𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔫𝔢𝔯. @scottyscanlan-archived-blog - Tumblr Blog

FLASHBACK;

Date: 10.23.2013 Location: Warehouse District with @dermct

Cain stared out the window from the backseat, watching the rhythmic thump of streetlights as they drew by in the darkness. He held a semi-auto in a vicelike grip, worried he’d somehow set the volitile instrument off and lose a finger, or worse. The object felt foreign in his hands. The only gun he’d ever fired was a petite .45, shot once with intent. It had been more than nine months since the day he’d watched Thom Murphy’s brains leak out from the hole he put in him, but the image was still crystal clear in Scotty’s mind, despite however much drink he’d tried to flush it out with. An initiation, their new employers had called it. From where Cain was standing that day, it looked more like a condemnation.

Per his brother’s orders, an hour or so before they’d left, Cain had shaved and duct-taped the clay-like blocks of merchandise in a belt around his torso, like bombers did with bricks of C4 in the movies. The step seemed unnecessary and frankly a little counter-productive, but out of all the hills Dermot had offered him, this wasn’t the one he was rearing to die on. He closed his eyes, breathing deep, trying to calm his nerves with the counting technique Alex had taught him. One, Two, Th-. One, Two-. One, Two, Three- Before he could count to four, a bump or pothole in the road made the cargo tug and pinch at the hairs he’d missed, further adding to his irritation. Restless, the Made-Man propped his gun upright in the seat astride him before rearranging his long limbs to straddle the middle console, leaning between the driver and passenger seats, resting an elbow on each side to let his lanky arms swing freely. In the rear-view, the headlights of the caravan flashed, making green eyes squint against the harsh light. “The fuck are we going, Egypt?” Cain hissed, irritably.

His unease was bone-deep. Never before had they opted to gather more men than themselves for a mission, and the robustness of the arms they packed for a simple drop was unsettling to say the least. Peering at the sliver of his brother’s face he could see, he was struck to find the trademark boyish charm was gone from his face. He didn’t know it was something that could be taken from him. This life was unrecognizable. A year ago, it’d only been the two of them. No guns, no knives (unless for show), no killings. They’d done their dealings quickly and cleanly, without unnecessary damage. Despite his ounger brother’s insistence that this choice was made for the better, Cain struggled keep his faith in the Syndicate.

“Usually I’d enjoy the silence, but here I am trussed up like Christmas dinner, and you still haven’t told me a single thing ‘bout this man we’re meeting.” The eldest said, trying not to let his nerves show through the statement. Then, after a pause “Have you at least met the man before?”

#c: dermot #flashback.#murder tw #violence tw #guns tw #( convo. )#don't match length this really got away from me #thread: the fuckening #ask and ye shall recieve

Mix tape me

SEND “MIX TAPE” FOR MY MUSE TO MAKE A LIST OF 5 SONGS THAT THEY THINK EXPLAIN HOW THEY FEEL FOR YOUR MUSE

#answered #m: emilia #long post #emiliaking

mix tape — ( knowing you already have a 10+-song playlist for them lmfao )

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

SEND “MIX TAPE” FOR MY MUSE TO MAKE A LIST OF 5 SONGS THAT THEY THINK EXPLAIN HOW THEY FEEL FOR YOUR MUSE

#answered #m: alex #it's a long post i'm sorry #alcxyuen

justrpmemesandmusings

send “mix tape” for my muse to make a list of 5 songs that they think explain how they feel for your muse

#im doin it im just doin it late #so sue me #( meme. )#I promise to actually do this one since playlists are my vice

text to dermot

Dermot: maybe more ?? what does that even mean

Dermot: ya better not be codding me just so i'll answer the goddamn phone

Dermot: dya know where she is? fuck we gotta visit her dont we?

Cain: It means you should take some time out of ur busy schedule drowning kittens to come see her

Cain: mcgill on decarie

Cain: meet me there

#( text. )#t: dermot

CAT.

Scotty had once been a memory from a long time ago. Perhaps not by choice but circumstance as his stint in prison had caused a rift between the two. Though the proximity, mere shift in the air which crackled of electricity amidst the sound of blood rushing in her ears, signified that perhaps she had been wrong; maybe she hadn’t left that memory behind. Sparks of anger and pain hadn’t simply evaporated with time.

She’d stepped away to both make headway to his car and allow her burning lungs some air as she sucked in a deep breath to centre herself. The mere encounter had made fingers itch with desire to fall back into old patterns. Anger licked its way through her veins and here, present before her, was a way to release it. A man who’d willingly take each hit and felt no qualms about returning them. Though she knew better, especially given a certain friendship with a man she had given her heart to. Too bad the anger that resided in a ball of furry within the pit of her stomach had been caused by the same man she loved. In an attempt to run from Scotty, she’d only come to halt mere inches away when he slid between her and his car door.

Dark hues rolled, irritation slipped past full lips with the sound of a groan. Perhaps she’d foolishly hoped he would have somehow remained ignorant about her recent involvement with the likes of the Vittori. “You too?” She snorted and crossed her arms over her chest, if only to hide the balls of fists. Maybe even to ensure she wouldn’t fall into old patterns and strike him, only to end up entangled in the back of his car, or bent over the hood. “First of all, I’m a fucking doctor. I’m not going out with a gun….” her head shook, sighing. It was futile. Her associated may as well have been a brand upon her forehead. No matter what she did or didn’t do, she had been branded Vittori. “You’re going to have to drag me back to my car because I’m not letting you leave. Plus, by the looks of it, you have important stuff you need to attend to. Myself, on the other hand, I have all day to keep you here if I choose. So make it easier on yourself, Scotty. I just need a ride into town.”

Scotty scoffed, entertained by the mental image of Cat trying to lock him down until she got what she wanted. He’d much rather do the decent thing, spare her the embarrassment of being simply picked up and moved. “Do you really want to test that theory?”

“I could lift you like a stuffed fucking turkey.” His voice dipped down an octave, spinning the lust to make a mockery out of the many times he’d proven it. Leaning closer, the Ivory planted a hand on the door behind her, keeping it shut. “This isn’t a negotiation. I suggest you work on finding yourself another ride while there’s light.” He persisted. With each passing moment, Cain felt the static prickling the air between them, each answer coming choppier as his rage was fanned by her presence. “Damned right, I have business far less pleasant than what you witnessed that still needs dealing with, and I’d be better off letting the car roll over me than allowing you sabotage it.” He said, wondering if she could smell the faintness of death wafting through the trunk and the tarp, or could spot the glistening flecks of crimson disguised in his beard, in the gloaming. Would she even be frightened if she did?

Cain took a breath there, watching Cat box herself up to withold the anger she used to deal to him freely. It wasn’t a surprise when he found himself craving it. Of course, her little on-again, off-again with the Ivory’s fearless leader changed things. Complicated them, at least, but he knew better now than to assume that he knew where the Vittori’s loyalties lie. Had he the time for it, he might’ve even indulged her little ‘road trip’ idea, but he didn’t. Scotty peeled his death-grip from the car, putting enough room between him and Cat for them to breathe. The made man whistled, in an attempt to shoo her off the car. “C’mon. Off with ya, She-Wolf. While you still have whatever scrap of dignity that still clings to ya.“

#( convo. )#c: cat

Location: Ivory Safehouse w/ @emiliaking

And to think it all began with a clip of the shoulder, a delicate tug on a string. Cain swung first, and within moments the gathering had descended into the Vittori’s perfectly orchestrated chaos, done up with all the typical theatrics and pyrotechnics that usually accompanied their hitjobs. Gunfire spat into the field, pinning down the Ivories while Pistris swooped to center stage, and in a Shakespearean deliverance of justice, confettied Milena’s brains out in the park for all of Montreal to see - including her daughter. Scotty watched the whole scene unfold from behind a bleeding keg, sober enough to parse what he’d seen, and know that he should’ve at least been relieved for it. All those years spent pining away for the day he’d see Mile get her just deserts, but now, the sink of guilt in his gut stopped him from enjoying it. He had no way of knowing that a little outburst would send their whole fucking pillar of command toppling down. Before the shot had stopped ringing, Alex was already churning out new orders. Despite having just inadvertently killed her mother, Scotty didn’t blink at the command to get Emila out of it.

The safehouse wasn’t far, the drive gave him a chance to sober up and process what had happened. The longer he dwelled on that moment, that first coincidental brush, the more it dawned on Scotty that he’d been played, and the hotter he began to burn. The Vittori could’ve taken a clean shot at Milea without the fanfare, but by plucking at the loosest thread, by getting the Ivories to instigate a fight in a public space, the Vittori had sold Montreal on their moral authority. They’d all been played.

The safehouse was well-kept, exhorborantly decorated in the same style as all of the Kings’ properties, tucked against the treeline just beyond the suburbs. “Keep away from the windows,” Was Scotty’s first command, charging up to them and throwing the drapes closed. He then turned, reaching into the cinch of his belt and pulling out a handgun before extending it to Emilia. “An’ take this. I trust you’ll know which part to pull if it comes down to it.” The distrust he held for her family refused to be shaken, even though she’d proven herself to be different. Now was not the time to start spouting any ill word about her parents, but he wouldn’t be the reason their bloodline is wiped from the earth in a single day.

#( convo. )#c: emilia

text to dermot

[ three missed calls ]

Cain: answer one of my fucking calls for once in your life you ingrtae

Cain: it's aunt peep

Cain: she's in hospital

Cain: possible pelvc fracture, maybe more

#( text. )#t: dermot

salvatoredelucca‌:

availability: open to all. location: local bar downtown.

“So,” he explained, drink in hand. “Now that Milena’s dead, everybody expects me to solve the case.” Salvatore scoffed, knowing very well he’d have to pull some strings and find a culprit that pleased both the Ivory’s and the Vittori’s. “Either way, I’m screwed. Like always,” he laughed in a bitter manner, sipping the rest of his whiskey on the rocks like the gentleman he wasn’t. “You’d think money would get you anywhere, look where it got me…” he rose his arms, surrendering. “Anyways… and to think my name means saviour, like my father expected me to be.” He licks his lower lip, the memory of his father now a faint one. “So.. What do you expect from me?”

After the week from hell, Scotty could think of no better way to celebrate the recent explosion of promotions from within the Syndicate than flooding his system with the stuff that had just been pumped out of it. He’d planted himself at the bar, swigging svedka (easy on the stomach) and trying not to picture the putrid-smelling black tar that had come spilling out of nearly every orifice in his head, or that it was his fault that their fate now rested in the hands of a certifiable madman. He’d almost drunk the worst of his woes away when he heard a graveled huff of Milena’s name, and the blood turned to ice in his veins. Scotty didn’t recognize the man, he figured he would’ve remembered a face like that - was he law? “I didn’t realize that by sitting here I was askin’ to hear the entire fucken’ screenplay to a one-man show.” He snapped, patience undercut by the drink. Every word that bubbled out of the stranger edged further beneath Scotty’s skin. So you fancy yourself the protagonist? Scotty scoffed. “I don’t know you. What I expect of you is to bugger off, give a man a moment to drink on his problems without clapping those gums about your own, or I’ll peel your lips off like paint tape.”

#( convo. )#c: salvatore

sammie-moore

Send “slurred words” to hear my muse describe yours whilst ridiculously drunk.

#( meme. )#it is wednesday my dudes

Location: Downtown with @zephyrjcksn

With the constant threat of another Vittori upheaval following on the heels of the fire, and the investigation into the dead cop in full swing, the Syndicate couldn’t afford to take any more chances when it came to security. Unable to shake the paranoia, their fearless leader had comissioned her dynamic duo out to keep tabs on another member acting squirley, which meant that Scotty was due to rekindle relations an old friend from pre-initiate days. When the two men arrived at the given address - which turned out to be nothing more than a delapidated parking structure overlooking the man of interest’s apartment - she was already there waiting for them, teetering to one side, beige paint job baking in the sun. Neither of them had aged especialy gracefully, but in the years that passed since his last stakeout, the trailer had gathered enough rust to match his own. While his companion worked to un-jam the door, Scotty drew his fingertips reminiscently along the fraying metal, lowering the rough timbre of his voice. “You’re looking radiant, as ever, my dear. I must say, you haven’t aged a day.” Many a merry evening Scotty had been spent here during his prospecting days with the Syndicate. And of course, being shitfaced was a necessity if you were to be stuck in a lunchbox for days on end. “Did ya miss me?”

The door opened with a crack and a protesting squeal. Once inside, Cain had to hunch to keep from clipping the ceiling, which now bowed and stained from the water that gathered above it. The cabin was crowded with every smell they’d never managed to air out of it, left to settle. Two crusted mattresses lay on the floor, next to a box of unperishables, a few moth-eaten blankets, and a satellite radio. “Ever wonder how much of the cut in our paycheck goes towards the duct tape holding this tin shitbox together?“ Scotty asked, crunching and kicking the peeling vinyl flooring beneath his boots. There was no telling how long they’d be there, roped into a job Scotty knew was a deliberate waste of their time. Maneuvering around a dangerously lowhanging ceiling fan, Scotty decided they’d best get homey, and began flipping through the scallop molded cabinets for something to lift their spirits. A half-finished box of saltines, jerky, canned goods. Whoever occupied it last must’ve dried out their stash. He slammed the door shut. “I cant’ imagine why she even wastes the gas hauling this greasetrap around when there’s a perfectly good motel just- FffUCK!” Scotty yelped as the cabinet door detached from its hinges and nailed his foot in revenge.

#( convo. )#( closed. )#c: zeph #>:(((((#i hope zeph has his tetanus shots

khaleese

#( musings. )#this is your fault

Location: The Calypso w/ @julianpistris

It was easy enough to slip into the glittering casino, despite the guards there armed to the teeth, Scotty had provided an arm over which to slouch a plastered bachelor whose entire party was teetering on their last legs, and slipped by unnoticed. Though, he credited himself with the piece de resisance, hiding his hair under a flat cap as a final thought before he left that night. At most, it bought him a few extra minutes. The tables beconed his good spirits, and if he just so happened to catch sight of a few Vittori scumbags while he was at it, well. He’d consider that a win, as well.

After a brief pit stop at the bar, Scotty sipped an olive martini as he ambled about the floor, observing the hands in play. He’d always been too hot-headed for the tables. Growing up burned with the assumption that he’d always play second-fiddle to Dermot meant that Cain had been a stranger to competition until his adult life. His first game of poker, held in the rank, concrete brick basement of the Lotus between a handful of prospecting members, ended catastrophically with the damning brand of a new nick-name as his only winnings, and ‘Scotty’ evading manslaughter charges by the saving grace of the Ivory who wrenched the two men apart. His luck, nor his temper ever improved with cards. So instead, Scotty was inspired to get very, very good at swindling them. The Ivory had no qualms about stealing pocket change from the cunts who’d literally burned his 401K to the ground, either. Feeling satisfied, Scotty sidled into an open table, and gave a side-glance at his opponent to size him up. Young, cocky, inflated. It would be an easy lift. Catching a glint of light out of the corner of his eye, Scotty’s gaze trailed down to the bit of bling that adorned the young man’s finger.

“That’s quite a ring.” He said. “Family heirloom, perhaps?”

#( convo. )#( closed. )#c: julian #time to blow my own cover bc i know nothing about poker

Location: Brennan’s Pub w/ @dxncingonglass

He hated this place. Brennan’s popped up in the time he spent away, he’d heard their braggings of an authentic Irish tavern with charming aesthetic, for the tacked on added expense of the experience, of course. What it was was a fucking disgrace. A pair of socks-and-sandals wearing spend a fuckin’ week in the motherland and capitalize off of a cultural capsule, and people flocked to it from all corners of the city to stuff overpriced and underseasoned lamb stew into their gobs and revel in the family-friendly, jovial atmosphere.

“I fucking hate this place.” Scotty mused aloud, to whoever else had perched themselves at the bar that evening. Lifting his sweating pint glass of sour - he’d be drawn and quartered before giving them the satisfaction of a patronizing their dark ale monopoly - Scotty attempted to smooth his irritation with a deep drink. Recently, he’d been devastated to find that The Dandy Pig, a local dive which he frequented, was in fact Vittori-owned. Just short of being chased out with pitchforks, Scotty had been kicked to the curb and his circle of unbarred establishments had shrunk by one. “Nine dollars for this watered-down goat piss. I have half a mind to wait out back to give them a clue of what real authenticity tastes like.”

#( convo. )#( closed. )#c: harlow #idk he's mad at everything

Location: Ray’s Diner w/ @serakaran

It was just past eleven when his phone pinged in his pocket, that made his breath catch. Scotty paid off his tab and left as quickly as he could, numb to the night chill as he walked to the proposed rendezvous location. If asked, Scotty never would have been able to pick out just what it was about the capo that pushed him to yearn for her approval, always held just out of reach. He wasn’t hers to command, he didn’t even indulge in the thought that the two of them were friends, but with a single snap of her fingers, he would cling to her heels like a shadow. Whatever the work - whatever the risk, he did it efficiently and with minimal complaint, and the disappointment when they parted ways was always won out by the hope of next time. This time, undoubtedly, he would get it.

Scotty shrugged off the chill once he was inside the brightly-lit breakfast diner, feeling like a magnet to the eyes of the night crowd, though they appeared to be more or less as rough as himself. It was her that stood out, glossy waves of auburn hair, the Irishman quickly crossed the dining room, slipped into the torn vinyl seat opposite the woman. “Couldn’t have picked a place that serves any alcohol? Can’t see how it would’ve hurt ya to get me composted before starting negotiations for my time, ‘specially if this little stunt will be anything like the last one.” Scotty said in a hushed voice, absently turning the stand-up brochure advertising a new strain of red velvet pancakes. “Or is there something else you dragged my arse out in the cold to tell me?”

#( closed. )#( convo. )#c: sera

peepuddle-deactivated20230124

u think i really give a fuck ? i can’t even read

#( musings. )

CAT.

Catalina watched the male with mild interest. While the woods that surrounded them were not thick or deep, she still wondered of what could lurk if she dared venture further. Perhaps it was a grave where they’d disposed of enemies or victims of circumstance. It hadn’t appeared too hidden, but there was something to be said about hiding in plain sight. Nonetheless, she remained on the edge of the road, teetering at the mouth of the tree line where she could still see his form. “You don’t seem quite happy to see me,” the brunette grinned at him. He should have known of her recent alliance, though she doubted that he discussed about her with Zephyr. Scotty was a lot of things, but he’d never been stupid. Dark hues rolled at his quick-witted comeback and she could only snort. “You wouldn’t make it ten feet from the curb, much less close enough to meet anyone of royal standing.”

Though her body shifted slightly when the male made his way towards her, she squared her shoulders and returned to her initial position to face him head on. Their relationship had always been complicated, but she’d never cowered away from the male. If anything, she returned each brute force with an equal amount of her own. Evident by the various array of colourful bruises and scratches she’d left on adorning his flesh in the past.

“One of you lot?” The woman echoed out as she took a step closer, leaving the pair close enough that she could feel his heat roll off his form towards her. “Don’t flatter yourself, if I had to follow someone, it wouldn’t be you.” A smirk framed her lips then, jutting her chin to her left towards her car that was barely in view from where they stood. “It just so happened that life had a plan for us, Scotty-boy. I have a flat and need a ride.” The woman said with a wiggle of her brow before turning on her heel and heading towards his ride rather than her own.

“I’m not.” He clarified. On a list of Worthwhile Uses of His Time, spending the night fighting and fucking in the single digit weather and (probably) getting a tick for his trouble wouldn’t have made the top fifty. Not to mention he already had a full itinerary for the evening, all of which did NOT include a plus one.

Lingering there, in the cinch of space too close for comfort, Scotty imagined he could feel the burning animosity radiating from her skin, and he drank it up to revel in the divine burn. It was complimented quite nicely by her scent as she drew closer still - another sense all too familiar. He returned a smile at her remark, for as avidly as she wanted to deny it, their dependency on having one another a simple phone call away - to be reminded of the fire that filled their lungs when they breathed together, the heat that bloomed in the wake of fingernails and teeth marred into skin, how it really felt to be burning alive beneath each others’ hands, had been proven time and time again.

The smile dropped from his features as the brunt of her request hit, and before he could jab back Cat was marching towards the car like she owned the damned thing. Cursing under his breath, the Irishman hurried up the hill after her. “Ohhh no. Fat fucking chance of that. Ya might have better luck going door to door some of the local pig-pokers out here and askin’ for rides.” Scotty rushed to block the passenger door before she could get to it. “I hear they’re hospitable enough, not unlike those new friends of yours. They might even blow your melon off before they’re finished havin’ their way with ya.“ Scotty raised his brows, as if the promise of a mercy-killing would work to sweeten the pot.

#c: catalina #( convo. )#i. don't know what triggers to tag here I'm sorry #tw: violence mention #tw: rape mention #?#yikes why is he like this

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