// WRATH OF THE GODS !

…        HE’S  NO  ONE.       the  rotting  insides  of  lawrence  are  masked  by  human  skin        (        mold  has  grown  into  the  fibers  of  his  lungs,      black  spots  over  organs  that  should  gleam  red   :       the  geography  of  his  body,    every  slope  of  broken  bone  and  lake  of  wolf’s  blood,     was  rendered  in  the  darkness  of  self  -  rot        …        he  knits  himself  into  unscathed  skin  and  ignores  the  wound  where  his  leg  once  was        ).        he  doesn’t  even  flinch  when  scott  bleeds  blasphemy  into  his  holy  office,    that’s  how  deeply  his  human  skin  sits  around  his  skin.     he  doesn’t  clasp  his  human  hands  into  prayer  and  beg  for  unnamed  forgiveness   :       scott  is  dirt  upon  dirt  upon  dirt  and  he  spits  vehement  stains  over  john  kramer’s  name.      as  if  he’s  worth  anything        …        as  if  he  knows  anything.        ‘   you  talk  about  the  same  man  as  if  he  can  be  split.    he’s  jigsaw  and  he’s  john  kramer.     to  separate  them  is  to  create       …       i  won’t  bore  you  with  too  many  words.     you’re  idiotic  for  believing  one  to  not  be  the  other.   ’

scott  pretends  he  rages  against  the  machine  but  can  barely  name  the  machine  that  sparks  this  telltale  anger  inside  of  him      (       he  is  another  outline  of   a  boy  without  the  spaces  filled  in   :        he  exists  as  nothing,   as  no  one,   another  faded  mark  from  shaking  hands      …       blight  would  attribute  him  too  much  control  over  his  environment       ).        BLIGHT  WOULD  PRETEND  SCOTT  WAS  ANYTHING  BUT  A  STANDARD  NUISANCE.      he  isn’t  smart  enough  to  present  as  formidable,    but  even  idiots  can  be  threats   :      he’s  a  child  playing  dress  up  with  only  his  anger  to  guide  him.     lawrence  would  feel  pity  if  annoyance  wasn’t  swelling  in  his  chest.      his  shoulders  roll  back  again,    muffling  a  sigh  between  the  crease  of  his  lips.

a  hand  is  thrust  into  his  face,    the  marred  wrist  shining  below  his  gaze        (        lawrence  has  never  watched  the  documentary,    but  his  little  circle  of  lost  lambs  enjoy  their  chatter   :       a  self  -  made  jigsaw  victim,     they’d  all  sneered  in  careful  unison,     as  if  their  trauma  was  something  that  could  be  homegrown        …       a  quick  recipe  on  how  to  recreate  what  had  torn  them  apart,     the  disease  of  their  specialness  gripping  at  them        ).         ‘   you  think  that’s  what  it  takes  to  be  a  survivor?    a  few scars,   scott?     you’ve  deluded  even  yourself.      take  a  seat  again.   ’

He’d stitched himself into the seams of a story he had not been written into. With threads of blood and persistence, he’d been woven into a narrative he had once only observed. But a passive audience member Scott Tibbs was not; he could pretend all he wanted that he was doing this for his friend, but even he knew the need for stardom rot at his core. He was a child’s drawing, scrawled in thick and unpractised hand over bloody and beautiful oil canvas. Self-inserted and out of place, the scars that plagued his skin were testaments only to ignorance, nothing more than a waste of flesh.

Alice truly didn’t know how deep the rabbit hole went when she began her descent, and still Scott was tumbling down into the dark. There’s a need, a desire so hot and bright in the back of his throat and in the pits of his stomach, to prove himself. To who? To Lawrence? To John Kramer? To himself? A sickly green rest in the seas of his wild hues, an envy that stained itself over each name he devoured in his research. Barely anyone made it. Adam hadn’t made it. But HE could. Scott could, Lawrence could. Maybe the need to certify his survival to the SURVIVED is what dragged him back to the foot of the doctor, more than the thirst for answers.

It’s certainly what breeds bitter taste on tongue as Lawrence continues to dismiss him. The thrusted limb retracts, man tucking his sleeve back over he skin and complies with all the enthusiasm of a sulking teen. He finds himself back in the chair, body slumping with frustration as he fights every call in his body to smash something again. How DARE he.

“I’ve survived more than half those fuckers out there! I faced a challenge and I got through it; I fucking BLED and in the face of adversity I got myself outta there. I’m a survivor, just as much as you or any of you motherfuckers in that fucking group.” His words are poker-hot, branding Scott Tibbs patent frustration in rising tone. His anger would tear him apart, his frustration would destroy him, the rage would consume; it had already began to decay the flesh, leaving palms clasp together and shaking in uncoordinated prayer.

You’re either ALIVE or you’re NOTHING. Here the two men sat opposed, hearts beating, blood pumping, the ghost of distain haunting brow as they struggled even to meet each other’s gaze. What was this? The smallest part of Scott’s brain, the last remaining blob of grey matter than had not been consumed by his wrath, considered that perhaps this was one of those many stages of grief. He’d never looked into it at all, only hearing in passing. This awful acid bubbling on his tongue had to be one of them, right? Was this one denial? Or bargaining?

“I survived. I’m alive- so what if it wasn’t Jigsaw, John- whatever the fuck you wanna call that old fucker- I still made it. That’s SOMETHING.” Alive and something. He huffs, sigh blooming fire in his breath as it burns in his throat, “Just--- let me come to the group. Just once. Let me check it out, and I’ll leave you the fuck alone. – It’s not like you have any answers anyway.”

ADAM WAS STILL DEAD, he was fooling himself if he thought that debating with Lawrence further could change that. It was fruitless to try and find the corpse of the man in the decay of the doctor’s story. Adam wasn’t coming back. He looks away quickly, bringing bruised knuckle to lips in contemplation. The inferno that had raged between them had been tempered by the blonde’s words. A shakey breath was the tell-tale signs of flame dwindling. Maybe this really was bargaining, but Lawrence had nothing to offer.

SCOTT  PILGRIM  VS  TOXIC  MASCULINITY   :      FIGHT.        his  current  hp  stores  were  high,    thanks  to  him  not  yet  taking  a  sip  of  the  drink      (      and  it  would  remain  in  his  hand  for  the  next  fifteen  pages  before  miraculously  disappearing  due  to  the  laziness  of  the  comic  book  artists  tasked  with  this  specific  issue        …      what?    they’re  overworked,    take  your  complaints  elsewhere      –      besides,    every  good  story  needed  a  disappearing  drink  that’ll  reappear  later  for  dramatic  effect        ).      turns  out  scott  tibbs  was  the  kind  of  person  that  could  only  be  rendered  in  terms  of  comic  books  and  real  life,    fiction  melting  with  the  assholes  you  find  in  every  bar.     the  kind  of  huge  dickhead  that  was  only  brave  when  alcohol  stained  his  teeth   :      he  was  like  if  gideon  graves  had  a  younger  brother  without  any  of  the  charisma.      NOT  THAT  GIDEON  HAD  ANY  CHARISMA.      ‘   dude,   you’re,   like,   disgusting.   ’

ZINGER!     the  comic  book  artists  focus  on  a  scene  just  beyond  scott,    where  a  tired  old  bartender  with  a  story  for  a  heart  rubs  down  at  the  crusty  bar,     brushing  peanut  crumbs  to  the  floor      (      the  reason  we’re  not  focusing  on  the  two  scotts  is  because  this  scene  has  become  hard  to  watch        ).      ‘   i  know  because  she  has,   like,   taste.    and  dignity.   and  a  working  sense  of  smell.       and      –      dude,    this  list  can  go  on  and  on.   ’         there  are  very  few  spots  in  scott’s  life  that  he  would  call  sensitive  or  sore   :       he  strives  to  be  as  chill  as  any  other  empty  -  headed  dude  in  his  twenties.      but  kim  was  kim.

He had prodded the buzzing little nest that was Scott’s mind a bit too hard, or just hard enough, for the swarm of scathing words to come hurtling out. Each sting brings with a private joy; his goading coming to fruition as the other attempts to spew venom at the viper himself. It’s the most entertainment he’d had all night; watching the awkward little mouse pull itself apart before the big cat and attempt to show its guts- as if it were not the exact treat the feline had been waiting for.

The attempt leaves Scott spluttering a buzz of laughter between lips. He pretends to hold it back as he looks around to see if anyone ELSE saw just how embarrassing that must have been for the Canadian. “She has taste huh? Yeah, a taste for these nuts on her chin.” He grins with that Cheshire smile; he is only playing- but perhaps a game that is less than favourable to the unwitting participant.

He toys with the next steps, the possibility of direction as he drains the last of his drink. Does he play it off, call his hand and leave the other be? Does he implore the dealer to continue these hits? Or does he start hitting back?  “Dude, like you can fucking talk I can smell that whack-ass breath from back stage. It’s the only thing that stinks more than your music. Which is pretty hard to do considering how much you guys suck.”

…         HE  EYES  HER  AS  IF  SHE  IS  LIVESTOCK   :        he  takes  her  apart  into  segments        (       the  body  and  the  face  and  the  lips  and  the  hair,      rendered  only  in  terms  of  physicality        …         would  you  like  to  see  under  these  clothes?       beneath  bone  and  sinew,    where  rot  and  blackened  honey  lies,    there  is  no  girl  left  here        ).      she  is  used  to  crawling  eyes  and  men  with  wolf  -  tamed  jaws  trying  to  lick  the  rot  from  between  her  lungs.    she  notices  and  she  does  not  cast  judgement   :       to  judge  him  would  be  to  judge  humanity.

SCOTT  TIBBS,   AN  ANATOMY  LESSON   :        he  has  wolfish  paws  that  speak  to  a  nature  beyond  the  rockstar,      one  of  grassy  nooks  and  pack  dynamics        (        communities  always  needed  a  leader,     the  singular  beast  that  prowls  with  its  thorned  crown        …         had  jesus  worn  a  thorned  crown  when  time  slashed  his  wrists?       animals  are  circular  creatures        ).       his  paw  smacks  down  against  her  chalkboard,    smearing  white  across  black,     letting  the  dust  settle  over  his  claws.      he  stalks  away  from  her  and  izzy  watches,   for  a  beat.     the  taunt  skin  of  his  back,     the  huddle  of  his  shoulders,    shaggy  hair  falling  over  his  neck.       she’s  unsure  as  to  whether  he’s  handsome  because  he’s  a  rockstar,    fanned  by  flames  and  fans,      or  because  he  is  a  self  -  made  god   :         perhaps  there’s  never  truly  been  a  difference.     but  the  truth  is  that  he  is  handsome,     cleansed  by  his  own  hands.       but  the  lamb  abhours  loneliness        (        a  pack  and  a  flock  are  largely  the  same,     even  when  one  would  devour  her  whole   :        she  closes  himself  into  a  community  and  pretends  it  does  not  feel  suffocating        ).        she  taps  chalk  against  her  board  and  wipes  away  the  smears  he  has  left  behind,    the  ruinous  intent  in  which  he’d  swallowed  her  words  whole.

she  has  no  choice  but  to  skip  -  walk  towards  him,    two  steps  for  every  one  of  his.    she  writes  in  anticipation   :        her  rockstar  doesn’t  seem  intent  to  listen.        ‘   did  i  do  something  wrong?   ’     she  scribbles  over  her  board.     loopy  and  soft,    she  twists  her  body  in  front  of  his,    tangling  herself  up  in  his  path.   the  board  is  held  up  level  with  her  head  to  make  sure  he  sees  it,    rocking  back  and  forth  on  fairytale  feet.      her  hands  tremble  around  the  chalkboard,    tugging  it  down  until  her  chin  can  notch  over  the  board.    the  lamb  is  pouting        (        confused  at  being  cast  out  so  readily,    a  child  sacrificed  to  the  night        …        her  own  behaviour  is  one  kissed  by  mystery,     self  -  reflection  impossible  to  do  without  the  reflection  of  a  mirror  to  ground  her        ).

Did these corridors get narrower? Did he get bigger?

 As Scott marches past the found lamb, he feels his skin burn.  Did it get hotter? Shutter-pale skin flushes pink under layers of dirt and grunge, a nauseous warmth rotting from stomach to chest, scribing swirling scrawl across sinew and scar. He needed air.

It had been the look in her eyes, beady and hungry; as if he had caught glimpse of the ravenous wolf that drowned itself in snowy fleece. For just a moment, as she gestured to wound, to weakness, with all the intent to devour.  It was not the type of hunger he wanted to see. It was not a hunger for his flesh, for his touch, for his taste; it was so something far deeper, for something he did not have to offer.

He did not fear her. He was not running from sunshine silent smile, he just needed some air. It had been the shock of it, had been struck off guard. He didn’t know why he bothered to come to these things anymore, the pack around him only content to mock in vicious grin. What a cute set up. Send some star-kissed groupie to lay the trap underfoot whilst he concerned himself with the beasts above. Fucking assholes.

He wipes his brow with the back of his sleeve, not even looking to where he was going. He just needed AWAY. He was done with this night, with the placating and the posturing. With the bullshit. The guitarist nearly stumbles right into the girl as she tangles her cotton-coated claws into his path.

She’s fiddling with the board again, and irritation sits sickly on his tongue. It burns at the gum; it aches at the bone like decay as the rot festers in ocean eyes. They look tired. Amongst cobalt flame lies that exhaustion; that sailor holding onto every piece of rigging to stop the ship left abandoned from sinking – and Izzy had sought fit to bring shears.

Hand finds the board again, a decay of the mind that tells him to rip it from her- to snap it in two and steal whatever words she had left before they harmed further. But he doesn’t. He releases it from his grasp, wiping the chalk from his fingers to his jeans.

 “I don’t have time for this. For----whatever the fuck game this is.” He barks, though mutt is muzzled- voice a shaking rage of near whisper. He knows the others remain just down the hall, and if he raises his voice too much, they’ll hear him and THEY’LL know they’ve gotten to him. So instead, he snarls through teeth in hushed tone, but its no less as spiteful in the pretty girl’s face.

There’s silence where there’d be reply, and an uncomfortable sailor sees fit to fill the gap himself. “I get it, it’s fucking funny. We’ve been through the jokes before. He made himself look fucking stupid, alright?? But at least I was out there doing something- putting my fucking life on the line to prove that I was strong enough to survive one of those games. And I’m still here, aren’t I? At least I’ve proven something. More than you or any of you fuckers will ever understand.”

He speaks of false flock, of a presumption of belonging to a tribe he had outgrown, or maybe they had outgrown him. Scott’s eyes dart back to where they had come from, hearing the echoes of laughter rattle its way across the hall- he was sure they could hear him already. He turns his attention back to the woman and wipes his brow again, an anger sitting feverishly and only saw fit to grow.

 “And it’s pretty fucking rich of you to being playing along with all this huh? What’d he promise you? I can tell you nothing he has to give you is fucking worth it. This is pathetic. You’re pathetic. All of you.”

𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐓𝐓 𝐓𝐈𝐁𝐁𝐒   (   @untestxd​   :   continued   ).

STARE,    UNWAVERING    AND    DAUNTLESS.           he’d    continue    to    watch    the      wrath    god     with    a    complacent    smile       -       and    those    piercing    blues,    they    proceed    to    claw,   claw,    claw   …     attempting    to    beckon    the    orderly    closer    with    unvoiced    lure.     and    he    succeeds ;     placing    the    bottle    aside    onto    checkered    tile    with    a    slight      clink      when    digits    curl    around    hem,    hues    dropping    to    the    brazen    mouth    of    the    man    beneath    before    pulling    him    in.           ———            david    yielded    when    he    should    have    resisted,      he    always    did.     because    it    was    only    a    matter    of    time    before    sweet    tunes    of    laughter    would    turn      SOUR      yet    again ;     the    bits    of    glass    scattered    across    a    darkened    livingroom    nothing    but    a    chamber    of      TORTURE      for    poor,     unwitting     feet  !     not    that    david    actually    gave    a    shit.       not    anymore.       because    welcome    is    the    tongue    that    parts    wanting    lips    open    so    deliciously.     brew - laced    yet    incredibly     sweet     upon    watering    palate          ——         call    him    hedonistic      …     but    who    could    blame    him   ?     scott    tibbs    knew    exactly    what    david    urged    for    and    beyond ;     now    who    wouldn’t    avail    themselves    of    such    pamper  ?     man    makes    himself    shamelessly    comfortable    on    other’s    lap,    digits    finding    their    way    into    disheveled    mass    of    mousy    brown       -       yanking    the    other    back    lightly    as    kiss    deepens.     the    people    outside,    the      BATHROOM    DOOR      that’s    left    ajar    completely    and    utterly    forgotten   …      until  musician  speaks.   

HARSHLY    HE    LETS    GO    OF    HIS    HOLD    OF    HAIR.             playfully      snappy      at    scott’s    request.           ‘    …   yessir—    ‘         david    huffs,    wiping    the    corner    of    his    mouth    with    the    back    of    his    hand    as    he    removes    himself    off    him.     orderly    scoops    up    the    bottle    of    beer    to    quickly    down    the    last    of    its    luke - warm    contents.     locking    the    door    to    keep    any       unwanted    disruption      out.         ———         face    hot,      if    he    didn’t    feel    intoxicated    before    he    definitely    did    now.

 They were the moon and its tide, an unwavering rhythm, a perpetual back and forth; rise and retreat. Scott tugged when David should shove, Scott pushed when David should pull. It was a complicated dance, with steps countless and beat immeasurable, but one the two messy men were well versed in. How delicious the taste of his tempo was, the feeling of his fingers tugging at his hair nothing more than a warm-up to the chorus that was burned into flesh by now.

The fallout of events prior would go unspoken; it was a mess that Scott had no intention of treading over or cleaning up. It was far easier to run from accountability, to drown in distraction with something different and shiny than collect the shards of the mess you’d left behind. Whilst he was sure it’d catch up with him, he would stumble over it eventually, there was always the sweet call of procrastination he was powerless not to heed.

Hungry eyes devour the sight of him as he steps away, feasting on his silhouette restlessly. He pulls himself up from his seat on toilet lid and staggers a little; the wave of intoxication only just hitting his head as he rises to his feet. Previously, the searing pain in his hand had seemed to sober him up but it looks like he was just as drunk as ever on the dark-haired man. The rim of the sink helps guide him to a stand as impatient he waits for the other to lock the door. The drop in heat between them is near too much, the smile loosening from Scott’s lips when David turns to face him.

Uncoordinated in their little dance, a flurry of movement as he wraps limbs around him, reclaiming what was his once more in their kiss and groans his name. Teeth snag at skin as he pushes himself against the orderly and with little time to waste he’s already wriggling pesky hand into the trouser of the other. He’s impatient, frustrated, fumbling with the belt with only one hand, before finally letting David do it himself. His kiss his rough, touch infectious in the rise of heat in stolen breath. Scott pushes David against the door, stumbling together as his back hits the frame and Scott takes no time in pulling he man’s jeans to his ankle.

Already, he mouths at the fabric, breath hot and wet and utterly depraved as he feels his head rush with the sudden movement. His good hand latches itself onto David’s thigh to keep himself rooted in place in fear of toppling backwards. Just another part of their stupid little dance. “Fuck---” he breathes heavy and low in mutter and mumbles into the growing heat trapped away. Before he says anything further, he’s already got his eyes shut tight and his mouth full of David’s cock.

…      FRUIT  IS  ROTTING  FROM  THE  MOMENT  ITS  PICKED.      it  stains  the  fingers  with  apple  -  pinks  and  peach  -  yellows,     the  rot  of  delicious  sweetness  sharp  against  the  prying  tongue      (      there’s  enough rot  to  rival  macbeth  and  his  horrid  stain,    strawberry  blot  ripening  his  skin   :      i  have  been  rotting  since  the  day  i  was  born,     plucked  from  the  safety  of  an  overripe  womb  and  thrust  into  a  world  of  endless  growth        ).     she  knows  that  guilt  tastes  like  fruit,     bitter  and  too  sharp,    the  lemon  -  fizz  of  your  own  emotional  toll      …      she  knows  his  mouth  must  be  full  of  it  and  yet  he  still  talks,     swallowing  the  rind  of  fruit  that  stings  the  body  into  an  endless  song.      fruitless,    people  say  about  efforts  that  will  amount  to  little,     as  if  humanity’s  rot  is  a  good  thing.

the  thank  you  is  soft.     its  riddled  with  the  exhaustion  that  she’s  trying  not  to  feel,     too  heavy  over  her  shoulders        (      she  slumps  beneath  the  weight  of  it  all   :      her  posture  has  been  ruined,    the  physical  effects  of  their  joint  tiredness  collapsing  the  bleach  -  white  bone  of  her  spine        ).       she  has  thought  of  abandonment  in  generic  terms  before,    an  abstract  emotion  that  only  becomes  complicated  when  exposed  to  humanity      …      feelings  were  better  in  isolation      (      she  thinks  she  can  become  the  objective  observer  to  something  thoroughly  subjective,     that  she  can  deliver  her  own  heart  to  herself  an  explain  every  little  divot  and  dip  that  has  sunk  its  fangs  into  her        ).      she  thinks  of  herself  as  the  abandoner,     the  turned  back  where  sun  stains  the  back  of  her  neck  with  its  brutal  rays.       she  says  i’ll  leave  with  teeth  suck  into  her  bottom  lip  and  it’s  true,   in  part   :      she’ll  leave  and  she’ll  hate  you  for  not  bothering  to  pull  her  back      (      but  scott  has  her  claws  sunk  deep  and  she  can’t  help  but  collapse  into  his  words,     to  usher  undue  belief  into  his  every  sentiment      ).

‘   you  tell  me.    every  time  i  get  mad  at  you.   ‘        she  brushes  a  stray  piece  of  hair  behind  her  ear  and  huffs  out  the  soft  ramble  of  a  laugh,    a  little  delicate,    a  little  shy.     she  colours  the  air  with  her  half  -  mirth  and  pretends  that  reality  can  shift  in  her  mouth  if  she  tries  hard  enough.    she  drifts  slowly  back  to  the  couch,    retracing  the  steps  of  her  retreat.    she  perches  on  the  edge,    before  she  surrenders   :      her  body  slumps  against  the  couch.        ‘   you  know  i  couldn’t  do  this  without  you,    don’t  you?   ’

Things don’t look too bad in this light. The warmth of the moment, as cloud rolls by on ashy day to kiss golden blessing on sun-parched skin. Amongst the storm, there is that silver, and on her tongue it is laid to rest. The waters have settled, at least for now. The bitter winds that chased his sail were bound to sneak back up on him, churning dark blues and blacks into whatever argument would be next. But for now, there is sanctuary in her smile.

Gaze chases her form as she returns to where it had all started, body sinking into the sag of the old couch. The furniture itself almost sighs, Scott’s relief and gratitude and regret breathing out into all things around him; this too was a part of him. A patchwork of dingy fabric, worn and rough, stained and torn. But there was so much comfort found here, despite that all. He leans his head back, closing his eyes for the moment as he soaked in these intangible rays and allows smile to replace frown at the call of her words.

“Because it’s true,” he heralds back, releasing one eye from its cavern to peek out at the last drops of day, “Getting me all worked up every time you tell me how awful I am. Like some messed up Pavlovian experiment.” A side effect of working with Charlie Townes; picking up some vocabulary along the way. Never had his lexicon expanded over such a short period of time, and that wasn’t even a dick joke! The sheer amount of reading he’d done alongside the whirlwind of internet-talk he’d been alarmingly exposed to had meant room for experimentation with words. Hell, maybe his song writing would get better, though there was room for doubt there.

A consumption of her mannerisms, a reading of her body language- he’d become the number one fan of the novel that was Charlie. Eager to trace grubby fingers of the pages of her past, delving head-first into the chapters of her present, and so desperate to co-author the lines yet unwritten. He wanted it to be a happy story; paper bleached in endless sun.

“Now that’s not true.” Scott follows, shifting now to rest arm against the rest, holding up skull with the palm of his hand. (Alas, poor Scott) “You’ve got this whole investigation shit in the bag. If anything, I’m sure I’m holding the story up.” He speaks in earnest, not self-deprecation, as eyes glimmer to the half-empty bottle before they return back to her. He reaches out in this moment, to act while he can in the slither of daylight they had been given, and rest his hand on her knee- a touch soft and seldom found.

“We’ve got this. You’re the only one who’s given this shit a chance, and we’re gonna show those motherfuckers just how much we’ve got this. Gonna be the story of the century when you’re the one with this big scoop on the Jigsaw Killer.” Here he is already, pen in hand, forging the future he wants to see. “And you’re not gonna do this without me. Hate to break that one to you.” I’m here just as much for you as the story. The next cluster of words were swept away by the tease of breeze rolling clouds across mind; a future without her is not one worth imagining- not a story worth reading.

AN  INCOMPLETE  LIST  OF  SONGS  SUNG  BY  SEX  BO  -  BOMB   :

1.       OUR  MUSIC  IS  WAY  BETTER  THAN  THE  SHIT  MADE  BY  WRATH  OF  THE  GODS   :      a  five  minute  rock  number  where  stephen  stills  kicks  scott  tibbs’  ass      (      even  in  his  grand  fantasies,      it’s  stephen  who  plays  the  hero      …        what?    scott’s  saving  the  world  days  were  thoroughly  retired      –      he  would  happily  cheer  from  the  sidelines,    though       ). 2.      IT’S  SEX  BO  -  BOMB  SO  BACK  OFF   :      a  slow  ballad  made  entirely  of  wails  and  whines,     a  spotlight  fixed  on  the  glare  that  shone  over  scott’s  face.    the  better  scott.     scott  prime. 3.      THIS  GUY’S  A  TOTAL  PERV  AND  OTHER  THINGS  SCOTT  PILGRIM  SHOULD’VE  NOTICED  TEN  MINUTES  AGO.      seriously,   their  drummer?    kim?     whatever  score  that  scott  tibbs  wanted  to  attribute  to  her  didn’t  matter      …     she  was  thoroughly  out  of  his  league. 4.      FUCK  SCOTT  TIBBS.      this  song  is  clearly  self  -  explanatory. 5.      okay,    he’s  making  some  of  these  up.

‘   who  even  uses  tapping  that  anymore?     THAT’S  NOT  A  HIP  OR  CURRENT  PHRASE   :      it’s  also,   like,   super  sexist,   i  think,    to  imply  you  can      …     tap  a  woman.   ’       scott  pilgrim  vs  the  off  -  hand  feminism  he’d  learned  from  kim  pines.      she  jumbled  together  theories,   picking  random  seashells  from  each  wave  and  holding  them  as  sacred  truths,    and  he  tries  to  regurgitate  half  -  thoughts.      ‘   she  wouldn’t  even  look  at  you,   dude.   ’

 The trapped nerve in Scott’s tone is accented bright and bold in the curve of his frown, the dash of pink beneath the skin. An ASSHOLE and a CANADIAN walk into a bar. ... Who’d be the first to throw fists?

Each poke and prod rattled dormant beast he could feel pacing beneath the surface of stuttered back words. Pride, ego, and alcohol (Great name for a song Scott, write that down later) were enough of nasty concoction to breed nasty thoughts to reality. And the night had been so boring until now: Scott never gave up the chance to throw his weight around. The pilgrim was on HIS turf, after all.

“Who’s even uses HIP anymore?” Is scoffed back with ease, a verbal hand brushing his own shoulder as he wipes away any spoken assault back at him. His reward is another drink of his beer, sneer blossoming into laughter at the bassist as he continues to prattle on. “Yeah, because you really look like you know ANYTHING about women, kid.” 

The moniker is given, a term meant to belittle and reduce the OTHER Scott down to nothing more than a pest in the way of the ADULT in the room. Fish, meet Big Fish- and this was HIS pond. 

“You don’t know that. You’d be fucking surprised which girls are total freaks under all that stuffy shit.” His look is incredulous, shaking his head in disbelief, “Motherfucker, she couldn’t keep her eyes OFF me at that last show. Practically undressing me with those eyes.” Prod, prod, prod that wasps’ nest. “You’re not getting jealous, are you? Who’s to say I haven’t been there and DONE that already? Given her the ride of her life.” Now this was far more an interesting topic than mothers.

PEERS    DOWN    AT    COTTON - SWATHED    HAND,            the    result    of    orderly’s    handicraft    sort    of    careless,    sort    of    unsystematic       -       at    least    it    was    kept    somewhat      taut     around    reddening    flesh ;     he    faults    the   inattentiveness    on    his    buzzed    state    of    mind  !         ———        scott    was    just    as      buzzed,      though    musician    remains    as      OBSTINATE      as    ever,    a    whine    of    veto    as    foot    coaxes    itself    around    limb.     gaze    drops    and    darts    itself    back    up    just    as    quickly ;     he    had    a    feeling    scott    wasn’t    going    to    clean    up      shit      tonight.        and    he    had    a    feeling    he    was    going    to    let    him    get    away    with    it.             ‘   …    jesus,    if    you    wanna    fight    him    then    go    on    an’    fuckin’    fight    him.       bash    his    brains    in,      i    don’t    care.     jus’    take    that    shit    outside.   ‘             there’s    a    small    laugh    falling    from    chapped    lips,    drunken    and    lazy    as    the    other    pulls    him    closer.     oncean    hues    probing,    annoyingly    piercing    and      persuasive.           i    could    make    it    worth    your    time.         oh,    he    better  !          ——        david    takes    another    swig    of    his    drink    before    squatting    down    to    his    previous    position    before    him.     mouth    stretching    into    slight    smile       -       raising    dark    brows    at    him    in    a      DARING    LOOK.           ‘   yeah  ?     ‘cause    i    start    to    get    real    fuckin’    impatient    in    here.   ‘

It’s stiflingly hot in his dingy little bathroom. It’s clean enough, but the adrenaline from the SCENE he’d made outside and the lack of apparent air-flow on beer-flushed skin only saw fit to raise the temperature. The blurriness of the world around him, the pain searing through his hand, the heavy air surrounding him was all something he wanted to forget- needed to forget. Tonight, had been a total SHIT SHOW, and it seemed that Scott was adamant on making everything as terrible as possible,

Foot’s little hook around the ankle tugs only gently; it’s David who puts up little resistance. As the man is coaxed closer so too does the patient’s smile grow. Playful promise dances across his lips as the orderly returns to where he had been before, and the look in David’s eyes is medicine enough to forget the damp red beneath cotton. A creature of ash and flame, Scott would much rather heat up than cool down.

The other is coaxed just that must closer and his good hand finds its fingers toying with the hem of David’s collar. Gaze collapses down onto his lips for just a moment before he brings them crashing into his own. A shift in place and he invites the other to straddle his lap, fingers itching upwards to guide the man’s face back to the guitarist’s, a fervour born from seemingly nothing at all. What sweet a remedy he was for pain beneath bounds, the taste of his teeth against his tongue, the heat from his breath course and thick against his mouth.

“Get the door and I'll get something else.” He speaks against the ghost of stubble that brushes against lips, the lazy residue of sloppy morning ritual. Scott’s unbandaged hands squeeze at the thigh still sat across him, a silent gesture of ownership of the man he’d never have. Scott would take all he could- even if it was just this moment.

ISSUE  18   :       scott  didn’t  like  drinking        (       that’s  not  a  very  catchy  title!      this  will  never  sell!        ).      NEW  TITLE   :      drinking  upsets  scott’s  tummy!        …      alright,    that’s  not  exactly  snappy,    either.      but  the  truth  should  sell  easier  than  a  snappy  title,    right?     right?      he  left  the  drinking  to  wallace  and  only  tried  to  get  fucked  up  when  he  was  mourning  a  girl.     when  he  was  mourning  ramona.      the  girl  to  end  all  girls  and  other  manic  -  pixie  -  dream  -  girl  nonsense.

but  his  hand  still  wrapped  around  the  glass  when  it  came,     an  awkward  smile  dragging  itself  over  his  lips.        ‘   sex  bo  -  bomb,    actually.    sex  -  bomb  was  taken  by  a  small  band  of  teenagers  who  wear  raccoons  on  their  heads  while  they  sing.     whether  or  not  the  raccoons  are  actually  helpful  to  the  performance  hasn’t  been  determined  yet,   but,   yeah,   sex  bo  -  bomb.   ’        WOAH,    COMING  ONTO  KIM?     GROSS      …       and  totally  disrespectful      (      was  kim  cute?     he  guessed  that  wasn’t  the  point      —      she  was  a  member  of  the  band,    first  and  foremost      ).      ‘   don’t  talk  about  our  drummer,    dude.   ’       OBJECTIVE   :      DEFEND  KIM’S  HONOUR.     before  she  kicked  his  ass  for  not  doing  that.

Sex Bomb, Sex Bob-Omb- what difference did it make really? Whilst he understood the particulars (the ever-present blister on the roof of his mouth that burns every time HIS band are introduced or listed with an additional ‘THE’ headlining their name), he really couldn’t care less. Their music still sucked. It wasn’t even the sort of trash that the man would listen to passively; the guitar too light, the vocalist too whiney. The drummer was the only redeeming part of it and even then she was only a 6/10 – maybe a Canadian 8. (It’s because of the metric system, right?)

He’s not listening as Scott corrects him, instead opting to drink the newly acquired beverage, casting lips around the rim of the bottle and draining the contents like the parched mutt he was. His attention is only brought back as he appears to have struck a nerve in the previously bland-looking man. Its reward is a dirty sneer creeping onto whistle-wet lips as he removes glass, gas catching in his throat.

Now that’d be an attention grabber. He’d only been talking to this guy anyway because of how dead this graveyard of a bar had been tonight. They glower playfully at him, alive and bright as his stance opens up a bit more, tucking one hand into his jean pocket. “What? You tapping that or something? She’s cute, what can I say? I’d fuck her.” The Scott Tibbs seal of approval is granted to unwitting recipient not even present to accept the award in person. Dirty consolation is instead offered to the bassist, “She here tonight or is it just ..,. you?” Eyes are already sweeping back around the premises, looking for that bright beacon of orange in the dark.

…       LAWRENCE  DOES  NOT  MOURN   :       his  time  with  adam  had  amounted  to  a  few  messy  hours,     brotherhood  a  thin  creature  stretching  itself  across  broken  tile  and  deep  -  seated  rot      (      lawrence  does  not  mourn  because  he  doesn’t  allow  himself  to  mourn      …      grief  is  kept  contained  beneath  the  splintering  edge  of  his  fingertips,     held  together  with  patient  hands  that  do  not  shake,    that  do  not  tremble      ).      there  was  a  pathetic  little  grave  erected  somewhere  that  lawrence  had  never  visited,     a  world  away  from  his  middle  -  class  home.      he  had  seen  the  pictures  of  it  online   :       adam  faulker  -  stanheight  still  remains  missing,    even  while  the  other  half  of  jigsaw’s  infamous  ‘ bathroom  trap ’  walks  free.     doctor  lawrence  gordon  is  still  refusing  an  interview,    which  has  led  many  people  to  be  suspicious  of  his  exact  involvement.      lawrence  does  not  mourn  and  he  supposes  that  makes  life  easier     …     while  scott’s  grief  gathered  in  the  corner  of  his  eyes,     the  messy  threat  of  tears  soaking  holes  in  lawrence’s  cool  demeanor,     the  older  man  held  steadfast  and  unrelenting   :       ship,    meet  habour.     sinking  man,    meet  the  lifeboat  that  will  always  remain  out  of  reach.      scott,    meet  the  good  doctor  and  the  ice  that  has  replaced  his  heart,     the  chest  cut  open  to  reveal  the  beating  crow  that  had  once  been  called  a  heart  has  escaped      (      lawrence  does  not  mourn  adam  but  he  wants  to       …      he  just  isn’t  sure  how  anymore        ).

his  thoughts  turn  macabre  as  he  wonders  whether  or  not  he  would  mourn  scott.       this  feral  creature  had  seemed  bound  to  him  since  that  fateful  day  in  his  office,     where  broken  pieces  of  a  camera  had  stained  his  carpet,     where  a  bruise  had  bloomed  across  lawrence’s  cheek  like  a  kept  promise      …      we’ll  see  each  other  again,     the  faded  words  unsaid  between  them  in  those  moments,      but  still  resonating  against  grief  -  soaked  walls      (      and  under  john’s  machinations,   he  had  found  himself  tugging  the  leash  that  others  had  abandoned,    guiding  the  puppy  away  from  any  trail  that  seemed  too  hot      ).      HE  WOULD  MOURN  SCOTT  LIKED  HE  MOURNED  ADAM,    HE  THINKS      …      he’s  known  scott  for  longer  than  a  few  hours,    but  both  boys  held  the  same  fiery  temper,     the  same  mischief  -  soaked  smile,    the  same  ruthless  need  to  light  themselves  on  fire  just  to  keep  warm.      scott  can  dress  himself  up  as  a  sailor  in  whatever  metaphor  best  suits  his  sinking  nature,    but  the  truth  is  that  he’s  one  misplaced  match  away  from  tasting  flame.    scott  turns  away  from  him  to  grip  at  the  counter,    trying  to  tame  his  anger  into  something  manageable   :       lawrence  counts  the  breaths  that  it  takes,    the  inhale  of  onetwothree,    the  exhale  of  fourfivesix.        this  is  a  boy  waiting  to  die,     so  every  breath  feels  stolen.    this  anger  is  merely  borrowed  time      —      lawrence  tolerates  it      (      scott  tibbs’  body  was  finally  found      …       the  frontman  of  the  rock  band  ‘ wrath  of  the  gods ’  was  mutilated  in  a jigsaw  trap  after  attempting  to  replicate  the  man’s  methods      …      doctor  lawrence  gordon  has  refused  to  comment     ). 

‘   you  must  excuse  me  if  i  wasn’t  thinking  rationally.    i  was  suffering  from  intense  blood  loss  from  the  gaping  wound  i’d  created  in  my  leg  and  acute  delirium  on  account  of  being  chained  up  for  hours.     you’re  approaching  this  situation  from  a  position  of  rationality   :      there  was  no  rationality  in  the  bathroom.      you  couldn’t  imagine  what  it  was  like      …      the  details  are  hazy  to  me,    anyway.    an  attempt  to  suppress  traumatic  memories      —      it’s  what  happens  after  someone  undergoes  that  much  stress.      i  wouldn’t  be  able  to  continue  living  if  i  remembered  every  part  of  it.   ’       lawrence  speaks  as  if  the  conversation  is  a  wound  opening  up  in  his  chest.       these  are  words  stolen  from  between  gritted  teeth,     from  the  anger  that  sits  in  his  mouth.     his  fingers  clench  into  a  fist  before  they  relax.      you  wouldn’t  know  what  it’s  like      (      no  one  would  ever  really  understand  it      ).        ‘   is  that  all?   ’

…        YOU  KNOW  ME.       scott  had  sat  through  a  lecture  or  two  from  stephen  stills  about  what  bands  were  playing  tonight        (       and  what  bands  were  just  scoping  out  potential  competition,    like  like  moths  drawn  towards  better  lights   :      meet  sex  bo  -  bomb,    certified  lightest  band  in  the  world!        ).      READERS,    LET’S  TAKE  A  LITTLE  QUIZ      …      what  has  scott  pilgrim  remembered  about  scott  tibbs?

1.      SCOTT  TIBBS  IS  PART  OF  WRATH  OF  THE  GODS  AND  ALSO  A  HUGE  ASSHOLE.    DO  NOT  INTERACT. 2.      SCOTT  TIBBS  IS  PART  OF  WRATH  OF  THE  GODS  AND  ALSO  A  HUGE  ASSHOLE.     YOU  STILL  HAVE  TO  INTERACT  WITH  HIM,   SCOTT.    SUCK  IT  UP. 3.      SCOTT  TIBBS  IS  PART  OF  WRATH  OF  THE  GODS  AND  NOT  AN  ASSHOLE.     WHY  IS  HE  BEING  SO  WEIRD  WITH  YOU,   THEN?

‘   do  i  have  any  what?    huh?        …        i  think  i  lost  the  plot  of  what  you  were  saying  a  few  pages  back,    dude.   ’      scott  blinks  down  at  the  other,     folding  his  arms  around  himself  in  the  form  of  a  semi  -  hug.    self  -  soothing.       ‘   i’m  scott  pilgrim.     sex  bo  -  bomb?    we’re  pretty  well  known  or  whatever.     i  think.   ’

ANSWER   :       SCOTT  THINKS  THE  ANSWER  IS  TWO,    BUT  IT’S  ACTUALLY  ONE.

Damn, the kid looked spacey. If he’d been in a better mood, he’d probably inquire about what substance the other Scott had taken that night and how he could get his grubby hands on some of it. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be doing a good job- he certainly didn’t seem like he was having anything remotely close to a good time. But that was his problem, Scott Tibbs was delightful company. When the bartender comes around he orders two beers for the both of them without asking and gives the bassist a smile accepting the gratitude that was never offered.

“Oh yeah. Sex-Bomb. Heard of you guys, I think.Uh---- Canadian, right?” Scott asks without asking, speaks without seeking answer nor reciprocation: all the world was a stage tonight, and Scott Tibbs was the only player- the other Scott had unfortunately been wrangled into the crowd to see this spectacle play out. He takes a swig of the beer.

 “You guys have that little acoustic sound going on------ and that drummer, right? Shit’s cute.” There’s little semblance of respect for his fellow artist found amongst the scrapings of syllables, no matter how hard you would look.

Scott’s comment brings with it a roll of the eyes and an inked fist rapping against the mop on the other’s skull. “Uh, hello? The MILFS? You get any action or what? What’re the MILFS like up north huh? The mom’s were always fucking UGLY on Degrassi, man.”

‘      ——     shut    the    fuck    up.       wanna    do    it    yourself,    then  ?    ‘             david    raises    his    brows    at    him    and    sneers.       it’s    a    lingering    gaze ;       crooked    smile      reluctantly    present    just    to    compensate    for    the    growing    annoyance    building     in    his    voice       -       orderly’s    patience    might    be    weaing    thin    with    scott,    but    there’s    no      point      in    provoking    yet    another      HISSY    FIT      from    him         (       living    room    currently    scattered    with    bloodied    shards    of    glass ;     he    didn’t    exactly    want    the    musician    to    give    his    bathroom    the    same    distreatment.      )                ———          takes    a    swig    of    his    own    beer    before    lightly      slapping      the    other’s    bandaged    hand    away    when    he’s    finished.     david    pulls    himself    up    from    his    crouched    position    before    him       -       looking    down    at    the      SULKY      man    seated    on    the    toilet.           ‘   ‘kay.     you    wanna      clean    your    shit    up     before    i    gotta      play    nurse      to    any    of    the    other    suckers    out    there  ?   ‘

@untestxd​         /         continued.

Viper’s hiss shudders between grit teeth, jaw locked tight in attempt to cope with the pain. David’s light slap to his bandaged hand does not come without retaliation, FIGHT or FLIGHT in reaction to pain stressing the former and Scott stupidly bats back at him. Eyes shut tight as the pain sears through cotton, pulling back as if he had just reached palm into an oven. The thought of returning to the mess he’d left behind was not exactly one pleasant, nor was the guitarist anywhere near eager to face the consequences of rage-born action. From his seat atop porcelain throne, the mutt-king in bloody crown hooks his ankle around David’s leg, imploring him to stay with him here a little longer.

A groan parts dry lips in reply, “In a minute…” Eyes dart from the orderly to the door left ajar. “Not exactly cooled off yet—I promise you if that motherfucker’s still out there it won’t be just my blood you gotta clean up tonight.”

What strange form guardian angel could take. Wings dirty, torn and ripped, soft cowl nothing more than sarcastic sneer as he looks down at the burden he’s sworn to bear. Sickly fluorescent paints its divinity, a halo of white light backlighting the man, casting grave shadows across David’s face. Eyes return to the orderly’s handiwork, glancing over the bandages as he twists his wrist to get better look.

 “Maybe..” Ankle digs in a little deeper to the back of David’s cast, silent prayer to the divine by way of touch. “You should keep me company in here, just for a while. Until he’s gone.” Frown burns into a grin salacious , “I could make it worth your time.”

               dirt   ,   sweat   ,   red - hot   iron   ,   and   burned   edges.   nostrils   flare   at   the   aroma   —   a   peculiar   scent   for   a   rare   breed   —   held   within   his   lungs   to   savor   every   single   moment.   between   the   layers   of   neglect   and   disgust   held   a   different   scent   :   one   that   was   more   than   on   the   skin   (   honeysuckle   sweet   was   the   ire   that   held   roots.   he   could   close   his   eyes   and   feel   himself   pluck   it   ,   tongue   licking   along   delicate   petals   to   suck   on   the   sweet   nectar   that   rested   within.   only   to   be   discarded   once   all   of   it   had   been   drained   ).                carnal   desires   are   satisfied   with   crimson.   between   dyed   locks   the   man   studies   the   other   ,   watching   every   little   expression   ,   smirk   growing   on   his   face   at   the   other’s   insecurity.   DO   NOT   SHOW   THE   WOLF   YOUR   NECK   ,   FOR   IT   WILL   BREAK   IT.

               “   whatever   you   want   ,   man.   ”   tristan’s   voice   is   kept   low   ,   gravely   ,   wetting   his   lips   with   a   hungry   tongue.   he   slowly   rises   ,   laughing   vapidly   as   he   makes   his   way   to   the   other   ,   finally   resting   his   knee   between   scott’s   legs   comfortably   as   he   stays   standing.   head   tilted   down   ,   eyes   ravenous   ,   he   leans   towards   him   ,   offering   his   cigarette   to   the   lost.   “   but   don’t   make   me   wait   any   longer.   ”

 Sweaty digits fumble in the tight space between fabric and skin, they chase and they chase and take their sweet time prying cigarette from pocket. By the time he’s raised the stick to his lips, the other had began to make his move. He had been joking, right? Just messing with Scott to make him look as stupid as he felt. If it had been Tristan’s idea of fun to get the guitarist flustered, he needn’t continue further; skin a flush canvas glowering pink beneath stubble and ink.

 Those eyes… precious gems that glistened deep and dark. The void themselves, beckoning with lofty palm like the tide, back and forth as it coaxes young sailor down into the depths with promises of treasure.

 He shifts in his seat, placing cigarette behind his ear and was going to make the move to stand up himself had not Tristan’s knee rest precariously in the space between Scott’s legs. Even that laugh itself was a melody distant, commanding you to listen closer to catch the long-drowned lyrics of the lost siren. With each second the heat grew, throat drying and lid’s growing heavier with greater proximity to the man. It was intoxicating, near unbearable. It was nuclear, a radiation that seemed into the skin and corroded away any last sense of the mind and instead flooded it with that poison desire.

Eyes devour his form with a new-found hunger he didn’t know he had, a craving for a taste and for a flavour palette had not bene privy to. Smooth digits offer themselves up a prize (Tristan’s own cigarette and a smile) and suddenly Scott is met with an appetite unparalleled. A temptation far too sweet to resist, an indescribable starvation tearing him apart as hesitation glimmers in iris for the fraction of a second before finally he BREAKS.

He rips the cigarette from the other’s hand, throwing it to the side as instead palm bawls into fist in the fabric of Tristan’s collar. Yanking him down to his level, lips crash into his own and he kisses him hungrily. That need to consume, that desire to engulf is pleased and appeased somewhat as a low groan trickles from his throat to his tongue. Scott pulls him roughly, his other hand wrapping around Tristan’s waist and pulling him to sit astride his lap, breath heavy and greedy as he kisses him again and again. His desire is incomparable, inescapable; a slave to sensation as he pushes up against the man sat on his lap. 

“Whatever I want huh? You’re gonna regret that.” Hands move to tear at clothes, a flurry and fury of fabric and skin as he takes off Tristan’s shirt and runs blisterint tongue from his chest to his neck, kissing hungrily at his jaw; there was not time to waste here.