#prettytm

@prettytm

It takes a long time to come back to himself— to be put back together after near self detonation stymied by perfectly opened throat. Long enough to not be surprised that his brother has yet again taken and set up house with another. Not one eternity but many eternities it feels like. Beginning when Randall was barely more than a child soldier. Eons ago. Whole millennia. Carried on, time and again. Always the same... or same enough to his eyes. Marc who denies him the comfort of a home and family but can not seem to exist without them himself.

Are they not too old for these keep-away games yet?

Randall will always do what he must. He is the keeper of order. If it is by his hand that the Sun will stay it's lonely course, then so be it. This is a job for which he has the perfect uniform. Impeccable replica of Moon Knight's iconic vestments, tailored for literally littler brother. The actual satellite with no light of it's own to give. Secret name to him that only one knows and will recognize when it is writ large in one William Russo's own blood. SHADOWKNIGHT ANVIL headquarters makes for a lovely playground, even once the power is cut and back up generators disabled. Clever that, but should less be expected from such an expensive private contractor? Randall trails his prey in vents and darkness, making good use of industrial architecture blended with... someone's... paranoia. William or Marc? Which one behind the false panels, hidden doors, traps and mazes? Brother did try to live like this once, unnatural as it had seemed to Randall. This feels closer to right than Grant Manor did. Even so; wrong. Neither a home, nor home. Wrong wrong wrong. It was always going to be wrong until it was right.

Ground floor, as close as he cares to let his prey get to breakers and switches. The Shadowknight pounces, always from behind— always at the enemy's back. No better place from which to deploy an arm lock around that restricts air and bloodflow both. Thick soled boots brace him against the floor, core tense, feet shoulder width apart. As ready as one can get to be resisted, bucked against, likely slammed into bulletproof glass partition walls. He suffers under no delusion that this one will go down as easily as the last pretty thing did. That one thought herself a fighter. This one is a killer just like him. 02 vs 03. Scout Sniper Specialist with nothing but a little Kimber on him versus enhanced tertia optio agent. Both of them veterans of the same branch and near enough wars.

Randall's grin is all teeth underneath his mask.

@prettytm asked : "I can handle this. I'm not having a nervous breakdown."

𝐈𝐅   𝐇𝐄𝐑   𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖   𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃   𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇   𝐀𝐍𝐘   𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐄𝐑,   it   would   disappear   into   her   hairline.   Her   contractor   looked   like   he   had   seen   a   ghost,   skin   bordering   on   pale   green   and   a   cold   sweat   beading   on   his   forehead.   Billy   Russo   had   come   highly   recommended   from   her   friends   overseas   and   she   would   hate   to   have   to   second   guess   every   recommendation   from   longtime   business   partners.

❛❛   Good,   I'd   hate   to   smudge   my   nail   polish   by   needing   to   slap   you.   ❜❜   Business   was   business   and   she   couldn't   have   her   hired   security   falling   to   pieces.   ❛❛   Care   to   share   what's   setting   you   off,   handsome?   ❜❜

You suck so passionately You're a parasitic, psycho, filthy creature Finger-bangin' my heart You call me up drunk Does the fun ever start?

You're hideous and sexy! // [x]

He'd been little more than an unsolved mystery for well over a year. One day an upstart military contractor CEO, escorting New York politicians through chaos and headlines— the next, a barely reported missing person. The papers that bothered putting in ink words about an explosion in Brooklyn not too long after sure took care not to mention ANVIL... or it's owner-founder; let alone his status in the wind or otherwise. That much sleuthing is left up to the denizens of dreddit and other such forums, always digging between the lines and offering their own conclusions. Conspiracy theories and the like. Government coverups. Scandals. Stabs at truths kept hidden from them by Big Brother and all his cohorts.

And then one day, there he is. Live and in-color on plenty a local television screen. William Russo, armed and dangerous. A fugitive from... something. Or somewhere. Another bout of details ommitted; the focus placed solely on the menace that he is, like a tiger escaped from the zoo.

If he's ever found, it's never said. No court dockets ever bear his name— no arrest records. He's a ghost of one kind or another. A shade in a concrete jungle with so much darkness to hide in. Maybe a body in a river. Maybe bones in a pauper's grave, unmarked in Potter's field. A pang in a doubting girl's heart. Father says if it was true love, she wouldn't wonder. She'd know it if he was dead or alive. She in turn loves him enough to keep the peace and not remind him that he hadn't known any such thing until he was told just like everyone else. The truth about love and prescience is... that there is no truth. Only anecdotes. Only feelings. Only sometimes.

Like a bolt of lightning zinging down her spine one rainy afternoon, making pink frills tip back back back to reveal a crooked smile and eyes like coal, a little too happy to see her when they should be anything but...

"Is it?"

She ought to be a notice lost to the sands of time. A letter of condolence. Mayhaps a figment of imagination. A heart's desire. A wish upon a star. A girl gone down in a plane, supposedly. Burial at sea. Pretty words for body irrecoverable. Instead he looks at her like treasure he'd always known he'd find. How? Why? It's the dying to know that has her following him in to his place of business; all dark mahogany and deep forest greens— the kind of elegance that had stunned him stupid once upon a time; all his now. VIP table, just for them. Snapped fingers putting bodies into motion— not like a general commanding an army, but like a made man making employees scuttle.

@prettytm continued from x

"Mm." A pause is taken, her jaw tensing as she tries to keep her thoughts in line to the best of her ability. "Have you ever taken a minute to think about the fact that maybe you're not the only one who is angry? The only one who is hurt and wants revenge? But why are you the exception that gets to do something about it, huh? Why do you get to create chaos? Why don't you get to care about who it hurts in the process?

Heavy and dirty boots stepped on the tarmac before the helicopter could even land. He ignored whatever was being said to him, hells, the only thing he offered was a dismissive wave of his hand at Price's order to go to medical bay and then meet him in the debriefing room. As if. He didn't have the patience or time for that. Not when they were already running late. He could deal with his wounds and bruises on a later time, the mixture of adrenaline and nervous energy crawling beneath his skin was enough for him to forget any type of pain, not that he would have felt it anyway, he had worse.

The sounds of his footsteps resonating in the almost desert base, his only companions the artificial lights bathing everything along the way in a sterile white. His battled and bruised body moving on autopilot, one single destination in mind. He was a man on a mission. Twenty-three days, six hours and forty-three minutes had gone since Ghost last saw him. He wanted, no, he needed to see Billy. Every single fiber of his being was screaming for the other; he craved him like an addict that had gone one second too long without their fix.

Ghost doesn't need to ask around for Billy whereabouts, somehow they always know where to find one another, perhaps the both of them got so close to the point that pieces of their broken souls spilled into one another, making the yearning almost impossible to dispel until reunited.

His gaze zeroing on Billy the moment he stepped into one of the break rooms, lips curling into a smirk under the skull painted balaclava when mere seconds later the man in question looked over his shoulder. Ghost simply stared for a beat longer before with deliberate slowness walked over. Fingers grabbing the back of the chair just so he could turn it around to face him with Billy still comfortably sitting there, ah, the little shit.

He let go of the chair, one of his hand reaching to cradle Billy's head when he leaned down, close but not close enough. His whole frame stilling for a few moments, breathing in Billy's scent, letting the familiar scent surround him. Why did he felt like he was finally home? He felt alive for the first time in almost a moment. He didn't even care about the few people that were still lingering around, for all he cared they were nothing but background noises. That was always the effect Billy had on him. Bloody intoxicating.

( commissioned art by me from the talented @ berzelius )

Ghost didn't falter when familiar fingers slipped under the back of his balaclava, before slowly pulling it off, baring his scarred features and bruised skin. A low growl resonating in the deep of his chest, except it wasn't a warning one, it was a noise that held anticipation laced within it. Ghost's own fingers slipping to the back of his lover's neck, a pleasant hum escaping parted lips at the feeling of the subtle collar still snugly sitting around his throat like the day he left for the mission. Thumb sliding between the dark material and warm skin, tracing along the length of it, only stopping when brushing the front of Billy's throat.

There was a tug then, Ghost pulling him closer at the very same moment that Billy's free hand reached for his face. He leaned into the touch, basking in the feeling of his warm fingers against his own cold skin. Hot breaths hitting against Billy's face as Ghost angled himself just so he could nuzzle his nose against the other's. The gesture affectionate in nature, such stark contrast against the palpable and almost suffocating tension surrounding the two of them.

   ghost  was  used  to  taking  what  he  wanted,  when  he  wanted  it.  being  brushed  off  wasn't  something  that  was  for  him.  not  something  he  enjoyed.  he'd  finished  eating  first.  always  quick.  almost  clinical  with  precision.  never  stopping  to  enjoy  it  -  it  was  food.  necessity.  nothing  enjoyable  about  it.  eat,  fuel  the  body,  keep  going. 

   eat  now  and  fast  because  you  don't  know  when  your  next  opportunity  to  eat  will  come  -  if  it  comes  at  all.  and  no  one  wants  to  be  shot  while  eating.  that  was  what  his  service  taught  him  about  food.

   so  how  billy  enjoys  his  time,  being  so  casual  and  enjoying  the  food  -  it's  beyond  ghost  and  grates  on  the  mans  nerves.  he's  been  coming  in  and  out  of  the  room,  checking.  constantly  checking.  every  time,  it's  clear  he's  getting  more  and  more  frustrated. 

   it  finally  reaches  the  snapping  point  -  and  ghost  yanks  a  chair,  putting  the  chairs  back  to  back,  straddling  the  chair  with  practiced  ease.  his  chest  is  to  billy's  back,  his  arms  going  around  the  mans  midriff.  slowly  lowering  until  hands  rest  at  the  man's  thighs. 

   “takin'  your  fuckin'  time,  ain't  ya?”  his  tone  is  a  low  growl,  a  sharp  danger  to  it.  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary.  ghost  speaks  tones  of  deadly  blades.