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DEAR READER
Sade Olutola
PR's Tumblrdome
Keni
Three Goblin Art
hello vonnie
Stranger Things
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
occasionally subtle
Misplaced Lens Cap
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
almost home
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
d e v o n
#extradirty
we're not kids anymore.
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
dirt enthusiast
Love Begins
seen from Malaysia
seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from South Korea
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Mexico
seen from Vietnam
seen from Ukraine
seen from Malaysia
seen from Türkiye
@dxncingonmyown
multi-muse | pantehon-hqs dependent
maddox hope (damson idris fc) - the mob - lawyer/assistant district attorney
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amelia dreyer (marisa abela fc) - the reserve - journalist at channel 212
intro | tag | pinterest | home
harvey knight (robert pattinson fc) - neutral - police commissioner
intro | tag | pinterest | home
veronica sanchez-wright (nathalie kelley fc) - reapers- treasurer/owner of the old riders bar
intro | tag | pinterest |
who: open to all @pantheonhqstarters where: central park?? or some park/outdoor setting, go wild
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧’𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 day - harsh, but romy could withstand it. she hadn’t lived in nevada so long for nothing, after all. even the kentucky heat of her childhood could be brutal, despite the lush forest canopy. on this monday afteroon she’d found a patch of shade beneath a crooked tree in the park, sitting cross-legged in the grass with a melting cherry popsicle in one hand and a copy of the national enquirer spread open in her lap. she was deep in an article about a woman who claimed to be in a committed relationship with an alien named vorlan. “hm,” she said, to no one in particular at first. then, after a moment, her eyes lifted toward someone else. “i don’t think folks are open-minded enough about interplanetary love.” her face didn’t change. no smile, no wink, like she’d been waiting all day to defend a woman from ohio and her extraterrestrial boyfriend. “reckon you’d ever date an alien?” she asked, letting the question hang there as if it were perfectly normal. “if you believe in them, i mean.” she glanced back down at the paper, thoughtful. “i drove the extraterrestrial highway once. saw the area 51 alien museum and stuff. sometimes thinkin’ about the stars is a good distraction from what’s goin’ on here on earth.”
"I don't think folks are open-minded about anything these days." Everyone so hard-lined and divisive, standing for things out of simple bias or prejudice. Veronica isn't political, she's too grounded in herself and the reapers' needs to ever be. But even she has enough doubt in the human species to nod at the woman's seemingly-odd outburst and tack on, "People around here won't even date someone from a different borough." Classism at its finest. "But," she's intrigued, holding a coffee in hand en-route from the bar. "I'm guessing an alien is a level up from the shit heads in this dating pool." Curious. At the very least, she's interesting enough to bear witness to things. "You can go, but you can never go far from this shit."
Truthfully, his decision to suspend Maddox Hope that was in true nature for the younger man's well-being. Troy recognized a crash out from a mile away, he was too familiarized with the signs that he was sure that Charlie, his brother, often noticed when Troy went into one of those. Mourning did things to people. Fortunately for Troy, he had never tried to destroy his job, it was himself who he had tried to get rid of in his own way - without really meaning it. Looking up for the stacks of folders as he heard a knock on the door, Troy only watched at the yungest Hope stepped in. "Are you?" He removed his reading glasses, gesturing for him to sit. "Why the change of heart?"
He isn't so arrogant that he doesn't understand Troy's decision. But his ego was bruised, his sense of justice let down... And while that is still the case, Maddox knows what's needed now. He takes the seat Troy offers him, giving him an easy nod. "Because that's our duty, isn't it? Justice, at the end of the day, doesn't just serve the loudest guy complaining about it." Maddox laments, the proof in how his loud cries have done little to help his own cousin. "And because New York's burning, and I'm not a trained firefighter. But I am a hell of a prosecutor." He could make Troy proud, and Try knows that. Why else is he sat across from him?
CLOSED FOR: @dxncingonmyown (Amelia)
LOCATION: Lottie's office @ Astoria Club
Amelia Dreyer was still a mystery for Lottie. Even more of a mystery now that she was her sister. Granted, Omar wasn't Lottie's biological father - which was exactly what had caused the rest of her life to be lead by him. The loss of her mother was still heavy in her mind - she wondered if that would ever change, or if she even wanted to. These days it was the only that, somehow, she was holding onto. Her sister was unaware that they weren't biological siblings and Lottie had yet to make up her mind about sharing the information with her. Lack of trust, survival instincts. Call it what you want, but Amelia had went after Lottie when she was fully aware of their biological ties, which meant she couldn't just turn the page on their past that easily.
She looked away from the projector screen where she and Amelia were looking at homes for the younger woman to move into. If that was still the plan, as Lottie was now aware that she had been staying in Devrim's place due to her injuries. "If you show me one more Brooklyn apartment, you're leaving." She muttered as she leaned back against her seat, more exhausted than annoyed. These days, Lottie kept to those she considered close, avoiding the exhaustion that came from putting up a front with others. However, she needed to know more about Amelia, about their family. Which brought up her next question, "Do you talk to your mom?"
Lottie has been many things; an abstraction of wealth and privilege, an intimate view of everything she isn't, a brilliant woman, a terrible person... Lottie has been everything and anything to Amelia since girlhood. And in all the different version of Lottie she's seen, the one that's new? As a sister. If sisterhood is begrudging solidarity, being thrown together whilst simultaneously keeping each other at arm's length. Amelia puffs her lips, rolling her eyes at Lottie's immediate rejection. "You're such a snob." Amelia laments, clicking over to another Brooklyn apartment. This one, a fixer-upper. "I'm not leaving Brooklyn. I love it there." Still, the commute from Devrim's place to Channel 212 has been a nice change. "And Manhattan's too expensive. Do you know a one-bedroom in Manhattan is five grand now?" Really, it makes her quesy.
She pauses the slideshow, narrowing in on her question. Even if the first instinct is to deflect, Amelia wants to try. After everything she knows now, trying is the least they owe one another. "Not really." Amelia answers, after a beat. "She's a victim, and I know firsthand what that's like, but... Being around her is like being back in that house." And she did everything she could to run from it. "What about your mom? Dad, Omar--" She corrects, scrubbing the title off him. "Was he better with her?" Did he spare them the rod, and hurt them in other ways?
@mindfieldx | Jo and Harvey, Jo's Apartment
The last time he saw her name in print, it was etched on a tombstone over an empty grave. Standard procedure for fallen militia, presumed long gone. For better or worse, the last time he put eyes on it was seven years ago. He hasn't forgotten, could never forget if he tried. But Harvey knew Jo when she was alive; smiling, arguing, breathing -- there was no need to mar the memory by staring at an empty grave.
Except it sneaks up on him, on the dossier of FBI assets joining the city's taskforce. Joanna Larsen. Typed in Timed New fucking Roman, haunting and simultaneously cold. Surely, it's a coincidence. A common enough name in the United States, right? Harvey dismisses it for days, ignoring the knot in his stomach that tells him something different. It's impossible, and entertaining his wistful delusions is stupid. She's gone, and no amount of haunted dreams will her back to existence.
But he picks up his feet from behind his desk, flaps his collar to conceal the burn marks from his latest incident. The address is easy enough to smuggle out of the dossier, and Harvey decides he needs to know. Once and for all. His hand is rough on the door, knocking and near banging. Desperate and undone, until --
"What the fuck?" He says, throat gone dry and blue eyes ablazing. Their story was over, and in all his hopes of her return, he never expected her.
"Hey now, I'm sure your calendar could rival my own. With everything going on, I'm sure you're having to pencil in specific times to breath." Harvey had always had the makings of a good politician despite not technically being one himself, his sharp wit and charming grin enough to disarm even the most seasoned of them -- but Wesley had been born into this world, raised and molded by it, and because of that he knew he always needed to make sure peer under the surface of his words. "Glad you seem to be recovering quickly. I remember when I was a teenager, I stupidly grabbed an iron by the metal, thinking it was off and had cooled down -- long story short, that was only a mild burn, and I couldn't believe the pain. I give you a lot of credit for getting back in the swing of things so quickly." He complimented, rounding the chair to sit. Brows arched at the mention of Gwen visiting him in the hospital, mildly surprised but not shocked. Gwen had always been the practical one, she would always try to close the loop. "I see. I hope she was there to apologize for...previous conversations I'd heard about." Hands folded over his lap, sighing lightly. "Do you have experience with grief, Commissioner?" He questioned, adding then, "you don't have to answer that, I'm merely bringing it up because, well -- my siblings and I have been fortunate enough to have not had to experience much tragedy over the years. Until now, of course, and I fear Gwen might have let her emotions over Sebastian spill over." Lips pressed in a tight line, shoulders lifting in a shrug. "I hope the conversation was somewhat productive, at least?"
"Perhaps... Except I do not have your larger-than-life family to pencil into mine." And if it sounds pitiful, well, Harvey doesn't see it that way. His time is his own, as are his risks and ambition. There is no envy for Wesley's burden, carried on broad shoulders that seem necessary to cement him as New York City's darling politician. He lifts a brow, duly impressed. Some play chess, other play checkers, yet Wesley Hope plays every game all at once. God - if only he did not make his goodness the central tenet of function.
"Looks like you recovered well, though. Hardly any proof of the incidents - at least as far as I can see." Harvey observes, but he doesn't ogle the man either. Although he's be remiss not to say, "Slightly different case, though." His was smoke inhalation and second degree burns. The sort that don't just disappear over the course of a few weeks. Then, as is expected, the Hope charm offensive turns to the topic of family. It's always family with them, and Harvey is still and careful in reacting. Unlike with his sister, he knows Wes will be more amenable when placated.
"I--" He doesn't answer him at first. Doesn't speak to the woman he loved and lost, the way its changed him irrevocably. Instead, he turns on the facade, a ginger smile. "Can't say I have been fortunate enough to form such an attachment." He lies with ease. "However, I told her the very same thing. She should really take some time off. A spa. A retreat." He repeats his previous words, this time said caringly, instead of condescendingly. "It's a pity that your cousin's case hasn't offered the closure its resolution has." It's said with warmth, as much as Harvey can muster. "However, surely you can agree... The loss is not only your own." Especially in light of the fires. They did not hold exclusive rights to grief simply because of their last name. Yet its his need to pry, to learn more, that Harvey hums; "How have you been sleeping, Wesley?" Because if his demeanor is any indication, he is a man who never stops.
"Well let's see if we can find you a beach," he said more to himself as he went through the map in his head. As he hears the song she picks he smile, fingers tapping against the steering wheel in tune. This song, he knew. "Oh I didn't say we could talk about me," he joked but he didn't mind talking to Amelia. He had learned the hard way that he needed at least one friend to get through this life, and he was grateful that he and Amelia were at least immersed in the same world. In some ways, at least. "Mostly tending to all of my hobbies. Been helping my neighbor with some renovations. Went fishing earlier this week. Just got back yesterday so spent most of yesterday doing laundry. Fun shit, right? I remember when I used to be fun." He shook his head with a sigh. "But having fun always got me in trouble so, here we are." He turned the music up as they drove, humming along to fill the silence instead.
As they crossed into Westchester, he signaled to get off at the Hartsdale exit, knowing there was a Shake Shack with plenty of parking. "You think you gonna get a milkshake? I'm thinking strawberry."
"You got a hat back here somewhere?" She hums in response to their beach interlude, already leaning behind his truck. Sure enough, a tried and true cap to cover over her fair skin. Just in time to sum up his week; renovations, fishing, and laundry. Better than hers; meetings, apartment hunting, and trying to digest the not-so-lost sister of it all. With a small laugh, she hums; "I should've called you to help patch some of the holes in my apartment. Nearly lost my security deposit on the way out." But she put effort into it. She loved that shoebox apartment. "You're still fun, Clark. We're just getting... Old." Not older, but old. Life in The Reserve ages you in ways Amelia never expected. New fears and threats she never expected, coming to light.
"Chocolate, no doubt. And fries." Amelia nods, already handing him her buy one, get one coupon. Burgers and shakes at the beach. Exactly the antidote to these past few weeks.
"Don't even get me started." Even Jackie was getting tired of hearing himself complain about the lackluster (putting it nicely) food in this godforsaken place. Regardless, he'd not had a difficult time making himself at home in the hospital room -- stuff everywhere ranging from 'get well soon' cards to take-out containers, electronics, clothes that most definitely needed to be washed. "Have I ever told you that you're my favorite? Because you are." Jackie sat up straighter while Veronica prepared him a plate, giving a short roll of his eyes. "I don't need your money, V. The lasagna is payment enough." That and he didn't want to feel like he owed her -- or anyone for that matter. Money was something he was a bit too prideful about. "God, you sound like Elijah -- I am. Not really much else I can do in this fuckin' thing anyway," he gestured to his full-leg cast. "Doc said I'm going to be in this thing for a few months even after they let me go. Fucking torture, I won't be able to work that entire time. Do we know anything about the clowns who did this in the first place? They're about to owe me a lot of goddamn money."
"Jesus." She whistles just under her breathe, picking up one of his dirty socks off the ground with the tips of her fingers. Right, time to get to work. The lasagna is served up, napkin gingerly placed beside it. Veronica moves through the room like a one-woman cleaner, all the expedience of an elder sister with a penchant for organization. "Jackie, it's not my money. It's the gang's." She clears up, catching that flash of defensiveness before it can take root into a stubbornness he can be known for. "I budget for these things. Repairs. Bail money. Hospital bills." It's her way of taking care of everyone and anyone. "We look out for each other. That's the whole point." And that's what the leather is there for. Armor, as well as allyship. "Really?" She frowns, finally settling into the armchair (now cleaned of his pile of clothes). "Fuck - that's shit luck. And I guess doing Reaper admin with me isn't your idea of a job, right?" With affection, it's not like Veronica would have him doing it anyway. Jackie's brilliant at many things, but one's and zeroes aren't it. "Nothing yet. Elijah's pissed. Reporters and cops doing what they can. They're everywhere now, by the way. City's crawling with those snitches."
he didn't like to use and abuse of the key privileges but maddox was taking forever and santiago could only be so patient. " i'd say this is a huge emergency --- you do know , gyms exist right ? open a window. " he tease before settling on the other's couch with a small sigh. " your couch still sucks , but it's better. " he looked over at the other shaking his head , " they have regular names but the store -- well i don't know if it's good or not but i had to try it. it was just calling to me like a line after a busy afternoon. "
"Can't exactly hit up a gym with this gun show." And to prove his point, he gives Santiago a good flex. Shows off what God and a good fitness regimen do for him. "When's the last time you hit something other than a boxing gym?" A nod to Santi's hand. "That's a ten thousand dollar couch." Ruined by one too many nights out, but Maddox doesn't point that out as he joins him. "What? New York didn't part like the red sea for it's favorite little councilman?" Maddox teases, leaning over and giving Santi's cheek a squeeze.
" but this is where you show off right ? " harvey , despite isaac's protests , always had a way of proving him wrong. he supposed that's why they worked well together. isaac optimistic yet skeptical and harvey --- well , he was harvey. it was a sort of balance that he supposed worked for the best. brow arched at the man's next words , " fbi ? when did the fbi get involved ? " the fbi had a bad habit of butting their heads in certain places and then taking the credit for what officers and police men did but they did hold the big guns so he supposed it was for the greater good. " not yet -- there's a meeting later today . i think he'll be handing them out then. "
"When I win, we all win." He answers back with a shrug. Harvey has no shortage of agendas and flaws. But the NYPD is his team, and no one can say he doesn't ensure they shine when he does. He shakes his head, echoing Isaac's own derision with their own. "About the same time it got picked up by fucking CNN." Proof that everyone has an agenda, the FBI included. Everyone jockeying for top position. It's as admirable as it is predictable, which inevitably leaves them looking like chumps. "Right, well - as long as they don't simply stick to the fucking Empire State building. It's no coincidence it's all private businesses hit." Ones undoubtedly linked to New York's gangs.
"A good majority of my time with patients is spent talking about bruising and scars; I know what I'm talking about." Not exactly an answer to her question, but she didn't need all the if, ands, or buts right then and there as far as her healing process went. "I'll write you a referral." Eyes scanned her face, darting over swollen skin, flecks of matted blood in her brow, black and blue discoloration -- yet what he lingers on isn't the physical marks, but the look she gave him. As if she was waiting for him to run, as if she was afraid he would run, or scoff and judge at her less-than-ideal circumstances. For so much of his adult life had Dev been involved with criminals, organizations big and small, had even watched his brother climbed the ranks until he'd eventually fallen off somehow, somewhere, so perhaps the thought of Amelia also having some affiliation was not as much of a shock as it aught to be. Perhaps it made him feel a bit more normal, less like a fraud, a monster, like the connection to them had only strengthened. Of course he had questions -- many he surely wouldn't like the answers to (he never did) -- but that's not what she needed now. That's not what either of them needed.
He returned the kiss with an equal amount of fervor, though he was careful not to aggravate any of her injuries, removing one of the hands at her cheek and instead sliding it along her mid-back to pull her closer. "I'll always come when you call." He assured, the sentiment true regardless of how he was brought here in the first place. It was striking, how important, how integral Amelia had become in his life, so much so that even the mere thought of anything happening to her was enough to send him into a panic -- for a moment there his body going back in time to when the search for his brother had officially called off with the words presumed dead hanging over him like a curse -- but she was still here, evident by the way her lips moved against his, comforted by her touch in a way that he'd seek in a small white pill.
"What?" He was practically breathless when she pulled back, hands placed gently on either arm. Dev could sense the panic rising in Amelia's chest, the gears turning a million miles an hour, and suddenly he felt this intense desperation to rid her of it, to stop the fear in its tracks -- as if it was his responsibility. "No, no, you are not staying at a hotel -- they are absolutely disgusting, you'll get a staph infection the second you walk in there." Dramatic, but he wasn't exactly wrong; hotel rooms were never cleaned as much as one might think (he'd done a little too much research). "Not to mention it'll cost a fortune. No, you can --" Dev paused, an idea popping into his head and spilling out before he could stop himself, "-- you can stay with me. I can keep an eye on the injury, and you can -- you have somewhere you can feel safe sleeping at night."
"And the majority if my time is spent in front of a camera. I know what I'm talking about." For better or worse, Amelia has spent her entire life papering over Omar Saab's brutal fists. Powdering over bruises, using high-end concealers in her under-eyes. She knows how bad even a superficial blow is, when delivered at the right spot. And, like many things with her and Dev, she simply cannot let him have the last word. Even in this state of complete vulnerability, Amelia is stubborn. Proof, at the very least, that she will be alright. Physically, anyways.
It's the strangest thing, having someone who comes when she calls. Even stranger that Amelia would call in the first place. Dev is that rare thing - a tide that softens her stance on firm ground, making her question her own headstrong nature. Someone who is so unlike her, except in the ways that count, that make revealing every harrowing thing easier. Her eyes soften, made vulnerable by that assurance. "Well then," she pops her lips, a small smile against his lips. "I'll keep calling, then." More often than not, in the late hours at her office. But sometimes, for moments like these. When she needs more than his physicality, but the spiritual essence he gives her. It's a calm that's quickly jolted, as reality sets in. How long can Romeo delay what Omar came to finish?
She's pulling out sweaters (color-coordinated thanks to the doctor in her presence). God, what must a last-minute hotel cost in New York these days? She's just about to complain when Dev puts her on pause. "I think I'll survive it." She adds glibly, although his invitation... "We never stay at your place." Even if she knows that it's likely chic, with loads of space, and a neutral color pattern. "Are you sure? I--" A man like Dev is particular, protective of his space. And while Amelia pushes the envelope, this is ripping it all open. Swallowing, she nods. "Only if you're sure. I -- Thank you."
For the first time ever, Stella didn't argue back. It was a rare thing to see her be the quiet one, the one just looking on with something of a soft smile and a fire in her eyes that left no room as to the many things going through her mind. Their past, a fact she'd never deny and one that had bonded them in ways that lacked a word within her vocabulary that felt enough to describe it accurately. She remembered the sight of him, had decided then and there that such a thing would never be reality again. Not when the price was this high.
The huff that escaped at his words was one that echoed even minutes later. "We both know I wouldn't let you do that." If only cause she already had enough blood on her hands. What was one more, especially in a case such as this. "Irritated eyes. Nothing a few eyedrops can't handle." It stung, but it was nothing in comparison to this. "Why, is that something you need right now?" Her head moved, the chuckle evident but also a layer that expressed far more emotion than someone like her usually let through. Around him, she supposed, that would be okay to do. Hopefully. If not she could always claim that the eye irritation got the better of her. ❧ @dxncingonmyown
There is more said in silence, than could ever be said in words. Harvey's eyes settle on Stella's, neither moving nor relenting. Then, a simple nod of acknowledgement. A recognition of all they never talk about; that they almost lost their lives, that they had each other, that live swings at a pendulum they can only go so far to control. "We both know I'm very good at heeding only the worst of your advices." Harvey teases, a way to shake away the flush of tears brimming up.
"Don't tell anyone." He says, in direct response of his need for a goddamn hug. Softness and intimacy isn't something that comes easy to Stella or Harvey, but in this moment of gravity, he lets Stella know exactly what he needs. He reaches out, placing a hand on hers.
END
⸻ 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓.
𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓 ⸺ @dxncingonmyown (maddox) 𝐒𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 ⸺ marquee nightclub
The bass pulsed through the floor beneath Solana's sky high stilettos, the lights above the dancefloor flashing in streaks of gold and white across bodies moving too close together. Her drink had long since disappeared somewhere into the night, but she barely cared, too caught up in the music and attention that naturally followed her wherever she went. A few people had tried their luck already, hands lingering too long at her waist, words shouted into her ear, but she swatted them away. None of them were who she was looking for. Then she spotted him. Through a brief break in the crowd, Maddox stood out instantly. Maybe it was the way he looked at her, or maybe she just always noticed when his attention landed on her. Either way, her movements lowed for a second as her eyes locked onto his. A slow smirk curved at her lips. There you are. Without breaking eye contact, Lana caught her lower lip lightly between her teeth before lifting one perfectly manicured finger, curling it towards herself in a silent request to join her.
He takes up space as if its his own castle. When your last name is Hope, when your bank account carries an obscene amount of zeroes, and when you look like Maddox? Impossible not to. All swagger and certainty, between bottle service and commandeering the DJ station. He's in his circle, surrounded by friends and sycophants alike, when dark and dangerous eyes catch his. He would catch it anywhere. Solana has that dangerous magic in her fingertips. He's felt it throughout the years, and tonight is no exception. Maddox closes the space between them, hips swaying as he moves effortlessly through the club. Wordless as he stops right in front of her, with a bottle of chilled Grey Goose in hand. "Are you here for a long time, or a good time?" Maddox asks with a cheeky grin, intention clear in his eyes. For Maddox - the pursuit is always a good time.
"Not finding it too hard to keep up with me, are you?" He teased back, grinning easily at what he knew was a taunt from her lips, but a compliment to his ears. It was true, Alessandro prided himself on speaking in such a way that formed the hazy edge of an Impressionist painting rather than the stiff brutality of a modernist work. Over the rim of his own shot glass, the man mused half an explanation, half a retort, "What can I say — I never quite outgrew that childish habit of playing with my meal." With that, he downed his shot in one and poured them both a second round.
His ears perked at the brief mention of her challenges, not out of care, but curiosity. Whether under neon lights or board room fluorescents, Alessandro was a businessman through and through, and he'd never shy away from learning entry points to exploitation for his own benefit. Was this the influence of liquor on her tongue, or simply another test from a similarly ruthless rival? "You're more than welcome to keep pretending that, bella...but you and I both know there's a reason you're still talking to me rather than someone you could easily wrap around your little finger." He watched with animalistic interest as she drank the liquor down, the sight of her enjoying one of his profferred gifts a definitive stroke to his ego. "But, if we must pretend... It's a shame —" Alessandro started, head cocked in lazy observation of her. "Seems you're stuck with someone who has no intention of giving you what you want." The challenge unspoken: Leave, if it's truly someone else's eyes you'd rather have watching you.
"Depends. Does a Ferrari find it hard to keep up with a fucking Kia?" She talks in cars, well-known and loved in Veronica's mind. Learned in the ways of jacking cars, tuning up motorcycles, and getting into the rough-and-tumble of New York's dangerous boroughs. Alessandro can puff his chest, slick back his hair, and act the formidable villain. And certainly, he'll win when it comes to matters of finery and the twisting of words. But when it comes to a battle of machismo - she knows she's a winner. "Well, why would you? Seems to me like you've eaten well all your life. We all play with things we take for granted." Another loathsome fact about him. The worst kind of man; bottom-feeding whilst being well-fed and educated. It makes her recoil, yet linger even closer at the heat of his challenge.
Is sleeping with Alessandro an exercise in recklessness, or self-punishment? The jury is out, but she chuckles at his assessment. Of course, he's right. But Veronica knows how to play every hand, too, and she lifts a brow at him. "And what's your excuse? Keeping the riff-raff out of your club?" Because if that were the case, she would already be escorted out. She emits a low breathe, revolted and intrigued in equal measure. Before finally exhaling, "You don't think I could make you more amenable?" She asks, closing the distance between them. The warmth of her body emanating against his. "Last time, I had you begging for it." She reminds, voice a hair above the whisper amidst the music pumping in his club. "And you gave me exactly what I wanted." The challenge written in her own eyes; could he really walk away?
𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐟𝐨𝐧𝐝 smile as amelia adjusted the pillow behind her head. as if selin couldn’t like amelia more. talented, accomplished, and kind. a queen, in selin’s opinion. “trust me, you still look amazing. really, though i’m sure it’s awful being stuck behind the camera right now. i get it. well—” a small gesture toward herself in the hospital bed. “a little bit.” her expression dimmed as amelia explained the scope of everything unfolding. her stomach sank. this wasn’t what she’d imagined when she moved to new york. not bomb threats and fires and people getting hurt every other week. this was the kind of thing that made national news. international news, probably. her mother was absolutely going to see it now. there went selin’s plan of casually downplaying her concussion like she’d just tripped on the sidewalk. “god, that’s…insane.” still, she offered a small smile after a moment, trying to inject some optimism back into the room. “but if anyone’s gonna get answers out of all this, it’s probably channel 212. you guys seem to uncover everything eventually.”
selin nodded enthusiastically. “as much as i love volunteer work and publicity, full disclosure i am trying to move out of my sister’s place. so yeah, being paid was a goal of mine, i cannot lie.” she didn’t want it to seem like she was only in it for the money but…yeah, she was in it for the money. among other things, of course. one of them being the chance to work with another accomplished woman. working for lottie had already felt like winning the lottery. amelia was just another reason to feel like she’d landed somewhere worth staying. “he’s okay, he’s got some burns on his hands, and he’s in rough shape in that aspect, so i’ve heard. but…” she exhaled ever so slightly. “he’s not, like, critical or anything. he’s gonna be okay. at least, like, physically. i can’t imagine getting second-degree burns and almost dying in a burning building are great for the psyche, ya know? i just…i feel so bad.”
"At this point, it feels just as awful pointing a camera at these sights." But that's what the news is for. Showing what people don't often want to have exposed or seen, for the purpose of information. Still, that's an abstraction, and Selin is living and breathing proof of the real people hurt in the aftermath of it. Amelia frowns, unable to keep the thought from being spoken out loud; "And yet that's the job. Show whose hurt. Show what's broken. Hiding behind a camera because I look like this, or you hurt like you are... I mean, doesn't it speak of a hypocrisy, too?" Too heavy a conversation when Selin is in recovery, and Amelia shakes her head in apologetic recognition. "Fuck, sorry. Too heavy." Then again, what isn't these days? But the fact of the matter remains, "I guess what I'm saying is truth matters most when it's as bad as this." Even at the expense of people's vanity or sensitivities. Hers included.
"Noble goal." Amelia hums authentically. "I'm moving out of my flat, actually." Her shoebox of an apartment, rent-controlled and well-loved, situated in the heart of Williamsburg. "We should go in on a realtor. Save commission." Amelia jokes, not entirely kidding. Selin seems like a practical girl - excitable and bright, but grounded in a way she can respect. Who wouldn't want to save a few thousand dollars in one of the most expensive cities in the world? She listens, unflinching but frowning. She owes a part of herself to Romeo, the same way Selin does. A hero if she's ever heard of one, with the scars and burns to prove it. "We should do something." She encourages at her somber words. "After everything he's done, the lives he's saved... We can do somethng, at Channel 212."
"Yeah, and? Still cute." He signaled to get on the road, laughing as she shows him the coupon. "Buy one get one of what exactly? A burger? A drink? Or are we each just gonna get fries?" He was happy to use it but he had to plan for being hungry after. "either way i'm getting us out of the city, they have shake shacks in like every rest stop on the way upstate." he had seen plenty when he went up to his cabin on the weekends. as they sat at a red light, clark connected his phone and pulled up a playlist he had made for rides just like this one and he had maybe made it with amelia in mind. it was one of his close held hobbies, making playlists for every mood or for the people in his life but up until now he was a little shy about sharing them. "so should i ask about your day or should we avoid talking about anything work related?"
"Buy One, Get one combo meal." Amelia clarifies, a triumphant smile. Value right there. The type that she will proudly boast in Clark's presence, ready and comfortable as she slouches into her seat. "Please and thank you. You know I love the city--" The energy, the competitiveness. "But I grew up on a beach." Ergo, sometimes the space is necessary to keep the peace. She reckons it's the same for Clark, who swings the pendulum between intimidating and friendly in a way that makes him a genuine friend. She settles as some early 2000's bops fill the air, Robyn's Dancing On My Own a crowd favorite, shaking her head. "You know I'm a workaholic. Can talk your ear off for hours. But," well, how often does it feel like this? She rolls down the window, let's the upstate air fill the truck. "I think I'd talk about anything else. Like - you? What have you been up to this week?"
There was a crawling sensation over his skin as he watched the man not only invade his daughter's space but inflict his touch upon what should have been sacred to just her. He swallowed the bile that was rising in the back of his throat, bitterness coming unbidden when he knew what he'd have felt like were it his father invading the sanctity of his home in such a way. Then a touch more guilt seeped in, knowing it was his suggestion that had Omar in there in the first place, convincing himself that it was the only way to rid her of the problem altogether.
That same easy smile was back on his face, nodding at the response as though he shouldn't have expected anything else. "Business? You'll have to tell me what you've got cooking at the moment." Though he had no intention of the other man living long enough to have to listen to such a thing. "In fact, I've got some new ventures brewing and I'd love your insight of them. It'd be invaluable." Appealing to the other man's ego when he knew how hard it was for abusers to resist flattery.
"What d'you say we get out of here and find a drink elsewhere?" The key to his plan but he was hoping that between the apparent lack of alcohol and maybe himself seeming like a shinier option for the evening. Omar would agree. "I know a place with a great scotch selection. Exclusive. My driver's never far, can have him in her less than five minutes." Only then did his gaze flick back to Amelia, just briefly, in silent assurance that he wouldn't be subjecting her to this much longer.
They talk like they're old friends, shooting the shit and exchanging trade secrets. Except - they can't be. Not with how Romeo intervened. Not in the way he moved, equal parts protective and wary. At least, that's what Amelia tells herself, as she watches Romeo and Omar volley back-and-forth like there isn't blood on the carpet from her nose. "A drink...?" She manages to murmur in delusion, but fortunately, Omar's too excited by the idea of 'imparting his wisdom' on 'young Romeo.' "What are we waiting for?" Omar finally agrees, all smiles and charm, the prospect of an exclusive space with better scotch appealing to him enough to grab his coat. But not without stopping in front of Amelia, a careful once over and a smarmy smile.
"We'll catch up later, sweetheart." And Amelia knows well enough that it's a threat, veiled in a loving and Cheshire cat smile.
He's first out the door, already talking about lighting a few cigars. It gives Amelia just enough time to touch Romeo's arm, catching his attention. A pause, brief as it is, before she nods. Conveying everything with her eyes; thankfulness, fear, and shame. "Be careful." Amelia heeds, before watching the two men leave.
END
