, or was afraid to. It was, always had been, always had been, their audacity, their rebelliousness, their challenging of all things, that had made them who they were, had made them alive... even when they weren't.

"Sometimes, I still miss it. The way things were." She murmurs, confesses, as she curls into his hold around her, her body nestling into the nooks and crannies of his as if they were made for each other... which they were, they always had been, two halves of a whole, two sides of the same coin, opposites in so many ways and yet ... so much the same. Her head tilts back, coming to rest in that little hollow where his neck meets his shoulder, letting herself relax against him, the auburn-tinted curls of mahogany drifting loose in the wind to tickle against him, and her alike.

She didn't mean, of course, her mortality. Her human years were... insignificant, for the most part, in her opinion. They were worn, faded, creased and tattered like the handful of daguerrotypes and photographs that they still had from that life, the memories of them distant and grainy. Still, she had not abandoned them entirely, they held importance only as proof to her that there were no such things as coincidences, that while not all may be held in the loom of Fate, some things were, in fact, unavoidable. All the actions, each decision in and of itself so inconsequential, that had laid the stepping stones that brought her, and her brother to where they had needed to be. What others would see as chance, she saw as proof that she had, as she had always suspected, been meant for something... greater, grander than setting tea, and planning menus, organizing spring cleanings and keeping track of a half a dozen ill-begotten children.... The thought almost made her nose wrinkle.

It was not so much that she detested children; some of them were in fact, quite intelligent and clever, or particularly precocious, or pretty or handsome in their own right, but it was the years that led up to the charming acts of pre-adolescent childhood that made her ... well, squeamish, almost. Even when she had been human, the cries of infants, the constant care and attention that they required, as well as the... aromas that they were capable of producing had kept her at bay, much to her mother's dismay. No, she was not, nor ever had been meant to be called 'mother', she mused.

But no, it was none of these things that she missed. The restraints of society, the weight of living under someone else's authority, the dreaded future of wife and mother, it was not these trappings of mortality that she missed, but rather, the times of their burgeoning rebirth, the age of their new lives, so many years before.

"Certainly, this modern day is... appealing, in some regards." She murmurs, continuing her train of thought aloud for her brother's sake, on the off chance that he might have misinterpreted her first statement a moment before. "It is most certainly ... shinier," She says, dryly, "And the fact that it has become, in all ways, a twenty-four hour world certainly has its benefits." She adds. At any point in time, anywhere even in the one continent, much less the other parts of the world taht were, in this day and age, a mere skip hop and a jump away even for the humans, there was always someone awake, always entertainment of one form or another to be found, never did the world sleep in entirety.

"But I do miss it. The days, when we could make our way to a town and whittle them away, one by one, two by two, and if we were lucky, it would be blamed on the work of devils, or even luckier, a plague. Or, if we wished, to hunt down an entire village, hunt entire families that were days away from any one. And the worst that we might have to fear is the random cry of witch from a town elder, which only served to hasten our feast, rather than draw it out."

"And now... now, even one death is noticed, within hours, or days, and there are so many of them that serve no other purpose than to lay the blame of such disappearances and deaths onto someone's head. With their forensics, and their cadaver dogs, and their video cameras and databases." The words, these last words, were almost petulant, hinting at discontent. This was hardly the first time that such conveniences of the modern and technological age had been mentioned, or discussed, and there were times when such things fascinated her, to the point that she would become obsessed with collecting them, with understanding them, with luring in those that knew of procedures and technologies, and seduce them until she had what she wanted from them, or a house full of tiny gadgets that she would use once and then discard.... and at times, she considered such things a challenge, to hunt and kill beneath the eyes and ears of the human's 'security' and police, investigators and bureaus while they were oblivious to the dangers that lurked in their fair cities...

But tonight, there was something... else. Something that she could not shake, some nostalgia or discontent that clung to her that she had not been able to shake, despite her brother's devious attempts to distract her from her malcontent with roaming fingers and teasing lips that played over her body in a well-practiced and familiar dance.

she's taking over too quickly;
no medication can cure the lust;
so say a prayer for the sickly;
'cause she belongs to heaven...

the same old trip as before;
another complicating suicide;
and it's the same old trip;
the same old trip as before...

Her body rested, gentle and soft against him, marble and ice to the rest of the world, her curves fitted against him, into him, two pieces carved of the same stone, interlocking and unbreakable, her head resting against his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his arms that curled around her as if they would shield her, protect her from the insults of the world, from any look or word that would wound her... or perhaps, if she was to take a more cynical view of it all, to hold her back, to distract her, to tame her, his arms the only cage that had any hope of holding back her fire, her temper, her disregard... the thought brought a devilish play of a smile, and simultaneous darkness, to her features, her weight shifting, feather light and rock solid, settling from one foot, to the other, and balanced again, as his words brushed against her like a calming wind, his breath enticing and soothing all in the same moment.

He was her poison, her addiction, and the knowledge of that irked her at times beyond comprehension, and yet... she couldn't shake him, couldn't abandon him, no matter how many times her sharp voice and angry words had threatened to do just that... There was fire, in their touch, destruction in their wake, and eternity on their horizon, neverending torment and pleasure, hate and love, adoration and anger... could one love, without those moments of hate, was that not the ultimate heat, and testament of their passion?

Patience, he beckoned of her, coaxed from her, another soft half breath torn from her, at the single word, the soft request, her gaze turning out over the city, the blanket of darkness interrupted by the glittering of stars, only they weren't such, they were artificial, the lights of the streets, of the city, the houses and business, the glare of the television sets, and the whine of the engines, the staccato interruption of the thunder of gunshots, of wasted blood and futile struggles of the humans beneath them to obtain something... anything greater than what they were, rats swarming over rats on the sinking ship of mortality...

Her lips curled, the corners of the crimson painted halves sliding upwards, as he described the future, the fall of civilization, as it was destined, as it always would be, and a slow purr of satisfaction and anticipation began in her throat, as her mind turned to the images of what would come, and they, unchanging and forever, would dance in the aftermath of the destruction, savage in their feasting and conquest...

She turned her gaze, and her head, then, slightly, as he shifted behind her, resting his chin on her shoulder, following the turn of his eyes with her own, the outer edge of a brow quirking upwards as his words slipped from him, and she could see, the wheels, the slow layers of a plan, shifting, forming, could feel it in the slow tension that built in his form as he wrapped himself around her, and she grew still, anticipation and almost giddy pleasure drawing to lighten her expression. Oh, she might be a devil, a demon, with no care for the social mores, never one to have let her conscious stand in the way of what it was that she wanted, for what she wanted, she would have, or no one would... but he, his maliciousness was a slower, drawn out torture, a slowly building fuse that would no doubt leave a bloody swath in its wake, only his more precise, more culled, than her own...

And as she had expected, when his suggestion at last came from his lips, it was as wicked and deliscious, as she had hoped, as she had come to expect from him, her smile drawing swiftly over her features, fire sparking in her gaze. "Oh... what a wicked boy you are..." She murmurs, her voice resounding with anticipation and pleasure, her hand rising up from his arm, to slide along his jaw, and dance along the line of his neck, curling around him as she turned her gaze to the city below, as already her mind began to work at the possibilities, the necessities, the details of the when and where and who.... of how to make it theirs, to own it. Her lips curled, a smile of pleasure and satisfaction that would have made any one but him shudder, or quake. He had long since been both fascinated, and appalled, at the atrocities of man against man, his office wall coated with clippings, of the horrible and macabre, that would seem as if they belonged in the stories of Poe, or Shelley, but were instead ripped from the headlines of the world around them.

To take that, and add their own particular twist... for their own name, whatever it would be that they were dubbed... oh, but that would take care, wouldn't it, to ensure that it was something that she would relish...

she's taking over too quickly;
no medication can cure the lust;
so say a prayer for the sickly;
'cause she belongs to heaven...