#molloyed

The clock on the wall ticked like a metronome pacing their conversation. Three-hundred-and-forty seconds had passed since Nicolas last spoke. Daniel only bothered to prompt the conversation when it became clear (around the two-hundred-and-fifty second mark) that his line of questioning was being shut down. 

Nicolas had found that silence in his purest form was impossible to achieve; the closest he had ever come being at the point of burning when the heat of the flames ruptured his eardrums, though, even then the crackle of flesh and wails of his coven had echoed (even memory makes a noise). The constant movement of the world caused a disruption in his psyche that clawed at his mind’s walls. Silence was merely chaos disguised. Did Daniel understand this? Did he even care? Wandering eyes trail along the room's back wall, following the streaks of painted over wall paper until the road trailed off entirely. 

Four-hundred-and-three seconds had passed and Nicolas could sense patience and irritation mingling like two old friends. Two stubborn bulls sat across, an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. Could they sit here until the time turned them to dust? Would Daniel pursue to the point of mutual destruction? He smiles at the thought. (What a waste that would be).

“You put words in my mouth. Ask me again and I might grant you a “yes”.”

 ❛    𝒉𝒆  𝒉𝒂𝒔  𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓𝒔.   ❜         the  words  sound  &*  tastes  like  they  burn  acidic  on  the  vampire's  tongue  as  he  scowls  across  at  @molloyed.      disgust  curls  his  lip.   a pause is given , then he takes a drag of his cigarette &* scoffs under his breath.    ❛   that  is  what  they  say  of  armand  because  of  you.      multi-dimensional  !     that  gremlin  is  as  one  note  as  𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆  𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒌  ,  molloy.      the  note  is  flat.   ❜

@molloyed // meme

Nicolas felt the city before he understood it.San Francisco in the seventies thrummed—neon, exhaust, incense, sweat, the ocean’s cold breath rolling in from the bay. It was nothing like Paris, nothing like the centuries of stone and shadow he remembered. This place was alive in a way that made his fingers itch for the violin he had stollen alongside the violinist's hands to replace his own...and Daniel Molloy—this strange, sharp‑eyed mortal with ink‑stained hands and a laugh that cracked like a match—had led him up here, to a rooftop terrace above a bar that smelled of spilled beer and patchouli.

The night was warm.

Daniel sat on the low concrete ledge, one knee drawn up, a joint burning between his fingers. The ember pulsed each time he inhaled, painting his cheekbones in brief, molten orange. Smoke curled around him like a lazy ghost.Nicolas had led down on the dirty roof letting the wind toy with the ends of his shoulder length hair. Resurrection had left him raw, half‑formed in ways he didn’t dare name. But this—this moment—felt almost like a beginning. He lead there with Daniel's recorder on his chest, it wasn't turned on nor was there tape in it, he simply liked the click of the buttons and had spent fifteen minutes simply pressing them to hear the click, click, click of the buttons mesmerised.

He glanced sideways at Daniel.Nicolas watched the smoke drift upward, dissolving into the night. He envied it a little—its ease, its freedom. His own body still felt borrowed, stitched together by forces he didn’t understand.

"You know I never thought this would be the meaning of stillness.A rooftop. A journalist. The scent of… what do you call it? Weed?"

Nicolas took the offered joint, studying the glowing tip with the same reverence he once gave to a violin string.Nicolas took a slow drag—more out of curiosity than desire—and let the smoke sit on his tongue before releasing it into the wind. It didn’t affect him, not really, but the ritual of it… that he understood.

the words stop her in her tracks. afraid of him or herself. she already knew the real answer to this question. it’s always been herself. afraid of losing control. afraid of the destructive past that she’s left behind. scared of the future destruction that she’ll continue to create. scared of becoming undone and losing herself entirely. she hardly knew who she was to begin with.  mina gnawed at the inside of her cheek a moment, lips pursed and brows furrowed as she looked at him with judgement.      ( who is he to ask me this?     does he know what i am capable of ?  does he not have skeletons in his closet ? only god shall pass judgement on me. )

polite. the comment makes something twitch in the corner of his mouth. itis not the first word he would use to describe himself with, nor any other vampire, and he can only suppose that the boy has very low standards where politeness and vampires are concerned. “don’t get your hopes up,” he says, monotonously, while watching him touch the side of his neck. the bite is no surprise to him; it is merely a reminder that daniel is sought-after pray, that he’s a moving target. it stupidly draws attention to the blood coursing through him, the sound of his pulse right there in his neck, and he is lucky that nicolas is no mood to feed. 

he rolls his eyes, although he can appreciate his effort to keep up with his dry sense of humor. “i suppose we must stay clear of the kitchen then.” nicolas steps inside, walks past the boy to stares into the room ahead of him. it isn’t that he pays much attention to what is there. nicolas couldn’t care less, but he likes the idea of keeping up the strange comedy, “nice place.”