#absensia

[raftagii]

DEATH TURNS TO TAKE  - TO PLACE A COLD HAND THROUGH RIBS TO CATCH THE HEART . reading  the last breaths of some man to see who to give his soul to .  sylvia is a mirror - an open space of memories .  a touch of warmth oft seen as anything but.   tasked to bring the end of things - yet without one for herself .  and so she is fatigued  - MISMANAGED BY THE WAY THIS PLACE FOUND HER OUT .   feeling as though it were out to catch her,  to lay her bare  and then eat all what she had .   she was taking the last moments of another man -  a tally of six in a span of four days.   all bearing  neon  around their throats , as though they’d been caught in some dirty escapade .   she holds them - counts their whimpering before giving them off to her right-hand .      BE GENTLE WITH THEM CONSEQUENCE   for i am not sure they did what they did out of their own sense of mind.  such a prayer is not oft made , but if she were kind , consequence was the rage she was too afraid to step into.

she lets go of the man -  giving him a chrysanthemum  so that he may be found ,  and she rises making herself ready to go find whatever it was that was so intoxicated by ruin , they did not consider the pain.  she walks around trying to find some trace only to need some substance before this mortal body of her’s broke itself.  for which she lingers about  to find a lone cafe -  and within it a solitary woman  busied by something or another -  SHE DOES NOT TAKE INTEREST in until she has food for herself . 𖥔𓈒           ───   “    IT’S A COLD DAY - with no one around - did i miss the memo or something ? . @absensia "

[alexlacquemanne]

Happy Birthday Stana ♥️

[mad-hunts]

20. what is something your muse wants to tell others, but is too afraid to? 

hey, @absensia! thank you very much for the ask (: it means a lot to me that you'd drop one in my inbox, if i'm being honest!! but of course... i'm incredibly grateful for everyone's submissions in regards to the prompts i posted for barton! alright, so my answer to this one is probably going to be long like the last, so please bear with me while i pour out all of my thoughts as to what i believe barton has wanted to tell people for years. and that is that he might need help — which, considering how much blood he has gotten on his hands + the very poor state of his mind, isn't that unreasonable at all. though barton doesn't want to bring this up to anyone for a multitude of reasons; one of which is because he fears he'll be seen as weak and because he's pretty much convinced himself internally that he doesn't deserve it. though i feel as if most of the time, barton not only feels this irrational as well as powerful hatred towards everyone else, but towards himself, too. which are both dangerous mindsets to be in within their own right.

when you feel like you are completely unlovable but are also so chronically lonely at the same time that you will quite literally seek people out who you know hate your guts, because in a way, seeing them almost validates what you feel about yourself + you also feel so lonely sometimes that you feel like you're going insane ( or more than he already was before anyhow ) ; in barton's opinion, that is probably one of the very definitions of ' something's wrong. ' especially since this has led him down some pretty dark paths before: both with things like self-medicating using alcohol and getting into this relationship with someone that he knows is bad news, but who he believes he belongs with on some degree. this is because they're both terrible, and they feed into each other's desire to receive their own extremely unhealthy idea's of what love is. an idea that love is inherently violent when that is anything but what love actually is.

and barton knows that it's wrong deep in the back of his mind because he is at his absolute worst when he's with this person, but like i mentioned previously, he doesn't believe he deserves any better than them so he hasn't told anyone about what he's been feeling. however, when you disassociate like barton does sometimes in which you genuinely do not remember what the hell happened for a certain amount of time, since your brain is struggling so hard to cope with all of these bad feelings you're feeling and terrible things you're exposing it to that it feels the need to tuck it away somewhere... you should absolutely seek help as he has subtly alluded to how he often feels a few times around his kids, and they were probably the most concerned about him that they've ever been.

but the problem remains that the action of actually reaching out to people feels impossible for barton. both in the way that he wouldn't even know where to begin explaining his feelings into words, on account of them feeling so complex that he feels like he can't even name them a majority of the time, as well as that he was taught that seeking help was something to look down upon by wesley. this is also attributable to the desire that barton feels to appear like he's perfect all the time, as i had highlighted in one of my previous posts on here. and acknowledging that you are actively struggling goes against that, along with the fact that talking to someone is a sign of confidence in yourself. which barton is actually lacking in despite appearances.

though anyhow, i know that this was probably an awfully heavy thing to have to read through, and i'm sorry for that in advance. but barton, kind of like real people, are not the sum of their parts — so i felt like it was important to explain how he feels wholly and without things being sugarcoated / left out. i hope you liked this answer anyhow, though, and are having a great day so far! thanks again for the ask.

[ow1et]

@absensia — what do you mean? you invited me.

no. she did not.  peridot eyes narrow. it takes every thread of her self - control to refrain from making a bigger scene than this has to be. even so, it's there. right below reflective surface, hidden in the nails digging into the skin of her crossed arms and the bleeding of a bitten tongue. they know better than to encroach on a charity gala for her aviary ( even more of a sleight to send an ally of the court in place of a true owl ). they have no right to be here, even by proxy.

" did i? " question is rounded off by false confusion. furrowed brows and a slight pout of burgundy lips. " apologies. these guest lists can get long. probably just . . . overlooked your name. " insult is intentionally twofold. the insignificance of not being notable enough to be remembered and the implication that if athene had, then she would've crossed out the name ( would've reformatted the entire guest list, too. just out of spite ).

" if you came for business, then you're welcome to leave. " tone is more tired than callous, but there's still a persistent chill. she's exhausted — can't remember the last day spent without the talons of another owl curling into her shoulder. they seem to tug on her leash more often than not lately. she's not in a position to decline, but it feels good to bite back in small ways like this. a reminder that her obedience is willful rather than blind. " i'm taking the night off. "

[desolades]

INT    VISITOR’S CENTRE    DAY

Daylight  pours  through  the  great  windows,  painting  the  room  in  gold.  Beyond  the  glass,  the  great  expanse  of  the  forest  is  like  a  sea  of  emerald,  a    wave  that  looms  all  around  them,  threatening  to  crash  over  the  building,  swallow  it  whole.  Tendrils  of  kuzu  pouring  through  cracked  windows,  moss  clogging  down  the  pipes,  poison  ivy  sprouting  down  the  chimney.  It  would  swallow  it  all,  all  of  it,  one  day.

“  Did  I  do  something  to  offend  them?  ”  @absensia’s  voice  brings  his  attention  away  from  the  windows,  back  to  the  scattering  of  early  morning  faces,  mostly  employees,  one  or  two  rangers.  

Now  that  she  mentions  it,  he  can  see  them  sneaking  glances  at them,  their  mumbles  too  distant  to  hear but still building on that  consistent  buzzing  that  makes  his  skin  prickle.  Even  Helen  is  looking,  her  concerned  eyes  brushing  past  the  pair  as  she  talks  to  another  uniformed  ranger.  Pat  something…  or  was it Pete…?  the  name  escapes  him  if  he  thinks  about  it  too  long.  He  feels  like  he  should  know  him,  know  all  of  them.  But  their  faces  lack  definition,  like  looking  at  them  through  a  foggy  window,  him  standing  on  the  outside. Always on the outside.

He  brings  the  coffee  to  his  lips  and  as  he  does,  his  eyes  follow  the  figures,  squinting  through  the  harsh  artificial  light.  They  all  look  away,  immediately  busy  in  their  own  menial  tasks.  He  knows  why  they  stare,  they  are  looking  at  him,  the  crazy  wild  man,  climbed  down  his  tower.  He  thinks  maybe  he  should  care  about  it,  these  people  who  apparently  knew  him  all  his  life.  Friends,  colleagues,  neighbors.  The  effort  just  leaves  him  feeling  even  more  alienated,  the  prelude  to  a  headache  throbbing  at  the  side  of  his  temple,  a  more  insistent  buzzing  growing  in  his  ears,  not  the  voices,  something  more.  Something…  

He  shakes  his  head,  fighting  the  impulse  to  shake  his  entire  body,  shake  out  that  unease  of  just  being  there —exposed,  unsafe,  surrounded  by  people  when  he’d  very  much  rather  be  alone  in  the  quiet  of  the  trees.  Swallowed whole by that sea of green. 

“  Yeah,  probably,  ”  he  finally  says,  his  voice  so quiet its almost  drowned  by  the  noise  of  the  room.  The  shadow  of  a  smile  gently  brushes  his  lips,  neatly  hidden  behind  his  bushy  beard,  his  eyes  already back  to  his  coffee  as  if  the  little  dark  waves  inside  his  cup  were  the  most  interesting  thing  in  the  world.

[yaburnaee]

photos can lie, just like people. @ mitch rapp?

Fall’s  well  and  truly  crawled  its  way  kicking  and  screaming  into  the  picture,    but  by  PNW  standards  it’s  a  predictably  wet  and  dreary  season.    It’s  chilly  enough  to  warrant  a  layer  or  two,    depending  on  your  preferences,    and  Mitch  wears  a  dark  fleece  quarter  -  zip  over  his  t  -  shirt.    Seated  in  a  booth  that  crunches  suspiciously  beneath  you  and  far  from  repelled  by  the  sticky  menu  he  pretends  he  isn’t  familiar  with,    he  looks  the  part  of  a  simple  man  out  for  early  breakfast  with  an  old  friend.    He’s  always  played  these  sorts  of  roles  well.

His  service  animal,    Charlie,    sits  closer  to  his  side  of  the  table,    unperturbed  by  neither  the  thunder  that  warps  the  windows  seemingly  made  out  of  plexiglass  or  the  lone  waitress  passing  with  stacks  of  pancakes  and  plates  of  bacon.    The  German  shepherd  watches  Mitch  dutifully,    tongue  lolling  only  when  he  reaches  to  scratch  behind  her  ear.    His  movements  are  orchestrated,    an  ensemble  of  ease  that  Charlotte  might  think  him  complacent  and  easy.    As  if  Mitch  Rapp  has  ever  been  easy  in  his  life,    retired  or  not.

When  he  presents  the  photos  after  they’ve  ordered  (for  him,    the  kitchen  sink  basically  with  an  extra  side  of  sausage  links  for  Charlie),    he  simply  takes  a  deep  pull  from  his  mug  of  coffee.    He’d  asked  for  the  carafe  and  he  takes  his  time  refilling  his  cup  before  finally  meeting  his  companion’s  unyielding  gaze.    ❝    That  sounds  an  awful  lot  like  a  confession.    ❞  He’s  not  really  looking  for  one.    Mitch  smiles  and  leans  back,    the  booth laminate  cracking  against  his  shoulder  blades.    The  surveillance  pictures  between them are  grainy,    but  unmistakably  a  mirror to her.    Mitch  shrugs.    ❝    Look,    I  don’t  really  care  what  you’ve  been  up  to,    Charlotte.    ❞  A  vein  thickens  at  his  temple;    Mitch  tilts  his  head  and  loses  the  grin.    ❝    Or,    rather,    I  care  that  what  you’ve  been  doing  could  be  useful  to  me.    ❞

— @absensia / A SLIVER OF DARKNESS.

[alexlacquemanne]

Happy Birthday Stana ♥️

[saintvampe]

—   𝐌.   |  IT HAPPENS SLOWLY, THEN ALL AT ONCE: the crime and punishment, the vampiristic woman playing both judge and executioner. there is nothing to say when it happens, and there will be nothing to say after it ends. the Saint had found a gopher guilty of cheating her, pocketing money while she had turned a blind eye for long enough. tonight, she had him sitting in her back office, still as stone in the comfort of her second chair. Hold that thought, she raises a finger as he begins to speak, picks up her cell-phone and dials the number of someone more faithful... the man frowns, but the woman gives a dazzling, fanged grin.

ON THE SECOND RING, THE LING CLICKING TO STATIC: ₕₑₗₗₒ ?  ❝   𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞! 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫.    ❞ 

there is static on the other side, a question of duty. the woman waits for a split - hair, watches the man in front of her: his eyes go from phone to woman, to woman's smiling mouth.  ❝   𝐢 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐄𝐬𝐚𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞, 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐧. 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨? ( ... ) 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐰𝐢𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐬.    ❞ across the table, the man's eyes widen. his fingers grip against the cushion of the seat's arms and he shakes his head, apology forming on his mouth, 'Phina I was gonna give it all back, I -  ❝   𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲. 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢 𝐝𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐟𝐭𝐲 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞. 𝐰𝐡𝐲, 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐬 ?    ❞ he nods, solemn. the woman continues, more to him and less to the woman on the phone:

YOU'D THINK I DON'T CARE FOR MY WORKERS. ( disgust on her tone, static in the dial. )

WHEN SHE RETURNS TO THE PHONE, she has raised a manicured hand, inspects the sharpness of her nails. Esau has gone silent. the vampiristic woman rises from her seat and walks behind the man, hand going from shoulder to chest, snaking over his collar, the sleeve, its front.

in the phone:  ❝   𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨, 𝐢'𝐦 𝐚𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝. 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬, 𝐢'𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 & 𝐢 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐩.    ❞ // Seraphina, I swear it won't happen a - his words are cut short, the woman's hand knuckle deep in the skin of his chest. she pushes past flesh, epidermis, underlayer of gut and grime, and the man's tongue goes loose in his mouth, nothing but sputter from his lips -- ... and then all is quiet. the woman is slow to remove a lung, more off - pink and slightly shriveled, the lung of a passive smoker. to the woman on the phone: Do you understand?

on the other side of the receiver, @absensia is full of static. eventually, there is a reply: " there’s nothing like a god to make you feel small. "

THE WOMAN GIVES A SHORT LAUGH, more snort than anything concrete in humor.  ❝   𝐝𝐨 𝐢 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥, 𝐠𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫? 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝. 𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐚𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐭.  𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐚𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞.   ❞

[deadtwice]

❛   wink .   wink  at  my  muse . 

they had never met , but they knew each other .

césar wasn't sure about the where or the how , but as soon as their eyes met , he felt as if he had seen her before , not surrounded by a crowd or under flickering yellow lights , but alone , in the dark ── the palpable kind , thick and still like a swamp . though laces thought he remembered her , he also thought she ought to be taller ( nah , not taller , BIGGER , she ought to be bigger ! ) ; this woman that he had not met but knew , looked awfully small in her booth .

but she winked at him , leaving one pale eye to shine under the dim lights like an unsheethed blade . that must have meant SHE TOO RECOGNISED HIM , right ? césar smiled at the blonde with one unlit cigarette dangling from his lips ; perhaps the only thing that stranger recognised was that laces was alone and good-looking . and even though that ominous sense of familiarity persisted , it did not overpower césar stoker's libido ( alas , very few things did ) .

he swaggered across the bar , beer bottle in hand , nudging and bumping into other patrons who did not make room for him quickly enough . a woman spilled some beer on herself and shouted at the back of laces' head , but the hunter had dedicated his full attention to the smiling girl ── and , oh boy , what a smile she had . the closer césar got to her , the clearer she became ... her features were sweet but a shiver did run down laces' spine : you can only hold a smile for so long , after a while , it's just teeth .

the large lightbulb above the blonde's booth continued to flicker to its' own rhythm . one moment she was there , the next , GONE . after pushing a guy out of his way and onto a pool table , césar finally reached his destination . all the red flags being waved in the depths of his psyche were overpowered by one stranger's pretty face . césar stoker did not look the least bit bothered by this .

❛   this seat taken ? ❜

@absensia

[medusacomplex]

@absensia, asked: ❝ Even the elevator wanted that story to end. ❞

Lips part and hang with a stunned sort of silence to them as she stares back at Charlotte, the sound of the elevator doors creaking their way back open to signal an arrival at their designated exit. Fifth floor. She throws her gaze over her shoulder, towards the opening doors, before quickly positioning her body to block it and pressing a rapid finger to the top floor (all the way to twenty-three). " Okay, well, " she speaks, turning back to Charlotte and rolling her shoulders back, a stray hand moving to brush her hair behind her ear. " I wasn't done. So. Can you –– I'm serious, Char, like, I need you to be listening to me. "

[thefixeraa]

* @absensia , dire situations : " this is real , i'm real , look at me . "

QUESTION: what makes up the human soul? the way it could be spun, is that the soul is made up of four elements, compassion, forgiveness, mercy, compassion, and lastly ( but more importantly! ) RATIONALITY. here is another question: what happens if you loose all four, or maybe — you didn't have them to begin with? the world seems to be still ... and the fixer hangs in the balance between teetering off the edge of sanity ( or sane enough to be pulled back from it. ) she can't quite place herself. where she is, who she's with. can't even make out what's in front of her, all she sees is black. she can barely make out the sound of her name, but the static in her head grows louder and louder.

this moment is like an outer body experience. IS SHE DEAD? it could be possible that her soul, or what was left of it, was watching the scene from above. if true however, wouldn't she know what's going on? all she knows is that whatever she's doing, she's doing it involuntarily ... ( blunt object in hand, she brings it up and forces it down. up and down. UP AND DOWN ... ) mia can withstand pain, and often turn it into pleasure. she has seen things and even done things that not many can do. there are some things in this world, some people, that could make her skin crawl. rage has a new form, and it takes it's form of a woman covered with blood. unhinged isn't exactly what you'd describe mia in this moment, but for now? it's a pretty damn good start.

she is pulled, and she fights back. SHE IS LOST IN HER MADNESS, so why not let her feel it? it isn't like mia to loose her rationality, her humanity on the other hand was something that came and went. when slipping into the role as the fixer, MIA DI SALVO IS GONE ( though was she ever really here to begin with? ) she doesn't stop until she is satisfied, and when she does, she slips back against a bookcase. sickened by her own wickedness. it's only then that she realizes whose been calling out to her. charlotte ... " i'm ... " a breathless word, THE ONLY WORD — slips from her parted lips. in between the labor of her breathing, and the slow realization of what she's done. " fuck. "

[ow1et]

@absensia — [ 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 ] : facing a greater threat, sender and receiver must work together.

the perpetual rain had drowned out most of the conversation,  hushed conversation exchanged between owl and criminal. she hadn't been privy to it. fine, because it wasn't necessary to her given task. frustrating, because her disloyal curiosity had tried to hang on every word. with the black umbrellas and somber grey tones, it looked eerily like the gathering for a funeral from this angle ( maybe she should have heeded that initial observation ).

try as it might, the drone of gotham's rain has never been able to conceal the sharp pop and echo of bullets. she ran. as she so often does. there hadn't been anything to left to save by the time she was able to find cover to assess. but she didn't run alone this time. if she had, then whose familiar face is she supposed to continue looking for, lurking uninvited within every crowd? a differing sight of skin and human expression among blank masks and carved features.

athene climbs back up the fire escape from her lower vantage point above the scene, back to their perch on the rooftop. no one ever thinks to look up. " move over. " emphasis and shoving gesture betray stress even if volume is remarkably quiet. every letter is pulled tight by the unraveling red string of theoretical board, carefully crafted with details of every known crime attributed to the up - and - coming gang. she thought she'd prepared herself for every possible outcome. she'd picked out the members with debts to pay, the ones with nothing to lose. but when they're the ones lying on cracked pavement, blood seeping through the seams and into the dirt, her expectations bleed out with them.

the silence stretches into minutes once she's crouched beside charlotte. " i don't . . . " voice trails off, but gunfire fills in the gaps with empty shell casings and promise of white hot pain. admission of lapse in knowledge burns just as much. " i don't know what their play is . . . or if someone else hired them out from under us. " head shakes. wet blonde strand slithers from beneath hood ( it's telling that she doesn't tuck it away again ).

this is not her fault. this wasn't her bartering attempt to squander. here for glorified muscle and threat, but little more. the court will never see it that way. where one fails, they all fail. and even more eyes will be on her for returning empty - handed, tail between her legs, with slaughterers of owls left breathing and intact. but she'll be alive ( they'll be alive ). " we need to go. " self - explanatory. likely, it didn't need to be said aloud, but there's a concealed need to be on the same page. pathetic that she still chases the desire to have someone in her corner, for validation that she's making the right choice.

[desolades]

EXT LOOKOUT TOWER NIGHT

On  the  stairs,  leading  up  to  the  tower,  he  watches  the  smoke  from  his  cigarette  rise  like  a  column  into  the  night,  a  little  smoke  signal  for  one.  Cold  clings  to  him,  burns  into  his  very  bones,  but  he  doesn’t  move  to  get  up,  walk  up  the  stairs,  back  inside  where  it’s  warm,  where  it’s  safe.  It  makes  him  feel  a  bit  like  a  teenager,  sitting  on  some  stairs  leading  up  to  a  house  he  doesn’t  want  to  deal  with,  rebellious,  angry.  Was  he?  Did  he?  The  image  comes  into  focus  and  blurs  out,  on  and  off,  he  holds  on  to  it  and  then  it  escapes  just  as  fast.  A  kid  sits  on  the  stairs  of  his  house,  watching  the  forest  across  the  road,  he’s  doing  it  because  his  grandmother  specifically  told  him  not  to.  He sneaks a couple of cigarettes from her purse then sits there, pretending he likes the taste of nicotine on his tongue.  But  all  he  tastes  is  moss,  all  he  smells  is  the  musk  of  humid  earth  and  rotten  leaves.  It  clings  to  his  senses.  It  clings  to  the  boy  and  it  clings  to  the  man  sitting  there,  it  claims  him.

Is  this  how  he  knows  Charlotte?  No,  it  immediately  comes  to  him.  He  can’t  begin  to  guess  her  age,  but  she  looks  too  young  for  that.  But  they  have  done  this  before,  sat  there,  faced  the  night  with  conversation  as  he  refused  to  face…  what?  Life?  Maybe.  He  looks  at  her,  her  features  also    blurring  and  coming  into  focus  for  him,  but  in  a  different  way.  He  knows  her,  he  doesn’t  know  her  at  all.  Her  memory  distorted  in  his  mind,  familiar  and  obscure.  Just  flashes  of  blonde  hair  blown  by  the  wind  coming  from  a  rolled  down  window,  the  radio  of  a  truck  spitting  static.

“  Most  days,  all  I  have  is  reality,  which  is  nonsense  too.  ” @absensia tells him.

He  laughs,  he  really  laughs,  even  as  he  does  his  best  to  hide  it,  which  is  not  a great effort, it just turns his laugh into a cough and has him tearing up with the effort.

“  Yeah…  ”  he  says  almost  wistfully, once he manages to catch his breath,  “  Reality  is  nonsense.    ”

[8flesh]

OVERTIME, you begin to get used to someone's presence after being around them for so long. an odd comfortability with it instead of being on edge by eyes on your neck watching you. NORMALLY TO HIS LEFT, he's grown used to tapping her shoulder to gain attention. just an arm or hand swinging around until he felt her, then tapping. however, this time they had split up earlier. COVER MORE GROUND SEPARATELY.   he wasn't the fondest of the idea ... though he knew she was right.   not too far from each other, they roam inside a townhouse,  peeking through rooms for something of use. information, records, clues, BLACKMAIL WORTHY MATERIAL.

while in a room with multiple marble statues, he can't help staring, LEAVING HIM DISTRACTED. mind wanders as he tries to guess the meanings behind each piece. then instinct told him to get her attention to say some cheap joke. arm extends and swings out searching for her ... forgetting the whole situation of splitting. carved stone is knocked over its pedestal and sent crashing to the ground ... shattering the piece. " FUCK. "   and now the walk of shame as he heads to the room she's in.

                         [ ... ]       RANDOM DIALOGUE ~                                               “  i can’t leave you alone for one minute, can i? ” /  @absensia

he smirks at her comment, laughs a bit then his hand raises to scratch the back of his head. an act through anxiety. A BIT OF PARANOIA. was that sound too loud ? he worries he might've caused a bad situation if someone phones in A STRANGE NOISE coming from the home next door. then again who's neighbours are really that caring about your home. 

[saintvampe]

—   𝐌.   |  THE WOMAN HAD FELT IT AS IT WAS HAPPENING, AS IF IT WERE HER OWN VIOLENCE. it sinks into her bones and makes her tense, canines sharpened to a point... the stomach twists as if it were a snake. as if it were living on its own; hunger becomes a second skin that threatens to take her over once again and the Saint ( ! ) feels her mouth wet itself with warm saliva. in the midst of twilight, the world quiet around her, the front door opens with a muffled chime of bell. the footsteps that follow have no particular pattern, are soft and hard both at once – but she has already identified them. a dance with no formal footwork. nervousness from heel to toe, and the steady drip of [ nonexistent ] blood on her floor. the vampiristic woman clicks her tongue; she will make her visitor clean the mess, later, though she knows the floor is spotless.

when the door leading to her office slides open, the Saint does not lift her head to greet her visitor. instead she allows a command to leave her mouth, first: Sit down. Take a breath. the smell of blood touches her nostrils, though the woman opposite is pristine. the vampiristic woman, she imagines a blonde head smattered red. she imagines pale fingers dipped in dirt, bile on the floor. the head lifts. ❝  i have not given you work yet. why are you here ? ❞

as if she does not know. as if the violence did not press against her bones the moment chaos had begun.

the blonde across from her [ @absensia ] watches her with wide eyes. beneath the chaos, there is something the Saint regards as calm. ❝  i killed someone. ( then, a little softer, ) i killed someone.   ❞

THERE IT IS: THE STOMACH'S TWIST, a cruel and violent reminder of her nature. she struggles not to ask, Is the body here? she fixes her tongue to something more caring, more orderly: ❝  it happens to the worst of us. ❞ the vampiristic woman sits back in her chair, takes a deep breath as she regards the woman before her. ❝  i hope you disposed of the body properly, or at least made use of it ( ... ) i'd hate for some poor schmuck to come across a corpse, and i can only imagine what happened with you being involved. ❞

[exthief]

you fucking need me.

manuel's first instinct is to flip his phone screen down on the counter.  he isn't particularly proud of it, but that's the first thing that goes through his mind when he reads the text from @absensia. he is good a that, he guesses — sweeping his problems under a rug and pretend they don't exist. so he can breathe a little easier for a while, without the feeling of something ugly breathing down his neck. he glares at the object, shoves it the front pocket of his sweatshirt and goes back to making himself coffee.

the kitchen is messy, but not in such a deplorable state that it screams abandoned.  lived in, sure. but he's seen worse. he keeps telling himself that he should buy some plants to give it some more color, but he ends up forgetting, or postponing. and so his kitchen is still looking empty, the walls a dull not quite white, not quite cream color, the paint long since faded in some places, cracked in others. as far as rented places go, it's decent, good enough for him.

his phone buzzes again.  ominous, insistent, like the bad thoughts that chase him at night. he grabs his phone with a sour taste in his mouth, it reminds him of the feeling of being backed into a corner. you can't ignore me, charlotte seems to be saying and manuel knows she is right — she often is, he supposes. so he ends up calling her, phone nudged between his shoulder and cheek, awkward and uncomfortable, trying to squash the impression that each beep of his phone is spitting the word pathetic out at him.

'' not even a 'how are you', wow, that's cold. you always cut straight to business. ''   he forces a casual tone, all fake cheer and deflection.   '' so, um. what's up? wait, actually— ''   he settles the coffee machine down, so he can grab the phone without giving himself a stiff neck.   '' why don't you come by? i'm making coffee. ''   a peace offering, whether or not he actually needs one.  better safe than sorry, right?