#darmody descendant

[autisticabbey]

My customized Mars and Red Beryl Galaxy mesh laundry bags and folding laundry baskets

[beannysiegel]

ah, so full of artless jealousy (young blood, never get chained)

@meyerlansky cuz you asked for the half-finished soulmates smut bby 😘🌸

set after the young turks meeting and charlie’s not-very-well-thought-out-because-our-boy-can-be-a-tad-impulsive romp with gillian, bless. 

kjsbdland;asd enjooooy!! ❤️

The air smells of almost-dusk by the time he’s back in New York; the sky’s grey, fading, hungry by the time he’s in his apartment (door locked, window sealed; the ragged voices of the cars and streets and ghosts still crawl in, leave scratches on the peeling wooden frames) (it’s all just noise, radio static, and it was years ago that he first learned to turn it all to silence) (he prefers silence). For a moment, a minute, an hour, Meyer stands at the window, looking out but not seeing, breathing but not moving (scarcely existing but for all the tightly-coiled wrath); he stands there, one palm collecting splinters like a body count against the windowsill, and he doesn’t think – because thinking would mean admitting that under all this cold that he’s forcing through his veins there’s anger, dark and hot and familiar; thinking would mean acknowledging the scraping, the clawing, the scrabbling; thinking would mean allowing something other than the hollow chill of that constant urging (repress, repress) to slip beneath his skin. And he can’t do that. He can’t face that. That rage is glass and when he prods it shatters, and when it shatters there’s always the blood on his tongue and knuckles slinking close behind like a scavenger (they all think the wall behind his eyes can’t crumble but, oh, it’s feeble) (all it needs is one bone pushed too far, one streak of mortar picked at by curious fingers, and—)

A draught breathes itself in through a thin breach where the window meets wall, makes Meyer shiver. Dusk has long since settled, bringing with it a melting, dust-smothered darkness (maybe there’s a moon past all that smog). The little pulse point of fire at the tip of his first, second, third cigarette is a beacon of rasping light in all the black, the sputtering orange of one disintegrating into ash on his skin and giving way to the new life of the next; and so it continues, a rhythm of soot and smoulder echoing away at his fingertips until there’s a thin haze of grey drifting on the air currents. The telephone rings once, then again, then again. He doesn’t answer and soon the noise is just another vague idea in the distance, drowned out by not-thought. It’s cold inside his apartment (colder than it is outside) and Meyer’s legs are beginning to ache from standing and every so often a short, clipped word settles at the back of his throat, tasting like clenched teeth and smoke – words like Gillian (geisha); Charlie; jealousy; hate. Betrayal. And he chokes them back, forces them beneath the safety of the ice and the careful emptiness and the heart that he can sometimes almost convince himself is as blank as he’d like it to be (the tight, panicked constrictions in his chest remind him it’s not) (he ignores them) (that works, he’s found).

Benny told Meyer to come see him as soon as he returned from Atlantic City (he didn’t specify whether or not Charlie would be welcomed). But he can’t bear the thought of talking to him, not right now – because Benny’s going to ask how it went; Benny’s going to ask where Charlie is; Benny’s going to catch the pause that drifts on for a moment too long, or the blink, or the venom, and he’s going to understand – not completely, not the details; but he’s going to understand and he’s going to ask questions and he’s going be out for Charlie’s blood even more than usual once he’s pieced enough together. And Meyer’s so tired. Too tired. He’ll seek him out tomorrow. Not now. Now’s for remembering how to breathe. Now’s for distant thunderstorms rolling behind his eyes and being silenced. Now’s for tethering himself on the dark, dark seas (but who knows what oceans think of in the night?).

With a faint little sigh that catches at the end (it’s almost a snarl), he lets his hand fall from the windowsill, clenches and unclenches it a few times until there’s vague feeling in his palm; crosses the short distance to his desk, drops heavily into the chair. The movement stirs the half-drowned ire, makes it tear and scream against his ribs (he ignores it) (that works, he’s found). Reaching an arm out into the darkness, he flicks on the desk lamp, blinks against the hazy citrine glow, stares at it for a little too long because he loses himself in the ache of the light-blindness and for a moment it’s a remedy. Finally, he tilts his head away, closes his eyes against the rings of red and yellow quivering behind his lashes. And he sits there. Silent. Cold. Blinking until he’s not sure when his eyes are closed and when they’re open. He doesn’t feel anything. Doesn’t think (that’s a lie) (he wonders if death feels angry).    

He glances briefly to the ledgers piled to one side of his desk, to the numbers, the ink; and, swallowing down the little flood of nausea that settles over him at the thought of work (and the little voice begging for the easy amnesia of sleep), he exhales a short breath and pulls one of the books towards him – forget, forget, be productive, disappear into business; it’s safe there (the guns, the blood, the broken teeth – they’re easy; there’s odds and averages and surviving the carnage yields riches at the end; there’s no safety here, with the heart. Only distractions). He opens the ledger, inhales the familiar scents of day old dust and paper, runs his palm across the margins, the lines, the sums; stares down at them with pale smoke drifting from between his lips. But for every scratched number and scrawled note that he tries so desperately to keep at the front of his mind, there’s that little itch behind his eyes just pleading with him to scratch at it – and each time he does, there’s that taunting voice, that cruel voice, hissing Charlie chose her, after all she did; Charlie forgot about you; you aren’t enough; you could never make him stay; what can you offer him?; he’ll leave if he hasn’t already. And the fog descends – blankets his mind, stills his hands, twists around the numbers till they’re coiling like murky water, till they’re meaningless; till there’s no control, no reason, and he’s slouching back against the spine of his chair with his thumb and middle finger pinching at his temples and a terrible choking feeling settling in his throat.  

You’re not enough.

He pictures them together – Gillian’s burning hair and Charlie’s voice drawling like liquor and syrup and molasses against her skin, against her thighs and breasts and lips.

You’re not enough.

He grows angrier.

It burns. Festers. Smothers the vulnerability (the weakness) in hot cinder.

The doorknob rattles once, twice; Meyer swivels in his seat to eye the door, exhales a hissing breath as heavy as lead as he hears the scrape of a key in the lock and the low, muffled curse from the other side of the door. Meyer stays seated as Charlie shoves the door open hard enough that it clatters against the wall; as he stands in the doorway for a long moment strained in its silence, staring at Meyer with rigid limbs and relief giving way to a half-glare; as he slams the door shut behind him with a noise in his throat more growl than grunt.

“Where the fuck were you?”

Meyer understands Charlie well enough to know that the roughness in his voice is little more than a lingering vestige of his concern. He turns back to the papers, picking up a pen with fingers that quiver a little against the metal. He can feel Charlie’s eyes travelling over his back, leaving thin trails of crawling flame that thread over his skin like paint on canvas. Meyer shifts uneasily, swallowing a few times until he finds his voice (he’s thankful Charlie can’t see his face) (there must be a trace of something there). “Gillian’s well, I hope.” The words sound more acidic than he’d hoped for. More raw. He pretends to scrape down a few numbers, letters, doesn’t matter; anything to show he doesn’t care (his tongue aches from where he’s biting it).

Charlie hesitates, sniffs impatiently like he’s not quite sure what Meyer’s getting at— “Yeah, she’s…” —and there’s that little oh moment. Another heavy pause (he imagines Charlie shakes his head dismissively); then: “Meyer, what the fuck? You just up and leave? Without tellin’ me? I been callin’ for hours back in AC and you couldn’t be bothered throwin’ me a fuckin’ bone? Huh?” He stops for a moment, waits; silence; begins again with an acrid edge to his voice. “Jesus, Meyer, all that talk of rubbin’ people out back with Darmody and those schmucks, then you go and pull a fuckin’ Houdini – don’t even pick up the fuckin’ phone. I had to hear you was gone from a fuckin’ maid at the hotel, like some stood-up asshole. Why the fuck didn’t you say nothin’?”

“You were busy.” His voice sounds more detached. More nonchalant (as nonchalant as Meyer can ever be). And that’s good, because Meyer’s focusing on controlling his breathing, on evening it out so Charlie doesn’t see the heave in his shoulders and think he’s anything less than stone (Charlie understands him but not completely) (Meyer doesn’t want anyone to understand him completely) (doesn’t want to understand himself completely).

“So you just, what, jump ship instead’a waitin’ half an hour?” He hears Charlie take a few steps closer, feels the frustration radiating from him as Meyer still refuses to face him.  

“There was no reason for me to stay. You were otherwise occupied.” Meyer sets down the pen, flicks through the pages with numb fingers and unseeing eyes and fragile seeds of anger budding, leaching rivulets of thick, gurgling poison into the pit of his stomach, into his chest – until he can taste the bitterness of suppressed resentment at the back of his throat. His eyes are worn and stinging.

“This is about her, ain’t it?” Charlie’s voice has dropped lower. After a moment, he exhales a quiet sigh, moves to crouch beside Meyer’s chair; his elbow’s resting on the desk, other hand clenching and unclenching on his knees, and he’s tilting his head, trying to catch Meyer’s eye; Meyer keeps his gaze imbedded within the pages (he ignores the heat rolling from Charlie’s body in thick waves, burning into his legs and side and head). The lamp, only a few inches to the right of Charlie’s head, casts golden light over one half of his face, leaving the other half in shadow (Meyer can see him out of the corner of his eye) (see how beautiful he is). When Charlie speaks again, there’s a faint whine to his voice (Meyer thinks he can hear Charlie’s breath rattling in his bird cage chest). “She means nothin’ to me. You know how it is – she gets inside my head, so I can’t fuckin’ think. I thought it was over but then she showed up at the meetin’ and—it was nothin’, just a fuck, don’t mean nothin’.” He reaches out, touches his fingertips to Meyer’s knee; when he shifts his leg away, Charlie’s face darkens into a frown. There’s irritation (confusion) growling behind his teeth when he continues and Meyer struggles not to wince. “She’s a whore, Meyer. I gave her the fuck of a lifetime and then I was outta there, finito, andato, nothin’ to it.” When Meyer scoffs, Charlie snaps to his feet, grinding his jaw and gesturing impatiently towards him with one hand. “The fuck’s with you?”

“Nothing.” Meyer keeps his head bowed.

“Don’t seem like nothin’ – you ain’t even looked at me yet.”

He raises his head so fast something in his neck twinges and cracks; his expression is carefully vacant, jaw clamped shut – but, oh, his eyes, they’re dark (dark, then darker, then darker, then darker). “There, are you happy?” His voice is more ice than poison (his skin is hot, his bones are cold, and surely that’s the wind whistling through him) (surely he’s finally swallowed down enough forced emptiness that there’s only a wraith left rasping).

For a moment, Charlie’s seems taken aback by the sheer depth of whatever coarse, bitter emotion must be burning in Meyer’s eyes; Meyer flicks them down before Charlie can read anything more on his face, tilts his head away a heartbeat later. Charlie grates his teeth together, a muscle in his jaw spasming erratically. “Meyer, you wanna say somethin’ to me, say it.”  

“There’s nothing to be said.” His voice is low, quiet, but, oh, there’s no softness there. He splays a palm over the desk, studies his fingers to keep his gaze fixed on anything but Charlie.  

Charlie snorts in dry, tepid amusement, half turning away to lick his lips, shake his head. When he looks back down at Meyer, it’s with one hand in his pocket and the other gesturing vaguely, sharply after every few words. “What, you’re jealous? Of her? ‘Cause I was gettin’ a bit of—what’s it—closure?” He takes a step closer, voice catching on an edge when Meyer bows his head further to avoid looking at him. He slips his hand free from his pocket and slaps it down against the desk, fingertips just brushing Meyer’s wrist. It’s meant to be an apology. Meyer swallows thickly. “It’s over, Meyer, there’s nothin’ there – it’s ancient fuckin’ history. What happened last night, I wasn’t thinkin’ clearly.”

“What a surprise.” The words are out before Meyer can think them over and he almost winces.

Charlie blinks, recovers, snatches his hand away with a dark sneer. He retreats a step, hurt, indignation turning the ordinarily languid lines of his body rigid and severe; the air around him seems to ebb away until Meyer’s lungs ache, until there’s only dull, hot anger where oxygen had been moments before. He leans forward a little. “Yeah, be an asshole, but I ain’t the one actin’ all pissy like I’m a fuckin’ schoolgirl.” One hand continues to punctuate each note with a gesture – to his chest, to Meyer; to the world (those ones are always the angriest). Occasionally his hand passes in front of the lamp, casting trembling shadows over the rest of the dark room that hasn’t seemed at all cold since Charlie arrived. “It was a mistake, Meyer—“ (these words, drawn out slow, rolling off his tongue like putting enough emphasis on them will make Meyer see sense) “–-I know it, she knows it, you sure as hell fuckin’ seem to know it. You ain’t got no right bein’ like this.”

Meyer turns sharply in his seat, subduing Charlie momentarily with the action. His gaze catches on Charlie’s and he’s very nearly forced to look away; but he holds Meyer’s eyes, and Meyer holds his, and when Meyer speaks there’s something treacherous quivering behind the reason and the low, low wrath. “I have every right – because any personal feelings aside, we’re in business together, you and I, and anything she does to fuck you over reflects on me as well. She’s using you, Charlie, because she knows how weak she can make you – and if she gets inside your head, she gets into our business, and if she starts sniffing around there how well do you think that’s gonna go for us, hm?” Charlie clenches his jaw, glances away briefly and repositions his stance with white-hot fire lurking deep in every little movement, before once again settling a murky glare on Meyer’s face.

Meyer continues, voice dropping to adopt as business-like a tone (detached, far, far removed from any traitorous – dangerous – speck of feeling) as he can muster (he focuses on that, not on the shifting darkness on Charlie’s cheeks, not on the way the warm orange glow turns his eyes glassy and that shade of near-green that Meyer only ever catches brief glimpses of in certain lights); he continues, with a sadistic little bead of satisfaction flaring in his chest as he aims for the throat – subtly, faintly, with careful words like blunt fingernails scratching at delicate skin (the skin always breaks eventually). “You do whatever you want with your life, Charlie, I’m not gonna stop you; I’m merely concerned that canoodling with Jimmy Darmody’s mother might not be the best idea, tactically speaking, for our mutual business interests. We’re already sneaking around as it is and she knows that – you put a foot wrong, how long do you think it’s gonna take before she’s running back to Thompson, before he’s on the phone to AR, before we both get a bullet in the head? It’s not a good idea, Charlie.” By the time he’s finished, it almost makes sense to him. It’s almost an excuse for the taste like charcoal in his mouth, for the nausea and the tightness in his throat. It’s almost business. It’s almost a good lie.

“Yeah, I know, alright?” Charlie spits the words out like they’re something foul. “I know that. Like I fuckin’ said, it’s over.”

“Like it was over the last time.”

Charlie’s face twists in a mirthless snigger, lips drawing back in an almost-snarl. He’s looking at Meyer with a gaze that’s narrowing like he’s the enemy – because he’s hurt, because he has to take that hurt and smother it with violence, with bared teeth and dark, dark eyes, because they both learned at so young an age that pain is weakness and violence is strength and only one of those two choices affords survival. “You wanna know what I think, Meyer? I think you’re hidin’ behind all this mutual business interests bullshit ‘cause you’re too fuckin’ proud to admit you’re jealous.”

Meyer’s on his feet; Charlie reflexively takes a cautious step back, remembers himself, regains the distance until he’s a few inches closer than where he’d started. He’s trying his best to loom, to draw in all that tension (hot, crackling) hanging heavy in the air like smoke and make Meyer flinch. Meyer doesn’t flinch; Meyer meets his eyes (Meyer’s just as at home in the dark, humid violence as Charlie is). “Have you ever known me to let emotion get in the way of business?”

“I dunno, Meyer, does fuckin’ your business partner count?” Meyer can feel Charlie’s breath on his face and the warmth makes his skin prickle – the warmth, the black heat, that ebbs and flows from every inch of Charlie’s body (Meyer can’t tell where his own heat ends and Charlie’s begins) (either way it’s stinging, twisting through his lungs, his stomach, up his neck, behind his eyes, until he can scarcely breathe, until there’s so much blood pounding in his ears that he can scarcely hear – until there’s only the heat and the anger and Charlie’s eyes) (Charlie’s storm-dark eyes, with his pupils blown and bleeding out like ink into the irises). “You wanna break that off as well, now you’re suddenly such a fuckin’ stickler for the rules? Ain’t I a weakness?’

“Right now I’m having a difficult time feeling anything for you.” A quiver in his voice.  

Charlie’s brow furrows deeper; he sneers. “Oh, you ain’t angry? You ain’t fumin’?” He steps forward, shoves Meyer back with enough force to be a challenge; he follows as Meyer regains his balance, snapping his head up to stare up at Charlie with eyes wide and as vicious as any night-time tempest. Charlie shoves him again; follows again; and it feels as familiar as the violent streets of the old neighbourhood. “How about now?”

Meyer stumbles back for the briefest of moments, that old, heavy weight of attack and defend settling primal and easy in his gut. He lashes out as Charlie reaches for him again, swats his hands away; he won’t give Charlie what he wants, he won’t succumb to the bait that Charlie’s dangling in front of him like bone and sinew and rage. “Get the fuck off me you fucking obnoxious fuck.” His voice is a snarl, slurred with the dark emotion thrashing wildly behind his clenched teeth.

“Yeah?” Charlie’s grin is incendiary. “Feel anythin’ now?” He lurches forward again—

--and Meyer catches his wrist, fingers wrapping around the near-delicate bone and holding him in place. Charlie doesn’t struggle, instead looks down at Meyer like he’s finally gotten what he’s wanted from the start. Meyer’s voice dips low. “If you fucking touch me again, Charlie—“

“She’s a fuckin’ whore, Meyer.” (That’s never stopped you before—) (--oh, but this one’s different; this one meant something; this one had emotion interlaced with the lust and the sweat). Charlie shifts his weight forward, baring his teeth in what might be the devil’s own smile; Meyer’s close enough to see every almost-freckle on Charlie’s cheeks, close enough to see his eyes flick down to his lips.

“Fuck you,” Meyer hisses, almost against Charlie’s skin. He can smell her on him.

He can smell her on him – like sweet musk, like champagne, like lilies and sex and hate, anger, envy; and he wants – oh, he needs – her to be able to smell him on Charlie, wants her to smell the smoke and the marrow; the lightning storm possessive of its thunder; the night time possessive of its city lights.

He wants her – wants the whole fucking world – to know Charlie is his.

(His, his, his).

(Mine).

Meyer closes what’s left of the distance between them, colliding with Charlie hard enough that he stumbles backwards and exhales a sharp, shallow breath (and it sounds like finally).

TBC!!!!! :O

aaaand here are some ~behind the scenes~ notes that i evidently felt were very important for me to remember - y’all can look forward to more on this when i finally finish the fic heheheh ❤️❤️

(Standing – wall – pinned to bed – on lap – on back)

“You gonna put this jealousy to use, little Meyer? I kissed her, fucked her; I eaten her out so deep you’ll still be able to taste her cunt on my tongue week after next – what you gonna do about it?”

“You’re mine.”

“Yeah, mark me up, Meyer – fuck me till the whole world knows I’m yours, till she won’t ever think of touchin’ me again because she’ll know I belong to you.” “Fuck me, Meyer, fuck me, fuck me” Leaning back for better position, Charlie’s hands in hair, Meyer kissing soft underarms, fingernails dragging down from planes of hips to inner thighs and palms pushing to spread his legs wider

“Shut the fuck up.”

[autisticabbey]

My DIY Vesta and Red Beryl Galaxy puzzle piece socks, my DIY Vesta puzzle piece reusable grocery bags, and my customized Vesta and Red Beryl Galaxy bath towels sets

[autisticabbey]

My DIY Red Beryl Galaxy puzzle piece reusable grocery bags

[autisticabbey]

My customized Vesta and Red Beryl Galaxy Independence Day mesh laundry bag and folding laundry basket, and my DIY Vesta and Red Beryl Galaxy Independence Day wreath, puzzle piece T shirt, and designer sneakers.

[autisticabbey]

My DIY Red Beryl Galaxy puzzle piece long sleeve shirt

[autisticabbey]

Guardians of Red Beryl Galaxy (Daniel Bruhl, Gillian Darmody, Gretchen Mol, Melvyn Douglas, Miriam Hopkins, and Sailor Red Beryl Galaxy (Jennifer Darmody))

[autisticabbey]

Sailor Red Beryl Galaxy (Jennifer Darmody): Damody descendant

[autisticabbey]

Gillian Darmody and Sailor Red Beryl Galaxy vs The Commodore

[autisticabbey]

Sailor Red Beryl Galaxy (Jennifer Darmody): Darmody's descendant