Multiple Settings Crescent Hill ~ IC thread

[Pyroclast]

August Lovell
~ Crescent Inn ~​

It was a mystery to August what had come over Helena, but the sickly pallor of her face and the tremble on her breath worried him. He was sure she had been fine only a minute ago, when he had been laying on the couch. Maybe, he wondered, it was one of those things when the body puts off the illness or the stress until it has time to feel it - she had had to be the strong one when he wasn't feeling well, but as soon as he started feeling better and no longer needed her watchful eye on him, her own body had given in. Could it be that?

Even reasoning with himself, he couldn’t shake his concern. He watched as Helena stumbled over to the sofa and sank into the cushions. She looked so small, somehow. Smaller than she usually held herself. She took the tiniest sip of water from the water bottle. August wondered how long the bottle had been there - it looked full, at least, and when the screw cap made that click sound he was at least reassured that it was new and he hadn’t just suggested Helena drink from a water bottle that had once touched the lips of one of their guests. He wasn’t sure who would have left an unopened water bottle there, but if Helena was at all nauseous then perhaps room temperature water would be more palatable to her than one taken straight from the fridge.

With her legs drawn up onto the sofa, Helena looked even smaller, and August felt a natural desire to pull her into his arms and cradle her. Instead, he took a tentative seat beside her and scanned her with a worried gaze. She told him that Lydia had gone to get them some cocoa after her study session, something that she suggested he ought to know, but he was pretty sure his cousin hadn’t told him anything about that. He did remember she had been in the inn earlier, but figured she must have left around the time he fainted and before he woke up again. “Well, that’s sweet of her,” he said softly. “And also good, because now I can stay here with you.”

For some reason she still seemed concerned for him, and her voice even wavered a little when she spoke. When she dropped her gaze and admitted she didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts, it reminded August of when he would feel like that. For him, it had been mostly in the aftermath of the death of his sister and father, at times when he was so shaken and so upset that if he was left alone with his thoughts, they would lead him to fulfill an uncontainable urge to do something crazy: to break something, to punch a hole through the wall, to run away somewhere, to hurt himself, to scream out the anxiety until his throat grew hoarse. Or simply let his thoughts run until he broke down into inconsolable tears, or a panic attack so bad that he couldn’t breathe. During such times, he had needed an anchor, somebody to distract him from his thoughts. Just watching TV or playing video games wasn’t enough - he needed attention, and a reason to keep his head up, and having someone there beside him worked better than anything to stave off the intense emotion.

That’s what he imagined Helena meant; that if he left her alone with her thoughts now, she would descend into tears or panic. He had to be that anchor for her. “Well, then I won’t leave you alone,” he assured her. “I’m right here, Helena.” She held her hands together in a desperate grip, and he could recognise signs of tension and distress in the way she held herself. When she described the tightness in her lungs, the weight in her chest that she couldn’t shake, the buzzing in her head as if everything was growing distant, and the multitude of incomprehensible voices all fighting to take the wheel, he understood what was happening.

“Helena, I think you’re having a panic attack,” he told her. “It’s okay, I used to get them all the time. Just focus on my voice, alright? I’m right here beside you and I’m not going anywhere. We’re gonna get through it together.” He took his eyes off her and instead looked ahead so that she didn’t feel self-conscious or observed, then he let his hand rest in the space between them. “I’m not going to touch you, but if you want someone to hold onto, then I’m here,” he offered. “We’re going to breathe together, now. You can put a hand on your chest or your stomach if you want - I find it helps sometimes to just feel a bit of warmth where the anxiety is. So, first we’re gonna take an inhale through your nose, as deep and slow as you can, and then when you can’t breathe in any more, you’re gonna let it all out through the mouth in a forceful exhale. And on that exhale, just like, imagine that you’re expelling those bad thoughts. So, every time you breathe out, you're undoing a knot or silencing one of those voices.” August stole a glance at his friend, and sent her a reassuring smile before looking away again. “Alright, ready? Let’s breathe in.”

August placed a warm hand over his stomach as he followed his own instructions, listening to make sure that Helena was following along with him. The point of it was to shift the focus from the mind to the body, and in the process gain control of both. Yet, as August performed the technique, he couldn’t help but wonder what had caused Helena to grow so anxious all of a sudden. Was something going on that he didn’t know about? Surely she couldn’t just be worried about him. After all, he was fine.

After a short while, he returned to his normal breathing pattern and looked over at her, watching her for a moment to see if she was any less tense. “Helena…” he piped up, his voice low and gentle. “I don’t know if you’re going through something or whatever, but…if you ever wanna talk, I’m here for you. You know, I think of you as a close friend, and I care about you. I know we work a customer facing job and part of that means leaving your shit at the door, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to be brave all the time, or pretend to be okay all the time. If you’re not doing okay, you can come to me and I’ll listen, I’ll do what I can to make you feel better.” He leaned down to try to catch her eye, willing her to look at him. "So...is there anything you wanna talk to me about?"

Bellz Helena

 

[Bellz]

Helena Crayne
Crescent Inn​

It felt strange—maddening, even—and disturbingly familiar. Helena’s gaze fixed on her trembling hands, resting unsteadily in her lap. They weren’t shaking from hunger, the constant presence that usually gnawed at her mind, but from something else entirely. Anger, her ever-persistent shadow when pushed too far, simmered quietly, but this wasn’t that. Tears refused to fall, though she felt as if she might shatter at any moment. The mix of terror and strange relief left her dizzy, her thoughts spinning out of control. It was so unlike her. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if there had been vervain in the water she drank. But no—it had been sealed.


“Panic? Attack?” she repeated softly, her tone distant as August’s words settled over her. She frowned, her brows knitting as she turned her focus toward him. Yet even as she listened, it was a battle not to let her senses zero in on him completely. Every sound, every movement threatened to pull her attention to him in ways he couldn’t begin to understand. When August turned his gaze forward, she mirrored the action, forcing herself to quiet the chaos in her mind. The soft creak of leather brushing skin broke the silence—his hand had settled between them, steady and calm, just like his words. 


She felt utterly wretched. He offered her comfort she didn’t deserve—or at least, that’s what she told herself. Maybe her body, ancient as it was, was finally reaching its breaking point. Immortality had its limits, after all. Perhaps this was hers: not a battle, not a dramatic end, but a humiliating collapse under the weight of a simple panic attack. What a pathetic way to go—again. Her original death, she thought bitterly, had been far less cruel. Helena glanced at August as he spoke, promising they’d breathe together, guiding her through the steps. When their eyes met, she forced a smile, though it felt weak and hollow. She despised the vulnerability in it. “Breathing. Right,” she whispered, her voice barely audible and frayed with unease.

Helena's usually soundless, unnecessary breaths now came embarrassingly loud, and she silently thanked the heavens that blushing was no longer a possibility. Her mother’s words echoed faintly in her mind: Thou turns red as a poppy whenever caught, Lena. That trait, thankfully, had vanished after her transformation, sparing her the scarlet humiliation she would’ve otherwise endured. The thought almost made her smile. Almost. Yet, as she focused on August’s instructions, her breathing evened out. The tangled chaos in her head began to loosen, leaving her with a single thought.

Somehow, he must have sensed the shift, for he called her name, snapping her attention back to him. She hadn’t realized her eyes had closed until they opened, locking onto his. Cool and composed once more, her brown eyes studied him silently. “Yes, August?” Helena murmured, tilting her head as she spoke. Her voice was calm, no longer masking unease beneath. While the questions still lingered, he couldn’t know the real reason for her panic—that she feared she’d hurt him. Even now, she wasn’t sure she hadn’t. His fragmented memory haunted her, each gap a nagging question she couldn’t answer. What more could she do but hope the blood had worked? The restless flutter returned slightly, clawing its way to her throat as she placed a hand there.

August offered to talk, his assumption that her distress stemmed from something mundane almost laughable. If only her problems were human. Maybe she was carrying too much—of course she was—but she had no one she trusted enough to tell. Wren and Morgan were her only options, and even they came with complications. Wren’s eventual absence was inevitable, a painful truth she tried to ignore. Morgan… was unpredictable at best. Someday, Helena might find herself as alone as she had been during those first two centuries of existence. It was a mystery to her why she still cared for humans at all. Yet, August was proving again, he was different. He made everything feel more tangled, more significant. As he leaned closer, his subtle attempt to meet her gaze pulled her from the spiral of her thoughts. When their eyes finally met, she allowed him to glimpse only what she chose, guarding the rest. He’d seen enough already. But in his eyes, she saw everything—every ounce of concern, every silent question lingering there. That quiet, unwavering worry wouldn’t fade until she gave him something, even the smallest truth, to ease his mind.

“August, you’ve done more for me than you should,” Helena said softly, her voice fragile and barely above a whisper. “Especially after falling from a ladder.” Her breath hitched, and the weight of her words hung between them. She blinked slowly, her teeth grazing her bottom lip as she decided to offer him that small truth. “Not being outside has made me a bit… edgy,” she admitted after a pause. “The tours help. I need the fresh air. It’s like trying to keep a dog that’s been outside its whole life trapped indoors.” A soft laugh escaped her as a genuine smile curved her lips. “Oh god, I’m comparing myself to a dog,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “For the record, I’m much cleaner than a dog.” A chuckle bubbled out of Helena as she shook her head, finally breaking eye contact. She buried her face in her cold hands, rubbing her cheeks gently before glancing around the now-empty room.

When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, tinged with vulnerability. “The Festival puts me on edge,” she admitted. “I’m not… fond of the memories it brings back. Bitter ones, mostly.” Her gaze lingered on the empty space, her expression darkening slightly. When Helena spoke again, her voice dipped into something colder, something sharper. “Ghosts belong in the graveyard where they can’t haunt the living.” She said no more.

with: Unpaid Therapist Pyroclast

 

[WanderLust.]

LYDIA SINCLAIRE
HUMAN

Ornery

The Porsche

Rhys

Click me!

“Something the matter, little bird? Didn’t take my warning to heart, did you?” Rhys’ voice grated against her ears like nails on a chalkboard and Lydia was again reminded why she had always disliked her brother’s best friend. Her full lips pulled downward in an agitated scowl, her feet remained stuck in place, refusing to turn to face him as he rapidly closed the gap between them.

“If you’re in need of a ride, I might be inclined to help.”

Her stomach dropped then, as if she had just cleared the highest point of a rollercoaster and was now hurtling towards earth at an alarming speed. She wished he hadn’t offered, she would’ve preferred being left with no other option but to walk home - now, she was forced to choose between a dark, ominous walk home or an extra ten minutes with arguably the worst person in Crescent Hill. She faltered for a moment, edging closer towards the car… foolishly overlooking the fact that Rhys never gave anything away for free. This offer came with strings attached, she should’ve known better.

Before her next breath came, Lydia found herself pinned between Rhys and his Porsche. The cold metal of the door frame pressed against the thin fabric of her blush colored sweater, sending chills down her back as Rhys braced his right hand above her left shoulder. A sharp intake of breath, that faintest hint of a yelp betrayed her nerves. She internally cursed herself for such a reaction, hating how easily Rhys had been able to catch her off guard.

“But I need to hear it. Ask for my help, little bird. And don’t forget your manners.”

God she hated him. Hated his money and his influence, hated his stupid car and his stupid face with that self satisfied smirk that made her want to scream. For a moment, she seriously debated stomping on his foot as hard as she could before telling him to go to hell. But, from all that she had gathered, Rhys Arkwright was already in hell.

“Will. You. Drive. Me. Home.” She swallowed thickly. The words tasted like vinegar in her mouth, “Please.” She spat the last word as though it were a vulgar insult. Not waiting for Rhys to respond, She turned in place, struggling to open the door with two drinks in her hands before sliding into the passenger seat of his pretentious mode of transportation.

Rhys irked her to no avail. This was a game to him, and she was losing. By the time he sauntered his way into the driver’s side Lydia had all but decided to give him the silent treatment for the entirety of their drive together. She should have done exactly that, shouldn’t have granted him the satisfaction of provoking her further and yet -

“You know, you don’t always need to be such an ass.” She placed August’s hot chocolate in one of the cup holders, sipping at her latte like she was nursing a wound… a wounded ego perhaps.

There had been a time in her life when she had harbored romantic fantasies of Rhys, though she would never admit to them, especially not now. At the age of twelve or thirteen, she had followed after her brother and his best friend like a dog begging for scraps. Gone out of her way to capture his attention, enamored by his dark hair and pale eyes, convinced that someday, somehow she would manage to get him to fall in love with her. She wanted to scoff at the notion now. Her childish fantasies were asinine and foolish.

But as her mind drifted back to her youth, she found her focus lingering on a different memory entirely. The day her father had dressed her and Leon in ebony ensembles to attend the funeral of Marcus and Elara Arkwright, Rhys’ parents. That was the first and only time she had witnessed any display of genuine emotion from Rhys… he was human, somewhere, deep down, buried under all his defense mechanisms and devil-may-care grins. For a heartbeat, Lydia softened.

“Thank you… for driving me.” her tone was tempered, cautious as though she were fully aware she was treading on thin ice.

coded by natasha.

 

[Bellz]

Rhys Arkwright
En Route to the Inn​

The scent of her hatred was intoxicating, a sharp, acrid perfume that seeped into Rhys's senses, even from the distance he maintained as she slid into the passenger seat. Her reluctance to surrender even a shred of civility amused him; another small victory, perhaps, that his words had found their mark. At least she said please. He let his gaze drift through the encroaching darkness, he listened. The coffee shop had been busy, but the tourists were starting to thin out. No doubt heeding the warning of the Sheriff despite their morbid curiosity. Rhys exhaled slowly, tension coiling in his muscles as he moved with deliberate precision to the driver’s side, the door shutting behind him with a finality that resonated in the quiet.

The engine purred to life under his touch, a low, satisfying rumble that mirrored the smug curve of his lips. "You’re right. I don’t. And I’m not," he murmured, voice like velvet laced with steel. His eyes flicked ahead, unreadable, dangerous. "I’m sure your brother has a different story to tell about me." Not that it mattered. She wouldn’t believe him; she was too entrenched in her preconceived notions, like the rest of this town. They all thought they knew him, painted him in shadows and whispers. And Rhys liked it that way.

Leon would play his part, a useful pawn in the grander scheme, until his utility ran dry. Then, like the others, he’d learn the truth. Rhys Arkwright didn’t have friends; he had allies, tools, and disposable connections. Friendship was a relic of a past life, a luxury for those who hadn’t been hardened by the cruel twist of fate. His innocence was long buried, sacrificed on the altar of vengeance and power. Now, all that remained was the predator, always calculating, always a step ahead.

The life he once knew as a child felt like a distant echo, a spectral fragment of a world that no longer belonged to him. Memories of his parents drifted in and out of focus, their faces blurred, their voices warped by time and the relentless march of his rage. What little warmth he could recall had been snuffed out, leaving only the smoldering embers of anger in its place. Grief, once a fierce storm, had dried up long ago, buried beneath layers of hardened resolve. Rhys’s grip tightened on the wheel, knuckles blanching as he forced those thoughts aside. There was no room for sentimentality now.

After dropping Lydia off at the inn, ensuring her safety was more about practicality than concern, he’d return to what he actually set out to do tonight. His true focus was on the items the Crimson Grimoire dictated, each one essential for harnessing the power of the Veil.

"On the eve of the Festival of the Veil, when the worlds of the living and the lost grow perilously thin, the power to unbind the ethereal barrier rests within the soul of a chosen one. Their essence, a rare and potent key, must be claimed and wielded by one of resolute will. To seize this power is to command the veil itself, bending its secrets to the wielder's desire. But beware, for the act demands both mastery and sacrifice—failure to harness the soul’s may condemn the seeker to eternal shadow."

The book’s riddles fucking grated on him, but the clarity of its demands was undeniable. A list for the ritual. A vampire fang, a silver-burned bone shard from a werewolf—acquired at a steep price—and cursed candle wax already in his possession. Only one item remained: the voice of a Siren or a whispering vial. Both rare, both nearly impossible to obtain. Rhys’s jaw clenched as he recalled the fire that had razed his past, consuming not only his home and loved ones but every relic and treasure within. The blaze had reduced his legacy to ash, leaving him to rebuild from nothing. He wouldn’t have to search so hard for everything on this list if everything hadn’t gone up in flames.

That fucking Coven was going to get what was—

“Thank you… for driving me.” Lydia’s voice, soft and unexpected, cut through the storm brewing in Rhys’s mind. It was quiet, barely a whisper against the hum of the engine and the faint noise of the road, yet it pulled him back from the brink. His grip on the wheel eased, the tension in his chest releasing with a measured breath. He allowed himself a brief glance her way, catching the subtle curve of her profile in the dim light. "You’re welcome." His reply was low, almost a murmur, blending seamlessly with the car’s steady purr. A strange lump formed in his throat, an unfamiliar weight that he couldn’t quite place. He swallowed it down, eyes fixed ahead on the dark stretch of road.

"An asshole I may be," Rhys admitted, his voice steady, stripped of its usual bite, "but I wouldn’t have had it any other way." His expression remained impassive, a mask of detached indifference, no trace of a smile or smirk—just the hollow void he’d grown accustomed to wearing. "I’m not here to change your mind about me, Lydia. I don’t expect that. But I couldn’t let you walk alone in the dark." The silence stretched, the hum of the engine the only sound between them. After a pause, Rhys exhaled, the breath heavy with unspoken thoughts. "When I was a kid, my mother used to warn me about walking alone at night. She’d say the darkness could hide things you weren’t ready to see." His jaw tensed, a flicker of something raw tightening his features. "I didn’t listen. Thought I was untouchable. Until one night, I wasn’t."

He fell silent, his gaze distant, the weight of that night pressing down like a specter he wasn’t ready to face. The air between them thickened with the gravity of his words, a lingering shadow of a past he’d locked away. Then, with a faint, almost playful curve of his lips, he shattered the tension. "You know," Rhys said, his eyes sliding to hers, a flicker of something softer in their depths, "you’ve got a knack for pulling things out of people. Maybe you should think about becoming a therapist. Could be your true calling." A low chuckle escaped him, the sound rich and smooth, a contrast to the somberness that had settled moments before. "And at this rate, I might need to start paying you for these sessions. Feels like I’m getting more out of this ride than you are." The humor was genuine, but beneath it lingered an unexpected tenderness, a vulnerability he rarely showed. It was fleeting, a brief glimpse into the man beneath the armor, before the shadows reclaimed him once more.
with: Lydia WanderLust.

 

[Pyroclast]

August Lovell
~ Crescent Inn ~​

The room fell quiet as Helena's panic dimmed. The breathing exercise had helped, and to August the quiet was the comfortable kind. His head felt empty and his mind calm, like the rare few seconds during a meditation when he managed to stall his constant train of thought and just be present. Still, despite the calm energy that surrounded them, he could tell that Helena wasn't back to her normal self yet. There was still something inside her, weighing on her. It hung from her words, pulling them down to almost a whisper. August lightly scoffed at her insisting that he had already done too much for her. He had hardly done anything but sat her down and did some guided breathing. Did she really think so low of herself that such a small act of care was deemed too much?

Especially after falling from a ladder. That was the part that really caught him off guard. When had she fallen from a ladder? He met her concerned expression with one of his own as he tried to rifle through his memories for a conversation where she must have told him about such an accident. Yet, as always, the more he tried to focus on remembering something, the more he came up blank. The ADHD had got him well used to that level of memory dysfunction, but he still felt like a bad friend for not remembering something so significant as Helena having an accident.

Perhaps she was right and that all she needed to put herself right was some fresh air. August laughed with her when she compared herself to a dog, but it was mostly because her sweet laughter was so contagious. She felt the need to assure him that she was much cleaner than a dog, at which he grinned and jokingly said, “That makes one of us.” He let his gaze drift back to the wall ahead when she broke eye contact, not wanting her to feel so observed in case she got self-conscious and closed up.

August would be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed that the upcoming festival was the cause of her anxiety, because it was one of his favourite events of the year. Helena admitted that it brought back bitter memories, and it was either her mention of being haunted by ghosts or the icy, brittle tone of her voice when she said it, but August could have sworn the air around them turned a little colder. Her words echoed through the silence that followed, and at first August didn’t know how to respond.

“You mean…your parents?” he eventually asked, keeping his voice low. They were the only people he remembered Helena telling him about that had passed away. “I often get a little apprehensive about it, too. I love the festival but it’s different for people like you and me. You know, people who’ve…lost loved ones. And for me, it’s okay, ‘cause people around here remember my sister and my dad. My mom, my uncle and my cousins and I can light those lanterns together and honour them, and it brings us closer to each other and also to Daphne and my dad. But I imagine it’s different for you, since…you don’t have…”

Trying to find a way to point out that she was alone without effectively pointing out that she was alone had him stumped. “I mean, you have Morgan.” A small pause. “And hey, you have me!” He put his hand over hers and gave it a small squeeze. “You have me, Helena. And I won’t let anyone or anything haunt you, ever. If you want to light a lantern for someone, I’ll light it with you. Or - if you really don’t wanna come to the festival, you can call in sick or something. Me and my uncle can handle one event on our own. And as for now…” Still squeezing her hand, August leaned in a little closer. “How about we go find those rowan berry garlands we made last year, huh? We can put them up and stop any unwanted ghosts from haunting the place. They’ll come here, realise they got no place here, and go straight back to the graveyard where they belong!”

The sound of someone clearing their throat tore his attention away and he looked past Helena to see a heavily tattooed man in his late thirties waiting at the desk. Turning back to Helena, August said, “I’ll get this one. You go get some air and I’ll make a start on those garlands while you’re out, okay?”

On his way to deal with the hotel guest, however, something caught August’s eye that made him stop in his tracks. It was a long garland, hanging from the corner of the ceiling and draping loosely onto the floor in a tangled heap of red rowan berries. A vague memory came to him, then, of standing on a ladder…had he already started putting them up? Why would he have forgotten that? The realisation brought with it a deep sense of dread. He stared at the hanging string of berries, his eyes narrowing as if staring would help the answer come to him.

“Hello? Do I have to stand here all day?”

August turned to the man at reception and promptly moved to stand behind the desk. “How can I help you, sir?” His voice was lacklustre and he struggled to maintain eye contact.

The guest was muscular but lean, bald-headed with a few razor burns dotted among the stubble on his chin. His skin was pock-marked and he smelled of sweat and cigarette smoke. He leaned across the desk and, in a low voice, said, “I need, uh…some clean sheets. If you know what I mean.”

August did well to hide his disgust. He wouldn’t have even thought about what the man might have meant if he had just asked plainly for new sheets. “Can I take your name and room number please?”

“Tom Johnson, room six.”

He tried to write the name down, but his pen wouldn’t work. He tried a couple of others, and when he finally found one that worked, he realised he didn’t know what he was supposed to be writing. “Sorry, what was it you wanted?”

“Come on, man. Clean sheets. Maybe a couple sets, you know…”

On a post-it note, August wrote: Sheets x2

“And your name and room number?”

“Tom Johnson, room six...”

He started running his finger down the list of current guests. “And those are double sheets you want, right?”

“Don’t you know what room is what? Is this your first day or something?”

August's cheeks reddened as he continued to run his finger down the list, but he couldn’t remember who he was looking for. The complete inability to focus or retain information was starting to scare him. Even without the Adderall, the retention time was never that short. “Sorry, the room…?”

“Room six, dumbass!” The man laughed at him and turned around to throw a look of amused disbelief at Helena. “Look man, I just want clean sheets. Do you need to take a break while I speak to your manager instead?”

“Six, six, six…” August repeated under his breath. He wanted to point out that he was in fact the manager, but he was afraid he would forget the number if he didn't keep saying it. Thankfully, his finger eventually landed on the room number he had been looking for, which had a name next to it. “Can you confirm the name for me please?”

"Yeah," the man sneered. "Name's Homer Simpson."

August paused, unsure how to respond. Why would he give him a fake name? Unless he was being serious, and it was just a very odd coincidence. Either way, it wasn't the name allocated to room six. "Uh, that's not..."

The tattooed man let out another shriek of laughter. “Oh my god, this is amazing! It’s like talkin’ to a freakin’ goldfish!! It's TOM. JOHNSON. Do I need to write it down for you?! They're like, the two commonest names in the freakin' Western world! You would've gotten it sooner if I'd made you guess!”

He continued to jeer at him while August hurriedly scribbled the name and room number on the post-it note next to the instructions. “Alright, Mr Thompson, we’ll have those sheets delivered to your room in just a moment.”

Leaving the man to get back to his room, August stuck the post-it note to the desk and darted into the back office. He sat down in the swivel chair and began to spin in slow circles. The closet door was propped open by a heap of things on the floor that had obviously fallen off the shelves at some point, but he didn't know anything about that, nor did he feel inclined to tidy it up. Deciding to ignore the mess for now, August let his vision relax into a blur and continued to gently spin while he tried to piece together what was going on. He couldn’t remember the most basic things. It was like there was a disconnect in his brain. He had somehow forgotten about putting up the rowan berry garland. Then he couldn’t even hold onto the room number or the name of the guest.

When he realised that the spinning was starting to make his head hurt, he stopped, only to notice he had made himself rather dizzy. He stumbled a little when he stood up and had to pause at the door before leaving the room in search of Helena. “Helena?” he called out. His voice was tinged with fear, but he didn’t really know where the fear was coming from. “Helena, I think…do you mind if I head home?” There was no explanation he could give. All he knew was that something didn’t feel quite right, and he wanted to figure it out on his own time, away from the demands of the hotel guests and Helena's worried eyes.

Bellz Helena

 

[WanderLust.]

LYDIA SINCLAIRE
HUMAN

Grief

The Porsche

Rhys

Click me!

There was something about Rhys’ “you’re welcome” that made Lydia think of tequila. Swallowed in one gulp like a shot, instead of savored on the lips like a glass of wine. She kept her eyes forward, unwilling to meet his hardened gaze as he glanced in her direction. Why was he always looking at her like that? Making her feel like she was being examined under a microscope like some sort of test subject. She refused to squirm under his observation, instead sipping gingerly at her latte.

"When I was a kid, my mother used to warn me about walking alone at night. She’d say the darkness could hide things you weren’t ready to see."

Lydia paused then, with her latte still pressed against her lower lip. Her stormy grey eyes flickered towards him, catching the silhouette of his profile as it was illuminated by a set of passing headlights. She studied him for a moment, waiting with bated breath for some sort of queue. A facial expression that she could read, some context to tell her how to respond, but Rhys remained stoic.

"I didn’t listen. Thought I was untouchable. Until one night, I wasn’t."

And there it was again, that tightening in her chest, so volatile and poignant that she would’ve almost described it as physically painful. There was a lump in the back of her throat that felt like she was trying to swallow a golf ball. Her face gave away every flicker of emotion as it went through her, grief, confusion, shock… pity. But it didn’t matter, because Rhys wasn’t looking at her. His eyes remained fixated on the road.

“When my mom left, I think everyone expected me to be sad…” she paused, her voice catching in her throat before she ultimately forced the words out. “Only I wasn’t sad. I was angry. At her. At my dad. I was angry at the whole world. I didn’t understand why something like that would happen to me. Before my mom left I had always thought I was a good person. I thought bad things didn’t happen to good people. But that meant, either I wasn’t as good of a person as I thought - or sometimes shitty things happen to good people for no reason at all.”

She found herself looking down at her hands, there was something broken inside of her, something irreparable that would linger to her last days. She had never voiced these thoughts to anyone, not even Leon, so why was she spilling her guts to Rhys Arkwright of all people?

“So you tell me, which one is it?” Her eyes stayed fixed on her hands which sat idly in her lap, she couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze. Her mind was elsewhere, lingering on memories of her mother that were so distant they were almost devoid of color.

As the car lulled to a stop outside the inn, Lydia blinked, crashing back into reality like a skydiver with no parachute.

"You know, you’ve got a knack for pulling things out of people. Maybe you should think about becoming a therapist. Could be your true calling. And at this rate, I might need to start paying you for these sessions. Feels like I’m getting more out of this ride than you are."

His humor cut through the tension like a knife, giving way to an atmosphere that felt lighter, almost as though it were easier to breathe for a moment. Opening the door to the car and unbuckling her seat belt, Lydia matched his playful tone, yet there was a note of bittersweetness to it.

“A word of advice, Rhys?" She rose to her feet, slinging her backpack over her shoulder before turning her attention back towards him. "Being angry at the world never made me feel any better. It just made me feel more alone.”

And with that, Lydia picked up her latte and August’s hot chocolate, swung the car door shut and disappeared inside the inn without another word.

coded by natasha.

 

[WanderLust.]

THEODORE WEST
ALPHA WEREWOLF

Guarded

Town Square

Summer Bellz

Click Me

A satisfied smirk tugged at the edges of Theo’s lips as the blonde’s face contorted into a display of panic and shock. His elongated canines retracted in on themselves, restoring his perfectly normal, or perhaps above average, human features. Content with the impression he had evidently made, his hands gripped the steering wheel as he directed the car back onto the highway, his corvette effortlessly picking up speed with a low purr.

“So, a werewolf picks up a siren on the side of the road…sounds like the setup for a really bad joke.”

Theo was painfully aware that she was trying to lighten the mood. But her attempt to find common ground was met with a smug scoff. He imagined it must’ve been difficult for her. This was likely her first encounter with someone who didn’t immediately warm to her presence. Theo rarely warmed up to anyone, especially not strangers with disarmingly attractive features. Beautiful women were a fleeting pleasure he allowed himself from time to time. But he usually had more important burdens to bear than pacifying pretty girls who so carelessly found themselves in his company.

“I’m Summer, by the way. Since supernatural secrets are out of the bag, might as well give you a name. Unless, of course, you’d prefer Wolfie? Or Fido? Maybe Old Yeller? Oh, wait—Lassie!”

Summer. How fitting for a girl who smelled of a warm tropical breeze, the very essence of sunshine and all things tender and soft.

“Theo.” His tone was sharp with an undertone of mild agitation. “You can call me Theo.” It came out as more of an order than a request. She had struck a nerve. A tedious reminder of the never ending dog jokes he had come to expect from the rest of Crescent Hill’s supernatural community. Everyone who made a dog joke to a werewolf thought they were the only ones to ever think of such a jab. They were all telling the same four or five jokes endlessly.

“You don’t really seem like the type to be paranoid about sirens. So, what’s your story? Bad experience? Or am I just unlucky enough to be your first siren encounter?”

There was a prolonged moment of silence as Theo weighed his answer, choosing his words carefully with the intent of holding his cards close to his chest. “The ring is a family heirloom.” He paused, his cognac gaze briefly flicking towards the golden bit of jewelry on his finger as he switched on the turn signal to exit the highway. “To be honest, I didn’t think there were any sirens left… at least not in Crescent Hill. It’s a recessive gene, not particularly easy to pass on.”

He was letting on more than he should have. She would likely follow suit with more questions, interrogate him on why he knew so much about sirens. He needed to shut this down quickly, get rid of her before this could go any further.

“I had a hunch something was off when you didn’t launch into a Shakespearean monologue about my hair or eyes. Usually, I’m drowning in sonnets and sappy declarations by now.You did look a little surprised when that ring actually worked.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not a poet.” His tone was dry, measured. Not giving too much away but careful not to raise any suspicion either. “And this is your stop.”

His corvette slid smoothly over towards the sidewalk where he shifted the gear to park. Despite the sun having slipped behind the horizon, there were still quite a few groups of people walking about town square which was illuminated with lamp posts at regular intervals. Tourists, here for the thinning of the veil festival no doubt.

Without waiting for permission, Theo reached across to the passenger side where he unbuckled Summer’s seat belt, his fingertips unintentionally brushing across her arm as he did so. “Do me a favor?” He turned his attention back towards the road as he shifted his car back into drive, “Try not to seduce any murderers on your way home.”

coded by natasha.

 

[Pyroclast]

Chapter 2:
Friday, 14th October 1994
Evening - cool, damp, foggy

***************

***************
August Lovell
The Lovell home, Crescent Hill​

“Will I be back at work on Monday?”

August shook the Magic 8 Ball and waited for an answer to float up to the screen.

Outlook not so good.

A frustrated groan escaped him, and his eyes rolled so high that there was a chance they might never have come down. August was leaning his entire weight onto the dining table as he idly played with the toy, all the way down onto his elbows with his legs outstretched behind him.

“Will I die of boredom before I can go back to work?” he asked, and shook the ball again.

...

Better not tell you now.

This time, August sighed and narrowed his eyes. “What are you not telling me, you stupid chunk of plask - plastic?” The ball’s response had sounded like a reluctant yes to him, showing a somewhat cowardly side as it hedged around a real answer.

Another question sprang to mind, and with a naughty sort of smile, he asked, “Does Helena have a thing for me?”

Shake.

As I see it, yes.

Before he knew it, his smile had turned into something boyish. He let the answer sit with him for a moment, and then he sighed and spoke again: “Does Morgan have a thing for me?”

For some reason, the answer seemed to come quicker this time.

Without a doubt.

“Yep, okay,” August said, tossing the toy onto the sofa and making his way back to the kitchen. “Why am I talking to a stupid toy, anyway?”

The two chicken breasts gave a hiss in the frying pan when August poked at them with a wooden spatula. “I feel like Chicken Tonight, like Chicken Tonight…Chicken Tonight!” he sang under his breath. The jingle often wormed its way into his head, from all the times it played in the advert break for The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Even the spoken words managed to perch on an empty shelf in August’s memory and wait until a random opportunity would arise. Now, home alone and cooking a meal, it did its best to draw forth a recital from August. “Choose from six new sauces! Now you can make dishes like…country French…fried…f-fucking French fry chicken, and…chicken c...c-catch…c-caccia!” He shook out the thick contents of a jar of Ragu into the pan, bits of tomato splashing up onto his forearm. “Just brown the chicken, simmer and serve! New Chicken Tonight simmer slauces…s-summer…slimming slummer sauce -”

The rumble of a car pulling up outside the house turned his head towards the window and, just as quickly as it came, the advert left his mind. His reflection reminded him that he was wearing nothing but sweatpants, and so he swiftly abandoned the stove to go and get dressed. Except that, upon entering his bedroom, a sour smell pierced his nostrils and made him stop in his tracks. A damp patch of vomit had been soaking into his duvet for god knows how many hours, and a crust had formed on the wooden bedframe and on the rug below, proving its trajectory. While unpleasant to discover the mess, it didn't entirely surprise him - he had been on and off work all week with migraines and a sick stomach - but it did worry him that he had forgotten all about it. Now, the sight and smell was potent enough to conjure up a few vague memories of the morning he had had. Waking up to a headache so aggressive that it just about blinded him, a red hot iron rod being slowly driven through his brain, scalding him from the inside. That was all he could remember up to when he had woken up a second time with one arm draped around the toilet bowl, and having to peel his cheek off the seat. Pieces of the day gradually began to return to him, and he got distracted for trying to put them in order.

The jingling of keys and click of the latch made his skin flush with dread and a wave of what felt like guilt came over him. He grabbed the first thing he could find from the clothes pile on the floor - a grey long sleeve t-shirt - and tore it over his head. He then dipped out of his room, pulling the door shut behind him, and sprang to the front door.

“Mom,” he said, eyes glimmering with anxiety. He watched her take off her shoes and then the smell of food drew him into the kitchen. As soon as he saw the unattended pan, he bounded over to resume his cooking, grateful to find that nothing had burned. “I made chicken. I think it's almost ready, if you wanna come sit down.” He took a swig of his beer, continuing to sweep the chicken across the bottom of the pan. “Oh, uh…I fuck - f-fug - fung…” He paused and let out a frustrated sigh. Why was it so hard to get his words out? “I for-got to do any veg.” He cleared his throat and took a deep breath, before continuing at a slower pace. “So it’s just chicken. Sorry.” August reached up to the cupboard to get the dinner plates out and as he began to lay the table, he glanced over at his mother with a smile. “How was your day, Mom? Any progress on the…um…” What was the word? “The…the thing you're trying to…the person that died?”

Bellz Mama Lovell

 

[Bellz]

Chapter 2: Where Monsters Mingle
Friday, 14th October 1994
Evening - cool, damp, foggy
Waxing Gibbous

Helena Crayne
Rhys Arkwright
Crayne & Murphy Residence
~ Outskirts of Crescent Hill ~
outfit: here / mood: tense ​

Helena rested against the grand staircase railing, surveying the spectacle unfolding within her home. The past bled into the present, stitched together by careful illusion—ornate décor, nostalgic melodies, the flickering ghosts of bygone decades. But tonight, it felt real. As though time itself had unraveled, each room a doorway to another era.

The foyer shimmered with the indulgence of the Roaring Twenties—champagne towers gleaming beneath golden Art Deco swirls, laughter bubbling like the effervescent fizz in crystal coupes. Beyond it, the parlor pulsed with the saccharine charm of the 1950s, all polished chrome and checkered floors, the neon glow from jukebox signs washing over twirling skirts and slicked-back hair.

Deeper in, the energy shifted—became slower, heavier. The late '60s and '70s oozed through the walls, thick with psychedelic warmth and curling smoke. Lava lamps cast slow-moving constellations across the ceiling, their glow painting the haze-drenched room in hypnotic colors. Bodies moved in languid rhythm, lost in the embrace of sound and sensation.

At the back of the house, the '80s erupted in electric chaos. Strobing blue and pink lights fractured against mirrored walls, catching the glint of sequins and metallic fabric. A fog machine hissed, sending plumes of vapor curling around writhing dancers, the bass thrumming through the floor like a second heartbeat. Time blurred at the edges, eras folding into one another.

The scent of blood wove through it all—rich, warm, undeniably alive. It clung to Helena like an intimate caress, stirring the ever-present hunger she had caged for three centuries. She had a complicated relationship with control and in a space so tightly packed—bodies pressed together, sweat-slick and unaware—the craving burned sharper.

She had gathered them all here for Morgan’s sake. A performance of restraint, a semblance of normalcy wrapped in the glitter of a Decades Party. She’d rummaged through an old trunk and pulled out a pristine '60s shift dress, pairing it with bright orange boots. As she’d curled her hair, memory pressed close—she had worn this dress before, when the music was new, when the air was thick with cigarette smoke and rebellion. Now, to these people, it was just a costume.

"Nice outfit!" someone had chirped, oblivious.

Helena had only smiled, swallowing the laugh that threatened.

The gathering had swelled beyond what she or Wren had expected, but Wren had insisted on over-preparing. Helena let her. The house overflowed with drinks, food, decorations—money was no obstacle. She could throw a hundred parties like this and barely make a dent. But that was never the point. Tonight was about Morgan. His birthday. His moment.

The day before, she had gone through the motions of humanity—buying a small cake, though they both knew neither of them would eat it. She had even sung to him, soft and unhurried, before their shifts began, marking the occasion with a quiet, fleeting celebration. When he returned that night, a gift awaited him on the table: several rare, original vinyl records, each one chosen with meticulous care. The gesture felt oddly... domestic.

And yet, the weight of it lingered, settling deep within her bones—unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. She had always been careful not to plant roots too deeply in Crescent Hill, keeping her presence transient, untethered. But with Morgan, it was different. He was more than a roommate, more than a fellow vampire. He was like a brother, the only one she trusted without hesitation. With all of her secrets. If she ever had to leave, he would be the only one to know where she was going. Or perhaps, he would be beside her when she did.

Helena wove through the throng, her senses stretching into the dim corners of the house, seeking the quiet solace of the shadows. She kept her focus on Morgan, though the power within her resisted—sluggish, tangled, curling at the edges of her consciousness like mist refusing to solidify. She was still learning to master it, and without the fortification of human blood, it drained her. Images flickered in her mind—disjointed and fleeting. A blur of bodies drinking, a face like Morgan’s appearing and vanishing in an instant. The shadows stirred, uneasy, clinging to the periphery of the room, their whispers threading through the noise of the party—urgent, chaotic.

"The trees hum—no, they breathe—too many, too close—"
"Lungs in the leaves, bones in the dirt—watching, waiting—"

They never ceased. Not even here. And they always spoke nonsense — or close to it.

Helena exhaled slowly, feeling the murmurs coil around her, testing her composure. Not now. She was determined to keep it all together.

Despite her efforts, the shadows refused to be silenced. They were a constant, restless presence—except when he was near. August. He was the only one who could grant her that rare, impossible quiet. And he had no idea. When he was around, the whispers faded, the power within her stilled. No erratic surges, no murmurs scraping against the edges of her mind. Just silence. For years, she had questioned it—why him? What made him different? But the answer never came. Eventually, she stopped searching and simply let herself revel in the stillness he provided.

She had expected it to end. Everything did—friendships, comforts, anything that felt good. Yet three years later, the quiet remained, stronger than ever. And still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with him—something she wasn’t seeing. The thought unsettled her, guilt pooling in her chest. How could she call herself his friend when he eased her burden, yet she failed to ease his?

Helena moved through the party, scanning the room, but the weight of that realization clung to her. No matter how often she tried to ignore it, the unease remained—a relentless itch beneath her skin. He wasn’t even here, yet he consumed her thoughts, his absence louder than any presence. For weeks, she had felt it—an imbalance, a shift she couldn’t name. Overwhelming, undeniable.

"Wrong shape, wrong shadow—tilts the world, tips the sky—don’t fall—"

At first, it wasn’t his quiet nature or his unwavering kindness that had drawn her in—it was the raw, aching sorrow he carried. Pain had a scent, an allure, and his had been intoxicating in ways she didn’t understand. She had drawn closer, not to feed, but to understand. But something changed. Over time, his pain was no longer something distant, something she merely observed. His presence became familiar, his scent—bergamot, ginger, warm amber—became safe. And now, that same pain pressed against her every time she neared him, suffocating and heavy. It made her reckless. It made her weak.

She hated that she noticed. She hated even more that she cared.

Centuries of control meant nothing when she saw him unraveling, when his shoulders hunched beneath an invisible weight, when his hands trembled just slightly. Helena exhaled sharply, forcing the voices back, pushing through the haze of unease. But the air had shifted. The shadows slithered through the empty spaces, restless and watchful. Outside, the night thickened, pressing in, eager, expectant. It took every ounce of restraint to hold it at bay as she moved toward the door. Then—her senses locked onto a scent. Familiar. Unwelcome.

"Hunted before, hunted again—"
"No escape, no escape—"

The murmurs coiled around her consciousness, a venomous lull settling into a low hum as she reached the doorway. Yet her attention was fixed elsewhere—on the man striding forward beside Theo West and another werewolf. Rhys Arkwright. Uninvited. Unwelcome. The shadows curled in her palms, restless and hungry. The werewolves, at the very least, had received an invitation. But him? Her eyes darted back inside in search of Wren, then returned to the approaching trio as her lips curved into an expression that was both soft and perilous.

"My, my," she purred, her voice as smooth as silk. "It appears that the definition of ‘plus one’ has become rather expansive these days. Although, please correct me if I’m mistaken, Arkwright, but I seem to recall making my stance quite clear the last time we spoke." Her smile remained, but there was nothing inviting about it. "Stay the fuck away from my home, or I’ll tear your throat out."

Rhys tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. "Now, is that really the best way to welcome your guests?" The shadows writhed with a restless, disjointed energy, their whispers jagged and fractured, like shards of glass clinking together in a chaotic symphony of thoughts barely held together. "Rip the sky, tear the skin," they hissed in a voice that echoed like the rustling of dead leaves in her mind, "crack the bones, let the breath twist."

Helena's smile barely flickered, yet the air around her seemed to darken, as if the shadows themselves yearned to obey her every unspoken command. Her laugh was quiet, a breath of ice that sent a chill through the air. "No," she admitted, dark amusement dancing in her sharp gaze, like a cat toying with a frightened mouse. "But it’s the way I talk to you."

A warning glimmered in her eyes, a silent promise of power and control. The shadows trembled at her fingertips, eager to lash out, curling like dark mist over her knuckles, tendrils of night eager to spring forth. Her attention shifted past Rhys, settling like a hawk on Theo, her smile unwavering, almost predatory. "What is he doing here, West?" Rhys let out a low, rumbling grumble. "He is standing right here." Helena didn’t spare him a glance, her focus as sharp as a blade. "And yet, I wasn’t speaking to you."

Rhys took another step forward, deliberate and calculated, testing the waters. Demanding her attention. "Careful, Helena," he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement tinged with something far more dangerous, like a serpent ready to strike. "You keep talking to me like that, and I might start thinking you’re trying to impress me." His smirk was all sharp edges, a razor’s gleam, "Tell me, what’s worse? That you’re so desperate to keep me out… or that you already know you can’t?"

His gaze flicked briefly to the dark tendrils twisting around her fingers, his smirk deepening. "Cute trick, by the way," he added, voice laced with mock appreciation. "Very theatrical. Perfect for spooking party guests, though I imagine that's about the extent of its use."

Helena let out a soft hum, tilting her head slightly as though she were a queen considering the plea of a court jester, her expression a perfect mask of amusement. And then, slow as honey dripping from a spoon, she smiled. "You do have a talent, Rhys," she mused, her voice light and teasing, yet just shy of cruel."For mistaking your own irrelevance for importance. It must be exhausting, carrying that much misplaced confidence on your shoulders."

Her fingers twitched, and the shadows stirred in response, unfurling like something alive. They slithered toward him, slow and deliberate, as if weighing their next move. The air thickened, the porch light flickered once before surrendering to darkness, leaving only the house’s glow to cut through the night.

"As for my little ‘party trick’…" Helena’s smile turned razor-sharp, dark amusement flickering in her eyes. "You’re welcome to push its limits—though I doubt you’d like what you find." When Rhys was pleasantly silent, Helena turned back to Theo with a raised brow, shadows still slowly curling towards Rhys. "Give me two good reasons why I shouldn't let my party trick consume him, West?" Helena looked around behind them, all of the humans seemed to have trickled in already. Good.
with: Theo/Maddie/Wren (who might want to save Rhys right about now) WanderLust. Me lol.
Mentions: Birthday Boi CapellaStargaze ; Chicken Boi Pyroclast
I am sorry for this novel lol. I edited this shit like 6 times >.<

 

[WanderLust.]

LYDIA SINCLAIRE
HUMAN

Anxious

Crayne & Murphy Residence

Leon Pyroclast

Click me!

Lydia had never been much of a party goer. Even now, sitting in the passenger seat of Leon’s Ford F150 as it rattled along the pavement, she looked out the window with a deep seated sense of foreboding. The autumn night air was crisp and the road ahead was obscured by a thick layer of fog that made Crescent Hill feel like something straight out of a horror movie. Lydia exhaled a breath she hadn’t even been aware she was holding, sliding her palms over her sequined dress.

She had selected the roaring twenties as her decade of choice for Helena and Morgan’s decade party, and thus was clad in a 1920’s flapper dress, the hem of the gown landing a bit higher above her knees than she would’ve preferred, decked with ivory sequins and fringe to boot. On her feet were a pair of white heels that looked more 90s than 20s, but she had been working with the limited options in her wardrobe. Her strawberry blonde hair was slightly wavy, she had attempted to curl it, but her silky fine locks never held a style for very long. She squirmed uncomfortably in her outfit as Leon flicked the turn signal on.

Her brother had chosen an entirely different style, opting for an 80’s denim look that reminded Lydia of something her father might wear. She wondered if Leon had, in fact, stolen a few items from dad’s closet. The frown that touched her lips was involuntary as she realized she hadn’t been afforded the same opportunities… her mother had taken all her clothes with her when she left, leaving behind only a few pairs of shoes and bits of jewelry that she hadn’t cared to take with her.

“I didn’t see August at the inn this week.” She noted with a frown as they pulled down the street that Helena and Morgan lived on. “Have you heard anything from him?”

Before Leon could answer, Lydia’s attention was pulled away by a long line of cars parallel parked along the entirety of the street. Her jaw dropped open, mouth slightly agape as she took in the sheer amount of people walking towards the very clearly illuminated house. She could nearly hear the bass of stereos thrumming from a block away, a song she didn’t recognize wailing into the otherwise silent neighborhood. The whole town must’ve been at this party, she cast a wayward glance towards Leon, her brows furrowing in a mix of disbelief and trepidation.

Lydia had not been very well acquainted with Morgan, but she knew Helena well… and this party seemed far more ostentatious than anything Helena might’ve planned on her own. Surely, there were other forces at work here. She found herself wondering how the cops had not already been called for a noise complaint, but the more she thought about it, the more she began to realize that the sheriff’s department of Crescent Hill was probably too busy investigating the recent murder to give much of a damn about a silly noise complaint. She gulped silently as Leon parked the car.

“We should probably try to find Helena.” She remarked as she slid out of the pick up truck, it was a bit of a drop down to the pavement and she almost twisted an ankle wobbling unsteadily on her heels. “Or August…”

Lydia began following suit behind a couple who looked like they had walked straight out of the movie Grease. The woman was wearing a pink poodle skirt with an ascot tied around her neck, her companion had on a black leather jacket and had slicked his hair back. Lydia’s heels clicked rhythmically against the sidewalk, a biting breeze nipped at her bare shoulders and she found herself wishing she had worn a jacket. The music grew louder as they drew closer, and it became apparent that guests were entering and exiting from two different doorways. The front door, which was currently congested with a large group of people standing in the threshold, and a side door where traffic seemed to be moving a bit more freely. “Come on, let’s go in the side door - it’s freezing out here.”

coded by natasha.

 

[WanderLust.]

WREN DEVEREAU
WITCH

Mischevious

Crayne & Murphy Residence

The whole crew tbh

Click Me!

Two’s company, three’s a crowd, but at what point did Morgan’s little birthday get together become a full-fledged rager? Okay, so Wren had made a few calls - okay, more than few, but it wasn’t as though Morgan and Helena didn’t have the room to accommodate the quickly growing crowd. And they were all friends, or friends of a friend… or friends of a friend of a friend. Okay, maybe things had gotten a little out of hand, but Wren was having too much fun to care.

She sipped at the contents of her red solo cup, which was more vodka than juice as Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” started blaring over the multiple stereos set up in the living room. The music pulsed through her as she swayed her hips from side to side, dancing along to the intoxicating melody of Stevie Nicks’ voice as she twisted and turned her way through a mass of writhing bodies. It was standing room only, and Wren was in her element.

She was clad in an orange and yellow 70s hippie themed outfit, her crop top showing more than a generous amount of cleavage, and a mini skirt that hugged every curve of her legs as she swayed. At some point, she became aware of a lingering presence, a hand gripping onto her waist, the feeling of warm breath on the back of her neck. Without missing a beat, she latched onto the wrist of her would-be dance partner, spinning herself around so that she could view his face. Her gaze was scrutinous, unapologetically judgemental as she gave him a once over. He was a six… maybe a seven out of ten, and certainly not up to her standards. “Oh honey, you are so barking up the wrong tree.”

Wren rolled her eyes, pushing through bodies without waiting around to hear the protests of the unnamed seven. She had more important things to worry about than the notoriously inflated egos of unremarkable men. Her heels tapped against the hardwood floor with practiced elegance as she strutted down the hallway towards the front door. She could vaguely make out the familiar silhouette of her godmother at the door, but it was becoming less and less clear as the light around her faded. With a sudden urgency driving her, Wren approached the scene, taking a quick survey of the newest arrivals as she closed the gap between her and her shadow savvy companion.

Theodore West, alpha werewolf - definitely a ten. She’d been expecting his attendance. To the left, his little sister, Madison West - Maddie was a friend, likely the one who had convinced Theodore to accept Helena’s invitation, also expected. And then there was the one on the right, Rhys Arkwright, not a friend, not invited, regrettably also a ten. God, why were the hot ones always the sadistic psychopaths? This one was evidently testing Helena’s patience, and Wren swooped in just in the nick of time to catch the tail end of a swiftly escalating interaction.

"Give me two good reasons why I shouldn't let my party trick consume him, West?"

Theo stepped forward, a wall of muscle standing between Rhys and the shadow queen. Bold move. Wren cocked an eyebrow at the scene … was he growling? “Because you invited me.” his voice was almost a snarl, “and I don’t trust you.”

Frustrating, but could they really blame him? Helena’s intent had been to extend an olive branch to the wolves after the recent attack. Nobody had yet been able to riddle out who the killer was, better to stay ahead of the assumptions then to let them make their own. After all, Helena and Morgan already held strong ties with most of the other supernaturals in town. The wolves, however, had remained neatly tucked away in the pocket of Rhys Arkwright… somebody would need to do something about that.

“Lena” Wren’s voice was honeyed and smooth, cooing and soft. “Come on, give the guy a break. We’re supposed to be making peace right?” Wren let out a giggle that insinuated she was more intoxicated than she actually was, pointing towards the peace sign that dangled around her neck as a part of her hippie ensemble. “Here,” Wren handed her red solo cup over to Rhys with the smile of a fawning teenager painted on her lips. “Have a drink.”

The young witch practically purred with satisfaction as Rhys took the drink from her, but as he moved to take a sip she paused. “Careful…it’s strong.” She added another giggle there for good measure before turning back to face Helena, exchanging a look only her godmother could see, silent but clear. Trust me. “Welcome to the party, Rhys. Please, make yourselves at home.”

She grabbed Helena’s hand, leading the other girl towards the stairway both literally and figuratively away from the hungry wolves. She could barely contain her laughter once they were out of sight, her hand pressed over her lips as silent giggles wracked through her chest. Helena’s perplexed look indicated she had no idea what Wren was going on about. Of course, why would she? Wren’s sleight of hand was done so masterfully even the most scrutinous of onlookers wouldn’t have noticed what she poured in Rhys’ cup.

She held up a small purple vile, the contents of which had been emptied into her drink - the drink she had handed over to Rhys - just before she had approached Helena and the wolves. “Philtre.” She gushed, unabashedly prideful at her accomplishment. “I don’t think Rhys' guard dog will take too kindly to him making moves on his little sister.”

coded by natasha.

 

[Bellz]

Barbara-Jean Lovell
The Lovell Home
~ Crescent Hill ~​

“The trail led us north but cuts off near Gallows Pass—no footprints, no blood, nothing.”

Barbara-Jean’s gaze remained steady. “And we’ve checked the surrounding area? From where we found the victim all the way to the pass?” Both deputies nodded, their muttered yes ma’ams overlapping in scattered unison.

Leaning back in her chair, Barbara-Jean let out a long, measured sigh. Her eyes drifted to the large map pinned to the wall, marked with notes and locations from both the previous murder and now—this one, fresh from the night before.

“Send forensics to Gallows. I want a full sweep. Take a K-9 unit with them. I know we already ran the dogs, but maybe our guy got sloppy in the pass. It ain’t easy getting through there on foot—especially in the dark.” Her fingers drummed lightly against the desk, her eyes never leaving the map.

“And we keep this quiet. No press, no loose talk. Not to the tourists, not to the locals. Last thing I need is a media frenzy. And God knows the grieving families don’t need it either.”

Finally, she turned to her deputies, scrutinizing them in silence. They stood still, waiting for their dismissal. Over the years, she’d watched good men and women struggle under the weight of these kinds of cases—cases like this one. Fewer and fewer stuck around, fewer still kept their mouths shut when it mattered. Even among their own families.

Her voice was firm when she finally spoke. “You’re dismissed.”

***​

After being gone since 2 a.m., the thought of finally going home, eating dinner with August, and maybe — just maybe — getting some sleep felt like a blessing. The more death she witnessed in her day-to-day, the more she counted the small mercies: holding her son, telling him she loved him. Being able to sit down to a meal with him and hear all about his day and whatever was on his mind. Things she could no longer do with her daughter, though in the quiet moments, when her thoughts drifted to Daphne, she still whispered the words. Time would never erase her. Barbara-Jean only hoped that memory never faded with age, that she could always hold on to what little time they had.

Barbara-Jean’s boots felt heavier than usual as she stepped through the door of her home, her eyes rimmed red from exhaustion — and something else, something deeper. She hardly had time to lift her gaze from the floor where the shoe rack sat before August’s voice cut through the silence. Mom?

“Hey, Kiddo,” she said, concern already creeping into her tone as she took in his pale face, the sheen of sweat on his brow. She started unlacing her boots, still standing. “How was your—?”

Before she could finish, he was already turning the corner into the kitchen.

“—day?” she muttered to the empty hallway.

Maybe he hadn’t heard her. It wouldn’t be the first time. But lately— he’d been so unwell that she’d spent the last few days debating whether she should take time off work. Just a few days. Just to keep an eye on him.

Letting out a slow breath, Barbara-Jean kicked off her boots and followed, the heaviness in her chest matching the weight of her steps.

Leaning against the kitchen archway, she offered a small smile as August announced he’d made chicken. "Smells great." She murmured, her voice warm as he stepped into the kitchen. On her way to the small dining table, she gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze — just a brief touch, careful not to disrupt his rhythm. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, she popped the cap off against the edge, tossing it into the garbage with practiced ease before taking her usual seat. Her eyes tracked her son, watching as he moved around the kitchen and struggled for words. She kept her expression neutral, but concern flickered in her brown eyes.

“That’s okay, my boy,” she said softly. “I’m just grateful you made dinner. You know you didn’t have to, right? I know you haven’t been feeling great lately.” Her tone was gentle, reassuring—but her words were deliberate. She watched as he set the table, his movements careful, his smile faint but present. She returned it without hesitation.

As he stumbled over his words again, Barbara-Jean was more than patient. But her gaze drifted from August’s face to his hands — and there it was, the faint tremor. A telltale sign of exhaustion and weakness. Maybe even anxiety? When he finally managed to ask about the murder investigation but struggled to find the right word, she went still — not because of the question itself, but because of him. "No," She released a slow and practiced exhale, tapping her finger against the neck of her beer bottle before lifting it for a slow sip. "No progress on the murder investigation." Her tone was gentle, filling in the gap he couldn’t. A small, quiet cue. But beneath it, concern wove itself into every syllable.

“It’s been a long day,” she admitted, “but I can’t complain.” A pause. Then, with a quiet, knowing smile, she shifted the focus. “But I want to talk about you, August.”

“Let me plate dinner, yeah?” Her tone left no room for argument as she pushed herself up from her chair. Every muscle in her body ached, but August looked like he was about to keel over. “Sit, kiddo.” She didn’t wait to see if he obeyed. Normally, he did without resistance, but lately, he hadn’t been himself. And while Barbara-Jean wasn’t home as often as she wanted to be, she still noticed everything. “Blaine’s been worried about you,” she said, grabbing the pan and checking the chicken. “Says you can take as much time off as you need. Just wanted to know how you were doing.”

She plated the food before reaching into a cabinet for a bag of chips, shaking it with a small chuckle as she looked over at him.
“Tonight, potato chips count as a vegetable.”

Setting the bag in front of him, she gave a small nod, signaling for him to help himself. Then, grabbing a fork, she stabbed into the chicken, plating his portion for him.

“But I’m worried too, kiddo.” Her voice softened. “The headaches, the nausea—the stuttering… and now you’re forgetting the word murder?” Her eyes flicked to his beer, narrowing slightly. “And I’m pulling rank here, but drinking when you’re feeling like that? Not doing you any favors.” Her hands were too full to take it from him, but the warning was clear as she set her own plate down.

After placing the pan back on the stovetop and turning off the burner, moving to the fridge she grabbed two bottles of water before she finally turned to face him.
“Maybe we get you to the doctor on Monday, yeah? This isn’t getting better. Blaine said some migraines can turn cyclical, get so bad they don’t go away on their own. Maybe you need something to help.”

For the first time, she let the worry show, biting her bottom lip as she sat back down setting the water in front of him as she swiped his beer away. “So tell me, honestly—how are you feeling?” Her voice was firm but gentle. “I’m not so busy that I can’t stop everything to take care of you. Murders can wait.” She leaned back in her seat, watching him closely, her expression softer now.

“You’re my life. My everything. The reason I get up and go to work. You and your sister.” The words slipped out as easily as they always had—present tense, as if Daphne was still there. As if she’d never left.
with: August Pyroclast

 

[Bellz]

Blaine Sinclaire
Mystic Brews Coffee
~Main Street, Crescent Hill~​

With August still out of work, Blaine had been asking Helena to cover the front desk for most of the week, especially since Barbara-Jean had put a pause on all tours for the time being. He could tell she was genuinely worried about August—not just in a friendly way, either. The way she asked for an update after every shift made that much clear. And Blaine? Well, he was always happy to oblige. What he wasn’t happy about was hearing that August still hadn’t seen a doctor, nor that Barbara-Jean hadn’t just put her foot down and driven him to the hospital herself. But it wasn’t his place to interfere. All he could do was give his nephew as much time off as needed and appreciate Helena’s willingness to step up. She’d made it clear she’d cover as many shifts as she could—except today, of course, which was her cousin Morgan’s birthday party. Blaine wouldn’t dream of making her miss that. His kids would be in attendance as well but didn't have the chance to send them off because he was still working late. So, despite it being a busy Friday, he sent her off earlier this afternoon with a warm smile and assured her he had everything under control.

With the front desk in good hands, Blaine turned his attention to another pressing matter—the Inn’s baked goods supply. Their usual provider had left town recently, and while they’d been outsourcing from the next town over, the two-hour drive was making deliveries expensive. Not to mention, a small-town inn ought to serve small-town food. When one of his staff members recommended Mina Kalbasi, he didn’t hesitate to reach out. And despite the late hour, he found himself looking forward to their meeting.

He’d arranged to meet her at the coffee shop, a cozy, familiar place perfect for talking business—though Blaine never much considered himself a businessman. Money wasn’t the first thing on his mind. If Mina had a price in mind, he’d make it work within reason, but more than anything, he wanted this partnership to be a good fit. Most of his suppliers were locals who loved what they did, people whose passion for their craft kept them—and their families—going. That was what he valued most in people: genuine passion. And if Mina had that, well, he had a feeling this meeting would go just fine.

As soon as Blaine stepped into Mystic Brews, the familiar scent of fresh coffee and cinnamon wrapped around him like a welcome embrace. He made his way straight to the counter, his lips curling into an easy, familiar smile. "Well, good evening, Mrs. Winslow!" he greeted, his voice carrying the same warmth as the café itself. The nearly seventy-year-old woman turned, eyes twinkling as she took him in. "Blaine, honey, it’s about time you showed your face around here! I was starting to think you’d forgotten about little old me."

Blaine chuckled. "Forget about you? Never. You’re the heart of this place." He leaned lightly against the counter. "Beautiful night, isn’t it?"

"It would be even more beautiful if I saw you in here more often," she huffed, though there was nothing but fondness in her tone. "Your usual, sweetheart?"

"Please," he nodded. "But make it decaf this time. Can’t be drinking the strong stuff this late—I’m not as young as I used to be."

Mrs. Winslow scoffed, waving a hand at him as she started preparing his drink. "You might not be young in the bones, but you’re just as handsome as you were when you were the town’s football star."

Blaine chuckled, shaking his head. "Probably why my bones ache now, huh?"

"That, or karma finally catching up with you for all those times you tackled poor Tommy Dawson like he owed you money."

"Hey now," Blaine laughed. "Football was a contact sport, Mrs. Winslow. I was just doing my job!"

"Mm-hmm," she hummed knowingly, sliding a cup under the machine. "And yet, look at me—moving better than you, and I’m the one who just had hip surgery."

"Well, that’s because you’ve got all the secrets to eternal youth," he teased.

"You bet I do," she said with a wink. "For one, I don’t drink decaf."

Blaine let out a deep laugh. "You might be onto something there." He tilted his head at her. "Still, Mr. Winslow was a lucky man." Mrs. Winslow paused for half a second before smiling, softer this time. "Or maybe I was the lucky one." Blaine’s expression gentled. "I hope I didn’t—" She held up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "Talking about the love of my life is never upsetting, Blaine. It reminds me I was loved and could love in return." She took a deep breath. "If I have any regret, it’s that we never had children. I would have loved to see the best parts of him live on. But even then, I wouldn’t change a thing." Blaine watched her with admiration, letting her words settle in his chest. To live a life without regrets—that was something special.

Mrs. Winslow set his cup down in front of him with a knowing smile. "You, on the other hand, have those beautiful kids of yours." And Blaine’s smile returned with such force that his cheeks hurt. He loved his kids more than he loved life itself. He hoped they were having fun tonight. Part of him was only slightly worried but he knew they could take care of themselves and if they couldn’t — they would always call. "They are beautiful, aren’t they?" And the woman nodded with a laugh, "Not troublemakers like the rest of the riff raff around here! But can an old woman could give you some advice, honey?" Blaine wrapped his hands around the warm mug, nodding as he lifted it toward his lips. "Always." She leaned forward just a little. "You’re too young to rule out love. And your heart is too big not to share it with someone else. She’s out there waiting for you, but you’ve got to stop being a dummy and take the first step."

Blaine lowered the cup before taking a sip, offering her a small, wistful smile. "First steps are always the hardest, aren’t they?"

"You’re telling me?" She scoffed playfully. "I’m the one who just had hip surgery!" Blaine laughed, shaking his head as he pulled out his wallet. He paid for his drink, tipped generously, and gave her one last warm smile before making his way to a quiet table in the far corner. He sat down, staring out the window, his coffee untouched as Mrs. Winslow’s words echoed in his mind.
with: Come and get him woman Pyroclast
mentions: His beautiful children + his nephew who is worrying him WanderLust. Pyroclast

 

[Bellz]

Helena Crayne
Crayne & Murphy Residence
~ Outskirts of Crescent Hill ~
outfit: here / mood: amused ​

Lena. Wren’s voice cut through the din. Helena hadn’t sensed her approach, lost in anger and the howling in her mind. She forced herself to inhale—not real, just a mimicry of the living—but enough to ground her. The shadows at her feet hesitated, retreating as Wren giggled, pointing at the peace sign on her necklace.

The whispers urged the opposite. "Spill the quiet—drown the peace." But not now. Not with Wren here. Another breath. Slowly, the shadows receded. The porch light flickered back on as Wren handed Rhys a drink.

Centuries of discipline kept Helena’s face neutral, but inwardly, she was stunned. An Arkwright blindly accepting an unverified drink? Either his bloodline had dulled, or he truly was just here for the party. Maybe both.

Yet… she smelled nothing unusual. Just alcohol. Did Wren actually believe this ridiculous attempt at peace would work? Why had she thought it would work?

Embarrassment settled in Helena’s chest. Wren had seen her lose control, emotions ruling her. And now, with wolves to watch and Rhys lurking, this night was spiraling. Wren turned to her, giggling—too smugly. Oh, she was up to something. Before Helena could ask, Wren grabbed her hand, dragging her inside. Shadows tensed, coiling briefly around Wren’s fingers before loosening. The whispers still clawed at her skull, but Wren’s laughter cut through, pulling a reluctant smile to her lips.

By the time Wren let go, Helena’s suspicion had only grown. "Alright," she drawled, crossing her arms. "Giggly—what are you up to? Or should I pry the vodka from your hands tonight?" She expected laughter, feigned innocence. She didn’t expect the small purple vial Wren lifted between them. Helena stilled. Her gaze flicked to the doorway they’d just left. Then, after a beat—she laughed. A real, unrestrained laugh, covering her mouth to keep from doubling over.

“Wren,” she gasped between chuckles. “Are you insane? He’ll kill him.” She shook her head, grinning. “And here I thought you actually wanted peace. You little menace—I was convinced you’d just smoked too much.” Sighing, she ran a hand through her curls, smirking. “Remind me why I even bothered with diplomacy? Werewolves are insufferable, arrogant bastards. Well, second to Rhys.” She stepped toward the stairs, peering down cautiously. The shadows around her fingers darkened slightly.

“You’re sure this can’t be traced back to you?” Her voice sharpened, her expression hardening with something more than concern. If they came after her, she’d take down the entire —

The darkness pulsed. The thought came unbidden, visceral in its certainty. Not a threat. A promise. A flicker of unease tightened in her chest. That wasn’t just her thought. That was the shadows, speaking through her, twisting their hunger into something that felt too natural. Helena flexed her fingers, forcing them to still. The wolves weren’t a problem. Not yet. She shoved the thought down, but it curled around her ribs like smoke. Then—from downstairs, a sharp crash.

"Shit." Her jaw tightened. "I need to handle that. If anything happens, call for me." She shot her goddaughter a firm look before softening with a small smile. "Now, go enjoy the party." With that, she turned and rushed down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Rounding the corner, she vanished, shadows curling at her fingertips as she braced for whatever mess the humans had created—and prayed, for Morgan’s sake, that no one was bleeding out.
with: WIDE TF OPEN FOR INTERACTION while humans play toss the vase.

Rhys Arkwright
Crayne & Murphy Residence
~ In the Kitchen ~
𖤐 outfit: here / mood: mesmerized 𖤐​

Rhys watched as Wren dragged Helena and her little display of shadow play deeper into the house. He didn’t miss the way Theo looked at her, sharp and assessing, as if he were already deciding whether she was prey or a problem. Probably both.

A smirk curled at Rhys’ lips as he lifted his drink in an easy, mocking salute. “At least someone here has a sense of hospitality,” he drawled before taking another slow sip, letting the burn of cheap liquor coat his tongue. The mark on his wrist pulsed—subtle, steady. A reminder. Not that it mattered. He was in the company of wolves; of course, the grimoire was unsettled.

His gaze flicked toward the house, already losing interest in the two watching him. “Well,” he mused, tilting his cup to eye the weak excuse for a drink. “I could use something better to wash this shit down." The smirk deepened as he turned completely, back facing the wolves, stepping inside without another glance to see if they followed. "Try not to kill our generous hostess, I want to be around to watch!" He called behind him.

The house pulsed with music and the heat of bodies crammed too close together, the air thick with sweat, alcohol, and cheap perfume. He moved through it like he owned the place, untouched by the chaos, unbothered by the absurdity of costumes people thought passed for their chosen decades. Some tried too hard. Others, not enough.

Rhys? He didn’t need a costume to play his part. Hand in his pocket, he took another sip, the last of the ice melting in his drink as he weaved through the crowd. The mark on his wrist pulsed again, but this time… something was different. He exhaled, slow, controlled. The party felt closer somehow, pressing in around him, whispering against his skin. Every brush of fabric, every note of laughter, every shift in perfume—it all clung, lingered. The warmth in his chest stretched, deepened, curling through him in a way that wasn’t quite right.

Another sip. Another step. By the time he reached the kitchen, only a few watery remnants of ice floated at the bottom of his cup. He tipped it back, draining the last of it before setting the empty cup down with a quiet thud. Rhys' fingers curled around the neck of the nearest bottle, but before he could grab something else—hell, he wasn’t even sure what—he collided with someone. He turned sharply, a flicker of irritation flashing through him, but then his eyes landed on her.

Lydia.

Something inside him snapped—sudden, violent. The slow-burning warmth in his chest ignited like a match striking dry tinder, searing through him with a force he couldn’t ignore. Wouldn’t. The feeling wasn’t subtle, wasn’t something to shake off. He tried, but the moment his gaze roamed over her—clad in that little 1920s number—he knew it was futile.

Rhys' grip on the bottle tightened, his knuckles paling, and for a fleeting moment, the world dulled around him. The party, the music, the voices—all faded into a distant hum, as if someone had turned the volume down on reality itself. Everything blurred except for her. Lydia. His heart, usually a measured, steady drum, tripped violently against his ribs. It felt foreign. Wrong.

And yet, he craved more.

His gaze dragged over her, slow and unapologetic, drinking her in like she was the first taste of sin he'd ever known. And God, she deserved to be looked at. She was elegance wrapped in temptation—untouchable yet begging to be ruined. A challenge he suddenly ached to lose himself in.

A slow smile curved his lips, but beneath it, hunger smoldered, dark and unrestrained. His eyes traced the delicate column of her throat, the sharp cut of her collarbone, lingering at the way the fabric dipped just enough to tease. His fingers twitched. His breath came slower, deeper—savoring wasn’t enough. He wanted to drown.

When his gaze finally met hers again, those wide, beautiful baby blues, there was no mistaking the heat in his own eyes. A man starved. "Now that," he murmured, his voice a dangerous purr, "is how you wear a decade." His smile turned wicked, edged with something sharper. "You look like you belong in another time, little bird. Dripping in diamonds, leaving men drowning in your wake." His dark eyes roamed her once more, devouring.

"And I’ve got half a mind to let myself sink." His fingers twitched again. His pulse roared. And God help him—he actually meant it.

Rhys exhaled, slow and measured, as if that would do anything to smother the wildfire roaring through his veins. It didn’t. Not when she was still in front of him, standing there in that dress that clung to her in ways that made his fingers itch. Not when those blue eyes blinked up at him, wide and as endless as an ocean, pulling him under without so much as a warning.

His gaze flickered down to her empty hands, noting the absence of a drink. Leon’s absence too. A slow smirk curled at the corner of his lips. “Tell me something, little bird,” he murmured, stepping just close enough that the scent of her perfume curled into his lungs. Sweet. Intoxicating. “Is someone neglecting their duties, or are you really standing here without a drink?”

His fingers flexed around the bottle before he lifted it slightly, considering. “Now, that just won’t do.” His voice was a low hum, smooth, warm, but threaded with something darker. Something possessive. A flicker of amusement danced in his gaze as he leaned against the counter, still watching her like she was the only thing worth looking at in the entire house. “How about I fix that for you?” His smile turned sharp, teasing. “Let me make you something worthy of a woman who looks like she just walked out of a Gatsby party.”

He let his eyes drag over her again, drinking her in like a dying man before murmuring, “How about a Sidecar? Classic. Strong. Suits you.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned, setting the bottle down with a quiet clink as he pulled open cabinets with a confidence that suggested he had every right to. The world around him remained a dull murmur, the party a distant blur, his entire focus narrowed down to the sound of Lydia’s breath, the slight shift of her dress as she moved. It was like he was drowning in her and he never wanted to come up for air.
with: Little Bird WanderLust.
Mentions: Theo

 

[CapellaStargaze]

location

Crayne/Murphy Residence- Parlor

mood

Content

outfit

Morgans Outfit

mentions

Bellz - Helena WanderLust. - Wren

Morgan Murphy

Morgan sat on the counter of the bar in the parlor, his black leather jacket and converse blending in with the theme. He liked the idea of pulling out his clothes from past decades. The jacket he wore was older than all the humans at this party. The Humans. He had a glass on bourbon in hand, not wanting the plastic cup of the party to ruin the taste of his 60 year old bottle. The drink alone was keeping the lingering smell of blood at bay. Helena had promised him something small but he should’ve known it would get out of hand with Wren’s involvement. Though he wasn’t complaining too much. You only turn 100 once though if anyone were to ask him, he was turning 25.



Morgan had been doing well with his control lately. While he did have to stop himself from wanting to drink blood straight from the source, he had been sticking to blood bags. His job at the coffee shop helped as well with the scent of human blood and the stench of the occasional werewolf that came about. It had been almost a year since Helena had taken him in and while, he had a few lapses here and there, he was starting to feel more like his human self. This was the first birthday he had actually celebrated since being a vampire and while it turned bigger than he wanted, he was grateful to Helena and Wren. Helena had made sure Morgan felt appreciated on his birthday with a cake that was more for sentiment than anything and some vintage records. It was the most thoughtful gift he had ever received and he truly felt he had a home here. She was probably his best friend and he could even say he had a small friendship with the Devereau’s. A year ago, he would’ve laughed if someone told him he had actual relationships with people. He was so used to being by himself due to the monster he was that he didn’t think he’d ever be back to feeling almost normal.



Morgan watched the crowd of people dancing and milling about, Dreams by Fleetwood Mac blaring throughout the house. It was one of his favorites. A girl who writes songs about her ex and then makes him sing them deserves praise. He looked briefly across the room, noticing the wolves had made their entrance. He would never understand the reason for the olive branch but Morgan would tolerate it for the sake of peace and living here. He knew he made his own mistakes in the first few months in the area and he was still alive so he knew Helena was diplomatic back then as well.



He took the last swig of his bourbon and looked at the empty glass and sighed before hopping off the bar to grab his bottle. He leaned down to grab it out of his stash drawer before his light was blocked by a shadow. He knew that Calvin Klein cologne anywhere.



“Asher, if you do not get out of my light, the bourbon will not be the only thing I’ll be drinking tonight,” he said lightly, his Irish accent still clinging to his words after all these years.



Asher gave a small laugh before moving out of the way, sipping on the beer that adorned his solo cup. “Now don’t go ruining your own party now. I don’t think the girls will take that lightly.”



Morgan stood up and poured his drink before taking a sip. The alcohol working to calm the thumping of pulses in his ear. It was like bringing an alcoholic to a bar. The whole town had to be here.



“I think Wren put an ad in the paper for this party. I think I’ve spoken to less than a quarter of these people.” Asher laughed at him.



“That’s because you don’t talk to people. Plus, at least you know people are having a good time with your decades party.”



Morgan shrugged. He was right. Even Asher was dressed in an 80s outfit that looked like he copied John Bender from The Breakfast Club. He knew he just needed to actually let loose a little and enjoy it like everybody else.

coded by natasha.

 

[Pyroclast]

August Lovell
~ The Lovell home, Crescent Hill ~​

August was no chef by any means, but cooking dinner for his mother was so routine that even when he was sick, he wouldn't think to not do it. They always cooked for each other, or at least ordered takeout - whoever got home from work first would at least make a start. “You're working all these hard hours and I'm doing nothing,” he pointed out when Barbara-Jean told him he didn't have to do it when he was ill. “What else am I gonna do?”

She told him that she hadn’t made any progress on the murder investigation, and while it was only a few words, it took him several seconds to piece them together and make sense of them. No progress. There had been a murder, and now there was an investigation. She was investigating a murder, and there was no progress yet. No progress on the murder investigation. It took so long to grasp the order of it that by the time he thought he might respond, Barbara-Jean was already moving on. She wanted to talk about him and this time, he heard her loud and clear. He dropped the fork he was placing on the table, drawing his attention to a subtle tremor that had taken to his right hand. “What do I with…have with the investigation?” he asked, quickly straightening the fork next to the placemat and putting his hand in his pocket.

His mother offered to serve out dinner, and again, it took him a moment to catch up - to stop doing one thing and start another. For a moment he just stood there, unsure what he was supposed to be doing - but once he saw his mother tending to the chicken, he took a seat to get out of her way. The anxiety from before once again began to swell in him, unexplained and unexpected. August and his mother had always had a good relationship, but ever since losing Daphne and Jake, they had been closer than ever. In grief, they had seen each other at their worst, so there was nothing he could hide from her that she hadn’t already seen. Yet, he had a stubbornness in him that made him want to keep going. He knew what it was like to be held back - the loss of his sister in particular affected him to such depths that for a few months, he could barely leave the house for fear of having a panic attack or a breakdown. Having to take time off school and dropping out of the football team had set him behind his peers, and even though he hadn’t had the energy nor the drive to go out and live life like he had before, he still remembered how much he missed it. Now that he had been sick for over a week, he had that feeling again, of missing life beyond the constraints of his illness. He wanted to be working. He wanted to see Helena.

So, naturally, Blaine wanting him to take off as much time as he needed was the last thing he wanted to hear. Of course, he appreciated how much his uncle cared, but he hated the idea of having to take off more time. “I’m doing okay,” he said quietly, as if Blaine was in the room to hear it himself.

A broad smile spread across August’s face when his mother handed him the packet of Cape Cod and said it counted as a vegetable. He had always liked the way she loosened the rules when he was down. It took a few attempts to open the bag, the tremble on his right hand affecting his grip, but he managed to get in before his mother noticed. He had been so sick earlier in the day that he was a bit nervous to eat and only nibbled slowly on a single crisp as Barbara-Jean spoke again. Her words were gentle, her voice soft, yet to him her concerns made him feel like he was being accused of something. He conceded to her point about drinking beer, though - when had he even opened the bottle?

August’s heart sank when he heard that the migraines could become cyclical. They were already impossible to fight. Nothing worked, except sometimes for coca cola, and even with that he hadn’t had much luck recently. By the time she asked him how he was feeling, he was feeling much worse. He was torn between wanting her to look after him, and not wanting to worry her; he wanted to believe that he didn’t need help, that he would be better soon, but she was making him reflect on what an average day looked like for him and it made him realise that nothing was getting better. A lump formed in his throat when she said she would stop everything to take care of him, which only hardened at the mention of Daphne. August gave his mother a loving, genuine smile, his eyes drooping under the weight of exhaustion and a strange sadness.

“I’m okay, mom,” he uttered, his voice a little hoarse. “Tired, but…” He didn’t want to tell her that he had been trying not to sleep because his head always felt like it was going to explode when he woke up. “I went to the inn a couple times this week.” Did she know that already? He couldn’t remember. “And I was there longer on the…on the y-yes - yesterday. The most…the later day. So it must be getting better.” August didn’t want to tell her why when he had gone into work he had only managed to last a short while before having to go home again. It was old news now - besides, maybe if he had shown up there today, he would have lasted longer. He had to be getting better, after all.

“I have a theory,” he said, reaching into the bag and putting another crisp in his mouth. “That, maybe when I picked up my prescription the other week they gave me a…um…” His eyes shut for a few seconds as his mind turned grey and words escaped him. “The…one that isn’t real. I looked up what happens if you stop taking Adderall suddenly and it can give you headaches and…and the…the, um…makes you tired all the time and not sleep well. So maybe they gave - and it can give you headaches, too - maybe they gave me a bad batch and it’s just that I…and then that’s why I keep being sick. And it makes you forget things more. Hard to think, and f…forget…focus.” He hung his head and stared down at the table, self-conscious of being observed. “You’re fine,” he added. “So it’s not conscious. Conscience. Conch-” A heavy sigh heaved from his lungs. Why did he want to cry all of a sudden? “You are fine, right, mom?” he backtracked, finally looking her in the eyes. “You haven’t been feeling off?”

Interactions
Bellz Mama

 

[WanderLust.]

THEODORE WEST
ALPHA WEREWOLF

Guarded

Crayne & Murphy Residence

Summer Bellz

Click Me

Theo didn’t know what to make of the shadow queen. He was inherently repelled by vampires, even their scent - acrid and sterile, like a hospital. But this one carried a unique ability that made her arguably more lethal than the rest of them. He’d been wary of her invitation, the circumstances felt categorically suspicious. Why now did the blood suckers decide to extend an olive branch? To absolve themselves of any lingering guilt they felt for murdering one of his own? The collective ire of both the western and eastern packs might’ve been too much for them to grapple with. Did they think he would be appeased with some free liquor and a good time?

Maddie’s hand swatted at his left shoulder causing his dark gaze to snap to attention. “You need to stop growling at people,” her voice was wry, playful. “You knew they weren’t going to approve of you bringing Rhys.”

“I don’t need their approval.” Theo’s perpetually disinterested glower hardened. “And I trust Rhys more than I trust them.”

Speaking of, where had the bastard wandered off to? His gaze scanned the crowded parlor for any sign of Arkwright but to no avail. Typical Rhys, prioritizing his own agenda without so much as a farewell. The abandonment left a sour taste in Theo’s mouth. His friendship with Rhys was one of convenience, united by a mutual enemy but not by much else. Rhys allowed the western pack to reside on a large chunk of land just outside of town in exchange for the promise of protection - which was enough to satiate Theo for now.

Had he wanted to, he could’ve tracked down Rhys by scent, but there was a particularly overpowering aroma that circumvented his attention. Alcohol. It was everywhere, as if it coated the walls and dampened the carpets, every human in the house wreaked of it, most of them so manifestly intoxicated that he found himself wondering if the vampires had planned it that way. He imagined humans were much easier to kill when they were too drunk to notice the fangs.

And then he caught it, the faintest hint of primrose and salt water lingered in the air like a breeze blown in from the beach. He knew that scent, had spent the past two weeks committing it to memory so that when this fateful moment arrived he would know what it signified. She was here, mingling amongst the monsters of Crescent Hill where she didn’t belong… and she was close. Close enough to -

“Summer!” Maddie’s shrill voice grated against his ears, his sister's tone always jumped up an octave when she was socializing. “What are you doing here?” The last Madison had heard, Summer had left town to pursue an education at an upper-class collegiate facility Theo couldn’t quite remember the name of. He had intentionally omitted his encounter with the blonde in late September, just as he had intentionally omitted the truth about her supernatural culpabilities. For the first time, he found himself wondering if Maddie’s friendship with Summer was simply a product of the siren’s inherent magnetism. Did that give him a reason to mistrust her?

He hadn’t always been this analytical. Hadn’t always been plagued with such fundamental distrust. There had been a time when Theodore West had looked upon the world with much kinder eyes, but that was before the demons amongst monsters had cleaved his family in two, placing an immeasurable burden on the shoulders of a boy not yet old enough to purchase liquor. His soul had hardened, his features trained to avoid even the slightest betrayal of emotion, and yet when he gazed downward at Summer, something softened.

Leaning against the doorframe that opened into the parlor, Theo let his eyes drag over the petite woman clad in a denim one piece, her blonde hair falling in voluminous curls around her face. The scent of the beach lulled him closer but he resisted, his fingers instinctively twitching to feel for his ring. The touch of the cold metal against his skin was reassuring, and yet he found himself questioning its performance. Folding his arms across his chest, he hid his nerves behind a veil of chagrin. “Well, well… look what the cat dragged in.”

A flagrant misstep, he had no doubt his comment would inevitably inspire another dog joke. He watched as the gears turned inside Summer’s pretty little head like she was piecing together a puzzle without all the parts. Maddie was Theo’s sister, and Summer knew what Theo was. How long would it take her to surmise that her longtime friend ran with wolves as well? Theo watched on with a smug grin as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

“Tell me, how do you know Morgan and Helena?” His inquisition was intentionally prying. He knew that she was a siren but little more. Had she aligned herself with the bloodsuckers? Or was her presence here tonight merely a mistake of chance?

coded by natasha.

 

[Bellz]

Jackie Sanchez
Crayne & Murphy Residence
~ Outskirts of Crescent Hill ~
outfit: here/mood: amused​

One minute, Jackie was lounging in the study, rolling a joint with the kind of focus usually reserved for bomb defusal, and the next, a bunch of jackasses were playing hot potato with what looked like a ridiculously expensive vase. A casual glance around confirmed she was overdressed for this mess, but whatever—she was supposed to be a 1930s movie star, and she was damn well going to commit. The red dress clung in all the right places, and while she sat dead center in the haze of Stoner Central, she knew damn well the dress was working overtime.

She flicked her gaze to the guy across from her, who was staring at the joint like it was a long-lost lover. “No drooling on the goods,” she muttered, finishing up her masterpiece before snapping her fingers for a lighter. A chorus of clicks followed as several hands shot out, and she snorted. “Wow. Unemployable, yet somehow stocked with fire. Love that for you.” With a smirk, she plucked a red lighter to match her dress, torched the tip, and took a deep, satisfying hit. The guy to her right reached for it, and Jackie smacked his hand away without even looking.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she scolded, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Puff, puff, pass. That means I get another go, dumbass.” She rolled her dark eyes before taking another slow drag, letting the smoke swirl in her mouth before finally, graciously, passing it along. Eventually, Windbreaker Guy to her left sat up with great effort, adjusting his neon sleeves like he was about to deliver a speech that no one asked for. “Alright, alright, listen. If you could have one superpower, but it had to be completely useless—like, not crime-fighting, not money-making, just totally dumb but kinda cool—what would it be?”

Jackie didn’t even hesitate. “The ability to perfectly toast a Pop-Tart without burning my mouth.” The group went dead silent. “Whoa,” Blanket Girl to her right whispered, pulling her oversized knit tighter around her shoulders like Jackie had just revealed the secrets of the universe.

Miami Vice Guy dead ahead of her pointed at Jackie, nodding so intensely his aviators nearly slid off. “That’s actually…genius. You always gotta do that little ‘huh huh huh’ breath thing before taking a bite, and you still burn your tongue.”

“Exactly,” Jackie said smugly, inspecting her nails. “You could hold it straight out of the toaster and just—bam. No pain. No regrets.” Windbreaker Guy exhaled like he had just been emotionally wrecked. “Damn. That’s a high bar.” He took a deep breath, then nodded. “Alright. My turn. The ability to re-light a joint just by glaring at it.”

The entire circle gasped.

“Oh my god,” Blanket Girl whispered. “No more searching for a lighter. No more tragic, half-smoked roaches abandoned in an ashtray.”

Jackie leaned forward, intrigued. “Wait. Does it work for cigarettes too?”

Windbreaker Guy shrugged. “I mean, I guess. But only for yourself. No group benefits.”
Miami Vice Guy groaned. “That’s selfish, man.”

“Hey, I didn’t say I was a hero,” Windbreaker Guy said, waving him off.

Flannel Vest next to Blanket girl, who had been staring at the ceiling like he was deciphering the mysteries of the cosmos, suddenly snapped his fingers. “What if you had the power to always find the perfect movie to watch? Like, you’d just know.” A ripple of awe passed through the circle.

“Dude,” Miami Vice Guy said, placing a reverent hand on his chest. “No more looking at the guide for two hours and then just rewatching Die Hard.”

“Or picking something and then twenty minutes in realizing it’s actually, like, French existentialist bullshit and now you’re trapped,” Blanket Girl added, shuddering. Jackie nodded. “That’s a superpower that could literally save friendships.” Flannel Vest stretched his legs, looking pleased with himself. “Okay, okay, what about…the ability to make snacks appear, but only when you’re too stoned to move?” Blanket Girl gasped. “Oh my god. Summoning snacks?!?”

Windbreaker Guy held up a hand. “Wait, does it come with variety? Like, am I stuck with whatever my past self stocked, or can I manifest, like, Taco Bell out of thin air?”

Flannel Vest considered this heavily. “It’s gotta be based on what’s nearby. Like, if there’s a burrito in the fridge, boom, it’s in your hand. But if all you got is saltines and an old banana, well…tough luck.”

The circle nodded. It was fair.

“Alright, alright,” Miami Vice Guy said, cracking his knuckles. “What about the ability to always find your lighter…but only after you’ve already accused everyone in the room of stealing it?” Jackie nearly choked on her hit, laughing. “Holy shit, that’s too real.”

Blanket Girl groaned. “That’s, like, an evil superpower. You ruin friendships before you even get to enjoy it.”

“Okay, but what if,” Windbreaker Guy interjected, “you had the power to always remember what you walked into a room for?”

The group fell into stunned silence.

Blanket Girl’s jaw dropped. “No more standing in the kitchen like an idiot trying to remember why you’re there?”

“No more walking into the bathroom, staring at the sink, and thinking, ‘was it pee? Was I gonna pee?’” Miami Vice Guy added.

Jackie nodded solemnly. “That’s a power worthy of a god.”
CRASH.

Jackie didn’t even flinch. She just exhaled slowly, smoke curling around her lips as one of the idiots responsible let out a panicked, “Oh shit!” She flicked her gaze toward the scene of the crime, where a bunch of absolute geniuses were frozen mid-motion, looking down at the shattered remains of what had once been a very expensive vase. Instead of doing anything remotely helpful, they began a frantic, deeply uncoordinated attempt to sweep the shards away with their shoes.

Jackie stretched her legs out, entirely unbothered. “Yeah, no shit, Einstein,” she called, voice dripping with lazy amusement. “What the hell did you think was gonna happen? You were tossing that thing around like it was a goddamn hacky sack.”

“I thought he was gonna catch it!” protested a dude in a shiny disco vest.

“I thought you were gonna catch it!” countered a girl in a poodle skirt.

“Well, somebody should’ve caught it,” offered a third voice, contributing absolutely nothing.

Jackie let out a low, knowing chuckle. “Y’all ever heard of gravity? Real bitch. Been around forever.”

Meanwhile, back in the stoner circle, no one else seemed remotely concerned. Blanket Girl had barely even looked up. Windbreaker Guy was now staring at the ceiling like it contained government secrets. Miami Vice Guy, bless him, squinted at the broken vase like he was genuinely trying to piece it back together with sheer force of will. “The real question,” he muttered, rubbing his chin, “is what if the vase is fine? Like…what if it’s our perception that’s shattered?”

Jackie snorted, reaching for the joint as it made its way back around. “That’s a real deep way of saying you’re too high to process what just happened.”

Windbreaker Guy finally turned his head, blinking slowly. “Wait. What if it was a sacrificial vase?”

Blanket Girl gasped dramatically. “Like, what if breaking it just released an ancient curse?”

Jackie arched a brow. “You think a bunch of baked dumbasses at a birthday party just accidentally summoned a demon?”

Windbreaker Guy nodded. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Jackie took one last pull from the joint, savoring the moment before flicking her gaze back to the panic-stricken vase tossers. To her absolute, zero surprise, another one of them was now holding a second vase. She sighed, standing up, heels clicking against the floor as she turned on her heel. “Alright. I’m out. Y’all enjoy the second act of Chronicles of the Chronically Stupid.”

As she walked off, she heard Windbreaker Guy mumble, “Damn. That’d be a sick movie title.”

Just as Jackie stepped out of the study, a woman stormed toward the room with the kind of energy that could silence a crowded bar. She was gorgeous—soft brown curls that framed a face made for old-school Hollywood, but her dark eyes were brewing something violent. Yep. Someone had definitely been summoned.

“Ohhh, they’re so fucked,” Jackie muttered under her breath, exhaling smoke through her nose as she slowed her steps. She debated her options. Stick around for the inevitable ass-kicking? It was tempting—nothing paired better with a joint than some well-earned destruction. The entertainment value alone? Off the charts.

But before she could commit to spectating, something else—someone else—caught her eye from across the room.

Jackie’s smirk sharpened, her fingers tightening around the joint as she took another slow, deliberate drag. She held it the way an old Hollywood starlet would, letting the smoke curl lazily between her lips, her red-painted mouth curving just enough to hint at trouble. Her lashes lowered, dark eyes locked onto her target, watching. Waiting.

Her hips swayed as she moved, the silk of her dress clinging in all the right places, her steps slow, deliberate. She wasn’t just walking—she was hunting, and she wanted to see if he’d run when he spotted her.

She arrived with a tilt of her head, sharp eyes raking over him like a cat deciding whether to play with its food. Another long pull from the joint, another swirl of smoke slipping from her lips as she exhaled. Let’s see what you do now, sweetheart.

"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world..." She trailed off, her grin widened, lazy and knowing, like a cat stretching in the sun. "Asher, is that you?" It wasn’t like she had any doubts—it was definitely him. The man she had loved and left behind. But if she wasn’t getting her entertainment from the dumbasses about to be vaporized in the study, she could certainly find some fun here. She always did enjoy watching Asher squirm.

Jackie shifted her attention to the man beside him—offering him an expression that was somewhere between innocent and utterly delighted to cause trouble. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she purred, voice all honeyed mischief as she flicked her gaze back to Asher. “Asher and I go way back. Isn’t that right, Ash?” She widened her eyes, feigning curiosity, though they both knew she already had the answer. Jackie let the silence stretch, drawing out his hesitation like a violin string ready to snap. “Good to see you, though. And at a party like this of all places! Didn’t take you for the type.” Was it a dig? Maybe. Did she care? Not even a little.

“Oh, god, where are my manners?” She lifted her joint, offering it out like a peace treaty she had no real intention of honoring. “Either of you smoke? Or are you both being respectable citizens?” She tapped her free fingers against her hip, nails grazing the fabric of her dress before catching herself and forcing her hand to stay still. She didn’t need Asher seeing that little tell, not after all these years. She wasn’t nervous. She wasn’t anything.
with: Asher and Morgan (feel free to have Morgan tap out if you wish boo ) CapellaStargaze

 

[Bellz]

Barbara-Jean Lovell
The Lovell Home
~ Crescent Hill ~​

As she shifted from topic to topic, nothing about her son’s behavior escaped her notice. Barbara-Jean compartmentalized it for the moment, choosing to observe rather than react—wanting to see how else he responded while she tried to piece together what the hell was going on in her own mind. August had always moved at a different pace, a trait of his ADHD. He was bright—brighter than many kids, in fact—but it took him a little longer to keep up with the rhythm of the world around him.

Right now, though, it wasn’t just a delay. He was struggling to process words, to form sentences, to hold onto the conversation. And that was beginning to worry her.

When he first told her he was doing okay, it was far from convincing. But Barbara-Jean tried to be fair, giving him the space to make his case before stepping in. He was an adult now, no longer a child who needed guidance—but he would always be her child. And that made it all the harder to sit back and watch this unfold.

His smile was genuine, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were heavy with exhaustion and something else—something that looked an awful lot like sadness—at the mention of his sister. Barbara-Jean almost apologized for the slip, knowing how much it affected him, but before she could, he kept the conversation going.

I’m okay, Mom. It took everything in her not to shake her head, not to disagree. He admitted he was tired, and she could see it. But it was more than that.

The later day? She understood what he meant, but the words weren’t quite right. They were broken, as if his mind was struggling to find the right ones, replacing them with whatever came close. "I know you did," she murmured.

She and Blaine were always in touch, no matter how much the kids believed otherwise. He kept her updated—when August got to work, when he left, how long he was there, what he told Blaine about how he was feeling. August shared things with her too, but lately, it seemed like he was holding back. Maybe to keep her from worrying.

Or—worse—maybe he was forgetting.

Barbara-Jean swallowed hard, cutting into her chicken as a distraction, anything to push away the weight of the thought pressing at her chest. August believed things were getting better and she wanted so badly to believe it too. "What’s that, kiddo?" she asked, her voice coming out raw as she kept her eyes on her plate, cutting into her chicken. She didn’t look up—her vision blurred slightly, the burn of unshed tears threatening to spill over.

August explained his theory—that the pharmacy might have given him a bad batch of his prescription, causing him to experience withdrawal from the Adderall he was supposed to be on. Barbara-Jean wouldn’t dismiss the possibility outright. As an officer, she had been trained to consider every angle. But deep down, in that heavy place in her chest where instinct lived, she had a sinking feeling his theory wouldn’t hold up if they took him to a doctor like Blaine had suggested.

She blinked, pushing back the sting in her eyes as she finally looked up. August was watching her, concern flickering behind his exhaustion. You are fine, right, mom? he had asked. Her brown eyes softened, and she forced a small smile, nodding. Seeing the weariness in his face stole the words from her for a moment. Then she cleared her throat.

"Of course, kiddo. Why wouldn’t I be?" You haven’t been feeling off? "Ah," she waved a hand dismissively. "I’m in kick-ass shape, as always. Can’t throw my weight around the department if I’m not, now can I?" She managed a little smile. "And you’re fine too, baby."

She wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince more—him or herself. "But…" She hesitated, searching his face. "How about we see our physician on Monday?" Her voice was gentle but firm, repeating the suggestion in case he hadn't fully registered it before. "Just a check-up. I don’t like seeing you like this."

She let the words settle between them, giving him space to process. Then, softer this time, she added, "If you don’t want to do it for yourself, I understand. But would you at least do it for me? Otherwise, I’ll be worrying about you all day and night while I’m at work this weekend."
with: Her boy Pyroclast

 

[Bellz]

Summer Calloway
Crayne & Murphy Residence
~ Outskirts of Crescent Hill~
⋆.˚ ☼⋆𓇼。𖦹˙༄.° outfit:here/ mood: Lord take her now ⋆.˚ ☼⋆𓇼。𖦹˙༄.°​

On any other Friday night, Summer would be home, lost in the beautiful, chaotic symphony that was her family. Family Dinner Night wasn’t just a tradition—it was a law. Somehow, all four of her siblings, three of their spouses, and an entire battalion of giggling, sticky-fingered nieces and nephews managed to cram into one house without bringing the walls down. And she loved it. Every loud, messy, butter-scented second of it. It was the only place she felt like she could truly breathe, like she wasn’t constantly second-guessing whether her siren’s pull was bending reality around her.

But tonight? Oh, tonight, Wren just had to mention a party while on speakerphone again—loud enough for their father to hear. And just like that, the same man who once grounded her for sneaking in past curfew was practically shoving her out the door.

"You spend too much time worrying about things you can’t control, my love," he had said, voice warm and steady, as if she weren’t a grown woman shouldering more than she knew how to carry. As if she could just flip a switch and stop worrying about him. The cancer. The chemo. The never-ending race where the finish line kept moving further away. She’d lost track of the nights she crept from her room just to make sure he was still breathing, the mornings she stared into the mirror and traced the exhaustion like battle scars—dark circles, tired eyes, a weight no amount of painted on sunshine could chase away. But she kept smiling—because that’s what she did. That’s what people expected from her.

And because the universe had a twisted sense of humor, her car had decided to die. Again. Right there on the side of the road, leaving her stranded—until an oh-so-joyous (but allegedly not murderous) werewolf named Theo found her with a crowbar in hand, fully prepared to introduce his skull to it. Not her finest moment.

Instead of sinking more money into that bottomless pit of bad decisions, she had it towed home, where it now sat in the driveway, sulking like a child in time-out. Bills were stacking up, stress was knocking like an unwelcome guest, and the last thing she and her father needed was another financial disaster. So, she borrowed his Honda, drove it into town every day while he rested—at least one thing in their lives was still running like it was supposed to.

And now? Here she was. Stepping into a night she didn’t ask for, wearing a smile she wasn’t sure she meant—because that’s what Summer did. She kept going. Even when the world felt impossibly heavy on her sun-kissed shoulders.

God, what the hell was she doing here? The whole place smelled like alcohol and bad decisions, and people were packed in so tightly that Summer was pretty sure she was breathing in secondhand tequila. Wren had vanished—no surprise there. She’d floated through the party like she owned it, tossed Summer a quick hello, and disappeared, leaving her stranded in a sea of strangers. Every so often, she’d catch someone staring, and she did her best to look busy… which, at the moment, meant nursing a drink she’d definitely over-poured.

At least four shots of vodka. Maybe five. Oops. She wasn’t about to waste it, though. Her tolerance was decent, and if she chased it with water, she’d be fine. Probably. Lifting the red cup to her lips, she took a sip and immediately regretted it. Ugh. Summer! The shrill voice made her jump. She’d been on edge, but she hadn’t realized just how on edge until now. Whipping around, she instantly relaxed at the sight of Maddie. “Maddie, hey!” she greeted, her tone effortlessly sweet.

What are you doing here? Wasn’t that the question of the night? Honestly, Summer had no idea. She didn’t even know Helena or Morgan personally—just that they were friends of Wren and Asher. The decade theme had been sprung on her last minute, but luckily, vintage was kind of her thing. “Oh, you know,” Summer said with a playful grin, “just trying to figure out how to escape without anyone noticing me slip out the back door.” And she wasn’t entirely kidding.

Well, well…looked what the cat dragged in. Ugh. Of course.

Summer barely had a second to register the voice before her eyes snapped to the parlor doorway—where, naturally, he was. Theo leaned against the frame like he had all the time in the world, dressed in head-to-toe black, exuding effortless trouble. The dim lighting sharpened the angles of his face, casting deep shadows along his jawline, and—damn it—why did his voice have to sound like that? All smooth and lazy, like a secret he wasn’t going to tell you unless you got real close.

A slow warmth curled in her stomach, unwelcome and insidious, creeping up her spine. Normally, Summer would chalk this feeling up to her siren abilities. And the way he was staring at her right now. But Theo? He was wearing that damn ring. Which meant this thing she felt between them, this barely-there buzz of energy tightening the air, wasn’t her usual magic pulling him in. That left her with two options: Either she was completely imagining it… or it was real. OR, secret third option: It was the vodka.

Yep. That was the answer. Definitely the vodka.

Her grip tightened around her drink, fingers pressing into the cup like that would somehow steady the ridiculous thrum of her pulse. How was he doing that? Not that he was actually doing anything—he just existed, and gravity bent toward him like it had no other choice. …Kind of like...

That realization tugged something tight in her chest, and nope. Absolutely not. Not dealing with that right now. So instead, she smirked, tilting her head slightly as she lifted her drink to her lips. "Funny," she quipped, ignoring the way her fingers trembled just a little, "I was gonna say the dog dragged you in." She took a large sip and instantly regretted it, her eyes squeezing shut as the burn hit the back of her throat. Too much. Smaller sips. When she blinked them open again, something she should have noticed immediately finally clicked into place. Her crystal-blue gaze flicked between Maddie and Theo, noting the similarities, and suddenly, she wanted to bang her head against the nearest wall.

Oh. Oh no.

This was the Theo. Maddie’s older brother Theo. Summer felt her cheeks heat, and wow, what a fantastic time to realize she was incredibly stupid. She did know who he was. She just hadn’t connected the dots. Wolves. They were wolves. Not just him—Maddie, too? Could she blame her friend for keeping that quiet? It wasn’t like Summer went around announcing, Hey, I’m a siren! Then again, she didn’t exactly run in supernatural social circles, so maybe this had been glaringly obvious the entire time and she was just… incredibly, painfully blonde.

Theo’s voice cut through the spiral of her own thoughts, pulling her back to reality. How do you know Helena and Morgan?Ah, yes. The million-dollar question. Summer barely resisted the urge to snort. Two more supernaturals she hadn’t even known existed until tonight. Was there a secret club she somehow kept stumbling into? A supernatural VIP lounge where everyone was in on the joke except her?

There was nothing casual about the way Theo asked, though. Sure, his stance looked relaxed—shoulder propped against the frame, arms loose—but she wasn’t buying it. There was something deliberate in the way he phrased it, something edged in the weight of his stare. A stare she was still not used to, by the way. Not that she was going to let him see that.

"I don’t," she said simply, letting her eyes meet his in a silent challenge. "Wren invited me. She’s friends with them." A completely true, if not wildly underwhelming, explanation.

Then, a little more lightly, she added, "Starting to wonder if this was a pity invite, though." Her gaze flicked away, scanning the party—first to Maddie, then to the absolute disaster unfolding around them. The number of hammered humans in this room was concerning. Was Wren trying to tell her something? Like, Hey, Summer, maybe you should get out more before you start collecting cats?

Before she could overthink that too much, she noticed a guy walking past, staring at her just a little too long, leaning in just a little too close— Damn it. The moment she turned her head, the trance snapped like a twig. He stumbled slightly before catching himself and hurried off with his pack of equally inebriated friends, completely unaware of what had just happened.

Summer exhaled sharply, jaw tightening before forcing herself to relax. "But they sure do know how to get most of the town drunk, don’t they?" she quipped, forcing an easy smile before taking another sip from her drink—and immediately regretting it.

All. Fucking. Vodka. Once she recovered from the burn, she pointed between Maddie and then Theo. "So, you two are related, yeah? Siblings?" Her brows lifted, waiting for confirmation. When she got it, she nodded once and took another drink. (Why did she keep drinking this?)

Turning to Theo, she arched a brow. "Alright, so how do you know Helena and Morgan? Or let me guess—you lost a bet with Maddie and now you’re stuck playing designated driver?" The smirk that tugged at her lips was playful, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Or is there some kind of supernatural party committee I wasn’t informed about? One where you all secretly compete to see who can get the most humans blackout drunk before midnight?" She took another sip of her drink, then added with a straight face, "Because if so, I have notes for the next one. Like, at least offer snacks. If I have to be surrounded by sloppy drunks, I should at least have a damn breadstick."
with: The Wolves (awwwoooooo) WanderLust.

 

[Pyroclast]

Leon Sinclaire
Crayne and Murphy Residence​

The roads around the outskirts of Crescent Hill were some of Leon’s favourites. Beyond the maze of suburban streets, uniformly tidy with their picket fences and tree-lined pavements, was a wilderness of woodland through which roads flowed as naturally as a river. To an outsider, Leon supposed it must be easy to lose oneself there. Driving out of the neighbourhood in Crescent Hill was a bit like travelling through space: an enchanting, liminal swathe of natural beauty that simultaneously instilled a sense of emptiness and wholeness.

New Order’s Regret was playing on the radio, but otherwise the drive was quiet. The song put Leon in a state of reflection. He was freshly 25 years old, on his way to somebody else’s 25th birthday party. Despite growing up in a beautiful, middle class suburban home, he had never liked the idea of throwing parties himself, so he tended to keep his own birthday low-key. Morgan’s party had a decades theme, and Leon had opted for the 1980s, an easy choice given that he still had most of his clothes from that time. He wore a pair of fitted blue denim jeans with a matching denim jacket and an Everlast crop top. His hair was shorter now than it had been in the ‘80s, so had styled it into a soft flow. It was practically the same as how he always styled it, but even though the hair wasn’t much different and the denim outfit was still in rotation, he figured it was still enough of an ‘80s look for the party.

Lydia spoke up over the music, finally breaking the silence between them, and asked him about August’s absence from the inn. He was about to tell her what little he knew about it, when he came up over the hill and saw the long line of cars parked along the edge of the road. It was so long that he could hardly see the house through the trees up ahead. “We must be here.”

As soon as he got out of the car, he was struck by the cold air and shivered. He looked over at his sister in her 1920s style flapper dress, who was suffering for her style more so than he was. There was a look of trepidation on her face as she rounded the car. “You’re not nervous, are you?” he asked. Based on the number of cars parked outside, he figured the party must be pretty big. “There may be a lot of people there, but think about it this way: the more people there are, the easier it is to blend in.”

She brought up Helena and August, hoping to find them when they arrived. “Yeah, I wouldn’t expect August to be there tonight,” he said. “Dad’s been covering him all week. He’s off sick or something.”

A light breeze made him shudder and he shoved the bottles of vodka and tequila under one arm so he could wrap the other around his exposed midriff. “God, why did I wear this stupid shirt?” he muttered. He glanced over Lydia and took in the outfit she was wearing. It was a lot more exposing than his, the breeze visibly cutting through the light fabric and making the hairs on her arms stand on end. She trotted alongside him in her heels, hunched and shivering against the cold. “Didn’t they used to wear, like…I don’t know, fur coats or something in the ‘20s?” he jokingly grumbled. “Hold these.” Leon passed the six pack of beer and the two bottles of spirits into her arms and begrudgingly shook off his jacket before draping it around her shoulders. “You can give it back when we’re inside so it doesn’t ruin your outfit,” he said, and took the alcohol back from her.

Music drifted through the air as they got closer, and he could tell it was going to be loud inside. As the house came into view, he realised that it was less of a house and more of a…manor. “Okay, based on the size of this place, I’m guessing there’ll be more than a few quiet rooms not being used for the party that you can sneak into for some peace if you need.” The number of cars outside was even higher than the usual house parties he had frequented during his high school years and he wondered how many people were planning on crashing at the house overnight so they could drink. He hoped no one would be stupid enough to get behind the wheel.

The pair eventually reached the house, the front entrance swarming with people. Leon had a feeling might come across as intimidating to his sister – which may have been true, since she immediately suggested slipping through the side door instead. He followed her inside, and the atmosphere instantly put a smile on his face. They were in the kitchen. For all the bottles people had brought, there was barely space on the counter to even make a drink. Leon threw a couple of empty ones in the bin and made himself a slapdash vodka soda with half and half measures. Turning back to Lydia, Leon leaned in and spoke over the music that blasted through the house. “I’m planning to get a taxi home later, so I can always call you one if you wanna leave before me,” he said, taking his jacket back from her. “But Lydia, don’t leave without telling me, alright?” Leon didn’t want her to know that he worried about her, so he kept a neutral expression on his face when he said it, but having been to dozens of house parties before, he had seen some pretty messy events unfold and had to make sure his sister stayed safe. If anyone touched her in a way she didn’t like or made her feel in any way vulnerable, he would knock the daylight out of them, no matter how old they were. “I’ve got my phone so if you need me just text or something,” he added. “I’m gonna go find Morgan, wish him a happy birthday.”

There was something about house parties that Leon had always found freeing. Despite keeping a close guard around his secrets and not letting many people get too close to him, Leon had grown to be one of the most popular boys in his year. He was athletic and captained the swim team, good at the kind of things that mattered in social circles. He was blessed with good hair and clear skin, and his outdoor interests had built him a fairly consistent tan. Girls liked him for his air of mystery and his strong physique; boys liked him because he kept the team at the top of the leaderboard at swim tournaments. He regretted that he never really made any true friends while at school, but at least being popular was better than being alone. Besides, that didn’t matter at a house party, neither then nor now. When he was partying, it was like he didn’t have secrets at all. When he was partying, he didn’t feel any different to anyone else.

Those days were a thing of the past, now – having failed to make any deep, lasting connections within his social circle at school, he had ended up drifting apart from them all and in the process had adopted a quieter lifestyle. Now, being at Morgan’s party, wearing clothes that he had worn when he was a teenager, he felt like he really was stepping back in time. Even the crowd was dotted with familiar faces - neighbours, people he recognised from high school, people for whom he had done odd jobs. Nobody he really wanted to talk to though.

“Sinclaire!”

Leon turned to see one of his old classmates coming over to him. It was Will Hartwell - actually Willard Hugh Godfrey Hartwell III - the boy who used to be captain of the school swim team until Leon was allocated the position by their coach. His father, owner of a lucrative maple syrup company, had tried in vain to sue the school as a response to the so-called injustice, and ever since, Will had hated Leon. Though he was lawful in his disdain, inviting him to all his house parties and acting politely towards him in front of their coach, Leon could tell that his smiles were fake and that his words were laced with venom.

“You look good, Sinclaire,” Will said, flashing his white teeth as he looked Leon up and down. “Nice, uh…denim number.”

“Hey, Will,” Leon said, mirroring the young man’s smile. Part of him was pleased to see that Will had put on quite a few pounds since their school days, though of course he still looked smart in his designer tuxedo - he must be wearing tens of thousands of dollars. “You look good, too. What decade have you gone for?”

“Well, a few, really. The suit is from the 1950s, worn by Jean Hersholt himself when he presented Audrey Hepburn the Academy Award for best actress. The cufflinks are a family heirloom from the 1830s, with the family crest, see?”

Leon nodded politely. “Cool, yeah.”

“And the Audemars Piguet - well, that was a birthday present for my 21st, so that will be the ‘90s.” Will laughed.

“Kind of a risk to wear such sentimental things to a house party as busy as this, no?” Leon asked, taking a chance to glance behind Will while the boy preened himself, in hopes that he might find an excuse to escape.

“Oh, it’s no matter - they always come back clean in a day or two.”

Housekeepers and butlers, Leon suspected. The house parties he had attended at Will’s family mansion had been some of the messiest house parties he had ever attended. By the end of the night there would be broken glass all over the floor, puke in the swimming pool and hot tub, underwear left strewn along the upstairs corridors from all the sex that went on in the bedrooms. How his parents allowed such destructive parties without ever grounding their spoiled brat of a son, Leon never understood. He also remembered the vile ways that the boy would treat the girls in attendance - hands wandering up skirts and unbuttoning blouses, kissing girls that were too wasted to protest. Knowing that he was at this party, he felt a renewed sense of responsibility towards making sure his sister didn’t get too drunk.

“Alright, well, there’s a 1950s room back there somewhere if you want to go flaunt your suit,” Leon said, inching away from him. “I’ll see you around, Will.”

“Don’t be a stranger, Sinclaire!” the young man called after him as Leon parted the crowd to escape.

Leon time travelled through the 20th century as he explored more of the house, taking in the incredible effort that had gone into decorating each room. One of his favourite songs was playing - Dreams by Fleetwood Mac - and he forgot all about finding Morgan as he danced through the crowd.

Eventually he landed in a 1920s foyer. It truly felt like a film set from the Golden Age of Hollywood, with its grand staircase and mezzanine, tables carrying champagne towers and sparkling gold and silver helium balloons. Leon looked down at the solo cup he was holding and realised he had somehow finished his drink already. With a light shrug, he made his way to the table and grabbed a crystal coupe of champagne. A risky thing to be serving at such a crowded party, he thought. How long until someone got a little too drunk and fell into the table, breaking every single glass?

There were people standing on the mezzanine, and Leon wondered if he might find someone he cared to hang out with if he ventured upstairs. Even if he didn't, he might stand on the mezzanine, sipping champagne as he surveyed the crowd below, with such a vicarious feeling of mystery as some main character from a glamorous 1920s film. Except that his tuxedo was made of denim, and he was wearing a crop top. Maybe he ought to go back to the ‘80s room where he belonged.

As he climbed up the stairs, he heard that familiar voice again. It was Will, this time on the mezzanine. He was holding one of the champagne coupes and talking to a brunette woman dressed in a floaty orange blouse and brown corduroy mini skirt. Leon paused, instinctively wanting to avoid running into him again, but then he caught a glimpse of the woman’s face, and realised he knew her. It was Wren Devereau, whose shop Leon had done some plumbing for just the week before. With a sigh, Leon crept closer until he was within earshot.

“I got it at an auction, actually.” There he was, telling her about his suit. “It was $21,000, in the end. Used to belong to Jean Hersholt - this exact one that I’m wearing now - who wore this to the Oscars when he presented Audrey Hepburn with the best actress award. You know, I think if you cut your hair, you’d look a lot like her…” Three of the helium balloons that were tied together floated over to him from behind until they were practically tickling his ear as he reached over to touch Wren’s hair. “Except, well, being slimmer than you meant she wasn’t nearly as bust-”

Suddenly, the three balloons burst all at once, releasing a sharp gust of hot air into Will’s ear. The man screamed and dropped the champagne coupe, which spilled all over his suit on its way down. Leon walked over to the pair of them. “Will, are you okay?” he asked calmly. “Oh no, your suit…”

“Fuck the suit - I think I just burst my eardrum!” The man was almost crying, and the hand that had been touching Wren’s hair now hovered, trembling, around his ear. “Some idiot blew up these fucking balloons too far!”

“Yeah, you don’t look so good, Will,” Leon tutted. “I knew someone who burst an eardrum once and they got a brain bleed and went into a coma. You should probably go while you still can.”

He watched as Will scurried down the stairs in a panic and ran out of the front doors. He couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. That was one of the only times he was comfortable using his powers in public - a subtle, yet well-deserved delivery of justice, where no fingers could be pointed at him. It was believable enough that helium balloons would float by of their own accord, and just as believable that they had been overblown and liable to burst.

“I hope he doesn't try to sue Morgan for that,” he remarked, and then drew a deep breath and turned to face Wren with a smile. “So, you doing okay, Wren? Is that ceiling staying dry?”

Interactions
WanderLust. Lydia, Wren

 

[Pyroclast]

August Lovell
~ The Lovell home, Crescent Hill ~
​

Having had to focus on both understanding his mother's words and expressing his own coherently, August had forgotten to start eating. He was already behind, and so to catch up he shovelled a couple of bites of chicken in his mouth at once. He smiled in admiration of his mother when she talked of throwing her weight around the sheriff department. Her career was interesting to him, even if she kept the confidential case information to herself, and he had been especially proud since she was appointed the new sheriff. There was no doubt in his mind that she would be the best one Crescent Hill had ever had.

The chicken was delicious in a mass-manufactured sort of way, but after only a couple of bites he already had to slow down. His mother was talking to him again - something about physics?

“Check up on who?” he asked, his mind defaulting to Lydia. She must have been talking about the dangers of having a murderer on the loose. August loved his cousin and had always felt protective of her to an extent, but more so than ever since Daphne died. Barbara-Jean told him she didn't like seeing him the way he was, and August looked at her, idly prodding his ignored chicken with his fork. “Yeah, mean…n-n…me too,” he softly stuttered. “Don't worry, mom, I'll check on her.”

A faint smile graced his lips and he raised the empty fork to his mouth, only to touch it with the tip of his tongue and put it down again. The sauce was too much. It distracted him. What were the sounds she just made?

Too drained either to focus on her words or ask her to repeat herself, August simply nodded and said, “Sure, mom,” with a dutiful yet weary smile. That smile, however, all but fell away when he caught the tail end of her sentence. “This weekend?” he repeated, eyes falling back to his plate. The chicken was still there, sitting uselessly in the pool of sauce, not going away. Being alone for most of the day meant it was all too easy to forget how challenging it was becoming to engage in conversation. He didn't like the way his mother would watch him with that worried look in her eyes, like she knew something he didn't. It made him self-conscious, like his presence was ruining her peace that she so deserved after a hard day's work. Yet, despite her scrutinous gaze, part of him longed to have her with him. He wished someone would be there at his side when the pain in his head got so bad that he couldn't move. She had to have a day off soon. Even when there was an ongoing murder investigation, surely a sheriff was allowed days off. Doing his best to keep any hint of desperation out of his tone, August asked, “Wren’s, um…Wren’s your…y-your…?” For whatever reason, the face of Helena’s friend suddenly sprang to mind. August closed his eyes tight and snapped his fingers, hoping his mother would understand what he was trying to say, or at least prompt him. “She, uh…the…the day of...”

He couldn't remember if he had been trying to tell his mother something or ask her something. He couldn't remember what they were talking about or why he had opened his mouth in the first place. The onset of a headache was making itself known - not a new one, but the same one as before, as if it had simply taken a nap and was slowly waking up again. August took a deep breath and a sip of water, all the while avoiding his mother's gaze. “Sorry, forget it,” he said, pasting a smile back on his face. He cut off another piece of chicken and then, with his mouth full, added, “I'm just tired.”

Interactions
Bellz Mama

 

[Bellz]

Barbara-Jean Lovell
The Lovell Home
~ Crescent Hill ~​

Barbara-Jean had instantly made up her mind. August was not understanding what she was saying. Who was he talking about checking in on? His faint smile, usually enough to pull one from her in return, barely registered this time. A rare crack in her composure showed as a more serious expression settled on her face. Wren’s, um, Wren’s y-your…? Now why was he bringing up one of the Devereau’s? Barbara-Jean’s brows furrowed in confusion but she said nothing as she tried to let her son work through his thoughts. She, uh….the day of…

But he never finished the thought. As if he couldn’t remember where he was going with it. His eyes darted away, that practiced smile creeping onto his face—the one he thought she couldn’t see through. Then, with his mouth full of chicken, he told her to forget it. Said he was just tired. At least he was eating. But none of this sat right. It was forced. Too forced.

"August, I think we should go to the—" Her work phone rang sharply, making her jump. That wasn’t like her. But this was all unsettling her and usually no one disturbed her during dinner unless it was urgent. Shit. She looked down at it for half a second, letting it ring on her belt for a moment longer before grabbing it and answering.

“Lovell,” she said, her tone clipped, unfriendly. Her eyes never left August as one of her deputies filled her in.

While their search at Gallows Pass was unsuccessful in finding any other trace of a suspect — they found something else. Another body. Fresh. No more than 4 hours old right at the end of the pass. Barbara-Jean schooled her face into neutrality, hoping August wouldn’t see the flicker of panic behind her eyes—for him and for the third victim in just a few weeks.

Sure, the town had a bit of a cursed reputation, but this was excessive. Unusual. Unnatural. “How accessible is the area? Will the coroner, forensics, and—” She hesitated, glancing at her son. “Will we be able to get a team through the pass?”

The deputy explained the difficulties, and Barbara-Jean sighed. The pass was treacherous—rocky, narrow, not made for anyone but experienced hikers. Which meant their suspect either was an avid hiker or… something else. Something that didn’t need to worry about the cliffs or even the fall.

Despite its name, Gallows pass itself wasn’t a true pathway. It clung to the edge of a massive drop, a ledge above a series of waterfalls and the river below. Few who ventured it made it back. It wasn’t a question of if they fell—it was when.

"I’ll gather a full team—including the coroner. But there’s no way we’re getting that…" Barbara-Jean’s words faltered before she could say body, her gaze flicking to August. "…without an airlift. I’ll be back at the station in ten." She ended the call without another word

Then she stood. Dinner would have to wait—though she hadn’t taken a single bite. But looking at August again, she wasn’t sure he could wait. Her phone rang again.

"What?" she snapped, irritation seeping into her tone as she answered. But then—her body stiffened, eyes widening. "Where?" Silence hung thick in the room as she listened. "Keep trailing them. Do not engage—not without backup. I’m on my way." Her voice steadied, sharpening with certainty. Another beat of silence before the line went dead. Barbara-Jean exhaled hard, turning to August. Concern flickered in her eyes.

"August, listen to me, okay?" She crouched in front of him, forcing him to meet her gaze. "I need you to stay in tonight. Don’t go out. Don’t leave the house. If you want someone over, fine. But just… stay inside." She didn’t want to scare him by saying it wasn’t safe—or that he shouldn’t be driving in his condition. If she pushed too hard, he might do the opposite.

"Promise me, yeah? Rest up. I have to head back in—there’s an emergency—but if you feel any worse, call me. I’ll come running. And if I don’t pick up, call Blaine. He’ll come get you, too. Okay?" She reached for him, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. "I love you, kiddo. You know that? I’m so damn grateful for you." A small, tired smile tugged at her lips. "Dinner looks great. Try not to eat it all—I’ll be starving when I get back."

She turned, grabbing a bottle of pain meds from the cabinet, shaking out two pills before setting them in front of him. "Take these. Drink a ton of water. I’ll be back in a few hours. And after this, I’m telling them I need a break. Then I’ll come home, and I’ll take care of you… okay?" Barbara-Jean hesitated in the doorway, patting her pockets to make sure she had everything. Another ring—this time, she declined it. Her eyes met August’s once more.

She let it vibrate in her palm for a moment before silencing it, exhaling sharply. "We’ll figure this out… you’re going to be okay, my boy." Her voice wavered, the words more for herself than him. Then, softer, almost pleading, she added, "You’ve always been my brightest light, August. Even on my worst days, even when I got it all wrong—you and your sister were the one thing I knew I did right. Just hang on for a few more hours, and I’ll be there—like I used to be. Okay?"

The phone rang again.

This time, Sheriff Lovell couldn’t ignore it.

With a sharp pivot, she snapped it open. "What?!" she barked, shoving her feet into her boots and yanking them on without care.Then she was gone, striding out the door and into the night, the red and blue lights of her squad car flashing as she sped away.
with: August Pyroclast

​

Moonlight bathed Gallows Pass, but the beams from their flashlights cut through the dark like blades. The silence was suffocating—Barbara-Jean was certain even a pin drop would echo. Not even the trees stirred.Then she smelled it. Copper. Thick, unmistakable. The scent invaded her senses, coiling in her throat.

She knew before she saw the body that it was bad. The way her deputies froze confirmed it—backs stiff, hands twitching too close to their holsters. They weren’t just looking at a corpse. They were looking at carnage.

"Ma’am," Deputy Fisher said, voice tight, "this ain't like the last one." Barbara-Jean clenched her jaw and stepped forward. Then she saw it.

The body lay sprawled across the jagged rocks—but "sprawled" was too neat a word. This wasn’t just a kill. This was a mauling. The throat had been torn open—not clean, like the victim from the night before, but ragged, the flesh curling outward as if something had fed with reckless abandon. Blood soaked the dirt, spattered across the rocks. And yet—just like before—the body itself was almost drained.

Something about it was wrong.

A chill crawled up her spine, something old and buried clawing its way back to the surface.

A knock at the door. Flour still clung to her hands from helping the kids with their bake sale fundraiser. She wiped them on a dish towel before answering.

Two officers stood on her porch.

"Ms. Lovell?"

Voices too careful. Too professional. Her stomach dropped before they even said the words.

"There’s been an incident at the state park. Your daughter and ex-husband—"

No. Not now.

Barbara-Jean blinked hard, forcing herself back to the present, but her pulse pounded in her ears. Not here. Not now.

"Vampires don’t usually make a mess like this," one of the deputies muttered.

Her breath hitched. For a second, the body before her blurred—replaced by another. Smaller. More fragile. Daphne. Her baby girl, cold and still in the dirt. Her father not far from her. Mauled. Gutted. The official report called it an animal attack.

For a while, she believed it. But she knew better now.

Barbara-Jean crouched beside the body, her boots grinding against stone. The victim’s face flickered in her mind—Daphne’s face—until she reached out, using her sleeve to push the woman’s collar down.

Then it snapped back into focus.

The puncture wounds were there, buried beneath the carnage—but they weren’t clean. The surrounding flesh was shredded, as if whatever bit her hadn’t been thinking.

A hunger-fueled frenzy.

"This isn’t like the others," she murmured. Fisher exhaled sharply. "No kidding. If this was a vamp, something’s wrong with them. The first two were drained clean. This?" He gestured to the mangled remains. "This looks like someone who lost control." A murmur of agreement passed through the team.

Barbara-Jean stood, fists clenched. Her daughter’s case had been closed before she got answers. No witnesses. No suspects. Just whispers of something bigger lurking beneath the surface. And now—years later—she was standing over another body. Another kill that didn’t fit. Another goddamn mystery with a trail of blood leading straight into the dark. Another family forced to grieve without any true answers. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, fingers hovering over the grip of her gun.

"Get forensics up here," she ordered, her voice sharp despite the tremor she fought to keep out. "And I want patrols doubled. If we’ve got a rogue on our hands, I’m not losing anyone else." The anger simmering in her veins boiled over. She turned toward her deputies, eyes burning.

"How the hell did this thing slip through our fingers?" she snapped. "This town’s been crawling with these things for how long, and we let it get this far?" Her boots crunched against gravel as she took a step forward, her stance unyielding.

"I don’t care if it’s a vampire, a werewolf, or something else hiding in the dark." Her voice was low, lethal. "They’ll all burn." She had lost too much. And she refused to lose anyone else.

But as she lashed out at her deputies, beneath the fury, a bitter truth festered.

The only person she could truly blame—was herself.

 

[WanderLust.]

THEODORE WEST
ALPHA WEREWOLF

Devious

Crayne & Murphy Residence

Summer Bellz

Click Me

Theo had become accustomed to reading those around him, picking up on even the most minute of details; a jump in the heart rate, sweat on the brow, chewing on the lower lip … or in Summer’s case, white knuckling a red solo cup that smelled heavily of vodka. His gaze was scrutinous, analytical like a chess player observing all the pieces on the board as his eyes roamed over her features, trailing down the porcelain skin of her face, past the blonde curls and landing on the jugular vein in her neck. If he listened closely, he could hear the thrumming of her pulse, her heart rate well above average.

He tilted his head slightly, the faintest hint of a smirk creeping onto his lips as though he had just established a checkmate on the board, he had caught her red handed… She was nervous, though he didn’t know why. Funny, I was gonna say the dog dragged you in. A dry, humorless laugh left his lips - it was more a sudden exhale of air than anything else, his gracious attempt at pity for the god awful joke. But despite Theo’s lackluster response, Maddie erupted in laughter as though Summer was the world's greatest comedian. He found his upper lip curling as his sister so obviously fell into the siren’s trap. Maddie was enamored, captivated by the blonde’s effortless small talk. Was this really what Summer was used to?

He watched as the blonde sipped at her drink, her full lips pressing against the flimsy red colored plastic as she tilted her head back, Theo’s gaze speaking of something predatory and primal. Summer was undeniably beautiful, full lips, sculpted cheekbones, and icy blue eyes that he feared were capable of staring straight through him. Suddenly, her eyes scrunched shut, hiding those crystalline irises from his view and for a moment he thought she might be choking before he realized she was biting back the bitter sting of a drink poured with a heavy hand. What, the siren couldn’t hold her liquor? He resisted the urge to wince on her behalf.

As if suddenly realizing she had left the stove on, Summer switched gears, shifting the conversation back towards the question at hand, how had she ended up here in the first place? This wasn’t Theo’s regular crowd, not the people he would ever voluntarily choose to spend time with, but even if he didn’t know them well, he knew of them. Summer, on the other hand, had become mostly a stranger to this town. Nobody had seen or heard from her since she left for college, except, of course, the one girl in Crescent Hill who happened to know everything about everyone. “Season of the witch.” He remarked snidely at the mention of Wren Devereau, not realizing he had spoken the words aloud until they were already out in the open.

Starting to wonder if this was a pity invite, though.

“Wren has a habit of picking up strays… though I don’t think she’s the type to extend an invitation out of sympathy.” He offered, uncertain why he suddenly felt the need to console her. He wasn’t terribly close with Wren, he knew the Devereaus, knew they aligned themselves closely with the vampires, but his opinion of them was largely neutral. They kept to themselves the same way Theo and his pack did, their paths rarely crossed except at events like this, which were few and far between.

And then, like a ship pulled from its mooring, a young man stumbled into Theo’s peripheral vision. He had curly blonde hair the color of sand and big brown eyes that looked like they belonged on a lovesick puppy, dressed in a multicolored tie dye shirt that Theo suspected was his best attempt at a groovy 60s disco outfit. Theo found himself wondering if the boy was even old enough to drink. Following the stranger’s gaze, Theo traced his point of attention back to Summer…an asteroid caught by the gravitational pull of the sun. So this was it, this was the siren’s song in all its glory. Would this have been Theo’s fate were he not wearing his grandfather’s ring?

And suddenly, the boy was too close for comfort, edging nearer and nearer until he roamed too close and Theo stiffened, straightening to his full height. But before Theo could tell the guy to piss off, something snapped. As if roused from a trance, the boy regrouped with his friends and wandered off as though he hadn’t just been hovering mere inches away from Summer. Theo’s jaw clenched ever so slightly as he ground his teeth, eyes flicking back towards Summer just in time to catch her releasing a breath.

But they sure do know how to get most of the town drunk, don’t they?

She took another sip of her drink, the red solo cup had become a crutch for the siren - he was beginning to sense a pattern. Anytime her heart rate spiked she nursed at her drink as though it were the remedy for her anxieties. Clearly the earlier interaction with the sandy haired boy had not been intentional, or if it was it hadn’t had the desired outcome. Her face contorted once more like she had just tasted the sourest of lemons, and Theo couldn’t help the sympathetic grimace that touched his face. If she hated it so much why on Earth did she keep drinking it?

Alright, so how do you know Helena and Morgan? Or let me guess—you lost a bet with Maddie and now you’re stuck playing designated driver? Or is there some kind of supernatural party committee I wasn’t informed about? One where you all secretly compete to see who can get the most humans blackout drunk before midnight?

“The committee meets at 6 o’clock on Tuesdays and Thursdays… Did you not get the invitation?” He cocked an eyebrow at her, tilting his head coyly with a sharpened smile. “I don’t typically fraternize with the blood suckers… but free liquor is free liquor.” He shrugged nonchalantly, despite the fact that he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since he arrived. Summer didn’t need to know about the tentative peace treaty, nor did he need to call further attention towards the recent murder. Had circumstances been different, he might’ve allowed himself a drink, taken advantage of the opportunity to let loose for a while and perhaps even find himself someone to keep his bed warm for a night. But with the murder of a fellow wolf still so fresh in his mind, at a party surrounded by mildly appeased enemies… His guard was rigid.

“You guys wanna join?” A red headed woman dressed in a black leather jacket practically cood in Theo’s ear. Her fire engine red nails were wrapped around an empty beer bottle, which she dangled in front of them like an invitation. “Spin the bottle?” - spin the bottle. What was this, middle school? Theo’s whiskey gaze roved over the redhead, she was pretty, dressed in skin tight clothing he suspected was intentionally chosen to best display her assets. The kind of woman he would normally take home with him, and yet compared to Summer she paled. He blinked involuntarily, why was he comparing this otherwise beautiful woman to Summer? Why had the siren suddenly become the gold standard?

Unsettled, he barreled through that pesky sentiment, instead pushing off the wall and leaning further in towards the redhead as though she could help him shake this odd attachment to his blonde companion. “I like games…” his smile curled into something devious and dangerous.

“I’m good… you guys have fun.” Maddie’s dismissal was ornery, uncomfortable, she had no interest in watching her older brother snogging beautiful strangers. Suddenly spotting a familiar face in the crowd, she waved at someone Theo didn’t recognize. “I’ll catch you guys later.”

His eyes turned expectantly towards Summer, who had yet to weigh in on their little game. Something told him she was about to take another swig of her drink. He was secure in the knowledge that she would likely turn down the redhead’s invitation and in doing so rid him of this incessant hyperfixation he had been unable to shake. His gaze met hers, a silent challenge - did she dare venture into unknown waters when there were sharks swimming nearby?

coded by natasha.

 

[Bellz]

Summer Calloway
Crayne & Murphy Residence
~ Outskirts of Crescent Hill~
⋆.˚ ☼⋆𓇼。𖦹˙༄.° outfit:here/ mood: Lord take her now ⋆.˚ ☼⋆𓇼。𖦹˙༄.°​

I don’t typically fraternize with blood suckers…but free liquor is free liquor. Summer could have pointed out that Theo didn’t even have a drink in his hand while she was more than making up for it—though that would have made her sound like… well, an alcoholic. And normally, she was much more put together at parties (if and when she went), much more measured with her drinks, but ugh, present company was making it a little too hard to think straight.

Before she could dwell on that unfortunate realization, the moment was cut short by the sudden arrival of a redhead in a leather jacket, her nails painted an aggressive shade of red, wrapped around an empty beer bottle like she was ready to claw someone’s eyes out. Summer barely held back a grimace, forcing herself not to literally snarl. Good lord, was she already tipsy?

The redhead’s bright, glossy lips curved into a smirk as she extended an invitation—spin the bottle. Summer choked on her drink, some of it ending up splashing back into her cup. Ow, ow, ow. BURNING. She coughed, trying not to die in the middle of the party. What was this? Middle school? Did she fall into some kind of time warp back to the 80s? And speaking of time warps—her gaze flicked over the redhead’s whole aesthetic again—either this girl never left that decade, or she was making a rather tragic attempt at the 50s. What a tacky little tra—
Wait.

Summer blinked. Why the hell was she so livid over what the redhead was doing? Was it because the redhead was practically climbing Theo like he was the last tree in the forest? Or was it because Theo seemed all too happy to let her, those wicked whiskey-colored eyes raking over her with slow, deliberate interest? And then—because the universe clearly had it out for Summer—he leaned in, lips curling into a smirk that felt downright dangerous. I like games. He said, almost like he knew he was messing with her in that moment.

Summer was about to tap out, suggest something to Maddie when Maddie spoke up first — finding someone in the crowd before disappearing. Damn it. Then Theo’s gaze landed on her.

Oh. So this was what it felt like to be a deer caught in a wolf’s sights—helpless, cornered, one breath away from becoming dinner. Her pulse spiked, instinct screaming at her to reach for her drink —until she remembered, oh right, she’d spat in it. Yeah… hard pass. Swallowing down her immediate regret, she lifted her chin instead, meeting his gaze head-on. There it was—that glint of challenge, the unspoken dare.

Spin the bottle? Absolutely not. This was some new, specially crafted version of hell, designed just to test her patience. And Summer couldn’t imagine a worse fate. But unlike the deer, who at least had the good sense to run when danger lurked, Summer apparently decided to do the opposite—just bare her jugular and invite the wolves in. Sure, go ahead, take a bite. Why don’t ya? She had a feeling she would regret this.

With a little twirl on her heel, her blonde hair whipping over her shoulders, she took two steps toward the nearest trash can and dramatically tossed her drink inside before spinning back to face Theo and the redheaded tramp-stamp special.

“Games, huh?” A slow, teasing smile curled on her lips. “Well, that would make things more interesting.” She tilted her head toward the redhead, her voice all honeyed amusement. “Lead the way, Leathers.” Their eyes met, and Summer instantly recognized that look—the one that said the girl was already a little more than enamored with her. But for once, Summer's usual warmth was nowhere to be found. Maybe, hopefully, Leathers would pick up on the mixed signals before she had to be more direct. Could have called her worse. Tramp-Stamp. Spicy Skank, Crimson Catastrophe, Red Hot Harlot, Tacky Talon Tramp, Jukebox Jezebel. The names were really writing themselves at this point.

Trailing behind them, Summer kept her gaze locked on the floor, dodging unnecessary eye contact like a pro. The constant tug of people’s auras in big crowds was something she’d learned to tune out, but tonight? It was like walking through a field of outstretched hands, everyone silently reaching, trying to pull her into their orbit. But nope. Not tonight, Satan. She was already walking straight into the hell fire, no way was she getting distracted on the way there.

Shockingly, a decent-sized crowd had already gathered for this disastrous little game, thanks to Leathers slinking her way through and sweet-talking people into playing. Maybe she’s a siren, Summer mused, watching her work—until the girl turned, giving Summer a perfect look at her face. Nope. Definitely not a siren. More like some demon sent straight from hell. Which was fitting, considering this game was about to be her personal hell. So why was she doing this? She could have said no. She had free will, last time she checked.

And yet… her gaze naturally found its way back to Theo. He looked so damn relaxed, as if this was just another night, another game, another crowd caught under his spell. And maybe, just maybe, she was sticking close to him because—for once—he was the only person here she didn’t have to worry about accidentally pulling in. Unlike the others, Theo wasn’t drowning in her presence. He wasn’t getting sucked into her orbit. And while his presence still set her on edge, at least she could breathe.

Hysteria by Def Leppard drifted through the speakers as people moved to sit on the floor. They were really doing this huh? Sighing, she found a spot next to the Theo to the left of him — while the Red Hot Harlot sat on the right. Summer ignored the person sitting next to her — who was already ensnared in her pull. Shit. "So was this your brilliant idea then?" Summer asked the woman her voice cold, before looking at Theo.

Before the woman could answer, Summer’s gaze flicked to Theo, lips curling into a teasing grin. “I thought we left this game back in middle school, where it belonged.” The guy next to her—a neon-colored trainwreck straight out of an I Love the 80s special—threw his head back in a bark of laughter, like she’d just delivered the best punchline in comedy history. And then…he leaned in. Too close. Way too close.

“God, you’re hilarious,” he practically purred, his breath a toxic cocktail of cheap beer, stale cigarettes, and the kind of bad decisions that left a person waking up in a stranger’s bathtub. His eyes, glassy and unfocused, dragged over her face, her lips, her throat. “And fucking gorgeous, you know that?"

Summer’s stomach twisted. A sharp, awful prickle climbed her spine. The game had started, the bottle spinning in the middle of the group but she hardly even noticed under the weight of his aura.

She hadn’t even looked at him directly, hadn’t meant to pull him in, but some people were more susceptible than others. Especially while drinking. And this guy? He was drowning in it. She wrinkled her nose, tilting her head as if considering. "You know, I’d be flattered—if you didn’t smell like a frat house carpet after a homecoming game."

But then his fingers tightened on her thigh—lingering, possessive.

“God, and you’re so soft.”

Summer stiffened, her pulse spiking. Shit. This wasn’t just some drunk idiot getting too friendly. This was something else. Her hand shot down, wrapping gently around his wrist as she tried to push him off. “Hey,” she said, keeping her voice light, careful. “That’s enough.” He didn’t move. Didn’t even seem to register the warning, his glassy eyes locked on her like she was gravity itself, pulling him in.

Summer swallowed hard, unease twisting deep in her gut. He was under her trance—he didn’t know any better. He was human, fragile. She had to be careful. She tried again, a little firmer this time, pushing at his wrist. “Come on,” she said, forcing a small painful laugh. “Let go, please?” Nothing.

Instead, his fingers flexed again, gripping like he had some kind of claim, like she belonged to him. His smirk deepened, slow and lazy. “Why are you acting shy now?” he murmured, tilting closer. “Thought we were having fun.” Her vision blurred at the edges. The noise of the party around them felt distant, muffled beneath the blood rushing in her ears. Her own magical trap was closing in on her, suffocating. Her pulse pounded against her ribs, breath hitching as panic clawed its way up her throat. Too close. Too much. Get him off. She tried again her blue eyes burning with unshed tears, shoving harder this time, but his fingers only dug in, his smirk never wavering.
with: Theo WanderLust.