#bludboy

“ you’re   …   you’re the guy ??? ” you’re not one to judge, miles. a cocked eyebrow, stupid green eyes that wander, the just-there look of disbelief. but, as lethal that his judgment is, his insatiable need to get rid of this thing is much deadlier. a monster, a creature, a being much bigger than himself. something so big that the voices he’s been harassed by have quieted down. they’re scared. they’re looking to him to help. as he looks to this self-professed gun-for-hire, he knows he can’t be so goddamn picky. there’s not a lot of options here. nothing but a number scribbled on a post-it note, a chicken-scratched ‘ MARCUS ’ up top                   along with a horrible doodle of the frat house cat                   and a fucking dream : “ you’re the guy i talked to ??? the one who’ll kill anything or whatever ??? ”

starter for / @bludboy

...   but you’re bleeding, marcus, just look at you. a personal pet, a beloved companion, a plaything, in luiza’s palms                   wet with not only his blood, but the blood of their enemies. there’s the default urge to sigh, roll their eyes, tell him to walk it off, but the desperation. cocaine crashes, a trail of bodies, flesh wounds. we pissed some bad people off, luiza touches his face, gently dragging bruised knuckles along his cheek, careful not to damage what’s precious   :   “ we will be. i’ll make sure of it. ” spoken with utmost confidence, through a sugary tone. they’ll see to it, but upon assessing the damage, it’s impossible to believe yourself. “ i promise. ”