mockmade

[mockmade]

ofproseandmusing‌.

Closed to @mockwrites for Camellia.

More than two centuries of years and a dead child had taught Lacha a great deal about life; some of which was relevant to present day, much of it that was not. However, of everything she had experienced and endured in raising and then sacrificing Caora in the name of peace nothing had prepared her for the conversation she knew she had to have with Camellia now. The thing was, though, not only was she totally unprepared, part of her really wanted to believe she could avoid having it. Lacha believed in facing the truth no matter how painful it was, in theory; it was a rule she had lived her life to since childhood, mostly because she hadn’t another choice — too young, she had been forced to confront realities that no child should endure. So, it wasn’t for that, that Lacha wanted to avoid this conversation. Instead it was simply that Camellia seemed shockingly, stunningly okay.

Considering about the wager wasn’t fair to Camellia or Gale, considering nothing about the situation was pretty or neat or simple, Lacha had expected less of her daughter. After all, she had told the truth to everyone because she wagered it, endured the whispers and the speculation and the questions because it was the price for losing. She endured the more private hurts, too: the way Gale was happier and somehow sadder than before because giving his name and the truth had done nothing to change her insistence that she would not date him openly, that she would not take him for a consort, that she would not pretend that he, she and Camellia could be a family; the way Hyacinth seemed a little broken and was presently not speaking to her because she had gambled for him and it hadn’t worked.

Everything had a price and she had paid with the same cold grace she endured every other the court had exacted or demanded of her over the course of her reign, but she hadn’t expected Camellia to follow suit, to play Princess so well or bear it all like a daughter of hers should: without flinching. No, it was something she would have expected of Caora, the daughter that had been dear and reckless, a child of her soul in that she had squared her shoulders to the challenge of the court in the very same way Lacha always did rather than manipulate it with the facade of softness.

“Camellia, I’m very proud of you.” Lacha, murmured, as she set a mug of tea on the table for Camellia who sat opposite where she had just settled, high praise from a woman who barely knew how to offer it at all and she hoped that would mean something, would encourage the honest conversation she really wanted to have. “Only, are you sure you’re okay with all this? It’s just… I never really expected you’d take it so well and I didn’t know what would happen. I never…” She paused, hesitating, before she forced the rest out, “I never told Caora.”

She’d done what was required of her. At the end of a genuinely trying day, Camellia could rest easy knowing that she’d done exactly what she’d needed to do. She had dealt with Gale, sat through her mother’s announcement, handled Elise’s necessary dues, and bore the whispers, both Seelie and Unseelie. If she were honest, and she rarely was, especially in matters of the heart, she would say that she was angry -- livid, even. At the end of Gale’s confession, she’d been angry with herself, for the childish hope she’d let live in her heart all these years, for thinking that knowing who it was who sired her would’ve solved something in her, would’ve changed anything about present circumstance. It was a foolish school of thought, and as rarely as she was honest, she suffered fools.

That anger was disappointment fueled, and turned inward, at that, but upon hearing the first waves of speculation wash over her, it was soon frustration fueled; it was insulting, frankly, to have people hum in understanding, as if Gale had done anything to influence her and her general demeanors, to act as if he’d played any part in any role besides stander-by. Another faction expressed discontent at his demi-fey status, and others begrudged Lacha for even taking the risk of having a child sired by anything but a full fey. For the first time in her life, Camellia found herself unable to control the narrative and perception surrounding herself, and it infuriated her to no end.

And yet, what was she to do about anything but gnash her teeth and bide it over? Any more anger or spilt emotion over this event seemed a waste to her: it served no use to a court who would never see it, and more importantly, even less use to herself, considering that she had no way of changing anything. So she swallowed every little bit of feeling, imprisoning them in the jail of her ribcage, holding her breath insistently and vindictively as to suffocate every last one of them, all the while making the familiar walk to her mother’s apartment. It was silent there, for a little while, both of them, presumably, lost in flights of thought, whilst Lacha prepared tea, and then as swiftly as it had settled around them, the silence was broken, and by words Camellia had no idea how to begin processing, at that.

It seemed as though the day’s surprises would never end.

I’m very proud of you. I’m very proud of you. The words felt a very balm to her angry heart, and she blinked once, twice, up at Lacha, hands curling over the mug offered, almost uncomprehendingly, before the feeling spread, radiating out from her sternum and burning its way into a smile at her lips -- a brief one before she wrested it back under control; she wrangled it into something that was more appropriately tame and her, but not before some of the sunshine child she’d been radiated through her grin. “Really, mom,” she said, pausing to sip from her mug. “I’m fine,” she continued automatically, sighing when the sentiment felt cold and disjointed; it wasn’t ever her intent to place boundaries on the many truths she shared with her mother. “It was a surprise, of course, and I cannot say that I’m any gladder to have known now, despite my previous belief otherwise, but I’m okay. I... And I’ll learn to accept all aspects of it eventually.”

There was a malicious, covetous portion of her that rejoiced in finally having something over Caora -- something Lacha had shared with her that her saintly sister had never known; she quashed it for what it was: the ugly rearing of an inferiority complex. “Are you okay?” she asked, suddenly wondering if anyone ever truly bothered to check if Lacha was alright, or if everyone jointly assumed she was. She blinked at this, as if surprised at herself for a moment, before nodding and standing firm by the question.

uncharted territory.

[mockmade]

AND NOW WE HUNT.

@ofproseandmusing

They shared many things: love, first and foremost, an astounding amount of trust in each other, and below those, money, secrets, women — and even the odd man that Elias deemed interesting enough. There was, of course, a multitude of things they didn’t share: some toys exclusively his, and some hers, but never in any manner where the other was expressly forbidden from using. Elodie, for instance, was his, and Elias noted with no small amount of pleasure the way she reliably caught his glance with a flush even as she entertained other patrons.

But tonight was no such night for individual pleasures, he thought, not particularly feeling inclined to be parted from Jacqueline’s side — and yet, he could not say for sure until he had gotten her verbal assent, either. It wasn’t so much of an actual search for her, no, searching for her would mean that he had lost track of her in the first place: finding her was the easy part. They operated as a unit, uniform, be it halfway across the room from each other or halfway across the globe. Making his way over was more of a challenge — sidestepping patrons and dancers alike, sometimes even treading over those in his way.

Being jealous of those his wife took a shine to wasn’t his thing, either — he was a man difficult to ruffle and to sway, unless by actions taken against or words from said darling wife, but he was of the possessive sort, as was she, and he took immense pride in their matching wedding rings, still on despite their current surroundings. But possessive did mean he liked to have a certain amount of monopoly on his wife’s time, and it was with this mindset that he slid into the booth currently occupied by Jacqueline and some dancer he didn’t care to remember the name of. “Hello ladies,” he greeted, smiling. “Mind if I intrude? I do so miss my darling wife and was hoping to spend a little bit of time with her tonight. You don’t have to leave,” he continued, watching the confusion play across the face of the girl. “Well,” he amended with a grin. “You don’t have to leave unless she says you have to.”

[mockmade]

@ciislunar

It’s routine — or so they tell her. She’s not really worked with other agents before, save for the occasional spotter the agency insists she bring with her, mostly because her skill set doesn’t exactly play well with others, and nor does she. She skims over the thin folder she’s been given for the agent they have her collaborating with — Knock-out — looking over their skill set and missions brief one more time while she waits.

There’s not much for her to do: she’s only being deployed in case extraction gets rough, as a form of long range support; her handler insists that Knock-out is a very capable agent and there’ll be little reason for her to even to pull the trigger, that she’s merely a back-up plan. As her handler explains neatly that the agency is just loathe to lose operators — Cassia thinks, only mildly bitterly, that if the agency invests as much time in all their operators as they have in her life, that of course they would be.

Knock-out’s in danger of running late now, and she entertains herself in thinking that maybe they won’t show; she’s been waiting an ungodly amount of time. But it’s really no one’s but her own fault for the amount of time she’s been waiting — she favors a modicum of precision common of and expected of snipers — and so she toys with the file a minute more, deciding that she’ll stay ten past, and if Knock-out still doesn’t show, that they would have to be satisfied not knowing the sniper watching their back.

She tries to avoid looking at the clock when she hears the door, simply out of common courtesy, out of a ingrained sort of polite behavior, to avoid giving off the impression that she’s been waiting even though she has. She stands, turning to face the door, coaxing her lips up in a half smile, hand extended in offering, in greeting. “Knock-out, right?” She asks sweetly, in an attempt to come off as less dangerous than she knows she is. “I’m Andromeda — well, Cassia. I’ll respond to either,” she says, at a loss for what to say in this situation.

[mockmade]

ofproseandmusing‌.

Only a man like Elias could be pleased at the idea of trouble. Oftentimes, it pleased her, his propensity to do little but smirk as he found his amusement in things that others branded worth avoiding or unpleasantries, and it was half how he’d won her heart in the first place, but today it was hardly the response Jacqueline wanted. No, she wanted him, as ever, to be on the same page as her and he wasn’t. He was amused, she was dismayed, and the combination was not necessarily a recipe for a successful interaction.

And yet, dismayed as she was by the circumstance, Jacqueline found charm in the possession, in the fact that, as ever, he took pleasure in having a son, her son, their son. A slight dip of the head came as almost imperceptible acknowledge that this sin was more a reflection of her than her husband, that their son was more her than he in this moment, a gesture won by the aforementioned charm, finding herself soften more still in the kiss and his interest; she never grew tired of watching him engage with the children they’d brought into this world, even as they were both distant to some degree. Yet, that didn’t stop her from glancing up at him to give an exasperated look. “You know, I was hoping you would be a bit more concerned about this rather than proud he’s clever enough to find trouble. For God’s sake, what do you think would have happened to him if he’d actually managed to make it off the school’s grounds?” Jacqueline couldn’t imagine anything good, but somehow she was sure Elias’s imagination would take him in a different direction.

“They suggest we do nothing. What is it that headmaster of his wrote?” she murmured, skimming through a letter now familiar until she found the appropriate part, before reading, “If I may be frank, I suggest you ignore it, pretend you aren’t interested in the antics of a foolish boy or a desperate plea for attention and trust that we will appropriately punish him for his foolhardy choices. You sent him to us for an education, let us provide it, in all things.” She tossed the letter on to the vanity with a hint of disquiet and bit of disdain, “I don’t care much for it, but I hardly see another choice. The letter is from nearly two weeks ago.” But then, it wasn’t really the idea of the school punishing their son that was bothering her, that made her disquieted and disdainful; she thought he deserved to be punished and they were as good a source as any for correction. What was bothering her was the insinuation of inattention; it was a sore spot for her, considering her own childhood. 

She tried to hide it, not because she was embarrassed, but simply because she hated her own vulnerabilities. Rather than betray herself with drumming fingers, she busied herself her hair, attempting to deal with it in a bid to advance herself somewhat towards being ready because even with this distraction, there was no reason their plans should change. Except, it wasn’t a particularly good distraction; she only sat silently for a few moments, before she spoke on the subject once more, finally smirking slightly. “To his credit though, Eli, our boy can write a pretty apology, even as I doubt he means a word of it. Read between the lines and he’s only sorry he got caught, but consider it superficially and it’s very neatly done.”

Elias hummed; a part of him wished to share the consternation that his wife had over the whole escapade, but to be quite frank, the only thing he particularly wanted to punish was the fact that the boy didn’t succeed. It wasn’t that he wanted his son by his side at the moment, and he would’ve been sure to send the boy packing back to school if he had indeed succeeded -- after giving him a hefty sum of money or some other material thing of course -- but rather that he treasured this sort of trickery, but only on the condition that one wasn’t caught. 

He took his wife’s exasperation in stride, as he did most things -- though doing her the sole courtesy of not immediately putting it from his mind -- slowly and methodically working his way up the back of the corset, listening to her intently. “I am concerned,” he said quietly, omitting the part where he was more concerned that their son wouldn’t live up to his own mantle of meticulous trickery. “I can be both. But if the boy was clever enough to make it off the grounds in the first place, I have no doubt he would’ve been clever enough to find something to occupy his time safely. Unfortunately for the lot of us, he wasn’t, which means I do have reason to be concerned about his safety and wellbeing.”

Even though he wasn’t all too concerned about the trouble caused, Elias did find the suggestion mildly irritating; he was never a man of inaction, and suggesting such to him was met with disdain. “I suppose you’re right. There’s not much for us to do now after two weeks, but I’m loathe to do nothing, either. Do you think I can send for one of those bodyguard sorts to teach the boy something to the effect of self defense? And one of the stricter ones -- it’s not a reward, it’s a precaution and a punishment.”

He finished up with the corset, watching as she worked her hands through her hair, silent on the matter -- a matter which he knew bothered her -- silence on such things made him think that, perhaps, other issues were at hand. He didn’t probe any further. Perhaps he should have, as a husband, but he trusted that if something were on her mind, that she would come to him with the issue, rather than have him push it. Instead, he ran his hands over the gentle slopes of her shoulders, up her neck, and pushed her own hands away from her hair, leaning over her to pick up the brush on the desk. He worked it through her hair slowly -- he was far less knowledgeable with hair than she, nor would he ever claim otherwise, but it was more about the action than the end result. She spoke up soon after, and he cocked his head to listen, even as his eyes and hands remained occupied with the brush and her hair. “Now,” he said, mildly pleased. “That sounds more like our boy,” he said, emphasis on the conjunctive possessive, perhaps a tad too proud for something like a non-apology. “Finally something mildly intelligent done about the whole situation.”

distractions || jacqueline + elias

[mockmade]

ofproseandmusing‌.

A laugh, bright and light and easy slipped from Renee’s lips at Abigail’s venom, amused that it took so little to bring Abigail to a place she’d show no one else; there was genuine joy in the fact that all it took was the privacy of a dingy bathroom and a little bit of tease to bring that forth and to know it was hers. “My mother would be inclined to agree too. So you’re amongst perfectly awful company and that’s appropriate since I think someone is being rather unkind,” she chastised, but it was all mockingly done to a degree. She knew she ought to take this a bit more seriously but it was difficult to do that when there was charm in the reaction doing less earned. 

The blush was a sign of victory and it was probably wrong for her to be so delighted in it , but she was, oh how she was ( count it one of her many sins ) and the delight did little to diminish the smirk that rested as her current expression. After all, the proposition she’d made was genuine, most of all because she enjoyed pulling reactions from Abigail. “Ah, well, it worked with French, didn’t it? You passed and I even made sure you got to sleep early,” she said, perfectly nonchalant, even as her eyes held the second peal of laughter she had managed to suppress; she knew Abigail had been none too pleased with her about that game of hers, but really, how was it her fault that Abigail cracked under pressure? “You know, you never did thank me for the help.” 

A sigh followed as Abigail insisted for a second time, or was it more than that Renee hadn’t been keeping track, that she help cover the hickey. “Fine, give me your concealer and I’ll do as you like,” she said, voice put out, slightly irritable, as she turned away, dug into the makeup bag she carried with her and came back with a palette of concealers and a small brush, before accepting the concealer from Abigail, and setting it on the counter. “You know, Abby, you’d think no one ever left hickeys on you before. You can’t just cover them in normal concealer.” To illustrate her point, she motioned for the other to grab the skirt and keep it out of the way before she simply flipped the palette open and picked a more yellow-toned concealer and lightly applied it, watching as it canceled out a great deal of the dark purple coloring, before she switched to something more green for the edges that were more red than purple at this point. Then she grabbed Abigail’s concealer, layered it lightly atop all of it so that it blended in fairly neatly, stepped away, and flicked her glance back up to Abigail’s face. “That’s how you do it. And for the record, I have no problem with those terms for repetition. For all I care, you could leave me with one where everyone could see it. What’s one more thing for them to get angry with me about?”

She ignored the mocking jibe for thanks, remaining firm, even as the color slowly fled from her cheeks and Renee acquiesced to her demands with no small amount of irritation. She wasn’t absolutely sure who to thank that she wasn’t Catholic — thank God didn’t really apply, now, did it? Either way, she was thankful she wasn’t particularly one to count sins or one to keep track of them (after committing, most such things were put from her mind) as she kept a hold on her skirt, watching Renee bent near double and concentrated as she concealed the blight from view. She sounded annoyed, though, and Abigail felt some amount of gratification for that, glad that she’d finally dropped the insufferable self-satisfaction even if just for a moment.

You’d think no one ever left hickeys on you before. She scoffed and looked away for a moment, stopping herself from saying the first rash statement on the tip of her tongue (who else but you is allowed even half the chance to? ) and instead taking a moment to structure her reply properly — she, above all else, knew the power that words held. “As if anyone but you would ever take pleasure in ignoring what I say,” she said carefully, meticulous in this as much as she was careless in other pursuits. “Thanks,” she continued cheerily, releasing her skirt and arranging it back into its pleats, switching moods like pulling cards from a deck. Renee moved out of her space, eyes back to watching her face, and Abigail cocked her head, listening intently.

She hummed. “And just like that, you have my interest,” she said, taking a ginger step forward into Renee’s space. It was done with the sort of care one takes in pursuing passions: an artist to a brushstroke, a writer to a word, a musician to a note; a measurement, of sorts, as she watched to make sure there was no gambit from Renee, no conditionals or the like. “Although, I have to say,” she commented, halfway between indecently close and not close enough, “somehow, this defunct bathroom feels more sacrilegious than the actual church pew. Twice.” She sighed, eyes flickering down to the bow of Renee’s lips and down the lines of her neck. “Hi,” she said, impish look crawling into her eyes. “I would say we’re awful close to committing a sin. What would Sister Mary do in this situation?” She tutted, not making the first move but not backing down either.

[mockmade]

ofproseandmusing‌.

Snow almost laughed at the way Bigby hedged. The Big Bad Wolf, a creature painted by mundanes as impulsive as the cautionary tale about temptation and satisfying desires was so much less than what they made him to be, or perhaps it was better to say he was more. He was caution and care and a concern that he’d never, ever admit to. Bigby cared and she saw it in all the little things, most of all in that he wanted to get this right.

Of course, that wasn’t to say Bigby was perfect. Perfect didn’t exist; she’d stopped believing in perfect the moment she realized Charming wasn’t half as perfect as she’d thought he was. Superficial presentation of good man and perfect husband, does not the actual thing make. Instead, despite everything Bigby was, despite the way most fables were scared of him, she simply regarded him as a good man and those, unfortunately, were rather hard to find. Because of that regard, she said nothing about the fact that he chose to burn Crane’s lighter longer than necessary, said nothing about the fact that if he did it long enough Crane would notice and she’d bear the brunt of the ensuing bad mood at inconvenience. He might as well have that satisfaction seeing as he got little else. After all, his comment about gossip was a stark reminder that his life was not the same as hers; she had friends.

She led the way, keeping to her silence, until he broke it, and truly she was surprised. Because of the regard she held Bigby in, she had made a conscious choice not torture him with small talk and yet, he surprised her in offering it. “Buffkin has his useful moments, but he’s never very enthusiastic about cleaning and I can’t blame him. I’m not half as interested in cleaning as the stories say.” She paused at a bookshelf, eyes glancing over tomes, not finding what she was looking for. She stepped to the next, adding with startlingly honest ( and resigned ) delivery, “Anyway, Crane doesn’t care, so why should I?” 

It was a question worth answering, it was a question she was curious to hear him answer, if he wanted, because there was so much she wanted to do and couldn’t and she wondered if Bigby—popularly regarded as one of the worst among them—thought, but she unintentionally didn’t leave him much time to answer it because she found the right books. Pulling them from the shelf and stacking them in her arms, she offered Bigby a small smile. “Guess I found what we’re looking for. So much for adventure.” She didn’t wait before starting to walk back to the desks and the scattered tables, dumping them, with some care, upon one of the less filled surfaces and giving Bigby an expectant look. “We need definitive answers.”

He grunted in assent, nodding and shrugging in the same moment, accepting the answer about cleaning at face value — his own apartment was testament to how much he enjoyed cleaning. Not that it was messy per se; no, it was too Spartan to even come close to approaching messy. But the general dingy vibe, the lone couple beer glasses standing vigil at various places, empty: those kept his apartment from approaching clean as well.

Her next question struck him though, and he faltered in step for a brief moment while he pondered it; not the question itself, but the sentiment behind it. It was clear to him — and just about every fable, he was sure, just how much more Snow cared than Crane. It was grossly apparent from her long hours and her put on diplomacy, and the heart that she put into everything she did. It was a tired delivery, and not for the first time, he took a heartbeat to appreciate her and everything she did in the quiet of the time in between heartbeats. He didn’t say anything — wasn’t sure that she particularly even wanted for him to say those kinds of things; he wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t: the Big Bad Wolf wasn’t exactly someone you wanted crooning soft nothings into your ear at night. He continued following in her wake though, a grumbled attempt at a reply gracing his lips: “You care about a lot more than him,” he mumbled, half hoping she wouldn’t hear. “For a lot less than he gets. It wouldn’t surprise me if you spared the heart to.”

The tips of his ears burned, and all the little scrapes and cuts seemed to pound to life as he cleared his throat (and hopefully the flush underneath his skin). Bigby was glad she moved on, however, happy to move along as well, and when she turned with a wry smile, and the very book they were looking for, he rolled his shoulders and nodded, before promptly sneezing at the dust again. “Adventure over. Let’s get out of here,” he said, shaking his head grumpily.

Once free from the towering shelves, he sniffed lightly, stretching out the sore muscles, happy to be out of the confinement of the archives. “It was the one with the donkey skin,” he said, flipping the pages and tapping an illustration when he reached the appropriate page. “Her,” he said, grimly.

mysteries && threads unraveling, snow + bigby

[mockmade]

ofproseandmusing‌.

Was there an adequate way to describe the way her heart ached at the delay in answer? Jamie, for her way with words, for the way her words and her storytelling had won her hearts and admiration and money, wasn’t sure there were, wasn’t sure she could put to words, whether written or vocal, the way she felt in this moment, the way the moment of waiting, fleeting as it was, felt so wrong. 

She didn’t want Cathy to hesitate in believing that she was loved, and yet, there was little she could do to fix it. Cathy’s questions and insecurities were her own; Jamie could not take them from her, even if she wished she could. ( I write for you, for me, for us. )

Instead, of letting it hang, she pretended she didn’t notice ( so absentminded Jamie, so lost in your own little world; what was new, right? ) and nodded agreement to everything Cathy said.

They left the room together and there was comfort in that, even if the walk to the car was quiet and the beginning of the drive was much the same. 

“Hey, Cath,” she said, quietly, speaking above the radio, wrapped up in her own selfish  world and the imaginings that existed within her head as the streets passed them by and they drew closer, because she had concerns and problems that had little to do with her wife and much to do with the fact that expectations were high for anything she might write following the success of this debut book of hers. “I think I finally know what to write next.”

There was an ever-present intimacy in car rides for Cathy. They were always a space for her to rest her weary traveller’s soul (and brand) — a symbol of movement, of progress on your journey — even car rides with no destination and no motive but the desire to move were something of a sacred sort to her. Car rides reminded her of how much of their relationship was spent in a car, road tripping to see parents, moving boxes in and out apartments, always, always moving. Being in the car reminded her of wind whipped hair, of screaming out lyrics to the latest song on the radio, of daring Jamie to tear her eyes from the road to drink it in.

So much movement in the beginning of their relationship, she thought, sitting in the quiet of their trip now. Perhaps that was why they called marriage settling down — and a guilty part of her questioned whether it would ever be as good, before another shut those thoughts down and reminded her nastily that it was just as good, just different.

She always was good at lying to herself.

She sat, in her evening gown, listening to the low hum of the radio, wondering what reaction she’d elicit if she’d started singing. The car idled to a stop at a red light and she abandoned that thought, too scared to tarnish the memories by risking Jamie’s disapproval now; instead, she took a picture in the wash of the stop light, searching filters to achieve her desired aesthetic.

It took scarcely half a minute; she knew the ins and outs of Instagram as well as the back of her own hand — and soon, it was posted and forgotten.

She looked up from her phone at her wife’s beckon — she always did, like a well trained hound desperate for love and approval. “What are you going to write?” She asked, a part of her wishing they could speak on the almost tiff they’d just gotten into. “Is it about an aspiring novelist who meets the woman of her dreams? I’m a sucker for a good romance,” she said, smiling slyly, wondering why acting for her wife came easier than acting for an audience.

the ins-and-outs of fame and authorship, jamie + cathy

[mockmade]

ofproseandmusing‌.

Ezekiel was a creature all calculated gestures, smoothly practiced mannerisms, performed again and again without variance. He’d pick a small community, one that had a reputation for a certain level of affluence because after centuries of accumulating wealth he couldn’t quite bear the idea of living without, he’d wind his watch, mark the time, alter his appearance less or perhaps more, and set himself upon a path well traveled. 

He was all replay; he made himself the same thing over and over and over: pillar of the community, fine upstanding citizen, good albeit very distant neighbor, very distinctly ‘not trouble’. He used his magic to smooth the edges of his path, to dispel the watchful interest or the silent reticence often due to those who carried the label newcomer or outsider, and he watched the time tick by, waiting, living, practicing as the self-imposed deadline ticked ever closer, always mindful that he could never stay too long in the same place; he was a phoenix and like the creatures of myth, his end was in fire before he simply rose from the ashes again and again and again. It was best that way, to burn everything and leave nothing behind but a badly burned corpse. That way there were no lose ends, no possible way anyone could discover the magic he worked in rooms that were kept locked whenever he had guests over, no possible way he could be recognized when he was thought to be dead.

He’d learned over the last several centuries that people liked to believe death both inescapable and inevitable. People didn’t question death itself, only its senselessness. 

He knew better; how could he not with how long he’d lived at this point? He knew better than to think he was bound to death. Perhaps one day the universe would decide that what was given was at last meant to be taken from him. Perhaps one day, he’d simply decide it was time. He didn’t regard either of those as a certainty, not nearly half as much as he regarded the ebb and flow of his… affairs with Arabella to be; she was the tide, inconsistent, here and then gone, but bound to return. This time, it came in the form of a letter; neatly stowed away in his mailbox without postmark or address. He knew without hesitance, without even bothering to open it what he was supposed to do; he could all but see her tilt to the head, her teasing smile and the frisson of excitement in his mind’s eyes: find me, catch me, keep me.

How could he not answer?

And so he’d worked his will to find her, as he had countless times before, as he expected he undoubtedly would in the future, shaking his head as he realized she’d kept to Europe or found her way back after the last time they’d split, oddly comforted to know that she hadn’t been so close; he hated that most, when they found themselves close without realizing it. Disdainful of travel, disdainful of tight spaces, he used magic to make the travel from his current home of Newport more tolerable, discreet as ever, because he’d always figured that was the name of the game, to use what he could do in small ways to navigate the world more easily. And once he’d landed, he simply worked his will further and used the letter as a compass to wander streets; he could have done it other ways, but it was a discreet throwback to what always was. 

Bell tinkled as he pressed open door, trusting that his magic had guided him to the right place, smiling to himself briefly as her voice filled the air, splitting silence. Respectful of the fact that startling her seemed like a bad idea ( he’d learned a long time ago that she was not a force to be reckoned with, had learned that he would likely lose if he went up against her ), he didn’t step further into the store. Instead, he simply looked at her for a few moments, taking her in after an absence that suddenly seemed like it had been simultaneously forever and no time at all. He thought, for a moment, one made for a fool’s romantic heart, that he could stand there forever, live in the moment in which she’d made him breathless in the return, for being nothing more than what she simply was: the same as ever despite the passage of time. And yet, somehow, the moment passed and he found himself saying, “Hello, Belle.” 

She knew that voice. She knew it intimately well — perhaps even a tad too well for her own comfort. For someone who delighted in knowing nothing in knowing everything, she knew Ezekiel, with nothing to counter that knowledge with. She’d long since learned the ups and downs of the world, and how it liked to maintain its balance — for each life breathed into existence, another was marked to snuff out; for one man’s happiest day, it was another’s saddest — the universe was static in its constant motion, and she likewise.

Arabella liked to think herself an agent of balance — whirling and wiling her way into people’s lives only to leave them — this was not to say she had rhyme or reason, but merely that she was a creature of opposites and contradictions that ended up contributing little in terms of net loss or gain; this was, perhaps, the reason the world had allowed her to continue her lease upon life, but again, she didn’t like to concern herself with logistics.

She’d survived two such past affairs of the heart and knew the next step to loving was losing. That was simply the universe’s answer to a long-lived witch’s love — there was no balance in a love unto infinity, and instead of tempting fate, she chose instead to rend them apart by her own hand, no matter the pain it wrought upon herself, no matter the pain it wrought upon Ezekiel. It was no small amount of wonder in his constancy, in how he managed to steel his heart against the hate he surely should have felt in her absence. She was always one to inspire ardor and enmity in equal measure, another gift of the balance she saw in the world — and yet, there he stood, in the doorframe of her little flower shop like no time had passed at all (which, maybe it hadn’t, for all time meant to her), two simple words dropping from the purse of his lips like silver coins; two words that she let hang in the air between them as she took her time in turning to face him.

For a moment, these words and their heavy slant — the weighted nickname, the reverence only borne of hundreds of years’ familiarity — they inspired a flight of fear in her, just as much as they caused other such flights of fancy. She delighted in the inconsistency as much as she despaired over it, her heart rattling on the bars of its cage, a reluctant prisoner to her cruel warden, begging to leave her. And for a moment, she let herself think that it had the right idea: that Ezekiel would treat it with a measure of kindness that she did not afford it. Reality rushed back, and reason that she had sworn off hijacked her thoughts, pulled it back from fantasy’s cliff edge, and like that, she returned to her abode in rhythmless reason and reasonless rhyme.

She smiled, as she was supposed to, as she was wont to, sidling around the counter, sauntering closer and closer, none too fast, none too slow, reaching out to grab, to capture, as if unsure he would flee from her grasp.

He wouldn’t, she knew, but there were some things that had to be confirmed and not known, and she came to a stop in front of where he stood, simply watching for a little while, just taking it all in before she broke the silence she’d previously imposed upon them. “Ezekiel,” she greeted, as if she hadn’t spent the last couple seconds (or eternities, what did she know) consumed with and by his presence, reaching out with both hands, before resting them on his biceps, leaning in and up on tiptoes to press her cheek against his, pulling away only to repeat on the other side.

“You got my letter,” she stated simply, though she meant to say something by way of gratitude. You came, she wanted to say. Thank you. Neither sentiment made it past the guard of her smile.

summer storm

[mockmade]

Aria shifts in her seat, pushing her sunglasses further up the bridge of her nose, silently ignoring the U.S. marshal as he went on about some other rules about witness protection -- no contact of any kind with previous friends or family, no more publicized auctions on art; not a single shred of the comfortable life she’d built is left for her. Her assets had been frozen, squirreled away -- she supposes she ought to be grateful that they wouldn’t look too closely at her possessions -- but somehow, it’s expected she will live off a professor’s salary now.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow.

“Did you hear anything I just said?”

She looks to her left, eyes narrowing, features sharpening as she regards the man driving. “Sure.” She reaches for the necklace hanging around her neck, yanking it off and letting the chain slip to the floor, unbothered by the marshal’s sound of protest. Regarding the ring with one eye closed, she sighs and slips it on her ring finger, toying with it idly. They’re pulling up in the drive; she’s going to meet her wife at any minute now -- she’s anything but excited, but she bites down the instinctive vitriol.

The car parks, and she’s out like a bullet, ignoring the marshal. Pulling her suitcases out of the car, she strides up to the door and hesitates, blowing a kiss to the marshal and wiggling her fingers just for the sake of being difficult, before unlocking the door.

“Honey, I’m home,” she drawls, leaning against the doorjamb, simply waiting, smirk barely there, for her wife to come to her. “Come help me with my belongings, won’t you, dear?”

[mockmade]

@ciislunar.

It’s lunchtime, and Elias is hungry -- not for food, but for entertainment. He usually takes his lunch breaks out of the office, buying something nice to bring to Jackie, but she’s in a meeting with investors today, and he prowls in his office, alternating between peering out the windows of the high rise building he’s in and looking at the framed photo he has of Jacqueline sitting on his desk, lamenting this current waste of time.

And then he settles, with a put upon sigh, frustration simmering underneath the bespoke suit he wears, underneath the fine skin he bears; he settles at his desk, because it’s ungainly to pout like a child when he’s a man grown, and he certainly is not -- well -- a Richelieu. Sitting down is the answer to all his problems, apparently, gaze alighting on the precious little thing sitting outside his office. He hadn’t been aware that the general manager he’d hired to run things day to day had promoted Elodie; clearly, she had to have been promoted, given that she was sitting where his personal secretary was supposed to be.

Peculiar. Did Charlotte quit? Shame. He doesn’t care to expend the time thinking about it, and he focuses again, tilts his head in his observation of her; he doesn’t know her well, just passingly, but she looks sweet and he’s had a sweet tooth since childhood. She looks to him as if she might be built of sugar cubes, like she might dissolve on his tongue should he care to try; he stands, striding out of his office and rounding towards the front of her desk, leaning on it.

“Hello, dear,” he says. “Elodie, right? Tell me if I’m out of line, but I seem to have found myself without a lunch and without a companion for it either -- might I interest you in a meal? My treat, of course,” he continues, smiling. “I hate to impose like this, but please, count it as a welcome to the job sort of lunch.”

[mockmade]

ciislunar.

♡ @mockmade

She could leave if she wanted to. Her heart is racing and she wonders if he can hear it over the jazz from downstairs that seeps in through her bedroom floorboards. Perched ever so strategically on the bed, she sits, inviting him to close the distance between them – but that would be all too simple, wouldn’t it? Although she does not admit it, she knows that the game they play is not her own, is not the same as she plays with any of her other clients. When they are together, it is his game, his rules.

“Won’t you join me?” She coos, beckoning to him with a small smile and a wave of her index finger. The words leave her mouth and she immediately regrets them; by now she should know better than to use such clichés with Elias, so she bites her lip. He is dangerous in the way that all wolves are: beautiful, enticing, ravenous. She should be afraid, and yet her mind is racing in time with her heart, thinking of how she is going to twist his game to work to her favor. Her eyes dart from him to the door. She could leave if she wanted to. 

Except she doesn’t want to. Charlotte rises from the bed but she has no intention of leaving. Perhaps it is telling of the kind of woman she is, the way she reaches for the buttons of his shirt as if she has any right to make the first move here. Her shoulders square, feigning confidence as she speaks to him. 

“Let’s get you out of this shirt,” she leans forward to place a pink lipstick printed kiss on his jaw, “I have missed you, and I’ve grown rather tired of waiting.” 

She’s sitting on the bed, cooing pretty nothings at him, and he stands, towering, imposing, indolent grin on his face, challenging, waiting, grinning, grinning, grinning. Pink lacquered lips caress the pretty sentiments she tries to peddle to him; he takes none of it, as per usual. Jazz is floating and contorting in the red of the room, as it colors his vision morbidly. He takes in a sharp breath, sucks it in through his fanged smile, doesn’t say anything.

She breaks rhythm, standing from where she’s perched, and it draws a chuckle from him, dark and rich and simmering with danger. She walks up to him; he can see the momentary quaver before she tenses like she’s meant to be doing anything of the sort. He doesn’t move; she comes to him, how quaint, a lamb walking to slaughter, eager, even. She doesn’t have the question in her eyes that she usually does and this intrigues him -- she leans in, hands undoing his shirt, not asking his permission.

She presses her lips to his jaw, and he can feel the waxy seal of her lipstick linger there. “I see, darling, that you’ve gotten some steel courage. Where might you have picked that up, my dear? I’m ever so curious,” he prompts, voice a low purr over the faint jazz. “Won’t you tell?”

[mockmade]

ofproseandmusing.

Availability: Closed to @mockmade, for Elias

They were supposed to be going out. They were supposed to be going out ten minutes ago, but perhaps in typical style, Jacqueline hadn’t been ready, still wasn’t, and really, she didn’t think that was her fault; by her view, she was just having one of those days.

However, it was absolutely her fault because it wasn’t one of those days. It was simply the summation of a thousand little distractions, all of which left her with a dress on a hanger, half-finished makeup, hair undone, corset unlaced and no active direction towards remedying any of those issues, because one of the staff had made the mistake of giving her the mail and she’d gotten distracted by one envelope in particular; she’d only meant to open it and glance through, recognizing the familiar seal and address of their son’s boarding school, wondering what they could possibly want that they’d sent a letter to their Paris address. The letter had turned out to be more than one thing; a formalized note from the school, a train ticket, a boat ticket and a letter from their son. It was the last that had caught her attention longest, provided the biggest distraction.

She sensed Elias before he said anything, expecting that he’d come to check on her progress eventually; gaze flicked to the vanity mirror, seeking his form in the mirror’s reflection, before she spoke. “I’m not ready, I know,” she started, “and we’re going to be terribly late. I suppose I ought to be sorry for that, but in my defense, I got momentarily distracted by the fact that your son apparently tried to run away with the intent of joining us in Paris.” Momentarily distracted was an understatement and the emphasis on your son was squarely blaming him, the way parents often did when their children did things they didn’t like, but truthfully, Jacqueline knew this action was more like her than him; Elias had been a good child, or at least certainly so, by comparison to her and the way she’d acted to try and get attention. “He used your name to get tickets.”

Fashionably late. It was a sentiment that they practiced and believed in: after all, neither he nor Jackie were ever averse to idea of being the center of attention as they entered any given room; in fact, it was a preference, if anything at all. And yet, his lovely wife was stretching even his most lax definition of timely.

Elias made his way to their shared bedroom, without the intent to hustle, but to merely investigate the source of Jacqueline’s tardiness, humming lightly to himself, not particularly bothered nor upset. Upon his entry, several things became abundantly clear. First, his eyes caught on the unlaced corset Jacqueline wore; second, the dress still residing on its lonely hanger, and third, a letter spread upon the flat of her vanity. He didn’t question it, nor did he expend any effort on trying to read any of it, expecting that she would tell him whether or not it was of import and what exactly was of import. He looked at her through the mirror, pausing by the doorway for a brief moment before ambling closer and taking a seat upon the bed, height still offering him an unobscured view of her reflection.

“My son,” he affirmed, noticeably unfazed by the clear blame in the possessive, noticeably taking pleasure in drawling the possessive. “And yet, clearly yours as well,” he said, a small smirk climbing up his lips. He stood, making his way over to the vanity, bending bodily to greet her with a kiss to the crown of her head, using the moment to glance over the letters and tickets. “Clever boy,” he said finally. “Is that a forgery of my signature I see? Conniving little thing. Well, I suppose he wasn’t clever enough if he got caught,” he finished, a light concern dipping his brows -- not the conventional concern, of course, but when was he ever conventional? “What is the school suggesting we do? We have to do something, I suppose. If not for appearance, than to drive the point home that he should be smarter next time.”

distractions || jacqueline + elias

[mockmade]

ciislunar.

Playing With Fire ♡ @mockmade

She and the 911 operator may as well have been on a first name basis, by now. It was her third call this month, and she would never be able to get the smell of smoke out of her kitchen drapes, but apparently her hints had been too subtle – this was the only way she could think to get him back in front of her. 

“Yes, 860 Monarch Meadow,” she sighs into the phone, watching as the smoke poured out from her oven. “Charlotte Leigh. My oven seems to be on fire.” Rather, the cookie dough turned charcoal that was creating a smoke signal for the handsome fireman to find her house again. Hopefully he hadn’t caught onto her scheme. This would be her last phone call for emergency services, she had promised herself, because today would be the day she was going to get his phone number, and they were going to make plans. She was not going to let herself get too nervous like the times before. Today was going to be her day. 

As she hears the familiar sound of sirens approaching, she pulls open the door and greets them with a wave, wearing a silk robe and a smile. The more often they seemed to run into each other, the less subtle her hints became. Her smile grows wider when she sees him come towards the door, and her cheeks flush pink. 

“Oh! It’s just me again,” she laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her shoulder finds the door frame, her posture much more casual than one would expect for someone ushering firemen into their home. “You know, we’ve got to stop meeting this way. It’s getting silly, don’t you think?”

The drive was getting awfully familiar: left on Escalona, up King, and then down Monarch Meadow -- all culminating in what seemed to be a rather fire prone property, in his third trip to the same place. Not that Theodore particularly minds it, but it did seem rather disingenuous and self-serving to appear at the house, investigate the fire to little avail except an unfortunate, smoking meal and then stay for an extra unnecessary couple minutes so he could talk to the homeowner.

Who, speaking of, greets him at the door with a casual robe on. For a second, his eyes slide down the silken lines of Charlotte’s robe before he catches himself (sue him, he was only human), and forces them back to her face, where she wears a sunny smile and an air of supreme nonchalance. He can see the smoke rising and curling towards the ceiling from his vantage point at the doorway, can hear the fire alarm blaring its warning tune, and yet, still she stands in front, serene, a touch of laughter gracing her tone. 

“Miss Leigh, while it’s nice to see you again,” he begins, feeling rather unwieldy in his fireproof suit, as she stands in a light silk robe. “I need to know if you’re hurt?” He asks, beginning to instinctively check her for burns before flushing and looking past her, realizing again the state of undress she was apparently in. “Where do you think the fire is coming from this time?”

He shifts, torn between not wanting to shove her out of the way and force his way in, considering the fact that she herself didn’t appear to be in much a hurry to extinguish the fire, and the fact that it was his job to investigate the source of the fire, and make sure everything was safe. 

[mockmade]

ofproseandmusing.

Renee was many things, and numbering amongst her flaws was absolutely a drive to possess. In truth, she had no idea where it came from, it wasn’t as if she’d ever lacked for material things; no, she’d been spoiled long and well, before her parents had gradually lost patience with her behavior and ultimately shipped her here while they lived a glamorous, perfect existence jetting between Paris and the embassy in Washington D.C. Her mother, the diplomat, was embarrassed by her behavior and hoped that a place like this could help.

Renee, stubborn and contrary, had decided that wouldn’t stand. As such, she’d only doubled down on her bad behavior, going so far as to tell the headmistress that the only thing she believed was a sin was pleasing her mother and that she’d do no such thing. It didn’t make things around here easy, but Abigail, generally, made up for it. Though, perhaps not in this moment, not when Abigail took the indulgence of her cigarette, something that hadn’t been easy to come by in the first place, and crushed it underneath heel, before pulling her into one of the more gross bathrooms by reputation, dragging her inside despite her irritated, “Abby, what the fuck?”

Thankfully, Abigail didn’t leave her in the dark for long. “Oh, so that’s why you’ve been throwing me looks all day?” she started, tone clearly betraying the fact that she wasn’t taking any bit of Abigail’s anger seriously, before she doubled down. “A demon, hm? This morning Sister Mary told me if she didn’t know better she’d think I was possessed. Maybe there’s something to it.” She laughed, amused with herself, even as she doubted Abigail felt even a fraction of the same. A pause followed, in which she reached out, twitching the edge of Abigail’s skirt out of the way so she could see her handiwork, her little bit of possession, giving in to the slow smirk that naturally wanted to pull across face at the sight. Gaze lingered for a moment on the dark spot, before she flicked it back up to Abigail’s face, not bothering to drop the smirk. “If you really want me to do all that I will, but personally, I think it’d be more fun to do a little… repetition. It’s not like anyone ever comes in here anyway.”

Abigail scoffed, crossing her arms and uncrossing them, thoroughly unamused, even as Renee’s own amusement and self-satisfaction grew, with every passing second. Irritated though she was, she couldn’t help the tense of her shoulders and the small flush working its way up her cheeks as Renee moved her skirt, admiring the bruise where it sat proudly, only hastily concealed on her thigh. She was tempted, momentarily, to stamp her foot -- but that wouldn’t help her situation: clearly, she was already not being taken seriously.

“At the moment, I’m inclined to believe Sister Mary, full of shit though she usually is,” she shot back venomously, even as Renee continued to speak. The flush threatening to take over her cheeks finally won out at the proposition; she could feel the heat in her cheeks, feel as they stained with color, and bit the inside of her cheek and deepened her frown, as if increasing the severity of her displeasure would remotely hide her fluster. “That’s always your solution, isn’t it? First with French, and now with this,” she said disparagingly, even as she considered it, weighed the pros and cons of following suit.

Pro: Renee. Con: how unbearably smug she’d be. “Just help me cover this up,” she spat finally. “Unless repetition involves you as a willing template for hickeys, of course,” she said, smile inching its way up her lips, looking more a snarl than anything, saccharine coating each word. “Actually, even then, I’d have you help me cover this shit up.”

[mockmade]

ofproseandmusing.

Snow wasn’t sure what it was the appropriate reaction, but she couldn’t help but smile just a little at his grumblings. She’d interacted with Bigby more than some and she knew this was just how he was, tired grumblings and gruff statements. She didn’t take offense to it, that’d be a pointless endeavor.

Fingers flexed, a nod to the urge, one quickly suppressed, to reach out, touch the cuts, make sure he really was okay, make sure that he didn’t need to be stitched up or otherwise tended to. No one took care of the big, bad wolf, least of all her.

And so, Snow ignored the urge, but focused on what mattered; the girl, the murder, an attempt to solve what couldn’t really be fixed, but maybe made right. She nodded, acknowledging everything he said, letting a soft, “I’m sorry,” slip out as she glanced to his wounds, before she made a more pointed statement, “you know, instead of telling me you know where she’s from, it could be helpful to just tell me.” It was neither her nor there, really, but she wanted to make a point that she could help if he’d let her.

“Buffkin,” she called next, unafraid to raise her voice just a little and imbue a bit of demand, even as it echoed in the room; she knew him well, and there was a half decent chance he was off in some corner drinking, a suspicion confirmed when she didn’t get a response. As she waited, hoping for an acknowledgement, she glanced over to Crane’s desk, pulling open one of his desk drawers and grabbing a lighter that rested inside. “I don’t smoke these days, but here,” she said, tossing Crane’s lighter at Bigby. She had no issue enabling him; they were damn near unkillable and cigarettes weren’t going to be the thing that took him down. “Don’t tell anyone he still smokes. He doesn’t like people to know.” An impatient glance toward the back followed before she signed and turned back to Bigby. “Feeling up for an adventure into the back to get the books?” A pause, “Or I can just go if you don’t want to. Whatever you want.”

Bigby eyed her, a considering look come into his eye as he gave a half hearted shrug at her pointed commentary. “My memory’s not all that great, Snow,” he mumbled back. “I’d rather confirm it in the archives with you than tell you straight up.” He didn’t need to justify himself; truly, he hardly even bothered, but it felt necessary in the moment -- then again, he found himself tripping over Snow White far more than he felt comfortable with. It was another thought to be examined far, far, later, preferably when he was drunk and not beaten blue.

He ground out a thanks, catching the lighter and lighting his cigarette, taking a long drag of it and exhaling largely in appreciation. The lighter he considered for a little while, before lighting it and holding it for a brief moment to burn away some of the fuel: anything to inconvenience Crane, if he could. “I won’t tell,” he said back dumbly, shrugging. “Besides, no one comes to me for gossip. And even if they did, I’m hard pressed to believe that they’d take anything I said at face value.”

He gestured for her to lead the way, stretching out languidly, bones cracking as he readied to follow her into the archives, trailing behind her, glad that tobacco smoke overwhelmed the scent of her perfume and shampoo; heightened wolf senses were overrated and inconvenient, he thought to himself sourly, before prompting coughing at the build up of dust. He ran a finger on the shelf, looking at the dust it came away with a sense of resignation. “Clean,” he said, voice rumbling, sarcasm dripping. “Does anyone tidy up back here? Or, I guess, shouldn’t Buffkin? Surely drinking isn’t a whole day and night endeavor.” He asked, purely for the sake of filling up silence; he wasn’t one for fidgeting nor one to pay much mind to prolonged silences, but felt the need to fill it with something. Life was tense enough with the murder -- he’d take small talk over adding more tension.

mysteries && threads unraveling, snow + bigby

[mockmade]

ofproseandmusing.

Selfishly, Jamie had hoped that the reassurances would be enough to stop them from walking down this path, because she’d seen it unwinding in part. She had hoped that saying it, saying she wanted her there, explicitly reassuring her would be enough.

It wasn’t.

Not when Cathy exhaled, not when fingers fluttered in that small nervous tick, when the laugh Cathy gave her wasn’t real; she knew Cathy’s laughter, could tell the difference between the real thing and the lie because there was no sound like her wife’s real laughter, soft and sentimental as that was. Cathy’s laugh, when she really laughed, it was one of the few sounds that had the power to pull her from the place they sometimes jokingly called ‘Jamie-land’. 

A flicker of a smile came into being at Cathy’s response, them both playing the game of pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t. And yet, the plea slipped out before she could help herself, “Cath please. I don’t mean it like that,” she said softly, wondering it if would mean anything, if it would do any good. She had never known how to explain success and what it had done for her, least of all to Cathy who was still struggling. “Look the party is good for the book, it’s good for me, and that’s thanks to Elise.” She sighed a little, as Cathy simply slipped by her, turning to follow her.

For a moment, just a moment, she stared at Cathy as if to make up for the non-fight fight and the way this was inconveniencing her. At the prompt, she nodded, approaching her, drawing Cathy’s hand into her own. “I’m sorry. I will make this up to you,” she said softly in a rare moment of verbal self-awareness she was usually awful at. “I love you too, Cathy,” she added then, “always.” It was an important addition considering she knew herself.

Damn it -- Cathy always was the weaker willed of them two, moods always leaving as quickly as they came: quick to temper but quick to forgive; she felt immaterial next to Jamie, so solid, so resolute. The soft plea working its magic, softening the set and square of her shoulders, even as the added mention of Elise threatened her calm. She wanted to stay upset, wanted to brace herself to spend the entire party ignored and shunted aside: she closed her eyes, futilely trying to extend the hardening of her heart.

A warm hand enveloped hers; eyes flashing open, she watched, mesmerized, as lithe fingers slotted perfectly into the gaps between her own, honeyed apology and confession a salve for her frayed nerves and current temper. Would she ever tire of hearing love confessions slip from Jamie’s lips? A idealistic and romantic portion of her hoped not: no matter what rocky shores their marriage may land upon, so long as they loved each other, they would work things out.

It was a worthy trump card. Cathy pulled their entwined hands to her lips, holding them there silently for a few beats, feeling her own heartbeat drumming next to the faint tattoo of Jamie’s pulse and letting the moment hang, and just be for a little while.

She wouldn’t have this piece of quiet much longer, once they’d arrived at the party, and she savored this moment: memorizing the green of her wife’s eyes, the feeling of harmony in their dissonant heartbeats.

She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the edge of Jamie’s lips, letting their hands down. I love you always, Jamie said; Cathy hesitated in her response. “I know,” she replied simply, not giving voice nor thought to how she questioned the sentiment. “I know,” she repeated softly. “Let’s get to your party, love. There’ll be time yet to talk,” she said, knowing full well she’d not have her wife’s attention till they returned home.

the ins-and-outs of fame and authorship, jamie + cathy

[mockmade]

rouge-writings.

Teresa groaned, hoping that the Earth itself would swallow her so she wouldn’t have to move. This was … the WORST. Shouldn’t even be allowed, she thought, her eyes glaring at the clear, blue sky. “Did you have to remind me? I’m still trying to process out how the hell I - we - are going to keep running.” 

Unlike her, Kai had been a machine. A natural born Olympian. A Gladiator of sorts. Red still hadn’t figured out how he did it, did everything. Kai always managed to finished first, never ran out of breath, and impressively dodged common injuries. It was profound, truly. And while she may have hated every second of her training, Teresa didn’t seem too upset analyzing him.

Yup, that’s right. Keeping a close ( very close ) eye on her partner. 

And … it did help that he had been cute. Everyone on the track could agree with that statement. Regardless, she forced herself off the ground into a sitting position, frowning as the other runners taunted her. “You’re no fun,” she whined, “we could be eating by now if we had ditched from here.” 

Red sighed, watching him react to the race, knowing he had been eager to finish something she barely started. Competitive fool. He was going to win either way ( he always did ). She glanced at the trainer, noting the way he made it a very specific point to cheer her on. 

Great, more pity.

“ - fine, but if you drop me, I’ll shatter into little pieces. And that won’t be a fun mess to clean up.”

"Great!” Kai exclaimed, beaming, extending a hand to help her up from where she sat on the ground, before waiting for her climb on his back. “I won’t drop you,” he said sincerely. “Promise,” he continued, grinning boyishly, tightening his arms where they were supporting her weight. “Hold on tight, though, we’ve got to catch up with the rest of the pack.”

Starting at a light jog before progressing into a steadier speed, he worked his way into a near-sprint, surpassing some of the runners despite the headstart they had, and Red still perched on his back. Wolf physiology really did help a ton -- even he would’ve been tired normally by now, but the excess of energy brought on by the coming moon was like a shot of pure adrenaline.

He’d lapped a good portion of their training class before finishing, loosening his grip and taking a couple heavy breaths and grinning up at her. “See? That wasn’t so bad, right? I hope the rest of today is capture the flag -- the woods are looking particularly appealing right now.”

hallowed ground