DEAD MAN WALKING.

[entropydream-deactivated2018012]

[graveburied-blog]

ahvir.

             A CUTE STRANGER SITTING ACROSS FROM HER.  Her singing hadn’t been designed to catch a pretty boy, but it has, and she’s nothing if not grateful.  She allows the song to quiet and, resting chin upon her palm, flutters those long eyelashes at him.  “Oh, really?  Then you’re practically my savior.”  God.  Please, at least make her flirting GOOD.  “Though, it might have all been worth it if it got a handsome stranger to join me.”  Or not.

                ❝ Oh, songbird, ❞ the curve of his mouth deepens and his teeth flash and he MODULATES HIMSELF, keeping himself nonthreatening and teasing,  ❝ I ain’t anyone’s savior. ❞ She’s flirting with him, that’s patently obvious ( he doesn’t have to be the world’s greatest detective to figure that out ) and he —— doesn’t mind.  ❝ You could’ve taken him, I’m sure. A quick one-two and done, easy.  ❞

[graveburied-blog]

@ahvir.

                      ❝ Your singing's endearing, songbird, though your situational awareness leaves something to be desired, ❞ he sits down across from her heavily, setting his book on the table. His mouth is curving and his expression settles somewhere between amusement and incredulity and his postures loosens, a half conscious effort to not quite relax. He leans forward, mirth sparking in his eyes as his cadence drops to a dramatic hush,  ❝ You’re in a temple of knowledge, and its keeper has been preparing to mount an attack. ❞

[graveburied-blog]

RED FUCKING SUCKS. i’m here, i’m queer, i’m full of fear, so like this for a starter?????

[graveburied-blog]

@savagekind.

                   Lethargy drips from his innards, irregular and thick, clinging to his ribs, to his guts, to everything that moves, to everything that makes him alive. Exhaustion is like a blanket over his shoulders, over his head, SUFFOCATING, aching at his eyes and still he drags on. When was the last time he slept. Who the fuck knows. Who the fuck cares. Statements. He does not dare question, he does not follow the yellow brick road to a utopia of a screwed up city and  —   — he puts his book down. A well worn copy of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. A temporary occupation of his mind, of his thoughts, something else to drive away whatever it is that is lurking at the edges of his conscience. Well, he knows what it is. Gaze is cast and his eyes catch and his attention narrows ( well, relatively speaking  —— he still knows all possible exits, all potential threats, the exact number of people in the small rundown building ) and his head tilts. Slow. Considering.

                                     ❝   ———————— Either there’s somethin’ in that paper that’s pissing you off or someone left a flaming bag of shit on your doorstep this morning. Can’t decide which one. ❞

[jasontoddwayne]

red hood | the lost days

“y’know… your accent gets thicker when you’re pissed. it’s… cute.”