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@killrusso
@hishellfire

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‘ holy jesus christ. ’ for robbie.
not holy.
searing flesh, muscle, sinew. eyes burning until they blaze, molten, like hot coals. like the hellfire that surrounds him, a heat far surpassing anything conceived of on this plane. three strides and he stops. stands sentinel above the man on the ground, who wouldn’t go down without a fight, whose turn it is to meet the face of judgment.
carnage. oceans of it, a war zone washed in red. shattered glass and a reminder on black kevlar.
a carousel.
there’s silence, but for the crackling flames that lick, ungodly, at exposed bone. his head tilts, just so. it’s decided. he looks a moment longer, not at the eyes but through them, deep down, into the soul. then he steps back.
he turns away in retreat, flaming like a pyre in the night.
meme / @killrusso.
@surviveloss:
“same thing we’re both after, man. vengeance. only difference is i got a backseat driver who likes to take the wheel every now and again, and he ain’t much of a team player. but neither are you. now, i’ve seen all i need to see — i know you don’t feel a damn thing for the lives you take, and that’s fine. for whatever reason, you passed. that means this can go one of two ways — you walk, right here ‘n now, or we do this together. we both know how much blood’s gonna be spilled tonight — up to you whether or not some of it’s yours.”
Vengeance is an emotional response. Vengeance is the bullet with Billy Russo’s name on it, the shot he couldn’t fire on that carousel; it’s the blood on his hands, the blood in the streets. He knows vengeance well, well enough to know that this isn’t it. Vengeance is an emotional response. This isn’t vengeance. This is punishment. “Passed? What the hell is that, is that––is that judgment, what is that?” He spits red from the mouth. A back molar hits the concrete with it. “I don’t walk away. I do what I do and I do it alone, ‘n you just said your backseat driver ain’t a team player, amigo.”
* jessica jones starters
quotes from seasons one –– two.
‘ screw sorry. ’
‘ just skip the lecture. ’
‘ that’s a big ask. ’
‘ so cry. ’
‘ holy jesus christ. ’
‘ don’t have feelings, okay? ’
‘ i’m tired of missing you. ’
‘ there have been a lot of dead ends, but you just kept pushing past them. ’
‘ yeah, no teen choice award for you. talk. ’
‘ i’m gonna stick around and play nurse, so don’t puke on me. ’
‘ something i never say, like i love you. ’
‘ i’m scared for you. ’
‘ what do you want, a drum roll? ’
‘ i don’t have a safe place. ’
‘ making sure you weren’t dead, since you never called. ’
‘ i can’t do that thing where i make you feel better, all right? i don’t know how. ’
‘ it doesn’t make the bad shit you did go away. ’
‘ what is this, crap on __ day? ’
‘ you’re exactly the hero i wanted you to be. ’
‘ it’s not my goddamn ptsd. ’
‘ i will spend the rest of my life trying to forget it. ’
‘ do you know captain america? ’
‘ i’ve got his action figure. ’
‘ but you can’t freak out. ’
‘ like some sick destiny. ’
‘ saying the words doesn’t make it true. ’
‘ people don’t usually panic at the sight of cops unless they’ve ridden in the back of a cruiser. ’
‘ in exchange for what? ’
‘ all i do is try and save your ass. ’
‘ i’m gonna show you something really, really bad. ’
‘ i lost the only family i had. ’
‘ i’m life threatening, __. steer clear of me. ’
‘ i got enough problems without chatting up my neighbors. ’
‘ there are so many ways this could go wrong. ’
‘ they’re cute. in an obnoxious way. ’
‘ sorry isn’t going to cut it. ’
‘ asshole. ’
‘ i’ll die before i let that happen. ’
‘ my greatest weakness? occasionally, i give a damn. ’
‘ your bedside manner blows. ’
‘ i’m so sick of being the only one who’s for real around here. ’
‘ no, you talk to me. you tell me what the hell is so important. ’
‘ i was never the hero that you wanted me to be. ’

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how to be a monster: 1. learn the taste of dirt and pain. 2. teach it to others till your knuckles bleed. 3. see if that makes it easier to breathe.
rinse and repeat, Amrita C.
honestmurder:
“hell, we’ve all been there, right? we’ve all had that moment, man, that moment where it just goes in slow motion — people talk about adrenaline, how it, uh, how it speeds things up, but that ain’t always true. it slows down ‘n you can see it, y’know, see where it went wrong, ‘n that stays with you. she’ll get past it, man. she will.”
“Yeah ... used to, uh, used to hear this saying all the time about the bullet that kills you, you know, how you don’t hear the shot before it gets you. Always thought that was the biggest steaming pile of horse-shit I’ve heard in my goddamn life. Lookin’ back, it’s always the bullet with your name on it that you can hear and see with perfect goddamn clarity. It’s the one that ain’t got shit on it that you gotta worry about, ‘n that’s––that’s the thing with these goddamn meat-sacks, you know, they don’t discriminate. They don’t care who or what you are. Guess I’m just preachin’ to the choir now, huh?”
killfear:
she does forget. sometimes, forgetting is easy. losing sight of herself, or losing herself altogether, in the chaos of survival. the knife had gotten stuck; that was the mistake. it had caught deep in bone and dead tissue, wouldn’t come loose when she’d pulled, and that’s when she’d felt the jolting snag of hands from behind. that was the mistake, but a mistake is all it takes. just one. most days, she doesn’t feel helpless. most days she can reflect on what she’s capable of and find enough strength in it to keep going. some days, like today, the weight of doubt and second guesses is almost unbearable.
his apology gives her enough pause to turn back around. whatever exhaustion she’s feeling is mirrored in his face, tenfold, and she doesn’t shut him down; wouldn’t have the heart for that, even if she’d wanted to. came out pretty bad, huh? “not your finest work,” she starts. a quip, but a gentle one. she hesitates, then steps close enough to cup his cheek in her palm, thumbs the edge of his bruised eye; tender, much like the way she’s looking at him. letting go of all that frustration is a natural ebb when he does this. “we were both scared. i shouldn’t have taken it out on you. just because it wasn’t my fault doesn’t mean that it was yours, either, or — or anybody’s, for that matter, so let’s just … let’s not.” her palm moves to his chest. stops of its own accord, laid flat, over his heart. “shit happens. and for whatever it’s worth, frank — i’m sorry, too.”
Her touch consumes him. It reminds him that he’s here, that they’re here, they’re alive and they’re breathing, and that’s all that matters. It reminds him of how fleeting that is. How they could be here one minute and gone the next, and Frank doesn’t get to decide when that time will come to pass. He doesn’t get to decide the day, the minute, the second –– that one second where everything changes and one of them is left here while the other is somewhere else. Somewhere dark and desolate and cold. Mortality has always been cruel in that way.
His free hand moves to rest over hers. The skin over his knuckles is battered and torn, split open in some places with blood clotting over the wounds, but it doesn’t hurt him. Not like it should. It hurts in the sense of mild discomfort, of recognizing it for what it is, but nothing more. It’s the way his heart aches inside his chest that hurts him the most. How it fears, squeezes like a seized muscle. That’s what hurts. His heart, and knowing that even though she’s here with him now, there will come a day where she may not be. “Hey, quit that shit, alright, you don’t––you don’t have anything t’ apologize to me for.” His voice is quieter than it had been, more gentle. His forehead touches hers, and Frank takes a couple of seconds just to allow himself to breathe. “... you still takin’ that walk?”
endless list of favorite characters ⮑ (2/ ∞) MARVEL : frank castle
“ You hit ‘em, and they get back up. I hit ‘em, and they stay down. It’s permanent. I make sure that they don’t make it out on the street again. “

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honestmurder:
“— close call, huh. thought that’s what it was. she’s just gotta work through that on her own, man, she’s gotta make peace with it. whether, uh, whether y’ chew her out or keep tellin’ her it ain’t her fault, that’s just — that’s just somethin’ she’s gotta do herself.”
“Thought right. There were, uh ... five or six of ‘em, came at us from all sides. Her knife got stuck on somethin’, bone or cartilage, maybe, she couldn’t pull it loose––goddamn walker had her by the hair when I turned around, I mean just grabbed her, you know, about had its jaws around her before I put him down. I told her later, I said ... rethinkin’ that haircut? Yeah. She didn’t like that. It is what it is. Shit happens, that’s what I said. Doesn’t make it any easier. Especially not for her.”
MUSE AESTHETICS.
the softest palms that never want to touch you until after a bottle of wine. / “just braid your hair if you won’t brush it, at least, you useless girl.” / pulling on your skirt with one hand as you shuffle away. / “you’ll get it done before the day is up.” / guilt that isn’t yours to have. / it’s a crooked game, but it’s the only one in town. / chains. / “how could you do this to me?” / the sharp sting of guilt. / you feel something even though you’re paid to do the opposite. / the family you never had. / falling backwards through time. / quicksand. / drowning, but you don’t save yourself. / “you’re getting better.” / “they smile like a snake.” / you’re the stars and the sky. / there’s a part of you that couldn’t stay away even if you were forced to. / they are your wings, there’s no doubt there. / “let’s take off somewhere. let’s fly.” / you edge a bit too close to the sun. / another ghost to take your place after every stumble. / deep roots in the ground slashed open in the sun.
rock candy melting in water. / waves rise and leave the foam behind. / the precipice you call home has a tip you’ll reach eventually. / happiness is the best front a man can take. / “i’ve never seen someone as beautiful as you before.” / you disagree; they’re more beautiful. / discomfort at the tiniest of touches. / the sky opens up when you see them. / rain comes down. / poppy fields. / your sanity hanging by a thread. / “oh god, what have you done?” / roommates weren’t supposed to be the smartest ones of all. / they’ve got a devil on their shoulder and an angel in their mind. / you try to help, but it only got worse. / now they’re dead, it’s all your fault. / adam & eve in the garden. / a temptress in crisp button-downs. / “fuck, you’ve gone off the deep end, haven’t you?” / they lie so perfectly you almost forget yourself. / the spark that lit the kindling on your funeral pyre. / sugar and spice and a taste for the dark side.
yves saint laurent. / black opium on your pillow, a scented cloud drifting behind you like a cape. / crisp green apples piled up on the table. / your shoes are sharp, but your wit is even sharper. / what a pretty one, they say. / you laugh without humor. / a soft, hollow spot sits in your chest. / there’s a place you’ll never leave no matter who tries to stop you. / the seat of power fits like a glove. / heavy is the head that wears the crown. / you share a space, but not a mind. / they think you are weak; you are, maybe. / “what are you going to do with all of these pills?” / an empty bird’s nest. / broken pencil tips. / there’s an empty paper in front of you that you’ll never fill. / “we want you to succeed. i hope you can grasp that.” / “they weren’t there when it happened.”
corruption. / there’s a red string tying you together. / the scent of whiskey on the horizon. / “you’re the best friend i’ve ever had.” / pink tipped fingers lock in secrecy. / 99 red balloons drifting through a hazy sky. / you try to lift your head up, but it’s so much effort. / always walking on sunshine. / there’s a million reasons to come down from the clouds, but you can’t be bothered. / hair twisted up with glitter butterfly clips like a haphazard mobile. / you drift, but you know where you’re going. / no one has any dirt on you because you’re infinitely spotless. / the empty side of your bed they crawled into when they were nine. / court hearings. / “i miss you.” / siblings are a funny thing. / they point out every family-shaped hole in every picture on the mantelpiece. / blackbird screaming / wake in nightmares / are you an illusion? / i don’t feel real. / who is in control?
helltapestry:
“ – uh,” so, she’s a little taken aback. a little. for all his gruff and strength and take on the world, he’s horrible at hiding when he worries and right now isn’t different. the subject of the worry is. she isn’t karen, ‘retta, the nerd and his family; she’s deanna. her head cocks, eyes narrowing for a second like she’s waiting for a punchline that won’t drop. “i’m fine. we’ve all just been … sitting for a li’l too long and it’s only a matter of time before shit goes south. y’know when you get a feeling that something’s just around the corner? i thought it’d go away with the whole barn fiasco – it didn’t.”
It never took much practice. For everything he is, everything he’s done, he still has that –– the capacity to care about someone that isn’t himself, as if Frank Castle ever had to begin with. Maybe he did, once, but those days are long over, long buried and nearly forgotten. Deanna isn’t Karen, isn’t Loretta or David or Sarah; she doesn’t have her fingers snared up in his veins the way they do, but she is someone. More than just a vagrant, and that counts for something. “Yeah. I get it, you know, you, uh ... get so used to the fight that anything else just feels wrong. Feels like the rug’s about t’ be pulled out from under you. I don’t blame you, man, I’ve been––shit, I’ll be honest, I feel like we’ve all been standin’ around with our thumbs up our goddamn asses for days. Playin’ house like this, you know, there’s only one way that ends.”
killfear:
dutton. the name rings a bell, but it’s a faint one. something she can’t place. not that it matters; if he was involved in the massacre, and frank found him, then he’s dead. the simplicity of that conclusion should rattle her and doesn’t. which, somehow, rattles her more. because a part of her, despite her best efforts, has sunk into a state of numbness. of desensitization. after the shock comes the calm, deceptive as the eye of a storm. she’s lost so many pieces of herself that she wonders if it’s even possible to stitch them back together.
one day, she’ll tell him everything. she’ll tell him about her brother. about the chain of events like a domino effect when she’d come upon the union allied pension file and woken up covered in daniel fisher’s blood. she’ll tell him how it felt to have a paralytic drug coursing through her system the night she took a life; tell him about the seven rounds she’d fired into james wesley because she would not be swayed, wouldn’t be cowed by intimidation or threats. a story for another time.
she has to believe that they have time. that it’s not borrowed, even though all evidence points to the contrary.
"… yeah. yeah, um … his car, his music. sometimes it still doesn’t feel right, to even drive around in that thing, like it didn’t feel right when ellison gave me his old office. but i — i know that he wouldn’t mind. he was a good man.” talking about it hurts, but it’s supposed to hurt. it isn’t supposed to be easy: great or small, loss never is.
he asks her how she holds on, how she doesn’t break, and there are two things that come to mind even as the breath catches in her throat. first, she could ask him the same. second, she never said that she didn’t break. “is there another choice?” she ventures it quietly, and when she looks at him she can see every shade of every bruise. count every eyelash, catch the flecks of green in his eyes. “there are days that i am barely holding on. that it’s just — it is paper thin, you know, and i — i think that i cannot do it for one more goddamn second. but i have to. because if i don’t, then i’m just … hiding, burying my head in the sand, and if i do that then all of the worst things about this city, all of the — the darkness, and the violence, it wins. it wins, and what are we left with?”
Another time, another day that isn’t like today. Today is just them and the quiet comfort of just being near her, of having her there and being there himself, because there isn’t always where Frank thinks it is; sometimes it’s there but not, like standing at the crosswalk between a busy intersection, inside your body and outside of it at the same time. Sometimes it’s a place that isn’t a place –– just the memory of one cycling over and over on loop. Today, it isn’t. Today is her and where she is. Today is the sound of Karen’s voice when she talks about Ben, about Ellison giving her his office. About how he was a good man. He believes her.
“Yeah. I don’t doubt that.” If Ben was anything like her, then he was more than a good man.
It doesn’t feel right. Frank understands. It doesn’t feel right to drive around in that thing, to listen to his tapes and sit in his office. It doesn’t feel right, being alive when he isn’t. That’s everything she told him in not so many words, and he doesn’t know how to say that it never will feel that way again. It may feel better, but never right, and she has to find ways to keep living with that. Maybe just like that, just that simple. Tell her that.
Tell her that so she doesn’t let every resting moment remind her of that loss. Every moment where Ben might have been there, might have been sitting across the table from her at a coffee shop, might have been walking there at her side. He went through these motions with Maria. He went through a period just like that, where everything in the city reminded him of her, of his baby girl and his little man, all the things that they liked, that they would stop and look at, the things that they would say. He went through that, and he’s still waiting for the wheel to stop turning. This is why the words die in his throat when he tries to tell her. They die there because he isn’t sure just how much of it is true, and how much he just wants to be true. Will it ever feel better?
He takes another swig, longer this time than the last. He wants to keep looking at her, so he does –– he does, after he swallows and leans forward to set the beer on the coffee table. “There is another choice. Yeah. There is, and some people, they make it every goddamn day. They leave it t’ the law, you know, think that when these shitbags are behind bars, the City can sleep safely in their beds at night, like––like they won’t wake up the next morning to another murderer, another pedophile, another rapist on the news. That darkness, it’s everywhere. Seems like that’s all there is. All the goddamn filth piling up in the streets ‘n it just keeps comin’ back. I step outside ‘n that is all I see, Karen. Guess it’s just, uh ... it’s hard, you know, it’s hard for me t’ see anything else.”
honestmurder:
“might’ve, uh — might’a walked by for some of it. you good, man?”
“Yeah, I’m, uh ... t’ be honest, I’m more worried about her, you know, she’s––she’s blaming herself for what happened out there, thought I was chewin’ her out for it. ”

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“–– heard all that, huh? Figures.” @honestmurder
Hey, sleepyhead.