#txnebrosity

                               Caspar had been expecting this from the moment he walked through the door. It was so tempting to just lie about his day, it really was, but the boy couldn’t lie to Eli. He could lie without fault to anybody else in the world - but his Daddy always saw straight through it. So when Eli asked about his day, Caspar had to quietly explain that he’d gotten into a street fight, ran away from the police when they tried to break it up, accidentally broke into somebody's house, and jumped out of a second floor window. The guilty look on his face hadn’t appeared in a long time - Caspar had learnt to be a lot more careful since meeting Eli - but it was back in full swing.

                             He leaned against the back of the couch, arms nervously wrapped around himself. Caspar’s eyes settled on Eli. He’d finished explaining his day, and with a small, nervous smile, Caspar asked- “So how was your day?”

@txnebrosity    Amore stood in front of the mirror adjusting her hair a bit. She felt unbelievably tired and had awoken in a puddle of mud. It took about forty five minutes for her to find her way home (thank God.) and when she did she immediately went to shower. Her hair were in their soft natural curl like state, slicked back into a ponytail. She hadn’t planned on being a disturbance but when she heard footsteps coming into the distance she knew she had to have woken him and it made her feel guilty as hell,

   There were many things in the world that were exceedingly tedious to Borislav, carrying out any of the business transactions that Viktor often put him up to was only a tip on the ice berg which sunk all hopes of living any other way. It always started the same, the slightly taller and older Russian would stride into whatever room Borislav occupied, papers in hand as if he were running a god damn country; always busy. Then without looking up Viktor would simply slip a piece of paper to his younger brother and clear his throat, attention trained on whatever he was reading and without another word Borislav would just leave. Instructions were always etched in neat and annoyingly perfect handwriting telling Borislav what his next conquest was and just how far he was supposed to take things in order to get what he wanted, or rather, what Viktor wanted. 

      The middle child had learned to accept the way things were, as the guard dog, the one who did most if not all of the dirty work for the Markell family, which was saying a lot when Cristov was so obvious about his appreciation for chaos and destruction. Boris didn’t feel one way about it, if he had to bust someone’s knee caps out or bust some heads, he’d do what he had to in order to keep his family safe. That was always his excuse, after all, who else did he have in this fucking world than the two real men who represented the Markell name. Borislav was nothing but the bastard, even his brothers subtly reminded him of that. 

    Despite his damnation and separation from being truly accepted as what he’d been forced to strive for his whole life, Borislav loved his brothers, he’d of course never admit as much, expressing he’d sooner kill them than accept them. But that was how they worked, shielding their emotions and true feelings, even though he was the one who felt too much. Perhaps that was what made him such a bastard child, he had too much heart. Like he did at this moment, letting this fucker he’d been sent to “negotiate” with a chance to even get in a few blows. In Boris’ defense, the other man was taller and heftier by a good amount, a couple hard punches and his eye was blurry from blood. 

     Grunting as he pushed himself back up Boris hissed, his good eye glaring with dark intentions at the almost pompous goon he’d been sent to take care of. It was obvious why Viktor no longer wished to associate with the clown, it was a compromising connection to have when the name Markell was so fiercely kept alive on reputation and fear. “Look, you had your fun, pal--- but I’m afraid it’s gotta end.” Boris almost grumbled, his tone more reflecting that he didn’t wish to be here anymore than the guy would likely want to die. 

       When a look of annoyance played at the larger man’s face some more Boris couldn’t help but laugh, the only amusement he’d get out of the night, aside from killing the piece of shit, of course. He’d picked a good place, the dragging of the body, though, would likely prove a little more difficult as he did park a good space between where they now were. Getting this far away from his vehicle hadn’t been the plan, but neither was the next blow that Boris received with his mental analysis of the situation. Now he was annoyed and with that wave of irritant flashing through his veins, Borislav rolling with the blow, rebounding quicker than he had before. There was a small flash of steal before the larger man stumbled, crying out for half a second before he was silenced promptly, his cries of pain and anguish now gurgles as blood spilled from his throat. 

          Boris squinted, swayed away as the other man fell, quite like a tree, and slammed to the dark wet concrete next to them. Blood flecked over Boris’ face and the front of his clothes, he sighed, wiping at the one side of his face, only smearing the crimson across his pale skin. His sharp gaze fell on his dying enemy, this could have gone better, and he could certainly hear Viktor’s short scolding of ‘you’re a mess’ and Cristov’s teasing that he could have done better. But neither of the other Markell’s would actually do anything, Boris did what he did how he liked, getting a little bit on him, some marks to look at after, reminded him that he was good at something. ‘Though, at the moment, he could have done better, less messy, made it shorter, ended the man’s life in a quicker and more easily disposed of manner. Boris wasn’t as meticulous as Viktor, or even Cristov, it was what set him a part from them, and their mother. That was someone none of the Markell’s wished to be like, despite their orbit to the darker side of things. 

        ❛ i know my actions, they may get confusing, —— but my unstable ways is my solution to even space. ❜

“You like what you see?” Tonight’s theme at the Kitty Cat Club was HALLOWEEN. Faux-fog filled the nearly empty strip club. Everyone now and then whenever someone got up from the bar, the plastic Jack-O-Lantern on the counter would let a howl. Roxanne was dressed as a sultry witch. She ditched her usual school girl get-up for dark purple lingerie, glitter makeup, and a witch’s cape. 

Coincidentally, Roxanne’s  makeup certainly matched her plans for the night. After her shift at the club, she would perform her yearly ritual of Samhain to appease the spirits. Black eye makeup streaked down her cheeks and a charcoal crescent moon was stamped upon her forehead. 

Roxanne moves a strand of blonde from her field of vision, tucking it behind her triple pierced ear. 

The world throbbed, the pulse of it tangible against her skin, BENEATH her skin; she could taste it, the sweetness in the air, on her tongue, stinging and sweet and spicy all in the same moment, only accentuated by the burn of alcohol, the shot after shot of vodka stinging in her throat, roaring fire in her stomach; she could feel the music, the thrum of it in her head, sweet and sylvan, pounding and illustrious – insistent, demanding –  the hues of black against white, the scratch and pinch and scraping of the nib of her pen against the pages, flurried, hurried, ragged — who had known there were so many shades between black and grey, each of them so tangible, visible as the notes sprang to existence, a page half filled and dropped, sporadic shifts as the rhythms and melodies darted between one instrument and the next in her mind’s eye –

but then she was turning, the quill dropped, discarded as she felt his hand drift against her shoulder, against the long, bare line of her back, pulling her, tugging her to him, against him.  

Splotches of color, purple and blue and green and yellow dotted her skin, crimson streaks staining, skipping across his shoulders and his hips and his back, sharp contrast against the soft and glowing skin – pale and porcelain, where they intertwined.  She could feel him, the marks of him, against her, inside her, in her head and on her tongue and soaring, seething, crawling through her veins as intoxicating, as tangible to her as the drug that he had procured, the chemical that rioted through her thoughts and left her a jumble, ecstatic and breathless.