𝐋𝐎𝐘𝐀𝐋 // 𝐃𝐎𝐆

𝐉𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐑𝐃 // vice detective, thirty-three, red ridge native.

— unflinching, grudging, brainy, irreverent, plucky, mulish. loosely inspired by dominique dipierro (mr robot), laurie blake (watchmen hbo), eve polastri (killing eve), wendy byrde (ozark), and allie pressman (the society). this vine, too.

howdy, folks! i’m dev. 🤠 this is my dearest brain babie, jordan. normally, this is where i’d get all mushy-gushy on y’all, but the rest of this introduction is already too long as it is, and i’d rather not add insult to injury hehe. just know i’m happy to be here & even more excited to get to know you all + your brain babies, too! 🥳 @redridgeimp​​

— pinterest, stats + connections page.

do you care what others think of you?

jordan cares about what people think of her more than anything — really, truly anything. she can’t make peace with the fact that not everyone she comes across will like her, can’t accept that there are people you just can’t turn. it’s a compulsion, this disease of the brain, that enables her people-pleasing tendencies. a girl raised on the outskirts of her mother’s love will forever feel the cold, and she’ll forever be that girl that looks over her shoulder, watching to see if anyone’s witnessed her.

which, really, that compulsion in and of itself leads to a vicious cycle: feeling alone, hollowed out, which leads her to love-bombing her friends, which leads to her feeling hollowed out again, which leads to her focusing on everyone else’s wellbeing, which leads to feeling alone, and so on and so forth. she’s been to therapy for it on and off, but it’s hard to rewire your brain when that’s all you know. it’s all-consuming, but she’d rather burn herself up than face the root of those feelings directly.

all of that bubbles beneath the surface, however, away from prying eyes. jordan has always been especially skilled at hiding behind her bubbly persona — perpetually just out of view — and although her friendliness is genuine, her honesty is not. it’s a farce: a diversion tactic used to distract the viewer from digging any deeper. you can’t take the time to focus on anything real when she’s too busy showering you in all these shiny bits of nothing. 

on a lighter note though, jordan cares what people think of her, because she wants them to feel safe around her, like they can be their true selves with her — a luxury she, ironically, won’t allow herself. she wants to be the warmth that surrounds them on a cold, winter day; the pair of arms that can make them feel at home anywhere, no matter the circumstance. jordan desperately wants to emit good into the world, purposely wants to touch as many lives as she possibly can, as if to make up for the unending, cosmic sense of guilt she feels; as if to prove that she’s more than her mother’s daughter. 

who would you turn to if you were in desperate need of help?

for a moment, jordan thinks it’s a mockery: some sick, twisted way of poking fun at the state of her. her body steels, waiting for an attack that just doesn’t come. part of her forgets, sometimes, that curiosity for the sake of it is a thing, and not every bit of information has to come as part of a bargain, tied to something more. the muscles of her face relax, but her body doesn’t — can’t.

“i dunno.” for once: an honest answer. jordan knows desperation like the back of her hand — she’s lived in a state of it for years — but that familiarity doesn’t draw her any nearer to an answer. no, she doesn’t really have anyone that she turns to — doesn’t have someone that she can bear to place that burden on. faces flicker by behind her eyes, but none of them stick. her lips purse. alright, maybe one of them does: “lev, i guess.” the one and only constant in her life; a face as familiar to her as her own. “pretty sure he could move the whole damn world if he wanted to.”

one thought unravels another, bringing a new face to light: the worn face of a mentor. a face she so desperately wants to call a father; a face she’s hopelessly trying to rework into another. it’s a mortifying thought, smearing her in its various shades of watercolor pink. jordan bites down on the inside of her cheek. it doesn’t help. “marr’s got power, too,” which is all she’ll say on that. 

what a sick, twisted game they loved playing. kara had never been one to gamble, and poker had always felt far too slow, too strategic for them — but they figured this, whatever this was (the unspoken pull between their molecules, pulling into one another, pulling back, crashing, tossing, colliding) had to look a lot like it. laying out their cards, hiding them again — kara could feel blatantly exposed now, obscenely so, jordan’s gaze washing over their features and awarding them a new concept of body. they’d never much cared for the container of flesh keeping their organs in place — not until her eyes had begun giving them shape. they could feel something tingling, a flutter somewhere deep beneath: the smirk that raised the right corner of their lips was its physical expression, for lack of words to explain it. 

language, they’d accepted this long before, fell short of explaining anything when it came to jordan. it seemed as though their belonging to different worlds came hand in hand with a communication problem, and kara often found themselves rethinking their moves, recalculating the path around her that would make them come out of this, if not victorious, at least only mildly scarred. but they barely had any control left. something about jordan — perhaps the way her head tilted, exposing more of her neck: perhaps the softer note in her voice, something inciting kara’s want — was a hidden cue, and they moved in, a hand finding its place around jordan’s head, pulling her close, their kiss slow but fierce, hungry. “i can work with that —”, a half whisper, breathed against jordan’s lips, and then kara’s hand slid down — desperate in her need to touch her, to give her something that would inevitably keep her coming (sort of like a drug, sort of like a simple, harmless business matter). instead it found jordan’s hand again, and as kara turned to step back into the garage, their hand was tied to jordan’s. “come on”, they mused. “wouldn’t want your buddies to see you and think so badly of you”. 

for a moment, the outside world went dark. there was nothing but kara: their lips, their hands, their light to draw her forward. kara kissed her and it felt like instinct; something natural, like going back to the very beginning. kara kissed her and jordan wanted more, always. their touch was enough to silence her, and reduce her to a state of sheer want. all she could do was offer them a gentle squeeze of the hand — she: a woman burning.

jordan waited for the garage door to shut before unraveling, her smirk a mirror image of kara’s own. “i can say the same for you, can’t i?” like magnets, she found herself following their every movement, orbiting around them and the space they occupied — space that she wanted in on. jordan pulled them toward her and placed their hand on the warm skin of her hips beneath her sweater, doing the same with their other hand, too. she’d never voice it, but jordan often felt she didn’t know who she was if she wasn’t being touched. what little solace she could find was here: planted in kara’s very own palms. 

jordan let her own hands travel up their arms — flesh against flesh — before brushing the hair out of their face, hands careful as they held the most beautiful face she’d ever seen. her lips had parted to speak, but jordan couldn’t help herself — not anymore. she leaned down to kiss them again, humming against their lips. “sorry i didn’t text first.” their noses rub sweetly, purposely. “doesn’t really look like i’m ruining any plans, though.” 

–

If Noel could describe the feeling they experienced every time they saw her – her: it was a stomach in knots, not the nice kind where it felt like you were in love (though it still carried remnants of that, like oil slick on pavement, scrubbed but not completely – never completely), it was more like coiled metal wire – sharp and uncomfortable – it was a tightened throat, like a tunnel with walls growing closer the further you crawled into it. And just like, a simple peripheral glimpse in her direction and resentment came reigning in, taking over like wildfire.

Why Jordan chose to sit next to Noel, they didn’t know. Noel only kept them around enough to gain the information they needed for reports – leisure rendezvous’ was the last thing they sought after their split. Still, though, maybe she had information they needed for their current article. And funny that she’d mention it – pleasure; Noel scoffed, not a glance in her direction, nothing but a swig of their beer as Jordan took her seat. “Hardly,” Noel muttered, taking another swig before trailing brown hues to Jordan’s features, memories tumbling in and fleeting – “working on a report. Why are you here?”

♡

The thing about being mean was that it wasn’t always outright — not for Jordan, at least. It’d sneak up on her and nestle itself in the roots of her being, waiting for the most opportune moment to blossom and, finally, reveal itself. It was a tickle at the back of her throat, a tingle in the palms of her hands. Jordan pressed her lips together carefully, eyes flickering elsewhere in brief thought before settling back where they belonged. 

If it were anyone else, she’d have said something nice, flowery: maybe I missed you, you ever think of that? If she were feeling particularly careless, she’d have been honest for the sake of it — no strings or bargains attached. She’d tell them: I need you to forgive me. No, she’d beg them: I need you to look at me as you did, not as you do. It wasn’t anyone else, however, and she would forever be chained by a sense of cowardice she could not — liar; would not — shake. 

“St. Peter’s is a public place, ain’t it?” Jordan shrugged and wrapped her fingers around her shot glass, lifting it in a silent, unceremonious toast before swallowing its contents whole. “Pretty sure I’m part of that ‘public’.” Whether you like it or not, Jordan thought. It was funny, almost, how one of the traits she’d admired so much in them had come back to bite — hard. For a moment, she couldn’t help but feel a tinge of regret: maybe she should’ve gotten them a shot, too. 

where: kara’s garage, on the outskirts of red ridge, 1 am. to: open @redridgehq​

a knock on the metal door, this late at night, was far from unusual. over time, they’d come to consider it as part of the natural soundtrack surrounding them — the cars speeding not too far from their garage, on the highway. the distant howling of dogs and coyotes, as if becoming one by a rule of the wilderness. the gunshots, now and then, which somehow always brought a faded smirk along their lips. the knocking — among those sounds, perhaps it was their favorite. meant there was business to be done. meant, most of the time, that there were reasons to get bloody. lazily, kara dragged themselves out of the messy, disheveled bed they’d been lying on, absent mindedly watching a movie from the old, grainy tv in a corner of the room. crow raised his head lazily as they passed him, and kara patted his head delicately, letting him go back to sleep. (it’s alright, boy). 

when the loud, creaking door was dragged open, kara leaned against its frame, unashamed by their half nudity (on their person nothing but underwear and a shirt from the 1998 red ridge summer camp they never attended, but got a leftover shirt from one of the other kids at st. david’s — shouldn’t be so surprising that it still fits). arms crossed, there’s a curve to their eyebrows — half skeptical perhaps, but intrigued. “so? there’s a night fee for emergencies, you know”.

♡

jordan was too baked to think of a witty response, much less a safe one. it was a bout of insomnia that’d brought her there — having since learned that tossing and turning in an empty bed wasn’t, in fact, the antidote for this bone-deep restlessness. see, it was kara that she thought about when she closed her eyes, when she was stuck staring at the ceiling, and when she decided to put a hand between her thighs. it was them; always them. this fixation felt metaphysical — cosmic, almost, in the way it beckoned her, having drawn her to this very doorstep. she swallowed, helpless against the way her heart raced. it didn’t matter that she’d smoked before this — jordan couldn’t hide from kara if she tried. her gaze followed the dip and swell of their form, eyes ever careful not to linger too long. she didn’t want to give them any ideas — not that the way she’d dressed would even allude to anything. her hair was mildly disheveled still, smelling of citrus and cannabis; her body hidden beneath a black hoodie and cotton shorts. it was sleepwear, pure and simple. 

status: open for anyone @redridgestart​ location: st. peter’s / 6:30 p.m.

Research was literally the only reason why Noel found themself at St. Peter’s that night. It was a weird balance to uphold – introversion, wanting to withdraw from society and yet having to throw yourself into it, willingly. They didn’t choose investigative journalism as a career path for the people though, maybe not directly anyway, but for the truth. They wanted the people to know the truth, no matter how ugly it got. Did that cost them? Sure. You could say that. It cost them in relationships, in jail time, in general dislike for the human population but nothing mattered more to Noel than honesty.

“I’ll just have a beer,” Noel gestured to the bartender, sitting themself on a stool at the bar. They removed a black-ink pen and a small Moleskin notepad from the inside of their messenger bag, which now sat lazily against the bar top, its brown, faux leather flap hanging over the edge of the battered counter. “From tap, bottle, or?” Noel’s eyes trailed to the bartender in front of them, “from tap?” They glanced over, seeing the line of beer brands, “the Yuengling is good, thanks.”

♡

It’s a rotten compulsion: this need for attention — whether it’s good, bad, or stolen; none of it is of any real concern to her. She knows it as soon as she sees them, feeling the seed of this want crawl in her head through her ear. It’s a scab she should leave alone — they’re a person she should leave alone, but that isn’t Jordan’s strong suit. She’d lived from the safety of her wounds and would die by them. Whatever affection had survived the mutilation that was their relationship would forever be bound by that same fate, too. 

Her feet lead her before she can think about it — read: before she can consider whether Noel even wants her there ( which is surely a negative ). Still, she isn’t exactly thinking about Noel as she takes a seat beside them. She’s clutching the memory of them — of who they used to be, together. A self-proclaimed time-traveler: Jordan can never quite live in the present, forever preoccupied by the past and an imagined, frightful future. 

She slips into the stool just beside them, quietly and without any bravado. Her eyes immediately scan the scene before them: an open book, a pretty face, and un expectant bartender. All familiar, but never quite like this. Jordan clears her throat and sneaks a glance their way — lingering, wordless — before answering what she can only assume is what’s asked of her. Even now, after everything, Jordan still gets lost in them. “I’ll have whatever they got, plus a shot of whiskey.” Fingers tap against the bar-top idly in feigned nonchalance. It doesn’t work: the flush of her cheeks betrays her. Jordan looks at them again, flesh alight. This part’s supposed to be easy, she thinks. 

It isn’t. 

“Is there any pleasure goin’ on here?” Jordan motions their way, eyes darting pointedly towards their notepad. “Or are you all business tonight?” 

where: st. peter’s, 8 pm. to: open @redridgestart​

mopey faces aren’t unusual in this corner of the earth. either you walk in here for a drink before getting your ass kicked at rogue’s, or you’re coming for a place where all your sorrows, your failures and faults will fit just right in with the chipped paneling on the walls, the stains on the floor and the ever present smell of ancient booze seeping beneath the floorboards. somehow, she likes it — feels right at home among broken things, be them humans or the cracking shards of glass beneath the counter. she waltzes from one corner of the counter to the other with ease, and she is grateful for the grind of every day: it keeps the thoughts at bay, as if evil had no reason to crawl through the door of st. peter’s — shit’s been rotten for far too long already, in here.

she, however, still feels a certain responsibility for everyone’s sorrow. it weighs over her; as if any disruption of an otherwise precarious, but trustworthy balance, automatically became a direct consequence of her presence when it happened around her. egomaniacal, perhaps: she still felt it was her duty to correct its existence. so, hands dutifully polishing a load of spoons before setting them back in the drawer, fred’s eyebrows quirk in inquisitive interest. “long day?”,  the hint of a smirk pulling the corner of her lips upwards. “i’m not gonna have to start crackin’ jokes like some tv bartender, am i ?”

jordan doesn’t like to be alone. she doesn’t like the funny thoughts that crawl into her head, or the way they seep through to every part of her, buzzing just beneath the surface of her skin. it’s getting worse, she thinks: this feeling that they’re far from the end; this useless, sweltering feeling that she can’t wash off. the mindless, drunken background noise typically helps in dulling these notions — even more so when it’s accompanied by fred’s familiar chirps. jordan peels her gaze from the dent she’s been thumbing, lazily letting it travel towards the one source of light in this place. her lips twitch, expression softening into something less morose. surely, fred knows she’s walked right in to that one, no? “shit, i thought you had to be funny to do that.” jordan swallows a mouthful of her rum and coke, feigning a casual shrug — gears already shifting. whatever hint of a smile that sits on her lips is poorly hidden, perhaps purposely so. “c’mon now, fred.” 

closed  starter for @hopesiick​​

location:  red ridge pd

pause .     in scope ,  all that lies in view     is blatant galavanting ,     the sights of crowd of figures convening ,     particularly brown hair bouncing in the air ,     swaying to and fro     between shoulders ,     over some antics     he could never understand ,     wouldn’t want to understand .     drawing many eyes to the center of the room ,     it’s hard to miss .    audible playfulness     tries to win the ways     of easily distracted colleagues ,     who don’t relieve the trouble in his eyes     when they enable her     like paid entertainment .     it looks unprofessional     and, while he attempts     to spend his morning     trying to keep everything orderly ,     as copacetic as possible ,     it deems quite embarrassing for him .     “ toussard ! ” warning tone ,     albeit a threatening aim     found vivid in the small pit of his beady eyes .     “ did you get those reports in to me ? ”

jordan’s story — asinine as it may have been — is cut short by a proverbial yank on her leash. she doesn’t have to turn to know it’s him. it’s a voice she’d know anywhere at this point; one of the only voices capable of reaching in to the pit of her stomach and twisting her up inside. her expression falters, momentarily allowing a glimmer of childlike fear to shine through, before she can excuse herself. the rest of them scatter like birds: eyes down and zeroed in on the work they’d been neglecting. deep down, she can’t blame them. she’d felt it when she walked in that morning: that tension, the same one they all carried, day in and day out. she’d only been trying to lighten the mood, but maybe this wasn’t the time. see, time — the most important currency — was especially sacred these days. none of them could afford to waste it, least of all her.