#stviolens

[damnd-he]

Gnaws on you & Samantha

Samantha cheesin for days

[puncia]

Don't say that name aloud.　⌖　@stviolens

You like to think that you excel at catching on quickly,　acclimating to whatever endeavor calls your ‘name’.　Angel,　and the company he offers by extension,　is a noteworthy exception.　It keeps you on your toes,　forces you to evaluate each subsequent move,　sentence,　loose train of thought.　Herein,　it seems you were not intuitive enough.　The mention ghosts past the curves of your lips,　and truly,　truly　(an oversight you didn’t account for,　you couldn’t account for,　you are not used to oversights and this leads you to believe you are wholly defective)　you are void of realization until his poignant dissatisfaction strikes you like a pistol whip.　The clipped dialogue speaks for itself.　Just as air would leak from a balloon’s sloppily-tied neck,　you,　too,　overflow,　lose yourself to some approximation of giggling schoolgirl you have only ever parsed through mawkish teen dramas　⸻　you are a facsimile,　a damn good one,　and even this comes without intent.　You don’t want to be this way,　and it is only through your infinite gratitude that you manage your composure until the doors have swung closed and clicked shut.

Through objective lens and its sweeping aperture,　one could posit that you’ve hardly moved out of line.　You mention Park in passing,　perhaps made too disturbingly comfortable by this odd arrangement to where you will freely confess how your recreational time is spent with half as much hesitation.　The two of you have gone out,　or you have stayed in.　You have forged a memory with him worth ruminating on and recounting.　A date?　Maybe.　There are stipulations to things of that sort　⸻　like a gentle zephyr brushes through a field’s verdancy,　the thought of him stirs within you.　Splinters of broken glass trapped beneath your skin.　Swirled up in this fantasy.　Return to yourself,　Leopard.　

It hadn’t occurred to you that either party was familiar;　the animosity emanating off Angel and into the brittle air leaves ample space for inference.　Adjustment,　too.　Spine straightening against the upholstery,　your chin levels,　countenance retaining its frigid indifference plastered well before the admission.　(You do not learn decorum in those damned facilities,　no.　All the same,　suspicion creeps down your back like a stream of icy water,　this is not company that demands it.　You will defer to him because that is your design　⸻　you harm or you defer　⸻　and that is that.)　Inaudibly,　you breathe in,　machinations whirring internally like the dedicated hum of an engine.　You observe,　your mind conjures satisfactory output,　you go on in life.

❛❛　You know each other.　❜❜　It would be foolish to press the affair,　and you figure both parties have endowed you with exactly as much nuance as they intend.　You do not interrogate.　You do not chase the kiss of verity.　You listen.　And you listen well.　You do not admit the blind-spot,　nor the unknowing,　and you state what knowledge has just been imparted onto you as fact.　❛❛　Got it.　❜❜

A more vindictive person would brazenly announce that you’re fucking him.　Alas,　impulse in its purest form has been tortured from you,　with caressing electric shocks or chemical compounds formulated only to devastate you,　and your lips are thereby sealed.

You almost think it’s funny,　though.

[self-1ess]

Angel ( @stviolens ) : stop comparing yourself, it's pointless. [ with Levi. ]

An angel learning comparison could possibly be the most human experience you’ve consumed. The sense of belonging ripping through the fabrics of your own existence finally becoming a crisis of where to belong, It’s the heaviness. What is my purpose? Was this the common question to be human? Pointless? – “pointless?” Repeating aloud, distressed of the matter and this overwhelming emotion rushing through learnt emotions passing with a heavy, Confusion.

“Is this how miserable humans feel?” An empath, feeling of betrayal from his very own creator for distrusting his genuine intentions of goodness being tainted by own thoughts of worthiness. Do they feel this way too?

[manenuf]

　　　　　𝙼𝙰𝙽 𝚃𝙾 𝙼𝙰𝙽　　　　⚓　　　　@stviolens 　　　 I haven’t killed you,　and you’re still pretty pathetic.

Way to rub salt in the wound.　You try not to think about it,　mostly:　your dependence on the attention,　how pathetic that simple fact makes you,　how much you simultaneously abhor and venerate Angel as a result of it all.　It coils your fingers into fists with agitation,　though you know you’re not strong enough to leverage any real change of your situation.　The both of you are nestled in blankets,　you a little too aware of how the fabric of black tank clings to your chest,　and you look to him with a certain numbness.　A blankness you cannot quantify nor qualify,　resonant issue at your core being that you could never discern exactly how you feel about him.　Love and hate,　one and the same.　Resenting the way he makes you feel and feeling powerless over your own desperation.　You’d strangle him if that was an option.　You know it’s not.　So you are looking,　eyes gradually taking on a radiance as you scrutinize his features.　Inked skin visible among the ocean of fabric.　His nose,　his hair.　Everyone looks for God somewhere.　Chasing an older Him to idolize.　

You roll onto your side,　a weak attempt at evading the discontent swirling within.　It is now that you feel most guilty.　Away from the fighting or the aggression or the violence.　Tenderness never an object the two of you were meant to possess　⸻　witness it,　maybe,　watch helplessly as it flits through the air and escapes toward a more worthy patron.　It doesn’t feel any better like this.　You suspect nothing will,　really,　that this is the sort of wound you have to live with.　Pull the stitches tight and snip off the excess suture.　

Toned arm snakes out,　across your neck and behind your head,　taking you into gentle headlock that drags you closer to him.　You hate this,　you really do.　You can feel the aggravation of your heart rate flare in your chest,　cradled by the ivory fangs of your ribcage,　dark crucible from which all this animosity has hatched.　Harder and faster,　it beats and beats.　You are terrified of him.　Admittedly,　you aren’t sure why he hasn’t killed you yet,　as though there is some lurking requisite he waits to watch play out in cinematic quality.　Maybe he likes the attention,　too.　You’d never be so audacious as to place a blatant assumption like that,　but you get very close.　

❛❛　Shut up,　❜❜　you utter,　voice husky from exhaustion.　Why does he toy with you like this?　For his own amusement?　It has to be something,　right?　All things have an answer,　a culmination of your misery the most likely.　You want to cling to him until your fingers bleed with the weight of your despondence.　Still,　you are here with him,　sick of feeling sorry for yourself.　Whether glassiness of your gaze carries stars or daggers,　both have terrible sharp points.　Both do damage.　❛❛　I know.　❜❜

A crawl closer,　bared knee catching against soft quilting beneath you,　and you rest your head against his chest.　He strokes your hair,　once,　twice.　You could sob with how much you like it.　You don’t,　obviously.　You cannot bear the stress of anything serving to emasculate you further:　you are here in another man’s arms,　his,　in a sense.　This fact is simultaneously intolerable and a great comfort to you.　The hand that moves to rest against his stomach is undoubtedly involuntary,　your body moving faster than your mind can reel in the sickly overflow of affection.　You wonder about his scars sometimes,　though you know better than to press the issue.　All your scars are emotional　⸻　relegated to the depths of your memory,　never therapied out because a man like you should be stronger than something like that　⸻　but you’d like to think the two of you aren’t so different.

Yeah,　in your fucking dreams.

His tank fits you nicely,　at least.　Or you fit nicely against him,　breathing him in with every respiration,　his arm still forcing you in place.　Fickle helm of happiness is a concept you don’t think you’d ever know too intimately,　but you’d like to think this comes close.　As close as someone like you will ever get;　you harbor wrongness,　intrinsic,　thick through your marrow,　and you figure that you deserve this.　The violence,　all of it.　You deserve Angel,　you think.