#studies on ineptitude. ⟹ verse; the case study of vanitas.

[antisatiric]

[  INCOHERENT  ] : while sick/feverish/intoxicated/otherwise incoherent, the sender tells the receiver that they love them, leaving the receiver to figure out if they meant it or not. | from domi?

They've both had a little bit too much to drink, but Twain's clearheaded enough to feel every bit of the cold air on his exposed skin, jacket sacrificed to provide Domi a clean spot to sit in an act of teasing chivalry somewhat uncharacteristic of Twain. If his inhibitions are loosened, that being his most telling act of the night is probably a mercy.

It's never the right time to say something to Domi, but he hadn't wanted to say something now. It's probably because he's a writer, but he'd wanted his own confession of feelings to be... Well, maybe not perfect, but he'd wanted it to be something specific. He'd wanted to feel a certain way before saying them.

But Domi is more drunk than him, whether she shares that desire or not.

It doesn't really surprise Twain that she says it. If it were louder, he might not have heard---but there's nobody here but them, no interruptions that could make those words less clear. It's not surprising, but it's jarring. Strange. It makes him happy to hear and conflicted and confused all at the same time.

I love you, she says.

He believes her, of course. He hears it in every conversation lately, every jab passed back and forth between them. He's probably said it a lot himself, too, in more ways than he even realizes. But here, she's saying it. She makes no room for ambiguity, and Twain can't even place the blame on some drunk fabrication.

Never saying it had made understanding it just a little bit easier, though. Now, he feels stuck in the realization that Domi had probably wanted, actively, to say it.

He doesn't remember the last time someone said that to him in earnest. He's not sure there was a time before every 'I love you' was said snidely, with intent to send him on his way back into line. The last time was here and now, and there's a chance Domi won't remember when she wakes up in the morning, and they'll carry on as usual.

"I know," Twain says, softly but with certainty. "I..."

I don't think I've really been this close to crying for a long, long time.

"... I love you too." And if you don't remember, I'll say it again when you will.

ways to say i love you. / accepting.

[antisatiric]

BETRAYING THE SUN AND MOON.

a verse post for mark twain's vanitas no carte verse!

BASIC INFORMATION;

name: "mark twain". higher vampire society might know him better as samuel clemens, but for broader purposes he's left that name behind entirely.

age: 26.

species: vampire.

occupation: traveller and vagabond.

residence: n/a.

birthplace: altus, new york city.

special abilities: twain's inherited abilities from his vampire family allow him control over light and darkness. although most of his family members pick one or the other, twain ran away before he could pursue formal study of either---and so utilizes both to a less powerful extent. his specialty lies in the refraction of light to create illusions, and the warping of shadow to obscure and deflect visibility.

other: due to improper tampering with the world formula, a portion of twain's face and hair appears discolored---a shimmering white that emits a soft glow.

TIMELINE ;

born the second-youngest of the illustrious clemens line of vampires, samuel clemens was a disappointment from the moment of his birth. his interactions with the world formula were unstable, and it became clear as he grew that he was a bad study with little interest or retention for etiquette and astrology, which his family were somewhat renowned for.

twain suffered the mistreatment and punishment of his family for fourteen years before vanishing into the night, not a trace left behind nor indication of where he went. he spent the following years travelling freely between the human world and altus, with a clear preference towards the human world.

around six years after he first disappeared, at the age of 20, twain began to crash formal events for vampire nobility under the excuse that he hadn't been formally disowned. this naturally continues to stir a lot of chaos and sow discord within those events, which seems to be his goal.

[antisatiric]

" everything looks so beautiful from up here. " | from dominique!

She isn't wrong. Far be it from a writer to deny the beautiful descriptions that spring to mind when looking at the world from above---Twain doesn't think he'll ever get tired of just looking. The world is, undeniably, beautiful; the more cynical insist that beauty exists in spite of the population (human and vampire alike) that corrupts it, but he's always been bad at cynicism.

And besides, he's seen picturesque views by the thousands. It's not exactly the landscape he's focused on, too far away to see each individual person inhabiting it. Instead, he has his eyes on Domi, when he feels safe enough to look at her and not be seen in turn. If he were a more romantic person, he might have wondered about the true power of corruption against the beauty of the world when the so-called corruptors were that beautiful as well.

But he's not romantic, and Domi isn't beautiful in the way a landscape is beautiful. She's close. Within his reach, even, and she's all the more beautiful because he knows her.

"I know," he says, and he can't help smiling softly, adjusting his position so his head rests in his hands, posture relaxed. Pretending he's at all talking about the landscape, he searches for the light in the peripherals of Domi's eyes. "There's somethin' about bein' so far away. Or so close. To the sky, I mean. Like you're in between places, for a little while, so you can really appreciate 'em without needing to exist in 'em."

It's more poetic than he usually goes for in company, but then again Domi is more than company. She's a friend, and it almost startles him how happy he is to be able to call her that.

"I don't really know what I'm sayin'," Twain murmurs, though not in a sheepish or self-depreciating way. There's still a smile on his face, and he's still looking at Domi out of the corner of his eye.

If he told her she was beautiful, she probably wouldn't react badly to it. Really, he's not sure what exactly she'd do in response, but it probably wouldn't be bad. Even so, the words don't leave his mouth; he doesn't betray what he's thinking with anything other than his eyes, which still remained fixed on Dominique.

He's not afraid to say something. It's just that he likes the feeling of liking her a little too much to interrupt it like that.

"No matter how many times I see it," he says, finally looking at the landscape he's meant to have been talking about, "it's just so pretty it makes me forget how to stop talkin'."

an assortment of prompts. / accepting.

[antisatiric]

tags (part 2).

sometimes we don't have a choice but to keep going. ⟹ verse; early days. there will always be somewhere to call home. ⟹ verse; entrance into the guild. in defense of wanting. ⟹ verse; fractures. the best path is the path you never asked for. ⟹ verse; steadfast endings. to those who were once wanderers. ⟹ verse; roadside. every world at your fingertips; we carry on and on. ⟹ verse; inheritor of the archives.

a neverending ruckus. ⟹ verse; baccano! hapless and hosted. ⟹ verse; baldur's gate 3. studies on ineptitude. ⟹ verse; the case study of vanitas. like and subscribe! ⟹ verse; log horizon. the past's clutches. ⟹ verse; moriarty the patriot. a literary nightmare. ⟹ verse; the owl house. skating your story. ⟹ verse; yuri!!! on ice. the immutable second. ⟹ verse; the witcher.