#paintactic

[cryofcrged]

❛     ---  how  did  you  find  me  ?    ❜ @paintactic​  -- starter call !

[tcughcall]

❛      ---  it’s  getting  pretty  INTENSE  out  there        ❜ @paintactic​  -- starter call !

[bringwar]

❛      i  told  you  to  hide  your  heart  once.  you  should  have  listened.    ❜ @paintactic​ -- starter call !

[prcsopa]

❛        you  can  sleep  when  you’re  DEAD  because  it  isn’t  over  yet        ❜ @paintactic​ --- starter call !

[lavendervcined]

bring it on 🙂 + sarya

@paintactic || FIGHT ME || accepting  

friendly spar

The mat is truly one of Sarya’s favorite exercises. It’s a dialogue between people, when they spar; and with a partner, that dialogue is what you depend on in combat. It’s how you can speak to them without speaking; how they know that you have their back, and you know that they have yours in return. 

And also, it’s just a fun time. 

Which is why she’s laughing when she hits the mat on her back. Frank had flipped her- he’s already moving to try and pin, but she’s spinning out under him- gets her legs up and around his neck and shoulders with a devilish grin, and then Sarya tosses him to the mat beside her, rolling to straddle his chest. 

She’s a whirling dervish on the mat, and he knows it- he’s got the height and the weight, but she’s never not been creative. And it’s for the fun of it, isn’t it, as her muscles burn pleasantly, as the sweat runs down her neck. He’s in the same shape. 

And he tosses her off, to her delighted laugh. It’s a game, really, as she lands on her knees, then spins up and onto her feet right as he throws a blow at her. He’s powerful- she catches it on her forearm though it clips her jaw at the edge; and Sarya’s solid herself, but it still aches for a moment, her head still rings. She huffs- and then one hand grabs the back of his head and she forces him to bend, slamming a knee into that soft sport below his ribs. They pull their punches like this, of course, but she’s still trying to bring him down like a wounded beast, at this point- once, twice, thrice, and then she tangles with him, loops and slams them both to the ground. They roll there- he gets a good shot to her hip, to her shoulder, and she slams against his ribs and then his sternum as they toss, and toss. Someone headbutts someone, and they’re both dazed; so she honestly isn’t sure. 

But she still ends up atop him, her knee pressing into his throat, and a wild grin in her face; a manic light to her eyes. 

“Gotcha.”

[marinesalvager-blog]

“Here, here – can’t work on an empty stomach.“

@paintactic.

          ❛ if i open this lombardi’s box and find pineapple on this pizza,           there’s no amount of PUNISHER-ING that could save your bullet-           riddled behind, ❜

         luckily for the both of them, there’s no pineapple in sight when          she throws open the pizza box. in the blink of an eye, she’s got          her mouth stuffed with sausage and mushroom pizza. as an          afterthought, she garbles a ❛ fanks ❜ to him, completely aware of          her status as a pain in the ass, and it glows in her eyes.

         ❛ googling criminals all day is DEFINITELY hungry work. ❜

[virtusaequitas]

‘Overheard at my law firm’ meme // Accepting. @paintactic:  "Publicly, I agree. Personally, I think it's chickenshit."

Taking a moment to consider this, Karen exhales through her nose and sweeps her hair back behind her ears. "So where exactly is that supposed to leave us now, Frank?"

[noheroiine]

why are you like this?

         “   ---------   mostly   because   of   a   fuckload   of   trauma   and   pure   spite.   ”         not   a   lie,   but   not   the   whole   truth   either.   better   to   use   humour   as   a   weapon   than   pry   your   chest   open,   one   rib   at   a   time,   offer   up   your   heart   for   the   wolves   to   devour.   jessica   jones   has   always   been   marble   statue,   and   perhaps   this   is   where   the   story   ends.   carrion   for   the   vultures,   it   takes   and   it   takes,   until   only   the   sun   bleached   bones   remain.   and   even   those   devoid   of   marrow.   hickory   hues   shift,   cutting   in   the   dim   light   of   new   york   city   at   night,   switchblades   and   bourbon.         “   sorry,   dude,   you   must   be   at   least   a   level   twelve   friend   to   unlock   my   tragic   backstory.   why   are   you   .  .  .   ”         a   vague   gesture   of   her   hand   towards   him,   simultaneously   dismissive   and   somehow   incriminating.         “  .  .  .   the   way   that   you   are   ??   ”