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I was never one for pretenders

It all happened so fast. The world had been on a rampage against time since that useless fuck of a client bombarded in and it didn't seem to be ready to stop, yet. The grip on his collar caught him off guard, eyes widening all over again. He never broke his gaze off of Bishop, even has he passed off his heroin to another muscle-headed asshole. He smelled... good. Honestly, much better than even the most prim and proper of snobs that rolled up in here looking for discrete kink for the sake of humiliating and degrading someone else, without fear. That hair was a bit distracting as well, but not enough to occupy him from every single hard word spoken by him.

Suddenly, he was dragged to the bed and a look of dread took hold of his expression. His gut twisted so hard he was barely able to tell the difference between the feeling and Bishop's knee. The lecturing had him frozen, fingers clinging to the bed sheet as if it'd save him from whatever the hell was going to follow. He relaxed a little as Bishop moved his knee off, but it was short-lived, his shirt coming off in a quick motion. Goosebumps dotted his bared skin, but his expression morphed into a scowl as he was commanded to "take pride in his work." What lousy advice. This fucker wasn;'t exactly taking it up the ass or showering in whatever fluid clients wanted to... y'know. He almost never got women clients, it was shitastic. Take pride in it... trade me jobs for a day, bastard. He wanted to say it so badly, but didn't want to risk being popped in the mouth for it.

"Sorry," he muttered as Bishop took a "ready to leave" stance. He rubbed at his arms, trying to resist habitual urges that he was excruciatingly aware of with this blue gorilla leering at him. He sat up at the edge of the bed, eyeing him suspiciously before moving his gaze to the carpet where the blood was. He sighed and put his head into his hands, wishing he had a different life, at this particular moment. "Unless you're going to employee to client... I'm gonna vacate to a new room so this door can get... fixed. Nobody wants to be seen with me, after all." Not a sympathy card, just a fact. These men "weren't gay" and weren't about to be seen doing gay shit.

He gathered what little he had, habit having him reach for his stash that wasn't there. Spencer made a throaty growl to himself, then brushed passed Bishop, barely making it between him and the smashed door. He wandered toward a relatively unused room, figuring he was just following orders, at this point. Work or eat shit. 

469 w.

notes.

I was never one for pretenders

The sound of tearing cloth made the situation a little more real, fear catching in his throat. This man wasn't drunk, but he definitely wasn't sober. There was no time or mind to even consider what it was, not that Spencer cared anyway. He clawed at the man, throwing more unheard demands to get off of him. The two squabbled, wrestling for control of the entire scenario. He was barely able to keep up, high on his own drug and weak from lack of proper nourishment because of it.

There was a clicking noise- the doorknob. Someone was there; someone was about to save his ass, literally and figuratively. The distraction put him in a bad place, though. A hand balled into a fist and greeted his cheek, the pain shooting through his face just as the door was broken down, pieces of it flying. The order that was immediately followed made his attacker pause, but not halt. Please, please just beat the shit out of him! It was not to his wish, though.

Another order was dropped, but this one wasn't quite for forgiving. The intoxicated man tried to stand up to the rather large, blue-haired man, stating the fucking obvious. Within the very moment, Bishop's head lurched forward and a sickening crack followed, the sound of a breaking nose making Spencer gag a little and cup his own nose, remembering how it felt for his own nose to bloody by his own clumsy bullshit, no thanks to that one broad who decided she needed to intervene on his private-in-a-public-place business.

As both men disappeared from the room, Spencer removed his damaged shirt and toss it aside before wandering to his stash, dragging it all out without an ounce of fuck to give about anyone walking in on him getting his high, this time. As Bishop walked in, he was filling his needle with the same amount as before, eyes darting up to the slightly taller male who was built enough to make Spencer feel like he was only 4 foot tall, himself. He cleared his throat nervously as their eyes met, then looked back to his needle.

"I... uh, I'm fine. Thanks, I guess," he muttered. A sharp inhale was followed by the point going into a collapsed vein. He threw the stash all back into the drawer and slammed it shut before crumpling into a nearby chair and twiddling this thumbs, stealing glances at Bishop and his brightly colored hair. How could someone with such... blue hair be so intimidating? "I think that guy owed for last time still, anyway." He hoped to himself that he wouldn't get his ass chewed later on for it, either way.

The very next second he was back onto his feet, digging through another drawer. He grabbed a fresh shirt for himself and something else, wandering timidly toward Bishop before stretching his needle-scarred arm out, a bundle of cash in hand. "My tips for the week.... take it and don't tell Shaun you saw me poking myself on the job, please?" He didn't know if there were repercussions for being such trash, but he assumed it was better safe than sorry. He also assumed Bishop would take the money and be hush-hush about it. After all, who didn't like hush-hush money?

551 w.

notes.