Jul 1, 2021
“How are you at stitching, confessor? Ah... I think some of the fastenings have come loose from my soul...” @indifferentminds
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“How are you at stitching, confessor? Ah... I think some of the fastenings have come loose from my soul...” @indifferentminds
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thread: they call them the diamond dogs; war & natasha
The name still carries weight in certain circles, in places where quick hands, open ears and a certain undeniable talent for bloodshed remain noteworthy traits. The city's underbelly has that strange dementia that typifies corrupt things: a goldfish lack of memory for last week's precise whereabouts coupled with endemic near-memorization of the cast of the motley crew (outliers and outright liars included). It's notoriety, of a sort, whether one likes it or not. An assurance of the backwards kind: that though setting name to paper may be a sort of confession, it is one which carries with it implication, if not incrimination, should it be reciprocated with recognition.
Though admittedly Natasha is more apt to be identified in this particular corner of the globe than the Red Rider is. This place, all arctic cold and scenery straight from assassin's minefield memory, manufactured and otherwise.
The explosion the wrecks the slice of nostalgia is small scale relatively and War watched the chaos unleashed due with the sort of calm befitting her position in this particular mess. It wasn’t a random malfunction, it wasn’t an act of stupidity that helped to unravel the darker side of human nature before it was improbably late. It was, instead, an act of distraction.
[ xwiidow ]
It's all response of shuddering in the tremble that he leaned into, hands anchoring at her waist and the sharp prick of teeth at his neck. Lips once curved smug and parted open and let the husky sound of a groan fall off his tongue.
——- The deep notes of a laugh break against the crest of his collar bone, a warm exhale to roll across his teeth and tongue savaged skin. Her grip on his chin slackens, though not before she lets a finger slip between parted lips to skirt a nail across his tongue. “As I said ” Damp finger descends to press hard against the blood-bruise she’d left on his neck. “a glutton for punishment.”
—— ”It’s my nature.” To be impulsive and without restraint. To appease whatever heats her blood when the fire starts and give over the mad boil of it. Her nature infects, and as it runs quicksilver through her life it leeches into the air, the soil, the fates of those in proximity to contamination zone. Mercury in the air she exhales, in the grooves of her fingerprints. The Red Rider has never imagined herself a Crusader, for she acts after His will because to do otherwise would be in opposition to that nature. He made her to sow the seeds of destruction and so she shall, but it has been eons since she bothered to write His name in the rubbled with want to win His favor.
Pale’s suggestion of benediction handed out broadens the grin cross War’s face, mouth all teeth but for the tongue that slides over a canine as if testing it for sharpness. Then she’ll bless the whole heathen lot of them, for they have sinned. The pull increases, answered by the flash of human eyes, absence of mortal fear, the ecstasy and promise of a heart-beat. A human life is dangerously fragile, easily disassembled, gloriously unbound by blunt force or sharp edge. By a pocket knife wielded by a half drunk construction worker who thought he just wanted to wound, but slices across opponent’s major artery and suddenly an out of work trucker becomes a fountain of blood.
A glanced given to sister as the body slumped bonelessly to the floor spills life loose with the blood running red through puddles of beer. “For you.”
mypastismyown:
"You flatter me preciously," Death replied, tilting her head as if to mask an invisible blush. No, her vessel, perhaps like the Horseman herself, were pale, even when dark-skinned as if trying to unsatisfactorily reflect the very essence of the Pale Rider. Perhaps that was her price for not being as pugnacious as her sisters; she who was seen by all, inevitably so, the ender of life, the taker of souls, reaper of the spirit, bringer of eternal rest, could not see her own essence, denied forever from its claim. She, who was destined to bring end to all, perhaps, undefined, even her sisters. It was one of her earliest fears of detachment.
“But this is when you are the feistiest,” she explained, fingers dancing across the belly of her sister’s vessel, burying lips in the nape of War’s neck, breathing in the scent of bodily odor, the very fight for life that mortals clung to desperately. As much as she appreciates the vigor of War’s pursuit of flesh, it oftentimes bores her quickly. She has seen it, and takes no victory in death like she did eons ago as a babe of the universe with infinite wisdom burdening her shoulders. “And it is when you are the feistiest that you lose control…” she purrs.
—— Memento mori. Even so, it’s not something that The Red Rider has ever harbored concerns over. She does not think that far ahead, for aftermath is beyond her province. She is conflict constant, perpetual, be it slowly coming to a boil, spilling like radioactive milk on the unprepared earth, or bursting flluorescece, kerosene flare. War does not know her opposite even when seemingly in repose; will not until the slate has been wiped clean and she is forced to turn her own bloody sword on herself. Death’s fingers creep across her abdomen like imagined seppuku wound and War lets awareness of touch ripple along this mortal skin she wears; beds herself down in the instinctive pleasure hum of stolen nerves. A fan of red bright as spilled blood caressing as the lips that caress her neck bring her sister’s hair to brush against the hard line of The Red Rider’s jaw.
”If you mean to inspire control in me sister, than you’re doing poor work of it.” It’s a predictable response, coupled with equally expected brazen grin, made more inappropriate against the backdrop of violent chaos. It’s why she hands out both; easy responses to act as edifice while she internally invades speculation on whether Death’s vessel is awake and aware behind Death presently at the helm. If Natasha can feel the heat of her skin beneath what is presently Death’s hand and Death’s mouth.
There's a sound of shock, a yelp or a laugh when he's tossed over the sofa's edge and into her lap where he's squinting to stop the gyration in his vision from the vertigo. Then he's laughing with his head thrown back as much as she'd allow; revealing the column of his neck to shift with the mirth bubbling from his throat. "I think you mistake my actions of boredom and curiosity for /hunger/" He purrs the last word to emphasize it, along with a nip in the direction of her hand on his shoulder.
—— Curious, he said. Her expression rearranges to something arch, speculative, amused — prompted by the feeling of wild that nip at hand prompts. It would pass, eventually, but for the moment she lets her index uncurl from the grasp the rest of her hand has in the leather of his sleeve, slender finger nudging his chin up and propping it in raised position, digit resting diagonal against the knot of his adam’s apple like the threat of a blade. Her free hand catches at the subtle silver catch of the zipper that runs the front of his vesture, downward slip unclenching the metallic teeth, opening a seam that bares the flat plane of his chest. Sif dipped her head towards his collarbone, set lips just below it, caught skin between teeth and bit.
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It's not the first time he's snuck in so slyly, but his boredom is borderline mad and he's tempted by danger.. so his teeth sinking into shoulder from behind the couch is totally because he's bored and not because she tastes good even when she does.
—— Sif notices. She can’t not, when attuned as she to personal space alters with the flow of second body through the room, like change in atmospheric pressure, a little pressing that strokes along her spine. She pretends not to, lets him have his fun being sly, until she feels the what’s the warmth, the wet, the prick of teeth on her shoulder. Electric response travels sharp, sudden through system, right down to the fingers that haul him down over the back of the couch, deposits him across her lap, like unruly toddler. Head tipped down, she lets the fine scythe of an eyebrow wing upwards.
“Curious. I do not recall acquiring so large a dog. Nor one so vicious.” A click of her tongue to accompany the faux-confusion. A little leaning in, bearing weight down on captured shoulder, to pin him in place over her knees. “If you find yourself so desperately hungry, Andhrímnir is just downstairs, is he not?”
Aware of the stone worn armor she now wore; the seriousness now edged into her brow had a sigh fall silent from his lips before he whispered his apologies and returned to the chaise. Languid movements of long limbs and once settled against the velvet did the pen drop to the table without another word uttered.
—— She feels a little like miniature storm had gone through, though her desk is no more a wreckage than it was before. Her attentions swings to the document that had laid itself back down with no more than the slightes sussuration of sound and then pen that had thunked itself back into place with far more weight. She picks the parchment back up again, studied the way the even, unadorned lines of her own writing devolved into the ornate spirals of his midway down the page. Her own sigh is equally silent, page dropped again as she unfolds herself from behind the desk. It takes hunting through the debris to unearth the teapot the kitchen staff had brought hours ago, and she carried across the room, fingers swatting up against the leather of Loki’s boot. “Move over.”
The paper moved away from her when she reached for the pen; the writing continued even as it moved and was graceful without any signs of the movements in the words whatsoever. Leaving the king, moving his index finger side to side with a tsk. "I think not.." He growled through his grin "You are my favorite after all... I'll have the tongues of whoever dares to say any such thing." He growled again but this time his magic had taken him from the chaise to looming behind her.
—— Sif hissed out a breath as the parchment jaunted out from beneath her fingertips, shivering now the same way the pen had as it continued to bloom Loki’s handwriting. “I find this not to be a sporting issue.” The smile had slipped off mouth gone stern again and grimace-seriousness around the eyes. Edge of awareness knows he means it well and yet the words are intentional pressing up against old wounds and even older resolutions. “You may carve out as many tongues as you like, it would do nothing but reaffirm their assumptions. If there is any need to prove my elevation deserved I will do it myself. “