⠀#⠀ accustomed to the metallic bite of agony. no one ever said it would taste sweet, a kid stripped from any disillusionment. a thought glint in his eyes — daring, begging, for the other to stop being such a nervous dick a take a swing ! bruised fists tightly wound with a phantom hellfire held between. ( dad’s 𝔦𝔪𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔩 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰: if it can’t be said with words, say it with your fuckin’ fists, boy ! ) arrogance rattles in the boxer’s laugh, opportunity scrapping by the nose. one - two and vinnie’s out the door: another layer of coarse skin split clean. ruinous chuckle echoing from fractured ribcage. kicked to the curb like some stray, scuffed boots stumbling into the parking lot to find a sense of balance. whistle sounds a bad omen, head whips in immediate reaction, ( what was worse: getting caught or realising there’s no feeling in your nose ? goddamn. ) fingers instinctively touch above cupid’s bow, savouring the blood on the fingertips and can’t help the shit - eating grin. “ you’re callin’ that a fight ? i would’ve called it a marketin’ strategy. ” callously spoken, fight every urge to roll 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔰𝔨𝔢𝔶 - 𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔢𝔶𝔢𝔰 at the leader. “ sixty - seven; fuck you, carmen. isn’t it some sorta fuckin’, illegal crime for a council woman to be profitin’ off the regular joe ? ”
It’s a goddamn cliche to say that a Gutierrez will pick a fight wherever they go, which is why Carmen’s eyes almost slide over the tumult at the dive bar that upturns a table, sends a stein shattering. Fists fly like firecrackers popping off and its only seconds before security is swarming them. Vinnie - both the storm and the sea - gets his ass hauled out the back door and into the pitch of the alleyway. His opponent, out cold, doesn’t get the same treatment from his spot face down the ground. At most, he gets the careful consideration of Carmen avoiding his shoulders, catching his fingers, as she steps over him on her way out.
The streetlights are a return to normal. This dark is the irascible New York she knows - the landscape complete with Vinnie itching for a fight. Purple touches an eye as bruises bloom. Once upon a time Carmen would have joined in, gotten a little violent too. Responsibility's a plague.
She whistles - “What are we, a fucking charity? If you’re picking a fight, I expect you to be charging for it.” Far from reprimanding. This is her, opening the hellhound’s mouth to check its teeth. She holds up two fingers. “How many?” She wants confirmation that she doesn’t have to turn around and collect a pound of flesh.
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⠀#⠀ fuckin’ christ ! arrant horror momentarily revealed beneath glacial, supercilious disposition. labelled suits, inherited pride, will never disguised the truth. ( 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔫𝔞𝔦𝔩𝔰, dirt dug from six feet deep: you will always be a mutt. ) latest headline cast aside, sharp inhale rattles with indignity, “ uh, no ma’am. thought it’d be best to . . . ” posture shifts, like 𝔞 𝔫𝔢𝔯𝔳𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔡𝔬𝔤 caged, “ you never know who’s watchin’ nowadays. nice to know that journalists here are just like the roaches back home. ” never one to 𝔱𝔞𝔩𝔨 𝔱𝔬 𝔤𝔬𝔡, but oh how dante prayed for the earth to swallow him whole. rough half smile falters, sincere bewilderment under sickly green lighting, “ . . . i was up for a pay rise ? ”
* they stick out, fuckin’ dogs’ balls amongst the filth / suited, neat, caricature of police procedural. she’s even got a 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐋𝐀 folder sat, face down, alongside cappuccino that bears signature print, revlon stain on dirty china. there’s 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 for meetings in public — element of surprise when she slides into adjacent booth, unnoticed until she’s greeted + promptly ignored. 𝖳𝖸𝖯𝖨𝖢𝖠𝖫. agents these days … sculpted brow arches, practically into her hairline — “ tsk, tsk, agent tenant. do you kiss your mother with that mouth ? ” rich lacquer taps staccato into diner table ( oh, she notes the grease that collects just underneath ; doesn’t wince, to immeasurable credit ! ) — “ if you were angling for a 𝗉𝖺𝗒 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾, this is the wrong way to go about it. ”
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god sent
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𝗟𝗢𝘊𝘈𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕: andi's bar, late night after closing.
𝗪𝗜𝘛𝘏: andrew fontaine, @sntsagcstines
⠀#⠀ cursed with a particular kind of greed. infected parental shaped hole by the tender 𝔠𝔯𝔲𝔢𝔩𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔤𝔬𝔡, autonomy caught and ripped apart in the maw of retribution. the very truth haunts them: no amount of blood spilled would satiate such wanting hunger. ( young hands shaking with grave dirt and stained ichor. sat by the edge of a nameless highway diner . . . where was this peace you’ve been promised afterwards ? ) lev knew this: recognised beyond the mississippi filth that stained such bewildered eyes, a deep rooted feeling of pride. vanity shone in the pools of blood from fallen bodies. a secret held like a knife to helena’s throat, he and one other. unexpected clandestine meeting, shrouded by the 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 and kept a mystery from the family. curl of silver smoke escapes past the door before them, cigarette lowly hanging from the corner. “ long time, no see, cowboy. ain’t last call yet, is it ? ”
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⠀#⠀ off like some runaway. desperation lingers between healing bruises to outpace new york’s suffocating, bright lights. on the hunt for somewhere darker, ignorant to the sea of perennial gazes. dive deeper into the undergrounds for the night, the labyrinths the closest he’s called home since chicago ( oh how the night rings like a match bell: the betrayal in your brother’s eyes, cold like 𝔠𝔞𝔦𝔫 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞𝔟𝔩𝔢. ) features 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔲𝔫𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔶 from violence: lips lacerated from the last fight, jaw and sight barely in tact. pierce through the heart of the crowd and follow every neon sign leading to the bar. knuckles rapt against wooden surface, hooking the bartender’s eyes — circled in an ugly shade of purple. eyebrows knitted together: was this your handiwork or just more collateral damage ? either way, vinnie bit his tongue and asked for the usual poison. turn to another surprise in a form of a posed question, 𝔞𝔯𝔪 𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔦𝔢𝔡 against the bar table. “ neither. ” even in all his sincerity, chicago humour echoes as sarcasm. truth be told: you had no clue what you were searching for. smile glistens under dim lights. “ but i heard you on the way down. you were fuckin’ great up there, man. ”
OPEN STARTER - ZAKIR SETHUPATHI
underground hip-hop bar
Zakir pulled at the hem of his shirt, sweat falling off of his hair down his neck, the heat and the adrenaline working together to make him want to run outside to catch his breath. Though he knew he would end up in the cold if he did, so instead he used his shirt to wipe at his head, waving his hand in front of his face as he settled at the bar. Instead of sitting down on one of the stools, he kept standing, rolling on his feet, giddy with the recognition of earlier, a show which he'd joined in on rather than led. But that was the beauty of being a rapper, to anyone in the audience it might seem like rivals had joined on stage, while in fact they were all friends. Whenever he called any of them bhai, he meant in more than he usually did.
"A water," he told the bartender when it finally was his turn. The fellow looked at him weirdly, but it would do neither of them any favours to explain he was a Muslim. He watched the fellow grumble something and turned to another patron while he waited. "Wallah, it's so hot in here," he said, wiping sweat off of his forehead again with a part of his shirt that had escaped the set dry. "Are you here for the ambience or the show?" he asked.
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Louise Glück, October
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⠀#⠀ guilt rattles in their breath, whisper of lev’s tenor serpentines around viktor’s response. how grief can displace entire existences, ( you shouldn’t and yet . . . sat beside an empty chair, the archangels with blood on their hands. what to do with all this blood, without their avowed god ? ) 𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃, 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑 fractures by the revealed teeth. no amount of bitter amber can drown the awful truth which tightens in the chest, dismay frayed between their eyebrows and the unspoken reply. there’s no peace in the truth. “ of course not. ” remorse chews on helena’s words, pry to the surface a pale ghost of insomnolent, southern nights. how fortunate for lev to find those so prepared, devout until his very end and more . . . how lucky. head swings back for another gulp, glass tight in their tense grip. “ but nothin’ been said out loud, and it’ll stay that way. " fearful of what might be heard. still, there’s a cruel turn of their smile, disguised by the glass brought near. “ a shame that he won’t get that open casket like he always wanted. let the world get one grand, final look. ”
the room collects its congregation, and in the absence of the one who thought himself savior, every movement still remains performative, watched by the omniscient. the eyes of this self proclaimed god are everywhere, in the form of every person. viktor looks to them, to helena, with a wayward glance. the one lev twisted and turned into viktor's own personal antagonist for a climb neither could survive the fall from. now all he sees is the same fate they suffer and it manifests in helena's posture, confirmed by what renders him speechless. and instead, he reaches to numb the truth in liquid courage. “ you shouldn't ask that. ” because they know. it's in the way the room feels just then and a certain irony that settles in. three feet above where a man once sat, who could damn or claim your salvation with a mere glance, viktor's attention snags. the crucifix, it hangs tilted. unchanged because lev is not there to meticulously palm at it with a parable curated for the individual who stands before the judge, jury and executioner. “ and i don't like my answer. ” he swallows down the honesty. liquid regret burning the back of his throat. he never has found comfort in the truth. “ you don't like yours either, do you? ”
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⠀#⠀ two’s company, three’s a crowd with god’s omniscient gaze swallowing the room whole. but what else is a sinner to do but call holy grounds home ? the only constant in such wrath torn life, ( a weapon not born, but raised, on the 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 - 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 taste of divine vengeance. addiction seeps between the cracks of your smile. ) bite their tongue as a means of survival, a glimpse of surprise in raven hues, all a guise for practiced temperament. “ sure. ” helena fishes out a crumpled packet and offers with a ghost of a smile. another long drag curls with the echo of a bemused chuckle, eyes met and recognised. ( hear it echo in the back of your mind, teachings lashed and there’s scars to prove it / hymnals cry out . . . 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐥 𝟏𝟏:𝟑𝟐 ! ) “ bless your heart, seems like flattery does get you anywhere in this city. ” gaze like dagger with words dripping with sugary cadence. reptuation precedes: zahira’s name whispered like doom impending. but the smile remains, legs meticulously cross one another as spine eases into pew’s grain, “ now you’ve got me sittin’ on the edge of my seat here, honestly. ”
⠀*⠀ 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 convince a consummate sinner to enter the hallowed halls of a church once more? zahira would imagine that it went something like this: a former preacher's daughter and a rumored weapon walk into a church. only one of them walks out. she wouldn't tell helena this yet, but she reckoned that would be her. no matter what had happened in her past: zahira was always the losing dog that she bet upon. the clicking sound as her recorder is switched on is disguised by low, wailing hymnals.
⠀ zahira meets helena's eyes. she's wearing a poor imitation of a sweet smile, one leg folding over the other as she makes herself comfortable. ( it is all a guise, of course. she hasn't been comfortable in a church in years. flashbacks of religious fervour and a hand in the flaxen hair of a peer, red lips pressed to ear - whispering things she was sure she'd want to hear. )
⠀ she wonders if she'll be able to tell helena exactly what they'll want to hear. " can i bum a smoke? " she asks, almost impatient, head canting to the side. she's not sweet in her request. if helena is smoking in church, she wants to be too. " i'll say a couple of hail maries for staring at one of the best-dressed people in church. " her lips curve up into a smile. " aside from myself, of course."
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⠀#⠀ doesn’t justice feel divine ? a righteous anger fractured between bruised knuckles and lacerated lip. the city rots with an all too familiar cruelty, deep beneath sinew and marrow, desperate to pry out what little hope remains. for every learnt monstrosities, sliver linings of his mother remain - no matter how desperate he tries to run away from. it leads him here, body reliant against the doorframe. deja vu aches where flesh splits, ( you’re sixteen again: head low with boyish guilt and declared winner of another schoolyard scrap ! crown of sticks and leaves caught in brown tussles. ) “ did you . . . did you try to bake ? ” he doesn’t mean to laugh. echoes of the sound atrophies with bewilderment. is this what families do ? held under a magnifying gaze; tenderly, up close, the thought of familial affection makes the agent squirm. limbs a cumbrous tangle upon the chair, posture relaxes with a battered exhale. “ actually, some bastard tried to pull a runner nearby central park. thought punchin' an agent would’ve given him sort of head start. ” capillaries reach to graze over, dried blood staining his fingertips. he’s been through worse. “ explainin’ it all to lovegrove and valiente, now that’s going to be more painful. ”
𝐌 , DANTE VALMONT ... ( @bad0gs )
𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘴. 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘢'𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 , 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘳𝘴
a cookie tray pulled from the oven sits on the kitchen counter and a plastic container labeling a failure at $2.99 sits in the bin. this is what families do. but she is not her sister, she is merely a performative attempt of the maternal image conjured up from television commercials and magazine articles. a name and mirror reflection are all sisters share now, and a boy. miriam's nephew. the one who stands by the doorway with a bloodied bottom lip. ' behold i send you out as sheep amidst the wolves. ' new york is not kind to all, but mira knows he is not kind to it either because she shares in that pessimism rooted in their very bones. it's exchanged over finger print dusting, bloodied sidewalks, bullet fragments and neon yellow caution tape. that is what this family does. “ did you mouth off to lovegrove or valiente? ” neither. she knows this, it's as nonchalant as asking for coffee with no sugar, just cream, and because of this, mira looks downward to the round dining table with a singular place setting, just now pushed across to the chair he will occupy, the only other chair.
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⠀#⠀ boy - king disguised as the reverent son of god, a dog imitating his father’s worst growl. solitude soaked in a grin, something to say about the cacophonous sight: delicate kiss brushed against cold skin and the mind wanders . . . how bad is it this time ? digits, maimed and elongated with vicious nostalgia, surrender precious cigarette without complaint. casually cruel with a hypocrite’s smile, ( and oh doesn’t the vile heart 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 at the sight ! if circumstance ever gave him a tender, fighting chance all those years ago. perhaps holy beings wouldn’t get such a riotous kick, otherwise. ) bestow a sigh as condolences, lips purse as soundless response: greed was a terrible curse to suffer with. “ father paul can keep tellin’ all he wants, it’s not my job. ” melodic cadence disguises the sharp truth. ( never taken kindly to such figures. 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐄 / 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒𝐓 raised to be a pious weapon, childhood gouged out as divine offering. ) a fractured reflection of a mirrored grin, capillaries seize jaw and push designer shades away. peer into pallid hues in prayers of some glimpse of the future, some sign from potential godhood. “ these aren’t the times to be so generous, gotta keep those cards to your chest, darlin’. ” grasp releases, cigarette taken back. can’t always get what you want. “ and stop fuckin’ grinnin’. you’re suppose to be in mournin’. ”
* easy enough, to lose track of how oft sacred position is taken ; pews bear peculiar patina now, 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾 - 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇 ! ( only tradition he can fuck with, it is … sunday service, knees bear the constant stain of it: forgive me, father. i spit my confessions at your feet, preening cat with still - twitching KILL in dripped - red maw, no 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 can save me now. ) helena exists in blissful tandem with it all, partner in crime in so many ways … new ones born of devastating circumstances, he supposes. ( speaking of: sunglasses in church ? really ? calvin kleins stay firmly on, a careful shade to hide slashes of indigo that give away a sleepless night or six. ) swift kiss brushed against the planes of their cheekbone before he plucks lit cigarette from their grip, inhales deeply enough that there’s an accompanying noise. guttural. “ and father paul keeps tellin’ you it’s rude to litter in the 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚍. ” artless flick of ashes onto floor, case in point ! it’s the faintest hint of a grin that curls along the 𝖇𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖓 ridge of his mouth, but fuck, it’s something. “ c’mon then, honey. you got the guts, take ‘em. ”
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⠀#⠀ canines exposed, a bloodied fondness for early morning ascetic cadence. intrinsic nature to bite, the worst pried out from wounds by the ribs and sternum. grin maintains, sight of holiness off - kilter pacing down the hall, ( met with scathing affection: glad it was you and not me. ) “ shame. could’ve gotten rid of two birds with one bullet if mcnally had better aim. ” a display of clashing dichotomy, morbidity shrugs in absent remiss. “ they'll keep hiring any sideshow freak with the vaguest concept of the justice system and a hard on for carryin’ a weapon, it’s well . . . ” hold english cynicism on the hilt of the tongue, “ 𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄, really. ” another sip to swallow american egotism, eyebrow raised with bemusement, “ and miss seein' you explain to lovegrove and valiente why we’ve got a bunch of halfwit interns, but no new agents ? i wouldn’t miss it for the world. ”
umbrage radiates off sleek contours, filtering out of 𝚗𝚘𝚡𝚣𝚎𝚖𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 as if it were a normal physiological response. then again, handling NESCIENT trainees could drive the most seasoned agents to primal state; were they holding recruitment in a blockbuster parking lot? files gathered in lithe grip are clenched, maroon lacquered fingertips dig into brown paper, 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 with almond shaped indents. the instinctual reaction charged by a nasal timbre inserting itself, causing spine to go rigid & optics to roll as stride continues. “ haven't you got anything BETTER to do? work for instance. ” coarse glare directs his way, miserable thing that he was, always begging for scraps of attention. “ our trainees are a pathetic waste. kilmer 𝙵𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙺𝙴𝙳 at the firing range, almost put a round in mcnally. ”
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Callum Turner in THE ONLY LIVING BOY IN NEW YORK (2017), directed by Marc Webb.
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𝗟𝗢𝘊𝘈𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕: outside the dive bar's parking lot, late night post fight.
𝗪𝗜𝘛𝘏: anyone it's an open starter baby !!
⠀#⠀ A HELLHOUND OFF THE leash, just for tonight. nothing but copper scraps and freshly earned bruises to call a reward. should be a real fuckin’ celebration to live and see another day, can’t help the anarchic nihilism that bleaches his outlook, ( childhood sun - stained bedroom walls and the notable cross shaped 𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐋𝐓𝐇 / this far in life, intwined anger and blood inside . . . call it a concrete revelation: you’re fucked, man. ) doors swing wide with a callous push, the tips of his nerves fading into dreaded obscurity. terrible, cheap liquor brings the best, impulsive ideas. and fuck, he needs to feel alive again ! “ c’mon, hit me. ” spoken as a sober thought, cacophony of limbs jolt with drunken brilliance, “ what, never punched a guy before ? shit, tonight's your lucky night, isn’t it ? so t'fuck you waitin’ for. hit me. ”
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𝗟𝗢𝘊𝘈𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕: by the pews of st thomas' church, evening.
𝗪𝗜𝘛𝘏: anyone it's an open starter baby !!
⠀#⠀ ACHING FOR GUIDANCE, prayers are few and far between. how many nights since last confession ? rosary 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 on skin and brush off the ashes of white powder off leather - bound bible, ( the pious question a mere set up to a macabre joke: there simply ain’t enough graves to count ‘em all, father. ) cigarette dangles between closed lips and brought to life by the flame of a lit candle, plucked from operatic display. legs meticulously cross over, sat by the edge of front row pew, ( low chuckle reverberates as instincts cry beneath war - torn skin. some doomed kismet this is ! ) “ y’know, it’s rude to stare. ” raven gaze still spired on the divine scene in front, smoke unfurls in tandem with their lazy smile, “ especially in the house of the lord, no less. could take your eyes . . . 𝐀𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄. ”
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𝗟𝗢𝘊𝘈𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕: local city diner, morning rush.
𝗪𝗜𝘛𝘏: anyone it's an open starter baby !!
⠀#⠀ THERE’S AN INDENT OF where a heart should be. damp and apathetic rhythm, a mere echo in new york’s cavernous soundscape. escape the pouring rain and cavalier gaze of his coworkers, find sanctuary in the off - beat depravity of city diners. something quaint in all it’s common man pestilence, faint reminder of a childhood dead in the way, ( this is what your father saved you from: 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐘. ) pallid gaze watches the world appear and erode, note the tiniest details over the papers’ horizon, just unfortunately, not beside him: “ sorry, whatever you said could've been the next bloody second word of christ or something much less important. does it look like i was listenin’ ? ”
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𝗟𝗢𝘊𝘈𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕: nicky moreno's place, late into the night.
𝗪𝗜𝘛𝘏: nicky moreno, closed for @6odl3ss
⠀#⠀ SAINT INCARNATE AWAITS IN the kitchen, a lithesome stature basks underneath the warm glow of exposed lightbulbs like some 𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 halo. red dares to peak out from rolled sleeves, suit jacket haphazardly thrown over bar table; a minor detail to digress, but this isn’t their home, ( and when was the last time home felt tangible, real / lacerated palms outstretch towards cupboards above: christ, that’s where he keeps the whiskey ? ) an familial act that’s being performed, FALSE DEPICTIONS of normalcy — one deprived of any sort of tender cadence. that’s not how the family’s run. there’s an uptick of a smile etched into sharp features, hearing the shattered TWIST - CLICK of the front door. helena doesn’t freeze, rather, there’s an invitation to witness. arms 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐃 across, a glass swiftly glides downwards, ( call it a moreno - blessed olive branch ), “ nicholas. sit. have a drink. i’ll give you three guesses why i’m here. "
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