#yaburnae

𝖈𝖔𝖑𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖑𝖊𝖘𝖘, his voice  ‒‒   parchment-thin as it squeezed past t̳h̳r̳o̳t̳t̳l̳i̳n̳g̳ ̳n̳a̳u̳s̳e̳a̳.      ❛❛  if i didn't know better, i might believe you to have lost your senses.  ❜❜      𝐧𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐝𝐚'𝐬 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞 had been remarkable, but short-lived. after all, they were in the heart of the black city, 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 that never gave up its prey. 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗸𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 lurked around every dark corner. sometimes, reckoning donned his mask a̳n̳d̳ ̳w̳o̳r̳e̳ ̳h̳i̳s̳ ̳s̳k̳i̳n̳.

she feels herself smile at the words, powerful as they are, but to her ears they scratch a surface she thought she had closed a long time ago. she's learned this early in her life: a mother's love is truly like a mother's hate and as she reminds herself of this, she can only think of her own mother. a woman that was so woed by what had happened to her, she wanted to make sure the same will happen to her own daughter. when shams was born, her mother wept for what felt like an eternity. her trembling hands muffled her own tears as ali's servants rushed to bring his daughter to him. the illyrian had not thought the young girl would be a burden just because she is no male, but the truth remains the same: jasmine was still young, felt like a child herself— at least in her own mind. her mother loved her, this she knew. even at a young age, she felt that love. it burned in her like a comforting flame, the same warmth as the heavy blanket she would tuck around her at night or the sunlight that seeped into her skin on warm afternoons.

her journalistic instinct pings somewhere deep in the recesses of her mind to tell her that she should be recording this conversation — a selfish part of her that cares more about getting a good story to print — but the friend part of her drowns that out. alex doesn't need to be chronicled right now. as far as rory is concerned, this conversation is off the record. there's more of a story here than she initially thought, but as she gets closer to alex and the truth, there's a voice screaming out that this is not her story to tell. it's not like the life and death brigade, where there was privilege and the right to partake in mischief that was on the line. there was something far beyond her understanding. maybe, in time, she'd come to wrap her head around it all, but for now, the most she can do for anyone involved is simply listen.

" and what is it you're hoping for? " rory probes, concerned, of course, but more curious than anything else. " what makes it worth it for you? "

Still, compared to Allison, it could hardly be said that Charlotte was the picture of health. Happiness, perhaps, but good health, certainly not. Her stare was dead - eyed as she settled her gaze on the older, patriarch Argent; her smile too slick, the way it cut across her face and pull the skin taut and sickly. How nice it was to see a familiar face. Charlotte couldn't help but think that he, like his daughter, was looking exceptionally well. She could see where Allison got her confidence from, as well as her aura of authority. Her lips quirked as Chris' comment went ignored, something shifting in her unwavering gaze upon the older man as if to say, I know how it feels.

THERE WAS NO NEED TO BE SMUG AND SO, THE AGENT TOOK HER SEAT QUIETLY, ALLOWING THE YOUNG EXECUTIVE TO KEEP THE SPOTLIGHT, TO KEEP CONTROL. SOMETHING ABOUT HER HAD IMPRESSED UPON THE OLD MAN THE USEFULNESS OF SOMEONE LIKE HER (BRIGHT AND BRUTAL) WORKING IN TANDEM WITH SOMEONE LIKE HIS DAUGHTER (ALSO BRIGHT, ALSO BRUTAL AND YET, DIFFERENT AS NIGHT IS TO DAY). WHAT INFLUENCE HE EXPECTED TO OBSERVE AS THE TWO CAME INTO CELESTIAL PROXIMITY.... WAS STILL UNKNOWN.

I NEED YOUR HELP. / @yaburnae, CONT.

you laugh with mirth, bring the mug of alcohol to your lips. you've always disliked wine, preferred stronger liquor, and so you're content with having the opportunity to indulge with someone else who will not look down upon you for it. or maybe, this is all but an excuse to relentlessly tease one lucien vanserra, who has been dragged out to the tavern with you.

It was all by design, this much was easily known to her. A familiar play taken out of her own repertoire. The nostalgia and safety of a homey, locally - owned diner; the comfort and promise of hot food, served at surprisingly affordable and reasonable prices despite the increasingly dire economic situation; the casual clothes and unpolished mannerisms to match the imperfect environment. NO PRESSURE, NO DANGER. Yet they both knew this wasn't true. And both were just fine with it. It being the lie, of course. This was simply how their world worked.

Though not at all obvious, Charlotte kept a wary eye on the animal at the foot of their table. She'd been surprised to find it react more or less neutrally to her. This was not her usual experience with animals, much less dogs. While it sat calmly, Charlotte was waiting for a flame to spark. The façade of ease could only last for so long, no matter if Mitch would finish his order of the breakfast kitchen sink or not. She did not believe for a second that his signal to a healthy appetite on this rainy morning did not, in turn, add to the theatrics, whether it was real or not. Charlotte had a choice here. She could draw the curtains early and cut to the chase. Or, she could let the play run its natural course and enjoy a fine meal herself in the meantime.

THE STAIRS CREEK, LITTLE BY LITTLE. the Saint ( ! ) has stopped her laugh short, a moment interrupted, though a smile remains on her face as she turns to see the woman come down. her smile is mirrored... a pulsating love reaches between them, despite the night - dark, despite the buzz of taffeta - skirt night.  ❝  hello, my sweetest thing...   ❞ whispered, husked.

the vampire - woman [ @yaburnae, ] glides across the floor slow, a withering and flickering candle flame.  ❝   I THOUGHT I HEARD YOUR LAUGHTER.  ❞ and the Saint ( ! ) allows her smile to widen, large and larger.

THE THING ACROSS FROM HER HAS A STUPID SMILE ON THEIR FACE, or what she registers to be a smile. it is a quirking of his lip that she hates, wants to rip off his face and swallow down, down, down. their response is not one she enjoys. " I HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING YET. " // the woman snarls.

annoyance bleeds through like a badly covered wound. the Saint ( ! ) keeps her temper, hides her tongue and fanged teeth, forces herself inwards. the eyes close for a moment... then two.... then three... Yet. she repeats, malice burning through her mouth like a hot iron, malice spitting itself against the hardwood of her desk.  ❝   i almost don't want to give you your job. i almost don't want to pay you. i almost want to eat you alive.  ❞ the threat is not concealed. it's lain out: a budded thing, bare and naked.

from across the table, the gopher [ @yaburnae ] gives a crooked laugh that refuses to fit his mouth. " fine. won't waste my fucking time. " and the vampiristic woman is swift to move.