devilsons

[devilsons]

TO DO: BITE THE HAND THAT FEEDS ME

PERSONAL DETAILS

NAME... archibald adams

NICKNAMES / OTHER NOTABLE... leech, archie, canis, bloodhound, hanging man's cannon fodder, fucked up little freak ( by enemies and friends alike )

PRONOUNS... he / him / his

AGE... twenty-eight

BIRTHDAY... july 2nd

STAR SIGN... cancer

SEXUALITY... bisexual / greyromantic

ALIGNMENT... chaotic neutral

PERSONALITY TYPE... enfp-t, the campaigner

ENNEAGRAM... type six, the loyalist

FAMILY... diane adams ( mother ), douglas redacted ( father, estranged / possibly deceased )

INFLUENCES... tyler durden ( fight club ), jesse pinkman ( breaking bad ), the priest ( fleabag ), denji ( chainsaw man ), stu macher ( scream ), luke crain ( the haunting of hill house ), b-rabbit ( 8 mile ), steve-o ( real person but essential to his makeup, also jackass )

SUBSTANCE

a turbulent jester; wicked smile, swinging switchblade, obedient dog. he thrashes wildly between carefully collected chaos and teetering over into the deep end. substance abuse paired with bipolar disorder make him hard to gauge and even harder to communicate with. he is one of two things at all times; trapped somewhere between mischievously playing the fool and a poorly restrained bloodhound, snarling and drooling, red ichor spilled wet between fangs.

APPEARANCE DETAILS

HAIR... kept short, dyed a yellowish blonde often with grown out dark brown roots

EYES... deep brown, almost black, swallow light whole

BUILD... lean and lanky but packed with power, akin to a stray dog.

HEIGHT... 6'3"

NOTABLE MARKS... heavily tattooed from the neck down, arms and hands peppered with small scars. heavier scarring on his back and torso in long slashes, bullet hole in his right shoulder. foul play. always bringing a knife to a gun fight.

USUAL COUNTENANCE... grey / purple tinted under eye bags, prone to a bloody nose, sallow skin, surprisingly pretty straight, white smile

BIOGRAPHY( tw : // drug abuse, drug use, violence, neglect )

he was unleashed into a single bedroom apartment in queens; dingy furniture and a smoke screen, walls stained yellow and black, the air toxic in the form of mold and second-hand inhalation. he was just a child, his mother passing her sickness onto him and a father he'd never met, a name he'd never heard. he were raised on ruthlessness, survival, and necessity. he was never the most important thing to his poor mother, her illness always drawing her attention to other places, but even still, she’d always loved him. he wasn’t given the right to an easy life, primarily taking care of himself since he'd learned to walk and talk, and then by age ten taking care of their mother too at times. in the early years of his life he was a prodigy, infatuated with math and science and all things technology. the rise of the android had scarcely begun in those days, and he had no way of telling the technological advancements the city would soon make, or the dangers that would come with it. but this wouldn’t happen for years, by the time the first android walks among the city without the repulsion of the uncanny valley he would have long abandoned such passions, blood stained under his fingernails as he disguises himself as a goon.

first, he was a boy. thick-framed glasses and baggy clothes, a wide, child-like stare hardened into stone long before it began to soften once again. by fifteen he’d drawn blood for the first time with intention and brutality, a street scuffle between children verging on adulthood, the endless abyss between life forms, the open wound of youth taking over the rage of hormones; stand tall, defend what is yours. he walked away with shaking hands and hurried breath, footsteps pounding as he ran from the scene. it was just one slice of skin, a thin trickle of blood, not his first sight of its smear but the beginning of a new era. it took time before he grew a taste for violence, the initial promise of it making him sick, then in turn making him cold. he lost the passions he had, the innocence, for a time, becoming a machine built only for waking to see the next day. it took time to learn how to cope with this lifestyle, picked off the streets to run petty work by seventeen, no longer a boy but not yet a man; drops, pick ups, simple work ( illegal work ) to make the money to feed himself and his mother, to clean her off the floor a couple times a week. frailty turned into muscle and hardened stature, fear turned to mirth, mirth turned to humor.

soon small jobs became a full initiation, then they put a gun in one hand and a knife in the other. it was around this time he fell victim to the family habits, the drugs helping the mix of violence and hilarity, stoking it’s flames, creating a new persona out of the ashes of his history. he was a wild card; he was the one sent to do the things nobody else wanted to do, a butcher with a complete detachment from humanity, delivered with a fools wide grin and a quip readied at the back of his tongue. the hanging man destroyed him, but gave him a purpose, a twisted found family with the bitter nickname slipping past everyone’s lips, one he’d gained from days gone of pickpocketing and sucking the blood, so to speak, from businessmen and gangsters, “leech.” he embodied this, if nothing else to feel a sense of purpose, to feel needed. he was at best a glorified henchman, but his immense loyalty and perfectly grey morality made him essential, irreplaceable. he would do anything they asked between bouts of debauchery and recklessness, detriment balanced perfectly with chaos, unbridled destruction.

now he stays in his own apartment after having taken ownership of the bad monkey bar, visiting his mother every so often if only to check her pulse. he spends days outside of business indulging in drugs, alcohol, and other means of hedonism, his phone always close by. he’s most often found in clubs and bars, shrouded in smoke with an easy posture and a wide smile, bruised knuckles holding a drink in one and a cigarette in the other. don’t be nervous, his bark as loud as his bite is lethal, remains usually silent; a trained doberman with its tongue lolling out of its mouth, head cocked and lips pulled back in the image of a grin; only dangerous when his owner dangles a treat and says ‘devastate.’  

pinterest  playlist

#lawlessintro #about #tw // drug mention

[devilsons]

#aes #canis

[devilsons]

Margaret Atwood, The Animals in That Country; from ‘Speeches for Dr Frankenstein’

#aes #canis

[devilsons]

Memento Mori, Philips Gijsels, 1650.

#aes

[devilsons]

he's hell incarnate, another sad case of daddy's failing. his hands are still warm and sore from a solid grip on a knife, knuckles bruised. his blood still pounds hot and fast through his veins in a way that almost hurts, violence prickling up his spine. fingers are wrapped around a glass of warm whiskey, he had just reached over the bar and poured it into a glass, too lazy to go around to get ice, he shot one straight and now sipped the second. something was hurting just below his left rib, zekai was here, but leech called this medicine. the phone had indeed been ringing. once, twice, three times. he glanced at it once the first time, a nameless contact but he knew exactly who it was, the numbers looking bigger and bolder on the screen than usual, and he chose to act as if he didn't hear it. the leg further from his counterpart was shaking anxiously under the bar, just slightly. he took a deep breath through his mouth and let is hiss out of his nose as he took the phone out of his pocket, silenced the call and hard shut it off, holding the button 'til the screen went black as if choking it out. weirdly it felt a little cathartic. he never shut his phone off for the explicit reason that the bosses would freak the fuck out if they tried to get into contact with him and it went straight to voicemail. normally that'd be enough to not do it, but right now he couldn't be fucked. "it's nothing important, they can leave a voicemail." he shoots the rest of the liquor in his cup and finally stands to walk behind the bar, reaching again for the bottle he asks, "you need one more drink before we play doctor?"

CLOSED, * ◟ : @devilsons

The years have spanned into dreams   —    now he only sees the memories with tinges of greyness,      nostalgia that occasionally smells like grass and earth.       He has been traveling so long and so far that he sometimes thinks there is something following him,      but he has yet to turn around and face it.      If there was a motherland,      it would have been burned down for quite some time.     Zekai is ash and death,      tree saplings and life.       A contradiction that breeds curiosity,     an awareness that encourages caution.       He supposes it’s not just the twinned violent impulses that seem to combine both the Leech and the Rattlesnake,     but a brotherly sort of duty.      Each stitch,    each knife-fight,    and each bullet-wound is another bound promise of loyalty.      A deed should never go unpaid,      or returned in full.        Leech understands this just as Zekai does.     The streets are not paved with good intentions,     they are riddled with craters    —   sewer-dwellers of the Hanging Man know this very well.      Another shot down,     the heat of the whiskey seems to swim down his throat,    burning and soothing all at once.        “You gonna’ answer that?”        The phone of the other man has been vibrating non-stop since he joined him at the bar’s counter earlier.      Light chuckle as he bows his head,    fingers picking at a suddenly interesting stain on the counter’s surface.     Absentminded habits.     Anxiety,   maybe something worse.    He hasn’t been sleeping lately,   after all.     Groggy voice,    gravel-fed and exhausted   —    he continues with his persistent curiosity,    if only to pass the time.     “Or are you avoiding someone?”

#& ZEKAI G. #ZEKAI G: 001

[devilsons]

©

#& INSPO

[devilsons]

i would make an excellent goon. i’d be like ”on it boss” and then i’d fuck it up instantly.

#& INSPO

[devilsons]

PETE DAVIDSON as Zeke BIG TIME ADOLESCENCE (2019)

#& VISAGE

[devilsons]

DOVE M.

what do you get when you put a dove and a leech together?

no idea. 

that’s the joke — the whole point, the punch line and payoff, the killing part of this entire thing. it’s what dove moreno had wondered as she was fixing herself to the idea of fouling up a stranger, what she managed to forget when the peculiar, wiry man managed to make her laugh, and what she fixates on now, in the back of her car, leaned back against the headrest and guilt slanted forward, all the way down her throat. milky, almond-shaped nails touch gently to the protracted hollow of her neck, right above the tight leash of her necklace. three layered strands of white diamonds, cold against the skin; heavy, scintillating, suffocating. she can’t breathe.

when she manage to exhale, it’s sudden and forceful and sounds a little like the echo of his body hitting the floor. fingernails fall from her throat to below her collarbone, the place where her heart should be. dove opens her eyes.

“pull back in, alexei.” 

“ms. moreno —”

“pull in. they did it somewhere they couldn’t be seen, which means they won’t know we came back either.”

it’s a small production, dropping the mink on the floor, mussing her hair, pulling on a dress strap until it comes loose and falls off one round white shoulder; funny, the way symptoms of a woman in desire and one in distress are so similar — almost like there’s always a man behind the manufacturing. she doesn’t want to be dishonest, not really, not at all. of all the things dove has been even when she was ginny, sincere is one of them. but it’s just how this city is. hand out one real moment, and you end up bleeding out on the cutting room floor.

it’s the russian that retrieves him, a figure she finds unconscionably immense through the dark shade of the car window, a stark contrast to the limp outline of a man she’d helped break. the exhaust rumbles through the warehouse, grey and noxious, as she opens the door and alexei slides leech in, dove’s hands coming under his arms to pull him backward.

“try not to move.” when he’s finally packed into the back seat, head on her lap, dove’s voice is quiet. with one hand on the top of his mottled head, the other flutter over the stains of his body, a quick search for fatal wound. it’s easy to miss the slight way her hands shake as they stop over blood, bundling fabric and pressing down into the wound, with all that glitter on her wrists. “i’m sorry, cricket.”

he was just the type of person bad things happened to; awfully self inflicted, the constant barrage of destruction, the steady beat of a parade on in the distance. he hears sirens somewhere outside, the echoes of gunshots though perhaps that’s only in his head, the pounding of his skull. everyday he finds himself in these situations, broken body never healed, bones reforming themselves in the wrong shape, infections that he picks and picks at. will he ever be whole again? could he afford to? and even if by some chance he could, would he be permitted to leave?

the walls are breathing when his eyes flicker open, the lights playing tricks on him and he feels his body start to be dragged away. for a moment he thinks perhaps he’ll be finished off or thrown into a plastic bag, dropped to the bottom of the long island sound. is it bad that death doesn’t seem to frighten him anymore? instead merely the next natural step in his long-run demise. maybe, he thinks, it’s for the best. his breath comes in sharp and painful, coughing as he’s lifted into a... car, maybe? his focus is lost, he hears that little bell of a voice ringing clear, telling him not to move, but in the same fashion that ended him here in the first place, he tries once again to sit up only to flop back down with a groan. “goddamn.” comes past his lips, the feeling of pressure on open skin and he hisses in a sharp breath. 

finally, finally, his vison refocuses and he’s looking up into what his brain first processes as a hologram, throughout the entire night he hadn’t been this close to her and with a muddled mind he grasped at straws. she brought him here, and now in the form of either a mercy or a cruelty she drags him out of the concrete prison and applies pressure to the wounds. just as much as it sends sharp pains up his sides, it stops the bleeding. he doesn’t know what she’s playing at, but the feeling of her breath on his face when she apologizes gives him a false sense of safety, and he is completely at her will. his breathing is either too fast or too slow, he can’t entirely tell, his neck craning once again to get a look at his own being, his shirt turned the wrong color, almost black in the passing streetlights, the darkness of the car. he is bleeding ink onto her leather seats.

“where are we going?” he asks, because he doesn’t know what else to say, trying to swallow down the nerves. normally he comes more prepared than this, his own trusting nature left him unarmed and vulnerable, battered in a way he deserved. a lesson learned, if only he could survive it. his pupils are still blown from the ecstasy he took earlier with the lights turned way down, the spark in the back of his iris’ flickering weakly as he tried to regulate himself, mind over matter. “why?” he tries, eyes steady on her face, “what did i do?”

#chorusgirls #( & dove moreno ) #( & dove 001 ) #tw // drug mention #my whole blog should just be auto tw for drugs at this point

[devilsons]

SLOAN P.

.  *  ✯   𝙸𝙽𝚃  :    bad   monkey  .    saturday  .   2  :  23  am  .    @devilsons​ .

sloan’s   behind   the   bar   –––   of   course   he   is   –––   pouring   tequila   shots   for   a   line   of  fluttering   drunk   girls  –––   of   course   he   is   –––   with   a   tampon   shoved   up   his  right   nostril  ,   an   unlit   joint   caught  on   his   lip ,   and   a   shatter   of   cuts   across   his  face .   of   course   he   is .   you   can   thank   whatever   higher   power   you   believe   in   that   he’s   not   actively   bleeding   into   the   ice   well .   “   –––––   limes  ?   fuck   you  .   limes .   grow   up .  ”    shots   pour   out   sloppy ,   repo   all   over   the   bar ,  but  he   makes   up   for   it   with   a   slick   bottle   spin .   he   can   feel   bartender   eyes   on   the   back   of   his   head   like   lasers   –––   you   know ,   you   really   shouldn’t   be   back   here  .   wah   wah  .   and   you   can’t   just   give   away   our   booze .   wah   wah .   i   don’t   care   who   –––   the   uppity   blonde   chick   hates   it   when   he   does   this .   it’s   a   whole   thing ,   every   time .   sloan   literally   could   not   care   less .   sloan   &   the   coeds   throw   back   their   shots ,  three   for   sloan ,   one   for   each   of   the   tight   little   things .   

he’s   pouring   another   line   when   leech   FINALLY   enters   his   peripheral   from   the   shadows .   he   whistles .    “  lecherous   boyyy  !   ”   sloan   whips ,   grabs   another   shot   glass  ,   slides   it   into   leech’s   grip .   “   where   you   been  ?   i   need   your   nimble  l’il   delicate   fingers .   ”    he   sniffs ,   gestures   vaguely   at   his   scraped   up   countenance ,   and   at   the   hastily   wrapped   gash   that   cuts   clean   through   the   left   arm   of   his   suit   down   near   to   the   bone  .   shots   clink   against   shots ,   tap   down  on   the   bar ,   get   thrown   back .    he   bows   out   of   the   service   station   to   head   up   to   the   backrooms  ,   absconding   with   the   tequila  .   and   a   jar   of   olives .   because   fuck   you .   he   actually   almost   knocks   over   the   angry   bartender   chick   on   his   way   up   the   stairs   &   over  -  genuflects   in   sarcastic   apology .   she   hisses ,   wrenches   the   speedpour  off   the   bottle   and   huffs   away .   she   wants   him   so   bad .   “  how’d   you   do   tonight  ?  ”    he   means   for   money .   “  decent   crowd  .  ”

he’s shoving his way through bodies to get to the front door, his hands finding their way around the bouncer’s shoulders, some dickhead named georgie, and his grip is just the slightest bit too tight. “what the fuck is going on? you just lettin’ anyone in here? at least pretend to pat people the fuck down, i just had a psycho flashing his fuckin’ beretta around in the bathroom.” he says into the bouncers ear between grit teeth before giving him one last shove in a manner that says ‘ get to fucking work, ‘ stalking off towards the bar to another sight of misconduct. this one, however, is just fine. as soon as he approaches the bartender gives him the nastiest little stink eye and he shoots her a wide grin paired with a wave, clicking his shot glass and downing the tequila like water, a hand clapping sloan’s bad shoulder with intention. his gaze catches on the girls they were taking shots with and he shoots them a wink, shifting the hand on sloan’s shoulder to sling his arm around the back of his neck, lips close to his ear to translate over the music, “you got it, playboy.” he says, dodging around behind him as they make their way to the back, stopping him as soon as they’re out of sight, neck craning back to make sure no one could catch a glimpse of them where they stood. 

almost as if an afterthought he asks, tone entirely nonchalant, "you didn’t happen to be waving a gun around in the bathroom a few minutes ago, were you?”

his shoulders pull up in a shrug as he turns back to face his caporegime. “i don’t really know, i started micro dosing mushrooms recently and i think it’s making me paranoid, i started stuffing all the cash in my mattress,” leech’s face is tingling. looking at sloan he’s sure his is too but for a completely different reason. his hand reaches to grab sloan’s chin, turning his head this way and that, assessing the damage. all he says, tone somewhat uninspired, is, “goddamn.” before dropping his fingers, sniffing as he pats down his pockets, digging out a little plastic baggie. he steadies the capo with one hand, facing him head on before swiping his pointer finger through the concoction of powder inside. the shit was basically drywall if he was being completely honest. “show me those pearlies, baby.“

#slimodd #( & sloan pierce ) #( & sloan 001 ) #tw // drug use

[devilsons]

who: martina martinez ( @farfclla​ ) where: gravity nightclub when: late enough that the club is flooded with people, a tuesday night lets latecomers find room on the dancefloor inside, awash with neons and tipsy off of oxygen infused cocktails

he spent the first half of the night getting roughed up and throwing punches, cracked knuckles, a bruise blooming on his right cheekbone, a lit cigarette between his teeth. this was what his weeks consisted of. he had a roll of cash in his pocket the size of his fist, and with his adrenaline running sky-high he was looking for ways to spend it. stalking up and down the streets, perusing dive bars and buying pretty people drinks, nowhere particular in mind until the blue halo of light surrounding gravity touches his peripheral. he stops just outside the entry line and clears his pockets, swallowing whatever loose pills his finds without much consideration. 

he has just as many friends in high places as he does low, and everything in between. 

leech pushes into the club already relatively drunk and disorderly, the bouncer taking a long look at him as he cracks a joke mid-pat down before simply pushing him inside. he files through the bodies, shoving his way to the bar top and waving over the bartender with a hefty bill in hand. he orders three shots of whiskey in quick succession and downs them all before handing the bartender the cash and wading his way back out to the dancefloor. bodies shift this way and that, the crowd almost moving in sync, ( although, he thinks, it could just be him that sees this, his own special brand of intoxication shifting perspective ) waving. his eyes search the stages, dancers of all kinds but he seeks out one in particular. it takes a moment but he finds her a bit farther back, seemingly finishing up her performance as he makes his way to the stage, greeting her with an outstretched hand to help her down. the lights flashing and the music blaring, bass pounding, making the floor shake, his smile spreads wide across his face, he steps in, closer, and shouts, “need a drink? shots on me.”

#farfclla #( & martina martinez ) #( & martina 001 ) #tw // drug use

[devilsons]

ISABELLA E.

If only the meadows were close enough to touch.      Instead,     she accepts the large screen of bass sounds and smell of stale cigarette smoke to be the background of the now quiet bar      —     the outside streets seemingly too foggy to be anything other than unnatural.        It’s not the transformations she fears,      it’s the evolution.    She is an animal that yearns for her freedom,     to be buried somewhere in the dry dirt and wait for the winter to pass.       She was never on fire,      but there’s been something burning in her since she was born.     A daughter that smelled like ash and volcano,     evergreens and birch.      Isabella wonders,     briefly,     how long it’ll be until she’s as dead as the rest of them.      (    IT’S ALL A RITUAL,     YOU SEE.     THE NEON SIGNS,    THE TOSSED FLOWERS,      THE IMPOVERISHED FACES.     THE IMMORAL RICHES POOL AT THE FEET OF THOSE WILLING TO KILL FOR THE GLORY.      WHILE WE ARE WILLING TO KILL FOR A BURNT PIECE OF GOLD.      I AM CHILD-BOUND,    AND YOU’RE TOO FAR GONE TO NOTICE.     )        Archibald seemed to be dreading it all,      while she wanted to crawl into a grave and return herself to the earth.     Some sort of offering.      Some sort of decomposing willow tree that had fallen far too early in the storm.       THIS LEECH IS ONE OF THOSE BRANCHES THAT LODGED ITSELF DEEP INTO HER HEART.        She wasn’t sure if she wanted to pull him free of her chest,     or keep him there a bit longer.    Either way,    she angles her head away from him.    Refuses the art of truth telling,    knowing that she must appear empress-like,    god-fearing,     filled to the brim with venom.     The Hanging Man soldiers  watch them even now.     She can feel it.      Their eyes on their intimate conversation like little rats squirming for crumbs of food.         ‘Every night is a late night   […]    business never sleeps.’         A pause,    her voice seemed too mechanical in the air between them    —    too empty.      She adjusts and continues,      the warmth is small and hesitant in her next words,    but it’s the best she can do.        ‘Ah,      now what are you studying,     soldado?’        She moves closer,       takes a seat next to him after hovering only for a moment or two.      Her smile borders on friendly,      affable,     if not for the professional tension along her shoulders    —      she is his capo,     after all.      She tests the waters,     a demand that sounds firm and poised,     if not for the breathy chuckle before she speaks it.         ‘I hope you’re not too busy,       I’d love a drink.’     

suddenly she’s close, but instead of tensing he relaxes, just slightly, moving his hand away from the paper so she could see. he thinks for a moment he can feel the heat of her, radiating from shoulder or chest but rationalizes that he’s probably imagining it. the colossal space between them a few inches for just a moment. too close, too far. “c’mon, when’s the last time you’ve ever seen me study for anything?” he asks with a bit of a laugh, shifting back on the stool until he moves to stand. “nah, it’s just some busy work i picked up. i think in the ten plus years i’ve worked here this is the first time i’ve been given paperwork.” he moves behind the bar, hands immediately grabbing the top shelf tequila as he flips over a rocks glass, a generous pour, dropping in a big ice cube and sliding it over the bar top towards her. he hesitates for a moment before reaching for his own empty glass, rinsing it in the well and pouring himself a whiskey neat. he lets it sit there in front of him for a moment, his eyes moving back to her and his elbows meeting the wood as he leans against it, towards her. eyes finding the vampire sketch in the corner of the page again. it kind of looks like her if you squint, granted he’s looking at it upside down. his gaze then meets her face again, for a moment too steadily, too thoughtfully, one long moment of quiet eye contact can last a century, a sort of tension building in the space there between them before he breaks the silence, eyes not moving from her but his hand going to grab his glass, a sip. “i’m not sure how i feel about it, can’t tell if boss trusts me more or if he’s just trying to keep me out of trouble.” he’s been drinking since two pm, but this is normal. the constant buzz in his head and veins is something he isn’t used to living without. it’s been years since he’s had to drink to keep warm, but old habits die hard.

it’s more and more often these days that he fights the urge to touch her. just a brush of thumb to the back of a hand, a palm to a cheek, fingers to lips. he wonders if she can guess what he’s thinking, if the way his pupils flickered to her down to her mouth for a moment was noticeable. he covers it just in case, looking away and taking another sip of his drink. they’ve been playing this game for awhile, tiptoeing. he wonders if he’s imagining that too, considers that maybe she thinks the same thing. if anything he thinks he’s at least partially delusional; isabella — she even has the word beautiful in her name and he... well. you know. “what about you, what’s been keeping you busy?”

#gravefed #( & isabella espinar ) #( & isabella 001 )

[devilsons]

who: dove moreno ( @chorusgirls ) where: a desolate building a few streets away from the old world casino, a carcass of a space like an abandoned supermarket, a warehouse with leftover shelves and steadily dimming florescent lights.  when: sometime after midnight, the bars have begun last call and the windows of all the nicer establishments have been shuttered. a storm swirls steadily overhead, the air thick with the promise of rain.

in hindsight he should’ve known better, but then again, he rarely does.

‘ do not fucking go to old world casino tonight. ‘ the words of someone that held high title within the hanging man had barely grazed the surface of his psyche. he had been intent on staying home tonight, but those magic words had sent his adrenaline on fire. he nodded his head as if dazed, the words hand picked to send him reeling; the promise of chaos, the promise of intrigue. he always wanted to see that which he wasn’t supposed to. thinking about it now, laid out on an endless slab of concrete bleeding from ( he sucks his teeth, the rust flavor taking his tongue and rolling down his throat, tangy and vicious, undeniable ) his gums and god knows where else, he wondered how that message had gotten relayed so fluidly, how they had found their mark. he liked to applaud himself on being unpredictable... right.

some things really were too good to be true. dove moreno. what would a girl like that want with a grimy little street rat like him anyways?

it wasn’t as extravagant as most would expect of the starlet, their meeting that is, but despite the opposition in everything about them, strangely, he had felt they hit it off. galivanting about the casino, passing through nearby bars, the sight of starstruck patrons and fluttering excitement at the presence of one of the cities most recognizable faces. it didn’t affect him, the existence or idea of ‘fame,’ he saw her the way he saw everyone. at the time he thought maybe it was why she was spending time with him, but this... this makes a lot more sense.

he assumed it was another bar hop, following mink and silk down an alleyway it had no place being, the shock of blonde hair. he remembers having the thought that that shade of blonde on a woman meant she was well put together, but on him, bleached and brassy, dark roots peppering his scalp, meant just the opposite. as he followed her into the big, empty, building whose walls were screaming of something horrible he remembered thinking that two people could not be more different. it wasn’t the warehouse that sent the warning bells off, it was instead this thought. he wandered a bit further into the building, the hum of drugs still singing in his veins, eyes wandering to the flickering fluorescents, an abandoned body of a building. when he turned back around she was gone, the footsteps he heard not the soft and practiced clicking of heels but heavy-footed. he knew he was fucked. 

out came two men, about twice his body mass. he fought hard, valiantly some may say, but he was high. and drunk. and somewhere along the night he’d lost his knife, snatched from his pocket. in his memory he sees a flash of manicured nails. yeah, it was surely just a coincidence. he got his ass beat, bad. eyes swollen and body aching, he rolls onto his side and coughs wet and red, his ribcage feels as if it’s been pried open, surely something there broken. he tries to crawl to his hands and knees but collapses again. he’s taken his fair share of beatings over the years, but this is one of the worse for wear in recent memory. cuts and bruises, he thinks someone said something about revenge, but at one point he blacked out so he couldn’t be sure. “aw fuuu — uuck.” leaves his lips and he rolls onto his back, head hitting the concrete, a long breath out of his nose. his phone seems to be gone too. his eyes flicker closed. it looked as if he might be here awhile.

#chorusgirls #( & dove moreno ) #( & dove 001 ) #tw // violence #tw // drug mention

[devilsons]

who: isabella espinar ( @gravefed​ ) where: the bad monkey bar + nightclub when: sometime after the city has begun to evolve for the night, the sound of heels hitting the pavement turning to drunken staggers, the neons casting the only solid light aside from few flickering street lamps.

the bass in the bar keeps booming regardless of the empty dance floor. 

despite the money laundering nature of the building, its owner loves it unconditionally; the rotting floorboards, the grimy back bathroom stalls, the ripped faux brown leather of the bar stools showing white between creases. perhaps its not the building itself, not the promise of rowdy patrons or even the fully stocked bar, but the way archibald sits on the bar top when the whole place is desolate and looks over the poorly-kept mess of an establishment and thinks, ‘ this is mine. ‘ the bar is in the worst shape. the apartment in the basement, while not pristine, refrains from being disastrous, some piles of documents and the closet is a mess of clothes but overall he took a lot of care to make it a nice space. 

upstairs, however, had other funding. 

behind a locked door in the back is a staircase up to the hanging man’s offices and meeting space, sleek white walls and grand wooden desks, safes and reinforced steel. everything ties back to them, sleeping where he eats; there is no going home after a long day, but some sacrifices can be made without hesitation. this is the life he chose, and what it gave him can only be repaid in blood; so blood it is, caked under fingernails or stained on his psyche, he can never unsee the things he’s seen, undo the things he’s done, but this is the flavor of survival, and it tastes just sweet enough on his tongue that he’s hooked to hell and back.

he sits on a bar stool with papers laid out in front of him and a drink in his right hand, cheap whiskey and a splash of coke, the left writing something along the margins. it was information uncovered from a recent job he was sent on, likely a dead end if they were trusting him with it, but he appreciated the busy work. when the city got quiet there was never much for him to do. he took it seriously, even despite the little picture he’d drawn of a vampire in the corner when his mind starting wandering. the pencil tapped against the wood of the bar top, eyes skimming the pages over and over again without taking in much information. he’d been at it for a few hours and it was all beginning to blur. 

the music was still so loud he hadn’t heard the footsteps on the stairs or the opening of the back door. it was a moment before he caught sight of her in his peripheral and his eyes shot up, blinking away the haze. “isabella.” he says, but her name is lost under the music so he fumbles around for the remote and turns it off, the silence slamming over them all at once, almost eerie after the nonstop cacophony that had muted his hearing. everything was muffled, he shifted in his seat, the creaking too quiet, the air still. it made him just the tiniest bit uncomfortable until his gaze fell back to her, eyes doing a quick once over, head to toe, that he tries to cover by glancing back down at the papers for a moment. she looks great as usual, it’s expected, but still his heartrate rises just a little, that weird little feeling in his chest and stomach that made him feel incredibly young. he should probably stop drinking. 

he finishes his drink in one sip. “isabella.” he says again when he puts the glass down on the bar top, the back of his sleeve coming to wipe at his mouth, the picture of class, “late night?”

#gravefed #( & isabella espinar ) #( & isabella 001 ) #// lets GOOOOOOOOOO

[devilsons]

guy who has a weird nickname and when he tries to explain where it came from it doesnt make sense

#dont worry ab it #& musings #leech rights