#me (regular bitch): fight your mirror then bro tf

[talentforlying]

@ohsunshine: ❛ Don't lecture me about family values. You're just as shit in that department as I am. ❜ / from roman lmao — HOUSE OF USHER STARTERS

it's a cattle prod to the synapses: a shock of sheer sheet lightning that seizes all the ligaments charged with the alignment of his spine, wraps them around its fist, and yanks it ramrod straight. for a moment, startled off-guard, there's nothing to him but the slaughter, the old blood of a generation past dripping down the siding like fresh, wet paint — automatic, incandescent rage.

the little fucking weasel.

' boo fucking hoo. ' it cracks out like a whip: unimpressed. unsympathetic. ' the mean man readin' you the riot act's got riots of his own, that about the long n'short of your prize-winnin' argument there, gobby? ' a fist prises itself loose to clap open-handed over his heart, satirically wounded, head tilting mockingly to one side. ' roman bleedin' roy's so virginal to the notion of hypocrisy that there's about to be three wise men paradin' up the street any bleedin' day now, is that right? you fuckin' infant. '

the anger is his new blood: scalding hot, pulsing out through every limb, leaking out of wounds both new and old like swamp gas. it's easier to be angry than it is to be scared — his father taught him that. maybe both their fathers taught them that. ( doesn't stop him from wanting to find that matching wound on roman and dig his fingers in and twist. )

' fuck me, i thought you were at least a little smarter than this. turnin' the bit that's got you nervous around on the other bloke — that's just fuckin' obvious. that's the kind of chickenshit thing people do when they're scared i could be onto them. ' his voice slides down in register, sharp edges ground down sleek and hypnotic; the blue of his eyes is future-tech electric, each pupil the black hole lens of a camera. SMILE! you're on tape. ' i am onto you, aren't i? middle child, youngest boy. scavenger animal. so shit-scared that you're nothin' and no one in a family full to the brim with someones, an' when they finally stop tossin' you scraps, you'll starve. '

there's something under that word that drags through his belly like a blade, and abruptly, sickeningly, he realizes that the low buzzing along the curvature of his skull is the cloying feeling of being sated — his rage desaturated, like an old heirloom photograph of itself, like he'd just been projecting the static image of something he'd borrowed from someone else. inherited from someone else.

CCTV eyes blink, and there's no watcher in the booth anymore; just someone turning the bit that's got them nervous around on the other bloke. fucking obvious.

' know how you stay fed, when you inevitably fuck it all up? huh? ' it's eerily even, disconnected. ' y'don't bite at the bigger fuckin' dog. 'cos i don't need to be better than you to still be right about you. get me? '