#andessence

[brightreporterwithapointofview]

@andessence liked this post for a starter (accepting)

It had been a whole year and some change since Daniel Molloy, two-time Pulitzer winner, deadbeat dad, and the bane of TV hosts nationwide, had been turned into a vampire. In some ways, the time had flown by. He'd been swamped with book edits, interviews, and fielding phone calls from family trying to determine if he had finally lost his mind. In other ways, it felt far longer than a year. The growing pains of his transformation had hit him hard in the beginning.

Regular calls to Louis had helped, as he'd learnt how to dispose of bodies, how to avoid drinking dead blood, and how to avoid broadcasting his thoughts to every vampire within a hundred miles of him. The one thing Louis could not help with was the trauma of Daniel's turning. Being left alone with Armand in such a volatile state. And then swiftly abandoned.

Louis didn't like to discuss Armand, so the subject was avoided. The couple of times Daniel had tried to speak about him outside of a brief mention, he'd been 'hung up' on, and hadn't heard from Louis for several days. Which left him alone to try and sort through how he felt about his maker. Or rather, not try at all, because if there was one thing Daniel excelled at, it was avoiding his feelings.

So maybe he was a bit more reckless when feeding than he should have been. Maybe he was more of an asshole on live television than he needed to be. Maybe he refused to sleep in a coffin despite Louis's insistence that it would be better for his health. So what? All 'children' went through a rebellious phase, after all.

And if, when walking through Central Park at 2 AM, he had the habit of thinking louder than necessary, 'Come find me, asshole'- well, that wasn't anyone's business, was it?

[desperuntion]

@andessence

Pulling out his circadian rhythm and flipping it entirely on its head should have been the easy part of eating the world whole with armand. however, he lost the ability to sleep soundlessly in his teens, and exhausted or not, it has only gotten more sporadic the stretches of uninterrupted time he can be fast asleep. at least, he blames reversing his sleep schedule.

that is to say, it has barely inched past morning when daniel throws in the towel on getting any sleep. he is the type of awake that will not be soothed on its own, that demands his attention despite any amount of bodily weariness.

prone in bed, he forks his fingers through his hair, drags in a slow breath, and allows himself to be dully disappointed for a whole moment. then he gets up.  

wandering through their dormant castle is how he found the coffin.

it is the fault of armand’s own lapse in judgment— failing to accurately gauge how long daniel would sleep ( rookie mistake! ) and choosing a location daniel could potentially stumble upon.

the coffin is exactly as theatrical as he imagined it would be, dressed ornately in intricate carved patterns, twisting metals, dripping with grace and beauty and power.

not that he spends long studying the exterior— that is so unimportant.

his excitement pours over greedy hands that have only ever grasped for what makes his heart beat faster. his nerves are drowned out, sitting in the back of his mind, far too quiet to pay attention to. his curiosity, whether morbid or innocent or both, alerts him that he will never have another opportunity! armand is so quick to slam the gates shut on the inhuman stories of his life. and this one is sitting, waiting, for daniel to reach into.  

shaking hands and flailing rabbit-heartbeat are all that thwart his attempts to pry it open. he runs his long, thin fingers over the crease were the lid meets the base, presses his ear to the surface for some reason. there is, of course, only silence.  

and, slowly, he digs his fingers into the crevice and lifts the lid.

he stares at his lover, frozen in death. a marble carving. drained of all his vibrancy, his command. he doesn’t even look peaceful.

it is instinct alone that instructs he close the distance between them. he has had to figure out creative ways to comfortably fold up his lankiness, but collecting himself around armand comes as naturally as breathing. perhaps even more so. he can’t be sure his breath ever returned after the sight of armand in his coffin stole the air from his lungs.

he sinks down into the pocket of space between the wall and the freezing corpse of his lover. the silky lining is more cushioned than he’d thought it would be. he lays his left hand over the flat of armand’s chest and studies the stillness. the way the warmth of his palm ( he has always run hot ) feels as if it leaks into stony marble. it unnerves him, but at the same time, he hugs his dearest closer. he closes his eyes.

perhaps, rest will come for him after all.

[threadmund]

starter for @andessence/ edmund

vast is the hollowness between its ribs. a silky black sky unveils over its ugly organs, coalescing in the stomach and reaching cold claws into the pumping heart. this is what grief is. it is the loss of a home. but not its home.

the voice speaks of a permanent grave and the only path forward is one without theo, then warnings that any other choice leads to devastation. it brushes fingertips over its cheekbones and they come away wet.

‘edmund, what do you need?’ it asks, simply. it closes the space between them and touches his arm, his hand, and settles on holding it. it presses edmund’s hand over its own heart— this is where it hurts.  ‘you feel like you have lost your home. I’m sorry I cannot give you a better answer.’

[scrivellc]

@andessence starter for JOSIANA

This was not at all the kind of place that Orin would occupy if he had any say in the matter. While he did have a taste for comfortable living, setting foot inside a castle was a completely foreign and mostly unpleasant experience. But what was he supposed to do? Turn down an offer to treat the duchess for...whatever it was that was ailing her. The men who had been sent to fetch him had been tight lipped on that matter, which was maybe a red flag, but Orin had been in no position to deny the invitation. And even with his discomfort as he was led down the long hallway to the Duchess' room, it was fascinating to see how royalty lived.

It was gaudy and garish and imposing...all things he didn't hate individually but that were starting to feel overwhelming.

As they arrived at the door he was unceremoniously pushed inside, though he reflexively resisted, throwing his escorts a dirty look before the door was shut behind him, his presence announced in a way that almost seemed rushed. Orin furrowed his brow, removing his hat as he took a step into the room of his own accord. Any misgivings he had would need to wait as he had a patient to attend to.

"Your grace," he began, giving a small bow and doing his best to remember his manners. He hardly practiced them since most of his other clients were well beneath his social standing, but in this case he was sure he had no choice but to play nice. "You sent for me?"

[reastless]

starter for @andessence for mortiz >:)

LUKE OWNS TWO PAIRS OF OVEN MITTS. the first, and the oldest pair, he never uses because they are too thin to protect his hands from heat bleeding through the thin layer of cotton. they are doused in faded teal flowers with a couple of holes eaten through that reveal the stringy fluff underneath. he has on a few occasions warned guests that offer to retrieve something from the oven not to use that pair, but to use the other that he indulged himself in purchasing, which are shaped like chickens! a red comb sits across the crest of the gloves, a yellow beak for the thumb— oh he laughed when he saw them! these are his good gloves. siggy said they are the ugliest things he has ever seen and he would rather burn his hands, but luke didn’t mind.

since he purchased his good chicken mitts, he has never seen the need to find more. but he doesn’t think anybody has ever needed oven mitts as desperately as he does now.

luke sets a bulging plastic bag atop the kitchen table before mortiz and begins fishing out individual gloves, arranging them in a line for her.

“ I should have asked your favorite color! I just got a bunch of them. ” he says, placing one wreathed with golden flowers with black stems with a rubber padding on the palm next to a faded one with the sort of kittens he’d see on really old jigsaw puzzles. there is a new pair with stripes, old ones with burn stains. in the end, luke places an uneven nine on the table because one of them didn’t have a mate.

he looks up to moritz expectantly, a hopeful smile on his face.

“ do you like them? are they good? ”

[helenaus]

@andessence  sent 🗣️ for incorrect quotes of hermione and pyrrhus

[mvndrvke-archive]

@andessence​ said : "don’t ask if i’m happy. you know that i’m not." from pyrrhus to achilles

“It is not the way of heroes to be happy.” 

Achilles knows that there was never a chance of him coming home from the war. He had made his peace with that fact, had known it the second he’d left for Troy. But Pyrrhus is here, he can see him now. Even as a shade, even for a moment. He sighs, looking at the boy. He looks so much like him, it’s almost disturbing. 

“Nor the way of our family. The most we can hope or ask for is that we are not miserable. Are you miserable?”

[intoxicatiing]

MORITZ IN B2 OR B5??? only if u are so inclined of course omg xoxo love, kay

ART EXPRESSION PROMPTS || ACCEPTING || @andessence

Moritz is Best girl and I LOVE HER