I came to get hurt. Might as well do your worst to me.
Mar 11, 2021 2:06:15 GMT -5
murder likes this
Post by pretzelbender on Mar 11, 2021 2:06:15 GMT -5
Miles Lucky likes pain.
Infamously, he marvels at stories of the severed ears of artists, dead before he ever came into existence. He gnaws and scratches and pulls and rips. He bites, he chews. He takes as much as he gives. A vicious, charitable new God.
Miles Lucky likes pain. When he can see it. When it’s raised or opened, bruised from a congregation of blood under the skin. When he can look in a mirror and see it on his face, the swelling and the cuts and the busts, his lips, his nose. That’s when he likes it.
If it’s right there, in his gut, in his chest, in his head, not bleeding, or leaking, just digging a hole. Then he hates it. He fucking hates it.
Van Owen is a friend to him now. A rough ginger man, with a body of tattoos that cover scars with interesting stories that are only rivaled by sadistic techniques and facts floating in his head. They use special guns when slaughtering pigs. Have you ever heard of…?
He proves the red between his teeth, the fondness he has toward Miles, when he mauls a thumbtack bat into him. Ripping at his shoulders, digging into his back, drawing blood and laughing as he does so.
Miles remembers smiling then.
AQ is a clever guy, and Miles would agree to say so if he ever had to describe him to anyone. Clean, crisps, and perfectly capable of busting someone open. It’s a testament for the time spent in a sport that hasn’t always been kind to the older man.
All of his ironed suits, and he’s still capable of pouring onto the mat, their blood lingering a way that let’s miles look at them both from the outside, watching as barbed wired anal beads around a neck makes Kuntzo absolutely lose his mind.
STAGG. An underground spirit, living in a forest of gold. He swings as if it’s what his bones are made of. He doesn’t have horns, but he’ll bump heads with you like he does. When they have each other’s hands around their respectable throats, Miles feels a panic.
It’s a turning point, to fall twenty feet and have your spine harshly break your fall against speakers. Faced again and again with ancient forces, he feels his stomach sink when he’s barely able to get up, when the referee calls for the bell.
A grotesque display of abuse. He doesn’t lose. But he doesn’t win either.
It feels like a failure.
He’s able to admit that he underestimated the type of stuff Karen is made out of. He’s able to admit that he still doesn’t know. He’s faced plenty of people, people who tower over her, who can lift and toss her, people that didn’t put up as much of a fight as she does.
A mouthful of blood, stomping his fingers, the anxiety of his all ripping and scratching at his chest because he wants to feel it. His back is soaked. And when she screams as broken glass follows the line of her jaw, it’s not in an expression of pain, it’s in burial of it.
She eats it up, and he gets it then. With his fingers tangled in her hair, crimson mixed into the colors and the blondes, he gets it. There’s a longing in him holding her like this. He gets it. And he forgets why he hated her to begin with. He forgets why he wanted to hurt her, until he remembers.
Danny. Hovering above him. Danny. His strong hands, gripping the same piece of glass Miles had in his possession not too long ago. Danny. A genuine attempt, a sincere attempt, to drive the shard down into the throat of Miles.
Miles, holding off his murder, with two hands himself, feels it’s sweet. It’s almost romantic. The body of Karen, not too far away in a heap, as glass slices the hands of the wolf and creature. Their blood mingles and joins in warm drops upon his already leaking face.
When Miles takes in Danny's features with wide eyes and a wider smile, looking into the snarling, hateful expression of the man he very much loves, something absolutely twists in him.
He hears it. In the middle of his head, in the creases of his brain. He’s never heard it before - a call of the void, telling him to -
- let go.
----------I loved you, you fucking idiot.
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His hands are shaking.
Say something.
What are you doing?
He’s looking at himself.
Picking at himself.
Helped by the mirror of a new apartment he acquired from sweating and sobbing, facing his fears and signing his name. He has a place of his own, and it fills him with fear. Shaking hands, spreading apart the rip in his skin from a frustration filled headbutt, he watches his fingers open it up, and it’s erotic and neurotic.
A single drop trails and touches his nose. Blankly, his eyes meet his own, and he’s tired of being faced with himself, alone when he doesn’t want to be.
He had wanted to show her the new apartment he got. Wanted praise for it. Amira, absolutely spoiling him, building him up, depriving him of nothing, allowed him the curse of seclusion.
“I get you need your space,” in the same way someone says, I can’t be near you. His crazy eyes, shaking from adrenaline, the growl when he told her to gather her things, beaten and hurt, aching. She went back to Winchester, because she felt something within him that he needed to work out.
And he hated her for it.
He fucking hated her for it.
The suggestive curl of her lips, her ridiculously dark and goofy humor, the expectations she puts upon herself and others and her harshness when those expectations are not met. The way her skin reacts and bumps at his touch, how easily marked she is, how easy it is for her to bleed.
Her smells, the length and color of her hair. A manufactured sleepiness that makes her run her fingers through his hair without knowing her. Her dreamlike words, forgotten the next day, and the day after, and the day after. He has a collection of it all on a tape in his head. The salt of her skin, how brittle her nails could be.
Finding a coziness in his strangeness, and the steely places he occupies. Her sweat, her smell. He loves her. For all that he claims to love, for all that he wants to preserve for himself, he knows that if he were ever given the choice to grant immortality for a single being to watch the earth crumble, he would choose her.
And she left him alone anyway. Just for a bit, just for a couple of days, maybe a week, moments too long.
He should’ve locked her in a box when he had the chance.
“Then maybe it won’t be so bad,” he says to nobody, his words bouncing off the mirror and echoing in the bathroom. Filling the silence with his voice because for once, he craves anything other than quiet.
His dirty fingers, specked and caked with fluids, begin to pull at his lip, carefully peeling away the thin outer skin, bubbling up his own features until it spurts in surfacing drops.
“Pete’s sake”, he grumbles, moving his curls out of his face, wanting the wound on his forehead visible to him. It’s a battle of profanities, easy frustration and swallowed breaths that he begins to lose hold of. Moving his hair. Again. And again, And again. Until he bangs a fist against the sink.
Deciding. He decides. Taking out a small knife from his back pocket, one he created himself in a makeshift forge in a warehouse just a walk away, he decides. Looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, a parallel that tells him to mutilate his face for the laughs. He ignores it. He grabs a fistful of hair and begins to cut. Painful from pulling and sawing. Someone called his hair bouncy once and it’s a length that he holds pride for, a pride that he couldn’t see as he assaulted his head.
Locks and wisps fall to the floor and to the sink. His hands won’t stop shaking and he knicks the skin of his scalp and the back of his neck a few times as a result.
When his hair is short enough to see most of his face, something halts within him. Something absolutely ceases to exist. His hand is gripped tightly around the knife, knuckles white from the effort. His eyes are familiar, in a way that doesn’t belong to him. The pull of a frown. The disappearance of curls, into something ragged and waved.
Bless your children, they look just like you.
Yeah, them my boys.
I feel sorry for them! Haha.
And then he leaves the bathroom. He hates when his mind wonders, and it’s just a reminder that he is. Alone. Abandoned for the moment. Confronted in his possessiveness. How could he say those things to him? How could he let himself he pushed and pulled and manipulated emotionally like this. He hates it, but maybe he wants it.
Into the meat of the studio apartment. The age of the walls and floor are hidden by carpet, and ugly wallpaper. There is no bed, nothing, but a couch that the Dog is lounging on lazily. She sees his hair as he approaches, rolling her eyes at the newest look brought about by sobbing turmoil.
She doesn’t look at him when he comes to sit to her left. She thinks nothing of it, when he’s silent. His eyes are trained ahead in a near state of shock. She sneezes and huffs at his presence, relaxing for a moment before he starts screaming.
Screaming. Screaming. Holding his chest and screeching in horror. At something that isn’t there, alerting her to search the room with eyes that keep off of him for the moment. He doesn’t care that she’s nervous.
It dawned on him. It dawned on him and he couldn’t stop screaming. He clutches at his chest, the scabs shifting and opening, staining the inside of his shirt. Then, his breath catches in his throat and his eyes water, large and terrified. Because it dawned on him. Knife still in his grip, it dawned on him. He looks down at the small weapon as the Dog tries to relax, staring at him in the newfound silence they found. She closes her eyes and huffs again, believing the worst has come to pass.
It dawned on him.
He shifts the knife in his hand.
It dawned on him.
He raises the knife.
It dawned on him. He’s absolutely miserable.
And he drives it down into his thigh, to the hilt. The Dog jumps up and looks at him, shocked. It’s not a large knife, but she has never known him to be someone to participate in self-harm. His need for survival is too great.
Isn’t it?
When he pulls the knife from his thigh, the blood immediately pulling out of the small slice of his jeans and behind the fabric, he pauses and watches for a moment.
When he drives the knife down again, she begins barking. When he raises it once more, she’s snarling. He gets one more stab and pulls into himself before the strong jaws of the animal sinks into the meat of his arm, making him drop the knife.
He turns all of that anger, misery and destruction all toward her.
He scrambles to his feet, falling under the pain he created for himself, dragging the Dog to the floor with him as she refused to let go. He hits her repeatedly in the head, the body, anything to get her jaws to release.
“Let me go, you fucking bitch!” He roars into her face during his crawl on the floor to the door, dragging both of their bodies to the front door. Blood trails from a single leg on the fresh carpet behind him. She pulls and shakes his arm, trying to keep her and him both in place with her chubby body.
However, when he makes it to the front door, harshly swinging his arm against the wall, her head following and making impact after impact, she has no choice but to let go.
When he’s finally free from her grip, he grabs the skin of her neck, making her yelp out as he opens the door from down on his knees and tosses her out. Slamming the door.
“Go fucking die somewhere! Leave me the fuck alone!” He yells at the door before sitting against it, sobs wracking his body as he realizes the damage he’s caused to himself, as he realizes how much he likes it.
The Dog barks on the other side and doesn’t stop until the tears in his eyes dry out. He sits there pathetically.
He likes pain. And knowing it now, just like he remembered why. Why he puts himself through so much abuse. Why he spreads himself out. The same reason why he didn’t tell her that he didn’t want to be alone. Why he didn’t explain himself to him. Why he signed a fucking lease. For the same reason, when he traced the sharpness of glass against the skin of a jaw -
- Miles Lucky likes hurting himself.
Infamously, he marvels at stories of the severed ears of artists, dead before he ever came into existence. He gnaws and scratches and pulls and rips. He bites, he chews. He takes as much as he gives. A vicious, charitable new God.
Miles Lucky likes pain. When he can see it. When it’s raised or opened, bruised from a congregation of blood under the skin. When he can look in a mirror and see it on his face, the swelling and the cuts and the busts, his lips, his nose. That’s when he likes it.
If it’s right there, in his gut, in his chest, in his head, not bleeding, or leaking, just digging a hole. Then he hates it. He fucking hates it.
“Has anyone ever died in here?”
“In here?”
“I mean anywhere in here.”
“Oh, sure.”
Van Owen is a friend to him now. A rough ginger man, with a body of tattoos that cover scars with interesting stories that are only rivaled by sadistic techniques and facts floating in his head. They use special guns when slaughtering pigs. Have you ever heard of…?
He proves the red between his teeth, the fondness he has toward Miles, when he mauls a thumbtack bat into him. Ripping at his shoulders, digging into his back, drawing blood and laughing as he does so.
Miles remembers smiling then.
“Are the walls thick?”
“Sure thing.”
“Because maybe-”
“I hear you, buddy. They won’t.”
AQ is a clever guy, and Miles would agree to say so if he ever had to describe him to anyone. Clean, crisps, and perfectly capable of busting someone open. It’s a testament for the time spent in a sport that hasn’t always been kind to the older man.
All of his ironed suits, and he’s still capable of pouring onto the mat, their blood lingering a way that let’s miles look at them both from the outside, watching as barbed wired anal beads around a neck makes Kuntzo absolutely lose his mind.
“Storage? Is there any?”
“Sure, it’s a walk away.”
“A walk away?”
“Storage units. Rental. A walk away. Not too far. Just a walk.”
STAGG. An underground spirit, living in a forest of gold. He swings as if it’s what his bones are made of. He doesn’t have horns, but he’ll bump heads with you like he does. When they have each other’s hands around their respectable throats, Miles feels a panic.
It’s a turning point, to fall twenty feet and have your spine harshly break your fall against speakers. Faced again and again with ancient forces, he feels his stomach sink when he’s barely able to get up, when the referee calls for the bell.
A grotesque display of abuse. He doesn’t lose. But he doesn’t win either.
It feels like a failure.
“What sort of people are around? Young, old, a lot of kids, or…?”
“What’s the demographic?”
“Yes.”
“The sort of people we have around are people like you.”
A mouthful of blood, stomping his fingers, the anxiety of his all ripping and scratching at his chest because he wants to feel it. His back is soaked. And when she screams as broken glass follows the line of her jaw, it’s not in an expression of pain, it’s in burial of it.
She eats it up, and he gets it then. With his fingers tangled in her hair, crimson mixed into the colors and the blondes, he gets it. There’s a longing in him holding her like this. He gets it. And he forgets why he hated her to begin with. He forgets why he wanted to hurt her, until he remembers.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Sure, let’s get the paperwork settled.”
Danny. Hovering above him. Danny. His strong hands, gripping the same piece of glass Miles had in his possession not too long ago. Danny. A genuine attempt, a sincere attempt, to drive the shard down into the throat of Miles.
Miles, holding off his murder, with two hands himself, feels it’s sweet. It’s almost romantic. The body of Karen, not too far away in a heap, as glass slices the hands of the wolf and creature. Their blood mingles and joins in warm drops upon his already leaking face.
When Miles takes in Danny's features with wide eyes and a wider smile, looking into the snarling, hateful expression of the man he very much loves, something absolutely twists in him.
He hears it. In the middle of his head, in the creases of his brain. He’s never heard it before - a call of the void, telling him to -
“Pleasure doing business with you Mr.______.”
- let go.
----------I loved you, you fucking idiot.
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His hands are shaking.
Say something.
What are you doing?
He’s looking at himself.
Picking at himself.
Helped by the mirror of a new apartment he acquired from sweating and sobbing, facing his fears and signing his name. He has a place of his own, and it fills him with fear. Shaking hands, spreading apart the rip in his skin from a frustration filled headbutt, he watches his fingers open it up, and it’s erotic and neurotic.
A single drop trails and touches his nose. Blankly, his eyes meet his own, and he’s tired of being faced with himself, alone when he doesn’t want to be.
He had wanted to show her the new apartment he got. Wanted praise for it. Amira, absolutely spoiling him, building him up, depriving him of nothing, allowed him the curse of seclusion.
“I get you need your space,” in the same way someone says, I can’t be near you. His crazy eyes, shaking from adrenaline, the growl when he told her to gather her things, beaten and hurt, aching. She went back to Winchester, because she felt something within him that he needed to work out.
And he hated her for it.
He fucking hated her for it.
The suggestive curl of her lips, her ridiculously dark and goofy humor, the expectations she puts upon herself and others and her harshness when those expectations are not met. The way her skin reacts and bumps at his touch, how easily marked she is, how easy it is for her to bleed.
Her smells, the length and color of her hair. A manufactured sleepiness that makes her run her fingers through his hair without knowing her. Her dreamlike words, forgotten the next day, and the day after, and the day after. He has a collection of it all on a tape in his head. The salt of her skin, how brittle her nails could be.
Finding a coziness in his strangeness, and the steely places he occupies. Her sweat, her smell. He loves her. For all that he claims to love, for all that he wants to preserve for himself, he knows that if he were ever given the choice to grant immortality for a single being to watch the earth crumble, he would choose her.
And she left him alone anyway. Just for a bit, just for a couple of days, maybe a week, moments too long.
He should’ve locked her in a box when he had the chance.
“Then maybe it won’t be so bad,” he says to nobody, his words bouncing off the mirror and echoing in the bathroom. Filling the silence with his voice because for once, he craves anything other than quiet.
His dirty fingers, specked and caked with fluids, begin to pull at his lip, carefully peeling away the thin outer skin, bubbling up his own features until it spurts in surfacing drops.
“Pete’s sake”, he grumbles, moving his curls out of his face, wanting the wound on his forehead visible to him. It’s a battle of profanities, easy frustration and swallowed breaths that he begins to lose hold of. Moving his hair. Again. And again, And again. Until he bangs a fist against the sink.
Deciding. He decides. Taking out a small knife from his back pocket, one he created himself in a makeshift forge in a warehouse just a walk away, he decides. Looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, a parallel that tells him to mutilate his face for the laughs. He ignores it. He grabs a fistful of hair and begins to cut. Painful from pulling and sawing. Someone called his hair bouncy once and it’s a length that he holds pride for, a pride that he couldn’t see as he assaulted his head.
Locks and wisps fall to the floor and to the sink. His hands won’t stop shaking and he knicks the skin of his scalp and the back of his neck a few times as a result.
----------And now I have to fucking hurt you.
When his hair is short enough to see most of his face, something halts within him. Something absolutely ceases to exist. His hand is gripped tightly around the knife, knuckles white from the effort. His eyes are familiar, in a way that doesn’t belong to him. The pull of a frown. The disappearance of curls, into something ragged and waved.
Bless your children, they look just like you.
Yeah, them my boys.
I feel sorry for them! Haha.
And then he leaves the bathroom. He hates when his mind wonders, and it’s just a reminder that he is. Alone. Abandoned for the moment. Confronted in his possessiveness. How could he say those things to him? How could he let himself he pushed and pulled and manipulated emotionally like this. He hates it, but maybe he wants it.
Into the meat of the studio apartment. The age of the walls and floor are hidden by carpet, and ugly wallpaper. There is no bed, nothing, but a couch that the Dog is lounging on lazily. She sees his hair as he approaches, rolling her eyes at the newest look brought about by sobbing turmoil.
She doesn’t look at him when he comes to sit to her left. She thinks nothing of it, when he’s silent. His eyes are trained ahead in a near state of shock. She sneezes and huffs at his presence, relaxing for a moment before he starts screaming.
Screaming. Screaming. Holding his chest and screeching in horror. At something that isn’t there, alerting her to search the room with eyes that keep off of him for the moment. He doesn’t care that she’s nervous.
It dawned on him. It dawned on him and he couldn’t stop screaming. He clutches at his chest, the scabs shifting and opening, staining the inside of his shirt. Then, his breath catches in his throat and his eyes water, large and terrified. Because it dawned on him. Knife still in his grip, it dawned on him. He looks down at the small weapon as the Dog tries to relax, staring at him in the newfound silence they found. She closes her eyes and huffs again, believing the worst has come to pass.
It dawned on him.
He shifts the knife in his hand.
It dawned on him.
He raises the knife.
It dawned on him. He’s absolutely miserable.
And he drives it down into his thigh, to the hilt. The Dog jumps up and looks at him, shocked. It’s not a large knife, but she has never known him to be someone to participate in self-harm. His need for survival is too great.
Isn’t it?
When he pulls the knife from his thigh, the blood immediately pulling out of the small slice of his jeans and behind the fabric, he pauses and watches for a moment.
When he drives the knife down again, she begins barking. When he raises it once more, she’s snarling. He gets one more stab and pulls into himself before the strong jaws of the animal sinks into the meat of his arm, making him drop the knife.
He turns all of that anger, misery and destruction all toward her.
----------Be safe.
He scrambles to his feet, falling under the pain he created for himself, dragging the Dog to the floor with him as she refused to let go. He hits her repeatedly in the head, the body, anything to get her jaws to release.
“Let me go, you fucking bitch!” He roars into her face during his crawl on the floor to the door, dragging both of their bodies to the front door. Blood trails from a single leg on the fresh carpet behind him. She pulls and shakes his arm, trying to keep her and him both in place with her chubby body.
However, when he makes it to the front door, harshly swinging his arm against the wall, her head following and making impact after impact, she has no choice but to let go.
When he’s finally free from her grip, he grabs the skin of her neck, making her yelp out as he opens the door from down on his knees and tosses her out. Slamming the door.
“Go fucking die somewhere! Leave me the fuck alone!” He yells at the door before sitting against it, sobs wracking his body as he realizes the damage he’s caused to himself, as he realizes how much he likes it.
The Dog barks on the other side and doesn’t stop until the tears in his eyes dry out. He sits there pathetically.
He likes pain. And knowing it now, just like he remembered why. Why he puts himself through so much abuse. Why he spreads himself out. The same reason why he didn’t tell her that he didn’t want to be alone. Why he didn’t explain himself to him. Why he signed a fucking lease. For the same reason, when he traced the sharpness of glass against the skin of a jaw -
----------For the record, I still love you.
----------But I can’t let this go unanswered.
- Miles Lucky likes hurting himself.