#wrenlake

[hightabled]

⠀⠀ do i know you? @wrenlake.

the marquis hated london, especially in regards to the way the polluted air seemed to crawl down his throat and stay there. he was certainly used to proliferated tourism throughout paris but the sheer density of the crowds and the drastic overpopulation of england's capital revolted him to no end, and the marquis found himself searching for a quiet moment wherever possible that gave a voice to his muted thoughts. the gym he found himself venturing inside was empty without the two of them, silent if not for the methodical blows that connected with the swinging punchbag and the subsequent groans of protest the old thing verbalised on impact. it had been a long time since the marquis had been a fighter, since he had devoted every hour he wasn't tracking his targets to tiring his body enough so that he could finally find sleep. the marquis supposed somewhere along the way he had lost that required assistance for his reprieve, his humanity too. he didn't dwell upon it, never did, lighting a cigarette instead for the sake of having something to do with his hands.

❛ perhaps not, but you will. ❜ the marquis said through a billow of smoke, eyeing his new confrère from dark locks to the very tip of his antiquated boots with a sudden decree of intrigue. the other man wasn't from this place as much as the marquis wasn't. he had an earthy sort of aura that seemed to be stifled by the smothering city and the act of keeping up a pretence. the marquis smiles somewhat, tight-lipped and acrimonious. he wanted to go home, and his impatience regarding the matter was starting to map out against his quintessential skin. ❛ vincent. are you another shelby brother? everywhere i turn there seems to be another of you. ❜

[hightabled]

every day i murdered people so i could be here with you, @wrenlake.

silence stews in the colossal space between them, a bitter, festering, stillness that seems to stretch on and on until they are worlds apart. the marquis lulls in the welcomed quietude of a party long since over. the host had now retired with a bottle of expensive champagne that he drinks in urbane, well-mannered intervals, lapping at crystal flutes of which the expense would've once corresponded to the entirety of his wardrobe. and his greed only seemed to grow, extended beyond mere, meaningless, material acquisition, but the amassing of loyal subjects that would devote themselves completely to him. vincent could not doubt róisín's fidelity, it was etched into the deepest, golden flecks of her irises as she gazed upon him as though he were god and she, his most dependable disciple. and she was. there was something he found rather reliable about a comrade in love. there was unlikely to be hesitation on her part, her life beholden to whatever command he may issue her. and vincent soon learned there was very little he had to offer in exchange for her adulation, a kind word every now and then seemed to gain him a month more. it was a rather depressing rotation, he imagined, the pendulous swing of hope suspended before her very eyes and yet, his elsewhere affections remained just a hair-breadth perpetually out of reach. he'd kissed and he'd cooed and he'd said all the right things for all else leading up until now to be forgotten, buried as new blooms blossomed in her temporary stasis of partial fulfilment, only for him to trample over them again. the marquis turns on his heel to ponder over the city skyline beyond the prodigious apartment window, drawing out his thoughts from building to building, a fifth glass of champagne pinched between splayed, bone-white fingers.

❛ and i have given you anything you have ever asked for in return, yet you are still dissatisfied. ❜ the marquis remarks with an air of chastisement, translucent tone toeing the tip of superciliousness. eyes scour the neon city from where he stood far above, charting the brilliance of each lit-up building as he mulls over her words, questing for a small fissure betwixt them that would allow him enough space to bury the knife. vincent raises the quickly-warming champagne flute to his lips and devours the remains, vexation swarming his features though his attention stayed studious of the city layout, feigning preoccupation with the view. ❛ what more could you possibly want, hm? ❜

[hightabled]

i would do anything you wanted me to, @wrenlake.

she's choking on some unidentifiable thing lodged between the walls of her oesophagus. he envisions the twitching remains of a butterfly wing as it is crushed by her defiant, stubborn throat, itching for it's freedom to flutter about the air around them. his air. she swallows it back. but she didn't need to say the words for him to know that they exist, tucked beneath the safety of her skin. and perhaps vincent hadn't bothered to note the depth of her exterior affections prior, it appears to him plainly now as pupils take the time to roam the deft delineations of her facial features. a dangerous smile takes charge of his dark expression, wicked in nature, as metal cogs of his inner workings seem to click into place. he understands it now. lingering by the soft tones of her full mouth, he discovers there a momentary lapse in his concentration in the bend where her top lip bows inward. devotion is a devouring concept, he thinks from this study alone that he could swallow her whole & roísín wouldn't resist against the temptation of it, if only to feel longed for in that moment. choosing death just to trade spit with him. the marquis hums thoughtfully, wonders if within their proximity she can recognise him as intricately as he can recognise her; if he were honest, he was little beyond a well-mannered animal, hungry for more and more and more. the tatters he'd transformed into an immeasurable wealth no longer appeased him, nor did the tastes gratify him. but those who concurred to his every ordinance? now that was a useful little thing. he found himself hungering for her continued adoration, not to return it; but to misuse it, to hoard it. anything he wanted? vincent had several gory aspirations that her pledged commitment could pertain to, a few more heads to roll until he were completely satisfied.

❛ i know, mon trésor. ❜ and vincent does, admits to himself that he would exploit that deep feeling at all detriment to his honour as a man, as a god. his thumb carefully slots between the gentle cleft of her chin, docile forefinger hooking beneath as green irises slowly meander back up to hers, soaking in the zealous sincerity of her impassioned expression. gentle as vincent is, he might as well have had her on meathooks. his manner reads somewhat rather wolfish, any allusion to sheepish diffidence cast from his frame at the very moment she surrendered herself to him. ❛ it is what makes you so very special to me. ❜

[hightabled]

i guess it's time i told you to climb down off your high table and go fuck yourself. @wrenlake.

the marquis was methodical when it came to enemy ranks, viewed and valued them like pieces on a chess board. expendable pawns rounded them in an elliptical manner, feigning preoccupation whilst maintaining some attention upon the pair as they poured over their momentary stalemate, a new point of discussion regarding their next move. it was beginning to get rather dull, these frequenting encounters of theirs at moments of inattentiveness that would always reveal nothing of real worth to debra. nor the marquis, in that regard. he was growing tired of the same parry, the dances they shared around political deference. vincent thinks he would love to hear what she really thought of him, words unbound by the constraints of social civility. she always appeared to him as though she were biting back a runaway tongue, trapping her thoughts between two layers of sharp teeth, hefty enough to draw blood. and sometimes all that the marquis desired was dissension to enliven the insipidity of his new aristocracy, a rather humbling moment that would mak his blood boil and spill over to remind him that he was still alive inside. and yet he sat, quietly suffocated by the density of self-satisfaction and the amour propre that he has no doubt in that it will lead her into temptation. vincent lays his pomposity on thick just for her, wishing for a moment that some tempestuous shade would bring colour to her cheeks as she'd finally allow her explosive personality to run riots with his own. and there he recognised a mere morsel of her capabilities. go fuck yourself. he chuckles inwardly, knowing how tame and tractable the insult really was and how little it looked in regards to what he deserved.

❛ i love that colourful mouth of yours. ❜ the warm glint of the glowing continental bar catches against his pearl white teeth in a rare smile, faux specks of gold hatching against model crowns. though vincent's patience is a thin, tattered thread, he cannot help but find a source of entertainment in her unremitting fury, her inability to let up. he is starting to realise they are cut from the same cloth, despite the distinct differences laid against the surface. they both had ambition, of which accompanied rather a penchant for obsession, a slight mania regarding the things they felt passionately about. it temporarily weans vincent off of his own lunacy, to watch someone else be tormented by the same compulsive ills. he knew there was nothing here to condemn him, so he cannot help but feel a little smug at the win that is yet to be announced. ❛ i do look forward to our conversations, lieutenant. i sometimes hope you will appear if only to make the day a little more interesting. ❜

[hightabled]

⠀⠀ fourteen million dollars is a lot of money, @wrenlake.

❛ ah, so you do have a price, detective. ❜ the marquis remarks with an air of mystique, positioned partway between pondering and sudden recognition. oh, i've got you. quinn would not be the first cop in the miami metro that the marquis had in his pocket, nor would he be the last, but he cannot deny the thrill of this particular quarry. there was something rather exhilarating about the way quinn's eyes darted to and fro between the desire and the denial, how he would fall so deeply within the mere thought of it and wear it so patently against his expression. the marquis smiles broadly and without teeth, an air of impish deviltry mapping itself out against his blemish-free skin. their lives were utterly incomparable at where they each stood, but the marquis could sense this once crooked cop's continued thirst for it: champagne tastes on a beer budget. vincent knew how life-changing a single million could be, his first few hits had totted up to an equivalent amount, and he recalls hoarding it like a man possessed, like it could be gone in an instant. but the marquis had offered up fourteen times more than even that, an amount that a man like joey could only have ever fantasised about having. he could retire before forty, if he so wished. not that the marquis would ever allow that to happen. once his claws were in, they were unlikely to let up until his subject was dead and buried, until their value to him had become a frank and final zero. ❛ fourteen million dollars and you would give it all up, eh? every fibre of your humanity. oh, what would your precious lieutenant think of you? ❜

[betr4yal-arc]

⠀⠀     @wrenlake,       “    you mumble in your sleep.    ”

another shitty motel,    and yet harrison thinks it something close to paradise.       the decaying print of the curtains does little to prevent the sunrays peeking through and stretching over his forehead,     gently illuminating the oceanic blue of his mothers replicated irids.      he couldn’t help but fall in love with the outdated decor that boxed them in.      the shabby eighties prints embellishing the floors and windows made it feel like a walk-in time capsule,      and his mind modelled a type of game out of it,      thoughts pertaining to a universe where they are the only two to exist.     somewhere only they know, it wrapped him up in the warming blankets of secrecy. he couldn't recall the last time he felt safe enough for his mind to play, nor even a short moment where his restless hands were not itching for the door handle to escape. harrison dreamt often of abandonment, of being born in blood, definitively desolate and calling out like a baby for some otherwise unknown. he used to think he'd wake and all that had taken abigail's place had been a sizeable layer of dust. but with every dawn, his fears were silently pacified by the weighted slope of the bedcovers beside him. harrison wonders if she feels the same way as he does, if they share this feeling of some subsiding unease. with her knees drawn to her chest in an image of curious repose, abigail certainly could convince him so. her once quaking hands were stilled as much as his own, though when she left for a vending machine snack or pay for their room, he stirred disconcertedly, his expression pinched in childlike confusion. she's leaving, she's leaving me like everyone else has. but the door would always reopen in the manner of minutes, and until it had, harrison could swear that his heart had stopped beating.

“     hear anything revolutionary?     the transcript for my first presidential speech,    maybe?    ”     harrison mumbles, words obscured by the lack of desire in waking up,    though he soon adjusts his position to rest his head against the tired headboard. sleep for harrison had always been a precious, unattainable commodity: a series of unchanging disruptions that saw the night through morning. the first time he had a decent night's sleep was the first night after finding dexter. though as predicted, the guilt of those succeeding events quickly chewed through his subconscious and he found himself back at square one, tossing and turning until he gave up trying. and then he found abigail, whose small soothing breaths that spaced out further throughout the night lulled him to gentle sleep, as though counting the seconds between them tired out his brain until he could no longer stay awake. " i hope i didn't keep you up. "