#retrograderesemblance: willie loomis

[widowshill]

THINGS TO DO ON A NIGHT IN. WILLIE LOOMIS. @retrograderesemblance said: [ BUILD ]:     sender and receiver embark upon a DIY building project together. // for vicki and willie or any muse of your choice and willie

SHE DOES NOT DOUBT HIS ARTISTRY –– she knows Mr. Loomis' capabilities much too well for that –– but the smell of sharp-edged plywood in the otherwise pristine musty perfume of the Old House puts her out. the unstained, new-purchased pile is out of place in the preserved antiquity, violently bright against rich green and red velvets. ( they might have worked in the basement, it would have been the more logical choice, but Barnabas wouldn't hear of her going down there –– for some reason she couldn't discern ) SO THE DUO MUST CONTENT THEMSELVES WITH THE PARLOR, and a floor of newspapers to protect the priceless carpet beneath.

❝ it'll be nice, to have some birdsong at this house. ❞

something, anything, besides the relentless howling of the dogs. Vicki busies herself with sorting ––  sandpaper, glue, stain, screws ––  but a sudden jolt of thunder startles her, and sends the metal pieces scattering across yesterday's headlines. one day, she'll be used to it. weather here isn't quite like New York: never those days of slow, steady mist to warn you, or clouds that tease HOT AND COLD. only lightning that creeps out as if from no place to pounce.

❝ oh, sorry. ❞ she can, at least, laugh at herself now. ❝ every time I think I'm used to the thunder here... ❞

[terrorpenned]

WILLIE LOOMIS. @retrograderesemblance

❝    BARNABAS COLLINS is a fine, upstanding gentleman. I refuse to hear you speak ill of him.   ❞

those well-bred brows of hers draw together in stubborn consternation. for a STRANGER to say such things of her fiancé ! ( if indeed he is a stranger, which is not what he seems to believe ) no, no it must be so, for she CANNOT believe that Barnabas would associate himself with such a person, much less to the point of familiarity. and there is that quieter voice, too, that whispers low at her ear: if he is a scoundrel, a villain, what does that make you ?

the young heiress busies herself with picking up her abandoned embroidery, but in her distraction the needle goes astray and PIERCES a fine, delicate finger. Josette brings the bead of blood to her lips before it can stain the fine linen ––  a pillowcase destined for the marriage bed.

❝    you think you know the man I am to marry better than I ?   ❞

[musicboxmemories]

Five Character Poll (tag game)

Rules: Make a poll with five of your all-time favorite characters, and then tag five people to do the same. See which character is everyone's favorite!

Tagged by: @retrograderesemblance ~ thank ya! <3

Tagging: YOU! <3 AKA whoever's reading this.

[emcads]

SWEARING LIKE A SAILOR / accepting ! @retrograderesemblance said : "why are you so pissed?" from willie. you can pick where in the timeline this goes.

❛❛   that is none of your concern. ❜❜

TOO SHARPLY: it was an honest question, after all, the night had begun well, Loomis' keeper in a splendid mood with a fresh meal supplicant and ready and practically steaming, the moon nearly full, the stars in an array of diamonds as though the sky itself were her throat. IDLY, Esmeralda picked out the dried blood from where it clumped beneath her fingernails and avoided looking at him. she wasn't used to men struggling –– to a BOTCHED KILL. perhaps she had grown too comfortable in her powers of entrancement, such that she had lapsed ELSEWHERE in her preferred style of execution. she felt ... weak. predators do not GRAPPLE with their prey at the dinner table. they do not waste precious blood and become SOAKED in it.

is that all, Miss Esmeralda ? or perhaps it reminds you that you are no more than an ANIMAL, when you see the fear in their eyes instead of the darkness of WANT ? when your slaughter is resisted as the lamb to the BUTCHER ? she swallowed that thought down with a neat pat of the SERVIETTE at the corner of her lip. her hair would need washed, too, and her rings ... oh what a wretched mess. the creature sighed, and laid the ( once ) neat white linen down. no use pretending, with William.

❛❛   he ... well, he STAINED MY GOWN. it's antique silk. ❜��

[widowshill]

willie’s card. for clarification, he’ll bUILD her a house.

well ...  newly built doesn’t have Quite the same charm as a spooky old place with literal skeletons in the walls, but it’s too endearing to refuse.

[terrorpenned]

SWEARING LIKE A SAILOR. WILLIE LOOMIS. @retrograderesemblance said: "would you just fucking stop for a second?" from willie to vicki

❛❛ IT HAPPENED ! you of all people have no right to call me –– . ❜❜

CRAZY. the word dies on her tongue but it swells in the air between them, even unsaid. Julia alleges that Mister Loomis is perfectly sane ; and Barnabas, too, seems to find him in fine working condition after his long stay at Windcliff. who is she to doubt them ? in ordinary circumstances, it wouldn't feel right welcoming him back to the grounds, not after Carolyn, after Maggie ( and welcoming, still, is perhaps not the right word for the prevailing mood at the old Collins estate ). but desperate minds ask for UNCERTAIN ALLIES. if she tells the story enough times, the next time she'll be believed. she's certain. she must be, she must be.

her throat begins to throb in her panic, and Victoria reaches up to touch at the centuries-old rope burn, the pain just as vivid as though she were back there on the gallows again, the air in the burlap sack hot and stale with her own breath. not just a memory, but happening to her again, now. is this what madness feels like ? he ought to know.

❛❛ Willie, I'm sorry. you've got to know how it feels. ❜❜

They'll send me there too. They'll send me there if no one believes me. You've got to.

[emcads]

@retrograderesemblance: WILLIE LOOMIS.

❝  I heated you up some leftovers. Italian.  ❞

AT 7:30 SHARP she arrives with a steaming mug in hand, questionably red: the reheat value is low, but even microwaved beats eating it cold and congealed out of Tupperware ( not that either of them would know... not that they'd admit to, anyway. ) Esmeralda's own medium-sized sip leaves a joyful stain on her upper lip as she settles herself in beside him, as comforted by Type AB on her tongue as she is by the familiar face of Pat Sajak on their humming television screen. she's not entirely convinced he's not one of them. time will tell.

but within moments a scowl darkens a once-utterly serene expression. God forbid two vampires enjoy a moment with AMERICA'S GAME in peace.

❝  turn it up. I can hear that idiot Televangelist next door again.  ❞