SCREAM AND RUN AWAY

Being a ghost was easier, easier than being alive. And yet it carried risks that ordinary people wouldn’t think of; the traces, the steps, the options were limited, as were the choices. You took what you could get, unless you had a supporting network. Which, in her case, was massive. ❝ I prefer guns for intimidation purposes. For everything else I have… hands. I could choke her. ❞ With a voice above a whisper still, eyes scan the room. For choking people, for breaking their bones, the options were endless. Which didn’t mean that, although the other thought she revealed herself to him, that Elizabeth would actually do that. They were both acting, the other party unknown about their true selves just as unaware as the public was about their disguises. But guns were less private, they were quick. No one wanted revenge to be quick. She wanted them to feed the flames until they suffocated due to the smoke. Guns didn’t create fear, they created obedience until that was taken from them. ❝ What about that posh Argentinean couple on the list? I don’t speak Spanish but it could be interesting. ❞ As the proximity had closed between them, an eyebrow rose, curious as to what he would do next. It was thrilling, to have someone to do this with, especially considering that they had all options open. Disguise or not, it didn’t make it feel less of an undercover mission and after years of being in the open, the thought of going back under was ravishing. ❝ Plus, I’m sure there’s a VIP special and i’m not going to let that waste away, sweetheart. ❞ A hand extends, opting for him to take it. If they were going to do the whole disguise, she was going to go full in. It was promising, in all accounts. ❝ Shall we cause chaos? ❞

     ❝ SHE’S MINE, ❞  he hisses. Like an intimate prayer, like a lost lover, like a best friend turned enemy. Beatrice never stopped being his any more than he could stop being hers — a scared kid at the end of the day, still the same, never changing too much except he did. Except she forced him to. To some, her name turned into an act of veneration. To him, it tastes bitter, like something sweet gone sour, rotting until there’s nothing left but blackness. ❝ Argentinean? ❞ He scoffs, darkness transforming into something entirely different — curiosity piqued, it’s impossible to resist what the French call l’appel du vide. The void’s calling. It’s been getting louder and louder until he could hear the explosion that, to a mind deranged enough, sounds just like fireworks on a summer night. ❝ Sounds like they’re already disguised. ❞ It’s a private party. Then again, those bastards have associates all over the world. Decency has no language, or so they said. Stealing an identity is a common Tuesday. STEALING FROM A THIEF  is something new. There’s only one couple he knows that could go for a move as bold as this, and frankly, they’ve always managed to inspire fear even in someone as detached from the common courtesy of saving their skin as him. It doesn’t matter much. Maybe for once, they’ll see his worth. And at this proximity, lips curling into a smile before he pulls away just an inch, just enough to make up for the bitter disappointment, it strikes his as weird. They want him above the chaos. Esmé did, and it didn’t end well, as it rarely does. But not her. It’s refreshing, in a way.  He never mentioned where he comes from. The training, the secret missions, saving the world that proved only that it wasn’t worth saving after all. A stupid cause. A stupider rebel against it. And her question doesn’t need a definitive answer. Neither a firm yes, nor a tempting you bet. For some men know their destiny before they’re born. If it is his to die in flames, so be it. But he’ll shove that dagger down the bitch’s throat if it’s the last thing he does, as long as it becomes the last thing she remembers. If his glass were half full, he’d let it clink against hers.  ❝ Make sure you’re  DRESSED TO KILL. ❞

she, too, was wishing for someone who was trained for this, but kit has long since learned how to patch someone up, long since shed the apprehension or fear that comes with it, but she’d be lying if she’d said it wasn’t just a little bit different when it came to patching up someone she loves, and not just someone she works with. the risks suddenly mattered. she flashes what she hopes is a comforting smile as he starts to squirm, free hand squeezing his arm. “that is what they say, there’s a first time for everything.” it’s not hard to tell he’s hurting, despite his best efforts, and it hurts her, too, to see him like that. she puts what she was using down for a moment to go through the first aid kit next to her. “yeah,” she replies with a nod, picking up the small bottle. “need some?”

         ❝ COULD USE IT,  to be honest. ❞ And truth be told, he has no idea how it works — they’ve been trained to do other things, hoping it would never come to removing bullets from each other, or having a taste of stronger painkillers than those sold in pharmacies. Simpler things. Though those harpoon guns never inspired much trust in him either. First time for everything, sure. Who knew their enemies could carry weapons worse than a box of matches and some gasoline to illuminate the way? ❝ I mean... would be easier for you, right? If I’m not in pain while you do it. ❞ They were only kids, for fuck’s sake. No one warned them it’d turn out like this. Still, a scar from a bullet wound is something to be proud of. SURVIVAL. If he manages to pull through it somehow, with less noise and more masculinity. ❝ Also, just saying, if I lose an arm, it’s gonna be your fault. Would you still love me? ❞

There’s a certain sparkle that would never die down when flames burst and burnt everything in their way, when they nurtured their destructive teeth into the wood, swallowing everything in their path whole, people, too. Especially the people. Fabric burnt. Even without the gasoline. And that was just the first chapter. ❝ Oh, I’m dead, sweetheart. ❞ Within lays more of reassurance than the attempt of competition. Although there were no hidden falsehoods, she was by all means and accounts, socially deceased. Socially, emotionally and legally, too, even. But that laid behind a while back. Her resurrection had been quite the bang, one that she wouldn’t forget. One that no one forgot that easily, especially because her face had been everywhere after that. Like the grand prize everyone was after in a manhunt for nothing else but a forfeit. ❝ There’s no one going to report anything, and if they do, no one will believe them. Just make sure they talk about me, they’ll be discredited and no one will believe a word they say, not about you, either. ❞ Eyes catch a glimpse of the tension within the other, liking it less than the crowd, actually. Whether he was nervous was not to be quite seen, he was a phenomenal actor, too, after all. Something they had in common, which was unfortunate when it came to reading him, it took a few more seconds, which they didn’t have. ❝ I’m not going to say no to a party. Masked balls give off quite the assassination emission. Plus, I’m quite in the mood to stir up something. ❞ Not just a fire, it things developed, they developed. Homicide or not. A hand finds rest on his shoulder as she leans in, the simper on her lips not fading and therefore mirroring itself within her voice. ❝ I take it you prefer knives over guns? ❞

       WHEN YOU’VE BEEN  dead for a while, it becomes nothing more than a social construct. Death insures invisibility, and a complete lack of blame. He’s tasted blood and he’s tasted the flames on his skin, and if dead men can still feel pain, he’d prefer to be cremated, just burn one last time. And when the deed is done, it’s easy to cover up the tracks — an anonymous tip to a certain newspaper, or a less anonymous one from a famous fashionista who’d do anything he asks of her. The public is dumb enough to believe anything the news tell them, but no one would believe in a dead man walking. ❝ It’s not that simple. ❞ The general public is one thing, V.F.D. is another. They’ll go after him, if the bitch manages to survive once again. They’ll protect their own and go after the enemy, who was once their own, too. But he’s longed for the thrill of the chase for too long to be bothered about that instead of relishing at the thought. ❝ The people I’m after are worse than the police, and they’ll come after me. Not you though. ❞ An outsider is a different story. Maybe the first precedent to ever occur in V.F.D. history. Her insurance, though he doubts there’s a need for one. The authorities could arrange a manhunt and never get their man, not him at least, but the people knowing who they’re looking for just might. ❝ They won’t catch me. I’m a master of disguise. ❞ Leaning in until there’s inches between them, a smile blossoming on his lips — mirroring her gesture yet fingers only brush briefly under her chin, it’s almost bizarre to run an evil scheme with a beautiful woman and not make a move on her. ❝ Guns lack intimacy, and they’re noisy. ❞ So is fire, when everyone’s in panic, but that’s not the point. ❝ I want to watch her die, slowly, painfully. But, we need to steal someone else’s identities and make sure those people aren’t there first. ❞

He really had, though. She would always remember him as her greatest failure. As both, a profiler and a person. She should have seen it coming, should have seen him coming; and yet she was blinded by him because she believed him to be the perfect man, her soulmate, even. Perhaps that’s just what they had been in another world, in another timeline. ❝ If it was only that. ❞ A hand tugs at the bottom of her t-shirt before pulling it up and revealing a gun wound. It’s been like, what, half a year already? She wouldn’t even begin to count the numerous amount of bullet wounds, bruises, broken bones and scars they had given each other. That would take days, if not weeks. ❝ I doubt you’re up for story time. ❞ Or perhaps, Tom was also the outcome. He got what suited him, though. Chained up, tortured, almost left for dead. An almost she comes to regret sometimes, in both ways.

You bitch. More or less, Elizabeth could still hear him mutter those words at her. Could still see him choking the harbor master as if it were some romantic gesture, some way to make things undone. In the end, it worked, unfortunately enough. In the end, they were too compatible, too alike. They were the same stone, not even two sides of the same one. It was terrifying. ❝ He was just a little bitch, my tolerance for lying is rather low and he is the reason, why. ❞ In the end, she would always get what she wanted, no one could harm her and get away with it. They would all pile up in unmarked graves like flies gushing over a cadaver. ❝ And probably like your ex fiancée’s brother… ❞ A head tilts, brow bones furrow as gazes wander around the premises before coming back to rest on him again. ❝ They’re better off dead. ❞

     THE GRUESOME SIGHT of a bullet wound would only appall someone who’s never been shot before and dreads to even imagine the pain it brings. Not a muscle twitches in him, aside from a raised eyebrow — sounds like an interesting relationship. Then again, perfect matches tend to end up buried side by side one way or another, and he’s been through that with Esmé. They complemented each other the way a lit match complements spilled gasoline. Maybe he should’ve seen the premise of a downfall right from the start. ❝ I’m an actor, darling, I love a good story. ❞ The darling of it all could earn him another bullet hole in his own body. But after a while, it stops mattering, one more, one less. Truth is, while most people have probably never met a woman like her, he’s never met the opposite kind. Another truth is, he’d prefer a bottle of something strong to go along with the storytelling part. 

Safe was a foreign word to her, as well. She hadn’t feel safe ever since her own gun had ripped through her dad’s head at the age of four. Safety had become a foreign word the second a gun had found its way into her hands. Or, perhaps it had happened much before but she was just too young, too naive to see it, or remember it. Then again, her parents were grandiose actors. If they didn’t want her to know, she wouldn’t. ❝ No, but if you need a personal chauffeur, I can recommend mine. Talks little, will defend you with his life if you ask. ❞ He would defend her life, without asking. Anyone else’s, was debatable. But likely he would if the price was right. Not that Rocco needed the money, or anything. He could also blast out the other’s brains if he was bored. Then again, so could she. He wasn’t a bore to her, not yet at least. There was no doubt that he were to notice the second it happened.

❝ Why is he so important? Are you two a couple, or something? ❞  It was less of a confession, from what she knew about him, this was less of a surprise, nor would he be taken aback by it. Was this a competition? She wasn’t too sure. Did it matter that she confessed? No. She had been paying for it already. Perhaps she still was. ❝ I tortured my ex husband. ❞  Although true, the other would not be able to tell a truth from a falsehood. In another world, perhaps, but not in this one and not from her. She had become too good at making truth seeming like a lie and making lies seem like the bitter truth that haunted her to this very day still. It laid in the family, the manipulation, the way of playing with people like they meant nothing, like they were nothing. ❝ I also shot my father but, he had it coming. ❞

        ❝ NO. ❞ NOT YET AT LEAST.  Isn’t that reason enough for running? The idiocy of going after the wrong Snicket time and time again, and yet only being able to bring harm to one out of three. ❝ He’s my fiancée’s twin brother. Well, ex fiancée’s. I don’t really wanna see him. ❞ Not that it matters, the complexity of an unrehearsed plot, but something’s telling him that even if she learned something of value, not a word of it would come out. A theory based on the unusual reaction to him — an intriguing surprise, their little exchange of fun facts. It doesn’t send a shiver down his spine, nor does it make him want to run away. Instead, it awakens fascination in him. Looking at her like people look at a raging fire. ❝ I bet he did. ❞ A memory of his own father flashes before his eyes, the count, always stern but just, always looking at him with chiding eyes and a warm smile. Dead. His mother, courageous and kind, dead as well. A huge sum of money he was supposed to inherit, lost, and all of his friends gone. Whether she’s lying or confessing, what difference does it really make? 

Actually, that would be Jacques. Sometimes the way someone writes their muse changes your entire perception and you keep seeing their interpretation as canon for said muse, that’s my case with Jacques. In my backstory for Olaf, they dated for a while, after the opera situation and it didn’t end on bad terms, but it also was the healthiest relationship my mess of an idiot had since things fell apart with Kit. Which only makes canon events more painful. I’ve always seen it as the point of no return, the turning moment for him, because when you choose to kill the only person who’s not only always been kind to you but also still tried to reach out and help... it’s the worst. 

𝐕𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐅𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐎𝐂𝐔𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 — @multimuse-rp​ // MARTÍN

❛   lean .   lean  on  my  muse’s  shoulder . 

      IT’S THE MOST PEACE  either of them has been able to get in months, and he knows it, reluctant to disturb the quit softness of the moment that would be deemed weird otherwise.  Getting drunk, then finding solace in one another — a broken soul speaking to one just like it, a wordless prayer for absolution, or maybe, something else entirely. A prayer to keep burning. ❝ Hey, a question. ❞ His voice trails off, quiet and gentle, as if not to disturb the shallow moment of tranquility.  It’s unexpected, but it also doesn’t come as a total surprise. Affection blossoms where everything else has been wiped out, or burned to the ashes. And he’s never told the whole story. He’s never even told parts of it, or confessed to his wrongdoings that most of the time proved only to be the right things to do. Truth is, he doesn’t know which direction to move in from this.

his presence brings a similar peace to kit, smiling as she sits next to him, head going to his shoulder. it’s a routine, almost, like next to him, touching him, is the natural place for her to be. things among the snicket siblings have been somewhat abuzz, and while it’s piqued her interest, leaving her feeling a little like one of those victorian heroines, wondering when her gentleman friend might just propose, it’s also a relief to be with olaf rather than her frazzled brother. she smiles, reaching over to take his hand in hers. “it’s certainly going to cause quite the upset, isn’t it? i will have to side with lemony, of course, and poor, torn jacques, but i won’t hold it against you.” she kisses his cheek. “you’ll have to try harder to get rid of me.”