LADY / RECKONING

bloodied knuckles  | tear stained cheeks |  rust  |  a busted lip  |  claws  |  fangs  |  a bloody nose  |  chattering teeth  |  a dark space underneath the bed  |  scratching noises on a wall  |  creaking metal  |  fog  |  dancing under moonlight  |  blood dripping lips  |  heavy breathing in the dark  |  a feeling of unexplained dread  |  a figure in a dark corner  |  dirty peeling wallpaper  |  a bloody handprint on the wall  | sobbing in the dark  |  bite marks on the skin  |  eerie whispers  |  a hood covering a stranger’s eyes  |  the growl of a hidden animal  |  the sound of a blade being sharpened  |  a deep, dark forest  |  walking on the streets alone at night  |  a cobweb-filled, abandoned building  |  eyes darting in paranoia  |  a heavy beating pulse |  the feeling of being trapped  |  struggling to get out a scream  |  boards covering broken windows  |  a quiet graveyard  |  a gas station in the middle of nowhere  |  a road that never ends  |  heavy fog rolling in  |  the scent of blood in the air  | eerie old photographs  |  walking along train tracks at night  | a chill going up the spine |  gathering crows  |  a dusty, dimly lit study  |  mist over a deserted cobblestone street  |  ghost towns  |  shadows around a campfire |  the sound of chanting  |  church bells tolling  |  an orange harvest moon  |  a broken down carnival  |  a dirty stuffed animal abandoned  |  wiping bloody hands on fabric | nightmares  |  waking up in a panic  |  a power outage  |  heavy lightning storms  |  a secret trap door  |  the feeling of being watched  |  fear from trauma  |  a ouija board set out on a table  |  an eerie doll  |  a scream of anguish and pain  |  withered plants  |  a room that’s been forgotten and gathered dust  |  owl eyes in the dark  |  curled, dead tree branches  |  a ritual altar  |  flickering candles  |  a lantern held up in the dark  |  fear of being followed  |  creaking floorboards  |  repressed, horrible memories  |  clenched teeth  |  soft, echoing piano keys  |  an old book covered in dust  |  many pairs of glaring eyes  |  stumbling in pitch black darkness  |  being stranded in the middle of nowhere  |  a trail of blood

@ladyreckoning​

She’s sitting on the edge of the steps outside the entrance of Riverdale High, holding an unopened flask on the inside of her arm while she holds her phone between her hands –– its cold, and she curses herself for leaving her jacket inside the gym, draped somewhere across a folded chair, and the red dress she’s wearing is doing nothing to keep her warm. Much to her dismay, Robin doesn’t text her back, and she rolls her eyes as she puts her phone down beside her and rolls her eyes in quiet exasperation. It is only then, when she dares look back to the double doors that open behind her, that she notices she’s not alone. 

Veronica Lodge in her light blue dressed glory appears, with tear stricken eyes and looking everything but joyous. She knows next to nothing about this small town’s very own Heiress, in fact, Santana had managed to make her strangely tumultuous years in Riverdale High fly under the radar of Veronica and her golden trio of weird friends, and she had considered that a victory, until she had suddenly waltzed into her life, three weeks before graduation, looking like something akin to heartbreak. And she usually wouldn’t care (usually), but Santana Lopez is nosy, and she has some time to kill –– “Ever considering emailing the company that made your mascara? All tears, no spills. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” But she stands anyway, snatching her clutch and her flask, before reaching inside to fetch some tissues for her. “Here. Let me guess –– they stopped playing the One Tree Hill Season 3 Soundtrack and moved on to The O.C and things got super depressing?”

It’s supposed to be the highlight of high school. Years ago, Veronica Lodge would have rolled her eyes, been far too mature and wise and above her peers to find any joy in something as silly as a senior prom. But Riverdale had met a girl drowning in guilt and credit card debt and one too many nights at all the wrong clubs in New York City and turned her into a girl riddled with teen drama worthy sentimentality, filled with the love of the tiny snow globe town she called her home now and the people inside it. She’s a different girl now. The kind who thinks that maybe the prom could be the most perfect night, one last moment with the people she’s come to call her real family. And somewhere in New York City, in a club she shouldn’t be in, a Veronica Lodge, drunk on expensive champagne lectures her for knowing better than to put her heart in things. 

@awesomegaydar​ sent: “ is everything alright between us? ”

the    tone    of    her    voice,    the    obvious    repulsiveness    that    she    must    be    feeling,    has    blaise    wanting    to    revert    back    into    himself    and    it    has    him    jerking    his    arm    away,    hastily    making    sure    the    sleeve    of    his    shirt    cover    the    tainted    skin.    it    was    his    fault,    he    shouldn’t    have    been    so    reckless    or    careless    enough    for    him    to    bare    the    most    sacred    part    of    him    now.    it    were    all    his    fault.    being    brought    up    in    a    pureblood    household    with    his    mind    being    poisoned    with    all    the    values    and    ideals    that    all    pureblood’s    held    had    definitely    paved    the    way    for    him    and    despite    it    not    necessarily    being    something    he    wanted,    it    couldn’t    have    been    avoided.            but    he    couldn’t    blame    it    all    on    that.        ❝        do    you    honestly    think    that    anyone    has    a    choice    when    it    comes    to    that?            ❞    he    bites,    speaking    much    harsher    than    he    has    ever    spoken    to    her    before    and    he    regrets    it    as    soon    as    soon    as    the    words    left    his    mouth.    he    had    made    no    choice    to    join    the    ranks    of    the    voldemort’s    followers    but    he    certainly    didn’t    deny    the    offer.    how    could    he?    the    zabini    name    is    a    name    that    most    wizards    know,    both    death    eaters    and    the    order    alike.    and    with    that    reputation    comes    a    time    where    they    must    announce    their    alliance.    for    him,    his    mother    made    it    years    ago    when    she    become    betrothed    to    a    primary    member    of    the    death    eaters.    it    had    never    been    his    choice,    not    since    he    were    born    but    yet,    he    wishes    that    he    could    say    that    they    tortured    him,    that    they    blackmailed    him    to    take    the    mark.    he    had    sat    there,    grimaced    but    took    the    pain    somewhat    gracefully    when    they    embedded    the    mark    into    his    flesh    as    he    didn’t    want    to    give    them    any    pleasure    of    seeing    him    writhe    in    pain.    ❝        what    do    you    want    me    to    say?    that    they    threatened    to    kill    my    mother?    ha        …            ❞    he    lets    out    a    short    low    laugh    as    his    shoulders    slump    like    all    of    a    sudden,    all    of    the    weight    of    the    world    suddenly    rested    on    his    shoulders..    ❝            i    wish    they    had,    i    would’ve    let    them    do    it.                                                no,    veronica.    they    didn’t    force    me    to    do    anything    …    i    just    don’t    have    a    death    wish.        ❞

@vrake​ gets a starter i’ve owed her forever

I thought we were never getting out of there. She sits herself down on the living room sofa, far away from the chatter of her and Cheryl’s parents of a meeting they’ve disguised as a “polite dinner.” They’re not friends -- not even friendly. And certainly their families have never understood politeness beyond fake pleasantries and taking out only their second best bottle of merlot for the occasion. It’s not common for the Lodges and the Blossoms to gather at any capacity, let alone for Veronica’s parents to invite them to dinner. But they had nonetheless, and she’d been instructed to be polite and accommodating while they discussed an important deal. 

@ladyreckoning​

“–– Almost everyone’s pretty cliquey, and sticks to their guns. I think its some ridiculous, centuries old prejudice or something, but everyone loves to preach about unity even though witches practically bully the vampires, and well… the werewolves bully themselves, but Jo and I hang out with everyone”. She keeps her arms behind her back as her boots leave an imprint on the path towards the old mill; though she usually takes this endeavor in pairs, she’s alone in the mission to show Veronica Lodge around. A dangerous feat, if she’d be afraid of vampires at all. Actually, quite the opposite. “I’m strictly… don’t ask, don’t tell but, if you don’t mind me asking… What happened to you?” 

People tend to walk on eggshells around Veronica Lodge. And it’s not hard to figure out why. Daddy Dearest has money. Connections. And rumors about his business spread faster than wildfire. Still, she’s never bothered to fall into the category that fall at the other girl’s feet. Her mom was a cop. She learned from a young age that people like Hiram and Veronica Lodge don’t deserve fear. Hence…why she’s here.  ❝ Veronica Lodge, ❞  Caroline’s tone is cheery enough to disguise their usual brand of irritation with one another. Without invitation, she drops the small stack of her books on the table and takes the seat, slipping her bag over the chair behind her. She could come right out and say it. Ask the questions that everyone else will. She has her notepad and pen at the ready to take the kind of notes that’ll make for a killer article on the subject — but she’s not stupid. She’s witnessed Veronica chew people up and spit them out for less than that.  ❝ I heard about your Dad’s deal. ❞  She won’t pretend otherwise. And she’s a terrible liar anyway.  ❝ I came to bargain, actually. — I have seriously killer notes for our final. Like, you’re guaranteed an A if you use them…Just give me five minutes with your Dad’s secretary. ❞

The crisp fall air in New York was more invigorating than usual. It cooled Veronica’s chest in the way autumn always did as it ran in after summer; freeing, expanding. She’d read a poem once by an old german man who said that autumn was the season of independence. She hadn’t taken it to heart then, but while stuffed up in a pent house loft, Veronica Lodge had had a lot of time to read poetry and think about independence.

It was fickle. The fine line between freedom and control that came with vampirism. Two years in Nick St. Claire’s strange family had taught her that, if nothing else. She’d never forgiven him for the violent turning that got them there, tried not to think about the night she’d woken in his hotel room with the taste of blood in her mouth or the family she left behind. She’d never forgiven him for being another in a long line of powerful men that she ached and planned every day, over poetry, coffee, and thick brimmed glasses, to slip away from.

But with power came freedom, came the strength in her step and the hollow thunk of Italian shoes against New York City gravel. Veronica walked tall, armed with nothing but her own determinedly set jaw, a fresh body full of blood in her system -- a young bookshop owner she frequented because he was always awake at 5 am -- a daylight ring, and the crisp autumn air breathing new beginnings and freedom and into her lungs.

Momentarily distracted by the sound of Veronica shuffling behind her, she makes note of the vase in her hands with a quizzical look on her face, before she looks at the peephole again. That’s when she sees him, it, the man behind the door with a heavy winded jacket quietly screwing a silencer on a handgun. It makes every nerve in Sawyer’s body stand up and she shakes her head in Veronica’s direction again, points to the room behind her and takes a few steps back and away from the door. ❛ Get inside. Lock the door. Don’t come out until I say so. ❜

And that’s when the knock comes, three slow and tentative taps against the wood, and Sawyer is the one moving towards it. When she looks again, he has his side to the door, and the gun tucked in his jacket, Sawyer swings the door open with the gun aiming at his head. ❛ Drop… Your weapon.❜

The look of surprise in his face does not elude her; he swings at her and Sawyer ducks, giving him enough time to take off on a sprint down the hallway. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t order him to stop, doesn’t tell him she’s with the FBI (she knows what’s at stake here, what could happen if he has that information and this is someone associated to Veronica’s father), but she takes off after him anyway. He shoots when she stops at a corner, but she ducks just in time to see the hole it leaves on the wall behind her, and he’s pushing a window open as Sawyer chases him again. He slides out with a surprising amount of ease, so much so, that when Sawyer stops at the window and looks out –– he’s gone. 

When she returns to Veronica’s apartment not fifteen minutes later (after doing a thorough sweep of every nook and cranny of her floor), she’s holstering her gun and locking the door behind her. All three bolts, with her phone in hand; she’ll have to report this to her superiors, but there is something more important that needs tending first. The girl behind the door. Sawyer knocks on Veronica’s bedroom door, leans against it.  ❛ Ms. Lodge… Would you like to come out or would you like me to come in instead?❜

At first, Veronica considers being brave. She considers staying put with that vase in her hand and helping to defend her apartment from whatever is going on. But she sees the look in Agent Cross’s eyes and thinks better of it. They’d talked about this before, about what happens when it’s time for Sawyer to do her job. Veronica has to trust her and listen to the other or they’ll b e in even greater danger than they already were. So Veronica does as she’s told, she goes into her bedroom and locks the door. But instead of keeping the vase in her hands, she puts it down in the middle of the room and moves to the safe. It’s in the second drawer of her vanity, in a lock box with a pin pad safe that only she can open. Her father may not be a good man but he’d taught Veronica some very important things about protecting herself. One of those things was to always be armed. 

She’d never had to take that gun out before but she takes it out now, with shaky hands, surprised once again by how cold and heavy it is. And then she waits. She hears a scuffle but it’s far away. Silence. And then the door. Veronica waits, standing by her bed, out of eyeline of the door, with the gun pointed straight in front of her, finger on the trigger. As she hears footsteps approach, she tightens her grip, squares her jaw, prepares herself. She’ll think about what happened to Agent Cross and whether or not she’s alive after. First -- this.