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prophezeiung · 8 months
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prophezeiung · 1 year
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zukunftsvision​:
            for as long as he could, prokopenko fought to stay suspended in time between where his loyalty should be and where it aches to belong. but in the end, the sprinkles of information he handed over — dwindling to less and less even as kavinsky allowed him access to more, enough to keep him in the game but not enough to bring it to an end — weren’t the only source of intel in the years-long operation, and he had no way of accounting for the others. every decision that led him to this moment runs past him, a film reel of moments he wouldn’t trade for anything but wishes he’d never had, because nothing else will ever compare, and the futures each might have led to if he’d done things differently. 
           he’s been here for months, the better part of a year, and every passing day was an opportunity to fix the mess he’s made that he didn’t take. he should have recognized the right thing to do, corrected his course as much as possible without revealing himself by dropping just enough information to guarantee the success of the takedown, kept his fucking mouth shut and let the kavinsky empire fall to the ground. ( as if it really makes a difference, as if there aren’t thousands of other bad men — worse men, even — waiting to fill the void that his leave behind. ) or he could have simply disappeared from kavinsky’s life without a word and figured out a way to explain that to the department later; far less damaging, an easy way to remove the guilt from his own hands, at least until he thought about actually leaving, or taking any other action that would put an end to this, and quickly realized that his willpower was nonexistent at kavinsky’s side, if he ever had it in him to do anything but fall in deeper. 
           when the walls started closing in faster than he could do anything about, his only choice was to come clean, to at least give kavinsky a chance to get out. even that didn’t go how it was supposed to. everything’s even more difficult now that he knows kavinsky cares the same way he does, another door opened that he could have stepped right through without consequence, except that there had to be at least a scrap of integrity to his side of what they have, even if that means it’s about to crumble to ruins. 
           he sits on the edge of the bed as directed — not exactly meek but void of the ebuillance he’s found himself casually wearing these past months — too far away to reach out and touch, not that it would be a good idea to even try. all traces of affection are gone, frozen out by calmness that sets his teeth on edge more than the gone on kavinsky’s hip or the two men outside. figuring out how he’s ever going to earn kavinsky’s trust again is second to the question of whether or not he’ll be alive long enough to do it. nikolai doesn’t think that kavinsky would hurt him, not seriously, anyways, but he’s never before been the both the cause and the conduit for the anger ( and pain ) that he knows is concealed beneath the surface.
           he takes a breath and meets k’s eyes deliberately, certain to think about the impact of each word, “ not everything has been passed along, ” it’s beyond embarrassing to admit out loud — even to kavinsky, with all everyone knows he’s done but no one can prove — that he’s morally spineless enough to have let his mess of feelings get in the way of doing what he was supposed to do. worse than being a cop — he’s one that can’t do his fucking job. that much is obvious enough, he can only hope it’s clear why. kavinsky is one of the most prolific criminals on the coast and no one even knows what he looks like; he’s too smart not to have noticed something wasn’t quite right, with all the inconsistencies and stumbles that he wasn’t quite smooth enough to cover. you want to trust me. you have for this long. 
           “ you can have the burner phone i’ve been using — it’s back at my place — ” large parts of what he sent was barely true, or a stretch of the truth. his handler is still under the impression that nikolai’s contact is the kid he met his first few weeks here. “ i wouldn’t have said anything if i wanted you to get hurt. ”
          there  it  goes,  the  cold  composure  he  thought  he'd  keep,  that  he  always  keeps,  even  when  he  saw  his  father  keel  over  with  a  hole  blasted  through  his  skull,  even  when  he  had  to  take  out  the  men  that  had  mentored  him  instead,  even  when  he  let  go  of  lives  he  had  nurtured  and  kept  by  his  side  like  the  most  loyal  dogs.  kavinsky  is  calm  in  the  face  of  chaos  and  that  is  what  gives  him  power  over  it,  what  makes  him  less-than-human,  more-than-king.  he  has  seen  and  done  things  that  would  make  grown  men  crumble,  and  this  shouldn’t  be  new  but  prokopenko  lays  out  his  cards  and  kavinsky  explodes  —  uncharacteristically  animated,  violent  and  frantic,  a  savage  animal  provoked  unto  blood.
          in  one  motion,  kavinsky  jumps  up  from  his  chair,  indignantly,  leaning  in  close,  towering  above  prokopenko  on  the  low  edge  of  the  mattress.  he  has  no  way  of  giving  his  anger  air,  but  the  sight  of  him  completely  out  of  control  must  be  intimidating  enough;  there  is  no  telling  what  he  will  do  in  this  state.  this  uncontrol  is  not  in  the  calculated,  hedonistic  way  of  the  host  and  the  savior,  or  even  the  moody  semi-reality  of  the  dimly  lit  twosome  talks  in  his  office,  no  —  this  is  the  nightmare  only  hinted  at,  the  underlying  truth  to  all  the  threats.  kavinsky  himself  is  only  lead  by  the  anger,  pulled  along  by  the  leash  he  should’ve  kept  secure,  powerless  against  its  force.
          “ don’t  lie  to  me,  man! ”  he  growls  the  warning,  and  it  sounds  almost,  almost  like  laughter  is  twisted  tightly  into  his  voice  like  a  piece  of  barbed  wire,  acid  and  bitter  and  hot  like  bile  in  his  throat.  it  makes  him  sick,  every  minute  alone  he’s  been  convulsing  like  cramps  and  shaking  like  fevers  and  feeling  his  insides  churn  like  nausea,  and  it  all  crawls  up  right  underneath  his  skin  in  this  moment,  when  prokopenko  looks  like  he  is  telling  the  truth.  rat  bastard.  every  man  and  woman  folds  eventually  under  kavinsky’s  cold  gaze  or  the  cold  steel  of  his  weapons,  but  someone  had  to  outwit  him  at  last.  is  he  so  well  trained,  to  withstand  every  test  of  loyalty  and  flesh-deep  inquisition?  or  is  he  just  this  cold,  living  truth  and  lie  interchangeably  with  no  distinction?  one  cannot  expect  guilt  for  lying,  kavinsky  manipulates  much  in  the  same  way,  but  the  things  they  have  done,  the  secrets  confessed  —  to  what  kind  of  person  would  all  this  be  worth  it  if  they  valued  their  own  life  more  than  kavinsky?  it  drives  him  crazy,  this  cognitive  dissonance  he  has  no  way  to  make  sense  of.  that  was  the  reason  he  came,  that  was  what  he  was  going  to  get.  but  prokopenko  looks  tired  and  crumpled  and  he  speaks  like  he  means  it,  and  it  doesn’t  make  sense.
          “ don’t  you  fucking  lie.  you  want  me  to  believe  that  the  feds  just  put  you  in  danger  for  the  hell  of  it?  there’s  gotta  be  something  you  have,  else  they  would’ve  called  you  back  months  ago. ”  he  is  loud,  and  he  doesn’t  like  that  he  is.  prokopenko  can  surely  taste  the  panic,  the  sheer  disbelief,  and  it  is  what  in  turn  will  give  him  power.  even  with  his  hands  bound  and  kavinsky’s  gun  in  his  face,  the  interrogation  is  no  more  than  an  admittance  of  defeat.  this  much  is  undeniable  —  he  must  get  out  of  prokopenko  what  he  can  and  then  cut  his  losses,  every  second  wasted  is  a  second  closer  to  complete  doom.  “ come  on  proko, ”  this  is  where  his  voice  finds  its  calmness  finally,  leaning  closer  to  the  other’s  face  and  grabbing  it  tightly  in  one  hand,  burying  his  nails  in  prokopenko’s  cheeks  and  blowing  poison  into  his  breath.  “ just  tell  me.  don’t  make  this  harder  for  yourself. ”
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prophezeiung · 1 year
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fcrgery​:
prokopenko  listens  thoughtfully,  as  if  each  word  is  a  gift,  the  curiosity  on  his  face  giving  way  to  caution  just  enough  to  make  the  latter  visible.  killing  is  a  given  in  this  world,  and  the  list  of  deaths  kavinsky  is  suspected  of  doing  himself  or  suspected  of  being  in  some  way  responsible  for  is  too  long  to  bother  memorizing.  killing  another  crime  boss  to  take  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  beast  falls  perfectly  in  line  with  what  should  be  expected  of  him.  it’s  impersonal,  tactical,  easily  justifiable  in  pursuit  of  his  goal.  but  killing  his  own  father  —  that’s  pretty  disturbing  no  matter  what  angle  you  look  at  it  from.  there’s  no  need  to  hide  his  hesitation,  because  anyone  half  as  normal  as  he’s  pretending  to  be  would  find  the  revelation  shocking.  
he  doesn’t  shy  away  from  kavinsky’s  gaze,  though,  only  breaking  from  it  to  glance  down  at  their  hands  for  the  brief  moment  that  they  meet.  his  mouth  creeps  into  a  grin,  sly  and  teasing,  that  just  about  covers  the  sharp  twist  of  GUILT  he  feels  when  he  says,  “  i  know  i’m  only  here  because  you  like  me.  ”  and  maybe  that’s  not  entirely  true  —  he  has  made  himself  useful  in  whatever  ways  he  can,  or  kavinsky  probably  wouldn’t  pay  him  any  attention  at  all  —  but  ultimately,  it’s  kavinsky’s  show.  
“  you’re  so  young,  ”  prokopenko  is  poised  to  continue  as  if  he  was  going  somewhere  with  the  observation,  leading  into  a  question,  perhaps.  instead,  he  takes  a  sharp  left  turn  even  he  wasn’t  expecting:  “  my  dad  is  dead  too.  ”  a  nervous  laugh  betrays  his  quickening  pulse,  his  hands  bracing  against  his  thighs  as  if  he’s  wiping  something  off  of  them.  it  isn’t  that  he’s  afraid  of  being  caught  in  a  lie  —  he  hasn’t  disclosed  much  about  his  family  to  kavinsky  yet  —  it’s  just  too  vulnerable,  far  more  honest  than  he’d  intended  to  be.  “  i  didn’t  kill  him,  though,  ”  he  says,  reminding  himself  that  just  because  what  kavinsky  is  saying  is  convincing  doesn’t  mean  it’s  true.  he  meets  kavinsky’s  eyes  again,  a  look  of  earnestness  inviting  him  to  elaborate  further,  “  you’re  pretty  unique  for  that  part.  ”
          they’ll  never  know  just  how  much  blood  his  hands  are  covered  in,  kavinsky  certainly  makes  sure  to  keep  them  painted  red  —  a  warning.  but  he’s  as  much  a  visionary  as  he  is  a  killer,  a  provider  and  a  protector  first.  his  reputation  is  as  much  shield  and  advertisement  as  he  needs,  the  true  statistics  nobody  needs  to  know.  not  even  the  feds  will  ever  be  able  to  prove  him  anything  —  he  is  a  fortress  dressed  in  white.  prokopenko  is  being  let  in  slowly,  door  by  door,  fortified  wall  by  fortified  wall.  he’s  not  afraid  of  the  things  that  he  sees  and  kavinsky  doesn’t  care.  he  is  just  waiting  to  lock  the  doors  behind  him.
          his  serpent  eyes  linger  on  prokopenko  though,  his  inquisitiveness  left  unmasked  but  unexplained.  there’s  a  keenness  about  the  other  that  goes  unnoticed,  the  way  that  his  observation  seems  unsuspecting,  almost  innocent,  certainly  incapable  of  deducing  the  cruelty  and  threat  lazily  hidden  in  the  shadows  surrounding  him.  in  the  way  he  talks,  though,  shines,  through  oblivious  questions  and  out  of  the  blue  observations,  his  quick  reasoning  and  sharp  intuition.  this  is  one  thing  that  kavinsky  likes  about  him,  and  he  likes  that  he  noticed,  and  that  prokopenko  can  hang  unspoken  words  in  the  air  and  kavinsky  will  still  catch  them.  you’re  so  young.  you’re  so  strong,  you’re  so  callous.  but  i  know  you  better.  i  know  there’s  more.  yes,  kavinsky  truly  likes  him.
          “ there  are  worse  fates, ”  a  knowing  look  finishes  the  sentence  ambiguously  —  is  he  talking  about  the  killing  or  the  dying?  he  ends  this  line  of  conversation  with  a  shrug,  it  rolls  like  a  wave  through  his  shoulders  as  if  he  lets  them  rather  than  leads  them,  a  motion  expressive  enough.  “ if  there’s  one  piece  of  advice  i  can  give  you:  get  rid  of  what  holds  you  back.  no  point  if  there’s  no  use.  of  course, ”  kavinsky  leans  forward  again,  in  closer  to  prokopenko,  seemingly  grinning  at  the  thought  sharing  with  him  this  priceless  advice  “ you  have  to  know  what  it  is  that  you  want.  you  know,  don’t  you? ”
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prophezeiung · 2 years
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Agnès Varda - Jane B. par Agnès V. (1987)
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audaciiae​:
@prophezeiung
“Richard, what are you doing up so early, hm? I didn’t take you for much of an early bird.” As Francis says this, he peers down at Richard over his glasses, a grin on his face. He usually isn’t, either, but he hasn’t been able to sleep. Anxiety is a terrible thing. Even without that, he’s been reading too much of Medea and Agamemnon and all these other great tragedies. They give him strange dreams when he reads them right before bed. 
Still, Francis sits down next to Richard on the porch, tilting his head as he regards him. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? Honestly, I’m a helpless cook, but there’s cereal in the pantry if you want any. But still, I wonder, what’s got you up at this hour? Is there something on your mind?”
          the  new  day  breaks  impossibly  early  without  leaving  the  chance  to  break  with  the  last  one.  where  the  alcohol  usually  lulls  richard  into  dreamless  sleep,  this  night  it  made  him  restless,  gave  kicks  to  his  feet  and  roundabout  roads  to  his  thoughts  and  then  left  his  body  without  warning,  leaving  him  awake  and  wandering.  the  spring  morning  fog  turns  anything  beyond  the  garden  patches  into  blurry  blots,  and  the  porch  he  sits  on  is  slightly  damp,  but  the  cool  air  feels  soothing  and  his  legs  too  heavy,  so  he  holds  out  here.
        francis’  quiet  footsteps  only  get  through  to  richard  as  he’s  already  sitting  down,  the  delayed  reaction  from  his  part  comes  down  to  only  a  surprised  look.  as  awake  as  he  may  feel,  it’s  impossible  to  shed  the  exhaustion.  
          “ nothing,  really.  i  just  didn’t  get  around  to  sleeping,  i  guess. ”  he  smiles  this  accommodating  smile  he  has,  apologetic  for  not  having  an  answer  and  grateful  for  being  heard  anyway.  
          even  though  the  artificial  distance  between  him  and  francis  has  long  faded,  these  days  alone  feel  much  different  from  when  they  are  with  the  others.  he  turns  to  meet  his  gaze.
          “ what  about  you?  have  you  slept  yet? ”
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prophezeiung · 2 years
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𝐔𝐍𝐔𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋  𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄  𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.
→ joseph kavinsky
spice:     either cumin or just straight up salt, white grainy & burning :) weather:     dry heat that makes the asphalt flicker colour:    wifebeater white, satin red, bruise purple sky:     bright white magical power:    reality manipulation shoe:     black leather adidas house plant:     idk, venus flytrap? social media:     old facebook or youtube probably makeup product:     nail polish remover candy:     sugar coated licquorice fear:     the dark ice cube shape:     crushed ice method of long - distance travel:     car roadtrip or astral projection art style:     surrealism historical period:     the dark ages bitch mythological creature:     like a nightmare demon incubus or something piece of stationery:     that sticky strong-smelling white-out liquid three emojis:     😎👹🚦 celestial body:     the sun bitch
tagged by:    @fcrgery tagging:     u when u see this <3​
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𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐲  𝐢𝐬  𝐚  𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲  𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.  you  never  know  how  things  are  going  to  work  out.  but  if  you  keep  an  𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧  𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝  and  an  𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧  𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭,  I  promise  you  will  find  your  𝐨𝐰𝐧  𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐲.
𝐖𝐀𝐇𝐑𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐔𝐍𝐆.  selective  ind.  multimuse  featuring  original  characters  from  eternals  and  canon  characters  from  legacies,  fear  street,  dc  and  others,  as  predicted  by  nici.
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which one of my characters are you?
click here to find out :~)
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eos, birdie and sunshine in this dress up maker :3c
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prophezeiung · 2 years
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WHICH UNPOPULAR ARCHETYPE ARE YOU?
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marty graves  /  the loyal
it’s a good thing you’re so patient. you know what it’s like to feel the full weight of doubt bearing down in you. for years, it tried to squeeze the life from your lungs. but nothing’s going to make you bow. you kept the candle’s flame alive. you whispered the names at nightfall. the vigil still lives inside of you. one day, the waiting will have been worth it. all your love is going to come home to you. you’re more important than you know. you’re still the one true believer. / / personality: calm, level-headed, stubborn / / counterpart: the accomplice
tagged : @siennabook​​
tagging : @fightwing​​  /  @unphantasmal​​  /  @audaciiae​​  /  @celestiel​​  /  @mythae​​
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i keep thinking of this
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which one of my characters are you?
click here to find out :~)
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prophezeiung · 2 years
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sainthey​:
[   SC   :      A   PRIMER   FOR   THE   SMALL   AND   WEIRD   LOVES   BY   RICHARD   SIKEN   ]     ;     @prophezeiung​​   /   for   birdie
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              “   things   happen   all   the   time.               things   happen   every   minute   that   have   nothing   to   do   with   us.   ”
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          “ you  make  it  sound  like  there’s  nothing  to  do  about  it.  sure,  it’s  not  worth  getting  upset  about  shit  we  can’t  change,  but...  we’re  still  here.  we  still  have  agency. ”
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prophezeiung · 2 years
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𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐈𝐒  𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑  𝐆𝐎𝐃?
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birdie  /  your  god  is  the  earth  itself.
you  are  a  child  of  the  universe.  the  stars  smile  on  you  and  the  breezes  whistle  by  your  window  only  to  remind  you  how  you  are  loved.  god  to  you  is  a  parent  and  a  friend  and  everything  and  more.  go,  my  sweet  child.  do  what  you  know  you  must.  run  into  the  wind  and  measure  the  mountains  and  sing  the  river.  you  are  the  world  and  the  world  is  you.  praise  nature  and  praise  your  lord.  [i  of  the  storm  by  of  monsters  and  men]  
TAGGED  BY:  @sainthey​ ty this was so good!!!!! TAGGING: @celestiel​​  /  @audaciiae​​  /  @zukunftsvision​​  / @wahrsagung​​  /  @lumincense​​
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prophezeiung · 2 years
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HOT VS CRAZY SCALE
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You are 100% hot, 100% crazy, which places you in the danger zone.
Danger Zone: People in the Danger Zone are physically attractive and often seductive, yet they’re also unpredictable and volatile. They may be mysterious and intriguing from a distance, yet relationships with them often veer into treacherous territory. Unsuspecting men and women are often lured into romances with people from the Danger Zone, yet (according to the theory) relationships with them are destined to fail. Many people in the Danger Zone are in fact crazier than they first appear. Some are good at hiding it, and, in general, people give the benefit of the doubt to people of their level of attractiveness. Some followers of the Hot-Crazy matrix believe that relationships with people in the Danger Zone are liable to end with cars getting keyed, tires getting slashed, and law enforcement getting involved.
tagged by: @fcrgery​ tagging: @unphantasmal​ @siennabook @wahrsagung​ @fightwing​
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prophezeiung · 2 years
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 “    YES,  I  KNOW  YOU  WANT  PHYSICAL  EXPOSITION.           YOU    WANT    THE    PHYSICAL    TALE    THAT   YOU          KNOW.              I’M  TRYING  TO  TELL  YOU,   I  DON’T          HAVE  IT  ANYMORE.  
        𝑰  𝑨𝑴  𝑨  𝑫𝑬𝑨𝑫  𝑴𝑨𝑵'𝑺  𝑬𝒀𝑬𝑺.         I  HAVEN’T  SEEN  ANYTHING  FOR  AN  INFINITY.        ”
independent & selective original character,   CASPER REID, the world’s youngest international art forger and thief. from original working novel,   HOW TO DISAPPEAR,     written by atlas, 25+ (he / she / they).  quote by alice notley.
     a  study  of    the   body   as   a   haunted   house,         art        forgery,           fallen   icarus,             rot   is   also   a   heart,           frequently   disappearing          and   the   art   of   coming        back.
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