TORCH-BEARER.

hope is a dangerous thing.

[dadukos]

𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐊𝐇𝐎𝐒 — (noun, sg. m; gr. δᾳδοῦχος, δαδουχος. ) — the torch-bearer. persephone, who stepped into the underworld and did not flinch as the darkness closed in, for she carried the fire. 

𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐒𝐎𝐍 , an independent , fandomless original character of the crime / thriller genre. please only follow if 21 or above . presence of mature and triggering themes — a study in : burning in holy fire , hoping against hope , light shining through darkness , the quest for freedom , absolution through self destruction . CARRD. DOSSIER. ASK. INTEREST TRACKER. THREAD TRACKER. SOUNDTRACK. PINS. SIDEBLOG. OTHER BLOGS: ROCKRUIN / DAISYJONES. RIPELY-PINES / MULTIMUSE.

narrated by rylan , she / her , 29.

[dadukos]

miss you guys. miss fred sm. I'll try to be around in the coming days ❤️

[dadukos]

considering that all my threads are dead atm , consider this a 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 —— you can pick a verse if you'd like or i'll pick one ( most likely main unless there's an obvious connection to another ), possibly short and lyric / quote based.

[dadukos]

❛ this your idea of laying low? ❜ (lovingly. also bitchily. but mostly lovingly.) — @softersinned. re : crime starters , accepting.

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 ? she seems to have lost track of her grand tour — could be london, with the shade of grey peering from the windows. could be anywhere at all in the world, really, wouldn’t much make a difference. what makes a difference is astoria’s presence, bright as ever like the sun itself sent an emissary to check on her — she stands in the doorway and the immediate instinct is to say GOD NO, not when i’m like this. ❝ can you … please, be quieter ? ❞ fred’s features contorting in a grimace of pain, everything aching — she’s getting too old for hangovers, and this is precisely what she fears astoria will point out. with that loving, sharp eye of hers: just as caring as it is ruthless. rubbing her temples, fred steps aside to let her in: her hotel room draped in chaos, though she’s pretty sure her demise happened somewhere out of here, last night. astoriawas there too, she thinks — in some sort of rock disco club where fred ended up ditching her friend for a dave gahan wannabe that proved to be not nearly as exciting as his idol. maybe it’s fair that she should get to judge her. 

what was it she’d said, back in the states ? gonna take a trip, lie low for a while, find myself ? one could argue she did, in fact, find herself — a supernova grade of a fuckup and all the chaos that follows. ❝ go on, let it out ❞, fred sighs, turning to the minibar to grab a diet coke and press it hard against her forehead. when she sits back down on the bed her shoulders are low, her eyes pleading — some sort of child accepting the inevitable lecture. not that it’s particularly in astoria’s cords to point fingers, but a part of fred would welcome it. a dose of tough love as a remedy to cure hangovers. this performance, however — not as praise worthy as her usual ones. fred sighs, lets herself fall down on the bed, and groans. ❝ i’m glad you’re here ❞, she says. ❝ but i’d be so grateful if you could avoid telling me exactly how ridiculous i got last night. ❞

[dadukos]

❛ i’m gonna make you an offer. one time only. ❜ — @justicism. re : crime starters , accepting.

❝ 𝐈 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐈𝐓 ❞, flies out of her mouth before she can put a leash around her words —— instantly, she regrets it. but is it not right ? that the weight should be hers alone to carry ? sisyphus never asked for any help — therefore she won’t. and yet her declaration would entail a grand exit from the scene: she ought to plant her hand firmly on the table and prop herself up, turn around, leave with purpose in her steps. she doesn’t. freddie remains, sat across from this man she doesn’t really know, doesn’t really trust, but doesn’t really have a choice. in his eyes is a glassy shade of darkness, one she recognizes — one that speaks of regret and an implausible hold on morality. this is about all she can hold on to. 

her hands are on the table, almost joined in prayer — thumbs fiddling with each other, nervous. her eyes return to the table, formica stained with circular spots of coffee, of leftover condensation, crumbs of food. this place is filthy. this place makes sense. outside, the day is unusually bright, but cloudy: warm, but the few trees lined up on the street sway against an angry wind, announcing the forthcoming storm. there is a way out of texas, she thinks. there is a way out of this, but she can’t find one on her own: all this darkness, how does she find an exit sign ? silently, she pushes her thumb into a bruise, in the inside of her arm. it hurts, fred winces — this pain makes sense, too. 

at last, he wins. her eyes meet his. ❝ i don’t know you ❞. her voice is low, more lament than conversation. it comes out sharp around the corners, laced with something close to poison —— but the shadows in his eyes makes her think perhaps he will understand. nothing personal about it, really. just survival. ❝ but i’ve searched high and low for a way out, and there is none —— what makes you think i’d be interested in anything other than that ? ❞

[nightprompts]

&. 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

(  an  assortment  of  dialogue  prompts  for  various  crime  /  mafia  /  detective  /  criminal  underworld  scenarios.  trigger  warning  for  dark  themes.  feel  free  to  change  as  you  seem  fit.  )

❛ i always get paid in the end, one way or another. ❜

❛ maybe you just need someone to tell you what to do. ❜

❛ i don’t think you fully understand the situation you’re in. ❜

❛ rule one: don’t get caught. ❜

❛ i do what people pay me to do. ❜

❛ consider this a professional courtesy. ❜

❛ i want us to be friends. i want us to trust each other. ❜

❛ you thought you could just fuck with us, and we wouldn’t fuck with you? ❜

❛ can we just exchange three words without you pulling a gun on me? ❜

❛ the detective’s life isn’t an easy one. but it rarely lacks for excitement. ❜

❛ i don’t have time for distractions right now. ❜

❛ tell me, what was life like on the other side? ❜

❛ so, to what do i owe this pleasure? ❜

❛ how many fights have you been in this week? ❜

❛ you want a silencer pistol? sure, if one’s on sale. ❜

❛ go ahead. you might as well finish the job. ❜

❛ can i at least buy you a drink? ❜

❛ you’re gonna get yourself killed if you keep this up. you know that, right? ❜

❛ we’re not all savages here, sweetheart. ❜

❛ the only thing that’s gonna keep you safe in this world is that gun. ❜

❛ i’ll teach you something about punishment. ❜

❛ do we have your allegiance or not? ❜

❛ why is it whenever we see each other, you’re covered in blood? ❜

❛ you wanted the truth. i’ve given it to you. it’s up to you what you do with it. ❜

❛ you’re playing nurse to a killer, you know. ❜

❛ this your idea of laying low? ❜

❛ looks like you could use a bodyguard. ❜

❛ you look great. like a million bucks of real money. ❜

❛ working together again, it’s just like old times. ❜

❛ drink all you want, but we need to stay focused. ❜

❛ you’re like a cockroach i can’t kill. i mean it in a good way. ❜

❛ you eat, or you get eaten. animals call it survival. humans call it business. ❜

❛ i could teach you how to fight, but i wasn’t equipped to take care of you. ❜

❛ i wanted to hurt them for the way they hurt you. ❜

❛ no one’s worth a bullet between the eyes. ❜

❛ may i have my gun back? ❜

❛ who taught you how to do that? ❜

❛ i’m gonna make you an offer. one time only. ❜

❛ i had it under control. you didn’t need to do that. ❜

❛ you still have to keep up appearances. ❜

❛ the bodies he buried laid the foundation of what we are now. ❜

❛ imagine how quickly you can succeed if you just take what you want. ❜

❛ that wasn’t a punch. if i’d punched you, you’d be on the floor. ❜

❛ the choice to live an ordinary life is no longer an option for me. ❜

❛ i need you to focus on this case. not on me. can you do that? ❜

❛ you’re still an honest person. it’s the rest of the world that’s gone crooked. ❜

❛ all you need to do is exactly what i tell you to do. ❜

❛ i’ve done things i’m not proud of. i’ve hurt people and i’m going to hurt more. ❜

❛ blood money buys the best art. ❜

❛ everyone who ever helped me is dead. i don’t want that to happen to you. ❜

❛ i don’t kill people. not even scumbags like you who deserve it. ❜

❛ you treat all your ladies like this? ❜

❛ you’re not very good at retiring. ❜

❛ remember who the real enemy is. ❜

❛ you’re one of us now. nobody ever tell you that? ❜

❛ i’m the lucky one who pulled you out of the garbage. ❜

❛ if it were up to me, you would’ve been dead a long time ago. ❜

❛ everyone in that room has lived far worse than anything you’ve ever done. ❜

❛ if you’re doing it to help someone, doesn’t that make it okay? ❜

❛ you don’t get to be at the top without making enemies looking to tear you down. ❜

[dadukos]

𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋.

you know the drill, like if you'd like to figure out a plot / thread / dynamic and i'll hit you up !

[emily-axford]

JESSICA CHASTAIN AS RACHEL SINGER The Debt (2010) dir. John Madden

[demottcm]

𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 ,

        𝐬𝐡𝐞’𝐝 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 — stashed behind the toilet tank like a dirty secret, as if anyone else would point out she’d triumphantly announced she would quit just two weeks before — anyone but herself. up on a stool so the smoke would float out the tiny window up above, when she saw the truck pulling in. the engine huffing as it came to a halt, the gleam of a pale winter sun bouncing off the windshield. for a second she let that simple image sit with her, resting on her irises: something mundane, almost depressing in its simplicity. a life of nothing, of pulling in on weekdays and getting out on weekends —— wasn’t theirs, though. could never be theirs. he wouldn’t come in right away. if this was a movie, perhaps he would — all the more mundane, and simpler, for there is no distinction between light and darkness and all things good are good right until the end, and all things evil are gone and vanquished. fred laughed, mostly at herself. born and raised in the faded confines of penumbra, and now yearning for the clear cut lines between light and dark —— living in shadows got harder, and she kept growing more confused.

         she was growing used to his silences — the pauses in between, like punctuation points for sentences she couldn’t quite understand in their entirety. and in the doubt she felt a guilt brewing, and wondered idly if this was right for him, or if she’d just prepared another cage for a man who didn’t know belonging unless it came with a noose around his neck. lately she’d been dreaming of a beaten dog, the same one every night, and it wasn’t lost on her, the question it brought along —— and the pain it took, to think of ilias as a wounded animal, and the guilt it caused to know some wounds would never heal. but the door of the truck opened, and he came out —— and fred sighed, left a half-smoked cigarette on the toilet sink, and smirked about the times she’d yelled at charlie for doing the same.

        charlie’d grown tall enough that his frame now almost blocked out ilias’, and she had to tap him hard against the shoulder to get him to move. “i knew he would ”, fred smiled lightly, wholeheartedly now, without a sigh: ‘cause he was here. in between this and the moment of doubt was him being here, and real — and though no triumph would follow along, or a choir of angels singing somewhere in the back of her mind, the warmth embrace of relief was welcome all the same, a small mercy in a cold winter. “ hey ”, she reached for his hand, then brushed her fingers against the bandages and examined them, carefully. washed out hues of red peeked in through the gauze, and the skin beneath it looked darkened. fred raised her gaze, then, to meet his, pleading for honesty: “ are you okay ?” yet that sort of honesty demanded a different setting — away from ed and lucie.

        one hand on charlie’s shoulder, to grab his attention. “ i’m gonna take five, you’re okay to take over ?”. didn’t expect much more than the charlie brand of sarcasm — “ sure, go make out in the back ”, though his quips now came with a lower note at the end, half faded, not quite as convinced. still fred smiled, muttered “thank you ”, and nodded at ilias to head to the back room. there, door closed behind her, fred threw a glance at the first aid kit, but grabbed ilias’ hand gently, instead of moving to the shelf to get it. looking up at him once, then brushing a thumb lightly against the bandages: “ what happened ? ”

ilias sucked his teeth in response to charlie's quip , though it was accompanied by a little smirk and a rough nudge of their shoulders as he passed by. a part of him wished that they stayed there for a moment , maybe to catch up or to just share the air. because every time fred looked at him now , it felt like she was carrying the weight of his world.

he leaned against a stack of crates as she closed the door. when she addressed the most immediate and visible of his wounds , he couldn't help the habit of pulling her in. since the day they met , it's all he's wanted to do. to hug her close and find safety in her space : take her in his nose and over his tongue , under his fingertips and his palms as he held her close. then , he suffocated her. so , ilias knew better by now. his touch was gentle , his fingertips travelled up her legs and over her hips. ilias looked up at her ever so slightly with tenderness before pressing a kiss against her left clavicle.

" would you believe me if i said i tripped and fell? " unlike kal , ilias' smiles were far and few. but with her , he offered a small smile whenever he could. he'd been too careless with her before , despite her pushback to being cared for like a glass doll. the rest of his life would be dedicated to making sure that they could smile freely , one day. without paranoia , worry , or disdain. he leaned in gently , silently asking for a kiss before he averted his gaze.

it wasn't until he sighed that he garnered the courage to lift his wounded hand and have her hold it as gently as she tended to with his wounds. " i found her last hideout , but i was being tailed and i had to climb a barbed wire fence. " he looked at her with a twinge of shame , but he shoved the monster back in it's cove. she couldn't know that paranoia ate him alive at night , the weight of looking out for himself and this little family they've constructed was enough to crush the very foundations of everything he knew. " kafka , she's not far. so , i diverged and put her on the wrong path. " he never knew whether to give details , not until she asked.

" i'm okay , really. "

his eyes searched hers , they were tired and the flame he knew as bic had dimmed — nothing hurt him more than knowing that. ilias pressed his thumb against her cheek and dragged his knuckles along the edge of her jawline. " i won't have to go away for a while. "

anything she said after this would suffice as a damper on his nerves , since now he had a promise to fulfill with her. but she'd know that he wasn't telling her everything , that there was another part to the plan that he was devising during his every waking moment. he knew more after finding kafka's last spot , the plan had to change. it wasn't for the better. " i don't want to , i mean. "

[dadukos]

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐏𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓, for this was her form of healing. little by little, allowing his hands to travel along her body and give her a form she didn’t seem to have when he was gone — put the pieces back in their place, whole again for tiny golden minutes spent in his arms. even though the brokenness was there, permanently a part of the both of them, the cracks creaking and whining at night like old houses beginning to fail — but in here, in this embrace, for a second she could forget them. she could press his hand to her chest and lean closer, touch the side of his face and inhale him, kiss the corner of his lips and repeat in her mind, over and over again, everything will be alright. everything will be alright. everything will be alright.

fred glared at his half-joke, like he should know better than bullshitting her like that by now, but smirking nonetheless out of respect to the need of levity. ❝ you’re not that good a liar ❞, she smiled: aware of the irony, unthreatened by it. still she kept her hands on the side of his face — leaning down to kiss him once, and then pulling away just enough to be able to look at him, and idly caress his cheeks, the stubble scraping her skin in what should’ve been an odd feeling, but was just comfortable now, familiar. 

her silent touch a language of its own, now — delicate, yet firm. a necessity and not an imposition, a care meant to soothe and not clench tight around his limbs, preventing movement. a part of her, one she could feel like a needle poking at her insides, would forever be desperate: and wish she could force him close, trap him forever, so danger would not be found on the many streets she couldn’t follow him on. she kept this part choked down, suffocated, but let it whisper to her at night. when he was asleep and she stared at the scars on his back for hours, imagining a spell by which she could erase them, turn his skin to stone so no harm would ever scar it again. by daylight she’d love all the broken parts of him again, and kiss the scars with the promise that she would guard over them —— but the anxiety would linger, down deep, even now. fred sighed, rubbed the hair off his face and looked openly in iias’ eyes.

❝ there’s something you’re not telling me. ❞ freddie spoke in a low, flat tone: it was not an accusation, just a statement of facts. she could spot it in his eyes, the way he hesitated around something that worried him but he wouldn’t voice out loud. freddie leaned in, kissed his forehead, and then finally stepped away — moving to pull a stool closer to him and sit, reaching for the first aid kit, moving to disinfect the cuts on his hand. she got to work slowly, calmly, forcing herself to not betray the uneven, anxious beating in her chest. she wanted to ask for more, to give a name to the unknown: to know exactly how close kafka had been, and how urgently they had to move, if at all. but, shooting a glance up towards him, she hoped he’d catch the invitation and tell her of his own accord: until then, she’d keep quiet, and clean the wounds.

❝ where else are you hurt ? ❞, she asked, wrapping gauze around his knuckles. then she smiled: ❝ come on, show me all of it —— i’ll give you a lollipop if you’re good. ❞ gently, she tugged on his shirt. ❝ come on — charlie's missed you too, he's gonna come knocking any second. ❞

[riddlethat]

A clock ticks. Ice snaps in his glass and a knife smacks the cutting board; Freddie slicing lemons.

Edward forces a face, tight, and could say a million things. He waves his hand instead. “You can’t say I didn’t try,” he smiles.

Acting like he doesn’t mind, only he does. You can’t say I didn’t try. He must have meant try to care, and he wants to wind up, something in him spurned, but can’t. He used to be the Riddler. There’s no ground to stand on.

Freddie steps back. What is Freddie trying to do, anyway? Run away from her ex-husband; she wouldn’t be the first. Except Edward remembers snooping and reading about him in the silent hours of the night: James Gallagher, improbably connected to a criminal organization and a lab that went up in flames. A man who doesn’t stop chasing. Reminds him of a clown.

Edward rolls the scotch in his glass, settling. She has grey eyes and looks as tired and she must feel. 

“It looks like James is getting warmer,“ he starts, getting right to it, "and I hardly think he’s alone. A family just moved into his apartment, and I wouldn’t say it was hard, but I tracked him calling out of StarCity.” Hacking telecommunications and finding James somewhere only six hundred miles away, who he’s talking to. Edward tents a hand over the table, elbows down. “He likes to call the same numbers,” Nashton says. Then, curiously, “He clearly has friends.”

A moment passes between them. The cutting board glistens, the smell of lemons sharp and thick. Her face is fuzzier in his eyes. “You know I can’t track him forever.”

[dadukos]

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐒, 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐖, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃𝐍’𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑. none of it is good, none of it reassuring — each new morsel of information is another stroke of blood red paint, adding up to a bullseye on her forehead. t minus mere hours to the detonation. freddie lets go of the knife, the lemon, the role she holds on to — for a second she loses all the fight in her and steps back to sit on the stool they keep by the counter, for the few dead moments she’ll allow herself. arms over her knees, hands half joined in prayer — the pointless pursuit of a higher power, though it’s long ago abandoned her. scraps of information float in her mind, painting grim pictures. star city. much closer than she’d hoped for —— and the contacts, they don’t surprise, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t half hoping for a miracle. something like he’s gone, fred, or: twenty-five to life, looks like he’s gonna be away for a long while. she sighs, runs a hand over her face.

then looks up. she knows nothing about him, this man delivering news in a mournful tone like he knows how deep they cut. perhaps he’s an expert in bleeding wounds too, though it’s unclear which side of the knife he’s more used to: but when she looks really closely, freddie can spot something familiar. a certain angle of his head, low over a glass of scotch. a shade of regret in the way he returns her stare, knowing more than the surface of things, able to navigate penumbra towards the heart of things. surely a man familiar with sorrow —— she almost wants to ask. he holds a sword over her head, survival depending solely on the secrets she’s paying him to keep —— would it not be fair for him to offer his own, trade one misery for another, and share the burden of it as a result ? freddie turns her gaze away, then sighs. she trusts him, and though it should be a relief, she feels the sword above her neck, still — damocles wouldn’t know the first thing about risk.

but when she raises her gaze again the callousness is left behind, all of it is abandoned really, if not the need to keep going somehow. ❝ ok, ed. ❞, she says. ❝ you’re right. ❞ eyes meeting his now, open and pleading — she, turned around and left alone, begging for a north to follow: ❝ what do i do ? ❞

[brokenmedic]

Desi narrowed her eyes as her gaze shifted to Fred, shooting a glare in response. she wasn't wrong though. Desi sure as hell felt like crap, she didn't doubt she looked just as rough. ❛❛ i just finished a 24 hour shift. ❜❜ a very difficult 24 hour shift, that concluded with her attending the scene of a shooting ⸺ they were always the hardest.

she knew she probably should've went to a support meeting, instead of straight to the bar after a difficult shift. but she didn't feel much like talking, and she really didn't want to listen to anyone else. ❛❛ so, what's your excuse? ❜❜ she then offered a sarcastic smirk, before bringing the glass to her lips.

[dadukos]

𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐃, just to handle the few urgent bar matters ( a couple bottles left out of the fridge, two dirty plates that needed to be rinsed for the washing machine, a spill of beer near the sink ), and then smiled. ❝ don’t know what you mean, i’m perfectly fine ❞, she lied, a playful expression peeking out of tired eyes. still, she moved to pour herself a beer and then presented it, her hands making a voilà gesture, before taking a sip. ❝ see ? i follow my own advice. ❞

then, setting the beer down, she leaned across the counter — her gaze offering sympathy, demanding honesty. the look on desi’s face spoke volumes, but it still felt like an urgent matter, to coax the words out of her. ❝ how are you ? ❞, she asked, her voice lower.

[softersinned]

There are some days she loves it here—the quiet of this corner of the state, the quiet of her shop in the particular hour when all the crunchy early-morning types have already made their rounds and before the sullen teenagers get out of school. She's close to closing, now, and she's experiencing the sort of itch that only comes with wanting to be at home with her cats under a very expensive blanket. She yawns, slouches at an impossible angle in her seat behind the counter, and she thumbs idly through her book until she finds the page where she last left off. One of those $7.99 paranormal romances from the bookstore across the street; she's there at least once a week on her lunch to find something new, and the staff will leave a book or two aside for her at this stage. (That makes her feel more at home in this town than nearly anything else.)

The werewolf lover is about to tear through denim when Astoria hears the tinkle of the bell above her door, and she suppresses a sigh, lest it scare off a paying customer. The werewolf lover will have to wait. "That would be me," she says, rather politely, rather warmly. The woman in her doorway seems... odd. Very odd. She'll have to think more about it later on. "What are we looking for, honey?"

[dadukos]

𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐃𝐍’𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇. it hits her right in the face, as she steps inside the store: and for a second she’s paralyzed, doesn’t have an answer worth uttering, thinks turning around and leaving would really be the only sensible choice. and yet she doesn’t — something stronger urges her feet to stay firmly planted on the shop’s floor. call it magic. call it hope. ❝ i… it’s complicated. ❞, she replies, and feels ashamed that she can't say it out loud just yet, needing more solid footing to build up to it —— this heavy secret like a sin in a confession booth. she wraps her arms around her torso, as if a gust of wind is suddenly chilling her to her bone, and looks out of the window, where the shadow has wrapped the whole street in darkness, the sun having been buried somewhere behind the horizon. should’ve come here late at night, she thinks, then miss grim would be able to see it all for herself once the sun rises —— but this is, in fact, a shop, and she doesn’t need to add ‘ frantic desperate woman banging on shops ’ closed doors late at night ’ to the long list of peculiarities that make her a wanted woman.

and that, really, is the issue: how much is too much, too revealing ? what if she’s heard rumors, knows her secret, how long would it take her to call anyone and make this encounter fruitful for her own pockets ? freddie raises her gaze to meet hers. no, she thinks. she doesn’t look the part —— can't quite put her finger on it, just yet. one might argue her instinct's been off in the past, not much to rely on: but there isn't much she's got left to lose, besides hope and what little strength she still possesses to go on. fred clears her throat, turns to look at the products arranged on the shelves surrounding her. too many books to read the titles, flower petals trapped in bottles, bones, intricate sculptures and jewels: breathtaking in its odd, obscure charm. ❝ what is this place, anyway ? ❞. she asks in a low voice, distracted as she lets a gentle finger trace the golden pattern decorating a wooden box. a faint smile appears: ancient curiosity still vivid in her, still drawing her towards the mysterious and odd.

[ingolds-archived]

     the stories of the hotel are what initially draws theo's interest. the ability to get drunk is a feat rarely worth the effort, and he has a few places in rotation he can call home, making a hotel with a bar in it a destination he could safely skip. he hears things, though, about the clientele that stay there, quiet conversations murmured beneath silverware clinking on plates and questions asked and answered into the bottoms of wineglasses. it's easily found, easily entered, and they find themselves standing - lurking - just out of the reach of the yellow lights glowing behind the counter, bright eyes studying the sole person seated at it. they consider making their presence known instead of simply looking at the back of her head and saying nothing, but then she's turning and blinking, suddenly realizing he's there. theo does his best to look friendly, unassuming, and it seems to work well enough; she trusts him enough to turn a shoulder, gesturing at the bottles lined up on the shelves. “ you're sure the bartender won't mind? ” they ask even as they reach for the whiskey and hold it out to her. they glance at the label, forehead wrinkling as their brows quirk up. “ this is quite the bottle. you don't think he'll miss it? ”

[dadukos]

𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐘 — she wants to turn and bite back, do you honestly give a shit ? in a place like this, every detail neatly curated and fabricated to cover up the smell of rotting corpses, why would the theft of a bottle of whiskey matter ? instead she looks once towards him, lets out her frustration in the form of a shrug, a roll of her eyes, and pours herself two servings in a single glass. ❝ doubt it. i’ll pay him back. who cares. ❞ the voice of annoyed apathy sounds wrong coming from her lips, draws a strained grimace on her face — perhaps company would sweeten the deal, she thinks. nevermind the kind of company found in this place, all of it eventually turning to a game of villains and hunters: she, unlikely prey with a short leash. how pathetic, how very unoriginal —— she turns and wants to tell the stranger to grab a glass, to sit down, whiskey always tastes better when shared over a petty theft.

but when she turns she sees a glimpse of gold, just a flash, and something inside her hardens. nothing personal, just second nature by now. ❝ what’s up with your teeth ? ❞, she asks, and for a second she’s paralyzed — but then she reaches across the counter anyway, stretching towards the sink and the nearby batch of freshly cleaned glasses, and idly thinks that survival instinct doesn’t have much of a point anymore, and if he’s here to feed like many are, he’ll eventually get to the point on his own. she might as well get something out of it for now, even if just lackluster company. ❝ drink ❞, fred sets the glass down before him and commands. ❝ it’s a game, i ask you a question and you drink before you reply, or you’re out and gotta find another fine ass bottle of whiskey for yourself. ❞ she pours him a glass, and only for a second she smiles.

[sacraementals-arc]

She's all tender touch and careful questions; it's why Kaya came here, instead of going back home to try to deal with this herself. That, and the blood she feels trickling down her back, from a point she certainly can't reach without help. Fred gives an order and Kaya doesn't argue, more concerned with keeping herself from bleeding all over a friend's furniture than pointing out that she doesn't need that much fussing. By the time Fred's back, Kaya's shirt is off, balled up in her lap, with a bra strap peeled down to give easier access to the worst injury. The gash in her shoulder is painful, but not the end of the world. The bruise blooming on her cheek is more concerning, if only for its visibility.

"If I say don't ask I know you'll ask anyway." She grumbles even though there's no heat to it; she's grateful for Fred's concern, and her friendship. "I was—taking care of something. Did you know that if you're in the back of a cop car when someone crashes into said car, you get a little rattled around? And it hurts? Believe it or not, that wasn't planned," she adds. "Wrong place, wrong time." An old friend of her father's had insisted on giving her a ride; to refuse, over and over and over, would have made her seem suspicious. No need to draw attention to herself when she's carrying the keys to a stolen sports car. She offers up her most dazzling smile, bats her eyelashes. "How was your night?"

[dadukos]

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓, back then in the old life, when she embraced this role: thread and needle and a bottle of disinfectant always full above the bathroom sink, gauze to clean the blood, hands soiled by nighttime devoted to patching and tender care by daylight. it seemed like a necessity, a small good-natured offering to face the darkness: in the heart of bloodshed and abuse, she could be the one to patch up the wounds. to repair all the broken souls surrounding her, stuffed toys at someone else’s tea party, and put the stuffing back behind the stitches. she looks at kaya now and wonders, because she doesn’t know much and knows it’s not her place to ask —— but wonders anyway what it looks like on the other side of her wounds, where they come from, why she keeps doing this. her eyes are concerned, perhaps unfairly so, but it comes from a place of love: when she offers a bag of frozen peas for the swelling on her face, she glares in response to her words. that, too, is a form of tender care.

❝ my night was terribly boring, thankfully a beaten up idiot crashed in to change that. ❞, her tone a bit callous as she proceeds to dab a cotton ball with disinfectant, but a light smirk curls it just gently, for a second. ❝ you’re gonna get yourself in serious trouble one of these days, y’know ? i know you know, but somebody needs to say it —— ❞. one look into her eyes, then her tone changes to bedside urgency: ❝this is gonna sting ❞, followed by the ball gently rubbing the edges of kaya’s wound, delicately but carrying an insistent firmness where the blood has begun to dry. she works with purpose, like she’s done this a hundred times — which might just be a couple times short of the truth. only when she’s almost done with the cleaning, reaching for the gauze to wrap it all up, her voice turns lower, perhaps a little more alarmed: ❝ they didn’t see you come here, did they ? ❞

[memies]

Send me a symbol and I will write a headcanon about…  For multimuse blogs, please specify!

𝓕 : My muse’s handwriting. (Is it good, bad, difficult to decipher, do they prefer writing by hand or with the help of some form of machine, e.t.c.) 

✈ : My muse and  traveling. (If they do it frequently and why, if they never left their home town, e.t.c.)

✿ : My muse and nature. (If they are an ‘outdoorsy type’, like the sound of bird’s singing, if they have never set foot in a forest, e.t.c.) 

☼ : My muse’s first memory. (Where it was, who was with them, how this memory makes them feel, e.t.c.) 

☙ : My muse’s favourite food. (Bonus: A memory, be it good or bad, associated with said food.)

♬ : My muse and music. (What type of music they like listening to and in what context, what music they would never listen to, e.t.c.)

↺ : My muse and the past. (Do they live in the past and struggle to let go of past grievances, or move on more easily, is there anything in their past they want to forget, e.t.c.) 

☾ : My muse and sleep. (How much they sleep, how much they wish to sleep, if there is something that never fails to put them to sleep, e.t.c.) 

✧ : My muse and art. (If they have an artistic side or not and why, favourite artist if they have one, e.t.c.) 

❃ : My muse and social media. (If the muse is/would be on social media and why/why not, their general opinion on it, e.t.c.) 

✉  : My muse and others. (If they social and outgoing or more introverted, and why. If they prefer communicating with others face to face or in written form, e.t.c.). 

▶ : My muse and level of education. (If the muse has some form of education, what education they perhaps wish they had, e.t.c.). 

◐ : My muse and animals. (If they like animals and treat them well, do not care for them at all, e.t.c.). 

❒ : My muse and gifts. (If they are good/bad at finding gifts, good/bad at receiving gifts, good/bad at wrapping gifts, e.t.c.) 

☘ : My muse’s relation with their family. (If they speak with each other and how much, if they are close or estranged, e.t.c.). 

[chastaindaily]

JESSICA CHASTAIN AS RACHEL SINGER The Debt (2010) dir. John Madden

[dadukos]

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓'𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐇𝐓𝐘𝐏𝐄?

𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 — you’re a bit of an idealist. you value emotional and physical intimacy (not always romantically), and you revel in what it means to be a human. you need relationships with other people to thrive, you have a lot of love and compassion to give. you’re an amazing friend, lover, family member, and those around you genuinely appreciate everything you have done and continue to do. sometimes it feels like you give more than what you receive, and that can really hurt a heart like yours. i promise that there are people out there that will love you just as much as you love them. loving and being loved is a burden, so don’t take on that burden for just anyone.

TAGGED BY : @brokenmedic thank u ! TAGGING : be a punk and steal it !