#profanemouth

ANOTHER FOE DROWNS IN BAD LUCK : sharp claws are there to strike, ━━━━ there is no - one who will be spared from this 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄 that is she! &. two more black vans drive to the park, : out jumping more members of the criminal gang. ❝ i must be really popular with you guys. ❞ PLAYFUL TUNE TAKES OVER, EVEN IN BATTLE! ( you are toying around, cat! ) ❝ alright, ... who wants to go first? ❞ &. the cat is about to pounce, lethal claws ready to strike ━━━━ when at the perfect time, comes a helping hand! 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐖𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐋𝐘 landing a blow against a shared enemy, it seems. ... ❝ my hero. ❞ PURRS THE CAT!

@profanemouth : i’m not a hero. i’m just helping a friend.

@profanemouth // ♡'d for a lil starter !

fist of bionic arm drives into palm. like hitting vibranium. her arm pings backward just slightly, before a twitch of the face brings strength to brace. &. suddenly they're locked in a standoff. painted eyes toughening brooklyn mug, hair in-front of face wavering with the straining. brute force meeting brute force. this is no ordinary woman.

that's what it comes down to. the headlines are still particularly scathing — the flash of red cape seems to be swallowing her whole, or haunting her every move like a shadow she struggles to shake, or an extra sandwich at lunch because she knows that lena has approximately five minutes between each meeting and she douses the hunger with a forty-dollar finger of scotch. it's... sweet. in the most disgusting way. she's not even sure if that's what she wants — and the luthor brand is more of a curse than she thinks people will buy into.

"i don't think i'd go as far to say soulmates." friends? no, they're not friends. anything further feels like the sweetness cloying in the back of her throat again. anything less feels cheap.

"i fucking know, right?"

charlie beams in agreement. the one thing she's learned from all of this, from months of running around the country and stumbling into death after death, is: mostly, murderers aren't that smart. not that she's a genius or anything. she can see lies and she's got a decent way to connect point a to point b.

most murderers think they can get away with it. you wouldn't do something like that if you weren't sure of it. losing a fortune or something versus going to jail for a decade at least? yeah. it's an ego thing. charlie hasn't lived like that in a long time, not since her days playing poker and thinking she was invincible.

yeah. she's well past that time in her life, and she didn't even kill anyone back then.

she leans forward slightly. "see, the thing about a lot of these guys—don't ask how many of these guys i've met by now, it's way too many—is that they think they're smart. also, a lot of them are rich, so they've insane to begin with. but they're not smart! the rest of them are so desperate that they get stupid."

she wants to say something about how a pair of washed-up actors used a fake argument stolen from a monologue and a piece of dry ice to kill one of said actors' rich wife. but that also sounds insane when you just say it, as she's learned by now, so she'll keep that one close to her chest.

thespians are just a different kind of person.

"i've seen weirder, okay? trust me. saying that in this situation it's very possible that this guy was killed by a freak accident that was not a freak accident is pretty likely. like, okay. when our guy here, pat the stock broker, said he hadn't worn gloves recently? he was lying. weird thing to lie about. unless you climbed up there and knocked out that piece of 'loose brickwork' or whatever, wearing gloves to avoid leaving prints."

she pauses. her hands gesture, from left to right, one step to the next. "then he schedules a business call so that someone'll ping his cell phone, which is in his apartment at the time of the murder. so he's not lying when he said he had a business call that he missed—and mike wasn't lying when he said that pat set up the call, and that he's usually reliable about these things. pat just kind of... doesn't see people as people, who might contradict him or have thoughts and feelings on him. he's a facts and logic guy or whatever."

@profanemouth

IF THERE WERE SUCH A THING AS A PERSONAL HELL, HIS WOULD BE AN IRISH BAR. of course, it's just the type of shithole that jessica jones frequents: cheap booze, shitty music, questionable looking toilets and even more questionable looking patrons. with no windows to the outside world, it's a vortex of time too; without his watch, he'd be unable to discern if it were day or night. however, it's a neutral environment; taking jones to his place would be laying himself too bare and likewise for jones taking him to wherever it is she operates, too.

so, here they are. believe it or not, he can compromise.

when their bartender sets two glasses of jameson before them, shoving a wad of bills his way before jones can get in on it. the bridge of his nose stings with every inhale he takes, and their old-school bartender spares him a look that lasts a moment too long. he hasn't looked at himself in the mirror, but judging from how much his nose hurts even after he'd haphazardly reset the bone, he must look like shit, with his eyes aching as harsh blackened bruises splotch his eyes and nose. no amount of bandaids or shitty fluorescent lighting could mask how horrible he looks, thanks to jones' heavy hand. worst of all, jones hadn't broken a sweat, hadn't exerted anything at all.

broad shoulders hunched over the bar, he nurses the cloudy glass of jameson in his hand.