|in which Blake still has not learned...
||[Oct. 24th, 2012|03:52 pm]
|||||Staind; Pardon Me||]|
Fuck, I need some of that. What is it anyway, nitrous?
It, in this case, refers to the master canister sitting locked-up in a corner, heavily labeled and with three combinations listed to break in.
No, pajarito mio, that would not be pleasant, for you.
He doesn't believe, or maybe just doesn't care.
Fuck you, Bane. It's been ages since I got fuckin' stoned.
A smack, lazily really, across this mouth taking such liberties.
To me it is life. To you it would be pain. And - and not the sort of pain you will come to crave. If I have my druthers, pajarito, you will never need that gas.
Dumb remark. You always get your fucking druthers, Bane.
A glance, bland, amused. Then why are you still unwilling, petite one?