#;selma

[inprometheanfire]

@ofimaginarybeings​ sent: selma tries to cuddle Francesco

“I’m trying to sleep.”

[inprometheanfire-archive]

@ofimaginarybeings​ asked: People wouldn’t like it if they knew, you know that.” (selma/francesco)

“And here I thought it didn’t bother you.”

[discordandrhyme]

@waywerust | x

This time of year, it’s cold -- but he’s colder than usual. The walls are too thin, the windows not properly sealed. Ventilation problems are what keep him up at night. There aren’t enough blankets to ward it away because, somehow, it’s gotten beneath his skin. Burrowing itself deeper into the veins. Not even the warmth from her body beside him can help.

He knows he relies on her too much. Maybe he shouldn’t but it feels safe and secure. Selma is steady, consistent. Selma is his foundation. Idealizing women has always been a terrible flaw. Before her, there were others who found the disadvantages in his weak points. Not with Selma though. Through it all, she built him up to make him stronger.

Today, he wasn’t around her as much as he should’ve been. Things with him had been different lately. If Selma noticed, she hadn’t said a word. Always so quiet as if she spent all her time in her own head. That wasn’t true though, was it? Because he was the one locked away in the downstairs room, writing and writing or doing nothing at all.

Inside of the room, it was colder than last night. Damn it. Can’t even think straight in this damned cold. Monty sat back in the chair, staring at the typewriter before him as if that could will it to write. Blank, damned blank. His mind, the sheets of paper – everything in this God forsaken place was one over-sized blank canvas. Inspiration was lost to him, fleeting pieces of a past that would never reconnect again.

Everything around him was so quiet too. Even Selma. Sometimes he wondered if she was alive anymore. Words ceased to form legible sentences in his head. Like faint whispering between two different people but always hushing whenever she was around. Where was she now, he wondered. He had to check up on her. He had to make sure she wasn’t doing something she oughtn’t be doing.

Monty wandered out of the den, heading towards the living room where she sat with her back to him. Once again, always in her own world. And he didn’t blame her. Hiding behind his writing wasn’t doing either of them any good. Selma was persistent about only one thing and he just didn’t see why. Wasn’t she happy like this, just the two of them? He remembered a time when he wanted kids and with her too – but things were different now. Things were different and he didn’t know why.

“Can’t you feel that?” he asked, his voice loud enough to startle. He strode across the living room to the unlit fireplace, kneeling beside it to stuff some newspaper beneath the log inside. With a match from his pocket, he struck it then lit the paper. And, for longer than he should have, he remained staring into the flames. It wasn’t supposed to be this cold.

He looked over his shoulder at her from where he knelt. “It’s like hell froze over.” Then, standing up to face her, he narrows his eyes in suspicion. His hands are on his hips and he’s disappointed because she hasn’t said anything yet.

“What is it this time?”

[inprometheanfire]

@ofimaginarybeings​ said: “ you deserve someone who isn’t okay with losing you. “ - selma to monty

“Even though I sold your cat?”

[inprometheanfire-archive]

@ofimaginarybeings​

Whenever she slipped away to spend more time with Igor, he couldn’t help the growing feeling of jealousy that brewed inside. The boy is exactly that, he told himself. Nothing more. In this place, Oleg decided who would enter the court, who would be dismissed, who would sit at his side to complement his title of prince and prophet. Selma was merely a young woman who had been assigned to Igor as a caretaker -- or, as he had intended, a chaperone who would monitor the boy at every corner and at every turn.

But, for now, he would not require her services so faithfully while they sat to eat, Igor at his right hand, Selma to his left. And he didn’t hide the glances he’d paid her either. Did it make her uncomfortable? He hoped so. 

“You can be caretaker for only so long,” he says, grinning at her before taking a sip from the cup of wine. “Tell me, what do you like to do when Igor is not clinging to your skirts?”

[inprometheanfire-archive]

Since meeting her, everything’s changed like a reversal of fortune. Lucky cards and all that — if he believes in that sorta thing at all. For too long, he’s been at the end of a rope with no real destination in mind, unsure of where to go, where to live and who to be in a world that didn’t seem to care whether he lived today or died tomorrow. He’s always drifted from place to place, never lingering in a city long enough to memorize street names or intersections like he’s trying to find somewhere new to belong. And this is it, isn’t it? Here, in rundown places off freeway exits with a beat up car parked outside and a pretty girl on his arm. It’s all he needs anyway. It’s all he’s ever wanted. “Terrible joke,” he says, face still buried in her neck if only to breathe in the scent of her perfume. Then, realizing something, he pulls away to sit back so he can look at her -- really look at her. “It’s you and me,” he insists, taking her face in his hands. “It’s always gonna be you and me.”

@ofimaginarybeings  |  x

[tothedevilsshowclosed]

 “i don’t know why but my grandpa collected kites.”

@ofimaginarybeings

[thxunforgiven-blog]

:: @waywerust

 “that’s not what I meant.”