— Main Verse. - Blog Posts

N Y O T A  –  K A N

IT  FELT  ALMOST  DECADENT  WHEN  THEY  WERE  this close; pulled together by a ligature of the souls that was, by Nyota’s very limited life through the cosmos, incomparable to any of her experiences. These hallowed moments of ardency that bloomed between them like this – in the quiet of the dark with just distant and blinking stars to observe them – were necessary to remind Uhura how this had been one of the earliest intimacies of her heart. A venerated thing that she manifested, with him, out here in the wild yon of space. Spock lays flush against her so closely that she breathes in the timbre and words of his Vulkhansu so that it might cast out the polluted air left by fear’s hand; – before falling into him the way people fall into dreams. Legs tangling and twining around his with a renewed, albeit libertine, kind of vitality. Briefly her mind dwells on the velveteen soft of his mouth, the warmth of his hand splayed along her face, and then circles back to that intimate place in her heart, the sacred place where his name is carved into the ventricles and sinew. The place where she loves him. A nexus point so profound it spiders out through the rest of her being – ingratiating so deeply it reaches her at the atomic level. She’s lost to him in that moment, somewhere fixed in time, a plotted place where he might always return and there she would be, wrapped around him so tightly that it seemed like she might try to fuse with his skin, flood beneath it, live there with him until the universe returned them to stardust. To never be parted, to share a single, last breath. Perhaps not in this reality or universe, but maybe so in another. But for now, laying bare at the altar of Spock, she had him and he had her; an irrefutable and universal truth as it was written in that moment.

Because a few short months prior, Dorian  N I N E  showed her in brutal, real-time that the sum of any one being’s life is a collection of moments that can and most certainly will change from one to the next. It will happen without warning, without seemingly any rhyme or reason, and it will occur with savage and equally cruel indifference.  She holds him with that same, uncharacteristic tightness from only a little while ago, eyes shut. She’s in one of the Dorian escape pods vaulting to the surface of it’s planetary ocean, watching the nova-like explosion from the submerged city. She’s watching where they left Spock. Where he shoved her into a pod, tapping into some deep Vulcan logic of The One & The Many, while he turned away from the desperate pleading and protesting from his mate. 

Fear is insidious.

It bleeds.

The tips of her fingers [ though the nails are kept short and smooth at the edge ] dig hard into the muscle of his shoulders and back, cementing him against her, eyes held shut - tighter than what was necessary. The beating of her heart accelerates, but not to the tune of two amorous lovers, but in the way a rabbit’s heart beats when a fox is sniffing near the glenn.

“Spock,” his name is a hush she dares to speak against his skin, burying the sound in the crook of his neck.

There’s the familiar hand of fear crawling up the back of her throat, pulling back the words, covering her eyes to memories that were covered in the dust from over long, forgotten years. Shoved at the back, in a place where it does not want her to look. A place that held all the grief she was never permitted, because in the way they had been taken from her, the sound of it…

It was coated in fear.

It was a place she did not want to discover.

But discover she must.

Perhaps, not alone, however.

Nyota, with a great deal of reluctance, pulls back from him just enough so that they once again are looking at each other while alternately her hand slips over top of his, guiding it to lay flush against her face.

Spock was the help she needed.

Uhura couldn’t pretend any longer as though he weren’t – distantly she did wonder if it was less shirking the importance of how Spock could help and more an ulterior need to shield him from what lay beneath in the places she had buried Fear in her memory.

A tear, hot and glistening, rolls down against the ridge of his nose and splashes against the pillow – it wasn’t an easy thing to be the Communications Officer of Stafleet’s flagship, the U.S.S. Enterprise, pride herself for years and years on her ability to communicate in ways that far exceeded words, and yet here with a person to whom she trusted everything to implicity - she could not find any way to express to him the burden that clung to her bones.

This beast of burden. Of fear.

So she invited him to look. To see what she could not say, to know the place where words and any other means of expression had categorically failed her.

Nyota invited her mate to chase the devil from her heart.

@fasciinating

D I S C O V E R. THIS WAS A WORD WHICH INCITED from her fathomless ambition; Nyota Uhura had always wanted to be an explorer for the sake of brilliant and beautiful – discovery. And yet there are things that perhaps needn’t be discovered or explored; but should serve as caution to the rest. The consequence of going too far; to toe along the edges of where lingers the apotheosis of fear. The eldritch things that live in the dark parts between the stars – were such nightmares meant to be found? How far can malevolence be explored? And to what end? Nyota drew herself closer, chasing the warmth from him, again finding comfort in that familiar darkness, face pressed into the crook of his neck; clinging far tighter than what would be her conventional grip into his skin. In hushed, slow inhales and exhales she sidestepped Spock’s sentiment about discovery as the idea felt strange and tight in her chest, a concept that did not belong. Instead she followed the invisible equations he drew into her body, a great many she could not guess their beginnings, middles or ends, but she did catch patterns, numbers and the occasional order of operation; it was the secret she kept with his hands, had yet to ever say aloud her hypothesis to what he left etched into her skin. Briefly smiling into his neck, Nyota drew her leg high, sliding slowly through the middle of his – smooth skin against soft, black hair.

It was a feeling she wanted to chase.

But fear is insidious.

It bleeds.

Her hand, that was soft snaking a delicate line up his neck to the tip of his ear and back down again, finally stopped to rest against his chest, smoothing the hair idly with her fingers.

Fear bleeds – bleeding into the familiar darkness she found in the comfort of Spock. The dark of a vacant rip in the cosmos, a singularity of darkness - unquantifiable fear.

“Spock–” his name trembled in her mouth, “ . . . do you think fear is tangible? If it’s observable and quantifiable - couldn’t it be tangible? A sentient thing?”

The question itself sounded like nonsense, she knew it to be true, but there was a context that she couldn’t explain. It was how she knew fear was tangible; it was a cold hand that held sense at the back of her esophagus and reached down and polluted the air in her lungs with which to speak it.

Maybe Spock might draw an equation of numbers with which to unlock the words trapped in her throat.

@fasciinating

D I S C O V E R. THIS WAS A WORD WHICH INCITED from her fathomless ambition; Nyota Uhura had always wanted to be an explorer for the sake of brilliant and beautiful – discovery. And yet there are things that perhaps needn’t be discovered or explored; but should serve as caution to the rest. The consequence of going too far; to toe along the edges of where lingers the apotheosis of fear. The eldritch things that live in the dark parts between the stars – were such nightmares meant to be found? How far can malevolence be explored? And to what end? Nyota drew herself closer, chasing the warmth from him, again finding comfort in that familiar darkness, face pressed into the crook of his neck; clinging far tighter than what would be her conventional grip into his skin. In hushed, slow inhales and exhales she sidestepped Spock’s sentiment about discovery as the idea felt strange and tight in her chest, a concept that did not belong. Instead she followed the invisible equations he drew into her body, a great many she could not guess their beginnings, middles or ends, but she did catch patterns, numbers and the occasional order of operation; it was the secret she kept with his hands, had yet to ever say aloud her hypothesis to what he left etched into her skin. Briefly smiling into his neck, Nyota drew her leg high, sliding slowly through the middle of his – smooth skin against soft, black hair.

It was a feeling she wanted to chase.

But fear is insidious.

It bleeds.

Her hand, that was soft snaking a delicate line up his neck to the tip of his ear and back down again, finally stopped to rest against his chest, smoothing the hair idly with her fingers.

Fear bleeds – bleeding into the familiar darkness she found in the comfort of Spock. The dark of a vacant rip in the cosmos, a singularity of darkness - unquantifiable fear.

“Spock–” his name trembled in her mouth, “ . . . do you think fear is tangible? If it’s observable and quantifiable - couldn’t it be tangible? A sentient thing?”

The question itself sounded like nonsense, she knew it to be true, but there was a context that she couldn’t explain. It was how she knew fear was tangible; it was a cold hand that held sense at the back of her esophagus and reached down and polluted the air in her lungs with which to speak it.

Maybe Spock might draw an equation of numbers with which to unlock the words trapped in her throat.

@fasciinating

“ 𝑾𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑫𝑶 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑵𝑬𝑬𝑫 ? ”

AN ANSWER FAILED HER or at least one that seemed like it would produce any sensical clarity to either of them. The question held an answer so large Nyota wasn’t sure how to respond for several long minutes. In that time, the dark from the room mirrored the darkness that lingered at the edges of her thoughts, a puzzle to carry with her from birth, to this moment, to seemingly the rest of her days.

Uhura did this from on occasion; in these private, silent, intimate spaces she held with him where her mind wandered to the end of the galaxy, gently pulling his hand along behind her, only to stop right at the edge where infinite darkness began.

Back inside of Spock’s quarters, in a far more familiar darkness; that darkness that held no pretense, just as the man of whom she laid her body against. The resolute and unrelenting heat from all of her radiated deep into his skin as Nyota made a brief ascent upward where her head came to rest under the point of his chin.

When the words finally came to her, they came packaged inside of a query; “Spock – what do you think is out there . . . beyond the galactic wall?”

This had not the first instance in which Nyota came to her mate with this question; and very nearly each time the way in which it is asked, the hour of day and circumstance - all different. Going so far to appear as though a non-sequitur - as it did now. Though there was hardly anything random in this question, a question she thought on almost every day of her life from youth.

Not untoward for scientists and explorers, to pose such quandaries and wonder grand and mysterious things; it was that her tone never implied Uhura was asking for the purposes of science or exploration.

It was a secret thing she asked him — with no expectation of a specific answer, leaving it to be little more than a rhetorical question, but far from direct or specific.

@fasciinating

Nyota Uhura stood over a drawer, her face twisted into an expression that settled between annoyed and a general readying for war.

The drawer in question was normally filled with random odds and ends, bits and baubles, scissors that were missing a handle but were entirely adequate for curling ribbons on gifts, blank thank you cards, three broke styluses, hair ties, bobby pins, clips, bands, papers; it was a junk drawer as beautiful as it was random with it’s contents.

But now . . .

Now it was — organized.

The styluses and single handed scissors were gone, her hair ties neatly bound together with some of the loose string (loose strings that had no business holding hair ties together) and a lot of hallmark clues that someone was in here with their goddamn Vulcan fingers that shouldn’t have been.

Nyota swept the long, silvery white main of hair over her shoulder, eyes narrowing and drawing together fine lines of crow’s feet at their orbital corners. Pensively she sipped her tea and the drawer slammed shut.

Her steps were barefooted and silent as she could hear the gentle conversation between Jim and the Old Man. She didn’t care what they were talking about as Uhura stood in the doorway of Jim’s study, a game of chess setting between them.

It was subtle the way she crept over to him, almost affectionate the way her arm slinked around his shoulders, idly smoothing down gun metal silver hair that was already smoother than the surface of still water.

Gracefully, one could say, was the way she leaned over and at random plucked four pieces from the game set, standing back upright and looking down at her Vulcan husband;

“Why,” Nyota tossed a knight at his right shoulder, “— is all my junk,” then cast a rook at his chest, “— out of,” another thrown at the left shoulder, “ — the JUNK drawer?” And the last she lobbed (though to be fair, her softest) against his left cheek.

@fasciinating

“ 𝑾𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑫𝑶 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑵𝑬𝑬𝑫 ? ”

AN ANSWER FAILED HER or at least one that seemed like it would produce any sensical clarity to either of them. The question held an answer so large Nyota wasn’t sure how to respond for several long minutes. In that time, the dark from the room mirrored the darkness that lingered at the edges of her thoughts, a puzzle to carry with her from birth, to this moment, to seemingly the rest of her days.

Uhura did this on occasion; in these private, silent, and intimate spaces she held with him. Where her mind wandered to the end of the galaxy, gently pulling his hand along behind her, only to stop right at the edge where infinite darkness began.

At long last her mind pulled her back into the present reality, back inside of Spock’s quarters with a far more familiar darkness. Darkness that held no pretense, just as the man of whom she laid her body against. The resolute and unrelenting heat from all of her radiated deep into his skin as Nyota made a brief ascent upward where her head came to rest under the point of his chin.

When the words finally came to her, they came packaged inside of a query; “Spock – what do you think is out there . . . beyond the galactic wall?”

This was not the first instance in which Nyota came to her mate with this question; and very nearly each time the way it was asked, changed. The hour of day and circumstance - always different. In some instances appearing as a non-sequitur; as it did now. Conversely — there was hardly anything random in her question; a question she thought on nearly every day of since youth.

It was hardly untoward for scientists and explorers to pose alike quandaries and wonder grand, mysterious things — but it was her tone that never implied Uhura was asking for the purposes of science or exploration.

This was a secret thing she asked him — with no expectation of a specific answer, leaving it to be little more than a rhetorical question, far from direct or specific.

@fasciinating

Her fingers smooth down the midnight hair covering Spock’s chest while her voice breaks through the silence of his bedroom — “ . . . are you sleeping?”

                                        IN THE DARK, HE SNAPS ALERT at the touch of Nyota’s slender fingers, long and ruminating across bare skin and the steady heart beat drumming under his ribs. Parsing a quick mental check, his internal time sense tells him that it is close to oh two hundred, the room dim with only the silhouette of her face.

Blinking slowly, he looks down at her.

“ Negative, ” or not anymore, but catching the smooth glide of her hand, Spock attempts to convey through the haziness of sleep that he has no complaints. He shifts slightly, careful not to jostle or deter her gestures — he desires it, contact, when they are alone like this — pinning their hands on his chest.

“ What do you need? ”

@haiiling

୨୧╼ Memento Memori, remember you will die. The motto was etched at the entrance of Prufrock Prep. It was fitting as every day spent within the school’s walls felt like a slow demise. Daily concerts held by Vice Principal violin concerts that assaulted their senses. Count Olaf dressed up as Couch Genghis forced them to do meaningless laps all night. The fact that their Orphan status practically made them pariahs was the least of their problems.

        Charlie had not been like the majority of the students. The atrocious treatment of those deemed undesirable was considered the standard. At best they were ignored and at worst they were tormented. With a life infested with unspeakable horrors, all positive experiences were cherished. “Yes, it is wonderful to see you. From appearances time has treated you well.”

        Eyes cast downward as Violet bit her lip. It was a rarity that she saw someone from her past and found pleasure in it. Her gut instinct was generally to flee as quickly as possible. If approached, she would deny who she was and make her exit. Not that meeting new people was any either. She lived an isolated life, scared to get close to anyone outside her immediate family. “How have you been?” With a small smile, she tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear.

Years could move rather quickly. Charlie had memories of many things in recent years that left impressions. The stranger and stranger still. Prufrock Prep among them. It seemed to be an endless maze of the most odd rules he had ever endured. But endured it he had. Not everyone was so lucky- there were a few that got the brunt of it. But one pair in particular had seemed to be dirt beneath the bottom of the barrel. At least as far as it went with Vice Principal Nero.

What a fuck.

But the days that went by, Charlie could remember them. Her in particular. There was something distinctly memorable about Violet. Even if they interacted in limited amounts- by no means without attempts. But that 'school' had been a cage, separating them from the things they wanted or enjoyed.

So when a familiar face appeared as he turned, the dark haired man could only look surprised. His face, usually one of neutrality, had morphed into shock.

"Oh. V-Violet? Holy...-Is that you?"

୨୧╼ It was rare that Violet was offered a reprieve from the atrocities that tortured the world. Sometimes she felt as if she were on the outside looking in – separate from those around her. In all this chaos she had to admit, she was not surprised that the first kindred soul she had met in quite some time was at a bookstore. Regrettably for them both, in front of the self-help isle.

        Violet could not help but be anxious about Nell’s arrival. As she could not recall the last time, she invited someone over for enjoyment. Especially someone so pretty and interesting. She wanted to make a good impression and felt like it had to be flawless. So, she decided it was best to set up their date was in the library. There were shelves stuffed with books on a variety of subjects and luxe but well-loved furniture was strewn about. By the lit fireplace was a sprawled-out blanket. Covered with an eclectic assortment of Chinese food. 

         “Ever since I was a child, I always felt safest surrounded by books. My parents always said that well-read people are less likely to be evil. I thought you may enjoy to see my inner sanctum.” Violet made her way over to the blanket, “I hope you do not mind. I always loved picnics. Please, sit down and make yourself comfortable. Do you require a pillow?” With a gentle smile she made her way to a small bar in the corner of the room. “May I get you something to drink? Wine? Beer? I also have a plethora of non-alcoholic beverage if you so choose.”

@hauntsher ୨୧ starter call. 

different ways to kiss. accepting. ୨୧ accepting

[ teasing ] a light brushing of lips against a partner's skin without fully kissing. ( @contritioned )

୨୧╼ Violet’s breath hitched as she sensed Frank’s lips sweep across her flesh. Though physical contact had yet to occur, she felt as if she was an atom in a particle accelerator. That her brain was going at the speed of light, headed towards a collision. “Frank…” Words spoke barely above a murmur. Eye lids fluttered close – as her fingers entangled in the bed linens. 

          Physical intimacy was not something Violet was accustomed to. For years she told herself that she had no time for such trivial things. Her teens and twenties completely dedicated to raising her siblings and Beatrice. The promise that she made to her parents and Kit was something she took very seriously. Even so deep down she knew those were merely justifications for her fear of closeness. 

         Tragedy seemed to befall those who got too involved with Violet. Which always left her with feelings of loss, guilt, and self-loathing. The trauma did not just plague her – but alienated her. She found it difficult to connect with those who lived a life without suffering. Even with Frank’s roughness, she found solace with him. For he was the first person since Quigley understood what it was like to be trapped in an abyss of sorrow.  The need to sacrifice yourself to rid the world of monsters.

        As Violet became more accustomed to Frank’s proximity, her body relaxed. In every way his body dwarfed her own – threatening to swallow her up. She bit her bottom lip as she felt a mix of nervousness and excitement well in her stomach. “Please, I cannot take it anymore.” The way in which he toyed with her was driving her to the brink. “Touch me. Or I swear I shall go as mad as Victor Frankenstein himself.” Was it so wrong to lose oneself in a moment of desire?  In a world so frightening and cruel, brief moments of reprieve were all that could be hoped for.

୨୧╼ Against the dreariness of the abandoned industrial background, Violet stood out. The way she held herself was filled with pose and grace akin to one of Degas’ ballerinas. She was dressed immaculately in a style defined as modern retro. Yet if one had a keen eye, they could catch that the ribbon that held up her hair had survived a fire. Petite frame and height made her appear physically non-threatening. Something that often worked in her favor.

        Doe-eyes looked up at the stranger’s herculean form. If Violet had been anyone else – perhaps she would find him threatening. After facing so many monsters, she found fear hard to muster. One could not tell someone’s intent by appearance alone. Villains came in many forms and often in a variety of disguises. A person who seems suspicious could offer aid at a time of need. It was still best to be cautious. Slender fingers clasped tighter around the dart. Which by appearance alone seemed indistinguishable from one might find in a game parlor. 

        “I have found one cannot rely on the word of the municipality. As corruption and power go hand in hand. However, I cannot deny this building is documented as vacant.” Violet’s voice was steady -unafraid. It was clear from her articulation and cadence that she was educated in high society. Even if those days were long gone. “Could I not inquiry the same of you? I apologize if I am wrong – but you do not exactly look as if you belong here either.”

        If Violet had been a properly trained volunteer, perhaps she would handle this better. As a mother herself – she understood her parent’s choice to keep her out of the organization. Yet at times like these, she wished for just a day of disguise training. Or had and iota or her mother’s acting talent. She genuinely felt her guises and fibs worked, not due to her ability – but by the incompetence of those around her. The man in front of her had the eyes of someone who was keen and determined. So, she wished not to press her minimal luck that he could see past a mask.

        “I have business here. As you see, this building has suffered fire damage. I am investigating it.” The best lie – was always a half truth. It was the very same organization that she sought who was to blame. According to her research, the former owners would not sell. Fires were always how they settled scores. “The local arson rate has accelerated over the past few months at an expediential rate. I find it very worrying.” Not once did she confirm whether she had explicit permission to be there. One should never show their hand before the appropriate time.

        The commonplace book in Violet’s lap was open. Filled with sketches of the opposite building’s exterior and what looked like the designs for various gizmos. All basic drafts of things she could use infiltrate. “Beverly,” A faux name she had used since her first true disguise. Where she was forced to perform in a cruel ‘freak show’ – that was unethical and outdated. There were times her nightmares were plagued by the sounds of lions devouring Madame Lulu and the blaze of the fire that burnt the carnival to the ground.

        Now was not the time to get lost in the horrors of the past, when the present was equally terrifying. There were children who suffered in the hands of the same criminal enterprise that stole her life. Personal feelings could not cause her to waver here. Her gaze went from him to out side the window, where smoke plumed from stacks and machinery buzzed. A small sigh escaped her full lips. 

This war you're waging will never end.

And what did Frank Castle even know, anymore? A good, home-cooked meal? No he'd forgotten that. He hadn't eaten something made by hand in too many years to count. (He'd never have Maria's spaghetti sauce again.) A warm, clean bed with fresh sheets? No he'd forsaken that for motels and dingy holes in the wall where the fabric scratched his skin and had been feasted on by moths at some point but at least it was something warm, right? The love of a good woman? No, no he'd lost that, too. In an instant, right there with his little girl and Junior and there hadn't been a god damned thing he could do to stop it. He'd been through the phases; blamed himself, blamed others, rationalized, bargained internally, but anger ... anger stuck. Anger made sense. It felt right.

Anyone tied to the deaths of the Castle family had been dead and buried more than a year prior. No loose ends, no mess. If anyone so much had breathed their names with any ounce of ire Frank had come for them like the executioner he was, and put them down like the sick dogs they were. Because it was right. Because it settled something in him that had broken back in Kandahar. Because he thought he could find some semblance of peace.

And he did, it was true. Some part of him found proper footing knowing that the people who'd hurt him, stolen from him, were gone. But it didn't bring them back. Peace? No. That was only found putting people down. He accepted that now. It was who he was.

The Punisher.

So he punished.

On the scale of moral judgment, things that he considered pure and unfettered wrong was anything to do with children. They could be assholes sure, Frank had been the king asshole of them all when he was young, but they were innocent. They didn't deserve to be preyed upon (what if it had been Lisa?) or sold out to the proverbial mines (what if it was Frank Jr.?). He calmed his nerves before every go-around ... not because he was afraid but because he knew it would appease him too much if he didn't filter it. If he didn't shut that part of his brain off before he kicked down the door and did what he did best.

One batch, two batch.

All of the pennies and dimes in the world wouldn't stop him from following the trail.

And he'd left one hell of a bloody one behind him so far. There was a string connecting these work houses, he knew. He'd picked up the scent after the second, when the conditions were too similar and the kids had leashes held by the same hands. He'd bleed his way up the food chain, shake down enough of these operations to catch the attention of someone worth torturing information out of. He'd go from there. But for now? He'd watch.

Case too-large to be luggage in hand, nondescript duster jacket, military reg boots and a bit of hardware that might make the average Joe squirm and he was on his way into the nest across the street. He'd scoped it the day before - it's vantage points were primo, and he could post comfortably (not that it mattered) for a few hours and watch through a scope before he acted. It was abandoned, which was perfect, and at the very least he could work undisturbed.

Or ... it was supposed to be abandoned. The picture of one of Lisa's little books he did not expect to see - spyglass and all.

Whose there?

Fingers tightened around the handle of the rifle case. Nondescript, blended just enough but suddenly he seemed out of place et al.

"You supposed to be here, lady? City marked this building as abandoned."

୨୧╼ The fire-starting side of V.F.D. did not come to an end with the demise of Count Olaf. He was the main antagonist in the Baudelaire’s story. Yet in the end he was merely a single piece on the chessboard. There were much more powerful players yet to be stopped. Violet had received a coded message detailing the whereabouts of a workshop that employed child labor. Something that horrified her, but it was not a surprise. As she herself was used for labor in her youth by the same organization.

         Even if it put her at risk – Violet had to do something about it. She sent Beatrice to visit Klaus while she went back into the trenches.  Illegally she set herself across the street from the workshop in an abandoned building. Common place notebook in her lap, used her spyglass to study not only the visage of the buildings but the goings on within. 

          Just as Violet worked on a diagram of the building, she heard a sound at the door. She swallowed hard, as she was overwhelmed with dread. As a random encounter while one was snooping on a nefarious secret organization was rarely pleasant. From a case she pulled a throwing dart, tip dipped in a poison that would paralyze the target. Even now she lamented the blood that stained her hands. She wished not to add anymore. With nowhere to run – she simply inquired, “Whose there?”

@contritioned ୨୧ starter call. 

୨୧╼ Violet stood about the beaches shores with a reflective gaze. A reminder of a much simpler time when the Baudelaire s would visit Briny Beach. Precious memories which she held closely to her heart. Chocolate eyes gazed downward, only to notice an immaculate rock at her feet. It had been sometime since she indulged in her once beloved pastime. 

        Delicate fingers took hold of the singed ribbon around Violet’s wrist. Perhaps after all this time she should have replaced it. But it reminded her that she was a survivor. With a practice motion she tied her hair out of her face. That taken care of she reached down for the run. Her thumb ran over its smooth surface. With a quick flick of the wrist, she skipped the rock across the water expertly. Somethings were never forgotten she supposed. Lips curved upwards in the rare smile.

@marvattacks ୨୧ starter call. 

୨୧╼ There were difficulties that came with being a young mother. Violet often found herself faced with the judgement of others. Beatrice was not her biological daughter – but it was best that people thought so in many instances. Only those who she considered close confidence learned of her daughter’s true origin. 

      Out of all the parents who waited for their children to emerge from school – only one seemed close in age to Violet. The others were considered more age appropriate for the age group. It had been quite some time since Violet had reached out to another. Fear often left her frozen. As she saw herself as a black cat, a bad luck charm. If she got close to anyone, it would end poorly for them.

        It was Violet’s family who constantly insisted that she get herself out there. To not let the past tether her. So, she mustered up all of her courage and approached the woman. “Excuse me – I’m Violet.” Anxiously she looked down at her shoes, “I am new to the area, I’ve noticed we are the youngest ones here. Though it may be bold to ask – would you like to exchange numbers? I would enjoy making a friend who also has a child.” To have someone who understands. 

@witchwood ( maddy ) ୨୧ starter call. 

୨୧╼ There was so much that Violet wished to say to Monty. She was sure he had heard of her trials and tribulations. The Baudelaire’s exploits had become quite infamous on both sides of V.F.D. Yet there was only so much a coded message could convey. “Sunny is a chef now. Klaus is a university professor. All under aliases of course. One can never be too careful of those with treacherous intentions.”

        “Feel free to take a seat at the counter while I cook. Beatrice has taken the position as the Editor of the school paper at her school. She will be home late due to those commitments. I imagine it does Lemony proud.” Though she had not spent time with Lemony personally, she felt as if she knew him. As he was the one who recorded the bitter truth of their plight. For better or for worse.

         “How do you feel about pasta puttanesca? Sunny has perfected a recipe for it. Being one of Beatrice’s favorites – she shared it with me when she moved.  While I might not be on the phenomenal chef my sister is, I think I do quite well.” While there were sad memories attached to the dish, there were happy ones as well. Even in the darkness of Count Olaf’s guardianship, making pasta puttanesca for the first time was a treasured memory. 

@ofmaddogs ( monty ) ୨୧ starter call. 

୨୧╼ It had been quite some time since Violet had been in school. Before the great fire that irrevocably changed her life, she enjoyed school. One of her most cherished memories was winning a school science competition, and her parents taking her out for root beer floats to celebrate. Then there was the absolutely dreaded Prufrock Prep where she suffered a variety of abuses and inhuman treatment but not only Count Olaf but Vice Principal Nero.

        While Violet had met an assorted cast of terrible fiends, there were people who treated her kindly even at her lowest. Charlie was one of those who had shown kindness to the Baudelaires. Something that she would never forget. Even now with so many years passed, she recognized him. His eyes were still gentle as they always had been.

         Violet bit her bottom lip, a bit nervous. If she were a normal woman who lived a normal life, she would have had no reservations in approaching him. However, nothing had been normal for her for a long time. Even now there were those who held a vendetta against her. The worst part was some of it was warranted. Survival did not come without a cost. To reveal whom, she was to anyone was not an easy task.

        Perhaps Violet was being foolish – but in the end she decided to take the chance. She made her way towards Charlie. “Hello, I do not mean to interrupt. But you look awfully familiar. I believe we went to school together.”

@divinetenebris ( charlie ) ୨୧ starter call. 

୨୧╼ Violet was no stranger to disastrous events. Whether misfortune was big or small could cause internal and external strife. For just because a tragedy may be pebble to one person, it could be a boulder to another. Everyone had their own crosses to bear.  While a life full of despair may cause one to become hard – Violet tried her best to maintain her humanity and compassion. It was because of this she approached a girl who seemed a bit lost. “Excuse me Miss, are you alright?”

@mccklynaive ୨୧ starter call. 

i'll keep you safe prompts. ୨୧ accepting

“this isn’t up for discussion. i know you’re used to looking out for yourself, but i need you to understand that you don’t have to live like that anymore. i’m here. for as long as i’m around, i’m going to come between you and anything that wants to hurt you.”  - monty ( @ofmaddogs )

୨୧╼ Uncle Monty was not family by blood. Yet being with him always made a house feel like a home. In horror she had thought he had met his untimely demise by the hand of Count Olaf. To find out he managed to survive and avoid further wrath filled her heart with joy. It was comforting that he still wished to act as her guardian, even if it had been years since she required one. 

     “I worried the code I left to my location would be solved by villainous forces. I am ecstatic that you were the one to resolve it.” Petite hands took Monty’s into her own. It had been so long since they were in each other’s company. So much had transpired to the happiness they experienced under his care. Part of her worried if she was worth someone’s protection and care anymore. 

     “My apologies,” A melancholic smile grew across Violet’s face. ”It’s just been so long since I felt support from anyone other than my siblings.” Out of all the adults she had met, Monty was one of those that disappointed her the least. From the first meeting he genuinely showed care for the Baudelaire’s, and for a brief minute gave them hope for a better life. “Please, you must stay with Beatrice and I. We must catch up over dinner. Though I am not as talented in the kitchen as Sunny – you will find I am not completely hopeless.” 

Open Rp

"Welcome Welcome! Find a place. Sit or Stand. Be right with!" Oil called, her voice loud and clear over the jazz music floating through The Last Drop. Hearing the door open all the same.

Just filling in for her bartender. Pretending she didn't know a "headache" was just code for "hungover" She was the Boss. She had Standards Barely

She was currently crouched behind the bar, fighting with a box that had managed to wedge itself under the sink. Impressive 10 minutes ago. Frustration inducing now.

With an annoyed mutter, she pushed up and back. Blinking to adjust to the midmorning sun that streamed in through the windows. Oh and the skylight.

Ma's idea. She hated it. Didn't have the money yet to fix it A Shame

Eyes flicked over to the greeted guest, an easy smile appearing on her face as she leaned against the bar. Head propped up by a hand.

"What's brought you to the only place you'll get a drink from before noon my friend?"