[ Adorable. Undeniably adorable. He’d love to see the face under the mask–she can’t be much older than eighteen. It’s a valiant effort, taking him on. He has to respect that stupid bravery. It takes him back to Mac Gargan, Boomerang; and he appreciates the simplicity of bad heroes. They’re the ones he lets live. ]
I wasn’t insulting you. Seriously, you’re gonna have at least six BuzzFeed articles written about your racist intentions. Or your cocaine addiction. Who are you even supposed to be?
[ She just… stares. A grown man just giggled until he lowered a fully loaded gun on her. Squinting, she holds out a hand, expression… mystified beneath the mask. ]
Uh… thanks?
Alright, alright. Fuck. You’re welcome.
Hey, do you realize that all that white makes you look like a member of the Ku Klux Klan?
How about I put you in the trash you– you trash lord!
You don’t even have to do any work anymore. That statement alone is enough for me to want to put myself in prison. Trash lord. Jesus. Jesus. I need to get back to slammer to replace the masculinity I just had sucked out of me.
as much as i love bullseye, i can’t get into him any more. i feel like i’m recycling all my threads with him. he’s getting boring. and i love to write and this isn’t letting me expend any of my abilities. i think i need to make a new character if i come back to roleplay. because i miss a lot of you and i’d like to write with you.
She glares at him for a few moments before the crack of the gun violently punctuated the silence. Metal tears through skin and tendon, passing through and shattering bone as it comes out the other side in a splash of blood, and down she went, a yelp of pain as loud as the gunshot that caused it.
Hands planted against the cement as her head whipped back up and she growled, eyes red and glowing. She should have known, should have figured this would end up another violent and bloody encounter. It always ended up that way. Deep down, she preferred it this way. Guilt-free violence. No one would blame her for her actions. No one would blame her as she stood, leg shaky and uncooperative with the rest of her form, and she roared at him.
Against better judgement and screaming pain, she manages to push off with the good leg, fangs bared and ready to carve him another scar.
He likes that redness of her eyes and the shining whiteness preceding it. She looks like a slaughtered pig, and the very thought has him grinning a fake-toothed grin that stretches his face into sharp planes.
Lazily, his right arm limply hangs at his side. His legs make no effort to move. Honestly, he didn’t even know the 1943 gun could fire–it’s like paperweight. He tries again, but, oh, goodbye bullets. Or functionality. Either way, it doesn’t matter.
And do you know why?
“I’m motherfucking BULLSEYE!” he gleefully chimes, and bent his arm back before throwing the gun at the slant of her nose. It isn’t a vicious launch. In fact, it is more of a careless toss. Then he forces his body into action and turns on his heel, and runs like hell.
“Funny, I didn’t know the likes of Bob and Mac inherited my father’s genetics.” He hadn’t only been talking about himself, but he was always the one their resident marksman was aiming at. “You know, you were the perfect choice for Hawkeye, the most delicate member of the team.” With a swipe of his finger across one of Lester’s open wounds, he collected enough blood to smear between the digit and his thumb. “You’re bleeding,” he taunted.
“Yeah, blood. It’s recognizable. You know, it’s the same stuff that comes out of your vagina,” he plucks an arrow from this quill and turns it in his fingers. Then he draws it tight in his bow and launches it into Daken’s general crotch area. Of course, it hits its mark, for he is Bullseye. “Oh god! Oh GOD, Carrie! Plug it up, plug it up!”
