I've been prayin' hard Said no more counting dollars We'll be counting stars Hey I'm Grace, not really anything interesting about me except maybe that one time the Romans were all over my shit but anyway pleased to meet you and the necessary...
The chairs. They’re all laid out so perfectly. Twenty in a row, an aisle in the middle, reaching back a hundred rows, all empty. The red carpet glowing in the sun, the background of the city, the breeze. Everything’s just calm. The ceremony hasn’t started yet. Everyone must still be inside changing into their robes and being all excited that they’re finally getting out of here. Typical.
There’s music. Classical accompaniment from a string quartet that they’re supposed to play at graduation - it’s like a law. It’s all peaceful, slow motion. But not the kind that makes people sound stoned, more like when you get out of a swimming pool and water’s clogged in your ears. It’s all distorted.
I’m walking down the aisle past the empty chairs, towards the podium where I’ll make my speech. I’m at the top of the steps but I stand on something. Looking down it’s the latest edition of our magazine. I’m flicking through and the pages are filled with words, but I don’t understand what they’re saying and I’m frowning down at it but then I look up. And there are people. They’re watching me - people that came out of nowhere. People filling the two thousand seats, all watching me.
I’m behind the podium, all my lecturers surrounding me waiting for me to speak. I pat down my robes but my speech isn’t there, and The Word is on the stand, lying open at a dog eared page. I look down and start reading.
“Today marks a new beginning where we take our place as members of an integrated society” I don’t know how I’m reading, I still can’t understand the words, “but there are some who do not want to take their place amongst us, people who are a threat to the lives we have established; and those who aren’t with us are against us”.
Two guards step onto the stage behind me, dragging a man with them. His hands are tied behind his back and his face is bagged but I know who he is. I don’t move from the podium. They push him to the floor. I continue despite their actions and the placid indifference of the audience.
“Those who attempt to undermine our society will be made an example of in an attempt to deter future extremists…” His shirt is stained with blood already, and his jeans are ripped and his knees and arms bruised. The audience fan themselves in the heat almost impatiently “…It is a criminal offence to coerce with terrorists and those found accountable will be punished…” One guard knees the man in the ribs while the other loads a nine millimetre hand gun. I try to stop talking but the words don’t obey. I can’t stop “…Terrorism and the radicalisation of our youth are both equally punishable by imprisonment or death. This individual is no exception.” I hear the safety catch of the gun as it’s removed.
“The state, under the approval of Rome, hereby sentences this man to death for crimes against the state, and the Empire”. The audience snigger as the bag is removed from the man’s head.
Ronen’s hair shines in the sunlight, blood dripping from a head wound and cuts on his face. I finally pause for breath and I realise how silent it is. No whispering, no bird song, no wind. A guard pulls him to a kneeling position and he meets my eyes. His mouth moves but I don’t hear what he says. The words I can’t understand regain control “…Ronen Harel has been found guilty of terrorism and acting as an accomplice to terrorist organisations…” I continue to speak, my eyes never leaving his, no control of what I’m saying. I can’t move to help him. My legs and arms are routed to their positions. Why isn’t he running? He could take them. Why isn’t he moving? Move, Ronen, run! My ears become consumed in his voice, quiet but still managing to overpower mine.
“You did this. This was all you! This was your fault!” His voice growing, the strain on his vocal chords audible, the hatred in his eyes burning into me. “YOU DID THIS TO ME GRACE.” The armed guard raises the pistol to Ronen’s head, Ronen still screaming from his spot. I can’t move. I’m forcing movement, kicking, punching, screaming his name but I don’t move. My monotone voice still reading out his rights.
Then there is only Ronen’s eyes and silence as I watch the guard squeeze the-
BANG.
Grace’s eyes shot open. In control of her voice, she screamed his name over and over, thrashing at the covers still trying to get to Ronen. Unable to move, her eyes darted around desperately trying to figure out where she was. Focusing on the deep pressure on her arms and thighs, Grace jolted harshly to break free. Two eyes swam into focus less than a meter above her, and a soft voice called her name. Forcing herself to breathe more steadily, she made out knees pressing into her legs, and hands tightly clutching her biceps, still pinning her to the bed in the darkness. Looking back up at the face - which was actually a face now her eyes had adjusted - she made out gentle features smeared with worry. Breathing in she recognised the smell of soap and lavender.
“M-Mary?” Grace croaked, her eyes swelling with tears, the gunshot still echoing in her head.
I wanted to tell you a little about Angel (the fluff nugget pictured above) and her mama, saferincages.
Angel is a certified therapy/emotional support dog for Jess (saferincages), who unfortunately suffers from several chronic illnesses that prevent her from a lot of the things that we take for granted on a daily basis. Angel has been a wealth of emotional and loving support for Jess when her days get particularly bad and just an all around positive presence in her life.
Recently Angel went to the vet for a routine tooth extraction and the vet found something concerning her heart and a cardio specialist needs to come and look at her to give a solid diagnosis as to what the problem is and the proper treatment for it.
Which leads me to the reason for this post. As a lot of us fur parents know vets and specialists can cost a lot and while it can be easier for us with jobs or financial support, unfortunately due to Jess’s illness she is unable to work and earn money.
This is why I am asking for donations to help with Angel’s cardio specialist and treatment. I know that a lot of things in this world take a lot from us, but even if you can donate $5 then it would be so appreciated. If you’re unable to donate (which we completely understand), reblogging this post would mean the world.
I have known Jess for over 12 years now and can completely vouch for her as a wonderful, honest, caring, and all around beautiful person. Angel means the world to her and helps her when it’s the darkest for her.
Bon, you are so wonderful and this is so generous and kind of you to do. I appreciate it with all my heart (and my Angel does too!), thank you. She had a bit of a bad day yesterday, we weren’t sure what was going on (it’s hard when you can’t ask them questions), but she definitely wasn’t feeling well. Her trip to the cardiologist is on Wednesday, so we’ll see what we find out. She is such a constant blessing and light in my life, and you are very much that, as well. <33333
Your character walks in on mine having a violent flashback and is forced to pin them down for both of their safety. Send me, ‘wake up’ for my character’s reaction/coming to with yours still on top of them.
Grace let out a seductive giggle, one of her fingers tracing over the visible flesh on her chest Simon was clearly trying to avoid. Her teeth tugged on her lip lightly, and her nose crinkled in that adorable way, and her eyes sparkled in the candle light.
“Darling, we’ve both been through far too much to deny the fact that we’ll always have have secrets. Sometimes it’ll be where the next deal comes from,” she gestured on one hand, “or sometimes it’s who we’re going to pay to have disappear,” she gestures to the other. She turned her hands palms down on the rim of the tub, pushing herself that little bit further out of the water, that little bit closer to him, so that her collarbones were distinctly suggestive, before speaking in a sleepy whisper. “Or sometimes it’s who or what we crave in the early hours of the morning when no one’s around”.
She looked at him through her smoky eyes, but for the first time that night it wasn’t all jokes and teasing, because she knew, deep down, that neither of them asked for this. There would always be things they could never have - safety, trust, love - and no matter which team they were playing for, that wouldn’t change.
She pursed her lips a little at that comment, her gaze solidifying, her brain expelling all considerations of similarities between them - for now.
"I can guarantee you, dear Simon, that I would, without a doubt, be the cleanest lover you’d ever have. Not like these women of the night in their communal beds and unsterilised sheets and… well how often do you think they get tested, I mean really?” She continued, her raised eyebrow back on form, “I’d be cleaner and safer. Besides I’d be much more fun - and you know I’d keep it a secret.”
Grace fought hard to not let a smirk creep onto her face. She’d noticed his hands shift to protect himself from the clear water. I mean it made no difference because she’d already noticed everything he had to offer, but she thought she’d let him keep his dignity. She scowled at his lecture. The rights and wrongs, the dos and don’ts of a Zealot. Rolling her eyes, she shook her head in complete despair before letting out a hard sigh.
"Fine,” she finally spat, “I’ll go. I was hoping to have a nice chat about a deal over some coffee or tea or alcohol or whatever you were planning on settling down with tonight. I wanted to put a stop to some of this ridiculous, unnecessary warfare going on! But no!” She threw her hands down on the tub rim, launching herself up to a standing position, calves still semi-submerged in the water, now a small tidal wave around them. She dripped with anger and tension and frustration in the candlelight - flawless, but furious.
"Little baby Zealot doesn’t have the balls…which is reallyironic from where I’m standing.”
Oh god.
This was definitely dangerous. as much as when someone had a gun out. It felt weirdly like he was in a teenage wet-dream. She just wouldn’t stop - touching places, and it was really distracting when he was trying to listen to what she was actually saying. Or get a good read on where she might be hiding a knife.
He did get what she meant though. He’d thought that she was taking the piss for a second, until he noticed the tightness in her face and - yeah. He got that.
Sometimes when he’d gotten bored enough to have wandered onto the rom-coms section of Netflix, and stared at stupid couples, laughing inanely but just comfortable with each other, and even having a shared bank account without being married or anything - were they total chumps?! - and it was like watching the sci-fi channel. He knew it happened, everyday, all around him but…it didn’t really seem possible.
On some days, when everything was shitty as fuck, and nothing seemed to be getting anywhere no matter what he did, it’d come back to him. He’d wonder if it was just as hollow and rotted out as everything else, or maybe, just maybe, it was different.
He really didn’t want to think about what it would be like if it wasn’t.
"I think that’s called getting the night-munchies.” He muttered, forcing a grin because everything felt way to sincere for the two of them for a second. “That’s pretty much needing a two-in-the-morning Big Mac.”
He’d imagine that having talking about feelings with the Silverstein daughter would be on the same level as invoking more carnal feelings. Like fuck they were staying secret - for all he’d know he’d pick up the paper the next day and find the whole transcript right there for the world to see.
It was like he wasn’t even dealing with a person. More like one of those advert scripts on webpages that tried to entice you into clicking them so that they could weasel their way into the database.
He sputtered as the wave of water hit him in the face, which became a hiss as whatever chemicals were making the bath foam coincided with his eyes. He reached up to rub them automatically and - fuck, he forgot, he had shampoo on his hand. That was now also in his eyes.
Ow. Fucking stang like a bitch.
Okay, it was nothing compared to being shot, but, still. He waited for the stinging to clear as he blinked blearily up at her, listening to her final damning insult.
Although…with her exact phrasing there, she was unsure for a moment whether she was implying that he was under or over-endowed. He half-darted a look down at his own groin too see how the light refraction appeared from where he was and -
- maybe what Grace Silverstein made of his package was slightly beside the point, here.
“Okay, look just…calm down.” He sighed, throwing a last rinse over his hair before he gripped the sides of the bath and pulled himself up, not sure where to look as they faced each other, her with everything very clearly defined in the soaked fabric, and him…well. Starkers.
He didn’t mind that, too much. He’d seen himself in the mirror. He knew he looked good. It was only that she would have had a weapon and he didn’t.
Simon kept his eyes on her as he stepped out of the bath, dripping onto the floor boards as he crossed to get a towel. One went on him, brushing his legs off well enough to force his trousers back on, and the other he threw in her direction.
“Come on. Get out of there. I’ll see about grabbing us a scotch.” He sighed, pushing open the door to his room. “Come on. You can grab something if you want to change. I mean, it won’t fit, but, you know.” He smiled weakly. “Might be better than those. Just saying.”
It was almost comical watching the Zealot son squirm around in the tub, rendered blind by the bubbles that were protecting him only minutes ago, like some bizarre metaphor for allies in their world of gang warfare.
Grace could shoot him right now. Her gun was still balanced on the edge of the towel drawers. She could reach out and have it in hand and shoot and he would be dead. The gun is a standard model, used by almost everyone in the city, nothing would be tied to her. She wasn’t even supposed to be here. Just thinking about it, she could feel the handle of the gun in her hand - cold but moist from the steam in the room. Close proximity. He’d be dead instantly. She could use the towel under it as a silencer. All the men he’d killed, the people he’d used, the dresses he’d ruined. They’d all be made right. He would be dead. Easy as that. A victory.
But for how long? A Zealot death would be the end of their world. Fighting in the streets would be as deadly as she remembered it to be when she was a child. Innocent people would die, many more than the number of people she’d avenge. It wouldn’t do anything but cause more damage. And she supposed in the grand scheme of things her dresses weren’t that important. The people were the important thing. No one else should have to die. That was precisely what Grace had risked her life, and her reputation, to stop tonight. A Zealot death would achieve nothing.
All the same. She’d remember the day she could have.
She swallowed instinctively when all of a sudden Simon was just there - only a rinse of his well-cared-for hair as a warning that he’d make a move. Grace tensed, readying herself for an attack or sly comment or reason to defend herself. She assumed the result of his y chromosomes was a fairly personal thing - she could easily have pushed him too far. Instead, neither one of them moved, the energy between them crackling and fizzing as the water began draining away.
She took his lead to get out of the tub, now totally aware of just how soaked she was and how maybe none of this had been a good idea. Catching the towel, she dried her visible skin and patted almost hopelessly at her dripping clothes. Almost. When he turned his back to her to fasten his pants, she slipped the gun he surely must have seen back into her waistband.
She followed him through the door, half smiling at the nonchalant offer of a drink, but still managing to rate it as one of the most normal things said the entire evening.
"Perhaps something that won't totally suffocate me in fabric?" She said, abandoning her proud, deadpan expression for grin as she admitted how ridiculous a lot of this was.
In his room, she looked around. She’d tried to imagine it before, extravagant and luxurious, with compartments for weapons or intimate things that Grace wasn’t sure she wanted to imagine. She’d considered finding out all of his secrets and exposing him to the world in this room. But as she stood there, her clothing still dripping, she was at a loss of what to do. Being in his personal space was unheard of. To go straight for his cupboards without his say so would cross too many lines to fix.
"A scotch would be welcome, thank you,” trying not to make a big deal of his offer, she nodded to the wardrobe, “can I just um… help myself?”
