ofspectres

[ofspectres]

eclipsixg​ [ REPLY ID: HANNAH KING ]:

It’s easy for most people to blend in, even in a city where there’s so much going on. Hannah doesn’t really like that; she exists to stand out and be seen, but she refuses to be obnoxious about it. Instead, she just kind of… effervesces. It isn’t a conscious effort to be seen but instead a delicate application of her hair coiffed in just such a way and a top that was cut high in some spots and low in others; not so much high society but definitely fashionable.

Her position wasn’t chosen for any reason — Max didn’t really appeal and she could almost sense that she wouldn’t appeal to him — but she settled in there regardless and ordered a drink; a surprising cognac instead of some sort of fruity nightmare. It wasn’t that she was speaking directly to him or the tender, but as her drink arrived she exhaled against its edge and took a drink, murmuring, “I can’t believe I’d rather be working.”

       ——————

The engagement of this interactive space is rather minuscule, with the clients a brand of fatigue, their destination typically found in the nook of inebriation. Still, the woman next to him doesn’t seem to have any reserve to claim the stool next to him despite the possibility of interactions, which might be either very likely or otherwise, but he’s not entirely an overly publicised person for everyone to know of him. There are rooms for invisibility, pretty much. The newly acquired touch of presence, however, earns a cursory glance from him. She might be a face in the scene, someone he might have known in passing, but as an old money with years and years as a multi-billionaire, he cannot recall all faces encountered en route.

He hears her mutter something about work, but doesn’t budge, letting the comment settle for a second, two. He takes another sip on his drink, the juxtaposed cold and warm a shimmer of sensory drives he has always liked. That, and the surge of tacit violence, blaring in his veins in silence. “Someone must love their job enough to choose it over leisure,” he comments eventually, but gives her an approving look for a mere moment. He finishes his drinks, then, humming at the taste, before calling the bartender to come closer, opting for a whiskey cocktail mixed with a late-night coffee before turning at her. “Want a second round already? My treat, if you’d like some coffee.”

#thr. #eclipsixg #ft — hannah. #th — 007. #tw alcohol

[ofspectres]

anaismurad​ [ REPLY ID: ANAIS MURAD ]:

“Is ‘caring’ a bad word in your book?” Anaïs asks, off his comment. Sometimes, only sometimes, it is in hers. Attention can go from satisfying to suffocating in a heartbeat. “No — never!” She exclaims, laughing. “You don’t mope around. You mope only in the exact same spot that you always do!” 

Glass brought up again, Anaïs forces another sip as to silence any more laughter. All around them, lightness; even their banter has understanding woven in it.

“…What do you mean by worse?” A sudden ask. “Is it slipping? Do you feel a different way?” Back at her, Anaïs shrugs at the question. “I’m good. I’m perfect. I’m talking to a patient before death row this afternoon — and an old flame wants to woo me overseas.” She winks at Max, repurposing his words back at him: “Same old.” 

       ——————

“Not claiming that,” he tries, but not quite in the tone of rectifying his previous statement. He takes another sip. “Just the fact that I need a bit of privacy is all. Now, don’t call me out for acting like a pampered celebrity, but these people... they need to know when to not poke their noses where they don’t belong. Just because they have been working here for, what, a few years, some decades, doesn’t mean that they can know every bit of my life.” Overexplaining does feel a tad like a defense mechanism, she’d notice it, but he doesn’t believe in holding this back with her.

A chuckle, then. “You’re in your line of job because you’re so good at turning words around against others—now I see that,” he feigns a frown as he says that, but laughs afterwards. The heavier topic is answered with a shrug, however, as if trying to make light of the situation. “No, just... I suppose fooling others isn’t as easy as I thought it was, but,” he shrugs. “Nothing too big, really. You know, when you start one lie and you have to keep it up with another, and another, and another. Pretty sure I’m at my thousandth now, but that’s... fine.” He winces, but then smiles again at the diversion. “Which old flame, now? That sounds... somehow... nice. Thinking of settling down soon, I assume? Beach wedding of some kind?”

#thr. #anaismurad #ft — anais. #th — 002. #tw alcohol

[ofspectres]

HOW DO YOU AS A MUN PERCEIVE MY OC?

initial impressions, favorite details, what sort of character archetype you see them as,  what stands out to you the most etc.  

#mms. #me: throws the ball back at chu

[ofspectres]

hstarke​ [ REPLY ID: HANS STARKE ]:

@ofspectres​​

Hans ins’t known for boundaries, and so, this is but another lone he’s willing to cross. Most Wall Street financiers wouldn’t be found drinking with clients, but these bottles go for too high a price to drain them alone. 

So there they sit, fancy bar and fancy whiskey in hand, sharing a far different interaction than the meeting from hours before. 

“If you do get that island,” which financially, Hans had advised him to be careful with — but personally, could see its appeal, “you better fucking invite me. D’you know how hard it is to get a tan in New York City?” 

        ——————

There are, over-generalisation speaking, two types of people dwelling in the world brandished with this brand of carnage, with their absinthe-tainted blood and gold-lacquered skin. And then, there is him, both the fool and the judge, quite a paradox residing within the same soul that does not quite understand the appeal of riches beyond this becoming a game. As such, Hans should belong in the class of those who would like to toy around the filaments of his inherited, now quadrupled money.

The island is a gimmick—a form of investment that they both can see going up in a matter of years, although the contenders of the idea would say otherwise, and Hans falls right in the middle of it. It’s a money that Maxence cannot care less about. For some, pocket money. For him, a front to support his fallibility. A fool, again, drowning in wealth too much for him to consume.

He raises the glass of bourbon to the lips, taking another sip. The burn is another wake-up call with each trickling second passing between him and this advisor, but he isn’t one to shy away from this kind of interactions. This might be pernicious, but being careful isn’t in the list of the foolish category, so he went along with the invite. “You can go to the salon, no? The tube does the job better than the sun, if you’re just into bikini tanning,” he says, laid-back. “But I’ll make a mental note out of that. You know, do you think people would be interested if we advertise the idea of summer villas to build on the lot?”

#thr. #hstarke #ft — hans. #tw alcohol #th — 006.

[ofspectres]

anaismurad​ [ REPLY ID: ANAIS MURAD ]:

Can one truly understand the loom and gloom of another, if they’d never experienced it themselves? Psychiatric school says yes — life-long experience says, eh. 

“And as I’ve found, a lot of grown men still need them.” Nannies, that is. “Sometimes, they even look for that in their girlfriends.” Ask her how she knows. Or, don’t. “Point is, I won’t tell anybody. Especially since I’d want you to keep them around — considering that they always liked me better, anyway.” 

Anaïs doesn’t make a move to abandon her place on the couch, instead watching Max from afar — only stretching an arm out, at the ready drink. Like a child eager for candy. She sips the liquid, and pulls a face not that different from his. It’s not wine, but it’s something. 

Something which makes her want to go straight back to it.

“I would never psychoanalyze you, Maxence,” she says, matter-of-fact, “you don’t pay me, and frankly, I don’t have the time.” 

“My first patient’s in three hours.” Until then, “What moping do you have in store for me?”

     ——————

He chuckles at her offhanded comment over grown med needing nannies, which frankly, does not miss the spot at all. He hums, shrugging after his own laugh ebbs away. “I suppose I could use some, but I’d hire professional nannies to spoon-feed me if anything, instead of relying on these self-proclaimed ones for that,” he nods. “These servants do get... how do I put it, a bit too caring for my liking.” A wince. The more they observe, the more they might know that he’s contained more secrets in his flask that necessary. More curiosity means bad news for him as well. More work to cover up the suspicions that might arise, at least.

“You don’t have the time, I see,” he hums after another sip. “Yet you decided to pay me a visit, so I appreciate it.” And he does, he truly does. It’s liberating to stop pretending for a while, too. “Moping. I assume you understand that I don’t mope around—it’s not what cool kids would do.” A laugh, ironic. He shrugs to indicate that the previous statement is a subject to dismissal. “Same old, anyway. The pretense is getting worse, but you always know it’s the lie to cover up another lie, icing on the cake kind of thing.” He places his emptied glass away after the chug. The sloshing burn a reminder that his stomach might demand some actual nutrients later on. “But anyway, enough about this overgrown man, how have you been?”

#thr. #anaismurad #ft — anais. #th — 002. #tw alcohol

[ofspectres]

[ STARTER ID: OPEN FOR ANYONE ] ???  /  NYC: Barbarella Bar, present day.

The derivatives of ennui often lead him astray. The current exhibit displays his inhibited mind, clattered with thoughts that he does not want to entertain, mostly the searing ones, too heavy for a moment clasped between the teeth of fatigue. As such, he searches for a place baptised anew, the neutral territory a lapse between thoughts that tend to skew towards the crimes that mar the city underneath its glam. He knows it too well, but nowadays, he doubts that any place isn’t actually accentuated by some bias to an extent. Still, it’s none of his business. To plenty, he’s another face that remains a fool, oblivious to the ire of the brewing battles, so he’d rather capitalise on that than having to act otherwise.

He chooses the stool right in the middle of the bar, settling on it before ordering a glass of bourbon on the rocks. Nothing too unconventional. He looks around for a brief moment, but fixates his attention on his phone eventually, scrolling down the social media. Nothing interesting, but his thumb keeps going, and going, and going, until someone claims the seat next to him. He pretends to not acknowledge their presence, as if engrossed in his own phone, waiting for them to say something, anything, if they do really know of him, at least as this privileged fool sitting on top of the food chain.

#wb.open #thr. #ft — ??? #opn. #open for multiples!

[ofspectres]

rei-amamiya​ [ REPLY ID: REI AMAMIYA ]:

Rei doesn’t even have words. They’ve worked with wealthy people before but they’ve never worked with anyone this wealthy. Following their would-be employer inside feels like stepping into an alternate reality where everything is shiny and clean and made of marble and- holy SHIT that is a Jackson Pollock. Rei’s stares at the painting for al long time. They’ve got to scurry to catch up with the homeowner. The prospect of losing sight of him is actually kind of terrifying. They’re not sure that they’d be able to find their way around if they were alone. They nod along with whatever he’s saying. It’s the usual “Don’t touch any of my expensive stuff with your poor hands” kind of stuff that they’ve heard a thousand times before. They’re about to open their mouth to reply when they see the room. It’s clearly meant to be hidden. There’s no door, just a book case swung to one side. There’s some logos pasted around the interior but beyond that it’s all concrete walls and metal cabinets. There’s no door out on the other side, no windows either. In gig work, there’s always an inherent risk that your employer is going to be some kind of creepy weirdo. Rei’s pretty good at turning a blind eye to most things, weird sex stuff, drugs, all kinds of illegal shit, but this- This is a straight up torture-murder dungeon. It all starts to piece together. The weird job offer. The sallow creepy man giving off assassin vibes. It’s about the flash drive. The man is still talking but by this point, Rei’s done listening. They drop their stuff and sprint in the opposite direction. Out this door and down the hall then it should be a straight shot to the stairs. Except it isn’t. Rei skids to a halt in front of a wall studded with unfamiliar looking doors. Shit. Fuck. They’re lost.

      ——————

He would not overstate his own perceptiveness, if anything, but given his involvement in the world of both business and justice—although the latter is more nondescript—he knows enough to notice the sheer horror that flashes across the stranger’s face. However, what he doesn’t know enough: why, in general, since his work is as far as he knows, sufficiently innocent. This whole apartment has never been tarnished with anything remotely violent; not a single brutal truth hidden behind its cloak, although he would not vouch for the previous owners before his father purchased the lot decades ago. Still, it shouldn’t be anything of terror-inducing fright unless the cleaner is a medium... well. In that case, Maxence would have to investigate further.

Just as he tries to entertain several possibilities that might be wilting at the base of the cleaner’s mind, he’s met with Rei pivoting on their heels, out of the room in an instant. He blinks, wondering if he should chase after them. After all, it is an effort exerted, but he does need the room cleaned, and he doesn’t feel like waiting another month to have the debris scrubbed. And while the last resort is to let someone from his clandestine team to do the job, he’s never liked the blur between that and this, his personalities never merging together. As such, he leisurely vacates the room, wondering if Rei has exited the premise by then.

By the looks of it, perhaps. As he walks down the hallway, however, Rei is still there, taking the wrong turn into one of the other crook of the house, now cornered in the way leading towards the guest rooms. It might be rather... unkind, but he smirks, standing at the end of the hallway to block the way out for the cleaner. It piques his interests, if anything, the oddity that presents itself before his eyes. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, he hums. “I’m not sure of what you saw back there, but pretty sure I didn’t leave any ghost hanging for people to see,” he says, chuckling. “Anyway, are you doing the job or not?” A shrug. “I’ll call someone else if not, preferably someone who doesn’t just bolt out without saying a thing. Not sure what about my work room that would scare you, but,” he shakes his head, still amused, “you’re free to go if you don’t intend to clean the mess. It’s just sweeping the dust, to be honest.”

#par. #rei-amamiya #ft — rei. #pr — 002.

[ofspectres]

rei-amamiya​ [ REPLY ID: REI AMAMIYA ]:

Rei’s not really ready to re-enter the world. There’s still the grief, and the terror beyond it. But before any of that, they are poor. Eviction is only a few weeks away if they don’t scrape enough money together for rent. So they’re back outside, taking whatever work they can get. In this case, that’s cleaning up some rich person’s apartment. It feels weird to break out their gear. They haven’t used it since- No, they’re not going to think about that. They’ll replace their things whenever they can afford to next. That might be a long while from now but it doesn’t bear consideration. What’s in front of them is this job and the rent money behind it. Another month in their apartment. This is how they reach the future, by putting one foot in front of the other. Their first attempt to knock at the door is too soft. Their second sounds entirely too loud. They’re already wincing and apologizing by the time it swings open. “Sorry about that, uh, hi, you called for a deep cleaning?”

     ——————

If there’s anything in this world that he cannot seem to afford with the abundance of wealth in every aspect, it would be anonymity. The persona of his incognito vigilantism act is rather... undisclosed, but it’s still quite expensive with all its drawbacks. While most of the time 0 would be too obscure for any media to cover his presence, amidst all the chaos that recently occurred in the city as well, this façade still needs an upkeep, and that’s where another arbitrary call for the ‘deep cleaning’ was arranged.

He doesn’t truly care who, or even what, as long as the person’s background checks out—no gang affiliation, no history of violence, and essentially... none, nothing on the deep or dark web. It’s simple to hire the service, and he finished all his lists before the designated day; its arrival cuts a bit too close for his schedule that he has to scamper towards the foyer to personally answer the door. Failure to do so might jeopardise some parts of his plans, so he cannot afford that; everything has been arranged meticulously, after all, including having the permit for this specific ‘Rei’ person to be able to enter the premise seamlessly, reaching his front door.

He answers the door after the second knock, semi-breathless. They certainly haven’t been exposed to this latest technology called the ‘doorbell’—either that, or 740 Park’s image has preceded itself with its classic ornaments that perhaps there are assumptions, making them believe there’s no such thing as a ‘doorbell’. Either way, Maxence raises his eyebrows at the sight of the cleaner. “Yes,” he nods. “Yes, come in.” He steps aside, ignoring the weird glances cast their way; of course, with half a dozen of maids around the living room alone, he shouldn’t have needed any extra force to do the cleaning, but this room is... an anomaly, where he keeps most of his latest self-constructed gadgets. It’s easier to hire an anonymous worker that he can detach from effortlessly after the pay.

“Follow me,” he gestures as he strides towards the second floor of the abode, leading towards his so-called leisure room. He doesn’t wait for the stranger to keep up with him, knowing that typically they’d be eager to tail him. “Just one room. Don’t open anything, don’t mind me while I’m working. It’s mostly just... cleaning the surfaces.” He leads them to the room at the end of the hallway, where the marbled floor is polished, the million dollars’ worth of arts are displayed, mounted on the stark white walls. Rothko, Pollock. He opens the door into the modernised leisure room with its private bar, as well as centralised sleek black billiard table, as well as a home theatre installed on a side.

But that’s not where the job is. In the corner, the bookshelf is already pushed open, leaving the crevasse into his ‘reading’ chamber open. He’s shoved everything into the deposit boxes. None of his latest invention should peek out, nor would the cleaner be able to see his equipment. He enters the large concrete-slab room with minimalist approach to interior, if anything. Most things are well-hidden, shoved into drawers, alongside the full-length steel cupboards, covering the farthest wall and its right. The left of the room is filled with shelves of books, chosen to be covered with the Windsor Corporate’s logo to illustrate the idea that it’s his work room. He situates himself in the middle of it all, where a long white marbled table with black rims is at. Sitting on the cushioned black seat, he offers the cleaner a crooked smile. “If anything, don’t ask why it’s so... dusted.” After all, he’s done too many all-nighters here, its black granite floor witnessing too many acts of defilement in the name of technology, so the debris would have accumulated from all those projects from a month ago.

#par. #rei-amamiya #ft — rei. #pr — 002. #ooof this got long :cri:

[ofspectres]

[ STARTER ID: MIRELA CARTER ] @mirelacarter​   /  NYC: The MET, present day.

A Windsor must live up to his name, still, regardless of the fallacies that he’s contributed to tarnish his own image, which wields a double-edged sword to lower the defence of those around him, but also manages to decimate his intelligence in the public. Still, he doesn’t mind—life is always about making choices, so he has to stick to the ones he’s made. And this, this one is a part of this: meeting up with Mirela to follow upon her information on the Pollock auction. He’s known that for a while, now, being an art enthusiast himself, but these days he’d attribute that to the opulence that he must entertain as opposed to his own interests.

Treading into the halls, he remembers the quiet as it echoes, the marbled interior an imminent deluge of nostalgia that he’d rather not indulge. He listens to her footfalls closely, but doesn’t acknowledge her presence as of yet until she is close enough to him. He quirks his eyebrows upon turning to face her, humming. “You look... how do I say, a bit... fresh,” he comments, smiling amiably.

#thr. #mirelacarter #ft — mirela. #th — 005.

[ofspectres]

anaismurad​ [ REPLY ID: ANAIS MURAD ]:

“Do you have a cup of sugar I can borrow?” Anaïs asks Maxence, breezily walking into his space. She has no idea what a cup of sugar can be used for, or if any recipe calls for exactly it. There’s an oven at her own place, but she hadn’t touched it for longer than her wineglass stem had grazed it upon pouring. 

It strikes almost comedic, how different two living rooms can look. Modernity leaks through the paint at Maxence’s noble abode, whilst hers remains all classic. Too many overpriced paintings make up for the lack of screens at this Murad’s utopian living. 

Anaïs drops to the couch alongside him, purse dropped to the floor and heels kicked up to his coffee table. “Oh, why not? It’s good for your health. I’ve read it in a medicine book — of which the title I cannot remember, and whose author does not exist.” She doesn’t typically go for brandy, however, “If it’s a Louis, I’ll join.” 

     ——————

The laugh is carefree—there’s always the liberty of being himself, the depressed, morbidly sarcastic self, that he loves about being around her. He sheds his layers of disguises around some of those who cannot be fooled anyway, and she’s one of the few that remains within that cluster. “If you’re jumping into the bandwagon of dying from diabetes, count me in,” he says. “Anyway.” He looks around, knowing that there should be no one within the earshot to listen to them, but old habits die hard. Paranoia, even worse.

“No need for medical excuses, pretty sure if I weren’t putting up a show I wouldn’t have bothered with health insurance,” he states. “You know, death wish, it’s the latest trend these days. But these... maids, paid a large sum, do not concur with the idea,” he rises onto his feet to walk towards the open bar area. “I’m fairly sure I’m past my prime era of paying them to be my nannies, but I suppose,” he says as he grabs the glasses, setting them on the polished black surface to fill with ice. The opulent bottle that sits on the glass shelf is half-empty, now even less as he pours it into the snifters before carrying them back to the living area. Handing over one to her, he winces as he takes a sip. “Now I feel more depressed,” he chuckles as he settles back on his previous seat. “C’est la vie. No work today for you either? Or is this already the day for you... psychoanalysing me again, so it does count as work?”

#thr. #anaismurad #ft — anais. #th — 002. #tw alcohol #tw mental illness

[ofspectres]

levmovska​ [ REPLY ID: LEV MOVSKA ]:

Every fucking once in a while, weird places become unbearably fucking popular. They cycle around and shit, so much so that every few months there are swaths of wild fucking influencers littering various places. Greenwich. Chinatown. Hell’s Kitchen. It’s even fucking worse when it’s a fucking specific establishment. We all remember that fucking place with the cronut and the lines that stretched a whole city fucking block. Tonight, it’s the fucking restaurant on the ground floor of his apartment, and everyone is demanding cashew chicken with some secret menu bullshit fried rice. Imagine his fucking annoyance as he goes down for his usual order of generals with extra packets of soy sauce and a single packet of Frank’s, and finds himself faced with an obnoxiously full house and long wait. And Max. Let’s not fucking forget Max. There’s no shame, being here. This is his chosen neighborhood, and just three flights of stairs up, a bachelor pad worthy of two fucking weirdos. But Max? This is not expected, and that’s why Lev is fucking staring as if the guy’s got three fucking heads, each with forked tongue. Can’t help but wonder if he’s up to some shit, because he never would’ve pegged him as a trendy fucker. “Take a wrong turn, fuckhead?” Translation: Hello, hi, good evening to you. “Thought you were better than whatever the fuck this shit is. Smells like sweaty fucking ass in here. You like that?”

@ofspectres

     ——————

The anatomy of wandering, wondering, is one that is measured in metrics made of odd muscles. The bones, the blood, they are often located in the capillaries of the city streets he’d rather not be seen in, but there are always the exceptions. Maxence Windsor, in a fractured moment; if anything, he’d say he took the wrong turn. The façade, at this point, should lead to anywhere but here, but he has sutured together a persona so convincing in its foolish moves that he might as well be found confused, somewhere he shouldn’t be—like this, like now.

It’s not that he doesn’t have his spies. Bribed, the deep, dark webs would entertain any information that can be sold at such a high price, and he would pay them, and so much more. Sometimes, however, nothing beats investigation at the scenes. If anything, he relishes in them, inspecting each dirt, each filth, that he gathers blackening debris under his fingers. There’s nothing more sickening, satisfying, than catching the crimes right under his nose before he delivers the so-called justice for them.

Finding someone who was once in his own circle, nevertheless, is somehow a treat of its own brand. He blinks as he hears the question, the voice distantly familiar. Turns his head to find Lev. A fuckhead, that’s not new, and his default response is to laugh it off. “Define ‘better’,” he says, the lilt indicating the mirth. “Fancy seeing you here. Huh. I don’t know why I’m here myself, but care to explain the crowd?” he asks, as per his usual blank tone. He shrugs, pulling up the hood of his Gucci jacket. “It looks... hm, hot? That would explain the sweaty ass.”

#par. #levmovska #ft — lev. #pr — 001.

[ofspectres]

alandietrich​ [ REPLY ID: ALAN DIETRICH ]:

     He’d never been a library type of man – ironic, it had been pointed out by many, considering how his entire life revolved around words, but he shrugged the questions off. Alan loved language, he loved grammar, but mostly he loved producing speeches; reading them, not as much. He wasn’t opposed to it by any means, but catching him browsing for volumes down the shelves of such a space wasn’t a privilege just anyone had. Max had caught him, as per usual, on a good day.

     His head turned only slightly, the voice was easily recognizable and he didn’t need to see the man’s face to know who now walked beside him. “Hey, don’t do me any favors,” he retorted, only then remaining in his spot and turning to fully face Max. “I didn’t think billionares could read,” he teased. “Or go out in public. Aren’t you public enemy number one these days?” Nothing personal, people tended to resent wealthy men.

     ——————

He observes the man before him for a moment. If anything, his fling with the said personality wasn’t particularly eventful, but Maxence does remember almost everyone he’s kissed. After all, romance is politics, the nature of it volatile at best, so while he does revel in its presence at times to mitigate the loneliness, he hasn’t been seeking any chance to settle down. Alan, on the other hand, is somewhere at the bottom of any list for him. Government-related, that’s one—plain, that’s two. He chuckles at the comment.

“I don’t think billionaires could read either, so that might explain why I’m somewhere I’m not meant to be,” he shrugs. “Difficulty in reading the store names. Anyway, what if I am the public enemy these days? What do you suggest I should do about it—cry over people’s opinions all day? That sounds... dandy.” He chuckles. If there are segments to his stages of deception, Alan must be somewhere along the lines of chipping away at Maxence’s façade, so he doesn’t try as hard with pretending at this moment.

#thr. #alandietrich #ft — alan. #th — 003.

[ofspectres]

dc!!!

MEME FRIDAY!   //   FANDOM AU.

In the mirror, he’d see himself as the vengeance, his high cheekbones streaked red with ire.

Batman has been a name long overdue, the symbol of Gotham as the strobe of light paints the city skyline. A call, a plea for help. He is needed, in the depth of the dark there ought to be a saviour that risks everything to save a city built on the liberty of his ancestors. Soaked in sins, tainted in blood—but his city nonetheless. He lives up to his title, a hero of his own rights, privileged enough to afford the mechanics to support this dangerous wandering.

On another portrait, a billionaire, orphaned too young. The brittle mind has been discoloured from the anger, with his parents robbed away from him. But still, riches, much to his dismay, presenting him as another propeller in the city’s economical wheel. Then, galas to attend so that he can have his name and face plastered on the latest news. An heir, a king to an empire.

A similarity, inspired, but Maxence will never be Bruce with how much violence he contains. The insatiable lust forming in his throat, wanting to see more blood spilled on the empty sight of the streets. Crimes are one thing, justice another. While Batman is a formative thought siphoned from revolutionised anger, 0 is nothing more than a means to an end, heading towards a chasm with no bottom as he dives head-first to coalesce with his carnal instincts. He will execute brutal excuses to quench his own thirst. There is no one to stop him from filling this incessant hollow with more carnage. After all, his anger is justified, isn’t it?

#dev. #aus. #ty for sending! #tw violence

[ofspectres]

send me a fandom and i’ll write up an au for how my muse might fit into that world! 

#mms. #:blushie: if anyone would send me dc?

[ofspectres]

[ STARTER ID: RAHI KUMAR ] @astrorahi​​  /  NYC: Spotlight Bar, present day.

The division of his surroundings would be simple most of the time. The flagrant display of his façade is consistently inconsistent, especially to those who have the sources to compare with his past. He does not expect everyone to buy into the whole foolish persona that he toys around; it’s mostly a social experiment, aside from its primary purpose of causing others to lower their guards around him. And so, as he occupies the stool next to the person who clearly knew him back in their MIT days, he understands better than to maintain his front. It’s less taxing dropping it anyway, so he sends Rahi a glance before ordering his Cognac.

“I suppose it would be appropriate to say hello to a familiar face, but,” he sighs as he looks at the glass, picking it up to take a sip, “it’s been a while.” There is no telling as to how Rahi would respond to him in general, given their distance. The past is an archived span between them, their casual connection long fading. At least, he understands that while many are interested in his personal life, especially in the past with various achievements attached to his name, Rahi hasn’t shown the necessity to disclose his academic prowess to anyone. A well-kept secret, to some. “How is it going?”

#thr. #astrorahi #ft — rahi. #th — 004. #tw alcohol

[ofspectres]

[ STARTER ID: ALAN DIETRICH ] @alandietrich​​  /  NYC: Athenaeum, present day.

The probability of encountering random faces from his past is arbitrary at best, volatile if anything. Thus, he has to mull over the entire circumstance when he sees Alan amidst the shelves of the store, asking himself if he wants to even be caught in the middle of purchasing books at all. However, he has to keep up with the façade, and much to his fortune, he’s created an odd one of the fool that actually reads. It’s convenient for him, for that means he’s free to roam these premises, but when he spots Alan, he wonders if he wants to approach that danger. Not that Alan is exceptionally memorable; Maxence’s list of people to date is endless that they cannot even boast over having been in a ‘relationship’ with the billionaire, but still.

“Oh,” he enunciates, as if surprised, as he joins in. “It’s you.” His eyes scan the shelves, now, seeking anything that is remotely interesting. “Let’s see... Considering I still have my mannerism intact, I should say it’s a pleasure seeing you here?” A laugh. He doesn’t hold any particular sentiments towards Alan, after all, beyond the fact that Alan works for the government, so that’s a visceral response for Maxence’s mind to dismiss taking Alan seriously at all.

#thr. #alandietrich #ft — alan. #th — 003.

[ofspectres]

[ STARTER ID: ANAIS MURAD ] @anaismurad​  /  NYC: 740 Park, present day.

The silence is an echo—nothing ever shrieks the loudest in the confines of this place too big, its opulence a reminder of too many ghosts buried in his marrows. Sometimes, he relishes in the hollow, but today isn’t one of those, when thoughts clamour, so when someone visits his residence, he’s quick to look up from the latest reports he’s reading, closing the articles as he determines the nature of the guest. No hostiles, just a childhood friend of his that he’d rather entertain than having to dwell in the quiet. He leaves his station in the chamber, sauntering towards the living room before his servant can notify him of her presence.

“If this isn’t my favourite neighbour,” he says, chuckling as he enters the modernised interior of the living room. There is no inkling of his parents’ favourite classic design anymore at this point, as if he’s moved on, discarding all the memories. He seats himself on the brown leather sofa, gesturing for her to join him despite knowing that he doesn’t need to. After all, they have visited each other enough times to not act like strangers in these abodes. The dismissal of the maids follows after. “Tea, coffee, afternoon wine? I don’t know if I should have Cognac on an empty stomach, but,” he shrugs, “I should be enjoying my day off, shouldn’t I?”

#thr. #anaismurad #ft — anais. #th — 002. #tw alcohol