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@neotropical / closed.
“for how long should i keep them alive?”
he asks that question in much the same tone he uses to ask about someone’s new haircut, or what they should get for dinner. it bears as much weight on his mind as those pleasantries, gray eyes completely blank on all but the most languorous sort of attention.
“it’s not like they have much to offer, but marcelo might want to talk to them anyways, when his spiritual retreat concludes.”
He slumps, hitting the softness of the leather chair of his livingroom with a muted sound, legs parted wide and extended. Eyes a pale, unreadable gold that never strays from her face as he single-handedly unbuttons his shirt. “I wasn’t expecting your visit.” His gold watch clatters as he drops it on the table next to him. “I would’ve brought dinner.” @neotropical
full offense but we need love but all we want is danger we team up and switch sides like a record changer
PEPROMENO TASK / character development questionnaire.
❛ my clearest memory from high school is my best friend asking me if i’d bought gym clothes and me asking ‘ who the fuck is jim? ‘ ❜
click here for the questionnaire !
@neotropical / tribulation.
DAWNS IN CARRION always seemed embedded in magic to Marcelo. Especially when he was a young boy. It didn’t matter if it poured the whole night to nigh flood – at some point between four and six the morning would hit all at once like a hastily pulled curtain, and within seconds it would dry up the grass and desiccate the pavement. Within minutes no trace of water would be found. To the naked eye, it looked like a straight up mirage.
Adán Valenciano called it transmutation. Berenice Reyes called it the veiling. When Marcelo was eleven, waking up extra early just to see it with Alba and Elián, they called it the neighborhood’s light switch, which is what Carrion’s kids still call it today, because that’s what it looks like, and because they like that story better. That’s the story Ysmael Reyes gave them.
And who turns the switch? They – Elián, Alba, himself – had asked, then.
Who else? Ysmael would return, his smile wide, his eyes knowing. Who else, if not La Divina herself?
It’s a good story. Part of it involves how Carrion came into place, a peculiar neighborhood in a county filled with all kinds of weird tales. To this day, he isn’t sure if it’s true – it seems just the type of thing his father would embellish, or obfuscate – yet, he’s never tried to ask, either.
And now, now that he’s sure that he would get a truthful answer – he doesn’t feel like knowing.
His eyes remain in the pool water, instead, ignoring her. Never mind she showed up seconds after the sun did. Never mind it feels like nobody – not one soul in the entirety of Carrion – is awake to witness this daybreak, with the exception of them. He waits for the darkness to disappear in its entirety, his eyes on the water as it goes from blue to white. He waits in silence and blinks away at the radiance when it arrives.
“Llegó un cierto momento en que la celebración dejó de ser sobre mí, y empezó a ser sobre beber,” he goes finally, as he reaches for the ashtray sitting on the grass besides the chair and picks up a cigar. He lights it after a few seconds struggling with the bic. “Pero no los puedo culpar, ¿sabes? No es todos los días que visita La Locura. No lo ví, pero sí lo sentí. En el aire, en el humo.” Marcelo could smell the endorphin rush and exhilarated blood that could only be the deity’s work. Now, how to interpret it? A display of satisfaction, perhaps – a new regente, much like a new dawn, always denoted the beginning of a chapter of Carrion’s story.
“Y no te vi a ti.” He finally looks at her, his head tilted. Perhaps a few years ago -- or a week ago -- he would’ve sounded affected, but not anymore. Something was taken from him that first night. It got drained alongside his blood. And he hasn’t slept since that time he passed out, thinking about it. “Ni te sentí. ¿Estabas aquí?”
PEPROMENO TASK / hogwarts.
❛ you might belong in gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart, their daring, nerve, and chivalry, set gryffindors apart. ❜
NOVA ROWE / ( 1/? )
“hey, question — do you, like, post one photo or reply to a snap like once and then throw your fucking phone across the atlantic for a whole summer? how do you expect us to hang out with you?”
“that sounds like a you problem. how ‘bout just don’t expect me to hang out with you next time.”
