It's on the house

♥ - [ back from a 2 year hiatus ] - 12/6/15 - - - - - - - - - - Clinton Daniel Surian. Ex-Military Sniper. PTSD Sufferer. Serial Killer. Current Bartender and Jackass. Lives in a shitty apartment with his really stupid dog. ✖✖✖ - - - - - - - - - - ☢ ❝ I only wish I had killed more. I loved what I did...It was fun. I had the time of my life. ❞ - Chris Kyle, American Sniper ☠ nsfw - 21+ 2011 - current

[clintsurian-blog]

Honeymoon

Clint tugged at his denim button-up shirt, the threading frayed a bit towards the cuffs that were rolled to his elbows. He was a bit older now, mid-thirties, and a silver wedding band on his finger.

As much as he hated that thing, it was a constant reminder to be careful. Don’t let anyone too close and don’t make fucking mistakes.

"I can't believe she blackmailed you," Cain spoke as he fingered the lip of his scotch glass, "Anna thought there had to be a reason you finally decided to get married. Guess now I know." His friend let out a drunk chuckle, taking another drink of the amber fluid.

Blood was pounding through Clinton's ears; he wasn't sure if he felt angry or just defeated. Granted, he already had two kids but there was something about marriage that just felt...Like a leash. This woman had him by the balls, she knew all his secrets and had sabotaged her birth control. Twice. Hell, he had to go get a fucking vasectomy behind her back and hiding the stitches wasn't easy.

"Yeah, laugh all ya want," Clint grumbled, peeling the label off his beer with short nails, "Real fuckin' funny."

Cain seemed to perk a bit, a concerned look on his face, "You're not going to-"

"No."

Cain's tone lowered into a warning, "Clinton..."

"I said I'm not gonna." He pushed his beer towards the end of the bar, signalling for another, "Jesus."

[clintsurian-blog]

Here YA GO ASSHOLE

Clint sat on the edge of the bed, flask of Knob Creek in his hands, as he watched his best friend fiddle with his suit. The bastard had been a nervous wreck all fuckin' day and Clint was at the end of his rope with him.

"It's fuckin' fine, stop fuckin' with it."

"You sure?" Cain replied, giving the black tie one last final tug, "Because it looks crooked to me."

Clint let out an exagerated sigh as he got up off the bed, tossing the flask behind him onto one of the pillows, "Well now it fuckin' is. Hold still ya moron." Cain turned around to meet him as Clint did his best to get it right again. Hell, Clint didn't know much about ties but he knew when somethin' wasnt straight, "There. Now leave it alone, will ya?"

Cain frowned as he did a once over in the full length mirror, catching Clint's own frown in the reflection.

"You're not going to say anything embarassing when it's time for speeches, are you?"

"No."

"Clint, I'm serious. Our families are down there."

"Cain fer fucks sake, I ain't gonna say shit."

Cain looked like one of his old military buddies who worked on diffusing bombs, "Well you're going to have to say something."

Clint rolled his eyes, "I got somethin', alrigh'?"

Cain waited, crossing his arms and looking at him pointdly. Clint threw his arms up, "Fine! Just wait here a fuckin' minute."

Clint walked over to the dresser, digging through the old antique garbage the Theler's had decided to keep but had no where to put, until he found an unlabeled envelope. Without a word, Clint handed it over to Cain. His friend took it skeptically, letting out a sigh as he unfolded the wrinkled paper full of chicken scratch and started to read over it.

"This...This is actually really nice."

"Yea." Clint took a drink out of his flask, a bit more than usual.

"No, like...Really nice. Did Maggie help you?"

"No."

"Thanks, buddy."

"Don' mention it."

[clintsurian-blog]

Clint grimaced as Jayden’s worried tone carried into his ears, “Really now? I couldn’ tell by the large fuckin’ ‘FRAGILE’  sharpied on it.” Clint replied dryly - half tempted to pretend to drop it. He didn’t know why she didn’t just use her mental mojo to air lift this wherever it was s’pose to go. But, then again, clint didn’t know much about what she could and couldn’t do. With a grunt, Clint walked down the the hall, following her instructions to where she had designated as her bedroom. As he walked past the threshold, his boot nicked the edge of a acoustic guitar that was leaning against a wall. Honestly, he could have caught it in time if it weren’t for the box he was carrying. It was the guitar or the records and as the instrument fell with a sharp sound, the strings vibrated with an ugly chorus of notes. Clint paused, box still in hand, “Guitars aren’t fragile, right?”

[clintsurian-blog]

Looking for indie rp blogs to follow with age 25 and over OCs. Like this and chances are I'll follow your ass. Too many god damn teeny boppers on my dash, man. Too many.

[clintsurian-blog]

[clintsurian-blog]

{Future! Drabble} Bar Sitting

"A'ight, up ya go." Clint said with a grunt as he picked up his red-headed daughter and set her on top of the bar. She was dressed in overalls, a striped shirt, and no shoes. He had tried to do her hair in a braid but it looked like a mess.

Cain gave a startled look at the child, like he wasn't sure if Gillian was actually there or if he was seeing things.

"Cunt o' a sitter bailed on me." Clint said in way of explaination.

"Where's Seamus?" Cain asked as he took a swig of his drink.

"Sleepin' in the Jeep. The she-devil kept tryin' to put it in drive."

As if on cue Gillian let out a high pitched noise, making Cain and Clint wince instinctively. That had been her calling ard lately since she hadn't mastered the english language yet. She had learned her first word but it wasn't exactly one that her ma would be proud of.

"She's going to be here all night with you? At the bar?" Cain raised a brow while Clint picked his daughter off the counter, frowning at her while she reached to tug on his hair.

"Not much choice," He held his daughter away from him and towards his friend, "'less you wanna take her?"

Cain shook his head, "Maggie has all the kids. Apparently Lucas has to work tonight so she's crashing in the guest room. Sure she would take 'em."

Clint shook his head, "I ain't steppin' foot into that warzone. Would rather go back to Iraq."

Gilly made another noise as Clint pulled her back to rest her on his hip, trying to grab the bottle of gin.

"Least she has good taste."

[clintsurian-blog]

{Future!Drabble} - - - - Simple

The amber colored liquid shook with his hands, and he drank until his lips started to feel comfortably numb. When the anger subsided and was replaced with the slight buzz of the booze. It was like sinking into a hot bath - uncomfortable and too hot at first, but eventually became comforting.

Clint hated this part of himself; this twisting mess that he didn't have any control over. The ex-sniper could spin it, of course. Turn his outbursts and drinking into just a facet of his personality. Under it he was good humored so that helped balance out his surliness. Everytime he drove his jeep he found himself watching overpasses dilligently for a glimmer - knowing full well that there was no one there. That he wasn't back overseas. His tension would build and build, day to day, until he snapped like a fresh rubber band on skin.

Until he killed someone.

His knuckles showed the ghost of bruising and punctured veins from the night before; bar fights and drinking had been fueling him lately while Cain was playing house with Anna. Cain seemed to have found a remedy for his own afflictions and Clint found himself hating him for it.

Sometimes Clint wondered why he couldn't just eat a bullet like all the rest.

He hated his life and what it had become. He had two kids he didn't fucking want in the first place, his best friend was never around, and he could barely make the time to partake in the one thing that made it better.

"Fuck this shit," He muttered, throwing an empty beer bottle off his porch, and hearing it smash against the conrete street below.

[mishimax]

When you’re in a profession where your job is to kill people, you start gettin creative about doing it… what weapons have we not used to kill them? No pistol yet? You have to get at least one

Chris Kyle (via mishimax)

[qweenbeeb]

Homecoming  | Clint&Jay

[clintsurian-blog]

He let out a low whistle as she mentioned that she had been twenty when meeting the old geezer, “Christ that is a long time ago, back before ya were an old spinster.”

And fer the record, he thought dryly, I hit fifty thanks fer the birthday card.

Clint hesitated before walking into her new home for the first time, like he was entering a church and was going to be smited if he didn’t tread carefully. It was strange walking into Jay’s home because it was exactly that; her home. It was a different location, decorated even a little differently, but it felt exactly the same like she had never moved in the first place.  Smelled the same too. Flowery? Some shit like that. Clint reached down and scratched the mongrel behind his ears, “Sorry mutt, no contraband this time.” Honestly he couldn’t remember half of the shit he would try to feed that dog to keep him from growling at him; a peace offering to the gatekeeper of Jay’s abode. Christ knew he had spent many late nights when he didn’t feel comfortable going to his own place or felt he might need an alibi breaking into her place. Other times he was just drunk. Clint was just as surprised as Jay was honestly, dogs usually didn’t like him much, it’s like they knew something was a bit off putting about him. Clint tried to subtly survey the place, looking at the little odds and ends he assumed she had picked up on her travels and he couldn’t help but think that she could be anywhere in the world. Why the fuckin’ hell would she choose this place? He was sure Germany was much more fun for her. Speaking of, he glanced over her pictures, narrowing his eyes a bit as he took in the vaguely remembered photos. She was definitely right, they resembled family. That hobby.  He grunted in affirmation, “Here and there.” Clint took her cue and plopped down on the sofa, the cushions shifting just slightly from the action and the aviators rattling from where they hung on his shirt.

Honestly, it had cooled down a little but he knew that it came in waves. It was a bit weird to talk about so openly, like someone asking an addict if he was still shooting up. Clint had gotten sloppy for awhile, he knew better, but it felt like any moment he was going to get caught for real. But there wasn’t any anxiety over it, just plain acceptance at this point. The southern Irishman could be pretty arrogant but even he was surprised he had made it this long without so much as a night in a cell for questioning.  He cleared his throat and stretched on the sofa, his arm draping around the brunette and ruffling her hair, making it stick up on end, “Looks like ya’ve been here for awhile.” He smirked before thinking, Scared to run into me?

[fassbender-m-deactivated2017101]

New photo of Michael Fassbender as Callum Lynch

[caintheler-blog]

Ding Dong | Cain&Clinton

[clintsurian-blog]

Cain’s laugh filled the empty space in the apartment and Clinton gave him a raised brow, “Yer more than welcome to do it -- if it bugs ya so much. Yer place ain’t much fuckin’ better.” Of course, Clint was talking about the equally shitty apartment that Cain leased on the side; not the sprawling Theler Estate that Abel looked after. In truth, his sister Maggie popped by at least once a month and cleaned everything. Which irritated the hell outta him. “Half-Sister I hardly fuckin’ know.” He corrected, feeling a little dejected that Abel had found out but not entirely. There were a few bottles that he had emptied, pissed in, and bottled back up. He hoped against hope that Abel would open them up around some big shot and that Cain would be there to hear all about it. Obviously if he told his friend of what he did that plan would never come to fruition.

Clint rolled his shoulders, “Riley likes ‘em blonde.” That much was true, the old geezer was as much of a businessman as he was a pervert. Walkin’, talkin’ stereotype. Not that Clint was complainin’, he didn’t mind some eye candy at work but he didn’t shit where he ate. “Speakin’ of broads,” Clint drummed his fingers on the table, “Ya should see that new girl at that run down liquor store across town. Bitch gives me a fuckin’ hard time er’time I show up.”

At the mention of vodka he gave his friend a dry choke of a noise, “Scotch. We have scotch.” Knowing that would be all it would take to appease his friend’s pallet. Cain might’ve been a drunk, a very good one at that, but he was still raised with a silver spoon and liked the expensive shit where he could get it. Truth be told, no one ordered that shit at the bar anyway. It had sat for nearly two years after Clint had stashed in in some old corona boxes. Riley hadn’t noticed it’s absence so it was free for him to swipe.   He’d hidden it just for Cain. Not that he would ever tell him that.

[clintsurian-blog]

Tagged by the wonderful @the-doctor-woodham. 

– GENERAL ;; Name: Clinton Daniel Surian Alias(es): Clinton, Clint, CPO Surian (Formerly), Jackass, Shark. Gender: Male Age: Thirty-five Date of Birth: June 6th Spoken languages: English Romantic preference: N/A Sexual preference: Heterosexual Occupation: Bartender – APPEARANCE ;; Eye color: Blue Hair color: Ash Brown/Ginger Height: 6′0″ Scars: A variety Burns: None Over weight: No Under weight: No – FAVORITE ;; Color: Sage Green Hair color: No preference Eye color: No preference Song: Slow Ride - Foghat Movie: The Losers T.V. Show: Shark week specials & Vikings Food: Southern Drink: Beer (Stouts & Porters) Book: War & Peace (Someone left it at station - Clint was bored) – HAVE YOU ;; Finished Education: Yes Graduated from University: Never attended Had sex: Yes Had sex in public: No Gotten pregnant: No Kissed a boy: No Kissed a girl: Yes Gotten tattoos: No Gotten piercings: No Had a broken heart: No Been in love: N/A Stayed up for more than 24 hours: Yes – ARE YOU ;; A virgin: No A cuddler: No A kisser: Yes Scared easily: No Jealous easily: Yes Trustworthy: No Dominant: Yes Submissive: No In love: No Single: Yes – RANDOM QUESTIONS ;; Have you harmed yourself: No Thought of suicide: No Attempted suicide: No Wanted to kill someone: Yes Drove a car: Yes Have/had a job: Yes Have any fears: Yes (Police and varied PTSD resulting sensitivities) – FAMILY ;; Sibling(s): Maggie Surian Parents: Daniel Surian and Ida Holt Children: None Pets: Seb The Useless German Shepherd.  - Tags below -

[clintsurian-blog]

A Familiar Face {Naomi&Clint}

[clintsurian-blog]

Clint didn’t look too closely at the doctor when he came in, gingerly sitting on the bed like examination contraption covered in that flimsy and irritatingly noisy paper. He winced a bit as his arm was jostled with the movement, the blood stained flannel starting to dry and stick to the wound in a way that was less than pleasant. He figured it would be even more so when the doctor went to pull it away for the examination.  It wasn’t until he had positioned himself, firmly and balanced as well as he could be despite his arms not able to balance him, that he took a glance at the doctor. Female with minimum natural looking makeup and gently styled hair. She was good lookin’, that was obvious, but not the reason Clint stared at her with a slight frown on his face. He had seen her somewhere before, hadn’t he? For a second he had a nervous reaction; maybe he had seen her during one of his outings? But that wasn’t it. An image filtered into his mind of the same woman - hair tightly pulled back into a bun, makeupless, and army garb.

Clint offered her a lazy mock salute, wincing as his wounded arm was jostled with the movement, “Sergeant Woodham.” He gave her a toothy grin, “Nice ta see ya all in one piece.” He remembered her faintly, they had crossed paths a few times but most of it was fleeting. He knew the medic by her reputation mostly; she was one of the best and was usually busy with the major traumas of war versus what injuries he had at the time. She was tough as nails and smart as they came -- Pretty to boot. Hell, a lot of his guys had tried their swing at her. Couldn’ remember if any of them succeeded but few people dated where he was at and none of that shit ever really held interest to him. “Yer gonna go easy on me, righ’?”

[clintsurian-blog]

{Phee&Clint} - Opposite Ends

The lapel of the suit scratched at his neck, the expensive tie resting subtly further than the rest of the male guests’, and he has to fight the urge to take off the coat and roll the pristine white sleeves up to his elbows. The suit was obviously not Clint’s, he didn’t own much from his usual jeans and grey T-shirts, let alone luxury designer suits and ties. This was a loan from Abel’s closet, the rich heir of his best friend’s family fortune. His jaw clenched, stubble dusting the bone structure, he hated that spoiled bastard. In truth, this was far from the bartender’s usual scene. People were dressed elegantly and speaking behind wry smiles. It all seemed very predatory to him, far more so than anything he had handled. This whole spectacle was his boss’ idea, the greedy bastard wanted to over-reach his area of comfort and make more money, and if Clinton wanted to keep his job he would help him. His military background also appealed to the people who were running this shindig, thinking him as some added security - two fer the price of one. So here he was.

He technically wasn’t needed at the bar for another hour, trading shifts off with the other poor fuck who had been dragged here against his will. With his hands firmly in the pockets of his dress pants, he made his way outside past the bustling people laughing too goddamn loudly, and was greeted by the brisk evening air as the double doors shut too loudly behind him. He let out a sigh of relief and quickly disentangled himself from the suit jacket, half tossing it onto some sort of statue-esque art piece that guarded the door. With a annoyed grunt he rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, giving in to the earlier temptation. The cold breeze nipped at his newly exposed skin; He needed a cigarette. Fuckin’ Christ-- He had left them in the suit pocket. He fumbled with the jacket, trying to find that inner pocket that Cain had shown him -- ‘Clint, you can’t have them in your pants. People will see and that shit will wrinkle.’  Like he cared if the fuckin’ thing wrinkled. After a few frustrating moments, Clint found the damn cancer sticks and lit one up, inhaling the thick smoke and feeling a little bit more relaxed and away from the entire fuckin elitist shit. I bet Riley is havin’ a good ‘ol laugh about this. Smug prick.

[clintsurian-blog]

“How to be a monster: 1. learn the taste of dirt and pain. 2. teach it to others till your knuckles bleed. 3. see if that makes it easier to breathe." — rinse and repeat, Amrita C. (via unwrittenarias)

[caintheler-blog]

Ding Dong | Cain&Clinton

[clintsurian-blog]

A pounding resonated from the living room door, causing a rattling sound within the entire confines of Clinton's apartment, “Shut UP!” There was only one person who would be yellin' and causing a storm outside of his place. Why did that fuckin' idiot always have to just show up? Since last years incident he was pretty sure the oldest Theler brother always made sure Cain had a goddamn phone. With a grunt, Clinton threw the blankets onto the floor, exposing him in his red boxers, and climbed out of bed. Pants, pants. Where the fuck did I-- Eh. Finding the pair of worn and softly wrinkled jeans balled up in the corner of his room, belt still through the loops, he haphazardly tugged them on – not bothering to button or zip them up,leaving part of his boxers still exposed. The front door slammed shut, the sound reaching back to his bedroom. Drunken asshole. Angrily grabbing the doorknob he flung his door open, slamming it into the interior wall of his room, causing his sable-colored shepherd that was laying in the hall to jump. Some guard dog you are. “It's better than yer fuckin' peice of shit pickup,” Clint started, his voice crescendoed, as he walked down the hall towards the kitchen, “Yer Fuckin' piece of shit, foreign-made, Frankenstein fuckin' garbage...” 

He was greeted by the sight of Cain drinking from a cold bottle, “AND NOW YER DRINKIN' MY GODDAMN BEER--” He stopped short as he realized exactly what his friend was drinking, it was an old expired Guinness Blonde, which never got drank because Cain was right – it tasted like fuckin' piss. Instead of telling Cain, he figured it was better retribution to just let him have at it, and grabbed for the cold coffee he had left from the night before his bartending shift. The cold, black sludge dumped into an old mug – spider cracks along it from all the years of use. A rhythmic pounding noise echoed above their heads. No doubt it was the neighbors above him stomping to tell them to shut up. Clint grunted in acknowledgment of the noise as he shook his head. An assortment of chocolate wrappers littered the small round table he had in the kitchen, and with a grumble, he took a handful of them and dropped in the trash before circling back and taking a seat. He grimaced as he took a gulp of the coffee, “Abel change the combo on his precious wine cellar?” The last time they had raided it the rich prick had used Maggie's birthday as the combination. He wished he could have been a fly on the wall when he realized that Cain had guessed it, “He find the empty bottle of three-hundred dollar scotch I poured down th' drain yet? Er is he nose still so far up Maggie's cunt t' notice?” The clock read a little before 5 PM. Shit, had he really slept ten hours? “If ya want a drink ya could always swing by Riley's. I aint gonna give you handouts but,” Clint paused for a second as he watched Seb trot into the living room and jump onto his couch. Fuckin' Dog. “If ya stop fuckin' sayin' shit about my rig and breakin' in I might steal ya a bottle er two.”

[clintsurian-blog]

A Familiar Face {Naomi&Clint}

Clinton grimaced as he held his arm in his lap, sitting in the lobby (waiting room?) of some clinic that looked like the ground floor of someone’s home. The walls were a shade of warm paint that he assumed was meant to be soothing, generic kiddo art decorating the walls, and a receptionist who kept snapping her damn gum. The place smelled sterile and bland, but that was better than smelling like piss and a tetanus shot waiting to happen, he supposed.  In reality the gruff bartender never even ventured this far out of town, he had driven a few hours from his grungy apartment. the reason for his extended errand was simply a result that the girl who had inflicted his wound was, in fact, very much dead. Clint tried his best to be cautious, doing what he could to fly under the radar and still enjoy his little side hobby. One of those things happened to be wasting $40.00 in gasoline just to go to a goddamn hole-in-the-wall clinic. His wounded arm was wrapped in an old flannel shirt, tied off tight at the top to help stop the bleeding like he learned on his tour. The wound itself wasn’t much bigger in width than the fat end of a sharpie, but it was deep. In reality he should have just kept the fuckin’ screwdriver in his arm but then again, he didn’t know if the doctor would have to report it, if they’d take the screwdriver for prints, etc. He was sure that he was being dramatic, they wouldn’t bother which something like that. But, like he said, overly cautious. He had written on his paperwork that it was an accident, tripped in his tool shed (lie - he didn't have one) and it was sticking out of his tool carry - pointy end up. He should have killed the bitch twice.