Irene Watched As The Little Creature Was Hoisted Back Onto Juniper’s Shoulder, Head Tilting Slightly

Franz Kafka, The Diaries of Franz Kafka

Irene didn’t answer right away. Didn’t rise to it, didn’t blink. Just stood there in the hum of old fluorescents and bad intent, jaw set, fingers curling loose around the first cartridge like it wasn’t worth the weight of blood it could carry. Her eyes followed the second round as he slid it across, watched his hand, not the grin. And still —still—she didn’t flinch. But her stillness had changed. Not frozen. Tense. Measured. Like someone tiptoeing the brittle edge of a glass floor and trying not to listen for the cracks.

She was walking on eggshells, and they both knew it.

Not because she was afraid of him. Not exactly. Irene had faced worse —things that didn’t smile when they snapped their teeth, things that didn’t bleed red. But Nicolás got under her skin in ways she didn’t like admitting. He talked like he was made of razors and walked like he was waiting to be put down. And worse, he noticed things. Watched her too closely. Talked too loud, too fast, like maybe he was trying to shake something loose from her, just to see what would fall. She hated that she let it get to her. Hated more that she couldn't stay gone —had to come here, because he had the inventory she needed and she couldn't risk eyes on her anywhere else. Wouldn't be just nice if he left her the fuck alone?

Still. If he wanted to poke the bear, she could bare teeth, too.

“Haunted?” she echoed at last, voice low, even. “You think this is haunted?”

She stepped closer. Not enough to crowd him, just enough to shift the air —just enough to let him feel the chill running beneath her coat like a wire left live. Her hand didn’t twitch toward a weapon. Didn’t need to. She’d already sized the room, marked every surface, mapped every sharp edge she could use to cut him down. Her stillness was the weapon.

“If I’m haunted, it’s by the thought that the Brotherhood thought you were worth putting on payroll. That someone somewhere signed said, Yes, this one. The human shrapnel with a death wish. Let’s give him keys and teeth and let him loose.”

Her lips barely moved, but her tone sharpened.

“You think I look hunted? You should see what’s on my list.”

She picked up the second cartridge then —slow, steady. Let him feel the disconnect between her tone and the casual, practiced way she handled it. She could read a death in the weight of a bullet. And this one told her enough.

“I came here for supplies, not psychoanalysis. If you want someone to pick through your damage, try a mirror.”

A pause. Then —because he always wanted one last word, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of silence. “And for the record?” Her head tilted slightly, mouth twitching just enough to suggest it could almost be a smile. “You don't fail with flying colors. You fail exactly how we expect you to.”

See? Exotic like “professionalism.” That’s her edge. Beige. Nico barks a laugh through the necklace — sharp, fast, unamused. “God, you’re boring,” he says, chewing the lollipop stick until it splinters. Doesn’t even notice the cut in his cheek from the shard.

Irene’s out here talking like she’s filling out a fucking tax form. Like each word got cleared by legal before leaving her mouth. And for what? To make him feel small? He likes being big. Loud. Messy. The festering wound no one wants to look at. That’s the brand he’s carried for the Brotherhood for years. He’s going to keep carrying it. Inked under the skin, wrapped around bone. They don’t get to have him clean.

“Three strides, no breathing, no bleeding,” he parrots in a singsong voice, off-key on purpose. “You make it sound like a purity test.”

Then, quicksilver, the grin snaps into place—unnatural and all teeth. “But don’t worry, Irene. I fail with flying colors.”

His energy stutters, then spikes—sudden, twitchy. He rocks forward like he might vault the counter just to see if she’d flinch. Doesn’t. God, boring.

What’s the last thing she killed? He wonders. Was it clean? Was it quiet? Did she cry after? He thinks she did. There’s a few sheep in wolves’ clothing around here, and Nico wants to know who’s who. He can smell it on them—fear dressed up as bravado, stitched into leather jackets. The ones who posture too loud, who keep their knives polished but their hands clean. He’s seen it before. Seen what happens when the bluff gets called and their teeth don’t show up. Nico minds monsters—and he minds liars. And if someone’s wearing a predator’s skin without earning it, he’ll be the one to peel it back and see what’s really twitching underneath.

He pushes another cartridge forward and holds it there—fingertips pressing down, not releasing. A tension in his posture like a lit match held near gasoline.

“What are you hunting, Irene?” Eyes wide now. Hungry. Off-balance. “’Cause if it’s not me, why do you look so fucking haunted?"

jessica alexander ; joseph sinclair talks

The stool was cold under her hands — she hadn’t meant to sit. Not at first. Just to scan the crowd, just to look. But Obsidian was louder than she remembered. Busier. Full of laughter and clinking glasses and that polished kind of nightlife charm that never quite felt like it belonged to her. Irene sat anyway, still damp from the outside, her coat unbuttoned just enough to breathe.

No Jaya.

She didn’t frown, but her eyes moved with more purpose than most of the crowd’s. Quick flicks between faces, corners, doorways. She didn’t expect him to be easy to find — not with what was happening. But she’d hoped. That was the whole problem.

She rested her elbow on the bar like she had every right to be here. No different from the others. Just a woman looking for a drink, maybe company. No one needed to know what stirred underneath. What she was actually here for. The charm around her neck sat heavy beneath her shirt — hidden, quiet. Like her.

When the bartender approached — bright smile, easy confidence — Irene straightened slightly. The recognition didn’t show on her face, but her mind caught on the name. Charlotte. One of Jaya’s. She’d seen her in passing once or twice, never close enough to speak. The smile was genuine. Irene offered a smaller one in return — polite, a little tired at the edges.

“Hi,” she said, voice soft but steady, leaning in just enough for the words to cut through the ambient buzz of the room. “Actually, I’m— looking for someone.”

A pause. Measured.

“Jaya. He around?”

She didn’t let too much hope show in the question, just enough to make it casual. She kept her hands on the bar, fingers wrapped around the base of a coaster, grounding herself in something physical. Something normal.

“I can wait,” she added quickly, before Charlotte could say yes or no. “It’s not urgent.”

Another pause. The music shifted behind them — deeper bass, slower rhythm.

Her eyes flicked sideways — toward the crowd, then back.

“I’ll take whatever’s easiest in the meantime. Just— something simple.”

There was no point in drawing attention. Not now. Not here.

She could pretend to be patient. For a little while longer.

Where: Obsidian

Who: Open (1/5)

Tonight had been bustling. It was the most crowded Charlotte had seen the place and Charlotte couldn’t be happier. Jaya deserved for this place to be a success and between her and Gemma Obsidian was thriving under the new leadership.

As Charlotte was shaking a martini for a very well dressed witch on the edge of the bar, she finally noticed the time. Shit, she was overdue for a break. She had lost track of time in the crush of customers that had rolled in. As she placed the martini in front of the witch, a new customer caught her eye as they sat on a stool at the end of the bar. One more customer, she promised herself, and then she would go take her break.

She turned a beaming smile on the newcomer and nodded at them, ready to take their order.

She hadn’t meant to stop.

The road was half-eaten, gouged by rain and salt, the edges soft and unreliable. Her boots sank just enough to be irritating. She’d been walking for a while—no destination, no plan, just a direction that felt better than turning back. Her hood was up, scarf pulled too tight at the neck, fingers stiff in her coat pockets.

The truck looked like it had tried to reason with the shoulder and lost. She might’ve kept walking, but the shape in the driver’s seat moved. Jolted, more like. Then a voice—muffled, defensive.

Irene stepped closer. Not enough to be intrusive, but enough to be seen clearly when the driver twisted toward the window.

“Congratulations,” she said flatly, lifting her voice just enough to carry through the rain. “You’re not dead.”

Her eyes skimmed the truck; stuck good, probably been here a while, cab fogged slightly, the kind of tired that lingered even in posture. Blanket around his shoulders, so either cold or trying to comfort himself. She didn’t care which. She wasn’t judging. Not really.

“You planning on becoming one?” she added, eyes steady. “Because you’re about three hours from the road washing out completely. Give or take.”

She didn’t reach for the door, didn’t crowd him. Just waited there, a half-soaked figure with wind-tangled hair and a stare like she was the one who’d summoned the storm.

“You got anyone coming?” A pause. “Anyone who can make it through this?”

There was no rush in her voice. No panic. Just the kind of tired patience that came from already knowing the answer.

who: open where: the side of the road

He manages not to fully skid off of the shoulder of the road, the emergency brake coming in clutch at the very last second. The engine groans a little as Kevin puts the truck into park before shutting off the engine entirely. Rolling the window down, he sticks his head out the window and can tell that the back wheel is stuck in the mud and there was no way it was getting out without help. His head is mostly drenched when he pulls it back into the cab and he sighs, banging it gently against the headrest.

His phone is open on the center console next to him, Kali's message still flashing brightly across the screen.

"Get off that man's dick and go home."

He had missed the message at first, mostly because he was on the man's dick, but he doesn't really think that extra 90 seconds would have mattered that much in the grand scheme of things. Either way, he and his truck are now both stuck in the rain, and he can already feel his joints reacting to the drop in air pressure. It feels like sandpaper rubbing against his bones, and he leans over to his glove compartment to grab his stash of edibles. He sure as hell wasn't driving anytime soon.

Since he's unable to run the engine, he reaches into the back seat to grab one of the blankets he keeps for Saturn. It's got dog hair all over it, but it smells like her so he wraps it around his shoulder and tries to find a comfortable position in his seat. He sends a couple texts out, to people who might be wondering where he is, but there is a big fat red "!" letting him know that nothing was being delivered. With his battery only at half, he sighs, turning off every app he wasn't using to try and preserve it for as long as possible.

Kevin's not sure if he falls asleep or lets the weed lull him into a comfortable doze, but he jumps when he hears a knock on the driver's seat window. His knee cracks uncomfortably from the movement, and he grunts as he shifts, looking out at the blurry figure in the storm. "I'm fine!" he tries to shout through the window. "It's dry and I can wait it out!"

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.

☎️ for irene.

Contact Name: ‼️Irene - Work Text Tone: Kim Possible beeps, same for the rest of the Brotherhood Call Tone: She drops a lot of ominous pauses in her speech, so he's picked a the intro part of a good song with a long intro, the instrumentals at the beginning of Bela Lugosi's Dead - Bauhaus. Last text exchange: "Thanks again for the takeout. Can you check his eye activity next time you see Shiv?" Sent after she left his house in the most recent thread. Contact Photo: Said "Say cheese" and once again took the picture too early. More photogenic looking than Shiv's that was taken under the same circumstances.

@ireneclermont

The tablet made a quiet thunk as Irene set it aside. She didn’t speak right away—just sat there for a moment, watching the woman through the dim light like she was weighing the effort it would take to say no against whatever her own bones were asking of her tonight.

“It’s fine,” she said finally, voice softer than before, if still tinged with fatigue. “You’re already half inside. Might as well finish the job.”

She reached across the counter, palm open without fanfare. “Let’s see it.”

Her gaze skimmed the paper quickly, practiced. She didn’t react outright—just let her eyes pause on the larger quantities, the odd placements, the way none of it seemed to belong together until maybe it very much did. Verbena stood out the most, of course. Not just the amount, but the shape of the scrawl around it. Like the hand that wrote it hesitated, then leaned in.

Irene’s brow ticked, barely. Not suspicion exactly. Just attention, sharpened.

“You making tea,” she asked, deadpan, “or trying to banish someone politely?”

She handed the list back, already stepping toward the shelf-lined wall.

“We’ve got most of this. One of the berries might be low—I’ll check in the back.” She paused at the threshold of the back room, glancing over her shoulder with a dry look. “No promises on the verbena. That much, you might need to pre-order unless you’ve got friends who forage on private land.”

Then she was gone a moment, the quiet of the shop resettling in her absence. When she returned, she had a worn basket in one hand, already filling with a few small paper packets.

“Couple of these are in stock now,” she said, setting the basket on the counter. “I can hold the rest for pickup tomorrow if you want. Won’t charge ‘til it’s all in.”

And then, more gently, like it just occurred to her, “You alright walking back this late?”

We closed five minutes ago. The words hit Juniper like a sack of bricks as she has one foot in the door and the other still out in the dark and damp. Sage on her shoulder and a series of bags on her left arm, she had been shopping all day. She peeks her head out to look at the sign on the door, then down to the watch on the inside of her wrist. This motion repeats a couple times as she comes to terms with the fact that… yup. She was too late. 

“Scheiße.” she cursed under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She was still getting used to navigating at an appropriate speed for her condition and she had vastly underestimated how long her errands would actually take. Running a hand through her hair she took a breath, the subtle earthy note within the shop's air doing wonders to settle her frustrations. 

“That’s… unfortunate. Sorry for the intrusion. I saw the lights and assumed I wasn’t too late. Thank you. It certainly isn’t so urgent it can’t wait till tomorrow. I just-” She hesitated. Not wanting to bother a person off the clock. But her bones ache and the idea of having to walk all the way back here in the morning was less than inviting. “I am so sorry. Would it be too much trouble to just take a look at this list. I don’t need to buy anything tonight. I’d just like to save myself the trek tomorrow if something is currently out of stock.” 

She waited with bated breath for any form of confirmation before going inside and handing over the small piece of paper. Scrawled onto it was a variety of herbs, spices, dried berries and the like, an impressive variety but no single ingredient had a strong or obvious purpose when places next to the others. Most notable among them was verbena. In a rather large quantity.    

Irene didn’t answer right away. Just stood there with the wind needling past her hood and the storm biting at the edges of her coat. She watched him with that same unreadable calm — not cold, not unkind, just steady in a way most people forgot how to be. Like she’d already made her decision, and now she was waiting to see if he’d catch up to it.

At his joke, something flickered across her face. Not quite amusement. Not pity, either.

“You keep offering pieces like no one’ll miss ‘em,” she said quietly. “This town’s full of people who’d take you up on it.”

She stepped closer, the wet gravel crunching under her boot. Her gaze stayed level.

“There are folks around who’d love to know how soft your belly is. What your bones sound like when they crack. Some don’t even need a reason. Just like seeing what leaks out.”

There was nothing cruel in the way she said it. If anything, it was gentle — a warning wrapped in something like care, worn blunt from use.

Then, she pulled her hand from her coat pocket, palm up, offered without ceremony.

“You can’t stay here.”

A pause, as if she were weighing her next words against the storm itself.

“You don’t know me. I don’t know you. But you sit in this truck much longer, and someone’s going to find your teeth before they find your name.”

Her fingers didn’t waver. She wasn’t a big woman, didn’t look like she could carry much more than her own weight and maybe a loaded satchel — but there was a kind of quiet confidence in the offer. She was training on a daily basis, this couldn't be as difficult, right?

“I’ll help you. If you can walk, I’ll get you there.”

Then, softer — not for reassurance, but truth. “I’m stronger than I look.”

He doesn't know what to make of this stranger walking through a growing hurricane like it's a summer shower. There's no urgency in her tone, unlike the few others who have stopped by, and there's almost a relief when she doesn't tell Kevin to get out of the truck. She listens to his stuttering explanations and she simply responds with the facts. Unnerving, but better than trying to convince someone he wasn't being stupid for the sake of being stupid.

A mile and a half in this weather is impossible for him. His legs already ache intensely, and that's while he's dry and semi-warm. If he tried now, he would need to rest after a couple hundred feet. Still, he takes in the information all the same. "I'll keep that in mind," he nods. Doesn't mention that trying to make the journey would almost certainly lead to a worse outcome for him.

"I appreciate the warning, and maybe if someone does come by, they'll charge me an arm and a leg. They'd be useless to them, but I guess beggars can't be choosers." Maybe that's a bad joke. His head feels foggy from the storm and the drugs. "I don't know if I'll be fine," he shrugs. There's no way to be sure of that. "But it's what I've got. You got a name? If I make it out of this, I'll buy you a drink for giving a shit."

Irene doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t need to. She just stands there for a second, letting the quiet settle. The weight of the question sits somewhere low — not heavy, not sharp, just… familiar. And when she answers, it’s not guarded or cold. It just is.

“My mom’s sick,” she says, plain and low. “So I read a lot.”

She doesn’t offer more than that. Doesn’t fill in the gaps or paint it prettier than it is. Just lets the silence take what it wants from it. There’s always been power in not explaining. Her eyes drift to the open door, to the sky that’s gone soft with dusk and too many unknowns. And she sighs. Not annoyed — not really. Just the tired kind. The kind that comes from caring more than you meant to.

Because she shouldn’t. Not like this. Not for someone who leaves pieces of herself in every corner of a room like she hopes someone else will pick them up. Not for someone who believes too easily and follows too far. But Irene’s never been good at drawing clean lines. Especially not when the danger’s real. Especially not when the girl looking up at her still thinks the night is something that’ll let her pass through it untouched.

“Fine,” she mutters, pushing the door all the way open. “Let’s go.”

She doesn’t wait for thanks. Doesn’t say anything when their shoulders brush or when Allie keeps close enough that Irene can hear the soft drag of her sleeves with every step. “Just so we’re clear,” she says after a few blocks, tone dry but not distant, “This isn’t gonna be a thing. I don’t do nightly strolls.”

Still, she glances sideways. Just once. Just long enough to make sure the shadows behind them aren’t walking too.

        “ oh, sorry. ”  the pinch between her brows falls, slowly, the confusion melting into a fuzzy, almost acceptance. of course she believes irene, why would she lie? allie has this habit of leaving heaps of heavy hope in the arms of others, at least irene doesn’t have to carry them anymore. she refuses to let disappointment find her, and instead she finds something else to be excited about. she just works here, irene’s not a witch, it’s mostly just retail and she’s right but- the knowledge still has to be there, doesn’t it? it’s another bundle of questions that tucks near her heart, wraps around irene’s name.

        don’t sell yourself short. out of a few words, allie finds the world waiting for her. it’s so nice, the kind of nice she doesn’t deserve. because, really, it’s not true. she isn’t good for anything more than wishing. she keeps trying, it’s why the journals pages keep finding things to fill them. that’s her trying. to learn, and to grow, to be something more than lost. but it makes more sense the other way, for allie to stay a lost little thing. irene deserves more than speechlessness, but allie doesn’t want to argue anymore, and she can’t find anything to pull on, so she hopes her eyes say enough.

        her eyes flicker to watch the other’s movements. she puts space between them, fidgets with the little things around them irene’s trying to leave, allie, you have to let her go home-  “ how did you learn about it all? ”  she winds, unwinds a strand of her hair around a finger as the question cuts through, clear as the breaking day. like a sunlight that streams through an exhausted room, she can’t stop it. the curtain of curiosity won’t go back to where it belongs. she doesn’t mean to keep her here, daisy chained, really. she promises, she doesn’t. 

        allie holds out her hand, tries a soft offer that she hopes is just a gentle touch of clingy, not so much that it’s suffocating. irene always closes up when anything’s about her, and she’d barely made it through one wall, she can’t pry open another tonight. she doesn’t want to, anyways, you’re supposed to be let in. softly, allie tries, instead,  “ walk me home? ”  because she’s forgetful, because she slips into bouts of whimsy that has her ending up lost, because irene knows that, and she’s kind. another night, when allie hadn’t already messed up, they can try the other way. and it’ll be irene’s turn to share, again.