She Almost Smiles At That — Almost. It Doesn’t Quite Make It Past Her Mouth, Gets Caught In The Corner

jessica alexander ; joseph sinclair talks

Irene doesn’t move.

Not when he steps closer. Not when his voice drips that low, jagged warning. Not even when the storm seems to lean in with him, like it, too, wants to see what happens when something snaps.

She just stands there — still and utterly unshaken, like the world’s spun meaner things at her and she’s long since stopped ducking.

Her gaze tracks his approach with the kind of measured calm that doesn’t come from arrogance, but experience — the cruel, quiet kind that’s buried friends and enemies both, and didn’t much flinch at either. Her fingers twitch once at her side, maybe muscle memory, maybe restraint. No visible weapon. No posturing. Just that look. Sharp and old and wholly unimpressed.

At his caperucita, her brow ticks up.

“Cute,” she murmurs. “You practice that one, or just bark it at anyone in red?”

The wind shifts again — hard this time — and her coat flares at the hem like it wants to fly, the scent of iron and wolfsbane rising faint in the air between them. Not fresh-cut. Older. Embedded. She doesn’t need to show him where it’s hidden. That’s the point.

Her voice stays low. Calm. But it cuts cleaner now.

“Funny thing about wolfsbane —” she says, tone drifting like smoke from a slow-burning fire, “— it comes in different forms. Tinctures, powders. Oils that don’t even smell like anything until your lungs start to collapse.”

She steps once, not toward him, not away. Just enough that the gap between them feels sharper. Like it means something more now.

“So I’d be careful.”

Her baby blues narrow, not cruel — just real. Tired in the way only people who’ve survived monsters are tired. “Like I said. You’re not on my list. Yet. But don’t mistake that for mercy.”

Her chin tilts slightly, just enough to read the shape of him again. Rage, hunger, grief all coiled together in a too-tight skin. She’s seen it before. Worn a version of it once. But she’s not about to be the one who breaks first.

“So be a good boy,” Irene says, almost gently. “Back away. Because yeah — maybe I end up with a bite. But you?”

She leans in just a breath, enough that her voice can flatten into something harder beneath the calm.

“You’ll end up dead. No matter the scenario. Odds aren’t in your favor.”

Then, softer again — a shrug of her coat, eyes already turning past him. Dismissal, deliberate and cold.

“And like I said. I don’t make messes I’m not ready to clean up.”

         her whole holier than-wiser than-better than act makes him want to fucking kill her. he supposes coming back home was supposed to mean he was on his best behavior- or at least better than before. before, when he had killed just for the crime of daring to exist, his own bloodlust all-consuming. but this time, he had a reason. she’s provoking him, he’d provoked her. she’s a hunter. that’s reason enough. and it’s not like being on his better behavior had stopped him before. the curse doesn’t care about promises, the wolf even less. the wolf takes his anger, the rage that burns and curls in his chest, spreading to his limbs. his mind had never mattered, logical thinking and inhibitory control skipped right over in favor of emotion, of passion. pride, too. the wolf doesn’t want him walking away, not when he could taste blood beneath his teeth. 

         he can smell the metal she’s got stuffed somewhere on her, wonders how long it could take her to whip out whatever hunter trickery makes her think she can take on a wolf, before he’s got his teeth in her. even somewhat human, dark eyed and feral, he could make the bite lethal. césar doesn’t care about listening anymore, he doesn’t care about nightmares, what she has to say. whatever glimmer of interest, the herb that had glanced through his senses, familiar. he doesn’t give a fuck. all it takes is one relax, pup for his nerves to flare and now, now he’s dangerous. he wants to hold life in his jaw and be the one to take it away, he doesn’t care who it is.

         rough from the growl, his voice reaches a low, raspy tone as it crawls from his throat. dying, vibrating with rage.  “ yeah, i’m done fucking barking. ”  it chokes out with a dry laugh, the thing stifling his words is not hesitation, is not fear, but it doesn’t take any mind reading bullshit to figure that out. his demeanor tells that story, hulking and predatory. that’s his threat, that she couldn’t stop him. she could hurt him, she could kill him, punish him for ruining her pretty fair skin, for making tears spur in judgy blue eyes from the pain. but she couldn’t stop him, not really.

         he walks closer, stalking, doesn’t reach her entirely, and keeps enough space between them that his teeth are kept at bay. for now, for now, for now. just put to the side enough that he’s thinking of blowing right past her, going to bury his teeth into some bunny. to stay alive for avi, to stay alive for teo. maybe it’s the storm that brings out that heart in him.  “ i’m a lot bigger than you, caperucita. what you got that’s so bad? ”  césar doesn’t know why, but he can smell something deeper than the knife.

WHO: @cutthroat-service WHERE: thera's place

The tower was quiet this late —just the hum of stillness and the weight of too many hours folded into the dark. Irene hadn’t said much when she arrived. She never really did. Thera had opened the door without a word, like she’d been expecting her. Maybe she had. Irene hadn’t asked how.

Now it was just her, the steady rise and fall of Shiv’s breathing, and the thrum of something still clinging to them—like a wire pulled too tight and left humming in the wind.

She moved slowly, boots soundless on the floor as she crossed to the bed, pulling the chair closer. Her coat was still damp from the walk. A long shift, a longer night, and now this—whatever this was going to be.

Irene sat, eyes soft but tired, and let her hand hover for a second over Shiv’s face. Cold fingers, colder than usual. She touched their forehead lightly, thumb brushing against damp skin.

“Hey,” she murmured, low enough it didn’t have to be answered. “I’m gonna try something.”

She didn’t know if they could hear her. Didn’t know if they’d recognize her even if they did. The file had been thin. The fear, thicker.

Her eyes closed. Her body stayed behind.

But her mind slipped forward—past breath, past waking—toward the quiet edges of a dream she hadn’t built yet.

Toward Shiv. Wherever they were. Whatever they were seeing. She was going to find them.

The breath she took before slipping under was shallow—more habit than need. Like she could brace herself for something she couldn’t see. Like that ever worked. Irene had walked through a lot of dreams. Built some from nothing, pulled others back from the brink. But this was different.

This one wasn’t hers.

This one had teeth. It had magic, and it was the wrong kind.

Shiv’s mind wasn’t open so much as cracked. The kind of break that didn’t bleed but never really healed, either. And she could feel it the second she stepped in —like walking barefoot onto glass. The air didn’t smell right. Not dream-sweet, not unreal. Just off. Wrong in a way she couldn’t name.

She stood in the dark for a moment, the place slow to take shape. This wasn’t a memory, not exactly. It shifted like sand under her thoughts. Sounds crept through the silence —muffled, tinny. A phone ringing somewhere too far to reach.

Irene frowned and took a step forward.

She didn’t know what she was walking into.

Didn’t know if Shiv would know her.

Didn’t even know if she’d know him in here.

But the connection was still there —fragile and thin as a spider’s thread, tied to her body back in that quiet room, tied to his heartbeat, still going.

She followed it.

Because someone had to.

Irene didn’t sit right away. She hovered by the kitchen island instead, letting the smell of the takeout do most of the work as Sammy rifled through it, eyes already brighter for something warm and edible. It helped to have something to do with his hands — she could see it in the way his shoulders relaxed, just a little, just enough.

The light through the window was slipping golden across the floorboards, catching in her hair and her coat like dust. She let it settle in the silence for a few breaths before answering.

“He’s not worse,” she said first, which wasn’t the same thing as better, but also wasn’t nothing. Her voice didn’t waver, didn’t hedge — just delivered it straight. Measured. Quiet.

She finally pulled out a chair and sat across from him, shrugging off her coat like it weighed too much. The sleeves of her shirt were pushed up just far enough to show faint smudges of ash and something glittery — residue of something that wasn’t quite spellwork, but close. She didn’t explain it.

When she looked up again, her eyes were rimmed darker than usual. Not in the dramatic, witchy way people always assumed. Just… tired. Deep-set, like sleep had been a luxury out of reach for more than a few nights. But her face didn’t crack. It never did.

“He’s not alone in there,” she said simply. Her fingers ghosted over the side of a napkin, folding one corner with idle precision. “That matters.”

She didn’t say what it had cost — not just the magic, but the time. The strain. The hours spent crouched beside a still body with salt lining her lashes and the smell of scorched rosemary in the walls.

And she definitely didn’t say how wrong it had felt to sense Riven’s signature in the sandscape of Shiv’s unconscious — familiar and twisted and present. That stayed between her, Shiv, and Thera.

But she met Sammy’s eyes across the kitchen table, and there was no flinch in her voice when she added, “He’s going to be okay.”

There was a steadiness to the words. Not bravado. Not blind optimism. Just a thing spoken because it was true — even if she couldn’t tell him how she knew. “You know I wouldn’t bullshit you,” she said softly. “Not about something like this.”

And maybe it wasn’t enough to erase the circles under her eyes or the tension she still carried in her shoulders. But it was the best she could offer, short of dragging him into the dream herself — and she wasn’t ready to open that door to anyone else. Not yet. Too fragile. Too... unfinished.

She let her gaze drift toward the back window, where the twins shrieked over some messy game involving sticks and a bucket of water. The sound didn’t ease the coil in her chest, but it grounded her.

“You’re doing the right thing, staying with them,” she said, voice softer now. “They need you more than he does, in this moment.”

A beat.

“But when he wakes up, he’s probably going to ask what took you so long.”

That, at least, earned a tiny smile — thin and crooked, barely there, but real.

“How are you holding up?”

The front door didn’t need to be locked, not when the twins were running between the front and back yards faster than he could follow. He’d taken to pacing in the kitchen, only occasionally glancing out the window to make sure his step-siblings were still making potions out of mud and leaves in the backyard, his mind on other things. 

The situation with Mr. Shiv was a royal fuck-up. Two weeks, and he’d let himself think that he was just on an extended hunt. He should have raised the alarm days ago, should have at least asked around! He should have done something, not just— 

A voice from the hall pulled him out of his train of thought. Irene was standing in his front hall, a takeout bag in hand. 

Irene was nice. Good to work with, if a bit spooky and ominous. After getting the news of Mr. Shiv’s injury to Ms. Kennedy and Mr. Castillo, she was the next (and only) person he told. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust any other hunters, just... Irene was a lot more discreet than them. He couldn’t really picture Nico reacting in a calm and measured way to the news that a hunter in a coma was being taken care of in a shop run by a witch for the past two weeks. Irene, at the very least, was discreet and clever, and was nice enough to lurk in the threshold so she could easily turn and leave if she wasn’t wanted. 

She was wanted. Especially with food, an easy reminder that, yeah, he had definitely forgotten to make himself lunch when he’d made the twins their sandwiches earlier. It was easier to ignore his body’s signals to eat and rest when he was worrying. ”Sorry, I didn’t hear you, come in! Yeah, I got distracted, thank you.”

He ushered her in, over towards the chairs around the kitchen island, where he was able to keep an eye on the twins out the windows as they spoke. He shrugged away any attempt to ask after his own well being, instead focusing on picking over the takeout food gratefully.

“You saw him? Any changes? I dropped by the day I got the note, he seemed like a 4 on the Glasgow coma scale, which is, uh...” He trailed off. A score of 4, after two weeks? That was more often than not a sign to start getting a funeral plan in order. “Bad. Really bad, for an injury. Magic might make it better, or different, but by regular medical scales, he should be in a long-term ward. Is he doing any better? Responsive, moving, even reacting at all to touch or noise?”

Jessica Alexander -- 400*640

She shouldn’t be out. She knows she shouldn’t be out.

The wind was picking up by the time she stepped off the curb with her bag of essentials —a few candles, batteries, water purification tabs, and a box of matches she’d definitely pretend she didn’t already have four of. Enough to make her look responsible, not enough to make her feel less like she was just pretending at being calm.

The spell at the house would hold. It had to. The wards were layered, written sharp and tight into the corners with salt, red thread, and sweat she hadn’t meant to cry. It was good work. She rarely admitted to being proud of anything lately, but that spell… it would hold. Long enough for her mother to sleep through the worst of it, anyway.

And Irene? Irene needed air.

The streets weren’t empty yet, but they would be soon. Most windows had already been boarded, the sharp metallic tang of storm-braced magic riding the breeze. Her boots left muddy half-prints on the uneven pavement as she walked, head down, the plastic bag swinging at her side. She didn’t have a destination. That was the point.

Anywhere but home. Anywhere but there.

The docks called to her—not because she liked the sea (she didn’t) or found solace in its violence (she absolutely didn’t)—but because it was the last place anyone with sense would linger. She could pretend for a few minutes that she didn’t belong anywhere else either.

And that’s when she saw him.

At first, just a shape in the distance, upright and dark and laughing in the rain like something pulled too fast from a dream or a warning.

Her steps slowed.

It wasn’t the figure that stopped her—it was the feeling. The storm recognized him. That’s what it felt like. The wind didn’t whip around him, it curled. Familiar. Like he belonged to it, or it to him. She didn’t know which was worse.

“You’re either insane,” she called out over the howl of the wind, voice even but thin from disuse, “or looking to get dragged straight into the harbor.”

Irene stopped a few feet off, the grocery bag bumping lightly against her knee. Her hair was soaked, curling around her jaw, her coat clinging heavy to her arms.

“And you’re laughing like it’s funny,” she added, quieter now, more to herself than him. “God. What the hell is wrong with you.” What the hell was wrong with her?

But she didn’t leave. Not yet. Let the wind scream. Let the sea rise. She wasn’t ready to go home either.

who: open to anyone wandering about ! ♡ where: Outside . / when: Day One, Hurricane Jac .

         thing is, césar knows the smell of a storm. 

         it’s fiercer, now, when he’s far more wolf than man, so much so that dark fur covers every inch of him, deep sharp canines lie behind a curled lip. giving way to the monster of his body is supposed to let him feel free, feel wild, but all it’s managed to do since coming home is make him paranoid. a wary, feral animal, nobody likes him at all. it doesn’t make him useful, only dangerous. césar likes it this way, keeping everyone out without even having to touch them at all. just the threat of him is easy enough.

         thing is, césar should know the smell of the storm, should know better than sticking around as the clouds start to darken and churn, how the air begins to taste of ferocity and the water grows vengeful. but, honestly, he just doesn’t fucking care.

         he cares just enough to force his body back into human shape. dark curls, and dark eyes, and the same kind of wild imbued in him as there was moments before, as a wolf. he walks through the city, watching as the weather just begins to worsen. some unfortunate soul has left their laundry out in the pouring rain, césar plucks it from the line. even cold and wet, it suits him just fine. now clothed, he watches the sky, the water, lets his eyes trace over port leiry, even hurricane ridden. the storm is beautiful, the ocean wild, he feels right at home. the boats are sure to be dust by dark, similarly to any person sticking around, and the docks …

         the docks.

          huh, how about that. yuisa’s pride and joy, soon to be swallowed by waves. césar laughs. he laughs, and laughs, and laughs. as he wipes both an amused tear and a sweep of rain from across his face, he finds that his own hurricane plan doesn’t matter as much. he’ll figure it out along the way, wonders if his previous indiscretions at that college party two years ago would bar him from entry of the stadium. césar tips his chin up to the sky, and breathes it in.

Irene didn’t answer at first.

She just stood there, half turned, coat stretched between them like a line drawn in wet chalk — fading, but still there. Allie’s words landed softly, but they lingered, like pollen in her lungs. You’re a pretty thing. She huffed out something like a laugh, but it was quiet, more breath than sound. The kind of sound that wanted to be disbelief but came out something gentler.

There was no way Allie knew what she was saying. Not really. Not when she looked at Irene like that — like there was no blood on her hands, no sharp edges tucked behind her ribs. Like this world could still be something soft, and Irene someone who could hold it without breaking it.

The rain kept on falling, slower now, steadier — but the sky hadn’t eased. Thunder growled in the distance, low and mean, a reminder that the storm hadn’t finished making its point. Irene glanced up, jaw tight, then down again at the soaked hem of Allie’s dress, the way she shivered under the weight of the cold even while smiling like she belonged to it.

“You’re gonna get yourself struck by lightning if you keep dancing around like that,” Irene muttered, and there was no bite in it — just that soft, tired kind of affection she didn’t hand out freely. “Not a poetic way to go, Allie. Moment’s over. Come on.”

She pulled the coat tighter around her — around them — and her hand lingered at Allie’s back a second longer than necessary. A quiet thing. A steady thing. Something close to safety.

Irene looked at her then, really looked, like maybe she was trying to memorize the shape of someone who still believed the world didn’t bite. And maybe that was why she didn’t say the hundred things clawing at the back of her throat — all the reasons they shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be close, shouldn’t pretend like pretty things could live long when they weren’t careful.

         allie shakes her head, it’s the easiest thing in the world. of course irene isn’t dangerous, matching with her is even less so. it’s natural, it’s perfect, it’s lovely. it’s the perfect day for it, even if the storm turns angrier, wilder, less forgiving for girls who are afraid of them. or at least, girls that are supposed to be afraid of them. allie’s not scared, now. she has irene. and this time, she doesn’t stiffen, or pull back, or watch her with a cautious, careful eye that makes allie feel like there’s a wall between them, even when she’s right next to her. now, allie tries, and irene’s letting her in. even if it’s almost, a whisper of a touch, a slight feeling- a catch of softness, like allie’s closing her eyes and running a finger along her surface. it’s something, and allie holds onto it. the fondness stays in her eyes, watching irene’s reaction to the flower. she’s not mad, she’s not angry, she’s not going to shove allie in the water and leave her behind. allie hadn’t done anything wrong, she hadn’t hurt her.

         it’s why she listens, it’s why she only pouts, doesn’t protest or argue when irene draws them away. her eyes only plead for the whimsy to return for only a moment, before she’s swept under irene’s coat. it had only been the slightest offer of closeness, and she takes it eagerly. it’s only then that she’d considered she had, maybe, been shivering from the cold, and had yet to notice. 

         because there, closer to her friend, it’s warm. she realizes then, the state of her, sopping wet and shoeless. there’s no regret, but she does feel bad for irene’s coat. allie goes, finding it easy to clear a way through the storm, so long as she wasn’t alone, so long as it wasn’t her idea. irene wants her to be safe, so she will. she wants her out of the danger. and, despite their completely separate definitions of danger, allie wants that too, because she does.  “ are you kidding? of course it is! i’m bare-footed, and you’re a pretty thing. ”  she giggles, her finger going to touch the yellow bloom tucked behind her ear, making sure it doesn’t fall.  “ we’re here, we’re meant to be here. if we weren’t meant to, we wouldn’t be. ”  maybe she can get her dance with her, after all.

Irene didn’t flinch at the mention of imprisonment. Just blinked, slow and tired, like the word didn’t surprise her — or maybe like it just didn’t matter here. Plenty of people came through this town with things trailing behind them, and it wasn’t her job to follow any of it home.

“February,” she echoed, half to herself. That would’ve been after she got here. After she’d unpacked more than she meant to in a house that still felt as empty as the moment they walked in. She hadn’t touched her inheritance yet. Back then, she thought she’d be in and out, keep her head down, move on. Not still here, not letting the town get under her skin.

She caught sight of the tattoos when she moved — didn’t stare, didn’t ask — just noted the language like you do a warning carved into stone. Then her eyes dropped to the parcel. The mix didn’t surprise her, though the mention of wombs did. Irene’s jaw shifted slightly — a faint, reflexive tension — but she didn’t rise to it.

“Appreciate the warning,” she said, tone steady. “Won’t add it to the tea. That blend’s for the everyday folk. Not the kind looking to sink too deep.”

A pause. She finally reached forward and pulled the parcel the rest of the way toward her, careful not to jostle it too much.

“I’ll tag it for storage,” she added. “Stephens’ll know what to do with it, if it’s meant for her.” Her voice softened a little, though not by much. “She doesn’t write much down. But she remembers everything. Like a bad habit.”

Irene let the silence sit for a beat, then looked up again, brow just slightly furrowed. “She teach you much? Or were you mostly here for the night shift?”

"Briefly, when I came hitherto from imprisonment." She has always taken little and less care in masking her nature as something not altogether mundane. She makes no bones about either her nature as a witch nor at her prickly nature. She invites conflict, because conflict often feeds that which needs be fed. Besides, she's among allies here in Tumataru;

"Took my leave come 'round February, working the late shifts here for the nightfolk and latecomers. I find shop work dreadfully boring even if the goods aren't, much more fun, dancing for wandering eyes." She rests a hand, dotted with old ancient tattoo-work - symbols and glyphic signs that will make sense aught anyone else but her - on the parcel she's set down and slides it down the counter.

"Hemlock, hogsweed, and a bundle of oily snakeroot that might find home in your Dreamless Tea. Take care though, only a dram of that if you do, lest you accidentally fallow the womb of some poor woman who simply seeks help for night terrors."

Irene didn’t answer right away. Just watched the woman with the kind of look that skimmed bone. Not cruel, not even particularly suspicious —just precise. Like she was measuring something invisible. Weight. Intent. Teeth.

Then, a shrug. Small. Barely there. “Not everything that’s useful fits between the margins.”

She moved again, slow and exact, reaching for another jar to adjust. A label needed scraping. She used her thumbnail to work at the edge like it might confess something if she pressed hard enough. “Some things don’t have names that play well in the ledger. Others don’t have names at all.” Her voice stayed even. No lilt to soften it, no pause to check how the words landed.

She didn’t look up this time. Just kept working the label.

“I don’t ask what it’s for. You don’t ask where it came from. That’s the rule.”

A beat passed, enough for the silence to feel deliberate. Then, finally, she glanced back toward the counter, toward the curious tapping fingers and the woman who’d stopped pretending to be small.

“You get one favor like that,” she added, and this time her voice held something firmer underneath. Not threat. Not warmth either. Just certainty. “Spend it how you want. But just thisd once.”

She leans on the counter, again, and peers at this woman, eyes searching her up and down. Does she remember her from those first fraught and frazzled weeks? Mayhaps not. On her best behavior, she'd been in those earliest days, save for to the few dregs of Ironwood she'd fished up, none of which are hitherto present.

Best behavior no longer, however; The Deathroot is awake, and it has a twin somewhere in the city right now. She is alive with magical fortitude now. Chaste modesty and shrinking lily behavior have outlasted their usefulness.

"Off the books?" She questions. "Do paint me with curiosity, call me a cat, then."

She drums acrylics on the countertop. "And what could be so sensitive that one working in this shop for your Lady of House needs it be off the book?" Genuine question, genuine curiosity.

WHO: @therawend WHERE: thera's house

The tower loomed taller than she thought.

Worn brick stacked like the silence she’d carried since Sammy had shown her the letter — hands tight around the edges, voice low like he wasn’t sure how to say it out loud. She has Shiv. That part was clear. The rest? Not so much.

She’d read Thera’s handwriting three times over, each loop and slash more frustrating than the last. Thera. Thera, of all people. Irene hadn’t known they were connected —Shiv and her—but the letter didn’t lie. And Sammy wouldn’t have brought it to her if it wasn’t serious.

She didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once, tucked the paper before handing it back, and left before the weight of it could settle. Maybe she should’ve been more surprised. But confusion only went so far when Shiv was in danger. Shiv was never in danger, how could this be?

Irene knew where to go.

The walk from the bus stop had been long. Her legs were tired, her thoughts louder than usual. But she didn’t slow down, not even when the trees grew dense and the shadows pooled a little heavier. The path to Thera’s was always quiet in that strange, in-between kind of way —too calm, too out of time. Like the world didn’t quite reach here. It was probably safer that way.

By the time she reached the front door, she looked like hell. Pale and drawn, magic twitching raw just under her skin from days without rest. Her hair was still braided from work but messy now, a few pins lost along the walk. In her hands, nothing but her necklace, the charm she always held when grounding herself, when reaching into dreams.

She didn’t knock. Just let her fingers graze the worn doorframe before she pushed it open.

“Thera?” Her voice was low, not quite sure if it belonged here yet. “Sammy told me.”

A pause. She glanced inside, half-expecting the air to be thick with incense or stitched spells or whatever strange magic always clung to this place like dust.

“I thought… maybe you could use help.” Her tone stayed flat, guarded, but her eyes said something else. Something quieter.

And she meant it. Even if her hands shook. They were going to be alright, right?