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"No part of this is any kind of game, to me. I am not playing," she is just as good as a matador that has been impaled on the horns of the bull, punished for being too confident. He is one huge, angry, constricting muscle. He is an invasive species that must be eliminated before it kills the entire ecosystem that it comes into contact with. Until I have seen the many yous, inside, with no more hiding. It is a stupid choice to step any closer on her behalf. It seems like I am not going to be satisfied until I have your autopsy report in my hand. "You will soon come to find ... that I am very special."

A passerby drunkenly elbows Aranya an extra step further into his caving chest. An accident. Tripping into her own grave, she has been dealt such a weak hand of cards, the poor lamb. Lip's arms are sealed thick and heavy like mud pouring in to trap her deep within him, the confines of Earth, that scolding core-Hell, Oh, it is worse. He could be convinced that this is his ultimate purpose— clinging to her forever, a vampire woken from its slumber having sensed her broken skin, promptly eating her alive. The pruned corpse of hers now preserved for keepsake. Loved more in death as a trophy than flopping around like a fish out of water in life. He's always admired a certain type of stillness. The Venus flytrap, defying skill with its inherent composure, providing that unnatural slow death to the young fly. He killed her with the soft tissues of his tongue. Just give the fuck in.

Three or four heavy steps backward, we have moved to another room, the perspective horrifically doll-housed — Lip, with one hand settled over her nose and mouth, the positioning is that of getting an animal to spit out something you do not want it to eat. "Do not talk. Listen," craned over the woman, a Grim Reaper shadow. Tune in enough, and his steps are followed by the soft drag of the Deathscythe, tracing figure eights behind. There is little to do about being unlucky. "I made this," elbow jammed into her sternum, he shifts his other arm from around her waist. There is a glimmer of metal, the dripping fang of a nauseatingly sized needle. Its belly, full of a liquid that catches light fractals like an opal. He presents it with a whisper. "I made it, to kill you. To show you mercy. To make it ecstasy for you," his dark bangs curtaining those huge eyes, so enamored. "Please, treat it like a gift."

It is not the gaze that feels like a thousand leeches upon the skin that makes her belly roll in nauseous agony.     It’s not even that shark-infested water that she feels herself already floundering in amid the glare of his focus,     her body too vulnerable,   too skinned open and flayed underneath his stare.        It is those words.    Those words that remind her of the infection of the past,    how it rots the surface,    how it dries the soil so it’s inhabitable.        Those words of knowledge.     Those words of warning.    She knows a gripped goose neck in a wolf’s maw when she sees it.    She knows a hunter’s game when she hears it.        Margosha refuses her the dissociation tactic of scanning the crowd for Yamato,    or Dmitri,     wolf or dragon   —    both of which were nowhere to be found.     Therefore,   she must learn to eat herself,    or eat this creature in front of her.        “What do you know,    hm?”      It is practically purred,    but the tone is raw,    she is almost cracked open here out of terror and rage.     Hysteria that melts the wallpaper and burns the flesh of anyone who peers too closely.     Pulse thudding against her neck,   begging to get out.     A cornered animal is an unpredictable one    —    but fingers trace the outline of her throwing daggers against one thigh.     Wonders how heavy he would be to drag into a hallway and dispose of.      Wonders if he bleeds cold or hot.     Danill’s face flickering in front of her like a ghost in between static channels.     Half-alive still.    Rioting inside her like a parasite.        “You are not special in your games.”      Cruel in voice,    no longer hides her anger,     Margosha is easier to hear.     The horror is gulped down in bucketfuls,     eyes careful as they watch him with an indifference.    It shields the truth.    Fear the bitter taste in her mouth now.    Godless hours and the men they create.     FBI ID card dangles on its clasp,     jaw clenching and releasing.     Turning her back to the crowd,   she looms around him with a step closer,    but only to see how prepared he is to attack.       “It is like I said,    arrogance is common.” 

#/ lip: aranya . #tw: needle mention #tw: threats #tw: autopsy mention #tw: gore mention

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Lip's chest might as well open up with its alligator maw and bring the motherfucker down all the way. Rolling that sweet death-roll, eviscerating all life within, thrashing and draining the lungs of air. The body will not come to surface. A wolf is not built for this type of environment. It has bowed its head to drink from that swampy water, of which the gator lives in — practically asking to be crushed. "Do not call me ... friend," the plains of his mind are expansive sandy memory dunes, every 'friend' lost to the heat, lured by their thirst to see a mirage inside of him that does not exist. Lip will never understand why people make up the silliest things to preserve their own comfort. Life is not comfortable. He is not here to deviate from nature. "I do not find the decision to walk away now," like a dog-whistle, his voice is tuned for the other to pick up. Nobody else. "To be a very smart one." 

I hurt her. Your wife. Upon clearer inspection of the man before Dmitri, we find something wrong. His shoulder, slumped, black-black of the tuxedo seemingly spotting. I fucked her up real good, and now she's crumpled on the floor of coat check like a fawn that has just been born. If one were to place their hand against the fabric and pull away, their palm would peel away as a scarlet stamp. Learning how to walk on legs much too long for their body. He is bleeding, but the warm penny-smell does not mask Aranya's perfume. It is pitiful, your love."We should talk," a slightly smashed cigarette is produced from his breast pocket. "Let's step outside," it is placed to the corner of his mouth, and it is now more than obvious, that a talon that has gored a diagonal line across each lip and down onto chin. "Maybe ... we will run into her on our way out."

LYCAN IN STATURE HE IS STATUED AGAINST THE WIND. dmitri tvardosky is a keeper of faces and tongues all painted in memories that do not escape him even in sleep. the empty chamber click of a pistol plays on repeat on his head and he knows with certainty that he will never be able to run from it. like sickness, like filth, the weight of the violence follows him until death. carefully kept wrapped like a flower wilting in the winter. a kind of beauty that is designed to lure until the drowning. siren's call to brutality his fists ache with it. her straightens spine folding out into a weapon like bones could spur from his hands and drink the blood that he always craves. aranya is not here and yet this man is. the murk of death-rot and a sepulcher by the sea. annabel lee, poe had called her in his poems. a corpse walks in front of him eating danill's mannerisms and he's instantly on the edge of defense teetering to sink into the water and feed himself to the snapping, sharp things. the wolf appears like a dream in his darkest moments. not a man but a beast designed to defend his own fragile human body. a god who eats men and gods and spits rage. unkillable and unlovable in its own turns. he pokes a tongue into the corner of his mouth shifting to brush a knuckle past the gun tucked into the waistband of fine, black pants. "just waiting on my wife, friend." not an entire truth but the permanence of marriage may yet sway him to turn and walk away for the evening. find some other anger to entertain. the dark, distant eyes that carve into his face are too familiar. "though i don't find myself that pitiful. just a man in love. have a good evening." a clear boundary line drawn that he has no doubt this specter will phase over.

#/ lip: dmitri . #tw: animal gore #... ? #tw: blood mention #tw: wound mention

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#..... anyway #shifty eyes . definitely not bringing in someone else already #/ pony .

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#/ lip .

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Like the dark creature bound to the inside of Aranya's closet, he exists in the crevices untouched by anything holy. The smarmy wash of emotion occupies his face for a fleeting moment, it cannot be helped; it is that righteous-type possession, the same feeling you get when stepping into a church. It is not an easy job to haunt someone who has already had their spirit divided into so many fragmented ghosts within them. The smirk of his, that of the prey-driven neighbor dog which has pinned a cat down far away from its owner — knowing what it must do — or a disobedient machine that is far more successful after the complete rejection of fabricated emotion — knowing how this all ends, washes away in the thought ... Is that turbulent instinct ... All-Knowing? Or is that just his ego mucking this up?

"I'd have to agree, about the arrogant boars," Lip is watching the way her dress shifts, his gaze creeping to the curve of her neck, slow like following the ivy that has grown up the side of an old schoolhouse. Upon spotting the bulging vein which an animal would bite to bring her down to the ground, there is an urge. "But ... I'm questioning if we have occupied the same darkness," We are not the same kind of cracked porcelain, bitch. You've been repaired with gold, to look like some sort of treasure, to be reborn into your body after it has been shattered. And I am here to break you again. "... What if, I already knew something about you?"

The rabbit twitches,     blinks once or twice as she feels the creeping stares of the crowd dig into her skull.     Filled to the brim with vinegar and trauma,   yes   —     but the malice lies just below the surface.   Unbeknownst to most,    especially the lovers.    Those intertwined souls that have become rocks underneath the river she bathes in.      She,   the winter witch who speaks in tongues and riddles.    She is soft and translucent at times,   but the mirrors are all covered for a reason.    She avoids them.    Thinks that there are more women inside her and she can hear them talking,   constantly.    Margosha Borovkova,      as she was known as for eight years,    remains the one that had been led astray.   Down to the slaughterhouse she had gone,    but her teeth grew sharp.      She had seen the bottom of the well she had been banished to and in turn:    she had seen how a man dies.     How a man can lie,   the snake-translators of the modern day.       She had observed the best.    Parroted how he spoke to a room of politicians,   vultures and their beaks always biting.          “Many mistakes could be made about me.”      Body shifts,    she faces him fully here,   no longer half-hidden,   no longer a half-moon.       Expression is serene,    but this is only to blend out the lines of panic that tightens her jaw.    She is impeccable in pretending.      The art of survival,   after all,    begins with how much one believes they can change into another thing.       Aranya speaks   —    or perhaps it is Margosha now  —    with a listless tone.     Not cold,    but not fully welcoming.      She watches him,    as he watches her.     She bristles once,     head angled away from him.      Dislikes how intense his attentiveness is.    Focused.    Like a hunter’s.     For a moment,   she’s thinking of Dmitri.      “I am not someone you will get to know.”      The statement is firm,     but the voice lilts,    melodic and demanding of fixation.    If she had a cigarette,    she would press it against his temple.     Burn him with his own curiosities.       Eyes flick back towards him,      somehow content with that previous image of causing him pain.     A dreamy smile slipping onto her lips,  she stares now, without blinking.     “The dark is kind  [ … ]    I have been in it.    This crowd is mostly full of arrogant boars.”

#/ lip: aranya . #tw: violence

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@jezebelrisen

On a good day, Lip's body is just an instrument being played by his consciousness, constantly adjusted for performance — today is turning out to be a very good day. I do not feel human. It is all so in tune. There is a slow, quiet rattle within his chest. Or maybe it is more like the fuzzy hum of a theremin, singing its sad spacey song. For certain, it is no human heartbeat nor could it ever easily be mistaken for one. One could question that he is from Earth at all if they opened him up on a table. I feel nothing. Stalking in the twinned-shadows of this juiced, luxurious enemy-crowd, a monster lives unseen. His spine is a twisting electric-tense cable, all this nonsense violence churning through his brain and thickening up, been given the time to marinate. God's gift is, truly, the power of rumination. Reliant on what is, what he would imagine to be, a similar feeling of a semi-blind, bat-like radar, and an equally blind faith in a grim mother's fairytale, is where his intuition resides. Lip is inebriated, but not quite to his detriment tonight. I'll huff, and I'll puff... All he sees around him, is some fever-dreamy-rose-colored-powder-faced-mescaline-unreality royalty, and his sick, sick leper brain pictures their pretty frills bloodied from an unforgiving barrage of gunpowder. He'd go as far as to say that they're just as beautiful covered in blood, and worth twice as much as they were alive. He vividly imagines shooting at them all with a primitive antique musket of the 18th century. And I'll blow you the fuck down... Sending them into the essence. "I would love to know," nothing but a premonition of a person, he floats into earshot and lingers beside Dmitri, avoiding casting his eyes in the other's direction. He is feigning having had to stop behind some convenient old friends who have decided to catch up in the hallway. God loves Lip, and Lip is a sucker for that sort of love where you can confess anything, so he'll take the time to pray later about how grateful he is to be graced with good timing. "You aren't ... waiting for someone, are you? You've got this, sort of ... Pitiful, look on your face," a brief glance. It is an arrow shot so close that you cannot see it, but you can hear it. A warning, maybe? "Then again, what do I know."

#/ lip: dmitri . #tw: graphic violence #tw: blood mention #tw: mass murder mention #jesus christ . horrible

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Aren't you friendly? I'm having a great time ... I'll — I'll tell you, I've been watching you since you got here ... I've been thinking, and — and ... I'm going to do something horrible to you. 

"I am."

Patience, while valuable, has not shown its value to Lip in the recent years. Still, he is as serene as a birch tree with a paranoid flashlight flicked in its direction upon being addressed. Keep walking along the trail. No visible threat. Rest assured, that it is out there, hiding slinkily inward. Deep down somewhere, the circumstance has excited him. Soon all you will feel is the terrible rush in your gut when it is closing in, he thinks. Give me that look, that helpless, fucked, floundering look, and the high will be better than the entire medicine cabinet at home. Death. Come on. Come on.

His head, the snowy barn owl of this forest —  alert, perched high-up, alien-faced. Eyes, unmoving from Aranya, do not deviate beyond a lazy flick upwards when lifting his drink for a casual display of vulnerability. He takes a sip, and then gestures with his chin the general direction of the party. His earrings, two iced-out crosses, catch the flames and do a gaudy light-dance. "How could someone ... not enjoy themselves," the delivery here, flat, is an attempt at finding fun in this part of the game. Poised in conversation just like a kitten with its pupils blown wide for play, its fat stomach pressed into the ground. "I like being in the dark. I like ... getting to know people," I like reading their obituaries. "I could have mistaken you for a social butterfly, like little ol' me, one and the same," a crestfallen breath. "But you don't seem to be having any fun at all."

closed, event oo1, * ◟ : @lpvncnt

There should be a comfort in an unrecognizable face.    No spurts of memories from the past should be a momentary lapse of paranoia.    Except,   of course,    it causes more panic.     The unknown is cold and desolate,    she dislikes not being in control    —    dislikes it even more when she feels as though another has an upper hand on her.      A longing to tear her FBI ID tag from her dress and burn it.    Molars dig into her tongue until it bleeds,     a nod in greeting as she stands at the corner of the bar,     candlelight making shadows along the wall.       “Are you enjoying the evening?”

#/ lip: aranya . #tw: drug mention

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LIP / ANYONE.

There is a wailing somewhere off in the distance, some sort of sad child or animal. Tucked away in one of the many unlit cavities of the evening, we find a man dialing into the cries as if they are a rare passionate bird-croon, displaced from all of the action. Tired of all this bullshit conversation. His arms begin crossed over his chest as if resting in a coffin upright. Hugging his own body. Nursing something wicked that he rolled back at home and releasing it into the open air. “Feels ... kinda like I’m fucking dying,” a dry handful of coughs, the same sound as handling a bouquet of crinkly old flowers. The smoke that follows is a mystic dragon-puff through his nostrils. It settles onto the rest of the horizon, the familiar hate smog. As he speaks, his body wilts over like a neglected houseplant, the ash of the joint knocked onto his trousers. He smears it into the fabric with his thumb. “Like, actually dying. Inside ... All my bones caving in on each other and shit ... real shit ... health shit. You know what I’m talking about?” A callous traces over the stark lipstick stain of an abandoned champagne glass, gone warm. At least it got a kiss goodbye. “My own body, turning against me. Maybe ... I just have asthma ... maybe the ... Fuckin’ ... smokes have my ass keeling over ... that silent killer, strikes. Ha,” Lip's eyes shine, that predator gleam, reflecting and never seeing. "It'll make you feel how I'm feeling," his arm extends over to pass the last pecks of a cherried roach. The wailing rings off into the night, it could easily be mistaken as tinnitus before bed. It doesn't just come to an end, even if it does. "You ... want to ... feel like I do?"

#/ open: lip #lawlessevent001 #tamino resources are 80% him talking in front of a microphone . mercy

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glamcult photographed by jorre janssens (x)

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* ◟ : 〔 TAMINO , CIS-MALE + HE / HIM 〕 PHILIP GOFFIN-VINCENT , some say you’re a TWENTY-SEVEN YEAR OLD lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both DOGGED and DEPRAVED, one can’t help but think of STRUGGLIN' by TRICKY, MARTINA TOPLEY-BIRD when you walk by. are you still a CLEANER, ACTIVE ASSASSIN at THE BORDERLINE HOTEL, RED EYE even with your reputation as THE GARGOYLE? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and STUPID SHOW-PONY HIGH ROLLER, PATIENT LIKE THE HYENA WAITS, GET IN YOUR CAR AND RUN ME OVER INSTEAD OF WAITING FOR OTHERS TO DO IT FOR YOU, YOU LAZY FOOL, although we can’t help but think of JONATHAN CRANE (DC COMICS) + ERIC DRAVEN (THE CROW) + JASON DEAN (HEATHERS) + ANTON CHIGURH (NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.

FILE: LIP VINCENT

STATUS: ACTIVE. HEIGHT: 6'2". SEXUALITY: PANSEXUAL, AROMANTIC. DATE OF BIRTH: 12/25/1995 HOMETOWN: MALMEDY, BELGIUM. RESIDING: BROOKLYN, NY. ROOMMATE WITH [TBD WANTED CONNECTION].

Instead of the usual biography, I felt like the following poem captured the energy of the past a bit better than I could ever express:

INSOMNIAC

THE night is only a sort of carbon paper,

Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars

Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --

A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.

Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus

He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness

Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie

Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days

Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,

Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,

A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.

His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.

Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue --

How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!

Those sugary planets whose influence won for him

A life baptized in no-life for a while,

And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.

Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.

Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.

Each gesture flees immediately down an alley

Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance

Drains like water out the hole at the far end.

He lives without privacy in a lidless room,

The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open

On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats

Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.

Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,

Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.

The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,

And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,

Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

— Sylvia Plath

AESTHETICS

Repugnant amount of weed smoke filling a suspension-lacking 1966 Cadillac Coupe DeVille, that only a 100% masochist would drive in New York. You were not born to cry. Leopard print BB belts stacked on the waist. A soul, emptied. No pride, no pleasure, no desire. Life is just like a Wong Kar-Wai movie. You've got two fists comically full of metal, the weight shifts you off your feet when that punch is thrown, your poorly welded home-made 'rings' -- made from a chunk of all the old silver jewelry you've collected from the bodies over time, all these precious keepsakes melted onto a fork -- made to hurt -- should be illegal. Lots of little projects like that scatter what you call 'home'. An angel dies every time a shitty fuckboy like you flashes his mid-section in local Bodega for no reason. Recently adopted a Belgian Malinois, Osiris, who is still in training and needs a muzzle (an excuse for enabling bad behavior, could be symbolic). Egregiously loud mumble-rap. When stressed, likes watching ballroom dancing while chainsmoking cigarettes.

Hi, I'm Samuel, 24, PDT, a sweet little Californian baby boy who will do tricks for treats, gee whiz am I glad to be here. All of this is a bit vague but will be fleshed out with time -- if you've got any questions on specifics I'd be super happy to clarify. Huzzah !

#lawlessintro

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