goneril

Grace Daly. Goneril. 26. Capulet. Montague Soldier. Paramedic. Aspirational only child.

[graceydaly]

              Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.

[graceydaly]

📱 texts. i & g. 12/4/19.

ivan: yikes. let's just be clear, i don't envy you.

ivan: we already know i'm smarter than most people we know.

ivan: ha she probably slobbed all over that ouchy. Gross.

ivan: perhaps, he thinks you were being selfish and wanted to put the bullet in himself. but i love how he thinks 'messy rabid dog' is an insult to you though. don't they know by now that insults only make you stronger?

ivan: no you look like you spend your time dropping rocks over the bridge to see if you'll knock someone out

ivan: JOHNNY BRAVO 😎😂

ivan: that was hilarious and a pinch more helpful. hey, when i'm finished with them, i'll pencil you in, we can fuck up a few more days, i think. start thinking up targets, we'll compare lists.

grace: beats your job staring at a computer screen all day. yawn

grace: wow, were you sucking your own dick while you typed that?

grace: and to think i was just about to eat breakfast. lunch. whatever. now i'm going to have to wait at least thirty seconds before my appetite comes back

grace: maybe but that sounds a lot like a him problem. there were no fucking rules! i didn't get a memo telling me that i couldn't try and blow cosimo's brains out. how was i supposed to know?! what am i, a fucking psychic?

grace: right. i've seen what a messy rabid dog can do to a man after biting him. that shit is exactly what you want on a team when going up against your lot

grace: as soon as the damn bridge is rebuilt i'll be back throwing stones at people on boats, just you wait and see

grace: matthias warren is a gym bro AND a university prof. that sort of combo should be banned. like, do you ask him if he even lifts or do you trigger him by saying the words "funding cuts"?

grace: at this point my list is everyone in verona, so...

[graceydaly]

C.

Catherine bides her time, remaining silent as Grace goes on and on about mundane things that would upset her youngest sister. Her jaw clenches against better judgement as she offers no response, nothing but a rolling of her eyes, until she mutters under her breath, “Nothing remains sweet and kind forever.” Especially in the mob, especially with a sister like Grace.

“Are you talking about Apollo or yourself, sorella?” The acidic question slips from her lips before she has a chance to wrap it in her normal velvet-soft tone, and a brow arches in near defiance as the Montague soldier rises from her perch on the bench. It’s easy to liken Grace to a bitch, to a dog in dire need of a muzzle, of a leash and a harness with the way she carries herself–and it’s even easier now, as Catherine’s patience grows thinner with every passing breath. “What right do you have to be pissed off? You shot Cosimo, you–” The back-end of her sentence–you pulled that shit with Everett–dies on now-pursed lips. 

Remember your promise, Catia.

“You spoke to me first, Grace.” She schools her tone into something more composed, something less angry, though her glare is still lovely and cold. Apollo’s ears flatten against his skull and he retreats into Catherine, body pressed against her feet. A low whine spills from his muzzle.  “You can’t play the victim here.”

Nothing remains sweet and kind forever.

The statement makes Grace’s lips twitch, unable to hold back the urge to exhale out a strained laugh of exasperation, gaze raising skyward as if to look to the heavens for the will to continue this conversation. Something grants her it but she highly doubts it was Dio. “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t been trying to get that into your head ever since you decided to join an organisation that was obviously going to fucking chew you up and spit you out?” Her line of sight zeroes back in on her sister, the hint of a scowl slinking its way onto angular features. She’d always been sharper than Catherine in appearance; born with a dark shock of hair compared to the golden princess tresses of the youngest. They were two ends of a spectrum that likely never should have existed under the same roof, let alone shared the same blood. And yet-- “You want to know one of the reasons why I’m a bitch to you? Because if I’d have treated you like the precious fragile little china doll our parents and Everett do, you’d be dead by now.” Only a fool would think Grace Daly ever did anything selflessly for her siblings but she knows her attitude towards them certainly hasn’t hindered their ability to survive the mafia. “Not being able to trust your own big sister puts you in a pretty good position when it comes to deciding who you do want to surround yourself with.”  

This is new. There’s a bite to Catherine’s words that spark a smirk. It sits cleanly at the edge of Grace’s mouth, more humoured than antagonised by the venom in her baby sister’s voice. “Does it matter?” she responds, studying pale blue eyes with intrigue. “I don’t give a shit about your new pet. But I do want to know what it is that’s gotten under your skin.” Her brow furrows into a frown. “Is that what this is about? Because I shot Cosimo? Fucking-- he doesn’t mean shit to you, Kitty-Cat. You just pretend that he does because that’s what he wants. Does anyone actually care about him? Do you even know when his birthday is? Or what he does for fun at the weekends? He makes everyone think that he’s special but he’s just another boring, lonely old man with too much power.” She hums flatly in disagreement. “Right, well tell that to the moment of peace and fucking quiet I was getting and the pleasant decision I made to say hello to you before you decided to get pissy at me.”

[graceydaly]

📱 texts. i & g. 12/4/19.

ivan: it's literally 1pm, get your ass up

ivan: that's because you're the only person i can stand

ivan: doubt it. though none of us have actually Seen the man lately, so he's probably still milking this like a fucking toddler. you mean....you shot him, and they're not even throwing you a parade? ingrates...

ivan: you should shoot all of them, i'll provide you with bullets.

ivan: okay, close with the heir is good. good in a fight, useful. anything about who else they're close to, where they hang out, come on -- i know you're allergic to friends, but you have to Notice things. i need to know so i can ruin their day. 😈

grace: piss off, 1pm is 1am when i'm working night shifts

grace: your choice in friend says something more about you than it does about everyone else, baby boy

grace: awww did iccle cosimo get an ouchy? bet he asked viv to kiss it better

grace: i guess putting a bullet in the rival mob boss is seen as a bad thing this side of the river? damiano said it had something to do with me being a messy rabid dog? idk it's a load of bullshit if you ask me

grace: the idea has crossed my mind more than once

grace: do i look like i spend my time learning who people are friends with and where they like to hang out?

grace: if i had to guess, probably some dark, grungy bar. or measure by measure. pretty sure they're chummy with johnny bravo now that he's running the place. santino and brielle are their soldiers but they're basically catherine levels of soft

grace: dio i'm jealous, i'd love to ruin a day or two

[graceydaly]

📱 texts. i & g. 12/4/19.

ivan: buongiorno sole

ivan: apparently we have to text because if i happen to be standing on the same street as you and the wind blows in your direction and i happen to look in it, someone will record it and put it on instagram and will probably lead to our executions by sniper rifle so...calculated risk.

ivan: tell me what you know of marcelo rosso. no detail is too little.

grace: why are you awake this early

grace: why am i awake this early

grace: dio. at this point i'm pretty sure that you're the only person in this city who DOESN'T want to execute me by sniper rifle, so that's real fucking cool

grace: how's my fave baby boy cosimo doing? regained strength in his wanking arm yet? damiano's got his knickers in a twist about that btw so that's the last time i fucking shoot anyone for free

grace: they're a captain. broody. close with roman. known to be good in a fight. that's all i've got, i barely know them. believe it or not, making friends wasn't top of my to-do list when i joined the montagues

grace: why do you ask? you looking for a new roommate? becoming an identity thief? being paid to write them a new tinder profile?

[graceydaly]

M.

“And yet Damiano assigned you to help,” he reminded her. He didn’t care if Grace respected him, or if he would ever be in charge of her again, but this was his assignment, and he would not fail because she decided her own little rebellious act was more important than respecting the institution that took her in when the Capulets wouldn’t tolerate her anymore. He tried to hope that their loss was the Montagues’ gain, but it wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to do. “You were assigned to help protect this place. I run this place, so I have say over what happens. If you’re not going to be any help, I’ll gladly let Damiano know so another soldato can do what you can’t: listen.” Matthias was not here to play games. He wasn’t here for Grace’s ‘too cool to care’ attitude, nor was he going to give her the chances Damiano has. If she wanted to prove herself, she would do so by doing her job and not talking back about it, and nothing less would show Matthias she was worthy of his respect. The splintered board was tossed to the side as he got closer to Grace, looking down upon her quite literally while she spoke. “You don’t know the first thing about this war, then. If we don’t have even the slightest idea of where to post people or what to do in the event of any sort of attack, then we’ll be left at a disadvantage. The Capulets don’t fight fair, so we have to prepare for anything.” He considered her suggestion seriously for a second, though, as the dust from the impact of Grace’s jump settles about their feet. “Honestly,” he admits with a slight shrug, “that’s not a bad idea. Our top priority is keeping the Capulets at bay until they concede and accept that this place is ours. What exactly did you have in mind?”

His very vocal reminders of his authority over her are grating. Grace’s teeth clench, jaw tight and lips caught in a loveless expression which splits when she coughs out a scoff. “Thinking about trading me for someone else so soon? Who are you going to ask for instead: the soldato who helps save Capulets or the Russian who seemed pretty fucking chummy with the man you’ve replaced?” She shrugs tauntingly, more than happy for Matthias to make a strategically terrible decision by replacing her-- it’d be his funeral she’d end up attending, not hers. Narrowed eyes study him through mascara-blackened lashes, ever the dark shape watching from its perch, unflinching as he draws closer. Does he want her to be afraid of him? Of his threats? She can’t quite tell, but the notion in itself is amusing. He could square up to her for as long as he wanted, standing tall, raising his jaw to look down his nose at her; nothing was going to change the fact that she knows exactly where to cut his neck to slice through his carotid artery. “Fuck, are you really about to try and lecture me on the Montague-Capulet war?” Grace pulls a face. “Sta 'zitto,” she snaps, the sound loud in the hollow space. “You think I don’t know how the fuck the Capulets fight? News flash, shit for brains, I know more about them than you could ever try and guess at. Next time you mansplain something like that to me I’ll rip your tongue out of your mouth and feed it to a stray cat. Capito?” She seethes, anger hot in her blood. The Montagues were all too keen to remind her of her past allegiances when she put a foot wrong but quick to forget the value of the tactical advantage she gives them. Not even the shift in Matthias’ tone is enough to pluck her from her increasingly darkening mood, reluctantly offering up her idea as she moves past him, slamming her shoulder hard into his side. “Barely anyone uses the Capulet entrance to this place. Buy a few steel jaw traps for the tunnel. Cut the lighting wires to keep it in the dark. Maybe even flood it with water.” She sulks sourly, casting her attention to a loose screw on the floor. A sharp kick sends it across the ring, metal singing. “I don’t know, use your fucking university-professor-level imagination.”

[graceydaly]

M.

Matthias could burn this place to the ground or turn over every rock and chair and speck of dust and there would still remain at least one drop of blood somewhere. He didn’t try to rid the place of the blood that had been shed, but if he needed to, it simply could not be done. This place was built on blood and bone and that it would stay forevermore, no matter whose hands it fell into or what tragedy befell it. Blood aging by the minute sat in every crevice, spilled by that of an angry fist or a choking cough, and Measure by Measure was not a place ashamed of the red within its walls. While above ground, people may try to mask the blood spilled in this war – whether it was to protect their own minds from realizing the extent of what they’d done or what had been done to them or to protect the denizens ignorant to the horrors happening when their backs were turned – here, they were proud of every drop. It meant something, an ebb and flow of victory and defeat, as well as a reminder that even those who came out on top could bleed, and some friendly advice to those fighting that every blow mattered. Matthias barely noticed the blood anymore, as one barely notices a scuff mark on a floor they’d walked across hundreds of times. “Every second you’re not here is a second this place is left one man weaker,” he announced, looking down at her. He knew she’d been assigned to help, and it wasn’t exactly a secret that Damiano was displeased with her, though Matthias was unaware exactly why. It didn’t matter to him, truly. What mattered was that they did their jobs. “For keeping this place in our hands,” he corrected firmly. “That thing that you were tasked to do. So, while you don’t have to do anything, you should probably go along with this so you don’t lose your job or your head.” He sighed as she kicked the wood, her delight at the destruction palpable. Matthias could only hope she had such a drive to destroy any Capulets that entered this place.

Rocking back and forth on the heels of her boots as she settles Matthias with a raised eyebrow paired with a particularly impressed scowl. “Right, well, for starters I’m not a fucking man. And if you think that I’m going to spend every second of my waking day in this place freezing my ass off whilst watching you do your little DIY job, you’re sorely fucking mistaken. You aren’t even my capo, so if you think you can give me orders you can go fuck yourself with that piece of splintered wood in your hand.” Grace sucks loudly on her teeth, determining her point well-made. She thinks, idly, that she probably would have fared better had she been assigned to fall under someone with the blonde’s temperament rather than the string-bean of a slippery, snake-like man that was Henry. Brawn was much more preferable to brains and she loathes the constant scheming and judgement that fall from her capo’s lips. He reminds her too much of Everett. “Listen, knock-off discount shelf Thor, your concern for what happens to my head is cute, but we don’t need to sit around like idiots figuring out some sort of strategy. The only thing we need to do is fight Capulets, right? We see one of those fuckers, we stick a bullet through their chest or a fist through their face. Easy.” A boot on the barrier, she grips the wood and pushes herself up and over, landing in the arena ring with a dull thump. “The only other thing would be to go all Indiana Jones on them and lay a few traps-- but you might risk running through a rogue civilian that way. Which,” Grace shrugs with one shoulder, approaching him to stop a few feet short from where he stands, “well, shit happens. Depends on how eager you are to keep this place from grubby, greedy little Capulet hands.”

[graceydaly]

C.

Apollo loves walking, which is good motivation for the frazzled soldier to get out of her home for more reasons than just Capulet affairs. Catherine leads him, black leather leash wrapped loosely around her hand until she feels the familiar tug of him stopping to linger at a pole undoubtedly marked by other dogs. For Apollo’s sake, she stops and watches with lazy interest, attention flickering from him to her phone until a voice she’s heard all her life calls her name.

The grip on Apollo’s leash tightens, as does her jaw. “Grace,” she responds levelly against her better judgement. The golden child looks the eldest up and down and feels nothing but contempt and ire, nothing but disgust–but her expression is schooled into one of mere curiosity, if only for the sake of delaying inevitable conflict. Catherine swallows the bile that threatens to rise in her throat, and then murmurs, “You’re looking worse than you did after la purga.” And the thought that chases her sentiment–Good, she deserves it--does little to nothing to faze Cat or render her confused, for she wants nothing more than to confront, to demand answers, to–

Grace’s words cut through her thoughts and she inwardly bristles at the disruption, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Capulet affairs no longer concern you, Grace, and neither does my lack of promotion.” Try as she might, she can’t hide the underlying bitterness at Grace, at the situation, at the fact that she’s still only a soldier–but there is a light at the end of the tunnel and it’s Everett Craven who now dons the title of emissary rather than captain. 

She hopes now that he’ll be safe. 

She hopes now that he never comes in contact with the Montague soldier in front of her.

Apollo pads towards her sister out of curiosity while Cat flatly murmurs, “He’s a puppy, Grace.” Gently, she tugs the bundle of dark fur back towards her–away from Grace, away from the blade. “And if I let him run freely, he’ll more than likely end up in trouble.” Azure eyes darken. “You’d know all about running freely and starting trouble, wouldn’t you?”

Grace whistles, low and near-mocking, under her breath, unaccustomed to her sister spewing anything other than sweet syllables or mournful mews. “I’m sure that would have been a pretty low fucking blow if I gave a shit about your opinion of how I look, but anyway--” She eyes Catherine with quiet intrigue, the beginnings of a smirk curling at the edge of her mouth. Her last interaction with the youngest Daly sibling had been, by her account, entirely civil. Nice, even. “Are we going to talk about the fact that you clearly got out the wrong side of your bed this morning and-- I don’t know, spilt your chamomile tea? Broke your favourite mug? Ran out of milk to have with your cereal?” Her attention drifts as it tends to, scratching at a piece of lichen on the bench with the tip of her knife. A wry laugh breaks itself free from between her teeth, the grin she offers sharp and loveless. “Funnily enough, Capulet affairs concern me more now than they did when I ran with you. Weird how the world works, right?”

Weird, too, how her sister is still looking at her like she’s just found out that she cut the hair off of all her Barbie dolls. Again.

She watches the way the dog is yanked back to a more obedient stance and wonders how many times a creature can be forced to go against its own free will before it learns to use the sharp set of jaws developing in its mouth. Wonders how many times it can stomach being tugged and herded and forced to bend to a shape it may never have been born to be. “So? It doesn’t exist to be your pet. It exists to do whatever the fuck it wants.” Grace drags her gaze from hound to bitch, slipping off the bench to size her sister up. “Listen, Kitty-Cat, as entertaining as you taking weird, vague digs at me may be for you, I was sat here minding my own business. So I’d advise you shut your mouth and keep on walking before I get pissed off.”

[graceydaly]

M.

WHEN: December 3rd, 7:42PM WHERE: Measure By Measure WHO: Closed @graceydaly

A lot of the work on Measure By Measure happened in the evenings, when Matthias was finished teaching and those who frequented the place found it too early to arrive for their usual jousts. Under his thumb, Matthias didn’t intend to change the place too much from the way Orpheus ran it, figuring that if the methods weren’t broken, there was no use in fixing it. There were, however, some physical items in need of fixing, and so most efforts were taken on expanding some of the fighting space and fixing chairs and counters and pillars and that one bathroom mirror that had been broken since he arrived back in Verona at the very latest. Most of the prep work was done by his calloused hands, and running the place was split between him and Marcelo, most nights. Dust covered his loafers from his time walking back and forth across the ring, fixing cracked wood plank after cracked wood plank in the hopes that everything would eventually be repaired before the barrier broke and the whole of the audience was invited to take part in the fight – it seemed fun for entertainment purposes, but Matthias knew it was bad for business and especially bad for all the bets placed upon fighters, so he dirtied his hands with splinters before he could dirty them with blood. When the dust settled from his walk across the ring, Matthias noticed a small, dark shadow occupying the space where the clouds once swirled. Another man would have had some sort of quip about that. “You’re late, Grace,” he announced. “We’ve got strategy to talk before people start filing in for the night.”

There’s still blood on the floor. A splattering of droplets by the entrance, old and faded where its sunk in and been trodden over. She eyes the patch with a glimmer of dark amusement, wondering whether the crimson had been spilt by winner or loser. The last time she was here it was to see Faron. Now she was reporting to the next king of the underworld. Another man to help; another to perform acts of violence for. Thoughts of Damiano’s text send a spike of irritation up her spine, bitter when it reaches her tongue. The cigarette in hand is flicked aside, embers scattering as Grace exhales the final tendrils of smoke and approaches the edge of the ring. “Am I?” she responds dryly, assessing his handiwork. “What are you going to do, prof? Dock my grade? Send me to the principal’s office?” His suggestion-- no, his command-- is regarded with a half-sneer, half-grin. “I haven't got to do anything.” And yet here she is, forced to behave despite having almost carried out the assassination of the Montagues’ number one enemy. Lucky for her, she’s grown used to life’s disappointments. “Fine, I’ll fucking bite. Strategy for what? Running this place? Seems pretty piss easy to me. Get some fighters and then get some rich or desperate people to bet on them.” Her footsteps are loud in the otherwise quiet space as she prowls along the perimeter, pausing to size up a point in the barrier before kicking out at it hard. Old wood cracks, a delightful sound. “That bit is broken.”

[graceydaly]

                                                  [ @catherinedaly ] 0028. 02/12/2018. 09:31AM. Il Parco. 

Her teeth have been firmly grit together since the buzz of her phone on the bedside table had woken her up that morning. She can feel the headache setting in, jaw stiff and rage simmering but relentless, the occasional twitch of her lip synchronised with spikes of anger as her mind dissects Damiano’s scathing criticisms. Her opinion is that his cruelty is not what she deserves -- a bullet in the shoulder of their greatest enemy should have been rewarded with praise; putting the Capulet boss out of action for a while should have warranted some sort of appreciation. Grace exhales sharply, breath misting in the winter air, fingers clasped around a knife which carves feelings into the damp planks of the bench beneath her. A deep groove forms. What stops her is not that she calms down, nor that she decides to ignore the fact that Damiano is no different to Cosimo ( a laughable truth that she’s certain people don’t want to acknowledge ). It’s a flash of familiar blonde hair passing across the sliver of dull green grass in front of her which halts the ever-destructive behaviour, meeting blue eyes unblinking. “Kitty-Cat. You’re looking less dead than before.”

Her gaze drops to the creature being paraded along at her sister’s heel. Damiano had called her a dog, rabid and wild. Would he sooner have her leashed and mindless like this fleabag? “Didn’t get a promotion so you got a pet instead, huh? You’ll end up with a fucking zoo at this rate.” A bitter laugh lines her lips. “I should know.” Grace weighs the blade in her hand and abruptly points its tip at the strip of material clutched in Catherine’s fingers. “You shouldn’t keep it on a lead. You should let it make its own choice. If it wants to be feral, so be it. If it wants to stay--” shoulders clad in leather and cotton rise and fall heavily against the back of the bench, “--then you’ve done something right.”

[graceydaly]

E.‌

“I know. I’ve smooth-talked your way out of the prison cell more times than I can count.” For a second, it feels as if he’s thirty-three, staring Grace down across his then-new desk after his newest client landed herself in her third bar fight. He’d sensed, even then, the potential crackling beneath those polish-chipped fingernails. And Dio, hadn’t he made something of her? A scrappy girl hungry for an adrenaline rush to one of the most coveted stuntwomen in Hollywood. She was his great success. And now, what is she? What is Grace Daly to Everett Craven? A traitor, a turncoat, a thorn in his side? He dials in the hotel phone number, finger hovering over the call button.

I’m sorry, okay?

And everything hitches, as if snagged on a scratch in a spinning record. For all that Grace is the antithesis of Everett, they have always had one trait in common: predictability. He’s grown to rely on that trait when going toe to toe with her, even in the past few years he’s become void of responsibility for her. Now it feels as if she’s grabbed the chessboard and rearranged the pieces. It’s complete surprise written across her face as she pushes past him into his hotel room, an expression Everett hasn’t worn in her presence since the first few years of managing her. He slips his phone into his pocket as he steps after her into the hotel room, an irritable part of his mind noting that she’s tracking dirt all over the carpet. “Christ,” he mutters half to himself, venom momentarily absent from his voice as he watches her fumble with the hotel door lock. “What’s gotten into you?”

Even the most vicious, feral, uncaring of creatures occasionally need somewhere warm, dry, and, most importantly, safe to take refuge. She hadn’t expected to find such a place here in Everett’s near-identical room, still swimming through the wake of his poison-coated threats, but the shift in his tone and the following inquiry cause Grace to pause in her escape. Her hand falls to her side and she breathes out, the tension in her shoulders sharp and unforgiving beneath the creased material of an un-ironed t-shirt that had been shoved into a suitcase last minute and remained there until not long ago. She can’t tell if he truly wants to know what’s wrong, not when she’d done such a fine job of burning the bridge between them as soon as she’d crossed over to the other side, and yet the truth pools on her tongue like leftover liquor; it burns the inside of her mouth and she doesn’t know whether to swallow it. “When you say what’s gotten into you, do you mean, like, dicks, dildos and fingers? Or do you want the specific names of who those things belong to?” It’s a cheap, vulgar, easy way out and she knows it but it gives her enough blind courage and reckless abandon to turn and face him without feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable.

It isn’t until she meets his eye that she realises she wants to tell him, if only because there’s nobody else. She can’t talk to any fellow Montagues about this without the risk of Damiano finding out. She can’t ask her family for help, not if she wants to keep what love for her they have left. But Everett? His loathing was clear, his opinion of her already so low that she risks nothing in spilling her fear into the space between them. “I owe someone money that I don’t have and if I can’t pay him he’ll end my career and maybe even my fucking life. Who knows.” Grace shrugs in an attempt to dismiss the thin, anxious tone that’s crept into her voice. “It’s all fun and games.”

[graceydaly]

M.

Matthias couldn’t stand anything that spewed out of her mouth, reducing it to bullshit instead of listening to her and perhaps getting another point of view. Though, when that point of view still selfishly took his money and lied about its purpose, it wasn’t exactly going to change his whole outlook on the situation. There was some pleasure in watching her unsuccessfully trying to escape the iron grip of his security upon her shoulder, though all of that was depleated by her comment, earning her a roll of his eyes. She’d never seen what he could become when really pushed to that point, and he hoped she wouldn’t have to. For now, he preferred to think of her as a mouse with her tail pinned beneath the claws of a cat who has had more than enough of her intrusions. “Misappropriation of funds is, in fact, lying.” The business knowledge from his degrees was certainly paying off.

It was obvious there was not a day in her life where Grace thought about what others thought of her, at least not in a way where she would care enough to change her behavior. Matthias had grown up knowing the importance of a reputation, and though his became more of an island-hopping playboy, he knew when it was time to take things seriously, and any bad press he’d gotten wasn’t too bad. He could always brush it off as a phase of his life and claim he was ready to assume the responsibilities he would soon acquire, but this? This was scandal beyond a drunken weekend in Ibiza. “That’s not how this works,” he replies, voice low and harsh. He knew that would never be enough, that the second she got a taste of what she wanted, the price would only increase and increase and it would become a scandal of his own. He wouldn’t let that happen again. “There’s consequences for your actions, Grace. You don’t get another cent from me, but you will get a swift boot from Montague Management when I tell Damiano how you’ve been getting along with your coworkers,” threatened Matthias, folding his arms across his chest. He imagined that was the only opinion that mattered to her, and only because it enabled her to keep doing what she was doing. “I’m sure you like this job and want to keep it, and if that’s the case, you know what to do.” Matthias nodded to his security detail, who loosened his grip upon Grace’s shoulder.

Her plan backfires monumentally. In hindsight, she should have expected it to. Lady Luck has not been her friend of late -- Grace half wonders if she was supposed to message her back but had forgotten. Matthias’ threat echoes, sharpened on whatever pretentious whetstone he keeps up his ass but nevertheless poised and ready to sever Grace from the one aspect of her life she is genuinely proud of. Her work means more to her than anything. Because regardless of how shit-faced she gets, no matter what the press write when she’s played a little too hard during a night out, she will always, always, turn up on set and get the job done. Some may baulk at the risks, casting wary glances at the contracts which dismiss the studios of any responsibility or guilt should she snap her neck getting a landing wrong or have a limb severed by the too-tight pinch of a harness on impact, but not her. Addiction rules her life but there is none so desired, so well-nurtured by her, as that of an adrenaline rush. Once she’d started it had been impossible to stop. Anger comes first, naturally, unstoppable and heated. With a half-cough, she spits at Matthias before simmering down, wiping at the remaining string of drool with the back of her hand. Fear of losing her one true love, thrill, cutting a jagged shape through her chest. “Don’t.” It’s somewhere between a demand and a plea. “I’ll get your fucking money.”

She shrugs away from the bodyguard’s touch, mouth set in a grimace of a snarl, head spinning with the weight of what was at risk. Of what she was going to have to do. Beg, borrow and steal; there was an irony to the vicious cycle she’d wound up in. Her fingers twitch towards her back pocket and the bag of pills inside, desperate for something to take her mind off of things but forcing herself to stop in case Matthias did something stupid like try to take them from her. “I’m going to need some time. We don’t all have a fucking black card and trust fund to dip into.”

[graceydaly]

A.

A gloating smile curved against Alexander’s lips. So McDonald’s wasn’t so majestic, after all, was it, he wished to say but the words never made it through his mouth when Grace’s motion abruptly halted. The heel of the palm still wrapped up in his shirt collided against Alexander’s sternum and he scowled as Grace turned to face him. The expression quickly devolved into a frown of confusion, though, and Alexander could only imagine how hilarious their mirroring expressions must look to an onlooker. “I ordered for the both of us before we left for the party, dumbass, don’t you remember? And I know for a fact that there’s a decent amount of leftovers still in the fridge which is why I ditched you.” With a scoff, he tapped two fingers over Grace’s hand to indicate that they continue their lopsided lumber through the hallway before commenting, “I love the fact that I gained superpowers and you just ended up with short-term memory loss. It’s so convenient.” Despite his position, it was easy for Alexander to conclude that Grace was experience the same shitty wave of vertigo, if the sudden hunch in her posture was anything to go by. So he made his best attempt at comforting her – he aimed to tell her that he was feeling just as fucked up as she was. It was how the dynamic of reassurance usually played out between them. “if I’m Harry Potter, it’s only in the aspect of having no fucking idea what’s happening or what to do about it. Trust me.”

“You don’t need to run the hotel to have common sense, Gracey. That’s a thing, you know,” Alexander retorted, only for a momentary, mildly cross-eyed look of wariness to flit across his face at the mention of an unprecedented apocalypse. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the prospect or didn’t think he would have a good chance at survival; it was simply something that he actively strayed from thinking about. Life in the apocalypse was too grim, especially if zombies were involved. He definitely wouldn’t want to experience that. “Well, maybe I’ll eat you first. Or maybe your overconfidence will get you killed before you could ever sink your grimy fork into my flesh. You never know.” The following sequence of events was surprising, to say the least, but it made sense when one considered how Grace was, how he was, and how they both were when they got up to no good – which was always. Alexander’s surprise didn’t register on his face as his head gave a particularly torturous throb from the impact – but his perplexity was evident in the way he did nothing but blink while Grace purred and pawed at him. There was an instant shift, however, as his gaze lowered to trace the lock of her body on his before settling momentarily on Grace’s lips and then sliding up to meet her eyes. A shadow of smirk laced Alexander’s lips. “So this is how you’re playing it, huh?” He muttered. “First you want to eat me and now you want to fuck me?” Gripping her chin, Alexander allowed his thumb to trail down Grace’s cheek; the blunt edge of a nail pushing in just enough to prompt a hint of sharpness. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers as he breathed, “Take your pick. It can only be one or the other… “ And then he leaned back, hand gliding along her chin as he lowered it to his side with a delirious wink. “Because I’m not just another one of your toys, Gracey, and I don’t think it’s fair that you get to make all the rules.“

“Is that where we started the evening?” Her memory is a fuzzy fog, brief glimpses of various drinks and little pills dispersed throughout. “You fucker, of course you’d get the better deal and end up with powers.” Anger, it turns out, only proves in making her dizzier, blinking through the double vision as Alexander’s voice turns to a mere drone in her ear. Was that her door? She stares at the wooden panel until she’s plucked back into visions of zombies and cutlery and the end of the world. “People don’t use forks to eat other people,” Grace says with conviction, tutting loudly at Alexander’s sheer stupidity to even consider such a thing ( as if their entire conversation for the past however many minutes -- for all she knew, it could have been hours -- wasn’t a trainwreck mess of slurred words and unfinished thoughts uttered aloud revolving around the unlikely and absurd ). “And you wouldn’t fucking dare try and kill me for dinner first. I’d be too pissed. I’d also be like-- just a snack.” Her lips twist into a self-amused smirk. “Not that I’m not already a snack.”

His body is warm against her own and leaning into him is far sturdier and more reassuring than standing without support. Grace grins shamelessly up at him, wicked mind curling around bad decisions like a cat in a patch of morning sunlight. She basks in his reminder that they aren’t people who are soft, that even a simple caress comes with a spike of adrenaline through drug-wired, alcohol-numbed veins. “I want a lot of things,” she responds, fingers seeking out his crotch to stroke him through the material of his trousers, eyes trained on his as she coaxes temptation to take shape. A heavy pout makes its home on her bottom lip as he continues to talk, far from the sort to enjoy having to choose between anything when she could quite simply demand to have both. I’m not just another one of your toys. A laugh pushes its way past her teeth, loud in the quiet of the hallway. “You wish that was true.” She pulls her hand away abruptly and takes a step backwards, the cut of her smile sharper than it has any right to be, ever-driven by proving a point. He was hers to play with and not the other way around. “I choose to eat you. Because now I’m going to go and fuck myself while you go back to Raspy-Fella and cold food and try not to think about me thinking about you thinking about me.” 

Grace considers him for a moment longer though heavy lashes before turning to wander zig-zaggedly back in the direction they’d come from. She’d take the right-hand turn he’d decided against just to spite him for making things difficult rather than accepting a simple invitation to hook up, she thinks, humour etched onto her expression as she glances back at him with her middle finger held up in goodbye. “Sweet wet dreams, Lexy-pie.”

[graceydaly]

M.

Grace’s reaction to being chased down by his security only reinforces all the things he’s come to think about her. His security looks back at him, stone-faced, as if this is a bit too much for him on a Tuesday morning – Matthias couldn’t really argue that. “If he can’t, then you’ll have to deal with me,” he threatens, taking half a step closer to emphasize the obvious size difference between them. There’s a power he holds in this moment, one to release her or to drag her, kicking and screaming, to someone who holds true power over Grace, to tell them what she’s done and allow her to face the consequences of her actions. He’s held this power before, no stranger to its pull in the latter direction. Or maybe it would get her the help she obviously needs, if she thought lying to steal from Matthias was a good idea. Maybe it would do more harm than it could do good, much more so for her than for him. It was because of that chance that he hadn’t said anything, and today probably wouldn’t be any different.

“It’s not about the money, Grace,” he berates, shaking his head. “You lied. And it’s not just that you lied, but you lied and basically did the exact opposite of what you said you were going to do. Are you so fucking selfish that you can’t see what that does? To you? To anyone else?” It’s ridiculous in his mind that someone could be so closed off to what others would say. There’s those who don’t care what others think in the sense that nothing can stop them from being themselves, and that’s all fine and dandy. Then, there are those who don’t care what others think and damage them through their actions. “Do you know what it would look like if people found out about this?” He mostly meant for himself, but perhaps keeping it open enough to make Grace think about the consequences that applied to her own life, since that was the one thing she might have held a shred of concern for, wouldn’t hurt.

“You?” she sneers carelessly, unaffected by the idle threats of men who think puffing their chests out and standing their full height will make them look threatening. A featherless peacock is all the comes to Grace’s mind, the thought tempting out a lopsided smirk. “You’ve probably cried after cutting your fucking finger counting stacks of euros.” She attempts once more to wriggle out of the bodyguard’s grip, pulling at the vice-like hold currently pressing bruises into pale skin, letting out a sound of frustration when she fails to free herself. The torment of having Matthias lecture her is equally as unwanted, not needing to be scolded for her actions like some stray child he found stealing in the street. “I didn’t lie,” she lies, syllables spat. “I was fucking going to do it, I was going to get clean and sort myself out, but-- I changed my mind. I didn’t think you’d give a shit about the money or what I do with it.”

He gives away a little too much beneath layers of what she can only assume is fake concern. Grace stills, something amused flashing through dark eyes. Ever so slowly, she tilts her head and reconsiders him for a long moment. “Is that what you’re pissing your pants over? People finding out?” Her mouth twists into a shape that doesn’t quite look like a smile, limbs relaxing as she attempts to tempt back the power in this little tête-à-tête. “Lucky for you, I’m willing to keep quiet about all of this. Unlucky for you, I’ll only do it for a price.” The wave of disgruntled irritation that rolls off of his security personnel is near palpable. She basks in it gladly. “I don’t give a fuck what people think of me if news of our little deal ends up in the wrong hands. Nobody will be surprised. But the public reacting to you giving money to your fellow Montagues for them to spend on drugs? Now that would be interesting. Might even make Falco’s front page.” The tip of her tongue wets her lips in anticipation. “Give me three-hundred and this will stay secret.”

[graceydaly]

E.

Everett stares her down as she squeezes bony fingers over his phone, gasoline-sharp gaze and a tightness in her jaw under which simmers a threat. A challenge. Grace Daly is a woman feared and admired by a sizable fanbase, complete with an aura of power, raw and free, a lightning storm bottled into a woman. Everett remains frostily unfazed. He’s known her for too many years, been through too many throat-scraping arguments to be cowed by her volatile moods. The inner workings and motivations of Grace are clear as glass to Everett, possessing a transparent understanding that, combined with stubborn grit, made him the only manager capable of pushing her to her full potential. And isn’t that the way their relationship always has been? She would push, and Everett would push back. 

“Trashed one too many hotel suites, did you?” He doesn’t bother to hide his sour amusement at her predicament, underpinned by a complete lack of surprise. Some things never did change. But there’s agitation riddled in the empty corners of Grace’s words, the same underlying current that prevents her from meeting his eyes with that familiar proud defiance. It snags Everett’s attention like a briar on wool. She’s afraid, a suspicion he only becomes more sure of upon hearing the harsh vitriol spewing from her mouth. This is a fact Everett learnt from early on: Grace’s ill-tempered disposition always magnifies in proportion to her anxiety.

He regards her coolly, continuing to bring up his internet browser and search for Hotel Emelia’s help desk number with little to no interruption. “I know, I know, you want me to get you arrested but give a man a second, Santa Maria. I’m not going to fight you, Grace. Sit down and save your breath,” he adds witheringly. “You’ll need it when you have to plead your case to Montague Media on why they shouldn’t drop you as a client.”

She tenses in her seat, fingers curling into fists upon the table. There’s a nervous bounce to her knee that she’s unaware she’s doing despite the quiet clink of china whenever the side of her foot brushes the table leg. Poison-coated emotions prowl their way through her body, a forest of things with sharp teeth and sharper claws, unwanted by others but welcomed home within the branches and bracken of her ribs. She feels too small for it all sometimes. “I don’t want that,” Grace says, quieter than before but no less venomous. “Believe it or not, getting arrested is no fucking walk in the park.” Everett aims for a weak spot with age-old precision. She doesn’t have many, which makes this one all the more vulnerable when iron-cold, spearheaded words hit their mark. To be dropped now would be the end of her career-- to cause the demise of the one achievement in her life that she’s proud of and bury it six feet deep with a self-made shovel. This isn’t a fight she’s ever going to win, especially not with Matthias breathing down her neck demanding money at the same time.

“I’m sorry, okay?”

The chair scrapes against paving as she stands up, managing to look anywhere but at Everett. It’s not the risk of his disappointment that she’s scared to witness, it’s the possibility that, if she were to look at him now, all she’d see is the smug, self-satisfaction of someone who is right. The sweet victory worn by a man witnessing the breaking of a spirit that exists, up until this point, unapologetically. Teeth pressed together, Grace makes for the balcony door, stepping over the threshold and out of the morning sun. Everett’s room is near-immaculate but that’s the only brief observation she makes in her rush to get to the door.

[graceydaly]

R.

“So do you,” she counters, though Regina doesn’t sound so defensive. She attempts to reason with Grace, to show her how her behavior and bad habits have made Regina just conclude her sister wouldn’t remember much about her life, hoping eventually something will get through to her enough to change. She’s come to expect that change isn’t likely at this point, as much as she wishes it would be. Grace has never been perfect, nor has Regina ever expected her to be. Her sister has always been the more wild of the three, but there was a point where wild turned reckless and reckless took on many forms, both in work and recreation. Of course Regina didn’t want to lose her sister to such a dangerous job, but that was Grace’s choice and she enjoyed what she did, and that was not the recklessness she took issue with. It was these nights when Grace could not remember her own room and found herself near helpless in Regina’s bed that made the middle Daly believe change was necessary. She may have seemed neutral to the actions on the outside, but she did care underneath it all. “I wouldn’t call you a bitch, especially not on camera,” she replied with a shrug. Bitch was a matter of opinion, after all. “Though the second question’s pretty valid. Care to answer it?”

Regina watched as her suggestion was ignored, nudging the garbage can with her foot closer to where Grace sat in case such actions caused the water and everything else in her stomach to rise up. When Grace laid herself down, Regina released a soft sigh, hoping her sister would fall asleep swiftly so she at least knew she was alright – everything else could wait until the morning. She was startled when Grace didn’t sleep, but instead wrapped her arms around her tighter than Regina was anticipating. She allowed the hug, her shoulders hunching inward to alleviate some of the crushing pressure against her arms, but soon found her body relaxing, one hand reaching out to place itself on Grace’s arm, the most she could do with her arms mostly immobilized by the hug. “You are too, you know,” she replied, knowing there was something good underneath all the chaos. “You should get some rest. Your head’s probably gonna kill you in the morning.”

She laughs, a half-sneer of a sound that’s forced through numb lips. “Pretty sure you’re one of the few,” Grace muses, no small amount of pride sneaking into her tone at the sheer beauty of the fact: she liked being hated just as much as she liked being loved, if not more so. There was a certain comfort in notoriety. Fame rooted in horror and loathing lasted far longer than any other. A long, whining sound uncurls itself from the back of her throat, pressing her eyes shut tight as if no longer being able to see would also enable her to stop hearing her sister’s prompting. She has no such luck and, even with her vision temporarily darkened by the back of alcohol-heavy eyelids, she can feel the weight of Regina’s gaze trained on her. “What is this? An interro-- interergaish--” The word slips from her tongue sluggishly, not quite capable of getting her mouth around it. “Fuck off, I don’t have to explain myself to you.” Something defensive prickles up her spine and along her arms, increasingly uncomfortable despite the warm bed and not quite capable of extracting her teeth from this particular raw point. “I do what I want because I want to. You hide behind your camera, Kitty-Cat hides behind her art, but I just do shit. I do it. I don’t care what people think.” A far less drunk, far more eloquent and succinct, and also reasonably pretentious, person may put it at this: to misbehave is to merely express one’s lack of harmony with the world.

You are too. That’s funny. That, she thinks, really is the sort of joke that would receive ill-held-back suppressed laughter from her critics and rivals at an awards ceremony. “That’s bullshit,” she counters, although it lacks in her typical argumentative drawl, nodding keenly. “Yeah, sleep.” With a hum of agreement, Grace lies back down and pats the expanse of mattress beside her. “You too, Gee-Gee. You’re up way past your bedtime.” Rolling onto one side, she curls up and drifts off before anything else her sister says gets the chance to register in her head.

[graceydaly]

A.

“Well, I can think of… “ He trailed off, squinting in a pretense of consideration as he made a show of counting on his fingers. “… a dozen or so people who would disagree with you on that.” Dragged along in Grace’s shadow, Alexander pouted as she droned on about how majestic her McDonald’s experience had been only to smirk upon recalling the equally majestic experience he was due to have once they found his hotel room – unless Grace stole the food and ate it despite being completely full just to spite him. He wouldn’t put it past her. However, that surely didn’t stop him from being the one to plant the seed in Grace’s mind in the first place. “Sounds fan-fucking-tastic. Just like the leftover Chinese that I still have in my room which just so happens to be the reason why I ditched you,” He tilted his head and sent an exaggerated smile her way, not realizing that he had pretty much sealed the fate of his food with that one thoughtless retort. “So don’t think for a second that I was thinking about you while you weren’t thinking about me because only an idiot would think about someone when they’re not thinking about them and I’m no idiot.” He frowned once he was done speaking; nauseated and unsure if it was because of the mouthful of words he had just garbled or the fact that he had gotten drunk and high enough for the corresponding substances to occupy his body’s entire blood mass, all 5.5 liters of it – or maybe he was just really, really hungry. “Oh my god, maybe it’s me,” He finally responded. “What if I’m the one making the room spin?”

Admittedly, Alexander’s frame of reference with horror movies wasn’t nearly as extensive as Grace’s, and although he made up for that by watching a lot of psychological thrillers ( which were still horror movies in his friend’s eyes but what the fuck did she know? ), that certainly didn’t help him build an argument. And so, he simply let a matching frown of confusion knot his brows which only deepened when Grace, quite predictably, tried to excuse her treachery. “They’re around. Who do you think is operating this place? Casper and his fucking ghost squad? Just admit that you’re excited to eat me which… “ He trailed off before his eyes widened. “… I actually appreciate in a weird sort of way. Damn.” An unimpressed look was glared in Grace’s direction before he lightly spat the fry; snorting when it landed against Grace’s cheek with a smack. “I deserve better than to eat your leftover shit, and off the ground no less, so thank you, fuck you.”

“Spring rolls,” Grace moans wistfully, longingly, hungrily. “Dio, there had better be some left. Did you even order any?” She attempts to follow the point in Alexander’s words, having to stop walking for the sake of her attention focusing solely on kicking the still-functioning part of her brain into action, frowning in deep concentration only to find herself exceedingly muddled. “But you didn’t know I wasn’t thinking about you, so how did you know not to think about me if all that time I could have been thinking about you, idiota?” Is either of them making much sense? Does their combined lack of sense cancel each other’s out and, somehow, make sense? She isn’t sure. She also doesn’t have the capacity to dwell on that issue, not when his reminder of the room spinning sends a wave of dizziness over her, teeth gritting as she blinks through blurry vision. “If you are, Harry Potter, then stop being a little shit and cut it out.” Closing one eye, Grace attempts to ignore the slow gathering regret beginning to pool in the pit of her stomach. “If I don’t get to lie down soon I’m going to make the floor my bed and you can’t stop me.”

The concept of a ghost workforce prompts a sound of amusement which is promptly cut off by the decision that any spectres and ghouls manning the kitchens would never be able to cook her bacon the way she likes it. “I don’t know, do I look like I run the hotel? Maybe there was a fucking apocalypse while we were out and the staff all got killed. Then what, huh? You think I’m going to waste away and not eat you for breakfast?” She wipes the cold, spit-wet smear from her cheek with the back of a hand, irritation rising through her mixed with something that runs the length of her spine and makes her push him, hard, squaring up to him with a dark look. “Go on then, Lexy,” Grace drawls slowly, using the excuse of holding Alexander in place to keep herself steady, a finger hooking around an expensive tailored trouser belt loop. “Fuck me.” A smirk pulls at one corner of a mouth decorated with smeared lipstick, resting her chin against his chest, looking up at him expectantly in light of her challenge. She shouldn’t be doing this. That is to say-- she shouldn’t be doing this if she respected the typical societal norms and glossy tabloid front pages that say Alexander Rallis is officially off the market. But she doesn’t; mostly because she’s Grace fucking Daly and anyone trying to tell her what to do is going to find that the opposite happens. The fact that his wife-to-be is a Capulet makes for a gift-wrapped revenge opportunity, too. There’s also something unavoidably delicious about wanting that which she can’t have, especially when it’s a six-foot-something man and the concoction of fun in her body is begging for more excitement. “I triple dog dare you, baby boy. Nobody even has to know. It’s not like we’re going to remember in the morning.”