VICODIN LOVE .

YOU'RE NOTHING MORE THAN A LONELY GOD, YOU THINK LOVE IS A COILING SERPENT WAITING TO STRIKE. - independent oc . written by lauren.

[snipehit-blog]

switcblade‌:

HE’S  CROSSED THE  LINES  YET  AGAIN , HE  KNOWS  THIS . it  was a  rotten  habit , but  only a  proclivity  tuned  heavily out  of  shape  when  he  could  hardly  tell  where  the  lines  were .everything  is  blurred  lines  with  weston .  ( but  everything &  everyone  here , was  all  blurred  edges  &  faded  warning  labels , the  paint  stripped , cracked , &  peeled  back  until  nothing  was  too  certain  anymore .)   the  barbed  reaction  earns  hardly  a  turn  of  his  head  at  his  end , & he  waits  for  something  more :  a   violent  outcry , for  weston’s  arms  to  lock  the  breath  out  of  his  throat , a  sharp &  almost  methodical  crack  of  rage  against  his  jaw . —– but  no .  of  course .  wes  simply  refused  to .  

& he  considers  laughing  at  this ,  not  due  to  amusement , not  of  any  strange  fondness ,– but  simply  due  to  the  cruel  liking  of  his  nature .  you  sport  your  weakness  like  a  bloody  wound  punctured  through  a  white  fabric .      ❝ it  would  be  a  pity . . if  you  were  to  disappear . ❞     he  tests  this  out ,  watches  the  stiff &  hardened  tick  to  weston’s  jaw .   -- something  to  make  getting  up  out  of  bed  not  to  feel  like  you  wanna  shoot  yourself ? —   there’s  a  silent  hiss , a  subdued  affirmation  of  annoyance .  if  he  was  weston’s  weakness , the  damned  oxy  would  have  been  his  own .      ❝ stop  being  so  stupid ,  i  gave  them  back  to  you . ❞  eventually .

❝ is  it  so  hard  to  comprehend ?  i’d  rather  have  you  alive  than  dead , & i’m  being  quite  truthful . ❞     a  dead  ally  is  never  a  good  ally ,  unless he  had  a  ticking  bomb  planted  inside  of  him . TRUTH, a  carefully  constructed  &  magnificently  ornamented  deception , he  presses  a  hand  to  his  mouth ,  & gently , cautiously  places  the  opposite  hand  against  the  broad  of  weston’s  back .     ❝ i  want  to  skip  out  on  this  today .  let’s  go  back  to  the  bunk , fuck  ‘em  all .  ❞  

“...I’d like that.” Something about the press of Damian’s hand to his back, feeling the odd warmth of his palm seep through the fabric of his clothing, spread across the base of his shoulders in a comforting wash of heat, makes him feel just a little less tired, a little less raring to pick a fight. One I’d never win, anyways; he knows I wouldn’t pull punches with my full strength. I wonder if he calls me a coward behind my back. I’m sure he knows by now, the vodka isn’t my own weakness in this world.

His body suddenly feels so heavy, like he isn’t sure if his feet will make it to their shared room before he collapses under the fiery weight of Damian’s touch.  

He throws his own arm around Damian, plants his hand on the expanse of his shoulder, starts their trek back to the barracks. He pretends to throw a punch to Damian’s face, instead just stops his hand at the sharp line of his jaw, lingers fingertips there for a moment, just trying to get a good look at the other’s face. “I’d also rather have you alive than dead, jackass. Glad to see we have something in common between us for once.”

                                            -------------------

“It’s weird, being at each other’s throats all the time, don’t you think?” He’s lying on his bed now, sitting up just to stare at Damian as he talks, arms tucked behind his head to show a posture of pure comfort. Funny, to be comfortable alone with someone who threatened to have him executed by firing squad nearly every other day of the week. These days, Weston thought of it as mere terms of endearment, sweet nothings hissed at him through clenched, bloodied teeth and received through Damian’s narrowed, blackened eyes when he was too worn down to speak.

Plus, he’d have chosen spending this alone time with Damian out of anyone else in the facility, any day of the week, any day of the year. He was a mental case, but Weston considered him to be his mental case, with all this time they’d spend together, hiding from their responsibilities and the annoyance of interacting with others.

He shifts his position on the bed to get a bit more comfortable, smiles in a way he hasn’t done all day, feels the vicious irrational anger he’d felt just an hour ago already dissipating from his now not-tensed muscles. Hazel eyes close and reopen as he sighs, looks over at Damian, feeling especially lazy and slow in the summer heat that lingers in their room. “You ever think about how we’d be if we weren’t so volatile? … It’s funny, how we tell each other how much we want the other to stay alive, with the way we push each other… I like it, in a strange, probably-fucked-up-somehow kind of way.” Another smile, another bark of laughter, and suddenly there is no trace of the ticked, clench-jawed man from earlier. Turning on a dime, from irritation to radiant amusement, in usual Weston flair.

[snipehit-blog]

switcblade‌:

❝ BRAINLESS  IDIOTS  LIKE  YOU  ARE  EASY  TO  TAKE  DOWN  TOO . ❞   the  last  drop  falls  over  the  grass  in  soundless  plink , &  he  tosses  the  emptied  bottle  across  the  field ,  watches  it  land  &  skitter  above  the  mud - drowned  grass patch .    ❝ it’s  almost  as  if  you’re  always  looking  for  another  way  to  die . ❞    it’s  self - contradictory , but  there  wasn’t  enough  shame  to  conceal  it . rather , he   allows  the  cold  of  the  black &  blues , the  warmth  of  fire - bruised  colours  to  seep  further  beneath  the  sunlight . it’s  been  like  this , tossing  his  bones  like  a  restless graveyard  ghost , twisting  &  bruising  his  flesh , hard  enough  to  remember  that  he  missed  the  aches  sometimes . this  boy . this  boy , he  thinks ,  his  laughter  is  like  a  sting  of  antiseptic on  a  fresh  cut .    ❝  don’t  be  so  offended , it’s  just  facts . ❞

“Don’t be such an asshole, how about that?” His good nature and smiles are quickly fading, a sudden tick annoyance evident in the clench of his jaw as rips his gaze from the puddle of wasted drink and sets it on Damian. There was never telling when Weston would feel this way, when something would set him off like this. One minute, he’d be all goofy laughter and fooling around, and the next, he was hardened, cold, withdrawn and closed off, ready to punch and kick and make someone else ache like he ached. It seemed to come out on display more often when it came to Damian.

“You know you’re not the only one around here who needs something to take the edge off once in a while, something to make getting up out of bed not feel like you wanna shoot yourself?” He knows what he’s referring to, refuses to spell it out loud, knows Damian will already have the full mental image of his precious painkillers that Weston once stole away from him in an attempt to force him out of his addiction. It didn’t take much sniffing around to find them; Weston sported a pair of black eyes for that stunt the rest of the month.

The sneer on his face dissipates then, his eyes grow weary and he suddenly looks as though he hasn’t slept in days (partial truth to that). “Look, let’s just … let’s just both shut the fuck up before we get ourselves tangled in another dumb fight. I’m too tired for this shit today. I just wanna drink myself to death, and I damn well will if I want to. You’re not my dad, get off my ass and I won’t have to get on yours out of spite.”

[eucaines-deactivated20190814]

——❝ BACK  SO  SOON , AGENT .  shall  we  guess ? a  fracture ,  dislocation ?  no  open  wounds  by  the  looks . come  over , — ah  yes , bring  over  that  bottle  of  amarone  on  your  way . it’s  for  me , not  you .  ❞

@snipehit

[snipehit-blog]

Weston always hated doctors. This one, this Vincent Devos, working in the facility’s medical bay was no exception to this very staunch rule, that doctors were annoying, pretentious wind bags who seemed to enjoy inflicting pain more than they did putting a stop to it. Since he was so often being hurt on the training grounds, or even in the dining hall just due to picking a fight with the wrong cadet over the last bread roll on the tray, visits to this cold, sterile, constantly smelling like iodoform room with bright white, concrete walls, there was plenty of time for him to develop especial disdain for this doctor in particular. If it weren’t for the easily opened door to this office, Weston might have thought he’d been sent to a prison, with Devos as the stern warden.

“Ah, long time no see, doc! Not much today, just a little ankle situation…” He limped over to the examination table, sat down and did his best to lift up his left leg, wincing all the way as his foot flopped about, trying to conceal a grimace by way of a thin smile and squint of his eyes. “You know how it is out there, one minute you’re throwin’ a kick, next minute there’s a crunch in your leg and suddenly you can’t feel shit! Well, not till the pain comes, then it’s a whole different story. Must have broken the damn thing… Figures.”

He’s got the bottle of wine in the crook of his arm, already uncorked and ready for consumption. This guy often asked for Weston to bring some sort of alcohol if he was going to pay him a visit, and while Weston couldn’t fathom why, he wasn’t about to deny his request, if only so these appointments went as smooth as possible. He was about to hand over the bottle, but not before holding it up to his own lips, staring at Vincent while he did so. He knew it was most likely going to illicit some sort of negative response, but frankly, he didn’t care. He was tired, in pain, and had no shits left to give today, and just wanted a damn drink.

“Hope you don’t mind me takin’ a swig, doc. I know you said it’s for you, but I can’t help myself. Those painkillers you give me don’t do nearly as much as a good ol’ glass of wine. Maybe you should start prescribing a few nights of Happy Hour sessions down at the bar, huh? I think that’d fly over real well with the rest of the patients, don’t you?”

[snipehit-blog]

switcblade‌:

❝  you’re  more  than  capable .❞   you  know , i  know ,  you  know  i  know , it’s  a  fact .  it’s  odd , despite  the  fever - temperatured  shower , despite  the  concoction  of  packet  shampoo &  hotel  soap ,  the  smell  of  rainfall  &  blood remains . the  strange  musk  of  murder  & its  deathless  stench , —- he  figures  that  it’s  somewhat  befitting , for  an  assassin  &  his  ever  extending  list  of  names . names , that  he’d  often  thought  that  he’d  like  to  forget , but  how  they  remained  a  stalwart  companion , unrelenting  &  perpetual . each  written  above  a piece  of  paper  &  kept  like  undesirable  memento  down  the  alleyway  of  his  sleep . —–  ❝  it’s  always  been  easy  to  forget .❞  he  should  have  said  it  sooner , but  he’d  missed  the  beat .  it’s  been  a  long  time …  &  so  it  has  been ,  as  unfamiliar  as  it  was  to  admit  to  the  notion .  weston  reaches , lands  a  feather  - light  touch  to  his  temple , careful , so  careful ,  it  makes  him  want  to  blench  &  recoil . not  in  aversion , but  by  the  strange , unremembered  warmth  of  his  hands .  all  it  takes  had  been  a  slight  turn  of  his  head , &  the  unclouded  vision  of  the  light - ray  hitting  past  weston’s  profile  to  remind  him  that  he’d  been  alone  in  waiting .   the  dark  curls ,  the  quiet  tumble  of  his  hair  just  past  the  middle  of  his  forehead ,   the  exhaustion - worn  eyes  (  perhaps  a  little  more  tired  than  he  could  recall ) , &  the  voice  that  called  out  to  him  like  a silent  beg .  he  doesn’t  say  much  again , for  there’s  nothing  to  say  now . instead , he  tentatively  finds  eye  contact , searching  past  the  infinite  sorrow  of  the  gaze  reflected  towards  him . 

❝  don’t  apologize , it  makes  you  look  pathetic .❞  here , the  first  surrender , his  voice  falls  in  slight  hush , but  remains  steady  enough  to  keep  it  from  betraying  the  cold  flick  of  his  gaze .  how  much  more  could  he  dare  to  uncover  until  he  found  a  knife  stuck  through  his  chest ?  almost  for  a  moment , he  thinks  he’d  prefer  the  thought  against  allowing  everything  to  unravel .  dusk  kisses  the  sky , the  window  reflects  a  violet - blue  horizon , &  maybe  it  was  alright  to  find  softness  for  the  moment . there’s  something  candid , a  quick  breath  of  life  to  the  dark  blues  of  his  eyes . ——— the  second  surrender :  hands  in  careful  contact  to  weston’s  face , a  brush  past  his  cheek  until  fingers  rest  in  steady  anchor  around  his  neck .  ❝  how  many  did  they  send  along  with  you  ?❞  he  reckons  that  it  must  be  more  than  a  handful , a  pack  of  blood - hounds  set  free  across  the  continent  to  bring  back  the  prodigal  son . the  parable  of  the  prodigal  son , – he  remembers  reading  the  story , hidden  in  the  frozen  winter  of  brooklyn  &  its  chapels ,  where  there  was  nothing  much  to  distract  himself  from  the  delirium   of  loneliness  except  to  page  through  the  hard - worn  bible .  ‘ he  is  lost  &  is  found .’ ,  it  was  laughable , the  hope  planted  in  its  phrase  undeniably  morbid  for  a  spurned  son  of  murder .  & he’d  spent  several  more  nights  in  the  same  chapel , wondering , gazing , &  thinking  of  how  much  more  the  story  would  have  been  different  had  it  been  written  by  the  hands  of  those  abandoned  by  same  hope . 

❝  i  spent  six  months  at  bastogne , they  found  me  there  in  no  time .  three  months  in  salzburg , they  sniffed  me  out  there  too .  how  long  do  you  suppose , it  would  take  for  them  to  locate  me  in  moscow ? ❞  more  or  less , it’s  rhetorical  question .  answered  for  itself : won’t take  too  long .  his  hand  falters  down , past  weston’s  arms , until  he  retrieves  back  towards  himself  in  pensive  silence .   ❝  i  would  like  for  you  to  return ,  but  i’m  fully  aware  of  your  decision  as well .  ❞  you  would  stay  here ,  with  me .  it  makes  him  want  to  turn  a  cruelly  cold  expression  against  weston  once  again , for  his  idiotic  idealization  of  the  unattainable , for  self - replicating  the  same  expiration  date  as  damian’s  own . helter - skelter , nothing  was  in  control  anymore , – hadn’t  been  for  a  very  long  time .   ❝—-yet , i’ll  allow  one  more  chance  to  deny  it . return  home .  ❞

Damian’s touch is a shock to the system; feeling of fingers brushing against his skin, his mind aches with quiet remembrance, kicks himself with the fact that he’d nearly forgotten the warmth that came with Damian’s touch. Always living in the past, always little things like this that made him want to melt into Damian, fall against him because his bones suddenly felt so tired and worn, like back when he’d run himself ragged during their training sessions, and Damian would reluctantly let himself be used as a makeshift pillow when he could barely stand. When will you ever live in the present? When will you finally exorcise these ghosts of the past, those idealized, halcyon days?

Maybe I don’t care if I look pathetic, not anymore. If only I have you to keep me from falling flat on the floor.

It takes him a moment to register Damian’s words above the dull roar of blood rushing up through his head, flushing the skin of his cheek, neck, where he’d been touched. His voice feels so raw and foreign when it passes his lips, like he all of a sudden hadn’t spoken all day. “Mm, if they’re any sort of capable, I can imagine they’ll be at the door in no time. Which is why-” He stops himself, fiddles with his hands in his lap, feels oh so cold and isolated when Damian takes his hand away from his flesh. “I won’t go back. I can’t, for so many reasons. I’m as good as dead, no matter where I go.” They’ll kill me dead on the spot, for escaping, and for being around you, their prized stallion that broke free from the stables and turned feral.

There’s a surprise shift in his demeanor then, and when he locks eyes with Damian, he attempts to mask the exhaustion lingering in the depths of his gaze, instead raises his hand up in an air of newly confident poise. He threads fingers through Damian’s hair, slide down to cup his cheek, hold him fast at the sharp line of his jaw, clenching against his quick, deliberate touch. “Home like I’ve known it doesn’t exist anymore… So I think I’ll make a new one here. I always hoped it’d involve you.” There it was, the final denial of Damian’s request, the back turning to the past, the final nail in his coffin hammered directly into the heart of his dead man walking corpse. There was no turning back now; whether they were on the lam for a week or a decade, when they were caught, they would be caught together, the noose strangling both their necks.

A thin smile stretches against his mouth, hand reaching to rest against Damian’s shoulder, thumbing the top ridge of his collarbone. “I’d always had this thought, you and me and some distant cabin in the cold mountains. It’s fucking dumb, childish, I know, but that image kept me going when I thought it’d be better to just drown myself in a ravine somewhere and end it all. But hey, if they don’t manage to find us before we dip out… I know of a place we can go. Could buy us a bit more time if we’re in isolation rather than a fairly populated town like this.”

And as he says it, the uses of we and us make his heart swell in a way that it only had when he’d been enraged or absolutely hopeless. But now, it was something else entirely, something that made him feel warm and fulfilled, for the first time in months.

[snipehit-blog]

WHAT SHAPE DOES YOUR PAIN TAKE? / WESTON .

Mask . You hide your pain behind a mask. Maybe you feel you can't be helped, maybe you think no one cares, maybe you don't want to hurt anyone else with it, you're afraid of being judged, or maybe there's another reason. But whatever the reason, you fake a smile and try to function normally even though you're one step away from falling apart. Secretly, you wish someone would notice it's a mask, ask you if you're really okay, see right through and make it be okay somehow. You're hurt and a little angry that no one's noticed yet, but you'll never admit it. White lies, not that bad... Are they?

TAGGED BY: @eucaines (thank woo !!)

[switcblade-deactivated20200821]

THEY’RE  FAR FROM HOME .  or , the  ideal  question  would  be : where  was  home ?  hidden  in  between  the  valleys  of  your  spine ,  buried , concealed , &  tucked  away  like  a  never - never  land  dreamt  by  a  whimsical  child . he  has  his  hands  gathered  &  folded  above  his  knees , fingers  locked  together  as  he  leans  his  head  back  against  the  slouched  dark - velveted  couch .   ❝ adrian  phillips . ❞   he  draws  the  name  out , slow , almost  mockingly , as  if  to  tease  each  syllable  through  the  closed  space  between  his  teeth .  ❝ adrian  phillips . ❞  again , a  bit  more  resentful  this  time , his  lips  silently  shaping  the  words  to  nothing  in  particular . he’s  not  looking  at  wes , not  on  purpose , not  for  any  real  reason . there’s  a   pensive  rustle  of  breath , —- almost  a  laughter , but  it  never  makes  quite  makes  it  past  a  slight  choke  against  his  throat . thoughts  of  soapy  bath  water , his  wet  hair , the  breeze  too  cold  past  his  cheeks .  silently , he  reaches  up , pulls  shut  the  window , &  a  tight  feline  smile  slips .  ❝ —- this  place  is  shit .  couldn’t  have  booked  a  better  place ?  they  don’t  pay  you  enough  these  days ? ❞  he  has  a  headache , it’s  as  if  someone’s  planted  a  ticking  bomb  somewhere  in  his  skull , &  he  wishes  he  could  silence  it , or  let  it  explode , didn’t  matter  much .  there  had  been  a  lot  to  say  when  he  arrived  to  the  hotel , such  things  like :  you  know , running  away  was  an  adventure , but  it’s  beginning  to  feel  empty . it’s  like  a   soirée  gone  on  for  too  long , &  right  now , it  seems  as  if  it  will  never  end .  oh , never  mind . you  know  how  much  i  hated  those  already , but  i  have  a  headache . sorry , i  took  the  old  morphia  again ,  too  bad  there  isn’t  an  isolation  room  to  lock  me  in  here , it  could  help  now , i  think . &  somehow , he’d  forgotten  half  the  words , &  there  was  nothing  else  to  blame . when  weston  had  first  chased  him  around  the  corners , catching  him  half - way  between  the  alleyways , he’d  been   admittedly  miserable . from  what ? – maybe  it  was  the  sudden sight  of  a   near - forgotten  face , or  the  rotten  reminder  that  they  were  all  still  after  him .  &  he’d  wanted  to  believe  that  he  was  precise  enough  to  fool  death , but  it  had  been  far  too  hurried .  too  many  amateur  mistakes ,  too  many  cookie - crumb  trails  leading  back  towards  him .  his  head  aches  again , or  maybe  it  was  his  heart .  couldn’t  tell .   ❝ i  wish  you  would —— take  my  head  right  now  . ❞   it’s  said  in  an  unpredictably  calm  tone , &  he  withdraws  back  against  the  seat ,  wondering  how  much farther  he  could  shrink  into  it  until  he  would  reduce , fade  off  , like  an  overly  smudged  pencil - mark . fuck , fucking  hell .  home , the  four - lettered  mantra , over  &  over .  home , home , home .  (  but  what  if  the  only  home  he’s  ever  known  had  spurned  him  away , lucifer  forsaken  by  his creator , loveless  &  bereft , –– did  i  request  thee , Maker , from my  clay , to  mould  me  man , did  i  solicit  thee , from  darkness  to  promote  me ?  )  

@snipehit / continued .

[snipehit-blog]

“This place may be shit, but you know just as well as I do, no one’s gonna suspect a guy coming out of this bedbug utopia over a five star mansion. Can’t risk leaving any more of a money trail than I need to right now - And shut your mouth, that’s a fucking good alias!” He allows a sloppy grin to slide up onto his face; seems like everything he’d done since Damian just all but materialized out of nowhere at his hotel room was becoming sloppier by the second. He was letting his guard down again, with every sip he took of some bubbly alcoholic beverage he’d fished out of the hotel’s fridge, and knew very well he wasn’t going to pay for it, or anything in this crappy room before he ran away for good.

He’s just come back from refilling a glass to find Damian slouched on some corner couch, looking like he was going to keel over any minute from the splitting headache he claimed to have and all the morphine of which he’d probably taken way too much. The smile fades just a bit when he sits beside him, sees how he looks like a withdrawn animal, curled into the admittedly lumpy cushions like he doesn’t know if he wants to run away or stay, trapped in the fabric embrace of the seat.

It feels almost like a dream, to be here, sitting in such close proximity to the man he’d all but cut from his life not too long ago. Truthfully, before Damian arrived, he’d been packing up what little possessions he had, determined to leave this place at the next sign of daylight. But he’d come, he really had come, and Weston couldn’t help his heart swelling with carefully contained ecstasy. Damian hadn’t done much other than hastily explain himself, and then asked Weston to use his shower. He’d been in there for a long time, with Weston certain the hotel was somehow going to find a way to charge him for their water bill. By the time he’d finally emerged and crumpled himself up on the couch, Weston had downed nearly half the champagne bottle he’d found.

He doesn’t know what to say now that they’re sitting together in the quiet like this. His fingers clutch against his glass, eyes continuously glancing at Damian and then back at his refreshed drink. The memories of their confrontation blocked out any coherent sentences he might have said. It was difficult, straining to put up this illusion of normalcy that Weston was struggling to believe would ever be true for them and what they were together.

“Take your head? I think it looks better on your stupid, handsome neck and shoulders, where it belongs.” The words spill from his mouth before he can think of anything else, anything more intelligent or thought provoking. He settles for a silly quip, the sort of think he fell back on when the stress of saying anything else felt like pulling his own teeth. He sets the glass down by his foot, doesn’t care if it happens to fall over and stain the already subpar carpet. “I’m glad you came here, I really am,” He says, and he truly means it as he trains his eyes on Damian. “And I don’t… I don’t hate you. I’d thought about saying that every day since it happened, and it kills me that I ever did. I don’t know what it is I feel for you, but it isn’t hatred. Never was.”

A hand reaches out, tentative and testing the waters between them, and this time it isn’t to violently strike Damian’s cheek, but instead to just stroke against his head, right in the spot he assumed lied the aforementioned tension and sharp pounding against his skull. He hesitates again, fingers poised in the air, unsure if he should go through with this intimate action of comfort, take Damian’s head in his hands and tell him all the kinder, gentler words in the book if only to cancel out the hurtful ones hurled several nights ago. “Remind me if I’m crossing a boundary… It’s been a long time, I know. I sometimes forget myself, when I’m around you.”

[snipehit-blog]

switcblade‌:

FOR  A  LONG  WHILE , HE  REFUSES  TO  SAY  A  THING .  as  if  to  listen  to  weston’s  confessions ,  translucid  words  spilt  through  the  split  wound of  his  heart , – but  he  listens , listens  in  silent  &  unreadable  apathy .  the  reality  that  i  think  i  fucking  hate  you .  those  words  should  have  hurt , he  imagines  what  it  would  have  been  like , had  he  not  been  so caught  amidst  the  violent  world  of  survival  &  attempting  to  erase  traces  of  himself  through  each  path .   yeah , they  should  have  hurt . if  he  had  been  still  within the  damned  facility , playing  idle  love  with  the  boy  in  front  of  him .  he  wonders  the  pain , — needles ? heart  sinking  in  absolute  horror  &  quiet  resignation  as  the  day  he’d  found  out  about  his  own  expiration  stamp ?  no  matter , it  no  longer  remained  a  sharp  concern . —-  ❝ I  HAVE  A  SHIT  TON  OF  PROBLEMS , if you  haven’t  realized  by  now .  ❞    &  CRACK .  there’s  a  familiar  sting  that  spreads  in  feverish  pain  across  his  jaw .  it  takes  another  moment’s  hesitation  to  understand  the  action , — an  action  of  calculated  violence , made  distinguishable  through  the  taste  of  blood  mapping  hot  across  his  tongue .  he  takes  a  second’s  breath  & …   ❝ go  home .  ❞   that’s  all  he  says , offering  no  retaliation  to  the  blow .  this  is  my  escape , i  will  not  allow  anyone  to  sabotage  it ,  even  if  it’s  you . 

❝ weston  haynes , i  am  not  your  fucking  therapist .  it’s  only  an  unfortunate  turn  of  events ,  all  of  this . your  past  is  no  longer  real  if  you  allow  it  to  expunge  itself .  ❞   &  in  steady  breath , he  wipes  the  dark  stain  of  his  mouth  with  a  sleeve , then  holds  a  chain  of  words  tight  against  his  throat .  go  home , &  forget  all  of  this , — but  no , remember  me ,  somehow .  a  memory  of  me , only  a  sliver  if  must .  poetry  that  could  not  be  written ,  lyrics  that  could  not  be  translated  , they  would  remain  lodged  there , &  he  would  keep  quiet .  ❝ i  should  kill  you  for  this  . good  thing  i’m  trying  hard  not  to  remain  myself  here .  ❞

There’s a roll of his eyes, a glare cast askance at the hard ground, as he tired of staring directly at Damian. He needed reprieve from the harshness of the other man’s way of being, and even the dark earth provided more solace than the stiffness of Damian’s forearms. “I have a SHIT TON OF PROBLEMS,” he says, as though he doesn’t, too? Did he consider Weston just another problem, another headache to suppress with heavy drugs and sleep?

He doesn’t realize he’s lashed out with his own hand until he sees the recoil in his opponent, hears the sharp smack of his palm against Damian’s face before he truly feels it happen. He thinks for a moment he should be regretful of hurting him, old emotions threatening to surge against these new volatile sensations (though it could be said, every emotion he’d felt since he’d met Damian Swann had been ones of volatility) but then remembers where they are, their new dynamic that Damian had forced between them.

“Might be trying to be someone else, but you keep running your mouth just like in the old days.” Damian spits out the words like Damian spits the blood welling in the pocket of his cheek, “I almost wish - I do wish you’d just try to fucking kill me. Maybe if you choked me hard enough I’d be able to reset my memory. Although, excuse me if I don’t want to be so hasty with forgetting like you.” His eyes flick up for only a moment, only the slightest glimpse of bright irises as he turns away, back completely to Damian. He fishes in his pocket for something, retrieves a small piece of paper with an address of a hotel scribbled across it. He drops it on the ground, foot holding it down for the moment before he can safely assume that wind won’t carry it away while he is mid speaking.

“I’m going to be sticking around for a while, ‘till I scrape up enough supplies to establish myself somewhere else, far away from here… So if you wanna see me off, cuss me out proper, slip a stupid note with a crude drawing under my door, put a bullet through my apparently thick skull, whatever... here’s where to find me. Ask for a Mr. Adrian Phillips at the front desk. Wasn’t dumb enough to use my real name, like you might believe.”

His legs feel like lead when he tries to command them to move, feels like the entire world is trying to pull him down with its gravity as he struggles to walk away from Damian. He doesn’t want to, but he knows, there’s no more getting through to him, not tonight, anyway. So he leaves, heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice, feels like Damian’s own hand has reached into his chest and is tearing him apart from the inside out. It’s reminiscent of the day he’d realized Damian first went away; oh, there it was again, the bitter tang of his memories, everything floating in his mind saturated with it, especially if it had him attached.

He wanted to hate the other man so bad, wanted to walk away with confidence and determination at his heels. Instead, he seemed more like a rejected puppy dog slinking away from its reprimanding master. He wasn’t expecting such a person to visit him; Perhaps it was wishful thinking, leaving his temporary address there. Wishful thinking was all he had to fight against the hopeless emptiness constantly creeping up on the vignette of his vision, all that was keeping him from becoming just another Damian Swann.

[snipehit-blog]

switcblade‌:

❝ I DID .  DID  YOU ?  ❞    it  was  winter  then ,  when  he  left . it  was  winter  now  too .  all  snow - patched  streets  &  frost  bitten  hands ,  pedestrians  tucked  carefully  in  their  winter  coats .  once ,  he  would  have  said  something  along  the  lines  of :  for  you , i  would  kill  anything  &  anyone .  for  you , i  would  gladly  kill  my  own  self  to  save  yours .  but  how  the  story  had  turned  &  rewrote  itself  over  &  over  until  they  no  longer  understood  it  themselves .  &  weston  watches  him ,  as  if  he  expects  a  fully  planned  answer .  a  word  or  two , even  a  single  sign  that  would  validate ,  deny  his  worst  fears .  no , i  never  meant  to  leave  you  by  yourself .  but  what  he  would  receive  would  always  be  ten  steps  too  far  from  the  truth .     ❝ i  was  getting  absolutely  sick  of  america . i’m  sure  i  would  have  died  of  boredom . it  would  have  killed  me — all  of  it ,  including  you . ❞  

 the  distance  between  them  is  an  awful  thing ,  a  space  once  considered  so  close, so  unfathomably  within  the  reach  of  each  other’s  hearts . &  he  would  do  all  he  could  to  maintain  this  distance  now .  again ,  it  was  winter  then , &  it  was  winter  now , but  they  were  both  no  longer  the  same  creatures . he  had  been  living  upon  a  ticking  time - bomb , &  weston  had  been  terribly  unaware  of  the  count - down  above  his  neck .  —–&  of  course  he  hadn’t .  damian  had  kept  the  truth  from  him  as  long  as  he  could ,  words  locked  tight  &  cold  behind  his  teeth , until  there  had  been  merely  seconds  left .  ❝ i  once  told  you  that  i  wouldn’t  mind  if  i  died  today , but  life  is  quiet  eventful  like  this . i  left , because  my  time  had  run  out  in  america . ❞  including  the  time  that  existed  between  you  &  me .  he  doesn’t  have  to  say  this .  it’s  unspoken , but  understood  heavily  enough ,  even  with  the  distance  between  them .   ❝ i  am  saying  that  you’re  chasing  after  the  past . &  it’s  absolutely  pathetic . ❞

“Your problem is you never considered chasing a future.” ...With me.

Anger stabs through the initial shock of this incredibly chance encounter. His jaw clenches in tandem with his fists and he’s suddenly brought back to the morning he’d found Damian gone, and the rage that came with that thankless goodbye. “You always run from the shit that hurts you, you don’t try to fight against it. You let it consume you instead. I think that is pretty pathetic.” How long are you going to let life’s riptide drag you out into open waters? How long until the sea swallows you whole?

“We could have fought together, got out together, made something together - but you, the fucking maverick that you are, always pushing people away, always setting out alone -“ he’s unraveling under this pressure, the intangible weight of the tension on his shoulders causes his neck to fold inward, as he takes in ragged breaths. He feels his body seize up, stress threatening to overwhelm him in the form of a spastic, muscle shaking fit that absolutely could not afford to go into right now, not in front of Damian.

He regains his composure long enough to look back at Damian, comes only a fraction closer and glares at him with a new hardness set in his eyes. He knows he must sound like the star of a soap opera, knows if Damian looked hard enough he could see the red in his face, the taut tendons of his neck, the uncontrolled emotion that threatened to spill from him at any moment. Again, he edges a bit closer, his breath billowing out in freezing clouds and fanning out just before hitting Damian.

“God, I’d punch your fucking lights out right now if I weren’t still caught up about you. Imagine that, me being so attached to someone... and you of all people. I guess it’s easier for me to hang on to the past than confront the truth of my reality; the reality that I think I fucking hate you.”

As he says it, his heart aches and cracks in his chest, and as venomous words as they are, he still remains steadfast, unsure of why he cannot compel his legs to move and walk him far away from here. Maybe I’m still hoping he’ll give me a reason, a justification to stay. To make my coming here meaningful somehow.

It’s a long shot, but he hopes regardless.

[snipehit-blog]

Sunlight had a way of always finding Weston’s slumbering form as it filtered through the window, harsh rays of summer light hitting him like a rough slap in the face. Eyes peeled open only to immediately squint and shut down again, hands reaching to shield himself from the offensive intruder. If he could punch that stupid sun out of the sky, he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity; he was by no means a morning person.

They had separate beds, but somehow they always found themselves sleeping together when dawn rolled back around. It was usually a nightmare, physical aches that kept them up and needing the assistance of a gentle hand petting their hair to soothe them back to sleep, something dark and vicious and inescapable, continuously chasing them into each other’s arms. And they’d fall back into the darkness, swimming in the black pool of their minds rendered inactive, with Weston more and more yearning for a way that he could bottle up these moments, the warmth and Damian’s hands upon him and the stillness of his normally heaving, anxiety ridden breaths.

It was never as peaceful in the morning as it was in the evening. When Damian was exhausted down to his weary bones, in pain and upset, he was pliable and quiet as he shuffled around the room and crawled up against Weston without a word. He sometimes treated Weston like a security blanket with the way he held onto him for dear life, till sleep relaxed his muscles once more, and subsequently, his death-grip on Weston’s body. But when he was awake, blue eyes re-filling with their melancholia and cold anger against the world, he was suddenly so very frigid and shoving Weston away, skittish like a wounded animal, running from any hint of tenderness like he’d tried to run from his dreams. He vehemently rejected softness; it was as if he were a different person in the dark, than he was in the light.

This particular morning, Weston was the first of the pair to wake, early and just at the crack of dawn. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, breathing in slow and deep, regretful that he would have to shatter this comfortable silence, thought upon this tragic fact that had recently eaten away at him as he picked at some fresh scabs on his bare arms, fingers running trails over scars blooming and having bloomed across his chest. Mementos from a place he hated more and more, each and every day. I want to run away from here- His eyes wandered to Damian, just like they always did, despite himself. I wanna run away with you. How stupid of me to want that shit, with someone like you.

“Yo, Swann, wake the fuck up, lazy bastard,” He reached over to poke Damian’s forehead, trying to rid himself of his frown and replace the placid facade he liked to portray instead. “You have a bad nightmare last night? You were tossing around like a motherfucker, kicked me more than once, too; although who knows, maybe that shit was intentional... never can tell with you.”

@switcblade

[switcblade-deactivated20200821]

—-❝ you  lied  to  me . ❞    each  time  the  heart  stutters , splutters  on  its  own  pulse  &  chokes  &  coughs  against  its  own  blood ,  he’s  reminded  of  the  traumas  . things  he’d  been  certain  that  he’d  properly  gutted  &  buried ,  shoveled  beneath  the  filth  of  his  memories  moons  &  moons  ago .  how  ironic  it  was . the  moon  hanging  low  upon  the  edge  of  the  skyline ,  swelled  &  full ,  as  if  to  gently  remind  him :  i  will  not  allow  you  to  forget .  gaze  parts  away , there’s  a  heavy  feeling  that  keeps  his  throat  from  moving .  no  swallow , no  further  breath  to  whisper  past .  he  stalls ,  avoids  eye  contact . rations  the  strained  beat  of  his  voice  minute  by  minute .  it  was  night  time .  his  hair  was  dark , the  scars  of  his  escape  planted  in  permanent  grin  by  the  corner  of  his  mouth .  everything  was  different . — but  not  him .  not  weston . the  same , slow  yet  awkward   twitch  of   his  forced  grin , &  the  dark  sweep  of  his  hair ,  the  trembling  uncertainty  within  his  eyes , as  if  to  ask : why  are  you  here ? ————     you  should  have  forgotten  about  me .    ❝ you  said  you  would  not  place  yourself  in  danger ,  &  yet  here  you  are . walk  away  now , as  if  you’ve  never  seen  me .  as  if  we  are  strangers . you’re  no  longer  my  responsibility  to  watch  over . ❞

@snipehit

[snipehit-blog]

He feels older these days. Bones feel lighter and at the same time incredibly weary, as though even their very marrow had been scraped clean, the emptiness in his entire being not ceasing until it consumed every inch of him. It was the emptiness that came with Damian leaving in the chill of night, his last words being carved in the wooden canvas of his bedpost: do not come looking for me. I do not want to be found.

It was a warning, a clear indication for Weston to stay away, and suddenly all those random instances of Damian asking him, near begging him to promise never to put himself in such danger that he could not escape with his life, didn’t seem so random anymore. They were a build up to this grand finale, of when Damian would finally leave, and make the room they occupied together feel so much darker. Anger consumed him, first, how could he just leave me like this? Did I mean nothing? And then there came a determination to find him, and set this shit right.

He’d found him in the most unlikeliest of places, a small cafe down in some Russian town of which he could never hope to remember the name. Just when he’d all but given up hope, escaping all on his own, following in the footsteps left for him, and searched high and low for this elusive man, he caught sight of that face, that distinctly Damian face which couldn’t be hidden behind mere hair dye and contact lenses. His aura that was so uniquely him, that was something he could never hope to hide.

And so he’d chased and chased, ran him down throughout this small town until the sun hung low in the sky and was replaced by the fullness of the moon; ran him down until Damian simply got tired of running.

For once, he was tired of running from what plagued him.

He folds his arms across his chest now, staring Damian down when he refuses to do the same to Weston. Apprehension flickers in that familiar face, and he doesn’t like it, how unsure and small Damian feels. “I didn’t lie. Being here is only a danger if I can’t defend myself, and I can most definitely hold my own, so you’re not going to chase me off that easily, if that’s what you were thinking. I’m not going fucking anywhere now that I have you again. You don’t know me at all if you think I’ll just let you run me off. Has it been that long, that you’ve forgotten my bullheadedness?”

Maybe we can play the game of “strangers” better than I thought.

“Did you forget me like you hoped I’d forget about you?” He bites his tongue, almost regrets asking, doesn’t know if he wants to hear an answer, but the question hangs in the air all the same.

[snipehit-blog]

switcblade‌:

BOTH  FISTS  CLENCHED  TIGHT , HE  WISHES  HE  COULD  RECOIL  FROM  THE  QUESTION  LIKE  A  KNIFE - WOUNDED  ANIMAL . the  tongue , as  they  say , was  like a  sharp  knife  that  killed  without  drawing  blood .  that’s  how  it  was , always  the  questions , catching  him  off  guard  &  thrusting  him  back  as  if  the  world  had  become  a  magnifying  glass  &  him , a  butterfly  pinned  & twitching  uneasily  beneath  prying  eyes .  ❝  —- you’re  looking  for  safety  in  a  wild fire , are  you  aware ? ❞  &  i  would  tell  you  to  stop  before  it  burns  you  too  deeply .  it  was  an  odd  notion ,  to  protect ,  keep  something  safe  from  harm’s  reach — ,  something  other  than  himself .  thoughts  returned  back  to  the  6′6  dark - haired  swine  &  his  snapped  wrist , &  the  lack  of  concern  that  kept  him  brutally  still  &  awaiting  for  the  guards  to  arrive .  how  destructible  it  had  been ,  &  how  terrifyingly  cold  he  faced  death  within  the  form  of  a  towering  brute .  fuck  you ,  swann ,  one  day  i’ll  break  your  neck  as  easy  as  i  would  a  bird’s .      ❝  . .&  i’d  prefer  that  you  don’t  find  comfort  in  it , at  least  not  with  me .  ❞   not  with  me ,  not  with  me .  he  tosses  a  near - emptied  water  bottle  back ,  &  half  hopes  that  the  statement  would  hurt  the  other  like  a  bullet  wound , like  a  hard - fisted   punch  to  the  gut .  there  was  a  certain  disgust  that  was  held  for  weston  &  his  rose - visioned  openness .  it  was  loathe ,  a  nausea  of  hatred  that  plagued  him  dark  &  had  him  rooted  to  the  bleak  war - zone  behind  the  fenced  bars .  conflict  took  place , a  bout  of  hesitation  that  guided  his  mind  further  &  further  away  from  survival ,  but  towards  the  ugly , spurned  thing  known  as  hope . but  it  was  a  far - reached  thing ,  as  tempting  as  it  offered  itself  to  be .  not  yet .  death  always  held  close  &  sharp  to  his  throat  , keeping  him  at  bay  from  cloud - nine  dreams   &  alert . ah , how  he  wanted  to  laugh .   me ,  saving  you  ?  there’s  no  saving  anywhere  in  this  place . not  by  me .  not  by  you .   ❝  got  a  death - match  at  7pm  tonight .  come  if  you  want ,—– settling  it  with  greg  for  the  last  time . it’s  either  him  or  me ,  guess  you’ll  find  out  by  midnight .  ❞  like  war  dogs  with  their  chains  closely  choking  themselves  out  of  breath  with  each  tug  &  as  it  had  always  been ,  him  or  me ,  her  or  me ,  one  or  the  other .  

“Don’t think I’ve ever taken much consideration into what you prefer for me, Swann.” He catches the almost-emptied plastic bottle in one hand, clenches fist around it, almost crushes it as he gulps down the remainder of the water. He throws it off to the side somewhere, clearly not above simply littering all over the grounds. A blood stained hand comes up to wipe his mouth dry, smearing reddish brown like rust against his lips, as the crusted-over blood comes in contact with stray water droplets and saliva.

With a grunt, and his muscles screaming in protest, he manages to drag himself up off of the ground, has to steady himself on his swaying feet for a moment before he can find enough balance to walk. He comes close to Damian, claps a hand on his shoulder, knows he’s essentially prodding this self-proclaimed wildfire with a flammable, wooden stick, and he doesn’t much care anymore. Doesn’t reckon he’s ever much cared.

“I know what I’d be getting myself into. What I am already into. I’ll decide when I’m good and ready to pull away; and I’m not, not just yet.” With his face close to Damian’s, breathing slow and steady, one of the only people who could keep such distinct calm in the presence of such a hurricane-made-boy, his eyes peer into the icy blues he’s presented with. For a moment, he wonders how someone so frigid, still held the power to scald him so fiercely, prickle his skin with nerves tinted hot with emotion he still had difficulty completely sorting out.

With that, he pushes past Damian, waves a hand behind him as he begins his sore-footed walk back to the barracks. “Yeah, of-fucking-course I’ll be at that match tonight. Nothin’ brightens up my day more than the idea of Greg falling to the ground like the dumb sack of bricks he is. I’ll be right up front in the crowd, ready to cheer you on the loudest.”

He throws his head back a final time before he disappears out of view for the afternoon, cheeky grin lingering on his face. “Don’t die tonight, you asshole! I’m gonna be betting serious shit on you! Make me proud, yeah?”

[snipehit-blog]

switcblade‌:

FOR  A  BRIEF  MOMENT , THERE’S  WARMTH  AT  THE  PIT  OF  HIS  HEART . it  makes  him  quieter , slower , —- softer , yet  the  signs  of  discomfort  remains  taut  &  tensed  to  his  reddened  knuckles . it’s  easier  to  imagine  this  boy  as  another  punching - bag , or  consider  him  archfiend  of  his  story . it’s  harder  to  admit  that  this  couldn’t  be  the  case , because  of  the  recollection  of  old - worn  memories , weston’s  voice  brutally  truthful  &  sinking  warm  through  the  night .  when  you  cry , your  tears  are  the  softest  shade  of  blue .   shut  up ,  shut  up  .  ❝  you’re  riled  up ,  sit  down  . ❞    it’s  a  simple  observation , another  tap  against  his  chest  &  he  considers  slamming  weston’s  head  to  the  wall ,  enough  to  fade  his  conscience  out  before  he  would  decide  to  snap  &  snarl  again .  bloodied  teeth , drops  of  feverish  spots  of  smeared  red  on  the  ground , —– &  weston  still  had  his  breath  on  him , daring  to  pounce  for  his  throat  in  seething  pride .  ❝  we’re  not  doing this  anymore .  you  like  a  fuck - up ,  &  not  risking  for  your  side  effects  to  rile  up  again  too . ❞    it’s  an  absurd  bravery  that  you  always  seem  to  display , he  wants  to  add ,  watching  the  heavy  rise  &  sinking  of  weston’s  chest , to  the  dark  &  unwelcoming  spots  of  bloodied  bruises  mapping  above  his  skin . but  it’s  silence  that  he  offers  instead ,    unraveling  the  fight - worn  knuckle  wraps ,  tossing  them  against  weston’s  chest .   ❝  you’re  being  annoyingly  persistent , —or  stupid .  &  stupid  get’s  you  killed , so  sit  down . ❞   

-Your side effects. The phrase stings just as awfully as the scrapes crisscrossed along his exposed skin, the idea that he was to be forever hobbled by conditions he could not control. He knows Damian is right, but he does not want him to be, doesn’t want to listen to him. I’m fine, I’m fine, the seizures aren’t anything, I’m not weak -  He’s almost to the point of pleading like a child, and he thinks for a moment, if perhaps this was stupid, to be so stubborn, “annoyingly persistent,” as Damian so eloquently put it.

All at once, he gives in to Damian shoving him to the ground, but still pulls a grimace when the stained knuckle wraps are tossed his way without any care. He seems defeated, all his available energy spent on throwing punches and then attempting to resist Damian, all apparently to no avail. He’s quiet for a moment, allowing the silence to envelop them both, despite thousands of words buzzing through his mind. Some were just too wrenching for him to be able to properly articulate, though he decides to try, after several heartbeats.

“Hey, question... Do you think it’s weird that... fighting you like this, is the closest I ever get to feeling okay here?” He squeezes the bandages in his hands before throwing them off to the side, littering on the ground for some other soul to step on, maybe get stuck to the bottom of their shoe and he could laugh at such an occurrence behind their back. “Everything here is chaotic and utter shit, but sparring with you is the only time things just - the world suddenly makes sense.”

He lifts a hand up to shield his battered face from the glinting rays of sun beating down on him, stares up at Damian looming over him like a storm cloud, the way he’d always been. Although I’ve never minded the thundering rain very much. It’s the unbearable sunshine that always bothered me the most. I want you to protect me like storms protect from the undying sun. “That does sound fucking weird, I should just shut up. Making myself sound like a fucking masochist, as if I like getting beat on - by the likes of you, no less.”

[snipehit-blog]

switcblade‌:

❝  you  keep  talking ,  – that’s  how  you  get  hit . ❞    he  considers  the  battle - drunk  boy  in  front  of  him ,  almost  pathetically  &  with  a   breath  of  counted  exhaustion .  one , two , &  three .  body  swerves  back ,  the  fist  missing  its  collision  to  face  by  the  nick  of  his  jaw .  the  fight  was  in  momentum , blood  mapped  wet  &  spread  across  his  tongue  in  its  familiar  taste  of  self - sabotage  &  acute  damage . the  influx  of  corporeal  ache  hardly  mattered  now  ,  stunted  in  the  heavy  after - haze  adrenaline  &   acrid  violence , — &  he  ducks , taking  against  weston’s  jugular  in  a  swift  hook .  ———– but  there’s  a  mid - pause , a  slowed  contact  of  red - blushed  knuckles  to  the  bruised  flesh  of    neck . in  another  second , he  locks  an  arm  around  the  boy’s  head ,  tapping  the  free hand  against  weston’s  sternum  &  sending  him  stumbling  backwards  in  few  steps .     ❝ take  it  easy , tiger .  you’ll  topple  over  .❞

He’s flung backwards before he can even register what happens - an arm cradling around his head in a suffocating hold that has another surge of primal anger surging through already churned up blood coursing hot through constricted veins - an oddly softened fist to his neck that could have killed had there been any more force thrown behind it - and then there’s the shove to his chest throwing him off kilter for a second, before he’s stumbling, tripping over his own two feet. His chest heaves, as he spits out words in line with a string of blood. “Don’t patronize me, Swann.”

He’s failing to keep up his hardened demeanor, exhaustion threatening to overtake him like the blaring of sunshine above the training grounds. They’d been at this for some time now, a couple of hours at least. He feels overheated all over, nerves on a fiery fringe, his limbs feeling like they’ve turned to pudding, hidden injuries throbbing, his body screaming for him to slow down and give it time to assess its damage. He has to hold a hand over his eyes to keep from squinting against the sunlight and the black spots circulating against his vision. His free fingers slick back sweat-matted hair from the corners of his face, streaks of salty liquid sidling down the sides of his head, from his temples and trickling on down. “Fuck, fine, time out, time out - you mind being a dear and grabbing me some water before I pass the fuck out? I’m really gonna topple over in about three seconds - shit.”

[snipehit-blog]

“Hope I didn’t fuck you up too bad just now.” He spit, blood and saliva spraying in a sickly, bubbling concoction from between pain-clenched teeth. A sparring match that always seemed to go just a bit too far, judging by the violent bloom of dark blushed bruises against clenched jaw. He’d landed quite a bit on Damian too though, and at the moment they were quite on an equal playing field. He wiped away some of the scarlet dribbling from his lips, accidentally smearing some of it against the side of his mouth. “Wanna keep going? Me, I could go all fucking day.”

Even as he said it, he was swaying on his feet. He had a nasty habit of pushing himself too far, all for the sake of somehow impressing his steely opponent. He lashed out with clenched, scraped fists, punching the air, drunk on a mixture of pain and adrenaline. “Come on, Damian, come at me. I can take it! Don’t tell me you’re growing soft.”

@switcblade

[archbudzar]

why feel bad when u can just be emotionally detached????! (C.B)

[luvzsick]

[snipehit-blog]

switcblade‌:

❝ she’s  rank  two .  ❞   that  she  was ,  steps  above  all  &   just  one  below  rank  one ,  but  nevertheless  a  terrible  killer  of  her  own .  ❝ which  means , i’m  waiting  for  her  to  drive  a  butter - knife  through  you  one  day .  you’ve  got  the  tendency  to  piss  people  off . ❞   he  half  means  it , &  considers  the  drink  for  a  moment  before  emptying  the  rest  upon  the  ground  despite  weston’s  low - pitched  complain .  ❝  —–vodka  for  breakfast ?  ❞  

He tries not to let a legitimate whine escape his throat when Damian snatches his drink and subsequently poisons a patch of grass when he pours it all away. “Yes, vodka for breakfast. You have your vices, am I not allowed to have mine? Asshole.” He’s only seething for a moment before he just sighs and decides well, that’s a petty thing to be pissed about for more than 5 seconds.

“But anyway, I was gonna say, before you pulled that dick move, sure, Chloe’s a stone cold, cutthroat motherfucker, but even she can’t resist this baby face and charming sense of humor. She’ll be too entertained by me to want to drive a knife through my ribs, rank two or not. Besides, she’s super fucking short. Short people are easy to take down, ‘s just facts.”