The color drained from Wolf's face momentarily when he registered who was at his desk. "Ms. Song...!" He stuttered out, a wave of embarrassment flooding his system. "I'm so sorry." He looked down before his eyes snapped up again. "For the files! I mean. Well, and your loss but -" He bit back on his tongue, feeling more than a bit stupid for the mincemeat of a sentence he was failing to form. Everyone knew who Sarang Song was. Her mother had only just recently been on the council, and everyone was well aware of the tragedy the Song family had faced.
Wolf began somewhat-frantically shuffling through files on his desk. "Oh, no, I'm sure they are around here somewhere. I was playing... well. It was with a pen. I wouldn't think to toss anything you gave me." He continued looking for anything that looked out of place. "Maybe they are... well - what files exactly? Did you need?"
Messing with the secretary is too easy, really. Wolf's confusion flows as easily as Sarang's lies. It doesn't hurt that there's no particular reason for Sarang to be lying about something as mundane as missing files. His apologetic scrambling delights Sarang enough to put him out of his misery earlier than intended. The perfect response for a game he hadn't any clue he was playing. "I'm only messing with you, silly," Sarang coos. "I'm only here to retrieve the remainder of my mother's things." Her smile is unnervingly large for the subject at hand. Grief was a strange experience, wasn't it?
"Oh? Playing with a pen?" Sarang rests her freshly manicured hands on the front of the secretary's desk. "There has to be a more entertaining way to pass the time."
where: jimmy's office
when: march 19th, 1997
who: aurelius crane & jimmy batts ( @thcshyster )
There are few people close to Aurelius who could say they've known every version of him. From the days of his drug-addled party youth to the rehabilitated, corporate golden boy, Jimmy Batts bears witness to it all. It was the sort of knowing that Aurelius couldn't handle on a regular basis, but something he had long grown accustomed to when it came to Jimmy. There was a relief in knowing there was space to lower the mask, even for just a few moments. A certain ease existed with the man that he's never able to find with his father.
The most recent hierarchical shift in Vitelli leadership meant the reintertwining of their immediate daily lives. With Augustu's funeral still fresh on the minds of those within the Vitelli orbit. It's enough even for Marcus Crane to return to Vegas to pay his respects— an encounter Aurelius dreaded after so much time away. Even more so without any concrete details or timelines on a possible retirement date for his father.
Aurelius knows that his father is... reluctant in his desire to hand over the reins, but it was becoming increasingly more obvious that he'd likely rather die before willingly handing the company over. A difficult pill to swallow when he'd dedicated the entirety of his life to the betterment of the company. Like many workaholic men of his variety, Aurelius sacrifices the potential for a family outside of work, all in the name of Crane Industries.
It's easier on both of them if Aurelius arranges a time to meet with Jimmy's secretary beforehand. A younger him would've waltzed right him— an older him has gained a level of consideration just then. He even comes bearing hot coffee. It's only right, especially with it being lunchtime. "I've come bearing gifts," he announces upon entering the office, placing the spare coffee on Jimmy's desk. "Figured you could use it with how busy everything's been." With Franco's first speech to the public since becoming Don being tomorrow, there was much to be taken care of.
When Romi first locked eyes with Sarang, she could feel chill run down her spine. She saw her from across the dining room and it took everything in her not to turn and bolt the other way. Up until now, she’d had quite the talent of slipping into another room anytime she saw her sister’s old best friend. Given that she was still a member of the Weiss family, in her own right, this happened more than she cared to admit. But up until now, she’d been able to dodge any sort of real, inevitably uncomfortable, conversation. As she saw Sarang approaching, there was nowhere to run. So instead, she gave a tight smile.
When they’d been younger, she’d simply been Petra’s annoying little sister, always wanting to spend time with the older girls and be their friend. But then, as they’d gotten older, the sisters’ relationship had become more volatile until finally, it all came to a head that fateful night. Afterwards, Sarang had had questions, understandably so—she wanted to know why her best friend had just seemingly up and vanished. But Romi hadn’t had any good answers for her at the time, too guilty to even discuss her sister. She could tell that that the woman didn’t trust her. However, she’d been certain there was no proof of her wrongdoing so therefore, no reason to worry. That was until she ran into Petra herself, last summer.
Now with Sarang here in front of her, she wondered to herself if she knew that Petra was alive after all. And if she did, there was no way her sister hadn’t aired out all their dirty secrets. But she couldn’t be sure, not yet. I had to give my compliments to the chef. That was her first red flag. It’s not that Romi didn’t try her best—she was doing the best she could with what she was given. But the Flying Saucer was no fine dining establishment and she was pretty certain that the dark-haired woman had more refined tastes than this. Still, she smiled along with the compliment—what else could she do?
“Thank you so much,” she smiled. She’d almost called her some sort of pet name, like ‘love,’ as if they were actually friends, but she couldn’t stomach it, the phoniness of it all. Perhaps the hardest part of her job was having to smile and be kind to everyone’s faces, kissing their asses—all the while, trying to be silently sneaky and underhanded, making sure people didn’t get the better of her. And yet, they so often got the better of her. Shall we sit and chat? The question made her stomach flip flop. No, no, no. She couldn’t deal with this, on top of everything else going wrong. Yet, she still heard her voice say “Of course! I can always take time for you,” smiling, leading them to a more intimate part of the restaurant so they wouldn’t be disturbed. Every part of this felt like a trap but what else was she supposed to do?
Romi met Sarang's greeting in its level of inauthenticity, the sort of saccharine excess responsible for the bulk of childhood cavities. Each word uttered comes with the sensation of hard candy ramming continuously into an already decayed tooth. It's only a matter of who could stomach it the longest, and Sarang's tolerance for falsities is especially high from years of practice. It was the only way for one to adequately maneuver social interactions with the local elite. By skirting on the outskirts of propriety, Romi carves out a pocket of the world purely for herself.
In her own way, Sarang understands wholeheartedly what it means to exist to your parents as a sum of failed and met expectations and nothing more. It's one of the major reasons leading to the unexpected demise of Sarang's own mother. In some alternate universe, Sarang is even sympathetic toward the youngest Weiss sister. She'd been succumbing to the weight of life chosen by someone else. It is a fierce loyalty to Petra that prevents her from doing so, a loyalty venturing beyond the realm of mere reason.
Sarang follows Romi to a more private part of the restaurant. Her expression of mock sympathy is paired with folded hands clasped across the table. "I've been wondering how you're doing. How have you been handling things? Since the... accident." Sarang is unspecific in her address, but the event didn't require specifics for Romi to have known what she'd been referring to. It was the sort of accident capable of derailing her future in its entirety. "I thought it would be the perfect oppurtunity for me to check in on you."
Sarang speaks with the level of familiarity of an old friend, a depth that did not exist between them, making the display all the more jarring, a fact Sarang is counting on. She suddenly reaches for Romi's hands, grasping them tightly in her own. "You don't have to be alone in this, okay?" There's a wild glint in her eye, one unsuited for the mawkishness oozing from her words.
with: @boneyardstarters
where: the weiss wedding
when: march 20th, 1997
"Well, that was interesting." Sévérine was the first to break the silence at his table when Romi Weiss was all but escorted off the stage. "Which one of you here bet Romi was going to be the sister to blow everything to shit?" As soon as he'd walked onto the courtyard before the ceremony, the translator had already begun a betting pool among family members — which sister was going to fuck everything up for their father's big day? See, he wouldn't be caught dead getting in the way of his father's own wedding, and he had been almost the perfect son when he'd remarried and brought Siah into the family. It helped that his stepmother was a longtime family friend, and Siah and Sévérine had ever been the troublesome two, as if they were siblings by blood and not the ties of a ring on someone's finger. A glint in his green eyes, a hand crept onto the table, palm facing skyward. "No need to announce your shame if you thought Cassandra, cough up your money and we'll be square." His other hand grabbed the wine glass that he had been nursing, only to realize it was empty. "...Are you going to finish that champagne, by the way? I'm fresh out."
At the suggestion that she may have gotten something wrong, she looks on with mock horror. "You wish," Sarang retorts, a chuckle cascading from her lips, outstretched palm already leveled in Severine's direction. "As if I would ever muck something like that up." She'd been in proximity to the Weiss sisters for far too long for the answer to not have immediately come to mind. Petra assured her she wouldn't be in attendance; a deafening silence was left in her absence. Cassandra was hardly the one to put on a show, possessing the sort of stoic disposition only an eldest sibling could have. That left Romi, the youngest and most volatile of the bunch. This is how Sarang becomes wrapped up in Sévérine's betting shenanigans. What did it hurt when the answer was so plainly evident to her? "Really? You'd rather just finish mine off instead of getting a fresh one?" She rolls her eyes. "Give me my portion of the earnings first and I'll consider."
where: the weiss wedding
when: march 20th, 1997
who: cherry turner-weiss & open ( @boneyardstarters )
The Turner-Weiss wedding reception is in full swing and everything is going according to plan. Cherry performs the role of the overinvolved bride with ease— only the most recent of many masks worn over her fifty or so years of life. She double checks the cutlery. Triple checks the flower arrangements. She would having nothing less than extraordinary on the day of her matrimony.
Extraordinary indeed is the speech delivered by the youngest Weiss daughter. As Cherry anticipates (hopes), the beginning of her speech is saccharine and sweet upon first glance, just as she is. The fragments begin to appear, until she falls apart entirely. Cherry's expression, which gradually metamorphosizes from delight to horror, and alongside Cassandra and Elias, is the main recipient of the crowd's scrutiny.
When Cherry is met with sympathy from other guests, she assures them she's only concerned with her stepdaughter's well-being. She'd been taking her mother's absence pretty hard, and her father's decision to remarry hadn't helped her... fragile state of existence. It was especially hard to take, especially in lieu of Petra's absence from the arrangement— but Cherry remained resilient, refusing to give up on family so easily.
How easily they eat that shit up. Like hoards of human vultures, they jump at the chance to feast on the misfortune of others. Cherry took measures to ensure she'd come out as the sympathetic party when the speech debacle took center stage in some socialites' gossip exchange.
"It's a shame, really. She's been trying her best, but..." she trails off, never addressing anything in specific, but enough to plant seeds of speculation. "It's a hard position to be in." She clutches her champagne glass close to her chest, grief and concern still evident in her voice, and sighs, offering the guest beside her a consolation smile. "Still, I hope you've been enjoying the festivities otherwise?"
WHO: Wren Kang & Open (@boneyardstarters)
WHERE: Outside of the Underworld
WREN'S LEAST FAVORITE, YET MOST CRUCIAL, PART OF BEING A SLAYER IS TRACKING DOWN VAMPIRES. Although he had weapons on hand in case he encountered one, he always felt like a lamb walking into a den of wolves whenever he went out by himself. He'd feel more comfortable with a teammate, but he knew part of being a slayer meant tackling assignments solo. After all, there were only so many slayers to spare and such a large city to cover.
And a situation like this is precisely why he longed for a partner. He had spotted a vampire feeding on a patron outside of a club, and after checking to confirm the human was alive, he ran after the creature in an attempt to slay it. But, with his luck, the vampire slipped away in the crowd.
And that wasn't the only thing to slip away. Wren had turned to move, but ended up slipping on an untied shoelace. He fell to the ground, watching as his stake rolled out of his bag and ended in front of a passing bystander. His face flushed red as he stuttered, "I can explain."
It's a normal occurrence for Rosalin to come across her slayers in the streets of Las Vegas. She's less accustomed to coming across them when they're fumbling around with their stakes. Maybe for everyone, excluding Wren that is...
Rosalin sighs, a sigh of exhaustion more than anything. Not from lack of sleep (for she hadn't slept more than four hours since her early twenties), but the sort of exhaustion that could only come from being responsible for someone other than yourself. To think that she'd vowed to remain childless all her life, only to end up the pseudo-guardian of two fully grown men. She wears a somber expression of disapproval.
Despite his clumsiness, Rosalin possessed a soft spot for the young slayer. She knew when he dropped his gaze, obediently doing what he was told, that it was fueled by a dutifulness she didn't recognize. Parental expectations were foreign to her.
Even though he came across as a kid carrying around some kind of costume, there's always reason to be suspicious. She reaches down to pick up the stake, slapping it rhythmically into the palm of his other hand. "What's there to explain, Wren?" Rosalin sighs once more, returning the stake to Wren's bag. "You've gotta be more careful, kid. What if it was a vampire and not me that passed you just now?"
open starter: alfie for @boneyardstarters
where: outside the photoflix
when: 11pm.
"If you're tryna be discreet," he calls over his shoulder, Australian accent thick despite the years he's been a Vegas local, "think a little harder about y'shoes next time."
He's used to having his head on a swivel, and having no movement to show for it; makes it almost impossible to get the jump on someone who's always ready for it. Almost.
The sun has well and truly set, the street's lit up by some flickering LED that blinks and buzzes to life before it dies out cyclicly every few breaths. The lights to the shop are decidedly off, despite the specific instruction to leave them on for every junkie, drunkard, and hopelessly lost tourist to wander through the backstreet. The alarm code strings a long, activated beep, heard clearly even through the metal bars of a protective, anti-theft door—that same cautious intelligence not applied to the glass windows in the shop's front—and the thick wooden door behind it.
It's eerie, the diegesis that follows. The sound of a hand pushing keys into his pocket, strung around a keychain that harbours the shop's name tag, and the shuffling of his own feet on a sidewalk in desperate need of a new layer of concrete, small rocks broken off and blown down the alley crunching under his feet. The thick, dense silence of limbs settled, body facing the other's, eyes unmistakeably disinterested, unthreatened, in their lazy-lidded blink of thick lashes and a dulled green hue.
He's sizing them up without meaning to; a brief threat assessment that's filed as inconclusive, for better or for worse. So he pushes for details.
"Got a reason for this show-and-tell?" A beat passes, giving Alfie space to pull his hand from his pocket; to fold arms across his chest and venture a follow-up. "Bit late for an odd development job, don't'cha think?"
The crisp air of the Las Vegas night was a welcomed reprieve from the earlier sunny day. Winter nights were always Jahmir's favorite part of the year, especially considering the two seasons in Vegas were hot as fuck and less hot as fuck.
He'd been on his way from the corner store with his favorite snacks in tow, prepared to stop for a quick smoke session before returning to his apartment, when he was startled by an unexpected stranger. "Holy shit, dude." A beat passes, and he lowers his balled up fists once sure the mam hadn't snuck up on him for a fight. "You can't be sneaking up on people like that, forreal."
"Huh? Oh... my bad. They're fresh kicks so they're liable to squeak." He'd been waiting in line all day to secure a pair of Air Jordan XII's, spending a sizable sum of his most recent work earnings to do so.
"What's with all the questions? You a cop, or something?" He wasn't accustomed to inquiring strangers. Either that, or maybe he'd been hoping to sell Jahmir something. Sure, he'd been used to drunkards and junkies tweakers striking him up in conversation— but this interaction was decidedly different.
Jahmir props his tall frame against the brick wall behind him, hands buried in his pockets, grocery bag dangling from his forearm, eyes scanning the man beside him. "I'm just existing, man." Jahmir offered him a shrug, as if to say, what more could you possibly want from me?! Maybe he needed to find a better place to smoke than a suspicious back alley, but what better place was there for green smoking?
In all his 27-ish years of life, Jahmir learned quickly that when you didn't have an answer to a question, the best choice is to answer said question with a question. At the very least, it would disarm the questioner for a few moments.
"And what are you doing back here? Being all discreet, and shit?" His eyes narrow in suspicion. "I think the dude shadow walking in the alley definitely seems way more fuckin' suspicious than I do."
Petra's orbit has always had a certain type circling it. Beautiful and hungry, people who, by all means, would be dangerous to even look at for too long. Max has met Sarang enough times to know she isn't just a friend of a friend. He's never had the chance to hang around her personally, Petra always the buffer - until now.
The music is loud enough that it vibrates in his teeth, bass punching through his ribs. Max is half a drink in and fully in his element in the Underworld's dim glamour, bodies packed too close, air thick with perfume and heat and wasted money. Fully relaxed as Sarang approaches, as her fingers trace a bicep, that wide grin, dimples and million-dollar smiles under pulsing lights and mist. He lets his gaze drag over her face, openly appraising. "The one and only," he's only slightly sarcastic as he says it, leaning back against the bar languidly.
"That's funny, Petra said the same thing about you." Playful and glinting, a light gibe, tilting his head, taking her in. "She's clearly got good taste in company, doesn't she?" Flattering them both, too fucking easy. Max steps closer out of instinct, a guise to hear her better, a smooth movement simply to be closer. "Seems like I've got an impression to make, then. Unless, of course, you've made up your mind already."
Saccharinity suited Maxim. Sarang preferred when men were as pretty as the words leaving their lips. He possessed the sort of charisma that was far-reaching, in the same way the sun's rays are unabashed in their caress. They'd been like-minded in their appreciation of the finer things in life, with a penchant for beauty. Maxim appeared to thrive under scrutiny, delighting Sarang and only inspiring her to amp it up.
"Did she now?" Sarang studies the sharp lines of Max's features further, the dim, pulsating strobes giving her all the reason to have a closer look. "She's had excellent taste for as long as I've known her." The space between them grows increasingly smaller with every sentence uttered.
"I've already got an idea," Sarang says, pressing her forefinger pensively to her lips. "But there's certainly room for you to make an impression." She places a hand on his chest, enough force to have tipped him over, if not for the bar propping them up. "What are you drinking?" Sarang takes the seat beside him, ordering a cable car for herself. "For me to pass judgment, of course."
Ninety-five, speedin' down the highway
Caught a ride, got five on the gas tank
Sister gonna be somethin' decent
I ain't never gon' be shit to my nieces
HEY, i think i just saw JAHMIR BURKE walking down the strip. stop by to catch up and you’ll learn the TWENTY-SEVEN YEAR OLD is working as a LIFEGUARD + FLOODED MINES / CARETAKER + ARMADILLO RESCUE and lives in SOLSTICE APARTMENTS. given they are CHARMING but SCATTERBRAINED, it’s likely that they ARE NOT a vampire. i bet you can find them tearing up the dance floor to HIGHWAY 95 pt.2 by BABY KEEM and you’ll know why they’re called THE FORMER HELLION ☾ .⭒˚ tyriq withers. cis-man + he/him. pansexual + libra. ( lia, 27, she/they, pst )
mbti / enneagram ... esfp (the entertainer) / type 7 (the enthusiast)
character inspirations ... john b (outer banks), troy bolton (high school musical), marty mcfly (back to the future), christopher turk (scrubs)
pinterest.
iii. physical.
faceclaim … tyriq withers
build ... mesomorph
hair color … brown
eye color … dark brown
iv. about.
Like an unwanted shadow beneath the late Vegas afternoon sun, trouble trails behind Jahmir's every step. It's easy to do so with his mom away most of the day at work, taking on multiple jobs to care for her three children. His eldest brother, who's 7 or 8 years older than him on any given day, likens himself to a parental figure of sorts by a certain age, but it's difficult for him to view his brother as an authority figure— even if he'd been right and well intentioned. While his brother and sister throw themselves into their studies, Jahmir spends his time roaming the streets of Las Vegas. He cuts class, falls in with the wrong crowd— and is slated for a purposeless future.
Where they were from, you either excelled in sports or academics, or you didn't excel at all. Jahmir winds up decent in football, but his inability to stay out of trouble prevents him from pursuing it past a high school level. There'd be no college with grades like his, and Jahmir feels some sense of relief in no longer having to pretend to be concerned with academics. Two successful Burkes would have to be enough. Three kids with good heads on their shoulders from any upbringing were practically unheard of.
There were rules in his mother's house long after the age of eighteen, for her house meant her rules, so he found himself sneaking out to attend a party. His sister, ever the worrywart, follows him there— something she did from time to time, and an occurrence that occasionally led to them both enjoying a night out together. This night, though? He hadn't the slightest clue she'd taken her car and followed him. Not until it's far too late to return to their lives before the events of that evening. He discovers his sister outside the house, half dead, when she should've been fully dead. He immediately calls Ivan in a panic, hoping his knowledge could save her. They later learn she's been transformed into a vampire.
Jahmir is the one left with the image of their bloodied, mangled sister and bearing the brunt of the blame for it happening. He blames himself more than anyone ever could. For she would never have been out if not for following him. He wished his brother didn't blame him as much as he did— that he would fully recognize how the guilt gnaws away at him each and every day. But how could he, when he'd been rightfully unable to escape the very reputation he crafted for himself? This is what finally propels Jahmir into change. And so, he finds himself a couple of jobs, eventually saving up for a place of his own. It made it easier for him to fulfill his side of the bargain regarding Ivan's plans. Jahmir also blames himself for shifting the course of his brother's life. He could've led a normal life as a doctor, but his sister being turned into a vampire results in his descent into mad science.
And so, Jahmir puts his tall stature (6'5) and kilowatt smile to use, luring as many potential vampires as he can to Ivan's lab. This is the extent of his knowledge on his studies, for his brother wanted him as far away from the operations as possible. Jahmir had little interest in the science behind it all (though he takes offense to his brother's insistence). He lifeguards when it's in season, and has actually gained a special place in his heart for armadillos. He only needs to prove to his family now that change was on the horizon.
Max is under no impression that this evening would go any way other than bad. Crane dinners were already notorious for being cold and fucking fake, Max can distinctly remember the tables growing up, family dinners were never loud. Never warm like you see in movies, no overlapping voices, no laughter spilling over plates. Long tables and expensive food going cold, Marcus Crane at the head if he was there at all, eyes always somewhere else, mind already three meetings ahead. Aurelius and Claudia had eventually grown up and out, lives pulling them away - in Claudia’s case, into enemy territory, and Max had been the only one left. Too young to escape, too old to be fussed over, not that he’d ever been particularly fussed over to begin with. Sitting across from an empty chair more often than not, pushing food around his plate while their father took calls between bites or didn’t show at all. Silence so thick it felt intentional, affection always rationed and he’d missed the window. He learned how to fill in later, had started to just ditch altogether when he realized he could, filling up with noise and people and charm, but back then it had just been cold and lonely in a way that settled into his bones.
The condo now feels like a grown-up version of that same quiet, it’s tradition, Aurelius had proclaimed, and Max had to think of whether or not they remembered sitting at the same table growing up.
Max lets himself in without a knock or announcement, just the quiet click of the lock and the soft thud of the door closing behind him. Aurelius’ condo is immaculate in that deliberate way, everything curated to look effortless. It makes Max’s mouth twist. The Crane family has always been very good at that: immaculate surfaces, rot carefully kept out of sight. “Before she shows up, I wanna make it clear that I knew this was gonna be a shit show from the start.” Spoken indifferently, he sidles up to the island and tosses his coat over the back of the stool, sunglasses placed onto the counter. “You know, just because you’re the oldest doesn’t mean you actually have to start acting like dad.”
Nosy, Max peers over to see whatever he’s got on the stove, reaches to pluck a small piece and thief it for himself, into his mouth and chews. He raised a brow at his brother, sitting in the stool. “She’s gonna try to get information out of us, you know. This is gonna be a fucking minefield.” Not to mention he still had a bone to pick with him regarding a particular radio station.
By the time Maxim Crane is born, the performance of fatherhood was long abandoned by the Crane patriarch. It's what makes Max's birth well into Aurelius's teenage years all the more surprising, to the point that rumors of Aurelius Crane secretly being a teenage father began circling, for that suggestion become far more believable than the truth. Perhaps Marcus Crane consulted a psychic or somehow divined his eventual need for a new spare, with future Claudia being slated to fuck off to the side of the enemy, and all. Once again, the reality of it all was far less exciting. For Marcus had been your typical egotistical patriarch who's interest in his children never ventured beyond the level of investment that an employer has in their employee.
The last proper Crane family dinner must've occurred when Aurelius was still in his 20s— right around the time his own life began unraveling— for he nearly succumbs under the pressure of being heir permanently. Part of him wished the desire for his wellbeing is what propelled him back into action, but the real truth of the matter is: Aurelius looked death in the face and saw only legacy of failure. That is what leads to him fully stepping into his role. He continued playing the role of the dutiful son, patiently awaiting the keys to the empire he invested the entirety of his being in. The place he sacrificed any semblance of a marriage, life, and family. In some alternate timeline, he'd likely been just some guy with a 9 to 5, a wife, and two kids. He's miserable, but in a conveniental way. He sees his family over the holidays and they go on holiday any chance they get.
Instead, Aurelius possesses only the jagged fragments of a family. Any attempt at holding them too close, at holding on too tight— and Aurelius cuts himself on the edges, emerging bloodied each and every time. And still, he continued to reach for them, the truest marker of a madman. Today is no different. When Max enters Aurelius's apartment, he's finishing up their dinner preparations for the evening. He'd learned to cook some years into his recovery, motivated by his desire not be a gym bro who consumed endless chicken breasts and boiled eggs. And he'd grown surprisingly good at it. He awaits whatever complaint Max will level at him to start the evening— that was typically how his greetings began. "And a hi hello to you too." Not a lick of fucking manners in this family, man. "It's not going to be a shit show because you're going to keep your mouth shut about anything work related and I'm going to do the same. So keep your big fucking mouth shut. I want your lips tighter than one of Tom Cruise's NDAs."
Aurelius rolled his eyes. Sure, he'd definitely been behaving something akin to a father, but he resented the idea that he'd been acting like their dad. "There's nothing Marcus Crane-ish about me inviting my black sheep siblings over for dinner. That would make me the antithesis to dad if anything," Aurelius points out. He sighs. If Max appeared ungrateful now, then CiCi would surely put him to shame. The woman sustained herself on coffee, negativity, and the failures of her siblings. He'd never have dinner at her place, partially because she'd never invite him, and partially because he couldn't know for certain if he'd leave poisoned or not. "Hell, if we play our cards right, maybe we can leave with dirt on the Weisses."
who: cherry & elias (@thoroughfxre)
where: solstice apartments
In one of the Solstice Apartments, Cherry Turner unexpectedly lay sprawled across the sun-bleached sofa in the living room. Though she'd begun spending most of her time at the Weiss manor, scheming of any kind always occurred off premises. It's why Cherry chose to keep one of the leases of her old apartments, a location known only to her and Elias. A shrine, a moment frozen in time— a continuous reminder of the life they clawed their way out of.
Elias always knew where to locate her if necessary, and today is no different. The early stages of kingmaking were upon her. The wedding only marked their redebute into high society as Weisses. When the time came, it would be up to Elias to solidify his role as Don. Cherry could only aid in clearing the pathway.
"Your final fitting went exactly as planned, I'm assuming," Cherry says, amidst double-checking some documentation from the wedding's venue. Despite none of the burden falling on her regarding wedding planning, she performs the role of the meddling, future wife masterfully. In the presence of her only son, the mask slips away. "I'll accept nothing short of your Sunday best if you're walking me down the aisle." She's only teasing, for Elias has inherited Cherry's immaculate sense of style.
Bonifer had looked for someone to guide them, had been eager to follow anyone who knew more than them. They wanted to be able to do what was needed, they wanted to take their revenge, even if it was upon Vampires who had not killed their family. Bo looked innocent enough however, and finding Rosalin - though perhaps it could be said that she found them - felt like a god-sent. It felt like something wanted them to succeed. Because she had the skill, she had the knowledge. They would follow.
Eyebrows low over their eyes, they nodded. "We go in," they said, "through the window." They're not against this, repeat repeat repeat. But their mind was worried. Bo had never been a soldier, never been any kind of jock. They'd been fast, but mostly they'd been smart. They'd put all their attention on getting better with how they presented themself. If they could convince people of who they weren't, they could get away with anything. And their boyish smile was winning in all the right ways.
But it wouldn't help them with this raid. For that, they'd need more than a good brain. And they hoped they'd trained enough. "What if we get seperated?"
Rosalin nods along as Bonifer recites the details of the plan back to her. Remembering the plan wouldn't be a problem— Bonifer took to information quickly. But whether the plan would properly be enacted could only be determined in the thick of it all, a variable Rosalin could not possibility account for. Only time would tell.
At the suggestion of their separation, Rosalin gestures to a room on their makeshift map with their pointer finger. "The closet over here. It's large enough for us to fit in and isn't attached to a room." Thank goodness for rich fucks and their gratuitous amount of rooms. She slaps her palm over their shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"Just focus on staying alive, kid, alright?" Rosalin says, expression steeled. "I'd rather a failed mission than a dead lackey. Remember that." Missions could be done again. Life could not.
HEY, i think i just saw CHERRY TURNER-WEISS walking down the strip. stop by to catch up and you’ll learn the FIFTY-SEVEN YEAR OLD is working as an APPRAISER / DIRTY SOCIALITE WITH THE WEISS FAMILY and lives in THE WEISS MANOR. given they are ZEALOUS but MERCILESS, it’s likely that they ARE NOT a vampire. on the flipside, rumor has it that SHE MARRIED INTO THE WEISS FAMILY TO SEAT HER SON UPON THE THRONE and it keeps them looking over their shoulder. i bet you can find them tearing up the dance floor to BITCH BETTER HAVE MY MONEY by RIHANNA and you’ll know why they’re called THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. ☾ .⭒˚ halle berry. cis-woman + she/her. bisexual + aries.
character inspirations ... satine (moulin rouge!), maeve millay (westworld), margaery tyrell (game of thrones), joan halloway (mad men)
pinterest.
iii. physical.
faceclaim … halle berry
build ... mesomorph
hair color … brown
eye color … dark brown
iv. about.
tw: domestic violence, murder, child abandonment
Long before the pending Weiss portion of her name was ever a suggestion, Cherry Turner-Weiss was just Cherry. A young woman in her early twenties trying to make a living. With an absentee mother and a father who could hardly raise her and her other siblings, it is the streets of Las Vegas that raise Cherry. They're where she winds up once she's old enough for some semblance of agency. School was never her forte, and how could it be when constantly being shuffled through underfunded schools? She'd been beautiful and charismatic, so the commodification of her company felt like the logical next step.
For a while it's just Cherry. She's tough in a way that draws in the attention of the other girls— they constantly look to her to lean on; she's someone who you'd always find to show the new girls the ropes. When XXX first arrives with little Elias, Cherry is the first to advocate for his staying. His mother, both young and with no other lodging for the small boy, is someone she naturally takes under her wing. In XXX Cherry recognized an undeniable sense of tragedy— a recognition of the likelihood of her being her undoing. One day she leaves, but not before asking her to take care of little Elias, something Cherry was accustomed to doing, but without the sense of finality that this conversation seemed to have.
Perhaps this was merely how she chose to remember it, in her own romanticized way. The hardest part is the early days. A seven year old boy is old enough to recognize the absence left by his mother. Cherry never tells him anything for certain. Not until she's absolutely sure. (Not until she managed to get her hands on the coroner's report— until she saw her face for herself, an unmoving face seared forever in her brain, a face that would continue to live on through her son.) The next time he asks, she takes his hands, the heaviness of her heart nearly weighing her down. Your mom can't come back right now, Elias. But she always loved you very much. That much she knew was certain. It'll take some getting used to, but she asked me to take care of you in the meantime.
Though never having a child of her own, a twenty-nine-year-old Cherry rises to the occasion. No longer is it just Cherry— now it would be Cherry and Elias. He gives her a newfound motivation to be something other than she was. As Elias grows older, it becomes abundantly clear that this isn't a proper life for a boy his age. When Cherry gets word of the escort service going under because of some bad business decisions, she manages to secure the necessary means (via loan sharks and years of saving) in order to buy the company from under him.
[It becomes the two of them against the world— with a string of a shit relationships on the way. Cherry always was better at protecting others than she was at protecting herself. There is a situation with one man she dated that became especially violent. She did her best to disguise this from an eighteen year old Elias, intent on handling it hersellf— but he's in the wrong place at the wrong time (though he'd insist it had been right), leading him to bear witness to the physical incident. In that moment, Cherry witnesses a new side of Elias— a mixture of fear (for fear of where his actions could've landed him) and reverence (to know there was someone she cared so deeply about to come to her aid). She quietly arranges for no trace to be left of the man, and he's hardly someone who would be missed, which certainly helped.]
This becomes one of many business ventures Cherry Turner embarks on. She opened a string of laundromat dry cleaners, restaurant chains, and pawn shops. Elias became motivated, she'd never had before— the newfound concept of being wholly responsible for someone other than herself. Savvy business dealings eventually led to rubbing shoulders with Vegas socialite circles, before solidifying her and Elias's position as socialites themselves.
It would be some time before Cherry officially set your sights on the DON, but when she does, there is no turning back. The dissolution of his prior marriage becomes the perfect opportunity. She notices the way the Don begins looking at her, as if the sun shined between her ass, and that's when Cherry knows once and for all he's fallen under her spell.
It is the grand finale for her and Elias, and the most intricate scheme they'd ever managed to pull off. For Cherry Turner, the future Mrs. Weiss, has every intention of placing her only son upon the Weiss throne, slipping the entirety of the Don's fortune from beneath the unsuspecting feet of his rotten daughters. There is a sort of desire only obtainable when the world spits you out hungry and wanting– and it would be this very hunger responsible for their undoing.
OPEN STARTER FOR @boneyardstarters, ( 0 / 4 )
outside the underworld
The club spits them out well past midnight, neon flickering red over cracked pavement and cheap cologne. Lux plants themself against the brick with a bottle dangling from two fingers, cigarette burning crooked at their lip. No amount of blood could satiate them tonight; it's not often Lux finds themself here anymore, not like they used to. They've had years to perfect it, a temper always on the wrong end of the scale, picking battles instead of manufacturing them. Tonight, though, the old itch is back, that tight coil under their ribs ready to fucking snap, so old haunts become familiar again.
The door bangs open behind them and a group tumbles out, loud and careless. Someone clips Lux's shoulder on the way past without so much as a glance, and between the drugs and alcohol pumping through their system, it's enough. The cigarette drops, ember skittering across asphalt. "Watch where you're fucking going," they snarl.
Their pulse kicks up in anticipation; they know this version of themself, the one that doesn't try so hard to be even. The one that misses the clean simplicity of a fist connecting. Lux rolls their shoulders once, loose and ready, a humorless half-smile tugging at their mouth. "Come on," they nod once, pushing off the wall. "Give me a reason."
At his present age, Aurelius did what he could to avoid landing himself in physical confrontations. As Max liked to remind him frequently, he'd been pushing 50. Besides, it didn't give him the rush it once did in his early twenties. When he stumbled across someone else's confrontation, he made an effort not to make it his own.
"Hey, man! Watch the Prada!" Aurelius managed to step backward in time to avoid a possible collision with the man at risk of getting his ass beat. The shoes were still fairly new, purchased especially for the Vitelli funeral a couple of months ago.
"Can you try kicking his somewhere other than the walkway?" he then requested of the ass kicker. He wasn't necessarily in a position to be making requests, but that never stopped him before. "I don't know about you, but something tells me they could definitely kick your ass," Aurelius said with a shrug, input no one asked for, but offered readily nonetheless.
open starter for @boneyardstarters
location: city hall
It was a simple game. A pencil holder sat on the far side of Wolfgang's desk. With one eye shut, he would simply fling a pen at it. If he got it in? Three points. If he hit it? One. If he missed? Minus one point, unless he forgot. Wolf was currently on fifteen points. Or, at least, he thought he was. It was hard to write down his score when his pen was regularly on the other side of the desk.
Wolf closed one eye, lined up his shot and -- damn. Fourteen points. He went to mark down the loss only to realize his pen was on the floor on the far side of his desk. With an annoyed tsk, he stood up from his chair and circled around to retrieve it. He scooped down, picked up the projectile, and paused, trying to remember what his score was now. It didn't come to him - and no bother. It was written down on a sticky note on his desk.
He stood back up and, as he turned, caught sight of someone just entering the office door. He popped up with a bright smile. "Oh, heya. Is there something I can help you with?" Wolf moved back to behind his desk, taking a quick glance at his notes. Fifteen points. Nice. "Or - wait. I was supposed to have something ready for you, I think. It's probably almost done. Just, uh... what was it?"
Sarang once again found herself lingering in the halls of the city hall— going out of her way to appear more lost and aimless than she actually was, feigning the disposition of a wayward puppy. It was only right, wasn't it? The untimely loss of Chae-won Song was still fresh upon the horizon of her life. If she were to continue flying under the radar, then she must continue performing as such. The dutiful, grieving daughter.
Her eyes flicker to the man at the desk appraisingly. He definitely worked there— he'd been recognizable enough, but there'd been nothing she'd presently requested of. The corners of her lips turn upward. Perhaps there'd be a way for her to have fun with his present discombobulation.
"Forgotten me already?" she responded, feigning offense, lips turning downward. "A shame. Don't tell me you've turned my requested files into trashcan basketball fodder."
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