#vinduri

"I can do it. Give me a minute." The tie hangs from Lee's neck—impotently. Some things a man ought to be able to do no matter his state. But Lee's hands are shaking. The silk tie—the only one he owns (the one he will wear to his first wedding in a little under three years, he recalls now (perhaps, he thinks, because his hands are just as shaky on that day (his gaze briefly, inquisitively flicks to Castiel's face to see if he can somehow detect Lee's act of remembering)))—is uglily creased in several spots from his last two attempts at tying the damned thing. The future memory does nothing to soothe him. Castiel's words do nothing to soothe him.

Lee's tone was curt, lashing; the distance of a simple minute allows for him to acknowledge that. Only because it has passed. Occurred, committed. The event now only ever as active as a modifier not a verb. His hands pause. Castiel does not deserve Lee's nervousness (knotted, as clumsily as his tie, into frustration). It's not for Castiel; it's immaturely displaced on him like a lazy litterer who doesn't want to walk to the nearest trash receptacle, where it belongs. He breathes. He looks Castiel respectfully in the eye, voice softened with shame: "I'm sorry."

Future memories are active.

Malignant. In ways the past can't be.

the surge of fury that rocketed through connor's chest was dizzying in its intensity. he had not known any of the men cut down by shay's blade, but achilles had told him enough — senseless slaughter, he had said, perpetrated by a traitor gone mad. whatever righteous quest shay might have used as an excuse was meaningless. he had turned on his comrades, decimated the brotherhood, and left the colonies weakened enough for the iron grip of the templars to crush them, as it would have done without connor's interference.

ㅤ" twelve, thirteen months since we last spoke? and i've heard double the number of stories about you. " maria doesn't look up from the project she's tending to, restitching the hem of a dress she'll be wearing when they make port in a couple of weeks, but her faint smile endures. " you're slacking. "

                   he could not recall distinctly when the flooding of color and sound had completely resettled into something that vaguely resembled the world.  but only that he had begun living in it again some months ago.  of course by ‘living’ he would not define his current state.  surviving, perhaps.  feasting on the blood of scurrying wild rodents to force some air into his breast.  stung by a constant pain across the thin expanse of throat and the gnarled wound below it.  

it was a miracle that he’d made it back to carfax abbey at all.  forcing step after step on every winding road through germania and belgium and eventually finding solace on a ship at the end of some broken fisherman’s warf.  his transformation from beast to man was an agony,  and it was his last since finally arriving at the port just south of london.  

but it was for nothing,  was it not?  to be surrounded by darkness and cobwebs and what few boxes of earth had survived.  but even those could not contain him when grief was so solemn and constant a partner in the night.    more frightening than the spiders that leaped from web to web and scurried across his skin when he lay dormant in the day.   try and try as he did,  he could not find his rest.  hours spent waking beneath the gaze of the sun,  too human for his own good were it not for his monstrous fangs and claws.

❝         get  out.   ❞    he had heard the brittle chains rattle,  the front door composed of heavy wood and iron heaved from its place and scraped across the stone.  talons wrapped too tightly about a rail of splintered wood,  the count’s grim figure stood stoic and alone against the light of the failing sun.   he could see the silhouette,  could smell the human blood.   his senses were still so wounded,  so thoroughly blinded by his pain.   he knew not that it was @vinduri​ standing in the threshold.    vampire’s voice was hoarse,  just nearly above a whisper:

       ‘I must say that I am continuously impressed by you, Martín —’  To get this drunk at a sit-down-dinner is a feat even for the pair of them, ‘— You seem to have outdone yourself.’ He hears himself chuckle and everything feels airy light; He turns to signal for their coats and something about the way Martín manages sway with him, the way he is rhythmically moving himself closer, makes all of Andrés’ senses spiral. The close proximity of him makes his neck grow unbearably hot.

      ‘Martín,’ he repeats, his voice more raspy, less poised than before, ‘It might be your birthday, and I may be a bit taller, but I am not in a state myself where I can carry you home.’ Although I would gladly do so.

how am i doing with my character? /// (+ accepting!)

i've had this message open in its own tab and keep clicking back to it to answer and every time i am speechless. reoccurring psychic damage.

you already (hopefully) know how much i fawn over your writing (but i will/can happily, continuously, endlessly go on about this; easily and readily because your writing is so rich, there's so much that can be touched upon or delved into (do you see what i mean? your writing is so good that just discussing the existence of it leads to compliments)). it's highly inspiring and aspirational. it's amazing how detailed and handily you can write characters like metatron and the joker on the same account. equally as riveting. peeking into their headspace. but with a narrative voice tailored specifically to them. distinctive to them. yet packed just as full with delicious descriptions. i'm a big fan, to say the least, and a bit awestruck to write with you!

up in the clouds but real / easy and hard to grasp are exactly the sentiments i revolve around for lee, i'm so happy it feels that way.

this account (and i think it might be influenced by you) has quickly taken a turn into practicing/trying to add as much detail as i can—pockets of detail—to build an atmosphere and understanding without overdoing it. i'm usually not a longwinded writer. but i've been pushing myself on lee to write long replies. so, it's really really fantastic to hear that even though i'm somewhat artificially trying to write more it's not coming across that way?

Around Margot’s neck, Mason’s mink-lined coat collar hotly moats. (Upon noticing her discomfort with his new coat: “Aren’t I a real minx, Margot?!” Mason improperly similes as he clasps her wrist (his gold-ring-ornamented hand cinched like a link-too-tight, clunky charm bracelet) and pets her palm to his fur chest. “That’s mink.” Margot retorts, the end consonant cracking like an over-tensed chalk stick. “Ex ex ex. Kay kay kay.” His grip unlinks and his hand throws out from his chest, opera singer posture, as if he’s warming up his vocals: “Me me me!”) Sweat underlines her collarbones like a translucent slip dress. Daintily herself below it all. Layer after layer, him. Mason’s white button up. Mason’s argyle vest. Mason’s matching coat jacket and pants. Mason’s mink fucking coat. Mason’s rings too large to fit her bony fingers (she polishes the knuckled bases with lip plumper gloss to swell the skin—every day). Mason’s electric-chair hair. Mason is suffocating. Tightly wound around Margot. Real and pretend. Bandages bind her chest flat, hers ribs are wobbly wishbones. Mason is vile. Mason is performative. Mason doesn’t accept dissent.

Margot smiles. A big, swollen, smarmy thing. As self-inflicted as her ringed fingers. Giulio is right. Margot doesn’t believe it. But Mason did.

She glares at Giulio (his dark eyes shine the hue of wet horse hooves or, Mason-tinted, dangling, cloven pig feet); gaze somewhere between a toying caress and shove. Reaffirming: “I don’t care how much blood I¹ spill, buddy boy.” High, chummy tone shift as seamless as her photochromic Gucci glasses: “As long as it doesn’t get on my Prada!” She laughs like Mason laughed. Brittle and grating.

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