#foradnama

from: dis meme 🌸

“Oh, come on, it was just a little bomb.” Baz’s thumb and index finger pinch the air but don’t quite meet so he can ring home the littleness of his Fuck Off gift to their new neighbour. He didn’t do welcome, only unwelcome, and it wasn’t like it was an actual explosive. Just a concoction of sorts that he had hurled through an open window which he interpreted as an invitation. 

cont from x

THERE IS NO THOUGHT that graces her brain the minute she sees Nathan at the other side of the parking lot. Nothing is difficult when she sees him, smells him, feels him; somehow the world is a clear path, narrowed and paved, even when they’ve both lived their entire lives in the shadows of thorns and potholes. He’s made such a fucking mistake getting into that argument, maybe even a fight -- among the rare few times she wasn’t there to see the whole conundrum.

Nate wouldn’t have drugs on him, at least Jess knows that.

“Baby?” she breathes under an exhale, rushing past a security guard trailing to their car at the end of their shift to get to him faster. Jessica takes off into a sprint, quickening just before launching herself around his body like a shaken plastic bag in a thunderstorm. Arms and legs wrapped around him tight, she buries her head in the crook of his neck to kiss the tattoo -- their tattoo -- to reassure herself that they were okay. They were both okay.

“What the hell happened? I got a call from Nina, she said something about an altercation-- a cop?” Nina also said he could’ve dabbled. Jess calls bullshit. “They let you out, that’s a good sign, right? Are you okay? Did anyone hurt you?”

       three weeks ago, he would have been neck deep in shit of his own making right now. three weeks ago, his parole officer would have been staring at him from the other side of the holding cell bars pissed the fuck off that three weeks from absolute fucking freedom nathan had to get into a bar fight. there would have been a lecture about how he shouldn’t have even been in the bar in the first place. another one for losing his shit on who? a cop, joe. yeah a fucking cop you fucking bonehead. he started it. and he finished it.

the conversation plays out in nathan’s head the entire time he’s sitting in the cell - leg jiggling because, jesus fuck, he forgot how much he hated being inside. forgot how cramped everything felt and how it set him on edge. but it’s not three weeks ago. his parole is up. he doesn’t have to worry about that being revoked. he’s sober. they can’t keep him in the drunk tank. the heroin they found is bullshit. he’s never even done heroin. he hates needles. 

cops never care about shit like that when it’s one of their own.

the other shoe never drops though. a lady cop lets him out and gives him his shit back without saying much of anything. or maybe she does, but he’s too busy shoving his belongings into his pockets to notice because he’s certain someone goofed on the paperwork and if he gets out the door before they realize then it’s a problem for another day. the only words he catches are ‘no charges’. good enough for him.

cold night air blasts him in the face when he steps outside and he grimaces, splitting his lip back open. it’s the quick patter of footsteps that catches his attention and he’s only got a few heartbeats to prepare himself. jess rocks him back a step when they collide. his arms secure her to him, holding tight as the realization that he could have lost the privilege of holding her tonight. not happening, he promises himself. 

Chicago; it’s not a city Igor has visited often, but it remains one of strategic importance, that is why he agreed to meet with Dimitri Petrov, face to face; the man responsible for running Bratva’s cell here in Chicago. Petrov himself is not yet Vor, though he clearly holds aspirations; eager to impress, he has obviously been working hard to ensure operations here in Chicago run smoothly, growing the business at a steady pace; enough to capitalise on available opportunities, without attracting the eye of the law or the attention of rival crime factions; not an easy job in the least.

Riding with one of Dimitri’s men and two of his own, the Pakhan listens as Petrov speaks with unashamed passion about one of the dancer’s who works at the club they’re heading to. Delilah is the name that has passed his lips on several occasions now, his girl; a girl who apparently thinks the world of Dimitri and is thinking about giving her career up at the club for him. When he begins to talk about marrying her and giving her ‘babies’ that is when Igor is forced to roll his eyes, though he does so out of sight of his host for the evening. Young love, he suspects this is not, but rather simply a case of Dimitri being unacceptably guileless; frankly the man isn’t particularly attractive, though Igor suspects he has likely become one of the most powerful men in Chicago, which does explain why pretty girls may flit towards him like his dick is made of ice-cream.

“Delilah.” Igor repeats the name, rolling it on his tongue as if deciding whether he likes the taste of it. He will be interested to meet this girl tonight, to determine if she is simply a gullible girl, who honestly wants to settle down with Dimitri to be his wife surrounded by many mistresses, or if she is a smart, intuitive woman, who has only aligned herself with the man because it is he who is the naïve fool.

Igor himself is not a man who seeks love, but rather, is satisfied by the mere simulation of it and so he thinks tonight could offer some fun; perhaps he’ll pluck this girl right out of Dimitri’s lap, simply because he can and deliver a valuable lesson while doing so.

Exiting the car, he moves with their men into the club, to sit in a private section, that Dimitri is quick to emphasis is always saved for him; clearly Petrov spends a lot of time here, perhaps too much. 

❝You’ve carved out your own path. Made something of yourself.❞

Xialing should listen carefully: Wenwu suggests it. It is hardly clear whether anything said, yet or to be, toes beyond suggestion.

❝Different,❞  they call it. He nods, brow cajoling.

Stack different one atop another, and what do you get? A compliment?

Nothing of the true building blocks that he’d hoped to show her. Only what can topple at a cough.

For someone free, she seems troubled to see him. Can’t have been something he said, can it. An old melody tickles Wenwu’s ear. Little, little Xialing... Very interested, he peruses the neon-and-glass punch all around.

❝How many men stand by your door when you sleep?❞

javi: so... last night was fun.

beau: i've never seen someone go as hard on gutair hero as that before

based on: this specific part of all eyes on me by bo burnham from inside: you say the ocean's rising like i give a shit / you say the whole world's ending, honey, it already did / you're not gonna slow it, heaven knows you tried / got it? good, now get inside. 

... which in other words, basically i’m thinking: something post apocalyptic. v few ppl left alive. twd/quiet place/bird box type devastation. one muse is completely apathetic (which is darrow!) and the other is optimistic. v vague, very wide scope to go any direction with it. 

info: darrow  is bi, 30, former middle child of a close knit but criminally inclined family. last surviving hawthorne. has all but given up. 

Darrow used to joke that the gym was like a second home to him. It was where he went to get back to himself, refocus his mind and drown out the noise. With a family like his, everything was always loud. What he wouldn’t give now for a little loud. He’s sat on a weight bench next to a stack of dumbells covered in a thick layer of dust, what had once been a hub of activity before the fall was now dilapidated and abandoned. 

There was no resources to scavenge there -- bar a couple of vending machines that had been long since pillaged -- there was just dirt and desolation and Darrow. 

His own hands are dirtied by fresh soil, drinking water was too precious to waste on cleaning them. It had been two days since he had lost his last remaining brother, and despite never getting along in life, in death he did the only thing he could think to do to right their fractious relationship. 

He had buried him. 

His eyes try to find the lines of his palms beneath the grime, but they’re soon distracted by the scuff of footsteps on the floor. Before, at the very start, he would have leapt into action, made use of his surroundings. Now there’s no scramble to grab the nearest thing he could weaponize to defend himself. 

There was no fight left in him. 

His interactions with other humans were few and far between these days, but the ones he had had he still carried with him in the form to a slash scar to his shoulder and a large mostly healed burn that ran along his forearm.