Continued from: X
@sosordid
One man's insult tonight seems to be another man's mercy. Despite the audacity of actions that had befallen him, despite the insult that he wears painted down his neck - it begets him what he so unseemingly craves. Violence. An invitation to it. Before his assailant can draw further away he clutches them at their wrist && takes a long drag from the cigarette he has managed to hold. β Then I'm about to look real fucking pretty. β Not a warning, no. That would imply that there was some means to avoid. To deter. As he lays smoldering embers against Jun's wrist, searing the hot bud out against his pale skin - it is a promise that he will mourn his actions && the scar that stays will serve as due reminder.
His is a silent rage. One that t u t o r s. Lessons taught between the bridges of his knuckles. The cadence to the events that unfold are as follows - As the street light shifts yellow, his heel finds Jun's center && with little effort he reasserts, as in life, their positions to one another. He, OVERTAKING, all-encompassing, i n e v i t a b l e . And Jun, insignificant, irrelevant, filthy. The cadence beats, the traffic light shifts red && Jun's lesson begins. Over & Over & Over again. Until he is not so different than the fat lumps of flesh he mollifies.
The cadence meets her final mark, the traffic light shifting green && it is done. Lovingly so - he is a diligent teacher && Jun a dedicated student. Swine's blood overtaken by something warmer - something wetter, he lofts the not-quite-pitiable man into the mouth of an open dumpster.
A parting word before a parting spat of saliva.
β - You should feel right at home. β
gracieabrams
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