HANDS  SMOOTH  ACROSS  THE  RUMPLED  SKIRT  OF  HER  DRESS      [   .   .   .   ]      SOFTENED  AND  EDGED  WITH  BLUE,   WEAVED  FROM  A  FABRIC  THAT  FELT  TOO  EXPENSIVE      (      even  with  all  of  her  savings  combined,  she  couldn't  afford  this   ;   still,   she  makes  her  home  inside  the  dress      ).      the  glitz  and  glamour  shan't  weigh  upon  her      ---      her  shoulders  are  rolled  back,     her  chin  tilted  upwards.   SHE  BELONGS  HERE   :       in  the  starlit  chokehold  of  sweetened  nights,   where  girls  buried  themselves  in  dresses  and  fizzy  champagne,   where  she  can  shrug  off  the  nervous  child  born  anew  into  adulthood.   the  door  opens  and  a  presence  finds  itself  beside  her   (   lydia,   a  name  that  is  more  of  a  choked  prayer,   a  name  that  is  a  scream   ---   synonym  for  friendship,   comfort,    a  life  that  builds  itself  from  ashes   ).

❝      IS  THAT  YOUR  WAY  OF  TELLING  ME  I  DON'T  LOOK  STUPID?      [   .   .   .   ]      or,   oh  god,   is  that  your  way  of  telling  me  that  i      ---      i  do  look  stupid?   BECAUSE  I  THINK  YOU  HAVE  TO  TELL  ME      ---      legally.    it  has  to  be  in  the  friend's  code.      ❞      the  laugh  upon  her  lips  is  a  fae  creature,   light  and  inescapable,   a  sound  that  is  driven  by  fate      (      THAT  IS  WHAT  IT  FEELS  LIKE  TO  STAND  BESIDE  LYDIA  MARTIN   :      an  act  of  fate      ).    her  hand  reaches  into  the  ring  of  light  that  defined  the  other  woman,   arm  weaving  through  the  other's,   head  finding  her  shoulder.   WARMTH,   DOCILE  WARMTH,   BREATHING  BETWEEN  THEM.      ❝      thank  you.    for  coming  tonight.    FOR  BEING  HERE.      ❞             

          ❝Man... It’s been a while. Haven’t done this in ages.❞ Wagging on to no one in particular, but to those few that stopped to listen. Though even with this nod to his own absence from an otherwise wholly pseudo concoction of awful writing and bloated structure, he could not do away with feeling--used. A confounding little notion, digging into the self-constructing ire in his mind, providing all the more reason to abandon this cause and retreat back into obscurity. 

          ❝Right, yeah. I’ll just exit stage left then, shall I?❞ He could practically hear the chorus of formulaic laughter groaning out from a pre-recorded laugh track, rolling covered eyes into the back of his head. ❝Didn’t miss this. At all.❞ Annoyed. At himself, for the most part. This was all his own making, a poorly made choice, an already depraved setup to an atrocious punchline. But he was already halfway through the window to her apartment--the story was in motion, as far as anyone was concerned.

          X-Force wanted her for themselves; dead or contained. It didn’t come as much of a shock to him, what with “phoenix” being about as triggering for them as “apocalypse” was.

          ❝On the one hand, ugly. On the other hand, it’s not their fault that a galactic-level-threat plot about as stale as a college dude’s cum-sock keeps being hammered over their head like they owe it money.❞ Prattled to some random corner of empty space, as if looking at something that existed beyond functioning reality. He was inside by now, of course, already taking note of the rather exorbitant interior of  this Manhattan apartment. Yet he shrugged as he approached the door, like a ninja, on the other side, turning the doorknob with the delicate grasp that only a super-powered-cancer-fueled-psychopathic-fiend had.

          ❝Tch. I think all Manhattan cribs look like this by default. Saying “exorbitant” before that is redundant. Hack.❞ So spat the crimson and black covered mercenary, his venom wicked, yet cruel. But karma was a meticulous agent of malicious design at times, seeing as how the toe of his boot caught under a rug as he made to walk into the open hallway. ❝Oh for the love of--!❞ It was no use, try as he might, gravity made him a boorish clown as he toppled forward in vain--right over the banister in front of him. ❝--A BANANA PEEL WOULD HAVE MORE BEEN MORE SUBTLE YOU MOTHERFUCKER!❞ A cry of outrage, an expenditure of any suave, swag and method acting as he fell to the next scene below.

          Ribs felt as if they broke upon crushing impact, bracing into the snapping wood of a decently sized oak table in the middle of a dining room--or perhaps, main hall. He did not have the knowledge of bougie layouts such as these, so it was a little lost on him. Although, the pain of broken bone and the discovery of someone witnessing all of this, was the more present distraction at the moment. Moreover, that someone had a head of matted, but still beautiful, pomegranate-red hair and stunning greenly eyes that he imagined woodland animals probably lived in.

          The Target.

SHARD:/ @shelazarus​

it feels like she’s drowning,   sunk into the aphotic zone/water logged and sinking down like concrete.    like she’s biting down on despair,   her tongue swollen and puffing up.    it’s the loss of  vital  self  in love,   desiring all awkward parts and edges,   like  something  catching.    [  THERE IS A HOLE BEING GNAWED INSIDE OF ME  ]     devouring,   the body deeper than the soul with all its secrets inscrutable.     clouds..   ugly in neon,   boozy music  &  sticky carpets.     the intimate way of self-destruction.    the dizzying way that fate thrusts life together,   all but erased.    you  smile  a  little,   you  are  in  agony.

like a   fawning  parasite,   fingers clawing at the edges of sanity  &  semblance of a  self,   singular.    how easy they become,   how two becomes one;   a sticky mess clinging to the tips of her fingers,   dripping down like honey.    

❛     WELCOME TO CLOUDS —     ❜      it’s unfinished,   lazily stated  &  started upon a repeat.    they know her,   like she’s imprinted into the system far more then the mere scratch she wants to be.    she chews,   she scratches.

his  voice  echoes around,   rumbling in her ears.     everything rattles now,   a single sound impossible to exist.      ‘ you’re  like  an  addict,   y’know? ’      he becomes harder to ignore,   or maybe she’s worse at ignoring him.    when the darkness creeps,   pulling on her limbs and calling her back into the fucking city.. but this,   this is her dedition.    her single moment of surrender.

❛     i feel like a   fucking  carton  of  milk,     ❜      her head hits the bed,   dark river reeds of hair fanned out.     sinking,   sinking,    sinking.     it’s lazy,   rolls off her tongue like silk.    everything feels like water,   like it’s running through her hands.     it’s water,   it’s sand,   either way it’s losing her grip on everything.    the faux shadow of chrome encasing her arm,   the slip of her tongue,   the way she rests her head.     but there’s so much to do.    lives at stake,   armies being born.    a  curl  of her body,   entangled within the sheets.     i  lose  myself  in  time.      ❛     i’m going to expire soon,   i’ve got a   ticking  time  bomb   and it’s like i’m sitting in the fridge,   waiting to go off.    get all  rotten  and used up,   useless and thrown away.     ❜

  ‘  Lydia.  ’

  HE RUNS HIS HANDS OVER HER  ;  like satin, the warmth of blood. Wrist-deep in an immortal river. It is not grasping but an act of intelligence, of discovery, of cognitive disbelief. That there are things so soft and lovely. That these things do not shrink from his touch  —  that she rises into his hands, pushes against him, sighs with satisfaction. It is wrong, he is unfit to hold her. Wrong, or perhaps it would be  —–

  But she has teeth, too, and behind her eyes like the green of damp earth, of deep forest, there lurks the blue-black face of death. The look in her eyes that blinds him. A trigger, a pin. Not her death, no, but the deaths of other people. The same that file in a column behind his ever step, pace for pace, a lengthening line that only he perceives. His shadow, real as the sun. When she invites him into her bed, they cannot enter. They must wait outside the door  ;  and he does not deserve to be free of them but he is free, free of them, wound about her, coiled like a snake. Love exists in him like youth  :  new, needy, full of passion and violence gentled by devotion.

  He is devoted. He is the dog.

  Is this what you need? Living in her red hair, red hair that turns the moonlight pink? Blood from an artery. Faint as a blush. 

  The Witcher rests his head on her soft stomach, gripping her hips in his hands. Whatever woman is inside her tonight he loves. She spills her contents onto the linens like the scattered clutter of an upturned chest. Whatever woman will rise in the morning  :  he loves. He is helpless to do anything but this.

  He says her name again, his pitted voice rich with a penitent affection.

❛❛     𝐚𝐬  𝐢𝐟  𝐢  𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝  𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫  𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞  𝐲𝐨𝐮 .      as  if  i  ever  would ,    𝐦𝐚  𝐯𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐧 .     ❜❜         the  dark  does  not  destroy  the  light .       it  defines  it .       their  death - touched  lover .       fingers  draw  over  her  cheek ,    tender     &     sweet .       it  is  her .       it  will  always  be  her .       and  for  what ?       it  is  not  love .       or  not  as  the  stories  tell  it .       they  exist  together ,    𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧  𝐚𝐧𝐝  𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 .       there  are  pieces  of  her  that  hold  them  together .       her  teeth  in  them ,    slow     &     vicious .       reminding  them  that  her  armor  is  just  skin     &     bone .         ❛❛     should  i  fall ,    i  will  come  back  for  you .       nothing  can  keep  us  apart .       NOT  DEATH  OR  TIME ,    DISTANCE  OR  THE  MAKER .       i  wholeheartedly  belong  to  you ,    lydia .       i  will  be  with  you  until  you  wish  otherwise .     ❜❜

HIS RESOLVE , though impervious , runs rampant with trap doors and false bottoms. questions mount upon questions mount upon questions until the root is no longer visible , and an answer can only TRICKLE DOWN SO FAR. nevertheless , he has not a clue what to expect upon the conclusion of this visit , thoughts clouded , crowded , by the image of his brother bathed in blood and remorse and no intention of stopping. it was all very CLEAN CUT then , personal colliding with professional , duty wrapped up in care. did the devil not disguise his love as ambition ??? for him , it is all the same. 

              Jonathan’s standing over the street corner before the presence of another vampire becomes apparent. His kind are harder to pick out from a distance, especially after the introduction of forensic technology. Cleaning up after themselves became a necessity rather than a suggestion. Now the police are just as likely to track you down as any seasoned hunter. This one didn’t leave a trail, but he certainly left a mess. A living, breathing mess to be exact, but he isn’t sure for how much longer.

               The young women slumps against a brick wall, one hand pressing weakly against the wound in his shoulder, small spurts of blood escaping between her fingers as she continues to lose motor control. The vampire in question sits across from her half-folded in a similar position, watching her bleed out rather than trying to attend to the wounds in any helpful or harmful manner. 

               He steps off the ledge of the building, air resistance increasing with the pavement’s rapid approach. There’s no scientific explanation for his silent landing, there are certain aspects of his species the doctor’s stopped trying to elucidate, though not for lack of trying. 

              The other vampire makes no move to attack him when he imposes on his territory, instead staring dumbly at Jonathan through bleeding eyes. Epileptic shivers wrack his body, lines of cruor leading from every orifice. If Jonathan’s arrival at all registers with him, he seems utterly unable to do or say anything on it. The doctor can only hope the condition persists long enough for him to help this woman.

               He crouches at her side, one hand pressing over her own with more pressure than her numbing fingers can muster. 

               This close, the scent of her impending death is almost overwhelming. Veins crowd his eyes, a low resonance nestling, unbidden, in his throat; the dark lyric of his hunger he attempts to quash with no small amount of difficulty. Yet, the artery is punctured and she’ll likely die before more help can arrive, it would be so easy to—

               No. Jonathan tears his eyes away from her throat, his free hand wrenching his phone out of his pocket and punching in the number for emergency services. He has no way to explain the other man’s presence, and moving her away from the alley will sever her already slim chances of survival. Still, he has to try.

     ❝ Hello, I need to report an attack. A young woman’s been badly injured— her shoulder, in her brachial artery. ❞  The call handler doesn’t bother asking him how he knows.  ❝ In Brixton— an alleyway— No I don’t know the bloody street name, can’t you track my phone? ❞  That’s something people can do now, isn’t it?  ❝ I don’t know. ❞  He can smell liquor, hear music playing from around the block.  ❝ Near a bar, a club, playing— ❞  He listens.  ❝ Reggae music? ❞  He hopes to god he got that right.  ❝ Yes. Yes, that sounds right. Please hurry. ❞