blood moon {ingran x angel}!blitz

[[nyte]]

a n g e l . Tired hands, sore throat. Aching body and hours spent for nothing but precious paper to then be thrown just about anywhere but at myself. I got to see mom today. Her hair is grey and her teeth are yellow but the way her hands wrapped around my own- her smile when she recognized me for the first time in months made just about everything worth it. "Ares, my boy!" And my birth name still hurts. The way she uses it as though I had not tossed it away years ago now in favor of bitter irony. The way her fingers comb through my hair as though I were still her precious baby boy and not- not this. Bruises on my arms, hips, and thighs. Bite marks on my shoulders and fear like heroin through my veins. As potent, as deadly. I don't think about what I could have been- a rat born and bred on the streets of six could not have been destined for much anyway. I could be a drugged out hippy slumped in an alley street. I could be a corpse in a bag with three bullets in my skull. Really, things could have been much worse. I count my bruises like blessings, tears like diamonds. For even to live is a privilege after sixteen years on the streets as a broken little toy for men to ruin over and over again. So I wait today, skull tipped back against the plaster and knees pulled to my chest. Adorned in clothes cleaner than I have owned in months. Tonight, I will find one of the boy's beds to sleep in and it will have been a good day. Even if I were to die, things will never get much better for me.

table by elegant

[gamemaker kelsier]

i n g r a n . The blood dripped down his hands, falling like rain to the floor. Splat. Splat. Splat. Ingran bent down to tie up his shoe and his eyes met that of a woman, dead, one eye missing with blood dripping out of the socket. He considered her for a moment, how much she was like a rose. Those red lips, cheery and wilted and stained with her own blood. His shirt clung to him in varying degrees of gold so dark that it was maroon, wet and warm on his licks, he licked them. Iron. A blood donation. Job done for the day, he left them there, all five, with a cross carved into every single forehead. Crossbones, don't cross him, he'll kill you. He's that Bitch's dog. Amity. Her name was Amity and she was a bitch. the other lieutenant of the drug cartel. He stood there for a moment longer, studying the little girl, the pieces of her that remained, and shut his eyes. Ingran walked home. The streets were silent or near enough at three in the morning. If anyone saw him, they didn't say shit. Good, shutup. He'd kill them, they knew it. Crossbones didn't leave witnesses. He didn't stop to shower, making his way down to the old ballroom where the whores gathered every night. His eyes flicked around the large room, running over the women and men, most strung out on something. Those were the ones that worked just for the drugs that the cartel sold, a self-sustaining business. His eyes fell on one he'd had before a few times, delicate and breakable and delicious. He raised a finger, blood drying and cracking on his skin, come.

table by elegant

[[nyte]]

a n g e l . Sometimes terror tastes good. Bitter down my throat, eyes locked upon crimson turned to rust and every time he chooses one of us I can hear the prayers beneath their breaths. I'd be a fool not to fear him, not one man in this district does not know his name. Does not fear it. I fear him, of course, but I'm not afraid. There is so little reason for me to live that the idea of some painful, gruesome death at his hands is both terrifying and calming. There's no one that even knows my last name- let alone would care that their fuck toy is dead. I stand slowly, brushing dark specks off of a sweater three sizes to big. Fix flyaway hairs and break the silence with my footsteps. Toward the reaper I march, hands clenched into fists to stop their shaking. No matter how many times I tell myself that I fear nothing, that I feel nothing, my body gets the better of me. Sweat beads upon my brow, wiped away by the back of my hand and I stop once I reach his side. Half smile, pretend I don't care. If I lie to myself enough, some day I'll believe it. I left my honesty behind with my birth name, as for self worth? I never had it. A whore is a whore is a whore. By any other name, they smell no sweeter. Like sex, alcohol. Booze and smoke. I take solace in the unpredictable predictability of it all. And hey, at least tonight won't be boring. "Hope you've had a good night so far?" I'm never good at this part.

table by elegant