- ̗̀ SOLACE.

            It’s unheard of for Anastasia to not speak with Clark. She’s accomplished her duties of pestering him through in-person interactions, video calls, and text messaging for almost a decade; it became the ideal nature of their tempestuous relationship. What initially was supposed to be one month of no conversations turned into two then three, purposefully refraining from his potential lashings while settling with her news. Selfishly, she sometimes momentarily pondered upon the idea of a paternal Clark as she bore his child, reminiscing at her past infatuation with him, but then Anastasia reflects on the idealistic nature of Owen —-  the surprising goodness of him as a husband, provider, and protector. As she sits sourly in the passenger seat of Clark’s vehicle at the front of her destination, Anastasia chose to remain mute, dancing in intentional stupidity as she awaits his response, one she doesn’t seem to look forward to. If he was shrewd, he’d know this… could not, and would never be planned. Perhaps the excitement between Owen and Anastasia got a little too out of hand upon their last minute hitch in Red Creek.     

           Laurent’s method of dating is defined as old school and presentable. Of course, the dynamic between him and Shelby is odd especially because of his previous encounter with her sister, but he still ensured the foundation is decorous. The forthcoming issue arises deep within himself, not necessarily the younger witch, yearning firmness in what they are rather than gyrating in circles. His following words aren’t meant to make Shelby feel constrained, however it is meant to make the two feel more at ease with their establishment. “I like you,” the blonde oozed, disturbed by his admittance. “I like you more than I thought I would; there’s a balance… a charm when we’re together.” Which is true. Their past encounters of bickering stemmed from an improper form of communication that then led to misjudgment. Prior conversations led Laurent to declare Shelby nothing more as presumptuous and entitled, the opposite of who he previously wanted to allow into his life. Their unintended affair immediately transitioned his judgement for the good, tempted to drop bounds and remain close amicably.

           Eyes bore into hers as lips tore into a lopsided grin, uncomfortably inquiring, “Are we together formally? Are you my girlfriend —- my partner? I’m not sure how much longer I’ll allow us to dance to the same song,” he acknowledged, cocking his head slightly.​

          “I told you that you’d be smitten,” Shelby chides easily and the effortless nature in which she’s so uncharacteristically relaxed should be enough to tune Laurent in that she agrees with the fervent sentiment. She has never been one for anything more than spurious dalliances, relationships that had a firm expiration date, but she also had never quite expected she’d fall into bed with Laurent Bernard either; life full of whimsical and perplexing surprises. She had learned to take these instances day by day and accept them with more honey as opposed to vinegar; a new leaf she’d chalk it up to. Shelby wasn’t young anymore and hell, in regards to Red Creek and its rampantly prowling quietus, she was probably considered damned geriatric for having made it thus far. Still, the Fontaine was a glutton for resistance, her entire life teeming with nettlesome bouts where she tested the sensitive boundaries of those around her. 

           Undoubtedly, Anastasia loved Clark more than she loved herself, but the more she aged, the more she became fed up with his overbearing, negative behavior. Granted, the development of their relationship took years for them to get where they are today, however Anastasia strived tremendously to let him witness her growth throughout this time. “I met you when I was twenty-three. I am not who I was years ago. Yes, I may have moments here and there where I cry for your help.. where I need you, but I’ve changed for the good.” Her aggravation increased at the audacity of him laughing, obliviously searching for the joke. Of course, Anastasia can always count on Clark to make a mockery out of anything. She wasn’t sure if his kudos was complimentary or an insult, remaining stoic, and still slightly intoxicated. “I haven’t left because I care about you a lot, Clark. I love you a lot. Platonic or not, it’s a feeling I cannot and will not shake off —- I want absolutely nothing but the best for you even if I’m not apart of the picture.” That itself remained true. No matter if a rift developed, if Clark preferred them going their separate ways, she’d happily oblige without protest. It would hurt, but again, she’d do anything to make him happy. “You’re more than just Clark Roschell. You’re my family. Of course I want to stay for the long-term!” Anastasia exclaimed, somewhat hurt at his statement. The sting of his words negatively impacted her physically, uncomfortably taking several steps back. “Anyway, I didn’t even attend high school in Kentucky. I was an army brat; I spent most of my time in Germany, Italy, and Kosovo before settling in Kentucky for about two years worth of schooling.. then back in Europe for college.”

          Her mention of marriage did not slip past the creaks much to her dismay. It’s not that Anastasia felt ashamed for what she did, more so the way she went about things. As if Clark and her spouse interacted, fearful of the consequences of their actions. “I married Owen Hurst on a whim the night before we left Red Creek. I could not.. leave him there alone, so he’s coming up a few days after we reach Kentucky. He’ll be living in Kentucky permanently. We’re legally married, but friends.” And this was all she planned on discussing, neglecting the intimate details of their relationship. “I met him before you. I spent the night with him after our vows; it was a quick trip to the courthouse. That’s all.”

          Clark hadn’t much thought about the pivotal influence of their relationship before. He had condemned her, insensitively, to that of a parasite, one which had wiggled their way into his life and forced him to choke on love and adoration despite his utmost refusal of it all. He should appreciate her greatly for this caveat, yet he still found himself hopelessly clinging to his arbitrary reasons for everyone to abandon him. It was a maddening cling to his unresolved, adolescent traumas, a boy who was forced to become a man for the sake of family; hatred and bitter rancor dividing him from any path that he vied to choose for himself. There was no choice, in his eyes, to become a parental figure to his younger sisters, to aid his mother in ensuring their success, all while toeing the fine line of pleasing an abusive father figure. Anastasia had come from a sliver of recognition, their childhoods peppered with abuse of those who were supposed to care for them, and while that should leave Clark with the obvious choice of embracing her into the fold of his life, he feels pertinent on denial; as if their similarities were something he not dare stomach.  “You’ve always been good,” he murmured callously, pairing the remark with a frivolous shake of his head. Extempore was akin to a loaded gun, a sliver of resentment etching itself into rebarbative lexicon. He refused to comment on Anastasia’s amorous tirade, shrugging softly, “I had no idea you’d been to Europe,” Clark having never stepped foot off this damned continent, Canada the only foreign place he’d ever been. 

          The pained memory of his deceased wife dimmed a harsh light on the realities of life, one where Laurent only continued to find life worth living because of his children. To witness her death and the struggle ensued brought forth a pang of discomfort, grappling with the existence of someone who he loved now nothing but a ghost. “In all fairness, I barely discussed this with Savannah.” While his former partner, if considered one, knew Laurent employed himself as a full-time father while teaching at the college level, he never specified intimate details surrounding his wife’s death because of him not wanting pity. The Bernard love-story appeared as a textbook example of a tragic story-arch on daytime television —-  sickening and grim, leaving nothing short of the imagination. Suspiring a long breath, words dragged out regrettably, having to pause every few seconds to not tire himself. “I stopped practicing magic because her and I got caught in a troubling situation with an original vampire from the states. You either do the spell right or die. Obviously she did it wrong.” At the realize of strained vocal chords, Laurent cleared his throat once more, however this time, palpitating. “I don’t care to be a witch; I was naturally born to be a shit one, regardless.” Yet in reality, the grisly nature of his wife left him in a whirlwind of mental trauma, fearful of tapping in to only have the same fate as her in the foreseeable future.

         Forgiveness became an reoccurring cycle between Laurent and Shelby. Presently, the two continue to struggle for power, however their differences often stemmed from love —- the love of protecting a sibling and the love of maintaining a family dynamic. It was there that they shared a common thread despite frequently arguing otherwise. Still, his opinion remained.. specific traits of Shelby are admirable, but it never came easily. “You’re.. well, we’re like fire and ice; our conversations are a lot more productive than Savannah and I, if that counts. It’s a lot less manufactured.” The lack of magical abilities  also led to them interacting more, on the opposite end of Savannah, where spells and the supernatural community created a deafening rift between them. Unlike several years ago, he didn’t require a stipulation out of this. Laurent persisted on being unfeigned, reverently answering her questions with integrity. Prior to revealing his answer, he could lower himself in lieu of towering Shelby’s small stature, brushing his nose past hers as a childish, yet intimate greeting. “I want you.” Promptly, the male silenced their conversation with the sweetness of a kiss, though pulling back insouciantly.  “But not like this.” 

          “Not really digging hearing about my sister when we’re more or less mid lip lock,” Shelby sang out, twisting lexicon to an elated sing-song stupor in spite of true disrelish for the mention. A churning feeling resounded in her stomach as Laurent garnered a more vulnerable state, grimly nodding at the mention that her quietus was genuine life or death and that it inevitably did not resolve in their favor. “Laurent.... I’m sorry,” lips were pursed lamely, knowing an apology for her death was surely stale, the male likely hearing it a myriad of times before; the sentiment an empty reminder of her preventable death. If only vampires did not have a penchant for aimless and doomed trouble; taking until there was nothing left, and all joy for their non-immortal counterparts was thus snuffed out. Shelby could only internally hope that Laurent would realize how an apology from her was a recherché and tender bout, something unbecoming on the eldest Fontaine. She could hardly imagine the grief contained inside Laurent now, feeling immeasurably small at the very idea, fidgeting her toes as if she were about to crawl out of her skin if she thought about it any further. 

             “Does that mean you love me?” As if Anastasia knew what love was. Her only time acknowledging love was the desperate confession spilled to Clark years prior, undoubtedly facing heaps of protests by the elder male. If that was love, then she knew the remnants would be painful. Though her feelings still remained, even if solely platonic, the brash decision made by Anastasia and Owen was one she’d obviously spill to Clark being that he’s her closest confident. In the end, his approval meant everything to her. “I don’t know. I mean, this is weird. Marriage is stereotypically portrayed as an undying love,” the blonde voiced, questioning further the depths of their license. It’s not that she regretted their procedure —- she more so feared Owen possibly ditching her despite their agreed nuptials, and a replication of the demise of her parent’s failed, abusive relationship. 

               Insecurity wavered through, lowering her head as the fresh, musky scent of the South swept by; Anastasia now fiddling her thumbs fretfully. “You don’t have to love me. I think I love you? I could love you.” Cue the brief pause, purposefully darting sight within his reach. “I want to love you. Before you reborn as a phoenix, at least.” ​

         Owen had proclaimed a dire sense of fondness for Anastasia, her proximity in his life allowing him to survive through plenty. For Owen, marriage wasn’t exactly a rigid concept with conjured laws and proclamations; he never had a prime example of a regular marriage and it was with that he had offered up their union, regardless. What could go wrong when everything else had already soured first? Red Creek had fallen to  cataclysmic shambles and Owen would be damned to stick around any longer; he could shudder at the thought of certain originals returning before they had made their escape. “T’hell y’tryna play into stereotypes f’r?” He wiggled his brows teasingly duplicitous, though understood Anastasia had her concerns; a woman who had a knack for flipping over every stone until every possibility was unearthed. 

         “My children’s mother is dead. Murdered by execution. Do you think I’d allow them to have that as their legacy? As tragic as life can be, only you determine what defines your legacy, not others.” Laurent reveled in fear since relocating in Red Creek, though his fright decreased the more his profile kept low and he remained inactive with his magical capabilities. The elder male was fully aware that at any given moment, a malevolent individual could allow him to reap the same ending as his deceased wife. That did not define him, however. He mourned just as anyone else would, but instead of harboring on the departed, Laurent created a trajectory to ensure his children would not meet the same fate. The idea of Shelby’s siblings implementing her heirloom was abstruse; of course, the power of the original family impossible to plant such a seed. “I did what I felt was right.. which was stupid, but it’s me —- Laurent. What do you expect when our first encounter involved myself getting slapped?” The joke slipped in an attempt to alleviate any possible tension, scrummaging to find the most appropriate words to say. Naturally, awkwardness remained on par for the two grown adults, with the witch hissing lowly. 

             “No, I fucked up undoubtedly. I’m sorry.” Brows knitted as a sigh exasperated, tiredly pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry for everything. Not just tonight, but dating back to five years ago. If you’ll forgive me.” Emotions remained engulfed, resulting in nauseating knots scrimmaging in the core of his stomach; a feverish Laurent now present. “What do you want? What more can I give? I said what I said —- you’re insufferable yet admirable.”

          “That’s ——grim,” extempore was nonchalantly choked out, understanding full well she could never find the right words to comfort Laurent on such matter. It was strange now, to peer over at the flaxen witch and realize that their myriad of encounters had been with her venting, filling the empty spaces with her words so she would not dare suffocate on the silence. Shelby hardly knew much about what had happened to the mother of Laurent’s children, or really, about Laurent in general and it warranted a regretful pause. “You’ve never told me about her before,” not that she had ever offered the space to do so, gnawing on her bottom lip in a sullen finality. No matter, she felt irreparably wounded at the mention of her own family, destructive tendencies blooming as feelings simmered within, “Now if I slapped you for my family how do you expect me to just abandon them altogether?” Shelby offers a mild grin in attempts to recover from her lachrymose bout, stepping closer. 

                Uninvited tension entered the premises. Anastasia teetered on a thin line between naiveness and dumbness - the two are barely inseparable, and how flawed her train of thought might have been. She should have known better. Granted, Red Creek excelled itself in the segregation of supernatural species, resulting in citizens not easily being able to detect who belongs to what, but it’s Owen, someone she put her faith into long before Aurora, Clark, and even Cole Darius. Was. It’s the past tense that replicates concurrently, the blonde trapped in a stupefied daze. “You were already a target,” she repeated once more for absolute sureness, detecting the dryness of her throat as a cry for concern. “Which means..” Everything warped into a blur. While it is true this is clearly deception on his behalf, a part of her couldn’t fault him for neglecting to tell her.. yet it was her, and he should have known she would not pass judgement, and that’s where she felt insulted, particularly hurt given the complexity of their friendship, though that title may come to an end due to the current intimacies taking place. “I don’t understand,” Anastasia jabbered, scratching the back of her head to indicate her confusion, and to emphasize how incomprehensible the idea of him, the man who comforted her in the midst of her sorrows, lied to her. “I met you six years ago and this entire time you haven’t been human? You were scared because someone or something might hurt me including your ex-girlfriend?”  

                She could sulk in silence, not feeling the need to weep, but visibly let down by his actions. Anastasia’s thoughts retraced to her innocence being taken for granted by other supernatural species including the time when an original vampire accepted her as an evening meal.. to her disdain. It sent shivers down her spine. Her body movement froze at his nudge as hazel orbs protruded out, echoing, “I never knew you were in the army.” That, too, is true; it’s strange how much they spoke, yet so little she knew about him. A sense of guilt ensued because of the trauma derived from serving your country to then becoming some sort of manifestation.. a reign of power. It’s clear he doesn’t know what he is, but is made up of something peculiar. “Whatever you are, you’re still my Owen,” Anastasia mustered out, grabbing a fistful of her hair before heavily sighing out of frustration. “I’m hurt, but I do understand why you did what you did. It doesn’t make me like you any less.” 

            An uncomfortable laugh dispersed, immediately relieving her locks to palm the forefront of his knee,  still avoiding proper eye contact. “I wouldn’t have told anyone. I would have never judged you if you had told me initially. I’m sure my other friends might have encouraged me to stay away from you - to not trust you anymore, but it’s me. I’ve thoroughly accepted every single part of you since the day we met. I would’ve never kissed you if I didn’t!” Thus, speaking of that unpredictable moment, the blonde’s eyes rolled back, brooding over the what-if’s. Regardless of their spurious situation, Owen is a good man whose characteristics triumphed many of the other citizens of Red Creek. He proved himself well-grounded each time the two conversed, a trait Anastasia deeply admired. “I kissed you because I wanted to maintain a meaningful goodbye, but how could I possibly leave knowing you feel like a ghost? You don’t even know what you’re capable of. That makes me ill; I can’t leave you. You need me. I need you. You don’t have anyone for God’s sake. Do you think I could live with myself in Kentucky knowing I left you in this current mental state?” The emotional pressure of it all saddened Anastasia, harboring at the thought of him morosely residing in the swamps of Red Creek alone. “It’s not as if you and I can get hitched and everything will miraculously soothe down,” she quipped as a joke, mocking the exchange of nuptials. 

           “I was in denial for a long time, I think I still am,” a solemn chuckle escapes him, his own tongue feeling akin to a brick in his mouth. “There was this lil’ blonde lady, though lots more menacing than she looks,” his inability to enunciate what exactly transpired escapes him, as if the remnants of Lyra’s compulsion still had him in a chokehold. He’s near spluttering to gather even a fragment of a word, running a hand through his own flaxen locks out of pure frustration, scowling in retreat, “I would’ve told you if I could. I’d tell you now if I could. She--” He vied to tell her the unspeakable things Lyra forced him to do through compulsion. How he was meant to bring her victims to drain of their blood, and how, if Anastasia was near, he’d fear she would be next on Lyra’s long list of destruction. Owen would become forever marred had his presence in Anastasia’s life led to her untimely demise and so he kept a fair distance until he was sure the danger was astray. “I’d tell y’if I could,” it’s miserably reiterated and he’s near lachrymose at the thought, sighing in exasperation, “But it’s over now and that’s what matters, t’me, and hopefully t’you.” If only Anastasia could know and comprehend that his untimely death had loomed as well and he could not handle the idea of Anastasia having to cop with his loss, had it occurred.  

          “Oh, yeah,” he beamed proudly in spite of the visceral scars that remained from his deployment, “Was t’one thing I was born t’do. I was never really set up f’r success,” Owen’s look transmogrifies to one of near shame, near shy at all he was now willing to share with her. There is, however, no time like the present and despite his heart lurching in his chest, he continues, “I  was’sa orphan who never got picked up from t’orphanage. Aged out. Had t’fend f’r myself f’r a while. Army was my saving grace.” A grief ridden smile came about. Sure, there had been plenty of despair in his life, but he was ultimately happy with the way things continued to go; all things considered. Her acceptance means everything to him as whatever monstrous blood ran through his veins was still incomprehensible to him and all he vied for was understanding. Lyra wished to use his species as the means for her own supernatural war and whatever that had meant terrified him more than he could ever say. 

                  “I don’t need your clarification, I’m not your child and I’m certainly not hard of hearing,” Anastasia snapped back, wiping the alcoholic remnants from the corner of her mouth. Of course, even when attempting to have a civilized conversation, she could have faith in Clark derailing the essence spiriting the room. “Don’t tell me what to do.” She didn’t embark on this journey to get scolded on loosening up and having more fun. Anastasia didn’t wish to feel confined in his presence; if so be the case, she would have made him sign a contract to declare Clark as her sole preserver.. over her dead body! “This is actually getting ridiculous. I stick around because I care. Why are you criminalizing me for showing that I.. that I give a fuck?” Anastasia murmured, bewildered at his continuous persistence in her not needing to stay, and fed up with his antics to the point where she had to verbalize her disdain vulgarly which is completely out of character. “Would you rather me be like everyone else and tell you to rot in hell? That you don’t need anybody, and no one cares about you? Do you really look at me as if I’m everyone else —- that I’d stoop that damn low to abandon you?” In an almost tiresome gesture, Anastasia loudly quivered, “Fuck you, Clark! And that goes literal, too. But uh, don’t tell my husband that. Speaking of.. he is arriving in Kentucky, too.”

           “Do you really think everyone has the ideal family that’s portrayed in the media? It’s unrealistic, Shelby. You need to learn to stop giving a shit, it’s that simple.” Laurent’s opinion swayed because the elder male didn’t have much familial ties to clutch onto in Red Creek apart from his children. Considering the problematic tendencies of the Fontaine’s, he truly believed Shelby not speaking to them wouldn’t make her miss out on much given that their reputation soured tremendously throughout the past few years, and rebuilding their trust to the citizens of Red Creek was proven to be troubling. The one thing Laurent could not take is the self deprecating commentary from Shelby. The idea of failing your own blood.. it’s preposterous. In a sweltering effort to amend her worries, the blonde fleetingly hushed her by summoning a reverencing kiss; the noiselessness stifling, drawing back with ease, though camouflaging a possible desire for more. “You didn’t fail anyone. You’re fine. Alright? To hell with them, Shelby; honestly, get a fucking grip. It doesn’t have to be any particular way unless you choose to dictate the paths you go through in life, not them.” Cue an exasperated sigh, assimilating the dangers of what he’s done.. and the reaction waiting to be bestowed. “You don’t have to live life making them happy. You’re.. insufferable. Really fucking insufferable. But it’s admirable at the same time. Stop living to appease them.”

          “Well, It’s my legacy and all that,” she reiterated with a scowl as if exhausted from the mere imprecation of her family name. Perhaps Shelby could sever family ties in an effort to save herself, an idea she had tossed away a myriad of times before, the very sentiment preposterous. They had grown selflessly together, only to selfishly be thrown apart, the relationship between siblings dematerializing as years rallied on. “I always find my way back here,” it’s a sliver of self pity that resonates off flaxen mien, internally horrified that Laurent was the one to bear witness to her current mental throes. She hadn’t expected the kiss, jumping back as a sense of dread cavorted across her countenance, a mild gasp escaping her. “What the hell are you doing?” Actions never lie, however, gentle hands acting as a tender barrier between them, gliding up his arms before resting on his chest. It’s a mild protest, one that she does not supply with much vigor, gazing up at him in pure bewilderment for the cause. “Is this your way of not appeasing them?” Mocking inquiry was flung out as if it would offer her any control over what had just transpired, licking the flames of trouble that would be a dalliance between them if she dared reciprocate. 

                       Laurent’s sensible of his actions contributing to the peculiar, deafening ambience between the two in the middle of a public attraction. Part of his urges stemmed from guilt over his mistreatment of Shelby within the past few years, while the other half reflects his vigilant behavior towards those that willingly express their vulnerability without coercion. “You have to stop saying that shit,” Laurent pleaded, unsure how much longer he could handle the disparaging comments Shelby continuously threw at herself. Not only did her words make him uncomfortable, but indignation arose rapidly. “It’s becoming real annoying. Fuck Red Creek. To hell with Savannah and the rest of your siblings —- shut up about it already. It doesn’t have to be that way if you stopped giving a shit.” Maintaining an appropriate amount of distance, he could sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose prior to inquiring, “Listen, I can whip something up for the both of us if you want. Or like, stop at a coffee shop.. a restaurant; I don’t know, something. That’s if you want to. Obviously, I can’t force you.”

                        Eyes pierced as if pondering upon the possibility of Kara losing hearing, firmly repeating, “A damn blessing,” Giovanni spat, “Your reappearance in Red Creek created nothing but problems. Before you returned, I was fine handling Hunter’s Point and working peacefully. You interfered with my peace.” Her death simplified one thing: an obvious target on who to blame whenever things go wrong in his life. Although erroneous, Giovanni blamed her because the deceitfulness she had deserved fitting consequences; he failed to understand how she did not grasp her actions resulted in detrimental repercussions for the Michaels family and himself. Kara’s obliviousness led her to became the bane of his existence, though love continued to creep beneath the cracks of their enduring trauma. “I talk to skeletons in my fuckin’ closet because you won’t leave me alone. Your attachment —- the love that you have for me brings you back. I don’t know what you’re capable of as a ghost, but being a pain in the ass should not have been on the list.” Exasperation clouded his features at the mere suggestion of him not doing enough to aid in her disappearance, vigorously making his wetted cheeks now dry. Her words became not only a challenge to his manhood, but who Giovanni prided himself to be as a business owner, hunter, and lover. “How dare you?” Words cried out repulsively, sharply approaching her to the beat of a drum, straightening his mouth. “How dare you! Why don’t you fuckin’ tell me what you’ve done to find yourself back to me? Without lying for once. I put up posters, Kara.. flyers, I hunted day in and out for you, so don’t you dare imply as if that was never good enough.” In spite of their words exchanged out of broiling frustrations, Giovanni rejected relentlessly the insinuation that he left her out there to suffer, and others opted not to aid her with proper ressources during her time gone. In the midst of his skepticism, Giovanni rummaged Red Creek greatly even when unsatisfied with answers provided regarding her absence. The chance to elaborate further and dismiss her abnormal claims halted at their sudden touch.. a touch Giovanni strongly deemed impossible, nauseating as saliva foamed at his mouth. As eyes widened at that touch —- her particular touch in which he has not felt in years, the male struggled to take several steps backwards before plummeting; his skin now blanched as silence stifled the air, and orbs found its way rotating backwards. 

          “They tortured me, compelled me, what am I to do that could help bring you to me? Even in death, their compulsion may have faded but the memories are still long gone...” a miserable crescendo arose between the two, the genesis of her being so hotheaded a new trait since her untimely death. It was a mangled imprecation, a devised anger that left Kara unable to see straight or even think clearly, a blinding rage that was not ever known to her. Being a phantasm had corrupted her very soul and there was a terror that seized her, the idea that one day she may boil over completely and never return to the warmth and kindness which she was once revered for. This fresh and ornery personality trait was the very chasm that broke them apart emotionally now, yet wrought a tangible spark between the two, unsure if her touch had forced him into a fit of unconsciousness, letting out an amalgam of a gasp and shriek as Giovanni tumbled to the floor. She prodded at him, the air really, noncorporeal fingertips fading through his bodily form, an envy settling within the pit of her stomach. Even now, she loved him dearly, spirit’s hands hovering over his winsome countenance, tracing every eyelash and vying to stroke through every curl atop his head. Kara coveted a place within the crook of him, a place she had once fit so perfectly, a strangled cry breaking through her now, tearing apart her own fighting spirit as she looked down at the one who was meant to be hers perpetually, now lost forever to the very activity that had tacked them together; vampires, hunting, hunting said monsters. Now it was she who was the monster, Kara maddeningly reaching down in hopes for another touch to his warm flesh, the fading reminder of her fingers curled around his wrist not enough to satiate her. 

┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄

                        “I’m not sure how much longer I can make it here. You could be the next target for all we know, us humans tend to be the best bet. Unlike Red Creek, there’s not someone willingly waiting to harm me just for existing; I’ve already gotten bitten once, I don’t need it to happen again.” Anastasia refused to explore the depths of the supernatural species invading their town because she truly did not care, nor did she badger others regarding what composes their bloodline. It’s what led her to lead a fairly unproblematic, conservative lifestyle free of trauma —- she had people in her corner to prevent any serious incidents from happening, but there’s also her childlike demeanor resisting ministration from powerful species. “Unless you want to go to Kentucky,” Anastasia could offer, recommencing, “Or a terrible, built up shack in another part of Canada. I feel like you’d get sick of me.” The tit-for-tat banter between Owen and Anastasia was somewhat new; the two usually cordial, but she liked the jeering the two now participated in together. Brows raised as she light palmed his shoulder, unsure if his words oozed of sarcasm. “I mean, the worst you could commit is murder. I.. don’t think you’re capable of that? What do you have to hide?”

         Owen hesitated now, the memories inflicted upon him from his time in the military murky at best, amalgamating with Lyra’s acute extempore which bore him to be something.... enchanted. He hadn’t a clue what magical ichor flowed in his veins but all he could recall was that Lyra was once reserving him for a cogent quietus, a looming annex in which the original would take all of Red Creek under her nimble control. It had wrought a frigid conclusion, the intangible recollection of her undying hold on his mind and free will, in spite of chains since severed, though an eternal inquietude remained; the stark reminder that Lyra could return without notice and burn down all he had built in her absence. “I was already a target,” he warily began, wounded irises peering over at Anastasia as if searching for any feeling of prospective betrayal, “Was hopefully bein’ t’key term. I never wanted t’put y’in harms way.” Apologetic lexicon would never take back the years he spent in keen avoidance of Anastasia, the mere thought of her coming into harms way an inescapable chasm that had wrought his disappearance, until now. “I.... I was scared,” Owen had never figured himself to be a man who would admit to any fears, gnawing his bottom lip, “I couldn’t imagine what they would d’t’you if they knew of our friendship.” 

                        “I always thought I was deprived of my rights,” Anastasia snickered, fully-fledgling mocking him. What was previously said now became taken out of context, and instead of settling to retaliate against him, the blonde flourished in amusement as Clark visibly proved himself to be illogical. “I said if I walked out the door that it wouldn’t change a thing.. I never said I was going to leave. This is why listening is important. This also has a lot to do with you not liking me; I never once implied the term like meant romantically.” It was said in a matter-of-factly tone, propping herself against the stained, decrepit wall. While the substance of alcohol made her become paralytic, Anastasia’s soporific hues lecherously scoured his stature. “You’re very boring.”

              location : joaquín’s apartment ( @giiawriites​ ) . 

                         “Mira aquí, that’s George Clooney in Forrest Gump,” Joaquín argued, opposed to Noemi’s claims of the lead actor being otherwise. As free hand reached to utilize the search engine on his cellphone, much to his dischargin, the male’s ex-girlfriend stood correct. Exacerbated, Joaquín prompty refrained himself from further having arms clapsed around the brunette’s shoulders, attention dwindling from the cinematic film due to the idea of being imprecise. “Whatever.”

                    In an odd, perplexing way, Laurent did feel bad for Shelby along with the rest of her siblings. The caricature of Savannah dimmed the light of the Fontaine’s, and if or when Savannah stepped out of place, her siblings were dislodged in Red Creek. It appeared to be a cruel, yet obligated punishment residents felt entitled to —- even Laurent shamed the original family when the ban of magic became implemented, a hypocrisy considering his adroitness is lackluster. In lieu of pushing forth his own sentiments, he subtly allowed Shelby to render her contempt for her sister free of judgement, somewhat finding a common ground on the situation and discovering the disparity between the two women. Laurent deplored the guilt which riddled him over his continuous judgement of Shelby; though he strived to prevent himself from becoming apologetic, he failed, subjecting himself to further discomfort. Silence briefly settled between the two as his gaze dropped, unsure if anything said would improve the dulled atmosphere. Yet inadvertently, beyond his realization, his actions spoke his deprecatory behavior. The taller male reticently hovered Shelby for several deliberating seconds before allowing his brims to brush past her cheek, then another on her forehead; the absence of sound now deafening, and the aroma of her scent ghastly due to their proximity. But upon returning to his sanction, the most Laurent could express, though barely audible, is a groggy-like, “Sorry.”