so this blog has over 100 followers now (WOO!) and we’re all so so grateful for those who enjoy our art, stories, and hard work! seriously!
however, we need to lay down some rules. because unfortunately there’s been quite a few of you who have made it clear that this is necessary to be specified.
WE DO NOT SUPPORT “PROSHIP” (or- lets be honest-) ABUSIVE CONTENT
WE DO NOT SUPPORT RACIST, ABLEIST, HOMOPHOBIC, LESBOPHOBIC, TRANSPHOBIC, TERF, OR OTHERWISE BIGOTED CONTENT
WE DO NOT WELCOME NSFW BLOGS TO FOLLOW US
I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH. DO NOT BE WEIRDOS. GOOD GOD. YOU WILL BE BLOCKED SO FAST.
anyways, the rest of you. keep up the good work! we love ya!
so long time no answer! this is going to be a long one so bear with me💜
tw for s/h and um …..murder
so something important to note about blondie is that he is very dramatic. he gets caught in the turmoil of his own thoughts and sees the world through a tarnished veneer because of it. when he gets very worked up, he acts, and regrets later. (something he gets from me!)
the night he had cut his face was the night he’d committed his final murder. (it was his flatmate and she deserved it dw)
blondie’s kills have very methodical build ups. the months leading up to this woman’s death were tension brimmed and nerve wracking (on her end at least LOL) everyday he drove that nail of terror and trepidation further down the hole, but of course it’s the kind of thing where there’s this wondering. you want to give this sweet man the benefit of the doubt, because would he really do that? would he really wish you dead? when he offered to cook you dinner in his charming drawl, when he always brought your laundry up hot from that basement that always gave you the damn heeby-jeebies… and he never even had to be asked.
so there’s this pressure building, this white hot anger within him that ushers him further and further to scare the life out of this woman (literally). but eventually it bursts. there’s a moment where the window of opportunity is tantalizingly open. she’s stood next to the mantle with her back to you, one of her ugly antique candlestick holders is sitting there, it’s brass finish glitters in the warm light. christ did you always find that thing an eyesore. she never listened to what you had to say about the decorating! she never listened to what you had to say. your eyes bore into the red cloth in the point just between her shoulder blades, despite your weapon’s considerable weight in your hand this scene still doesn’t feel real. you draw in a thin breath, the noise of blood whirring through your temples blocks out the sound.
she let out a little choke as she went down, but you couldn’t say if she made any other sounds. you were too angry to remember. but she was the type to always have the last word.
um. but the cutting: see once this all ends, when he’s snuffed out the flame burning a hole in the back of his neck he’s stood there shaken.
he’s done it again.
for days he’ll be wrecked with guilt and self pity, her body will rot there on the floor and the cat he christened himself will eat her eyes. but the time hasn’t come yet, right now his thoughts are muddled by adrenaline, and he feels absolutely nothing. he’s fired the bullet and it has yet to ricochet back at him to blow his head off his shoulders.
i couldn’t tell you what exactly he was thinking, and i doubt he could either. but it was during this period of numbness he’d found himself melting into the basin of the bathroom sink, a fresh red smile on his cheeks.
