harlequined | ( AN OPEN POST #2 )

( Maleficent makes a soft tsk, tsk noise, as though to scold him for being so daft. Has he no imagination? Violence can't possibly be the only answer men hold in high regard.

She is not naive enough to think that she would ever get an apology. Maybe years ago, when her vision was still partially clouded with hopes that he might come back to her and return that which was taken, but that time has passed. In its place, a mixture of bitterness and anger has taken over.

Never again does she want to be so trusting of someone that so willingly deceives to get what they want. That mistake cost her far too much, and she learned her lesson. Love isn't real, and man is never, under and circumstances, to be trusted.

Wiping a bit of dust off of the wooden backboard of the pew she stands at, an eyebrow arches high on her forehead. Messy, messy. Just as he is. )

Oh, Stefan, no. ( She speaks as though she's fond of him. Deep down, there are parts of her that still are; parts of her that are still in love with that boy that kissed her, saying he belonged with her. ) I'm not going to kill you — that would be too easy.

( Eyes narrowed and jaw tight, Maleficent steps even closer, keeping mind to stay out of reach. She knows what a desperate man is capable of, and he knows her on weakness.

Surely he's got many an iron object on his person, and that's not a risk she's willing to take. )

I want you to suffer.

( It's Abigail's turn to tun her attention to the building, the sound of Seth's snoring that once bothered her beyond all words now bringing a smirk to her lips.

She knows he won't be happy with her return; he wasn't exactly pleased that she chose to leave in the first place, but he understood why she felt she had to do it. It's so soon that she's going to seem fickle, like she doesn't know what she wants, and if she knows anything about Seth Gecko, it's that he doesn't like an unsure partner. It doesn't exactly make for confident jobs.

Abigail turns back to Richie, shrugging. )

I've never been the luckiest of people in the world. ( She bites at her lip nervously, still. He's only warning her about something she's already aware of.

Perhaps too aware, if the sudden spike in her heart rate is anything to judge by. ) I don't expect him to be happy to see me.

[ For the both of them, there lies a discrepancy between what they believe to be true and what actually is. Quite possibly, it accounts for a large part of the gap that stretches ever wider between them, despite the fact that there had been a time when they had hardly gone a few days without seeing each other. (They'd been much younger, granted, burdened with much less responsibility, though that does not belittle the existence of sentiment nor how true it had seemed, at the time.) She doesn't mean to take his life — he still does not completely exploit the fact that he knows how to take hers. Both hands stayed, though that does not keep them from poisonous words.

Her voice is soft and then harsh, in turns, and it only twists the knife deeper between his ribs. He lacks vision beyond all-consuming ambition, lacks scope beyond what had been ingrained in him as a boy. (Riches as defined by material possessions and the obedience of others rather than the existence of something to love and be loved by in turn.) That gap had formed early — he had still had nothing while she had grown to preside over the Moors, powerful in a way that would never be accessible to him. As little as childhood games may mean, there is still an undeniable disappointment that comes with winding up last, time after time.

His expression mirrors hers as he steps forward, though he keeps his hands (balled into fists) at his sides. ]

Do you think I don't?

[ There are other answers he could use — and so you curse my daughter to do it — but they escape him, as drawn up as he is in his own preoccupations. ]

I see your shadow everywhere I go.

[ Her answer doesn't seem out of place. This isn't the goddamn Ritz Carlton — the staff's about as incompetent as they come. Still, it isn't a misguided paranoia. When you lead a life like the Gecko brothers, you have to be on your guard at all possible times. If you feel eyes on you, there are. If you see something in the corner of your vision, there is.

There's no shortage of trouble they're into. Bad blood is sure to find them, one way or the other.

It's hesitant, but Richie's arm lowers, and he places the gun back to safety. ]

Four Rooms.

[ Judging by her expression, she hasn't seen it. Richie walks to the bedside, eyes narrowing at the sight of the open drawer. Another armed pistol resides alongside the obligatory Holy Bible. He closes it. ]

Robert Rodriguez? Quentin Tarantino? Tim Roth, he's the bellhop at this hotel — the Hotel Mon Signor? He keeps getting caught up in all these — strange happenings in all the other rooms. In this one room, David Proval, he's got his wife at gunpoint. Wants her to admit she's having an affair.

[ He inclines his head, lips turning down in something like a frown. ]

Turns out, it was just some fantasy scenario to improve their sex life.

[ Richie nods at her. ]

—What's your name?

[ It isn't entirely true. Seth will have his reservations, sure. There will be anger, there will be silence. His brother is as transparent as he is unaware of the idea.

When he looks at Abigail, he sees a girl who was lost. The Geckos, they found her. They gave her life a new meaning. It was only right that she would return to them, in the end.

He angles slightly in order to get a better image of her again. He thinks of her mouth and the impulsive things that he's done. Like the ground had been pulled out from underneath him and kissing Abigail had been the only way to get it to stop. ]

They feed you? On the train?

( Debra Morgan didn't spend excruciating hours on homicide to take down thieves. If they'd only been robbing banks, she would've shoved this case off onto someone below her.

But they weren't.

No, these sons of bitches (or, a singular bitch, as they're brothers) that she's got her eyes on have not only been robbing banks — and the occasional lucky fella — blind all over the South, they've taken it upon themselves to also leave innocent people dead in their tracks.

So naturally, when they hit up a bank in Miami, leaving three police men dead — policemen that she personally knew, Deb immediately wanted on the case. They haven't left Miami, and that much she is certain of, because she's got roadblocks on every main road (and the occasional side road) that leads out of the city. Those motherfuckers weren't going to go anywhere without her knowing about it.

Which is how they — she and one of the Gecko (what a silly fucking name, right?) brothers — got to the predicament they're in now.

She doesn't look fondly on her time on Vice, what with all the undercover work as a prostitute and all, but having eyes all over the city does work to her advantage. Especially when she gets a call around 8 o'clock, saying one of the brothers she was looking for was spotted going into a taqueria. Needless to say, she hauled ass all the way to the place, gun held high as she ordered everyone but the sticky fingered asshole in question to leave the restaurant.

He makes a move to the back room; she fires, and it's turned into a goddamn mess that's now left blood on the floor of this fine ma 'n pa establishment.

She now stands back against a wall, gun gripped tight, waiting. )

You gonna fucking come out or am I going to have to call in back up to bring your ass out by force?

[ Guacamole.

All this? Is because of a forgotten bowl of fucking guacamole. His shit-stain of a little brother had a craving, and what did Seth do? He played the role of the doting elderly sibling and went back for the goddamn thing.

Now, here they are caught in today's telenovela with Deputy Debbie and her rootin' tootin' cronies. Fantastic. Just great. Richie couldn't control himself. Couldn't let well enough alone. So, he got blood all over Miami's carpet and now they were on their tails faster than cilantro in the green sauce now splattered over the countertops.

He dabs at a spare bit that'd fallen on his shirt. Richie's back at the hotel room, safe as goddamn houses. Meanwhile, he's stuck here between a rock and the lady cop's itchy trigger finger. He takes his own gun up again. The manager's office was empty, but that window across the way's looking a little more tempting with every passing second.

She'll have it covered, of course. Something tells him this isn't her first rodeo. ]

Hate to be the bearer of bad news here, Eastwood, but that's not gonna happen.

[ Richie. You son of a bitch. ]

As compelling as that argument of yours is, you gotta ask yourself: you really know what it is you're dealin' with here?

( Oh, Lydia's brain is currently screaming at her to do something about this.

If the room wasn't already sweltering due to the temperature outside, she's sure that she'd start steaming in anger. Her jaw clenches and unclenches while she stares at him in silence as he explains the plot to some movie that she's never even heard of, let alone wanted to reenact with a real gun pointed in her direction all because the receptionist at the front desk screwed up.

This guy's gotta be different, and not in a way that she's prepared to deal with. If only her legs would remember how to move so that she could get out of here, as it appears that she's now frozen in fear.

She never thought she'd see the day that she'd take supernatural danger over everything else, but at least she (sometimes) knows how to deal with that. This? Bullets, troubled men that she can only assume to be criminals? Not exactly within her area of expertise.

He lowers his gun after what feels like a lifetime, and she takes a slow, deep breath to steady herself. Scared out of her mind or not, Lydia Martin refuses to whimper in front of anybody. )

Lydia.

( It's short, to the point.

If he thinks he's going to be getting anything else after that, then he really is out of his damn mind. )

Plenty of humans were monstrous,
and plenty of monsters knew how to play at being human.

You shouldn't look so freaked out, you know.

[ it's less than comforting, but richie wouldn't know how to do the thing if he tried. the basis of connection is often successful based on how comfortable one is with another. considering he's not only held his gun in her direction, but questioned her intentions before ever introducing himself? well, it doesn't take a psychologist to see he'd made a mistake.

still, this doesn't concern him. in fact, the only bother, at this point, is the mishap at the front desk. sure, he hadn't given his actual name, but you didn't miss a thing like "walter kissinger." ]

If I wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead.

[ richie buttons his sleeve at his elbow, echoing the motion at his other arm. he doesn't have a habit of murdering young girls, and if he did, he'd at least need a reason. the gun was meant for a threat; if this — lydia had any intention of hurting him, that look in her eyes would have long since disappeared. ]

Besides, the gun's not for pretty girls. [ he grins. the intent isn't as serious as its execution. ] It's for hotel lobbyists who don't know how to do their goddamn jobs.

[ he can hear seth's shut up, richard from miles away. ]

Forget it. Bad joke.

( There are many things in the world that Jessica Drew regrets. Joining S.W.O.R.D, coming out of hiding in the first place, joining SHIELD (and through them, the Avengers) are just a few of these things. None of them come even remotely close to her regretting volunteering for the night watch after not sleeping the night before.

(And by volunteering, what she really means is Nick Fury told her she had no choice in the matter.)

She's just about positive that everything in the world would be more exciting than sitting on a roof silently with two other people and wait for something to happen in the building across the street. Oh, wait, there is something less exciting, though — being left with one person, rather than two.

It also becomes exponentially more awkward when that person is her guy-friend-that-she-maybe-has-not-friend-like-feelings-for. (The world boyfriend? Totally over-rated, not to mention for children. Obviously her way of looking at it is much more mature. Obviously.)

She's avoided — or perhaps assisted — any kind of uncomfortable situations by making endless food runs. In her defense, they've also helped to keep her awake, given the fact that she's running on fumes by now. When she returns this time, she's holding two large, steaming styrofoam cups with lids. She offers one to Clint. )

Coffee?

( Yup. Mature, functional adults that help defend this fine country's safety. )

[ Jessica Drew deserves better. It's something that Clint's keenly aware of, in the way that his self-awareness (and self-loathing) tends to kick in whenever he's on the verge of making any kind of commitment. He likes her, she likes him, they've slept together a couple of times, but they haven't used the word dating, and most of the time, they don't have enough time alone with each other to be able to broach the word at all.

But now, here they are, on night watch together. The only thing that's remotely comforting about it all (in a kind of masochistic way) is that he can sense just as much awkwardness off of her as he's sure he exudes, too. He's never been good at subtle, not when it comes to relationships. Secret agent stuff, he can do. This? Not so much. ]

Thanks.

[ He takes the coffee cup without any hesitation (he needs the caffeine, maybe not as badly as she does, but still), and there's genuine relief in his voice. There's comfort to be had in a hot drink when it's cold out, more so when you know you're supposed to be alert for whatever it is they're supposed to be watching out for. Fury wasn't clear on that, but he tends to have a different idea of what need to know basis is than the rest of them. ]

Guy at the bodega didn't give you too much trouble?

( She doesn't remember Italy, though she gets bits and pieces. The rocky shores of a beach on the Mediterranean, the orange glow of a sunset over the hills, the smell of freshly sautéed olives and garlic.

Yet, Angela yearns for it. The languages falls off her tongue on accident, and she feels like a stranger in her own body; as though she's betrayed her family by not knowing anything about them anymore. She doesn't know how she got to the United States, how she came to be in Atlantic City.

She's made it her life work to find out exactly this.

The sky is grey and overcast, her skirts blow in the wind as the sand beneath her feet shifts with each step. Music is heard above her on the pier as children run around and give their parents a chore to chase them through crowds on the boardwalk.

Beneath the entertainment, the dancing and the singing, he waits for her, and Angela doesn't like to keep anybody waiting. They're alone, as he promised they would be, and she greets Alphonse Capone with a small nod of her head. Curls that are tucked securely beneath her hat fall around her face.

Underneath the thick fabric of her skirts hides a blade. Long and sharp, nestled up against her calf, secured in a sheath tucked into her sock. It never leaves her, and she keeps it a secret. )

I hope you didn't run into too much trouble to get here.

( Once a thrilling and beautiful place to be, the Moors became something like a prison to Maleficent in her adult years. Those who look upon it say it's not lost any of its beauty; that it's still the enchanting kingdom it once was.

It's true that physically the realm had not changed, and she admits to this, but the faerie woman's views towards her home are very different from they once were. That's what happens when the wrath and greed of men touch something — it becomes ruined. Something that was once seemingly untouchable and pristine turns to spoil and ruin. Somewhere that was a reminder of everything beautiful in the world becomes the only place safe from what's been ruined by man.

Because of this, she tends to keep to herself (And the occasional acquaintance, or — even rarer — friend.), as she does tonight as she walks to the lake bordering the kingdom of Man. It's cold, perhaps even too cold to set foot in the water, but this doesn't stop her. It's a welcomed chill — one that reminds Maleficent that she's still alive, though she's felt for a long while as if she wasn't.

Her life might have been taken from her when her wings were. That's how much they meant to her.

A wave of her hand and her robes are replaced by something substantially more short and thin; something that would make sense to get wet. That's when she hears him behind her. )

Care to join me, Diaval? If you can't swim, I can always turn you into a fish.

[ They're very young, the first time they meet. They come up together, grow up knowing nothing but each others' company. (They need each other, for a long while.) Looking back, Stefan's not sure when things had started to change. Sometimes — when he feels resentful or petty — he thinks it had always been the case, that the disconnect had always existed. But it's not true (it eats away at him), and for all that he wants things to return to their previous balance, does that come before climbing his way further up the metaphorical ladder?

It's a question that's easier to ignore in the small hours of the morning (and it's these moments that twist a knife into his gut, later, when things really start to fall apart). Still firmly enough in the grasp of sleep that there's no pretense of the people they turn into under press lights and cameras, as sweet on each other as they've ever been. It's not a performance, in other words — there's nobody watching them.

He blinks slowly at her touch, a beat passing before his gaze focuses on her features. One of his arms is still wrapped about her shoulders, and he pulls her a little closer as he smiles, the expression as unguarded as it ever is. ]

Or early, depending on how you want to look at it.

[ He squints a little against the light that filters in through the curtains, raising his other hand to shield his eyes. ]

You sleep alright?

[ this town's a bloody shithole. he can smell it about ten miles out; the whole thing reeks of teenagers' hormones and wolf bollocks.

he tells himself he could go the other way. chas has never been particularly fond of california, and he's not half fancy of it on his own, either. they say it's a beacon, of sorts — as if "beacon hills" wasn't cliched enough for you, here, let's have a pun, eh? — that it calls out to the supernatural in a way that might do up a shiver or two.

that's not why they're here, of course. it's rather a happy circumstance that they've made it past the state line, after a messy exorcism stint he'd had here back in the 80s. the same stint, in which, he'd found himself shacked up with a sort of harbinger of death: a banshee, one lorraine martin. she'd been out in los angeles when they'd come to know one another, but her heart never really left this cocked up spit of a town.

so, when he mutters to chas around a cigarette about taking a left instead of a right, he knows to do the opposite. they haven't happened here for nothing. there's trouble in them there hills, and he made a promise a long time ago to look after the next banshee that managed to find its way down the line. she's all spitfire red and a smile like her grandmother's; forgive him for keeping tabs on the girl, only doing his civic duty-like.

they've arrived none too soon. after the bit with the druids, the nogitsune bastard, and whatever the bleeding hell the argent girl had been turned into, there's talk of a storm brewing overhead. a storm that's like nothing they've ever known before. john's on the edge of his seat when he hears it. chas peels into gear, taking off toward the familiar wail.

when they arrive, john doesn't waste time. they're outside the local high school when he steps from the car. he tosses his cigarette to the wayside and raps his knuckles on the window. chas lowers it and john nods. ]

Keep an eye out, yeah? Kids out after curfew — nasty business.

[ he flashes his mate a grin and pulls his collar around his neck. the waves of her scream still resonate throughout the air. so much so, it's only a matter of tracing them to the source. he sighs as he pulls open the front door. ]

Right. School's back in bloody session, then.

( AN OPEN POST #2 )

no subject

no subject

( maleficent )

no subject

no subject

no subject

( surprise me )

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( deb )

( deb )

maggie.

no subject

scott.

no subject

( margaret )

( lydia )

no subject

Adults™

( wildcard )

angela.

no subject

heeeey au

o7

backtag is my middle name tbh gimme

( lydia )