Barred Teeth

multi-muse blog for anchoragehq, penned by niek

[b4rredteeth]

multi-muse blog for @boneyardfm, penned by niek

INTROS: daveed, matevos, behrooz, zakir, bhaskar, janella, sobhinder, gemma, harsh, nikitha, elanora, vir

intro graphic psd-template by @kingofwesteros

[somethignnclever]

"Ooo, I do love crafting my own songs." A tease to her tone but it was in fact the truth. Many an open mic night at a closed coffee shop, a dive bar, sometimes a friend's get-together. It depended on who was there, what the vibe was and how she was feeling about it.

It's an intimate experience, showing a piece of yourself no one else knows of. At least, no one who knows her here. Aries knows. Her co-workers? The men she entertains that call her Nina? Her boss? God her boss. Edward enters her thoughts as Benny starts to play, humming a bit before finding a rhythm with her guitar.

Plucking at the strings, relishing in how they feel against the calluses on her fingertips, the vibration of the acoustic against her chest. It's like coming home.

The ring of the strings stops, fingers wresting against the fretboard for a second. "Will you play me like... Like a walkin' blues? Like Ma Rainey?" She asks, looking up to Benny from the floor. "I have, like, a tune stuck in my head from that last bit you played, but if we could do more of that slow blues, it might be a better pace."

[b4rredteeth]

"Yeah, you're a writer?" Benny asked, wiggling his eyebrows and looking at her closely. "Lyricist too? Or just the music?" He wasn't a creative, as much as he tried, his improv had more to do with knowing what music should sound like, and what sounded well following each other, rather than creating something new. He could pinpoint where he had heard it, what song it was from, where he'd been when he'd thought it sounded amazing.

He was used to playing with musicians who could pick up his vibe and who he could easily mesh with. Sophia was no different. When she stopped, he slowly faded out, leaning an elbow on the piano and taking a sip from his drink.

He hummed, then smiled. "Of course," he said. And he put the glass back before started playing the first walkin' blues that got into his head, the most famous one that was actually called walkin' blues. He'd forgotten who played it originally, but he could envision what it sounded like in his head and it softly spoke through the keys. "Are you planning on singing?"

[ofdesertroses]

"you heard? where did you hear it from?" he asks, taking a drink of the jasmine tea she gave him. of course he drank it too soon and it burnt his tongue a little bit. but hey, the chance to clear his thirst was desired. and also his mouth was clear of food, so he had no choice but to tell her. dakota clears his throat a little, placing the cup of tea onto the table. "how did it happen? well the kid has like no security on him or in his record store. so it would've been easy for him to get attacked. also get robbed from."

dakota turns to look at nikki. he doesn't really know how to tell her about what happened. he's still confused about it himself. "it happened fast. i was browsing through the records he has. it was quiet. then two guys came in and held him up for money." dakota shrugs his shoulders, head shaking slightly. "its obvious no one trained the kid to fight, so i did it for him. no big deal."

he still wonders how the news of the event got out. maybe there was a witness he didn't see. either way, it was out and nikki needed to know.

[b4rredteeth]

Niki grinned, placing her hand on her chin as she studied Dakota. Her eyes had a twinkle, and she took a sip. The tea was hot, but she loved the scense of scolding. She had always drank it like this. But the look on her face suggested she wasn't going to share. In truth, it had been Deceive who had told her, they always had a way to figure things out. How, she rarely knew. She would think Distrub tended to know these kinds of things, but they were tight with Dakota, so she didn't think they would tell her.

She nodded. "You knew it was a Valdez owned business?" she asked. She knew little of the Valdez kids, or the inner workings of the family. It was not important to her. She did not know it wasn't a Valdez owned business. Her face softened a bit. "What records were you looking at?"

[b4rredteeth]

CLOSED STARTER for @eremitionisms ft. Leon

location ; the bus

Sunny tapped the seat beside him when he saw Leon enter the bus at his stop. The place was particularly empty, end of the warm week sort of situation, with very few people coming and going and mostly staying home - or opting for a better airconditioned car rather than the bus which was either broken or just didn't do its job well.

Lucky for them, the fact that there weren't many passengers meant it was actually pretty cool. He was good with the heat either way - and too broke to buy a car.

"Leon, hey, how have you been? Been a few, have you been busy?" Though it was more likely that their schedules didn't line up. Sunny's job mostly ran from the afternoon till late at night, going wherever the Vitelli business wanted him to be, mostly at events or on dates with important people. He was dressed impecably once again, with a purple silk shirt, tight black jeans, and matching purple converse.

[aster-writcs]

the bus exhales as its doors fold shut behind him. and for a moment, leon lingers near the front, fingertips still resting against the fare box as his eyes move instinctively through the cabin. his gaze scans for empty seats first, then the exits, making sure each one is clear and unobstructed—a habit he hasn't quite managed to shake since the events of the previous month.

the tension eases the moment he hears his name. it's sunny,"hi." a small smile finds him as he makes his way down the aisle, the violin case resting comfortably against his shoulder. slipping into the seat beside him, he carefully tucks the case between his knees so it won't shift when the bus pulls away.

"i think our timing's just been... off." his gaze drifts toward the window as the city begins to slide past. it's easier than trying to explain that routines have become difficult lately—that familiar places don't always feel familiar anymore.

"a little busy, too," that part, at least, is true. work. hospital visits. trying to settle back into a rhythm that no longer fits together quite as neatly as it once did. he smooths an absent wrinkle from the cuff of his sleeve before looking back at sunny, "how about you?"

his eyes flick briefly over the silk shirt, then down to the purple converse. the corner of his mouth lifts another fraction, "you look nice." a beat. "what's the occasion?" familiar faces, he realizes, have become something of a comfort lately, and seeing sunny—bright as ever, dressed like he'd stepped out of a magazine instead of onto a city bus—feels unexpectedly grounding.

[b4rredteeth]

"Most likely," Sunny said in agreement, his nod and sigh was filled with some remnant of having worked a lot and not being sure anymore which day it was. He never had, really. He needed a calendar, and he needed to mark it off every morning. If he didn't, his day had no routine, and he had nothing to ground himself with. Missing Leon lately seemed like something that was a result of his ever-changing schedule, and not because Leon might be going through something. It was easy to pull the blame on himself, after all.

He noted the violin case. "More shows during the summer?" he asked. He knew what Leon did, surface level at least, but their conversations were always random and fun and about countless of subjects that had no rhyme or reason. Which was easy for Sunny, who had difficulty to talk about his past in any capacity without being vague.

"Busy, a lot more to do in the summer, and my employers want me to show up more." He also hadn't told Leon what he did, not that he was ashamed of it, but it felt weird to explain without going into a lot of detail that he felt the bus was a bad place for.

He smile was wide. "Thank you," he said, adjusting his collar. "I'm going to a fancy restaurant and a musical," he admitted. As arm candy. "The musical was described to me as being something more indie and experimental, so I was asked to dress casual." He always checked his outfits with his employers beforehand. "Do you like musicals?"

[aster-writcs]

attention settles on the pair stumbling from the platform. he takes a puff of his cigarillo while assessing if they’re inhibited or, if they were lucky, intoxicated. he looks for clues: slurs in the way their mouths move as they talk, imbalances in their gaits and even tries to sniff out a sour twinge in their scents that lingers when humans imbibe.

they’re tired, he comes to the conclusion, not drunk, simply tired. likely from a long train ride, or exhausted from sin city’s debauchery. 

the exhale of smoke leaves before his answer, “adequate.” simple answer. no overselling, no underselling. compulsion and learning how to influence others had never interested him. he preferred to get his hands dirty when necessary. but if need be, he would use it as a last resort, an instrument much like a lock pick or ledger. 

truth be told it was a tool of which he needed much more practice. 

his eyes remain on the two figures ahead: one rubs sleep from their face, the other coughs into a frayed sleeve. neither notices they’ve caught the eyes of two vampires. 

“they’ve survived this long.” a pause. “which suggests someone has exercised restraint.” gaze floats to eleanore now, inky brown eyes glinting under fluorescents.  “i assume you’d like that trend to continue, unless you find yourself compelling, in which case, i’d love to join.” 

[b4rredteeth]

Elanore kept her eyes on her prey, not flickering towards her chosen companion, not for a moment. She kept still, so still not even the wind seemed to russtle her curls. There was a quality to her stillness that had nothing to do with what she was. It had been taught to her in a house where warmth was shared by sisters, but good form was required with anyone else.

She licked her lips in amusement. "Hmmm."

She reached up a hand to touch her chin lightly. "The one on the left has stolen all the money his sister saved up to put their mother in a good retirement home, instead, she had to take her mother in her home because he wasted all the money in casinos. The one on the right has a history of exes who have requested restraining orders against him, though his rich papa has always bribed the judges who resided over that decision."

Slowly she turned to Siddharth, a disappointed look on her face. "Cockroaches always have a way to survive... perhaps we shall be the natural enemies of cockroaches," she suggested. She tapped a nail to her sharpened teeth. "I am in the mood for murder."

[aster-writcs]

the answer she gives him should have been easier to accept, and the sentence settles between them in that calm and reasonable manner. he finds, rather inconveniently, a pull in his lips, the beginnings of a disdainful grimace, not a frown, a grimace. its earliest inclination is much closer to quiet distaste than sorrow. 

"perhaps." the answer is quiet, and he almost bites his tongue. a tiny spot of blood on his tongue for fangs otherwise sharp enough to abstain. “the more i think about it, you never did have much patience for things that stopped belonging to you." she almost sounds as if she believes it, and for once sidd wishes to file her words into a lie. 

"i don't think either of us is afraid of blood." it’s an ironic jape for a vampire of his nature with unrelenting eyes stay on hers. "i think we're afraid of whatever survives after it."

there it is again. that familiar, inconvenient feeling. like the drugs- like fine powder sinking into gum lines, down this road before, into the veins and off with the palpitations, the nausea and dilated pupils. the same loss of control: dependency reclaiming its shape— as that wallowing disorganized brain thinks of nothing but how weak she makes him feel. and how he wishes gemma would detonate already, use her sharpened axe and tear him to pieces until he was nothing more but a fragment of her memory. 

and it curls around his ribs—that feeling— like ivy, tightening with every breath until even indifference becomes unachievable. 

he’d rather it be poison or hatred or fear.  fear has always been simple.

this is something far less cooperative.

gemma continues looking at him as though they genuinely believe there is a person buried somewhere beneath everything. beneath the restraint. beneath the measured withdrawal that has become so habitual even he occasionally mistakes it for personality.

most people eventually tire of digging, perhaps that is the problem—gemma never has —or perhaps it is that some part of him has never truly wanted her to stop.

her description of his muddied gaze lands strangely. he has never understood compliments directed toward things he happened to inherit.

still— his expression shifts. only slightly. 

"they aren't lies." his voice is quieter now, defensive and simply tired. "omissions aren’t lies,” the distinction must be known, whether it matters, he isn't entirely sure anymore. "i spent a very long time convincing myself that giving people less of me was safer."

his jaw tightens once. minimal.

"eventually you stop noticing you're doing it,” his gaze drifts somewhere beyond them before returning again. "then one day someone accuses you of being impossible to know."

another beat. "and you realise they're right." the admission hangs there. uncomfortable. irretrievable. he should stop.

instead— "the unfortunate part..." his attention lowers briefly to the narrow space separating them. hardly any. he makes no attempt to reclaim it. "...is that i do it all because i’m not good for you.”

[b4rredteeth]

Gemma slightly cocked her head as she watched him, there was so much she didn't say. Not because she didnt' know the words for it, but because she felt like words were insignificant, instead, what she wanted to do was make him feel her emotions. To show her frustration, her desire, her anger, her feeling of not being in control. She thought it would be satisfying. To make him feel all of it, but she also worried one of them might not survive.

"Whomever survives," she corrected. Perhaps the both of them, perhaps reborn. New to the world but untangible to each other. There was a chance that it would suffice, that the bloody things that would stand up again after were more than simply body parts brought to the brink, there was a chance they'd both be breathing.

She envisioned the blood, the feeling of skin breaking, of his gasps, of her own moans.

No, it was not blood or violence she was after.

It was feeling alive.

And so far, the last person she had felt alive with was dead, and the one before was right here in front of her making her blood boil. Yet she was so desperate to find a way back to him, to make it worth her while, to make sense. Because love and passion and affection had never made sense to her. Not if it wasn't angry and violent and just a few seconds away from overcoming both - or multiple - occupants.

He spoke, words that made it clear that he thought she was right, words that bore into her soul. She narrowed her eyes and she waited, then when he finished his final sentence, she let go of his jaw and grabbed his hair instead. She pulled it backwards, coming in so close he could feel her breath on his. She did not care who was looking, the rest of the room hadn't existed for as long as the interaction between them had lasted.

She made sure his chin was pointed upwards, she made sure she hovered just enough above him that it looked like she was taller, in charge. Her eyes were wide, but they were not surprised, they were angry. Two pits of fire that dared him to speak such nonsense again.

"Not good for me?" she asked, her voice dripping with violence. She felt like she was on an edge, and only Sidd's reaction could dictate what would happen next.

"I decide that."

[b4rredteeth]

BLURB: WELCOME TO SIN CITY, BABY! 1999, LAS VEGAS Where you’d think crime would be the most worrisome until bodies start littering the streets and the word ‘vampire’ is whispered whenever recent crime sprees are mentioned. 

DEADLANDSHQ is a 21+ original character crime and supernatural roleplay group on tumblr set in 1999, LAS VEGAS, Nevada inspired by classic mob films such as The Godfather, and Casino with influences of American Werewolf in Paris & Innocent Blood. 

[b4rredteeth]

MEET THE BRAINS

BASIC INFORMATION

LABEL / TITLE: the brains OCCUPATION: co-leader of the Halo heist crew ORGANIZATION: the halo TRUE AFFILIATION: the hounds NAME: nikitha krisnan SPECIES: werewolf AGE: 33 FC: kalyani priyadarshan STATUS: taken by Niek 

SUMMARY when you took your rightful throne the world healed itself, but it wasn’t before long that the cracks showed themselves again. you thought you’d fought your demons and won, that you lost your brother and with him all the bad things he’d brought into your life. But you are still broken. you chase an ideal in the hopes it will restore you to your former self, you pretend to be robin hood, but deep down you fear you’re the bad guy. what if your carefully built house of cards topples?

CONNECTIONS

THE SPEAR // your brother you picked them, they were not your blood but you picked them, and when you did, you didn’t realise how much you’d come to regret it. they turned your life around, but they also fed it with more misery. when they made their choice, you almost suffered for it. they disappeared, and you managed to remain a secret, but their enemies are yours now, even if they don’t know it yet.  THE BONES & THE BEATING HEART // your family they are your family, but they are not blood. the bond between you is strong and solid, by time and shared loss. there is nothing you would not do to protect each other. but all three of you have something to hide from the other. you hide your pain and your fear, threatening to swallow you up, while they could have saved you. 

[aster-writcs]

the unfamiliar word catches leon's attention before anything else. his brow lifts slightly. "...habibi?" letting the unfamiliar syllables settle before looking back to zakir. "i don't think i've heard that one before." there isn't any embarrassment in admitting it—only curiosity, there were a couple of those words he was missing. "what does it mean?" whatever the answer is, he intends to listen with the same attentiveness he'd give someone explaining the history of any other instrument. “you’ll have to teach me. i’m awful at picking up languages.”  

he lets the earlier question settle between them instead of answering straight away. "...not exactly." his fingertips trace absent circles against the back of his palm. "it wasn't passed through my family." a brief pause follows. "my mom, uh, foster mom, bought it for me when i was about fourteen." his expression softens, "i'd been borrowing one from school before that, and she made me promise that i'd stick to music if she invested in it."

the memory settles comfortably, “i remember opening the case." a faint smile touches the corner of his mouth, “it smelled like fresh maple... and glue." he chuckles a bit to himself, the,” i don't think i'd ever smelled anything so… nice."

"it's been repaired a few times," he continues quietly. "a soundpost crack before it came to me. new pegs. a fingerboard planing. the bridge has been replaced..." he pauses, thinking. "...three times now." there's affection in the list rather than disappointment, “i suppose that's why i became interested in restoration." his gaze finally returns to zakir. "i never liked the idea that something should be thrown away simply because it had been damaged." the thought lingers.

"so... maybe it wasn't handed down." his fingers settle against the case once more, “but i'd like to think one day it'll be." the admission surprises even him. then, with another quiet smile, he adds, "i like your family's tradition."

he nods thoughtfully."introducing yourself before handing something precious to someone else. i think that's rather beautiful."

[b4rredteeth]

Zakir's eyes widened slightly, but not for long. He was always using slang, he was used to people asking what it meant, he was also used to people saying they didn't want to hear it before knowing what it meant. Not everyone was a fan of slang, but it felt natural to Zakir. His family used it constantly, especially those on his father's side. His grandmother could not get through a full sentence without saying wallah. And she always called him habibi. Endearment was said in nicknames and expressions, rather than anyone saying I love you out loud.

"Probably not, it's rare I hear it as well," he admitted. "It means..." he paused, he knew exactly what it meant, but he felt a little shy in that moment, he liked Leon a lot already, and he worried if he was once again coming on too strong. "like 'my love' 'my dear' 'my darling'. Like how people say friend or bro or mate," he quickly added. "It's Arabic. It's a term of endearment." He knew exactly why he said that. Because while he worried he was coming on strong, he couldn't help flirting. "I wouldn't mind teaching you."

"They're expensive right?" he asked, remembering some Hollywood movie he'd seen in which there had been a violin. He could remember the shape, the careful way the character had handled it. He grinned as he watched Leon explain the experience, almost reliving it. "Something can be said about instruments handed down, but something can also be said about new things. New books." He sighed. "That's one wonderful smell, wallah."

His eyes were soft. In a Bollywood movie he'd lean in now, his finger would touch Leon's cheek. It would be as close to a kiss as they'd get in the whole movie, but it would be significant. "Something restored is something loved," he said, then made note to write it down later. "I like damage, when it's surface level, it makes it special. New is just that: new. The same as every other new thing."

"Given how well you take care of it, I wouldn't be surprised if it will be," he said, then grinned when Leon mentioned liking his family's tradition, as if it meant more now that it was acknowledged. "Introducing the thing you hand down," he said, and he took the pen he had in his pocket and handed it to Leon. "Habibi, this has been in my pocket for years, it has seen many things and written thousands upon thousands of words in a dozen of notebooks, it has signed important documents and it knows my autograph by heart. Its ink is easy to replace, and here," he slightly turned it to the light, "you can see where it once got stuck under my desk chair." There was a small chip at the side on the dark paint, showing the metal underneath.

He smiled. "I do require it back, it hasn't finished its journey with me yet." A sentence spoken so often it warmed his heart to say it himself, as if he could hear all those who had said it to him speak as he said it.

[edward-weiss]

"Well, if you want to scold my parents for missing out on moisturiser lessons, you'll have to invest in an ouija board." He hadn’t even realised it was possible to develop new insecurities at this point, but apparently there’s always room for another. A skin complex to add to the Complex Collection. Hooray. "I think a lifetime of being catastrophically antisocial cancels it out. Almost no sun damage, despite living in Vegas, so at least I’m winning there. Turns out avoiding people also means avoiding UV rays." There’s another eye-roll at the nickname; honestly, maybe he should borrow the ouija board and ask his parents why they named him Edward when the horrors of Eddie existed as a possibility. But commenting on it again would only tell Janella she’s found worthwhile ammunition to taunt him with, so, for once in his life, he recognises it’s in his best interests to keep his mouth shut. "Why are you all dressed up anyway? I know it can’t be to celebrate some kind of Valdez win. Last time I checked, your side aren’t exactly known for winning."

[b4rredteeth]

"Just your parents? I think I'd have to go back several generations to fix anything. If I could better your genetics and purchase a ouija board, I wouldn't do half-work." Janella looked him over as he spoke, but of course she couldn't see his elbows or his knees, she would make an assumption either way. "It isn't just about the sun, Eddie," she said, scolding him. "You wear clothing, you move, your knees and your elbows are especially mobile. There is no way to get around it. Not to mention dry skin often happens just as you walk out of a shower. The air here is rather dry as well." She could not believe she was explaining skin care to a man her age, but stranger things had happened. "I can give you the number of my dermatologist."

"Ah, but you are partly correct: I am celebrating a win. Just nothing to do with our Valdez friends," she said, and she decided she would not comment on that subject further. It was clear that Edward stood to gain from the loses of the Valdez family. "One of my students got accepted in a high ranking dance school." She said my students without second thought. Even if she hadn't personally taught them.

[ofdesertroses]

it's been a long time before anyone has seen spencer with limited clothes on. even before he got attacked, he wasn't with many others. he was told he was hot or good looking, but sometimes it was hard for him to believe what others said. and now with all his scars, he felt even more less confident in someone else seeing him. spencer would admit that the scars didn't quite make him look appealing anymore. but yet he had no desire to get rid of them. they were his own reminder that maybe he's a good guy.

he does drop the blankets onto the bed, feeling the little strength he had before the other walked in. spencer had received no help from his family. yeah there were maids, but spencer didn't really like them intruding on his space. so far this guy, maybe his name was sunny, was the only one that spencer hasn't tried to kick out of his room. he seemed like the only one who genuinely cared enough to help spencer.

"oh...thank you." he can't help the bright smile that graces his features. it was almost like he was reacting to the first person who actually noticed him. "i am pretty winded. my strength isn't quite strong yet." spencer listens to the other and slowly makes his way to sit on his couch. did he just get winked at? he probably did and well he can't help looking down shyly before looking back up. "um yea, the new linnens are on the night stand. next to the bed. that's...that's as far as i gotten before you came in." he tells the other as he points at the blue linnens he picked for himself.

[b4rredteeth]

He'd do it just for the bright smile. Sunny helped willingly, but someone who was grateful always helped. So he set to work. Nodded at the comment, not having needed it because he could already see by the state Spencer was in that he was still building up strength. He sat down and Sunny picked up the linnens. He worked quickly. He had made the beds of his siblings growing up, he had been living on his own for years now, and he lived by the Mehra mantra: look good, have everything in order. He never left the bed unmade when he went out.

"Well, it does make it easier. I'm horrible with directions, so if you had to explain to me in which closet or drawer it was... we would've been busy much longer." He threw the dirty linnens in a corner and fitted the new sheet. He had a tactic for doing the top layer, which he thought was pretty ingenious and he couldn't remember who had taught him.

"Are you staying here for long? Or just until you've recovered?" he asked.

[aster-writcs]

"i assumed." a beat. "the name." the corner of his mouth threatens something almost recognizable as a smile. "siddharth." another pause, occupied by a measured sip of water. "the name." the joke is delivered so dryly it almost escapes notice altogether.

his attention follows harsh as he speaks to the owner. the hindi reaches him before the meaning does. so familiar that it loosens a memory from his core.

strange, the things capable of surviving neglect. languages. recipes. small courtesies inherited from people no longer around to correct your pronunciation, repeated often enough that they continue existing without permission.

he lets the thought pass before it grows ambitious. files it quietly alongside other things he'd once convinced himself were gone.

"i can barely fathom my own head," he admits, almost absently. "i wouldn't presume to navigate someone else's."

harsh returns with an explanation. sidd listens without interruption. “ah." the corner of his mouth shifts by almost nothing. "then i'm relieved for everyone involved."

his attention wanders back toward the street. nothing. no crowd. no faces pressed against the glass. no one watching, yet.

strange how quickly a café can become aquarium-like once people decide you're worth looking at. everyone enjoys the fish until someone remembers they can tap on the glass.

"people mistake access for entitlement."his voice remains even. "you feel guilty for disappointing them,” not quite a question. more the quiet placement of a conclusion between them, waiting to see whether they’d move it.

his shoulders rise faintly, “eventually someone has to run."

[b4rredteeth]

Harsh let out a chuckle. Siddharth, that was a good name. One who has accomplished a goal. It was the kind of name parents gave when they thought their child was going to be successful. He had a cousin somewhere with that name, he wondered if they'd actually accomplished their goal. "Good that you mention it," he said with a wink.

He studied the other for a moment, not long, just surface level really. The fact that someone else went through the same thing, it was interesting. He'd felt alone for the longest time, cut off from his family, from his past. He had a new life established around him, but it was empty when it didn't account for everything he had been. Nobody was hyping up how far he'd come, because nobody in his new life could remmber who he'd been. It was an odd feeling to face a knowledge of having left something behind and finding he wasn't alone in that.

"Shared experience," he stated, absent-mindedly as he thought of everything food meant to him.

He followed his gaze, watching the window with a seed of discomfort. Worried that if he did, someone would recognise him. Walk by, see the face behind the hat and the sunglasses. And here, he couldn't run. Would they leave him alone if they saw him eating with someone? There was no food on the table in front of him yet, though. Just the Lassi.

"Not guilty," he said. "Conscious, I'm aware how important it is for the show, so I feel the knowledge that every time I do run away, it's a decision that could have consequences. For every time I run, I have to pick a moment when I stay. Do I make the right decision? I ran this time, but what if next time I'm on a date? Do I run again? Get a name for running?"

"I should probably do more Cardio." He paused. "And be glad I happened to sit down at a table with someone who doesn't want an autograph." The sudden arrogance didn't go unnoticed to Harsh, but perhaps fame was getting to his head. Where he was starting to be surprised if someone didn't recognise him. Even if he didn't want them to.

[aster-writcs]

the words settle between them with far more weight than they would have a week ago. before, he might have dismissed them as philosophy or maybe even an interesting conversation starter, but now—is body reacts before his mind does. a chill slides down the back of his neck, caressing his spinal chord until every vertebra hums a slow spreading dread.

shoulders tighten beneath his jacket. it lasts only a second, gone almost as quickly as it arrives, but the memory it leaves behind lingers.

blood.

a growl that hadn't belonged to anything human.

the impossible certainty of opening a door twice because surely the first time had been a mistake. and it hadn't.

his stomach feels like it’s going to drop any minute now.  his fingers curl considerably tighter around the strap of his satchel. without consciously deciding to, he shifts his weight back half a step where the nearest streetlight falls. where he'd have to run if he had to

he’s even more aware of his exits now after everything that had happened with spencer. 

his eyes leave hers only briefly, "...i didn't." his voice comes quieter than before. "i used to think people were mostly..." forgiving, trustworthy, good-natured? he searches for the right word, his brow knitting faintly "...complicated."

he winces at the admission. the conclusion itself tasting wrong as it leaves his lips. he'd always preferred to believe there was something worth finding in people, some thread of goodness beneath the knots. "now i'm not so sure."

silence follows— “danger doesn’t announce itself, sometimes it smiles first." or in his very particular case, dresses up as a cowboy and dances on stage.

his fingers absently rub against the worn canvas strap resting across his shoulder, “living here, and seeing what i’ve seen—you have to listen to that feeling that tells you to leave before you know why." his eyes lift again, “…has it always been like that for you?"

[b4rredteeth]

Elanore slightly cocked her head, watching him closely as he moved. He was a warring of emotions, some clear on his face, some within the smell of his body and the movement.

She neared, despite how he moved away from her - only slightly - towards the light of the streetlight. She made the steps quick and deliberate, but soft as well, moving without danger, a hand reached out, fingers sudden and gentle on his skin. He could move away now, but she would've already touched him. If he noticed her quickness was inhuman, it would be because he believed such things were possible.

"I am sorry," she said, her voice sweet as honey. "It can be a shock, learning the world is not as kind as you once believed."

For her it was when her sister left her for dead and her father buried an empty coffin.

She was not smiling, her look was one of understanding, of a kind of fear that was not fear. A kind of worry that was not worry. She molded her face to fit whatever he wanted to believe she was portraying, an old kind of beauty and grace.

"It hasn't always been like that for me," she said softly. "I once loved animals and thought maybe I could be a vet, I once believed I could walk the streets at night and I'd get a stranger to smile." She sighed. "I've known for a bit that that's not real life."

[aster-writcs]

the mention of bosses earns a little more than the faintest shift at the corner of sidd’s mouth. "former bosses." gives correction without assent, or sorrow. there are no regrets only stillness of what is. "there's a distinction." he tucks his cigarillo behind his ear and finally looks back toward benny, “you haven’t heard? i’m freelance now."

the word feels deliberately inadequate, but much easier than unpacking everything little detail that had happened between then and now: disagreements and likely another target on his back —easier than admitting he'd become something impossible to categorize, or someone to rely on. he supposes he'd always been better off alone. like every relationship before it, this one had unraveled and all he could summon was the absence of feeling. his attention lingers for a moment, “less paperwork and petty drama.”

the comment about expendable dealers earns a thoughtful hum, “every organization likes to believe its people are replaceable." a pause. “but then they become considerably less confident when they have to replace them." his gaze drifts behind benny’s head,

his head tilts. "tempting." a lie. "if i'm exchanging one, as you put it, fuck boy…" his gaze flicks briefly toward benny. "…for another…" another pause, “…i’m struggling to identify where it benefits me." he exhales smoke toward the fighting pit.

"the reality is, you're still wearing the reins." his eyes drift back. "they're simply a different colour now." another beat,“ horses tend to mistake that for freedom."

[b4rredteeth]

"Well, hey! Go on you, I'm impressed," Benny said, he was in fact not impressed. But he did enjoy saying it. He didn't think Sidd would think anything of the compliment, but if he did... well, he was hoping for it.

"How's Freelance working out for you?"

He'd tried it himself, a year or two after he got kicked out of the Hounds - though if asked, he'd say he'd left himself. It had been terrible, he hadn't been able to see his drugs almost anywhere, he got his ass kicked every other week, and the shit he ended up selling was bad. He lost trust, after that year he'd finally build up enough again to make a good profit. Still, the beatings continued, and he was eventually forced to join a new organisation. The underboss of the Sloane family had been easy to convince, after all, he brought with him a whole book of clients, and he'd have to give up a larger portion of what he made. It was in their advantage.

Freelance drug dealing in Las Vegas felt simply impossible. He still had scars - hot ones, of course.

He hummed. "Hmmm, speaking from experience?" he asked, wondering if Sidd was already being replaced, or if they were finding difficulty doing so. "Yeah, but I'm in a far shittier situation. Drug dealers? Not that special, mate."

Benny laughed. "Well, if you put it that way, not sure if Edward Sloane fits the fuck boy persona, but yeah, you'd be exchanging one... what, rider? For another. Ain't that what regular people do too."

He bit the inside of his mouth. "When did this change into a profile on me? I got no problem being under management. I think I'd be fucked if I went freelance, pretty sure someone would find a way to stab me."

[edward-weiss]

The fact that Benny’s doubling down instead of, well, shutting the fuck up, doesn’t particularly surprise Edward. Gemma had recently proposed sacrificing some low-level criminals in their ranks to make it seem as though they were facing the same threats as their enemy. Expectedly, Benny’s name had idly floated to the surface of Edward’s mind almost immediately.

The reason?

This.

Just… this.

"Oh, you’re being serious? Thank God for that. I thought you were being fucking stupid, but I’m glad to be mistaken."

Against his better judgement, he takes a seat, watching with quiet amusement as the other colour-drained, silent faces stare down at the tabletop as though the grain in the wood has suddenly become utterly captivating.

He doesn’t want to laugh at weak-ass bitches, and he despises the way his mouth twitches, the way his tongue flicks across his lips in a futile attempt to hide it. A half-hearted eye roll follows; an affection-tinged eye roll, if anything. If he wanted Benny dead, he’d be dead already. But the idea of setting Gemma - and her favourite knife - on him grows more tempting with every passing second.

"Who says we’re not doing anything? Just because you’re not involved in these decisions - for obvious reasons - that doesn’t mean everything behind the scenes is stagnant. And you’re right: they’re weak. But when people in my organisation can be heard from space gloating about it, it makes us look weak too."

[b4rredteeth]

In true flare, Benny threw up his hands in asasperation. If was truly a wonder he could hold any job under any kind of employer. He hadn’t back home - not for long anyway - and he’d already swapped bosses once in this city. Kitty only put up with him because he had no qualms going down on her whenever she needed it. He figured he’d be out on the streets otherwise.

But he could not help himself. That delicious feeling of chaos swirled in his belly and demanded more. To look for those edges that should not be pushed.

"Well, I could still be stupid and serious at the same time," he said, which was not a point for his camp, but that didn't matter, he said things to throw off those he spoke with, he wanted to give the reaction they least expected. He didn't care throwing himself in front of a bus.

He could see the small reaction, hard to observe, but easy for someone who spend a good amount of time reading into people. He was a salesmen, you had to know your costumer. He grinned in return, and shrugged. "So we're doing small things, eh? Nothing loud, with a big bang, what's even the point if it ain't there for everyone to see? And this place, boss, no worries about this place. It's safe. None of my fellow idiots would blab to the enemy, and even if we did, everyone knows I'm just a low-life drug dealer. I ain't in on the big decisions. You could use that to your advantage, I talk so much shit, I could totally get them confused about our next move."

[ofdesertroses]

spencer walks out of the gates of the manor after he got kicked out by the maids. they were tried of cleaning the room around him. he has been coped up in his room for a few days now. refusing to really go out anywhere. it took the guards of the manor to help force him out. grumbling and complaining, but he still left the manor with one following him close behind. spencer usually traveled without guards, but since what happened to him, some of the guards are on high alert. at least one of them not allowing him to go to blockbuster alone.

of course he has to stop for food at the truck. he orders his food and when he turns around, he sees her. spencer walks up to her, a smile on his face. or somewhat of a smile since his face still hurts. he waves at the guard to fall back more and stands close to the woman.

at the mention of his face, he scratches the back of his neck. “oh um….i was attacked. by a few different people. that’s all.” spencer didn’t want to dive into what exactly happened to him. he wasn’t sure if the other was ready to hear stories about vampires. “they found out i’m a vitelli and decided to beat me up.” his shoulders shrug. “that’s all.”

[b4rredteeth]

The fact that she managed to get a smile said everything about how good of a job she'd been doing getting on his good side. She knew he didn't know, it was impossible to know who she was and still act so genuine towards her. If he would, he wouldn't leap at the opportunity to talk with her.

She gave him a frown, inspecting the scar as she came closer, almost touching it, but keeping her finger just floating above it. "A Valdez?" she asked, fakining confusion. "Is that name supposed to mean anything? It does seem terribly stupid to hurt someone just because of their last name, I've never understood this." No, hurting him just for that, that was obviously a waste. But this gave her an opportunity, she could play in to her little role and perhaps befriend him further. "Have you seen a doctor? Will it be a scar? Or might it fade?"

[edward-weiss]

His head tilts slightly, as though examining a particularly interesting specimen. He can predict human beings with unnerving accuracy for someone who has, by most reasonable standards, forfeited the right to be considered one after so many atrocities committed in his name. But Harsh’s entire career is built on deception - granted, it's a benign deception, in the name of entertainment - and Edward finds himself questioning what, if anything, is real. "Indeed, I already know. What intrigues me is how readily people lie to me when I always uncover the truth in the end. Everyone thinks they’ll be different. I imagine that, when you lied to me, you thought you’d be different too. You weren't.”

He’s still quietly furious, hellbent on making Harsh pay for it beyond the unpleasantness of this interaction. How, when, or where, he doesn’t know yet, but Edward has never been in the habit of forgetting a grudge. "Oh, yes. I certainly met her. If she’d been a blue-collar worker, it would’ve made my life considerably easier too." He has nothing remotely charitable to say about the woman, and has regrettably never subscribed to the philosophy of not speaking ill of the dead either. "I hope she’s enjoying hell. I ought to send a postcard."

He'd thought he'd long since rid himself of the need for revenge, that it had died with Harsh's mother. But, looking at her son now, Edward reckons there's still some mileage left in his rage. That he'd quite happily erase the entire family. He'd like, as ever, to believe it's justified: the memory of his hands fluttering uselessly over a wound in the chest of someone he'd loved dearly, trying to stem a torrent of blood unlike anything he'd ever seen, knowing with a grim clarity that he'd been the intended target.

At the centre of it all, a capo who didn't realise her botched hit would be one of the last things she ever did.

"Did she ever tell you what she did to me? I imagine she was far too busy telling you horror stories about me to mention her own. People have a habit of omitting the parts that make them look bad."

[b4rredteeth]

Annoyance at his mother was easy, even if it hurt as well. She had put him in a situation where it felt impossible to do anything right. He'd loved her so much and needed her, but she'd pushed him away thinking it was the only way to keep him safe. And look at where he was now: none of that had actually worked.

But he also knew that Edward Sloane as most likely the one who'd gotten his father killed, so could he blame his mother for trying to take revenge, even if he'd never heard the story. He knew it had to be that, what his mother had done. It must've been. It was in line with her way of thinking. A need for violence and retribution that as a child had made her seem cool. But as he grew older, it had made her seem stuck and angry.

Anger always had a price, and he wasn't sure what came first: Edward Sloane killing his father, or the Valdez family having done something to deserve that. It was probably all just cause and effect, the snowball had started rolling long before he'd been old enough to understand what that meant. If they all went back in time, could they figure out what had happened to make everyone turn on each other?

Would it matter if Harsh knew? He was just a victim of circumstance, the child of someone who had made crime their vocation. And no matter how hard he fought against it, he still fell back into it.

"I think I would've gotten away with it," he stated, the arrogant air was part faking, part belief in his acting skills. "If it wasn't for my last name, I don't think you would've figured it out. If I had changed it," he suggested.

He kept frowning, his eyebrows deep over his eyes. "We Hindus don't believe in hell, she'll probably be reincarnted as a roach or something." Not how it worked, at least, not how Harsh had been taught it worked. They all returned to a single being eventually, and reincarnation was a chance to try and get there again.

He wouldn't in this life time, he knew that much.

The actor took a deep breath. "Depends on when it was, after my father's death she hardly spoke a kind word to me." When he was there, so often he was send away, told to stay with family, stay with friends, get out of her house, leave. He didn't want to give Edward Sloane the satisfaction of telling him about the horror stories his mother had told him.