#insolot

4. do you have any advice for other writers? its ok to have a preference for writing certain things. for example i really prefer writing dialogue and explaining what goes on in a character’s head / how they’re feeling than writing imagery of any kind. im REALLY bad at writing imagery as well as describing how something is said (ie. she said/he sighs/you get the gist) bc i dont.. think much about them.. and i dont want to overuse said.. but i dont want to use those kind of verbs in general. tldr do what you want. its tumblr rp. who is gonna check you. no one. and if someone does just kick them.

20. favorite cryptid(s)? fresno nightcrawlers. i like them

“ how do you do that? the whole kindness and selflessness thing, i mean. i could never quite get it down when i was a kid,” it sounds innocently curious, but there was obvious that there was another question that went unsaid: why aren’t you tainted just like i am? it was so easy to place all of his insecurities and hatred onto someone who was seemingly so willing to take it all without complaint. maybe that wasn’t the entire case, but regardless he’d never pass up the opportunity to get under someone’s skin just to soothe his bad mood.

“ i’m sure you’ve been through a lot. the world is such a cold, cruel place after all. maybe the better question would be how can you stand to be this way when the world doesn’t deserve it? ”

The Doctor tries the door handle half-heartedly. It rattles limply, twitching against the lock. In his pocket, the key is cold and uninviting. He handles it delicately, like something fragile, his movements so subtle and gentle as he turns the key in the lock.

A click. The door opens.

The Doctor's shadow stretches into the room, his silhouette outlined by the red glow of the distant bonfires. Cold air spills inside as he finally steps over the threshold, uninterested in casting judgment upon the state of @insolot's quarters. The parcel of materials is set aside, on top of spread out papers. The Doctor lingers over them, almost reverent. Then, as if reminded of the chill—

"You should have told me that you were feeling unwell. I recall asking you if you needed any medicine, the last time I was here."

The door closes. The Doctor makes his way toward Vincent, looming over him with an ugly indifference. He bends over for a closer look at Vincent, his mask concealing the dehumanizing incisiveness of his scrutiny. His spindly hand caresses the side of Vincent's face emotionlessly, his thumb and forefinger pressing gently into the flesh to allow an examination of Vincent's pupils. Then he pulls away, without warning or care, leaving Vincent to his agony again.

"Remain seated. I should have something that will help."

   “ you look dead. ” not that he’s concerned, of course. “ can’t tell if you’re sick or if it’s because you’re european. ”

   maybe that’s not the most politest of things to say. “ not that there’s anything wrong with that last thing. i’ve got some of it too. ”

   “  what i see  ?   ”

   it comes to him in a snap: 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨.

   sylvain understands it well. he carves something unfair with his own two hands and pulls back when it becomes a handful. when it stops being for a thrill. as it always happens, and as he always does. he carves it from his own desire, unknown even to him sometimes. but he understands, at the very least, something provokes it. and that it leads to a detriment people who don’t deserve it get caught on.

   like the one who’s staring back. hardly ever away. it makes him feel seen.

   “  i’ll put it short and sweet, if that’s okay,  ”  a chemical silence studies them. when he smiles and says,  “  𝗂 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗒.  ”  it sounds more like talking of a phenomenon than a person. in his mind, there’s no difference.  “  right now, you’re seeing through me. no… not just now. you always have.  ”  the same way sylvain sees through the superficiality he performs. that eternal threat. being seen the same way makes him feel cornered, as someone who people look at without seeing he doesn’t belong to himself.

   sylvain understands it so well now. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗄𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍’𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗁.

   cradling vincent’s cheek feels unnatural when he finds himself really meaning it now. he thinks he does mean it.  “  hey, 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝  ?  ”  when is a lost cause struggling to regain its meaning too far gone to be worth it  ?