#soothfog

#SOOTHFOG. independent original character named lee melanthom. a prophet, a prognosticator, an unwitting soothsayer. written by jordy.

     they’re reunited before sunset. the dying light creeps in through open curtains, painting lee’s kitchen a warm, burnt orange. soon, it will be replaced by the moon, then the sun, then the moon, and so on. time stops and moves all at once when it means so little (to lee, who slips through the windows between days and months and years as if god simply forgot to lock them; to castiel, who, if he closes his eyes and listens, still hears the clink, clink, clink, of hammers on brick as they construct the tower of babel).

he doesn’t feel scolded. just confused.

action prompts.

soft, dark, tired eyes. clumsy tongue and shabby clothes. lee neither threatens nor imposes nor demands. mutt almost asks when the last time he slept—really slept—was. for all that he is rough around the edges, angry, at his worst mean-spirited, kindness and rage exist simultaneously. it keeps his heart beating when nothing else would, when there was no one there to nurture it but the concrete and dirt.

besides, lee might counter with the same question. mutt can be a touch hypocritical. his patience doesn't often do well when it is pointed out.

any confidence goes out the door at the unexpected gesture. (half-unexpected, more like. he'd watched lee bend fully on one knee, the other jack-knifed upwards. he'd tensed, unsure.) it takes him a too-long moment to realize what he's doing: tying his boot like he couldn't do it himself.

he stares from underneath dark lashes. through dark eyes and dark circles. through dark hair.

Lee quietly built a snowman outside Spirit's home. Its body faces her bedroom window. She recognizes its plaid trapper hat as the one Lee habitually wears; seeing it there feels as strange as spotting your mother's goose-shaped birthmark on her elbow—on a stranger's. Heavily dangling from the end of its feeble twig arm is a plastic grocery bag. Inside the bag (were Spirit to journey out) she would find hot chocolate packets, a fifty dollar bill with a yellow sticky note seamed onto its face ("for COMMUTING!" it begs), and a copy of Frankenstein with a napkin repurposed as a bookmark; its housed page suggests this may be their next chapter to dissect.

SPIRIT'S STUDIO APARTMENT IN HARLEM HAS VERY FEW WINDOWS. This has become appealing. Spirit does not own a step stool or a ladder. Even if she did, she does not already possess the knowledge required to install curtains of any sort. The lack of natural light in here is an overall positive thing considering how many days she spends hungover or depressed or both.

The snow outside makes things brighter, though. Forces her to roll off her mattress and contemplate asking someone on Tinder if they want to bring her some blackout curtains and a drill.

She sees the hat and gets excited before she registers that it is on a snowman. She's worried Lee is being held hostage and this is a ransom letter from God, so she puts on shoes and a cardigan in order to go outside and investigate.

The plastic grocery bag crinkles and flutters in a slight breeze. Spirit shudders as she retrieves it.

Without substantially roomy pockets, she's only able to rummage around in the bag without taking anything out. She regards the sticky note with a peculiar sense of guilt mixed with irritation. She doesn't know why she wants to cry.

Finally, the book. Spirit tucks the plastic bag securely underneath her arm as she investigates the marked page. Until this point, she has not owned a copy of Frankenstein; all of their work has taken place with Lee's printed out passages.

Until this point, she has not owned a copy of any book.

///

the cafe isn't crowded, and it's blissfully sunny outside, which are the two main reason why guy chooses to indulge in the luxury of occupying a seat instead of taking his order to go like usual.  guy is careful when picking public spaces. has to be, when too many people around him could give him a headache without even opening their mouths.

'' what is this? ''   guy frowns, guarded, suspicious.  he tries to avoid sounding overly snappish, but he can't help a little ugliness coloring his voice whenever he feels cornered. he doesn't know the man, hasn't seen him in any of the files the talamasca has handed him — he would remember, he is good with that. that doesn't make the uneasiness go away.   '' who are you? ''

his coffee is going cold.  he still hasn't touched the note, neatly folded on the table and placed in front of him in such a deliberate way that tells him this can't be a mistake. he crosses his arms, blue eyes boring into the other man's face, chin tilted up. steady, demanding answers. 

TO COME TO THE SEVENTH FLOOR OF LEE'S APARTMENT BUILDING IS ALWAYS A BIT OF AN ORDEAL, BUT DAFNE WOULD NEVER COMPLAIN. Not to Lee. That would be absurd, and terrible customer service.

Also, she knows better than to say bad things out loud. People seem to understand her until they don't.

Equally musing and challenging: "Will my opinion change yours?" As though what happens first is at all traditionally relevant to either of them.

fundamentally, it doesn't matter.

still, eden occasionally likes to pretend they live in a world of both dead-and-alive cats until the words are spoken out loud.

rp positivity meme, don't be shy!

send 🌵 and i'll recommend a canon rp blog

@inflame. through the most objective lens possible ;-) because diane and laura have novels between them on discord. i deeply resonate with laurel's ethos behind laura. to take a well-known character like her and ask if she's well-known at all by contesting how she's been more than misinterpreted, but warped, in the (pop) cultural mythos to social detriments is a significant project. and she was diane's first kid, so we both have to shout out these two.

send 🌴 and i'll recommend a blog i haven't spoken to yet but admire from afar