Irene Stepped Out Into The Night Without Hurry, Coat Already Buttoned Against The Bite In The Wind. The

WHO: @parkskylar WHERE: bun intended

The air still smelled like lavender and old spellbooks—clinging to Irene like second skin even after she’d stripped off her apron and locked the shop behind her. Most nights, she’d go straight home. Avoid people. Avoid…everything. But tonight, the sharp edge in her chest wouldn’t settle, and the idea of silence felt louder than usual.

So she walked. Not far. Just enough to find herself in front of Bun Intended, its neon sign buzzing faintly above the patio lights. The smell of grilled onions and toasted buns curled around her like a hook.

She didn’t even like burgers that much.

Still, a milkshake and fries sounded like something that wouldn’t ask anything of her, so she ordered both, tucked herself into the far end of one of the outdoor benches, and tried to lose herself in the happy chaos of dogs chasing each other through the patio. It helped. A little.

She was halfway through her fries —shoes kicked off, milkshake balanced dangerously on the edge of the table—when she noticed the figure hovering nearby. Looking for a place to sit, scanning the filled tables. Irene didn’t recognize her at first. Just saw someone standing alone, holding a tray like she didn’t know what to do with it.

Irene’s voice came before she could stop it.

“Seat’s open.”

She nodded to the spot across from her, then adjusted her legs to make space, even if she didn’t quite smile.

( jessica alexander / female / she/her) — IRENE CLERMONT has been living in Port Leiry for 6 MONTHS. They currently work as a SHOP ASSISTANT AT TUMATARAU APOTHECARY , and are 26 years old. No one is sure if they’re actually a WITCH/HUNTER or if they’re connected to THE BROTHERHOOD. They tend to be quite VINDICTIVE and SECRETIVE, but can also be RESILIENT and COMPASIONATE.

Connections / Pinterest

Name: Irene Clermont Occupation: Apothecary Assistant & Brotherhood Hunter Age & Birthday: Twenty-Six | August 15, 1999 Sexuality: Straight Species: Witch (Mirrormind, aspiring Weaver) - Currently a Hunter Hometown: Columbus, Ohio Relationship Status: Single Personality Traits: Irene is calculating, quietly intense, emotionally closed off but not cold. She’s fiercely loyal to the few she trusts, slow-burning in her grief and rage. Tactical, self-disciplined, and emotionally guarded, she is a survivor before anything else—but her anger runs deep.

TW: Torture / Death / Mental Illness / Exile

"They called her dangerous. And they were right."

Born into the Circle of the Reverie —an insular coven of prophecy, dreams, and memory— Irene was always the wrong kind of magic. A child cloaked in quiet, feared for the way her eyes lingered too long, for the way her presence stirred old feelings. They whispered about her blood. About how her mother had lied. About how no one knew who her father was.

But Irene did.

She found out as a teenager: her father wasn’t some mystery, but a hunter —skilled, tactical, and very much alive. She met him in secret under moonlight and ash, learning to fight with her hands and her heart. He didn’t ask her to shrink. He made her sharp. Loved. Seen. And when her magic began to twist—when she realized she could pull best or worst memories to the surface and make others live them again—he was the only one who wasn’t afraid.

But the Circle was. And fear makes monsters of the devout.

The truth came out. And then everything burned. Her father’s location was leaked. Another coven took him—tortured him—killed him. Her mother, complicit in the secrecy, was punished until her mind broke open. Irene found her father’s body cold. Her mother no longer knew her name.

Then came exile.

Six months ago, Irene arrived in Port Leiry, drifting quiet beneath its fog-covered skyline. She tends an apothecary now—mixing poultices for strangers and tucking herbs into brown paper while her mother stares at walls she doesn’t understand. But at night, Irene hunts. Not for coin. Not for chaos. She hunts the witches who destroyed her family—one by one. The ones who killed her father. The ones who made her mother scream. The ones who stood back and smiled at their pain.

Her magic is unstable—raw, frayed by grief and sharpened by rage. As a Mirrormind, Irene crafts illusions in the waking world—twisting what others see, what they believe, what they feel. She can cloak herself in beauty or fear, turn hallways into labyrinths, or smiles into threats. It’s misdirection at its most intimate, seduction, deception, and control laced into a glance.

But Irene is more than that. She was born different—something the Circle feared from the beginning.

She can do what most Mirrorminds cannot: not just create illusions, but resurrect emotion itself. With a touch or focused gaze, she can pull someone's strongest memory to the surface —grief, joy, terror—and force them to relive it in unbearable clarity. The scent, the sound, the pain of it. As real as the first time. She doesn’t just show you your past—she makes you drown in it. It’s a rare, unspoken branch of Mirrormind magic that even the most devout fear to name.

Now, Irene trains as a Weaver —learning to slip into the minds of her enemies in sleep. To plant nightmares that linger like bruises. To stitch fear into their rest. Weavers are artisans of the subconscious—quiet, slow-burning retribution —and Irene wants that precision. That patience. To haunt before she harms.

Her magic is unstable—frayed at the edges, easily overwhelmed by emotion. The deeper Irene feels, the harder it is to control. Grief tangles the threads. Anger burns through illusion. And when she loses control, her powers lash out in unpredictable bursts—sometimes triggering someone else’s worst memory without meaning to, sometimes trapping her in a vision that isn’t hers. That’s why she’s learning to become a Weaver: not just for the power, but for the discipline. Weaving requires patience, precision, detachment—all the things she’s had ripped away. If she can master that control, she can make her pain purposeful. Turn the chaos into something quiet. Deadly. Lasting.

Because revenge isn’t just a blade. Sometimes it’s a dream you can’t wake from.

She doesn’t fight loud. She fights smart. And she fights only those who deserve it.

Once, she was just a child. Curious. Kind. Too soft for the world she was born into.

Irene doesn’t make noise. She makes consequences.

More:

She barely sleeps. Between taking care of her mother, Brotherhood work, and pushing herself to control her magic, Irene exists in a state of constant exhaustion. Nighttime is for training. She runs drills in silence, practices weaving on scraps of cloth and empty walls, trying to thread dreams into something she can hold. She doesn’t rest until her body forces her to.

Her mother’s sleep matters more than her own. Irene’s primary motivation for becoming a Weaver isn’t power—it’s mercy. Her mother, fractured and fading, is haunted by memories the Circle forced into her. Irene believes if she can learn to weave well enough, she can soothe her mother’s dreams, give her a few hours of peace. She hasn’t succeeded yet, and every failure feels like a personal betrayal.

She avoids mirrors. Her Mirrormind magic has backfired before—turning a glance into someone else’s memory, or her reflection into a moment from her own past. When she’s overwhelmed, reflections can feel like traps.

She used to laugh all the time. When she was younger, when Riven was around, Irene was a bright, warm presence—curious, clingy, always offering the last bite of her treat. She was the kind of child who believed in promises and tried to keep them all. Sometimes, when she sees him again, that ache creeps in—of who she could’ve been if things had gone differently.

Her most precious possession is a silver-edged knife. Slender, balanced, and etched with quiet runes, it was the last thing her father ever gave her. He said it was forged from hunter’s steel and carried through generations. She wears it at her thigh like a second spine. It’s not just a weapon—it’s a vow, a memory, a tether to the person who believed in her first.

She keeps a small box of things that don’t belong to her. A child’s drawing. A coin from the Brotherhood’s first offering. A feather she once pulled from her father’s coat. None of it is magical, but she treats it like it is. These are her anchors when her magic spirals, her grief surges, or she forgets what softness feels like.

She’s cast a cloaking spell over her magic—layered, meticulous, and laced with intent so fine it hums beneath her skin. It took weeks to perfect, built from forgotten sigils and quiet hours hunched over worn parchment, every line a thread in the weave of her protection. The Brotherhood doesn't tolerate strangeness it can't control, and Irene knows too well what happens to witches who shimmer too brightly. So she dims herself carefully. No flare, no scent of power, nothing for the gifted or monstrous to catch hold of. It’s not just concealment—it’s survival. A hidden pulse beneath her heartbeat. She checks it constantly, reinforces it like a cracked wall. Even when she’s alone, she whispers its binding words. Just in case.

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 hadn’t meant to be out this early, let alone in this weather, but something in her had pulled her into the downpour anyway. Maybe it was the pressure in the air, that humming, bone-deep ache that came when storms gathered their skirts and began to spin. Or maybe it was just that sleep hadn’t stuck the way it should, and the silence inside had grown too loud to bear.

She wasn’t dancing. Not really. But she also wasn’t not moving—hands tucked into her coat, hood drawn low, boots soundless on the wet pavement. There was a rhythm to the rain that pulled at her limbs, loosened something usually kept tight. She walked like someone thinking too hard about nothing at all.

And then—motion. A blur of color. A voice, sharp in its brightness.

Irene stopped a few paces away, rainwater trailing slow down her jaw, catching in the curve of her collar. She blinked once, then again, like she wasn’t entirely convinced the figure in front of her was real. And then her mouth quirked—barely—but enough to register.

“You’re gonna break your neck dancing like that.” It wasn’t scolding. It wasn’t teasing either. Just dry, and maybe a little impressed.

Her eyes flicked across the slick street, then back to Allie, still beaming through the storm like it hadn’t dared touch her. Typical. “Didn’t peg you for a rain chaser,” Irene added, quieter this time. “Guess I was wrong.”

She didn’t move to leave. Not yet. The sky hadn’t cracked open wide enough for that.

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

         she’d been hoping for rain, hadn’t she? and maybe she always is, but sometimes, it’s different than a want, and closer to a need. like the earth when it thirsts for growth, or a girl that wants to forget, and be washed clean, and forgiven. sometimes, she just needs to grow a little greener, too. and she’s not storm chasing, exactly. when she was younger, she’d tremble right along with the thunder. now, she’s outgrown that, and the talk of a hurricane feels like a distant nightmare that it’d be silly to fear. now, there’s only rain, and her walking takes on an air of wandering soon enough, and then she’s dancing right along with the song the sound of droplets make, the soft call of wind.

         the pavement grows slick under her feet, and in between a twirl and some kind of stumble, she slips. it’s only a moment, a soft breeze that draws an even softer squeal from her, but it does snap her attention away from only whimsy. through the rain, she thinks she can spot another person. like this, the water becomes a mirage, and she thinks they might be dancing too. or maybe it’s just the rain. either way, allie calls out to them with a beaming smile.  “ oh, sorry, i didn’t see you there! ”

Irene’s eyes didn’t leave her. Not when she stammered. Not when she forced that smile like it might hold her together. And especially not when she said she’d be fine.

People always said that. I’m good. They almost never were.

The wind slid in off the street, lifting the edges of Irene’s coat and catching the scent of rain still clinging to the trees. She exhaled slow, watching the girl —Cami—wrap her arms around herself like armor.

That smile hurt to look at.

So Irene didn’t.

She stepped forward instead, smooth and quiet, and in one practiced motion, she slipped the coat from her shoulders and offered it—not as a question, but a fact. A choice laid out gently between them. “Take it,” she said, tone low. “I’ve got layers.”

She didn’t. Not really. But she’d walked home colder.

Irene waited until Cami’s fingers brushed the fabric before continuing. “You can keep saying you’re not usually like this, but the truth is —no one’s at their best when they’re bleeding and scared. Doesn’t mean you owe me an explanation.” She tilted her head slightly, eyes scanning the dark behind them out of habit. Something about the way Cami looked over her shoulder had lodged in her gut like a splinter.

At the mention of the woods, she just nodded once, slow. No disbelief —just quiet understanding, like she knew too well the kind of weather that didn’t stay on a forecast. The kind that lived between trees and teeth.

“I know the kind of storms that don’t show up on radar,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone. “And I know how people crawl out of them.”

Her gaze met Cami’s then —steady, unblinking, but not hard. Just there. Like a lighthouse. Not chasing anything. Just a place to look when everything else went dark.

“I’m not pointing you anywhere until I know you won’t fall over getting there.”

She nodded toward the edge of the sidewalk, where the streetlight ended and something like quiet lived. “I’ve got a kettle on and a couch that’s not haunted —yet. You want to warm up, no strings, no pressure, you can.”

A pause. Just long enough to leave room.

“I’m not here to save you. But I’m not leaving you out here either.”

   meeting people in such a state like this, wasn't ideally how she thought it'd be, being new to town and all. she had hoped to look less.....like a character from the 100. listening to her speaking about the gym, camila's face fell as she started thinking to herself. 'she could pick up a membership as she go there' she thought to herself, as she could feel the anxiety settling in. " uh..um~" she continued before looking down at her muddy clothes & the shoes in question. "i'll....i'll figure it out, sorry! i'm.......not usually like this~" she stated, mostly to herself as she was slowly getting lost in her head.

at the next statement of being new in town, camila froze a bit before she's looking back at the stranger. "I.....I was just passing through....or actually, i'm here to .....to meet someone." she continued while nodding to herself, as if to steady herself from not being so shaky jumpy. the community center mention did catch her attention, as she was soon turning to see just exactly where she was.

"what?" she asked suddenly when questioned if she was hurt or not. "uhh....yeah i...fell in the woods. the weather was.....crazy." she nodded as she slowly crossed her arms, as if to warm herself. the dampness of her clothes mixed with the mud, was a little bit uncomfortable. when the stranger introduced herself, camila couldn't tell if they were nice or not. reading people was always.....her specialty; not camila's.

"i'm....cami. and I don't wanna trouble you, so a point in the right direction and i'll be good!" she continued firmly, while forcing another smile on her face.

Irene

Most admirable quality: She's got a lot of compassion. I think she tries to hide that sometimes, but I try to pay attention when people are reaching out a helping hand to others, and she does it a lot. She's a good person. Most attractive physical feature: Eyes are the window to the soul, right? Hers are really pretty. Most annoying habit: She like to keep things vague and short sometimes when she speaks, and I kind of thrive on details and explanations. Something they would like to do with them: I should really pay her back for bringing me that lunch, so maybe grabbing something to eat together?

//@ireneclermont

tag drop.

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!"

Irene’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile but close enough to pass for one if you weren’t looking too hard. “She’s definitely got her own methods,” she murmured, sliding the parcel gently off to the side like it might shift on its own if given the chance. “Half of what she says feels like riddles until you’re knee-deep in it and realize she gave you the answer three weeks ago.”

She didn’t comment on the sleep. Just nodded, once—like she understood more than she was willing to say. Like maybe sleep didn’t come easy on her end either. At the mention of the cabaret, her gaze flicked back up, steady. Not judgmental—just observant. She knew the name. Everyone did, if they’d been in Port Leiry long enough to learn the map beneath the map.

“Mm,” she said again, a catch-all sound that meant, I’ve heard of it, that tracks, careful in there. But she didn’t say any of that out loud. Just moved to straighten a jar on the shelf with idle precision.

She wasn't the first Phial she'd seen come through. They move quiet, but they move together. Irene never met one who didn’t have at least three others watching her back.

She let that settle, then turned back, gaze sharp beneath the tired.

“You ever need supplies on short notice—real ones, not dreamless tea—I keep some stock off the books. You just have to ask.”

She didn’t say it with warmth. But she said it with clarity. Which, for Irene, was as close as you got.

"There's a good poppet," she says, air affectionate, and flashing a smile to Irene. "Kiri's methods are a madness all their own, I understand."

To the next question she offers only a shrugging motion at first before continuing; "Night shift, mostly. I've my own troubles finding sleep. Or had, at the time."

Sleep does come easier now; with the death root being fed and the sun going down in the sky every day she's no longer stuck in the cyclical horror of an endless winter's day. The strange dreams, not her own, have also been ferreted out; a situation she is dealing with, or planning to, slowly.

She smiles again. "I work down at the Satin Cabaret now, playing my wiles and wares there."

A knowing wink. Phial is a federation of self-motivated witches; relatively free of dogma or overbearing code. Support eachother, and keep eachother secret and safe; it is a rule which even she has no qualms abiding by. If Kiri trusts this woman here at Tumatarau, so will Briar.

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.