living  isn’t  much  of  an  issue  for  her,  as  it  so  happens,  and  evelyn’s  moral  code  isn’t  what  keeps  her  here,  rather  it’s  the  certainty  of  malignity  /  it  exists  and  so  must  she.  everything  else  is  irrelevant.  that’s  a  privilege,  perhaps,  for  she  never  turned  to  killing  out  of  desperation  —  she  was  never  made,  never  broken  (  just  unleashed  ) …  there  were  options.  she  chose  this  life,  to  feed  that  beast  inside  her,  and  she’d  choose  it  again.  others  didn’t  have  that  opportunity,  the  choice.  but  that’s  an  excuse  that  can  only  be  stretched  so  thin.  among  others.           

                ❛   comparing  yourself  to  a  high - ranking  politician…  strong  start  on  getting  me  to  change  my  position.   ❜   how  many  of  those  had  made  it  on  her  list  over  the  years?  truth  be  told,  it  never  crossed  her  mind  to  keep  count…  to  write  down  names  and  neatly  cross  them  out.  it  still  doesn’t.  does  that  make  it  better  or  worse?  what  matters  more  —  whose  blood  you’re  coated  in  or  the  fact  that  you’re  coated  in  it  at  all?  

               in  any  case,  she  accepted  herself  a  long  time  ago.  perhaps  he  has  too.  doesn’t  mean  they  have  to  accept  each  other. 

               her  tongue  clicks.   ❛   it  really  isn’t,  at  least  not  for  the  job  you’re  being  paid  to  fail  at.  i’m  fairly  certain  the  lower  end  for  a  hit  these  days  is…  fifteen?  probably  not  enough  to  pay  off  whatever’s  making  you  walk  around  with  a  stick  lodged  up  your  ass.  maybe  you  should  take  the  rest  of  those  rocks.  buy  yourself  something  nice.   ❜

‘   if a single conversation had a chance of changing your position,   it isn’t much of a position.   ’          it is laughable to talk about morals with a man who has cloaked himself in the brutality of death   [   other children had learned their numbers in the classroom,   a friendly teacher swathed in smiles,   while he had been counting bullets,   kills   --   did the number matter anymore?   he curled their truth around his hands,   number blending into time blending into a life defined against murder,   and squished the unripe peach of his history   ].

arms cross across his chest,   eyeing her as if in search of some lie   --   if there ever was one,   he wouldn’t be able to pick up on it   ...   the study of her face,   a portrait captured in endless disarray.   this has never been his language.   if she had been a gun,   he would hold the barrel to his ear and hear the twitch of secrets.   if she had been a knife,   he could read the blood smeared across its pointed edge.   but she stands before him as a human   ...   and he stands to the side as a monster,   uncertain as a young child would be.   youth is a sin that one can never shed.

‘   the man is dead,   is he not?   that doesn’t constitute a failure.   ’          but there is a twitch in his jaw,   a mouth held tight,   a jaw clenched   --   the kill should’ve been his.   there is a vague itching under his skin   [   what does he control if not death?   what ownership can he claim with these beasty hands?   --   this apartment clambers into a coffin,   clumsy,   rushed   ].         ‘   i’ve taken as much as i need   ...   aren’t most issues caused by those who take too much?   you should be impressed   ...   i’m sure his death had something to do with taking too much.   a moral issue,   is that what you had?   ’

TARGET   [   MEANINGLESS ACCUSATIONS   ].

his tongue carves and curls. in truth, he plays as if he knows you, as if he has seen behind the mask (not even natalia truly knows her own face … she is the woman that time cast out, the clock ticking backwards upon her bloated skin, the cracked mirror of a woman). perhaps he has glimpsed below the shadow: voyeuristic intentions made flesh, he has watched her intimately for quite some time … but the veil is always shifting. those shadows are merely reflections.

‘‘   only a very bad spy assumes they know anything about their target.   ’’        and that is where weakness will attack him … he lives in his assumptions, dies with their names wet upon his lips. she is another rifled chest to him, a drawer cracked open: you take one look through the filthy contents of someone’s life and believe you know them entirely, don’t you, samuel? she closes the chest with quick fingers, allows his assumptions to fall lazily around her shoulders.

‘‘   maybe worry less about my target and more about your own.  ’’        her glass, sparkling with the tease of moonlight, tilts towards the duke. he fades through the scene, his hand resting too low on a stranger’s back (poor girl, caught up in riches and dreams that would amount to nothing – men like him don’t last).        ‘‘   go fetch, samuel. i surely can’t be more interesting than your job.   ’’  

‘   he’ll be back soon enough.   you shouldn’t worry too much.   ’        his target was a predictable case,    every movement calculated with a finesse that could only be wrangled free from his own rose - bud fingertips   [   blushed,   pinkened,   the floral array of his hands   ].   twenty minutes outside with a cigar stuffed between his lips,   gaping mouth spread to accommodate the weight of his incoming death,   before slinking off to bed one of the blonde beauties placed around the room.   carefully placed,   one might say.   cash splashed upon pretty faces,   dresses bought,   the night designed to capture the man in his own filth and squalor.   he was a tooth meant to rot   --   consider sam to be the dentist.   there was just a single complication   ...   nudging at his elbow,   all decaying warmth.

the duke leaves,   confidence enters.   the cold breath of stoic enterprise licks at his throat,   mouth,   willing mouths,   the inflection of heat   [   he recalls the last time he saw natalia,   wildfire in the making,   a woman who destroyed forests in her endless pursuit of a perfect tree   ---   sam had always been little more than just roots   ].         ‘   which leaves me with ample time to have a dance with you.   ’

the  man’s  calmness  is  unusual,  though  refreshing.    usually  human  beings  are  too  uncomfortable  in  his  presence  to  be  worth  the  conversation.    he knows  this,  because  their  hearts  beat  audibly  quicker  :   his  father’s  people  and  their  famed  fearlessness.    he  hums  in  thought,  the  brief  and  deep  sound  rumbling  in  his  throat.      ❝  if  you  come  back,   does  it  matter?  ❞      of  course,  namor’s  death  was  avenged  before  he  himself  even  got  resurrected  in  time  to  do  it  himself.  pity …   he  would  have  liked  to  tear  the  murderer’s  head  right  off  his  neck,  hear  the  spine  rip  in  a  way  that  would  have  soothed  his  vengeful  soul.

               ❝  ——  i  did  when  i  was  young …    i  was  terrified  of  it  :  i’d  never  been  told  of  the  creative  ways  humans  invent  to  kill  each  other.    we  don’t  have  landmines  where  i  am  from.    i  was  near  death  almost  daily  in  the  war  in  those  four  years,   but  after  that  my  fear  depended  on  whether  or  not  i  welcomed  it  or  not.  ❞

briefly,  he  wonders  how  odd  this  must  sound  to  someone  with  a  normal  lifespan,  who  lives  a  shorter  life  and  thus  knows  their  first  death  will  likely  be  their  last  one.    men  with  blood  on  their  hands  always  have  a  strong  opinion  on  their  own  end,  and  namor  can  almost  smell  the  old,  stained  red  embedded  in  this  man’s  palms.      ❝  i  wanted  to  get  a  drink  seeing  as  i  am  already  here.   you  are  welcome  to  join  me  to  continue  this  riveting  back-and-forth  interview,  provided  you  are  old  enough  to  drink  in  this  country.  ❞       namor  knows  he  is,   but  he  wants  to  test  the  possible  reaction.   this  is  usually  the  point  where  obviously  adult  men  take  offense.

discomfort had never been his language of choice.  he was a man - made oddity   [   fear the child and his bladed tongue,  his crimson mouth,   a stain brought to life   --   there was no reason for him to judge when he flowered into his own strangeness:   it is easier to surround yourself with horror than to play at normality   ].   though he has never died,   and certainly didn’t plan on it,   he held the aura of a walking corpse   ...   rotting in reverse,   from the inside out,   his stomach and lungs the first to fall under the attack of his moral failings   --   each of his breaths seemed sewn up with rot,   the shivering retort of a dying tongue.        ‘   not all of us have the pleasure of coming back.   ’

creative ways that humans invent to kill each other   ...   ah,   how well i know of those terrible ways,   a human weapon made to kill   [   how soon is too soon to share the blood upon your hands?   he thinks that a few more drinks might be needed before he sweeps his hand across his dull past and paints it shiny   ...   there is nothing good left inside of him to shy from this stranger   ].        ‘   we’re a creative species   --   and any creative species tends towards violence.   primitive,   and yet terribly advanced.   do you welcome death now?   ’

an assumption of his age.   thoroughly wrong and strange in its wrongness   --   his head cocks to the side,   a low hum leaving him   [   trying to figure out intentions and coming up short   ...   dr. austen would have a sure enough diagnosis on the accusation,   some sort of trick,   or an attempt to belittle him   ].   it is greeted with a shrug,   vague and unassuming,    not even close to the anger that could thrum through him.      ‘   a drink sounds like a good idea  -- and i would never turn down such interesting company.   as for my age   ...   no one will disturb your downtime by kicking me out,   i can assure you.   ’

[   TARGET   ]:   SAMUEL. he slithered through the crowd, snakeish intentions laid sinful upon his tongue.   was that green circling his cufflinks?   …   god forbid he play a subtle part, even while crowds touched at them in every corner, a lifetime of strangers demanding their attention. he is close enough for his rancid, heat - soaked breath to bathe her neck with its every touch [she sends a smile around the dance hall, starlit and becoming, as he swoops towards her with viper - like intent]. her name parts from his lips like every scarlet - tinted prayer that they have wasted together   -   natalia, natalia, natalia. bathe me in a name that is only partly mine. finally, her head tilts towards her, her eyes reading staunch disbelief. masked, in the next moment   …   she will not show him how deeply she has been rattled.

‘‘   you’re the one who supposes we’re after the same target.   ’’        her mouth is cut-glass, her tone quick [soften yourself, a deep breath, politeness settling over her tongue]. her impression is one to be made upon the entire dance hall   -   one slip with him would reek of carefully placed disaster. he longs for a reaction, too. she can read these green - swollen eyes like a dedicated narrator, his story unfolding before her. oh, tender hands, rip into that face and pry out what wants to consume her most. he does not deserve the taste of her.        ‘‘   you’re going to escort me out of here, samuel? when we could both enjoy the night?   …   what a rash decision. surely you’d rather wait to see how this plays out.   ’’

‘   are we not?   ’         she consumes.   if he is to be the last exhale slipped free from empty lips,    then she is the brutal inhale dragging in his every breath   [   even still,   her gaze refuses to linger on him   ---   she dances it across less deserving strangers,   drinking in water when wine stood beside her   ].   as if her waning gaze plagues him too deeply,   his hand flies upwards to land upon the edge of her arm   ...   scars rise to meet him like the open kisses of wandering mouths   ---   an entire sketchbook worth of pain decorating her,   little knife marks hidden away.   you had to touch to know   [   the eye could never pick up what the eye could   ].   

his hand drops away in a flash,   part - burned by the warmth of her flesh,   from the knowledge he had dragged free from her.   she is turned from a sharp breath to a dawning glare,   her hand tugged down to her side as his own mimics her.        ‘   you know already that i have no plans to escort you out.   you wouldn’t have such a mouth if i truly had those intentions   ...   don’t disagree with me,   natalia:   as if i have no idea how you like to play.   ’        samuel grits his teeth.   the feral beast withheld,   for the rope that looped around their necks was connected   ---   the red string of fate was dulled into brown canvas.        ‘   who’s your target,   then?   ’

‘   i don’t need   ...   your help.   ’         the words are not spat with viper - venom upon his tongue:   he speaks as a child would in the classroom,   reciting words from a script that had not been truthfully learned,   another author embedding itself in teeth and bone   [   they are toneless,   tombless words   ...   with nowhere safe to die,   they flutter in his mouth   ].    he back rests against the wall and he uses it to draw himself up,   shoulders branching against the harsh drop of cold stone.   his hand closes around his waist.   there is a sticky wound at the edge of his stomach,   red pouring down his leg,   threatening to pool at the bottom of his shoe.   his teeth are gritted against the throb of pain,   movement draining him as quickly as the knife did.          ‘   leave me be.   ’

@soulavenged + can you walk? 

‘   you know you shouldn’t be   ...   here.   ’        do i growl like a beast at the sight of her?   do i grow weary beneath my clenched teeth?   she’s alive in black,    sleek fabric hugging what should not be hugged,   the glittering belle in these ugly places   [   he prefers her in red,  terrible red,   splatters of it across her cheek,   covering her hands   --   they have been monstorus together before they had even known the other’s name   ].   he,   too,   confines himself to blackness   --   a shirt,   clinging against skin,   worth more than his last paycheck.    funny what little gifts he decides to spare upon himself   ...   he does not care what she thinks of his looks   [   do her eyes trace over me,    taking in new tone around my shoulders,   the spider - web scars that break over his hands?   ].    he does not care   --   and that is a promise to himself.

‘   you know that you’re intruding.   i thought you had a code of conduct   ...   what was it that you said last time?    you had rules,   natalia?   ’        her head snaps towards her,   the deadly scent of sprawling perfume following the movement.   sam drinks it in,   the lemon - scent of a woman who was trying too hard to be anyone but herself.   the lemon was not her,   too shiny and bitter,   forgetting herself as a wolfish creature.   am i prepared to be eaten whole?   ...   oh,   yes,   i definitely am.        ‘   don’t make me escort you out of here.    that’d look bad for both of us.   ’

@nonvia

ACCESSING  FILES : //   …     [   her  body  is  her  own  coffin   ].    

𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚊.   selective  &  independent  natalia  romanova   /   black  widow  roleplay  account.      𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗    𝚋𝚢    𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚢   (   they   /   him,   21+   ).     616  based.     

❝   𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄,   actually.   maybe i’ll just have to kill you when this is all over and take it.   ❞       he’s joking,   of course,   but it’s hard to tell behind threatening staples and an unpredictable temper.    𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐆 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍,   packed neatly into ten by ten stacks.   he gives a dangerous chuckle at the threat of ratting him out,   but doesn’t make much of it.      ❝   big,   bad,   and crusty said you’d know what to do with those.   something ‘bout dropping them off where they gotta be.   don’t ask me if you don’t.   figure it out,   cause i ain’t got a clue.   you got any food in this hole?   ❞      he’s pushing his luck on purpose:   testing his boundaries,   seeing what leeway he gets,   annoying his way through a job.   as dabi does,   famously.   𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒.   as if to showcase this even more,   he reclines back,   hands behind his head.   thousands of dollars out of his father’s pockets for finishing school down the drain.      ❝   rowdy children?   that’s not very nice.   i haven’t even made you deal with himiko yet.   might have to,   now,   to prove a point.   but   …   all’s well that ends well.   just get it done.   ❞

‘   you are welcome to try whatever pitiful attempts at taking my life will satisfy you.   but you’ll look foolish when you fail   ...   and we can’t have you looking foolish,   now,   can we?   ’         sam allows his gaze to trace across the body of the other,   the stapled - together monster of malicious flame and flickering intent,   one breath away from falling apart   [   all the rotting skin and teenage rebellion homegrown from some trauma that sam cares little to know about   ...   it has done nothing but make him look more frail   ...   a child playing dress up   ].        ‘   tell him that i’ll have it sorted.   shame he didn’t trust you with something so delicate.   i can’t imagine why.   ’        childish retort falling free from his lips,   the glare he wears a familiar tone between them now   ...   he is,   somewhat,   glad that dabi shows up at his door.   annoying,    but not as quick to the blade as shigaraki was,   a war - zone of a man.   sam enjoyed his comfort too much to let it be invaded by the other.         ‘   no food that you would enjoy.    i tend to like things that haven’t been turned to charcoal   ...   and i would like to meet as little of your gang as i can stomach.   hmm.   put your feet on my table and i’ll chop them off for you.   ’

does  he  envy  those  who  have  never  died,  and  live  in  fear  of  it?    not  anymore.   not  since  the  first  time.    dying  twice  is  its  own  experience :  after all ;  all good things come  in pairs.   namor  can  all  but  smell  fear  on  people,  and  humans  make  it  too  easy.    here,  though,  he’s  unsure  whether  this  unease  is  for  him  or  because  of  him.

a  quick,  harsh  laugh  comes  from  his  mouth.   it’s  not  one  of  amusement  or  joy :  it  sounds  cruel  and  hard.     ❝  — indeed!  the  wound  is  painless  by  now ;  though  it  will  never  fade.   you  can  still  see  the  old  stitching.  ❞    he  pulls  the  skin  up  tighter  against  his  throat  with  two  fingers,  as  if  checking  his  own  pulse.  it  almost  looks  like  scarring  from  a  quick,  messy  surgery.   one  could  almost  forget  that  this  was  to  undo  a  beheading.

perhaps  the  other  man  is  simply  morbidly  curious.    namor  has  met  his  fair  share  of   what was it like?  and  did it hurt?  since  his  return.   he  does  not  mind.

❝  do  you  want  to  know  what  it  is  like  to  die?    do  you  fear  death?  ❞

‘   i fear   ...   aspects of death.   the messiness of it,   the unknown   --   not the after,   but the who.   who will kill me?   ’        his name is pock - marked and scribbled out with running ink   [   he has never hoped for death to come with old age,   nestled in bed with his daughter at his side and her softened hand holding his,   a last breath drawn with a smile   ...   men with kill lists as long as his own do not get peaceful deaths,   every name crossed with horror,   he will die in untold agonies,   as an act of revenge   ].   the laughter that runs free from the other verges on cruelty.     sam cocks his head towards it,    considering the noise,    searching for implication.

doctor austen would be able to parse it perfectly.    one look at the stranger and he’d be read like an open book,    scoured for knowledge   [   sam drinks in the scar spread across his neck,   a freckle of white tissue knitted together,   and he still collects little   --   do you fear death?   ].   he has always known it to be inevitable,   breathing down his throat.         ‘   a horrible scar.   do all deaths leave scars like that?   ...   well.   i can’t imagine many people rise again,   so perhaps it doesn’t even matter.   did you fear death before it happened?   ...   since we’ve committed to asking each other questions.  ’

& a small plotting call.

delilah will make tiktoks around the house and doxx them

*   @saevita​​​ :  ❝   are you… dead?  ❞

a  hand  reaches  up  to  touch  his  neck  instinctively    and  trace  the  jagged  remnants  of  the  scar  which  cuts  across  his  neck.    it’s  a  welcome  reminder  of  the  divine  persistence  for  him  to  live :  the  god  of  death  will  not  take  him  until  namor  has  reached  old,  old  age  /  the  mother - goddess  will  breathe  life  into  him  time  and  time  again.    it’s  a  bit  sad,  sometimes,  to  never  be  allowed  to  remain  in  your  tomb  for  good.

          ❝  i  was,  once,  ❞    twice.    ❝  it  was  a  brief  affair.   i  was  murdered.  ❞      there’s  no  bitter  taste  to  those  words  anymore  ( murdered,  executed,  slaughtered )  but  they  sound  like  a  prelude  to  an  interrogation.     ❝  why?   i  should  hope  i  don’t  look  dead.  ❞

once.   twice.     to die was the art of precision:   to live was imprecise,   without calculations,   to draw a jagged line between both states   (   he has almost died a thousand times   ...   how lucky that no one had ever bothered to finish the job   --   it seemed his soul had been sewn into his body,   refusing to leave the house of broken bones and clipped wings   ).   he does not think dying would come as any relief   ...   that has always been the belief of fools,   that death was a peaceful sleep made to lull the mind into empty oblivion.        ‘   you can talk,   can’t you?   i assume that means there’s at least some life in you   ...   however small it might be.   ’        shoulders drag backwards with a low roll,   vague cracking of bone,   a low sigh slipping from him.   he eyes the other,   top to bottom,   anxious tendril of intent.        ‘   i just wanted to know if you’d been   ...   hurt.   ’

baleful  eyne  deluged  in  the  gloaming  cast from the grotesque shape of their aurulent helm, acedia overwhelming austere brow, immovable as verglas and scarcely touched by torchlight.    𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚓𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢,  much befitting its sovereign.    infamy alone guards its keep, so seldom do guests breach unto the tenebrous decorum of the mischief - maker and serpent - tongue, god of mischief, master of sorcery and, now, serendipitously, host to thieves !   only the slow bloom of their mouth brings a glister of mirth to their pale countenance, as slow as blood seeping over a gelid battleground, as savage as a starving wolf’s maw beholding a slaughter.           “  I daresay thou art too bold a fellow  .   .   .  ”        a rasp of laughter more than scorn courts their words, but courteous cadence could only so much menace obscure.  then the candor between them makes up for some vagueness of speech.         “  I will give you marks for it.  and I admit I would rather make my quarrel with your master than with you, so tell me who they are and I am sure we can make thee a most happy rogue.  𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚎.  ”

‘   a rogue   ...   you have a curious way of speaking.   ’        his tone does not verge on insult   [   it is piqued interest in its purest form,   the tilt of a head,   the parting of lips as he considers   ...   sam was not a man of heart and conscience   --   those warm base instincts had been trained out of him with an iron fist,   clenched right around the throat   --   but curiosity still lingers,   the one trait that had been shaped by his own hands   ].   eyes wander around a place that looked like majesty in decay,   beauty that had long since faded.   his own apartment had lived in disarray for so long that no amount of scrubbing could ever reveal beauty   ...   what was that about places beginning to resemble their owners?   ...   or had that been cats?   delilah had dragged a stray home last week and there were still claw marks against sam’s hand,   vicious and red,   an animal that bit the hand that fed it and still demanded to be fed.   DID LOKI LOOK LIKE THEIR HOME?   ...   vaguely,   perhaps:   in periphery.        ‘   being bold has served me well before   ...   and you look like a person smart enough to listen to reason.   there isn’t many of them   ...   in my line of work.   but i’ll have to know i can trust you not to kill me the second i give you the name.   ’

           AND AS SHE CROUCHES DOWN TO RUN MANICURED FINGERS ALONG THE SOIL,  she closes her eyes, knits her eyebrows. Oh, she’s heard these words often :  Men who want nothing but to control everything around them, men who want to thrust agony and oppression onto other creatures, innocents coerced into obedience. She knows of these men intimately; each tree ripped from the ground for their corporations is felt in her. Each budding shrub smothered from a horrifying, billowing pollution is felt in her. Yes, she knows these men intimately — they tear her apart ruthlessly, callously.

           “ They do, don’t they? ”    she murmurs, curling her fingers into damp soil, watching as sprouts burst from the land. She’s seen men respect the land. She’s seen them live off the land sustainably, much like all other creatures do, far from the grime and muck of Gotham City and Westernization. And yet whenever she steps out of her gardens, here — her Eden, here — she’s reminded of so many who don’t. She’s reminded of those who massacre their own home, the place meant to be their paradise, for nothing but little green papers. Nothing but little green papers — !

           “ I can’t understand it, ”    she says. And it pains her to know that she was like so many, once :  Trapped in a cycle striving only for money, because those same men who tear away at the earth force others to be enslaved to the same paper they hoard.    “ Their apathy, their self-destruction … If they just felt a second of the pain I feel, they’d be horrified from what they’ve done. ”

if they felt a second of the pain i feel   ...   his humanity has always been a trapped beast,   raging against the cage of bones and sinew that he had fashioned himself into   [   do we only ever learn from pain?   is that the single teacher that means anything to us?   dr. austen’s lesson had come from a bullet to the head,   spoken language too subtle for the devourer of ancient words   ...   harm has always been the softest comfort for him   ].   he has been torn apart ruthlessly,   callously,   the hands of man still rough against his newly grown skin   ...   he does not pretend to know the full extent of her suffering,   living nature subjected to a turmoil that can only be defined as unnatural,   but the little part of him that aches wishes to speak to the parts of her that seem to wither in the same horrid way.

‘   we have learned to accept what we believe can’t be changed   ...   which leads to nothing but less change.   ’        his voice is rough from underuse as his eyes dance towards her,   taking note of how quickly the bud sprouted beneath her hands   [   how lovely it would be to not destroy everything that he touched   ].        ‘   besides,  you can make them feel what you feel.   ’        what is a little more suffering bled into a world that deserved it?   a little red to break up the grey tones that they had stuck themselves in   ...   this world deserved to be painted in its own horrors.   he digs his fingers into the soil,   lets the seed finds it place,   before nudging to plot over to the other.        ‘   please tell me i managed to get it right this time.   ’

❝   𝐃𝐎 𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐒?   ❞       not necessarily the time for obnoxious rhetoric,   sure,   but it satisfying that boyish personality he carries.   his footsteps are heavy against the floor,   feet dragging against the ground with little care shown to pick them up and walk properly into the home he’d been so roughly invited into.𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐆 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐋𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐂 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑,   and makes himself a little too at home upon the couch:   draped over it with propped up on the nearest table.      ❝   why the hell would i know what’s in the bag?   i just work here.   ❞      he sounds a bit more annoyed than he’d meant too,   but his patience for these low profile missions is quickly running thin.      ❝   ’m just here to play delivery boy and get a progress report.   𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐄'𝐒 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓,   y’know,   so you better give me something juicy and worth my time.   what’s the buzz in the organized crime world now a days,   huh?   you find those missing vials yet?   ❞

‘   i think it’d be rude if i bothered telling you what you look like.   ’        nervous flutter where his voice scorched his throat,   the insult half - whispered between them   [   nothing more than an impertinent child,   disobedience spooling out from him as he wandered into sam’s home,   a place that had once laid untouched to hands like his   --   a mental note is made to teach delilah table manners,   hoping that the simple lesson would grow into tangible kindness   ...   anything to make her less like the man in front of him,   less like the man he is   ].       ‘   careful with the goods,   won’t you?   if anything’s broken,   i won’t hesitate to throw you under the bus.   ’        wrinkle is his brow as his hand hooks under the straps of the bag,   dragging it atop of the table with a dull thud.   metal?   ...   at least it wasn’t a body   ...   or,   if it happened to be one,   it wouldn’t be anything that looked too human.        ‘   i’m well aware how you rowdy children seem to act without any patience.   things are moving along smoothly   ...   you knew this wouldn’t be a quick job.   comfortable?   ’

there is always a culprit  for the bruising ,  the scarring ,  the endless running ,  the mystifying silence  :  HE WAKES UP HOLDING A DAGGER ON HIS STERNUM         as an addict to providence’s punishments  spilling sacrificial offerings of red to keep himself alive .  whatever is left of this benumbed body  (  dematerialised into  fragments of splintered bones ,  lacerated muscle tissues  &  depleted veins  )  is simply a product of  self-driven demise  [  he voluntarily persists as  one of death’s broken toys ,  still deemed fit for its entertaining purposes  ] .  TRUTH IS   …  there is more than  a few countless evidences of stab wounds  corrupting the flesh  of a convicted leper          he contaminates anyone who crosses his path with  identical symptoms of fate’s remediless auguries . 

                                     ˈˈ   it’s been taken care of .   ˈˈ  

never one to narrate  bedtime tales of horror ;  evading superfluous ramblings concerning  a dozen obstacles metamorphosed into another bodycount .  the invariable monotony of an ageless baritone voice  enunciates a disputable liveliness  &  an undeniable attention to the conversation  [  even if bloodshot eyes do not steer away from  the task of assembling the gunmetal puzzle pieces  ] .

death exists chiefly in exaggeration.   this man thrums with a quiet intent,   task at hand a consuming force meant to draw eyes   ...   sam’s preferred method of working   [   the silence   ...   he has always been fond of it   --   a conversation that is little more than a few words dampened by talented fingers forcing the mosaic pieces of a gun back into a whole shape   ].   but there were questions lingering unanswered upon his tongue,   the taste of them cloying and heady.   sam watches in absent curiosity,   a moment of distraction spared   [   one day you’ll die by these wandering eyes,   choked on your own tongue,   a casualty of your own body   ...   but,   for now,   there is a meaning to your distraction   --   he searches for wounds upon the other’s body,   as if he could sniff out every scar that had laid waste to his brutalised form   ].

‘   it’s been taken care of?   ’        the crisp dance of incredulity flashing upon a tongue that had been entomed with his pulsing monotone   ...   there is no bitterness growing acrid in his mouth,   but his brow creases into a furrow   [   blood was never a good sign,   too much evidence left behind   ...   of course,   if it becomes mingled enough with that of the victims,   it would pass below any lazy enough police officer’s radar   ...   always best to rely upon the stupidity of others   --   but he wouldn’t fight alongside a stranger who had been injured   ].   there,   a decision made,   as shown by the sigh that traps itself in his throat.        ‘   are you still bleeding or not?   if you are,    then it hasn’t been taken care of.   ’

‘   that   ...   is a very nasty cut.   ’        tone is distant in his throat,   unhinged from his body   [   it seems to be beneath her shirt,   the stomach split open,   godly act of turning the humanity into little more than a pool of blood   --   she won’t be able to fight with such a nasty gash,   surely,   so the label of useless is quickly applied   ].   he drops into a crouch,   meeting her at eye level   ...   enough to die from?    ...   he couldn’t imagine so,   not when her body had refused to be split in half   ...   if life insists on persisting,   perhaps there is a reason to save her   (   she looks young,   mangled by high school,   or college at the very latest   ...   would a stranger have left delilah to die?   ).         ‘   can you walk?   ’

@punskill