#𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐞. (au)

[perfectly-intoxicated]

Yancy isn't sure why he reaches out to Hannah.

Or he does know, and it's buried so deep that he can't get a proper look at it. Maybe he could if he wasn't currently pinned down by gunfire and about fifty percent sure he was close to finding out what the afterlife is like.

It isn't love. Hell, he's not sure he's capable of it... or if she is. They spent an incredible night (and morning) together. They've talked here and there. She makes him laugh. He appreciates her sass and how she doesn't take shit from nobody, not even him.

He smiles. Fuck it. Least he could do is let her hear his voice one last time in a message.

"Hey, gorgeous... yer not gonna believe the shit I've got myself into. Or hell, you probably will." He chuckles, and it's cut off by a pained groan as he clears his throat. "Listen... shits gone sideways. I, ah... got some rats that I need to exterminate. I just wanted to tell you that... I had a lotta fun. Yer one of a kind, ya know? Of course you do... that's why I like you." Another groan, pops of gunfire. "If anyone contacts you claimin' to know me, don't give 'em the time of day. If... when I'm good, I'll call you."

There's a pause and a grunt, and it sounds like he's on the move. "Take care, Red."

What the fuck.

Hannah stares down at her phone and feels her food turn into cardboard in her mouth. She swallows, and then blinks as she processes the absolute twisted shit that was the voice message left for her by Yancy.

What the fuck?

“Come on Opie, get off.” She’s gently ushering her dog off her lap, voice monotone and mind blank as she starts to listen in on the news being displayed on the TV. If it wasn’t for the voice message (her gut twists for some ridiculous reason at the reminder of pain in Yancy’s voice), she would’ve ignored it, but that’s one of his stupid cars and that’s his stupid self in the middle of a stupid fucking shootout.

She’s not nervous, she’s not anxious, and she definitely doesn’t get scared. Who knows how many times Yancy’s had to deal with this kind of stuff or something similar?

If she wasn’t currently so pissed off at the people shooting at him and maybe, selfishly, a little bit at Yancy himself for some reason, she would’ve gone back to eating. They weren’t even a thing. They weren’t anything important. She had no reason to go and help him, no excuse she could use without doing some internal searching.

She recognizes that street.

… Fuck.

With a loud groan of exasperation and frustration, she grabs her phone and heads out with her special guitar case and towards the center of the action. She dials his number, leaves a message when he doesn’t answer because he’s in the middle of his stupid fucking life-or-death situation, and quickens her pace.

“What the hell is going on, Yancy? Who the fuck are those people?!” She yells into her phone before lowering her voice to a loud scolding when she gets side-eyed by a random individual. “‘When you’re good, you’ll call me’? Like hell you will. I swear to God, if you get yourself killed, I’m raising you back from the dead and killing you myself!”

She’s already driving to the nearest corner where she won’t be seen when she hangs up.

[perfectly-intoxicated]

Taking any hits was a rare and unfortunate occasion, but the money wasn’t too bad. Creativity liberties couldn’t be taken according to his employer, wanting the hit to be dumped in an empty oil drum that would be waiting a mile off from the club his target was meant to be. Murdock had to be a little more conspicuous in his new outfit, ditching the trench coat and the rest of his theatre villain ensemble. Not his finest clothing, but it would do. A carefully ironed suit jacket, but still wearing his sunglasses in the dim light of the bar.

“Let me get you a drink, how about that Brandon?” Branded as an associate for a gang looking for an arms dealer, Murdock manages to smile at the target without being sick. Creepy as fuck in every way, but the assassin is only there to kill him because he was fucking the bosses wife.

@murdersinthemaking

Having someone get in the middle of her job was so fucking annoying.

She did not spend the last half hour goading to this man’s ego and wasting away her evening only to come back and have someone doing the same thing after having excused herself to fix her make-up. Prick.

“Making some more friends while I’m away?” Hannah’s gloved hands move to rest over the man’s shoulder, her chin laying on top of them as she takes in the stranger with a slow, blatant once-over. If the guy wasn’t in the middle of throwing all her work out the window (which actually wasn’t too much, but in her impatient mind, it felt like hours-worth), she wouldn’t be so stubborn as to admit he was easy on the eyes.

“Bringing in a third. Didn’t take you for being into that.” She lightly purrs, lips lifting up in a knowing smile.

[perfectly-intoxicated]

There's a message waiting for Hannah. He doesn't give a name, but he gets right to the point.

"So, a little birdies told me that you specialize in jobs that are meant to, ah... send a clear message to someone." The voice is deep and lightly accented, rumbling into a slight chuckle. "May have a job that would be perfect for you. Give me a call if yer interested..."

After leaving the contact information, he continues. "Hope to hear from you..." *click*

Monica doesn't usually give out her information when it came to clients. She was one of those people who thought she'd make a bad impression somehow before they even considered hiring one of them. Rightfully so, since it's happened in the past, but still. She could be polite. She'd hate every second of it, but she could.

So to have a voicemail waiting for her once she's come back from her last hit is exciting. The kind of exciting where she immediately locks her bedroom door to make sure no one else can feel the excitement with her. Falling and landing on her decorative love chair, her thumb hovers over the play button before finally giving in and listening to the message once she's comfortable. Splayed out on the long piece of furniture and staring up at the ceiling as she listens.

The first thing she notices is the voice because hello, deep and accented. It's the kind of voice she imagined she'd hear in The Godfather, even though she never had the patience to sit and watch the movie. Hannah even has to replay the damn voicemail when her thoughts get off-track, paying attention this time.

Sending a message meant creative liberty for her. Hell yeah.

Without wasting much time, she doesn't wait for a green light from her boss before hitting the bright green call button.

[perfectly-intoxicated]

Hannah has control over every aspect of her life. The people she kills, the ones she fucks, how she looks, the amount she chooses to drink – no matter what kind of spiral she sends herself into next, it's always her choice, because everyone hates the feeling of being powerless.

That's why she hates Vincent Ansaldo. No matter what, it's always what he wants. She just happened to be exactly that.

"Mein diamant, what a surprise. What are you doing here?" Sturdy arms snake around her waist from behind, a sharply-accented voice dripping with his shit-eating grin cutting through the blaring music from how close he's made himself. "Did you not get enough of me yesterday?"

I got plenty of you yesterday. The words are right on the tip of her tongue, as cut-edged as a blade. She’s still got that bruise on her hip, the bastard, yet she swallows the spew of insults down. The grip on her gin martini tightens, her white knuckles concealed by the dim room.

"I'm not here for long." Hannah's voice is hard to make out through the blaring sound of the room, but she still is seemingly unamused. She can see his reflection displaying itself in and out of her glass thanks to the flashing lights above them. From an outsider's perspective, any woman would deem herself lucky of his attention.

Sandy blonde hair that reaches his shoulders just enough brush against her cheek, and she doesn’t need to look to know a pair of dark jade greens are staring down at her with unwavering attention. Charming, deadly, and smart, Vincent came from a long, powerful line of questionable family affairs and affluent descendants who took what they wanted, when they wanted.

She knew he frequented here. It was one his clubs, why wouldn’t he? She had just hoped to be able to get the information she needed and buzz off before he could spot her.

Obviously, hope was fucking useless.

“And why not?” His hand raises up to brush away her hair in favor of revealing her neck, and he leans down to press his lips to her pulse. It always stuttered when he was near, but not for the reason he believed. “Running off the moment you can before stopping by to greet me. I’m hurt."

“You’ll live.” Hannah brings the drink up to her lips for a short sip, and she tries not to think about how the arms around her tighten when she glances around for the target she'd been following. Alex Aguilar, a woman who thought it was a good idea to bring kids into her dirty work.

Now those kinds of people were the scum under her heel. At least she’d be able to take her sweet time with her once the right moment came around.

"Vince, I'm trying to work, so can you just–"

"Who are you tailing after?"

The voice next to her ear lowers, and it's not the kind of tone he uses when he's planning on dragging her off to fuck her. Someone is getting in the way of him spending time with her, and even though he's trying his damn best to make his question sound as nonchalant as possible, she's known him long enough to know when he's getting irritated.

The burn of alcohol when she swallows barely affects her.

Hannah takes a deep breath, forces herself to glance up at him with an easy smile. Just like he liked to see her. You’re prettier when you smile. She still remembers tears being wiped from her face with a deceptively gentle hand and his blurry frame hovering over her. “No one important. None of them are.”

That seems to please him, because he’s grinning down at her like a predator who’s decided to have mercy instead of one that’s about to attack. “That’s right, pretty girl.” Vincent sighs deeply, smile faltering but not disappearing just yet as he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I trust you’ll come back to me later then?”

When does she not? When could she not?

Vincent walks away with a kiss to her cheek and a slap to her ass once he's had enough of her. The sound of his chuckle as he further distances himself makes her want to turn back around and smash her glass over his head, strangle him, lodge the pieces of glass into his throat and force everyone to watch his blood splatter and spill over the floors. That would be nice. That would be perfect actually. At that moment, she wouldn't care if it eventually got her killed.

He's a prick. He gets on her nerves. But all she had to do was do what he wants, and he'd eventually get tired of her. Not much she can do now except suck it up.

Hannah shuts her eyes. Takes a deep breath.

You're fine.

She downs the rest of her drink and goes back to her hunt. Maybe that would bring back the spring in her step and the bloodlust she needs.

[perfectly-intoxicated]

Hannah needs a nap after a kill, so she’s demanding you be her pillow NOW /hj

[perfectly-intoxicated]

You and the mob boss are not built to last.

With the way Hannah stares at you with an underlying anger, one would believe your bones were not built to stay together for much longer.

Unlike Yancy, her lovely and terrifying hunk of a man, there isn’t an ounce of patience in her body. She doesn’t give second chances for someone to take back their words, and she definitely doesn’t refrain from violence when the call for it comes.

So when she pulls out a pistol and sticks one right in your kneecap, it shouldn’t come as that much of a surprise. You talked to her with the intention to provoke; what did you expect?

“And what the fuck does any of that have to do with you?”

She takes less time to get right in your face than it would’ve taken to blink, taking advantage of your hunched over frame and poking the barrel of the gun against your temple hard enough to leave red marks behind. “I don’t give a shit about what you think! You trying to get in my head? You’re a fucking cockroach— I kill dicks like you for a living, asshat!”

With every word, she gets increasingly angrier, up until she’s screaming over your pained sounds by the end of her short speech. Who the fuck do these people think they are? They’re nothing. Unimportant trash she crushes every day.

Her and Yancy were perfect. Bumpy sometimes, but fucking perfect. No one was going to change that.

Nobody.

[perfectly-intoxicated]

a touch to silently make sure that they’re alright.

((Mobby, of course 😌))

Hannah doesn’t cry, hasn’t felt that well of emotion in too long to really be able to. The reason behind it, she doesn’t know, and no way is she doing that stupid internal searching shit that Monica keeps dropping on her.

So no, she won’t cry, but she’ll go quiet when she’s thinking.

It’s like cotton plugging into her ears and wearing the wrong eye prescription, the way words and sounds drown out and the world warps into distorted background imagery. Her hands boil in their gloves, their layer of literal and metaphorical protection suddenly feeling too restraining. She doesn’t look down when she pulls them off, balls them up in her scarred fist.

Monica hasn’t visited in a while. She’s usually the one who pulls her out of her head. Then again, Hannah had been feeling better. She didn’t need her around as much anymore.

No, she didn’t need her around, period. She’s not that much of a menace to society. She doesn’t need constant surveillance.

Her nails scratch at her hands mindlessly. She doesn’t check her phone when it vibrates again.

The clear lingering sound of the door to the bedroom opening is heard momentarily, along with her name following suit, but she focuses on the door. It squeaks every time it opens, the stupid thing. Someone fix that door, it’s gonna drive me fucking nuts. Steps approach her the same moment she realizes she’d quietly mumbled her thoughts instead of keeping them to herself.

Her face twists in a flinch when a hand holds her face, and she blinks up owlishly, vision clearing. When did Yancy get here? Both hands move up to hold her face when she sighs, and she can’t help it, the way her eyes close and her head falls to rest against him. Hannah doesn’t want to think about the swelling in her chest or the throbbing starting at her temple, and Yancy’s arms moving to wrap around her help with that.

Yancy, Yancy, Yancy.

Hannah pauses, takes a deep breath.

You’re fine. You have him now.

[perfectly-intoxicated]

No one is currently giving Hannah her well-deserved princess treatment and that is a travesty in and of itself /j

[perfectly-intoxicated]

Yeehaw 🤠

[perfectly-intoxicated]

Cutting the birthday cake :)

[perfectly-intoxicated]

*whisper*

(For murder mommy Hannah <3)

"I need you to take what belongs to you until I'm beggin' you to stop. Use me until I ain't got a thought in my fuckin' head that doesn't involve bein' at your mercy... please, babygirl."

How the fuck it was possible for Yancy to continuously find ways to surprise her, she wasn’t sure. But this has got to be real close to the top of her list.

Hannah’s favorite seat has become Yancy’s lap, which is not a surprise in and of itself. But he didn’t expect her to take her seat and actually stay still, did he? So when her hips start subtly shifting and her hands are wrapping around the back of his neck to draw him into a passion-filled kiss, it shouldn’t come to anyone as much of a surprise.

No, the real shock comes from Yancy’s whispered plead which just turns her the fuck on like nothing else has. Jesus.

Panting against his lips, she has to take a moment to process his words, watching the shifts in his expression and going over the meaning of what he’s saying to really let it set in… and then she’s smiling. It’s giddy and mischievous and dark with intent. She could rip off his clothes and ride him like there was no tomorrow with the way adrenaline courses through her veins, but she holds herself back. For now.

“Oh, hon.” She sighs, one hand leaving the back of his neck before slowly, tantalizing, moving her hand to rest over his throat. Nails lightly scrape the flesh beneath them and leave faint lines in their wake, and she moves down to leave a short trail of kisses along his jaw before letting her teeth graze the small exposed skin not covered by her hand.

“I’m going to make sure you’re a mess by the time I’m through with you, babyboy.”

[perfectly-intoxicated]

When you finally find a solid face claim and she’s perfect/sending you into a certain kind of panic 🫶

[perfectly-intoxicated]

Happy Sinday — I decided to take that one BDSM test for my girl 💖

[perfectly-intoxicated]

"Good girl."

(Mobby is expecting a slap or a smooch, and he will happily take either one :3)

It’s only after she’s begun her prancing back to Yancy after her kills that she’s learned to like her share of praise, almost expect it.

Even when she’s left bloody footprints on Yancy’s floors and is dripping in blood not belonging to her, she still smiles at the boss like nothing is out of the ordinary, almost giddy in the way she awaits the words she’s rightfully deserved.

Anyone else would’ve received a knife to the throat, but Yancy was different. Her chest feels nice and warm when he says it.

Looking up from where she’s seated, a giggle rises in her throat, short and sweet, and she makes no move to brush away the red rivulets she can feel rolling down her arm. Oh. Maybe one of them was hers.

“I know.” She replies, fully certain of it. No one else could’ve had the same sadistic and twisted urge that spurred such sordid creativity, just her. She’s far from good, which Yancy has repeatedly denied with his words, but can’t she find the illusion of the truth in a lie?

She’s going to hug him later and drench him in blood in return, and then have an excuse to drag him off to the shower with her. Something to blow off the steam of adrenaline slowly bubbling underneath her skin. Life was good.

[perfectly-intoxicated]

Does your muse own pride merch? If so, what?

“I have a few tank tops and jewelry. Mostly bracelets, necklaces, earrings, and if I’m wearing a tank top, I’m doing my absolute best to offend everyone who doesn’t like it. I’ve been wanting to get these pair of heels too! If I’m going to go out, I’m going all out, you know?”

“…Are strap-ons considered merch? I have some of those too, if they are.”

[perfectly-intoxicated]

What/who was their Gay Awakening?

Has your muse ever been to a Pride Parade?

-jimmy

What/who was their Gay Awakening?

“Oh, Megara, obviously. Did you see her by that lake? I don’t blame Herc for his reaction whatsoever. Back then, I didn’t bat an eye at the amount of times I watched that movie solely for her. The Muses were a close second though. There’s just something about singers…”

Has your muse ever been to a Pride Parade?

“Yeah, ‘course! Hold on, I might have some pictures from last year…” Pulling out her phone, she leans back entirely in her seat and hastily scrolls through her photos, slowing down when the colorful ones come into view and grinning as she chooses one. “I’ve got this one.”

She’s grinning in this picture, pansexual flag tied around her neck to create a cape and draping over her shoulders and outfit. There are people behind her having the time of their lives, just living and enjoying themselves without shame. It’s the kind of stuff Hannah wished the world looked like as a kid.

“Some guy came up to me afterwards and said he could cure me after he saw me kiss the girl I went with.” She stated, smile unwavering. “I cut off his dick afterwards.”

“I did him a huge favor though. His ego was the only big thing about him anyway.”