𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙵 . . .

𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵　　𝘺𝘰𝘶　　𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥　　𝘢𝘯𝘥　　𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵　　𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦　　𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯

[makingenemies]

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𝐌 𝐀 𝐊 𝐈 𝐍 𝐆 𝐄 𝐍 𝐄 𝐌 𝐈 𝐄 𝐒 ,　　a　writing　blog　dependent　on　pulptv   ,   featuring　　𝐕 ,　( script . pin board . tag . intro . )　　𝐌 ,　( script . pin board . tag . intro . )

[makingenemies]

𝐌 ,　JACQUELINE LOVEGROVE　...　　( @eg0died ) 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘯. 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘺𝘰𝘯 , 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘳𝘴

            call it nerves, what causes a heel to tap excessively or martini bar olives to substitute a meal, something grows over the halcyon. a looming shadow, the silhouette of a man, the moreno god, and he whispers, ' you do not belong here. ' like a sinner in church, ( something admitedly familiar to her ) mira feels this down to her unsettling core.  trespassing.  but her, the one bathed in all the glory the title of fbi director can bestow, she holds it differently, that whisper. “ this is dicy territory we're walking in on, ” an olive on a pick lingers by burgundy stained lips, just long enough to finish a thought. “ j. lovegrove seen at the late lev moreno's luxury casino. ” she bites, an empty pick between her fingers remains. “ it's an eye-catching headline, if they throw in your job title to the mix. ” and she watches. not always jacqueline, but what lies behind her, sprawled out like a menu, and like a moth to a flame all the dirty little secrets draped in ruby red cloth and gold. “ lev had quite the eye for gaudy interior design. ” 

[bclletragedie]

@makingenemies

LOCATION: some bar, following the death of lev moreno

𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐀 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍 to be a force of stoicism -- even in the face of torrential agony, this was something entirely different. lev moreno had taken his last breath. something in her couldn't help but wonder when the veil would be lifted, when that son of a bitch would emerge from the smoke and mirrors he'd created to laugh at them all. and yet, something felt all too final. his story was over -- and the soldier was no stranger to the sight of boys racing to grasp for the very thing that will cause them to become men. winona opts to stay as far away from the rat race as she possibly can. even if the boss is dead, there's still jobs to do, loose ends to tie. but, before she can commence all that.. a drink, and a moments pause to breathe.

while she had hoped the drink would bring her some solace -- no one ever finds peace in the bottom of a whiskey glass. it can only bring you hell. perhaps this is why she's barely touched it, instead opting to find entertainment in the droplets of water falling from the ice. slowly, it would dissolve into nothing. funny, just like the moreno clan soon would. that is -- unless someone stepped the fuck up and put the ducks in a row. vulnerability wasn't an option.

this prospect becomes a bit more difficult, however, when she lays on the bar's latest patron. fucking hell. twenty years will certainly lead to some permanence in one's existence, and it seems that vik has become that permanence. there was a time when he had undone her walls -- allowed her to feel when she knew better. he had been a man scorned back then, cowering in her arms like a wounded animal. and yet, my god, she didn't know if she had possibly loved anyone more.

but much like a spell, love can be broken. shutting the door on that had been what was best for them both. it had been a clean break -- and he would never know the hold he had once had over her. however, it had never stopped her from adding another crime to the laundry list of other she had committed in her lifetime: caring.

while she is ordinarily a master of being invisible -- she is well aware that he's seen her. eyes are downcast as he approaches her, creating a small whirlpool within her glass.

❝ did you ever think this would happen? ❞ she asks, eyes finally falling upon him before turning to the chair as if to say sit without utilizing a single word. as for her question, it had been one she had asked herself time and time again, even when the man of the hour was still haunting the streets. someone finally put him down. some days, she wondered if he was immortal. ❝ that he'd just go'n' fuckin' die? ❞ even if much of her relationship with lev was transactional, something felt distinctly empty within him nonetheless.

[makingenemies]

            she speaks before he can, and in return, is viktor's silence to the question everyone wants to know right after ' how the world came to be. ' it's as profound, in a way that lends itself to the idea that theirs just ended with lev's final bow.  a stage curtain drawn.  viktor's answer is found in the protracted pause, a stolen glance from her to the chair he slips onto as if the weight of the world followed, stiff and sullen.  “ he's still here, winona. ” the cryptic revelation falls between them, that space proximity cannot close even with an outreaching hand finding the space between her shoulder and bone blade. a brief, almost foreign touch that brings comfort only until it doesn't and his hand is instead wrapping around the first glass a bartender places in front of him. “ he's never going away. ” this, viktor found to be answer two days after lev moreno's passing as he sat watching the  blood prodigy  offer up the same look his father used to. held in the eyes. and again when torment found a companion in helena, lingering even when the body had gone cold. “ i want you to do something for me. ” the conversation works itself jerkily to an abrupt change like this had been his intention, to find her sitting at the bar under a warm incandescent overhead light, numbing herself in the way that seemed  contagious  around this city. “ something to consider as a request. ” a demand would impose mistrust. the bar counter holds a particular shine viktor focuses on, it's time, a way to allow the words to wash around in his mouth. “ if you're asked to do something, come to me first. ” 

[bad0gs]

⠀#⠀       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.     ”                   

[makingenemies]

            ' and it'll stay that way, ' the motto they now live by. the walls have ears, the casino whispers and all it takes is one wire, a single unrealized spark to tap into every secret behind closed doors. it's not safe here, but it's not safe anywhere. “ he got what he wanted. ” the whole of new york feels it, like  an atomic bomb,  no one in the radius is untouched, all left to deal with the side effects of his death and there is no pill to swallow down that makes it easier, even in this liquid form both nurse like it's their last. his head shakes in self depreciation before the glass is drawn back up “ look at us. this is another one of his tests. ” it's shame he swallows this time, thick and sharp and for a moment, it's necessary, needed to push down the thought of the deceased looking down at them . . . or up at them with judgement, for this to be their reaction. a seat is taken, facing helena and the large pane glass panel looking down over the halcyon,  the eyes of god.  and he can understand, something primal calls to the power it gives until the glass he holds slips from between calloused finger pads and shatters, shards littering the office floor, but he does nothing. he sits with a breathless,  “ we're fucked. ” 

[makingenemies]

𝐕 ,　MEREDITH GRIFFIN　...　　( @alamortz ) 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘮 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘺𝘰𝘯 , 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘳𝘴

            it's there, etching across the fine lines like a worn roadmap of fifty six years, the price of returning to the past. sitting across from the woman called wife decades back, he thinks, ' this time will be different ' but he always ends up here with empty bottles lining along the floor and table like knocked over dominos, glasses filled with intent to forget,  and meredith.  the only person who makes vodka neat look like water. selfishness places her in the chair across, offered up with a kick, pushing the seat out. few words are exchanged in favor of the comparative comfort, she makes him appear to drink less, that this isn't a crutch. but the empty shot glass he sets back down over the water ring of condensation speaks louder. “ not exactly a medical emergency. ” no, this was the ' other ' sort he mumbled about outside of her door five minutes beforehand.

[percyfraser]

RACHEL WEISZ for Esquire UK photographed by Greg Williams

[makingenemies]

𝐕 ,　ESTELLE VOLKOVA　...　　( @angclfall ) 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘹. 𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘦 , 𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘳𝘴

            the dimming light flickering overhead the hotel entrance claims it's reputation, no one wants to come here. an aging memory of what it had been, lost to time, and that too echos what is becoming of them, the morenos. it's all a pale comparison of past glory. viktor steps over the threshold older each time, payment in the untraceable form exchanging hands like it's second nature,  but she is different.  the psychiatrist. it's a glance in passing from the lobby's edge by a glass shattered window pane where a man in a worn leather jacket is handed a bag from viktor, and this acknowledgment of the outlier, it lingers too long to claim indifference. does she belong? but what is done here is taken to the grave, as shallow as some may be. and this is why he waits, like unfinished business. the clank of a zippo lighter engraved with his allegiance sounds through the emptied hotel, shut with the same force it's opened with once the narrow cylinder between lips ignite. even a familiar stranger is not to be trusted.

[makingenemies]

𝐌 ,　EMILIO VAILENTE　...　　( @catchfir3z ) 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘯. 𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘷𝘦 , 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘢𝘮

            a pen's cap clicks incessantly in mira's once gloved grip, the same pen she carries as if it were to possess a lifeline, but it's familiarity. and she favors it, yet the same cannot always be said of recognition contained in his features, a cocktail of  permanent disappointment  and the unease in wait of something to go wrong like the whistle on a kettle, it'll come out of silence. it's vanity that mira believes herself to know more than him, but her eyes, as weary as they appear illuminated by red and blue siren lights cutting through the dead of night, they've seen more, eight years more. “ this must be more serious than anyone realises if you're here. ” she faces away, like talking to a ghost. “ it's not related, to the moreno case. if that's what you heard pete say too. ” 

[dailytxf]

THE X-FILES | 1.17

[makingenemies]

𝐕 ,　VALENTINO MORENO　...　　( @eg0died ) 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘯. 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘺𝘰𝘯 , 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

            grief presents itself in ways that no two share the same resolve, manifested with external differences, but   implicit judgement  advances in a steal gait emerging from the shadows, settling in the adjacent right sided seat to lev's prodigy.  moreno blood.  there will never be a right time, to pluck valentino out of his anguish will always be too soon and yet, it can undoubtedly be claimed that a few days since lev's passing is, in fact, too soon. “ they did the same performance yesterday. ” but he too finds difficulty in a parting glance to him, the one now to be called godfather,  the one possessing his father's resemblance,  lev's likeness. as if all the years have washed away and viktor sits there harboring secrets already known to the man holding all the cards.  they will never be rid of him.  he is there in the dimly lit audience, in the vacant office watching from above, in the remnants of what is left after those who pledged loyalty have been bled dry. “ they'll do it again tomorrow. ” he espies the nearing empty glass of alcohol on the table and a second glance is offered with no comfort presented in the inevitable, the answer he knows. “ have you been upstairs? ” 

[makingenemies]

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.

[makingenemies]

𝐌 ,　ESTELLE VOLKOVA　...　　( @angclfall ) 𝘧𝘣𝘪. 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 , 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘰𝘯

            her worry comes in a tangible form, a rushed lunch she scarfs down hovered over the notes and newspaper clippings of a crime ( new york's chosen idol they claim god-like sacrificed ) unsolved, marked up in red ink that serves to pull attention to importance. and the unease, it comes etched in the delicate skin around her eyes, the fine lines across her forehead and the way she holds tension in her lips after each bite.  there is a weight to this case,  something that haunts the snow blanketed streets of new york at night when only the flicker of a neon sign and dulled street lamp remain a constant.  it's in the name.  sacred and given meaning otherwise foreign to those who did not claim the title of moreno, gutierrez or  sawumara. “ how many times did you meet him? ” mira doesn't glance past the edge of the table, but she knows that walk belongs to estelle, the pace and weight of her steps. “ lev ' lucky ' moreno, did you ever meet him? ” 

[amicus-noctis]

[kishou]

john wick (2014) dir. chad stahelski

[blondambiticn]

Delilah takes a sip of her drink and does not comment. Viktor likes his accusations, flimsy things to fling at her like weapons. "He has exams this week," she reminds him coolly, almost cruelly. Her son is brilliant, of course, and he's always her son - a vindictive, self-centered nature ignoring any and all resemblance to the man beside her. She looks at him now, the father of her child ( sperm donor if she's feeling particularly cruel ), and feels nothing. Nothing but pity for the girl she once was and a swell of heartache for the other child Viktor took from her. "Don't be absurd," spoken with haughty, aristocratic disdain, the kind she knows irritates him to no end, "You are of no value to us." A casual remind of where he stands in her life, and perhaps a hint that she gets her information elsewhere ( true ), one that hopefully sends him off on a paranoid spiral. "I am here about Alexander," she takes another sip. "However, given recent events, I am concerned about him seeing you."

[makingenemies]

            the antidote to her snake venom, it's found at the bottom of an empty glass. a tap on the rim calls for another to the bartender six paces away cleaning a fingerprint smudged flute with an off-white towel. and viktor is answered in  judgement ladened strides.  the same silent condemnation, he might deduce, would come at the expense of dangling a cigarette from his lips just now. only, from her.  “ it's a good thing your concern doesn't matter much about what he does as an adult. ” contempt fuels his desire to meet her gaze, stone cold as the day she left. a blemished memory of a woman in black, pulling and tugging at what he's buried.  what they've buried.  “ since you already know that, how exactly did you plan to execute this threat? ” still, he assumes that years which have not been kind would keep delilah's intent crystalline; as if he knows,  but he doesn't even know her.  the voice of the dead reminds him just now, like a whisper and a phantom hand on his shoulder, the very same as the day she ran.

[bad0gs]

𝗟𝗢𝘊𝘈𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕: lev moreno's home office, night after lev's death. 𝗪𝗜𝘛𝘏: viktor drake, closed for @makingenemies

⠀#⠀        A    HOUSE    TURNED    HAUNTED    overnight.    when    new    york    demands    to    be    fed,    it’s    given    the    body    of    a    god.    devoured    by    the    swarm    of    press    and    onslaught    of    police,    the    city    GOUGED    itself    on    the    death    of    lev    moreno.    and    where    else    to    go    but    here    ?    (    muscle    memory    takes    over    /    you’ve    awoken    like    a    stray    dog    sitting    by    the    door,    )    the    root    of    an    decades    spanning    empire;    an    empty    leather    throne    behind     a    mahogany    desk,    absence    of    its’    king.    gaze    𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆    𝐀𝐍𝐃    𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃    at    the    sight    . . .    why’d    you    think    he    be    there,    still    working    away    ?    for    a    moment,    the    first    in    a    long    time,    their    hands    begin    to    quiver.    “    i    need    a    fuckin’    drink.    ”    damaged    with    muttered    sincerity,    body    leaps    out    and    lunges    for    the    prized    bar    cart.     two    glasses    plucked    and    FILLED    INDULGENTLY;    no    need    to    ask.    he’s    gone,    finally    gone.    “    how    much    of    you    is    glad    ?    ”  

[makingenemies]

            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? ” 

[makingenemies]

𝐕 ,　DELILAH CANNON　...　　( @blondambiticn ) 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘯. 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘻𝘢 𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘭 𝘣𝘢𝘳 , 𝘤𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘭 𝘩𝘳

            “ you knew he was't coming. ” accusations never out of reach, dancing on the tongue's tip, an attribute similarly likened to the woman at the barstool adjacent. the one he hardly indulges with recognition, a payment reserved for anyone else who wouldn't peer at him with the same cutthroat malice. almost tangible in her gaze, the way she desires to reach over and wrap a wedding band costumed hand around his throat.   and maybe, it's mutual.  the first of shared common ground nestled between a snifter glass of scotch, untouched since its arrival mirrored the sound of a repetitious clack across the marble lobby. “ so why did you? ” his positioning shift removes the ex-wife from his peripheral and a grasp claims the wood-aged spirit, bottom lip pressing against the glass with another accusation. “ maybe francisco should find someone else to spy for him, that's what this is about, isn't it? ” not alexander.  the death of their god.  a name that fails to be spoken. lev moreno.