ʙɪᴋᴇʀ ʙᴏʏ

        Panic, fear, the screaming in the back of his skull making the air want to escape and seize all at once and he’s so desperate to run, but he can’t. Everything felt so loud and primal instinct was kicking into gear, heating the back of his eyes making everything hot, when suddenly there was silence. The blood was rushing into his ears and there was nothing but heavy strained breathing filling the space, and he feels such a sense of reprieve from it all that forehead slums onto the cool ground in relief. 

       Nose fills with the smell of dirt, sweat and blood, but he makes sure to bring shaking gaze up to the man who held far too much power. Eyes were still defiant, but the terror hadn’t left them, and he listens with calm attention to every motion Sly makes, so when he speaks, there is more silence and a look he couldn’t quite place. Shock? Surprise? His answer is expectedly unexpected, but predictable in such a way that took Myles off guard. 

        So it starts small and begins to bubble up into a laughter that pains his shoulders as they shook, skin flushed from dumbfounded delight than the exhausted fear it was prior, and it hurts the nape of his neck so head slumps back into the cool floor before snapping up to look Sly in the face as best he can. 

       “Making me chose one prison for another? How dreadful of you. You condemn me either way… but it’s a deal. I won’t even bother to negotiate any terms because I know I’m not going to be worth the complications that you and your group is going to suffer because of it.” Laughter once again bubbles from his throat, low and chaotic, he won’t try and move again unless he’s told. “Tell me, sir, am I worth the life and pride of every man in this room? I don’t think I am.” 

「 As he stares down at his captive, he briefly wonders if that man feels the same when he exercises power over others. Sly can understand the appeal. He, too, likes having the things he fancies all in one place within hand’s reach. (Not quite enough, though.) His lip curls with absentminded disgust. 

     The truth is, he doesn’t like Myles Baida very much --- but he wouldn’t mind keeping him anyway. The truth also is, he’s acting solely on behalf of his family --- whatever he takes here, it’ll never be his. “I don’t think you understand what I mean.” He reaches out and traces the outline of the crude tattoo with his thumb. 

      He was not unused to confrontation; the brunt exchange of fists and ire. But of course, he typically expects it of those who had some inkling of who he was. Someone he’s scorned, or someone who wished to vent their frustrations on him – but regardless, still someone familiar. 

    He doesn’t see the fist until it was too late, and he’s knocked to the ground with the brutality of it. Stars litter his vision, and he’s blinking blearily up at into the distance – hand holding his cheek where knuckles collided. If he had made a sound upon impact, he doesn’t remember it.

    “Wh–” He’s coming to his senses, and strikingly blue eyes dart to his assailant. And then his brows furrow, and he’s snarling at him – angry, and his pride painfully bruised. “What the fuck!” He shouts, grimacing as his skin reddens and swells beneath his palm. He’s quickly springing to his feet (albeit a little clumsily as he reclaims his balance), and shifting into a defensive position. What kind of crazy person was he! 

     “You got a problem, asshole?!”

「 Spike watches the other intently, his eyes following every movement with the intent of a predator. It’s hard to be absolutely sure so early on, but he think he’s chosen correctly. It really is too bad he didn’t get the nose. An eye might have been good, too. Well, for the time being he’ll just have to make do with these lacklustre results. 

      Although, even if the punch hadn’t had the exact desired result, Spike still feels that familiar excitement and satisfaction bubbling up while his (victim? opponent?) prey scrambles to regain their senses. It had been a long while, he wouldn’t need much. His deformed lips curl into something that might have looked like a smile on any other person’s face and he flexes his fingers, deaf to the angry shouts. (They’re just as dull as the guy’s looks.) 

       well, this wasn’t what he expected, but he could work with it.   “…I didn’t mean it like, as a bad thing. Different is super cool! If you were normal you’d be super boring!”

I’m putting this blog on indefinite hiatus.

「 Spike doesn’t dwell on the past. He doesn’t dwell on the flames that took his mother and his skin (even if he hates what he sees in the mirror), he doesn’t dwell on the laughter of friends long gone (even if he keeps a collar with someone else’s name), and he sure as hell doesn’t dwell on suffering. So when a God appears and tells him he hasn’t suffered quite enough, he says nothing. His lips curl in disgust, baring teeth. (If not for the pain, he would have scoffed. Every haggard breath feels like it’s trying to tear his lungs apart, he can’t seem to move the fingers of his right hand, and his legs refuse to support his body.)

      The truth is, he’s afraid. Not of dying, not really; he never thought he would live this long in the first place. He doesn’t feel their fingertip against his marred skin, just knows it’s there, and not for the first time he wonders if it’s possible to kill a God. Even with half his body unresponsive and unfeeling, eyes locked with those of an entity that he knows he couldn’t begin to comprehend if he tried, he wonders what it’d be like if he lunged forward and tore out God’s throat with his teeth. For a moment, that impulsive desire burns brighter than any other, searing away at his insides.

     The truth is, he’s afraid—not of dying, nor of God, not really—and infuriating as it is, there are no lengths he wouldn’t go to just to avoid what he knows awaits him once time starts moving again. He would lower his head and clasp his hands and beg if he thought it’d make a difference, but he knows this God deals in retribution, not liberation.      (The fear goes deep, much deeper than anything he has ever known, but even now he hesitates; considers biting his own tongue and spitting in God’s face before bleeding out; but it won’t change that they found him and they got him and that it’s only a matter of time before they find Giraffe, too.)

「 You’re fucking drunk, is what Spike thinks to himself. He doesn’t say it. He stands by the door like a living statue, appearing completely unmoved as he peers at Myles in the darkness. (He thinks he can see a smear of blood on the other’s neck in the dim light from the other side of the door, but his eyes are still adjusting so he can’t be sure.)     Spike has only seen Myles drunk once, which is enough to know how erratic he gets when intoxicated, but not enough to know if alcohol alone is to blame for this. He doesn’t know what Myles is going on about – and frankly, he doesn’t care. He can hear Myles’ breathing, can hear the strenuous effort it takes him to keep it under control, and it stirs something in his gut. When he steps forward, leaving the door slightly ajar, it’s not out of kindness.