H E X X U S

Send ‘mad’ to receive a mad/angry text from my muse. 

sms - pillow:// i never expected it from you.sms - pillow:// you’re the last person that i thought would unravel.  lessons obviously not learned.  history tragically repeating.sms - pillow:// i should be disappointed.sms - pillow:// hilariously, i’m not.  

Send ‘happy’ to receive a happy/excited text from my muse. 

sms - pillow:// you know the feeling you get when you know you’ve just tossed another soul into the abyss?sms - pillow:// or maybe you don’t.  sms - pillow:// the feeling you get when you imbue the absolute perfection of terror into the mind of an innocent?sms - pillow:// i just reached level 3680 of candy crush.

Send ‘bored’ to receive a disinterested text from my muse.

sms - pillow:// please tell me you aren’t busy.sms - pillow:// i might need to murder someone just to liven things up.sms - pillow:// or at least some grievous bodily harm.sms - pillow:// and you know how much i /hate/ to get blood on my suits.sms - pillow:// humanity has a unique ability to find boredom in a universe full of chaotic potential.sms - pillow:// and apparently it’s catching.sms - pillow:// i need a cure.  sms - pillow:// [ NOT SENT❗] or hugs.

BONUS: Send ‘reveal’ for a text where my muse reveals their true feelings for yours.

Send ‘mad’ to receive a mad/angry text from my muse. 

sms - jacdesa://  it’s never a good idea to disappoint me.sms - jacdesa://  i think it’s about time we re-evaluated the terms of our arrangement.sms - jacdesa://  i’ll see you in my office before your shift tomorrow.sms - jacdesa://  a no-show would be a very, /very/ bad idea.

Send ‘happy’ to receive a happy/excited text from my muse. 

sms - jacdesa://  yey.

Send ‘bored’ to receive a disinterested text from my muse.

sms - jacdesa://  song request, firestarter by the prodigy.sms - jacdesa://  or i predict a riot by the kaiser chiefs.sms - jacdesa://  [ NOT SENT❗] or something with at least a half decent incitement to anarchy and chaossms - jacdesa:// something lively.

BONUS: Send ‘reveal’ for a text where my muse reveals their true feelings for yours.

In her mind the only true path to self-fulfillment was a lonely one. To be your own master and deciding factor for heaven and hell was something Megara kept in mind in everything she did. While, yes, even she must admit, there were certain people she cared for far too much, she eventually found her way through the darkness on her own, though she loved staying in the dark sometimes, scout, observe and deceive. Fabletown felt more like another playground, anyway, with less gods than Greece but a bunch of villains with a God complex. 

The lights within the four jacks never went dark, so it seemed at least. With everyone betting their entire earnings on one color or pure luck Megara could practically see its owners push their hands into each customer’s pocket, pulling out coins, jewelry and bills – everything worth something. With her pale blue eyes checking each new table she past, Megara could see the determination change to desperation within seconds, how their turned upside down – maybe that’s where Holden could collect more minions if needed, switch her with someone strong, yet stupid enough to follow willingly follow death around. 

With herself still watching those incapable of winning, Megara’s attention was immediately drawn to a rather soothing, calm voice, so unlike everything she’d heard before in all her years. Though it didn’t entice her at first, she could still see the benefit in some company and a free drink or two. “If you insist, Mr…?” Megara asked before sitting down next to the stranger. “Are ya here to lose, or am I finally meeting someone who isn’t caught up in games and deception? Then again the four jacks never really attracts any sincere people, that’d be a first,” the brunette laughed.

❝ i do enjoy that phrase.  ‘i insist’.  it always seems rather redundantly forceful after someone has given you their decision - don’t you think??? ❞

he does, however give a gracious nod, waiting until she’s taken her seat before raising one hand to the bar tender and taking his own.  because her - decision - was one that offered the potential of some interesting conversation - perhaps.  

❝ respecting someones choice always seems like the better option in my humble opinion. ❞

he speaks matter of factly, as though it’s almost inconceivable for someone ‘not to’.  in truth, he’s found, most don’t -- respect -- at least not any decision that goes against what they want.  it’s simply another of those delicious flaws in humanity.  they like to think themselves so altruistic, so worthy of another’s time and attention, that the instant they’re denied it, they become sour, bitter, resentful.  anxiety creeps in - questions as to why, why can’t they have what they want - are they not good enough???  are they lacking???  if they were more beautiful, had more money, more power, more position, surely they wouldn’t be denied.  if not anxiety, then anger, rage - lashing out with spiteful tongue and hurtful words, belittling the other as though they were barely worth the offer in the first place.  humans... so simple.  so complex... he really does enjoy them tremendously.  

❝ huxley.  cessair huxley.  and you are???  ❞

he doesn’t follow it with some contrite words ‘a pleasure to meet you’, or anything of a similar vein -- no thinly veiled flattery that she’s probably heard a thousand times or more.  just a very straight forward answer to her very straight forward enquiry.

‘are ya here to lose’

oh, now that brings a smile.  no, not here to lose, not here to win, simply here - though that mental train is on a track rather more all encompassing than their immediate environment.

❝ everyone is here to lose.  a win here, something they’ll deem a slice of luck there.  their chips are ‘up’ for a fleeting moment in time... adrenalin, endorphins, that ‘feel good, flying high’ sensation, a rush to chase.  a drug in kind.  but the fact remains - endorphins still don’t beat the odds. the only deception here is the one you willingly accept the moment you step through the doors.❞

a pause as the bar tender draws near -

❝ please, go ahead and order whatever you would like. ❞

- he gives a small shrug, as though still ruminating on her question.  the next is spoken with a slightly wry turn to his voice, the amusement clear in his words as he takes her own and plays with them - a game, as though they were a hand of cards - turning one upon the other.

❝ i’m here for a drink - and of course - to lose... a little, perhaps.  with the rest of the - insincere.  after all, this is a casino. ❞

Ella likes to believe that she doesn’t dislike anyone. She loves fooling herself into believing that everyone has good inside of them, no matter how they prove her wrong again and again. Still, she can’t force herself to ignore the fact that she feels quite uncomfortable in Cessair’s presence. The man’s aura just doesn’t sit right with the blonde, and if she could do it without looking like a complete idiot, she’d run away from him right now. Problem is, appearances do matter to Ella - more than she’d care to admit - and therefore, she stays.

She wishes she could go to Wonderland. She wants to be there for her friends; to see them more often and encourage them. She wishes she was the Ella she once was. She wants her old self back. 

Still, she can’t find it in herself. Can’t find it in herself to simply cross the street and enter an establishment she’s frequented in the past. Not since Charming. Not since he humiliated her in front of the whole town. In front of her friends. She’s even started working with her back to the window to avoid looking at that place. She knows it’s ridiculous - that she’s ridiculous - but she can’t help it. The mere idea of the place makes her feel embarrassed. So much so that she can’t set foot into it, not even for her friends, and she feels terribly guilty for it. 

“Oh, I really wish I could. Unfortunately, I’m exhausted, and I’d probably fall asleep. That’d be quite insulting for them, wouldn’t it? So I think it’s better if I head home, and maybe invite my friends over for breakfast tomorrow. Thanks for the suggestion, though!” Ella’s smile is still forced, but the fact that she has made the decision to leave makes her feel a little better. 

“Have a good night,” she says after a small moment of silent, waving a little awkwardly before turning around and away from Cessair.

‘oh, I really wish I could’

wrong.  -- lie --  she obviously doesn’t.  as it’s followed by another excuse, another statement which so absolutely revolved entirely around her.  

❝ do you really??? ❞

two words spoken with such innocence in the enquiry.  as though even using the words ‘i wish’ is something which gives away her entire statement as false.                                          i wish, i want to , i would -- but i won’t... just about sums the whole thing up.  because isn’t that what fables do best???  they wish and they wait.  for someone else to make things happen.  so completely impotent in steering their own destiny that they need someone to come along and hand it to them on a shining silver platter wrapped in a big red bow.  a fairy, a genie, a fucking magical duck... whatever. 

‘thanks for the suggestion, though!’

he doesn’t reply.  doesn’t say ‘you’re welcome’, or ‘no problem’.  why would he???  she isn’t being gracious, she’s trying remain as polite as she can -- lest he bare his teeth, lest he whisper shadows and darkness, lest he become the fearsome monster they all expect him to be.  it’s... actually the most amusing thing about this.  so afraid... so eager to run.  to keen to save face while keeping that monster at bay - in case he opens his maw and swallows her whole.  it’s almost satisfying to see that flicker of uncertainty, of fear even now.  human shaped, human built and still, they tremble at the potential of him.  fun fun.

and there she goes.  little rabbit, little mouse, scurrying - away.  he imagines this is almost as amusing as watching her reaction on entering the club might have been.  possibly moreso...

❝ yes.  i will. ❞

tonight cain arrives early almost compelled to do so by his curiosity. he has many questions regarding cessair’s apparent generosity. he’s seen his fair share of traps and he’s determined to not fall suspect to one again. so he’s always erred on the side of caution when it came to this job. there isn’t a single person he can name that would do something for another without expecting something in return. this job must not be any different. which left the question

what was cessair’s price?

more importantly, cain for the first time wasn’t even sure what he wouldn’t give in return. for the first time in his life he felt completely in the dark and unsure of himself. what he did know was that he feared waking up one day just to have everything be stripped from him once again. which wasn’t a fear for the longest time because when he looked around to take inventory, he didn’t have much to count. now, he finally feels that he’s getting his life back.

he knows he’s replaceable, but this job? this network? he can’t afford to lose it. so if that means keeping his head down and not pushing his bosses over the line, that’s exactly what he’ll have to do. even as he approaches the blond, he knows cessair must have had some influence on the queen’s decision.

at cessair’s command, cain obeys with doglike obedience and takes a seat in cessair’s office. he looks around wondering why he hadn’t noticed it before. then again he couldn’t recall any reason he needed to. at the word “friend”, he’s called back to reality.

was that what it was? friendship?

he silently repeats it to himself. wondering if this was the beginning of the end. did the other man truly care how he was doing? would his answer cost him his job? there weren’t many people in fabletown that sought his friendship and with good reason.  after some time, cain replies, “all things considered, i’m doing well. and you? do you need me for something?” the last part escaped from his lips before he could even process the thought.

the booth is rather more casual than his office.   the cushions comfortable, opulent, designed to invite people in and give them reason to stay.  the other thing about a booth is that there’s no ‘opposite’ to that round table, there are no ‘sides’.  it’s fun to see someone stare at the table and try to decide how far along the seat to slide - as far away as possible, or if there’s any kind of confidence to make themselves comfortable in his presence ( seldom few ).  which is why he so often chooses to be here - this particular one - and it’s not uncommon to find him there.

❝ all things considered??? ❞

it’s a casual enquiry. cain could quite easily be referring to the little shroud wrapped around himself.  all of those troubles and terrible thoughts held tightly inside, held close to his chest, his - heart - nestled there like rotting flesh, all maggots and flies and stench, slowly eating away from the inside out...  or, he could be referring to the seemingly ‘tragic’ ( he’s still searching for the actual definition, because his feelings on the matter seem rather cooler than most ) disappearance of one of his colleagues...

...to whit - were they close???  were they friends???  was she simply in the way of cain claiming his own elevated spotlight and headlining as show runner.  or was cain equally as cool to the incident - rather more of a ‘que será, será‘, objective outlook on the situation.

❝ given current circumstances around the recent disappearance of scarlet - and the tendency for rumour to whip up into something of a frenzy - i just wanted to make sure that you were doing okay.  that there are no -- overt concerns, that i could possibly help with. ❞

a subtle distancing of the club from whatever ‘misfortune’ may have occurred.  there’s no reason or rationale to assume that anything other than her personal circumstances were at play.  or that it was simply unfortunate happenstance.  difficult as it might be for a lot of them to comprehend -- here, in reality -- there’s no ‘lead’ to the story, there’s no guarantee that they all make it to the last page of the book.  nothing more than a footnote, a misplaced punctuation  in something bigger... and - for some - it’s just too much for them to comprehend.  they’re no greater, no lesser than the next joe public on the street... they get no special dispensation here.  that’s what reality - is.

❝ other than that - no.  nothing in particular.  i just thought i’d make the offer. ❞

one thing is for certain though -- he’s not the ‘gossiping’ type.  at least, he doesn’t regurgitate those tidbits to anyone with a voyeuristic excitement for drama... the tea is vehemently unspilled.  after all, how much do they know about him???  nothing, nada, zip, zilch.  mostly because he’s more keen to listen, to digest ( to consume ) what they have to offer... the most self-effacing individual you’re likely to meet.  it’s never about ‘him’.  it’s always about ‘them’.

For a moment, Morrigan can only stare at him– Hexxus excels at making her feel like a stupid, emotional human (the highest insult either of them could conceive), but there are moments where it is so completely ignorant of actual emotions and patterns of behaviour that inspires confusion that borders on paranoia. “If you haven’t figured it out yet, Hexxus, this is Fabletown and we’re the baddies.” She says it with sarcasm dripping like venom, the air quotes heavily implied. “If you’re not at war with someone, you’re probably just losing.” 

“Sadly, though, it seems we’re both at war with whoever is taking our girls– It take priority over our little in-house spats, I’m sure you’d agree.” A bit redundant, really, but Morrigan knows better than to leave an negotiation without every detail agreed upon. Especially when your partner was something as slimy as Hexxus. 

“I want you to help me find her,” Morrigan says, and finally takes a seat. “I’ve already spoken to Ivy about Oscar reaching out to us, combining forces to find her, but you know how they are. Ivy believes in the power of good, still, and Oscar won’t do anything to lose his reputation as the golden god of heroes.” She doesn’t even bother to explain why this is ridiculous, or expand on how irritating it is. If Hexxus knows half as much as it pretends he does, it’ll know her problem with Oscar intimately. 

“The only person I think Osar listens to is Fitz–” She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Considering the two of you are practically brothers, or husbands, or whatever weird codependent love thing you two have going on this week, I’m thinking the least you can do is put in a good word for the safe return of the woman who earns your paychecks.” 

❝ if you’re ‘at war’ and the other party doesn’t even notice, then that’s pretty much the definition of - self-defeating. ❞

he just shrugs, lax and calm.  it would take more than a few pithy words from the septic tongue of the fae to rile the backbone of the nothing.  a lot more.  of course she’d probably come back with something even more contrite - covert wars, the cleverness of her, the favor of the shadows, the unsuspecting victim... which would make her whole poorly attempted ‘power play’ seem even more -- tiresomely impotent.  cowardly even.

❝ no, this is earth - and it’s a whole new story.  none of which are tied to a fable like prose, none of which are destined to have the proverbial, ‘happy ending’.  it may be ‘named’ fabletown by rote of proxy, but what it is - is reality.  and there are more than a few people who really rather need to wake up to that... ❞

he sighs.  as though the need to explain such simple facts to her was wearying, though each and every word is delivered with the patience of that every tried parent with a particularly dense toddler.  one who isn’t just attempting to shove the square piece through the round hole, but who hasn’t even figured out that the shapes go into the holes and is currently just drooling and slobbering on the little piece.

❝ there are no ‘roles’ - no heroes, no villains, no ‘bad guys’ or ‘good guys’ - and have a care to address me by my name - it’s cessair... i know it must be difficult for you, but do at least try to keep up. ❞

❝ in house spats??? ❞

maybe in her house.  not in his.

again - if there was some manner of continued antagonism that was considered a ‘spat’, he hadn’t noticed.  and really, he wonders if she just goes through her whole life considering that she’s still the ‘big bad’, that she’s at ‘war’ or ‘spatting’ with everyone, while they just get on with their lives and she’s simply... an oblivious irrelevancy. 

❝ mmmh... no... ❞

❝ ...the least i can do is ‘nothing’. ❞

he’s not surprised she came to him for help if this is the extent of her negotiating skills.  to sit there and attempt to insult the very person she requires aid from???  one who - had been agreeable to hearing her out and on doing so, is met with... well, whatever this fucking mess was.  truly, truly... stupid.  and she’s she’s doing a rather remarkable job of shooting herself in the foot.  so - no.  

the woman who earns your paychecks.

it’s only now that he moves -- leaning forward across his own desk, a slice of a smile lifting the corners of his lips, revealing brilliant teeth, gleaming like the edge of the universe, before the screaming blackness of the nothing beyond.  that last little bite from her lips is almost laughable... in fact he does chuckle, a dark an hollow sound that bubbles from his chest...

yet - red isn’t here and - lo and behold, the sky isn’t falling, the universe isn’t imploding, there’s no crushing end to his tale or any other ( except perhaps reds ).  he honestly doesn’t care about red - she was a draw to the crowd, but she’s not irreplaceable.  not in the slightest.  and he certainly doesn’t ‘owe her’ anything - or morrigan for that matter.  and this???  is a schoolyard game of the most infantile kind... and now, he’s bored.  there’s nothing interesting here, nothing astute or intriguing, nothing challenging or cerebral, nothing vivacious or visceral.  just something like a poor attempt at trivial, childish spite.

which - unless something caught his attention in the next ten seconds is exactly what he’s going to do.

SHE KNOWS OF sir cessair huxley , by name and the occasional murmur , but she does not know him otherwise , not for who he is in either world — and yet , when this stranger crosses the threshold of the store , wendy knows without a doubt that it must be something she’s never faced before. everything shifts , as though curling away from the gentleman picking his way through their trade shelf , as if pleading for salvation from whatever terror he has wrought; her own heart slows dramatically , and she , too , turns her back for but a moment to set down the books she’d been reorganizing. the air he possesses is unsettling , and the way he moves , as if — as if he has all the time in the world , as if it is his decision whether or not the earth keeps turning , is , to say the least , intimidating.

still , she cannot forgo her responsibilities on the job to run screaming into the street. it would cause quite a stir , wouldn’t it ? the image distracts her from her assumptions just enough to make her laugh softly , and with her laughter she reminds herself that assumptions are not always fair. it does nothing to stop her from startling when he addresses her by name; she makes note of how nice his voice sounds , smooth , polite , rounded edges. disarming.

despite a mere second of hesitation , she steps forward , a pretty smile curving her mouth. bravery ? yes. she possesses that. she also , naturally , finds herself unable to turn down the request; she deals in stories. it’s what she’s known for.

“   of course , sir — what works are you most fond of ? i’d be more than happy to help you find something you’ll enjoy !   ”

❝ mmmh.... no. ❞

almost as though he’s contemplating her question, but in reality - how widely that point had been missed.  how easy it is to fall into the simple responses.  to slip past the challenges that present and take the road most walked, the one of least resistance.  if he wanted something based on books he’d previously enjoyed then he’d click on amazon for recommendations.  

❝ after all, how can we truly explore if we stick only to those things we know.  the things we’re familiar with, the things we’re comfortable with. ❞

❝ the wondrous, the adventurous, the ambitious, the tragic, the emotive, the heartbreaking - whole worlds waiting to be discovered.  all of which one might remain forever ignorant of if they remained within the boundaries of that ‘comfort zone’. ❞

FOR THE FIRST time, she walked through the club with hesitation. Confronting her victims wasn’t a habit of her’s. It required too much explanation, too many excuses. Mari could think of a lie as quick as she could think of her own name, but she much preferred to run from the consequences of her own actions for as long as she could. 

It wasn’t often that a stolen belonging offered her more than a sense of accomplishment and rent money for the night, though.

The back of the man’s head is easy enough to remember. The wallet wasn’t the first thing she had ever slipped from his pockets. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. Confidence was always easier to be found with an audience. 

As she approached the man, she tossed the wallet at his lap and slid into the seat beside him.

“Heard through the grapevine that that might belong to you. I found it here the other night.” The possibility that the white card was purely a trap to turn herself in was one that Goldilocks was far too aware of to say anything too self incriminating. “Hope there wasn’t anything valuable in there. It’s probably gone by now. You should really be more careful with your things, especially in a place like this.”

there are worse things in the depths of dark places than a simple leather wallet with crisp greenbacks.  what he is looking for here is potential.  and it presents itself with a snip of words and an approach that lacks the usual twitch and glance over her shoulder which most seem to employ, a manner of confidence as she slips into the seat - without invitation - which is something not a lot display around him... at least not in those who know him.... or of him.

he retrieves the wallet with fingertip and thumb - picking up the object and tossing it onto the table.  he’s not interested in either it, or it’s contents.  and makes no attempt to examine the insides.  he knows exactly what was in there.  but it’s not the most interesting thing in the immediate vicinity.

she is.

❝ nothing that will be missed, i assure you. ❞

nothing that would otherwise identify him as the owner.  nothing that anyone would ‘hear’, unless they happened to come across a certain small white card.  to wit - he doesn’t say thank you for the return of the object - at least, not yet.  rather more interested in seeing how this might play out.

❝ a place like this??? ❞

he enquires with a slight curve of brow.  in actuality he doesn’t favour pickpockets in the club - and while such things might occur, there’s a reason - if the ‘clients’ are suddenly without funds, then that’s money from the bar, from the dancers, from the potions and powders and pills which slip rife from hand to pocket.  but he’s rather interested in hearing her perspective...

❝ and what kind of place is it???  please do - enlighten me. ❞

date: october 10th time: 10:17pm location: outside the four jacks status: open

It’s only quarter past ten. Far too early for any normal man worth his salt to be leaving the bar less than sober, much less a man who claimed to be a pirate, and that pirate to be the greatest villain of all time. Life on land has softened him. Certain facts grow unavoidable under the glow of neon. Lost his wits and his hand now, apparently.

At the moment, he’s lost his balance too. And nearly all the money in his wallet. Didn’t think he drank that much, though maybe he still has a sailor in him yet. “You don’t have any money for a cab, do you? We can, uh. Split, or I’ll pay you back.” A loud sniff, and a grab for a carton of cigarettes, but those are missing too. “And maybe a smoke?”

he can feel his new flesh crawl.  it’s not at the request, nor is it at the state of the man ( a wall of liquor fumes radiating like cheap cologne ), it’s the recognition that this... pathetic sight... was supposedly one of the greatest villains in fable.  

and here he is. bargaining.  begging.

❝ so which is it?  split, or pay me back? ❞

if there was enough to ‘split’ there was enough for a pack of smokes, so he suspects the  ‘either-or’ offer is rather null and void.  he does, however, pluck a box of cigarettes from his pocket, flicks the top and taps the base sharply with his other hand so that a single, slender stick filled with nicotine, tar, formaldehyde, arsenic, ammonia, cyanide, trace benzenes, mercury - well... all manner of deadly, toxic, carcinogenic substances.  fun, fun.

❝ but - yes.  i have money for a cab. ❞

and it really didn’t look like he’s at all capable of making it anywhere under his own steam.

❝ which would you prefer?  the money?  or the cab? ❞

Ella’s used to faking smiles, but the one she puts on in front of Cessair is so forced that she’s certain he can see right through it. She can’t explain why, exactly, but there’s something that makes her feel uneasy about the man. Maybe it’s the way he talks, what he does or what she’s heard about him — Ella isn’t sure. What she does know, is that she doesn’t feel safe around him.

“Oh, I do know they work hard. In fact, a couple of my friends work there, and I’m sure they’re amazing,” she states with a small nod. Oh, Wonderland. She truly doesn’t have anything against it. Briar and Cain work there, don’t they? And she truly does appreciate them. But at the end of the day, the place reminds her too much of what she is. Of how easy it is to abandon her for someone better. Ever since Charming, she hasn’t been able to set foot into the place, not even to encourage her friends.

He makes her feel guilty for it, though, and she hates it. How easy it is to manipulate her with only a few words. She might not be educated, but she’s still smart, and Ella knows all too well that the man is trying to convince her to go there. What she’s not sure of, though, is why he’s doing so. It’s not like she has a lot of money to spend; she’s definitely not the ideal customer. Still, now she feels bad for not seeing her friends at their work. Well, she always feels bad about it, but tonight? Tonight, she feels guiltier than usual.

“Of course they would. I am an excellent cheerleader, after all. Problem is, I don’t have my uniform with me, so I’m afraid I can’t encourage them tonight,” she says, and it’s as rude as she can force herself to be. She’s not used to refusing people, but there’s something about Cessair that makes her feel as though saying yes would not be the best of ideas.

‘In fact, a couple of my friends work there’

❝ yes.  i’m aware.  ❞

hence his use of the reference to ‘friend’ in the first place.  goodness.  what was it like inside of their minds?  was it so slow?  so clouded?  so wholly self absorbed?  or were they just all guilty of that very mundane trait - they hear, they don’t bother to actually listen - they just wait for a gap in the conversation to start filling with their own words.  to begin talking about themselves.  and this one was no exception.  

he asks how her night is - she fails to reciprocate.  he enquires as to what she may find fun, her mind turns inward and she speaks only of herself.  he invites her into the nightclub to see the skill of her friends - she starts talking about herself again, about how good she is at something... 

selfish.  selfish.  selfish.

honestly - he doesn’t need to make her feel guilty, or selfish, or self involved... when she’s so very good at being exactly that with no prompting from him.  but because she is so self-involved, then she obviously fails to see it.  oh, the irony.

‘afraid I can’t encourage them tonight’

is she?  afraid?  he’s half tempted to ask, just to see if she’ll trip over those terms and attempt to excuse it as something else.  and he finds excuses so very... tedious.  lacking spine.

❝ i’m sure they’ll appreciate your...  excellent theoretical cheerleading. ❞

BREAK MY CHARACTER’S HEART WITH ONE ASK BOX MESSAGE

❝ that’s the thing about ‘promises’… they can be – b r o k e n. ❞

the sweetest words, even the most innocent and honest of intentions - become fickle, the longer they go on… they stretch and strain and sometimes other smaller promises are used to ‘fill in the gaps’, a patchwork of pieces all fraying at the edges

❝  and they so frequently are.                                      one of the most common is ‘i love you’. ❞

and after love comes hatred… or even more delicious - apathy.  even hatred is a strong emotion, something that pulls the body and mind into a blistering rage.  apathy on the other hand, disappointment, no longer caring enough to even - hate???  that’s the truly delicious flavour.

❝ love dies, hope dies…  and ‘tomorrow’ is not always guaranteed.  just ask scarlet.  tell me, dear one, did you make her any promises???  hm? ❞

no more tomorrows for little red.  no more promises.  

❝ so, when it comes down to it, those fallacies aren’t spilling from my mouth.  but from the mouths of those you hold closest… your friends, your families, your most beloved. ❞

he doesn’t lie ( or if he does, it’s not in the truly horrid way of making a promise, of proclaiming his heart, of using words like hope and love and then snatching them away just like all those who proclaim they’re ‘good’ so often do.  the cruelest of acts, the most hurtful, the most abhorrent - and still, they call him the villain… he’s not the one scared of the truth in his own reflection. )

❝ i’m not a god… not at all.  i’m the thing that is there when belief fades, when faith is shaken, when gods become mortal and even they succumb to an end.  when promises are hollow and empty.  when hope turns to despair.  when love becomes a gaping void, cracked and broken and bitter and brutal.  nor am i angry.  but you seem to like to impress upon me the emotions you presume i have.  ❞

❝ what i have - is time.  patience.  and a shiny flesh body from which to spectate.  now, just because you adhere to those fragile, trembling notions, that you can’t bear the sourness of the truth on your tongue, doesn’t change the fact that it is - the truth.                        the ultimate, inevitable truth.  that after everything comes…  ❞

BREAK MY CHARACTER’S HEART WITH ONE ASK BOX MESSAGE

there’s just a slow blink, fingers steepled beneath his chin, waiting expectantly for what comes next.  but apparently, true to their statement, they offered but one word.

so now he looks up to one side, brows raising in an elegant arch --

❝ ...what about them??? ❞

there’s no punchline, no joke ( though the concept of ‘greenpeace’ in general is one immense joke... something he finds endearingly amusing because of their rather pathetic impotence ).  he does rather enjoy their presence - actions as rebellion ( which are carefully quashed by legitimate agencies ), which shows them in a tragically poor light.  a rather tired, old activism of which people had grown weary against every more ‘media worthy immediate’ backdrop of crisis.  they’re a soundbite at best.  a two second tweet.  a tadpole against the whale of conglomerations, corporations, political alignments and financial gain, in a plastic strewn, hormone soaked, toxic sea.

he pulls out his wallet, leafs through a healthy stack of bills --

❝ ...are you here for a donation??? ❞

[ labyrinth - sentence meme : @rvgdolls ]

he can almost feel the trembling beneath her flesh from here.  not fear, not rage, nothing particular… but perhaps something of a culmination of it all.  perhaps she’s the one who has the most difficulty - becoming real wasn’t something that every fable took to… some spinning in this new, bright world, so full of delightful potential, unable to let go of a haunted past, unable to move into whatever shade the future may hold.  just - stuck - in some kind of longing limbo… waiting for… whatever.  

why did he ‘have to’?  well… he doesn’t.he doesn’t ‘have to’ – anything.he isn’t beholden to some contract.  he isn’t owing of favours.  he’s simply doing what he’s doing because - at present - it offers the most advantage.  because it suits him and pleases him.  not one to deny himself of - well… anything… 

…while they… seem to find some way of stringing out their own rather delicate, visceral torments with nary an interference from him.  he doesn’t need to nudge or push to have them wallowing in a mire.  granted, it’s neither oil or refuse or pollution…  but a toxin none the less.  one they create for themselves, and seem so wholly addicted to.  guilt, shame, longing, anxiety… a myriad of other very delightful things - all just as damaging as a poisoned blade to the heart.  that sepsis within, spreading, growing, thriving.

he wonders what her toxin is.  her addiction.  the shadowed thing she can’t quite shake.  it could by a myriad of things… but when you get down to the ‘nitty gritty’, per se – there tends to be something, singular.  just one thing acting as a catalyst.  the speck of dirt in an oyster, that irritant building and building until someone - plucks it from it’s watery home, pries it open, and snatches out the prize to adorn some jewelled piece for the sake of vanity.

❝ sally… ❞

his voice is almost a gentle hum, speaking her name with care, as though it’s the most precious thing to behold and he’s being cautious not to shatter it.  

❝ never make the mistake of confusing ‘have to’, with ‘choose to’. ❞

Mm. Of course she would run into him when she’s done everything in her power to avoid doing exactly that. She’d heard so many rumors of his unlife in the Homeland; a body made of grime, of hatred, of everything bad in the world come together and bound with oil and poison and noxious fumes. Just consuming and devouring and swallowing everything in his path simply because he could.

Of course, she supposed they were only rumors; so many things now were, but they weren’t hard to believe from what little she does know of him now. And Belle would die before she let one more person be eaten alive, by him or anything else. Not while she could have hands to stop it.

“Cessair.” She addresses him, her lips curling around his name as though it’s sour, rotten in her mouth. “I’m just looking for Briar. She has something of mine and I’d like it back.” For a moment she’s not sure if she’s talking about the lipstick she came to retrieve, or Cain. “I figured when I knew she wouldn’t be busy would be best. I was trying to make this a quick and easy visit, so unless you have some reason to prevent that, I’ll just be on my way back to the dressing room.” She offers up a tight smile, arms crossed defensively across her chest, weight shifted as far away from him as she can manage without actually taking a step away. She wishes it weren’t so obvious how uncomfortable he makes her, but she’s never been the most proficient at hiding her own emotions. Sleeves were built for hearts.

❝ then i’m sure you can take care of personal business on personal time.  as i’ve just mentioned, miss rubio.  the club - out of official opening hours - aside from those who are here on official business is employees only. ❞

he manages to grace her with a look that’s almost bordering on pity.  that he has to repeat such a simple concept as she just doesn’t seem capable of understanding the most basic of terms.  but he repeats them with the patience of a parent talking to a child about why it’s not a good idea to put your hand into a flame.

❝ and even in hours, the dressing room remains - employees only.  there’s even a little sign on the door. ❞

it’s very easy to say ‘no’ while not actually saying ‘no’. 

❝ given the limits of public liability insurance and town registered permits, i’m sure you understand that for the dignity, privacy and security of the employees, and the safety of all parties involved, i can’t allow just - anyone - to go strolling around the premises whenever they please - on a whim. ❞

of course he could let her pass.  it would be as easy as stepping aside and allowing her to go on her way.  but that denial is couched in words that make it clear - he’s not disallowing it not because he doesn’t ‘want to’ - however much he might like to help her out ( he doesn’t, but that’s beside the point ), but because he’s so very protective of the rights of his employees, of their safety ( and by inference, hers ), of adhering to the law and that it really would be something of a -- huge favour, against all moral standing -- for him to look away, to bend the rules.

and it’s somewhat implied that if she wants that favour - she’s more than welcome to ask for it directly.  he does, smile.  a broad span of teeth in the slight gloom of the club interior.  this is the part where - aside from being ‘reasonable’ and ‘moral’, he also gets to be ‘nice’.

❝ -- however - as this seems to be something of the utmost importance which cannot wait, i’m more than happy to pass along your quite urgent message directly. ❞

the little black leather notebook appears from his pocket, along with a pen.  he’s found, over time, that people really don’t like it when you begin writing things down.  about them.  or others.

❝ briar, wasn’t it??? ❞