religun

[religun]

"it's always been like that for me." her voice might as well tear through his atrium. snaggle-tooth right through his throat. snapping halfway through the silence, and sawing away at the rest— chiseled bits of anger dusted between them. her mouth curls. "but it wasn't different." what used to be soft now turns sour. prying open the brute-formed bare of her morals. spitting out danger that smokes like it sings. grey-tinged. wailing. battering its black-blue hands along the base of her neck, and rasping out what's left. "it's never different. even when it feels like it is."

her words play open-close to a throughway of past events. jaws clamping in predator motions. (it's safe if it's unsaid, it's safe if it's unsaid, it's safe if it's un—) "i always u — used to think it was different, you know. you meet some— nice-enough, sorta-trustworthy asshole, and you keep thinking th — that there's no way. that it's different, because you owe him. he saved you. he picked you up. had your back when no one else did." her tone wavers. mari's gaze swings back to jesse, steady. dark irises of honest, but brutal, staring him in the face.

"but then they take." her hands curl until her knuckles turn white. her voice shakes, but doesn't snap. "and they t — take, and even when they're gone—" mari cuts herself short. snips the tether between past, and present. her voice trails, steeling herself in the silence. "it wasn't different, jesse. it was abuse."

abruptly, he recalls a scene from a bygone era. a blooper from a biopic about his lawless escapades. mister white, crueler than jesse could’ve anticipated, claiming that he never learned how to think. them duking it out inside the rv — a punch, a kick, a scowl, a bestial howl — and vying to secure a victory. minutes later, mister white had offered to make him breakfast. those gooey eggs had the distinct aroma of a transient truce. (was it, like, messed up? depends on your definition of the term. was it wrong? nope. his own foolishness had brought it to fruition.) they’d quarreled plenty, seldom with a real intent to hurt. the wounds were cauterized by their symbiosis. 

occasional symbiosis. situational symbiosis. stranded in the boonies. herded into a corner. forgiving and forgetting on a hospital rooftop. (as if they hadn’t been inextricably linked. as if superiority wasn’t mister white’s prerogative. as if submission wasn’t jesse’s shield—) standing shoulder-to-shoulder, a teacher and his rowdy pupil survey the aftermath of their alliance. the credits roll over a labyrinth of bodies. bodies shot from a distance. shot and left to the vultures.

“whaddya mean, it wasn’t different?” he’s back to playing offense. shimmying out of the sheets. pitching forward, propelled by a kinetic flurry. “you didn’t deserve that, mari.” jesse’s certainty is iron-clad. impervious to debate. “it didn’t have to be that way. not for you.”

[religun]

he never put a gun to her head, but who ever said that force has to be violent? ... a partnership, shared. a idealism, alive. a promise, given, but never received. fifty-fifty is a distortion. veiled mouths, whispering red. fifty-fifty is fiction. myth. a forgery, smeared at the signature. fifty-fifty is a lie. (as if forgiveness wasn't her grave. as if obedience wasn't her survival. like sugar-cubed arsenic, bottle-warmed cyanide; as if compromise wasn't his venom—) one for him, one for her: she could tell this story twice, and only change the names. elijah, walt. jesse, mari. people, endangered, at the behest of an owner— scorned.

does the devil do the bidding himself? do angels, made in Her image, exist to enact? (even the holiest lose their way. even the smartest, fall prey.) jesse, doglike and undamned, will blame himself ad-infinitum ... mari, on the other hand, won't.

"he never put a gun to my head." mari's mouth tells a story that hasn't seen the light of day in years. hands, tracing along her knuckles. scar-riddled, and sliced at the seams. "not walt, i m — mean. or—" a swallow. "my walt." her gaze flickers out towards the window of the motel. focuses on a stain, marring the curtains. "before you say it was different, it wasn't. it wasn't an accident, e — either." a beat. "none of them were."

“sometimes it’s easy to blame yourself for things that happen to you.” — @religun as mari dai.

when it comes to swallowing the saw-edged shards of blame, crunching them between your teeth like chicken cartilage, jesse pinkman is a fucking pro. a master of the craft, whose hands still shake if nobody’s around to guide him through the motions. whose guilt is an organic compound. who’s driven by his time-worn devotion. bludgeoned into humility. pay it no mind. (sometimes it’s easy, sometimes it’s hard. sometimes, jesse flinches away from mari’s sympathy — he doesn’t mean to, he’s so sorry, he’ll be better — and sidesteps her reassurances. dodges the pitch-dark, spellbinding precision of her stare.) she catches onto him, anyway. voicing the unsayable. vanquishing the unassailable. their motel room is thick with tension. with the acerbic scent of jesse’s cardinal sins. 

“just ‘cause it’s easy doesn’t mean it’s not true.” jesse grits out, cocooned in a threadbare comforter. toying with the fabric. letting it go. repeating the process. “all that shit— all the shit we did, way before we started workin’ for gus— it wasn’t, like, an accident.” his eyes, blue beyond blue, land on her silhouette. “he didn’t put a gun to my head ‘n force me to do it, mari. we were partners. fifty-fifty.”

[religun]

laura's static in the background. a quiet hum of a shadow, alive. truth? mari has nothing against her. but nothing to her, either, and the intrigue goes as far as this. these sessions, these gabs, the minutes in which mari pretends she's much less of a circus act— pulling fables and stories and lies, lies, lies out from the coveted place in her sleeve ... yes, she lies in therapy. but so what? everyone lies. creating phantom images and false narratives and spinning threads between their teeth until eventually, honesty pulls them out. gum-breathed and gaping. left to pick up the pieces in the dark.

maybe laura likes to lie, too. or: used to lie, and is now recovered. it's a funny thought, really— a group of liars, weaving stories, pretending that they're recovering from the very thing they practice. (hi, i'm mari, and i'm a liar! ... what a bunch of bullshit.) that's what group therapy feels like, regardless. but if mari was honest? ... she'd force her tongue out from her cheek, her mouth out from her stomach, and say the wretched words through gritted teeth. like shards of glass, spewed right from the source. it helps, it helps, it helps. now will everyone shut the fuck up?

mari wrinkles her nose at the comparison to laura's mother. (bitch-mom, burdened-daughter, parenthood as a knife—) "don't ever compare me to your mother again." mari retorts, and it sounds enough like a joke to feel lighthearted. truth? it's not. "philosophy degree or otherwise, until i'm pulling up to group with a baby carrier on my back, i don't wanna hear it." a soft snort, before silence spreads thin through the conversation — only filled with mari's exhale. she flicks ash, and continues her reply. "l'appel du vide. it means call of the void." mari's tongue runs across the inside of her cheek, and her stare bores right into laura's. "it's the unexplained urge to do bad shit. l — like push somebody into the road when we're walking beside them, or jump from a high place, or drive straight into traffic." a beat. "you ever wanna do something like that?"

as it turns out, she's just self-involved enough and just theatrical enough to excel at therapy... when she's in the right mood. dishing diary-talk to a bunch of strangers she never has to see in any other context is not, at this point, that difficult. it's not soul-baring or particularly cathartic, either --- she is much too controlling for that --- but it's undeniably good practice. she's always surprised by how underwhelming these people tend to find her baggage (which is equal parts offensive and something she greatly enjoys); how often she can, if she wants, trick herself into feeling blissfully average.

normal enough to bitch about the unrelated drama playing out in her inbox, at least --- and the one other smoker doesn't let her down. laura's laugh is brief, but loud. not that the girl's said something funny, exactly. not that much could be more ridiculous than her sitting in this chair propped against the wall that was clearly intended for small children, left trying to figure out what to do with her legs.

"you sound like my mom." she locks her phone, slides it back into her pocket, then turns her attention back to mari. "she, uh. she's got a philosophy degree, it's a point of contention." one last, lingering drag and she drops her smoke to the blacktop, stamps it out with the end of her cane. "she's also way smarter than me." the way she speaks, it's clear that laura is unbothered, even a little proud, to feel inferior to her mother. it almost distracts her, but then: "it's just obnoxious. like, 'really, this again? what are we, fifteen? should we make it everybody's fucking issue?'" she's earned more generosity than she affords herself: she's grown up, these past several years, and she puts more into 'do no harm' than she ever has anything else (a strong statement in and of itself). she is just also, somewhat regretfully, an abject brat. "what was that, french? l'appel du...?"

[religun]

toprey -> religun

[religun]

hi. fuck ice. here is how you can help families affected by unlawful deportation

edit: and FUCK LAPD. here is how you can help bail out protestors who are in the trenches, facing mass arrests and putting their bodies on the line.

[religun]

mari doesn't wish she was dead, but sometimes she loses the sense of living. for weeks, hours, days at a time, the world washes over her in shades of grey. spatters of red. hues of black, until the abyss is deep enough that nothing else exists. that's what mark's for: to pull her out, lasso her in, remind her that there's something beyond her own self. someone breathing, living, existing in the way she wants them to. needs them to, and needs her the way she needs them to. (it's not healthy, mark says. nothing is, mari replies. the cycle repeats.) it's a bad habit. a coping mechanism. something that she clings onto at her worst, and hand-holds at her best. walking, step-by-step, until it eventually leads her elsewhere ... or, at least, somewhere other than all that dark.

it's where she's lived for most of her life. that nebulous space, that aching void, the gap inside a gap inside a gap; a place that felt kind, but was cruel— or was cruel, but never kind — it got harder to tell, as of late. hard enough, at least, that mark had expressed concerns: ringing her phone in the morning to make sure she saw the sun rise. calling her in the afternoon to remind her there's an evening to get to. texting her when night fell, just to make sure she's still around. (i'm tired, mark— not dead. let me sleep, and i'll call a therapist tomorrow.) the cycle repeats.

the truth is, something in the cycle finally stopped when mari followed through on her promise. showed up to group therapy, and managed to swallow enough comments to get an invite back. now, there's just this: the afterwards. the stale silence, the cigarette breaks, and some blonde-haired stranger wafting the scent of menthol across the smooth sail of her tongue. sending sentences out in the air between them. mari notes the crinkled label of salem's, and forces her brow to stay steady. she said she'd play nice, not that she'd play innocent.

LAURA PALMER [@inflame] : "i do bad things sometimes. i have that problem. i think 'what would be the worst thing i could do in this moment?' and then, i do it."

her own cigarette flicks and flutters ash to the sidewalk beside them. a glance towards a nearby streetlamp tosses a less than impressed gaze up towards the sky. mari hums, falsely contemplative, and then drags from her cigarette to stifle down a judgement. (who gives a shit, laura? bad things are only bad because somebody labeled it that way. paste your own opinion over it, and nobody cares. that's a promise.) instead, she spews out a line of smoke, and rolls her attention back towards the other.

"that's subjective." mari drawls, a half-smirk sidling against the last tendril of smoke. a huff, and she shakes her head. leans her shoulder against the wall. glances back up to the ceiling god made them, and blinks back at a winking star. "b — besides, that's just that—" a click of her tongue. "—l'appel du vide shit. call of the void, or whatever. makes you want to do bad shit for no reason." another drag of the cigarette, and mari pivots her stare back down. "the other half is just impulse control, which a psychiatrist would probably say is—" air quotes circle the framing of her face. "—medication manageable."

[religun]

mari's never prided herself on good or evil, but incarnations of worse are bad enough to know. there's something childlike in it: the creaking doors, the haunted plains. the window-frames that resemble skeletons, if she squints. the mother. the father. the children. maybe there's nothing childlike in it at all. something closer to childhood, instead. the yawning doors. the zipped-tight blinds. the locks, the keys— the rattle, shake, and fracture of encounters gone wrong.

it's not the same image, but it's close. enough to hurt. enough to sting. enough to slap, mangle, and marr the edges of her scars at the very thought. enough to make her sick. (hunched over the round of her toilet, heaving into the nearest trash can, tasting lies and listerine and washing her mouth until it bleeds—) but not enough to make her quit. how can she? ensnared in the in betweens, married to criminality, this is what she's good at. what she's good for. skyler's just another job: no different than any other, no different than the next. any definition of parenthood doesn't change the facts. her husband's a monster, she's not her mother, and mari will leave just as alone as she arrived. all she can hope is that she doesn't need to clean a scene when she does it.

SKYLER WHITE [@earthspin] : "i need people around me that i can trust."

for now, the scene is calm. near tranquil, with mari sketching absently in a journal. (nothing to clean, nothing to wipe, nothing to burn.) a pivot of attention nudges her gaze out from underneath lashes, the scratch of pencil pausing against paper. mari's tongue swipes across her lower lip, catches itself on her teeth as she inhales, and she swallows back a hint of bile at the very statement. instead, she pastes a wrinkled smile onto her features, and imagines herself as paper-machete. sturdy, in the ways that count. "i th — think i'm pretty trustworthy." she keeps her tone light. unknowing. like the confidant of the century, prepped and primed for inclusion. her gaze flickers down to the sketch, and then back up — pencil tapping gently against the side of the sketchbook. "do you trust me?"

[religun]

hacks: season 4.

dialogue prompts from the fourth season of hbo's hacks.

blackmail on day one? not good!

i'm trying to bond with my kid. doctor's orders.

this energy is bad. putrid. it stinks.

you are not beating the 'cunt' allegations.

you clearly have something to say, so say it.

how is it that everyone leaves me as soon as i get what i want?

i'm happy to take orders from women.

you can dish it, but you can't take it?

go home. you look like shit, and you smell like piss.

you can't unsend an e-mail.

you have the purest aura i've ever seen.

i've just gotta clean this horrible energy that's in here.

you're a public figure now.

it's not easy letting you go.

i need people around me that i can trust.

you gotta dance with the one who brought you.

we don't have time to calm down.

you don't have drugs, do you?

i'm live on instagram.

the speed limit is just a suggestion.

you're gonna be wonderful. you always are.

i'm sorry. i've never had alcohol before.

remember your tools: compassion, not condescension.

i've never seen so many people wearing makeup in the daytime.

you owe the volume jar some money.

if you want them to like you, you have to let them get to know you.

just tell me. directness is kindness.

just because you're gay does not make you detail-oriented.

it's a fake award. i have plenty of them at home.

i'm so sorry. i should have protected you.

i'm not suicidal, i just want to die.

thanks for trying to save my life.

i want to believe you, but you always let me down. i can't trust you.

i don't even know your voice anymore.

i haven't had fun in a long time.

stop stalling and take your shirt off.

we don't have to acknowledge we matched on hinge.

the cycle of narcissism stops here.

maybe my religion is pissing you off.

you cannot get me high and then ditch me. we're in this together.

i don't believe in heaven, but i do believe in hell.

'heaven is fake, but hell is real'. we need that on t-shirts.

when you're in the public eye, people love to turn their backs on you and tear you to shreds.

it's painful, being the witch of the week.

give me your hands real quick. let's do a quick prayer.

you were on the cover of every tabloid, but you did nothing illegal.

i am not a prude, okay? i have never been a prude.

i'm scared. i feel a lot of things right now.

i love to make fun of people. it's one of life's great pleasures.

does your wife know you proposed to me?

i mean, i'm gay, but i'm no lesbian.

i like to mentally map a city before i drive in it.

should we do some shots?

this late on a school night?

i would just like a little goodwill. haven't i earned that?

i have to ask: what is it like to get your dream?

just do your thing. pretend i'm not here.

in the interest of keeping you in the loop, there's something i need to fill you in on.

this was my dream, but the dream changed. and so did i.

i am so sorry i called you a little bitch.

you don't need to apologize for things i don't know about and that aren't going to happen.

you think people give a shit about your high moral stance?

i want to be alone for a bit.

i don't even own my own name.

i just don't think i can pull off velvet.

you know i don't do vacations. i can't stand sitting around all day doing nothing.

you want a little something to take the edge off?

i really don't like surprises. i have, like, four period tracking apps.

i am doing what i love. i'm drinking champagne.

i didn't fall asleep. i was resting my eyes.

you're not yourself. i feel like you're giving up.

if you're so unhappy, why don't you just leave?

you're just drunk and you're trying to hurt my feelings.

i am your only friend. don't you think that's weird?

you need friends. and a boyfriend. or a girlfriend, or a they-friend.

i thought you were dead. they published your obituary.

[religun]

if it's a fake, it's a good one — if he's a cop, he's a bad one. simple equations, complex math ... suspicions peering around every wrong corner. (it doesn't take a genius to suspect that he's looking for more than what he says; doesn't take a hunter to understand that the law isn't to be trusted.) either way, he's barking up the wrong tree. climbing branches that snap, stumble, and pop on their way down. finding evidence snug against her teeth, all but waiting for her jaws to unsnap to tear out a shred. sure, she's seen a newbie here or there. and sure, she'd seen neighbors spit-and-shining their white picket fence. but even armed, even dangerous, even daring to spin dishonesty to her face? well, she'd take a bad-blues-beginner over a cop-faced-lie. bad choice of a cover, agent jones ... better luck next time.

a hum threads itself against her mouth. she hands back the badge, makes eye contact with the stranger, and cants her head— like a cat, curious as ever. "cops show up, a — and that's enough of an issue for me." a skim over the other: head to toe, shoes to face. a beat. "look, agent— jones, right?" a soft clear of her throat. a reel back of a line. "if you want in, you'll need a warrant. and if y — you want me to talk, you'll have to deal with a lawyer." her hand closes around the edge of the door, tugging it a centimeter closer to shut. "like i said— i don't talk to cops." a pause, lingering in her movement. a half-hidden smirk flickers, then douses itself out. (place your bets, people ... fifty-fifty chances say she might just strike this one out.) "if you see a hunter, though—" black tresses hide a grin. a turned face conceals a smile. "tell 'em i m — might have something to say."

                        ──────────────                        gaze fixates on outstretched hand before sigh escapes his lips ,    fingers extend the laminated badge in the girl’s direction .    the suspicion is understandable ,    the town had been infamous after all ,    known for the stories that linger in its shadows .    dean was a hunter ,    not an idiot ,    and he had his own suspicions of the girl standing before him        (    of everyone ,    especially now that he can’t trust his own flesh and blood    ) .        throat clears while he gives the other time to review its details    ---------    it was one of the best fakes that dean ever owned ,    modeled perfectly after henriksen’s badge ,    persona solidified by bobby’s fake business card tucked in his pocket .    dean was becoming far too comfortable with impersonating law enforcement officers ,    all part of the job .                “    listen ,    i don’t want to cause any issues for you .    just want to find the suspect at large .    again ,    anything that you know could be extremely helpful .    ”                he still wasn’t sure how to talk about sam since his return from hell    ---------    he’d practically raised the kid ,    changed his diapers and fed him dinner every night while john was out on hunts .    ησω ιт ωαѕ нιѕ נσв тσ кιℓℓ ѕαм .    maybe he’d never left hell after all .                “    he should be new to town ,    we tracked him here a couple of weeks ago .    might’ve bought a house in the area recently ,    might look innocent but is definitely armed and dangerous .    ”

[religun]

you can't do it alone, but mari's tried. once, in her adolescence: gathering her instinct, her technique, her anger. forging something close to an escape. then, in adulthood: gritting her teeth and wringing her gut, kissing death with an open mouth. bloodied gums. the last imprint of who she could've been. now, again: finding her hands clenched at the bathroom sink, wrapped knuckle-white at the edge of a wheel, lighting cigarette upon cigarette until all she smells of is the promise of an end. years off of her life that she doesn't need back.

and why would she? what for? for the happily ever after? the white picket fence? the garden-green sprinklers, the unnecessarily locked door, the neighbors that wave, instead of avoid contact ... it's a fantasy. some off-kilter dream that manifests only as a nightmare. nothing that good lasts. nothing that good exists. the best she gets is this: this open road, these unpaved streets, jesse's hand curved around the back of her seat, only inches away from her shoulder— no. that, too, is a fantasy. (men like him stay soft the same way girls like her stay sour, and it isn't a balanced existence without one or the other.) it is what it is. it's not what it's not. she'll make acquaintances with the insects bearing witness to her demise. for him, for her, for them— or for nothing at all.

"retirement's overrated." mari's drawl dances across the skyline of jesse's smoke. skims seconds off of an exhale. she slumps half of her weight to the side and leans against the nearest wall. nearly lazy, falsely nonchalant. an image of carelessness that doesn't exist. "i mean— this." a vague gesture to the parking lot. "just day in, d — day out; driving and sort of sleeping and finding sh — shitty motels to steal bibles from." a beat. "dunno. it's dumb." a slow blink out to the soft glow of a nearby sign. "but it's all i can picture, now."

with albuquerque’s boneyards far behind him and the interminable swathes of asphalt up ahead, jesse rebels by combing through his corroded memory bank. sussing out the inciting incident. the origin of his depravity. from cloudless skies to lurid neon signs to syringes. from furtive tokes to stripper poles to catalytic converters. from drug raids to brain-blasting formulas to emilio’s viscera sloshing inside his bathtub. like raspberry purée. like a glutinous stew.  (  none of the b-rated horror flicks jesse used to watch were honest in their depiction of corpse disposal. seriously. it’s gruesome stuff.  )  ditch the carousel of futile forewarnings. discard the kitchen knife you’d pocketed on a whim. an older, wiser murderer  —  it’s who we are, mister white, it’s what we chose, what we kept choosing  —  will teach you the proper methodology. you can’t do it alone.

that should’ve been the point of no return. karma had sauntered into jesse’s orbit. slid its spindly fingers around his wrist. inspected his track marks, his teardrops, his doleful apologies. brought in a fleet of mortuary hearses for the soon-to-be deceased.  (  upstanding citizens don’t flush their friends’ intestines down the toilet. don’t flip a coin to clinch the deal. don’t snoop, don’t steal, don’t squander their riches, don’t deprive a khaki-wearing kingpin of the opportunity to hit ‘em where it hurts—  )  where does it hurt, exactly? jesse won’t tell a soul. but mari dai might have an idea. she, too, can’t do it alone. 

“  whatchu mean, anything but this?  ”  he squints, cigarette bobbing between a lopsided smirk.  “  you okay with sleeping on jizz-stained motel beds for ten years? like, yo, front desk lady, gimme another room where the tv doesn’t work and the neighbors wake up at four am to yell at each other. sweet. five-star service. yeah, let’s do that again.  ”  jesse trails off, savoring a deep drag. shaking his head in the negative. plans are for bona-fide geniuses, real einstein types, with tyvek coveralls and mercury fulminate explosions.  “  not that it matters, but… i wasn’t bankin’ on making it to, uh, retirement.  ”

[religun]

mari could say she hated albuquerque, but part of her misses the simplicity. rather, the predictability. (a cyclical image. a home base embroidered with decay. cruel, maybe callous, like some singed carcass of a car: smoking in the distance. swollen in its corpsehood. sweltering in the heat.) or, maybe it's more of the survival that she misses. mechanisms of monotonous tones, rearing and whirring and grinding against her back molars until they turned sharp. something familiar. something easy. something known.

out on the road, it's different. the state she lives in doesn't allow much room to breathe— always gasping and gaping and grasping for some kind of stability in the moments where no one is looking. (back alleys. bars. the bracketed space in the shower, where she runs the water until it burns.) the only witness to it is the insects. little motel silverfish that crawl across the tiles, and are too small to signify anything to her cries. moths that flutter towards the light, ignoring the seventh cigarette that mari lights in shaky hands. it's insignificant, regardless. things that you do because they're right, not because they're easy. an aftermath is inevitable, and just because it isn't pretty, doesn't mean it doesn't have purpose. mari tries to remind herself of that, more than anything.

JESSE PINKMAN [@tocook] : "where do you wanna be, ten years from now?"

the future's too far too look bright. a paved road of nothingness, where only the dark feels tangible. it could be worse, she thinks. they could have no future at all. "dunno." mari murmurs, lips still wrapped around a cigarette that swirls up into the moth-worn lights. her gaze flickers to jesse, and then back out towards the empty parking lot. she shrugs, one shoulder inching upward before it slumps back down. she sucks in another inhale, and then purses her lips to target the smoke outward. "i don't r — really think that far, anymore." the truth is hard to say, but a lie would be worse. spitting out rainbows and cherry-pies and candescent lights that flare in the distance of her future is unrealistic. jesse deserves the truth.

"it's hard to i — imagine anything but this, sometimes." mari's lip twists down, and her hand passes a half-burnt cigarette to the other. her lashes flutter, and she flickers her stare back out to the vacancy of the motel. "why?" a glance back, and a wry smile twists up. "you got a p — plan, or something?"

[religun]

forseti need not know the honesties to understand the layout, need not see the intricacies to foresee the future— he gifts her a game, she flips it on its head, and neither are surprised. how can they be?

she's a trickster, a liar, a fable made in the fires of foreign mouths. a swindler, a cheat, a witch burnt to a crisp beneath the kindling of children's whispers. she lies like she breathes, spins stories like she sings, and swallows truth like habits she doesn't know how to kick. predictable. no one would expect more from her. plenty expect less. forseti's just the outlier who's willing to give her a chance. how fortunate.

the tavern lays its eyes on not one, but two of a kind. forseti can hide his grin beneath a cough, shield his amusement with a hand, but mari sees it. ingests it. views it, and pockets it away for later. information, she knows, is all she has. the truth — no matter how she shies away from it — is currency.

"i'd never do such a thing." mari says, and adds another lie to the space between them. she would, and she did, and she'd do it again in a heartbeat. meaningless jests that morph through time, and patience. he should know better, really. the stories about her may be fable, but her danger is as real as can be. "lying and cheating is a s — sin, you know." the sarcasm drips from her tongue. dances playfully across her lips. "only someone as horrid as the stories say w — would do it."

mari spares a glance towards the barkeep. ignores the faintest hint of a glance that shoots her way. she's rarely welcomed, always an intruder, and she's made her peace with what it is ... and what it isn't. "right." she murmurs, but the corner of her lip juts upward in a half-laugh. a chuckle burrows beneath the rumble of her chest, and she nods. "well played, but i think y — you've got a point." a pause, sipping from the mug. a swallow, and swipe across her mouth, before she offers it to 'cheers' the other. "to fairness, then."

TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE: a game of two liars and the single truth hidden between them. mari responds just as he suspected she would. as he would have, too, were the positions reversed. ( whether his gamble pinned on intuition or recognition hardly matters. a win is a win. ) his expression cracks into a mountain dog’s toothy grin. he coughs to conceal the extent of it, shielding his lips with a well-placed hand.

to any stray spectators in the tavern, one of them is a self-proclaimed kinslayer, and the other is terribly giddy at the thought of brother-killing. a new rumour for the gossip mill, then. it hardly matters; forseti will see mari’s reputation vindicated soon enough.

' truth. lie. ' he regains his composure and lowers the hand from his mouth, now held in a perfectly respectable smile. nothing more and nothing less. he leans in, scrutinizing her with the unnatural bright of his eyes. concentration knits a crease between his brows, half-hidden by the unruly veil of his hair. ' are you trying to trick me? that’s hardly fair. perhaps you really are as bad as the stories say. '

the barkeep returns, setting their mugs on the table with such force that the mead sloshes up and over the sides. he grunts, or perhaps mutters an apology. forseti casts him a mild glance, thanks him for the drinks, and presses a pair of coins into the man’s waiting palm. he retreats without a word; forseti returns his attentions to mari, the frown gone from his expression like it had never been there at all.

' lie. nothing’s ever really like how the stories claim — and that’s the truth! ' he laughs freely, pushing one mug toward mari and keeping the other for himself. opinion is a matter of opinion, too! and his is that mari isn’t what the legends make her out to be. ' but for the sake of fairness, we’ll both drink. '

[religun]

girl next door turned ghost, angel of death made sour— there are plenty of names that have floated around. even more, on the rumors come to life. she's dangerous, she's a devil, she's reckless and out of control. she's angry, she's violent, she's burning innocents at the stake. it's all wrong, of course. a myth inside a myth. a legend inside a legend. a story within a story, that no one seems to want to see more of. hunters have too much to say about her. the cops mind their own business. an out of town visitor, as stupid as they are brave, might err into the baseline of her property ... but paranoia shivers, snakes, and snaps at the thought. so, agent— who are you, really?

a suspect, dangerous. the smallest detail, helpful. he runs through the motions like every cop, hunter, and schemer she's once known. she doesn't buy it. "let me see your badge again." she murmurs, flickering her gaze up and down. dark irises eat away at her features, shrouded by strands of hair. a hand outstretches, careful, and her stare blinks back up to him. waiting, like a snake in the grass.

                        ──────────────                       gaze bypasses her figure to try peeking inside the home        (    not entirely sure what he was looking for    ──    signs of demonic or monster activity ?    his monster freak of a brother hiding in the shadows ?    )        as badge is carefully tucked back into the breast pocket of his suit jacket ,    throat clears before emerald hues settle on mari .        “    i’m following a suspect’s trail right now .    ”        jaw grits as the words finish ,    heavy sigh escapes pursed lips before figure leans against the side of the house .        “    just wanted to know if you’ve seen or heard anything .   ”        sam had been following a ghost story ,    searching for nothing more than a hunter’s fable ,    and dragging dean in towe .    dean couldn’t be sure why sam’s trail went cold after stopping at this house ,    but mari was the only one who could give some insight .

“    even the littlest detail could be helpful .    he’s an    ( . . . )    єχтяємєℓу ∂αηgєяσυѕ ιη∂ινι∂υαℓ .    ”        he was growing tired of sam’s little games    ---------    his brother had been consumed long ago ,    manipulated and twisted by bloodthirst and power ,    turned into one of the very things they grew up hunting .    dean knows he should’ve killed his brother long ago ,    it was slowly becoming one of his greatest regrets .

[religun]

on the days that feel small and the moon swells to the size of her heart, mari thinks about love more than usual. the space of it. the sound of it. the stuck-landing of it— stagnant. swept, swirled, or swallowing, taking her whole. the idea of it feels palm-sized. crushable. as if love could be a cherry, smushed / smeared / slick against her hands. emulsified beneath her boot. the catch always comes in the pit. stone-like, stiff. unmovable by the very force of nature. (the root becomes the tree becomes the harvest. the outsides rot, the inside cannot.) mari could take her fingers and push through the mush of it. fruits of her labor turning to an anti-fragility of a seed. stained with evidence of almost-death. she could wash away the sight— it doesn't matter. the scent will always linger.

on the days that feel small and mari feels smaller, the thought of this is easier found in a garden. fruit juices spattered across her t-shirt, evidence of adoration smudged across her tongue. even now, she finds it hard not to indulge. it's human of her. instinctive of her. indicative of boundaries she can't keep enforcing. she peels one moment, sinks her teeth into another. love becomes a crop she can't stop consuming.

CHARLIE ÁLVAREZ [@linament] : "your heart is so much bigger than mine."

he compares hearts like she compares bodies but the metaphors are growing old. (he's a weed between a sidewalk, a strawberry slushed against the concrete, a sun-spackled flower fusing light with dark. he's an offensive product, her favorite creation, the thorn in her side that she misses when the ache goes away—) her heart's bigger than his atrium but he still bleeds the same. her heart's bigger than his ventricles yet he still vows his days to her. it was easier, she thinks, when he didn't speak a second of sweet. only knew the outlines of how to be sour. she refrains from indulging further, and peels herself away from his warmth.

mari grabs an oversized shirt by the bed and stops trying to discern whether its his or hers. submerges her pride, submits her humanity, and says, "maybe y — you can borrow some of it, then." as if he doesn't already. as if he wouldn't know how. as if he's just some cherry-pitted, strawberry-scented, lone flower in the distance, and she'll still commit to plucking his leaves. she blinks. (the shirt's his, and she'll ignore that, too.) "i'm going to go smoke."

[religun]

one cigarette gone, another cigarette sparked— her hands throw away the trash but find another treasure. her hands stop with one act of violence and start on another. self destruction, self demolition, self divinity ... rebuilding her lungs brick by brick, until they're tar. molasses dripped and sticky. heaving out specks of ash until both of them are singed, too. "yeah, just call me an marxist." mari says, flat, and makes a show out of an inhale. spins the lighter through her hands. it finds the pocket of her jeans, handprinted and worn, and slips through the fabric. she rolls her eyes.

lis isn't an enemy, but they're stepping into territory she doesn't know. minefields bursting just like that gum between their lips. if mari didn't like her so much, she'd pry it right out from her teeth. smear it into her hair. smack her cheek down against that canvas, and watch the paint imprint across their skin. clean. clear. a warning, bruised into the side of her face. but she does, and so she doesn't, and lis gets away with commentary for a sitcom that spills blood. ironic. a family-sized portion for a fucked up mess of a group. charlie, naomi, lis. mari, marissa, god. together, they make three. together, mari makes one. she can feel the distance for miles.

but that doesn't mean she's asking for entrance. won't knock on their door to enter their home. she doesn't want it, won't need it, and lis can stay exactly where they are— copy-pasted in a trio that spends their free time trying to find a missing piece. mari, on the other hand, is whole as she is. "if i die, you can't k — kill yourself. i'll need someone to avenge me, and it won't be charlie." charlie doesn't have the heart to hunger for her absence, naomi would rather see her dead, but lis might have some sympathy to spare. mari, for what it's worth, trusts her. not that they need to know that.

mari pastes a cat-who-got-the-cream curve to her smile, and tilts the base of her head. leans in, slight, half-lidding her gaze. smelling of smoke, and trouble, with a tinge of cherry at her lips. her voice lowers. "kissing, on the other hand—" her rasp steadies. the sultry allusions spin. mari's hand finds the back of lis' chair. "unfortunately, th — that's not up to me." a flicker of mischief wedges against her grin. the tilt of her head retracts, and she moves, swift, towards the garbage can. a drag of smoke spits out from where she stands, and the cigarette-burned canvas shifts into her hands. extends out to the other, as if nothing ever happened. "you better cover it good, lis. looks like shit."

[ FAMILY: house, yard, chainlink fence. a hole where the dog dug through. a hole that nobody ever bothered to fix. one day the dog got out and killed the yappy shih tzu next door. ] lis tears through a home decor magazine and rips a family in half. mother, father, sister, brother: they die on their couch. they sit there with stupid say-cheese smiles on their faces and they don't know that they're dead. [ FAMILY: the religion parents introduce their children to. ( mostly mothers. sometimes fathers. ) the hole in the fence. the dog that digs. the hole that widens. the shih tzus that die. ] she blows her bubble-gum too far and it pops. the air smells like cigarettes and candy and purple glue sticks.

lis barely looks up from her work, but her eyebrows, taken aback by @toprey's lashing tone, flee into the cover of her bangs. ' ohh, you don’t do family? that’s so, like … 'social emancipation' of you. really. '    they plaster their living room massacre into a bloated scrapbook, swiveling their chair from left to right by the axis of their heel. the drag of their boot across the floor sounds like a knife being sharpened. 

' yeah, mars. we're bonded. we're like ... linked for fucking life. if you die, i'll kill myself. you kiss charlie, you gotta kiss me too. whatever. it's not that deep; i'm just trying to find an angle for a free thanksgiving dinner. —––sorry. just dinner, since we're not doing labels. '

she glances up to convey that what she’s saying comes from a place of love. it’s the same look a cat gives a little girl after killing a mouse. lis points at the garbage bin, wagging her finger toward the discarded canvas.    ' —can i use that? ' art supplies are expensive these days. and besides: every good coverup involves a scar or two.

[religun]

sparring leaves bruises ringed around her knuckles. like trees, telling the age of how long she's been fighting; like memories, collected to the raw flesh. it barely aches, anymore. a routine treatment that stiffens skin to peaks, wears calluses into her palms. nothing new. more like something old. perhaps, the oldest act she knows— violence. a language in and of itself; the most fluent communication she's ever understood. (a swing, a kick, a dodge. pivot, push, and prevail. win, lose, tie.) the adrenaline shatters glass ceilings. a survival instinct solidifies her self. together, it amalgamates; like a cocktail, burning its way down.

FENG XIAO / WOLF [@dayfade] : "you've seen some shit, haven't you?"

the afterwards leaves her mimicking metaphors. slinking a hand around a glass, and tipping it between her teeth. the tequila burns, but no more than sore muscles. (it, too, feels familiar.) mari's swallow enunciates a half-laugh, the low chuckle barely heard beneath her breath. a glance to the side, dark gaze sheathed only by her lashes. "hasn't everyone?" their conversation is no different than their fight. move one way, evade another. he swings, he misses. he tries again, and mari may strike back. "besides, 'shit' could mean anything." a soft scoff. "some priss might think y — you mean a car crash, at this rate."

[religun]

the glamour isn't all it's cracked up to be. the limelight, the spotlight, the ever-persistent stares. the expectations, the weight, the perpetual leash and collar. here, in the world of fashion, mari dai is somebody. rather, she's nobody, who used to be everybody, and now recruiters would prefer to eat themselves alive before hiring her. one minute, you're in. the next minute, you're out. all it takes is one snag on the runway, one snap of a finger. a scar, sliced through the perfection of her features. what was once, no longer is, and therein-lies a neglect that she'll simply have to live with. c'est la vie; such is life.

CINNA [@cqnna] : "your secret is safe with me."

cinna is a style that won't go out of fashion. a staple in the wardrobe of life. he's determined, he's driven, he's damn talented to boot, and mari envies the slate that he's curated to succeed. (on the other hand, admiration is a synonym for jealousy. jealousy is an antonym to how she feels.) discerning the emotions gets harder by the days. figuring out her perspective gets more skewed by the minute. he's charming, he's coy, he's careful and compassionate— mari spews her secrets without thought. regret, she thinks, will come later.

mari looks up beneath shadowed lashes. tucks a dog-eared fold into the side of her sketch. the charcoal paves itself out onto the paper, etches into the wrinkles of clothing, and sprawls itself out to flowery beginnings. an ode to what could be. "right." her response is quiet. a touch bittered. she closes her journal, and slides it back into a nearby tote. "because th — that's how this industry works, now." her tone turns wry, dry with a sarcasm that interweaves through the sentence. her arms cross, stubborn. "look, just— cut the shit. what do you want?"