#( / / & self para )

[drrutherford]

Pt. I/III

He's been on edge all day, hasn't slept a wink before it, knowing the court documents had been served to her last night. But by 6pm, he's starting to think he might be safe. Maybe the barrage of vile voice notes won't come, the angry missed calls. Maybe he'll even sleep tonight. When the bell rings, he doesn't check his security app. He expects it's Damon, who's kept in touch all day via text, waiting with him for the second shoe to drop. He assumes his brother's coming over to celebrate a little earlier than planned.

But when he opens the door, he finds himself staring at Katherine.

"Is this some kind of joke??"

There's no greeting with her, there never is. She's always blown in like a storm, with all the force of a natural disaster.

His hand goes lax around the knob. "I've never joked about Felix. I never would."

Katherine sees her opening and takes it, shoving past the open door, heels clacking against his floor. "You're going to put our son through that same old rollercoaster?? Now that he's old enough to remember it?"

"Oh, he's our son now, is he?..." The last six years, whenever she's spoken of Felix, it has always been in strictly possessive terms; my, my, mine. Her cherubic doll, to cling onto a wholesome public image. Her bargaining chip against her ex-husband, to be dangled and revoked on a whim, whenever it's suited her to punish him; to remind him of who is in control. Reluctantly, Gideon shuts the door behind her. "... Funny how that works."

He can't risk drawing attention, or being overheard by the rest of the building, but that doesn't mean he's rolling out the welcome mat. "You're not supposed to be here."

The actress whips around, adopting a cloyingly sweet tone. "And who's going to stop me, Gideon?... You? Your lawyer? Better yet, that mousy-looking creature you've been keeping on your arm?" Katherine adjusts the strap on her purse and sweeps down his front hall, poking her head into his living room, first, followed by his kitchen.

"Where is she? Is that why you're doing this?? You want your picket-white fence?"

He doesn't understand her disdain. As if it's ridiculous to want that kind of stability, as if he wasn't chasing that same dream with her when he popped the question ten years ago, didn't clutch even more desperately when their marriage began slipping through his fingers, and Katherine slid into new beds and old habits.

Still, he's glad she doesn't know about his breakup with Amélie. It'd bring her too much pleasure. She's always preferred him alone, held on as tightly to her control over him as Gideon once held to his love for her. "She's not here. What do you want, Katherine?"

She's satisfied with that answer. Abandoning her bloodhound quest, the blonde turns to face him again, this time wearing a derisive smile on her pink lips. "Well, it doesn't matter..." She strolls forward, slowly minimizing the distance between them until he can see the pinpricks of her pupils. He wonders what cocktail of drugs she's ingested most recently. Wonders which among an endless stream of babysitters is watching their son right now, and whether Katherine had the dignity to shoot up in a private space, or whether he'll be fending off questions from his six-year-old next time he's allowed to see him, about why needles are going into mommy's arm.

"If you go up against me again, you're just going to lose."

Her voice is honey, but her words are gall. Gideon watches her, tension wrought around every muscle fiber in his body. He still can't understand it. How this is the same woman who stood with him before an altar ten years ago, the same one who had whispered she loved him under a sea of lights at the reception hall, as he had held her in his arms and fancied himself the luckiest man in the world. He used to question if that woman was still inside her, somewhere, or whether she'd never really existed in the first place. But these days, he's stopped torturing himself over answers he'll never get.

"I suppose we'll just have to find out."

"Poor Gideon." The actress croons, reaching out to touch him without his permission. The palm that finds his chest is featherlight, but still manages to suck all the air out of his lungs. "Haven't you gotten used to losing?... Don't you remember what happened the last two times you took me to court?" For a second, he almost believes the pity in her blue eyes as she gazes up at him, but then he remembers how she likes her games.

This is why she's still so beloved onscreen, even if her star has begun to fade over the years. This is how she'd kept the public in a thrall during their excruciating, extensively covered divorce. This is how she'd managed to drag his reputation through the mud, while shining her own halo and covering her own crimes in the process.

"It's time for you to go, Katherine."

Something like fury sparks in her eyes. The change is swift enough to break her mask, even if she adjusts it a second later. She isn't used to this; not getting a rise out of him. He's danced on her marionette strings for so long; taken the bait, reacted and ignited, hated her with as much compulsion as he'd once adored her.

But it's true what they say about the opposite of love not being hate, but indifference.

And he doesn't love her anymore.

"Bring your finest lawyers, darling, it won't change a thing. It will only be all the more humiliating for you when you lose, and such a mortifying ordeal for Felix." Katherine's hand drops abruptly from his chest. She moves to the front door, wrenching it open.

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

Her hand is gone, but he still feels the pressure in his chest. It doesn't lift until the slam of the door shocks him back to life, jolting his muscles into use. Gideon moves forward to lock it, feeling hopelessly tired, but more determined than he has in a long time.

Don't say I didn't warn you, either.

[lararutherford]

I SAID I WOULD BE, SO I AM:

Seven nights she was, and one night she wasn't. Date: Various evenings post-shooting. Warnings: Emo shit.

ONE -

It'd always irritated her when she heard people say how much they hated hospitals.

So did everyone else?

Tonight's agonising wait was unlike the others, though, she supposed. St. Catherine's empty halls echoed only with the quiet voices of the night shift; not another visitor in sight so far as she could see. And Lara Rutherford shouldn't have been there, either. In more ways than one. But having friends within the hospital, acquaintances who would bend over backwards to appease her every want, meant that she didn't have to follow the rules this time. As if they could've stopped her.

They'd given her the go ahead after some stalling to suggest how much of a favour they were doing her, but she would've waited all night. It mattered little.

Given how long it'd taken her to make her way into the room, it probably irritated the staff immensely that she could barely stand to be there more than five minutes. How many times had she been at the bedside of somebody she cared about? Too many to count, and yet this felt more harrowing than all but one.

It was hard to say he looked peaceful because he didn't. He looked distant and lifeless and the sound of the machines working around him seemed louder than they should have been. Drowned out everything else, really. Was he hurting?

Lara fidgeted with her hands, rolling tangled fingers amongst themselves.

What had she thought to gain from coming here? Did she think it was going to make her feel better?

It didn't. And like a coward, as she stood in pathetic silence and aching misery, she resigned to looking anywhere but him.

The only words she spoke as she reached for the exit:

"I don't break my promises."

TWO -

"Rutherford perks? They don't check for contraband."

If only he knew how difficult it'd been to find a purse big enough to fit a bottle of alcohol that also matched her impeccable pantsuit...

Lara fished out two glasses she'd wrapped in Hermès handkerchiefs to stop them from breaking against each other, and placed them down quietly on his bedside table. All she could offer was a sideways glance, still finding taking in what he was instead of what he should have been too difficult to bear. But she compartmentalised, set it aside, and got to work filling them a few inches with the liquor she'd snuck into the room.

One for him, one for her.

Lightly she tapped hers against the other.

Then she polished it off in a desperate gulp.

"You look terrible, by the way," she eventually offered, hoping that humour would be the only avenue she could stomach taking to finally accept it. "Don't do this again."

THREE -

"I still can't believe I threatened him in his own office. I got back to the car and almost threw up. Literally gagged, right in the seat."

Though if she'd known that Konstantin's future plans would result in Laurent ending up in this condition, she might've considered doing more than threatening.

"You'd have probably enjoyed watching."

The Rutherford rolled the glass in her hand slightly, warming up the contents against her palm as she thought back to a moment that could've very easily spelt her end if she'd played it wrong. A split second later, though, her eyes quickly shot up and she raised a finger to point at him accusatorily:

"The threatening, not the gagging. Don't even go there," she interjected, as if cutting him off before he could make some dirty joke at her expense. Nothing I haven't already seen, he'd snicker, and she'd throw him a look like she despised him on a cellular level. But they both knew she didn't really. Not now.

As her hand hovered in the air stupidly, slowly lowering like she was a deflated fucking balloon, she was met with nothing but silence.

What she wouldn't have given to be the butt of one more joke...

FOUR -

It was hard to get comfortable in the awful hospital chairs, she'd learnt, but that didn't mean she couldn't find a way to enjoy a good book with her slightly less impressive glass of alcohol. She should have been checking the time—God forbid she stay past her welcome, and be greeted by a Commandant come morning—but she'd got lost somewhere near the middle and time had escaped her entirely. The Rutherford took one more sip of her drink, glancing toward her watch to check...

...thank God. It'd only been an hour.

Something drew her gaze from the gold face, though. Lara's eyesight had failed her entirely in one eye, and sometimes the light played tricks, but she was so damn sure... For a moment, she could've sworn she saw his hand move.

Symptom of semi-blindness or not, her stomach had flipped so intensely, she was glad she hadn't taken more than a few sips from the glass beside her.

It was hard to tell how long she'd watched after that. Waiting. Just in case. Do it again.

"If you're trying to get my attention, I'm not reading it to you. You have a startling lack of taste for a Parisian, and I shan't be taking belated book critiques from someone who considers Westminster Insider good literature."

Nothing.

If she'd been smiling at her own attack on him, it'd faded away shortly after, just like the brief glimmer of hope that she hadn't been seeing things.

Things were as they were before. Laurent was still.

Her eyes closed for a second.

She flipped back to page one.

This time, she read the words aloud.

FIVE -

"I didn't tell you about it yet, but my sister got married," she mused softly, the corner of her mouth lifting into a genuine smile. "She looked so happy."

The Rutherfords were a dysfunctional mess, and maybe had been for as long as she could remember. But that day was different. They'd set it all aside and come together to be there for her—it hurt to note, but she was to blame, some family's surprise that Lara was included in said support—and it'd felt like a massive weight lifted. This wonderful, good thing that they were so rarely able to celebrate together. And it'd been a hard day for her, much harder than any of them could've known, but she refused to let her life get in the way this time. It was Yvonne's day. Yvonne's future.

And she was glad she'd been allowed to be a part of it when she didn't deserve to be.

"I thought maybe something in me would feel bitter about it, but..."

Lara shook her head. No, it hadn't.

A chuckle left her lips at that because to be surprised by it should have seemed absurd. But for a relationship that'd been so tumultuous for so long, it meant something. It meant progress. For them, for herself... To find real happiness in knowing her sister felt exactly that was something she had to say out loud, and right now, she had so few important enough to share it with.

The chuckle died, then, even though the smile remained stubbornly behind. There was no humour left as her eyes welled with tears. As her chest tightened with the closest thing to physical agony she could imagine stemming from emotional turmoil. As her face slowly fell into hurt, and her lips pressed together into a thin line as though it might stop the words she was about to say for one more moment:

"And then three hours later, I sent Henry and his daughter back to Porto Velho for good, and I broke my own heart."

Again.

SIX -

It was hard to imagine somebody more averse to showing their feelings than herself, but Laurent St. Pierre hid behind anger like nobody else.

When they'd first seen each other after she'd been attacked at Fight Club, it seemed like anger on her behalf was all he could manage. Wasted, when she wanted absolutely nothing to do with it, the thinly veiled regret, or the man who offered both.

Lara hadn't understood why he'd not given up trying back then, but she learnt eventually. And the moment she finally gave him an inch, he unravelled in an instant; the first time, but certainly not the last, in which he had been honest about his feelings. 'I just wanted to be with you.' But the Rutherfords wouldn't let a Frenchman within a two mile radius after one of his own had tried to hack her face to pieces. It wasn't his fault, but he carried the weight of it as if he was solely responsible for abandoning her.

It'd hurt her to see him that way. It'd hurt her more to know that even if he had moved heaven and earth to find his way to her side, she probably would have turned him away again.

Would he feel that same way if he knew she was here with him now..?

'I wish I could have been there for you.' 'You're here for me now, Laurent.' 'It's not the same...'

Lara didn't often make promises. She got the idea that he didn't either. And yet both of them had made one that morning.

She finished what remained of the second glass.

And as if justifying her presence at his bedside, she spoke into the quiet void:

"I said I'd be here. So I am."

SEVEN -

The exchange with Odile in the hall had taken more out of her than she cared to admit.

'I can't do this. You're happy, and that's what matters to me. It matters.' Lara's mind drifted back to Launceston tonight. A time when everybody had thought her dead, utterly unreachable, and somehow, Amir had still found his way to her.

There was a brief moment that day where she'd thought that was it. It was finally time for her to fix her mistakes. To undo the worst thing she'd ever done. To him. To herself. But when he'd kissed her, he made himself into the same person she was. Amir was doing to Revati what she had long loathed herself for doing to him. And no matter how many sleepless nights she had spent wondering about this moment, about having him with her again, she just couldn't. Wouldn't let a good man do that to himself.

Because she loved him. More than her desperation to be happy. More than the pain her loneliness caused.

Being here tonight, watching the slow movement of Laurent's chest as he clung to life for somebody else, she realised she was hurting people. His happiness, if Leyla ever found out about it.

And in that moment, maybe she finally knew for sure. Because it mattered.

Lara reached out and took the first of the glasses, finishing it in one.

Then the second.

Fighting the war of emotion in her chest, she eventually got to her feet, and it felt like the most laborious thing she'd ever done. She adjusted her blazer. Tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear nonchalantly. Took one moment to look at him, really look, as she hovered near the edge of his bed. And then she did one thing she hadn't until tonight. It'd always seemed like a boundary not to be crossed, but given the spaces her mind wandered that evening, it seemed as though one more wouldn't hurt. Lara brushed her fingers gently against his wrist, and it felt so warm, so alive, it was hard to reconcile it with the man she'd spent so much time beside of late.

Eventually, she found his hand. Squeezed it gently. Longed for it to move in hers.

It didn't.

"This is the last time, okay?"

And so, it was.

EIGHT -

"Have you ever tried cognac?"

Ayaz stared back at her blankly. Of course he hadn't.

Tired eyes glanced down at the glass she cradled in her hands, contents untouched. Just to the right, the phone she had since muted. Half an hour before—maybe longer, it was hard to tell—the screen had sprung to life with the one message she had resigned to never receiving. One she didn't deserve to. He's awake.

Usually, he was good at masking his concern; Ayaz knew she hated nothing more than anything that could be perceived as pity. But as she threw back the two very full glasses, the last of what'd remained in the bottle, she could sense it.

He stayed silent. And she was glad.

"Well, you're not missing anything. It's awful."

[damianesco]

[ PATTERNS. SELF PARA 001 ]

SUMMARY: Damian experiences his first serious same-sex relationship. TIME FRAME: August 2024 - October 2024 TW: Emotional abuse, abuse, alcoholism, language, dissociation, relapse

AUGUST 26, 2024. [ URIEL: No show ? ]

It’s six in the morning, and Damian hasn’t slept.

He’s getting ready in the bathroom, staring at the bags underneath his eyes with a small frown. No doubt some of his students will make some smart comments about the sight — he wishes, fleetingly, that he were as good as some of the other volunteers at Bright Sparks with makeup. Might’ve made it easier to get through this.

“Hey.”

Jason steps inside the bathroom, in a soft gray t-shirt and similarly-shaded sweats. He’s got the day off today. Says he’s gonna spend it catching up on the sleep they missed last night.

He steps toward the toilet and takes a piss. Damian’s still staring at the bags underneath his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Jason asks, flushing the toilet.

Damian glances at him. “I look like shit.”

“Aw,” Jason steps toward the counter, pressing a gentle kiss to Damian’s temple. “You could never.” He runs a hand through Damian’s already-unkempt hair, and it feels warm on his scalp. “But I get it. Heavy bags,” he nods. “Guess you’ve learned your lesson, huh?”

Damian frowns.

“Don’t start a fight at night,” Jason raises an eyebrow. “Could’ve avoided the whole thing if you’d just relaxed.”

Right. Damian had mentioned — something about Jason’s tone, when speaking to the waiter at dinner last night. He hadn’t liked it — it’d been condescending, and rude. Jason had felt triggered, he’d said, as he’d been labeled condescending and rude his whole life growing up just because he was born into privilege. I didn’t choose it, Damian. I feel like you’re getting on my case about things out of my fucking control.

“Yeah,” Damian mutters, glancing back at the mirror. All he sees looking back is a stupid man who doesn’t know how to leave well enough alone.

–

SEPTEMBER 2, 2024. [ URIEL: You going 2 meetings in BH ? ]

—

He hasn’t spoken to Oliver in a week.

He keeps glancing down at his phone, hoping maybe the next notification that shows up is from him, to no avail. He’s scrolling through Instagram mindlessly when Jason walks into the kitchen.

“You’ve been staring at that thing for hours,” he says casually as he makes his way toward the fridge. “Waiting for a call?”

Damian shakes his head once. “Not — technically,” he admits, glancing up at his boyfriend. “Ollie and I — we haven’t spoken since—” he stops himself. “I just miss him.”

Jason says nothing as he reaches inside the fridge for the water pitcher. He says nothing when he sets it on the counter. He says nothing when he grabs a glass from the cabinet, when he fills that glass nearly to the brim. He says nothing after he chugs half of it and sets it back down.

Then he says, “I always thought he was a shitty friend.”

The instinct to defend Oliver is quick to rise in Damian. Years of practice. “He’s not,” he insists. “We just — we had a disagreement,” he says. “It’ll pass.”

“Will it?” Jason raises a challenging eyebrow at Damian. “He strings you along for years and then, what? One little spat and he drops off the face of the earth?” He gives Damian a sympathetic look. “You deserve better, baby.”

That’s not what this is, he wants to say. Oliver wouldn’t do that. He knows Oliver, longer than he’s known Jason, even — Oliver wouldn’t—

Jason grabs Damian’s phone from his hands and pockets it. “That’s enough of this for tonight.”

Damian gives him a puzzled look. “What?”

“It’s just messing with your head,” Jason presses a kiss to Damian’s forehead. “Let’s just relax. You and me. No phones.”

It’s a sweet gesture. Still—“I need to call Sofia, tell her I’m spending the night.”

Jason’s lips twitch almost imperceptibly downward. “You’re a grown man,” he points out to Damian, voice sweet. “You can stay out for a couple of days without keeping your little sister updated every single time.”

“She’ll worry.”

“She has her own life,” Jason reminds him. “You’re not the center of the fucking universe, Damian. She’ll be fine.”

And Damian doesn’t really have an argument to make against that — even if he did, he doesn’t think it’d be a good idea to make one at all. He hasn’t slept the past two nights, not well, because he’s slipped up a couple of times, made Jason feel insecure or belittled. He’s working on choosing his words more carefully. He’s working on doing better.

“Maybe we go to a meeting tomorrow?” Damian puts the offer out into the room gently. It’s been a minute since either of them have been to one. He doesn’t know about Jason, but Damian’s starting to feel the absence of the meetings like bullet holes in his willpower. Sometimes he’ll wake up from a dream — a nightmare, really — and still feel the alcohol burning down his throat. 

Jason shakes his head. “Why the fuck would we go to a meeting?” he crosses his arms over his chest. “What, I’m not enough for you to talk to?”

“No,” Damian amends quickly. “Of course not. But — you know—”

“Right,” Jason laughs, the sound piercing and bitter. It cuts through Damian’s resolve quickly, sagging his shoulders. “I’m never enough for you. Always running to a meeting, always needing your friends to text you back. Why are we even fucking doing this, Damian?” He demands. “If I’m just always going to be an afterthought?”

Damian shakes his head profusely. “You’re not, that’s not what I—”

“Save it,” he snaps, making his way upstairs. “You can sleep in the guest room tonight.”

The bedroom door slams shut, the sound reverberating through every inch of the house. Damian feels it like ice in his veins.

It takes him about an hour of sitting in silence, gaze fixed on a day-old stain on the floor, to realize Jason’s kept his phone.

–

SEPTEMBER 10, 2024. [ URIEL: Worried about U, kid ! U will give me ulcers. Talk soon ? ]

—

“Mr. Escobedo.”

Damian glances up from his desk, meeting Elsa’s gaze. Elsa’s worked at the front office for years and years and years — longer than Damian’s been alive, he’s sure. The students are taking a test; some of them glance up curiously at the interruption. Damian stands from his desk chair, and glares playfully at his gaggle of teens.

“Eyes on your own tests,” he warns. “I’m right outside.”

He follows Elsa out into the hallway, frowning. “What’s up, Elsa?”

She gives him something of a wry smile. “Damian,” she reaches out and squeezes his wrists affectionately — or perhaps reassuringly? “We’ve gotten several calls from a certain Jason Plymouth asking about your classroom’s extension.”

Damian’s stomach sinks. “Is he — is everything—”

Elsa holds up a placating hand. “As far as I know, everything is fine, dear,” she promises. “But he is — persistent.”

Damian wipes at his face. “I’m sorry. He’s probably — I turn off my phone on test days, he—”

Elsa shakes her head once. “We cannot give him your extension,” she tells him. “You may. But we cannot.” She pauses. “I recommend you call him back,” she says slowly. “Ask him to maybe stop calling…?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Damian assures her. “Of course. I’m so sorry, Elsa.” 

Elsa eyes him for a second, almost searchingly. Eventually, she asks, “Is everything okay, Damian?”

The question catches Damian by surprise. “Yes,” he replies almost instantly, the word rushing out of his mouth like an instinct. “Yes, it is. I’m — of course it is,” he laughs, though it sounds a little rattled to his own ears. “I’m so sorry. He’s probably just worried. Won’t happen again, I promise.”

Elsa hesitates for a second, before finally nodding her assent. “Alright,” she takes her hands back from Damian’s wrists and makes her way back to the front office, nothing else to say to him.

He doesn’t know what he tells himself to convince his heart it’s racing out of anything other than fear.

But it works.

–

SEPTEMBER 14, 2024. [ URIEL: Did U change UR number ? Is this still Damian ? Please respond if not. ] 

–

“You fucking embarrassed me!” 

Damian doesn’t know what to do when Jason starts shouting. A part of him wants to shout back — another part of him wants to flee — but whatever part of him wins out is always a part that shrinks into itself, doing his best to look as small as possible, as unassuming as possible. 

“I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, please,” Jason walks up to him, face so close to Damian he can smell his boyfriend’s sushi-laced breath. “Batting your eyes at the waiter like a fucking slut. Thought you were gonna get on your knees for him right then and there.” He spits the words into Damian’s face, and he feels his body start to go taut in response to the proximity. “Meanwhile, your boyfriend has to watch it all happen and smile through it like the dumb little cunt you think I am—”

“I don’t,” Damian insists. “Jesus, Jason, I don’t think you’re — I never even—”

The lamp’s knocked over before Damian has a chance to take his next breath. The glass of the lightbulb shatters across the floor into shrill, fine pieces, decorating the otherwise pristine marble tiles of Jason’s living room.

“Fuck,” he shouts, taking a step away from Damian. Damian’s eyes remain fixed on the mess. “You see what you made me do? You drive me fucking crazy, Damian,” his voice is tense, but it sounds sadder this time. At least Damian thinks it sounds sadder. He’s hurt Jason — he gets that. Even if he hadn’t meant to — maybe he’d inadvertently sent some mixed signals to their waiter — maybe if he were just a tad bit more self-aware—

“Did you hear me?” Damian blinks out of his stupor and meets Jason’s heated gaze. “I said clean it up. I’m going to bed.”

Damian nods once. “Okay,” he replies quietly. 

Jason holds out his hand, then, wordlessly. Damian instinctively reaches for his phone and presses it as gingerly as possible into his boyfriend’s palm.

Then Jason turns on his heel and stomps up the stairs.

And Damian cleans up the mess. 

–

SEPTEMBER 16, 2024. [ PILAR: missed u for el grito 🥺 stop ignoring meeeee ]

–

Jason hasn’t spoken to him since Saturday. 

Damian’s tried to say something to him. Anything. But he gets the silent treatment. He doesn’t get his phone back until Sunday evening, and that’s mostly because it’s being blown up by work emails, and Jason seems tired of listening to the notifications.

He reads Pilar’s message and feels tears sting at his eyes. 

He doesn’t reply.

–

SEPTEMBER 17, 2024. [ PILAR: hellooooooo motherfucker i’m telling sofia on you!!!! ]

–

Jason comes home with a large bouquet of flowers and a million apologies. He gets on his knees and cries into Damian’s lap, begging for forgiveness, swearing he’ll do better. He’s trying, he’s trying, he says, he’s so fucked up, this is what they made him, he’s so fucked up, but he’ll do anything to make it better. He’ll do anything to make it better. 

Damian runs a soothing hand through his hair and shushes him, comforts him. It’s okay, he tells him in between sobs. I forgive you. It’s okay.

It is okay. They can work through this together, Damian thinks, hope swelling in his chest. It’s okay. They’ve both been through so much — it’s only natural that this would be work. It’s okay. 

It’s okay.

–

SEPTEMBER 24, 2024. [ NO NEW MESSAGES ]

–

Damian sits outside the community center in Chicago. He doesn’t go inside.

The fact that he’s managed to get here at all — Jason’s on a work trip this week, and Damian’s managed to go home. Say hi to Sofia. Shower in his own bathroom. Sleep in his own bed. For a second, he’d remembered what normal used to feel like, and almost as if on autopilot, he’d found himself taking the train to Chicago and finding his way to the AA meeting he hasn’t attended for a month.

He can’t work up the courage to go inside, though. He thinks he feels embarrassed, but about what — he can’t really say. Maybe it’s the fact that he never got back to Uriel. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s been craving a drink so fucking badly this past month he feels like he’s going crazy with it. Maybe it’s the bottle of tequila he’d purchased last night before the liquor stores forced themselves closed, now hidden under piles of blankets in his closet. 

He should go, he thinks. He has no business being here. 

Damian pushes himself off the rickety bench when he hears his name in the familiar low, dulcet tone he’s come to expect from his sponsor.

He meets Uriel’s gaze, surprised. “Uriel?”

Uriel makes his way over to him, arms crossed — despite his usual stoicness, there’s something like worry in his expression. Damian wonders if he’s going through something, too. 

“You made me think you was dead, kid,” he tells Damian, frowning. “Had to reach out to some folk in Blue Harbor, make sure you wasn’t.”

Damian looks down at his feet, ashamed. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I’ve just — had a busy month.”

There’s a beat of silence wherein the words hang between them. They’re not quite a lie — they don’t quite ring true, either.

“You goin’ in?” Uriel finally asks, and Damian shakes his head instantly. 

“N-no, I just—” he clears his throat. “I just—” He doesn’t have an excuse, he realizes. None that sounds good enough to his own ears. “I’m not.”

Another beat of silence. 

“You relapse?”

Damian shakes his head. “No,” he promises. “I’m fine. Just busy.” I’m fine, just busy. I’m fine, just busy.

“Maybe we go get some coffee, hm?” Uriel offers. “I’ll buy. Some o’ the good stuff, too, none o’ that new-wave hippie dippie shit.”

Damian laughs slightly, and it almost hurts his throat. “Thank you,” he finally meets Uriel’s dark gaze again. “But I really do have to go.”

Uriel searches his gaze for a second. “Whatever it is,” he tells Damian. “I can tell you it ain’t worth it, kid.”

Damian feels his eyes start to sting. That’s where Uriel’s wrong. It is. He’s always thought himself off, thought something was so inherently wrong with him no one could love him — and now here’s Jason, offering him his love, promising him the world, something Damian never thought he could have. It’s worth it. He needs this. If not Jason, who? Who else will put up with him? Him, damaged goods, no filter, no worth? 

“Goodbye, Uriel,” he mutters. 

He leaves his sponsor behind.

–

SEPTEMBER 25, 2024. [ NO NEW MESSAGES ]

–

He opens the bottle of tequila and pours himself a glass.

Damian stares at it for an hour before he pours it down the drain. He’s about to do the same to the rest of the bottle, but something stops him.

Instead, he hides the bottle back inside his closet. Forces himself to forget about it.

–

SEPTEMBER 27, 2024. [ URIEL: Here if U need anything ]

–

“Fuck, I missed you,” Jason groans, kisses him deeply one last time before rolling off Damian. Damian, for his part, traces the usual patterns on the ceiling with his eyes. Doesn’t point out Jason texted him every half hour, asking him where he was, what he was doing. Doesn’t point out he hadn’t given Damian a chance to miss him. Doesn’t even think it matters, because this is how it should be. Jason should miss him this way. Obsessed with you, he’d once said. And that can only be good, right? 

It means Damian’s been good. It means Damian hasn’t scared him off yet.

“Did you hear what I said?” Jason cuts through his train of thought. “I said I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Damian replies automatically. The pattern on the ceiling turns into a horse. Then a dog. Then a cat. It starts to look like a cow, maybe.

He feels Jason roll off the bed. Hears his footsteps retreat into the bathroom. Damian rolls onto his side and looks at the wall, listens to the tick, tick, tick of the clock above the headboard. 

His mind drifts to his closet. 

–

OCTOBER 2, 2024. [ NO NEW MESSAGES ]

–

It doesn’t matter.

In the long run — in the grand scheme of things — what’s one glass?

What’s two? What’s three?

What’s Jason’s breath smelling of weed and his tasting of alcohol if they’re mingled together, anyway?

What does it matter, if this is what love is? If this is where he’s found it? 

In the long run — in the grand scheme of things — what’s one bottle?

It doesn’t matter.

–

END.

[rorysanderson]

[ FADING. SELF PARA 001 ]

SUMMARY: Rory has his nightly conversation with Eliza. LOCATION: Rory's porch, late evening. TW: death, grief

It’s cool enough in October that the crickets start to chirp again, rather incessantly.

Annie complains about the sound, insisting she’ll never be able to fall asleep like this for fifteen minutes straight before she eventually falls asleep like this. Rory envies a child’s ability to sleep through just about anything, including an admittedly obnoxious cricket choir.

They’re louder out here. Not surprising, considering they’re surrounded by foliage and trees more than they’re surrounded by anything industrial. Rory can accept their presence begrudgingly, if only because he knows it’s him, really, who’s the intruder here. It feels unfair Rory would hold a grudge against them for the simple crime of existing where they’re meant to exist; something Eliza had affectionately insisted to him, for a very long time, Rory knew nothing about.

He sets both cups of earl gray down on the small table out on his porch, then takes his usual seat to the left. Rory watches as the steam rises from the cup that isn’t his, carried away by the cool night breeze, off to where he can’t follow. What fills the silence for the next five minutes is the crickets’ high-pitched instrumental, the rustling of leaves against the wind, and the occasional intrusive chirp of a bird that’s not meant to be awake anymore.

Rory spins his cup between his fingers gingerly, careful not to burn the tips of them by pressing against the ceramic for too long. Eventually, he brings it to his lips and takes a sip, the heat of the tea comfortable enough to both satiate his thirst and warm his body against the dropping temperature. He sets the cup down again, tracing the rim of it, before he starts.

“Annie’s learned the word fuck,” Rory tells his girlfriend, gaze fixed on the untouched cup of tea across from him. “Keep thinking she’s not listening all the time, but that little bugger’s got her ear to the ground always,” he snorts, amusement settling inside him. “I’m surprised she didn’t learn it sooner, honestly. She’s been warned she can only say it in the bathroom, and never in front of anyone else,” his lips tighten into a warm smile. “Yesterday she broke one of her Barbie’s heads off accidentally and I watched her march straight into the bathroom and shout it,” Rory laughs, rubbing his face both tiredly and disbelievingly. “Wish you coulda seen it, Ellie.” 

His hand traces the smooth edges of the porch table. He’d built this almost immediately after he and Annie had moved to Blue Harbor, knowing he’d need a place, eventually, to sit outside and talk to Ellie. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered, if the tea didn’t play such an important part of their talks. Rory doesn’t think he believes there’s anything to look up at the sky for — feels a little silly, if he tries it. He supposes there’s nothing less silly about talking to a cuppa, mind you, but at least there’s something about her there. The cup’s got a hideous neon-pink pattern printed around it, the loops largely reminiscent of ass cracks. It’s what had drawn Ellie to it in the first place, cackling at it at the thrift shop, and she’d happily drank her tea out of it for years after the fact.

Humming, he continues, “Valley’s finally told me about what happened with her and Murph,” he tells Eliza. His fingernail scratches at the wood of the table anxiously. “I’m sure she’d’ve preferred it’d been you she could talk to. Never been good at all that,” he swallows, his throat starting to feel a little tight. “Not like you, anyway.” The steam is still rising from the cup, but it’s coming in thinner waves now. “I know you’d be worried about her. I’m worried about her, too. Getting her to ask for help — it’s like pulling teeth,” he huffs, the words filled with affection despite himself. Valley and Eliza had been good friends for a reason; she reminds him a lot of her, in many ways. “I won’t keep my eyes off her,” he promises Eliza unnecessarily. “I mean it.” 

He continues to tell her about the past week — an oddity at the flower shop, an ambitious commission by a young musician, Annie’s affinity for Ms. Zakwe, her new favorite teacher. Peanut Butter’s great escape, the grand army of insects he’d been afraid he was going to have to fight, the quiet afternoons off where nothing particularly interesting happens. He talks until the steam has stopped rising entirely from the tea inside the cup, the night seemingly having cooled it down in its entirety. He talks until he’s out of things to talk about, and the elephant in the room has made its way to their porch, sitting on its hind legs. 

Rory purses his lips. He can taste his heartbeat, suddenly, with how far and fast it’s beating. He thinks he has the words, really, but they’re stuck to the roof of his mouth now, and his tongue feels heavy. 

So instead he says, “I’m sorry.”

The tears sting at his eyes almost immediately, the knot in his throat constricting so fantastically it almost feels like he’s going to choke with it. His hand grips the handle of his cup so tightly he fears, for a second, he might well and truly break it. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, wiping at his nose with his free arm. “I didn’t think I’d like him this much, Ellie.”

A part of Rory knows there’s nothing to apologize to her for — she’d never have given him any sort of grief for this, under the circumstances. Even in life, he doesn’t think there was a jealous bone in Eliza Carmichael’s body. She’d been perfect in every sense imaginable, and Rory had been at the right place at the right time, lucky enough to orbit her as long as he had. And still, he can’t help feeling like the admission is some sort of betrayal: he’d promised her, once, he’d spend the rest of his life loving her, and now — now—

“I think I’m forgetting your voice,” he admits, voice thick, blinking tears away. “It’s hard to remember it, on my own. I used to—” he clears his throat. The knot sits firm. “I used to be able to pick you out of a crowd by the sound of it. Pick apart your moods with it. And now, uhm,” his eyesight’s blurred over, suddenly. “And now I can’t even remember your laugh. I can’t even remember how you said my name, Ellie.” 

He chokes on a sob, pressing the heels of his palms tersely against his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes again. He wants to tell her how different they both are from each other — where Eliza had slotted herself into the parts of Rory that had been left wanting his entire life, Jack’s somehow snuck into the crevices of what remains, content to live in the spaces Rory never filled. How where Eliza had always burned so brightly she’d blind anyone who looked at her too long, Jack slumps into himself and exists outside the lines, like a sculpture at an art museum you’re not meant to touch. How where Rory’s losing the details of Eliza he’d been sure he’d committed to memory for years, he’s slowly starting to learn the exact number of Jack’s laugh lines, the depth of his frown, the texture of his scars, all by heart. 

The love he has for Eliza burns as brightly as the first day he’d laid eyes on her. He cannot deny her that — he cannot lie to himself about it. It is, perhaps, the reason why it hurts to think of her as a disappearing memory, as a stack of carefully-wrapped canvases sitting in storage, collecting dust instead of admiration. And where Rory thought there was no room in him left, no way to make it inside himself with such overwhelming grief having taken up residence, it turns out somewhere between a shy smile from across the way while unloading moving boxes and the feeling of calloused lips soft against his own, there exists a chasm, still. 

Does this count as a broken promise, then? I’ll love you forever, but I’ll forget the details of your face. I’ll love you forever, but I’ll not be able to remember the exact curve of your smile. I’ll love you forever, but you’ll start to live outside of me bit by bit, until time takes the rest of you.

You’ve never done anything by halves, have you, Rory Anderson? Eliza had asked of him once. Her voice still eludes him — she comes through like a radio station just outside its frequency. But he does remember how she’d caressed the side of his face, looking at him with such fondness it’d spread through Rory like a wildfire. I hope you know what it feels like one day, to have the attention of someone like you.

Maybe. 

He thinks of Eliza’s insistence that the world was made up of colors Rory’s yet to discover, her firm belief that he’d see what she saw, one day — that he’d find that burst that so eludes him, and he’d know, he’d know, then, he’d found exactly where he was meant to be. 

Maybe, Rory thinks as he lets the breeze run through his hair, take whatever’s left of his quiet sobs — maybe making space for more does not constitute a broken promise, in the end. 

Maybe some things have to be felt through their absence, by the gaps in the memory they leave behind.

Maybe, actually — this is how all things are meant to be loved:

Deeply, even as they fade.

[autumnshowell]

6:30 PM

Teeth. Flashing in a dark space, glinting in the absence of light, they drive into the flesh on her neck, on her back. Her wrists. It hurts — God, it hurts. It goes beyond the hurting. Like somebody’s stuck a vacuum into her veins, drawing the essence of her out. It turns her hollow, empty.

Leaves her wanting.

There are eyes, too. Dark, deep little wells in the already dark space. They stare. They bore holes into her. She finds their lingering on her draws what blood is left in her to the apples of her cheeks. She finds herself wondering if they want to see her stripped to nothing, drained to nothing, or if they covet her the way she covets the face they rest in.

Monsters are real, she thinks, they’re real and they’re beautiful and one of them has haunted her thoughts, nigh uninterrupted, for a month now. Monsters are real and they’re beautiful and she’s in l-

“Autumn?”

Salt shaker.

“… Autumn.”

Grab it.

“Autumn!”

“Wh-oh, sorry.” She says, grabbing the little painted pilgrim and sliding it over in front of her mother’s plate. “I… I zoned out.”

“I wasn’t asking for the salt, Autumn, I asked a question.”

“I’m sorry, what was it, I-“

“Jesus, Autumn. I might as well be talking to myself.” “I’m sorry, I just… I’m tired, please, what were you asking?”

“Are you free next weekend? My hair lady, she’s got this son and he’s your age - she says he likes those horror movies like you do.”

“Mom I’m… no. No I’m not - I’m not… really down for that kind of thing. Not right now.’

Oh, God, she thinks to herself.

“Oh, come on - why not? Here, let me show you, he’s very good looking.”

Autumn leans her forehead onto her hand as her mother fumbles for her cell, taking an excruciating amount of time to hunt the photo down and moving to put it in front of Autumn. “I’m sure he’s handsome, mom, I’m just not really-“

“Like a young George Clooney.”

“I… don’t - I don’t think that has the appeal you’re thinking it does,” she protests, finally relenting to give the screen a look to get it out of her face.

“Autumn, just give him a shot - you never know.”

She sighs. “I’m busy next weekend because I already have plans.”

The phone finds its way to the table, mother’s interest piqued. “Who? Somebody you met through this new job?”

“No, I’ve… no I’ve been on …”

“Is that Kevin boy? The one who works at the bowling alley?”

“What, no - and Kevin doesn’t work at the b-“ Autumn feels her stomach drop and roll and knot.

Her mother’s teasing grin almost seems genuine in its giddy happiness. “Well, come on, spill. This is the first I’m hearing of this new boy friend-“

7:00 PM

Her knuckles are white on the wheel, not that she can see them enough to care as the occasional white-orange bands of street-lamps pass over where she’s holding on like she’s about to try to rip the wheel of the car right out of the dash. Her brows are knitted, half fury, half frustration as she speeds down the highway. She wonders, for a moment, what would happen if she just kept going. Got out of Port Leiry. Left everything and everyone in the town behind.

It’s an old fallback fantasy - a catharsis she’s often let herself fall into. Would people miss her? Certainly, at first, they’d lament it, but it wouldn’t matter, not long term. But she finds that it now makes her profoundly sad.

Kevin, Miss Moss. Hell, even A.J. Astor, so new in her life, and so endlessly frustrating. She’d miss it all. Part of her feels betrayed that she let this stupid town lay its roots in her the way it has.

But it’s the thought of Aria Boughton that makes her face go hot and her eyes slick up wet with the idea of loss.

What would it matter, though? Aria is a vampire - an immortal, undying thing, if movies and books stand up to scrutiny - Aria could find her.

Or she could go to Aria, and the two could grow old. She thinks of that Swedish vampire movie. Her morose frown breaks out into a grin at the scandalous imaginings of being a little old lady, taking care of Aria, ever young and beautiful. Grim, yeah, but it beats old and lonely - not quite the moral of the story, but she’s angry and pissed and sad and scared so who cares.

6:35 PM

“What are you telling me?”

The tone in her voice sets Autumn on edge. She feels an energy coiling in her joints.

“I’m telling you that the person I’m seeing, Her name is Aria, and we’ve been kind of dating. For like. Months now.”

Her mother’s face goes on a journey. A long, excruciating one - confusion, and then annoyance, and then a strange, uncomfortable sort of smile, as if waiting for the punchline to a joke.

“Are you telling me you’re… what, a lesbian?”

“N-no… yes. No. Maybe. Probably.”

The expression goes vacant as her mother leans back from the dinner table, as if what’s on her plate has just been revealed to be toxic and poisonous. Autumn feels something swell in the pit of her stomach too, for a different reason.

“Why?”

“What does that mean, why? Because… because I lo-... because like her, mom.”

Her own mind rolodexes through a thousand reasons why. She doesn’t say any of them. Her mother looks like she wants to grab the table knife and stick it in her eye. The silence between them grows and grows and grows. Autumn, for her part, is searching her mother’s face, desperate to find any sign of approval, or even indifference. All she’s finding is the looming specter of the same thing that always lays its foundations there - contempt, disdain - disappointment and a hint of regret.

Her mother, for her part, stares anywhere but at her.

12:58 AM Port Leiry’s actually kind of pretty from up here. She sits on a picnic table, looking down on the city. It’s no New York, no Los Angeles. Hell, it’s not even Seattle. But it’s a pretty, shimmering little thing. She’s never come up here to Overlook Park this late. It’s not even supposed to be open, but nobody’s here to tell her no. Besides, Maybe one of the city’s famous animal attacks will make all of this moot - rip her up. Make her a Port Leiry mystery like Olivier.

She wipes her face on her sleeve - eyes, then nose, and sniffs at the night air, letting out a long, sad exhale.

Usually, when she feels this way. Like she’s disappointed somebody, she bottles it up. Keep it inside. Let it eat away at her. Her knuckles rap on the outside of her thigh with nervous energy. She’s so… so so tired of beating herself up because she can’t read minds, or because her step’s not light enough for all the eggshells she needs to walk on, or that she doesn’t exist right, or any other number of things that settle into her brain and tell her that she’s lesser for.

She wishes, for a split second, that she had half the spine required to explode instead of implode.

She thinks about the animal attacks - knowing what she knows now. What if that was a vampire thing? They have clubs - she learned that in the hardest way possible -  but maybe some of them hunt out at night.

The idea that Olivier might have been shredded by a vampire makes some unhinged part of her break out into a half cry, half laugh - like it would have been something he would have been all in on or something.

But then that little bit of morbid thought rolls over into something else - something she dwells on for a moment. She gets her phone out, starts typing…

1:00 am >> [ hey, do you think you could make me like y]

She stops, stares at the letters. No. This isn’t something she should ask over a fucking text message. It’s night time. Aria’s a vampire. She’ll be awake, surely.

1:01 am >> [ can I come over? ]

She deletes that, too - suddenly worried that Aria will somehow expect the question. Preemptively tell her no. Fuck it. She’ll drive to her apartment.

She slides off the bench - grabbing her keys, and heads back to the empty car lot, full moon making it light enough that she doesn’t even need to use the light on her phone.

6:40 PM

“You’re doing this to punish me, aren’t you?”

Autumn stares, a look on her face that’s as confused as it is hurt. “What?”

“To embarrass me. To throw it in my face and embarrass me. To make a big show of yourself with this. You’ve decided, for whatever reason, that I’m the worst, and you’re doing this to punish me.”

“I’m not… I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re playing around with another woman! That’s not doing nothing!”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You’ve just decided that I’m your enemy, ever since the day your father died you have done everything you can to just throw it in my face that I’m a bad parent. That I’m this ogress. You throw any help I give you back in my face-“

“No I don’t! What do you-“

“And now this - now this… behavior.”

“Mom, I… it’s - I…”

“Just go, Autumn. I can’t do this right now.”

“Mom, why can’t you just once see something I’m doing for myself and be-“

“What, be proud? Of what? My gay daughter, who didn’t finish school, whose professional career involves a Bowling Alley? What, that you’re never going to give me grandchildren? That you’re… whatever this thing is? What, that you’re finally being honest, Autumn, that you’re sticking it to me for letting this happen to you? Congratulations.” She stands up, moves to the counter, pours herself a glass - it’s the first of the evening, so Autumn, face sinking, knows this is all real. “Please - get out, I can’t with you right now.”

1:32 AM

Maybe this is stupid. Maybe she should just go home - get sleep. Rethink things. She can go see Aria tomorrow, or the next day. There’s something that changes in her as she pulls down along the sloping road that leads from the Overlook Park and onto the freeway that leads back.

She looks to the holder where her phone is mounted to her dashboard when she hears her phone chirp. A text message, this late? Her heart jumps, thinking it’s Aria. More likely, it’s A.J., calling in a ride, but as she goes to look at the notification, her expression sours. It’s from her mother. Her face screws up, halfway between fury and unsurprise. Her grip on the wheel loosens, then tightens as she turns around a bank in the road.

“Fuck you.” She murmurs in the dark. “Make up your fucking mind.”

She’s about to leave it alone, but then the creeping desire to bury the hatchet, to be the one who makes nice early, wraps its fingers around her mind and Autumn decides otherwise, reaching over swipe the phone open, but while she’s trying to jab the voice-to-text button, she keeps missing her mark, and so she turns her eyes away for just long enough to find it.

When she turns back, something darts across the road. She doesn’t hit it, but she does swerve, enough to hit the guardrail at just the right angle. The wheels leave the ground. The hood spins down, and she sees the ground through the windshield; first asphalt, then sky, then earth. Autumn feels the lurch, followed by the weightlessness, and a thousand and one thoughts go through her mind in that same split second. Something hits her face, dead center on her nose.

It’s not a steep drop, but it is a long one, and the car hits the ground and all those thoughts go dark.

[iansolko]

Date: May 3, 2020 Location: New York, USA Description: After a rough few years, Ian gets a break of sorts in the form of a cat with a strong personality.

The New York streets were hot and sticky, but Ian was well used to them by now, and the feeling of a small layer of grime on his black shorthair coat that never truly went away.  He’d treaded a few streets from his usual area to find food.  Food was scarce this past week, so it was time to move on to better prospects.  Hopefully, this area would potentially have some nice shelter as well.  If he didn’t find anything…well, he would probably have to look for a job and phase back into a human.  He really wasn’t feeling the ‘being a human’ thing these past few years since his boyfriend soundly dumped him, and shifting was used as more of a necessity.

His tiny paws met the uneven pavement of the alleyway, and he scanned with his bright yellow eyes to spot potential dumpsters, boxes, and trucks. Finding all of the above, Ian decided he was content here for now. His nose did sense a different smell, though—one that he’d come to recognize as the smell of another cat.

Cats didn’t like Ian, immediately singling him out as other, so he often left them alone to get along with their own business.  But Ian would sniff this one out and make himself known to them.  Fewer surprises that way.  He trotted down the back street and glanced around some boxes before finally spotting her lying in some shade.  Probably one of the largest cats he’d ever seen, but Ian knew he was also comparatively much smaller than the average cat, so that was a factor.  The fact that she was large was a good indicator of food nearby.  She had tabby light gray fur and a fluffy tail that was swishing back and forth along the ground.  Her green eyes were watching him, inquisitive.

Greetings!  He communicated towards the cat and also shared some feelings of not wanting to bother her and promising to leave her alone…but he also lived here now. Surprise?  Cats didn’t have much of a way to communicate being sorry for intruding or being sorry in general, actually, so Ian left it at that, turning to leave her presence and find a spot to sleep.  After all that walking and being awake for two hours, he was pretty tired.  He lept into a discarded box and curled in on himself, finding sleep that way.

Ian’s senses awoke him not long after that, his eyes darting up and spotting a pair of green eyes staring back at him from above the box.  Oh, it was that giant cat again.  Here to pick a fight for dominance?  Ian became more alert and flicked his tail while moving to stand up, unfortunately knowing full well that if she did want to fight, she was going to kick his ass.  He’d better get ready to run.

She didn’t seem angry at him, though.  Just more of that curiosity from before.  Very strange.  With a loud chirp and a butt-wiggle, she suddenly hopped her massive body into his box, now making it quite cramped in there.  Surprised, Ian made a slight brr-ing sound at being squished into the cardboard wall, which she ignored entirely.  The cat sidled next to him and flopped down, demanding him to lie down as well.  He obeyed her instructions, still very flustered about this whole situation.

Her fur was soft; the experience was a bit like laying against a fluffy and squishy bed.  And then…she was licking Ian’s head, her rough tongue combing through his fur.  Ian realized this cat was very clean, so maybe his griminess annoyed her.  This was a weird feeling, but it worked for him at the moment.  There was no doubt she would eventually get bored and leave him, but he snuggled up next to her in the meantime, enjoying the warmth she was giving off.

------

It didn’t take very long to figure out that the large gray cat was a bit of an oddball—compared to Ian, who always did his very best to act like a perfectly normal, nothing out-of-the-ordinary cat, aside from the occasional cat skateboarding or cat guitar-playing.

The most glaring thing was that she seemed to hate just about everybody.  She hissed and fought with any other cat who dared to approach her alleyway. Even humans that attempted to approach her were met with a cold shoulder and, on two occasions, clawing at their arms and legs until they fled.  The only human she semi-tolerated was the restaurant owner, whose back door opened onto the alley.  He gave her food scraps in exchange for one allotted chin scratch per day.

It became ingrained in Ian to clean up after her messes, in a sense, being overly friendly to humans to make up for her behavior.  But it didn’t escape his notice that while she was mean to everyone else, she grew increasingly attached to him by the day.

He’d tried asking her why several times as they cuddled beside each other, though he knew asking a cat this was fruitless.  She wasn’t going to give him a reason for anything.  So, even if he was insanely curious, he would have to live with some questions remaining unanswered.  It didn’t mean he wasn’t grateful, though.  This cat’s unwavering companionship somehow meant more to him than many human friendships.  Maybe it was because her affectionate side wasn’t seen by anyone else.

One night, as the cat was lying next to him under the night sky devoid of stars, Ian tried to come clean to her—in the best way he could with their limited communication.  He wasn’t a real cat; he was pretending to be one, able to turn into people and other beings.  Ian wasn’t sure if he’d communicated it correctly, but the cat did seem to understand—and what was more, she seemed a little bored of this confession, as if to say, Duh, of course you aren’t a real cat.

She was the first being he’d ever been able to admit it to, and it felt kind of a relief that she knew and didn’t care.  She still loved him, regardless—and he knew the feeling from her was love.  The cat deserved a much better life than this—a place with a comfortable bed and shelter instead of living in boxes and huddling under roofs during the summer storms…food suited to a cat’s diet rather than what the restaurant was simply willing to part with.  But Ian was in no sort of position to give that to her.  How could they be?  They were living in the same alley, leeching off the same people.  This city was way too expensive for them to live in alone.  So…Ian needed to make a plan.  And he needed to be brave enough to become a human again.

[freydis-freydat]

You will tell them your name is Freydis. This way, regardless of if they wish to sell you short or show you disrespect, they will have to address you with the honor you are due to garner your attention. If they wish to ridicule you, they must cut off their own noses just to spite their face. 

Freydis: from the Norse god Froya’s name and dis (meaning goddess). Noblewoman.

The words of her father played through her head as her tired eyes watched the flames of the fire lick the night sky not far enough yet from the mouth of the cave she and her peers had barely escaped their lives with. Freydis felt foolish as she considered just what she had done. Freely, she had told a fairy her name–or rather her noble title and her name. Both of her names. 

Tove: peaceful, beautiful Thor; God is good.

What would her father say of this, the man who had painstakingly taught her fables and folklore, who had taught her how to spot a fae and more importantly why never to trust one? Perhaps if she had simply said Tove, it would have spared her. Or, maybe Freydis was the false moniker. It was impossible to tell at times, which name meant more. Both had been given to her by her father, both in their appropriate time and space. At birth, simple but aspirational Tove–a name she lived up to in the most unpredictable of ways, a combination of the beauty of violence and the sudden unpredictable wrath of the gods, unassuming until provoked. It felt like lifetimes since she had walked the world as that simple miller’s daughter, as Tove. And then Freydis, a name so great it was never spoken within the bounds of their humble hamlet overlooking the looming mill and vast expanse of golden wheat before they moved into the great house meant for the jarl.

When word came that the king himself had sent for her to be delivered to appear in front of high royal highness, her father had held her face between her hands, cheeks still rounded with youth and head heavy under the weight of her own self doubt. He had peered at her seeing past those strange eyes of hers, in one light brown like the earth they worked and in another green as spring could bloom, and told her: “You will tell them your name is Freydis. This way, regardless of if they wish to sell you short or show you disrespect, they will have to address you with the honor you are due to garner your attention. If they wish to ridicule you, they must cut off their own noses just to spite their face.”

Freydis’ father would remind her of this from time to time, when the pressures mountained and her confidence waned. It was hard to be the first of her kind, to know her every move and expression existed under the lens of such extreme scrutiny, but only if she managed to walk off the battleground long enough to be left to govern, to decide on anything in the first place. They were brutalizing years that somehow both cracked her open and hardened her all at once. To become was painful, but to be begot by violence that revolted her senses yet invigorated her soma was a sort of metanoia in her formative years. Tove became less of a name and more of a sound that felt like home; a kind of prayer between she and those who held the truth of her at their core rather than the aggrandized icon of a female jarl she became. 

This was not the only prayer observed within their home. Fearsome as she was when challenged, the longevity of a highly objectionable jarl was a less than positive prospect. Each fight took from Tove and gave to Freydis, and she felt the fissure daily. No one recognized her fear of losing one entirely so keenly as her father, who was every ounce as realistic that the most highly likely relief from the burdens of a jarl’s work, of his daughter’s work, was a barbarous death at the hands of another. Tove, so gentle until pushed, would not survive many. Freydis would need to survive them all.  

And so, with each private gathering of their family before the spectacle of yet another holmgang, he would hold her face in his hands and remind her of who she was now–and that to live as Freydis was an honorable thing, but so too was to die as Tove. Both were one, and either was enough. He would hold her face in his hands, easily leveraging the weight of her self-doubt and fears as only a father can, and sing a song from the playwrights version of his favorite fable.

Inexplicably, and with no introduction, Freydis parted her lips after some hours of silence, and sang those same familiar words to her companions. The song was a sendoff of sorts, a ballad of hopes and fears and things left unsaid–but it had always felt lucky to her when she heard it in her father’s voice. 

I have a wife, I haven't seen Since lilacs bloomed in St. Hippolyte She always wears them, in her hair She lets them fall down everywhere

I can see her in the glowing light Dressing without a sound I promised I'd be home alright But I gotta lay this body down

So take this letter to my wife And tell her that I loved my life And tell my boys, the One God, He found me When I say their names out loud, they're all around me

And tell them not to cry at all Heaven, is wherever I fall

I have a girl, I think I love her I should've told her, instead I told her mother I gave her chocolates, I bought a ring But I never told her anything

But I can see her in every detail now Turning in my mind I barely knew that girl at all But I will love her 'til the end of time

So take this letter to my girl Tell her that I saw the whole world Say that right before I fell I said her name out loud, 'Isabelle'

Tell her not to cry at all Heaven is wherever I fall

I have a father, he isn't well Thinks he might be going to Hell He was a sinner, he liked to fight So I don't know, he might be right

I can see him every Sunday morning Diving into the fray He wasn't one of the best men But I loved him anyway

So take this letter to him, please And tell him I can't wait to see him I went in first, I rang the bell I called his name out loud and I gave them Hell

So tell him not to cry at all Heaven is wherever I fall

Tell 'em not to cry at all Heaven, is wherever I fall Tell 'em not to cry at all Heaven, is wherever I fall

Freydis was quiet when she finished her song, peering out at the great expanse of a world she never thought she would explore under any circumstances let alone those as hopeless as the ones she found herself in. The edges of her fingertips traced over the top of the red handprint on her heart–a sigil of bravery from a once-forgotten king. She felt unworthy to carry such a symbol, but her bottle lip quivered at the threat of tears of gratitude to know and understand she had been deemed worthy by that warrior of lore to so much as stand in his shadow. 

Exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally, she pondered the horrors of the past days. One more holmgang–that was all the fight with Munin had been, just one drop in the bucket of the onslaught, the never ending war of living another day in limbo between the next battle, the next challenge. Tove, she was certain, whether in the form of her fae-shadow slain at he hands of the princess or just a long-silent past reflection of who she once was lingering the back of her mind, had died in that cave. The prayer of the name lost all of its power, no longer uplifting or grounding, but acrid and bitter in her mouth and her mind the second she had spoken it to the fae. And Tove would survive no impending wars.

Freydis, however, could. She lifted her eyes to the tapestry of stars still glittered above her. In several hours’ time the sun would hang high in a wide, open sky she had sorely missed; and until she was bested in a contest of might, Freydis, too, would rise.

[laurent--stpierre]

SPEAK OF THE DEVIL:

Follow up to someone having the audacity to interrupt Spencer's dinner. Date: Evening of 21/8/24. Warnings: Kate up to her usual ish. 

“It’s not a date. Please stop calling it a date, or I’m legitimately going to throw myself in front of the next bus to drive past. Look, there’s one right there—”

“Why are French women the most dramatic people on the planet?”

The words had been more than enough to draw an irritated frown from him, but when the miniature human—balanced on towering Versace heels, yet somehow still shorter than his pocket-sized ass—darted toward the road like a certified escapee, he grabbed the top of her arm and yanked her back beside him. The protest drew some attention from the crowded street, but both promptly ignored.

“Dramatic is rich coming from you.”

Laurent St. Pierre met her retort with a mock laugh.

“Pensioners deserve to get laid, too.”

“Nope. Don’t need to hear it,” the woman said, reaching her hands up to cover her ears.

“How about both of you shut up, because none of us want to hear it?”

Sylvie Lefebvre turned to look at the miserable Frenchman tailing behind them, her lips forming into a pout as though she’d just been scolded by a parent. Not quite, but he’d certainly become family enough over the past few years to earn an affectionate ‘uncle’ title he’d made no attempt shed.

“Sometimes I forget he speaks English,” she muttered to Laurent under her breath.

“He’s definitely been hitting up Duolingo.”

“You sound like a fucking American. You don’t get to judge anybody, St. Pierre,” Yves shot back.

After a moment of sniggering between the two in front, the looming figure of Varden re-entered the conversation, now free of the phone call he’d been unenthusiastically participating in. Somehow, though, he looked even less pleased to be a part of whatever was happening here.

“Who is she, anyway? You don’t usually dress up this nice,” Laurent said, remaining at Sylvie’s side, but taking their pace back just enough to be in step with the two leaders.

“Ayda Demir.”

Even though Varden’s mouth had opened to speak, it was his daughter’s voice who’d answered.

“Thank you, Sylvie.”

“Wait, what? The Turk?” Laurent couldn’t contain the scoff.

“The Turk,” Yves confirmed, his grimace speaking volumes in spite of his monotonous tone.

“Don’t be rude,” Sylvie cut in, “I’ve done my research, she seems nice enough. I just—”

“Don’t want to imagine your dad getting his dick wet?”

“Will you fucking stop?”

The woman went to shove him again, but he instead threw an arm around her shoulder, dragging her close enough to deny her the momentum.

“If it’s any consolation, Sylvie, it’s definitely not going to be a date. Because in the interest of full disclosure, you should just know that when Leyla and I got dragged to Haringey for that peasant party? She seemed pretty into shoving her tongue down Aviv’s throat.”

And whilst he was pretty openly with Adriana Amaro these days—assuming the number the Organization did on him hadn’t fucked that up—the fact she held any positive sentiments toward the scum at all was enough to seal the deal. Probably not in the way she was hoping for, though…

“It was never a date,” Varden said sternly. “And I’d appreciate if we talked about something else.”

“Anything else,” Yves pleaded.

Everyone present was wise enough to not push when Varden said enough.

“Why are you out with us, anyway? Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“That’s very funny. I could ask you the same. Don’t retirement homes have curfews anymore?”

The two de facto London leaders slipped back into a hushed conversation of their own, leaving the duo ahead to squabble as they continued their way down the packed street. Knightsbridge was busy at the best of times, but tonight seemed impossibly so. People still damn sure cleared a path for the Versace princess and her entourage of suits, though. It was a few days shy of Sylvie’s twenty-third birthday, and as it turned out, she too was headed into South Kensington to meet some of her friends (ones her father didn’t seem to fond of, mind you) at Mistral’s. Laurent was stopping in for a meeting with Yves and a handful of the Hackney crew, Sylvie for her meal, and Varden for…whatever the fuck it was. Thus, along with a handful of security, a herd had formed.

None of them had any idea how poor a decision that would prove to be.

The traffic moved so slowly, it would’ve been impossible to tell they were being followed.

Maybe, had he not been looking right at the woman tucked beneath his arm, he wouldn’t have noticed the car doors abruptly opening on the vehicle beside them.

Three in unison; the same number of masked men soon spilling out into the road, halting traffic to a chorus of car horns and perturbed pedestrians.

“Gun!” Laurent shouted in just about the least useful way to alert the others of the impending disaster. Sure enough, the panicked words sent the crowds around them spiralling into frenzy just in time for said guns to start firing right in their direction.

There was no point trying to hit the deck when they were stood right there.

Sylvie seemed to take a moment to catch up. And then she was screaming, too.

The Frenchman felt a shove from behind as he attempted to manoeuvre her through the crowd, and toward the door of Mistral’s which was just close enough he could try to drag them inside. More gunfire, then... A quick glance back told him Yves and the few members of security present had ducked into a bus shelter, attempting to return the favour without hesitation. Varden on the other hand was the one shoving him forward.  

“Move. Get her inside!”

The man’s fear was evident and harrowing because Laurent had never really been sure Varden was capable of feeling it.

So he turned, putting himself between the direction of the gunmen and Sylvie, as best a shield as he could manage, before attempting to encourage Varden forward to take charge. The people didn’t know where to go. They didn’t know where to hide. Some had clearly already been hit, falling to the ground. Others fell for being shoved past by those whose only concern was getting the fuck out of there. Chaos was an understatement. Impossible to take in over the course of only a few seconds.

Sylvie tripped. Varden pulled her back up and pushed her onward.

Laurent went down right after and after a moment, they slipped out of view.

This wasn’t a few stray bullets. This was a fucking military grade assault where nobody was about to try and be a hero. And as the guns followed him, the white hot realisation he’d gotten hit was clear.

Why the fuck hadn’t he brought his own?

One of the attackers was furiously laying into the façade of the restaurant as though it was his only target. Another, showering anyone unfortunate enough to flee into his path, utterly indiscriminate, like he was in an old school fucking action movie. The third, though? Well he lowered his gun just long enough to shove through some screeching pedestrians and casually wander right over to the Commandant clutching at his bleeding thigh.

Though he attempted to get to his feet, it was a fruitless effort.

The man crouched down slightly. Just close enough that had he not been hiding like a coward behind his mask, Laurent would’ve known for sure, instead of just assuming…

As he stood back up calmly—short, stocky, dead fucking eyes—so too did his gun come back into sight.

There was no time to react. Just acknowledge.

One flash later, everything was gone.

[ikarosx]

Notes: Ikaros through the years. Little timestamps of visions, from his first to his most recent, and how he understands them. Mentions: @abelasx, @iskendcr, @faelortianyou, Titania, Yavanna, Oberon.

Timestamp: I was ten.

The sky was a mix of yellow and red. The light of the Laurelin was always bright, always mixing with what I could see.

“You were named after my grandmother,” Yavanna whispered in my ear, like it was some grand secret between the two of us. “Ikaria, she was called. Dark hair like yours, seemingly knowing everything and anything,” there was a lilt of amusement to her voice now, but still calming as the two of us sat within Mythal’s Glade.

I felt like there was a new piece to the puzzle of my history, to the idea that I could be named after a great queen of the past, someone I never would’ve met. “Was she a good queen?” I'm not sure why I wanted to know, it wasn't like I thought she possibly couldn't be, but my grandmother was always honest. I liked that.

Yavanna smiled down at me, “Yes, I like to think she was. She passed the crown to my father, her eldest.” The smile faded for a moment, and I wondered if I had said something wrong. I didn’t get to ask my other question, my father suddenly appearing and taking my short attention span away from my grandmother.

Oberon was tall, charming - the elvhen loved him. For what reason, I wouldn’t ask that question for decades. To me, he was larger than life. A brilliant warrior, one who held devotion to Titania, but there were flashes of imperfection, something I admired in secret. Things were done a certain way in Avalon, customs of the Elvhen, but I appreciated when things were messy. If only because it made me laugh.

It was that moment that Aravel appeared, and I was already moving to leave my grandmother’s lap. It was embarrassing, couldn't she see my friends were around? There was a group of children waiting, those who lived within Mythal’s Glade, “Can I go? Please? Aravel will start the game without me. He knows I hate it. He will-“ Yavanna’s hand stopped my complaints, but it didn’t stop my scowl.

“You may. But don’t be long,” it was her usual goodbye, though as she rose and she approached Oberon, the two falling in quiet conversation, she was the only one to glance back at me as I ran off with a wave.

“Ara!” I had to run to catch up, my best friend still slightly out of range. Everything looked wrong, however. One of the kids was towering, another looked unimpressed at Aravel. Only I was allowed to look at him like that. Aravel was weird, sure, but he was my only friend, taken into the palace two years ago when his father had died. It was a great sadness, to lose someone like that. I wasn't sure how to process it at first, but I'd tried my best to cheer up my friend.

Though time seemed to slow as I got closer. Like my legs were stuck in mud, and I couldn't move my arms. Panic would've overcome me if I could've felt my own emotions. I prayed for death to save me from the embarrassment of falling over, but the gods must've been busy because Aravel was talking to me. I couldn't hear him because everything felt red. Hot, red, red, red. "I was talking about you." Rage, an undercurrent of grey, of fear. A fist coming towards my face, and I was landing face first in the mud from the hit. Laughter. It was red, red, red. It was like an out of body experience, consuming me from the inside. I was watching, standing by, and then all of the sudden, it faded.

“What’s wrong with him?” Someone spoke, and I was pulled from my vision, Aravel holding on to my wrist like it would keep me from falling over. And it did, I was a scrawny thing anyway, that's what my father had said. Lanky, like one of those elk Aravel had mentioned once. Too big for my legs. Once I gathered myself, Aravel spoke.

“There are Owlbears we can talk to, Ikaros. It’s fine,” Aravel was the weird kid, and I loved him for it. I was about to answer him, but the words were dying on my tongue as the older kid that I'd just seen in my head stepped forward.

“Freak. Run home to mummy, she’ll fix it all.”

The tug from Aravel did nothing to stop me from turning back, some fierce streak of protectiveness running through me, “Don’t call him that.”

“I was talking about you.” The features on the other child’s face twisted, and in hindsight, it was all very dramatic for a few ten year olds. I knew it was coming, moving to watch as the older boy’s fist missed me and he slipped face first into the mud.

Laughter bubbled up from behind me, and I turned to see Aravel cover his mouth with his hand. His laugh was important to me, it had been so for two years now, though I stepped over the boy on the ground to follow my friend without a glance back. I was desperate to tell my mother, but for now, there were Owlbears to meet.

They'd hunted and brought us rabbits and gophers.

Aravel and I cooked the rabbits for them.

They were pleased.

We said we wouldn't touch the gophers.

They were less pleased.

It was only when it was time for me to sleep that I found my words again, my mother standing a few feet away. I didn't want to get in trouble, but what was the worse that could happen? The kid had tried to hit me, and I wasn't stupid. So I puffed out my chest, everything coming out at once as I continued my story. “I felt…red. Like it’s all I saw. And a little bit of pink. And grey, like I was mad and angry at the same time. And then he threw a punch and it hit me but then when he actually did it, it didn’t hit me. I moved. I was so good, you should’ve seen me. Aravel was there. He’d tell you the truth. He said I stared off like a cat-sith when they’re hunting. I don’t know what that means but it sounds pretty cool.”

Titania hushed me, and my chest deflated when she took my hands, only the two of us in her room. I idly wondered where my father was, but it was a distant thought as my mother met my gaze, “You’re upset with me," I couldn't tell what her expression was, and I was seconds from blaming the other kid. "Am I weird for seeing it?"

“I’m not, Ikaros. But what you’re seeing…it’s your gift.”

Timestamp: I was two hundred and fifty five.

It was blue. Of course it was. The ocean always was. It was vast and filled so deeply with melancholy that I thought I would choke on it.

That’s all I felt in my chest as a woman reached for my hand, the Moongate just a few steps away. She was Silver Elvhen, desperate to know what had happened to her child. I had told her it wasn’t like that, that I didn’t know what would come if I looked. Contact had almost come repulsive to me, and it had taken a while to understand what could possibly bring on a vision. It wasn't anything to do with objects, sometimes I could see something in the middle of the night, other times, I could attempt it with a little bit of contact. Maybe it was desperation, or something else, but she grabbed my hand to ask once again and it did exactly what I was hoping to avoid – it triggered me.

Blue, blue, blue.

Midnight blue.

The stars felt like ice along my skin, so deep was the ocean of her grief, like the expanse of dark midnight sky.

There was a body being lifted, a young man who looked no older than twenty, from the back of a horse. I saw the woman scream, her grief all encompassing as it passed through me. So blue. Always blue. Every vision was blue. Death and devastation, it was always Iskaldrik. Always taking from the Silverlands, all while the High Elvhen stayed hidden behind the Moongate offering support from behind a glass mirror. I wasn't a fool, but I also wasn't the King.

Our contact was broken, I felt a shudder run through me until I felt a strong hand on my chest. Grounding, always grounding – Tianyou. It steadied me, but I felt depressed and angry all at once. There was the beginning of a migraine, I could feel it, and I wasn't going to escape it this time. “He’s dead,” that was all I could get out, unable to really sugarcoat it like I would at another time. Her wail of grief followed me through the Moongate.

Echoing, blue, blue, blue.

Timestamp: I was almost four hundred.

It was yellow. It was orange. It was laughter, happiness, sunshine and grass and leaves.

It was love. It was what I felt, and I was sure that I hated it.

Not really, but it was close enough. I had to explain once that I wasn’t an empath, there were those that understood emotions way better than I did. They could manipulate them, understand them. For myself, the visions consumed me. I was never just a third party watching a scene play out, if anything, I wished I was. It was all encompassing. I could feel the anger in the air, red and red, or the sorrow of midnight blue. Or perhaps laughter, orange and yellow and sunshine. Other times, there was the blinding white light of peace.

This was different.

I was awake, for one, the Silver Elvhen laughing in front of me. For the longest time, I didn’t want to be touched. I didn’t think it would work out if I saw something in the future, immediate or not. But I could explain it to Abelas later, if I could even find my brother later. He was always off adventuring, and Deniz was unlike any I'd met. But there was always a catch. I'd come to expect that.

I'd also come to accept that some people, no matter how good their heart was, or how much love they had to give, they would always be alone. That was how I'd felt for so long. Some twisted isolation that was my fault, my prerogative, and I'd changed it to know Deniz. My mother had told me, not too soon after Oberon had been banished, that sometimes, you were able to choose the life you wanted. "And if you're lucky, sometimes that life chooses you back," she'd finished, and I'd only understood that she'd meant me. The rest would sting, but there was life to be lived, and she would continue on.

But all things ended, even myself and Deniz. My first great love, the one where I could put my hand on his and I could feel my own emotions. Deniz was that moment before a storm. Where the sky was grey and cloudy, where the electricity in the air made you shiver. All encompassing, and I was ready to wait it out.

Yet it was a horrible thing, to see the future and know that no matter what I did, what Deniz did, that I couldn't fix it no matter how much I wanted to. He'd said it before, how there wouldn't be a forever. Nothing lasted like that, I'd remind him, but there was that midnight blue sorrow I would feel. It would mix with the yellow and green of sunshine and grass, of rain and the sound the leaves made when the wind passed through them. But it wasn't enough.

I was like the sun, and he was the moon: always chasing.

Timestamp: Present Day

We all had monsters in our dreams. Some of us had just lived with them longer.

My head was pounding. I felt like I'd belonged at the bottom of one of those filthy gutters that I'd seen in Eterna, somewhere around the tower. The Tower itself was always pristine, as was Arvandoril, so it wasn't like it didn't feel more at home than usual.

I'd come a few days prior, Tianyou not far behind me, waiting for the healers of Ceres to once again give me something. It was magic, it was the mind, they'd remind me of that often.

One of the witches had looked at me the day before, saying it would be a shame if an oracle was to be lost. It'd taken me a moment to understand how far through the mud she was dragging me.

"I'm not depressed."

They'd looked me up and down, "You aren't? Why on earth not?"

That'd been the end of that conversatoin. I'd stormed off in a gloriously dramatic fashion, Tian laughing at me as I'd made it outside the door.

"I hate it here," I'd growled out, sounding more like my cat-sith every day. I'd even been accused of purring once, but when Saleba purred, it indicated devious plotting involving nefarious deeds. I didn't trust that cat, but I loved him. So there was that.

"You wanted to visit," Tianyou pointed out the obvious, and I had to refrain from being grouchy once more.

That was yesterday, and today, I'd only managed to drag myself out of bed after taking the herbs recommended to me. Magic couldn't fix everything. There were days where I felt lighter, this was not one of those days. It'd be nice if I could be paint on a wall, blending into the background, but I was always present. I had so many questions. To be a High Elvhen was to never be alone, but to see the future? It felt isolating. And time, it never stopped, but it often felt elastic.

I could feel another vision, edging at the back of my conscious. This one was dark again, relating to no one near me. My only contact was the desk I'd balanced myself against. Fear. Black, all consuming, darkness. A roar echoed in my head, but I was there. I could see it. Creatures of the blight, another blighted hand reaching forward. Was it mine? Flashes of yellow – deceit. I gasped as I was brought out of it by a banging on the door. A wave of desperation overtook me. I had to see more. I had to go back. But it never worked. Was it the future? Was it the current? It'd be someone I'd met before, had to be, but as I stumbled to the door, looking less like a prince with every stumbling step I took, I had little time to pull it open before I was looking into the eyes of one of the Queen's Court.

"Iskaldrik has fallen."

[ironlvngs]

— TASK 006

before, it was much more simple to be present for these interrogations; to answer their questions, play games to shift the blame on someone else (sorry, ex boyfriend), to paint the prettiest picture of himself... but that was before this was turned into a murder investigation, rather than locating a missing person. negativity has been sitting in link's chest since the day they announced it, and it hasn't gotten any better — day by day, it feels like it's been simmering in there, and now there's just this black sludge living inside him and turning everything upside down for him.

"— excuse me, mr. crawford? a drink?" the officer repeats themself, and link has to remind himself to act accordingly.

"uh, sorry... i'm good for now, thanks." they respond as they clear their throat, bringing themself back to the reality right in front of them.

"well, then, i suppose we can get started." the officer takes a look at their partner, giving them the lead on this. "mr. crawford, did you have any reason to suspect greer morrison was dead before this news came to light?" link's eyes land on the red blinking of the tape recorder in between them for a moment, and calculates exactly how he wanted to play this one. "well, i can't say that after months of her being gone, the morbid thought hadn't come to mind for a second. but it was just easier to choose to believe she ran off on her own."

"right. well, lincoln, i'd like to ask you a few questions about ida clarke." a lump forms in his throat. link was probably the worst person to question about ida, given their very public distaste for one another — fights and arguments and name calling that only increased when they began to live in the same place. "what was the nature of your relationship?" link had to think quick. he had to wonder if they had any information on the fact that they had slept with each other not long before she died, because if they believed that he was trying to hide that fact, link would instantly become a target. it shouldn't be an issue, if she hadn't told anyone else, either. but then again, he wasn't ever the most trusting of ida clarke. finally, he responds. "not much of a relationship, really. we, uh... we were roommates for a little while, and we weren't very close." it wasn't truthful but it wasn't a lie, either. "but still, it was not the best.. hearing that someone you used to see every day and practically lived alongside with had died like that. it was the same with penelope, even though we weren't close, either. it makes you worry, you know?" maybe playing the terrified and traumatized young student afraid for his life card would gain the cops' sympathy here, and he'd avoid getting grilled.

"right, of course. now i understand that you were hospitalized after the fire, is that correct?" link nods his head, and lifts his sleeve up a little to show them his burn scars from the fire. "fortunate enough to have made it to a hospital at all." he adds. and thank god for it, meaning that he had an automatic alibi for ida's death. link knows he's innocent, but in this world, it's clear to see that anyone can get thrown under the bus — speaking from experience, from being the one to throw others under the bus so easily. "where were you before that? before you managed to leave the building?" not alibi enough, so it seems. "gosh, honestly? my memory is all over the place with that. it's hard to remember any other part of the night." immediately, the cop responds with another question, "and what exactly were you and other students doing at the commons instead of the commencement gala?" this is where link thought that he might choke. was it a better idea to admit that he had gotten a text from g like everyone else? or was it better to lie about it? then again, if someone decides to admit it, then it seems like he an every other student who hides it is lying about something. "well, to be honest with you, officer, the gala was becoming a bit... boring for a few of us college students?" he responds with a small scoff, a playful look on his face. "a few people were talking about getting out of there, maybe meeting up at the commons.... and, well, i followed them out. you can see how at the time, i thought it would be harmless to do so."

"alright... and have you gotten any anonymous messages over the past year? any with leading information, perhaps? or threatening messages?" link wanted to remove himself from this entire chain of suspicion — just another regular student at ogden college. "thankfully, i haven't." but that meant link had to be even more careful about who he talks to about any texts he receives. "and is there any information about greer morrison that you've become aware of in the past year that you haven't shared with the police yet?" "not at all — not since i spoke with you guys about her ex boyfriend. if i do hear anything, i'd definitely make sure to immediately report it." why not add a sprinkle of the noble citizen on top of this?

"well, mr. crawford, just one last question before we let you go... have you witnessed anything suspicious on campus over the past year and a half?" and this was it, link's favorite question. how easy would it be to fuck over someone he sees as a threat in whatever answer he can make up or lead the cops down a certain path? it had worked so fucking well last time (maybe too well) and he could definitely do it again. monty? milo? sassa's stupid fucking boyfriend? that was a weapon he could yield at any moment, though, and this was not the time to use it. "personally, with my graduation approaching, i chose to keep to myself and focus on my academics. so no, i haven't witnessed anything."

"okay, and i think that concludes all the questions we have for you today. thank you for your cooperation, and please do report anything suspicious to us — whether it's text messages or otherwise." link starts promising that he will, thanks them for their wonderful, oh so amazing service to their community, and exits the interrogation room.

that went well enough. at the end of the day, there was nothing link could do better than wear a mask and twist the narrative in any way he wanted.

[morrisxn02]

IC TASK IV - INTERROGATIONS III

CHARACTERS Edward Morrison FBI AGENT#1 FBI AGENT#2 SCENE Traditional professor's office space. Wooden panels on all sides, a window directly opposite the audience, overlooking the Ogden campus and purple-pink, twilight skies. A large wooden table in the middle with three chairs, two on the left, and one on the right. On top of the desk is a laptop, a tape recorder, a lamp, and some stationary i.e. a notebook, some pens and pencils, et cetera.). Enter Edward, looking tired, with dark circles around the eyes. He greets the two FBI Agents with handshakes and hangs his trench coat on the chair.

FBI AGENT #1–

Good afternoon, Mr. Morrison.

EDWARD–

(taking the seat across from the agents, dropping his messenger bag on the floor) Good afternoon.

FBI AGENT #2–

Please note that this interview is being recorded.

EDWARD nods as though it is obvious.

FBI AGENT #2–

For the record, please state your full name, age, and relationship with the victim.

EDWARD–

With Greer.

FBI AGENT #1 looks at FBI AGENT #2 shooting him a knowing look as though she had advised him about something before the interrogation.

EDWARD–

Edward Rufus Morrison, twenty-one, brother.

FBI AGENT #1–

Mr. Morrison, I am sure you are aware that there have been developments to your sister’s case…

EDWARD–

(interrupting FBI AGENT #1) Which still haven’t been properly disclosed to either me or my sister.

FBI AGENT #1–

Mr. Morrison, at present, we are not allowed to disclose any information pertaining to the investigation of your sister’s potential murder.

EDWARD–

Yes, I've heard that a thousand times. And yet I still don’t know why the course of the investigation has been changed.

FBI AGENT #1–

Unfortunately, that is confidential information at the moment.

EDWARD–

So, you’ve just decided she was murdered? And didn’t tell anyone why?

FBI AGENT #1–

Mr. Morrison, your parents have been duly contacted by the FBI. Legally, they are the only people outside of the organization who are required to be informed of any news on the case. I’m going to ask you to calm down and stick to the questions.

EDWARD–

(raising his voice) Well, Greer was on seen. On campus. She’s alive.

FBI AGENTS stare at each other, confused. There is a short moment of tense silence, as Edward glares at them.  

FBI AGENT #1–

(uncertain) You saw her? When?

EDWARD–

(lowering his tone, voice still somewhat resigned) I didn’t see her. Jesse did. Jesse Hart and Milo Navarro.

FBI AGENT #1–

They told you this? When?

EDWARD–

Jesse told me a few days ago. It happened on the night of the power outage. October 1st, last year.

FBI AGENT #2–

That was over a year ago. Why did you not report it?

EDWARD–

(snaps) He just told me. Didn’t you hear what I said?

FBI AGENT #1–

Mr. Morrison, please lower your voice.

EDWARD–

(complying slightly) Greer was seen and you don’t even know about it.

FBI AGENT #1–

We will look into it.

EDWARD–

I’m sure you will.

FBI AGENT #1–

Mr. Morrison, this is new information to us, I’m sure you understand. It’s been over a year since she was last seen.  It is very unlikely this will change the course of the investigation… For now, this is the best we can do.

EDWARD rolls his eyes and shakes his head, heaving an annoyed sigh.

FBI AGENT #2–

Now, could you please detail your relationship with your sister.

EDWARD–

We were close.

FBI AGENT #1–

(annoyed) Can you elaborate further, please?

EDWARD–

We were close. We were together often. We were in the same social circles. Is that good enough?

FBI AGENT #1 nods, not bothering to disguise an eye roll.

FBI AGENT #2–

Mr. Morrison, did you have any reason to suspect Greer Morrison was dead before this news came to light?

EDWARD–

She. Isn’t. Dead.

FBI AGENT #2–

So, no…?

EDWARD–

No. Obviously not.

FBI AGENT #2–

And, besides the alleged sighting, are you aware of any information about Greer Morrison that has come to light in the past year that you haven’t shared?

EDWARD–

(pauses) (looks out the window) No. I don’t think so.

FBI AGENT  #2–

Have you witnessed anything suspicious on campus over the past year and a half?

EDWARD–

Aside from the two deaths, the mysterious fire, the campus-wide power-outage, and the arrest? Not that I can recall, no.

FBI AGENT #2 holds back a chuckle.

FBI AGENT #2–

You mentioned the fire at the Commons… Were you inside or near the building when the fire started?

EDWARD–

Yes. I was inside the building with everyone else.

FBI AGENT #2–

Do you know why some students were there when they should’ve been at the Commencement Gala?

EDWARD–

Maybe just to get away from our parents… I don’t know.

FBI AGENT #1–

Your colleague, Samantha Jiménez was arrested that night. I understand that you two shared a few classes. Can you detail your relationship with Miss Jiménez?

EDWARD–

We are– (he cleans his throat) were friends. We did a few of projects together every now and then.

FBI AGENT #1–

Ms. Jiménez’s attorneys work in a law firm managed by Mrs. Talia Rivera, your godmother’s wife. They are defending her pro-bono. Do you happen to know what led them to pick up Ms. Jiiménez’s case?

EDWARD–

(shaking his head) Media coverage, maybe. Everything surrounding Greer’s disappearance has been dealt with as much sensationalism as possible.

FBI AGENT #1–

(crossing his hands on the table) Right... So you have nothing to do with how they arrived at her case?

EDWARD–

I might have mentioned it to Talia in passing…

AGENTS exchange a glance.

FBI AGENT #2–

Another classmate of yours, Ms. Ida Clarke, sadly passed away the night of the fire. Were you two close?

EDWARD–

No. We talked, sometimes. In social gatherings, mostly. But I wouldn’t say we were friends.

FBI AGENT #2–

And where were you when her body was found?

EDWARD–

On the second floor of the Commons. Talking to Ollie Inoue. When someone yelled from the ground floor, we parted ways to see what it was.

FBI AGENT #2–

Very well. (nods and takes notes)

FBI AGENT #1–

Since you mentioned the deaths of Ms. Clarke and Ms. Klein, would you care to elaborate on your relationship with Penelope Klein, if there was any?

EDWARD–

There wasn't, I didn’t like her very much.

FBI AGENT #1–

Why?

EDWARD–

I don’t know. She was just... sort of a sycophant?

FBI AGENT #2–

And what about your sister… Was she close to her?

EDWARD–

(sighing) Not really. I think Penelope Klein always though she could be like Greer. She always had a sort of competitive aura when it came to Greer. (shifting in his seat) I mean, I don’t need to tell you that Greer has always been popular. Everyone loves her. Penny seemed to think that she could be like her… Like, after Greer disappeared I feel like she tried to become the next Greer. (pauses) I’m rambling. Forgive me.

FBI AGENT #2–

No, the more insight the better.

FBI AGENT #1–

Do you remember what you were doing when Penelope Klein was found at the chalet?

EDWARD–

I was asleep. There was a black-out and she started bossing everyone around to try and get the light back on. I didn’t want to help her because, again, I didn’t really like her and I hate being bossed around, so I just went back to the bedroom.

FBI AGENT #1 nods.

FBI AGENT #1–

Finally, Mr. Morrison, before we let you go… Over the past year, have you gotten any anonymous messages?

EDWARD–

(after a long, tense pause) Of course I have. My sister is missing… I get prank calls all the time.

FBI AGENT #2–

We mean threatening ones? Or with… leading information?

EDWARD–

(picking at his nails under the table) It’s hard to tell what is truth and what isn’t at this point, but nothing I would consider particularly relevant.

FBI AGENTS exchange a worried glance.

EDWARD–

(shaking his head hurriedly, stumbling over  words) I’ve deleted everything. I think someone’s just trying to tease me.

FBI AGENT #1–

(skeptically) Well, if you notice anything strange, don’t hesitate to report it.

EDWARD nods.

FBI AGENT #2–

(closing notebook, stopping the recording) This is everything. You’re free to go. Thank you for collaborating.

FBI AGENT #1–

And we’ll promise that we will look into this sighting you’ve mentioned.

EDWARD–

(gathering his things, getting up) Okay. Thank you.

Exit EDWARD.

End of scene.

[drrutherford]

May, 2024.

It starts like this; his father offers him a cigar. And Gideon declines.

"Now you're too good for my old cigars?"

It's a poisoned dart. His nerves begin to thrum. "That's not-... It has nothing to do with that." He defends, following Andrew into his office. "I'm just thinking if I win this case it'll mean that I'll have Felix around a lot more so I'm trying to- I probably shouldn't..."

There's a puff of smoke from the lit Cohiba Siglo, the bitter coffee scent singes his nostrils even at a distance. Andrew exhales sardonically. "Ah, yes. A model father."

Gideon looks at him. Really looks, and sees, perhaps for the first time, what he's failed to see these last few years. The flash of insecurity-resentment in his father's chestnut eyes, the wiry hair – more salt than pepper these days – frown lines about his mouth, the papery creases around the corners of his eyes... He's getting old. Older, perhaps frailer, too. Maybe it shouldn't come as a shock. But for someone who's always been more myth than man, as immortal and impervious to ageing as some demigod in the Greek Pantheon — it's a realization that occurs to him with a start. Gideon lashes his own retort back behind his teeth, letting the patriarch's bitterness pass as if unnoticed.

"You know I've been seeing Amélie."

"The schoolteacher, you mean? The one we had over for the holidays?"

"Journalist." The surgeon corrects a little tersely. He can't help the suspicion that it's an intentional slight, innocently dressed as a slip. Andrew has information at his fingertips and all the paranoia in the world to use it; knows everything Gideon wants to do almost before he does it. He would have found every piece of dirt on Amélie that he could find, traced her genealogy back to Eve and the Serpent before letting her so much as draw breath under the crystal chandeliers of his front foyer. He knows she's a journalist.

"Pleasant young lady," Andrew acknowledges charitably, "awfully well-mannered." But Gideon knows that it's about as much a compliment as he might throw to the runt of a litter. The mob boss has little use for well-mannered in his world and esteems it about the same amount. "What is it you wish to tell me about her, son?"

For all his years'-long stubbornness as his father's black sheep, Gideon feels a tendril of trepidation run through him at the question. The familial phrasing, the luring invitation. He wets his lips. "We've been together for almost a year now and known each other far before that. I know I didn't-... I haven't advertised that part, exactly," – he hadn't denied it, either, but had kept external opinions at bay as long as possible by avoiding the label of 'girlfriend' to shelter her – "but we've gotten to know each other in all that time."

"How wonderful."

Gideon struggles to continue. "And-... Well, the point is, I can't keep lying to her."

"Then don't."

"I mean about us. The family."

Andrew Rutherford's hawk-like gaze meets him over the thick frame of his reading glasses. "I fail to see how that's relevant to your girlfriend. Otherwise known as a girl who may be here today and gone tomorrow. With all due respect, of course."

"She won't be. That's my point." The stubborn streak is back as son and father stare at each other over the latter's desk, though Gideon feels his pulse beginning to hammer in his throat. "She's important to me... Special. I want to pursue something serious with her, but I can't do that in good conscience if I'm lying to her all the while. She deserves to know what she's signing up for, by being with me."

"Signing up for what, exactly?" A droll tone enters his father's voice. "You've made it ever so clear you have no part in this family's business endeavours, I hardly see how—"

"It's not good enough. I'm still lying by omission. It still affects her, my association to the family alone is enough to affect her. Reflect on her, it wouldn't be fai—"

"And how is it fair to this family that you would spoon-feed a journalist her next big break by telling her whatever drivel it is you believe about the work that we do?"

"Drivel?" He echoes. It's followed by a disbelieving scoff. There are so many things he could say to that in reply, write an entire bloody essay on exactly the sort of drivel his father has been responsible for in countless neighbourhoods across two continents an ocean apart. The fires he's ignited, the lives he has torn apart, the brainwashing of their mutual loved ones to bear the brunt of that blame alongside him. It makes him sick to the gills to think of all the drivel his father's allowed or actively incited, but it isn't why he's here today. He's fought that battle a million times already... He's always lost.

"She isn't like that. You don't know her at all." Gideon struggles to keep his voice even, rather than accusatory. Remembering that it has been just as much his choice to keep Amélie away from his father as it is Andrew's to be dismissive of everyone's potential to be more than lying, thieving opportunists.

"Whose fault is that?"

A muscle tenses in his jaw. His gaze stays fixed to the cabinet behind his father's desk, patience beginning to fray. "All I'm trying to say is that she wouldn't. She wouldn't want to bring harm to the people that I care about. Hell, she worked herself into a tizzy just thinking she might insult Lara by her choice of dress last time we met, or worried she hadn't complimented Yvonne enough on raising Maddie so well. She loves Damon as much as everyone loves Damon, and Adri she—"

"— And you're willing to change all that. By running your mouth off so that you can sleep better at night. What good will it do her, Gideon? Answer me that."

It's a wonder that Andrew doesn't see it. But is it so surprising? A man whose personal relationships are decomposing at various rates all around him. "If she is going to be a part of my life, a part of this family, she has a right to know what she's signing up for."

"If you're thinking about jumping into another marriage—"

"I'm not," He cuts in hastily, an embarrassed flush spreading along the back of his neck. "Or well, I don't know. It's too early to thi-... But it isn't about that, it's about clearing the air and giving her full disclosure before things get that point. Not just blindsiding her. Why is that so difficult for you to understand?"

Andrew strolls over to the long, arched window and grabs the tieback holding the silk curtains off to one side. He releases it with a snap, nursing his tobacco all the while. The room falls into shadows. "And what about Lara?"

"What about her?"

The father turns back on his son, moving towards his desk again, keeping it between them. "You love her — some say to a fault." A smile cuts cruelly on his mouth. "Because you think she's so different than me. What's to spare her my fate if your journalist runs prattling to the first newsstand that she can find?"

If he were a better man, he would tell his father that Lara's fate is her own. That she's neither a prisoner nor a child anymore; blindly following in her father's footsteps. That if she cleaves to the mob, one day her fate will be sealed either way; by a court or by a criminal, and that in either case there will be violence.

He would tell his taunting father that even in such a case the responsibility would be neither his, nor Amélie's, nor even some stranger's — but her own.

... But he isn't a better man.

The house of cards shudders with that warning and the surgeons croaks out; "She won't! I know she won't." Resting his argument on a plea. He hates begging, hasn't begged anything from his father since he was a child; but Amélie, he knows, is worth his pride. "You gave Rodriguez a chance. I just wish you'd do the same for Amélie."

In mentioning Lara, Andrew seems to know he's hit a nerve. His posture relaxes, he takes another puff from the Cohiba Siglo. It's almost gleeful. "They aren't quite the same though, are they?... Félix Rodriguez brings us prestige, a foothold into politics. What does your French girl bring us, exactly? What makes her worth the risk?"

Gideon doesn't offer any response. Once again, it's clear how much his father has grossly underestimated a person if he believes that Yvonne's fiancé is the sort of lapdog to roll over for a treat. But he says nothing. It isn't his job anymore to warn Andrew Rutherford of the consequences that come with devaluing human beings.

"You're going to do it anyway." The older man observes, after a beat of silence passes between them. He pulls out the office chair and eases himself into it. He rests his cigar on its wooden holder and looks up at his son expectantly.

"Yes."

He can't tell if it's respect or contempt in his father's eyes. These days, they tend to look the same. He steps away from the desk, as if testing the bounds of his freedom. He rounds the chair, turns his back on Andrew Rutherford and makes it almost to the door when the older man calls out to him. "— Gideon."

He turns, guarded grey eyes finding inscrutable brown.

"Not everyone will understand us. Not everyone should try." The mob boss reaches for his decanter, removing the top and pouring some of the liquid into a glass with careful, precise movements. "If you lose her, remember that it was not my doing."

— End.

Mentioned: @amescastaignede, @lararutherford, @yvonne-rutherford, @amaroadriana, @damonrutherford

[lararutherford]

EVERY ENDING HAS A BEGINNING:

Guess the kids are finally getting out of the basement, and now you all owe Lara for the rest of your lives I don't make the rules. xo Features: Kosta. Date: May 22nd, 2024. Warnings: It's shit. I haven't written in a while okay. Forgive me.

“My father is on his way to London. He intends to meet with Vorshevsky.” The silence at that particular revelation had been deafening. “I’ve informed him that I plan to do so first.” Parsons’ displeasure at that idea, far louder… “And Andrew agreed?” “Of course he didn’t.”

---

Minutes must have passed them by in cold, empty quiet.

When Lara Rutherford had stepped into the office of the head of the Vorshevsky family, she had done so knowing that immediate confrontation could have spelt a dire outcome for her. That those few she had told about her intentions tonight were not wrong for voicing concern about how she might handle herself. Konstantin didn’t much seem a man who entered these kinds of discussions under forced small talk, though. They were busy people, and both lacked patience.

So, as soon as she’d taken her seat opposite him, as well as the glass of vodka he’d extended her way like an almost suspiciously gracious host, she’d offered a gift of her own in return.

The photographs of his dead men.

The very same ones who’d hatched a plot to harm her sister.

Lara had always been good at reading people—nobody knew a liar better than a liar—but with him it was almost impossible. Something in his jaw seemed to tighten. He placed his own glass down in silence, but offered nothing else she might use to decipher what was running through his mind. The Russian had retained his experience as a politician, no doubt; silver-tongued and with an obvious penchant for deception. But she had proof, and more than enough bitterness to assume his guilt even if he had the most believable excuses in the world. The Rutherford hadn’t come here in search of confirmation of the part they’d played.

She’d come here for reparations.

“They were acting of their own accord. This was never ordered by me.”

Lara observed him in silence.

He sounded utterly convincing.

But Lara knew better than to take a man at his word.

Voice lowered to a whisper, she replied: “I don’t believe you.”

“What would I gain from attacking my allies? What would I gain from murdering her instead of you?”

Now, it was her turn to place her untouched glass down, hands folding neatly in her lap before she continued with her accusations. Impatient, perhaps, but she could take her time with this.

“We were never supposed to know it was you. They were masquerading as members of the French Organization. And I must say: the detail in that particular ruse was very impressive.”

The Rutherford was mocking him, and he bristled at her tone.

“I know you know Delphine and I are in talks to move toward a more civil relationship between our families. I also know you know that they wouldn’t assassinate me unless a better offer was to come their way. If we suddenly thought the French responsible for the murder of my sister, though? Well, that’d halt things immediately. And how convenient it’d be for your own interests…”

“If I had planned this,” he interjected in annoyance, “your sister would be dead, and you’d be warring with the French instead of having this conversation with me. I don’t make mistakes.”

“Mistakes are all you’ve made since you stepped foot in this city, Konstantin.”

The fact she was sat opposite him now, instead of tallied up as a death statistic from The Kingdom’s New Year’s Eve shootout, was proof of it. They both knew that he didn’t consider her getting hit by one of his men’s stray bullets a mistake. The fact she was still breathing was.

“Why are you here, Lara?”

The impatience in is tone caused a barely contained reaction. It was like something crawling up the back of her neck. Her spine straightened involuntarily as if her body was ready to depart the room ahead of time. The only thing that steeled her nerve was knowing she held all the cards here, and the only thing that stopped him from reaching across the desk and taking great joy in strangling the life out of her was his acknowledgement of the same.

A dangerous game with a dangerous opponent…

“You’re going to release the Italians.”

Half of her had expected him to scoff in disgust, but instead, she was greeted by eyes boring into her with such bitter hatred, she wondered if she had, indeed, signed her away her own life in favour of theirs. Perhaps she should have at least phrased it as a question instead of the demand it was.

Too late to walk back on it, now...

“You can have one.”

“That’s not what I said,” she countered, voice resolute.

“We didn’t know the soldier was affiliated with you. Consider her safe return a peace offering on my part for the insolence of my men, and ask no more.”

Insolence?

“You’ve misunderstand the purpose of my visit. This isn’t a negotiation.”

The Russian got to his feet slowly, a hand dropping to refasten the buttons of his jacket as if silently informing her he was readying to depart without further discussion of the matters at hand.

“You’re going to release the Italians, and you’re going to agree to exchange the St. Clair for Aviv, with my facilitation.”

Not once did her voice waver.

And that was when it finally clicked for him.

Konstantin slid his hands into his pockets, and she briefly wondered if he was reaching for a knife.

To her surprise, his handsome features twisted into amusement as opposed to the anger that had marred him up until this point in the conversation.

A humourless chuckle, then:

“You aren’t doing this for them,” he asserted, seemingly impressed by her fucking audacity. “You’re doing this for yourself.”

“I don’t do anything that doesn’t benefit me.”

The Rutherford reached out a delicate hand to his mahogany desk, index finger tracing a line across its polished top slowly.

“My father would never say this to you, but believe every word that I do. Don’t make the mistake of pushing us. Our influence has shielded you from much since your arrival here, but we’ve barely scratched the surface of how far it reaches. Understanding how much power my family truly has over this city because we decide to turn it against you isn’t wise.”

Oh, he had no fucking idea…

“Haringey would become more inhospitable than you could ever imagine. First, the families here come together to drive you out of London. Then, Porto Velho…” Lara was no longer looking at him, terrified of what she might see if she dared be so bold. Her movements were more purposeful now, as if she were moving soldiers into position on an invisible map of war. “With no need to focus on either, the Italians and French would be free to direct all of their attention toward Launceston.”

When she did look up, his expression still held. Either he didn’t believe she had the nerve to follow through with this scenario she was playing out before him, or he was a master at disguising the unfortunate realisation that he was over a fucking barrel.

That she was right.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he reiterated her earlier concern with vitriol so heavy in its contrast to the amusement he retained it was terrifying.

“I’d argue attempting to assassinate my sister means I could say the same about you.”

There was no denying that.

“What’s to stop you from doing all of this after I cede?”

“Nothing.”

This time it was Lara who got to her feet. Even in heels, the height difference was jarring enough to intimidate her into feeling smaller than she ever had in her life. But she’d held it together for this long, and she wasn’t about to lose her nerve at the final hurdle. Not after this. Carefully adjusting the arm of her Balmain blazer, she attempted to remain as aloof as she had done for the entirety of the conversation; a steely façade she had to learn to perfect over the years coming in clutch when she needed it the most.

The only words she offered in parting?

“You’d do well to remember that.”

[valentina--ricci]

The Ricci Family Playbook | A Self-Para

Valentina had assumed she would have felt more emotional in this moment. Like the sight of her father being carted off in handcuffs would suddenly unleash this well of empathy for the man who had helped bring her into the world. She thought that the softness she had once felt for him would rise to the surface. Maybe she’d get flashbacks of her childhood, when he’d actually sit and read with her or take her for ice cream after a good grade. 

But all Valentina felt was relief as she sat in a car with her mother further down the block. 

It had happened fast for something that had taken her years to plan. She had thought several times about finding a way to kill him but that would just be using the same playbook he had. The man cared about nothing more than his reputation so killing his reputation seemed to be the only way for her at the moment. She knew she had to be smart. She had to build a case, she had to find things that were so severe, so sturdy, that not even his lawyers could talk their way out of this one. 

His targeting of Mikayla Beaumont had sent her over the edge, an urgency rising up in her chest as she watched him act like the Godfather once again. As she watched the town almost get swept away in sand and realized that maybe she cared about the people here. Maybe. But she had to draw the line somewhere. He was out of control and even worse, he was a likely winner for Mayor. She knew that if she didn’t stop him now, or at least deter him for some time, then they would never be able to turn back. 

So she set the wheels in motion. Left breadcrumbs for the ATF agents and local cops. Enough for them to take Mikki’s article to heart. And then came her final move. 

Valentina could feel the stress leaving her body as she got out of bed and pulled on her robe, glancing back at Roman on the bed before she let him know that she had invited him over for more than letting him attend to her beautiful body. She pulled a thick folder from her dresser and dropped it down on the bed next to him. She knew he’d ask questions and she was ready for them and clear that he needed to be as quick about this as possible. And with another kiss to his cheek, she sent him on his way before going to see her mother and brother to let them know what she had done. 

And Roman had of course delivered as she knew he would. Or else she wouldn’t have trusted him with it in the first place. 

So Valentina put the car in drive as they dipped her father’s head into the police car. She was slow until the car turned down a larger street and pressed her foot to the gas so they could pull up beside the police car. She kept her speed steady as she and her mother turned to look at Gio in the back seat. And as they set their eyes on him, they both smiled. Beatrice even blew him a kiss before they sped past them and turned down the next road,  in search of an appropriate celebration.

[arr0s]

PART ONE :: RUN 

Witcher. Poison beat through your veins like others had blood. The taint took time to grip you: more than anyone else but even you could not resist Mother’s song for long. She worked her way into your heart through your pox-marked skin and for the first time since your Gaze had been broken, you felt the sort of love that you thought was lost to you. Beautiful and sweet, you were happy to serve Mother, and happy to play the part of nurse at her side. Her gaze was beady and dark, but you matched it with unequivocal devotion. 

A werewolf, broken from Mother’s song, tore apart that beautiful bond - and your first response was to shriek as your Mother’s writhing, tentacular frame, fell into a dead heap. You stood at the side of the Princess, for your next reaction was unabashed rage. You could feel it now, dark though it was, magic permeated the lair and flowed through the veins of the volatile, raw Aetherite. Your weapons were gone, so you felled the first beast that attacked and wrenched their twisted blade from their dead limbs to use it as your own. Arros, witcher, set your gaze upon your escape, it's time to leave this place. TLDR; arros bonk a couple guys

The werewolf's maw tore through the Broodmother's flesh as if its teeth were sharpened blades slicing through soft butter. It happened in a matter of seconds,  before you could react, the Darkspawn descended upon the other captured women.You were frozen,  standing  in a daze like your mind was trying to come out of some sort of fog. 

What in the Hells just happened? Your hand, shaking as it clutched at your chest, the ache - it felt as though your heart was just ripped from your chest. Hands moved on their own looking for an opening, a tear, anything to prove that, that was exactly what had happened. When did you start to cry? Amid the cacophony of Darkspawn shrieks, you realized that you, too, were screaming.

Red hot pain pierced through your body where a darkspawns makeshift ax grazed your stomach - had you taken just a couple more seconds to come back to reality you would’ve been sliced in half. “You son of a bitch.” speaking felt as though you’ve been swallowing gravel, it felt unused and unfamiliar, but a new sort of anger awoke with your consciousness.

What claimed you then cannot wholly be a form of mania - because you were starkly aware of every one of your movements. Ripping the weapon from the beast's hands in a swift well trained movement; all the screaming and the wails that filled the cavern merely fuelled this anger. Your body moved slower than you were used to - being stuck in a trance for however many days - working yourself to the bone for these monsters took a toll on you. Enough so that she had miscalculated a step and was struck by one of the grotesque darkspawn. 

Red hot pain pierced through your body from where the wound was inflicted. Crying out in agony you kicked and pushed and used the rest of the will to stay alive that you had left to get the beast off of you. Its mouth was dripping with scarlet, your freshly drawn blood staining its chin while droplets fell, leaving an inky trail wherever it moved.

“You’re dead” You pulled your hand away, your palm coated in blood. It felt wet and hot.  You didn’t expect the sight of it to drive a new life through you. Reaching down, eyes never leaving the figure of the beast that now lifted its maw for another swipe, you grabbed a discarded weapon from a creature you previously slayed. 

You descend without mercy, hurtling forward, blade at the ready, driving it deep into the hollow beneath the beast’s jaw and wrenching up In a stuttering motion as rusted blade got stuck by flesh and bone, you watch its face split, tearing its final shrieks apart. And then all is silent, save for your gasping breaths and the blood in your ears, ringing and pounding.  Blood covered your hands and arms over the front of your chest, and you could feel some wetness that sprayed over your face.

But it was dead, and you were alive. Evident so with your heart still pounding under your chest and ragged breaths escaping your lips.Only once it was dead did you remember the others, remember the werewolf who awoke you from this hell.

Whipping your head around you spotted them - each of them fighting for their lives. The werewolf tearing apart the dark spawn while the others took part in their own battles. And you, left by the wayside to watch, horrified and bleeding from so many wounds you don't remember sustaining.  A nightmare, all of it, an inescapable reality as you tried to do just that. Escape. Impossible, you knew, but you’d be damned if you didn’t at least try.

Your own arms flare with bright, biting heat with each hack through darkspawn, being guided by the other makeshift troupe of maidens further down into the caverns and deeper into unknown and dangerous territory.

[autumnshowell]

arguments

'You've been out so often lately.'

'You've been so hard to get ahold of.' 'I worry when you don't answer my texts.' 'I thought you said you didn't have to work.' 'I guess I just didn't realize you had better things to do.' She throws handfuls of what is essentially into the trash. Part of Autumn wants to scream as she turns her mother's words around in her head, every spin of it gouging an angry red barb into the figurative mental flesh of her hand as she considers just how angry she is right now. "I have a life outside of you, mom." She says, exasperated in tone but forcing herself to keep calm. Autumn ties the trash bag off and moves to set it next to the door that leads out of the kitchen to the driveway, lifting it to show her before she does so. "And by the way, you're allowed to actually throw stuff away without me here." Helpless and useless she thinks to herself. She'll feel awful for thinking it later, but right now she's so angry because she spent the whole of her last day off cleaning the filth out of this kitchen and it looks like she never even touched it. It's always something. Always some mess that needs cleaning or something that sits broken because she can't pick up a phone and call for a repair herself. It'd be one thing, Autumn gripes, if her mother were incapable. If she were unable to do the things that Autumn does. But she isn't. She just knows she can get away with it, because her daughter promised her late husband that she would take care of her. Because if she plays dumb and she plays useless, it keeps Autumn close, ensures that she'll never go far from home. Autumn knows it, because her mother's said so a dozen times in her drunken rants, even if she doesn't remember it, and she hates that she's right. Because who else does she have? Kevin is, at best, a work friend. Everyone she counted as a close friend in town growing up is too busy with life or has left town altogether. She hasn't had anybody better to be around. Hasn't had anything better to do. But now she does. And it's becoming apparent. And she knows her mother hates this. And she relishes in it. "You're gonna have to cook for yourself or order out this Saturday - I'm not gonna be around." That pries her mother's eyes from her wine glass. "Why?" "I've got a thing." Sharp. "What thing?" Pointed "Just a thing." Deflecting. "What kind of thing? I remember when my daughter didn't keep secrets." "Oh my fucking god, really?" She says, slapping a rag down on the counter top. "I'm going to a studio to look at tattoo stuff, okay?" "A tattoo? Why the hell do you want a tattoo?" "I don't even know if I want one - and what does it matter to you anyways. it's not for you it's for me." "That's so tacky Autumn Marie, when have you ever wanted a tattoo?" "Jesus, and you wonder why I didn't want to tell you." "Well if you can't even tell me about it, what are you going to tell people when they see it? You'll look trashy." It's the certitude and confidence with which her own mother calls her trashy. It makes her breath catch. She feels her nails digging so deeply into the palms of one hand that she's sure when she rubs her face in frustration, it's going to leave a trail of red behind. It doesn't but her hand hurts. "It's 2024, mom, maybe I want to look trashy." She hates how much she sounds like a fucking teenager. It's humiliating and demoralizing, despite the audience of nobody. "Well, mission accomplished if you go through with that." Leigh says, moving to pour more Moscato into her glass. "No wonder I don't have grandkids."

Silly enough, that's what gets her, what shuts her off, what rips her out of her own mind and sends her off to the broom closet eve though her mother's not done talking. She thinks of just how many times she's told her mother she's not interested in men, let alone starting a family with one. It's the closes she ever gets to telling her mother that she's never going to have grand children. That she's never going to have a son-in-law. But she never has the stone to say it outright.

The rest of the evening is quiet - quiet as the dead. Or at least it might as well be; her mother's voice is somewhere behind her, over her shoulder - quite and muffled every once in a while, like she's yelling through the deep ocean. She doesn't listen as she cleans up.

She's reminded of just why she does all this in the morning, while her mother is at work where she has to at least pretend to be sober and functional and can't inform her daughter of how wrong she is about everything she does. She wonders why she comes here at all anymore - but she knows why - no matter how awful it is, or how draining it is, it's less lonely this way. It's nice to be needed, even if she isn't necessarily wanted.