#caintheler

[clintsurian-blog]

Cain&Clint || Texting

Clint: Where the fuck are ya?

[clintsurian-blog]

Tiptoe Through The Tulips

Rating: M Takes Place: Current Warnings: Gore and Murder   Summary: Clint hasn't killed in awhile -- He finally finds his release, though this time he's a bit sloppy about it.

Music played dully from the portable speakers he had picked up a week ago. Normally he didn't play music during his kills, he preferred to have all his senses open in case someone pulled up, but tonight was a special occasion. 

Fifty-six days and eighteen hours. That's how long it had been since his last kill and it was the longest he had ever gone. He envisioned himself at a NA meeting of sorts, exclaiming how long it'd been since he'd last been responsible for someone's death. People nodding and clapping at his achievement. Serial killer's anonymous. 

He yanked on the duct tape, the ripping of adhesive causing a sharp cracking noise, his muscles tensing with the minuscule effort of tugging it back. He stuck it over the oil rag he had shoved in the man's mouth, the silver tape neatly covering the red material. Muffled noises left the stranger's mouth but it wasn't anything he was concerned about. Clint rummaged through his tool bag, humming along to Slow Ride by Foghat. 

Slow ride, Take it easy,  I'm in the mood, The rhythm is right, Move to the music, We can roll all night. 

He normally didn't go for men as victims -- put up too much of a fight and harder to convince to come with him. This time however, he didn't use convincing.  A tire iron in the back of his wrangler took care of any struggling the man was capable of. It had smacked against the bastard's skull with such a sweet thick sound, the impact reverberating through his bones as it hit. He couldn't explain it as anything other than a snap of release. 

Utility knife, needle file, coping saw, monkey wrench, and a clawed hammer. He set them neatly on the blue tarped counter. Normally he used a battery operated sawzall but he didn't seem to feel right this time.

He picked up the rusted utility knife, turning it over in his hand before sliding the blade out. The man's eyes widened, frantic tones dully seeping through the makeshift gag. Even now he was on edge, wanting to just dash into it but Clint knew if he did that, that he'd be back looking for more in a few days. The blade scraped along the man's jeans, tearing into his thigh. Red delicately seeped through the dark cloth, a grunted scream barreling through the music. But it wasn't enough. The itch was still there, building beneath the surface. Changing his grip, he rammed the blade to the handle, the man's scream building in crescendo. It was a wet and hollow sound. Tissues separating under the tool, though the blood didn't surface until he tugged it out.  "Fuckin' Christ." Clint mumbled, reaching for the clawed hammer -- spinning it in his grip so the claws hung outwards -- slamming it abruptly into the man's temple. It knocked off his skull, skittering along the crown of his head. Crimson splattered outward and slightly back, light patters freckling his face.

It washed over him like a wave -- calmness and excitement. A kind of high he couldn't explain to anyone else. It was a release of pressure that was much like an addict crashing and shooting up. 

With a clenched jaw, fist tightening around the rubber handle, he swung again. This time the claws sticking into the man's jaw. With all the wailing the bastard was doing, he almost felt bad for him. But he was past that now, there were other things on his mind. 

After thirty minutes of experimenting with the hammer the man's face resembled ground up beef. Flesh gathered in clumps that hung loosely where the force had separated it. The eye socket wasn't recognizable in the slightest - just a flat plane of blood and tissue. His arm dully ached with the effort but it was a welcomed exhaustion.

He wasn't clean, he'd never be clean. Few people knew what he was but he wasn't stupid. What he did was grotesque -- no one could accept what he needed. His drug of choice. Clint grinned, tossing the hammer into the orange industrial bucket full of bleach.

It was time to clean up his toys.

[thefairestoffolk]

So I have made a kid meme for Ophelia and Cain that I will be posting shortly. This one is going to be very...interesting. To say the least. Sorry. (No I'm not).

[clintsurian-blog]

Cain and Clint's friendship summed up by their FCs

[thefairestoffolk]

caintheler replied to your post: Kid Meme #5

OMG IM CRYING

((

And I still have two more to make :D *hopes you saw the other one xD*))

[clintsurian-blog]

|| Texting || Cain&Clint

Clint: Fucking Christ Cain, you better have your fuckin phone or so fucking help me

[clintsurian-blog]

Tell someone you love them. please~

"Cain, I love you man."

[clintsurian-blog]

Flowers {Cain&Clint}

Clint was already in the car by the time he had sent the message to Cain, who would probably be sporting a black eye if he wasn't one of the only people he could stand. Well, most of the time he could stand him. Now as he pulled into the roundabout driveway of Cain's mansion the less he was looking forward to this conversation. God only knows what the bastard said last night. His tires spit loose gravel as he turned the corner, parking in front of the stairs.

His flower.

Clint snorted in dry amusement. He didn't like her and he was sick of everyone saying otherwise. He didn't like people, not in the way they were implying. 

He slammed the door as he got out, walking up to the massive door, repeatedly ringing the doorbell. Cain probably had a hangover and any chance he had to piss him off, Clint was ready to take.