#A Wolf In Wool Cloth || A Mortally Modern AU

[whosxafraid]

Meme: For You I Would Status: Closed URL: @brooklynislandgirl

Silence.

The kind that sees rain drops upon window panes echo through the hallways. It had descended upon his domain like a cell door slamming shut after the rage that had consumed all in his path. To the point that servants had scattered like mice, and soldiers had stood firm unsure which of them were next. Unsure if he might just bring his entire kingdom down with how hot he burned. But then...it had all been snuffed out. Like it had been nothing more than a flickering candle.

Darkness.

It spreads through his proverbial castle like a plague. Like an ill carrying fog rolling in from the cold sea. Not a lick of the heat survives it. Cold as the dead that had taken her. Frozen like the vines that now grow with less difficulty around his heart...his soul. Dead greenery staring at the proof in his hand. The proof that the little witch of Brooklyn was no longer among the living. Proof that the war that had been simmering these passed years, has reached its breaking point.

Because the one among them that should ne'er been touched...had been violated. Cut down for reasons he's not fool enough to believe he knows the extent of yet. Not fool enough to think the obvious culprit was the correct one. And a thumb runs itself along the edge of that proof in his hand. The proof that is nothing more than a picture lifted from files he shouldn't have access too. Proof that sets his blood boiling and screaming all at once.

The Little Witch Of Brooklyn is dead, with no one to blame.

A brother cries for justice.

He broods on revenge.

Both have their own ways of taking care of the one guilty of the offense. Guilty of the audacity. Because it wasn't either of them was it? No. No neither of them would have been that stupid. Neither of them were that kind of petty. But someone else was. And a king of his own making would find that someone else, and in sure their existence never was at all.

But the vengeance will come later. Not right now. Right now---there's very little to find a hold on. So little because the one that could has chosen to leave him in his misery. Let him do as he pleases because the little bitch had it coming as far as she is concerned. And that curls his fingers into fists as much as it curls his rage.

Because his queen just could not see why the little witch of Brooklyn had been so important. To him, to his plans...to so many things outside herself. Because he was never one to tell was he? Never one to share because no one...not even his Queen could be trusted with the great work. And there is a moment where he wonders if that had been the mistake that caused this loss.

If he had just told her how...when...If he had jus--

A door across the room cracks open. Bright light spilling into the pitch blackness he has wrapped himself up within. And its violent. His reaction. The half filled glass in his other hand pulled back and pitched into the offending door. A single phrase rattling the very foundations of the house.

"TÉIGH AMACH!"

[whosxafraid]

For all of my new followers (and followers that are mobile only) beneath the cut you'll find a list of all the OPEN universes in which I have created a version of Luka. While not required I would like to plot if possible before starter(s) are written. Thanks bunches and as always my inbox is open! --Crow

Tra La La La La || Main Verse immortal. Procurer of lost affects.

A Wolf In Wool Cloth || A Mortally Modern AU mortal. crime Prince. Emotionally and mentally disturbed. prominent dark themes.

Blue is Blue || Detective AU mortal. NYPD Detective. Transplant. Widower. Single Dad.

Not Meant For Neverland || Twin Mortal Child Verse mortal. toddler to 18 yo. Identical twin Lorcan.

Carrion || Biker AU mortal. head of a biker gang left for dead. open to rp'ing at in point before , during or after his murder is attempted.

Wolves In The Night || A Marvel AU mortality undefined. mist mutation. suffers from a condition no one is really sure what it is exactly. there is Luka and then...there is something else. as to whether it is a completely separate entity or a figment made of his own mind--not even Luka is knows.

There Can Be Only Two || Highlanders immortal. identical twin Lorcan. highlanders from the movie universe of the same name.

Project Gemini || A Cyberpunk AU augmented human. ex super soldier. fugitive. identical twin Lorcan.

[whosxafraid]

Borrowed Writing Prompt Meme Day 5 : Lavender Verse: A Wolf In Wool Cloth || A Mortally Modern AU Featured: @brooklynislandgirl | @quothesquills | @macdiari | @damhsagreine

There’s a silence that takes over when the would be king sends all scattering. A tension in the air so thick the slightest misstep could snap it in two. Trigger the volcano that will level cities with its earth quakes. Swallow cities with its tsunami. They know because they’ve seen it. A few of them. The select few that know the truth. The singular that can sooth the monster no matter the cause of the rage. That creates a far different point of contention to gather between the molecules. But none dare to look that particular cold war in the eye. To worried about remaining aside the reigning demon than in his path. 

Whispers between the few trusted to keep the place in order. Feet that are practiced in the ways of moving without shattering the quiet that stretches beyond the dark heavy wood doors. And if they were to give name to their salvation without ever having seen her face--many would say lavender. Because it both proceeds and chases her own steps. Willow-o-wisp like as she is, though far different words are applied.

Soothsayer.         Enchantress.              Witch of Brooklyn.

But to him she is none those things. To him she is carried on a imagined mist of relief. Shelter from the onslaught both of his own making and not. Shelter instead of a break wall to crash against him with the same fury. One that smells of soil, berries, oils--all the good things of the earth that he is not. Might have been once. But not now that the rot has taken root. Made him a smoked mirror image of a brother in another life. A shared madness across so many realms he knows not at all exist. Realms that if put to task--many might find perhaps that it not his fault. Many might bring to light the sins of others that he was made to bear. In cost to how greatly he was loved.

But it isn’t just the scent of her that works to ease. No it is other things. The contact of skin with not else but her salves between. The smoke that rises and twists and carries the sweetened tang into his nostrils. Works from the inside out as she does from the outside in. Dulls the pain of scars wrought in mind and body. Hushes the fear no one else is allowed to see. Takes away the instruments of his own self destruction. and lulls the pain thirsting mania to sleep. 

It doesn’t fix it.         No, never fix.                Fixing is for broken things.                        And a mad prince is anything but broken.                                Just as a witch is so much more than lavender.

[whosxafraid]

Borrowed Writing Prompt Meme Day 22 : Click Verse: A Wolf In Wool Cloth || A Mortally Modern AU Featured:  n/a

There is a certain kind of revenge that comes from years of waiting. Years of planning and building an usurping a usurper’s empire via an underground network the second world war allies would have been jealous of. A certain kind of potency when it all comes to a head, in a empty wharf side warehouse. One that a few gangsters of old New York had breathed their last moments. And maybe that’s just a bonus or maybe he did it on purpose. Only he knows really.

But regardless of the setting--

It comes down now to a pretenses of catch your old uncle up on the affairs here kind of meeting. One that if there had been any form of trust and loyalty would have ended at a pub in “Little Ireland’ an army of pints between and laughter about the old days. But there isn’t any of that--trust and loyalty that is--on either side. And the cat and mouse and wolf game that has been verses the snake in the grass that is...

Becomes a well orchestrated play. The lot of all he’s won to his side performing their parts with efficiency only loyalty to a true heir (and a healthy dose of fearing the more dangerous monster) can buy. To the point the old wolf has no idea at all he’s walking into a trap. Belief unshakable that he is the one closing the net. That he is the one about to put down an egregious disappointment. But better to cut your loses than sink the ship right?

And the pretenses carry on for moments. Moments that grate on a not entirely sane mind but he plays his part. Shows off the numbers and the ways in which shipping and receiving have been done with neither government any closer to working out how or by who the smuggling is being done. Because it is naïve to assume they don’t know it is happening. And everything adds up, almost painfully perfect. Not a dollar or a pound out of place in the transitions. Not a single item sold gone astray. And perhaps an old wolf grins to himself. Knows he’s getting the better part of this deal. That who he places next on this bit of land will be set by all the hard work his nephew has done.

At least until--

click.

The sound is loud. Even to the ears of the younger wolf. The one with revenge in his veins and rage for a soul. And it is almost just as satisfying as he’s invisioned the kill to be. The slow heel turn an uncle makes. The keel of a head. And he can see the cogs spitting and turning. Coming up with a hundred ways this could turn in the old man’s favor. But a younger man has taken precautions upon precautions to prevent even a glimmer of that possibility. He has scraped and crawled. Let blood and built walls with the bones of dead men. All with this singular moment in mind. And he drinks down just how quick the confidence is snuffed out. How fast the cunning old wolf becomes a rat looking for a bolt hole to escape through.

       Ye goin’ ta shoot me, lad? Pu’ me in t’ground? Ye da troi’d t’at an’ ye see where he ended up.

And it comes down to that sound that still echoes in his ears. Half drowns out the question and the bite spit at him. Comes down to the first shot that takes out a knee. And the second that takes out the other. Gives the old man a point of view he’s never experienced before. Lets the younger and more cunning wolf takes steps to bring himself closer. Able to look down at the man that caused so much hell--to so many people. He’s righteous in this. He believes that. With every fiber of his being, as cooling metal is pressed into skin.

          “Funny d’ing o’bout usuprers...uncle. Ye canna e’er trust anyone.”

The hell are ye doin’ boy?! Oi’ gave ye e’eryd’in! All o’d’is yours when oi’ were good an’ ready ta han’ i’---

          “Ta me? Oh ye canna d’ink oi’m d’at naive. Ye know as well as oi’ do m’no O’Rian.”

And how glorious it really is to watch the the realization dawn on the old man’s face. And then wipe it clean with a single pull of a trigger.

[whosxafraid]

MEME:  Vulnerable Meme  STATUS: Open URL: @morgansmornings​

🎲 for random/dealer’s choice : to catch my muse up late because they couldn’t sleep

Sometimes even the heat of skin on skin isn’t enough to keep him between the sheets of his own bed. Sometimes there are things that weigh too heavy on a mind. Things that refuse to settle. Things that make a dead eye twitch and fingers flex unconsciously against a burning cigarette. Sometimes he watches the sun set only to watch it rise again without having moved beyond the confines of his chair all night. 

Its just usually he’s alone in his apartment on nights like tonight. Usually times like these only come when there is not else to distract. When evenings are quiet, void of comings and goings. When the dogs are even want to stir. And all that there is, is himself and the thousand steps yet needed to see his grand plan come to fruition. 

But that’s just it. Tonight he is not alone. Not that it changes anything, though perhaps it should. The whiskey is still poured in three finger gauges every so often. The marble ash tray--half full of its judgement--sits waiting as it should beside a cigarette laden hand. Smoke that spindles upward and a nearly unbroken trail as the skyline still lies dark. An hour yet at least before the sun begins to change its colors.

But the peaceful evening--its all an illusion inside his own mind. A far away place he’s no time to consider let alone enjoy. Too many facets to ensure seamlessly interact with others. Too man strings attached to too many puppets. One he knows if he takes his eye away from for even a mom--

A click of nails on marble. A quiet slap of a barefoot. The thunk of furry tales. Soft fingers on bare skin. Warmer than his own. Kinder. And for the first time since he settled his gaze is pulled back to the tangible. The current. The real. And the only indication he’d been startled is the wave that moves through shoulders as he turns to look over and up at her. A half grin--though whether it is meant to convey his pleasure of company or dissuade her probably curiosity he’ll never say. 

           “Wha’ ye doin’ up, luv?”

[whosxafraid]

Check...

Tracked from [ x ]

It’s quiet. Silent as the grave. Not a soul in this place but himself. The clinging slap of plastic being pulled away from skin shattering the desolate lack of sound. Running water, the friction of cotton against wet skin. A metallic click of a cigarette being retrieved and lit follows. The soft clang of it as it is set upon the table before him. Hands braced out against it. Letting the weight of too much settle.

Another drag that’s pulled to the deepest recesses of his lungs when the complaint of a door draws his gaze. The click clack of luxury heels on concrete. Green and milky white narrowing ever so much through brows. Searching the dim expanse of the warehouse beyond. Not because of wariness but because he knows that walk.  And while any other moment he would be inherently inclined to give her pause...he’s in the middle of something just now. Taking a smoke break as he is not withstanding. 

            “Bes’ be impor’...”

A fall out of words, as she crosses over the boundary into better lighting. A step back as he rises to full height when she fails to halt herself at a reasonable pace. His gaze catching in all the places he knows she meant it too. From the stiletto heels that lead to impossibly long legs. What little there is between her and the elements frail. To the barbed necklace that lies upon her throat. A threat to both her own flesh as well as any one else that would dare. A gift.

A chin lifts fractions more, in a silent kind of defiance. Forcing his mind back to more pressing things. Because there’s only so many reasons that would draw this particular woman down from her lofty tower. Draw her out into the wilds of the late New York night. Especially alone. No chauffeur. No sign at all of a lurking shadow. Alone and brandishing all the things she knows will entice, will grab hold of his attention. His gaze narrows further by degrees, as the toxins in his lungs escape. 

        I hate dat you have grown so big now, dat ya hardly need me any more. No come t’ visit ya Auntie like ya used to, eh, boy?

Nails...calculated in their weight as they travel. And there is a flinch to an extent, as green shifts down to watch her. Track her in so far as he can as she circles him like a predator. He doesn’t like that thought--or so he tells himself--and pushes it from his mind. Head turning the other way to gain sight of her again, as the heckles rise upon the back of his neck. He never had liked anyone existing in his blind spot. No matter who they were. Though her voice helps. Lets him know where she is until she’s once more passed into his lacking line of sight.

Though even as she scratches at his shortcomings...she compliments. Stokes and strokes his ego. And perhaps he takes pleasure from it, allows himself to. Because Beth had always been on his side. Even when knowledge and fact proved otherwise. And for that she has been granted certain...leniencies. Certain privileges. Ones that no other...not even another he shapes for higher ground are allotted. And instead of a hand around her throat. Instead of promises of harm...another drag is pulled in the darkest recesses. Exhaled again through nostrils that frame him like the dragon he was bred to be.

           “Wha’ can oi’ be doin’ for ye, Auntie?” 

Because for all the pomp she showers...she does not do so frivolously. They are meant to lead somewhere. Lead to request or lead to information or any number of things that would require her to come down from on high. Because he had not lied to her sibling when he told the blue blooded bastard he had eyes and ears in more places than Uncle Andy could possibly ever understand. A thought that has an empty hand rising to catch her chin between finger and thumb. Gaze studying her face as she finally...

Ah there it is. 

The reason and the requirement. She’s seen something. Something that by first glance bodes ill. Yet a flickering smile comes as goes. There’s no such luxuries as coffee here. So instead she’s given his very own glass, and the bottle beside it spills a healthy dose. Cigarette caught between his teeth as he pulls on one plastic glove and the thicker rubber one after it. The apron previously cast aside retrieved and put on, though he leaves it untied.

           “Dunna be in me interest for eoi’d’er o’us ta foin’d our graves.”

Emotionless are the words, even for all that Auntie might know better. There are few outside his own blood, outside his queen in progress and his bishop, that he cares for. In so much as one like him can. And Oisin is one. Blood the man is not but like Beth has always been loyal, even before it was in their better interest. And brows knit as he turns away. Lifts a foot from the filthy containers beside the vat in the center of the room. Easing it in as he takes the last draw from a bad habit and smothers it against the side before pocketing the remains. Watching the chemicals bubble and smoke. 

There’s only two reasons Angus would plan something of that nature. Either his mother’s cunning has finally let her down and the old snake’s lust has gotten the better of him or...green and white are settled on his company. What he says next left to Beth to decide if it is a statement or question. Even for all the frustration that lies in his bones over the knowledge. Because he’s worked too hard for it all to fall apart now. Now when his goal is just breathes out of reach. So close...so very god.damn.close.

          “He knows, den.”

[whosxafraid]

Evening Visit

Tracked from [ x ]

The man of the house isn’t home. He’d known that before bothering to set his path to this part of Boston. Oisin settles at the door--as far as his shadow dare goes, as Luka passes over the threshold. Unannounced and uninvited if one chose to look at it from the proper angle. But he doesn’t. The door quietly clicked closed, in the echo of the keys tinkling together, sliding back into his pocket. Mien and shoes left at the door. Something heavy that is left behind him, as though the weight of too much has been withdrawn for the time that he remains within these walls.

Green is cast from one end of the open space to the other. Every facet of it has not changed since the last time he had stood here. Which he realizes now has been…longer than he should have allowed it to be. But long are the days and nights of those that wish to usurp a throne that should have been theirs. Heavy the responsibilities. And though such weight has been left with his shoes by the door mat...it is that weight that has seen him here. What has brought him to this haven above the streets of the city he has had to learn how to rule by trial and error. So when the light humming and easy slosh of water reaches his ears--

There is little to nothing that hesitates when feet move him in search of it. Socked feet silence on the wood and runner down the hall. Passing through another door left ajar by the occupant because what modesty needed protecting when one believed themselves alone? Further still, finger tips dragging like ghosts along the edge of the armoire. The vanity with its mirror he gives no regard. Until he finds space to rest against the door frame of the bathroom. Gaze drug from foot to knee and from knee along the edge of the bath to her face. Ten years his senior, and she still looks no older than a day beyond the first he’d met her. When he was still young, native and full of stardust dreams.

Yet even for the bitter thought there’s a tilt to his head as he listens. The tune she sings as familiar to him as the back of his own hand. And while she is not looking perhaps there is something softer that comes to be about him. Something not quite so sharply wound, or razor edged. As though nothing more than the music she makes has soothed the psychosis he can no more help than he can breathing. The smallest...most faint of smiles painted in grey shades between dark hedges of hair. And green and grey are cast to the floor in response to her leg disappearing beneath the bubbles and the cloth being so subtly moved. 

Respect he does not show many, but Auntie Beth has earned the right to keep her modesty. Among many other things. So his gaze remains fixed in the nebulous space between the bottom of the tub and the intricate tile. Allows himself the momentary treat of becoming lost in the notes of the aria she sings. He knows not the words but that matters little. It is the tune that is calming, and all the more that it is her that sings it. Much like a siren, though he’s no reason to fear she will eat him once he’s complacent enough. Even if that is by all accounts a possibility. Though he’d been of a different belief just days before.

Brows that nit as the song comes to close. The subsequent slosh and drain of the water. Further tiny waves crashing against skin and marble as Auntie rises from the marble tub. The friction of fine silk against bare flesh, and itself as the ties are knotted together. Wet feet on the tile. It all seems too loud in the moment. Reverberating off every flat surface of the room. Something that fuels the most minute of movements. A resettling of sorts against the door frame. 

           I used t’ sing dat one, when sleep no would come t’ ya. Used t’ lay dere in ya bed, eyes starin’ out da window, tryin’ t’ shut out all da sounds from downstair.

The smile’s death is quick, but not painless. A cold indifference taking its place. Habit when those that knew him before the man he’s become speak of such times. Times he can not truly afford to relive. Both for the sake of his sanity as well as there’s no real point. He’s no longer a child. Hasn’t been for some time now. And speaking of earlier years...so much of it makes him feel a fool. One that should have known, should have seen the truth far sooner. Because all the pieces had been there to be sorted had he known he was living inside the framework of a puzzle.

A touch to his face draws his gaze from the nether places it has found rest. The slightest twitch of marred skin and clouded eye. The start of an attempt of another smile, though it’s never truly born upon his lips. Even for all that the mess inside his skull quiets again in the spaces between earth and sea.

            But ya prolly forgot dat, yeah? C’mon. Let’s get some kine t’ drink. 

A nod, and nothing more. Tracking her as she moves beyond him, and then her room. Disappears into the hall, where he follows a breath later. Hovers in the corners of things as she gathers drink and glasses. Does not make a move to take the whiskey and the tumbler she’s set out until she is well on her way into the living room. Settling herself down on the sofa. Only then does he really move to pour a decent amount into the waiting glass. A pause before he’s knocking it back entirely. A wince to swallow it before a bit more is added to the glassware this time, as feet are already following along in Auntie’s wake. Lucas settling himself down in the chair just angled from the sofa. Bottle and glass set upon the coffee table and elbows resting on knees.

             “No Auntie...no’ bedtoi’me stories…”

An out of character hesitation. That’s framed by the way his jaw sets a little off center, green unfocused in the space between them for several breathes. Because there’s no real way to ask this gently. Nothing that will lesson the blow in any real way. And in the end--well it really isn’t his style to pad things for the sake of people’s feelings. Not anymore.

           “How long were ye knownin’ oi’ werena an O’Rian?"

[whosxafraid]

Meme: Uncomfortable Headcanons Status: Open URL: @brooklynislandgirl​

If asked he will dismiss it with a filing of fingers in the air. If asked he will chuckle darkly around a well dried joke. If asked he will say there are things in the world unexplained only because no one has done it yet. But those closest know to take that with a grain of salt. Those closest know that above all things he is adept at the art of deception. Adept at misleading. Adept at pulling the wool over eyes so dull in comparison to his own.

Behind closed doors it is a different affair all together.

He grew up on the old stories. The warnings of fairer folk that have whisked away better men, never to be seen again. The tales of witches of the wild that could read the future by the bones of the past. The kings who built their kingdoms upon their very words. Knows that those tails never ended well. But only because a crown made a man blind to all else that moved.

Behind closed doors, Lucas Sweeney O’Rian is in parts and pieces of a different mind. Every move that he makes is calculated and weighed. Calculated by his own hand and weighed balance to the wisdom that spills like blood lines from an Aunty’s tongue. Pays what’s due for it with no guilt because the ends justify the means. The pleasurable part about it just a finders bonus.

He does not believe in the supernatural the way that most would definite it. There are no salt lines at his door ways. No cream left for the wee folk at window sills. He’s too old and too jaded to believe in that kind of magic. But what he does believe in is respect. 

Respecting the old ways in which deals were struck. That sometimes there does not need to be an explanation of precisely how she knows what she does. All that matters is that she does. And he is always the one to whom the messages from beyond are brought. First and only.

He doesn’t believe in the supernatural. 

But he does believe in the ever watchful eye and bleeding tongue of the Witch of Brooklyn.

His witch and no one else’s. 

No matter what a knight in blue might believe.

[whosxafraid]

[whosxafraid]

Tracked from [x]

A grin. Genuine as one can ever be when it comes to Luka Sweeney O’Rian. Because if she feels spoiled now, just wait until dinner. Her favorite place in all of New York, at the best table. Though he wouldn’t call it spoiling so much as giving her what she deserves. Only the best. And only the finest. And let the social elitist look over their fine crystal and sniff their long noses. He’s no care at all. Because half of them are customers in some way shape or form. Delving out sins like candy. Not because he enjoys it, though some he does, but because they’re all stepping stones. They’re all means to an end. Though what that end is only he knows. It’s safest that way.

Still the grin spreads. Hitches the marring of his skin in such a way that one might find frightening if they didn’t know better. Taking the kisses without fear of death, because even the cake had been painstakingly hand selected. A chocolate substitute for the sauce, that she doesn’t at all seem to notice--or at least mind. And the necklace that she had so brightly beamed at is lifted from its box. Unhooked and settled around her throat as she indulges in another bite. Fingers following the chain downward from its clasp until his hands span the space of her chest. One hand remaining there, where a thumb rests along her collarbone; while the other moves upward. Hooks a finger beneath her chin and draws it up. Her gaze meant to settle on their joint reflection in the mirror across the room.

           “Only ta bes’ for me luv.”

Low, half rumbled words at her ear, as green hold gold flecked brown in the mirror. A heart beat to appreciate he had in fact been correct about the necklace. It is a perfect accent to the center piece that Jayden Morgan is. Gives attention to her eyes and her perfect olive complexion. She’d be the one every eye would be on at the festival. Exactly as he intended it to be.

           “Sets ye eyes dancin’, loi’ke oi’ hoped i’would.”

Because he wants her to believe it’s entirely about her. Needs her too. Because deep down he wishes it was. Wishes she wasn’t part of the elaborate game of chess that he’s played day in and day out for six years now. But he’s also smart enough to understand that while she is not an active player she is still a piece on the board. And he sees no harm in a little flaunting. A little show off of the beautiful woman at his arm to those that continuously doubt him.  Plus how could anyone take charges of murder put against him seriously, when he’d clearly been out and about with his lady friend in such a public way? No judge or captain would. Take it seriously that is. Killing two birds with one stone. It’s smart, he thinks. Not deceitful, at least not where she is concerned. Not really. 

So a kiss is pressed against her neck, the ghosting idea of teeth behind it. Shifting up, to rest his chin on the crown of her head.

           “Now...ye go ge’ yeself ready, aye? D’ere be dinner ta enjoy yet, for we take in d’films.”

[whosxafraid]

Meme: Send a word and I will write a drabble or headcanon based on it Status: Open URL: @brooklynislandgirl​

If there is one thing above all others that he understands, it is that there must be a presence made and kept. A kind of visual aid to sustain the belief of what and who he is. That unlike some kings and would be princes, he has his feet on the ground. That where he can not physically be, because at the end of the day he is simply mortal, he still has eyes and ears. That there is nothing within his own house that he isn’t aware of. Because there is a wisdom in learning from the errors of your elders. Wisdom and understanding in being the one piece of another house who’s master is none the wiser of his own deceit. Though it begs the question if it really is that, given he wasn’t the one to make the first blow.

And it is that omniscient kind of presence that he does his best to maintain that’s seen him to his current situation. Dealing with a problem. Someone skimming despite the fact he’s been generous, at least from where he’s standing. And while there’s a certain kind of discretion that must be maintained...the message sent must be clear. To both the messenger as well as the rest. Because stepping out of line...can not be tolerated. No matter how far or how little the infraction.

So it would neither sit well nor be proper to allow any one else to carry it out the thief’s fate. But he does so dislike the feel of hugging plastic on his skin. The way it leaves his hands smelling. But he can’t risk leaving any trace at all he was ever here, can he? Not when those that watch him very much believe him to be relaxing at home. Idiots. They really should have taken better care of understanding why he bought the abodes he did. Why the places of businesses he’s acquired were chosen. But he supposes not everyone can be quite as historically knowledgeable as he’s become inclined to be. Can’t possibly be expected to look at the city with older eyes, because the stories and tricks had to come from somewhere.

A twitch of an unseeing eye, as his head tilts just so to one side. A plastic covered finger selecting a preference of tool. The bound man behind him, relieved of the hood over his head by other hands. The silent moments only broken by feared breathing, as Luka turns about. No time at all to waste with the mind games, his uncle so much prefers, he crosses the pitiful amount of space between them. One hand locking down on the man’s jaw, forcing his head back against the chair backing. The thief's fear echoing off the shipping container walls.

           “Ye saved me ta trouble o’ havin’ ta look where ye stashed me money...me d’anks...bu’ now oi’ be needin’ ta interest ye owe.”

And somewhere in the distance a dock worker looks up from his clip board. A slight wrinkle to his brows. Yet it only last a moment before he’s returned to his check list. The creaks and cries of the ship and loading equipment drowning out the screams. And tomorrow the runners will be a collection of whispered buzzing. All of them a repeat : Did you hear what happened to Tim Moran? And the breathed answer that grows more grizzly in its detail with every telling.

[whosxafraid]

MEME:  Pry into my muse’s secrets! Confront them about something they’ve been hiding, and they’ll have no choice but to tell the truth! STATUS: Selectively Open URL: @brooklynislandgirl

He’d known she was there long before she’d passed into his line of sight. Known from the quiet way the door closing had echoed in the wake of a glass he sent shattering into the wall. Known in the bleeding way the music had come to life across the room. Crawled inch by inch into his ears, sunk down into his veins. Begun to ease the throbbing mass of grey matter in his skull, until only the sharpness remained behind a useless eye. Bloody knuckles and painted face of no concern, as the weariness starts to eat away at muscle. Until he can do nothing else but sink to the floor where he stands. Though to his fortune one of the columns catches him. Guides him down in a slow collapse.

Where he sits, hands slack in his lap. Breath uneven and still finding its proper pace. The pain lined rage only half so lit by the time the only one that knows this dance draws closer. The only one that knows every step and when to make them in order to prevent becoming a target. To prevent his twisted psyche from seeing her as anything but what she is. Some that means him no harm. That has only his best interests at heart. Has no agenda other than his well being. So by the time her hand finds his bloodied cheek, asks what it is that troubles him in tones she has used all his life--even a paranoid would be king hasn’t the fortitude to draw back behind his walls of marbled stone. Even for all that green and grey can not find paths to her face in that moment.

           “Feckin’ moi’ce...rats eatin’ d’rough me loi’nes...snatch o’ e’er crumb d’at falls off me table...”

A twitch of his features, that brings the ghost of the monster he could be into being for a breath before it falls away again. His words almost muttered yet clear as any crystal for all that they seem to ramble on like inane chattering.

            “Baitin’ wi’d piss promises.....requirin’ answer......cut i’ out o’em...”

His gaze falls to the beaten and mutilated bodies mere feet away. What blood he’d not let from them himself pooling into the carpet. A mistake. He’d lost his temper. It will have to be cleaned, sterilized. He needs to address that, will. Can’t right now. Everything’s become to heavy from the effort of the tortured slaughtering. Had to make them talk first before cut their tongues out. Had to know who it was that was slipping behind his lines. Making deals, and creating turncoats. And when the truth had come? It wasn’t complete. Wasn’t all there but enough to go on for now.

           “Goin’ ta send ‘em back oi’ am, Auntie.....Goin’ ta make i’ clear....foi’nd out which shades an’-----bleed ‘em loi’ke ta pigs d’ey be.”

[whosxafraid]

It's starts as a buzz, no bigger than the end of a needle. That begins to twist and turn at the center of a useless eye. That grows with every rotation, until the pressure becomes palpable. Becomes a thing he can not ignore. Bleeds into the inner workings of a mind already--and always-- on edge. Paints the world in colors no one else can see or understand. And the psychosis he refuses to acknowledge leaks out into the real world without camouflage. Where it bears its teeth, and roars its rage. Slaughters the things closest to him.

Shattered glass, porcelain, whiskey and half eaten food. A curse in his tongue that dare the very heavens to strike him down for the blasphemy. If only his enemies were so very lucky. Yet for his fortune they are not, and he is left to his own unhinged devices.

Blood mixing with the liquor now, pooling on the floor. Heavy fists that come down like lead weights, into the focus of his rage. Over and over and over again. The cries for mercy unheeded. The sputtering death chortles revelled in. And when at last the victim of his pain lined temper falls silent...the destruction is turned on other things.

The buzzing all he can hear now. Becoming a throbbing affront to anything and everything. The lamps are torn from counters and walls. Furniture knocked from his path, to find some way to make it stop. To ease the pulsating mass of drums inside his skull. Thunderous feet on solid oak that carry him from dining space to hallway. And from hallway to the wide expanse of a bedroom.

Drawers thrown open and jacket pockets rifled through. Boxes and books raked from shelves crashing to the floor. A bathroom that is left in ruins. A closet visited by a small hurricane. Yet he can find it not. The sweetness he needs. The body numbing bliss only it can give and it all begins again. Over and over until there's no other choice.

Steal cuts high across an arm. Reopens and old scar. Then another and another. Hysteria building with every assault. Distraction from the blinding pain in his mind...belief it will work because it has before. Yet it doesn't. Not for all the red now pooled upon once prestine tile does it ebb. And a would be king loses strength where he can not afford it. The blade clattering to the floor, and the rest of him follows after in a slower decent.

Make it stop....

A silent plea never given voice. At least not in words. As somewhere a single drop of sea water escapes, to the drumming inside his skull. Drumming that he's no idea at all he's copying with every strike of his head against the cabinets.

---or let it end.

[whosxafraid]

Meme: SEND 📔 + A SUBJECT FOR A JOURNAL ENTRY WRITTEN BY MY MUSE. Status: Open URL: @brooklynislandgirl​

To say a man like him kept words on a page has perhaps been misconstrued by social media expectations and hollywood movie screens. Because what you write down is forever, unless you do something with it afterward. 

Still that leaves chance. Chance for anyone at all to see, or anyone at all to steal it away entirely before it can be demolished beyond recognition. So by wisdom and a large dose of paranoia, Luka O’Rian does not set ink to paper for any reason, save when signature is required. Or money is involved.

No, he writes his entries in momentary things. With liquor and less legal substances. Chases the absence of pain when no one is looking. 

He writes dissertations with the work he does every day, and the blood of those that stand in his way. 

He carves his story into his skin in ways only he can understand, and curses the mirror at night for the injustice of being the only one that can keep focus at all times on the prize.

He cites chapter and verse of other’s stories in how he weaves his threads and cuts their own without them knowing. 

And when it all comes to head, only he will know the story in its entire. Only he will understand everything it has cost him. Only he will know how to write the history. Because that is the right of the victor.

History has taught him that.

Just like history has taught him, just where his fingers need to brush like ideas. Just where his teeth need to graze. All to coax the dreaming out of his company. No thought or care at all to how much judgement there is in how the clock glares its strike of midnight from the side table.

[whosxafraid]

[ original post: x ] @morgansmornings

Of Wolves In Wool Cloth and Shepards Once Fooled