#wedstrife

[killerdame]

WEDSTRIFE: HAVING NOTICED DOVE BEGINNING TO SPIKE A FEVER, LIZZIE PRESSES A COOL CLOTH TO HER FOREHEAD TO TRY AND BRING IT DOWN.

IT'S ALMOST FUNNY, ISN'T IT? the way her evening dress sits in a pool on the floor, a pile of silk no different than the shed skin of a snake: a perfect coil, ringed, muted in colour and gaping in the center where something living had once been. discarded either uncaringly or unwittingly, as if a man had taken it off in a rush to get somewhere ⸺ to cross the final threshold to the bed, where dove lays now. but there’s no man in the room, nor had there been the night before. there’s only lizzie. there’s only ever been lizzie.

“don’t,” dove shifts, turns over. it isn’t enough to make it to the other side of the bed, but it's far enough to dislodge @wedstrife's hand from her hot skin. “you’ll catch it yourself.”

[killerdame]

SHE LOOKS LIKE THE ONLY FAIR REPRESENTATION OF THE FOREIGN COUNTRY. tall and thin, sharp-boned. like england, an island slight and lean and carrying a power it shouldn't be able to uphold. dove has only seen paper reproductions of the royal family, and this woman that arrives with the shelbys bares none of the ascetic maternal of a princess royal, but she seems the more apt figurehead.

they are both left to the back of the stutz, the front seats occupied respectively by a man tethered to each of them. it feels a very unfair relegation, the moll and the matriarch, as well as an unjust visual comparison to make so closely. in bow the of her pale fur and silk dress, dove feels like a trussed bird next to the sleekness of @ofstrife.

she holds her body, the living powderpuff of it, so that it will not leave dust on the other. dove is unfamiliar with women in power, and makes the assumption that their desires are both directly contrary and more practical than a man's: that having won her space, she has no interest in splitting it. the top is down, and the wind is manmade: created by both the gust of motion, and the driver's negligence to pull out the cover.

"there is another coat," she offers quietly, the edges of her own fur wavering like so many fleshy goosebumps. "if you're cold."

[ujima]

🌟

@wedstrife | HC ABOUT OUR MUSES.

t’challa does not pity her.

he does not speak to her as if she is lesser, or someone in need of rescue, nor does he treat her like a cautionary figure from a man’s parable. he sees the armor she’s chosen for herself—tailored, deliberate, held together with scraps of pride and residue from the traumas endured, masked as glue that keeps together the strength she expresses—and recognizes it as survival, not vanity. survival in a world where men barter women's names in rooms thick with clouds of smoke and old money and nefarious, world-changing agendas. he understands how costly that can be for the soul.

but he also sees her clearly. and he believes she has not fully held herself accountable for the decisions she’s made—particularly in who she’s chosen to stand beside. she has aligned herself with men who were wolves in polished suits, men who go into bed with those who trafficked in ideologies older than their wars: imperialists, fascists, architects of control (reference: tommy's dealings with mosley). even if she’s distanced herself from their worst creeds, she reluctantly built a level of inexcusable tolerance for it. and there are no clean legacies to be passed down from dirty rooms like that.

t’challa is not sanctimonious about this. he doesn’t offer her sermons. he simply states the natural order of things: all choices yield consequences. even the good ones. especially the convenient ones.

that’s when the topic of legacy comes to the surface; it's tense, unsmiling, and fair.

lizzie might say that legacy is just another chain. inheritance. duty. shame that calcifies in blood. she knows firsthand how dynasties rot from the inside.

t’challa, who has walked the halls of his ancestors’ mistakes, knows that contradiction too—but he doesn't speak from wounded nostalgia. he speaks from stewardship. from a place of obligation not just to the past, but to the unborn. what he judges—or rather, what holds his attention—isn’t the woman lizzie has become. it’s what she might be leaving behind.

she’s free to make her choices. but he’s a man entirely invested in the children who will live in the wake of them. when one of his former students—isiah—is entangled in shelby matters, when elizabeth younger, a young black girl, crosses his path, his calculations about how he approaches the shelby-hyena operation changes. not his values. his urgency to deal with it.

because t’challa has already outlived too many stories where brilliant children inherit haunted scripts as a consequence. he’s tired of watching young ones carry the tab for their elders' bargains.

[ujima]

❛ do you mind if i smoke? ❜

@wedstrife

luke charles brooklyn apartment.

❝ hm. ❞ the sound seemingly lingered longer than the question itself, his expression softening into something indulgent as his golden cat eyes traced the ghostly billow of smoke between her fingers. it wasn't unfamiliar to him. while cigarettes have no presence in his country, it was not unfamiliar whatsoever. it was true, wakanda had never been a place for such habits, but not without commentary.

the first time he'd ever brought a cigarette to his lips, it had been in the weeks after his father's murder, when grief sat unstructuredly jagged in his chest, looking for somewhere to rest comfortably within his ribcage. he hadn't liked it. the taste was acrid, the burn paling in comparison to the ire that had hollowed him out during that era. but the act itself—the illusion of control, the ritual of managing one’s breath, inhale… exhale… with rat poison threading his lungs—had tempted him more than he cared to admit. it went without saying: that period of his life was a blotch on his character.

his mother, of course, had noticed immediately.

ramonda's reaction had been... memorable.

there had been no gentle correction or inquiry about it. only affront — and a sermon so vivid it begged the question of why wakanda even needed bast temples when his mother alone could summon divine judgment. her son falling prey to western indulgences? developing a behavioral addiction so common in their Insalubrious societies? she would not have it. wakanda would not have it. she reminded him — repeatedly — that she wouldn't see him fall through the cracks by passing through the gateway of despair. by the end of it, t'challa had been half-convinced he might actually get the belt.

he'd never touched one again. not out of fear — but because she’d been right, and because grief, in general, did not need another king to consume. not as it once consumed his father.

his attention drifted back to the present, to lizzie, the memory easing into something faintly amused. the image of himself going into hysterical convulsions over a petty vice, so uncannily like his mother, earned a quiet shake of his head. king or harlem scholar alike, he lifted a hand in an easy, permissive gesture, signaling she could do as she pleased.

❝ it wouldn’t be an outstanding issue with me, ❞ he said at last, his tone even, brown, bowed lips curving just enough to betray his awareness of the irony. ❝ my windows are opened. make yourself at home. whatever helps put you at ease. ❞ he studied her briefly. ❝ by the look on your face, i’d say you’ve had a long day. ❞

[burnedown-a]

“ is there a name for that thing where you're afraid of something good happening cos you think something bad is gonna happen? ” / @wedstrife

[belayadyavol-a1]

@wedstrife liked for a starter.

" you can stay for a drink. that bottle's vodka but there's whiskey, gin, an ancient bottle of wine somewhere. probably. i wouldn't chance it though. "

[bl4ckdevl]

06.     bedside table drawer.

@wedstrife | a peak inside their...

the top drawer - quick access, left slightly ajar - tactical.

a loaded sig sauer p365 or walther ppk

a bible tucked under the weapon. he’s not religious, but the stories help him sleep—or stay awake.

a bag of condoms — mixed selection. lambskin (for sensation). ultra-thin (for closeness). ribbed (for her). flavored (for fun). he accommodates. always has. many reasons they have not to leave.

prescription bottles (painkillers, sleep aids)

a burner phone, stashed behind a half-smoked bag of weed.

the bottom drawer - less touched, carries a sentimental weight.

an old photo of him and tommy o’neal, surrounded by other boys from the group home. never reconnected. always forgets to. maybe he doesn’t want to.

a stack of veteran pamphlets and business cards. they have curtis hoyle’s name, number, and an address for a new york vet support group.

a black notebook with names written in code. (kill list? persons of interest? old safehouse? designated locations that were used by government officials and the underworld?)

[bl4ckdevl]

meta topic: how important is food to billy? is there an aspect of ritual to it, something to be savored and explored, or simply fuel?

@wedstrife | meta question. always accepting!

if he's in a position where he has to worry about food and how he'd afford it, then something's gone wrong. that's a problem.

for billy, food used to mean survival. as a child, meals were conditional: offered as reward, withheld as punishment. arthur made sure of that. he made kids who pushed back work twice as hard to earn a crumb of kindness.

billy hated playing those games. if it wasn’t secondhand off someone else’s plate, it came from the streets. that’s where he first learned how depraved survival could get. he watched what people—people like him—had to do to eat. nobody liked the poor. and food? food was just another way to flex power. you either had enough to waste or you didn’t.

now, as an adult, it’s about control. what he eats, how much, when. clean plating. ample portions. sometimes expensive, always intentional. there’s power in that performance—the refusal to wolf it down, the quiet, calculated savoring.

never again that starving kid. no giving anyone the impression that he’s missed too many meals. no signs of lack.

and food as ritual? sure. there’s intimacy in it, depending on who’s across the table. maybe a dark, pricey bottle. maybe a steak. depends on the woman. she could be a meat-eater, vegan, pescatarian—it doesn’t matter. billy adapts. he keeps a mental library of the best spots in the city, from luxury rooftops to hole-in-the-wall joints. he can flex both ways. mcdonald’s and chinese takeout filled his belly plenty of nights growing up. he hasn’t forgotten.

so no—food’s not just fuel. not anymore. but the hunger? it never left. and the worst part is, he knows. he knows just how big his appetite's gotten the higher he climbs.