murdersinthemaking

[murdersinthemaking]

Happy Pride i'm so tired

[murdersinthemaking]

Stripper Hannah actually has a sizable platform on social media, and she should definitely get to help/manage The Grind's socials. Get a video of her interviewing staff members with a wide range of either thirsting, joking, or ignoring (cough sorry Yancy cough she hates your guts cough).

And yes, she loves when people thirst over her <3

[murdersinthemaking]

[CAR] + [CONTROL]

"Tell me you're mine." + "You sound so pretty when you moan."

Donovan and Maria perhaps? >:3

@mariasymphony

I love them

His darling Maria was a woman of many talents and secrets. Training up Wolfgang as a secondary service dog, her vast expertise in cooking and likely dozens more he’s yet to learn of. But drumming? It seemed oddly surprising for her, so elegant and graceful. Fit perfectly in the orchestra, but not in anything so..punk. Drumming should’ve been logical, another instrument. Just something about it, so rocky and out there that felt so odd. She’d driven herself to the show, telling Donovan that she’ll see him from the pit.

He couldn’t hear a note of music, as soon as it bellowed and boomed around him. On the stage above she seemed like a goddess, a beautifully violent energy around her as the show plays on. Donovan sways, star struck as he watches her. As the lights turn back on and the smoke machine shuts off, the rest of the band helps him onto the stage to hug her. They are built to prevent fans from climbing up after all, but the venues seemed so much higher than normal.

Lounging backstage, their legs slowly entangling over each drink. His ears continue to ring, but he still laughs at every joke. Leaning in closer and closer to listen, finding his head comfortably tucked into her shoulder.

“You wanna get out of here?”

——

Caught in the storm of limbs and clothes messily being shed, Donovan can barely breathe. Leather squeaking against metal chains, a grand departure from the soft and elegant edges he’d become accustomed to. How foolish of him to keep expecting anything but surprises from Maria. For everything that she surprises him with, he has something to learn about himself. If his tongue wasn’t busy tracing the edges of her shoulder, he’d beg to have her skirt kept on.

They needed another kink talk to figure out what that was.

Busying himself with the delicate fabric of her panties, his fingers find purpose in starting to circle her clit. Barely moving, far too enraptured by Maria’s body boxing him into the seat. “You sound so pretty when you moan,” he whispers, shifting his hips down to slip his hand beneath her. It’s corny and horrifically cliche; the windows steaming up in the backseat of his car.

[murdersinthemaking]

Guys my finger slipped and I did it again.

Dante Giordano. Mob enforcer, extraction team for the spyverse.

:3

[murdersinthemaking]

Murdock says he works too much, thinks too much. He says Oliver needs breaks, and this might be his favorite one yet.

He's seated himself in his lover's lap upon his request, hands idly fiddling with the clothing beneath his fingers while Murdock brings the cigar to his lips. After another painting session, Oliver is still in the special dress shirt he'd been given for this occasion, the material see-through and the tiny sunflowers scattered over it manage to remind the both of them that he's wearing a shirt in the first place.

Oliver watches Murdock tilt his head to the side and continues to as the smoke drifts out from his mouth like a lazy river, spiraling in the air before disappearing from sight. His hands have gone still against his chest and he's barely taken a breath when he's looked up at once again, entranced by the sight. Yet when is he not? The sight of him doing the most mundane action would still illicit a similar response. The man just had his hooks too deep in him.

The cigar is lifted up in between them and Murdock offers it to Oliver with the curious expression on his face, and the spirit knows he's playing dumb. He's cheeky like that, and that's just one of the many things he loves about him.

Oliver doesn't take it from his hand. Instead, he slowly leans down, never breaking eye contact with Murdock as he does so, and takes the end of it into his mouth. He breaths in the smoke, yet nearly chokes when he feels one hand move up to hold his jaw, grip tightening just a fraction when he shifts his position in his lap. His hands have roamed lower, past the hem of Murdock's shirt and underneath it to feel warm skin, yet not moving them anywhere else.

Through the small haze, he hears Murdock praise him, and the smoke escapes his mouth in a trembling sigh, the rest drifting into his lover's mouth when he leans down and brushes their lips together. "Did I do it right?"

Painting had become a repeated routine in their home, hours spent worshipping at his lovers form. Pen and ink to paint and charcoal, every medium has captured some aspect of Oliver in various states of modesty and detail. All consumed by his sole muse, Murdock needs a period to unwind after each session. Where he can dig out a cigar, a luxury he’s been talked into, all while fingers idle across Oliver’s exposed chest.

Sighing out the earthy smoke, eyes half closed as he watches another curl of thick smoke starts to wrap around the pair. There’s an attempt of courtesy, blowing the smoke away from Oliver’s face. A few more puffs on the end finally starts to satisfy him, tilting the cigar towards his lover in a quiet extension of thanks.

Whatever lazy, relaxed notion he had for the rest of the evening dissolves. Dragging a heavy hand up from the loose fabric of the shirt to Oliver’s jaw, he forcibly twists his head upwards and towards the cigar. Still so much to teach him in the art of taking, of forgetting and giving into a select few thoughts. “There you are, Sunflower. Ain’t you taking it like a champ for me?”

One more squeeze, Murdock masking his own growing moans as warmth meets his skin. Eternal warmth for the both of them, at long last.

“You can always use a little practice…”

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PLEASE ANSWER

The number you have called has been discon-

“Hello? Hi, I know it’s late…I just needed to hear your voice. I miss you. I’m still looking. I know. I know. I miss you too…”

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Does the sweet little murder baby have any interesting tales of his time as Serotonin? Preferably ones that won't make me cry

“Oh yeah, I’ve got a fuck ton of good ones,” chuckling, Murdock voice echoing around his ribcage with such a hollow laugh. Stubbing out a shittly rolled cigarette into a cracked ashtray, he becomes momentarily fixated on the sudden snapping of paper and tobacco spilling out the sides. Little flecks of unsmoked tobacco sticks to his lips. Rubbing it from his face only leaves little traces, staining both fingertips and skin.

He would’ve picked up a real pack if the sound hadn’t started. That little ominous buzz in the back of his head, initiated from a little tumble down the stairs.

“Most recent, just about a month ago. Picked up a guy at the bar. Not my usual demographic for Serotonin; he was about my age, little bit shorter than me and never married. But God above, he was irritating. Travelling across the bar, trying to get laid. Right up in everyone’s face, ripping their phones out of their hands to force his number right in.”

Such an irritating little insect, buzzing about, right in his ear.

“Don’t know how I convinced him to come back with me. Got him drunk, watched him stagger right into the passenger seat,” he coughs, thumping on his chest to alleviate that itch. “Was just a big ol’ box of stupid,” his voice momentarily changes, just a side effect of that irritation.

“I just couldn’t wait to get my hands on him. It was so easy, he thought we were fucking, of all things. When I dragged him onto that table, he thought it was a kink.”

Scraping his tongue off with his teeth, the taste of viscera and vodka starts to saturate his tongue. He didn’t usually eat Serotonin kills.

“It was my usual. Breaking open the chest cavity, slicing out a rib for later, and starting to clean out his insides. But he wouldn’t stop fucking screaming, little bastard. I reached around, got out this new little hammer I found in a thrift store. Shoe hammer. Neat little thing, smashes and pierces all in one. I just kept going until he stopped making noises.”

Sighing and settling into his chair, Murdock drops his head back. He’d kill for a good smoke.

“I had to scrub that workshop for days. Thought I’d have to get one of those professional crews in, the ones the mob use.”

Murdock hadn’t been in that workshop for nearly three months, and it didn’t need a cleaning.

“Hung him up outside some dance studio. Got shut down a few months ago, don’t know why.”

“Think his name was Cody.”

[murdersinthemaking]

📱 + She’s sitting in the front row, smiling up at the stage as the curtain pulls across. Donovan told her that he would be in the show tonight, neither of his parents would bother coming. Yancy couldn’t tell them anything. One or two of his friends would be at the show each night, but she was the one for the opening. A video recorder in one hand, flowers in the other.

Colette simply couldn’t stand the idea of someone missing the opening night. Not for one of her boys.

“Oh pumpkin!” she cries as she finds her way backstage, heels clacking against the tiles floors. A lady of extremely short stature, barely at the five foot three (plus two centimetres) mark. “Come and give me a hug pumpkin, these are for you. You did so well!”

@murdersinthemaking

It was just the norm for Yancy at this point. Whenever he had a show, a friend or two would show up and watch. As much as he tried to tell them that they didn't have to, they actually insisted that they enjoyed it. It was hard for him to believe, but he didn't press the issue for very long. Never admitting out loud that he liked them being there but still thanking them.

So when he catches sight of Donovan's mom on the opening night of Beauty and the Beast, his heart threatens to pound right out of his chest onto the worn wooden stage. She makes him... feel things. The kind of things that he can't look too long at, or else he wants to crawl out of his skin. But still... he's thankful she's there.

He performs his role as the titular Beast, losing himself in it as always. The briefest escape from his life that's otherwise been laid out before him in blood and violence. And when he's backstage after the show, still on the high of applause and cheering, he hears the familiar nickname.

Yancy isn't sure why she calls him pumpkin, but he's not complaining.

"Miss Mathis?" He rumbles, staring at the flowers like she's holding out a bag of precious gems. He's never... no one has ever brought him anything after...

He swallows hard past the sudden tightness in his throat as he takes them, hand much shakier than it was a minute ago. Tears threaten and sting, and it's physically impossible to say anything else in that second, so he stoops down to wrap one arm around her... then the other. "Um... thank you, ma'am," he rasps.

The flowers go into a glass pitcher in his room when he gets home.

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[murdersinthemaking]

May 21, 2011

It feels like she's blinked and time suddenly passed.

She's been living with an older couple fostering her for a while now. They're nice in the way old people are. Or should be, at least. Don't get her started on the ones that are wrinkled like raisins and pissed off at the world.

Mr. Robinson got her new drawing equipment and Mrs. Robinson had made her a cake with vanilla icing. She could tell by the way the icing was spread out that her hands were shaking in the process, a problem they had in common even if for different reasons. Mrs. Robinson didn't get her shaky hands from breaking free from tight restraints.

Her hands feel better. Not as bad as they were a few months ago, but some days her grip still gives out on her and she drops something or can't hold a pencil up properly without it rolling away or creating gibberish on a piece of paper. It's humiliating. They tell her it's not, that her scars and her hands are simply proof of her survival, but what was the use of her survival? What was the point of living day after day with no real drive or meaning behind her steps and actions?

Take it slow, her therapist says. Don't look so far into the future. Focus on the present.

What is the present offering her right now, realistically? A nice couple who will drop dead in a few years, so she can't bring herself to grow attached, and Anya on the news. Fucking Anya. She doesn't want to see her face ever again.

The future was unknown, which is the shitty part, but she could probably assume what'll happen. She'll be seen with pity or contempt depending on where she goes, and she'll forever have a piece of Anya with her everywhere she goes. From her scars to the fucking way she looks. Hannah looks to the other end of the room and looks at her reflection seated on the bed given to her.

Same hair. Same eyes. Same place of birth. Same anger. Same everything.

She doesn't look in a mirror and see herself. She looks in a mirror and sees her mother. She swears she can see movement on the other end of the mirror that doesn't match the way her body moves, pushing up against the barrier until the figure of herself presses its cheek against flush against what's keeping it separated from reality, breaths fogging up the glass with every labored breath. It slams its fists against the barrier, begging to be let out, for help, for acknowledgement, so safety, all the things she never had.

But is it Anya asking for these things? Where is she right now? In a prison cell, banging her fists against the door and begging to be let out, for help, for acknowledgement, to be believed that she's not the problem here? She could see it right now. She knows how quickly she can go from distraught and in tears to yelling at anything that isn't herself and radiating a fury rekindled every time she picked up that needle. Who knows if she's even stopped in there, if people are getting it to her somehow?

Does she even have the ability to create strong enough relationships where they'd be able to get their hands dirty for her? Who knows. She could be convincing. Who knows if she'd used that same convincing nature to reel in her dad–

No. A trembling exhale leaves her at the memory of him. Just forget it.

Forget about Anya. Forget about your father. Forget about Mr and Mrs. Robinson. Forget about everything making you feel as worthless as you are.

Hannah closes her eyes, tilts her head away from the mirror, and forgets.

[murdersinthemaking]

[murdersinthemaking]

But when does the comet become a meteor? When does a candle become a blaze? When does a man become a monster? When does a ripple become a tidal wave? When does the reason become the blame? When does a man become a monster?

[murdersinthemaking]

september 13, 2010

[murdersinthemaking]

I just think Hannah deserved to be a normal teenage girl who has crushes on boys and gets excited over prom and has sleepovers with her friends