#gravefed

[sikarius]

the   penthouse   apartment   of   yamato   ishino   and   aranya   natharuetai   ⭑   *   18:00 hours ⸺ @gravefed, for aranya.

he   was   assured   the   apartment   would   be   empty   for   another   few   hours.   yamato   ishino   cuts   a   presence   into   the   cloth   of   the   world   where   he   stands,   but   his   handler   didn't   account   for his   fiancée,   the   shadow   that   slinked   so   quietly   into   the   apartment   wittaya   would   not   have   noticed   if   not   for   the   sound   of   the   alarm   disarming.   

in   all   honesty,   HE   HADN'T   BEEN   THAT   CAREFUL.   he   almost   wanted   to   be   caught   here.   to meet   the   terror   of   his   so-called   blood.   a   killer,   a   liar,   the   great   serpent   snaking   around   his   veins.   not   a   single   memory   of   her   was   tender;   only   a   cacophony   of   shouting,   neglect,   and   betrayal.

his   hand   went   to   his   gun.   the   memory   of   a   crowded   lobby   below   was   the   only   thing   that   gave   him   pause.   this   was   reconnaissance.   a   commotion   here   would   send   shockwaves   through   the   very   heart   of   new   york,   making   it   recoil   like   a   frightened   animal.   his   blade,   then.   a  deceptively   small   pocket   knife,   sharp   and   cruel,   flashed   in   the   artificial   light   of   the   room   he   was   searching.   he   weighed   the   blade   and   his   options   in   his   hands   as   he   side-stepped   the   foyer,   his   boots   treading   softly   over   carpet   and   hardwood.   

when   he   noticed   she   had   not   yet   moved,   it   was   almost   exciting   to   know   he   had   been   caught.   at   the   very   least,   she   knew   someone   was   here.   of   course   she   did,   a   giddy   swell   of   nerves   in   his   chest   reacted   and   he   hugged   closer   to   the   wall.   "   thought   i   had   the   place   to   myself   tonight.   "   he   called,   his   voice   a   rough   echo,   cracked   from   disuse.

[yuungmenace]

@gravefed ft. zekai

location: the faceless ship, level 3. an entire club transported onto a floating ship, opal stands at the bar and watches from behind their shiny mask and wonders if they're all going to end up on the bottom of the ocean. modern day titanic, and so many years after the tragedy they'll re-create all this...their mind goes to the ending of the film, except instead of that beautiful staircase it's this. a symphony of writhing bodies and music loud enough to trigger tinnitus in even those with permanent hearing loss. would the water cause them to short circuit? baths didn't, neither did showers, just idle thoughts playing around an empty mind. what else was there to do? the sheer amount of people that pressed themselves against her as she passed, eager to get a piece of the person in silver, long legged and as elegant as they come. the bar provides refuge away from such actions, tall glass of something that glows a violent purple under the neon strobe lights, dark eyes taking it all in - and, a stranger looking back. no mask, just a cap, the darkening around the eyes with makeup of sorts. no so strange, once her gaze is met, zekai. sticking out like a sore thumb, opal raises her drink towards him in greeting, silently beckoning him to join her.

"strange, isn't it? how i seem to always find your company,"

[8blud]

“   honesty  is  not  synonymous  with  the  truth.   ”   /   starter  call.

𝚎𝚡𝚝.     𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚗𝚎𝚠  𝚢𝚘𝚛𝚔  𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚝  𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚢,   𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛  𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜  𝚊𝚛𝚎  𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢  𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎.

there  is  old  air  between  them,   caught  in  the  vicissitude  of  seasonal  weather.     frail  breaths  from  a  third  body,   where  they  share  lungs.     languid  hands  clutches  her  coat  like  she’s  cold,   as  she  stares  up  and   up   at  him.     there,   a  twitch  at  the  corner  of  her  lip.     in  the  bare  skin  between  her  dark  brows.     remnants  of  her  humanity,   of  the  body  she  birthed.     @gravefed     snags  in  her  system  like  it  remembers  a  glitch  from  another  time,   a  different  body  with  the  same  rowan  and  the  same  finn.     she  steadies  herself  with  a  learned  tick:   her  head  tilts  until  a  crease  forms  in  the  muscle  of  her  neck.     cold  sweat  will  collect;   the  deliberate  movement  will  make  her  stiffer.     perfectly  inconspicuous  to  another  human,   such  as  herself.     ‘   then  you  already  know  the  answer  you  want.     say  it.     i  might  repeat  it.     you’d  approve  of  that,   yes?     even  if  it’s  just  a  repetition.   ’

[warystares]

✘ CLOSED / ft. aranya natharuetai ( @gravefed ) at the olive branch martini bar

THE ALLURE OF THE CITY IS often lost on such solitary souls as orson lloyd, whose entire world takes place in best part behind closed doors ; none too often does the industrial cacophony of an overpopulated urban landscape ( nor the disorienting strobe of neon advertisements, man-made constellations smattering highrises against a hazy backdrop of smog ) lure the funeral director from beyond the familiarity of dimly-lit oak paneling and quarry tile. but every so often, he feels a compulsion to fraternize amongst the feral horde that populates new york ― perhaps engage in a conversation that isn't one-sided ― and, even more rarely, he might indulge in that inexplicable urge. tonight, it would appear, is one of said occasions and the olive branch is as decent a choice as any, he supposes ― the speakeasy tucked away in the cellar piques the interest of a man inclined toward the antiquated, the old-fashioned.

and far be it for orson to instigate a conversation of his own volition, even when he is craving the illusion of socialization, but there's a strikingly familiar silhouette in his periphery that tempts exception. two drinks are ordered ; the first a gibson for himself, and the second, a classic martini that he carries effortlessly, not a drop spilled. ( both glasses are filled to the rim, but you're unlikely to find a STEADIER set of hands in queens. ❝ ваше здоровье ( tr. to your health ), ❞ says orson as he suddenly appears before her, unannounced, and extends the drink in an offer. ❝ though clearly in far better condition than last i saw. ❞ the quip, nearly as dry as the beverage in hand, is paired with the ghost of a smirk, a vague upward twitch in an otherwise immobile visage ; an allusion to a rather UNUSUAL meeting.

( he still has the program from a funeral nearly a decade past ― he keeps one of EVERY program, actually, a private IN MEMORIAM for his own leisured reflection. hers, though, it remains separate. he'd not actually prepared her for DISPOSAL. )

❝ i see death was not too unkind to you. ❞

[yuungmenace]

@gravefed ft. aranya

location; the faceless ship, level 004 you’ve been sent to the metaphorical groomers, someone has slicked back your hair and bought you clothes that fit and match, trimmed your claws and brushed your fangs so you look presentable amongst the sea of the wealthy and the beautiful. the rabid dog found the gel to be a little itchy on his scalp, clean nails resisting the urge to mess it up but not due to the possible wrath of the snake that accompanied him. aranya had so carefully chosen the outfit to match her own, the hound not minding because otherwise he wouldn’t be here but…wondered how it appeared. that these two (three, if you counted dmitri somewhere out among the masses) were clearly allied to the other, shown by dress sense alone, the two men by how their masks echoed each other. there was fun to be had here though, not violence, donovan knew that he had to keep his head down despite the itch to join the ring and bludgeon in some faces. watching others do it, the crescendo of blood as a tooth was knocked out, the grunt as a fist connecting to ribs and a silent crack as they broke was making him giddy, fingers tapping idly as he watched people fight. his momentary concentration is broken by his match coming to stand next to him, having melted into the crowd earlier for reasons she never gave away. "think i could win a few rounds?" donovan asks her, cocking an eyebrow up behind his mask.

[dogbleed]

INT.     AN  OUT-OF-FOCUS  CHAIR,  FRESHLY  UNSEATED,  IN  A  CLOUDLESS  OFFICE.   TWO  TUMBLERS  OF  BARELY  SIPPED  WHISKEY,  IN  THE  FOREGROUND,  SERVED  ALONGSIDE  THE  MANY  STILLED  EYES  OF  A  CHILD  AND  ITS  MOTHER.   A  SEA-SICK  MAN,  FOAMED  INTO  SHAPE,  SIFTS  THROUGH  A  FILING  CABINET. CLOSED  STARTER  FOR  ARANYA  NATHARUETAI.

despite  yourself,  you  stayed  your  hand.     looked  upon  a  banquet  of  cleaned  ribs,   and  merely  watched  sweat  trickle  into  the  wrinkling  crests  of  his  forehead.     the  shucked  dream  persists.     your  thumb  at  the  valley  of  his  collarbone.     crack  the  bone,   jack,   make  a  wish.     how  the  heart  would  redden  despite  its  chest  unfurling  into  an  open-grave.     an  easy  hunt:   the  hog  leaves  a  hair-trail  to  the  bleating  heart.     pathetic.     you  have  better  tastes.     staggering  meat  swathed  in  the  dove-feathered  gown  of  moonlight.     beyond  the  gold  gaze  of  something  divine,   of  a  hot  hiss  at  the  nape  of  your  neck.     after  your  steady-hand,   your  steadier  heart.     how  does  a  tamed  predator  taste?     like  charmed  phlegm.     like  a  breath  that  stays,   forever,   in  a  forgotten  wedge  of  your  lung.     (   you’re  a  man  of  a  simpler  taste.   )     it  would  hit  in  the  serenity  of  lapped  shores.     a  spliced  reflection,   of  you  and  them.     smote  by  the  fabric  of  your  watery  breaths,   and  pulled  into  the  smudged  edges  of  your  silhouette.     unmade  into  staccato  frames,   until  you  are  not  just  yourself.     there  would  be  an  ice-tipped  elbow  in  your  half-lidded  eye.     he  wouldn’t  know  before   @gravefed   stands  before  him.     this  time,   she  finds  him.     his  vision  cracks  with  a  smile,   at  the  prospect  of  broken  fun.     his  voice  waves  low  in  his  throat.     somewhere  between  gruff  and  smooth,   like  a  first  sip  of  alcohol.     ‘   careful.     a  witch  lives  ‘round  here.   ’

[tendrflesh]

@gravefed selena & otis stoneage industries

otis is reclined back in the chair, ignoring the screen above him as he lazily works through the rubix cube. a relic of childhood they carry around to occupy their time when their bored. like now, when the day is full of waiting, of anticipation, a growing anxiety settled in the pit of their stomach. but they swallowed it, keeping it locked away as another presence entered. at this otis straightens, not wanting to be seen as lazy or slacking, smiling as it registered that it was selena. "hey." he nods, fingers still fiddling with the cube. "you ever solve one of these?" though he figured they had. "i'm trying to break my personal best." they chuckle, holding it out to them.

[unbrokenfm]

CLOSED STARTER + KAI HALL , @gravefed !

walking in the streets of new york was always — how do you say this kindly? — like living life on the edge. you could either get run over by a maniac or get yourself lost. there was no in-between. yet, this is his hometown after all, was it not? he should already be familiarized with the city of lights. road rage with idiot drivers behind the wheel? yeah, it’d be best to avoid them in daylight. tae-woo had become numb, feelings were there but never one hundred percent.

tattoos were a persons life story, art with meaning. he doesn’t understand why the general public were negative about them. fuck them ! they’d rather judge a person by their appearance than get to know them. tae-woo side-eyes a lot of people in that aspect for being so opinionated, couldn’t give two fucks about them either. he didn’t waste his energy with them, and it was so relieving to be petty.

kai was covered with tattoos. he was, too. don’t get tae-woo wrong, he finds them attractive... still. even while being in a relationship. though he respected his girlfriend, he kept his distance ... even if there was tension on his end. regardless, they’re a fellow dead hand. they should get along swell without the dramatics. though, maybe, they couldn’t care less about tae-woo. maybe. he had no idea; clueless as can be. “wanna go to the tattoo shop?” he asked him — levi, or whatever their name is — out of the blue and boredom.