bite me.

what she lack in p o e t r y she makes up for in V E N O M

[samiradeclan-blog]

reidanderson:

     Of all the phrases she emphasized with sardonic humor… his brows reached the heavens, eyes wide in the stare that their banter escalated so quickly. His lips were normally loose, quick to comment back in his own bold manner but instead they remained lest there was some truth beneath the sarcasm they had been toying with. Despite how easy their conversation came, he didn’t know her well enough to claim she was fully joking, or if his sarcastic encouragement wouldn’t reveal any tendencies she shared with her colleagues. Instead, he eased off with the simple remark, “That is certainly an image. Should I be concerned about this imagery when you have me alone in your room. And I wasn’t threatening anyone. I was piecing together a vague puzzle and trying to get the law to its job.” Apparently in Brookswood, that was a feat in itself. When he first moved, Reid chalked it up to the backwards country Canada was, where kindness oozed out of mouths with a passive-aggressive bite they insisted was innocent and genuine. Years taught him it was the city, too kind (and frightened) to care for themselves that their heads were crooked from constantly looking away and pretending it meant they didn’t see. For the compliment that it was he only heard, Impressive that you still uphold the law. 

Backwards country indeed, stuck in a sex (and possibly disease) riddled home. The only consolation was when she was specific to his place across the room which seemed far more accommodating than what he heard from fellow captives, or what he heard eavesdropping in their sob stories. “Will it at least be a comfy corner I get to stay in? I’ll get these terrible aches in my neck, which,” he added, taking his turn under the facet with note how she kept everything just out of reach. “I woke with a headache after missing two days, a drug headache, but I don’t entirely believe I wasn’t knocked around a little when you dragged me to your car.” For how bitter he was about the situation, there was some small lift to his tiers, imagining her catching him while he spun and fell. While she was practically his height, his weight would have been difficult for a built man to manage. “And I am a detective, mostly. I’m even asking questions I know the answers to as a tactic to produce more information from my subject, just like they taught me,” he grinned, shaking his hands before finding a towel to dry them– the tactic also proved to be a tad annoying but a great way to stir conversation.

        Teeth sank into her lower lip — a bite to keep back the grin that threatened to spread across her face with his surprise. “When I have you alone in my room …” She paused for a moment, an airiness to her tone that was certainly absent before. “Mmn, yes for all of the devious things I clearly have planned for you. What my coworkers don’t know is that I’m descended from a succubus. I’ll suck your soul out of you, and I’m sure you can imagine from where.” Of course she was just poking fun at him — giving all the more reason for him to keep that surprised (maybe panicked?) expression from leaving his face. It was too funny to chase away just yet. All the while she spoke she continued her work. The pile of clean tools was growing while those that remained dirty shrank. “You were being too much the good cop. I can’t fault you for wanting to do your job, but perhaps you would have had an easier time doing so in Chicago. Or Detroit. Somewhere less full of corrupt and twisted souls all crammed into one house.” Of course she couldn’t count herself out of that. While she lacked all of the necessary pieces to be a sexual deviant like her partners there was certainly a darkness inside of her. It presented itself before them both — dirtied tools from dismembering and disposing of. It wasn’t so bad …

“I won’t deny the drug headache. I wasn’t going to be able to fight you and win. I’m not that hopeful or foolish, and I always have something on me anyway — just in case. I took a lot of time to watch you and learn your patterns. I gave you an extra dose. I didn’t want your fight or flight SEAL training kicking in, adrenaline overpowering the drugs.” It would have been sloppy and Samira was anything but. A roll of her shoulders had her continuing her tale, “There’s a lounge in the room you’re welcome to sleep on if you don’t prefer the floor. As I said, I won’t have you in my bed.” She paused, “I did have to drag you to my car, and I bound your wrists, but I didn’t hit you. I had no reason to. You were out cold. —I’d never strike you without reason. So don’t give me a reason.” With a soft sigh Samira discarded another tool to the clean pile and continued on. “Mmn. Are a detective. Yes, yes.”

[samiradeclan-blog]

thatalphaqueen:

 Anxious doesn’t begin to describe how the blonde feels, hips swaying from the constant movement back and forth; nearly pacing against the grace as she goes. “I just don’t see why I need to get on one of them.” Vague gesture to the horse a few feet away, eyeing the other person. “Can’t I just watch you ride, that seems sufficient enough.”

         “You don’t need to be on the horse.” Samira adjusted herself on the saddle, peered down to ensure her feet were properly in the stirrups before adjusting the reigns in her hands. She was always fond of horses, the few times she got to ride were a pleasure. “Though I doubt watching is any fun. You do whatever you’d like.”

[samiradeclan-blog]

reidanderson:

    “I knew I had to have some charm that was appealing though I can’t say I feel honored you chose me. Any one of my neighbors would have thrown themselves at your feet. I’m sure several coworkers of mine would have too– but instead of them, here I am.” Any one of his colleagues would have been equally frighten and excited to be in his position: too scared to fight the organization but thrilled to be within its walls. Some of the kidnapped portrayed the same, the majority seemed to have accepted their fate without dignity. And here was Reid, fight or flight senses at their peak, no resources at his disposal to act on either. “I would have been more put off had you expected me to sleep beside you. Our strenuous relationship wouldn’t fair well as bed mates.” Perhaps he spoke too much, not knowing his captor well enough to understand her intentions but as the interactions around him fared, there was a level-headedness to Samira absent from the others, confirmed by her own words. “Your colleagues act like children,” he emphasized in hushed words, another uneasy statement but she had opened the conversation to it. “But why would I want to kill you? No, I’ve been plotting how to knock you out to return the favor, with the added bonus of easing you to the ground instead of allowing your head to knock off the pavement.” His hands still hung in the air, nodded to the sink. “That’s why I said ‘pardon me’ to wash my hands. And to answer your question, no, you weren’t a part of my list names though I’m sure you’d get your jollies if I were add you to the search with nothing to find. Can I have access to the sink now?” 

        “My thighs are sweating at the mere thought.” Sarcasm oozed from her tone like ichor, she didn’t even bother to fleck her eyes up from her work to dignify it with a glance. Whenever she wasn’t speaking, when her concentration was a bit more boldly on her work, she chewed her lower lip, only to release it when she readied to speak again. “None of them were as impressive as you, obviously.” A pause. She did finally look up, “None of them threatened the gang the way you were. How bold. I think I have to change my panties with it.” Another tool to her far left, away from where he could reach it without being obvious about what he was doing. Sharing a bed with him. She knew that most of her coworkers used their captives for physical pleasure. The idea of condoning any sexual act including herself in a house with so many people inside of it made her skin crawl. It was a private thing — not for shame, but for a measure of keeping herself to herself. “Yes, well I have no desire to wake up to a pillow being stuffed down my throat because you’re so close. I am a light sleeper, for the record. If you try anything from your place across the room I’ll hear it well before you reach me.” She had so many more things to clean, but it would pass quickly. At least he was amusing to chatter with, for now. “They do act like children, sometimes.” Most times. Eyes flecked over to the sink, Samira even leaned back to ensure there were no sharp objects lingering that he could brandish against her after washing his hands. With the all-clear she gave a nod, “Go for it, Hoss. —And for the record, I didn’t let your head hit the ground. I caught you. Your dead weight made my knees buckle onto the pavement. Did you wake up with a knot on the back of your head? No. And you call yourself a detective.”

[samiradeclan-blog]

Company Pen, Personal Ink.

[samiradeclan-blog]

cyrusaugustine:

     More than pleased to watch. Of his years in his line of work, the self-created title of the occupation he held, this would be the first Cyrus held an audience aside from those experience his work firsthand. Perhaps only once a week did he have personal meetings such as these, and those were during busy months, every three when it was slow and everyone cooperated. For the most part his time was spent with footwork: meetings where no cameras could spy, speaking to officers and heads of offices who fed him his dues despite whether they were unaware of his false credentials or were compensated with heavy pockets for their sweat-less efforts. In either instance, there was no third party onlooker to bear witness nor would it be of any amusement, lest the witness intended ill-will against him or his connections. There was an art to this as well, one that made the informant’s chest and head rise when he heard his colleagues boast about their sadistic exploits. He needn’t resort to violence to obtain credible intel, especially when it could coerce lies or fabricated information just to relent; majority of the populace were more than generous when they believed a badge, a knowing tone, and a pleasant smile to seal their confidence. Still when someone’s lips seemed self-sewn or when Cyrus felt himself a sift of goods without equal return, he’d find himself in a secluded room such as this asking his audience to waste no more of his time in the most urgent of ways. He’d never express if he enjoyed when it came to these measures (in this case creating bruised sores only to carve filigree-like designs into them) and he scoffed and deadpanned with boredom to those who openly admired their own work of worthless and unnecessary pain unto others– it was crude and indecent to admit to such delights. 

This would have been the first he held an audience for these morbid, but necessary, delights yet her eagerness to join quickly shifted that he would be audience to her work instead, or at least his work in the hands of another– another first. “I mean it,” he confirmed with languid closed eye approval of whatever device of persuasion she wished to use. It would have been an honor himself to claim witness to her practice, or even that of her mentor’s when his black lung was still around to cough about. Cyrus’ trade with the cleaners was an exchange of rooms: where his part ended their began, and when they came he left them to their art of undoing– the flecks spattered on the wall and ceiling, the black hole beneath the man that threatened to swallow him whole, the slightest hair or drop of sweat he hadn’t seen fall from person she could make disappear in a vanishing act more impressive than Houdini. The elephant was always later found, but the bodies and small nuances that gave any indication for notice were wiped from existence. Had he the chance after this to witness her skills, the trade her mentor raised her to know, he thought to stay for it this time, especially after troubling her so early. For now, it was his part to rest, slinking to a seat beside her as if it was already decided, still working out the stains in the cracks of his hands. “You’re not imposing and another opinion might bring about new ideas. Every detail could always use a woman’s touch,” he teased, “every conversation a woman’s word. You’re welcome to use anything you like. Careful though, his jaw is a little tender.”

        Electricity shot down her spine at the confirmation — the yes, the ignition to participation. As Samira’s fingers made their way through the holes of the knuckleduster (little worms burrowing their ways through pre-hollowed holes) her gaze didn’t leave Cyrus, instead she watched him perch himself where she would have pleasantly sat had he been determined to finish his own conversation. Too many people in this industry were too focused on their work, the art of sharing lost upon the members as they marked their business with piss like a dog in their garish signatures. She despised when people left something behind to be found — the boasting would be something that got them caught in the future and Samira would be left with a nasty grin twisting her lips into something too smug to be human (she wasn’t human at all, in fact). But here the artist sat, square-shouldered and proud of his work so much so that he intended to share and when his words oozed and teased from his lips Samira could see the same void-puddle of ichor on him that collected beneath the man bound to the chair. An angel and a demon — where the wings she could imagine had been before now sat leathery spreads with hooked claws at the top, twisted ram’s horns from his forehead and teeth caked in black and bits. One blink and the imagined scenario was gone though … admittedly it was more enticing than the feathered comparison had ever been.

Tongue slipped from her maw to rewet her lips, three steady clicks forward from her impossible heels suggested she were moving for the man and once she was before him she pressed the tips of her index and middle fingers (on the free hand) beneath his chin and forced his attention upward. Gaze onto her. In his hues she could see the muddled cloudiness beaten into him from the gargoyle behind her, the marks and bruises flourishing, the blood dripping in slow rivulets from cuts swiped and swiped again. “Aren’t you so brave?” Samira’s tone was still that hoarse-deep, laced with amusement and sure excitement over the predicament that Cyrus’ captive was in. He merely shot her a look, what he could through one swollen eye, and when he did not answer (she figured he wouldn’t, if Cyrus couldn’t get him to talk why would she?) Samira shifted, cocked her hand back, and swung. The crack was sickening, delivered to the ridge between his nose and the apple of his cheek — shattering the bridge of his nose if it wasn’t already broken. He shouted, groaned, spat, and kept his gaze down. Samira merely reeled back again. Thud this time, The back of his head as he stayed looking down and away, right above his ear. The force of his body nearly threatened to topple the chair. The cleaner shifted to drag his attention upward once more and with another sick crack sent his gaze back down. The man lurched forward, coughed up a mess of blood before Samira’s shoes and she merely raised one foot to press into his chest and knock him into the rest of the chair again. Sharp heel dug into his chest, and with a pause to consider his predicament she finally peered over her shoulder to Cyrus, “I think I broke his cheek. I’m sorry.”

[samiradeclan-blog]

Company Pen, Personal Ink.

[samiradeclan-blog]

cyrusaugustine:

     “I should be the one apologizing, Miss Declan,” he replied, holding the door until she passed the threshold. The quiet click of the lock returning to its home, alleviating them once more into privacy, could have been missed under the heavy breaths, between himself and their guest bound to the chair who immediately captured his attention, once more. He hadn’t overestimated his skills– his methods were drastic enough that living without pain seemed the brighter outcome– but rather Cyrus had overestimated his target’s will to live. The man broke faster than expected, and expressing the woman whom he called, the woman now by his side, would clean his interrogation room or his murder room didn’t help the man become more giving– instead, it seemed he had accepted the final outcome without intention to provide the informant with what he needed. It was a mistake on Cyrus’ behalf, nonetheless.

“I expected to be done by time you arrived and made the call preemptively,” he continued, speaking down to the cloth he had used on the knob, now wiping away the coating on his hands into tints and stains of dried reds and browns, and peeling skin at his knuckles. “I’m afraid I’ll have to keep you waiting until he and I are done with our conversation. Please, make yourself comfortable.” He gestured to the bedside, covers neatly tucked away as they were when the cleaning staff came through. The man, swollen and bruised, bleeding from countless wounds that collected into a growing puddle  beneath him was a sore contrast in comparison to the clean room, the only other indication of mischief was his dirty tools laid out upon the dresser. Botched, broken, the scene of his work meant little to his benefit which only made him sigh over his tired breaths in his own acceptance that he would need his information from more reliable sources. “Unless you would like to say your own words of encouragement,” he offered, gesturing for the cleaner to take her part in his work. “I won’t keep you waiting for much longer.”

        “You have nothing to apologize for, Mister Augustine. I’m more than pleased to be an observer.” Samira passed through, stooping only to set her bag beside the door where he remained, guarding like a gargoyle as he wiped at his hands. Eyes took in the scene: beautiful artwork running down the man’s flesh and Cyrus the artist. The piece was truly something to DaVinci’s lost works, those still being recovered from a portfolio of anatomy sketches and inventions never to be. Samira could only imagine how it unfurled, what exactly caused the rivulets of blood to seep from him, eked secrets spilling down and collecting beneath him like a mass of black ichor. The scent of the blood was pungent enough to taste but that never quite bothered her. Instead she toiled with taking the entirety of the sight in, imagining which ministrations of Cyrus’ hands caused the cuts and the bashes, the harsh bruises that were already blossoming into brilliant and beautiful hues of purple beneath the slices and tears. Cyrus’ garden. She loved it, truly. And the imagery that fell with it: the wide arc of Cyrus’ arm as he made to crush knuckles into jaw, an arc of an angel’s wing and the cloud of blood the brilliant halo to outline the heavenly being beside her. To be able to watch something so intriguing and skillful was a treat. The rich preferred opera and theater, Samira had blood and torture.

And she was ready to press herself into the edge of the bed to do just that: observe, until the words spilled from Cyrus’ lips. Eyes shifted to his face to seek the meaning (could she really join) and noted the collection of beaded effort forming at the line of his hair. His breathlessness caused her to smirk, to admire the obvious effort he’d already put in. “Do you mean that in earnest?” She wouldn’t want to impose, to intercede on the conversation Cyrus was already having with the subject before them. Though the idea of partaking spread elation into her, caused the smirk she had been gating to pool out and flood across her features. As she stooped for her bag once more she noted the tools on the table, assigned them to the marks on the man: this tool to peel, this tool to bruise, this tool to cut and — were those pliers? When she straightened with a knuckleduster in hand, one older than herself by at least ten years and far too clean to detail the many uses it had over that time, she revealed the object to him — seeking approval for it’s use, or perhaps to clarify her stop. Before she spoke she noted the various spots around the room, made a mental checklist of things she’d need to go over once the chore here was done but … as she spoke she felt her voice come out hoarse. She could blame it, perhaps, on being alone for most of the day but she knew that it was the excitement of the predicament ahead that cause such a husky tone. “I wouldn’t want to impose on your conversation, Mister Augustine. You seem so engaged. But if you wouldn’t mind another opinion in the matter … perhaps I could bring your debate to light?”

[samiradeclan-blog]

reidanderson:

    “Patient? You were that eager to have me in your room, sleeping not far from you.” What a funny notion it all was. When he heard it was standard for captives to reside with their abductors, he questioned why more Anserini weren’t popping up dead and disposed, why the clubhouse didn’t have its own accompanying graveyard for their fallen comrades butchered and strangled in their sleep. Of course reason argued, they wouldn’t make it far afterwards, but dying trying to live was more honorable than yielding without question. “Well, if you were under the impression having an abductee was going to be an easy feat then I’m here to enlighten you I didn’t simply accept this is my new home. I would need a really good bottle of whiskey to swallow that notion, fit for gods… oh, and freedom, which is not an offer.” The hint of a smile gracing his lips flat-lined and eliminated all progress it made in their banter. “I had evidence, though I’m not sure if it was you. You didn’t by chance leave a mark behind, an ashtray signature in plain view to laugh at the cops working the case?”  His fingers rubbed together, absent of plaything while feeling the odd consistency, a familiar and uncomfortable consistency. His head nodded to the tap, hands reaching out. “Pardon me. Bile would be acidic, it’s not acidic. So why didn’t you clean them when you were cleaning?” 

        “I obviously brought you here because I was so lonely, and so desperate for human contact, that I just … abducted you.” The sarcasm was imminent but her tone, her expression — none of it gave intothe fact that she was being sarcastic. In fact, she’d spent zero nights in the same room as her new friend, most of them had been called away to work and the one that she wasn’t … she was reading. Willfully spending time away from him so he wouldn’t try anything out of the irrational new anger of his situation. “But when I do, we’re not sharing a bed. You can sleep on the floor or in the closet or in the tub but … I spread out when I sleep. I’ve never been good at sharing.” She’d have left him in the attic if she didn’t think he was liable to try and flee at some point. Samira was less-inclined to use him as a play thing and more business about the arrangement, and she wasn’t dumb to how dangerous he was. “There’s a reason why you’ve popped the cherry on my abduction, Hoss. I didn’t want to deal with having an angry child roaming around plotting my murder. Not that you’re a child — a lot of the people who were taken act like children. It’s boring.” She snorted at the idea of good whiskey. It was usually just shit beer or whatever else the poor taste of her peers were. “I’ve waited nine years for any sort of good liquor in this house to appear and it hasn’t yet. So keep hoping.” Another tool done. She placed it out of his reach and made for yet another dirty one — dutiful. “No, I don’t leave behind any evidence, never mind one so narcissistic. I have no desire to have a battle of the wits with Vancouver’s finest. And it wouldn’t be acidic anymore. Hence it being dry, and dry shit can still get on your hands. Oh. Shit. I could be shit, too.”

[samiradeclan-blog]

        From behind her lashes Samira stared, between the tool and him, and waited for him to finish his rationalization as to why he was so privileged to touch her things. After a quiet moment she dropped her cotton ball and flicked the switch for the bone saw on — the small round blade whirring loudly and pressing a pleasant smirk onto her lips. After a moment Samira killed the power and set it away, away from him for sure, and reached forward to pluck the tool from his grasp. “If you think that being my captive means you earn any right, you’re quite wrong. I was patient enough to let you stew off most of your anger in the room alone, the least you can do is be something less of a headache on your first real day around.” Teeth bit into her lower lip as she worked: a new cotton ball, more rubbing alcohol, slow swipes. “If you think I’m not going to clean the work station when I’m done then you have me pegged for someone whose sloppy in my work. And if I were a sloppy cleaner you’d have gotten information from a crime scene for your plea against the Anserini gang. Which, correct me if I’m wrong, you did not. Not my jobs, at least.” She was still smiling, despite the banter. “Are you worried you’ll get a hair in your food? Now that there’s shmutz on your fingers.” Once more she flashed her gaze up at him — at the dirty fingers from his touching. “Mm … maybe dried bile. Too dark to tell.”

@reidanderson

[samiradeclan-blog]

Company Pen, Personal Ink.

      Flashback sequence ——

        An early job. She couldn’t say that she hadn’t expected the call — it was becoming less and less infrequent since the first job or so that Samira had worked with Mister Augustine. She had known him since she was much younger — a slender figure appearing whenever he was needed and disappearing just as quickly. Terse greetings and polite nods of one’s head were frequent on either behalf — but in her younger days if Cyrus was around it was for Mister Bishop, not for her. At least he had trusted in Bishop’s judgment — there was but one protege to take over the business of cleaning the messes in the Anserini and it was much easier (more trustworthy) to take on Samira than hire an outside contract. Still, when the phone rang at 10pm she could say that she wasn’t quite expecting it … she could only wonder what would be left to clean up. If they would be alive when she got there, if she would witness him working or if there would just be a mess to clean.

Half an hour — by now it was such habit that it only took such a short time to dress herself and become presentable: heels, pencil skirt, dress shirt, waist belt, blazer, thigh-high tights, hair pulled gently back to be out of her face and out she was to the coordinates texted. The car blended into the darkness well when she parked, a quick stop into the trunk to grab her work bag and into the side entrance she went. Immediately she could smell the slam of blood — whatever Cyrus had done it was well into the work, but the panting suggested his mark was still alive. With a gentle knock on the hallway door she announced herself, pressing into his work space like an eager child.

“Sorry for the delay, Mister Augustine. I hope I haven’t missed much.”

@cyrusaugustine

[samiradeclan-blog]

Company Pen, Personal Ink.

[samiradeclan-blog]

cyrusaugustine:

      More than pleased to watch. Of his years in his line of work, the self-created title of the occupation he held, this would be the first Cyrus held an audience aside from those experience his work firsthand. Perhaps only once a week did he have personal meetings such as these, and those were during busy months, every three when it was slow and everyone cooperated. For the most part his time was spent with footwork: meetings where no cameras could spy, speaking to officers and heads of offices who fed him his dues despite whether they were unaware of his false credentials or were compensated with heavy pockets for their sweat-less efforts. In either instance, there was no third party onlooker to bear witness nor would it be of any amusement, lest the witness intended ill-will against him or his connections. There was an art to this as well, one that made the informant’s chest and head rise when he heard his colleagues boast about their sadistic exploits. He needn’t resort to violence to obtain credible intel, especially when it could coerce lies or fabricated information just to relent; majority of the populace were more than generous when they believed a badge, a knowing tone, and a pleasant smile to seal their confidence. Still when someone’s lips seemed self-sewn or when Cyrus felt himself a sift of goods without equal return, he’d find himself in a secluded room such as this asking his audience to waste no more of his time in the most urgent of ways. He’d never express if he enjoyed when it came to these measures (in this case creating bruised sores only to carve filigree-like designs into them) and he scoffed and deadpanned with boredom to those who openly admired their own work of worthless and unnecessary pain unto others– it was crude and indecent to admit to such delights. 

This would have been the first he held an audience for these morbid, but necessary, delights yet her eagerness to join quickly shifted that he would be audience to her work instead, or at least his work in the hands of another– another first. “I mean it,” he confirmed with languid closed eye approval of whatever device of persuasion she wished to use. It would have been an honor himself to claim witness to her practice, or even that of her mentor’s when his black lung was still around to cough about. Cyrus’ trade with the cleaners was an exchange of rooms: where his part ended their began, and when they came he left them to their art of undoing– the flecks spattered on the wall and ceiling, the black hole beneath the man that threatened to swallow him whole, the slightest hair or drop of sweat he hadn’t seen fall from person she could make disappear in a vanishing act more impressive than Houdini. The elephant was always later found, but the bodies and small nuances that gave any indication for notice were wiped from existence. Had he the chance after this to witness her skills, the trade her mentor raised her to know, he thought to stay for it this time, especially after troubling her so early. For now, it was his part to rest, slinking to a seat beside her as if it was already decided, still working out the stains in the cracks of his hands. “You’re not imposing and another opinion might bring about new ideas. Every detail could always use a woman’s touch,” he teased, “every conversation a woman’s word. You’re welcome to use anything you like. Careful though, his jaw is a little tender.”

         Electricity shot down her spine at the confirmation --- the yes, the ignition to participation. As Samira’s fingers made their way through the holes of the knuckleduster (little worms burrowing their ways through pre-hollowed holes) her gaze didn’t leave Cyrus, instead she watched him perch himself where she would have pleasantly sat had he been determined to finish his own conversation. Too many people in this industry were too focused on their work, the art of sharing lost upon the members as they marked their business with piss like a dog in their garish signatures. She despised when people left something behind to be found --- the boasting would be something that got them caught in the future and Samira would be left with a nasty grin twisting her lips into something too smug to be human (she wasn’t human at all, in fact). But here the artist sat, square-shouldered and proud of his work so much so that he intended to share and when his words oozed and teased from his lips Samira could see the same void-puddle of ichor on him that collected beneath the man bound to the chair. An angel and a demon --- where the wings she could imagine had been before now sat leathery spreads with hooked claws at the top, twisted ram’s horns from his forehead and teeth caked in black and bits. One blink and the imagined scenario was gone though ... admittedly it was more enticing than the feathered comparison had ever been.

Tongue slipped from her maw to rewet her lips, three steady clicks forward from her impossible heels suggested she were moving for the man and once she was before him she pressed the tips of her index and middle fingers (on the free hand) beneath his chin and forced his attention upward. Gaze onto her. In his hues she could see the muddled cloudiness beaten into him from the gargoyle behind her, the marks and bruises flourishing, the blood dripping in slow rivulets from cuts swiped and swiped again. “Aren’t you so brave?” Samira’s tone was still that hoarse-deep, laced with amusement and sure excitement over the predicament that Cyrus’ captive was in. He merely shot her a look, what he could through one swollen eye, and when he did not answer (she figured he wouldn’t, if Cyrus couldn’t get him to talk why would she?) Samira shifted, cocked her hand back, and swung. The crack was sickening, delivered to the ridge between his nose and the apple of his cheek --- shattering the bridge of his nose if it wasn’t already broken. He shouted, groaned, spat, and kept his gaze down. Samira merely reeled back again. Thud this time, The back of his head as he stayed looking down and away, right above his ear. The force of his body nearly threatened to topple the chair. The cleaner shifted to drag his attention upward once more and with another sick crack sent his gaze back down. The man lurched forward, coughed up a mess of blood before Samira’s shoes and she merely raised one foot to press into his chest and knock him into the rest of the chair again. Sharp heel dug into his chest, and with a pause to consider his predicament she finally peered over her shoulder to Cyrus, “I think I broke his cheek. I’m sorry.”

[samiradeclan-blog]

pumpcdupkcks:

jamie wasn’t one to rush a job, usually he enjoyed dragging it out a little. but for whatever reason, he just wasn’t in the mood tonight. maybe it was the fact that he knew it wasn’t going to be a particularly easy job, and he was just tired. either way, he just wanted to get it over with. “i’ll be waiting.” he nodded without hesitation, already heading outside and towards his car.

         What usually occurred in the dead of night would be a tag-along event. Samira was used to receiving stiff exchanges between herself and other members of the gang --- especially when work was involved, and the subsequent ignorance to his mood was a result of that. With a hum she disappeared into the garage, yanking the necessary bags out of her trunk and tapping on the rear hood of his car to let him to know to pop his. When everything was settled into place she dumped herself into the passenger seat and sealed the door, smoothing out the ruffles in her skirt after buckling. “At least we might be done before midnight, hm?”

[urmotheratemydog]

[samiradeclan-blog]

pumpcdupkcks:

“don’t count on it.” he replied with a sigh, hesitating only a few moments before heading to his room. as expected he was stopped before he even made it there, given the brief details of the mission. he then gathered his weapons and gearing up, making sure both of his kidnappees were kept under a watchful eye and then heading to their meeting point. he wasn’t waiting for long before samira showed up, and he pulled his keys from his pocket. “ready?” 

         It took just a shower and a professional dressing before Samira made her way down to the foyer. A small notation to Reid that she would be back later and her things all gathered, Samira was surprised to see Jamie waiting --- she was usually ready before anyone else. He must be eager to come back. “Mm. Let me get my bag from the trunk of my car in the garage, I’ll meet you at yours?”

[samiradeclan-blog]

Company Pen, Personal Ink.

[samiradeclan-blog]

cyrusaugustine:

      “I should be the one apologizing, Miss Declan,” he replied, holding the door until she passed the threshold. The quiet click of the lock returning to its home, alleviating them once more into privacy, could have been missed under the heavy breaths, between himself and their guest bound to the chair who immediately captured his attention, once more. He hadn’t overestimated his skills– his methods were drastic enough that living without pain seemed the brighter outcome– but rather Cyrus had overestimated his target’s will to live. The man broke faster than expected, and expressing the woman whom he called, the woman now by his side, would clean his interrogation room or his murder room didn’t help the man become more giving– instead, it seemed he had accepted the final outcome without intention to provide the informant with what he needed. It was a mistake on Cyrus’ behalf, nonetheless.

“I expected to be done by time you arrived and made the call preemptively,” he continued, speaking down to the cloth he had used on the knob, now wiping away the coating on his hands into tints and stains of dried reds and browns, and peeling skin at his knuckles. “I’m afraid I’ll have to keep you waiting until he and I are done with our conversation. Please, make yourself comfortable.” He gestured to the bedside, covers neatly tucked away as they were when the cleaning staff came through. The man, swollen and bruised, bleeding from countless wounds that collected into a growing puddle  beneath him was a sore contrast in comparison to the clean room, the only other indication of mischief was his dirty tools laid out upon the dresser. Botched, broken, the scene of his work meant little to his benefit which only made him sigh over his tired breaths in his own acceptance that he would need his information from more reliable sources. “Unless you would like to say your own words of encouragement,” he offered, gesturing for the cleaner to take her part in his work. “I won’t keep you waiting for much longer.”

         “You have nothing to apologize for, Mister Augustine. I’m more than pleased to be an observer.” Samira passed through, stooping only to set her bag beside the door where he remained, guarding like a gargoyle as he wiped at his hands. Eyes took in the scene: beautiful artwork running down the man’s flesh and Cyrus the artist. The piece was truly something to DaVinci’s lost works, those still being recovered from a portfolio of anatomy sketches and inventions never to be. Samira could only imagine how it unfurled, what exactly caused the rivulets of blood to seep from him, eked secrets spilling down and collecting beneath him like a mass of black ichor. The scent of the blood was pungent enough to taste but that never quite bothered her. Instead she toiled with taking the entirety of the sight in, imagining which ministrations of Cyrus’ hands caused the cuts and the bashes, the harsh bruises that were already blossoming into brilliant and beautiful hues of purple beneath the slices and tears. Cyrus’ garden. She loved it, truly. And the imagery that fell with it: the wide arc of Cyrus’ arm as he made to crush knuckles into jaw, an arc of an angel’s wing and the cloud of blood the brilliant halo to outline the heavenly being beside her. To be able to watch something so intriguing and skillful was a treat. The rich preferred opera and theater, Samira had blood and torture.

And she was ready to press herself into the edge of the bed to do just that: observe, until the words spilled from Cyrus’ lips. Eyes shifted to his face to seek the meaning (could she really join) and noted the collection of beaded effort forming at the line of his hair. His breathlessness caused her to smirk, to admire the obvious effort he’d already put in. “Do you mean that in earnest?” She wouldn’t want to impose, to intercede on the conversation Cyrus was already having with the subject before them. Though the idea of partaking spread elation into her, caused the smirk she had been gating to pool out and flood across her features. As she stooped for her bag once more she noted the tools on the table, assigned them to the marks on the man: this tool to peel, this tool to bruise, this tool to cut and --- were those pliers? When she straightened with a knuckleduster in hand, one older than herself by at least ten years and far too clean to detail the many uses it had over that time, she revealed the object to him --- seeking approval for it’s use, or perhaps to clarify her stop. Before she spoke she noted the various spots around the room, made a mental checklist of things she’d need to go over once the chore here was done but ... as she spoke she felt her voice come out hoarse. She could blame it, perhaps, on being alone for most of the day but she knew that it was the excitement of the predicament ahead that cause such a husky tone. “I wouldn’t want to impose on your conversation, Mister Augustine. You seem so engaged. But if you wouldn’t mind another opinion in the matter ... perhaps I could bring your debate to light?”

[littlewildling-rpg]

[all-movie-stuff]

[samiradeclan-blog]

Every time I look at you I can help but stare, I just want to touch your body everywhere. I can feel your energy; it's in the air, And you wake up all my senses so I'm self aware. It's the touch of your skin; makes me feel alive again, I can't help but to sin makes me feel alive again. My skin's warm but my heart's cold 'cause I'm dead inside, And I need to know you want me so I feel alive. I just want to be inside you just to feel the rush, And it's like I'm hit by lightning when I feel your touch. It's the touch of your skin; makes me feel alive again, I can't help but to sin makes me feel alive again.

The Touch of Your Skin, Trevor Something

[analog-graveyard]

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