A Dream Within a Dream ✧

Hello! o/ I'm Skipper. I love writing, art, space, bones, bad jokes and my sexy fiancé. 💀 // Re:Vamp RP Blog

[heavensghost]

From ‘I wanted to ask’ by Katie Maria ( @heavensghost )

[justskipper]

The Courage of Stars.

Now that the weather was nicer and summer was in full swing, Skipper was trying to get out more. A little odd for a vampire, sure–pretty Sibyl of him–but he liked the sun! Sure it burned in more ways than one, but it’d be a lie to say he didn’t miss parts of his youth growing up in South and Central America where bright skies and warm water were abundantly found.

Luckily the park was a fantastic compromise. Trees provided ample shade and the sky was full of little clouds, it was late in the day with the promise of evening creeping up and he’d found a soft patch of grass beneath a tree to drop down on and stretch his legs.

He had his mom to thank for it, really. She’d made a point of it–to get out and go to the markets and the festivals and the beaches, wide-brimmed sunhats and sunscreen and colorful glasses in tow. This is our world now, starlight. Let’s share it with them.

Skipper breathed in, slowly.

My mother’s name is Striding. She dyed her hair to match mine when I was young. The last color was red. Her eyes were gold. She was warm and brown and liked to wear blue.

He breathed out.

I remember her, even when I can’t remember her face.

In, out. It was good. It was enough. Skipper felt something cold stir the corner of his mind. Yes? he prompted the demon vacuumed into his soul.

Elegy opened all of his cold, deadlit eyes behind the veil of Skipper’s thoughts: I HAVE BEEN THINKING.

Skipper looked down at the grass next to his hip and picked up one of the sketchbooks he’d saved from the pile littering his art station back home. He had so many, older ones from before he’d come to Maroa and newer once he’d picked up since. Some were filled already but others weren’t. He’d asked Logan to point out the one he should work on next. 

Skipper gazed down at the black-bound journal in his hands; it was weathered on the edges, faintly stained. Small. It was one of his old ones and one of the last of them that was still blank. He wasn’t sure why he’d never filled it. That Logan had suggested it felt like a sign–something old, something new.

IF SOMEONE WHO HAD KNOWN HER WERE TO DREAM WITH YOU, YOU COULD SEE HER FACE AGAIN.

Skipper unclipped the brush pen he’d attached to the front of the journal. That’s true.

I KNOW IT IS NOT PERFECT. I KNOW YOU WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO KEEP IT IN YOUR HEART ONCE THE DREAM ENDED. STILL. The demon’s deadwind voice tapered like a chill.

Skipper smiled softly to himself: You think about things like this?

Elegy’s coils slid over each other, ice on ice. WHEN NOT OTHER THINGS.

Such as?

DEATH, NATURALLY. PIZZA ROLLS.

You’ve been thinking a lot about that lately.

LIFE AS WELL.

Skipper tugged his sunhat up and cracked open the journal. He then paused, pen-in-hand, and blinked down at it. Oh? 

The first pages weren’t blank after all; just stuck together. He stared down at them and for one small, precious moment was oblivious to all else.

[mortemnonobscure]

Vivek had less romantic opinions about the sun. He was especially sensitive to it. The older vampire had to wear hats and sunglasses and long sleeves no matter the time of year if he found it necessary to go out in the daytime. So it was he found himself walking briskly back through the park, the shortest path from the conference center to the home, head tilted down slightly to keep the glare from lancing under the brim of his old-fashioned hat. Humans didn’t often have symposiums on eco-friendly burial options in the night-time, after all. Even if it seemed considerably more thematic. Ah well.

Finally, he reached the blessed corridor of shade provided by an avenue of oak trees. He lifted his head and slowed a little. The breeze ruffling through them was so soft, so complex as it moved and danced among the branches. Vampiru hadn’t had trees like this. The light was too dim, too red. Even as the dappled sun threatened to burn any exposed skin, the Vespillo couldn’t help but admire the vibrant green of dancing leaves.

In contrast, a flash of fluttering red drew his attention. Vivek came to a slow halt. On the shady grass just off the path sat a young man, red curls bouncing as he bent over the pages of a journal. A sad smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Such a joyful explosion of curls always reminded him of…

The smile faltered. It simply could not be. His memory was casting hope where there was none, familiarity on a stranger. He took a step, as if to keep walking. Stopped again. Luckily, he didn’t seem to be noticed in his moment of indecision.

[justskipper]

A new feeling stirred in Skipper, though this one wasn’t caused by the rustling of a demon. He was versed enough in avoiding too-prying eyes to not recognize the feeling of being watched.

He glanced up beneath his hair and hoped it was subtle enough to go unnoticed. That effort began to slip when he caught sight of the dark, sun-veiled individual hovering in the shade of so many old oaks.

He blinked, realizing he’d sat up.

YOU ARE STARING.

It looks like...

No. That was impossible. His grandpa was dead.

Yet... the sight arrested a strong sense of familiarity, blurred at the edges like so many old childhood memories, of a similar figure with wizened hands and kind eyes tapered by the wrinkles of a long life even by Vampiru standards, like a memento of an old world in a soft face.

Skipper slowly raised a hand as though to wave. Maybe the gentleman hadn’t noticed him; maybe he was wrong? if that was the case this would only be awkward... nothing new.

I miss him.

[justskipper]

nearlyalmosthuman​:

Elliott’s dark eyes remained planted on Marcus, even as he broke his gaze. Being the emotional one was a role reversal the Galliot was not pleased with but it wasn’t what made him decide enough was enough. 

Something in him told him he really didn’t want to hear Marcus’ story, as ‘pleasant’ as it seemed to start. 

“Sorry, I’m not interested in your drivel.” He heaved quickly, using a hand to push himself from the table and up to make his escape. “I’m positive you can find someone else here that is.” 

Tick, tick.

“You wish you could taste them,” came the gentle remark within the sudden deafening silence. “The sandwiches. Made with love, so it goes. But you can smell, still.

“Sunflowers.”

[justskipper]

nearlyalmosthuman​:

“And you’re basing this off of what? My mother’s gossip?” Elliott did not seem to have a high opinion of her words, clearly. There was no point in hiding his disdain anymore, but he still felt childish for it deep down. That shame wasn’t quite enough to quell the ramping anger that Marcus’ words inspired in him though.

“You’re free to tell each other stories, but I have no use for your conclusions about them.” 

Marcus didn’t respond at first. The moment after Elliott’s last fiery word was heavy like a stone, and like a stone it slowly sunk deeper between the two men while the seconds ticked by. The other gentleman held the Gaillot’s gaze, wordless.

There was then a soft shifting sound when he sat back and laced his fingers together atop his lap while his elbows rested at leisure atop the arms of the chair.

“Let me tell you a story.”

Marcus’ voice was gentle as he spoke, as though he only grew calmer the more furious Elliott became. His gaze had released Elliott and was flitting across the ceiling.

“We’ve been talking about patterns... Patterns of behavior. Imagine, if you will, something a little more literal.”

The other man’s gaze slowly fell and settled back on Elliott. The room grew still.

“Like all vampires, you shy from the sun, but nothing stops you from enjoying the warmth of grass when a day is drawing to an end.

“The air smells like earth.”

[justskipper]

The Courage of Stars.

Now that the weather was nicer and summer was in full swing, Skipper was trying to get out more. A little odd for a vampire, sure--pretty Sibyl of him--but he liked the sun! Sure it burned in more ways than one, but it’d be a lie to say he didn’t miss parts of his youth growing up in South and Central America where bright skies and warm water were abundantly found.

Luckily the park was a fantastic compromise. Trees provided ample shade and the sky was full of little clouds, it was late in the day with the promise of evening creeping up and he’d found a soft patch of grass beneath a tree to drop down on and stretch his legs.

He had his mom to thank for it, really. She’d made a point of it--to get out and go to the markets and the festivals and the beaches, wide-brimmed sunhats and sunscreen and colorful glasses in tow. This is our world now, starlight. Let’s share it with them.

Skipper breathed in, slowly.

My mother’s name is Striding. She dyed her hair to match mine when I was young. The last color was red. Her eyes were gold. She was warm and brown and liked to wear blue.

He breathed out.

I remember her, even when I can’t remember her face.

In, out. It was good. It was enough. Skipper felt something cold stir the corner of his mind. Yes? he prompted the demon vacuumed into his soul.

Elegy opened all of his cold, deadlit eyes behind the veil of Skipper’s thoughts: I HAVE BEEN THINKING.

Skipper looked down at the grass next to his hip and picked up one of the sketchbooks he’d saved from the pile littering his art station back home. He had so many, older ones from before he’d come to Maroa and newer once he’d picked up since. Some were filled already but others weren’t. He’d asked Logan to point out the one he should work on next. 

Skipper gazed down at the black-bound journal in his hands; it was weathered on the edges, faintly stained. Small. It was one of his old ones and one of the last of them that was still blank. He wasn’t sure why he’d never filled it. That Logan had suggested it felt like a sign--something old, something new.

IF SOMEONE WHO HAD KNOWN HER WERE TO DREAM WITH YOU, YOU COULD SEE HER FACE AGAIN.

Skipper unclipped the brush pen he’d attached to the front of the journal. That’s true.

I KNOW IT IS NOT PERFECT. I KNOW YOU WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO KEEP IT IN YOUR HEART ONCE THE DREAM ENDED. STILL. The demon’s deadwind voice tapered like a chill.

Skipper smiled softly to himself: You think about things like this?

Elegy’s coils slid over each other, ice on ice. WHEN NOT OTHER THINGS.

Such as?

DEATH, NATURALLY. PIZZA ROLLS.

You’ve been thinking a lot about that lately.

LIFE AS WELL.

Skipper tugged his sunhat up and cracked open the journal. He then paused, pen-in-hand, and blinked down at it. Oh? 

The first pages weren’t blank after all; just stuck together. He stared down at them and for one small, precious moment was oblivious to all else.

[justskipper]

nearlyalmosthuman​:

While Marcus readjusted himself with poise, Elliott was unable to recover. To the contrary, his posture and his face had become fixed—unmoving—with tension and yet it was still a poor representation for the storm erupting in his heart at Marcus’ words. 

The Gaillot was far behind the ability to self-soothe for this. Sure, he’d been making progress. But it was too soon for him to feel confident enough in himself or his actions. Something was holding him back. 

A feeling. 

That feeling that kept him trying to find meaning at the end of a bottle, in the arms of an attractive but ultimately detached stranger, in the physical and mental cage he’d allowed Sebastian to become. That feeling that kept him working for his family, even now. 

It was the feeling that love was not for him, and that he’d been wrong all along for desiring it. 

And it held a vice grip against his throat, stopping any objections from spilling from his lips. What was there to say? It wasn’t as if Elliott hadn’t thought the same damn thing on some days. That he’d been treated too well, and it was only a matter of time before everything caught up to him. To them too. 

All for what? So he could have something that wasn’t for him? And wasn’t it on brand that his first instinct was to eject himself from this situation entirely? To run?

But there was one thing Marcus had wrong. Consequences. Those, he’d never been able to outrun. Even if they had to be handed to him by the world, and not those who deserved his apologies. 

“What do you know about the consequences I’ve faced? What do you know about what I’ve lost?” That last bit wasn’t supposed to come out, just like his fists should not have been balling at his sides.

Marcus wasted no time in continuing their little dialogue, as unruffled and poised as ever. Elliott was the one being unreasonable, here--emotional, the unreflective brown of Marc’s gaze suggested wordlessly as he launched right back in.

“I know you don’t learn from them. Always the same thing, over and over. Even now you want to run. Do you expect to be excused because you’re sad, Elliott? I suppose that’s been working for you lately, what with all the kind people in your life who eat your lies with a smile and spit out forgiveness after because you crawl up to them like a worm.”

[nearlyalmosthuman]

justskipper​:

Marc balanced the pen between his fingers with uncanny precision. There it perched, perfectly still, as lightless eyes watched Elliott speak with an expression that never wavered.

“I’m sure your mother says as much, not that I disagree. But—now humor me—let’s take this a step further.”

The other man suddenly leaned forward like a cobra.

“You have spent so long playing dangerous little games that you forget that’s what they are. You slip across the game board, forgiven time after time, repeatedly, needlessly, largely avoiding consequence. You’d love to stay there, wouldn’t you? Playing these little games? Pretending you don’t treat other people like pawns? Pretending you don’t bend the rules just enough to keep this game going, knowing one day it has to end? Your life may be a joke, Elliott, but when all you’ve done catches up with you and the game ends, will all these ‘connections’ you supposedly cherish be laughing?”

Elliott’s eyelids, which had been sitting heavy, widened a bit at Marcus’s sudden movement forward. He simply watched as he disparaged him.

It was disheartening for the Gaillot to feel his forehead crease, and warmth from anger spread across his chest. It only felt like more proof that Marcus was right. He couldn’t even manage his emotions the way he could when he was permanently shifted. 

…But, did that matter anymore? 

Because of course he’d love to stay there. He’d love to leave this behind and live what he thought was a fantasy with people who don’t care how long he can hold a shift. What Marcus was calling a game was everything Elliott thought he couldn’t have, but was now in his reach. A second chance.

Right?

“Tell me, what game do you suppose I’m playing?” To Elliott’s dismay there was a slight but unmistakable growl coloring his tone. 

[justskipper]

“You don’t scare me,” Marc stated without batting an eyelash. He sat back up, one leg crossed and just as dignified as before. “And I’ll tell you. You’re playing a game where you get to have everything you want and not answer for what you’ve done. How many of your dear friends know everything about you, Elliott? How transparent have you been? How have you hurt them? Oh, but it doesn’t matter, does it? Because they’re just so kind, aren’t they? So kind and sweet and forgiving. You begin to think it’s possible to be forgiven for almost anything. What’s a consequence? It’s not like you’re using them.

“Oh, and you can be dear friends, as long as you don’t think about how that puts them in danger. Because, surely, none of your dearest ones are compromised in any way? Sensitive? Vulnerable--”

The distant disdain in Marc’s eyes had sharpened like blades as he spoke.

“--To the types of people you engage with regularly? But I suppose that doesn’t matter. They make you feel fuzzy."

[aqua-regia009]

• The Astral Man | Original piece by Sascha Schneider in 1903. • Yvonne | Origina piece by William-Adolphe Bouguereau in 1896. Touched by Clayshaper

[nearlyalmosthuman]

justskipper​:

The pen clicked back into place.

“By not babying you, Elliott.” The man’s face–human, by all accounts (and judging by the blunted ears and dark brown hair, though who knew with Glamours; there was something unsettling nevertheless)–was set into an intent line.

“I came in part to make sure you don’t make any further mistakes. If you were half the Gaillot you could be, you’d have me convinced for the better. Because you aren’t, now I have to treat you like a child.”

The picture this was painting for Elliott was not one he was pleased with, but it was familiar all the same. 

“Humor me! I’d like to take a guess.” He announced irreverently. “My connections are holding me back from being the best Gaillot I could be. Is that right?” He didn’t even try to hide the mocking tone now.

[justskipper]

Marc balanced the pen between his fingers with uncanny precision. There it perched, perfectly still, as lightless eyes watched Elliott speak with an expression that never wavered.

“I’m sure your mother says as much, not that I disagree. But—now humor me—let’s take this a step further.”

The other man suddenly leaned forward like a cobra.

“You have spent so long playing dangerous little games that you forget that’s what they are. You slip across the game board, forgiven time after time, repeatedly, needlessly, largely avoiding consequence. You’d love to stay there, wouldn’t you? Playing these little games? Pretending you don’t treat other people like pawns? Pretending you don’t bend the rules just enough to keep this game going, knowing one day it has to end? Your life may be a joke, Elliott, but when all you’ve done catches up with you and the game ends, will all these ‘connections’ you supposedly cherish be laughing?”

[nearlyalmosthuman]

justskipper​:

“Hm.”

The pen punctuated the page and Marc’s eyes slid back up to Elliott’s. The affable countenance remained.

“… For someone who is so well-versed in the arts of deceit, you’re not that good at it. Your Family, which cares for you, and myself, who is here to help you, get terrible little muddled fibs and your tongue lashes freely to those you call friends but bends truths in front of their faces when it conveniences you. 

“Are you a liar, Elliott? And if you are, are you a true Gaillot about it, or simply a pathetic coward?”

The friendly façade from Elliott did not dissipate at Marc’s statements. He already saw…something coming from the regulator ally. But this angle? He could only think he must have been coached by his family before the meeting. 

But why?

His eyes narrowed the slightest bit as he spoke, tone consistent with his earlier answers. As if the mood of the conversation hadn’t changed at all. As if his words didn’t hurt one bit. 

“Help me? And how do you figure you’re doing that?” Elliott tilted his head, distantly inquisitive. The rest, he would not answer to. It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard it all before. But clearly…this meeting was more than a simple check-in. He’d need to figure out what Marcus is really getting at without letting his emotions get in the way.

[justskipper]

The pen clicked back into place.

“By not babying you, Elliott.” The man’s face--human, by all accounts (and judging by the blunted ears and dark brown hair, though who knew with Glamours; there was something unsettling nevertheless)--was set into an intent line.

“I came in part to make sure you don’t make any further mistakes. If you were half the Gaillot you could be, you’d have me convinced for the better. Because you aren’t, now I have to treat you like a child.”

[howelljenkins]

ok maybe i romanticize everything a little a lot

[heartsnmagic]

[no-longer-another-bondi-blonde]

Astrophotographer, in Idaho, captures falling meteor fireball.

[insufficiently-advanced]

i beg your FUCKING pardon

[nearlyalmosthuman]

justskipper​:

Marc’s smile stuck. “That’s good.”

He flipped open a small notebook and wrote something down before adding, “And does anyone outside your Family know you can still recall Vampiru, or that you imbibe?”

“No. No one outside of the family knows, aside from those who are already aware of our practices.” Elliott lied.

[justskipper]

“Hm.”

The pen punctuated the page and Marc’s eyes slid back up to Elliott’s. The affable countenance remained.

“... For someone who is so well-versed in the arts of deceit, you’re not that good at it. Your Family, which cares for you, and myself, who is here to help you, get terrible little muddled fibs and your tongue lashes freely to those you call friends but bends truths in front of their faces when it conveniences you. 

“Are you a liar, Elliott? And if you are, are you a true Gaillot about it, or simply a pathetic coward?”

[webphobia-deactivated20200321]

[gendergenius]

dark wikipedia show me evil worms with bad intent

[nearlyalmosthuman]

justskipper​:

Marc simply smiled. “Slipped into routine, hm? Any issues with supply?”

“Nope.” There were plenty of nuances to consider, but he wasn’t going to get into it with him.

[justskipper]

Marc’s smile stuck. “That’s good.”

He flipped open a small notebook and wrote something down before adding, “And does anyone outside your Family know you can still recall Vampiru, or that you imbibe?”

[beardedmrbean]

Just dudes bein bros