zoanthropic paranoia.

Malachi simply gives him a look back. He's not about to fight him on it - his husband knows him better sometimes than he knows himself. Which can be frustrating. Make him want to take a butcher knife to his throat. His heart... maybe his leg...

He traces his thumb along Mikala's. Lets their fingers lace. It's pulled away just as quickly and he's pointing at the drink. Mal says nothing in response- takes up the glass and pointedly downs the rest of the hard liquor in one gulp. Sets the glass back down and picks up a few more of the fries. "Lucky me." He takes a bite or two, before slipping off his stool.

"Home, then." The butcher leans against the other's back - a brief time he can reach to his ear, murmur against it, before he picks up his old tan work jacket, throws it on over the denim shirt beneath. "We have more liqueur at home. I'm driving, yes." He'll be fine with one drink in his system - he's hardier than that.

It's not that Mikala picks fights with Malachi, per se, however he does attempt to rile him up. Bait the wolf by dangling meat in his face, if only for his own entertainment. Cruel? Slightly. It works, though, keeps the sparks flying between the two of them after nearly three decades.

Malachi's actions aren't lost on him, only causes him to chuckle, and he begins to move out of his own barstool the second his husband does. He's halted, briefly, when he feels slight pressure against his back. To those who are unaware, he appears unfazed, yet the shift in his breath and the slight curve of his lips are both designated for Mal only.

Finally, he plants his feet on the ground and follows the other's moves, except he only smooths out his suit jacket instead. Always overdressed for the occasion. "Lead the way, beloved," but he's already taking charge, hand on Malachi's back as he heads out of the bar. The reality is that he could drive just fine, he merely enjoys bossing his spouse around.

javier-huerta

"Coffee, huh? Double espresso, no sugar, no cream?" Probably a ristretto, because that man looked like he'd been weaved with iron thread, rigid, unmovable. Javier doesn't know what he's been built with. He'd like to find out one day because most of the time, he feels like he's being patched up with pieces of fabric that have no business being here. It reminds him of this thought he had in middle school upon learning that your cells regenerated to replace the dead ones, new, similar but different too, right? How could one remain themselves if they were being replaced piece by piece every day?

Then, he'd grown up and he'd wondered why someone as stupid as his younger self had made it this far. Sometimes he wonders how he has made it this far. He's a fucking prick, he knows that, but he can't help it, can he? He's tried. It was dreadful.

Right now, he's tempted to comment on the man's teeth. People don't like to talk about that. Maybe he'll fuck off, let him be. Instead, he leans forward to get a good look at him. "You look like Tarantino had a go at shooting a Willy Wonka movie," hard to tell if that's supposed to be a compliment, a dig, or nothing but a comment. Javier smiles. "Maybe I'm wrong. You do look familiar though," he can't pinpoint where he's seen him before and it's infuriating.

#javier huerta #〈 📜 — ; thread. 〉

"Bullseye, love." And, if Mikala could just care enough, he'd take offense that he's so obvious. Even he must admit his own predictability once in a blue moon, a product of his time. There are only so many ways people like him turn out. If nothing else, he is consistent—a reliable weapon or tool, efficiently refined and called upon when needed. "Though, an affogato makes for a lovely treat from time to time."

Javier's next comment elicits a laugh, low and fleeting. That's certainly a new one for him, amusing and accepted. "Come with me and you'll be in a world of pure imagination." His voice takes a slightly melodic tone while he quotes the classic tune, quiet as ever, as he waves his hand for dramatic flair.

"Perhaps I embalmed a family member of yours." Because he's certainly not giving any other hints. As a New York native, his face is a fixture, known well enough. Be it from his time serving in the military, the horrors associated with his name and face in the newspaper all those years ago, or how much his career has shaped him; familiar to the initiated.

intxication

"I don't know. People expect me to, so I figured you would". Keeping count of kills or bodies wasn't important to Mathias. He wasn't aware of how many people he had killed at this point. But he knew that people like him did it a lot.

"That's good then. I'll have two fresh ones for you by the morning". He was thankful there was someone to do all the processing for him. Mathias had tried before and it just wasn't something he liked doing. It required a special skill and sometimes he got carried away. "Do you like doing your job?"

#intxication #〈 📜 — ; thread. 〉#murder tw #gore tw

"I'm certain I did keep count, once upon a time. What purpose would it serve now?" Memories suffice in Mikala's case. Some victims' blood tasted sweeter than others', with fond recollection in times where he felt inspired to look back on the past. More often than not, however, a body covered in its own viscera is merely that—hazy, routine, wet.

"Two?" Perhaps he perks up slightly at that. Only slightly. "Now you're spoiling me." If the organs are usable, yes. He'll have his short-lived fun either way. Speaking of...

"Yes," and he doesn't have to give it much thought. Too deep in now, and his responses are nearly automatic. "Do you?"

viadangelo

"Life would be ever so dull without these little moments, wouldn't they?" She teases in return. A compliment - as it always does - lands well in Via's greedy, shattered soul. She has to keep herself, and her phantom friends alive somehow. And she's the best kind of (self) entertainment.

And when the offered cigarette is procured. The box slips away once more, in a flurry of fingers, and illusionary disbelief. Via props her own straight between her lips. It moves as she speaks around it.

"Whatever you believe it to mean, Mikala, dear." A moment after he thanks her, she shoots him a wink; acknowledgement. And mimics his previous movements; an inhale; a drag; a long exhale.

Clouds vanish in the space between them. She can't help but smirk, providing him the famous D'Angelo jibe: "You know I never give or tell my secrets."

#viadangelo #〈 📜 — ; thread. 〉#mobile n lazy so no gifs but feel free!! <3

Mikala can't argue with her, so he doesn't. Instead—

"Of course. It's a reminder, I suppose, to not fall into the trap of brooding." But, he wouldn't call what he does brooding, not exactly. There are simply too many thoughts that occupy a deranged mind, keeping him busy, a sentiment shared amongst their kind; phantasms in their own right.

Another fairweather grin, overtaken when he places the cigarette between his lips once more, accompanied by a deep inhale. A shift in stance, with long legs clad in black unable to remain in rigid stillness for too long.

"Why ruin the magic?" Because an illusion is often more entertaining than fact. He's sure that if he watched closely enough, ceased to suspend his disbelief, the mirage would appear less charming. He opts not to.

"Are you well, darling?"

ariaboughton

The voice surprises her, but she offers him a slightly shaky smile. She's reminded of her own and brings it to her lips as a way of distraction. Aria truly hadn't been aware that she'd been standing out there as long as she had, but she paces a bit back and forth to bring some warmth back to her limbs. "No, uh, not typically." Swallowing, she figures to just call it and not go inside at all. "Been trying to get my head on right lately, is all. Having a rough go. Thought a drink would be good."

#ariaboughton #〈 📜 — ; thread. 〉

Wordless at first, Mikala merely nods as he focuses on the generously provided cigarette, with a deep inhale and eyes wandering along the street outside of the bar; watching as passersby come and go. Finally, gaze returns to her, smoke exhaling as he speaks, "While I can't claim that alcohol will help more than hurt, I'm happy to buy you a drink, if you decide you want to pop inside." A pause for another inhale off his cigarette. "It's a lovely place." He's not biased at all.

ballpitwitch

KEANU REEVES ✦ Ride with Norman Reedus

#〈 💀 — ; portrait. 〉

There's a cadence to Mikala's voice that both calms Malachi and chills him to the bone. Gooseflesh when the other rumbles his tone or speaks just so. They've known each other for as long as some Syndicate members have been alive - and still he haunts and entrances him.

"Soft? Me?" It's borderline offensive, and Mal's brow furrows in both curiosity and annoyance. "That's horseshit, my love." It isn't. Mik knows him too well - and if Malachi's mending of showerheads and offering of dinners to Syndicate members is any indication, he's nearly nesting at this point. Abysmal. The need to Uncle is a hard urge to stave off, it seems.

Go home. That and a hand on his knee says about all he needs. He gives a look of understanding, and feels into his back pocket for a few bills. "Home it is." Drops cash on the counter so it's already paid for. "The fries didn't impress?" And he picks up a few as well to help him, while his other hand slips over Mik's.

"Is it?" is the simple argument he offers up, throwing in a pointed look, as if it's not enough for him to have called his husband soft. This is where they differed the most, Mikala would argue. He lacks the paternal instincts, for lack of a better descriptor, that Malachi has. He never desired becoming a father, or caring for someone to such a degree. He supposes that need never came as he matured, certainly not in a traditional sense. The contrasts between the two of them, few and far between, are welcomed.

He picks at the fries a bit more, eats a couple, before he focuses on his drink altogether. Downs it in one go, before shaking his head, "I've had worse." The reality is that little impresses him much anymore, especially food, as his appetite wanes more each year. He chalks it up to being spoiled by Malachi's cooking. "Leaves more for you, yes?"

Hand turns to interlace his fingers with Mal's, briefly, as he eyes him. "Are you driving, beloved?" A pause, only to squeeze the other's hand lightly, then releasing it altogether to motion towards his drink. "If you don't finish that, I will."

#god this is so fucking good #i need to come up with a christmas 2k23 tag but #LOVE this #LOVE the murder husbands #he is forever in debt to mal some way somehow #but in the love way #submission #taxidermy tw #messengersfolly

It is not wrapped, but left in the living room.

This photo is taped onto one of the ears.

“The things I do for you. This strange person sold this hog head to me after none of my farmer vendors could find one big enough. It came from California. You owe me. - Malachi"

intxication

"Then I'll consider it". Mathias was usually pretty good about not leaving a trail of incriminating evidence. He also had times where he wanted to leave something. He liked a good chase.

"I think so. How many bodies do you clean up in a week, and how many are from me?". Mathias' kill count was big, but most of them went unnoticed. Whether it was just a random person on the street tossed into the river. Or a no one left to rot under a turnpike where no one looked. "If you want to. Would that be too much work for you? Can you keep up?"

#intxication #〈 📜 — ; thread. 〉#murder tw

"Do you think I keep a tally?" Mikala doesn't, but he really should at this point, either to use as leverage or realize he does more than he believes. Presently, he's convinced he's wasting away since retiring and selling his funeral home, however he doesn't speak that one aloud. It's obvious with how he has more blood on his hands than ever before.

"Asking if I can keep up is moot, no? I have a job to do, as do you. Decision's already been made." A shrug. "It's not too much work for me," he says finally. "If the parts are good, I'll use them. If not, I'll dispose of them. Same as always."

javier-huerta

"Oh, don't tell me you're one of these people who needs a pep talk in the morning to get through the day," it was telling that self-affirmation was the first burn he came up with, after all. Javier's lips curl upwards.

"I suppose everything comes with a price tag," he licks his lips, and leans back into his seat, looking up at the tall man. "Your face is familiar," he could be hitting on him at this point, but he actually means it. He's seen him before. Could be at the practice, or it could be it was at his other job.

#javier huerta #〈 📜 — ; thread. 〉

"No, coffee is typically enough for me," he states with a dismissive wave of his hand. Dark eyes flicker to the cigarette one final time, before refocusing his gaze on Javier's face. He'll give up the ghost on this one.

At being told his face is familiar, Mikala leans forward only slightly, as if to give the other a better view of him. The near nothingness in his expression, decorated with fine lines and greying facial hair, and framed with his lengthy, black hair for good measure.

"Pray tell—where do you think you recognize me from?" It's piqued his interest if nothing else.

don't let me in with no intention to keep me. jesus christ! don't be kind to me; honey, don't feed me—i will come back. // @messengersfolly

#〈 💀 — ; portrait. 〉#〈 🩸 — ; isms. 〉#messengersfolly #wolves/dogs as a metaphor for love n passion n bloodlust? more likely than u think!

Malachi’s smirk remains. Of course he’ll get a riddle of sorts - though he has to wonder what idealistic gift Mikala thinks he wants. He’d be content with a knife. Or a walk in the woods. Or good sex. He doesn’t sweat things like Christmas and holidays beyond the occasional food-making.

Still. It’s something to ponder. He retracts his hand- lets it drop to his own knee, as he lifts his drink to his lips. “I always accept what you give me, don’t I?” The answer to that is loaded, but he can’t help asking. Knee nudges knee and he thinks. “It sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot, beau.” He murmurs. “Hope you’re not getting soft in your old age.” He looks at the fries finally - his eyes have been trained on his husband, but he finally picks one up.

“You know all I want for Christmas is you.” And his eyes flick back towards Mik as he takes a bite of the fry and leans into his arms again. It’s a joke, a cliche, an overplayed song Malachi’s been playing too much in the butcher shop, all rolled into one.

Mikala offers up a smile, one of his more genuine ones, however they never last very long on his face. As if the mere act pains him to do so. "You do," and it almost sounds like praise with the low, gentle tone his voice takes on. It is true that he's thought about his unspoken gift to Malachi quite a bit, too much so. How to display it, prepare it, every single detail flitting through his mind as he determines how best to impress his husband. Not once has he let on to this.

He reaches for a fry before halting altogether at the comment, shaking his head and promptly attempting to school his amused expression. "If anyone's growing soft, beloved, it's you." With that, he takes a bite of the fry, overly salted and soggy as expected. He's had worse, at least, and he can wash it down with gin and tonic if nothing else.

"Let's go home after this." It's another statement, not a request. The day had been too long, it always is now, and he tires of being in the public eye at an increasing rate. He eats another fry, just as unpleasant as the last, as his free hand comes to rest on Malachi's knee. While not opposed to public displays of affection, he isn't overt in them, preferring to exercise his possession quietly.

soundsofmyuniverse

Happy Birthday KEANU REEVES // September 2, 1964.

#〈 💀 — ; portrait. 〉

No, his husband doesn’t compromise. It would be infuriating if Malachi wasn’t so used to it. Plus, it’s not hard to please the ex-con. He’ll usually go with whatever Mikala picks. He’s nice like that.

It’s a heavy order. Something he’s unsure of how to even find- which makes it, secretly, even more enticing. Malachi loves a hunt, even if it’s just online or to local farms. “We’ll see, beau.” He murmurs over his glass as he’s given his drink. “And what am I getting from you, that will be just as grand as an 800 pound hog’s head?” His drink sets down, calloused fingers tapping on his denim-clad knee. He leans in, tucks a finger under Mik’s chin to turn him easily with a small smirk. Voice is usually quiet, so no need to whisper. “I’d love to hear what you think I want.”

Another sip of his drink and, before he can even set it down, Malachi is turning his head—turning his attention back to his husband. "What I think you want?" he repeats back to him, a briefly amused expression playing across his features. Just as he opens his mouth to speak again, their unfortunate basket of fries is placed in front of them, and he gives a single nod of acknowledgement. It's as close to a 'thank you' as he can offer right now.

Back to the important matters at hand.

"I think you desire an impossibility, an idealistic gift that I could never give you. It's not even one you could give yourself, really, with how far it transcends the limitations of this realm and the next." It's all said so casually because, to him, it is. This is just another casual conversation with Malachi.

"So, you'll accept what I give you." Answering the question without actually answering the question—it's a bad habit of his.

gunarmor

taps the soft pack against the palm of his hand vigorously—packing the tobacco, quirking his head before he tears into the foil and extends one, eased, “need a light, too?” bishop asked, flicking his own as if to punctuate the question, “likely not, huh? you look like y’carry matches—or one of those relic of the great war zippos,”