Now I know there's no one I can trust - I used to think there was
you can tell me that I'm cutthroat but I think you've got your eyes closed
you can tell me that I'm cutthroat but I think you've got your eyes closed
Bart doesn’t rightfully care what’s ticking away in the dudebro’s brain, because he’s pissy, it’s raining, he has no idea where he is, he should rightfully be dead, and this motherfucker won’t stop asking him about his jacket? Seriously what the hell? If he wasn’t so protective over it maybe it wouldn’t grind his gears so much but well. Here they are.
"Well I sure ain’t seen you in my life so how the hell does that track?" Especially when Scarface lives in a place he’s never heard of. Sure the States are huge and this might be a little town, but that sure looks like the fucking ocean over there, and Bartholomew has certainly never seen that in his life.
The term husband draws him up short, expression turning blatantly guarded. "Unless your husband is my dead brother and you’re some kinda corpse-fucker, it ain’t his." Frustrated, he shoves the jacket down to his elbows to turn the inside of his bicep outward, showing off the dark scripted ink. Nathaniel Wren. Birth and death dates beneath the beautiful scrawl. A challenging look sets his pretty face into a snarl. "See? Ain’t even lyin’ to ya. Now get off my dick ya fuckin’ herpe." So saying he spins around, tugging the jacket back to its rightful place and popping the collar as he stalks off. He doesn’t have time for this.
"Well I sure ain’t seen you in my life so how the hell does that track?" Especially when Scarface lives in a place he’s never heard of. Sure the States are huge and this might be a little town, but that sure looks like the fucking ocean over there, and Bartholomew has certainly never seen that in his life.
The term husband draws him up short, expression turning blatantly guarded. "Unless your husband is my dead brother and you’re some kinda corpse-fucker, it ain’t his." Frustrated, he shoves the jacket down to his elbows to turn the inside of his bicep outward, showing off the dark scripted ink. Nathaniel Wren. Birth and death dates beneath the beautiful scrawl. A challenging look sets his pretty face into a snarl. "See? Ain’t even lyin’ to ya. Now get off my dick ya fuckin’ herpe." So saying he spins around, tugging the jacket back to its rightful place and popping the collar as he stalks off. He doesn’t have time for this.
Feel the fear and swallow back the tears
let weakness disappear
let weakness disappear
BARTHOLOMEW
