#pulchral

[dregdens]

@pulchral​ said:   “don’t take this shit too serious.”

the words go in one ear and right out the other, until he manages to catch them fading.  how was he not supposed to take this seriously?  stilwater was all sorts of fucked up— almost more fucked up than los santos, and if lamar had it his way, he would’ve been on the next flight out to california.  instead, he finds himself in the saints row church, an expression that reads frozen and distressed curving into every single crevice of his countenance.  this was fucked up.  everything was fucked up and assumed to get even more fucked up.  a deep breath is inhaled as he attempts to clear his expression, in signature lamar davis fashion, his head shaking for self-directed encouragement.    “yeah, homie— you right.  not too serious.  i don’t give a fuck what it is, i roll hard!  big dog, big nuts, take no prisoners, all that shit— you know?  i got apache blood in me!”

as the words depart from his lips, he’s unsure of who he’s trying to convince more, himself or johnny, that this future gig is accomplishable without one of them getting shot or killed.  but if there was thing about lamar that resided inside his heart, it was that he was a winner.  employee-of-the-month type shit.

[vicecitied]

she carries herself with a certain aura. a demeanor shaped by the neon-lit walls of vice city alleyways & the gritty realities of a life spent on the fringes. her whole life has been a tangled web of crime, revenge, survival & everything mixed between. a spider crawling up the wall, inching closer towards its inevitable capture & demise each day. lucia knew the streets better than most. the rules were second-nature, practically etched in ink on her brain. that also meant she knew they wouldn't be as forgiving, either. vice city had lots to offer— clemency wasn't one of them. brunette hair falls over lucia's face as she smirks, fingers moving to tuck the loose strands behind her ears. ❝ he'll have more than a few bruises in the morning, that's for sure... cops are gonna be all over us, though. or his buddies. ❞ as if right on cue, a siren slashes through the air like a knife. her gaze flickers to the bustling street, brows furrowing as emergency lights cast a penumbra across the ivory wall she's leaning against. & here's the moment where it's make or break, where everything can come crashing down within a matter of seconds. the blinking question mark hovering above her head dissipates as an ambulance comes into vision, swerving through the downtown street & nearly hitting a drunk who couldn't stay on the sidewalk for longer than five seconds. exhaling a breath, her palms relax on her hips.

❝ let's get out of here, yeah? i could kill for a waffle right now, anyway. consider it my treat for tonight. ❞

@PULCHRAL [JASON] SAID: I REALLY FUCKED HIM UP GOOD THOUGH, HUH?

[belovha]

@pulchral » plotted starter.

𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚈'𝙳 𝙼𝙴𝚃 𝙸𝙽 𝙰 𝙳𝙸𝙵𝙵𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝙻𝙸𝙵𝙴. One full of bloodshed and a paranoia that seeped through her flesh. When Yelena had considered the frigid Russian air a comfort and wore the mantle of the Black Widow. [Never with a sense of pride, but she at least wore it.] The only title she carries now is her own name: Yelena, along with a New York City address in the borough of Manhattan. And she couldn't be happier. [A blatant lie, but it helps her sleep easier at night.] When they meet again, the tides are switched: her the one with a sense of awareness, him the one seemingly confused. Her visit to Hells Kitchen was meant to be brief: light reconnaissance for an upcoming operation. But, it also wasn't every day you found the man without fear with his back flush against the city's pavement.

❝ You don't look well. ❞ A simple statement, one that could be confirmed by a glance in a mirror. Yelena remains hovering over the currently-grounded Daredevil. Though, she offers no helping hand to help him collect his bearings. Instead, she raises an eyebrow and keeps her gaze planted. « Where is Natalia? » Her native language and accent swirl in the air, synonymous to a lit-cigarette in the stygian alleyways of Paris. She's not a threat to him; not right now on the streets of Hell Kitchen. [So long as the Devil answers her questions without a hidden ruse of his own.]

❝ I thought you two were a package deal? ❞ They once had been; she'd experienced it at her own expense.

[martyrshe]

“ 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜. ”

"Hmm, Geralt," Philippa offers a faint smile, her eyes narrowing as she considers his words. "Always one for intriguing aphorisms."

She takes a sip from the goblet of deep red wine resting on the table before her, her gaze never leaving the witcher's unsettling gaze. The dim candlelight flickers, casting dancing shadows on the walls of the room. "While it's true that murder and justice occupy different ends of the moral spectrum," she continues, her voice smooth and measured, "one must consider the intricate dance between them. Justice, is often upheld by the powerful and the self-righteous. It can sometimes be a mere facade, a clever veil woven to justify their actions in the eyes of society."

Philippa's fingers tap gently on the table, a rhythmic pattern that mirrors her thoughts. She leans back in her chair, her posture relaxed, yet her mind is anything but. "In contrast," she muses, her eyes momentarily drifting to the candle's flame, "murder, a grim act by all means, can also be perceived as an agent of change. A disruptive force that shatters the twisted systems that perpetuate injustice. An act that challenges the very foundations upon which societies are built."

Her gaze returns to @pulchral, her expression thoughtful yet intense. "It's all a matter of perspective, isn't it?" Her lips curve into a cold smile, thight lipped, a hint of stark white teeth showing. "In the end, it's the intentions behind the actions and the consequences that truly define the nature of each act."

[martyrshe]

“ 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚜. ”

Philippa's lips curl into a wry smile, her eyes narrowing as she regards @pulchral with a cool, calculating gaze. She leans back against the table, a picture of composed confidence. Her hands grip the edge, fingers absentmindedly tapping against it. "Always the poet, Lambert," she snarks, her voice carrying a mix of amusement and a touch of mockery. "It's charming how you see the world in metaphors."

The finger-tapping halts abruptly for a moment, before picking back up. A subtle sign of her impatience. She leans her upper body forward, her gaze never leaving his with an intensity that can send shivers down the spine of many men. "Opportunities, Lambert. The tapestry of power is shifting, and those who can weave its threads will shape the future. Choose wisely where you stand."

She barks out a cold laugh, a sound that sent a chill through the room. "You were never one for blind obedience, Lambert. But remember, even the strongest resistors find themselves entangled eventually."

[martyrshe]

❛ 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜. ❜

Philippa's blindfolded eyes seems to pierce through Keira Metz's mocking comment, a bitter smile curving her lips for one fleeting moment. She reclines in her makeshift hideout, a subtle air of authority still clinging to her posture despite her current circumstances. The dim candlelight casts uneven shadows, accentuating the scars of her past and the undeniable weight of her choices.

As a mirthless chuckle escapes her, she tilts her head slightly in @pulchral's direction. "Your wit remains as sharp as ever. How fortunate that I can't see those wanted posters you speak of. But pray, tell me, are they as imaginative as your pathetic attempts at annoying me?"

Her fingers trace the edges of the worn table, her lips curling in a mixture of condescension and nostalgia. "One might assume you're seeking a prize for crafting the most entertaining jabs at the fallen," her tone drips with a venomous amusement. "Though it seems your talents remain more suited to endangering the lives of innocents than to producing clever banter."

"But then again, I wouldn't expect someone so preoccupied with her own desires to grasp the complexities of true power." She leans forward, her tone dripping with a toxic sort of pity. "But don't fret, Keira. Should you ever tire of your reckless pursuits, perhaps you'll find solace in being more than just a footnote in history, overshadowed by those you can never hope to rival."

[womaniz]

as she spun 180 in the chair, mia shook her head looking at the boys. another day in the garage, another car to fix, another race to win : [ repeat. ] she could see their fascination as they gawked at the motor and roared in excitement. it was one of a kind and it was in their garage; they were like little kids in a grown ups playground. yet, at the end of the day? like dom always said : it only matters who is behind the wheel. " boys and their toys. " scoffing jokingly, " i think brian might love this car more than me and the kids. "

@pulchral : " so cool. " ( han for mia )

[boundedbygrief]

"can we not do this again?" the last thing madani wanted to hear was how stupid her decision was. not when she already felt foolish enough. foolish for trusting graves, for giving him information that allowed him to betray them. maybe it would've been smart to stay on his side. probably the decision that would keep her alive. but, she wouldn't be able to live with herself if she left ghost for dead. "i already heard this once, okay? like i said, i wasn't going to leave you guys for dead." a pause, gaze shifting to her jacket in her lap. "i wasn't leaving you for dead. so, drop it." her tone is firm, wincing as she flexes her arm, slowly glancing at the gash along the side. / @pulchral.