#greatfailure

shadows, which seemed to almost resemble dogs in appearance, but with sharp teeth and the same blaring white eyes that bunny mask herself possessed stopped in their tracks. she was on her way to punishing yet another person with the sickness in gotham before she was met with the sight of this red hood character once more. they were a man whom was guilty of running an underground dog fighting ring, and was going to (rather appropriately, she deemed) be ripped to shreds by her dog-like shadows for his crimes. it was a bit confusing to her at first that the red hood would want to stop her, but she supposed she could see the reason behind it being that the red hood didn't like her encroaching on his territory, or something along those lines. because now, bunny mask was being threatened with the business end of one of his weapons. a light sigh left her lips as she turned to meet the vigilante's gaze. the scent of iron was fragrant throughout the alleyway, most likely because she'd had to sever both of the man's achilles tendon's to prevent him from running with her claws: and thus, they were soaked with blood.

that was a common occurrence for bunny mask, however, so it didn't bother her any. she looked to the sick man and took note of his condition before speaking up. his eyes were starting to glaze over, like he was about to pass out. good. if he couldn't fight bunny mask back whatsoever, then this would be over quickly, ❝ mm — i am afraid there must have been some kind of been a misunderstanding here. i am helping to cleanse your city of the sickness, red hood, and yet you wish to condemn me to death? i could list numerous reasons as to why that would be hypocritical of you... seeing as you've been known to kill to protect people as well. and that is what i am doing here, save for that i am protecting animals from him. ❞ bunny mask stared the other dead-in-the-eye even as she pulled out a photo from one of the pockets of her dress. it was a polaroid of an injured dog that just came out of the dog-fighting ring they had, and what they'd done to that poor animal was hard for even an ancient spirit like her to look at.

it was raining whenever she first ran into this man. THE RED HOOD, they called him — or so she'd heard. bunny mask had heard whispers of him being a fearsome fighter, as well as a good detective; but they seemed to have left out the part that he liked to use deadly weapons. which, complicated thing's a bit, she thought... considering she was seemingly here to dispatch the same man that he was. bunny mask knew all about him because of the snitch: the man's name was andre rochefort, a man who was a member of what was once a small-town gang, but now had grown into a full scale operation that participated in both theft and murder. this city was filled with people who had been consumed by the sickness, however, so this failed to shock her. bunny mask supposed she should follow his lead after she'd held her (clawed) hands up to signal to him that she meant no harm.

“well, it's a little too late for that, isn't that?” her words tumble into the dim light of the dive bar, blending with the neon glow that bathes her in a spectrum of escapism. her form slouches against the barstool, her head cradling in the curve of her hand, brows furrowing. they sketch a map of her turmoil. the world has carved its narrative into the lines of her face— each one a story of dreams deferred, of a spotlight dimmed too soon. in the neon-soaked refuge of the bar, she'd hoped to find a kindred spirit in jason. (after all, he'd been one of the witnesses of the eclipsed shadows opening show.) he's a man marked by his own battles, his own shadows that dance just beneath the exterior. his words, though few, are heavy with a realism that contrasts shelby's once vibrant aspirations. the debacle of her debut looms over her like a specter, its shadow long and unyielding. the thought alone is a weight she can barely shoulder, a grim reminder of dreams shattered on the unforgiving altar of broadway's expectations. the whispers of tomorrow's headlines already echo in her mind, a chorus of disappointment and mockery.

*      incoming      /      @greatfailure    .  .  .    (    different  types  of  kiss   )      —      status    :    accepting  .      a  kiss  that  leaves  lipstick  stains .

             ❝        was  that  a  smile  i  just  saw  ?      ❞           like  the  cat  that  got  the  cream   .  .  .   she’s  looking  awfully  pleased  with  herself  right  now  .     who  would  have  thought  that  of  all  things   ,   a  cheesy  knock-knock  joke  would  be  the  one  to  finally  crack  stony  facade  ?     lips  split  apart   ,   pearly  whites  exposed  in  a  beaming  grin   ,   and  hands  will  clasp  together  excitedly   ,   nestled  just  beneath  her  chin  .

it’s  an  overreaction  for  sure   ,   almost  cartoonish   ,   the  jester  laying  it  on  thick  in  that  trademark  harley  way      —      yet  still  there’s  an  earnestness  to  it   ,   a  sweet  sincerity  .     slowly  but  surely   ,   she’s  dismantling  some  of  the  outermost  barriers  he  protects  himself  with  .   (    what  better  way  to  celebrate  this  exciting  new  development  than  with  a  kiss  ?    )    —      weight  shifts  t’wards  the  balls  of  her  feet  as  heels  rise  from  the  ground   ,   one  hand  moving  to  rest  ‘pon  broad  shoulder  as  lips  press  firmly  ‘gainst  his  cheek  .

he remembers when his mouth used to bark a variant of that philosophy, back when he was younger, cockier beyond his awareness when anger had forced its way into the stomach &. made itself a parasite starving for abominable volumes of bloodshed; back when death seemed as though it would not be enough to stop the unstoppable devastation in his hands . . . but this has nothing to do with himself. this was not some reflection of a more youthful self bearing an intense ire at this back-stabbing world. after all, john believes it was always an imprudent mistake to hand out advices as if people were talking to the past, trying to stitch back together something within themselves ( to be forgiven by ghosts ) rather than relieving the pain ripping apart the person in front of them.

@greatfailure said: it’s just like riding a gross, really fucked up bike.

SENTENCE PROMPTS FROM VARIOUS TV SHOWS

jessica's laugh is a backfire, abrupt, spluttering its exhaust in the aftermath. she's bent at the middle with all her angles rendered awkward ; her forearm is a tense cluster around her ribs. there, fist closed & grappling, her white knuckles are freckled through with splits & dappling blood. some of it is her own, worrying through the fabric of her shirt at a densely concerning rate. & some of it matches the spray pattern cast across her blanched brow.

she & this red-hooded guy are a PAIR in that respect, matched together in shades of crimson & black.

❝ i hope that means you're as good with a needle & thread as you are with an uppercut. ❞ clots on the grimace-staunching cull of her tongue before it stops at her gritted teeth.