(no subject)
One thing Bela likes best about visiting Cal is shopping in a slightly different New York. It amuses her to track down her favorite Manhattan shops to find out whether they are completely different or they stock things her world's versions don't. Since they are both independent people, Bela doesn't feel badly about slipping away from Cal for a few hours of retail therapy. God knows she needs it, and he probably needs it, too; she's been pretty high maintenance this visit.
She hates scarves, but she has one of black silk tied over the bite today as she flits from shop to shop. She'll need a trip to a plastic surgeon once she gets back to her world, if the fang marks don't fade away on their own. Every once in a while her hand will drift up to the place where the vampire fed from her. It fills her with white hot rage every time.
I, Bela Talbot, was in thrall to a vampire and fed upon. What. The. Fuck.
It's embarrassing and infuriating, what with all of her knowledge and experience. She should have known better. Right? She wishes she could remember what happened. That's still the worst part.
For this afternoon's retail therapy, she's in the Village, checking out some of the funkier places she frequents. A handmade soap and incense shop has taken the place of the candle shop she likes in her version of Manhattan. Sitar music plays in the background, and the walls are lined with deep red cloth that is gathered in the middle of the ceiling to give the impression of a tent. She immediately picks up a basket and begins examining the soaps. While she is not overly fond of perfume, she adores scented soaps and bath accouterments.
Her basket is filled with pyramid- and obelisk-shaped soaps when she picks up one enigmatically called "Temple of the Ancients". She breathes in the scent. It smells faintly of roses with an undertone of spice and some earthy tone, and-
Honey and earth. Roses and blood
-she is nearly overwhelmed by a recollection of sensation. She drops the soap. It falls onto the plush carpet with a soft thud. She places her hand over her eyes. It's not a memory she's experiencing. It's not clear enough to be anything that tangible. All she knows is she's both frightened and turned on - extremely turned on - and she knows it's because of whatever happened to her.
With shaking hands, she reaches for the fallen soap and replaces it in its bin, but not without smelling it one more time. She can't stop herself. After that, she can think of nothing but getting away. She sets down the basket and flees for the door. She walks down the street, her arms firmly crossed over her chest in the defensive posture she always seeks when threatened. Once she turns the corner, she stops, her back against cool marble, gulping fresh air into her lungs. Her cheeks feel hot, and her nipples are so hard that they hurt. She looks up at the sky, her eyes snapping with conflicted emotion and her eyebrows knitted together in fury.
"If I'm getting a vampire kink because of all of this, I am going to be so fucking annoyed," she murmurs. "Damn it."
If the vampire made her feel this intensely amazing, why did he (Bela can't help but think it was a male) take the memories away? What else did he do to her? That thought gives her the not-so-pleasant shivers, and everything muddies up inside her once more.
After a few more minutes to cool down and calm down, she hails a cab and heads for Midtown. New shoes will help. Yes. Shoes. Many, many pairs of expensive, fabulous shoes. When she gets back to Cal's, she won't mention a word about this. She'll just glory in her shoes. She closes her eyes as the cab navigates the Manhattan traffic. This sucks.
Literally.
She hates scarves, but she has one of black silk tied over the bite today as she flits from shop to shop. She'll need a trip to a plastic surgeon once she gets back to her world, if the fang marks don't fade away on their own. Every once in a while her hand will drift up to the place where the vampire fed from her. It fills her with white hot rage every time.
I, Bela Talbot, was in thrall to a vampire and fed upon. What. The. Fuck.
It's embarrassing and infuriating, what with all of her knowledge and experience. She should have known better. Right? She wishes she could remember what happened. That's still the worst part.
For this afternoon's retail therapy, she's in the Village, checking out some of the funkier places she frequents. A handmade soap and incense shop has taken the place of the candle shop she likes in her version of Manhattan. Sitar music plays in the background, and the walls are lined with deep red cloth that is gathered in the middle of the ceiling to give the impression of a tent. She immediately picks up a basket and begins examining the soaps. While she is not overly fond of perfume, she adores scented soaps and bath accouterments.
Her basket is filled with pyramid- and obelisk-shaped soaps when she picks up one enigmatically called "Temple of the Ancients". She breathes in the scent. It smells faintly of roses with an undertone of spice and some earthy tone, and-
Honey and earth. Roses and blood
-she is nearly overwhelmed by a recollection of sensation. She drops the soap. It falls onto the plush carpet with a soft thud. She places her hand over her eyes. It's not a memory she's experiencing. It's not clear enough to be anything that tangible. All she knows is she's both frightened and turned on - extremely turned on - and she knows it's because of whatever happened to her.
With shaking hands, she reaches for the fallen soap and replaces it in its bin, but not without smelling it one more time. She can't stop herself. After that, she can think of nothing but getting away. She sets down the basket and flees for the door. She walks down the street, her arms firmly crossed over her chest in the defensive posture she always seeks when threatened. Once she turns the corner, she stops, her back against cool marble, gulping fresh air into her lungs. Her cheeks feel hot, and her nipples are so hard that they hurt. She looks up at the sky, her eyes snapping with conflicted emotion and her eyebrows knitted together in fury.
"If I'm getting a vampire kink because of all of this, I am going to be so fucking annoyed," she murmurs. "Damn it."
If the vampire made her feel this intensely amazing, why did he (Bela can't help but think it was a male) take the memories away? What else did he do to her? That thought gives her the not-so-pleasant shivers, and everything muddies up inside her once more.
After a few more minutes to cool down and calm down, she hails a cab and heads for Midtown. New shoes will help. Yes. Shoes. Many, many pairs of expensive, fabulous shoes. When she gets back to Cal's, she won't mention a word about this. She'll just glory in her shoes. She closes her eyes as the cab navigates the Manhattan traffic. This sucks.
Literally.