incendiary .

girl as god, girl as void. maybe it's the same thing. a girl who becomes anything but. IRA.

[irates]

📌 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛

verity kang-gerhardt # 27 # new york city # socialite

penned by vic.

full app / dynamics / biography.

[irates]

V.  CONFESSION  —  in the words of verity kang-gerhardt.

[irates]

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ― drawing room. 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 ― upon arrival at castillo, flashback.  𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 ― saint moon @perfidias

Under that same roof, so many memories have once taken place that it could be considered history. From fights to sighs of love, promises and threats; if the ripples of their lives could be pinpointed, the Castillo would be its epicenter. So it was only expected of them to bring their own affairs there, as well. 

It had been exactly thirty-five days since she had spoken to him last. The bereft silence in which both sides situated themselves translated that, amongst all the things they had in common, their stubbornness was yet another one that often came to play. Verity liked to pointedly ignore the reason as the why she was mad at him, and the way she very much made sure to treat it as such a trivial reason, meant that it was deeper than she actually showed. 

With legs draped over the armchair’s side, she scrolled her phone and sipped on her tea. Everything perfectly manicured to conceal the turmoil inside - the rage that roared, the indignation of being back there. The contained anger at him, that seeped in the crack between the words so casually spoken. “And when did you arrive?” 

[irates]

seventeen going under, sam fender // my father’s accent, kaveh akbar // the shape of a girl, joan macleod // what doesn’t kill me better run (2021), oh de laval // white oleander, janet fitch // tokyo vampire hotel (2017), dr. sion sono // a hole in the earth, daughter 

       a girl brewed in rage can only grow to be a monster.

                                    𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 : 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎. + more @irascore

[cyberglittter]

bae yoonyoung for dazed korea

[irates]

&   hadrianvilliers​

Location: Library Date and Time: June 30th, Post Verity’s Interview With: Verity Kang-Gerhardt @irates

So many things were going on, Hadrian didn’t know what to make out of it. It was like he had been transported to five years back again. He felt small once more, his breath hitching as he felt his heart visibly sink into his stomach. This was all ridiculous and the fact that it was even permitted was clearly just a show of the Cervante’s power. They could make anything happen - anything except for Julian’s proper resurrection. Though a metaphorical one was close enough he mused.  He eyed Verity storm in through the door, watching the furrows in her face contort into shifts of clear anger. Rage - feral unhindered madness. If he wasn’t in the position he was in, he’d have found it rather appealing, attractive enough for him to go right on and fuck. But even for him, his mind was barely comprehending the events of the day. Past and present.  “I take it you’re not doing so well. With the return of Jaya, Azkari, Amadeo and the press.” There is a darkness in his eyes, as if it beckon her to speak. Scream her thoughts to him. For he too wanted to go wild. Pretending was getting tiresome, he too wanted to engulf himself in wrath. 

It all had been a strain to her patience. Now, being held taunt way over her head, ready to strung the final wretched notes before finally snapping. She hated that type of feeling - and when she truly hated something, it was very hard to conceal, even to her trained mind. It felt like the beginning of the unplanned, and their stay at the Castillo had been peppered with those moments that filled her with displeasure to the brim of her existence. 

Hadrian was the one who found her, as he always did. As if drawn to her aura, he always managed to find Verity when she was craving the thing she knows best. Even though her brain registered his words, she didn’t turn to face him. He was not the target of her anger, he didn’t have to be, nor he should. “How much do you think these books are worth?” Her fingers twist on her sides, teeth chewing on her bottom lip enough to taste copper on her tongue. 

And just like that, she selected a copy at random. Pristine, carefully dusted and placed there - she wondered how many times a month they ask their battalion of servants to dust them over and over. “Fuck Jaya and Amadeo.” Her fingers carefully flicked through the pages, a soft smile on her face. “Now Azkari and the press,” knuckles turned white, she started ripping the pages of the book in her hands. “ Those two I will take care of, personally.” 

[ofgenerosity-blog]

Colors of the Rainbow Meme

Send Red for an honesty post on what my muse dislikes/hates about yours.

Send Orange for a self-para/drabble about our muses.

Send Yellow for some headcanons about our muses.

Send Green for a moodboard on our muses.

Send Blue for an aesthetic of our muses.

Send Purple for a playlist of our muses.

Send Pink for an honesty post on what my muse likes/loves about yours.

Send Bronze for a list of plot ideas (i.e a wishlist) the mun would like to play out with our muses. 

Send Silver for our muses to set up a Skype convo (or some sort of IM), talking as themselves, to each other.

Send Gold for a starter between our muses, unplotted, that the mun comes up with on the spot. Can be of any length.

Send Black for my muse to show their dark side, through whatever means the mun chooses.

Send White for my muse to show their light side, through whatever means the mun chooses.

Send Rainbow for me to come up with something unique for our muses.

[hungryfictions]

chelsea g. summers, a certain hunger / ginger snaps (2000) / joan macleod, the shape of a girl / L’AQUART - jade medusa, 2020 / john collier - lilith, 1887 / florence + the machine, “howl” / battle royale (2000) / brenna twohy, “swallowtail” / caravaggio - judith beheading holofernes, 16th c. / herbert james draper - ulysses and the sirens, 1909 / william etty - the sirens and ulysses, 1837 / alicia ostriker, “in the 25th year of marriage, it goes on” / gone girl (2014)

a monster in the shape of a girl

[irates]

"Where we are, There’s daggers in men’s smiles, The near in blood, the nearer bloody."                  - William Shakespeare, 'Macbeth', Act II, Scene III.

                                                                           [ visualization. ]

When the board arrives, her assistants sigh with undertones of terror - not for the for the carnage Verity requires, but for the task itself. Once in her mind, it needed to be accomplished to perfection; for what is haute couture if not another flair of art? She gathers pieces and bit: Dior boots and pants - S/S 2006, Julien Fournier cloak - F/W 2010, Alexander McQueen leather skirt & accessories, S/S 2019. A trip through time, each piece telling the same story that perhaps Viviana ought to weave her own version of it. 

To complement, Verity contacted exclusive designers, each of them provided with a hefty sum to add the touches to her project - the handmade corset, the crimson claws, the Ruby necklace to remind of what was taken at the time of his death. The main piece is her mask - or rather, the headpiece, Gucci F/W 2018, and the sword, depicting the image of the general.

There she struts to meet their host; the conqueror, the tyrant, the tragedy. Blood-soaked, by both hers and of those who’d met her blade in the fervor for power. 

[irates]

moonsilas​    ›

There’s a hum low in his throat, the breath of a smile ghosting his lips as eyes briefly turn skyward. His hands slide into pant pockets and retrieve a roughly palm-sized silver case engraved with the initials M.S. and ornate floral patterns embedded. He pops it open and pulls a black hand-rolled cigarette from inside, perching it to the side of his mouth, held loosely between lips and parted teeth. From his jacket follows a zippo, a clean click and so opens a flame and the first breath of smoke. His eyes find hers again with a long exhale, fingers pulling the cigarette from his mouth between two fingers. It’s a small turn of the head, something like amusement lilting in his countenance — almost teasing but not harsh or detached as perhaps it usually would seem on his features. It’s almost like he’s laughing without the sound, without it consuming his whole expression. 

“Seeking peace, are we?” It’s like a private joke, suddenly hyper aware of the environment, what brought them all here. They’re are all décor in the manor during their stay, statues of their own regard. He could see it now, Verity and himself built unmovable and breakable out here in the gardens with Apollo, himself marble and her porcelain. He drags another breath, more smoke billowing among carefully kept foliage. He could see them abandoned here, a man and woman caught in a conversation forever, vines creeping up Prada and Louboutin. “If certain religions are to be believed, I know exactly where I’ll be for eternity.” More humor, however steady the tone, though the word comes as fact. Nothing sounds more like home than hellfire, the permanent existence of either a bad place or endless purgatory. “I can’t say for you, however. If where I’m going is as bad as legends say, I’m sure they wouldn’t allow us to be there together.” 

An interesting statement out of Silas’ mouth, careless and said without flourish but heavy with implication — some would call it flirting, though he has another word for it. His smile turns sharper, more prominent and he holds out the cigarette container in an offer, the zippo hidden underneath it with a promise of closing the gap between them, a step closer so that he could light it if she chooses to accept. Temptation. It’s only considered polite, the picture of a gentleman ( a chorus of laughs sounds from an invisible audience, deaf on the performers ears, playing instead as the sound of a calm, Summer’s breeze through leaves and expensive flowers, ) he says, “It’s a good thing I’m here then, isn’t it, Aeri?”

The night was nothing but a still moment. Black canvas peppered in periwinkle colors trying to mimic the vastness that hung above them, tiny echoes of death glistening eons of distance in their abiding reminder; life is not but extinction in waiting. Verity was certain if she was to hold a brush to define his features over taunt tarp she would’ve made his eyes the firmament. One she was eternally enamored with. Wreathing around her, the smoke reminds her of times past - where they were longing gazes that held conversations in secrecy in a room crowded with people, the silence that always stalked them; and the space. Ever the one to be finally enclosed. 

Slowly, her gaze shifts to scan the place around. Peace would always be a foreign concept for her - one raised among wolves, whose first instinct was to bite first than to be bitten. Yet, the irony attaches itself to this very situation they find themselves in. “Was that ever an option?” The key was, they perhaps tried to make it one; but like every poorly buried carcass, its gaunt bones come to haunt you the first heavy rain. Things had been mulled over her head, over and over, endless thoughts with no certain outcome; but was it that bad? If meeting him in the gardens was inevitably what was to come next? “Maybe we cheat death, instead.” Her smiles matched his, in its own shape or form. Damnation was the only choice for the likes of them - and of course, no virtues of such would ever be allowed. “We stay in our own eternity, where our souls cannot be apart once more.”

It was indulgent, Verity knew of this. Valiant words concealed in undertones of pure casualty, only the two of them to hear it. As if they stood in their sole world. It’s only in secluded moments where they shed of themselves to the rawness of being, and both knew it didn’t even scratch the surface of what it truly was. It began with the names. Their principle. Rolling out of his tongue like a sin, something she would always want to commit. “Nam Gi.” His offer hangs between crimson lips, waiting to be set ablaze by their gaze. or the flame he held in his palm - whichever burned first. They always started, but they could never proceed. “I wouldn’t wish for anyone else.”

[irates]

hadrianvilliers​    ›

His hands were shoved into the pockets of his pants as he stood in still silence. He hadn’t thought about it - no, not yet. “I haven’t thought of anything yet, don’t feel the need to,” not yet, everything was too soon, too early. 

Hadrian nearly chuckled. If it had been Verity he’d have expected the job to be tied and clean, they wouldn’t be here at all. 

“I didn’t think you would. You’re too clever for that,” he knew. He recognized intellect when he saw it, he had been competitive himself and he had kept an eye and ear out for whoever was climbing quickly on the rise. She was one that he had watched for. “Guess we wait and see don’t we? Could be a human head served next.” he said lightly, but a part of him could believe in the worse. It was all too easy when they had stepped foot into Julian’s playground. 

Granted, he had a good point. It felt too precipitated to act on it - whatever that was. It being Julian’s hand being the one meddling with their affairs, or simply one of them, it was easily to let it unravel on it’s own. The beauty of a disaster. “Perhaps you are right. It just, you...” Her words drift in the small silence built between them. Verity, ever so prepared - for she was easily blinded by rage. 

Her head turns to face him, “Oh? Was that a compliment from Mr. Hadrian Villiers himself?” She beamed, prolonging the moment and twisting the meaning of his own words. A game of bite and blow - she adored it. And even after his somber words concealed as a joke, her tone remained the same. 

“Or maybe just a tongue!” Riding along, she started to feel the events of that day sag in her bones, wearing off her brain. “One of us will speak the unspeakable, and have it cut. Wonder who will do it.”

[irates]

vanaglorio​   ›

The time for shame has long since come and gone — slaughtered on the altar of hedonistic ambition, abdicated in the name of sin without reproach. She isn’t wrong, and aye, there’s the rub. Were they monsters before Verdamme coaxed their worst instincts into the light, or did their obsessive compulsion with life free of consequence or retribution make them monsters? On any other evening, this stunt would’ve been a master stroke of grandiloquent flair and aplomb worthy of a standing ovation. His mouth curls, an afterthought bearing trace amounts of accusation.  “I thought you knew me better than that, Veri. You should I know don’t deal in half-measures.”  If it was mere absurdity on trial, they wouldn’t be having this conversation at a dining table where a dead man used to sit at the head.

It would not be an exaggeration by any stretch of the imagination to say that, of them all, Verity was the first to hate him most. She’d seen the black-hearted rot in him before they could even bare to open their eyes to the truth. From the very beginning, despite her lauded status as one of the few that had known Julian pre-Verdamme, ante-Paradise, she had never taken to him the way they had. There was always an inkling of gasoline, a streak of something nuclear, about the air between them. As if a single stray spark would set them both ablaze. 

If the casual slander bites at his heels, the old, familiar scars of deference, his placid expression betrays nothing. They’re alike, in the sense that he’s never been one to lean away from the heat of a fire. Smoke coils through his smile, a serpentine flicker of shadow darkening his gaze.  “I wonder about many things, too. Little curiosities and loose ends here and there. One of them being the fact that it was common knowledge you loathed him more than any of us. And you’ve never let anything as insignificant as loyalty or morality stand in the way of your warpath.”  

He leans in, the flames singeing a little brighter, a touch sharper.  “You had the most compelling motive of us all. The longest history of animosity and resentment. Of wanting him dead more than you preferred him alive.”

Beauty tinged every tongue of flames ablaze that scorched the ground between them. Granted, there wasn’t much space - two minds alike in many senses that she wondered, for a fleeting moment, if they would extend their interactions simply for the feeling of getting blistered. “Would you really call it a half- measure?” The way her nickname rolled out of his tongue left a prickling sensation against her skin - a ghost touch. It wasn’t feigned curiosity that tugged on the corners of her lips, “After all, we shouldn’t trust anything that comes in the shape and form of a horse; it would’ve been well played.”

With dotted intent, she watched as he wove tales of nothing but certainty. Of all, she’d trust him to not be misguided by faceted demonstrations she managed to display - for he held close that to whom she could only hate for being, perhaps, just the same type as her. Not for the first time in that night, Hector’s words, like watercolor, unwind on her a grin of soft tones. She could see in her reflection in the mirrors, on the polished surface of the knife she held as he spoke. What a way of being read. 

“You are right. Partially.” The glint of the lights were captured on the blade as it turned slowly on her thumb like a petite porcelain figure in a music box. Pressure points turned white, to crimson - making her blood sing as it beaded and dripped down her palm slowly. From her innate hatred, to the games being played - small incendiary acts amongst friends, only to cause famine and destruction. It was very much to her liking, yet, it granted her unsettlement; that she felt like another pawn. “But there we find the key factor between me and your Emperor. Loyalty.”

For her very nature, she was deemed am unveiled threat - a rattlesnake lying on the bushes, warning you. Foretelling of the peril ahead. It would’ve been expected - which made her laugh pleasantly. Gazes were held, also ablaze - in her eyes, the riddle. Do I bleed for my principles or in the name of my deceptions? “Loyalty... Certainly wounds deeply, right Brutus?

[promptfairy]

𝐅𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒   ♡   𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐁𝐎𝐋 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄

    send the corresponding symbol(s) for headcanons surrounding the given topic(s)!

🍍  :    how comfortable is my muse in their body?  how do they feel about their height,  weight,  strength,  and body type?  how important is being attractive to them?   🍅  :    how does my muse feel about plastic  /  cosmetic surgeries   &   procedures?  is it something they have done or would do?  do they mind if others do it?   🍏  :    how stable is my muse’s physical health?  do they go for regular or semi-regular checkups by a physician?  do they have any diagnosed illnesses and / or take any medication?  how often do they get sick? 🍎  :    how stable is my muse’s mental health?  have they been diagnosed with any mental illnesses and  /  or conditions?  do they have any undiagnosed mental illnesses and  /  or conditions?  do they or should they attend therapy?   🍑  :    how meticulously does my muse look after their physical appearance?  do they spend a lot of time on their hair,  makeup,  grooming,  and clothing?  is there a particular reason why they do or don’t?   🍒  :    how much does my muse value companionship?  do they constantly keep people around them,  or do they prefer to be alone often?  do they have or desire to have many friends?  do they see every meeting as an opportunity to make a new friend?   🍇  :    how would my muse describe their childhood?  how much has it impacted the person they are now,  or will become as an adult?  around what age did they or will they start to mature,  and why?  do they wish to go back to their days as a child,  or have they embraced adulthood?   🍐  :    how intelligent is my muse overall?  are they smarter than the average person,  or less than?  are they primarily self-taught,  or did they acquire most of their knowledge in school?  are they more street smart or book smart?   🍉  :    which of the four seasons suits my muse best,  and why?   🍌  :    is my muse inclined to help others,  or will they only do it when it benefits them,  if at all?  what makes them this way?  has it ever gotten them into trouble,  or inconvenienced them?  🍊  :    does my muse desire romance?  is it something they would actively seek out,  or prefer to happen more  ‘  naturally?  ’  what is their love life like?  do they have any exes or past flings,  or crushes?   🍓  :    how is my muse typically seen by others?  does it ring true to who they really are?  does their reputation matter to them?  🥝  :    does my muse have any  ‘  unusual  ’  habits,  interests,  and  /  or talents?  do they hide it,  or are they proud of it?   🍋  :    what kind of diet does my muse have?  do they eat regularly,  or the standard 2-3 meals a day?  do they have to be reminded to eat,  or are they likely to remind others?  do they cook,  or have others cook for them?  do they eat healthily,  or not so much?   🥭  :    how important to my muse is their hometown,  or where they’re from?  are they proud of it,  or considered a hometown hero?  did they move away,  or do they wish to?

[irates]

moonsilas​   ›

A word has meaning, definition written on blank page or glowing on a computer screen but the words don’t sink skin deep, don’t commit themselves to memory until you see it truly for yourself, a deep understanding built of experience. She turns to him with wide, dark eyes, sharp features decidedly feminine, he understands the term  t e m p t r e s s. Something that he shouldn’t have, shouldn’t desire, but does. It was so easy to forget when they were apart exactly what it was that called to him, beautiful women not a rarity in his life, but instead a crackling energy impossible to ignore, not even in close spaces. There were several feet between them, open air breathing and moving and yet it was near suffocating, intoxicating. He could step closer, could reach out and touch her — he could devour her whole.

His expression is carefully blank, impassive, a permanent consideration, he swallows her words and nods slowly, stays far enough away that conversation is easy but indulgence is impossible. It had always been there, carefully ignored, pushed in dark corners and empty rooms where neither could see each other clearly. Severine would have his head served as Cicero’s, the thought makes his teeth taste like poison and so his lips pull away from them in a small smile, a glint to his eyes as he says, “Clever. Though we could call certain death not mercy but instead justice.” It hovers for a moment, his eyes locked to hers, building something in the atmosphere, heavy like rain about to break before it skirts to the statue once more, “The afterlife must be excruciating to people who lived perfectly on Earth.” And he knows it’s not lost on her.

The hint of a smile turns perhaps wicked, as his eyes watch hers, but there’s a kindness buried in onyx when he says, “Truthfully it was rather cruel.” His tongue lines the inside of his teeth like a predator, skimming the straight, white, row of them. He could do the same to hers, could absolve her throat of delicate words. Instead the smiles softens only slightly, a rouse, a show, and he says, “But the evening makes up for it. How has yours treated you?”

Pointed distance and measured words - it was a dance in the dark; and that’s what they’ve been doing for years. Poising around each other in their endless meander, they allowed it to grow even broader than their prospects. In their absence, a monster was created - hungry and untamed, by their own choice, for they adored the untouchable. But for how long would they be able to grip on its leash so firmly? Verity could feel it slicing her palms, trying to break free. There aren’t many things in life she needed rather than a simple desire, yet it was translated in her eyes. The urgency for it. 

Was it curiosity? Was it simply a candid interest? Or was that simple tricks architected by her mind, easing what it really meant to have you both so close. She wants to reach for him - slanted around his throat, nails sinking deep enough to answer her question: do you bleed ichor like the gods or poison like demons? Either would be enough to satisfy her, enough to make her commit to it and consume him whole, like a prayer for a sinner. One her knees, in profound devotion. Pondering on his words, she reflects his same smile. “Perhaps. But then, peace for those who seek will be assured in their passing.” Once more, her gaze fixes on the sculpture, fingers occupied with it for if left idle, they would be found against his every sharp angle of his face. “I can’t fathom what awaits for us.”

It was in the veiled softness of his words - unintentional, and so well concealed that to most it passed unnoticed; but she wasn’t among them. Hands fall from their initial position, grasping the red silk against her thighs; if there were no gaps carefully placed between them, they will brushing against his knuckles. There are a thousand questions unsaid, a thousand small fires she’d set in his name, nothing could be translated in words. “Rather dull, as most things are.” She could see him in her peripheral, a shadow in the darkness, one she wanted to coil in. “Until someone comes along.”

[irates]

vanaglorio​   ›

The lechazo sits in a marinade of animal dread in his gut, the gilt-glaze of garlic and olive oil festering into an aimless, simmering agitation. They had been led like blinded lambs to a slaughterhouse feast, geese fattened by gavage. A stroke of unbearable finesse, executed like a consummate performance. Bald-faced mockery — laughter in the vein of pantomime. Beneath the table, his hands are a coiled garrotte.

Verity speaks, and his attention splinters from the spiralling fury and speculation. He watches her pluck the remaining eye from the grotesque cadaver, flattening it between thumb and finger until it crumbles into viscera. The sauce stains her hands with streaks of wine-dark blood.  “You think I did this?”  Intrigued, more than offended, better than insulted. The candidness of the accusation, the nonchalance of it, prompts a sharp, probing look.  “That’s a bold hypothesis. What do you believe I stand to gain by pulling off such a performance? What’s my motive?”

He’s too attuned to the quickness and incisive craftsmanship of her mind to feel affronted. Pride is not a thing that factors into the thought exercise at play here. She hasn’t yet put him on the stand, but there’s something in her confidence that elicits a morbid amusement. The corners of his lips flicker, tapering into an approximation of a smile.  “And if it was me, why would I reveal anything to you.”

“Amusement.” Words fall flat in between them, the simplicity just another characteristic that makes them unique. Why else would someone pull such and act, and why else would them all oblige - if not out of fear and amusement, walking hand in hand as they’ve always been? “Why wouldn’t any of us delve into the absurd out of pure beguilement? It just happened to be you.”

It’s a hound-like stride, but he was no prey. With intent interest, Verity watches his every reaction looking for a fault, for a crack in his canvas to which she could easily claim a forgery out of art. Stained digits come to rest against her own lips, parting them, tongue prodding out to savor the remains. Calculated, of course. Verity did pounce on the carcass, it wasn’t of her nature. She’d rather wait.

His smile was like a riddle, and her fuse was too short for those - yet, she watches it spread - and not, - with utter fascination. He was so much more. “Hector, Hector. You always keep me wondering.”  Candlelight dance in frenzy in the reflection of their eyes, and she feels as feverish - alight. “What are you, five years and a death later; his eternally loyal lackey, or just another tortured soul by his own hand?” 

[irates]

hadrianvilliers​   ›

This was why Hadrian appreciated Verity ( like was perhaps too fond of a word, he liked little in the world and to stick the statement onto someone else was perhaps too forward ) for her view on things. He certainly agreed, Julian was to remain dead - no resurrection would be permitted. 

“They’re playing before they chew, I can understand that - it’s fun,” Hadrian rationalized if it were he, would he do the same? “Monsters thrive in fear, in darkness, and the one who’s invited us seems to know these basic principles.” Whoever it was, they weren’t stupid. “Just got to catch them first and then beat their ass before they get hung upside down…” A joke almost but Hadrian could almost picture it just as described. 

He didn’t turn his head at her. “Maybe.” He paused. “But I wouldn’t think you’d be so sloppy, but if you did, thank you - good riddance.” Indifference coated his tongue. 

“So, how are we going to do it?” It was an invitation. Between them there had always been the silent alliance, the mutual understanding. I see you, you see me - bare. It would be too far to call it trust, for she knew Hadrian was one to trust few if not none - much like herself. Mirrors, once more, forever in reflection. “What type of trap are setting in retaliation?” 

What most didn’t fully realize, was how deep and dark Hadrian’s mind could actually go. Under a still lake, there was always turmoil, and Verity was always more than willing to dabble into it. Poke and turn. Maybe it was too early, maybe they were overthinking - but both of them knew, along with their friends, that the course of that night had been premeditated; being one step ahead was in urgency. 

A pout of crimson lips adorned the bubbly laugh, “Wow, where’s the enthusiasm in that?” And just as quickly, the notes died. “But you are right. First, we wouldn’t be having this whole unsettling situation if I were the responsible.” As if illustrating her next words, her neck was craned up at him - exposed under the moon light, starlight glinting in her irises. “And second, I wouldn't give you the sharp blade of this knowledge so willingly, anyway.”

[irates]

moonsilas​  ›

WHEN: TUESDAY, JUNE 15TH — ACT I, SCENE I WHERE: THE GARDENS WHO: @irates

He could so easily pretend it was a coincidence, a confident stride, hands in pockets, a casual demeanor — but that was not the case. It was intentional, premeditated. He had seen her in her stroll towards the gardens, in fact, he’d been watching her since the opening feast yesterday, eyes lingering a moment longer on her than any other person present at the table over the taste of venison and bloodied jam. The weight of a stare that could kill, eyes like liquid when they shifted over fellow perpetrators, either killers in the sense of silence or acts, but it froze over sharp features and a smooth countenance. Either she had been equally unphased or was damn good at hiding it. 

She still, however, had chosen not to touch the cake. Weakness, or strategy — fear or tactic?

These were mulled thoughts in clean pressed clothes, leather shoes crushing soft grass and perfectly placed masonry. The gardens had always been one of his favorite places in the manor. He had blurred memories of evenings and early mornings, bloodied nose and squinted eyes from bright sun or brutal hangover. He had lived the lifestyle lime lit under the cast shadow of Castilo De Cervantes, but now the depths of it seemed much darker, much stranger following the death of the man it had belonged to by birthright. Without Julian, the neon bouncing off of gold and silver didn’t call as loud as it once had, didn’t seem quite so inviting but instead sinister. The building itself felt haunted, not in the way of open cabinets and headless whispers but instead the way his ghost lived inside the newly arrived guests minds, or at the very least Silas’.

The night that had passed was filled with vivid dreams, either enthralling fantasy scenarios or buried memories of nights he couldn’t remember — it wasn’t clear, vignette around all the edges, but it had felt real, or the walk to the third floor balcony had at least. 

He rounded another corner, the beautiful gardens akin to maze in their own regard. He hadn’t mapped them, he was simply following her — the smell of something sweet and expensive, the flash of dark hair and the low sound of footsteps. Eventually, it seemed, she paused, and so did he, waiting an appropriate amount of time to greet her, voice like melted wax and warm honey, eyes meeting where hers rested on the sculpted form of Apollo he says, “The god of so many things, known for showing mortals their sin before cleansing them of it.” A short pause, his gaze meeting her face, near-black iris’ almost appearing gold under certain light if you look fast enough, “God of so many things… not death though, it seems.”

It was all calculated. From the moment she saw him across the hallway, from their eyes lingering on each other across the table. Her ear tuned on the deep vibration of his tone. Far and close, coming into communion that night, in the same grounds where once staged the unholy act that brought them together once more. 

Once more. In the years that have passed, she tried not to think of him. In the people who partake in her carnal acts, she tried not to look for him - in the slant of their fingers, in the curves of their smirk; failed attempts, for she could not escape what inhabited the shadows of her mind. It was idle, but in reality, she craved - for a little longer, another second of presupposed what ifs in strangers that weren’t him, nor could ever be. Verity, always brimming with everything that consumes, just expected another ruination. 

She knew it was him, because of the weigh of his cadenced pace behind her, and the phantom pull she felt - he was there, right there. Nobody would dare, in sane mind, walk into the gardens of a tyrant whose memory came to haunt them once more. Yet, both of them, moved by something else, met under one of the many marbled deities in his collection. 

“Perhaps Apollo thought death would be too merciful for himself to be the bearer.” With dotted precision, her fingertips meet the cold surface, feeling every crevice sculpted at her reach. “No God wants to be merciful. That’s why he chose to plague us, instead.” 

The image of his finger stained red with the faux blood couldn’t leave her mind, and as she turns to him, with eyes lingering on his lips before meeting his eyes, she thinks how she’d have licked them clean herself. “I hope the trip has been gentle on you.”