#hightabled

seated across from the marquis, the air running thick with tension, the question puzzles him. john had never been one for introspective, but the question lingered in his mind— what was it like to be him? a man of few words, allowing his actions to continuously speak volumes for him, but now he finds himself seeking an answer. hickory irises glancing up, taking note of the smug smirk playing at the corners of the man's mouth, john can't help but scoff— even while attempting to bite it back. “ it's... complicated. ” he finally speaks, voice low & measured— everything is calculated in this room. how quickly he can reach for the gun resting in the holster on his belt, how fast he can kick the coffee table in front of them upwards if the marquis were to aim his first— everything has to be measured with this encounter. “ it means being ready for the next fight, the next danger. it means carrying the past on my shoulders. ” the people he's lost, the things he's done.

winston understands where the real problem lies,   what has turned the table's sharp attention on him like the barrel of a gun to the head.  he is not bending his head low enough,  his knees don't shift an inch towards the ground when faced with @hightabled (   surely,  one would forgive an old man's need to preserve his joints. if only that was one bit sincere, of course   ).  he stands as steady as ever,  posture straight and unyielding,  just like new york's most resilient buildings,  brick after brick imbued with history as thick as blood.  not even the smallest quiver overtakes him,  as he glances over at the marquis,  his demeanor seemingly unchanged from their last regrettable encounter   (   the difference is there,  hidden deep in his eyes.  an unfathomable ache that has little to do with age and everything to do with a shot still ringing in his ears   ).

''  i wouldn't be too sure about it,  monsieur de gramont.  ''   the low baritone of his voice is not impolite,  exactly;  just a touch too cold to pass for respectful,  a drop of poison in an otherwise tranquil lake.  if he ever felt inclined to be a foolish man,  he would be reaching for a gun now,  all the anger and sheer indignation running their course.  winston draws a deep breath,  instead,  a hand circling his own wrist and thumb pressed against the black lines resting there,  both reminder and warning.  he could tell him just how much he had miscalculated,  could tell him what he is really thinking   (   you should have killed me right there and then  ),  but he would rather let actions speak for themselves,  in due time.   ''  a man who believes he has already won stands to be disappointed.  ''

years of professionalism have only just lent kerry the slimmest temperance to bite his tongue when it's best, marvel though that is. and he does so just barely, holding back the urge to snap his jaws behind grit teeth, an urge he can - and does - give himself to enough.

he gives himself to that temperance now though he doesn't want to, his gaze racking over this tall fuck of a man, a contemptible presence made manifest in his life for reasons unknown. kerry hardly knows him, but he knows enough to gather he might be something of a malignant tumor in an overly ostentatious suit, at his core. in the rockerboy's estimation, at least.

he's had experience with enough of them to see the telltale markers.

01. pockets. okay so for pockets, kerry tends to try to keep it slim on what he actually carries. he doesn't want too much on his person at a time because it's just annoying and cumbersome at a point, but he wants at least the bare minimum. in his pockets he usually has,

his phone.

his wallet.

a slim-profile cigarette case he has started to prefer as of late. it takes up less space than an actual pack and eliminates the worries of them ending up crumpled. this is paired with a very old zippo lighter.

pack of gum.

and, his lucky guitar pick.

04. car glovebox. as for his glovebox, it's a bit all over the place. kerry tries to keep himself from throwing everything and anything in the glovebox of whatever vehicle he chooses as his main at the time, but it's generally the same basics in every car anyway, so he typically shuffles around,

registration and insurance info.

a gun of some sort - nothing real cheap, but basic, no frills, and reliable if need be. he also keeps a knife and a bottle of mace along with the gun.

bare bones first-aid kit.

a spare lighter and a box of matches.

portable phone charger and battery pack for it.

spare sunglasses.

A ghost awakes inside her; the ghost of a little girl's past. A little girl desperate for her father's attention, playing outside his office with her siblings. Crossing their fingers and toes he'll hear them from outside the glass windows, and poke his head out for a second. He never did, always crushing their hearts. Logan Roy's children had never been worth enough of his time; never were, never would be, just as Vincent had never been worth his own father's.

Two sides of the same coin, she finds herself gulping in response to his words. They haunt her, leaking into the crevices of her brain that she doesn't want foiled by this. There's never an idle evening in their penthouse, whether the conversation steers into business or family. [In truth, she would had chosen the former had she known the direction it would have gone this evening.]

It would be easy to lash out— to take this moment of Vincent's vulnerability and spit it on, just as so many moments of her own had been. [One third of every abused child becomes an abuser. The cycle of abuse with always continue within the Roy family— the poison always seeps through.] Instead, she leans closer to him on the couch, nuzzling into his side. "My poor baby... my poor husband," she glances upward before pressing a chaste kiss to his jaw. A kiss to cure the loneliness. She recognizes it, the loneliness of wanting attention— looking up to your father as a God until you no longer find the faith to believe in him.

"I would never do that." A lie, and if these walls could talk— they would yell it. She would stab him in the back if it meant she could prosper, and when she looks at her husband in the eyes, Shiv knows he would do the same. A mutual exchange of love/A mutual consumption of the soul.

" darling, you seem to be mistaken in believing that i've martyred myself here. " there's a truth all in its own — that addy chose this for herself, this life half-bound to a bar serving violent people their drinks before they leave to kill each other. she's had a taste of that side, decided it wasn't for her. but there's power in the image she's crafted for herself, the ditzy bartender who knows nothing about what goes on outside of the walls of the continental.

however she was honest when she professed she is not here for le marquis @hightabled -- no, she has been invited by someone else. they like her, these powerful assholes. they like that she will not bow or bend and that when she says "get down on yer knees" she means it. in fact, she means it so very much you either get down or she leaves you half-naked on the balcony in retribution. stories have gone around already : a full mythology of the white-haired nemesis. she does not touch you, but she gets you what you want -- and if you dare defying her, you find yourself in a very risky situation that will cause such a ruckus you'll wish you've never contacted her in the first place. most are happy with the deal, though, or she would not find herself in that bar so much. she would not know le marquis.

ah, but there is something uncanny about the white trash girl who talks like all the gold in the world is hidden behind her thousand-stars smile, right? like maybe she knows too much about too many people to be the kind of person who can just disappear because she has annoyed you. like maybe it is not just the men that pay her for a good time that she controls by the balls.

there’s a long, guttural sigh that melts into a groan when he speaks—which would’ve followed his words no matter what he had said, she’s sure, knowing him. what he said isn’t particularly untrue, there’s little things that will bring lasting change to someone, but selina’s not in the mood for this dance. it's an overplayed exchange in which someone tells her what she is or isn't. selina’s many things, many faces and people, but she is not someone who continues to dive headfirst into a pit she can't see the bottom of. what started off as curiosity grew into a mess that’s virtually waiting to boil over, a conundrum she doesn’t have the resources to take advantage of—yet.