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I don't give a damn bout my bad reputation
Who: Mairon & Melkor
What: First meeting.
Verse: Punk AU.
Rating: Dunno yet, but violent.
The cunt had it coming.
He had been sitting, minding his own business, smoking his Turkish Golds in the dark and barely lit corner of the bar. He burned paper and tobacco to ash with a breath and the heavy taste on his tongue felt like medicine, heating the ball and stick lodged in that large muscle, ever twitching behind his teeth. He does well on his own, going from town to town on his bike and always ending up back in the big apple where the scene is hot and the adrenaline is hotter. This is as far south as he's been in quite some time now, and the furthest he's been on his own property, rather than the back of someone's hot-wired van. It wasn't particularly exciting, but then the cunt had it coming.
He leaned on the bar with whiskey and nicotine on his breath acting as if he owned the place. He peacocked for his buddies, his leather jacket worn from age and experience in the southern sun, when Mairon's was newer, a piecemeal of spikes, patches and pins. A proper Hell's Angel he thought himself, without that razor's edge that comes from being really, truly dangerous. Mairon's fucked a Hell's Angel once, long ago, and he knows that edge like he knows the feel of a needle pressing ink into his flesh. Another drag of his cigarette and Mairon ignored the imbecile throwing the best he had at him. This pretty boy was in the wrong place, this pretty boy was trying too hard, this queer ass-bitch should go back to sucking dick in some glory hole and leave being a real man to someone who don't cross their legs when they're sitting and drinking.
He finished his drink and, with an icy stare, gave the cunt a warning. He only ever gave one, when he wasn't looking for a fight. That cunt laughed, his friends laughed, and he tried to lay a hand on the small of Mairon's back above the hem of his torn black skinny jeans and his studded belt. Maybe this pretty bitch was looking to get some, maybe he wasn't even really a man.
He didn't flinch away from that hand, only finished his cigarette with a hard line to his lip and, after putting it out on the wood of the bar and glancing at just how far away the bartender was at the moment, reached for a bottle. His reflexes quick he slammed it against the side of the cunt's face, shoving him forward while his balance was shaken and jutting that now shattered glass into his face. He was thrashing, screaming, and his friend's didn't come to his aid.
Some friends they were.
A well aimed kick punch to the stomach and a kick to the knee dropped him, and the toe of Mairon's boot jutted forward kick him in the back, to grind down into his solarplexus. The bartender's got an ambulance on speed dial, and Mairon just squatted down low with his switchblade out and his foot still buried in the cunt's gut. Probably squeezed his bladder too hard, from the smell of it. The blade rested so gently against the cunt's neck and he stopped thrashing despite his eye maimed by glass and his pride smeared across the bar, and Mairon's words were sharp, with that distinctive edge that comes with a calm confidence.
"If I see you here again, I'll kill you."
He spit in that bloody eye, and left, without another glance or a word.
The cunt had it coming.
The sky was overcast, a storm coming, as he lit himself another cigarette and stalked back towards his motel. He'd walked from there, didn't feel like wasting the gas to impress nobodies.
What: First meeting.
Verse: Punk AU.
Rating: Dunno yet, but violent.
The cunt had it coming.
He had been sitting, minding his own business, smoking his Turkish Golds in the dark and barely lit corner of the bar. He burned paper and tobacco to ash with a breath and the heavy taste on his tongue felt like medicine, heating the ball and stick lodged in that large muscle, ever twitching behind his teeth. He does well on his own, going from town to town on his bike and always ending up back in the big apple where the scene is hot and the adrenaline is hotter. This is as far south as he's been in quite some time now, and the furthest he's been on his own property, rather than the back of someone's hot-wired van. It wasn't particularly exciting, but then the cunt had it coming.
He leaned on the bar with whiskey and nicotine on his breath acting as if he owned the place. He peacocked for his buddies, his leather jacket worn from age and experience in the southern sun, when Mairon's was newer, a piecemeal of spikes, patches and pins. A proper Hell's Angel he thought himself, without that razor's edge that comes from being really, truly dangerous. Mairon's fucked a Hell's Angel once, long ago, and he knows that edge like he knows the feel of a needle pressing ink into his flesh. Another drag of his cigarette and Mairon ignored the imbecile throwing the best he had at him. This pretty boy was in the wrong place, this pretty boy was trying too hard, this queer ass-bitch should go back to sucking dick in some glory hole and leave being a real man to someone who don't cross their legs when they're sitting and drinking.
He finished his drink and, with an icy stare, gave the cunt a warning. He only ever gave one, when he wasn't looking for a fight. That cunt laughed, his friends laughed, and he tried to lay a hand on the small of Mairon's back above the hem of his torn black skinny jeans and his studded belt. Maybe this pretty bitch was looking to get some, maybe he wasn't even really a man.
He didn't flinch away from that hand, only finished his cigarette with a hard line to his lip and, after putting it out on the wood of the bar and glancing at just how far away the bartender was at the moment, reached for a bottle. His reflexes quick he slammed it against the side of the cunt's face, shoving him forward while his balance was shaken and jutting that now shattered glass into his face. He was thrashing, screaming, and his friend's didn't come to his aid.
Some friends they were.
A well aimed kick punch to the stomach and a kick to the knee dropped him, and the toe of Mairon's boot jutted forward kick him in the back, to grind down into his solarplexus. The bartender's got an ambulance on speed dial, and Mairon just squatted down low with his switchblade out and his foot still buried in the cunt's gut. Probably squeezed his bladder too hard, from the smell of it. The blade rested so gently against the cunt's neck and he stopped thrashing despite his eye maimed by glass and his pride smeared across the bar, and Mairon's words were sharp, with that distinctive edge that comes with a calm confidence.
"If I see you here again, I'll kill you."
He spit in that bloody eye, and left, without another glance or a word.
The cunt had it coming.
The sky was overcast, a storm coming, as he lit himself another cigarette and stalked back towards his motel. He'd walked from there, didn't feel like wasting the gas to impress nobodies.