ojovivo
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
No title available
One Nice Bug Per Day
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Game of Thrones Daily
$LAYYYTER
if i look back, i am lost
Claire Keane
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
★
Sweet Seals For You, Always
blake kathryn
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Xuebing Du
pixel skylines
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
h
tannertan36
JVL
seen from Germany
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Belgium
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from Türkiye
@ofmensogne
#OFMENSOGNE : ㅤㅤwriting blog for marcel sorel, an original character based on amc's talamasca/iwtv universe ; triggering content ahead, please mind your step. sideblog to @ofbizarre , please refer to the main blog for rules.
ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ⁰ carrdㅤ ¹ ch. studyㅤ² headcanons ㅤ³ aestheticsㅤ
she is, usually, more careful. over the years, she's constructed her life around this organisation. not out of choice but out of necessity. it's rotten to the very core, but it has given her a place and a purpose, no matter how odious it might be. she decided, a long time ago, that it was better than the alternative and she has, since then, very carefully avoided making the calculation again. maybe she knows she won't like the outcome.
then, very occasionally, something like this happens. a risk, a mistake, a discovery. something that almost forces her to face what she's part of, the fate she's decided for some of her kind. almost.
she turns the drawing over. she itches to tear his throat out, but that would require energy that she simply does not have. so the rot spreads, and she shrugs, catching the key in one hand.
"i'm not the gossiping type." more to the point, she does not have anyone with which to gossip. from him, it sounded like a threat. knowing what she knows of him, it probably is. she won't rock the boat.
much.
"and what team is that?" she tilts her head, curling her fingers around the key until the thin metal bites into her palm. "what's your motivation here?" she tapped the corner of the page. "if you're worried about being bitten, maybe you shouldn't meddle with things that have sharper teeth than yours."
marcel smiled from ear to ear when esmeralda claimed to not be the gossiping type. "lucky us." he cheerfully replied. and when the agent stepped into his office, the heels of his boots could be heard against the wooden floors --- this one had a click to his hoof. but he feigned naiveness with such expertise, one could not help but wonder whether mr. sorel truly believed himself to be an innocent lamb, working amongst wolves, or whether he was the most underhanded creature of them all.
the frenchman stopped once he reached his desk. the paper covered barrier which kept them apart wasn't particularly difficult to push aside. especially not for someone like esmeralda. marcel tilted his head as he looked at her, a large smile decorated his features, as if he was enthralled by the woman before him. when her finger tapped against the page depicting the iron muzzle, the agent's head recoiled as if deeply offended by the questions thrown at him. "motivation?" he echoed with a thick accent. "mais --- to do my job, of course." of course, of course. his higher-ups always did compliment his level of dedication. marcel was willing to go above and beyond to aid the talamasca...dear esmeralda couldn't even dream of the lines he was ready to cross. or perhaps she could!
marcel ought to find out some time.
"you're so stressed, esmeralda. this sort of behaviour is bound to create a toxic work environment." he pointed out. one of marcel's hands placed a rogue pen back in its proper cup. he looked back at his guest. "if i have ever done anything to offend you, then i apologise." the way he pressed his heart made him seem earnest. but there was something mischievous in the way his gaze shifted between her eyes and mouth. carefully, the talamasca agent reached over and turned the page of the book which had offended esmeralda so deeply. followed by a thick wall of text, there was an illustration of a woman in a scold's bridle, chained to a stone wall. a group of people stood before her, watching, pointing, enjoying the cruel punishment.
marcel pouted at the image. "i've seen how sharp your teeth can get." blue eyes looked back up at esmeralda. "do you want to bite me?"
marcel flirting: you look pretty when you cry
jenny slate - little weirds
He wasn't sure what he had expected when Helen mentioned her acquaintance at the Paris Motherhouse, but... this wasn't it. Marcel breaks through his own shroud of mystique with an amiable greeting, exuding a youthfulness albeit tired that his silver hair would otherwise disguise. "Younger? Ah– very funny." Guy falls for it easily, snorting, caught unprepared for that front-loaded joke. Good to know Helen's care was still finding him all the way across the English Channel.
At the mention of food, his eyes drift back to the counter and the buzzing staff, the smell of something toasted, melting, burning– his stomach gurgles while he leans forward and awkwardly shimmies out of his coat, leaving it hanging on the back of his chair, forming little puddles on the tiled floor. "Yeah, sure. I can pay for myself though." He doesn't wanna seem rude, but it also doesn't feel right to just accept that kind of treat. Marcel was already going out of his way to be here, and he hadn't even listened to Guy's request yet. Best not drain all his generosity in one go.
Though rusty and traced with an incorrigible anglo accent, his French is decent enough to pick out what he wants off the chalk menu on the wall. Felt like he could eat the whole place if left unattended, but a glass of OJ, a café au lait and an almond croissant would do. He waits for the waitress to bring his companion's refill to order, catches her thinking that he looks cute flustered, feels his cheeks glow bright as a cherry, then sinks back against his chair a little mortified that Marcel appears to be on the brink of making an observation.
"Didn't get much of a choice." He smiles, commiserating, watching the churning grey sky for a moment before returning his attention to the elder. <<< .... >>> As expected, locked tighter than an alms box. "How much did Helen tell you?"
when guy suggested paying for his own meal, marcel was quick to raise both of his hands, as if the mere suggestion had somehow wounded him deeply. "please." he snuck the word in there, made sure guy knew he would not be overly aggressive about such pleasantries, but that he would not allow the young man to pay for anything in that diner.
he takes notice of the way the shade of the boy's face changes, and his eyes do dart between him and the waitress. had he missed something? a lingering gaze? a brush of fingers? it did not matter, in paris, love always found a way of fitting itself into the strangest little crevices. the corners of marcel's lips curled as he watched guy struggle to regain his composure. perhaps it was this sheepishness of his that made him seem so young in helen's eyes. the agent took a sip of his black coffee. he wondered just how gullible his guest was. how difficult would it be to find out where he was staying. how easily his long pale fingers would sink into guy's swampy subconscious and scrape at all of his dreams...would it feel like slipping into a warm bath? would it be dirty? would it hurt him? his eyes shifted across the boy's face.
did guy cry much?
marcel arched his brow at the sudden inquiry. after taking a few seconds to ponder over it, he finally shrugged. "bah, not too much." he confessed. "she told me that you were a precious asset to our organisation but that i was not to inform any of my colleagues of your arrival to paris. that you were on the run, though she wouldn't specify what from," one of his hands gestured towards the empty space on the booth next to the american. "and that you would be visiting paris with a friend." he chuckled. clearly, the briefing had not been the most detailed. but helen had always known how to get his attention.
marcel leaned a bit over the table and lowered his tone when speaking next. "i understand that in our line of work it is counter-productive to ask questions but, uh ---" blue eyes fluttered at guy. "you know," marcel scoffed. "what the fuck."
my funny valentine for @evilanew !
"lestat, you look so small."
marcel points out as he eyes the blond from across the cold room. the vampire wears rusty chains around his bloodied wrists like jewellery. they bind him to the ceiling, like ominous puppet strings for some greater, crueler being to pull. he has been abandoned there, naked and afraid, surrounded by grey stone walls which drip with humidity. the floor, however, cannot be found, for around lestat de lioncourt's feet lay a thousand versions of him, all bearing his exact same face, all of them expressionless and awfully still. old dolls of flesh, toyed with and tossed aside, left behind for the black mold of the tower to swallow up and consume. it's a nightmarish sight --- and despite bearing a resemblance to true and horrible memories, it has been modified.
the scale of it all is far greater than lestat de lioncourt's past. the edges of this dream are blurred and dark, incomplete because the centre of emotion is lestat himself. and poor lestat ... he looks absolutely miserable as a prisoner of his own subconscious. marcel is an uninvited guest here. and he has no qualms in stepping over the piles of corpses. his impeccable chelsea boots walk over bare backs, chests, thighs, at one point, he even presses his shoe to one of the lifeless faces. and he does so with such nonchalance, one would think he was the monster haunting the vampire's sleep.
marcel stops when reaching the centre of the tower. he furrows his brow as he examines the blond man from head to toe. the agent looks like he might feel genuinely sorry for lestat. "this is not where your head should be in a day like this." he points out. but his tone lacks the urgency that the scene before him demands. "all alone, with no one to turn to but lesser versions of yourself. bah...n'est pas du tout romantique, vous ne trouvez pas?" asked the frenchman with a flutter of his lashes.
long fingers reach out to hold lestat's jaw. in the dream, the talamasca agent tips his head up to look at him. but rather than empathy, the vampire is met with a pout. "quelle honte." marcel sighs before quickly pulling his hand away, burying it deep into his coat's pocket. "happy valentine's i suppose." he shrugs.
∗ 53﹕ sender buys receiver a drink at a bar .
a glass of red wine is placed right in front of him before marcel finishes the one in his hand. he arched his brow at the barman who was quick to inform him that, the drink had been paid for, by the gentleman on the far end of the bar. the agent already suspects who this might be --- he simply does not want to believe it. but when marcel turns his head to look, his throat dries out immediately. the vampire armand waits there, staring straight at him.
the talamasca had bestowed upon him the mission of finding the ancient one's resting place, and waiting for him to fall into vampiric slumber. marcel would be able then to slip into his subconscious, allow himself to be surrounded by the surreal brushstrokes of who armand really was, and like this extract that which weakened him, which inspired him ... all precious things to keep in talamasca's safes. but now, his target had bought him a drink, and the mission was compromised. marcel straightened his back before offering a small sheepish smile to the vampire.
"and here i thought i was being discreet." he joked, letting his head sink between his shoulders in half-performative, half-heartfelt embarrassment. pale fingers slowly wrapped around the glass and lifted it off the counter to examine its' contents. marcel tilted the rim so that he could smell and identify the drink's aromas...after a couple of seconds, marcel puckered his lips, as if pondering very seriously over one particular thought. eventually, he pointed with his index finger at the chardonnay at hand and smiled brightly at his generous mark. "is it poisoned?"
@lamourstre
marcel describing in great detail all of your psychosexual nightmares which he got to witness to while preparing you a nice cup of hot cocoa.
001. random marcel headcanons:
> is a big fan of the medieval era. particularly medieval torture. he has a vast collection of editions on the subject in his bookstand. he'll excitedly talk about it for hours if anyone cares to listen.
> is also a big fan of all things metal. he doesn't exactly publicise this and doesn't really match the general aesthetic usually connected to the genre. but it is not uncommon for him to drive around listening to bands like melvins, electric wizard, acid bath, sleep ... he will immediately turn off his music if anyone else is present.
> marcel loves breakfast/brunch and is quite good at preparing food for these types of meals. he's also quite good at baking.
> marcel speaks fluent english but has a thick french accent.
> he's very warm and familiar and looks quite inoffensive at first glance. it's very easy to let your guard down around him but be careful. he's a selfish deceitful goblin, who puts his own wants/needs above everything else.
> the loosest code of ethics....nearly killed a teenager who tried to rob him once. killed a vampire who he had built a close relationship with....whether it was accidental or not is still up for debate.
> is missing the tip of one of his fingers and has a gruesome scar on his forearm from a struggle with said vampire. he does not like to talk about it.
> loves furry pets. will crouch to pet and scratch their bellies.
> is very used to seeing weird shit from watching people's dreams on a nightly basis. it's a bit difficult to shock him nowadays. though he'd like you to try.
marcel having an affair with one of the professors of the uni he was working at while getting his phd. marcel breaking things off after the professor suggests leaving her husband to be with him because there's no longer any challenge to be had. there's nothing left to conquer. there are no more games left to be played. he has won so there is no point in continuing the relationship.
marcel sitting back and watching the vampire which had been collaborating with the talamasca (and who he developed a romantic relationship with) burn in the sun after being denied the dark gift and feeling avenged. marcel eliminating the source of the pain which comes with rejection and therefore eliminating any evidence of vulnerability or weakness from his part. he can't lose. so he flips the board over and lets the pieces shatter.
he'll find a new game he's the best at.
marcel not knowing how to have relationships with others without having an ulterior motive. marcel feigning warmth and innocence on a daily basis while, in actuality, being cold and distant and disconnected. all his lovers and friends are meant to be a reflection of his own worth or ability. he gets to look into your subconscious. he gets to judge and collect your dreams...but no one will ever know his.
Jean-Luc Godard - Germany Year 90 Nine Zero (1991)
Florence Henri
Pont de Paris (sur le Canal St-Martin)
Normality’s overrated, but there’s something abundantly off about this man, venomous tendrils emanating that draw Lestat’s attention, sordid curiosity that borders on being dangerously transfixed. It’s enough to notice that this strange one’s being observed by another ( si populaire ), supposed discretion manifesting within a puerile act of an averted gaze and a newspaper crossword listlessly toyed with. Lestat doesn’t owe the damnable stranger a thing— and yet, the space is encroached upon, the public setting stripped away in an instant as iridescent eyes lock with blue. “ Play. Along. ” The words are barely a whisper, fingertips reaching across to readjust the man’s collar with a misplaced ruse of familiarity, brazen confidence that brings lips to meet with the corner of the opposing mouth. The kiss gingerly trails across to the arc of an ear, speech slow and deliberate. “ Quelqu’un te regarde, chéri. ”
slim fingers brush his greying hair back and off his eyes. marcel plays the distracted mortal perfectly well: to the public, he is nothing but another guest at the hotel, reading through the brochures made available at the counter, making it clear that this is the frenchman's first trip to new orleans by the way his eyes linger over all the most touristic attractions. in actuality, he was there to monitor and report the activity of a vampire whose latest, very public decisions, had left the talamasca dumbfounded: lestat de lioncourt was supposed to be staying at this hotel. marcel was to find out in which room so that, once morning came, he could slip into his subconscious and gather information. the agent flipped a bright blue brochure which announced a steamboat jazz cruise around. only fifty bucks.
but his reading is suddenly interrupted, and when marcel's eyes meet luminous pale ones, he thinks he might have fucked up. his brow arches at the proximity of the vampire, wonders what he had done to reveal his nature and position, wondered how, after all these years, he could be so sloppy. worse of all, he wondered if whatever death the vampire lestat had planned for him would be dignified and quick or a slow humiliating rituals for the rest of the hotel guests to scream at.
the whisper and following kiss are what completely disarm him. so much so that marcel has to press one of his hands to the vampire's side, as if that alone will keep him balanced in a situation he couldn't have possibly predicted. the coldness of the skin which is pressed against his reminds marcel of a great love from his past which had, unfortunately, ended in tragedy. marcel can do little more than flutter his lashes when he is warned about being watched.
"vraiment? mais ---" he hadn't been found out. there was still hope for him and the mission. but the thought of someone else watching him was worrying. another agent from a different motherhouse? someone who held a grudge against him? marcel still was getting used to tipping...he swallowed dryly. lestat did not seem aware of who he was or what he did. marcel would have to run with it and feign obliviousness. "are you sure it is not you who's being watched?" he turned his head to meet the vampire's gaze, his lips curved into a small smile. "j'ai vu ton visage sur les affiches." he tried to turn his head further to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever could be tailing him. he sees the guy pondering over his crossword puzzle. he does not recognise him.
[ 9AM ] a diner smelling of breakfast food as rain patters on the window. / from @ofmensogne to guy :)
& clockwork || accepting (any muse) ! >> @ofmensogne
Hookers and spies, right? Guy's arrival is announced by a pair of chiming bells behind the heavy glass door, which groans and huffs as it slides back to seal off the cold. He pulls his soaked knitted hat off his head and ruffles through damp curls with his hand, lamenting that poor wardrobe choice under his breath. Instead of being greeted by the usual gut-punch smell of bacon grease, the earthen, bitter smell of coffee percolates the air, and behind the counter someone mans a silver espresso machine with multiple spouts with practiced ease. The filters are emptied with loud, rhythmic taps, as the steam wand purges with a deafeningly loud hiss, cutting above the idle chatter of mid-morning patrons.
"Bonjour." A flustered waitress waltzes right by him, narrowly missing his shoulder with the rim of a steel tray, then motions for him to sit where he pleases. Guy takes a moment to situate himself, an aura of perpetual puzzlement about him, unraveling the scarf around his neck, passing his gaze over a glass display containing a lavish collection of golden pastries– interrupted only by his own grumbling stomach. Right. Helen's man shouldn't be hard to spot--
Not at all. Hookers and spies. Sitting on a booth at the far end of the long Parisian cafe: clear face, something vulpine about him. Something... an uneasy feeling where hunger had rumbled a minute ago. Guy hesitantly makes his way over to the fellow agent and, before receiving confirmation, claims the seat opposite to him, throwing his wet garments in beside him.
"Marcel?"
marcel's eyes are glued to the pages of a newspaper. whispers of violence and death had crossed the english channel: a group of women was brutally murdered a while back. one of the members of the slain liveaboard community had been a french national. the british police said that, even though all evidence pointed to an animal attack, investigations were still ongoing. the low contrast black and white pictures of the area fascinate marcel. he notices smudges of black on the water. he brushes the tip of his finger over the paper. had the water under the bridge turned crimson with their blood? had the sight been so gruesome it'd curse the area for centuries to come? his hand slowly settled over the image, covering it fully.
what creature would haunt the dreams of londoners that evening?
a voice snaps marcel back to reality. when he looks at the man who had called out his name, the agent finds him already sitting down. "ah, guy!" he greets with a pleasant smile while quickly folding his newspaper. "you've made it." marcel thinks about offering his hand to shake but is caught slightly off guard by his guest. blue eyes examine the american's features closely, looking genuinely surprised. "i thought you'd be younger." he scoffed. "the way helen spoke of you made it seem like you were fresh out of kindergarten."
this boy was precious to her, that much was clear. why else would she have trusted marcel, but not his superiors, with aiding him? someone was keeping secrets. and secrets were marcel's speciality. after another couple of seconds of contemplation, marcel suddenly perked up. "you want some coffee? something to eat? you must, please, it's my treat." he calls the waitress's attention and gestures towards his emptied coffee cup while mouthing un autre, s'il vous plaît. getting some warm food in him ought to make guy anatole look slightly less miserable.
"they say there will be a storm tonight." marcel shook his head. "you picked a bad time to visit paris, my friend."
bianca's face shutters, whatever facsimile of a polite smile she had worn drops in a flash. she doesn't rear back, doesn't give this stranger that sort of satisfaction, but she's well aware she's exposed herself more than she should've. it feels like she's got her foot caught in a bear trap. the coffee pot's handle cracks in her fingers, and she sets it down on the counter before it could be crushed anymore. bianca hasn't shattered any objects at work lately, but today seems to be the end of that streak. this man knows her, that much is clear. it pisses her off. it unsettles her. she stares him down.
her swallow is thick, jaw tight -- body drawn tense. ❝ what do you want? ❞ bianca cuts the crap, the confirmation of his career fueling more dread than any sort of self-satisfied appreciation of being right. her voice is dropped to a harsh whisper, agitated. a breath is taken, her hands shifting to clutch the edge of the countertop. bianca can hear it creak under her force. ❝ you're with them, so just stop being cute and tell me what the hell you want. i haven't done anything. ❞ not necessarily a lie, but not the truth, either. bianca hasn't brutally harmed anyone recently, at least. she suddenly feels defensive.
something in her pretty expression shifts. there's a flash of panic behind bianca's bright eyes, but marcel merely sits there and watches with a smile still hanging to his lips. it was such an interesting spectacle, he thinks, watching people become this bare and vulnerable --- would she fight, he wondered, would she run? what kind of animal was she really, when all the chips were down? blue eyes flutter once bianca finally sets down her now cracked coffee pot. marcel looks positively delighted.
there's new tension around her shoulders, her jaw now gritted, marcel could only guess that she did not see the talamasca has a source of comfort or guidance. he reached into his jacket's inner pocket and produced a small black notebook which he was quick to open and press the tip of a pen to. "have you made contact with any creatures of the undead variety this past month, ms. feldman?" the agent tilted his head, lips struggling to keep his grin from growing any wider. "and please, do not lie to me." marcel asked, the levity of his voice gone in that moment.
34﹕ sender is found by receiver somewhere they shouldn’t be . / raglan >:)
"cou-cou, raglan."
marcel greets in a cheerful tone, hovering over the man's shoulder in an attempt to surprise him. it was a pleasant sight, finding raglan james in paris during a time in which most tourists migrated to warmer parts of the world. some people would have called this a happy coincidence. marcel would have agreed with the first half.
the frenchman glanced around the lobby of the gallery. plenty of sharp-dressed people had showed up to the event to get a good look of the new space, maybe ogle at some subpar modern art, sip on some free champagne...but his fellow agent held no alcohol in his hand. and marcel could not help but notice that dear raglan's attention had not been captured by any of the canvases hanging on the walls. he widened his eyes as he patted the other man on the back. "but what a surprise to find you here! you should have called, i'd have booked us a table somewhere." his excitement and following disappointment appear genuine.
but it is an act. the reason marcel had been sent there was due to the suspicion that a certain vampire with capitalist tendencies which often guided him towards art investments, would be there that evening. the paris motherhouse was interested in observing whether his presence there would attract others of his kind whose intentions might prove to be malicious --- and marcel suspected that might be the same reason raglan james had crossed the english channel.
something shifted in the french agent's expression as he examined the other's features. his lips continued to smile pleasantly. marcel's eyes, however, did not. "you're not being naughty, are you?"
