#retribute

“that one was a—i don’t know the name. a kind of hooked blade on a chain? —hurt like a bitch.”

he hovers his hand over frank’s, fingers just brushing over the back of his hand as his calloused fingers map raised scar after raised scar, almost delicate, almost reverent. it still feels like electricity on matt’s skin—makes him shudder, just a little, as frank’s hand moves from his chest to his stomach, his breath catching in the back of his throat. there’s an intimacy to this that he can’t put words to, lying in bed letting frank feel every place he’s ever been ripped open and sewn back together; he’s only got his shirt unbuttoned, but he feels more laid bare like this than he would naked.

“—that one too. same fight.” he guides frank’s fingertips along the length of the scar, ragged from torn stitches upon torn stitches. the next he finds is smaller, faded and misshapen from the years since—twenty years, and matt almost lies, almost smiles and says something about appendicitis or the same lie about falling trying to jump a fence he’d used on the nuns, but he doesn’t. he doesn’t move frank’s hand away, either. “that one was my, uh. teacher. when i was a kid. it wasn’t deep, but i let it get infected.”

he’s quiet for a moment, frank’s heart beating against his fingertips through the veins in the back of his hand, a bit faster than a moment prior. matt wets his lips, works his face into a smile. easy.

‘ you slept for a long damn time. ’ -- @retribute

“it’s called sleep debt, castle,” she said, tugging a sweatshirt on overtop her tank top. it was cold in her small offices, a sure sign that fall was coming and the radiator was on the fritz. “i’m sure if you shut off your alarm in the morning you’d sleep for ten hours too,” she said, walking over to the fridge and pulling it open. she snagged the orange juice out and pulled a glass out of the cupboard. waking up at noon didn’t mean she had to skip on breakfast. breakfast could happen at any time. 

she filled the glass to the brim and shuffled out of the kitchen to the couch in her office. 

talia stood over the man, who was gasping for air, choking on his own blood — it was an odd sound to appreciate, the gurgling, the way it bubbled up out of his mouth like a fountain — it reminded her of the fountain in yemen, minus the blue tiles and the coins glittering at the bottom.

one gloved hand held the suppressed remington, her finger laying against frame. her shot had been perfect: meant to maim, not to kill. no, she wanted this moment to herself, between him and her. it was like a religious man waiting to see god, she reckoned, and looking down at him now, he resembled the bug she thought him to be.

‘ i don’t know why men like you think you own the world. ‘ she crouched down next to him, a study of contrasts herself — dressed as a sniper, sleek in black, her hair in a ponytail. ‘ you think you can do, or take, anything you want, and there will be no consequences. ‘

he couldn’t answer; all he could do was gasp and choke. dying, it seems, takes longer than the television shows will tell you. she’s guessing she only nicked his artery, and the bliss of lifelessness is slow in coming. but really, in the scheme of things, that’s quite okay.

‘ there are consequences. always, consequences. this one, for instance, means your death. ‘ she stood up, and when she decided he was taking too long, she aimed the gun and fired another bullet into his forehead. it ended the noise, the struggle — blood pooled around his head like some perverse halo, and talia pulled the plaid cloth up around her face, stepping over the corpse like it meant nothing.

it’s half past two and frank won’t stop moving.

elektra isn’t sleeping either, but she makes it look good, lounging in an armchair in a hotel bathrobe with her laptop and a glass of room service wine, eking out a few extra hours of productivity as a take-that at her racing thoughts. frank on the other hand, as best as she can tell, is just too stubborn to admit defeat, and acting like she can’t tell he’s wide awake is really getting old.

she watches the clock tick to 2:36, listens to him turn his pillow over for the eighteenth time, and finally decides to put the poor man out of his misery.

[ @grotesque-executioner | @parasitic-innocence (at some point) ]

     Going behind Allen’s back was the last thing she’d ever want to do, but knowing that the jerk who cut her partner up was still on the loose miffed her whenever she thought about it. Over a span of three weeks, the officer sorted through records on sightings of the known criminal and narrowed down a search area, keeping the search hidden from her peers and higher-ups. If she got caught, that was that, and she would drop everything and try to forget about it. However, to her advantage, nobody seemed to catch suspicion.

     Off-duty, late one evening, she packed a small bag with items for self-defense and other objects she would need to keep on her person. With that, Lenalee snuck her way out of the familiar interior of Allen’s apartment, walking off into the night on her small mission. Catching this guy would be one of the most satisfying ways to bring about payback.

     Why was she doing this? Lee thought to herself as she descended the rather creaky elevator of the complex, coming up with the single answer she liked to keep in mind. Justice. Now, justice could be twisted or used easily as a cover up for ulterior motives, but she firmly believed that it was stupid how the district let that slimy crook get away after his confrontation with Walker. If it had been another officer, would she still do this? Absolutely. However, her desire to was stronger seeing as Allen was her old friend.