say: "kill me."

[ She just… stares. A grown man just giggled until he lowered a fully loaded gun on her. Squinting, she holds out a hand, expression… mystified beneath the mask. ] 

            Uh… thanks?

    Alright, alright. Fuck. You’re welcome.

           How about I put you in the trash you– you trash lord!

    “You’re so fucking sweet to me.” 

  She glares at him for a few moments before the crack of the gun violently punctuated the silence. Metal tears through skin and tendon, passing through and shattering bone as it comes out the other side in a splash of blood, and down she went, a yelp of pain as loud as the gunshot that caused it.

   Hands planted against the cement as her head whipped back up and she growled, eyes red and glowing. She should have known, should have figured this would end up another violent and bloody encounter. It always ended up that way. Deep down, she preferred it this way. Guilt-free violence. No one would blame her for her actions. No one would blame her as she stood, leg shaky and uncooperative with the rest of her form, and she roared at him. 

  Against better judgement and screaming pain, she manages to push off with the good leg, fangs bared and ready to carve him another scar.

    He likes that redness of her eyes and the shining whiteness preceding it. She looks like a slaughtered pig, and the very thought has him grinning a fake-toothed grin that stretches his face into sharp planes.

     Lazily, his right arm limply hangs at his side. His legs make no effort to move. Honestly, he didn’t even know the 1943 gun could fire--it’s like  paperweight. He tries again, but, oh, goodbye bullets. Or functionality. Either way, it doesn’t matter.

      And do you know why?

“Funny, I didn’t know the likes of Bob and Mac inherited my father’s genetics.” He hadn’t only been talking about himself, but he was always the one their resident marksman was aiming at. “You know, you were the perfect choice for Hawkeye, the most delicate member of the team.” With a swipe of his finger across one of Lester’s open wounds, he collected enough blood to smear between the digit and his thumb. “You’re bleeding,” he taunted.

“Glad t’hear it. Why waste time gettin’ at eachother’s throats if we ain’t getting paid for it, right?”

I’m debating whether or not to take pictures.