#* (ic.)

@piorgan: ❛ you revel in my torture . ❜

oh projection, such a human concept for someone who insists they abandoned that the day their lover vanished into the reflection of the moon. typical puppets thinking they can have emotions, typical tools thinking they have other uses than their forged one. yet there it stands, determined to be seen as more despite their so called equality in their title of sinner.

time shakes his head, of course the conductor revels in their symphonies, what a boring thing to speak into the world. he turns, facing death's blasphemy itself and that same, cold smile that graces his lips upon that dark revelation all those centuries ago. vedrfolnir revels in knowing fate is his, rerir is correct, but what the other doesn't understand is how far he will puppet the strings to be the only winner in the end.

it's why he appreciates the occasional place like this, dark and a little dirty and off the beaten path, a hole in the wall in uptown new orleans he visits whenever he's in the city. live music, relative anonymity, a crowd who does not care enough about his genre to even recognize him ... despite the thick hang of smoke in the air, it feels like a breath of fresh air, always. he can simply observe, and observe he does – particularly the musician two seats down from him who'd left the stage minutes before, after a performance both stunning and somewhat different than the other acts tonight. perhaps sim would be jealous of the man's talent if he weren't so intrigued

" put his next one on my tab, " he tells the bartender in a low voice before casting his gaze to his right, tilting his head just an inch like a curious bird. " you know, " he says a little louder, addressing the musician in his typical tone of good humor, ever imbued with his engaging charm, " usually they wait until after midnight to put on the particularly emotional acts. think there's at least five people outside calling their exes right now after your set. "

Fel is a flare of violence at the corner of their eye, the cracked mirror in which they refuse to look at themselves. They stand there now, burning at the edges of their awareness as they pretend not to pay attention, not to notice the new bandages that adorn him. His own violence lashes back at him, as if he’s trying to claw at themselves before the world has a chance to turn its knife on him, the way it always does. The way it has always done.

They can’t really blame them for it, they too shred themselves in less visible ways, chop pieces off in order to survive, sometimes to escape ghosts that aren’t even there. The map of scars of their own doing is as invisible as it is endless, a wasteland of past lives, past selves they killed with their bare hands. Watched life drain from their eyes as if it could somehow set them free.

  The book now completely discarded as she stands and offers a hand in invitation,   Adam blinks,   smiling a tad despite his confusion.        ❛❛   I don't   ...   dance.   ❜❜        he doesn't even remember how                 not that he was the partying kind in his old life,   they would have to tear him away from his seat if they wanted him to participate in any way.   But much to his dismay,   Elektra seems persistent,   his awkward refusal ignored as she reaches down to take his hand and pull him up to his feet.   He groaned at the pull,   but made not to attempt to flee.        ❛❛   Alright,   fine,   one dance,   that's all.   ❜❜

@stilettaux // some cute because they deserve it :3c