lawlessgodss

[lawlessgodss]

The woman who presses immortality into a pill does not think of herself as a God, she thinks of herself as an undying entity. But when she breaks into the nest of stolen things (a polite a specter as any, one that invades, but takes terrifying care to come through the foyer) it is easy to think of Anastasiya as a stolen thing too. She bleeds into the surroundings. In this way she is barely louder than a thought, folded up and tucked away like a cipher.

She hears him in the kitchen and she stays, measured, just out of the precise angle of his eyeline. It’s a happenstance that they’re in New York once more. Happenstance that their trajectories turn towards another. Happenstance - it their story, it is the only story.

She moves through the space. Her footsteps waterfall over each other with all the grace of a shadow. Anastasiya’s knowledge of the hovel is only as good as the building blueprints she’s unearthed, the whole of it neither expected nor unexpected. There’s art on the wall. The smell of cucumber, seaweed, and the ocean held over a gas fire.

She stops at the end of a line of mounted paintings. From the adjacent room, he gives her a nickname and the corner of her lip quirks down in reaction. Empress. That’s undeniably pretentious. - She scoffs. “You’ve mistaken me for someone far vainer.”

From the folds of her coat, she pulls out a red push-pin from her the dark of her pockets. With a gloved hand, she nestles it into the wall, pinning a five by eight plain paper print of ‘Paris Through the Window’ next to a lesser Gentileschi. Her addition is horribly dreadful —

— but she doesn't pause to dwell. Anastasiya keeps moving through the space. Taking it in, learning it. In some ways, it’s a re-familarization. She is tempted to unspool a piano-wire behind her, to make following her a deadly endeavor (indeed she has some in her pocket). She doesn’t though. She might.

The kitchen doesn't earn a second glance.

It’s too easy to say Anastasiya is ignoring Solomon. More importantly, it’s incorrect. Despite her evasion, the careful consideration of every single element of the environment that he has constructed implies Anastasiya is doing anything but ignoring Solomon Rios.

“What kind of man avoids stealing a Chagall?”

an evening at pope's apartment, with an unwelcomed guest @lawlessgodss

the sky yawns open: a nasty, starless black maw unfurling to spit out all the wrong things. those who took to night and incited all the little deaths ---- the ones who threw all the stones around this glass city. this is where paths converge & as with all things, this story must first consume itself if it wishes to be reinvented. this night had not been one for the taking, rather pope had elected himself to chitter about his own gilded cage. a home, if you could call it that, with all it's exposed brick & locked doors was something keener to a lost and found: harboring all the trappings of a rat that only took & took some more. how secure could a palace of stolen bones truly be? always strung on edge, something shifts in the disquiet between the foyer and the searing-tempered kitchen the man occupies. it's sort of like turning the wrong key in a lock: you only disturb whoever stands behind the door. a beat, had it been anywhere else perhaps pope's heartbeat would have mangled in his throat when he went to feel for the gun missing from his hip. there's a certain stillness, pope hadn't entirely seen her coming but he had heard her. that's the funny thing about rats: they know each other by footfall. he calls out into the dim, "yekaterina [...] or do you go by somethin' else now?"

[lawlessgodss]

11:48pm the bad monkey @godvex

Alessandro hadn’t expected to run into Amadeus so soon upon his return, but he supposes betting odds said if it was going to happen anywhere, it would happen here. Work brings him to the dregs of The Bad Monkey, make him cross the dance floor after a job done. The deal is closed out and the business is foul, but that’s the way it goes isn’t it? The lights of the club catch just enough of the haze to create a diaphanous tableau - create a swirling cocktail of debauchery - and it’s amongst the painted faces that Alessandro just happens to see a familiar one. 

Amadeus, drink in hand, bead of condensation dripping down his wrist, is pushed into some stranger’s space. This isn’t a scene Alessandro’s unfamiliar with. After all, it was him playing the opposing part so many years ago. From here, Amadeus looks like he’s having fun. From here, you can’t see any of Alessandro’s fingerprints on him. It’s not lost on Alessandro though, the similarities he holds with this stranger Amadeus moves up against. Same build, same sweep of dark hair. Alessandro knows a subconscious play with he sees one. He has to laugh. He wants to be a little violent. 

Sure, it’s been six years. Sure, this is Hanging Man territory - but Alessandro still sees whatever the fuck is happening here as trespassing. 

He shoulders past the churning bodies. Everyone’s smoke on this dance floor, Amadeus included. Alessandro still manages to catch him. His hand curls out, pulls on that soft snatch of belt loop to pull Amadeus back - back like a bow - into him. Just like that, Alessandro crosses a disappearance of six years with all the susurration of a tug of denim. He manages to erase time and space with only the presumption of ownership.

Alessandro dips his head, doesn’t even turn the other’s jaw so their eyelines can meet. Amadeus will know. Alessandro knows he’ll know. “Oh please - don’t tell me you’ve spent the last six years slipping into the bed of anyone that looks even the least bit like me.” 

[lawlessgodss]

Santiago Cabrera Appreciation Week: ↳ DAY FOUR: photoshoots/appearances

[lawlessgodss]

[lawlessgodss]

His father makes him wait. Memory blurs the Brooklyn living room, the lacquered mahogany - the sprig of Rosemary at the windowsill, soil pinched by a boy long gone - and the secretive, closed doors. For so many years all these things are a synecdoche for home. His father’s delay is a statement. Alone, Alessandro’s hands trail over the bookshelf of that vaunted collection that fed so many years of voracious hunger. The memories bundled there - Alessandro tugs at a well known spine. Flips to a page - his handwriting, twenty years younger stares back at him. Alessandro doesn’t dwell on the days he fell asleep on his father's office doorstep. He neatly tears the page out, slips it into his pocket. 

He puts the book back, turns just as his father enters. The two of them in a room together is to turn two mirrors towards each other, light reflected off each other infinitely. Close to an ending - but not quite. 

 “Gem expected me to be taller.” Alessandro says this curtly and stops at that - tries to let the silence do all the talking. Oh this is awful, a round about way to do anything. A father’s pride and son’s arrogance caged in this box. Caged in a grave? Yikes. A sharp laugh cuts up Alessandro’s throat at the thought. Listen, the tension in here is fucking rancid, truly tumultuous and horrid. But for what it’s worth - there is no dishonesty wasted between them. For what it’s worth - Gio would have folded in an instance standing in any corner of this room. Gio would have crawled into his coffin if Alessandro hadn’t put him there. Fuck, it hurts. Pinches in the chest rather unfortunately like the soil of that rosemary. Alessandro wonders -  is  his father still crying for Gio? Alessandro is too. There’s the  occasional lab note, scribbled to his dead brother that Alessandro won’t even notice until he has his notes electronically transcribed. Alessandro misses Gio more than any sort of decency that’s ever existed in the hollow of his chest - Alessandro loves his family. Alessandro would do it all over again in a heartbeat. He would remember to place two bullets there for good luck and a riverman’s tax. He’s had six  years… if he hasn’t grown any sort of regret for it by now… 

And now he’s back. What is his father’s forgiveness born of? Alessandro puts love surprisingly low on the list. Is it for the boot on his neck, or the leash knotted there? Either of those things - they both know that wouldn’t last long. The anger crawling under his skin - a hereditary brand - would burn right though that, incinerate it. Leave whatever is between them cold and cinereous. Truth be told, all that’s left is love. They’d raise their voices, rise like the tide. The anger corrodes and there is only love. 

“Did you miss me, old man?”  Alessandro has to temper the words, suddenly, unexpectedly - keep the venom out of them; keep it under his tongue. However you answer - do look me in the eye when you say it. Does a golden son tarnish? Time for Alessandro to be a case study. Time to see if they burned this house to the ground. 

9:08PM

Where: The Bertelli Family Home, Brooklyn. Who: @lawlessgodss - Alessandro Bertelli.

He was usually punctual. Painfully so. Today was different, he let the clock tick by. He barely checked his watch. He told time by the sun. Only when it had set for the day, did he pay attention to what time had to say. He was already running behind when he looked. The realization did not fasten his pace. He didn’t run home; he took his time. He knew what was, who was,waiting for him. Frankly, it could wait. 

His eldest son hadn’t made any time for him in six years. Why should he come running? 

Let Alessandro wait. Let the walls of his childhood home welcome him, then let them close in. Let him be reminded by the pictures on the wall, then let those same memories suffocate him. Let him sit in his thoughts. Let him stew in then. Let him suffer.

Hadn’t he suffered enough?

See, it’s not fear that kept Lorenzo Bertelli in his office so late on this particular evening. It was his own fury.

How did Lorenzo feel about his son returning? He was a mix of emotions. Anger was a big one. It fueled a lot of questions. Why the fuck did he leave? Why didn’t he say goodbye? Why did he leave before his brother was even in the ground?  Why didn’t he call? Why didn’t he text? Why did it take six years and a need for a fucking favor for him to come back? Why did he leave? Worry was present and had questions of its own.  What did it mean now that Alessandro was back? Was it time for him to come clean? For him to admit his mistake? To blame his father for his own complicity in it all? Relief brought him some comfort. His beloved boy was home. Enzo could  keep him safe now.  He could keep him close. He could tighten the leash on Alessandro, now that he knew he needed to. His family was reunited. Sadness lingered too. It didn’t ask any questions, it only left him hollow. His family was reunited, as much as they could be. 

Soon enough, the self-driving Mercedes arrived at the Bertelli family home and Lorenzo excused himself from the vehicle. When he opened the front door, the security alarm chimed to announce his arrival. Six years and thousands of miles had separated them for long enough. Now, his darling boy was only a few rooms over. Anger was taking heed, he felt it in the way his blood boiled. He balled his hands into a fist, then flexed them free, trying to expel as much of that fury as he could. He had to stay cool or try to anyways. Tonight was about reuniting. Yet, Enzo had fantasies of retribution.

Accidents, Lorenzo could forgive. You don’t  accidentally skip town before your  brother's funeral. You don’t accidentally abandon your post or your commitments to family and to business. You don’t accidentally fuck off to Italy for six years. You don’t accidentally forget to call or text for all that time. You don’t accidentally play dead for so long towards the people who love you most. Actions committed with purpose were harder to forgive. 

As expected, Lorenzo’s golden boy was waiting for him in the exquisite living room of their old Brooklyn home. Lorenzo stared at him before anything, sternly so. The kind of look that only a father could perfect. His silence was louder than any yell or scream his throat could make. The man who was so loud in everything he did, in his love, in his hatred, was speechless.

Finally, he said, “I don’t even know what to say to you.” 

[lawlessgodss]

Tao Okamoto

[lawlessgodss]

She holds so little fondness for this country, with its weak weather and its weaker convictions - though it is difficult to think of many things the Overseer holds a fondness for. Anastasiya squints at the graying sky as she strides through Central Park,  unsleeping eye whirring and clicking with approximation at the clouds, doggedly daring them to call her bluff. This’ll be efficient, this vulture of a woman decides as she spots Sokolov in the predetermined rendezvous location - and she supposes she can hold a fondness for that sort of efficacy. 

It’s her first check in with this particular asset since their arrival, the work split evenly between her and Dr. Hill. As she’s already outlined in his case file, there’s nothing of concern with Sokolov - but if Anastasiya is slow to pride, she is slower to praise, so it grows increasingly likely with each passing second that it’s a matter she’ll take to the grave with her. 

They are alone here. She’s spent the last fifteen minutes checking and the double checking the permitter. A small black box the pocket of her peacoat kills any ingoing and outgoing transmissions - absolutely nukes the chances of this conversation being bugged. “Status?” She says in a clipped tone, bypassing pleasantries and waiting for the predetermined password.

𝙲𝙻𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙵𝙸𝙴𝙳, 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎 : @lawlessgodss

the weather proved to be agreeable on this particular day, with a gentle breeze stirring through central park. yet, with the clouds above, it lacked the bustling energy at the heart. the subdued ambiance made for a fitting location for this meeting with an overseer. anastasiya, the overseer in question, was known for her shrewd and formal demeanor — it carried an air of authority and precision that commanded respect. it was why father had always spoke so highly of them and such an endorsement had always inclined maxim toward favoring working with anastasiya over any other overseer in the past. arriving at the designated meeting spot, the tall trees providing a natural canopy — the surroundings were tranquil. maybe there was a version of him who would appreciate the scene and maybe there is some foggy feeling of looking upon a skyline in serenity; but that is not this max. he waits patiently and silent for the overseer to reveal themselves.

[lawlessgodss]

The coffee is done by the time she gets there. He pouring a cup when the cards are thrown down like an accusation. He’d been precise in his sending of them through secure encrypted channels over the years, a fucking feat when you consider there’s a whole ocean to traverse. Still, a small smirk cuts over a canine tooth at the sight. 

 “What? No hug? Where’s my welcome wagon, Gem?” He drawls. There‘s a twinging, capricious delight in seeing that given the option, his annoying, venomous little sister would choose pettiness above all else.  She could be a little bitch of a spider bite if she wanted.

“Does dad know how easy it is to break into this place?” Follow up: did dad approve it? — Too thin ice that one, he thinks to himself. He’s only just returned to American soil. He should give himself more than 30 minutes on the ground before giving himself good reason to be evicted. He lets the coffee sit. Idly, a lighter comes out of his pocket (flying private let you get away with murder) and he gets to work letting the flames lick the corners of one of the unopened envelopes. Her loss.

[ closed for @lawlessgodss ]

There is a ghost in her kitchen. No – not a ghost, a stranger. The stranger wears her brother’s face and moves with all his familiar mannerisms, but Gemma does not know him anymore. The Alessandro she knew and loved and idolized died with Giovanni, leaving behind some cowardly echo who fled the moment things got hard. She says nothing as she enters the kitchen, pausing only to drop the stack of unopened birthday cards in front of where he sits silently. She’s got class in an hour, so Gemma busies herself in the daily rituals of making her coffee. They are both proud, stubborn – their father’s children through and through – so there is silence.

At last Gemma turns, leaning against the countertop with her arms crossed almost protectively in front of her, and stares at him with haughty disdain. “You’re shorter than I remember.”

[lawlessgodss]

ALESSANDRO DANTE BERTELLI

i. about

TLDR: (tw: death, murder) explicit prodigy and latent psychopath. holds a charisma of his own sort. head of research and development for anunnaki pharmaceuticals. capo for the jade tribe & son of its current leader. saw that his brother was his family’s collective moral compass and said “damn, that has to go.” has been working for anunnaki pharma from europe for the last six years because he didn’t really want to fake cry at the funeral of the brother he killed & doesn’t really want to tell his family the kill was intentional. More recently - creating the replicant / human pill made europe unsafe for him. just returned to brooklyn in exchange for his father’s amnesty. unkillable. the revenant.

ANASTASIYA KOROLEVA

i. about

TLDR: overseer for the red eye and a true believer. is she inserting chips into and routinely wiping the minds of her comrades? yes. does that make a bad person? also yes. but hey, she’s got a cyborg eye, so that’s kind of cool.

ana has been with the red eye all her life and was promoted to overseer seven years ago. she is blindly loyal and cruelly so. everyone under her command better have the opposite of a praise kink, because here is a character whose refusal to offer praise reaches cult-like levels. she’s dreadfully formal and has been voted most likely to say “go to your room” in which ‘room’ is ‘interrogation chamber.’ she expects all her assassins to stay on task while on this mission in new york and she will be hunting down all the defectors. one day she’ll die - but that day is not today and you’re far more likely to go first.

[lawlessgodss]

ALESSANDRO DANTE BERTELLI

i. about

TLDR: (tw: death, murder) explicit prodigy and latent psychopath. holds a charisma of his own sort. head of research and development for anunnaki pharmaceuticals. capo for the jade tribe & son of its current leader. saw that his brother was his family’s collective moral compass and said “damn, that has to go.” has been working for anunnaki pharma from europe for the last six years because he didn’t really want to fake cry at the funeral of the brother he killed & doesn’t really want to tell his family the kill was intentional. More recently - creating the replicant / human pill made europe unsafe for him. just returned to brooklyn in exchange for his father’s amnesty. unkillable. the revenant.

ANASTASIYA KOROLEVA

i. about

TLDR: overseer for the red eye and a true believer. is she inserting chips into and routinely wiping the minds of her comrades? yes. does that make a bad person? also yes. but hey, she’s got a cyborg eye, so that’s kind of cool.

ana has been with the red eye all her life and was promoted to overseer seven years ago. she is blindly loyal and cruelly so. everyone under her command better have the opposite of a praise kink, because here is a character whose refusal to offer praise reaches cult-like levels. she’s dreadfully formal and has been voted most likely to say “go to your room” in which ‘room’ is ‘interrogation chamber.’ she expects all her assassins to stay on task while on this mission in new york and she will be hunting down all the defectors. one day she’ll die - but that day is not today and you’re far more likely to go first.

[lawlessgodss]

JACOB ELORDI in SALTBURN (2023)

[lawlessgodss]

.

[lawlessgodss]

Lucien knows that this stint as the boss of the Hanging Man has pulled him from the orbit of his siblings. Things are different these days than they were in days of their youth. It’s a tragedy in some sense, but he he’s a little busy keeping them safe and preserving a legacy to go play closest confidant. So when Deacon says ‘Shit, Gwen, are you pregnant?’ - it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility that Lucien’s hearing about it last amongst the Farrow siblings. Fuck. That’s - fuck. He pulls Deacon back by the scruff of his neck, shaking him a little while doing so like a wet kitten. It’s a mercy, kinder than anything Gwen would subject him to if he stayed within arm’s reach after that belly pat. Lucien’s eyes stay trained on his sister though. 

“Gwendolyn.” Lucien says, suddenly somber as death. Her name is a harrowing statement that’s a question and demand. Are you? “... The father?“ He better be on the Hanging Man payroll or they’d having  a different conversation entirely. But there’s relief, relief at the possibility that three years passed and finally Gwendolyn has moved on from the astray from the distraction of one (1) Han Gold. He breaks his gaze to throw a glance to Jameson who’s prepping for a smoke break. “Really? She’s pregnant.” 

@jimjamfar​

@lawlessgodss​ , @aethyias​​ , @ghostspot​​

Location: Undisclosed Meeting spot

Jameson hated these things, he wasn’t like the others in their regard to fall into mostly order. Part of him wanted to create Molotov cocktails as a distraction to get out of dodge quick. Instead he treated the venue like an obstacle course, swerving to avoid the clash between him and servers. Avoiding anyone he could, unless they happened to meet in the dark of a closet someplace.

He did his best to ensure that he wasn’t followed. One finger moved to itch underneath the mask that hid his face. This thing was absolutely worthless to him. Something he would easily vocalize if asked about it no doubt. Before he passed into the final spot, he did a quick look around  and waited for his siblings to show up. As soon as he saw the first figure approach.

“What’s the password?”

[lawlessgodss]

\W/estworld III — Passed Pawn

[lawlessgodss]

who: open starter

when: the rescue pill gala

A dart thrown at her bookcase, Crime and Punishment flipped open. Sonya Ladova - the alias rolls past her lips with all the ease of a serpent flicking a forked tongue. It’s too easy to say Ana wants to play God, no, this is and has always been in the pursuit of efficiency. Immortality gets left behind, a paper skin shed without a second thought, and Anastasiya reaches for something more, curls a fist around evolution. The pill is imperfect and oh, Ana hates that because she doesn’t settle for anything less and yet - evidently - the existence of it is enough to warrant celebration, certainly enough to experience exploitation. The Jade Tribes leaps at the opportunity presented, pulls at threads with little care for what unravels.

That’s neither here nor there - she doesn’t have time to feed them cautionary tales.

Truly, if it were up to her, all of this would be saved till she got it right, till the side effects were gone, and she was handling a much more stable constant. And then, even then, she’d want it to be a private moment, with maybe just one other, a moment between her and for her creation.

So the night of the Gala Ana arrives, not to celebrate, but to oversee her agents under slightly different auspices. Little more than an ink smear is dripped around her, a draping of black provided by her most outspoken agent. Her mask is simple, conceals her well - though, if she truly wanted to be lost in the crowd, she wouldn’t be found. Ana wants the Red Eye to know she’s watching and so positions herself as such by a standing table, a guardian at Hell’s gate. She rolls a pill, pinched between thumb and forefinger, champagne flute untouched, counting grains of sand fall through the hour glass, waiting for the night to end.

At some point another joins her, completely shattering any hope for solitary quiet. Idly Ana muses out loud: “And what would you do with immortality if you had it?”

[lawlessgodss]

Cerberus returns to the gates of Hell and Hades is the sole soul to greet him. Lucien’s expecting Leech, but not Leech this quickly. Who needs ‘consistent’ and ‘family friendly’ when you have ‘unpredictable reliability.’ Not to mention, every room turns into a hotbox upon entry. The door to the den of the Hanging Man slams open and then shut - rattling some of the priceless stolen frames that decorate and line the walls -  but Lucien’s attention is snapping first at the smell and then to the two plastic bags that Leech holds. “I’m continuously charmed with the way you seem to make these experiences feel like I’m doing something as common place as ordering take-out. Plastic bags, Leech, really?”

He locks eyes - or where he approximates the other’s eyes to be. It’s a bit hard, with the puff of smoke and the glasses, but Lucien’s pretty sure he’s figured the specifics of it out after all these years.

Leech isn’t lying though, whatever he’s holding does reek. “Yeah, bodies tend to do that.” Lucien waves his hand for Leech to bring it closer. “You run into any trouble? Heard there was extra security sniffing arou-”

The words stop dead in his mouth as Lucien pauses. He has the bags in hand and he’s looking down into them. And then - a frown works his way across his face. “Leech.” His tone, more serious now. “I get that all us white politicians look the same -“ From inside the bag, through the bloody, bloody mess, lifeless piercing blue eyes stare at him when he should be looking at brown. “- But you got the wrong guy.” 

Great. Now he’s got a head. What’s he supposed to do with a head - when it’s not even the right head?

who: @lawlessgodss​​ for lucien where: mad moxie’s 

leech walks with a certain swagger through the streets of queens, sunglasses on the end of his nose even in the middle of the night, hoodie pulled to cover the remainders of his face. he can barely see where his feet are landing, but he knows he looks cool, and more importantly, ghostly among the late night stragglers of new york city. in his right hand swings a container of goodies, layered in two plastic bags and inside those a black garbage bag, and from that begins wafting an unpleasant smell; one of rust and decay, dirty fingernails gripping tight into his palm so he doesn’t fear it slipping from his grasp. his shoes are wet, and by proxy, so are his socks, the uncomfortable clinging sensation going up to the mid-calf of his jeans as if he had trudged through water recently, his sweatshirt zipped to his throat as if to hide the stains of his t-shirt underneath.

he pushes past the door of mad moxie’s, the music immediately blaring into the quiet of the street. the club was closed at the appropriate hour to avoid police attention, but the music tended to stay on all night, bumping and covering any noises that might ring from upstairs, the neon lights contorting the colors and textures of the floors and walls, making the room look impossibly small and big at the same time. he heads directly for the stairs, innocuous and hidden in a particularly dark corner as to not drawn attention to itself. he stomps up, the noise drowned by the eternal music and flashing lights, and slams open the top door before needlessly closing it quietly behind him. suddenly and all at once all the noise from downstairs is drowned out. absolute silence. its a big clean room that does not match the former half of the building, desks lining the walls and a long, long meeting table in the center. he pulls down his hood with his free hand, pulling a blunt from behind his ear and lighting it before he walks to knock at one of the private office doors.

he doesn’t wait for a response before opening it, walking in with his face still shrouded by his glasses and a puff of smoke. “hey boss, i got that politician head you ordered.” he says, a small smile on his face that made it looks as if he were proud of himself. “it wasn’t too hard to get but i had to trudge through a modern day goddamn moat to get away, and it’s starting to fuckin’ reek so whatever you have planned for it ya might wanna do it fast.”

[lawlessgodss]

Tao Okamoto