[myfathersrifle]

rightreaction‌:

BUDDY’S DELUSION seemed like a promise. the warm invitation of a bath as opposed to the cold, sleek reality of the bathroom tile. finn hadn’t seen such illusion shaking buddy like a passing storm rattling their creaky gates in such a long time, but it was the very face at the forefront of his longing those five brutal years. buddy’s caricature was a violent, trembling cloud of black. and there he was, raining upon the dead like some twisted coincidence. at first, though, it’s like the simple, comforting bliss of denial that only began to trickle to the depths of delusion. what a slippery slope, he thought; how will buddy brace himself for this loss? finn would be the anchor if he could, to pull buddy back to earth. 

i never meant to hurt her. “i know. it, uh, shit. it .. it fucking happens.” to the worst of us, sure, but that remains unsaid. scooting closer, finn tries to take the burden, this breathless thing, this harmless thing. bones cracked even under the pressure of buddy’s softened, gentled jaw. he had tried so hard, was doing so well. he was a haloed hope emerging from the carcass of his drooling chaos. when finn holds the animal, stolen from life, in his arms, god it’s weight feels like the first time he held his fucking nephew. buddy had killed this thing, but he tries not to think about it. he didn’t mean it. finn didn’t expect this to hurt as fiercely as it did, like knives to flesh.

he stands, “she’s dead, buddy.” but it’s not said like a cruel reality. it’s an offer, really, some kind of middle ground in the middle of buddy’s efforts to clean his bloody slate. he takes a step, but it’s moot, and it’s then when he almost wishes there was someone else to take it away from him. no one anchors for the anchor, and that had to be okay. “come on. we can, uh, there’s  —  would you get my shovel from the shed?” maybe a task would swat those shivers. god, he hopes so. mum must’ve cleaned the oven and stove sixty times over when his brother passed. finn had to practically pry bleach soaked sponges from her hands to stop them from burning. “we can bury it and, uh,” he glances towards the swinging barn door. fuck, if he cries it’ll be over. pull it together.

it takes so much effort to look back at buddy. when he does, it falters, though he wishes it hadn’t. finn’s got an exhausted look in his eyes already. “..yeah. proper burial. then we can talk about what — just. talk. doesn’t have to be about.. this,”

faltered exhaustion, a man resigned. buddy knew that look too well, from their final months, from dreams in which he’d wake in a cold sweat again and again and again, to find finn about to slam that door, looking through him. tired. somebody had once told him that to spend ten minutes with him was to suffer a lifetime, but he’d been working on giving, instead of the take, take, take that defined his twenties. but he’d taken again, snatched the lamb’s life and now it hung limp pinned to the back of his brain, an unwilling trophy, alongside momentary hope and finn’s smile. he would have hope again, finn would smile in pride again, even if not for him, but the rational part of his brain had retreated. for now, he was sure that the shaking would never ever stop.

without the heavy dull weight of a body in his arms, he felt as though he was floating. and though finn may have been his anchor, he was tied on loosely, had tugged the rope to it’s extreme and now was drifting, so far he could barely make out finn’s features through the deep blue melancholy. it felt like going blind again, so he reached out an arm, tried to swim forward, and it was a slow crawl, but it was something. he rose to his feet, unsteady, nodded his head. the swirling slept-on curl that hung across his eyes was dipped in crimson, congealed at the very tip; he let it hang. “ shovel. “ a few wobbly steps, closer to the door, closer to finn and the body. “ she don’t sleep good if you don’t hold her real tight, like. ” then he was off to the shed.

it didn’t need to make sense, he could believe she was just catching forty winks and dig her grave all at once, he could make peace with finn’s disappointment and grieve violently for it all the same, he could catch sight of his reflection in the ramshackle greenhouse and stare, yet still be convinced he was a figment of his own imagination. the shed smelt like woodshavings and finn, muddy boots, thyme, freshly mowed grass. the shovel lay beside the little radio he worked to the tune of, and buddy wanted to crush it, for how it grinned and winked up at him with all the insolence of an inanimate object that could never know his pain. he didn’t. he picked up the shovel and wandered back out into the morning.

[myfathersrifle]

rightreaction‌:

FINN HAD BEEN a reluctant, mumbling slave to the early morning light ever since those groggy, dawn-clad practice sessions in the yard; just his brother and a pair of good fighting mitts with matching pads they had gotten for christmas. when he wakes up now, in this newfound place only beginning to feel like a home, he’s alone. naturally, there’s a little more urgency in the puff of breath emitted from his nose, and the sudden, sharp way he sat up. lord, he still hadn’t shed the chaotic buddy whose absence only blossomed worry,  gaping around the room amidst the daze of slumber which seemed to linger like a ghost hung over his slouching shoulders. with a sigh he stands, bones creaking from the night’s underuse, throws on a pair of his best pajama bottoms and padding begins. 

it’s a short trip from the house to the barn, one he had taken many times and not often did he suspect something astonishing. though he gets an odd tug in his gut when the barn door’s swung open, and he can’t hear any of the animals being fed. huh. head cants in time with the squeak of the painted door, and there was buddy on his knees like bones weakened and buckling by the forceful devastation of sin. he could sense the drip of horror just by the curve of buddy’s spine, by the harsh, crisp air breathed in by the barn and stilling around his lover’s hovering figure. finn’s footsteps feel as loud as his heartbeat pounding in his ears, and when he approaches, it’s nothing but cradled silence. lips part, oh god. “buddy,” comes like a thrust of bitter wind, cold like the palms of his hands and the feel of the ground through fabric when he kneels as well. then words feel futile. there’s an invisible grip toying at his throat, peering down at the despairing little face of wooly white, splattered red much like the walls of the barn housing such grief. finn places a hand on buddy’s back, trying and gentle. “holy fuck,” he breathes, then turns to try and get a desperate look at him. “what happened?”

“ i never meant to. “ buddy was spitting flustered, whispered panic before the last syllable had dropped soft from finn’s lips. too soft, too caring. too gentle, when buddy hadn’t been gentle enough. “ i never meant to hurt her, i never did. “ he was talking more to the bundle of marred white in his arms than he was to finn, he certainly couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at anything but the little dewy nose that used to nudge at his calves, to remind him that the blades of grass weren’t bloody, that the beating sun wasn’t there to beat. because sometimes he saw monsters where the trees lived, snarling, beckoning, but it was worse in the severity of the empty barn, finn by his side, touching him, making the empty space so empty. there were no trees to hide behind and he had no choice but to face all those fictional ghouls in all their mortifying glory. 

then he was wrenching away, twisting in the most uncomfortable, unnatural way. finn wasn’t the one he was afraid of, but he was the closest thing to himself and it was from himself he wanted to recoil. he fumbled to pull the shirt over her face, not because he couldn’t bear to look, he’d been too intimate with death too often; he didn’t want her to see, didn’t want finn to see her. god, the shame. a strangled sob fought its way through the redraw pink of his throat and into the air like a cloud. “ she’s fine. she’s okay, she is, she’s just sleepin’, s’still early an’ she’s sleepin’. “ delusions were so inviting, like velvet, like the company of a spring lamb. a trembling smile, violently shaking red adorned hands, and then he was looking over his shivering shoulder at finn, his presence still so new and wondrous and oh so devastating. he had worked so hard to be kind, like his finn. sometimes he’d pretended he’d had his hand in his hair teaching him how to brush tangles from matted fur - he wondered if he was making him up now. he wondered if that made a difference. when tick-tock francis retreated into cuckoo land, nothing much did. “ shh. you might wake her up. “

[myfathersrifle]

@rightreaction​

jesus was a shepherd, had been called the lamb of god; sacrificed, buddy knew ‘cause he had read about it knelt on the floor of his childhood dwelling clutching a torn bible in torn hands. he had giggled, now he wept, wet, wracking sobs that tore through his breath, ragged. knelt on the barn floor, in a pool of sticky red, sacrifice meant nothing, nothing at all. and salt was healing, he’d read that too, but his tears fell fat but flat against the wire of the little lamb’s curl, did nothing to stop the awful flow of blood from the corner of the little lamb’s mouth, where the little lamb had let out little bleats, too many bleats, she had been just a little too loud and he hadn’t meant to hurt her, he just didn’t like the loud and neither did the little ducklings and so his little hands had held on a little too tight and snapped the little lamb’s neck. 

the same hands had trembled with tender reverence when they’d unbuttoned his shirt to wrap her up, swaddled and held close to his chest as though he could share his heartbeat with hers. he had only just learnt to mourn, he was beginning to wish he hadn’t. and he realised this might’ve been the first death he’d ever shed a tear for, felt a pit open up in his stomach and ached to crawl toward it. it was so glaringly cold outside, it was barely seven am, his skin smarted and his knees stung red on the concrete but there was still warmth in her, if not in himself. life had never been about living, that, he had not forgotten. 

warmth reminded him of finn, but to think of the embers that would glow in the creases of his smile whilst he cradled this dead thing, this accident, was to watch that pit grow wider. finn had loved him in the midst of deliberate violence, and he loved him now, or, at least he was beginning to, in the haze of careful healing - what would it mean for him to see him brought to his knees again ? what would it mean for buddy to look in the mirror ? he thought them one and the same. so he’d clear it up, bury her himself, claw at the mud with his fingernails if he had to, fold her aching limbs that had worked so hard in life, to rest. he’d burn the shirt she was wrapped in, plant flowers above her grave and pretend to garden just to sit by it, he could do it, in a few minutes, before finn had to know, to see, to know what he was seeing and to feel the shame that buddy was drowning in, he was sure he could if he could just force his own aching limbs to move, force his good eye to focus, force himself up and out but he couldn’t, maybe wouldn’t, and he could hear the creak of the barn door and those heavy footsteps he had never wanted to run from and he hung his head, crucified by his own hand.

[myfathersrifle]

rightreaction‌:

LEARNING BUDDY AGAIN was a lot like breathing. not the ragged kind, surrendering under the autumn sun, some heavy lifting buddy couldn’t be bothered with. something easier. finn likes when they wake up around the same time, untying themselves from their dreams and then for a while they don’t speak. they coexist in the morning haze, and it felt rare as it happened though he knew it’d come to him again like the sun kissing the grassy hills each day. the even, deep breaths in his slumber clad chest, yeah, that breathing. he hadn’t valued routine like this in longer than he’d like to ponder over. he works around the farm, the land, as if it were his own. he falls easily into its nooks and crevices, re-memorizes the ones on buddy and oh, eats. a lot.

there was a time where he couldn’t imagine not missing that constant chaos. he needed that thrill, he thinks, at that time. the blundering, concrete inevitability of the end that came after falling for buddy. where each time he’d tentatively pick himself up, start again and again and again. but he was older now, and so was buddy. they had shed their skins with all that time apart, grew new isolated memories, dealt with silence, loneliness. now they needed new, better things from each other. he finds himself needing the way buddy glances at him in passing, makes him feel seen and important with logs under his arms, kicking open the screen door with his boot and sporting those flannels he most definitely hated. he needed their imperfections, too, creaky steps and burnt supper. when finn would fix and succeed, or fail, and wack a hand against a wooden board in anger that, yes, had a fucking nail sticking out from it. what’s one more scar on finnian bailie? 

buddy had breathed life into a house and made it a home, and then he let finn inside. for a while he felt like the beast waiting around the corner of buddy’s new, quaint life. the shadow to his new calm, an intruder in his home. but time lulled on like swirling smoke marrying through beams of sunshine, and it was their leisure to keep. it was the leisure that made finn feel as though he belonged, and it was under the weight of buddy’s love anew, he had made his home. there was no rush, to love buddy, not this time around. they could take it day by day and it could be great in ways that required time, watering the ever-growing vines of all they shared. the past and now, stomping up steps. “mum’s got the cat,” he says to counter, the old thing. it’s strained when he sets down a duffel on a porch chair,  then approaches buddy like he couldn’t wait any longer. it’s mostly because he couldn’t. his smile grows as fast as his steps do, and plants a nice, firm kiss to buddy’s lips. when he parts, he sniffs. a brow quirks, “oh, darling. don’t tell me you’ve made us dinner.” spoken as if there was no possibility of it being absolutely horrid. he’s just grateful, really. it’s not like he was much of a chef himself, though he did make a decent roast. cereal, too, at that. his hands toy at buddy’s hips, glancing at the limp straps of his braces. 

“my engine is officially shit. a lost cause, the hunk of metal.” he had made a day of trying to jump start his fucking truck. “..almost positive some animal got in and gnawed something important in half. probably died somewhere in there, too. christ.”

a punch to the chest, reminiscent of days passed with fists and knives, but softer, more like the scars that adorned skin, shared. he was so deliberately gentle, with the world but in particular with finn, when his body would sometimes ache for clashing, teeth-gnashing carnage in the same way it ached for the mind-bending, skull-snapping pain of his eye plucked from its socket - he didn’t miss it, it missed him. tried to tempt him back, offered him familiar pain, a loss like a lullaby. he thought about how the countryside, his little cottage, might be the epitome of nostalgia for some, for most, and he thought about how he’d like that for himself, for them. how he’d like to live to old age, to be able to retreat to the safety of dreams of freshly mown grass and logs on an open fire, toes warmed beside the flame and hands warmed in hands. he didn’t want to see blood in his dreams anymore, he wanted to see mud, the stream, mashed potatoes and those god-awful flannels drying on the line in the yard. a kiss and a sigh of relief. he didn’t have to dwell, live inside his brain like that, when bliss existed in the very now.

“ oi, you. you’ll be fuckin’ glad of it - peas ain’t hard or nothin’. “ they’d spent half an hour using last week’s attempt as tiny green missiles in the great war of the kitchen table, a battle that had only ceased when buddy had held the plate up as a white flag of surrender. they’d driven to mcdonald's, old time’s sake; they weren’t too far away from civilisation, as much as they played self-sufficient, as much as buddy hated eyes upon his one. he was the centre of finn’s attention, on the little plot, their little country, on the steps up to the porch. he was beaming, too bright for the mundanity of their exchange, but he was unabashed in his deranged leftovers; he was still himself, after all. “ betch’a still ain’t gonna admit y’need a new one. “ then he was ushering him inside, mother hen, his bare feet catching the chill and clicking the rusty door in place behind them. on his way to the stove, he let his fingers linger on finn’s forearm like his body saying hello, catching up to his quick mouth. hello, i missed you. he stood on his tiptoes to clatter plates upon the top, offloading two small mountains of food. something about building and rebuilding, the farm, the truck, them, was hungry work. he licked potato from his fingers and slid them across the table. 

[myfathersrifle]

@rightreaction​

autumn always came without warning, snuck up on the land before the sun could rise and let buddy know, laid its chilly rays upon the kitchen floor without so much as a knock. it was kindly, though, sneaking around in a manner entirely without malice in a way buddy hadn’t quite learnt how to, not yet. but he was learning, from autumn and from finn. finn who’s hair winked in the sun like the burnt warmth of the trees, who tracked mud across the tiles but would always scrub it up, who had fallen like the leaves back into buddy, and into a kind of docile domesticity he didn’t have the heart to question. they hadn’t spoken about him moving in, or picking up work, or sleeping in his bed or on his shoulder on the couch or out in the long grass on a long day, long limbs tied up in short in quiet content. buddy liked to think they might never, that they might go on as they had forever and ever and ever; through the lace curtains that hung at the drafty kitchen window, buddy could see him, trudging back up through the fields, and through the mesh he looked like a dream, hazy, incomplete, soft and fuzzy around the edges. he knew he’d come in smelling like cold and sawdust, grumbling thick from the back of his throat and throwing chapped kisses around haphazard, like. he was ever so sure of himself, it seemed, though buddy knew him not to be, knew them both to be unsure of each other. but he was sure when he flung open the door, leant in the doorway, braces hanging about his sides, fallen in his endeavour to make a somewhat edible dinner. the sausages were only burnt on the flipside. he squinted against his dream of a boy and the evening glare, and grinned as he called out. “ look what the cat dragged in, aye ? “ scottish mannerisms should’ve felt foreign in his mouth - they didn’t. 

[myfathersrifle]

rightreaction‌:

TO BE KISSED by buddy’s unabashed wail, the fine wallpaper, the fixtures, carefully placed and deadly if need be, should be grateful. he’ll make the whole place grateful, he thinks, put the employees on their knees for the night. make ‘em listen, even, ears to the door, eyes through the keyholes like a group of desperate fucking perverts, man-made. finn’s eyes are on buddy like he could tear his cherry-on-top chaos perfectly apart with just the heat of his stare, and back together again with the kind of benign touch only the silky fabric of his ties grew to know. “dirty, filthy boy.” but there’s no disappointment, unlike the worthless scolding of his mother or the dirty looks from his peers who, realistically speaking, were ENVIOUS that they hadn’t done whatever uncouth move sprouting victory finn threw onto the table first. this, however, was complete fixation. he could binge on the fat of buddy’s personality for as long as his stomach would let him, and even when he’s bursting at the seams with every shade of tick-tock francis, you’ll find him asking for more. that’s why they worked, he thinks, they’re fucking reckless overachievers with the snarky confidence required to make it last, even when finn’s so calculated. he had always been so split in half, hard to place, and buddy’s a good, solid slap on the mug for him. 

the tedious rockslide of the restaurant seemed to fold in on itself, casting a darkness that only yielded to the bubble of their sparking, colliding madness. somehow, he leans in closer, even lifting from his seat a bit. “y’ain’t mine. think i’m daft, aye?” finn was a selfish motherfucking bastard, and he’d take and take and take until people begged, eating their own tears at his feet. HAH! only to be turned away and laughed at for their sensitivity! ( tears to shine his fucking shoes! ) but to him, he felt something that burned as ferociously as buddy, c’nae be taken. but oh, did finn feed into the fantasy, and did buddy seem to play the part fucking marvelously. maybe he was for dramatics after all; finn flicks a curl from buddy’s beautifully damned porcelain mask. there’s a flicker of something as he looks at him, takes his time, lets his hand fall onto the cloth of the table, next to a stab mark. cheap fucking fabric, to be so easily tainted. you wont find such things in his dining halls.

stupidly, finn wonders if this is the closest to love he’ll ever step his shiny, merciless foot. “i’m trusting you with this one, francis. don’t fucking let me down. am not comin’ with you ‘cos i’ve got shit to deal with in paris the time of.” though he’d hate to miss out on buddy’s particular brand of talent. maybe he’d ask him to film that instead. after a breath he softens, if only slightly and in a way that was entirely exclusive to buddy. “c’mon, i wanna hear you promise me. say it back, serious. you know i like to hear that shit from you.” an odd chuckle, almost upset. can’t be, though, not in his fucking line of work. what a damn cliche. “even if you’re a bat-shit liar,”

buddy liked filth and buddy liked lies, debauchery lined his every day like silk, stolen, probably. some people said sex was all about honesty, and buddy might suck a straw clean and tell them he agreed ‘til they dropped their pants and spilled secrets; sex and lies, one in the same. he was the stage and the star, both micro-managed to perfection and reckless with actual abandon, finn was the sole face in the audience who saw past the pasted on thick stage makeup and the fancy costumes, past all the blood, incidental. he wasn’t sure whether that was an act of intimacy or madness, or desire, or hatred but he saw buddy’s cockroach kindness, the way he could dote on a man who’d taken almost as many lives as him and slit the throat of a philanthropist, in the same breath, same swing. buddy didn’t belong to him, no, he didn’t even belong to himself. but he was his, even if only in that very second, on that very chair at that very table in that very restaurant. even if it lived only for a second, blooming in his promise. “ promise i ain’t gonna let y’down. “ he practically purred, relishing in the white-hot searing heat of false honesty. he believed it, as he said it, but that didn’t make it true. “ when have i ever ? “ probably best not to ask, he never had been reliable.

alcohol. he snapped back from their little lovesick cloud to wave an arm in the vague direction of a waiter, ordered something strong with far too much syrup and enough sugar to set his teeth on edge. his mother used to tell him he’d make them rot, but he’d had enough experiences fist to enamel to know they were strong enough. it was only when something mixed with something - vodka ? hit his stomach like lead that his head felt full enough with air to speak again. he had to tell him sooner or later; some lies weren’t worth the trouble. “ you ever seen an eye socket stickin’ out somebody’s face ? “ his own eyes weren’t quite meeting finn’s. he’d always been a starer, but now he was staring at the napkin. you know i like to hear that shit from you. promises, truths. “ it’s real funny. makes ‘em look all dented, demented. “ tommy looked demented anyway, stupid puppy-dog stupid eyes at finn, like he might get his stupid paws anywhere near him. “ made tom look funny. “ nervous giggling. finn had been quite fond of him. but he’d started curling his hair like buddy’s and he couldn’t let that slide, not for too long. tick-tick, chop-chop. “ last laugh an’ all that. “

[daishannigans]

[myfathersrifle]

rightreaction‌:

HE’S ENTIRELY FOND of that temper. sometimes he prods just to prod, like sticking greedy fingers in a fish tank and watching them scatter when they realize it’s not food penetrating their calm. even when it’s a swift kick to the groin or the kind of stare that might make children bubble up in spit and tears, entirely fond. so his pained groan is through the gesture of a smile, tight and countering all that battering gall. 

after a clearing of his throat, buddy’s french goes over his head like when the waiter had offered him their current special of delmonico over vegetables. finn just smiles with certain restraint, then oddly deadpans. “oui.” he contemplates shooting a text to his translator. though, that would require taking his eyes off buddy and, well, he’d rather not. out from his pocket, he tosses a plane ticket buddy’s way. it’s far from subtle. “first class,” he explains, brows furrowing for a moment when buddy seems to be distracted. he won’t even ask. “..you can drink ‘til you’re sick & make a real ruckus on the flight to. then i’ll gut anyone who tells you otherwise.” there’s always one ballsy piece of staff, and gutting in the air ain’t exactly the epitome of convenience. airplane toilets, as it were, don’t hold blood the same way they hold piss and nervous vomit. someone get a hold of customer service, for christ’s sake! 

finn lets out a breath, leaning back against the golden detailing of his seat, and its horrid squeak really shows the true amount of effort put into this glossed over pile of smooth jazz soaked dog shit. so much for the best of the best, and delmonico his freckly fucking arse. he should shoot up the place. “chelsea ain’t so bad, mon petit.” his words slow to a careful drawl when he glances at his discarded toothpick; it’s an unconscious warning on his part. then finn’s glancing at a waiter as they silently approach with two bowls of soup to start, a well timed distraction. took them long enough. patience is thinning thinning thinning. “..and now i’m taking you somewhere with the kind of extravagance you can find in one’a them books o’yours.” yet somehow there’s adoration even in his animosity, his impatience, where buddy was concerned. it’s easier to draw back into tolerance when you’re promised entertainment, that unexpected flare he can only find in dog fights and the curt remembrance of his fighting days. cat and mouse. never one without the other. “stop your whining.” like a sprinkle of sudden fate, finn snags a small cup of neapolitan ice cream off a passing waiter’s shiny silver tray, so quick they hadn’t noticed and with enough ease that implied it wasn’t his first time taking something that wasn’t his. then he slides it towards his lover. 

three words was all it ever took from his wicked wordsmith; not i love you, he wasn’t a bloody sap. stop your whining. had been accused of whining by anybody other than him, there’d have been a souped-up ice-cream sticky eton mess left at the table in the place of a person. he thought about it, it made that gross giggle gurgle somewhere about his smile, watching finn through thick eyelashes. but then he followed his gaze steely to the toothpick, and cut through his grin to bite down on his bottom lip. he could draw him back in like that, reel him in on whatever tenuous string kept them tethered and wind him back around his ring-adorned pinkie finger with a lazy half-smile that told him he hadn’t even broken a sweat. he could be mon petit, he could be darling, he could be the gun in his holster, the sniff of his nose when he knew something was off, because he always knew when something was off, off-kilter, a little uncomfortable, like watching a car crash in the seconds before; that’s how he’d found buddy, he decided. he’d sniffed him out like a rat and put him in his pocket to take him home. ice-cream! he’d be a rat if it meant he’d never have to touch whatever the fuck marshy pea green soup was ever again.

he swiped his finger across all three colours and popped it between his lips and at a cursory glance of disgust from a waiter, sucked on it even harder until he dragged it from the slick of his mouth, down over his lip and stuck his tongue out like a panting puppy. boys, they were so easily scared. not his man. he turned his attention to him, and as if his manners existed within a bubble within which only finn could see, he picked up the spoon and started stabbing at his ice-cream. “ you gonna take me up the tower an’ that ? “ he shouldn’t have mentioned his stories, buddy was so easily carried away. he’d planned their wedding in every country besides australia because he despised the heat and it made finn’s suits unbearable, he’d planned a quaint retirement with an eclectic gun collection and a dog with a limp; buried away in the bookshelf he kept dusty at the back of his head, for rainy days, for emergencies, for days when he stared death in the face and knew it’d come for one of them soon. and there was nobody on this earth who would put up with him, he was sure, so then they’d both be done for, stories be damned. “ i always wanted to push somebody off the top bit, just nudge ‘em, like. “ his voice was just as dreamy. “ then race ‘em to the bottom. “ his spoon clattered as he sat forward in his seat, elbows on the table, reaching for finn’s fingers to sort of pick at, not quite hold. “ you could wait at the bottom for me, see ‘em go alllll the way down ‘til thump. i could wave, all romeo and juliet. “

[myfathersrifle]

rightreaction‌:

🍓 CLOSED STARTER  —  @myfathersrifle

FINN’S GOT an ear snug to his private business phone, not particularly interested in whoever’s whining like a mutt eyeing a pastry on the opposite line. insistent, seeming desperate. something about how difficult it was to get a hold of him. something about a warehouse in ireland. boring. he’s a closed off man, finn. he likes doing shit on his own and he likes people doing shit for him when closely monitored. it’s a simple trade off, it’s a means for business and it’s the only way to gain respect. yet there he was, offering his best mildly understanding hums and toying with the corner of a fancy fabric napkin like some fucking call center scum. then, he remembers who he is. it’s funny to get caught up in silent kindness. well, perhaps tolerance is a better word. it’s in the crossfire of boredom. 

“ALRIGHT, here’s the deal.” he starts off with a shit eating smile they couldn’t possibly see, but could perhaps hear. “don’t fuckin’ call me with this customer service, cry-baby shit in your diaper shit. you call my personal number again? i  — “ sharp glance around. he’d rather not be stared at tonight, thank you. there’s a vague soundtrack of clinking cutlery and a soft hum of music playing from the band across the vast room; weirdly, dim lighting makes finn feel modest. he’s more hushed, and after briefly waving off a waiter who attempted to approach, he leans forward with his offer, spitting venom onto the table cloth as he points. “..i rip yer fuckin’ arms off and a’could honestly hang ‘em up in my living room, but you lack the physical appeal required for my taste.” ouch. “call fucking andrew with this bullshit. he’d be happy to hear you drool on about whatever unimportant crock of shit you’ve got wedged between your arsehole and your spleen. nanite!” and just there, like a starlet appearing in their sparkling television slot, is buddy. finn’s lips curl up into a beckoning smile, and his posture adjusts itself. “well look who’s got me waitin’ around like a fucking schoolboy!” it’s loud considering his afore-awareness of his surroundings. buddy did those kinds of things to him, made him forget. and finn was never so patient. he did think about strangling a waiter for mispronouncing his last name, though. grinning now, he stands with open arms. there’s always something fragile and wicked lying beneath invitation. “how’s my girl?”

dull days made for one very restless boy. so he couldn’t be held accountable, not really, for the chaos that had been so inevitable; when he was left floundering between jobs, when finn was busy, when the sun was up and too many eyes could see the streets that were his in the night, in the bright light, he was so mind-numbingly, bone-achingly bored, and he couldn’t endure such torture alone, it just wouldn’t do. so, after lounging around finn’s lavish apartment, poking where he shouldn’t and prodding at anything and everything breakable, he’d taken to prowling, sticking sticky claws into one of the cushy little lads that hung around too close to the top for his liking. lingered, like a fly, he thought, on vomit, or on angel cake. he’d remembered, when he’d had the whiny bastard’s jaw in his palm (there was an art to whining, a delicate, fine art, which frankly only buddy had mastered), how he’d crushed a wriggling fly into blackcurrant mush between his two front teeth, cackled fondly at the memory when he cracked the poor man’s molars.

all the gore had piqued his interest for a little while, he’d even taken a couple of pictures of the bone to show to finn, but he was quite disgruntled that the flash had defaced the delicacy of splintered marrow. but then he’d had to sit through the cleanup, through the lecture, through ‘buddy, ‘e was a good lad, shit’s barbaric’; his finn wouldn’t think so, he reminded them. they’d shut their traps faster than poor will had. and it was on the back of their incessant nagging, and in the promise of seven in the evening, that he’d skipped his way down to that fancy-pants pornographically middle-class shit-show, he’d earned a smart slap to the wrist for that comment, where he knew a man who would understand. tucked into his regular booth, he knew this man by his swaggering gait and the click of his jaw when he scuffed words on the blunt hilt of his accent, he knew him by the way even the wind seemed to hush around him and the way he slid from his chair, arms open wide, like a circus ringleader, a conductor, a general. awed by him every time, buddy knew him by his kindred spirit, their twinned wretched souls. he beamed, the sun shined out of his arse, it seemed. “ ain’t one t’want to spoil y’darlin’. “ what happens when you invite a guest into your home and they turn intruder once across the threshold ? buddy was a vindictive neighbour in public, loud and brash and unabashed, practically throwing himself into the warmth of finn’s arms, squeezing him far too tight. “ bored. you left me all day an’ i was bored outta my fuckin’ skull, wild, like. “ he mumbled into the pressed-clean expanse of his shirt, inhaled the familiar scent of gunpowder and the hand of a maid, before finally pulling back, a devastating pout on his lips. “ had to get creative, all on my own. “ he didn’t ask how finn was, knew better. squeaky clean shoes squeaked against the carpet, a nearby diner glanced at the red stain on the frill of his sock and looked quickly away. smart.

[myfathersrifle]

rightreaction‌:

HAVING BUDDY paw at him was second nature. so the grip at the fine, worn cloth of his top was like birds chirping out the window. like cracking your knuckles, like a deep breath in. finn’s a little taken back by the thank you, though, a tear following not far behind. it explains the softened look of surprise taking up the expanse of his expression, though it simmers into an empathetic smile, as per usual (hard not to when faces with an i love you, it seemed). “..it’s nothin’.” finn worked very hard to make it seem like it wasn’t much; too much. seeing buddy cry, really, truly cry, was like witnessing the sky fall. straight from the heart finn was convinced he had, despite every tribulation, signed sealed delivered through some dark and mucky tunnel of trauma mixed with conflict mixed with whatever. but he was just here, softened by the promise of a new day, one year older. he puts a light grip on buddy’s wrist, smoothing a thumb against his soft. he can feel his heartbeat, and that feels like finn’s gift. stupid. 

finn allows silence to be silence for a moment. then he scoots closer, and presses a prickly kiss to the birthday boy’s cheek. when he pulls back, he doesn’t get very far. buddy’s a magnet, you see, and finn’s convinced he’s an angel like this, puffed with slumber and softened with what seemed like a certain vulnerability that came into focus like a rarity. it all feels very intimate, to say the least. “i’ve, uh, i’ve had a card all made up for you. signed by everybody and uh, yeah.” good one. he brings it to light in a careful way, and he’s not sure why he’s afraid of tearing buddy in two just by speaking. “..went through hell tryin’ t’get my maw to stop redoin’ her cursive. i guess that’s what y’go through when you love someone.” it’s finn’s way of mirroring the gesture. if he said it flat out, he’s sure he’d cry. and what good would that do, two grown men cryin’ on buddy’s birthday? not his party. can’nae cry, finn. the kettle clicks off, and finn lifts a brow. “tea?”

tangled up in wash-softened sheets, decorated by the brush of stubble and a kiss never so sharp, buddy felt as though he had been walking for years, and finally knew he had arrived. he wasn’t sure what he had arrived at, wasn’t sure if it was all good, all safe, shelter in the traditional sense, but he knew it was his final destination, that he had arrived, really arrived, that he had come home. four walls, a roof, a floor, a door with a lock and space for keys; and finn, and a red foil balloon. he wanted to tell him as much, recount it like a fairytale and point out all the things that proved it was real - but they all lived inside of him, and when he imagined tearing open his torso like a birthday gift, letting the good in his guts and the love in his entrails spill out like the red of the balloon onto their bed, he wanted to cry, for all he would lose. he wanted to show him, but then he’d have nothing left to show him. what an ugly paradox. he wanted to cry. 

but instead he scrubbed at his eyes with the blunt of the back of his hand, nodded along to his words, docile like the newborn animals he used to watch on tv documentary screens through tv shop windows, cross-legged as he was now, imagining violence with a delight he was trying to banish now. “ you’re so nice. “ it felt like a hollow, ridiculous statement, too obvious, but too right not to say at least once. these intimacies were so foreign to him but still more familiar than the road he had walked to find them, so he smiled, warm, nowhere near as warm as he thought finn’s to be, but warm as a little flame learning from fire. even tea was an intimacy, a little nudge in the morning that said, i like waking up with you, i like to make it last a little longer, so he was nodding again, so simple in actions he wished could be grander, better at demonstrating the enormity of how he felt. all he did was shuffle forward, half clambering, clumsy, into finn’s lap where he draped his arms about his neck and stared with very apparent adoration into those eyes he loved like diamonds. he thought about how easy it would be to pluck them out and pop them in his pocket and giggled, sleepy and sweet, still teary, at the thought. he held up four fingers. “ four sugars. ‘cos it’s my birthday. “

[myfathersrifle]

rightreaction‌:

AN EXCITEMENT IGNITES in the bones of a stupid-happy man who just wanted to make buddy happy. god, he hopes it’s working. “nah, s’for the land lady. you know i’ve got the hots for her, the old hen.” stupid. he tugs at its string, bringing it towards his lover. his voice warms up contently like the patch of their duvet caught by the sun, “’course it’s yours.” naturally, he bonks the stretch of reflective red against buddy’s head, creating some static. buddy’s hair flies up like stems of golden grass reaching out for the stars or rather, the specks on their ceiling. finn lets the balloon fly back up, jolting as it settled into the air. 

finn plops down on the bed, seated beside buddy and eventually lies all the way back, hands on his stomach. it felt funny to be clothed and lying there. awkwardly does he lean up, getting a strained look at the other man. “was gonna get one of those, uh,” head falls back down, “happy birthday! one’s but. that’s kinda lame, ain’t it?” finnian, your insecurity is showing. oh, and so is the hair of his stomach with the way his shirt is hitched up as he lounges. birthday etiquette. the kettle screeches, and finn sits up, naturally puts a hand on buddy’s arm in passing. then, he tries to catch his gaze. “hey,” he echos himself, “happy birthday. seriously. you sleep good?”

buddy had spent most of his adult life spoilt, he knew that. big, round blue eyes like moons could pull the tide in his favour, entice any wallet into his palm and encourage any cash right out of it - he was used to pearls, silk, gold gilded weaponry and the sense that he could strike a match over some hundred pound candle and have a brand new wick in seconds. the material and the physical, he was used to violent gifts, ‘ ‘appy birthday bud, ‘ere, gut ‘im however y’like, darlin’ ‘.

he indulged, delighted in every pretty present dumped like currency in his lap, would gut ‘im like a darlin’ and then foam at the mouth for more, greedy. but this was different, so completely, entirely, worlds apart different. celestial, as he had been in his dreams amongst the stars, a little lightheaded, feeling as though he was floating. his loud-mouth couldn’t make out a word, not at first. tactile in his wonder, he wound the sharp ribbon of the balloon around his finger, like a spring, then let it go, reached out for the peeking fluff of finn’s stomach then settled for the soft cotton of his washed thin t-shirt. and as he sat up, he gripped on tight, and one lone tear dropped down onto the hand that held. “ thank you. “ not something he said very often, not at all. “ i love you. “ his voice was small, cowering, almost afraid of when the big red balloon might contort and become a big bad wolf once more.

[myfathersrifle]

rightreaction‌:

closed starter  —  @myfathersrifle

FINNIAN DIDN’T WANNA overwhelm buddy, was the problem. it’s one thing to head out early and buy a balloon and a semi poignant card for someone you loved, and it’s another to prepare a (near) whole day of festivities for someone who, from an educated guess standpoint, may have never experienced a proper birthday. though buddy wasn’t exactly a flower of delicacy, soft like the sun beams shining through the blinds of their now shared room, buddy was still a person underneath all that inconceivably cosmic chaos. at least finn liked to think so, anyway.

it was time to persuade his love from sleep to morning light. all reflected onto a red heart balloon which was tied to a knob on the bedside table, of course. finn’s got a hand reaching for tufts of bedhead in leisure, petting gently like that of a calm doe, trying to wake him. “hey,” is breathed out to start, voice soft like the steady, muffled build up of the kettle out in the kitchen from where he stood. then he kneels easily by the bed and continues his efforts. buddy looks like an angel this way, a real, true one, but always a little smug, even now. he often wonders if that’s on purpose. “it’s morning, birthday boy.”

if it hadn’t been his birthday, buddy might’ve swatted his hand away like a fly, mumbled a muffled insult along the lines of ‘early fucking bird wanker’ into the down of the pillow and rolled over back into the warm embrace of sleep. and in his first few seconds of consciousness, like birth, he was a little disorientated, murmuring something incoherent and scrunching up his nose as though already disgusted by daylight. he didn’t like coming back to the real world. but then a little trickle would start to trace the familiar curves of his brain, well-worn with love, like when finn would pour in extra bubble bath on bad days and buddy would watch it drip, drip, drip, sliding down the side of the tub, like blood. but this wasn’t blood. this was the kind of warmth that could only be drawn from a scratch to the scalp, the bubbling boil announcing a promise of sugary tea, of remembering just who it was beside him, of his goodness, of his affection, of his very tender heart. in his sleepy state he reached out a hand, fingers spreading with fatigued curiosity, as if he were trying to find that heart, hold onto it, hold it close, without realising that would mean ripping it from his chest. his fingers closed into his palm, formed a fist, fell back onto the mattress, and the silly, horrid little idea floated somewhere toward the back of his brain to torment him in some other dream, some other time, later. then he remembered it was his birthday.

swimming with sleep, watery eyes flew open, and a pillow-flushed red cheek lifted with disorientated excitement, the crease of cotton sheets imprinted like ribbon on a birthday gift.“ s’my birthday. “ he announced, with a little, determined nod. it took him a moment to adjust, he really did need glasses, and his eyes bypassed the balloon at first, zeroed in on finn. he liked that he was often the first real thing he saw in the mornings, like an anchor. and just as he began to crawl toward him, chasing a morning-breath kiss, did he notice the balloon, and freeze. “ is that mine ? “ he sat back, lips parted in awe. “ is it for me ? “

[myfathersrifle]

rightreaction‌:

WITH AN UNINTERESTED TURN, finn makes the trip over to his desk a casual one. there was something cathartic about leaving someone high and dry. leaving a man like the blunt shock of a harshly trimmed tree, in the middle of his office. how metaphorical! another loss of life. the means for breathing, like the throat he had gripped. buddy’s cruelties bounce off finn’s exterior like the discarded bullets sliding along crushed velvet, into the creases of his couch, never to take or draw. once he reached his destination, oh, that dreadful corpse. he tosses it off the chair like it was a string of loose thread, and takes a seat. his slacks be damned. “..a quarter of the people at my party will be dead within the hour,” is said. carefully spiked & personally served punch! destroy the enemy! truthfully it was a spur of the moment thing, and originally, he had planned on blowing up the dining hall. too much work, though, renovations. and what a shame it would’ve been, he had just put in that gold ceiling detailing. 

he looks to buddy as if he were a spoiled child, a desperate boy on the brink of a swan song, and perhaps he was. “…and look at that! you’ll have a front row motherfucking seat. quit yer fuckin’ whining before i pull your teeth out and glue ‘em to your arsehole.” 

he picks up a blood-soaked paper at its very edge, watching its slick drip onto the dark wood of his desk. simply he lets it plop back down, and he flashes buddy another look. then, he’s sighing, giving up on normalcy for the night. so, selfishly and perhaps with certain contradiction, he’s beckoning him. “..c’mon over here, killer. let’s see you,” finn’s moods were tricky things. he was very up and down, mr. bailie, and some find that to be his greatest trait. unpredictable! he was a careful man who somehow befriended his whims. and what kind of host was finn, to have even one upset guest? albeit those with poison clad veins and to-be-if-not-already foaming mouths. he swore he heard a shrilling, choked scream from the front room. he rolls out his chair a bit, thighs spreading against the slick leather with a squeaked sound, blood pooling & separating on its material like beads of sweat on a great beast. a pat to his lap, loud and obnoxious like impatient knocks bestowed onto an empty home. “come look at the mess you’ve made.”

and there it was, the very reason he had pursued the man’s deadly attention in the first place. he was just so creative, that was what buddy adored, his trodden-down, chewed-up bubblegum mind obsessed with finn’s, tar-black, hardened, steel riveted and as sticky with sickness as his own. any man could snap a neck, it was easy as a wishbone crack, once you knew how, and any mundane bob or billy could bash a skull ‘til it caved, that was simple, easy, death by boredom. but he’d been a fan of finn’s handiwork since he’d first seen him take out ten men in ten seconds, from afar, albeit, they’d been his ‘friends’, albeit, but he’d skipped and slid through crimson puddles like a child on a rainy day after the storm that was finn and the threat of his blade like lightning had passed. joy, unbridled.

the same joy that fizzed at the wet corners of his lips when the echo of a gurgled scream bounced from wall to wall, to his greedy ears. he had to bite down on his fist, tiny insicors sharpened down to a natural point and leaving red raw crescents like moons in a pale, sickly sky. poison, genius. he was so clever, so wonderful, how could people mistake him for anything other than a teacher, a preacher ? buddy was so desperate to learn, to have just some of his expertise rub off on him, like bleach dousing flames, stilling them for a second before sending them up into a frenzied roar. he was more than happy to meander over, hopping over a probably broken, very likely nearly severed leg with a musical giggle as he did so, as if waltzing. he planted himself upon the thick muscle of finn’s thigh, squirmed to get comfortable, flicked the elastic of his plastic wings to settle them back in place with a flutter of feathers and a dull drip-drop of blood, maybe a flip-flop of flesh, hitting leather. “ just ‘cos i ain’t as sophisticated as you, don’t mean i ain’t as good. “ as messy as his method, his scatter-brain jumped from defence to adoration, and a purr of deranged laughter wet his pink lips once more, hyena-like, a rabid kitten. “ will you show me ? all the bodies, after ? i love it when they froth, looks like candyfloss, don’t it ? like clouds, don’tcha think ? “

tantrum long forgotten, red-painted, chipped, fingernails reached out to tug at his tie, like a crack in a childhood wall through which monsters might crawl out from, the kind buddy would stick his fingers in, as far as they would go, right above his heart. he wound it around his wrist, tugged. “ that’ll make a mess too, y’know. i only ripped out his lungs for some drama, you poisoning fuckers at a coked-up halloween party ain’t exactly inconspicuous. “

[myfathersrifle]

rightreaction‌:

SO NOW FINN’S the one sporting one of those crazed grins like a crown on an unfit king, plastered on like cheap wallpaper destined to peel and reveal the ugly beneath. bullseye between blues, finn’s never been afraid of death. weirdly, he invited it as a whole, but he was picky with the circumstances. though in any situation he could squeeze out a blaze of glory, go out like a god or a sea monster, and he thinks that’s the only way to get the job done; having that glaze of unafraid, true or false, deadly as your own hand. so when buddy pulls a fast one, quite literally, he can barely flinch. it’s a trip he’s taken too many times to care for. he’s been on the other side of a smoking gun, blunt knife, bruised fist, more times than the sun had set just to rise and do it all over again. still, there’s a thrill seeping between the curt lines of metal and the promise of blood —  it’s something you can’t quite get any place else. 

“what’s my prize, then? a date with the devil?” he wonders if he’s buddy’s prize. so then what was this all for? another thing, cold, dead, hitting the floor just for the sake of that stuttering giggle, that frantic look. to feed a beast or rather occupy it until the next craving for recklessness. or was it simply the thrill itself, lust, passion, like a virgin rutting against the pledge of release. a trained animal based around feeding time, a newfound purpose. he did feel some of that wonderment, though, cold and unforgiving hardness hovering like a spider descending from a pedestrian ceiling. finn just smiles all cheshire like. and after some thoughtful silence, “good on you, little one.” he reaches out, leans a little just to flick the trigger, and when it clicks,   — nothing. its telling sound fills the room like a pin dropping amidst a stirring quiet. “..you’ve got the deadliest man in london at the end of an empty barrel.” head tilts, smile widens. “now that’s something to write home about.”

giddy with gall, buddy’s giggles rolled on like the cans he’d kick down the street, staccato, hollow, tinny, violent. finn’s grin only encouraged him, like a child given permission to scream. he thought it was bloody beautiful, the way it didn’t quite meet his eyes, the way it hung lopsided, a masterpiece stolen from a gallery and hung somewhere filthy, gathering dust and cigarette smoke yellow. he wondered if finn ever dealt in stolen art. he’d always wanted a picasso. in all his doe-eyed frenzy, he didn’t take a second to consider why the man who was famed for his stonecold stare of disinterest being many a man’s last portrait in this world, would be smiling with such brazen joy. and buddy was quite content with his smirks, his sneers, his heavy, dull, bouts of laughter that could only elicit dread; he thought them painted in a thousand shades of red, all the different blood types that had ever stained his hands, and even when finn was threatening to skin them with that smile, god, that smile, he wanted to dip them amongst it. the man at the end of his gun was a boiling, bubbling vat of damnation, red red red, and when smeared on buddy’s skin, might even be his favourite shade of pink. he was trigger-happy, a jumped-up city boy who always jumped the gun, often impulsive when he knew much better - he and his brain didn’t get along, see, that was the kicker. it’d tell him to wait, so he’d go, tell him to put the gun down and he’d pull the trigger, and he really was going to pull the trigger, send that handsome head out into space, into constellations of sinew and synapse, paint the ceiling with spatter so that he could lie back and watch the stars, he was, he really was, he was reaching for it, eyes ablaze with a promise of the universe, the milky way contained in a skull set free, he really was, he was, until- 

whining like a kicked puppy, he threw the gun down with a clatter, in a tantrum. his smile had sneered until it had collapsed back into a pout, back to the start, back to . it didn’t matter that his little misshapen axe still sat sunk into finn’s desk, only an arms length away, it didn’t matter that he had another knife tucked away under petticoats, under tights, under lace. he had been told no, in no uncertain terms, he had been beaten, and not in the way he enjoyed. he didn’t want to play anymore. he didn’t know the rules. “ nasty fuckin’ prick, you are. i was just havin’ fun - it’s halloween, you know that, right ? people want to enjoy themselves at your party, and you should let ‘em. nasty fuckin’ prick. “

[myfathersrifle]

rightreaction‌:

SO IT WASN’T the desperate plea he had expected, anticipated. though it did tremble, already finn can tell that buddy’s no regular diddy. before him, buckle-kneed and pouty, a twisted sadness might’ve showed in gleaming eyes reflecting the dull overhead light. sinister served on a careless but specific stone cold platter, far too gone to not crack a smile when a gun’s drawing blood from your gums, winding rivers of red. finnian stands wide legged and patient, but not too patient. buddy’s got a way with words, it seemed, and finn’s kind enough to listen without cutting him off hilariously by the ring-inducing blare of his gun’s only real purpose. 

“so you’ve got no life, ‘ave ye,” is what finn plucks from the angel’s lullaby. that’s ungrateful, he thinks. imagine, attending the night’s most anticipated bash, and standing before mr. bailie himself, saying you have no life. well, that sounds like disrespect, devoid of the flattery that followed like a band aid over a bullet wound that would never really heal over. he unravels a faux-empathy, carefully staples it to the corners of his face like a costume piece, one that was usually reserved for employees wishing to roam off for the day because someone’s hurt or they’ve got a second job. bullshit. finn’s gonna snap the neck of the next fucker who comes to him with an excuse. “poor child. sat on your arse, whinin’ away,” finn should shoot his head clean off just on that count. though, he’s not exactly keen on giving anyone exactly what they want. finn walks closer just to take the boy’s chin in his hand, all gentle like handling an injured doe. he looks down at him in his bruised, willing glory. that controlled chaos that still seemed to spill over in burnt, bubbling succession. still sat that same mocking compassion, furrowed in his eyes that were somehow full but hollow. “want to be touched. s’that it?” he doesn’t wait for an answer, because he already has what he wants; finn smooths a soft caress across buddy’s face, and in the solace of his blinks he really did look like an angel, if such a fucking thing existed. right then it did, on his hardwood, on his time. the hand smooths through tufts of hair, and round to the other side of his face, cupping. 

let’s see how much this angel really wants it. finn crouched down to the other man’s level, leans in real close, and tucks the gun back into his waistband. “..maybe you’re right,” he says, soft in a way he never was. “if you aren’t even worthy of a life, well you’re certainly not worth my fucking time.” he’s not subtle nor soft when he GRIPS the boy’s throat, and dips in to face him closer closer closer, deadly. “don’t come skippin’ ‘round my joint ever again. not with your pathetic, embarrassing needs fer attention or with your sob story wrapped in pretty fucking bows ‘n paper.” finn stands, but his grip doesn’t let up on the angel’s throat. “and if that body’s not oot me fuckin’ sight by sunrise, i’ll slice that face t’pieces and y’wont have no lips to pout with, my darling.”

like a stray dog, buddy had dragged himself in and settled where he shouldn’t have, seeking shelter from a storm of banality. he’d been invited, snagged a plus one as always by some half-pitying fucker, somewhat marvelled, mostly scared, stiff in their starched grey slacks, but once he’d stuck a hand in the door, mangled fingers had crept where they didn’t belong. poor pup, just misunderstood, traumatised, a kindly guest might suggest, whilst he clawed at expensive wallpaper, tore the tulips in two. then he’d wandered, he was good at wandering, into the room at the end of the hallway. the lock was embarrassingly easy to pick, and he’d found feral solace in the cage-like office, found subdued evil, the controlled kind, enough to set his teeth on edge after the ballistic display of brutality that had exploded just moments before. the soft of seemingly infinite mercy was a promise of anything but; a lull, brief respite, a moment of peace before the bombs dropped. he revelled in the sticky sour malice of it all, in the depraved gentile of his eyes, seemingly starved, seemingly stuffed full. the grip to his neck came in natural succession, as easy as first-date hand-holding, and the squeeze of his fingers locked on like a collar - beastly.

a stray tamed, but his mange still the same; “ ain’t that i ain’t worthy. i just don’t want it; not bothered. “ reproachful, insolent, he bit down on a giggle ‘til it bled through the gaps in his bleached white teeth. “ an’ they all say you’re smart. can’t be that smart if you’re so distracted by all my pretty fuckin’ bows ‘n paper. “ mocking finn’s accent, even furrowing his brows and pursing his lips, he was treading on thin ice, would swear he could feel it cracking underfoot like the autumn frost on the marble steps outside. he’d almost slipped, on his way in, but he wouldn’t slip now. “ rule number one, mr. bailie. good things never come in pretty packages. eyes on the fuckin’ prize. “ and weren’t they both perfect proof of that. in one swift movement nimble fingers snuck through the cloud-like ruffles of his dress, out, down, and around the thick butt of the gun. he snatched it in both hands, held it up toward finn, winked one eye shut as if aiming, right between his. “ eyes on the fuckin’ prize. “

[myfathersrifle]

rightreaction‌:

HEATED GAZE carefully traces the drooling sin of a mouth lapping the forefront of death, daring to claim its metallic tang. what a funny individual, he thinks, so RECKLESS. why was he here? surely there were plenty of places to screw a corpse into a bloodied jam and go about your business. hell, there’s a fucking alley way outside, drenched in darkness, inviting sin. though he supposes some things just couldn’t wait. this, though, was something different. had his instincts ever failed him? “you’ve got a pretty sophisticated palate,” he observes slowly, head tilting in the way he stares. taking in the purse of his lips, which married the cold of his gun and acted as a passageway for laughter. he who laughs at the head of death, sat on his desk, wearing tights. happy fucking halloween. 

“ALRIGHT,” announces finn, booming, separating himself from the other boy and letting his gun clad hand take the lead. he’s pointing to the space of wooden flooring just before the door. “here’s what we’ll do.” mr. bailie loves a good game plan. “..you can get on your knees and beg me for your life,”  what’s better than an angel boy, drenched in the shade embodying definite loss, asking him nicely? his words rumble with a bout of laughter, “and i mean really beg. none of that please, daddy shit. i’ve had enough theatrics for the fucking night.” half-mumbled, he takes a moment to shuck off his blazer as he spoke, padding to set it carefully on a small sofa by the opposite wall.  “..or, alternatively, and if you’re feeling spontaneous, i can cuff you, shove you in my fuckin’ supply closet & let you starve.” options! look at finn, being kind today. “..i mean, if the rats don’t gnaw your eyes out of their sockets first.” and a warning. golly, he might just reward himself later if this doesn’t go south. though, he always did love the location in miami. he turns to him then, grinning, shit-eating, expectant. “how’s that sound, gorgeous?” 

travelling and landing, thick and slick over buddy like a vat of hot honey, finn’s voice filled a room. he knew, he’d seen him captivate crowds of inattentive socialites who would rather stare at mirrors but found themselves enraptured as if finn was a reflection of the sick entertainer in them all; he’d been one of them, hanging onto his every word, doe-eyed, puppy-tongued, awed and sucked into his whirlwind of charm. but it was different, in the little vacuum they’d created. buddy could drool through a thousand men’s orders’, admire their tenacity and their sad little belief that they held even an inkling of power over him, but as soon as they told him to jump, he’d roll over. all it took from finn was a flick of his wrist, a rumbled demand that could never be mistaken for anything but even to buddy, to the boy who broke the spines of words that disagreed with him, that bent every will to his way. finn spoke as if speaking to a world beneath the crushing heel of his very expensive shoe, but he spoke as if whispering to their own intimate little evil, too, over a ten-minute dead body and red-ruined italian leather. buddy hopped from the desk with a soft thud, slid to his knees with a sick click, budding bursts of white fabric tucked under bruised lilac knees.

then came those giggles again, hot tarmac paving the way to trouble. he just adored trouble, just adored the word for all its implied forgiveness; ‘he hadn’t meant to skin the poor lad alive, honest, he was only lookin’ for a bit of trouble’. he loved it for its juvenile sweetness, sherbet soft in all the awful it described. finn’s hair appeared to him like liquorice, his now exposed arms at once like bitten bubblegum. he folded his hands in his lap, so as not to be too greedy, but from between pink lips and right from deep down in the depths of what he hoped wasn’t humanity, poured forth a torrent of truly desperate pleas. desperate for what, he never made clear - where would be the fun in that ?

“ tacky and gorgeous, darlin’, you spoil me. “ he wished he did; he’d seen the special treatment finn’s girls in all their fake pearls got, thought them utterly ungrateful when they’d complain about bruised, bleeding gums. he wanted a scarlet smile eternally, lit up in the brilliance of the pure animal before him. he stared up at him, never wavering, not once, not even to breathe. “ like he begged for his life, y’mean ? ‘cos that was a sad, fuckin’ sorry display. i’m surprised you even let him in, wet fuckin’ towel. said he were just curious, he were just havin’ a good time. “ he made a face, disgust and delight all rolled into one amalgamated mound of mould. “ he weren’t nothin’ if he weren’t a fuckin’ creep. “ like an eclipse, his blinding rage dulled as if on a dimmer switch, and buddy stared straight into the sun, up at finn, through him, a messy boy in more ways than one, a mad boy, in all ways but none. he half hoped he might go blind, so as not to have to comprehend this man and his talk of rat-picked eyeballing, as if a lullaby. “ please. “ he began, trembling with false insecurity, remembering himself, smile twisting toward cruelty. “ have mercy. you mustn’t kill an angel on halloween night, can you imagine the talk ? it’d be fuckin’ ruthless i admit but i- “ his facade was fading fast, he was leaning up on his knees, closer, faster, honest. “ i won’t care if y’do. i ain’t gonna know, when i’m fuckin’ strawberry delight pasted on you’re walls, am i ? eat me up, either way, i fuckin’ dare you. can’t beg for a life i ain’t never had, darlin’, but i can beg for you. “ he was practically panting, wide-eyed, delirious. “ just fuckin’ touch me. slice me clean in half, like, shove that fuckin’ barrel back down my throat ‘til i feel it in my fuckin’ soul. touch me. “

[myfathersrifle]

rightreaction‌:

HANDHELD BRINK, tipping them on and off the cliff, and inhaling that dizzying feeling. finn loved to have people like this, between his teeth, unhinged jaw claiming life like it was solely there for him to take, and sometimes it really felt as if it was. it was easy to feel like a god, with all that control. even if taken in with coffee spoons, over time poison is just poison, and finn became the fucking ringleader for its spiraling, bubbling ruin. the tip of his gun trails along the soft of buddy’s skin, nearly invisible threats left in its tracks, the fading white of the moving press. a smile curls up onto finn’s lips, the cheek on this one. the mouthy ones always seemed to bleed the most. 

a hand smooths up and coils around the man’s neck as if he had caught it, his to take, his prize. “well aren’t you a fuckin’ dreamer, then.” he likes the thought of that, though, the whimsy. the gates, the flowing gowns, the delicious turn away of a pretty face adorned with blood, pouting his way through heaven and hell like suspended academia, grueling trial and error. he presses the cool of the metal against the angel’s mouth, testing like the eyes of a predator hovering above water, sickly patience. “your prayers aren’t worth much to me.” he recalls a few family members offering to pray for him; what happened to our sweet boy. he just got sweeter, s’all, he’d say. then he shot a hole in the ceiling and took off with the roast leftovers. good mash. even better screams. “hope they got a first aid kit up there,” says finn, spits the words into the other man’s ear. “i’ll blow your jaw off and leave it hangin’ off you like a fuckin’ ornament. then you wont be so pretty,” he lets go then, his arm falling back to his side but he’s rough when he spins the boy around, walking between his legs easily. he takes hold of buddy’s chin, no trace of kindness in his touch, no such love he once embodied, rough edges became the man. he shoves that gun into his fucking mouth and looks down at him, this pitiful thing. “..you walk in here and you tell your fucking stories but you disrespected me. i don’t give a fuck about no heaven and hell but i’ve got hell for you right here. i’ve even got it in your mouth. that cocksucking mouth, babe. how’s it taste?” 

like the dull metallic sting of the hilt of a blade, he wanted to tell him. it tasted like anguish, like the screams that had been lost to the barrel still bounced around inside, like bitter lemons, the little sweets he’d suck ‘til his tongue would swell and sugar-sweet sickness made him pale, fuck, like gunpowder, the remnants of bullets that he knew would never have missed, that would've sunk into flesh all soft like, that he could imagine sinking into his own, rupturing all the delicately spun pretty lace that has been woven together to make up his face, that would destroy, implode, hopefully, explode, that bastard bloody brain of his. he wasn’t afraid, only curious and a little hard. so he leaned into the callous touch of finn’s grip on his jaw as if it were the softest caress, took a little more down of the barrel in his throat, and let his tongue travel around the tip, bright blue eyes staring up at him, angelic in everything but truth.

little hands came to bunch up fistfuls of his skirt, the rustle of cheap net against cheap silk against the most expensive thighs in london the only soundtrack besides the wet, earnest, slick of his lips. he didn’t ask, and he knew it to be a risk, but that was the very reason he didn’t - he pulled back, pulled the gun from his mouth until his lips were pressed in a pout against the rim, peppering kisses as if he were the sweetest starlet from one of those old romance movies he adored. there was never enough violence, though, he’d always complained to his mother, always told her there was no way somebody could be that lovely without being a little loopy, without guts and gore being what really painted those puckered lips red. his own puckered lips were now pressing little kisses along the underside of the pistol, playing along so entirely willingly.

“ tastes like heaven. “ he finally murmured, an open mouthed gasp of giggles and fluttered eyelashes, blood-stained and with a scratch right beside them from the poor fuckers attempt at a fight; a man with such a poor grasp on brutality, trying to touch buddy ? no chance. he knew only of heavy hands, and craved finn’s. he’d watched them from afar, daydreamed about them wrapped around his neck, and now, now he was on cloud nine-thousand. “ tastes like heaven and cock, sir. “ it did, in a way. all his men had been loaded guns.