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Sweet Seals For You, Always
blake kathryn
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Xuebing Du
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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
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Love Begins
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@xmercurialx
Note: this is shit quality. I didn’t have time to make it pretty, and people were skyping me during. But let’s ignore that and focus on the important things
WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT THING AT THE END?! DOES ANYONE KNOW?!
Oh, shoot, I meant to say that such was only an assumption. Sorry!
--
There was another one.
Peter didn’t even have to listen to the words that left Roman’s lips to understand what he’d said. In fact, he hadn’t even had to hear his tone of voice, because as soon as the phone rang, he got this sinking feeling in his gut— this twitch in his balls— that told him something was horribly wrong. He knew, before he’d even answered the phone, that another girl had been killed.
Peter scribbled the address down— so quickly that even he struggled with deciphering his own handwriting— and he told Roman that he would be there as soon as he could get a ride. He managed to get one from his mother, who asked few questions about why he was so frazzled and where he was going. She knew, of course, that something was up, but she also knew that her son wasn’t going to tell her what it was.
He thanked her when she dropped him off, and he hopped out of the car and quickly went inside. Upon entrance, he pulled his arm up over his face, pressing his nose into his sleeve. Oh, god, it smelled. The body had been here for a while. Days, maybe? He couldn’t be sure. Even once he laid eyes on the corpse, he could not tell how long it had been rotting there.
"—So, you called me here… What are we gonna do about it?"
It should have been obvious. There was a яσттιиg body before him, and someone had put it there. . . Life should be a matter of black and white, should it not? Someone had done this, and someone deserved to be punished. And it was his duty as a protagonist to do so -- Life should a matter of black and white, outlined in strict borders that he could understand.
When the phone call had ended and when the phone echoed the termination of the call with an automated, repeating, high-pitched beep, Roman felt as though the phone were falling, as though the hand that was guiding the phone back into his pocket were falling. There was no gravity, nothing that rooted him to steady thought. Roman was conscious of little outside the sensation of ceaseless controlled falling and the smell of laughing decomposition. He churned, but did not feel ill -- There was a stifled glee at seeing red. And then the only thing in his vision was long fingered shadow.
He closed his eyes, closed his mind hoping that upon opening them once more, he would see clarity. Nothing. But. Darkness.
The pads of his fingers, the skin of his palm now press firmly against peeling hideous wallpaper. It stood stable, but Roman felt it crumble as he pulled himself back through the stained yellow hallway to the white light. . . To the fresh air. At least out here, he could breath something besides the stink of death.
He would wait there until Peter arrived. Peter had to know what to do.
Peter came, and minutes of silence ghosted by as they found themselves in the room decorated in that red organic paint. Roman was fixated on the gore once more, not noticing how the other reacted to the scene until he spoke . . . Until he spoke. Peter didn't know what to do.
Shaking his head, Roman turned his gaze to his friend, noticing that he had covered his mouth and nose from the stench. Why hadn't he thought to do that?
Roman coughed-- ❝I thought you could. . . You know-- Sniff around or something.❞ A moment of silence. ❝Shit, Peter, she's in my house. ❞
Basil glanced over at the younger man— much younger, it seemed, for Basil would not place him older than eighteen— and he smiled warmly. He has been rather pained by this event. He was the guest of honor, in truth, but the attention had been wearing him down this evening. None of these paintings were as good as his masterpiece— his portrait of Dorian Gray. They were all good, of course, but he had hoped to include his best work in the exhibition…
”—I wouldn’t say that I’m in pain, but I am growing rather tired,” Basil replied with a light laugh, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. He’d been wondering for quite a while now how difficult it would be to slip outside and enjoy a relaxing cigarette.
Roman failed to smile in return; he had no reason to. He did not know this man, and the man did not know him. And yet, he knew something of the man who knew nothing of him. Roman knew that this man was the ᴀʀᴛɪsᴛ. The paintings were his; the attention was upon him -- Should the attention have been centered upon the paintings, then they would not have summoned the artist. . . They would not have summoned a crowd.
❝ -- Why? ❞
His tone wasn't unfriendly; his tone was not sympathetic. Both of them were there, and that was that. It was a meaning of killing time. Certainly that could be appreciated by both parties? The boy wasn't entirely interested in hearing the answer to the question.
❝Not that I can blame you, mind. It's god damn boring being stuck in a room like this. ❞
‘What kind of company do you keep?’
She regarded him — tall, green-eyed, easy to notice in a crowd — with a thoughtful gaze. He was an interesting person himself. Perhaps he was talking about himself, too, since he was her company at this moment in time. It wouldn’t surprise her; he seemed the type to talk about himself, but she could be wrong about that.
‘You know Peter Rumancek,’ she stated. ‘People say that he’s a werewolf.’
People, including himself. She smiled a little, corners of her lips twitching upward and eyes glinting.
[ Roman was almost taken aback by the question -- It was a good one. . . And one with a vague answer. With whom did he keep company in what sense? He kept the company of prostitutes, of colleagues, of doctors, of his family, of drug dealers, of those with reputable names. . . Very seldom had he kept the company of friends. Roman simply shrugged at her unceremoniously -- ]
❝Not very good.❞
[ Then again -- He, himself, wasn't very good company to keep. Then she spoke of Peter, and Roman lifted a sculpted eyebrow at her. He would ask her questions. . . And she hers. The girl rather seemed like an abstract painting, but then there was that glint in her eyes; he had to wonder. ]
❝People say a lot of things. Why--do you think he's a werewolf? He's got enough hair to be one, I'd gamble.❞
Psst: Roman bleaches his hair.
kITTEN
‘Oh.’
She supposed that she understood — Alyssa and Alexa were rather vibrant girls, with personalities that at times seemed to be quite different from her own, bouncing and glimmering while she wandered and pondered — but despite what she might expect, they had never seemed like they didn’t want to be her friend. She was happy to have them. They made her feel cared about.
‘They’re my friends.’ She gave a noncommittal shrug. ‘Why do you care?’ She didn’t ask the question in a rude manner — there was only curiosity in her tone and the raise of her eyebrows.
[ "Oh," indeed. It was not foreign to this girl, then, that the sisters were, in simple words, ridiculous. Though-- Perhaps they were not more or less ridiculous than he was himself. He sat inside the crowd he was sure they strove to be included in. H sat inside their boundaries; he did not sit with them. Roman raised an eyebrow, looking her over once. He didn't know her name-- He knew Shelley liked her, but he didn't know her name. He had also seen her before. Roman liked to watch people, though they often faded from his memory; by doing so, he almost felt that he would seen by them. It often worked. ]
❝I don't.❞ Simple words for a simple question. ❝You just keep interesting company.❞
‘What did you just say?’
She fixed a curious gaze upon the person whose words had caught her attention, head cocked slightly to the side.
❝--I said you keep interesting company.❞
[ He thought the Sworn sisters anything but. Truly, they had never been memorable to Roman-- Not very many people were, admittedly, but he had noticed when the sheriff's daughters seemed to try and make themselves visible to the world by painting themselves in flashing colors adherent to social trend. He'd noticed when they were rude to Shelley. ]
@chrxstina said: whispers I know who you are now and I love you
Hi, yes, you're fantastic, and I love you.
christina wendall, aspiring writer. this is an independent hemlock grove rp blog, multi-everything....
I don't know if this mun knows that I know some of her previous roleplaying, but I know she's astounding, and I am very excited that she's made a Christina Wendell account. Christina is an absolutely amazing character, and I'm going to ramble if I go on.
"Am I supposed know what you’re referring to?"
❝-- -- Yeah, actually. If you didn't, it's pretty dumb of me to ask, isn't it?❞
[ Roman eyes him with something akin to weariness. He wasn't very keen on the idea of explaining the circumstance, that people officially named his sister-- His sister -- a murder. Was he actually ignorant of the conditions or was it a ploy, of sorts? ]
Hemlock Grove
I have two starters in line! However, I also just pulled a bunch of classic literature that— I don’t care what anyone says— Has some sentences that would make some great prompts. Ex. The Iliad, The Scarlet Letter, A Tale of Two Cities, The Great Gatsby—
Is that not tempting? Really, I just love all these books; I’mma write with them no matter what.
Basically, if I am asked for a starter- I'll write something from a sentence of my choosing!
