Entry tags:
- disco elysium: harrier du bois,
- dogs b&c: badou nails,
- good omens: crowley (tv),
- gundam wing: heero yuy,
- hereditary: peter graham,
- mcu: loki odinson,
- mcu: peter quill,
- penny dreadful: vanessa ives,
- sotl: clarice starling,
- stranger things: eddie munson,
- stranger things: henry creel,
- the sandman: johanna constantine,
- vampire the requiem: camille,
- watch_dogs: the wrench
audio | un: hidden
( cw; cannabis )
[ There is no softness to the voice that murmurs onto the network in the midst of the night when people should be sleeping. Those sweet souls are not her concern if they don't wish to hear. She offers no comfort, but a reminder of what's been lost—what can still be taken.
In doing so, the woman's raspy words creep out from beneath the shadows with a voice that drags—no, it crawls—over ceaselessly hot coals. In its shudder to whisper out a poem borrowed from home, there is a smolder always bordering on a choked gasp. But no hurry, no hurry. Where do you have to be? ]
Hush, take a moment. Take a breath; hold it. Feel the shiver of a fingernail at the nape of your neck, feel it trace the curve of your ear to borrow your attention. Only just. No, don't turn. Don't touch. Just listen; the whisper can still singe. ]
I hear that we have been denied the ephemeral — to exist endlessly within a perverse mirror of God’s image. Here, nature should protest. Instead it menaces with its silence.
[ There is a silence of her own while Vanessa takes a drag to sigh out a thin stream of smoke into the evening air. Her voice now drops so low it grates and pinches too close, like gravel against tender feet. Tickling whispers are gone; they flee the weighted melancholy that persists. ]
We carry on within a dollhouse between worlds. Do not be tempted by its pretty trinkets, lest you truly be cursed to wander the demimonde forevermore.
[ Denial still rules paramount over the rumor of immortality, but the lack of bodies is an...unsettling implication. ]
...The graves lie empty.
[ There is no softness to the voice that murmurs onto the network in the midst of the night when people should be sleeping. Those sweet souls are not her concern if they don't wish to hear. She offers no comfort, but a reminder of what's been lost—what can still be taken.
In doing so, the woman's raspy words creep out from beneath the shadows with a voice that drags—no, it crawls—over ceaselessly hot coals. In its shudder to whisper out a poem borrowed from home, there is a smolder always bordering on a choked gasp. But no hurry, no hurry. Where do you have to be? ]
Old Yew which graspeth at the stones...that name the under-lying dead; Thy fibres net the dreamless head, thy roots are wrapt about the bones.[ To that, a pause that looms with omen. ]
The seasons bring the flower again, and bring the firstling to the flock; And in the dusk of thee, the clock beats out the little lives of men.[ Now, a strange yearning nearly begins to dissipate the smoke that seems to scorch her throat.
Hush, take a moment. Take a breath; hold it. Feel the shiver of a fingernail at the nape of your neck, feel it trace the curve of your ear to borrow your attention. Only just. No, don't turn. Don't touch. Just listen; the whisper can still singe. ]
O not for thee the glow, the bloom...who changest not in any gale, nor branding summer suns avail, to touch thy thousand years of gloom.[ For a time, it seems that may be all. Then, in the same hush she speaks with a more particular address: ]
And gazing on thee, sullen tree, sick for thy stubborn hardihood; I seem to fail from out my blood...and grow incorporate into thee.
I hear that we have been denied the ephemeral — to exist endlessly within a perverse mirror of God’s image. Here, nature should protest. Instead it menaces with its silence.
[ There is a silence of her own while Vanessa takes a drag to sigh out a thin stream of smoke into the evening air. Her voice now drops so low it grates and pinches too close, like gravel against tender feet. Tickling whispers are gone; they flee the weighted melancholy that persists. ]
We carry on within a dollhouse between worlds. Do not be tempted by its pretty trinkets, lest you truly be cursed to wander the demimonde forevermore.
[ Denial still rules paramount over the rumor of immortality, but the lack of bodies is an...unsettling implication. ]
...The graves lie empty.
happy bday ichigo, have pandora's box
Someone else who has no trouble finding productivity in the night, whether it be by choice or necessity. ]
What a thing to say.
[ And something any lady would be offended by, especially after such an abrupt request for her name (is that what that was?). Instead, her tone evens out with an impartial flow, cooling the burnt scratch of her voice like water trickling through hot coals.
He's unusual, and not only for his abrupt behavior.
Having fully caught her curiosity now, she can't look away. His presentation is interesting enough, but she can see a person's heart beating through their eyes, and there's a part to her lips with the barest flash of teeth that suggests she's capable of utterly consuming it. There may as well not be anything left of the city beyond the bench, the street, and the lamp for how she pins him now with her attention. ]
What would you call me, then?
[ Does he know the name of his dread? There really is only one name—or thing—she can be called that may truly offend her, and anyone here is unlikely to guess it. ]
no subject
( he seems to have pushed back against that dread, and found some equilibrium there. his voice has flattened out to cold neutrality instead of burning with the deep ichor of suspicion.
ichigo has never been unafraid. not of the hollows when he first encountered them, nor of the shinigami and arrancar and quincy to follow. his strength has lain more from walking forwards despite that fear. finding or forcing a way to act. and he doesn't always win, and he isn't always right — but the last thing anyone could ever say of him is that he's a coward.
however — there's a particular reason why a woman who isn't what she seems to be might strike an old chord with him, and while he's learned the truth of his mother's death and that it was never about him at all, knowledge has done little to erase the ancient and awful guilt. )
no subject
He sees something beyond the shadows and lace, doesn't he? He doesn't seem to recognize the name of it, but perhaps he can spot it coiling and waiting. Waiting for what? A grander meal than you, child.
One doesn't need to be clairvoyant to appreciate his tension. He isn't here to flatter or insult. To hunt a hunter? Is that what he attempts? Not a simple human, but not a devil. ]
...My name is Vanessa Ives.
[ It's as much an answer as she knows how to give. Vanessa Ives is who and what she is, and it is cursed and ugly and it loves and yearns, and which does he see?
The metal case and communication device are slipped into her skirt pocket before she stands, but moves no closer. If he wants to know what Vanessa Ives is, then he'll need to be brave enough to find out. If he were wise, he would continue on with whatever he was doing before he knew she existed. ]
And yourself?
no subject
if there is anything to sense in return — it is a tame maelstrom. a curious sense of equilibrium between a handful of supernatural pressures, come together into serenity at the eye of the storm of him. he's made peace with his patchwork heritage, and the only thing that's left is the sum of him. )
Ichigo Kurosaki.
( he puts his first name first, in the western custom. mostly because he doesn't want to have to jump through the hoops of explaining the proper order. he barely cares what his own friends call him, much less a stranger. )
no subject
[ A name repeated slowly, with Vanessa articulating each syllable with an attentive care — only a purring undercurrent ruffles the murmur of his name while she lets the sound of it settle softly and make a home in her memory. There, in the deepest dark, it's a name to be caressed by the self always hidden. As though the sound is shared with her sight—intimate kisses for the sleeping beauty—the sense of him is momentarily intoxicating. It buzzes through her ears to trickle onto her tongue (chocolate-dipped strawberries).
Tipping her head, Vanessa wonders at the sort of youth that could carry such a unique aura. This boldness isn't from inexperience, and that fascinates her. It seems he doesn't know whether he wants to risk approaching, but neither is he fleeing. Wondering now how well curiosity might dismiss this caution of his, a little smile pulls at the corner of her lips before she turns and takes a step away at a leisurely pace.
Her judgment seems to be made, and for now she's found no threat. Not one significant enough for her to fear turning her back. ]
Join me.
[ If he approached her for answers, why stop now? She's feeling amicable enough. Vanessa has her own questions. ]
no subject
he shoves his hands into his pockets, mulish — but he does fall into step beside her, in the lee of her looming shadow. what else can he do, really? he's committed now, and she doesn't seem any likelier to back down than he is. so, it's a stalemate until it isn't.
he isn't terribly inclined to fill that brief swell of silence. his sneakers are soundless on the neatly-manicured, carved-out path, and he's studying the way a rock skitters away after he scuffs his toe against it before he decides to speak — )
Are you the one that brought us here?
no subject
She is coiling again, prepared to strike if necessary. Slow breaths now, deep enough to hold and ready Banishment for the tip of her tongue. ]
Do I appear capable of such a thing?
[ I did not mean to, she wants to say. There's a flutter in her chest, something bordering on apology for something she wants to claim is out of her control. It is quickly swallowed, ashes and all. She hadn't wished for any of this, but she had invited it since the beginning of time. Vanessa is positive that the Nightcomers are behind this, if not Lucifer himself. If so, it is because of her alone.
Forgive me, she would like to say, but she walks on with the pale shimmer in her eyes rapidly glossing over. If these people are trapped, they have become cursed by the shadow of her prophecy. How that will manifest, she has yet to learn. What she does know is that any who learn too much may turn on her, and she will not permit anyone else to trouble the path she needs to travel. Youth is no safety net in her world.
Already, this one seems far too astute for his own good. ]
First I am no lady, and now I am your captor? How shall I next manifest before you?
no subject
rather than ask another question, he opts for offense — always offense, with him — by answering one she hasn't asked, but must surely be curious about. )
I'm a shinigami. In English, it could be translated as 'death god' or 'soul reaper'. Does that mean anything to you?
( it's not all he is. but it's all he's willing to give away. )