•Angie•23•she/her• "You root for them, you love them, so when they are brutally murdered, it hurts." Howdy! I'm Angie. Welcome to my little corner of the internet, one I specifically use to save things for the roleplays I'm in. With a dash of random antics added in. If you ever want to roleplay with me, don't be afraid to message me and ask! I'm always open for new ships and story lines. Going through my blog you'll probably find that I specialize in a handful of OC's. If you'd like to check any of those out they should be under my character page! old urls: agleefulsparkofcreativity, noahguthrierps, ezramillerrps, theperksofbeingarper || This RPer took the Roleplay Anti-Hate Pledge || var fhs = document.createElement('script');var fhs_id = "5249155"; var ref = (''+document.referrer+'');var pn = window.location;var w_h = window.screen.width + " x " + window.screen.height; fhs.src = "//s1.freehostedscripts.net/ocounter.php?site="+fhs_id+"&e1=Wallflower&e2=Wallflowers &r="+ref+"&wh="+w_h+"&a=1&pn="+pn+""; document.head.appendChild(fhs);document.write(""); out of var fhsh = document.createElement('script');var fhs_id_h = "3109421"; fhsh.src = "//s1.freehostedscripts.net/ocount.php?site="+fhs_id_h+"&name=Wallflowers&a=1"; document.head.appendChild(fhsh);document.write(""); Scream SideBlog: themorgueastoldbynoah var sc_project=11179110; var sc_invisible=1; var sc_security="e50e5a25"; var scJsHost = (("https:" == document.location.protocol) ? "https://secure." : "http://www."); document.write("");
If i got a penny for every time I related to a 15 year old depressed boy called Charlie, I’d have two pennies, its not much but it’s weird it happened twice
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the one time Bob and Jake probably should have broken up but didn't
jake seresin x bob floyd; 600 words; no beta.
Bob lingered in his car in the driveway — part dread, part exhaustion. Work had been, well, work. That, and he was preparing himself for Jake wanting to go out, because it was Friday and Bob wanting to stay home, because it was Friday. And yeah, it wasn't unreasonable for Jake to want to go out, or it wouldn't be if it wasn't an all the time thing. It was always a thing; lately, there were so many things — the sink was full of dirty dishes, and the paper towel roll was empty and not replaced, and 'what do you mean we're out of milk, why didn't you say?' But, at the root of it: Jake needed to be seen, and Bob couldn't understand why his gaze wasn't enough. Why, at one point, it felt like it was enough, but now it didn't anymore.
So maybe Bob was gearing up to a fight, to the fight, and he couldn't tell if he was on offense or defense by the time he entered the door to their shared home, but he felt a flush creeping up his neck already. That whisper at the back of his mind pushed him to accept that maybe it was time; that he shouldn't feel so on edge, walking into his home. His jaw shouldn't be so fucking tight, shoulders so tense. Keys dropped into the bowl as he stepped out of his shoes, he passed a hand through his hair and inhaled a deep breath. But then it was dark, save for a few candles on the coffee table, and were those roses?
"Jake?"
There was no answer, but he heard music drifting from down the hall in the direction of their bedroom. Instantly, Bob recognized Roberta Flack — a mutual favorite of theirs.
And the first time ever I kissed your mouth,
I felt the earth move in my hand,
like the trembling heart of a captive bird.
Jake was singing along in that way he only did when he knew — or thought — no one was listening: voice low and almost gentle. He wasn't putting on any sort of show, not overexaggerating how "bad" he was for the sake of a laugh. And Bob thought he just sounded so fucking pretty. He wouldn't be winning a Grammy tomorrow, but it was honest. Honest, and delicate, and Jake. Just Jake. Just Jake being at ease and being himself at home, their home.
But Bob knew what this playlist meant, and the roses, and the candles. Those were all hallmarks of a night in, together, just the two of them. He spared a glance at the clock. 6:17 PM. He was sure that takeout from their favorite place would arrive as close to 7 PM as Jake could manage.
Maybe by tomorrow morning, Bob would go back to feeling fed up, but that felt so far from now. It felt like a later problem, not a now problem.
He ventured down the hallway, having to shout a bit as he grew nearer to their bedroom.
"Jake, I'm home."
Bob had just come to lean against the doorframe of the en suite bathroom, when Jake poked his head out of the shower, soapy suds still visible at the crown of his head. "Hi, Bobby." His smile was big and downright sweet.
"You still have some soap in your hair, sugar."
Jake blinked a few times, as if maybe he was preparing for a very different conversation, too. But instead, Bob shed his clothes, joined his boyfriend in the shower, and helped him rinse the shampoo from his hair.
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