SPARE A PAIR OF MOLDY LUNGS

independent | highly-selective | original character

[m0il]

independent && highly-selective authorship of Shay Verón, an original character hailing from the decaying depths of Salem, Massachusetts; infested by VINTAGE.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤcarrd.

a personification of rot in human nature and all its wicked beauty. beware of: dead dove, insects, mold, pollution, decay, human devouring, anomalies, fungus, botanical horror, gore, && human ugliness.

[charnel-grounds]

Nicola Samorì, “The Golden Child”

mixed media on copper, 2018

[just-barrow]

Diego Calva for Man About Town Spring/Summer 2026

[calva-daily]

The Night Manager Season 2, Episode 2 (2026)

[tooth--ache]

An asphyxiating draw of breath followed a gurgle as Howard's body tried to reject the welcomed intrusion. He could feel the creature's pointed, sharp legs microtear through his oesophagus, which caused him to momentarily seize, white-knuckled fists gripping his last resort to swallow the rest of it down. As it found its way inside the void of the universe and fell just outside of Jupiter, Howard fell to his knees and coughed, heaving deep breaths. It felt so close to heaven, it felt so close to godhood. Just out of reach, edging him on, teasing him with a taste of what could have and should have been.

He should have been their king. He should have been everything Malena feared him to be. If only he managed to find a way to eat away at the sludge that made love to his brain, nuzzling him in a loveless sex just beneath his skull, he would have. Should have. When the day comes, and it is a matter of time before he figures it all out, he would burn them on slow-scorching coal, raking their pathetic bodies and laugh as they melt into nothing.

Howard placed a gentle hand over his stomach. Will the creature eat away the rotting cum too? He wished he could feel it dig into the linings of his insides, scrape away the decay plunged deep inside of him, lubricated by his own tears and bile-thick spit. Will it hurt, he wondered for a mere split second before he recalled the worst nights of his undead life, passed along like a sack of useless meat, and decided nothing would feel nearly as celestially unholy and torturous. It would not even come close, even if the centipede splits into hundreds and thousands in the hollows of his body.

“Can’t…call him Howard, that’s my name,” he wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. His eyes were red when they met Shay once more. “No one gets to be called Howard inside of me. Call him Kevin.”

“What if I just wanted to look?” An innocent question, like a curious boy who was keen on seeing how big his stupid little bug grew as it feeds. It would gladden him to see its segments roll just under his skin, pushing against it like a threat to bloat and burst him into pieces. He would be proud of how verdant he was. He would want it to breed. To turn him into death the way death meant to make him look like.

“I promise I’ll put him back in.”

[m0il]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤShay's eyes collapse with Howard, and soon after, he lowers into a crouch before the man. They sit on the same parallel, ogling each other. The centipede made its way through the cool, contracting tube until it ended up coiled in a stomach lining. What will Howard feed it? Flesh? Blood? Human food? A bundle of melancholy? The centipede, black as night, twisted as copper wires, is a being that will always feed. It will not starve surrounded by rotting innards. This is where it will suffer no longer and prevail when the time comes.

Shay follows Howard's hand, observing it with a slight tilt of his head. The rotten thing is going to inspire growth. He cannot predict the science of the Ominous things that make up his entire existence, but he hopes it will gather as much of Howard's essence as it can. All those regrets collected over the years of his animated death. All those decisions he wouldn't make. All those things that he yearns for and ends up losing with each passing day. Shay will swallow it whole when the time comes and the rot will settle, the mold will darken, and he will become a part of what makes up Howard. And he will eat at him until there is nothing but a stretched imagination.

He blinks.

"Kevin it is." Shay shrugs. It does not matter to him if there is a name. He prefers to eat things that carry some identity. It is important to the Omen. Back when he was a child, Shay named every centipede he crushed between his molars. Catherine, Stella, Stephen, Kayle, Joshua, Lora, Gavin, Xavis, Hope, Dreamer, Moil.

"Why do you want to look?" Shay shakes his head, pressing his hands to his thighs to rise from his crouch. He doesn't like looking down at Howard, so he turns his attention elsewhere, watching the passing strangers far, far away. They are all insignificantly beautiful. And something in them tugs the Omen forward. He wants to get to know them and observe them through the plain sheet of their walls.

"A'e you planning to gut you'self? Then what? Distu'b Kevin's slumbe'? If you are going to evisce'ate your inna'ds to take a look, at least make su'e you feed him something on the way in. O' else, he will rip your throat apa't. They get emotional, I think." Shay swipes his hand over his chin in wonder. "He's gonna have your cha'acte', so you tell me how he behaves."

[murphysletsdraw]

Rot! Rot! Rot! (gouache) Old wood and fungi, wonderful things to paint. This will be my postcard print for March. Join my postcard club on Patreon if you'd like this mini print in the mail - link in my pinned post!!

[tooth--ache]

The Third Prince's decay hollows out its husks whole, though the imprints of a soul remained enough for it to amble on the face of Earth in perverted suspension of existence as its own person. Personhood and what it means to possess a heart or a memory was so ingrained in a human's experience of life, and most importantly inedible, hence Howard James Pike is Howard James Pike, no matter which way you slice and dice him.

He was dead many, many years ago, incomprehensible by the modern human's brain. His insides play pretend, so did his outsides, coy in the hiding and rebranding that he was a VAMPIRE -- what a pathetic description of a creature beyond even the fundamental concept of blood -- and coy in the believing that this was enough. It was this weakness: BELIEF, that had allowed a foreign creature to nestle in Howard's brain as he fell on his knees, controlling his every move like a dog on a leash. It would scream and shout at him until he was reduced to a pulp inside, rotten and rank; then they would pulp his outside too, for the fun of it.

The thing inside of his skull was decidedly unnatural. The thing came from the depths of hell, promised by a demon, another inedible concept which frustrates the Prince greatly, for now. One day the Prince will be able to entice Howard to believe demons can in fact be ingested, just like everything, and perhaps he will solve his problems then, by eating himself free. Close the cycle of life. Yes?

No. Not that easy. Now mould spores over Howard's eyes in the form of a body, also playing pretend, also playing coy.

Howard nodded blankly; he could bite through the metal. It'd be as soft as putty. He raised his hands in front of his face, but had forgotten how to work his jaw, to bite, to say something. The pain was so blinding he could barely understand what the stranger was saying to him, let alone respond in a meaningful way.

𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐣𝐚𝐰. 𝐘𝐞𝐬. 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐲. 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐩 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡. 𝐂𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡. 𝐂𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡, 𝐲𝐞𝐬. 𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥.

The bite terrorised a chunk of his own flesh. One half of the cuff fell onto the floor with a slap of black rot and a metallic thump. Howard fell backwards, his eyes rolling back into his skull, and seized through an ethereal amount of pain. A brief punishment for his failures.

Rolling mist dissipated from his blisteringly hot body, and as soon as it rose in temperature, it fell once again into deathly cold. The lost chunk of flesh crawled into his wrist once more, just in time before Howard lifted his palms to hide his face and curl into himself, mouth open in a soundless scream. Every vein on his throat rose with the celestial suffering, yet there was only silence.

Two beats later and it was as if Howard had imagined it all. Maybe he did. Maybe he was insane. Maybe he was making a mountain out of a molehill. Weak. Insane! Insane!

With a sniffle, Howard turned away, hiding his face against the floor.

"I'm fine," he lied. "Migraine," he lied. "I just need a nap," he lied.

[m0il]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThis is a mess. An uttered word and the privilege of conversing is destroyed by something unseen. This man stretches against the ground, collapses like a puppet, and then screams soundlessly into a void. He is convulsing in front of Shay like a man possessed, and for a moment, the Omen thinks that it may have been his fault once he felt a subtle shift in his understanding of their proximity. His insides turned with an incomprehensible hunger. This is not a human emotion, but it is housed in a human head with a humanoid brain that remembers some things, and then it doesn't process it correctly. Or maybe, there is no right answer at all. Who really gives a shit when there is a grown man, six feet something, shaking on the ground with steaming skin that sizzles and suddenly calms.

Shay blinks, swaying away from the body a couple of feet away from him. His words fall upon deaf ears, and he beholds some kind of miracle, or curse, take priority over the loud coppers outside. He waves his hand first in front of him, as if attempting to fish for the attention of the wounded man. No such luck at first; his counterpart spends the moment chewing off the handcuff seizing him. The metal is snapped with teeth that do not crack and crumble. Shay raises his eyebrow at the flap of severed skin that splatters on the ground with inky residue. The pollutant shifts his interests onto the tiny pile of bile that suddenly begins to move while the man is busy molding into a pathetic heap of a coil, oversized hamster. The comparison stands true, in some ways. And what's Shay going to do? He isn't going to help a problem the cause of which remains a mystery. In most cases for Shay, this is the end of his road. He is not a doctor; he has no formal education. He isn't going to make things worse by reaching out and patting someone on the shoulder, offering them thoughts and prayers. If the convulsing man dies, then more power to his memory. Shay will devour him regardless, in whichever stage of decomposition he later finds him in.

The piece of flesh crawls away just as Shay swipes his finger over the black stain. He brings it closer to his face. He sees a wiggling heap of…something. Is that an ant? Before the evidence can run away, the Omen sticks his finger in his mouth, swiping his tongue over the smudge. A prickling sensation blurs into his warm saliva, and suddenly a flash of colors Shay does not recognize. It jolts his head back with shuddering eyelids. The taste is foreign and severely tart, and yet it possesses a familiar aftertaste. Something ruinous like putty stuck into a rotting trap. He cannot place it as he finally leaves the outskirts of wherever this mere taste takes him. What an odd adventure. And it seems to last a few seconds. Blinking away a flash of bright green and burnt orange, Shay finds the other man somewhat awake. He blinks at him and shifts from his crouch, leaning one knee on the floor while stretching out the other leg by moving his knee to the side. The man's face is hidden on the floor, and when he speaks, his voice is wet with emotion.

Shay grimaces slightly. "Yeah, I'm su'e." He does not believe the other, but if this is what he wants the reality to be, Shay isn't going to correct him on the obvious. Instead, the pollutant twists his body to face his back to the floor before lying down directly next to the other. Above them, the sirens grow close, exploding with a screech of passing police vehicles. The light pours into the vacant apartment briefly, painting the walls in collapsed purple before vanishing and yielding the sickly-blue light of advertisement signs nearby. Shay stares at the ceiling, observing the dust particles dancing in his eyes.

"Could start by telling me your name, then you can sleep all you want." Shay hums and folds both of his arms under his head while propping one leg up and stretching the other forward.

[tooth--ache]

Insistent, needy; wanted, home.

Howard drew in a breath, choked on it briefly. It felt foreign and surreal to know that the filth coating the insides of his body is a desired form. He chuckled breathily as it tried to burrow into his skin; wished something would eventually find a way to tunnel under his dermis and consume what has been left within him to fester and pus.

"I can't name it," he said hoarsely. His throat felt dry, his heart a stampede rampaging through the hollows of his ribcage. "It's not mine to name."

Obediently, expectantly, Howard opened his mouth slightly. Pinching legs began to scurry to an opening on his face: a moist, welcoming tunnel into the yawning void. He stifled a sound when he could feel the creature's segments rattle against his teeth, each foot nipping on the soft of his tongue.

It nestled deep within his throat, past his uvula, pressing against his trachea. Its ultimate legs rested against the tip of his tongue. Waiting.

Howard held his throat gently with his hand, a pair of tearful eyes descending upon Shay with repentance reserved for the holy. He drew a tight, hindered breath, tilted his head up.

And swallowed.

[m0il]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤShay watches every twitch of the tiny, many-legged beast make its way around Howard's face. It searches for a crevice to explore, for a flap of skin to lift and make a residence out of. It can smell the rotten flesh suspended in time, which is a fascinating science that Shay does not understand. Life is supposed to continue beyond death wearing a different identity. He, like Howard, is a victim of some timeless clock, but his biology remains the same: beating heart, occasional hunger, and air that he wheezes out when a bullet from an antsy police man pierces his lungs. Howard doesn't need to do any of that to exist as himself, even in a state of chilled decomposition.

The centipede still finds him worthy of a nibble. Shay rolls his eyes. He doesn't understand the rhetoric behind naming an insectoid. It's just a wiggling manifestation of survival. It seeks to latch onto things it represents: polluted thoughts, regretful heartbeats, and whatever else makes a human being regret their entire life from decisions they made themselves. A name is a name.

His eyes flick toward Howard's parting mouth. As his jaw hangs agape, he welcomes the centipede to crawl inside, prickling his wet tongue with its pointed steps. Its long, skeletal body fits snuggly against the damp muscle. It shudders when its top half fits against the back of Howard's throat. Its tails hangs by the man's chin, swaying in wait. It proceeded further, seeking a way into Howard's stomach. Shay tilted his chin, waiting with raised eyebrows for the other man to green light the centipede's journey. The two men hold each other in a glossy mirror: Howard's damp eyes touch Shay's deep abyss. He nods for him to continue.

"If you aren't gonna name it, then it's name is Howa'd." The slithering messenger is swallowed. Shay nods with approval, casting his eyes at Howard's throat. He sees the outline of rogue movement making its way down, pushing up against the slick, inner walls of the undead's lining. It will find Howard's stomach eventually and lie there in wait, feeding on its surroundings and soaking up whatever polluted feelings Howard has of his identity. The job of the Omen is boundless.

"Good." Shay speaks. "In a couple days, it will crawl out, havin' fed on you plenty. And then, I'm going to eat it." His tilts his head slightly. "Capiche? So don't puke it befo'e that."

[sloppjockey]

scumm. gouache painting on paper mounted on wood. 3x3 inches

[m0il]

@tooth--ache

[m0il]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThe wiggling scolopendra twists in the cool palm of the undead, seeking a crevice where it may wrap around its long, damp body and find slumber. It crawls over Howard's skin, denting it slightly with its pointed legs until it reaches the hollow of his cheek. It pinches him there gently with its mandibles, testing out the taste of dead, animated skin. It keeps its poison claws aside, in favor of befriending its new home. It presses as much as it can against the side of Howard's face, reaching for his eyelid and lying flat along the frame of his face. Its head grinds against his temple as if flattening its entire body against his skin, like a desert spider burrowing into sand. It stills there, staring into the undead's hair big, beady eyes.

"It wants to be inside you." Shay answers, watching his pet, one of a million, really, cuddle up to the walking corpse. A whiff of rot passes under his nostrils and he sniffles it. He crosses his arms, nodding at the harbinger. "Give it a name and swallow it."

[kxllerblond]

One had to wonder just who or what this man was. He wasn't normal, that had been established. Clark watched with only muted curiosity and even an even milder sense of disgust. He was no stranger to gore, but he didn't enjoy it. No one enjoyed seeing what was inside of them-— all that meat.

❝ Do you look like that too inside? ❞ He thought to ask suddenly even as the man dug around in the corpse's chest cavity. Was he meant to sell the organs? No, no way to really preserve them for that. To eat? Maybe. But, again, there was nothing to keep them cool or even clean. Surely it couldn't be just for the hell of it; it was all too methodical.

What a stupid thing to ask, he decided belatedly. But it was too late to retract it and the cambion merely sniffed as he watched the man attempt to come away with a pair of lungs. What a queer creature. A messy one, yes. But for what reason?

❝ Seems like a risky lifestyle. Just out in the street. Barely hidden, mind you. ❞ Shay had not asked for Clark's input, but Clark had decided he in turn did not care to take Shay's own. No one HAD to answer him and so they had no business getting agitated at him for speaking.

His gaze swung outward back to where people would be more likely to frequent. The hour made it unlikely, but still. ❝ No gloves. No PPE. Nothing. And you didn't kill her yourself, as far as I'm aware. ❞ Clark was pretty sure he'd been there to witness the accident before Shay had even made himself known. Granted, that hardly meant he hadn't been there.

❝ So that makes me wonder about... well, everything, really. Sexual killers are usually professionally sloppy, like you. But-— you didn't kill her. Are you a cannibal? No, maybe not. I'm not sure you're even human. Some sub-category under the necrophiliac umbrella? Ah, or perhaps just something more to do with mysophilia? I'm just curious is all. ❞

A pause and he hummed at the sudden thought that crossed his mind.

❝ How do you know I won't report this to the authorities? I've gotten quite a good look at your face and everything. It'd be quite the detailed tattling. ❞

[m0il]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThe layered viscera of what was once a human being, an individual with a life and a personality valued higher than a cardboard box with crayon drawings, is now just a mess. A mess that Shay partakes in as if he is building sand castles on a beach. Sometimes, he just kneels before a dying human being and makes them a grotesque caricature. He doesn't hear the other man at first. The words register a bit later. And with that in mind, he simply turns his head in this brief commercial break.

"Open me up 'n find out." His dark eyes squeeze the last detail out of his counterpart by crawling over him. He looks away, returning to the ribcage. The other guy, the one standing aside and just watching, is not just a bystander. A true witness will call the police and tell Shay he has five seconds to apologize to God. Instead, he finds himself scrutinized by a talkative stranger. Good Lord, does he not know how to keep quiet when instructed. When requested, as politely as Shay can manage.

Time doesn't work against a man who cares for things outside of his control. For a festering thing, time defines a cycle. When the ribcage is properly cracked, Shay reaches beyond the cage to carefully cut the tissues around the lung folds. Cradling the wet, sticky organ, he tears it from the cradle of life and lifts it above the blooming chest. The deflate in his hands that squeeze at the firm meat. His eyes are stuck to the beauty of life: each breath taken propels onward. Now in death, it will serve a purpose of feeding a system that thrives on it. This gore is ugly for people who refuse to accept this is what they look like. To Shay, it is not uncanny.

"Ohhhh wow," the man drags out the vowels like a trained choir. "You just don't have an off switch, huh?" Shay tilts his head to look up at the other man. "This entire time, you just talk and talk and talk." The tip of his nose draws circles in indication of the redundant speech serving as background noise. Static of someone's monotone voice. "You like hearing yaself?" The man inquires dryly, motioning with the retrieved vital organ. "I know you won't repo't shit, because you're standing here and watching me like a wee-id freak. And if you do open your big mouth to the pigs, what are they gonna do? Pay'r you five bucks fo' being a snitch? Fuck off."

Shay's left knee digs into the ground and he shifts his weight to rise. Straightening and stepping away from the carcass, the pollutant raises the dark lungs to his mouth. His jaw unhinges to sink his pearly teeth into the putty surface of the organ. Its walls bursts under the pressure, splattering Shay's face with pulpy innards. The organ is ripe like a fruit and it gives and gives and gives as the man devours. A strawberry is firmer than the polluted lungs. Enticed, Shay swallows every bit greedily until the organ is nothing but a messy residue in his cupped palm. He does not bother to lick his fingers clean, that's impolite. Instead, he shakes his digits to rid of the inedible bits before wiping his mouth on his equally drenched sleeve. There is a twitch in his head as his eyes land on the corpse. Within minutes, a bundle of mushrooms protrude from the flaps of viscera, peering their crema-colored caps among the broken edges of bone. They settle where the lungs once occupied and grow and grow and grow.

"Ya gonna leave now? Show's ove', chatterbox."

[tooth--ache]

"You know it. People like you who tell other people to shut up deserves not to be adhered to. Especially when you're right that it looked like I did---"

The unmistakable sounds of bone and flesh squelching against a minuscule gap made Howard's eyes round in a kind of horror he had not seen nor felt before in all three hundred years of his life, and he'd seen quite a fair few of bullshit. This one takes the cake. There was about two to three millimetres of gap between the door and the frame, and he was looking at a grown adult man slurping into the crevices in slow motion. He could see organs and entrails pushing through an impossible gap, stomach, lungs, kidneys -- quarter or a man, then half of a man, then nothing.

Howard clasped his mouth, falling onto his behind.

And SCREAMED.

He was still screaming into his hands when the stranger opened the door from the other side, seemingly unbothered by what he'd just done. It was sheer luck that the overhead helicopter drowned the sound of Howard's terrified screaming, but it didn't mean he should linger. The vampire(!) scrambled forward and into the empty house urgently.

Gasping for a breath and two brain cells to rub together to form a cohesive answer, Howard pushed himself off the floor and wandered about the house, bug-eyed and horrified. It took him a while to find a strong enough line to string his shaky words onto.

"Yeah." Very long answer. Howard twisted his wrists, and the handcuffs followed its force as if it was made of thin foil. The sharp edges tore into his skin where black, rotted blood bubble from within, scurrying around the wound to try to sew it shut as if Howard had just torn through an anthill.

"Seems to me only bloody coppers would ever deign to give me something pretty to wear, so I can't fucking complain, mate. Beggars and choosers and whatnot." Some levity would help, surely? He tried to shake the mangled handcuff away but the metal began to dig deeper into his wrist, causing him to hiss. The ants pour from his body, eating away at the metal, though far too slowly to make any difference.

"Ugh, what horror," he muttered. "Stuck with a fucking handcuff with Mr Byford fucking Dolphin Silly Puttying himself through a sneeze sized hole in the door. Fucking hell," he gagged at the thought. "I hope we never fucking see each other again after this. I really, really --"

WHERE ARE YOU HOWARD.

Howard's eyes shuttered in otherworldly pain that ripped through his head like a thunderbolt. He held his temple and worried at it pitifully, lowering himself onto the floor.

WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO THIS TIME, YOU USELESS, STUPID DOG! YOU CAN'T EVEN FUCKING BAIT THE COPS RIGHT?! YOU GOOD FOR NOTHING SACK OF UTTER SHIT! DO NOT EVEN BOTHER COMING BACK TO THE SAFEHOUSE.

"I... I better..." He muttered low. "I better get going soon..."

[m0il]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThis one's a screamer! Shay's ears are briefly defeaned by fusing with the door. He sees the other man's rounding eyes and then he is inside. The holler of the banshee slaps him with an echo and he has to blink a couple times to adjust himself. When he swings open the door with a grimace translating his disgust with the overreaction (which, to a normal human being is an appropriate feedback for seeing a man melt into the door), Shay holds his breath. If he exhales, he is going to say something really nasty about the other's vocal cords. The police sirens have nothing on this guy, seriously.

"Get up." Shay snaps, "Ya done being d'amatic? Fuck." He slams the door behind the other just as the helicopter passes, shining its blinding spotlight into the alleyway. Finding nothing, it keeps splitting the skies forward.

And here they are, sauntering in an unoccupied space. Shay is looking for any tools that may come in handy. He is not worried that this man would attack him. He supposes that there is a plus side to things: he scared this detainee enough to keep his distance. In the meantime, while hiding from the armed enforcement, the mission is to simply survive. The pollutant has no desire in leaving this place flattened against the ground and spread by the gravity of bullet fire. He knows that if he twitches the wrong way, the coppers are going to keep unloading gold until he is but a wet spot in the ground. He could hide in this place's walls, yet leaving black mold behind is a waste of resources. Shay's preference is to fester in a space that carries life, not someone's empty rent left behind.

Shay's nostrils twitch when the air permeates with something sickly sweet. A carcass stench, one recognized by a being that devours lesser. A centipede looking for a maggot wiggling in a pile of someone's remains. He turns his head to behold the struggling man with tinged hands, muttering some kind of nonsense. He observes the wrists from where he stands but hardly captures the Devil's details. It is dark in the apartment they are occupying, and Shay struggles with night vision: he just has human eyes.

The man advances forward. There is about a fifteen centimeter difference in their height, or six inches in American terms. The felon over here isn't stretched in his full height, instead, he is hunched over the simple contraption. The closer Shay creeps, the more potent the smell is. Is it a really bad choice in cologne? No, he has tasted this air before. He scoffs at the other man.

"Your accent is giving me a mig'aine, what the hell are you sayin'?" Shay's lips twist in a sneer. He is close enough to hear the rusty clang of the cuff. What a terrible contraption. Maybe, he can crack it with his knife, but what's that going to do after butchering a couple cops? He doesn't even want to come back for their lungs; that's how useless policemen are. "I can do you a favo', pop those eyes of you's so you don't have to see me again ea'ly, huh? What do you say-Hey, hey," Shay is interrupted by an unpredictable spasm that sends his unfortunate Plus One directly on the floor. Something shoots the man in the head, and for a moment, Shay checks the window in anticipation of a sniper hitting its target. With the glass intact and no trace of blood anywhere on the carpet, Shay concludes the damage is internal. It doubles his confusion as he glares at the man at his feet.

"What's wrong with you?" Shay's spits, gritting his teeth before crouching nearby. His mouth hangs open to deliver another question, but suddenly his face goes blank. His irritated expression relaxes, every muscle letting go of a sight of emotion. His eyes, twin-dark pools of frustrations, are now a pair of voids that simply stare at the other man like he is the only thing Shay is able to register. His knitted eyebrows sit evenly above his lowered eyelids. The corners of his lips snaps from their taut pull and lower over his teeth. The man remains like that for a couple of seconds, existing in a world with no sound. Then, he blinks, returning to the reality with a summoned glint in his eyes. Alive.

"You bette' sit on this floor until you don't have to c'awl, okay?" Shay's voice regains its dancing notes, albeit slowly, as if the man had just stepped out of a dream from a coma-like sleep. He clears his throat. "The cuff's not that serious, leave it. I can probably pick it." He gives their surroundings another honest sweep with his eyes, pouting. No pins in this area, that's for sure. Maybe, if this loft has a bedroom, he will be lucky to seek under the bed or the back of each cabinet.

[wonderful-rp-resources]

send one for my muse’s reaction to your muse ---

Alternatively, send ‘ + ‘ after the symbol for the roles to be reversed where possible! Please specify the muse for multimuses!

✘ = hugging them.

Δ = playing with their hair.

❤ = kissing them.

₪ = asking them out for dinner.

☀ = giving them a gift of _ ( asker’s choice ) .

♘ = stabbing them.

♕ = bowing down before them.

♒ = lying to them.

✿ = buying them flowers.

☾ = being found shirtless.

♢ = reading them a story.

☂ = giving them their jumper to keep warm.

✎ = speaking in a different language.

✏ = teaching them a different language.

▄ = telling them a joke.

♬ = singing to them.

☹ = insulting a loved one.

ஐ = slapping them.

✂ = threatening them.

❃ = dancing with them.

▤ = falling asleep on them.

☮ = waking them up after a nightmare.

♣ = discovering them crying.

回 = patching a wound.

✮ = stargazing.

▓ = caught stealing their belongings.

☽ = wandering alone at night.

♡ = complimenting them.

≡ = offering a place to stay overnight.

☢ = falling over.

✦ = being well-dressed.

❂ = wiping blood off their face.

◎ = taking care of them while ill.

☁ = being caught in the middle of a storm with them.

⇕ = holding their hand.

↱ = being lost with them.

☠ = pushing them against a wall.

[kxllerblond]

Unlucky. Life was just dotted with splatters of misfortune, wasn't it? And Clark supposed creatures like them lived in those splatters, like festering disease waiting for some unfortunate soul to cross into the threshold of their territory so that they could descend upon them.

Those splotches of misfortune. One of which the poor woman had found herself smack in the middle of. There was life still, fading. Her death was inevitable, minutes at best if that.

The cambion had recovered from the jarring start Shay had given him and his expression had been schooled back into that indifferent impassive look he could have trademarked with the frequency in which the look found residence upon his face

❝ Mm. No. I don't think that's right. ❞ Spoken in the tone of someone who was genuinely contributing to such a morbid conversation, and genuinely. ❝ Anyone will saw a corpse if it's practical. ❞

Shay was crouching now, a blade being produced from somewhere. A part of him wondered if he should have the stranger put the woman out of her misery. Clark then wondered if perhaps HE should. This, of course, led to no action either way.

Sugar face was enough to make him crinkle his nose and set his lips into a firm line. ❝ Wouldn't want to disrupt the work of such a diligent carrion bird. ❞ His tone flat if not just a shade bitter. He sniffed and casually took a few steps off and to the side, though seemingly with no intention of leaving the actual scene.

❝ Psychopath or murderer, regardless. You ought to finish her off before doing anything further. Sawing or otherwise. Don't be tacky. ❞

[m0il]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤShay readies his knife by weighing it against the victim's throat and then her chest. There is something in the air, terrible enough to alter the happenstance in the world. People just die from random things. A cinder block falling from the heavens, a train appearing on the tracks without a warning, exploding cars, impatient people, and really anything bold enough to endanger an honest, bleeding body. Shay is perplexed enough by these accidents, but does it really matter at the end of the day? This is just a cycle.

The blade considers its pinned prey and touches the corner of her collar. The other man continues speaking, which distracts Shay from accessing the rest of her innards. With a scoff, the man looks over his shoulder directly at his counterpart, now three paces away. "You give a sma'tass a seat to speak in, he's gonna take over the entire fuckin' room." Shay shakes his head, amplifying his disbelief before turning back to the wheezing victim. He counts her breaths; he's somewhat proud that she is still clinging onto life without realizing it. Shay rolls his eyes.

"I did not ask ya for your input. So stand there like a light pole and be quiet." A sharp exhale toward the other man's direction. Shay isn't frustrated with the presence of another witness to an 'Act of God' crime. He is baffled why he is still talking through a rhetorical comment. Gets lonely in that head of his, Shay supposes as he simply thrusts the blade into the middle of the woman's throat. Lights out. The next time, the blade enters through the center of her chest to tear apart whatever garments she layered on this morning. Then, it is her skin; a gentle seam of popped vessels and tissue unveils the grotesque masterpiece underneath. Muscle and fat protect a cage of bones that keeps the most delicious part trapped in a gentle cradle. Despite the mess, Shay is careful as he digs into the fresh carcass. Whatever his hunting knife cuts out is tossed over his shoulder: flaps of his, butchered muscle, that random smashed liver. All splatter across Shay's back, but the man hardly cares for the tacky mess.

Finally, the rib cage collapses with a pleasant crack. He breaks each rib in the tangle of anatomy like a lost adventurer stuck in a jungle. The prize is within rich: a pair of lungs, charred from years of smoking with trapped air expanding them against the missing ribs, threatening to puncture the tender tissue. Now, elbow deep in blood and bits, Shay straightens on his knees to take in the mauled upper half before him. He is used to doing this from within and in a privacy of their home. Today is a little different, but he likes to change it up a little by digging.

"Almost done." Shay mutters to himself, an encouraging push to get to the vital organ before it gets cold.

[m0il]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ.this little centipede would like for you to choke.

[m0il]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤEveryone has their reasons for choosing an irrelevant thing to be mad about. This morning, Shay chooses that he resents morning people for their lack of integrity. The best time to judge them is at night when the racing thoughts corner them in their bed and their eyes dart to every dark corner of their bedroom. They wonder what festers in a bundle of darkness underneath their dim lamp. Shay is there. Maybe he isn't.

In the morning, he is lethargic. He doesn't partake in coffee, he thinks it tastes like garbage. Still, despite his aversion, the man partakes in invading crowded rooms. A sideways glance folds over his counterpart when his complaint is spoken aloud. He watches another man for a moment and narrows his eyes. "Graveya'ds get loud at night." Shay remarks, looking at a mug filled with water cradled in his hands.

"I think you are jus' fucked." He hides his crooked smirk against the ceramic edge of the cup.

[m0il]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤHe has been there for a while, residing in a wall as a motionless idea. Just a thing made up of cobwebs and slithering, black centipedes with fiery bellies. Then: he is a man dressed in a tux who defines himself by manifesting in a seat. His eyes are aimed directly at the blond man. He doesn't say anything at first, and for a while. He simply exists.

When spoken to, Shay aims his eyes up as if something on the ceiling is supposed to shed light on the confusing request. He is just sitting here, after all. Panning his gaze back to the man, Shay speaks:

"Okay." A pause. "Then don't." He crosses his left leg over his right knee. "I am just gonna sit here and look at ya."