headstrong )*

i used to punch walls until my knuckles bled because i was filled with rage and anger, now i punch walls until they bleed just to fucking feel something, or to at least try. sasha romanav. seventeen. badger.

[cannnablisss]

[sasharomanxv]

mcqueenreborn:

For a weekday night, the Empire had drawn itself a considerable crowd - but that was always the way. Regardless of whose name was on the deed, the Casino paid itself, always finding a way to make itself profitable and appealing, even to those who didn’t have a lot to spare. Movement catching the corner of her eye, Allegra bent down to pick up a chip. “This yours?”

The casino’s busy—it always is, always bustling with activity, with people who have more money than morals. And Sasha, he doesn’t like to linger; there’s nothing for him on the upper floors, not when he belongs down below. Usually, he slips by unnoticed, the usual patrons never even raising their heads as he passes by. He’s inconsequential, just a boy with a bruise and somewhere to be. So when a woman interrupts his hurried path, asking him if a chip is his, his tone is terse as he says, “No.”

[sasharomanxv]

jaxandaces:

“You look relieved.” Leaning against the wall opposite the entrance, Jax watches the figure push open the glass doors of LAPD headquarters with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No handcuffs, no sign of a struggle, no traumatized expression — happy to be free?” 

Grandiose building full of puffed up assholes. Fucking awesome. They’d called Sasha in for some dumb bullshit about his release. Made him sign some forms, get his stuff back. A ruined suit and a pack of mashed cigarettes. Awesome. King of the fucking world. This is all that he needs to take over Los Angeles. As he walks out, clutching the baggie with his junk, a voice stops him. He sighs, looking over to a vaguely familiar face. “No,” he says. “More fun on the inside. People are angrier. Funnier. Out here, they do not take notice of anything but their own shit. Boring. Who would be excited for that?”

[sasharomanxv]

ronanalexander:

The burn of alcohol. The burn of m e m o r i e s. Ronan wanted to forget each moment, and with each shot of fiery liquid he got closer to his ultimate goal. It was much easier to destroy a city without a black cloud over your head. Ronan only had a taste of what was to come and it left him craving more and more. “Listen, I am n o t drunk. Now– give me another shot before I reach over this counter and break your ugly little face, fucker.” His words only slightly slurred, the verbal warning showcasing as more of a promise as the bar tender (who was now scared shitless thanks to Ronan) poured him another round. 

“Thanks, shit head.” He grumbled, downing the liquid the second he got his hands on it. The only thing that didn’t seem to go away with his rising blood alcohol content was how loud people were. If anything, the noise heightened itself, echoing through his head like a broken record. Turning to the body next to him, whether or not they were the source of the yelling, he gave them a warning look. 

“Would you kindly shut the fuck up?”

This is someplace he’s been with the Hellhounds; a bar, seedy, loud. But this time, he’s alone, no Alpha, not even fucking Goldielocks. Man, that guy was an ass but at least he’d be something. Instead, Sasha’s sitting alone at the bar, a shot of warm vodka in front of him and a burning cigarette in one of his hansd. The booze has been there for almost an hour, but he doesn’t actually want to drink it. He doesn’t even know why he’s there; it’s not his usual haunt, it doesn’t even have WiFi for fuck’s sake. He can’t do anything but sit at the bar, moping. When he should be celebrating. Out of juvie, out in the big, bad world again.

But it’s so boring; no bullies to fight, no guard to make fun of, just boring people going about their boring lives. So he just watches some really drunk guy sitting next to him start yelling at the bartender. Sasha almost laughs, but he holds it back, letting out a smirk manifest in its stead. His body craves violence, his blood calls for a fight, but he can’t—his brain, the only organ that full understands the situation, tells him not to. A bar fight could mean landing back in juvie, and no amount of Katya’s hacking could get him out. Probably. Not if he goes back after only a few fucking days. God.

And then the drunky turns to him, his tirade landing on Sasha’s bruised shoulders. His smirk slips of his face, a petulant frown replacing it before it’s had a chance to hit the floor. Do not antagonize, do not be yourself, keep your mouth shut. The mantra—simple, straight to the point—whirls around his brain. It’s Katya’s voice, reminding him in in that chillingly pleasant way of hers, that her work can only do so much good.

What comes out of his mouth instead is: “Fucking make me.”

[sasharomanxv]

littleadalfieri:

“Lucia! What happened to your leg?” 

                “Did it happen during the Hell Night?” 

                                “What do you have to say about the fire?”

Question after question: there was no escaping the flux of reporters. What had started with one pestering journalist had now expanded to ten bustling reporters swarming around her (cornering her), clamouring eagerly for the little Adalfieri’s take on the recent events. Desperate to get away, Lucia craned her neck, trying to no avail, to find a familiar face in the growing crowd. It was useless; she’d never manage to see over all their heads and yet, she still held out hope that someone would rescue her from the never-ending torrent of questions.

As he walks, Sasha relishes in his freedom; the still winter-cool air hits his skin, blows through his hair. His movement—forward, always forward, and slightly marred by a limp, courtesy of a boy with a knife who cornered him during lunch one day—is fast, almost a jog. He wants to enjoy the sun, to turn his face up to it like a flower in the morning, but he doesn’t. Instead, he walks with his head bowed, eyes focused only on the ground a few feet in front of him. He slips through the crowd, going wholly unnoticed, because he is wholly uninteresting. And it’s his intention; as being in front of crowd, that’s what put him into juvie in the first place.

But as he moves, he finds himself being jostled into a group of photographers. They’re shouting questions at someone, though none of them are getting replies. At least, not that he can hear. He tries to make his way out of the mob, to continue on his merry way—not that he has anywhere to go, but now that he’s in the thick of it, he just wants to be out of it. Except, the more he tries to push his way towards the opposite end, the more people keep shoving him forward. Before he knows it, he’s at the front of the crowd, probably blocking some asshole’s camera—which he’s perfectly fine with, once he sees whom they’re harassing.

She’s young, probably near his age, and she’s confined to a wheelchair. There’s a cast on her leg and it’s clear that she can’t push herself out of the range of their cameras. Her expression is one of panic, her eyes roving over the unkind faces, looking for someone to help her fight. Because she can’t. And Sasha’s surprised to find that he doesn’t want to leave her to the lions. So he moves so that he stands before her, blocking her from their view. He knows how he looks—more beat up than the day they arrested him—but he doesn’t particularly care as they take pictures of him.

“Hello,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Would you like me to smash some heads?”

[sasharomanxv]

[incorrectkaquotes-blog]

I’m like Icarus whose wings melted before I could fuck the sun.

Alexander Romanov

[romeoandjulietfan]

Why, then, O brawling love

[sasharomanxv]

Abalone, moss agate, fossil

what kind of situations compromise my muse emotionally

His sister being in harm’s way—that’s the most surefire wayfor him to get riled up, for his anger to explode into a living, breathingcreature, separate from him. Actually, most anything involving Katya is enoughto set him off. Sure, her being physicallyhurt or in danger is the easiestway to ruin him, to put him into that place where pain is his only recourse—she’sthe most important person in his life; she comforted him when he was little andterrified by the way he couldn’t understand anyone, she’s been the onlyconstant in his life for the past seventeen odd years. Honestly, he loves hermore than he loves himself. But the first time he ever got into a fight wasbecause someone insulted what she’d created and, by proxy, insulted her. Yousee, she’d spent ages knitting Sashaa hat and mittens for the winter and he’d been so proud of them. They were the most beautiful things he’d everowned, he’d told her as he pulled the hat down low over that blond hair of his.But another boy—a classmate—had thrown something at him, told him that handmade shit was for fags and hobos.The injury that the words had causedto Katya—or, that was how Sasha’s sixth grade mind had interpreted it as—was toomuch; it wasn’t something that Sasha could let go. So he sat atop the other boy’schest and hit him until his nose was broken and he couldn’t see out of eitherof his eyes. But he’d been so proud.He’d defended his sestra; his onetrue friend in a city where everyone was against him for one reason or another.Nowadays, though, he’s the one that’s hurting Katya.

if my muse has a high or low opinion of themselves

I really believe that Sasha has avery low opinion of himself. Sometimes, he walks with a certain swagger, with ahaughty tilt to his chin, that makes it seem like he thinks so highly of himself; like he trulybelieves he’s the king of his own little world. But, in reality, Sasha has acertain hatred directed inwards—it’s only exhausted by his depression, whicheats away at him on particularly bad days. Years of being bullied have takentheir toll; no matter how often he tells himself that the venomous words peoplethrow at him mean nothing—that he’s somuch more than what they say heis—those niggling doubts never failto make themselves known. When he fights, he does it to earn a modicum ofrespect. He believes that if he wins, it means that his existence is trulyworthwhile. That’s why, when he fights, he lashes out with such ferocity; he fights like it’s for his life, as though a loss spells out his death.The demise of his self-respect; of the one thing he has that makes him feel alive.Losses weigh heavily on him, as they only serve as a kind of proof towards whatthe other kids would say to him. When he wins, he can, for a moment, have a sense of his own self-worth.

what my muse’s dream job is

Honestly, I haven’t the slightest idea. He knows that Katya yearns for him to have a cushy, static job as a hacker; that he doesn’t move much from behind his computer screen. Because that’s her path–that’s what she’s going to be doing decades from now. She’d probably even be satisfied if he were to just go into any computer-related job; the pay’s good, there’s always more demand for more people who can do what he can, and he’ll live a safe life. There will be no more fighting, no more coming home to him sitting at the kitchen table, a bag of peas sitting on his face to stop the swelling. There will be no need for him to continually risk himself like that, not if he’s just your average hacker or computer nerd. But, I know that Sasha would never be able to leave that angry part of himself behind; that little boy, with his fists raised, ready to bite anyone that gets too close. No, he can’t ever leave him behind. So I imagine he might want to pursue something in boxing–if the fight club counts as a job, then he’d want to keep doing this forever. So, I guess his dream job might be to become a professional fighter (though I also believe that if he were to ever do that, it’d sap the joy out of the one thing that he truly likes).

[sasharomanxv]

jaxandaces:

       Jax takes in the boy’s appearance with cool eyes, accustomed to the down and gritty - a few years ago, in those senseless throes of conflict within himself, fighting away an impostor by the name of Jasper Gray, had he not been the same? Black eyes, dark welts upon a sharp cheek. blood in his mouth, taking of copper and victory. He had laughed at the women and their clicking heels who had run from him when he approached them, face a mess of scarlet, hands clenched, knuckles split upon. Fear me. He had fought with relish, and if he were in a pit with his adversaries today, he would do much the same. When your heart palpated, pumping blood to those broken wounds and filling them with gory cruor, it meant that you were alive. 

      A smirk flashes over his lips. “You have nerve, kid.” It’s a nonchalant observation, even he knows not to challenge a boy (although in years alone, he was younger than them all). This was probably one of those civilians that Miles had thought it so clever to invite. Jax had no bias for or against wealth - it was merely a convenience, he had been born naked, from the sea, with nothing but the salt on his skin and the waves against his back. Money…inconsequential. And yet it meant so much in this world, god, to have money was to have power. So he had money. He won it, wrenched it from others. And he was powerful, in his own dilapidated way. 

      The smirk remains even as a billow of smoke flashes between them, a screen that screams of impudence — but this little grub isn’t worth his effort. Perhaps, though, his entertainment. But furtively, Jax. Furtively. If society’s finest saw the esteemed, innocuous Jasper Gray laying with the dogs, well, society was a fucking nasty piece of work, and if he cared more, he might say that it could destroy someone. But that’s bullshit. Even so, Jax swings an arm over the boy’s shoulders, against that look of defiance and anger that he expects to get. “You’re blowing your lungs out on the wrong stuff, buddy. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood. C’mon, I’ll bring you to meet a real pretty lady. Piper. She’ll hook you up with something better, yeah?”

The way the other man’s looking at him is different from the way others stare. It’s not accusatory or lascivious, nor does it hold even a modicum of judgment. The man regards Sasha with a certain coldness that he’s not used to seeing among the opulence of the mansion, amongst the well-dressed party guests. They’re all composed of scorn and ridicule; it leaks from their ears, from their wickedly sparkling eyes, when it doesn’t pour from their mouth. And they take any excuse they can come up with to sprinkle it upon the people they see—though Sasha, in his obviously off-the-rack suit and bruised face, are the easiest target. This man, despite looking like the rest, is different. Sasha knows it immediately.

You have nerve, kid. He bristles at the moniker. Kid. That speaks of a certain naivety, of idiocy and youthful foolishness. Sasha isn’t a kid. He won’t deny that by age alone, he’s a child; if one were to look at the years he’d fought on this planet, they’d think him a boy, an idiot with a rebellious streak. But he’s older, aged by the marks on his face, his body, his record; he ages with every fight he wins, every drop of blood he can feel dropping down his cheek. With every broken bone, he’s wiser, more world-weary. One can tell by his eyes; they’re faded, sad, the kind of eyes that look at home above the withered cheeks of the ancient, the dying. Except, when he fights—then he’s alive with all the sparkle of a boy who has the entire world at his feet, who has yet to know the cruelty of life as an outcast.

So Sasha doesn’t respond to the strange man. He merely eyes the other, his brow furrowed. But he looks away as he finds his lighter, flicking the flame to life and holding it to the tip of the cigarette between his lips. His gaze follows the smoke as it drifts towards the ceiling, though it dissipates long before it reaches. That’s when the man slings an arm about his shoulders. Sasha flinches at the sudden touch, recoiling from the contact. His body stiffens, ready to toss off whatever assault the touch preceded. But no motion came, just more words. Sasha exhales another lungful of smoke, eyeing the stranger with a petulant glare. The edge to his smile should make him nervous, but he doesn’t feel much of anything as he taps the ashes off his steadily burning cigarette.

“Weed?” he asks, rolling his shoulder back in an effort to dislodge his grip. “Or something stronger?” He pauses, his gaze flicking away from the other man. “Eto ne imeyet znacheniya—I could not pay for it. Unless— you are buying? V takom sluchaye, I would consider it.” He doesn’t have high hopes, but, at this point, he’s willing to do anything to make this party more interesting.

[qrunbv]

Visit Original Link

[sasharomanxv]

despite all my rage i am still just a rat in a cage

[sasharomanxv]

do not go gentle ;; self

Kicking and screaming; that’s how Sasha came into this world, and that’s how he’s going out. Some beefcakes in Kevlar have his hands behind his back, his wrists cinched together by cold steel. But that doesn’t stop him from trying to fight them off, from ripping himself out of their surprised grasp. He’s six feet of skin and bones; no strength in those arms, no fire in those legs. So he beat up a guy on drugs—a baby could do that. It means nothing. So they don’t hold him tightly, once they’d gotten the handcuffs on.

Which meant Sasha can wriggle free, using his fearful anger to run far, far away. Except, he isn’t able to put much distance between him and the beefcakes; they’re on him in a matter of seconds, cursing under their collective breaths as they try to hold him. Sasha fights them as best he can; he isn’t fucking done with that asshole. The one who’d hit his sister. One of two people who actually mattered in this stupid shithole of a city. He says that. Over and over. But they don’t understand the stream of Russian falling out of his mouth, hitting the ground like leaded weights.

You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.

Sasha decides against exercising his right. He thinks; if I can explain, if I can make them understand, they would let me go. But his mind can’t work in English. The only sounds out of his mouth are the curling softness of Russian. So there’s no way for them to grasp the necessity of his actions. Nor do they understand that he’s not fucking done. No matter how Katya pleaded with him, asking him to halt his indomitable tirade; it was impossible, it couldn’t be done. Even when the long arm of the law grabbed him and yanked him back, back into the crowd, encasing him in their iron grasp.

You have the right to consult a lawyer and have the lawyer present during the interrogation. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you.

The words only barely enter his brain; a droning noise amongst the chaos surrounding them. Though that all seems to have calmed to some degree. Sasha is an archaic beast now; a monster that shouldn’t still have power in this earthly realm. But he continues his eternal struggle, throwing his shoulders against opposing forces, still trying to make them fucking stop. But they don’t; their hands are irresistible as they drag him to the car waiting by the curb. On top, lights flash blue and red. The back door sits open, like the gate to hell.

You can invoke your right to be silent before or during an interrogation and, if you do so, the interrogation must stop. You can invoke your right to have an attorney present, and until your attorney is present, the interrogation must stop.

They’re steps away from the car and there’s nothing that Sasha can do to get away from them. He realizes it as he digs his feet into the ground, tries to bury his heels in dirt and grass, and their progress continues. There’s no way to combat them. So he gives up, lets them drag him to his stupid fate. They’re surprised as he goes still, as his body goes slack in their grip. They almost drop him. Almost, but not quite. They quickly regain control over him as they shove him gracelessly into the backseat.

Do you understand these rights as I have said them to you?

Sasha doesn’t answer—finally, he’s silent—, just spits onto the policeman’s shoes. I’ll take that as a yes, he says. Sasha sneers at him. He’s too angry to do anything more; even with his hands behind his back, he still wants to fight them, to destroy them. He can’t keep still as they close the door, leaving him in the hard plastic back seat, his hands squashed beneath him. As the car starts, Sasha allows himself to slump back, his head resting on the back of the seat. It jostles uncomfortably as the car starts up, but he doesn’t shift. Just watches the city flash by, a blur of lights and bodies. The guy driving tries to talk to him. Or maybe he’s talking into his radio. Sasha doesn’t respond either way.

An hour later finds Sasha sitting in a cell. His fingers are covered in ink and one of his wrists is encased in a clumsy cast—they’d taken him to some sort of infirmary after he’d made a fuss about them touching him. He listens as the person occupying the cell next to his violently emptying their stomach into a toilet. The sound it makes as it hits the sides provides the perfect music for his imprisonment. They come back for him a while later, taking him into an interrogation room. Sasha doesn’t speak, so they put him back.

In the morning, they move him; they put him in an orange jumpsuit and throw him to the wolves.

[justanotherrpmeme]

bold which habits your muse has

nail biting | throat clearing | lying | interrupting | chewing the ends of pens | smoking | swearing | knuckle cracking | thumb sucking | muttering under their breath | talking to themselves | nose picking | binge drinking | oversleeping | snacking between meals | skipping meals | picking at skin | impulse buying | talking with their mouth full | humming/singing to themselves | chewing gum | leg jiggling | foot tapping | hair twirling | whistling | eye rolling | licking lips | sniffing | squinting | rubbing hands together | jaw clenching | gesturing while talking | putting feet up on tables | tucking hair behind ears | chewing lips | crossing arms over chest | putting hands on hips | rubbing the back or their neck | being late | procrastinating | doodling | shredding paper | peeling off bottle labels | forgetfulness | running hands through hair | overreacting | teeth grinding | nostril flaring | slouching | pacing | drumming fingers | fist clenching  | pinching bridge of nose | rubbing temples | rolling shoulders

[kingsleysj-blog]

He didn’t belong there. He’d reminded himself of this obvious fact the moment he stepped foot in the door. Don’t pretend like you belong. It’ll just make it that much more obvious that you don’t. People in this universe didn’t help one another. It was every man for themselves, a concept Kingsley was continuously failing to wrap his mind around. He simply cared too much, and it was going to bite him on the ass eventually.  Kingsley didn’t understand what the stranger found so upsetting about his actions. He was only trying to be polite after all. And if  he really was doing as bad as he looked, then he was in no position to dismiss Kingsley’s aid. “I’m sorry… it’s just… you look– you look pretty awful, is all. Like you could use a helping hand.”  What was that… Russian? He wasn’t familiar with language, with the exception of a few simple phrases, and given the stranger’s tone, it couldn’t have been anything kind. “Listen, you don’t look like you’re doing very well, and I’m sure you already knew that, but I just wanted to help you. I’m sorry if I caused any trouble.” His concern had dissolved into dejection, which he was doing his best to disguise.

[sasharomanxv]

Everything is dog-eat-dog; there is no free lunch; no good deed goes unpunished—these are the rules that Sasha’s lived by his entire life. They’re the rules that the boys in elementary school first read to him, like Moses with His commandments. They’re the rules that were emblazoned upon his mind as he got older, as the world got tougher. All the fights, all the angry words thrown against him, the ones he’d been forced to return. Help isn’t something that comes naturally to him; whether it be offered or vice versa. His brain doesn’t understand the concept and he fights it, bites the hand that’s offered to him.

And he rarely feels guilty.

It’s easier when anger settles deep in his bones, awakened by the slightest of shaking. So he looks upon the insulting entity with a certain chill in his eyes, like he doesn’t possess the ability to care. It’s not something he can do; some people can’t sing, some people can’t draw, Sasha can’t care. Or, that’s how it usually would be—but today, Sasha’s got drugs in system; drugs that blunt his glare, soften his frown. They return a youthful sort of petulance to his face; like he’s angry, but he won’t do anything about it, because he’s just a boy.

“Vo-pervykh,” he says, clearing his throat, “these—” he waves a hand vaguely over his face, indicating the cuts and bruises that show, bright and gory, upon his skin “—, I already had. And insulting me is not going to help. Which is something I do not need.”

With a sigh—heavy and deep, like he’s a thousand years old—, Sasha turns to face the boy, eyes cold and bright against the dark sky. His eyes rove over the other boy’s face; the drugs emphasize the boy’s sadness, the rejection that he feels once Sasha shook his hand off. Sasha screws his eyes shut, trying to keep that look away from him. He’s not supposed to care. He’s not affected by a pretty face with a frown. That’s not what he’s like. But today, with the exhaustion and drugs riding high on his brain, he gives in.

“Fine,” he says, scrubbing his face with soot-covered hands, eyes slowly opening. “Do you have any cigarettes? I need one. That will help me.”

[90sryder]

[sasharomanxv]

Chaos inside, chaos outside; Sasha doesn’t understand it. Though, he finds a certain solace in it, as he’s tossed about like a raft in the ocean. Once again, he’s invisible. No one cares about him, the blond boy who looks ready to murder somebody. If he’s not rich, if his face isn’t instantly recognizable, then he doesn’t matter. It allows him to stumble about the grounds in a sort of fugue, the drugs numbing him to everything that’s happening. He talks to a few people, he thinks, but he doesn’t quite remember. He knows, though, that he pushes people out of his way, that he shrugs off hands that are trying to offer him help.

As he stands in the yard, his hands digging through pockets he already knows to be empty, lucidity crashes down upon him—an ice cold bucket of reality. He can’t figure out where it comes from, just knows that there is only one thought that’s going through his mind: Katya. Where is she? What if she’s still inside? His hands still in their futile search, eyes wide and almost terrified. But Sasha doesn’t get scared. Unless— one of the two people he truly loves is in danger. His breathing hitches, bright gaze roaming over countless faces, seeking the one that’s most familiar.

“Katya !”

The cry comes not from the young man with a chip on his shoulder, but from a little boy; he holds a bag of all his earthly belongings—a book, a toy car, three shirts, and two pairs of pants. Around him are giants, circling about the airport. Their bags knock into him, wheels running over his foot. He’d slipped away from his sister, distracted by something trivially colorful; a book, perhaps. But now he can’t find his sister. No one speaks his language. They all look at him like he’s some sort of alien—like a crying child is a creature that none of them have faced before.

“Sestra ?” he shouts, forcing his way through the crowd. “Gde ty ?”

He’s seventeen now; three feet taller, eleven years angrier. The crowd doesn’t part easily before him, but he’s strong, he’s determined; they’re pushed aside like tall, drunken grass. Katya; over and over, her name flies from his lips, disappearing into the air without doing a lick of good. Some look up, but none have that familiar head of blonde hair, nor possess that gentle blue gaze, so similar to his own. No, they look up at out of curiosity, not out of recognition. But that doesn’t stop him—he needs to find her; he needs to know that she’s alright. His mind shies away from the real fear that maybe she’s not; that perhaps she couldn’t make it out, that the flames reached her before she reached the outdoors.

But then—he sees her. He ignores as the bodies around him become agitated, their actions becoming frenzied. They’re tertiary, not something that he worries about. He doesn’t even notice as they become violent, hands grabbing him, fists trying desperately to collide with his face. All he sees is his sister, the one person who’s been there for him always. But as he stands in front of her, hands clutching her shoulders, he sees that something’s wrong. The way her hands clutch her cheek are reminiscent of him, of the days when getting punched there still surprised him.

“Razve kto-to vas obidel ?” he asks, his grip tightening on her shoulders. “Katya sdelal kto-to sdelat' eto dlya vas ?”

She says nothing, but her eyes flick towards something behind him. His head whips around, eyes landing on a smug-looking (or is that what his brain says?) man, flexing his hand. Like he’s just hit something. Everything goes white, a sun exploding in his vision. He lets go of her, shakes off her hands as they plead with him. She’s always disapproved of his violent ways. But this—this is why he does it. To protect her.

The entire weight of his body is behind his fist as he throws it at the man. The sound it makes rings loud and clear—though that might be his mind filling in for what he knows is there—as it collides with his jaw. Before he even has time to react, Sasha’s already lashing out, his fist coming up one two three times in his gut. Viper fast, beast strong. The man falls, clutching his stomach.

“Vy kusok der'ma !” he screams; it tears out of him, visceral, the sound of a wild dog, not a boy. “Chto ona sdelala, dlya vas vy otvratitel'ny yebat' ?” Sasha’s foot makes contact with his face. “Poshel na khuy.” He repeats it with every kick he lands in the man’s gut. “Poshel na khuy.” He’s so lost in it, in the chant, in his actions, that he doesn’t notice the emptiness that surrounds him as onlookers move back, giving him his horrible space.

[sasharomanxv]

parallels in film

                       — i'll shove that bat up your ass and turn you into a popsicle.

              { sasha // ajax (the warriors, 1979) }