don't get it twisted young blood 90% of your charm is localized in your adorable face omw
( as soon as he can throw on enough clothes to be somewhat presentable. he manages trousers, a belt, and a partially tucked in shirt, all clean and wrinkle-free, a miracle directly parallel to the second coming of christ. isaac gates, not looking a total hot mess after a wild night of blackout drinking. even his hair is agreeing with him this morning.
he didn't take anyone back to his room either, so. points for him. someone might even mistake him for a respectable member of society.
the lift is out. he takes the stairs two at a time, through the door into a dimly lit hallway, and knocks on ephemera's door. three quick knocks followed by three slow knocks, then another rapid three. he rattles the handle for good measure. sos. let him in. )
Wow. You're presentable. That the third sign of the apocalypse or something?
[ Ephemera's twitchy out of armor. Might have slept on the floor with his hand on his pistol. Might have startled awake more often than not. Might have averaged a good four hours of sleep - which, with his track record, is pretty good these days. He's got a sweatshirt on and Felix's knives lined up on the dresser. Sharpened, too.
He's nice like that. And it kept him from vibrating out of his skin. Today's shaping up to be a bad pain day, so.
That's fun.
He rubs at his bad eye, knuckling into the eyepatch. No prosthetic today, either. Yay. ]
C'mon. Wanna take odds on whether the food's actually edible here?
( it takes two seconds for felix to step through the door, palm flat on ephemera's chest, and less than half a second for him to snag his wrist and pull his prodding fingers away from his eyepatch. built-in instinct. his reaction time stays relatively sharp even while fielding a throbbing migraine. also instinct. )
Stop that, asshole. Boots first, food later.
( he is very much barefoot.
the door kicks shut behind him. he squeezes past ephemera and sits at the edge of the bed, working his feet into his boots one at a time and nimbly tying his laces. criss-crossed all the way to the ankle, then wrapped once around the shaft, the extra slack tucked tight into the back of the boot. uniform. more instinct.
he talks while he works. )
Did anyone give you shit last night?
( sometimes that happens when felix starts a scene and ephemera has to bail him out. )
[ the dossier that sam receives about his mark is thick, weighty, and half-redacted; he reads it on his way from his shithole apartment to the outskirts of the city. first page, a description about his target's physical appearance. second, a rundown of benign delivery stints that the target runs as a smokescreen for his arms peddling. third, fourth, and subsequent pages, transcribed interviews and testimonials from women that the target's fucked and fucked over. a carefully-curated profile that smells just as desperate as the guy he's supposed to be detaining.
sam discards the papers. piecemeal and one by one, in trashcans and sewer grates that he passes on his way to the hot zone. uninterested, mostly, in his employer's justifications; more interested in who might be on the other side of this questionable hustle.
(his mark is a piece of shit. better served as blood on his blade and an afterthought in this city's long history of non-organized crime, but heyγΌ this isn't his world, and its stakes aren't his. neither is its karma. that's one bitch he's not interested in putting his mouth on.)
the building he's meant to raid is a gaudy high-rise just on the byline of where new money meets no money, a kiss and a hug and a big fuck-you to everyone who has to look at it on their way home to their run-down five-story concrete chicken pens. wrapped in his cybernetic exosuit that strangely leaves less to the imagination than more, sam quite literally cleaves his way up to one of the higher floors via stairwell (not even the penthouse suite, this dude is really a low-rent version of whatever mafia don he's trying to emulate) and steps out into the red-lit hall.
not bloody, and unbowed. in the event that he sees a not-quite-stranger also slithering out from the shadows on the other side: ]
We have to stop meeting like this. [ sword sheathed, and smiling. missed him, goldilocks? ]
( another universe, another motherfucker with an axe to grind and piles of money to burn. felix is a razor-beaked vulture in every iteration of every world, universe, or reality, here for the bounty and nothing else. plus Γ§a change, plus c'est la mΓͺme chose.
his current objective sits pretty in an opulent high-rise on the perimeter of the city. a spoiled prince in an ivory tower left bizarrely unguarded as felix leisurely strolls past a set of glass doors, straight into a dark and empty lobby. ortez, tracking his movement from his windowed post of a building half a klick away from felix's position, immediately voices his concern, like fucking clockwork. this isn't right, he says, into felix's earpiece. you should've rigged up. felix's soft, blithe whistling effectively silences any of his remaining worries.
the bell at the front desk chimes under felix's hand, merrily jingling through the cavernous space. no one answers. not a peep from any shadowy corner, no fluorescent green lasers marking him for an untimely death. quiet. suspicious, lingering quiet.
so, logically, as one does when tasked with discretely butchering a man, felix takes the elevator.
he hikes himself onto the rail, back to rich mahogany panels, and idly picks his nails until the elevator lurches to a stop at his destination. the doors slide open, and gentle jazz and amber light flood into a searing red hall as felix steps from the compartment and finally discovers the source of the quiet: sam, smiling wolfishly, perfectly calm and centered. not a figment of his drunken imagination after all.
"felix," locus says, sharply. "sitrep. who is that? i don't have eyes on you. gates. isaac, goddamnitβ"
felix turns off his earpiece with a brush of his thumb. daddy's busy. )
You dress up in your Sunday best for little old me? Sam. ( his name is a vulgar purr out of his mouth, silkily stretched at the vowel. his eyes cut from sam to a door down the long corridor, an equal distance away from the both of them. ten paces. back to sam, knifelike. ) You really shouldn't have.
( a half-second for the silence to drop like a fucking bomb, a harbinger of things to come. he pulls his sidearm, whip-quick, angled for the lightbulb directly above sam's head. sparks and shattered glass spray onto sam's prone form as he fires a single bullet, then bolts down the hall for the door. )
[ clipped words, like a razor's edge; there it is again, that bare-faced aggression compacted through pressure and circumstance like so many diamonds. rough-cut and glittering, harder than steel.
(a distant, bygone memory of learning japanese proverbs in portuguese: "weaker dogs bark more often." later, he would come to understand that the lesson was meant to teach him humility and self-control in the face of a threat, but he'd talked and he'd talked and he'd talked during the subsequent spar regardlessγΌ taunts and jeers and provocations to match the clash of wooden swordsγΌ and didn't stop until his opponent broke their shinai against the wall and stormed off in a shaking rage.
his father'd kicked his ass for it. sam didn't care. everything is a weapon if you let it be.)
felix barks. all teeth, under that smooth purr. a gunshot, and glass kaleidoscopes around sam, the bullet's ricochet just narrowly missing the curve of his cybernetic shoulder. the only thing he sees through the fragmented lights is felix's shape. ]
Unfortunately [ he drawls ], I've got a prior engagement.
[ a date with a non-devil. suddenly far less appealing than the promise of blood and banter exchanged with the man trying to kill his mark, but business is business.
the blade that he unsheathes, finally, glows ember-red in the dim hall. pneumatics hiss, and his enhanced gear pushes his steps faster, his strides longer, his speed impossible considering his bulk.
he meets felix at the door. a flick of his wrist upwards, and he reciprocates the broken lightbulb treatment: the tip of his sword cutting fluorescents neatly in half, showering felix in retribution for the glass bits caught in sam's hair. petty bitch. ]
( in the following weeks, ortez only asks about sam once.
"he's no one," felix answers, rigidly. he fidgets restlessly on a bed in their small, dingy apartment ( bottom floor at ortez's insistence ) as ortez sits next to him, knee touching knee, expertly taping his cracked ribs. "just a fucking merc. our competition." no one of value. no one of note. no name to be given when ortez inevitably asks that question, too, because felix doesn't want his name circling his mouth the same way he's got him circling his brain every fucking night, like something feline and toothy.
he tries to withdraw the surprise cash drop from his account and burn it in the fucking street. ortez β again, a man eternally on point, well-versed in the art of wrangling felix into some vague form of feral obedience β immediately vetoes this incredibly spiteful, stupid idea and instead uses the money for a month's rent.
felix promptly decides he hates him for his practicality. then he decides he hates him even more for a single moment, two and a half weeks after their botched job, when ortez grips him gently by the throat and tilts his face toward a dusty stream of gauzy lamplight. he skims an armored thumb beneath the diffused curl of felix's lashes, ghosting over his temple into his hairline. felix can't see his face, not past the cold glare from his faceplate, but he knows he's watching him intently.
"i've never seen you cry," he says. it feels like a threat. it feels like being seen. it feels like an echoing consequence of his weakness.
( only human. )
he leaves, to fetch their next month's rent on his own. felix splits his knuckles on the bathroom mirror.
four weeks later, ribs and shoulder ( and knuckles ) mostly healed: felix stands at his rendezvous in a dilapidated parking garage one kilometer outside the epicenter of the city, waiting for his nameless contact. his mark: another wannabe gangster because this city breeds them like rabbits, holed up in a club behind the relative safety of his own personal guard, who already caught wind of this rumored bounty and allegedly changed his fucking face to stall the inevitable. the shit dirty money and technology can buy.
felix looks down at his phone and flits through a wealth of pictures and detailed information on identifying marks. they have an in to the club; ortez is already there, seated at the bar, nursing an untouched whiskey sour.
somewhere in the parking garage, shattered glass cracks underfoot. felix freezes, lifting his eyes toward the source. his contact slinks from the shadows with all the clandestine grace of a fucking panther, and on reflex, felix nearly goes for the knife in his boot.
motherfucker. of course. )
Welcome home, honey. ( an icy callback, as felix pockets his phone and stares the subject of his nightly dreams for the past month and a half right in his goddamn face. he doesn't blink. ) You're late.
[ there's always been a murderousness to sam's play; an open-fanged sharpness precluding him from remaining in human company, lest he bite too hard. the weeks subsequent to his anomalous "gift" is spent, as always, in isolation, and sam fills his days with all the bones and offal that this bloated city decides to scatter.
death, and more death. showers in strange motels, and the memory of teeth breaking his skin. in the quiet of his solitude, sam contemplates the reality of only knowing felix from his front. most people are content with their ignorance, complacent in the comforting knowledge that it's so often impossible to know anything or anyone fully, and luxuriating in their half-assedness; sam is fine with this, too, for the most part.
if only felix hasn't left him wanting, that fucking demon.
so. he traces. tracks, and takes advantage of the way this planet is built to use and abuse intergalatic refugees like them. sniffs out shit jobs, high-risk and low-return. looks for aliases and mentions of mercs who work in pairs, and hums under his breath when something fits the bill.
which brings him to here, to now. t-shirt, dark olive pants. hair, always in that messy tie-up that still manages to cascade over the planes of his scarred face. katana.
his bare hand falls at his hip. picturesque, sam tips his head: "what, me?" ]
Or you're early. [ actually yeah, he's fucking late. asshole. ] Don't pout, the night's still young.
[ so many hours left, so many opportunities for felix to stab a motherfucker in the back. the grey-green of the garage's lights make sam look more vague, obscure, and he keeps it that way; three yards away, and scrutinizing. ] Your better half? [ "he's in already?" ]
( also felix: three yards away, and scrutinizing. his shoulder twinges sharply, a phantom pain. )
He's in. ( he shaves the bitter ice from his tone, masterfully chipping down its serrated edges into malleable and comfortable disconnect, and slides his hands into his jacket pockets for a lack of anything better to do. not used to empty, unweighted hands. not used to lingering stillness. ) Probably sulking at the bar, looking broody and mysterious.
( probably wondering what the fuck is taking felix so long, too. actually not his fault this time.
he doesn't bother asking or stating the obvious. you planned this, you motherfucker. you set this up. karma isn't that obvious, nor is the universe β or any universe, for that matter β that convenient. sam tracked him like he was another fucking mark with a fat bounty over his head and drew an educated conclusion based on felix's haphazard patterns, then took a shot in the dark, just to fuck with him. could kill him in the breadth of a heartbeat, but he doesn't. hasn't. table scraps. child's play.
fuck mercs, felix thinks spitefully, and snags his cigarettes from his pocket, knocking a stick into his palm. he watches sam from behind a wispy coil of cigarette smoke, exhaling through his nose. his eyes drift slowly, outlining the strong length of his body in the half-dark and pausing momentarily on his katana. always on his hip. consistent, like the rest of him, and yet.
he scatters ash onto the concrete. psychotic motherfuckers, every single one of them.
finally: )
I don't bite.
( he's stonestill, dressed in stupid tight black denim that he will undoubtedly have to be forcibly peeled out of later and a white t-shirt. against all odds, under every infuriatingly clean and trim article of clothing: armed to the teeth. plenty of time for violent, deranged backstabbing later, promise. )
Perhaps. This one is aware that pain can release various chemicals that can be associated with other reactions, such as pleasure and arousal. However for this one I have no such chemical response. This one only knows what would equate to discomfort when exposed to negative stimuli.
what, then? my gnarly temper? my tendency to stab first, ask questions later? ppl are sick they'll fuck you even if you got raging unchecked mh issues or should i say especially if you got raging unchecked mh issues
not me tho i'm perfectly normal just a regular guy doing regular guy shit
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ephemera.
cont.
don't get it twisted young blood
90% of your charm is localized in your adorable face
omw
( as soon as he can throw on enough clothes to be somewhat presentable. he manages trousers, a belt, and a partially tucked in shirt, all clean and wrinkle-free, a miracle directly parallel to the second coming of christ. isaac gates, not looking a total hot mess after a wild night of blackout drinking. even his hair is agreeing with him this morning.
he didn't take anyone back to his room either, so. points for him. someone might even mistake him for a respectable member of society.
the lift is out. he takes the stairs two at a time, through the door into a dimly lit hallway, and knocks on ephemera's door. three quick knocks followed by three slow knocks, then another rapid three. he rattles the handle for good measure. sos. let him in. )
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[ Ephemera's twitchy out of armor. Might have slept on the floor with his hand on his pistol. Might have startled awake more often than not. Might have averaged a good four hours of sleep - which, with his track record, is pretty good these days. He's got a sweatshirt on and Felix's knives lined up on the dresser. Sharpened, too.
He's nice like that. And it kept him from vibrating out of his skin. Today's shaping up to be a bad pain day, so.
That's fun.
He rubs at his bad eye, knuckling into the eyepatch. No prosthetic today, either. Yay. ]
C'mon. Wanna take odds on whether the food's actually edible here?
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Stop that, asshole. Boots first, food later.
( he is very much barefoot.
the door kicks shut behind him. he squeezes past ephemera and sits at the edge of the bed, working his feet into his boots one at a time and nimbly tying his laces. criss-crossed all the way to the ankle, then wrapped once around the shaft, the extra slack tucked tight into the back of the boot. uniform. more instinct.
he talks while he works. )
Did anyone give you shit last night?
( sometimes that happens when felix starts a scene and ephemera has to bail him out. )
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Cw for self harm
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price.
cont.
i think you're plenty dangerous price
just not in the conventional way
Re: price.
[He hopes this came out at least a tenth as patronizing as he meant it.]
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don't sass me motherfucker
you're lucky locus insisted that i not punt you out a fucking airlock
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enemies to enemies.
sam discards the papers. piecemeal and one by one, in trashcans and sewer grates that he passes on his way to the hot zone. uninterested, mostly, in his employer's justifications; more interested in who might be on the other side of this questionable hustle.
(his mark is a piece of shit. better served as blood on his blade and an afterthought in this city's long history of non-organized crime, but heyγΌ this isn't his world, and its stakes aren't his. neither is its karma. that's one bitch he's not interested in putting his mouth on.)
the building he's meant to raid is a gaudy high-rise just on the byline of where new money meets no money, a kiss and a hug and a big fuck-you to everyone who has to look at it on their way home to their run-down five-story concrete chicken pens. wrapped in his cybernetic exosuit that strangely leaves less to the imagination than more, sam quite literally cleaves his way up to one of the higher floors via stairwell (not even the penthouse suite, this dude is really a low-rent version of whatever mafia don he's trying to emulate) and steps out into the red-lit hall.
not bloody, and unbowed. in the event that he sees a not-quite-stranger also slithering out from the shadows on the other side: ]
We have to stop meeting like this. [ sword sheathed, and smiling. missed him, goldilocks? ]
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his current objective sits pretty in an opulent high-rise on the perimeter of the city. a spoiled prince in an ivory tower left bizarrely unguarded as felix leisurely strolls past a set of glass doors, straight into a dark and empty lobby. ortez, tracking his movement from his windowed post of a building half a klick away from felix's position, immediately voices his concern, like fucking clockwork. this isn't right, he says, into felix's earpiece. you should've rigged up. felix's soft, blithe whistling effectively silences any of his remaining worries.
the bell at the front desk chimes under felix's hand, merrily jingling through the cavernous space. no one answers. not a peep from any shadowy corner, no fluorescent green lasers marking him for an untimely death. quiet. suspicious, lingering quiet.
so, logically, as one does when tasked with discretely butchering a man, felix takes the elevator.
he hikes himself onto the rail, back to rich mahogany panels, and idly picks his nails until the elevator lurches to a stop at his destination. the doors slide open, and gentle jazz and amber light flood into a searing red hall as felix steps from the compartment and finally discovers the source of the quiet: sam, smiling wolfishly, perfectly calm and centered. not a figment of his drunken imagination after all.
"felix," locus says, sharply. "sitrep. who is that? i don't have eyes on you. gates. isaac, goddamnitβ"
felix turns off his earpiece with a brush of his thumb. daddy's busy. )
You dress up in your Sunday best for little old me? Sam. ( his name is a vulgar purr out of his mouth, silkily stretched at the vowel. his eyes cut from sam to a door down the long corridor, an equal distance away from the both of them. ten paces. back to sam, knifelike. ) You really shouldn't have.
( a half-second for the silence to drop like a fucking bomb, a harbinger of things to come. he pulls his sidearm, whip-quick, angled for the lightbulb directly above sam's head. sparks and shattered glass spray onto sam's prone form as he fires a single bullet, then bolts down the hall for the door. )
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(a distant, bygone memory of learning japanese proverbs in portuguese: "weaker dogs bark more often." later, he would come to understand that the lesson was meant to teach him humility and self-control in the face of a threat, but he'd talked and he'd talked and he'd talked during the subsequent spar regardlessγΌ taunts and jeers and provocations to match the clash of wooden swordsγΌ and didn't stop until his opponent broke their shinai against the wall and stormed off in a shaking rage.
his father'd kicked his ass for it. sam didn't care. everything is a weapon if you let it be.)
felix barks. all teeth, under that smooth purr. a gunshot, and glass kaleidoscopes around sam, the bullet's ricochet just narrowly missing the curve of his cybernetic shoulder. the only thing he sees through the fragmented lights is felix's shape. ]
Unfortunately [ he drawls ], I've got a prior engagement.
[ a date with a non-devil. suddenly far less appealing than the promise of blood and banter exchanged with the man trying to kill his mark, but business is business.
the blade that he unsheathes, finally, glows ember-red in the dim hall. pneumatics hiss, and his enhanced gear pushes his steps faster, his strides longer, his speed impossible considering his bulk.
he meets felix at the door. a flick of his wrist upwards, and he reciprocates the broken lightbulb treatment: the tip of his sword cutting fluorescents neatly in half, showering felix in retribution for the glass bits caught in sam's hair. petty bitch. ]
Not sure if he's into threesomes, either.
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happy birthday jesus hope u like violence
jesus died so these two could sin, thank you jesus, happy birthday
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rodrigues.
"he's no one," felix answers, rigidly. he fidgets restlessly on a bed in their small, dingy apartment ( bottom floor at ortez's insistence ) as ortez sits next to him, knee touching knee, expertly taping his cracked ribs. "just a fucking merc. our competition." no one of value. no one of note. no name to be given when ortez inevitably asks that question, too, because felix doesn't want his name circling his mouth the same way he's got him circling his brain every fucking night, like something feline and toothy.
he tries to withdraw the surprise cash drop from his account and burn it in the fucking street. ortez β again, a man eternally on point, well-versed in the art of wrangling felix into some vague form of feral obedience β immediately vetoes this incredibly spiteful, stupid idea and instead uses the money for a month's rent.
felix promptly decides he hates him for his practicality. then he decides he hates him even more for a single moment, two and a half weeks after their botched job, when ortez grips him gently by the throat and tilts his face toward a dusty stream of gauzy lamplight. he skims an armored thumb beneath the diffused curl of felix's lashes, ghosting over his temple into his hairline. felix can't see his face, not past the cold glare from his faceplate, but he knows he's watching him intently.
"i've never seen you cry," he says. it feels like a threat. it feels like being seen. it feels like an echoing consequence of his weakness.
( only human. )
he leaves, to fetch their next month's rent on his own. felix splits his knuckles on the bathroom mirror.
four weeks later, ribs and shoulder ( and knuckles ) mostly healed: felix stands at his rendezvous in a dilapidated parking garage one kilometer outside the epicenter of the city, waiting for his nameless contact. his mark: another wannabe gangster because this city breeds them like rabbits, holed up in a club behind the relative safety of his own personal guard, who already caught wind of this rumored bounty and allegedly changed his fucking face to stall the inevitable. the shit dirty money and technology can buy.
felix looks down at his phone and flits through a wealth of pictures and detailed information on identifying marks. they have an in to the club; ortez is already there, seated at the bar, nursing an untouched whiskey sour.
somewhere in the parking garage, shattered glass cracks underfoot. felix freezes, lifting his eyes toward the source. his contact slinks from the shadows with all the clandestine grace of a fucking panther, and on reflex, felix nearly goes for the knife in his boot.
motherfucker. of course. )
Welcome home, honey. ( an icy callback, as felix pockets his phone and stares the subject of his nightly dreams for the past month and a half right in his goddamn face. he doesn't blink. ) You're late.
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death, and more death. showers in strange motels, and the memory of teeth breaking his skin. in the quiet of his solitude, sam contemplates the reality of only knowing felix from his front. most people are content with their ignorance, complacent in the comforting knowledge that it's so often impossible to know anything or anyone fully, and luxuriating in their half-assedness; sam is fine with this, too, for the most part.
if only felix hasn't left him wanting, that fucking demon.
so. he traces. tracks, and takes advantage of the way this planet is built to use and abuse intergalatic refugees like them. sniffs out shit jobs, high-risk and low-return. looks for aliases and mentions of mercs who work in pairs, and hums under his breath when something fits the bill.
which brings him to here, to now. t-shirt, dark olive pants. hair, always in that messy tie-up that still manages to cascade over the planes of his scarred face. katana.
his bare hand falls at his hip. picturesque, sam tips his head: "what, me?" ]
Or you're early. [ actually yeah, he's fucking late. asshole. ] Don't pout, the night's still young.
[ so many hours left, so many opportunities for felix to stab a motherfucker in the back. the grey-green of the garage's lights make sam look more vague, obscure, and he keeps it that way; three yards away, and scrutinizing. ] Your better half? [ "he's in already?" ]
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He's in. ( he shaves the bitter ice from his tone, masterfully chipping down its serrated edges into malleable and comfortable disconnect, and slides his hands into his jacket pockets for a lack of anything better to do. not used to empty, unweighted hands. not used to lingering stillness. ) Probably sulking at the bar, looking broody and mysterious.
( probably wondering what the fuck is taking felix so long, too. actually not his fault this time.
he doesn't bother asking or stating the obvious. you planned this, you motherfucker. you set this up. karma isn't that obvious, nor is the universe β or any universe, for that matter β that convenient. sam tracked him like he was another fucking mark with a fat bounty over his head and drew an educated conclusion based on felix's haphazard patterns, then took a shot in the dark, just to fuck with him. could kill him in the breadth of a heartbeat, but he doesn't. hasn't. table scraps. child's play.
fuck mercs, felix thinks spitefully, and snags his cigarettes from his pocket, knocking a stick into his palm. he watches sam from behind a wispy coil of cigarette smoke, exhaling through his nose. his eyes drift slowly, outlining the strong length of his body in the half-dark and pausing momentarily on his katana. always on his hip. consistent, like the rest of him, and yet.
he scatters ash onto the concrete. psychotic motherfuckers, every single one of them.
finally: )
I don't bite.
( he's stonestill, dressed in stupid tight black denim that he will undoubtedly have to be forcibly peeled out of later and a white t-shirt. against all odds, under every infuriatingly clean and trim article of clothing: armed to the teeth. plenty of time for violent, deranged backstabbing later, promise. )
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12 years later i'm so sorry
yoooo no sweat!!!
tfln (4)β
I'm not changing the date to accommodate your birthday.
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why the fuck not?
i only turn 30 once, locus
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Didn't change the date then. Don't plan to change it now.
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rodrigues.
cont.
( one sputtering swallow of whiskey later, with the most begrudging respect for that particularly perfect zinger: )
you didn't get your dick anywhere near this obscenely tight ass
worried i'll take it off?
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yeah, i could say i'm worried
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i'm a charitable guy
a paragon of saintly behavior
( a charitable guy who enjoys getting his dick wet. so self-sacrificing. )
but you do owe me
six.
x.
silly me, you're absolutely right
we don't like pain, do we, six?
but i also rly hate the dreaded l-word so those two scenarios feel equally awful to me
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Why do you dislike the word "love"?
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and tbf to you idt most people who are into pain would enjoy being set on fire
( felix sure wouldn't, personally. )
it's a very unpleasant word to say
makes me feel claustrophobic and shit
you ever love anyone?
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aristaeus.
x.
what, then? my gnarly temper? my tendency to stab first, ask questions later?
ppl are sick
they'll fuck you even if you got raging unchecked mh issues
or should i say especially if you got raging unchecked mh issues
not me tho
i'm perfectly normal
just a regular guy doing regular guy shit
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None of that.
I was thinking more along the lines of how you probably taste.
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darin.
x.
what, i can't inquire after the health of a friend?
here i am all genuinely concerned and shit
don't throw that back in my face
( friend, or merc to merc, old colleagues, frenemies, ongoing asset. )
what was it?
you throw down w the wrong drunk in some hole-in-the-wall bar? op gone sour? both?
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[ Call it what you will, Len doesn't trust anyone completely and that's just showbiz, baby. ]
Drunks, plural. That's what I get for leaving my knife at home.