⨠lewis tan. cisgender man. he/him. 38. ⊠We just saw edgar yang entering the red rose casino. I heard through the grapevine that their loyalties lie with [ the Jabberwocks ] and that they also go by the tower* . Be careful, they work for them as a retired boxer & casino security and can sometimes be manipulative, jealous, or even inflexible but Iâve also heard some people say that they were disciplined, methodical and quite meticulous. â ann. she/her. 31. est. clowns
about: tw child abuse, mention of substance use
Family: Edgar doesnât know what the word means entirely. Of course, he knows what the dictionary says family is, and what the media says family is, but he doesnât actually know what a family is supposed to be. Heâd always felt as if he was living in a reality tv show â on the outside, everything seemed perfect. The Fortiers had money â the result of a rather successful winery business that had been in the family for generations (it wasn't until later that Edgar learned that his father had been using the winery as a front for less savory business practices.)
The Fortier children had the best of everything â schooling, clothing, material possessions. On the inside, though, family was his own personal hell. His mother often numbed herself with pills and his father⌠Well, Xavier was the worst kind of monster â the kind of man who abused his wife and children simply because he could. The only bright spot in young Edgarâs life was his sister, but even she didnât know how much he suffered.
Edgar made sure of that. Life may have been torture for him, but he would be damned if life was anything less than perfect for Sofie. She was entitled to the picturesque home life that theyâd seen on the television and obsessed over and he was determined to do everything in his power to give her that, even if it meant walking through hell.
Edgar Michael Fortier. It was a stately name. One a prince would be proud to bear, but to a young, broken boy, it felt like a burden. Edgar never felt as if he quite belonged. The son of a Chinese mother and French Caucasian father, Edgar was made aware of just how different he was from a young age; he wasnât white enough to have a place among the children of his fatherâs friends, and he wasnât connected enough to his Chinese heritage to truly have a place among his motherâs family. Heâd almost come to expect the quizzical looks that always accompanied his introductions.
He learned from a young age to breathe through those feelings, to be the stronghold his surname suggested. When the other children hurled ugly words at him, Edgar would simply bury the feelings that those words brought to the surface. Whenever his father flew into his rage and used Edgar as his target, Edgar would grit his teeth and propel his mind to somewhere else. After a while, it became easy to hide behind the mask heâd cultivated â cold, unfeeling, all business; to be the snake, biding his time for the perfect moment to strike.
This was extremely helpful throughout his boxing career. Edgar was known for being cold, calculated, each punch perfectly placed. It was nearly a surprise when he retired just a handful of years into his professional career. He converted all of that energy into serving the Liddell's, taking care of their less than savory businesses and making sure that no one attempts to take advantage of the family. It's messy work, but someone has to do it.
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Zmei squirms a little under Edgar's gaze, cracking his neck and mentally kicking himself. He's gotten too used to having the upper hand in conversation that it stings even more than expected when Edgar can still easily find his soft, weak spots where he can't let go, can't move on from something that was never really there to begin with, and just press. He rolls out his shoulders, turning it into a shrug. "Maybe. At least it'd be interesting news. There's only so many times I can do the football highlights before I finally snap."
Darling. Zmei's been called many names but darling makes him grit his teeth. "Certainly. I could have a better time talking to anyone else, ĐйанŃĐš ĐĐťŃĐ´Ń..." Zmei sighs, adujsting his grip on his can e and starting to contemplate leaving if he's only going to be made to feel older and weaker than he already is for Edgar's entertainment. "Mm. It would also be good for his strikes to land properly. He respects me too much, and a sandbag is different from skin and bone."
At the sound of the Russian epitaph, Edgar couldn't help the grin that twisted his lips. Russian wasn't one of the languages he spoke, but he could almost guarantee that the reciprocal pet name was hardly romantic in nature. "There's no reason to confess your undying love for me, little snake. I already know."
Finally letting the teasing tone fall away from his voice, Edgar agreed. "Fine, I'll do it. Anything for you." It was perhaps the first earnest thing he'd said throughout the duration of their conversation, but Edgar meant it. Assisting Zmei with the training of his student was the least he could do for the man. "Set it up and send me a message. I'll be there. And now that that's handled..." Edgar leaned in, voice dropping to a little more than a whisper, "have dinner with me. My place. Tomorrow night."
How Salome kept winding up in these situations was beyond her. Perhaps it was as simple as Edgar being insanely attractive and good in bed? It would make things easier, for sure. She also liked the way his mouth quirked when he thought he was putting his foot down and the furrow of his brow when he was trying to think of a more solid plan than what he had.
He was pleasant to look at on all fronts.
She watched him, however lazily, from where she was still poised on the bed, sheets drawn loose across her hips and partially draped across her chest as well; a state of repose if ever there was one. She wasn't looking to argue with him or tell him he was wrong, but her brow knit fractionally regardless of the way he spoke as if she wanted to say something.
And... Salome, being who she was, did, "It's not like I am bullying you into it. This isn't just my own plan, I think we both keep finding a way to justify it in the moment." Now she pulled up a bit, propped against the headboard of the bed in the dingy little motel, "We both agreed no strings and that it was likely a very bad idea, and yet... but you're right, it's the last time."
She sounded resolute enough, yet her eyes kept flicking from his eyes to his lips to his eyes again and back on a circuit, "Why do you keep doing it?"
It was a fair question. Should she have asked it? Who knows. She knew eventually she'd have to answer the same if he even entertained this line of thought.
Whether or not Edgar actually believed the words leaving his lips, he couldn't say. He was determined to make this the last time, but he'd been equally as determined each time before. "You're right, of course," he conceded. Not that he was pleased about it. He glanced down at Salome, jealous of the way she relaxed. Edgar wasn't sure that he was ever relaxed. There were moments, of course, where he wasn't quite on edge, but relaxation was a feeling that he did not often access.
"For the same reason you do it," he supposed. He settled himself on the edge of the bed. Even then, he held his body ramrod straight. Edgar didn't want to have this conversation, and if someone else had asked, he would have simply laughed it off, but he'd grown comfortable with Salome to some degree over the course of their affair. "Just an itch to scratch every now and then and it's easier with someone you actually like, no?" He cocked a brow almost daring her to contradict his words. "Isn't that all there is to it?"
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Sofie adjusted the mask on her face as she leaned against one of the tables. These parties never failed to remind her of the world she and Edgar had grown up in. In ways it served her. It taught her how to play the role, to wear a mask allowing her to fit in well in this world, allowing to use that to her benefit. Still it put a part of her on edge. At one gala last year, she'd sworn she'd heard Xavier's voice and her mask had faltered, her body rigid. Thankfully her husband had taken her hand when he noticed, feigned illness and they left shortly after. She never even confirmed if he was there but despised the effect he could still have. "Given his business relationship with the Liddells, it's entirely possible. Granted I do have a series of discrete ways to remove him from the premises ...or this earthly plane should we decide to." She shakes her head faintly taking a sip from her drink. "However, per Maman it's not likely he'll be here"
At his question, her head lifted and scanned the room until she found the familiar mask her husband wore. Silver to her gold. She'd smirked when he'd handed it to her this evening, the gold mask adorned with a snake that made her fondly think of Edgar's beloved pet and it paired with her dark green gown quite well. Motioning to the man across the room, "Schmoozing of course. He's in the zone, I figured he didn't need the little wifey for a moment. By the way, He wants to invite you to dinner next week."
"I'm not surprised," Edgar replied with a crooked twist of his lips. Perhaps, it wasn't healthy to find amusement in his sister's response, but he did; Edgar himself had ways of protecting himself, but it amused him to no end that his older sister insisted on acting as if he was still a defenseless boy. "You know, that I can do that if the opportunity ever presents itself again." He wasn't eighteen and terrified anymore. The next time he met Xavier face to face, history would tell a different story. At the mention of their mother, Edgar's brow shot up. "You've spoken to her recently," he asked. He shouldn't have been surprised by that seeing as Sofie had often kept the communication line open with their mother.
He followed his sister's direction, sighing lightly when he noticed her husband. "He does seem to enjoy that," he commented. Edgar didn't envy Ishmael his enjoyment of being around people. "It's weird." With a nod, he continued, "I'll pencil you both in. Promise."
a scene from my muse's past in which someone said something cruel that really got to them
âI canât expect for you to understand the way in which business works. Youâve always struggled to make difficult decisions. I tried to save you from it, but I see now that it was a futile effort: you were broken to begin with.â His fatherâs words â delivered in a tone so commonplace he may as well have been discussing the weather â echoed around the walls of his study. The sunlight that streamed in through the windows was the antithesis to the chill that spread through Edgarâs body. Heâd heard the words before in various contexts, and yet, they never ceased to sting. Regardless of Xavierâs faults, there was always a part of Edgar that believed that one day heâd do something to prove himself worthy of his fatherâs love. That day had yet to come.
send CONFESSED for a scene from my muse's past in which they revealed a secret about themselves to someone
Below is a scene from a conversation Edgar had during a past relationship. tw for (child) abuse
Edgar heaved a deep sigh and plopped unceremoniously down on the edge of the bed. âMy father is not a good man.â To his own ears, the words sounded far away, as if theyâd been said by someone else. Edgar never discussed Xavier, never talked out loud about why heâd left home, or the things that had happened there. The only people who knew had also lived through their own horrors at the hands of the monster.
âTell me.â Edgar watched as Olivia settled into the space beside him and tucked one leg up underneath her. The quiet command in her voice settled him. âXavier was convinced that in order to rid his son of his fear of the dark, heâd lock him in a dark closet for hours. Immersion therapy.â A bitter barking laugh punctuated his words. âYouâve left the light on for me yourself. So, needless to say, his plan was a failure.â
âHe was perfect. At least everyone thought so. Brilliant Xavier Fortier, the rich and handsome man who beat his wife and children bloody behind closed doors. Whoâd believe that?â Once he began to speak, the words came easily. âFlowers would always show up the next day. As if that was adequate apology for the things he did to her. Guess thatâs where I got that from, huh?â
Edgarâs fingers twisted in the covers of their bed. The self-deprecating tone heâd used was unlike any other heâd used before. This was mired in guilt and self-loathing, created from years of fearing that heâd one day become the same kind of monster. No one expected the son of a monster to be anything less.
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"Now, why would anyone consider work to be a hobby," Edgar scoffed, derisively looking down his nose. Work could be a necessity. It could even be a compulsion, but a hobby? No. "I read. I exercise. I enjoy food."
Edgar has one pet, an ivory ball python, named Nagini. He named her after the Naga in Buddhist and Hindu mythology, rather than the popularized and more recognizable pop culture namesake (though thereâs some of that too even if heâll never admit it out loud.) She means the world to him.
Play the part. He'd been doing such since he was a young man. Taken on some many roles at this point he should get one of those prestigious American acting awards, but then again, he'd be just as likely to bite the head off the little gold man statue and break it down to something that he could liquidate. He never kept much in his hands, less to lose. Even now, his costume for this event was rather grotesque, a line walked between art and being classic.
His mask covered only one half of his face, one eye looking very in tact, while the rest of the mask gave the impression that his face was little else than bone and degrading skin. It was all elegantly done â the illusions made with fine fabrics and ivory that begged the question on what sort of bone it came from. On his head, a crown made from what were clearly antlers of a deer and covered haphazardly with some metallic formula here and there, and holes drilled into them within the bare pieces that gave him a distinctly dazzling and slightly petrifying aesthetic to anyone who looked too closely. The crown was his own personal joke. Hell, this whole thing was his own personal joke to a degree, if you considered him capable of such.
He had a glass of what people thought to be champagne in his hand, overhearing someone say that the composition playing was Mozart, he said quietly, "It's Beethoven. Not Mozart. Beethoven." It was a profoundly sad piece that made Elias wonder why they'd play it at a party, but still the quartet was a thing of beauty. "Was always fond of the strings and a piano, and few men have composed finer pieces. I prefer him to Mozart." He listened for a beat more. "How long, do we think, until the DJ decides to put on some pop like this crowd knows what a TikTok is?"
Edgar had always excelled in settings like these; from the moment he could speak, he'd been taught to dazzle. Smile just so, say something witty, keep their attention. Even now, he could hear Xavier Fortier's voice buzzing in his ears. One must always be dazzling. He was grateful, then, for the anonymity that came with the masks.
"Uncultured swine," he commented, glancing over at the person who'd spoken beside him. "They play at knowing, but truly, the majority of them here know nothing more than how to inflate their own egos." With a slight grimace, he brought the glass to his lips. Typically, Edgar didn't indulge in alcoholic beverages. The odd glass of wine here or there, as was befitting the heir of a wine empire, but anything else was outside of his interests, just an exercise in play acting to appear as if he was indulgent as those around him.
"Would you prefer to dictate the musical choices," Edgar offered, with an amused snort. "I can make that happen for you."
"Deja vu, no," Edgar asked, leaning in close to his sister's side. It was, perhaps, not smart for them to be seen together in public, and at a Liddell function no less, but they were both masked, and both had plausible reasons for being here that did not involve the shady business they did for this family. "I half expect Xavier to round the corner at any moment." He pitched his voice low, the fingers wrapped around the flute of the glass flexing almost imperceptivity. It had been years since Edgar had last spoken to his father, longer still since he'd seen him in person, but still, the very thought of him was enough to cause a near physical response in someone who otherwise was always in control of his actions.
He'd chosen an all black ensemble for this event -- the better to get lost in the shadow just in case, he'd reasoned. One could never know what could go wrong at an event of this caliber. Best case scenario some fool would drink too much and end up offending another fool. Speaking of fools... Edgar brought the glass to his lips, mouth turning down slightly at the taste, before speaking again. "Where's that spouse of yours?"
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One of Zmei's coaches or teachers had told him once that confidence is quiet, and anyone loudly confident is bragging and should be shut up as soon as possible. Their voice rings in his mind as he narrows his eyes at that smile. Zmei never did like the easy smugness that Edgar carried like a shield. Just in his face enough to be annoying, but not warrant being shut up immediately. It doesn't help that Zmei's never smiled that easily in his life and just scowls slightly differently, in the way that Slavic languages have vast libraries of words to describe snow and storms but lack things like a direct translation for 'have fun!'.
"What is there to keep track of? Your stats have not changed in years." Zmei rolls his eyes, but his grip tenses for a moment on the handle of his cane. He takes a breath, and cocks his head to the side slightly. ".... Quitting before you're ahead usually implies that you don't leave without a word before hitting your prime. You still had miles to go." It had been an odd enough departure that Zmei'd even written a piece on it, not that he can remember if it ever got published or stayed on the cutting room floor. But he shrugs it off, still watching Edgar's face closely, mentally trying to pinpoint what had and hadn't changed.
"I didn't mean me, you'd have me at a disadvantage. Unless you are willing to to fight me with grappling rules, I would rather you spar with Kaan. It'd do him good to learn from someone other than me."
"And yet, you keep track. Hoping that something will change, maybe? That one day you'll find yourself shocked to see that I've made my unprecedented return," Edgar quipped, one eyebrow cocked. As he spoke, he catalogued the slight changes in Zmei's body language, his smirk intensifying. This was why they made good rivals -- Edgar didn't allow very many people to get under his skin, but Zmei was one of them, and he enjoyed knowing that he was still capable of doing the same for the other man.
"Come now, darling." Edgar was surprised by how easily the endearment rolled off his tongue. He'd never been one for pet names, generic or otherwise, and had certainly never used them with Zmei, but this was just one more way to ramp up the tension between them. "I'm almost certain that you and I can think of more interesting ways to spend our time." Another grin in the fighter's direction, this one slightly wolfish. "If you'd like me to knock your child around for a bit, I'd hardly say no. It may do him some good to actually learn from someone skilled for once."