blake kathryn
One Nice Bug Per Day
YOU ARE THE REASON
wallacepolsom
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
we're not kids anymore.
Three Goblin Art
occasionally subtle
Sade Olutola
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Andulka
Xuebing Du
i don't do bad sauce passes
tannertan36
No title available
AnasAbdin
@theartofmadeline
Love Begins
Janaina Medeiros
Mike Driver
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from Uzbekistan
seen from Uzbekistan
seen from Mexico
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Morocco
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from Germany
seen from Canada
@illsauver
& me & you, & you, & you & me & you, & you, & you
independent && selective original character as penned by theo (²⁴ / ʰᵉ & ʰᶦᵐ). minors dni.
a study of the lengths a traveler goes to just to avoid his own grief while pursuing delightful self-destruction. its just sisyphus now, rolling his boulder away from all that was demanded of him. one must imagine him happy.
rules // dossier // verses // memes
do you like COWBOYS ?? are you a fan of chasing storms, cheating death, and constantly worrying that you might be - metaphorically - THE ROT AT THE HEART OF THE UNIVERSE, TO WHICH ALL GOOD THINGS GO TO DIE ?? then you're in luck !! this is a brand spankin' new blog for one CONSTANT PHINEAS RHODES (or finn for short), a rodeo performer && storm chaser who wrestles with possessing a keen sense for when shit gets bad.
if you'd like to write with this doofus, hit the ↺ or the ❤︎, and i'll check you out !!
› TENSION LINER PROMPTS
"I dare you to try."
"Do you always get close?"
"You’re pushing my limits."
"Stop looking at me like that."
"I’m losing control here."
"You have no idea, do you?"
"I can’t resist you anymore."
"Stay back, or don’t."
"I know what you want."
"This is getting dangerous now."
"You’re too tempting for me."
"I shouldn’t want this, but…"
"I don’t play fair, remember?"
"Careful, you’re testing me."
"You’re just making it worse."
"You’re too close for comfort."
"Do you always push buttons?"
"Stop before I kiss you."
"You’re making it too hard."
"I can’t stop thinking about you."
"I want you too much."
"You know exactly what you’re doing."
"I’m not playing games here."
"You’ve crossed the line now."
"Keep pushing, and you’ll regret it."
"This is dangerous, isn’t it?"
"I’m trying not to care."
"Don’t make me regret this."
"You’re playing with fire."
"You don’t know what’s coming."
"I shouldn’t be this close."
"We’re getting dangerously close now."
"I can feel the heat."
"Don’t test me right now."
"I want you too badly."
"Don’t make me chase you."
"You’re distracting me, you know."
"I won’t fall for this."
"I want you, but…"
"What do you want from me?"
"I’ll never give in."
"I’m trying not to care."
"You’re playing with my patience."
"Don’t make this harder, please."
"I can’t stop this feeling."
"I’m already in too deep."
"You won’t walk away unscathed."
"You’re walking a fine line."
"I’m trying to stay calm."
"What are you doing to me?"
Still, there is this terrible desire to be loved. Still, there is this horror at being left behind.
" oh, we met when i was sixteen. or seventeen. can't remember exactly which year it was. but we go waaay back. yeah, she basically assimilated me into her little gang of misfits and that's that ! "
that's that. yeah, there wasn't any sordid business with odin that led to the death of the little girl called jormungandr, whose heart was ripped from her chest by the god of thunder. there was no betrayal that led to a bloody, terrifying battle of which thor would never recover from. the catalyst of so many awful things never happened, at least, not to sisyphus.
it's uncanny how easily the story slips from her lips. casual, unseeming. lying is just a natural talent by now. yeah, lying is how kioko survived that game of russian roulette with the god of all gods, or whatever. her lips wrap around her straw again for another sip of tequila and grapefruit juice.
her eyes roll back to the boy across from her, and she smiles. delicate, gunslinging fingers thumb over the locket at her neck where jormungandr's pearl-shaped heart is nestled safely inside. it feels warm.
" got any family ? "
── This bitch. there exists no shortage of spite for her in the moment, muffled though the liquor though it is. still, he tries to lend an ear to her with a genuine want to know her. more aptly, know kaishu. know the world. know the people he will one day leave with nothing but a sticky-note to remember him by - made different from any other world by that sole note.
his eyes trace her silhouette, then take to studying his glass. bits and pieces of black ink cling to the side of the now-condensation damp cup, mingling with water with all the expected smoothness of oil in a spring.
❝ old friends, then. ❞ sisyphus hums, a twinge of genuine appreciation in his voice. he has never known friends like that - people who assimilate him, who take him in. not for lack of trying. for lack of him staying.
her question makes his eyes dart back to her. a sharpness is there for a moment - then it's gone, replaced with an instinctive politeness. someone somewhere once said something about concealing, and all of that rushes back to the front of his mind. best to not show his shit. best to not hint to his hand.
they may react poorly to the curl of his index round the trigger, after all.
❝ my mom and dad, ❞ he answers plainly, ❝ they're both still kicking, last i heard. you ?? ❞
❛ funny for you to say that as an intruder. ❜ maybe she's just saying it to piss him off, or maybe she's doing it before it's true. either way, it's been said, and now he has to figure out her intentions on his own. ❛ and maybe they're not shit, just different for you. ❜
linh eyes him up and down again, checking for the fresh wound he's supposed to have, staring at the spot where it should be. for a moment she considers trying again, willing it into existence once again, but he speaks and kills the thought as fast as she killed him. she flips the dagger around her hand, between her fingers and around her wrist as she walks around him, picking up the arrow and mumbling loud enough he can clearly hear it.
❛ i dunno, i could wring out a few hours of fun out of you that way. ❜
she grins mischievously like she just might while he's sleeping or looking away. she puts the arrow back in her quiver and tucks the knife back into its sheath attached to her leg. she squats down in front of him, moving closer if he tries to back away and cups his face like she wasn't just planning on playing with his corpse like a morbidly curious animal.
❛ if i can't kill you, and you're fairly harmless ... you wanna come back to my place ? ❜
her head tilts, and she smiles softly, though it's possible it still causes him to feel afraid.
── It must not be forgotten: the woman in front of him just shot him. killed him. rid the world of him for a blessed few seconds, then saw him come back and - at least for now - hasn't decided to put her money where her mouth is: she hasn't killed him again and, despite the way she speaks, he's not as on edge as he should be.
death has a way of reminding him of the fact that he cannot be killed. he will always come back. thus, there is nothing to fear. not really. not for him.
❝ i wasn't trying to intrude, ❞ sisyphus corrects her, though his voice lacks any sharpness - it is, instead, apologetic. ❝ i was just trying to find somewhere new to go. probably could've picked better. ❞
he tenses when she circles him. not because of what she implies - not the threat of wringing a few more hours of enjoyment out of him like water from a damp towel - but because of where she is. lord, he's never been a fan of anyone being behind him. the tension fades when she comes back into view proper, though he does start to lean back when she leans forward-
and then her hands are pressed to his face, cupping him, and he has no idea what the fuck to do. his expression rapidly shifts from confused to confused to some kind of resigned and back to confused again. a nervous laugh drifts out from his throat and he slowly starts to pull back from her - though some part of him violently protests this, yearning for a little more touch, a few seconds more of contact with someone else who is actually alive.
he is cruel enough to himself to deny his better self this gift. he leans back all the same.
❝ i'm definitely harmless, ❞ sisyphus agrees, ❝ but... do you invite every pretty man you kill back to your house ?? ❞ the smile on his face betrays his nerves for once, ❝ or am i just special ?? ❞
Ingvar stares at the momentarily-outstretched book, and his head tilts to one side. He is silent for a time. His hair all goes a-tumble over the shoulder closest to the lowest point of this. Come the mention of being sketched, his eyes widen considerably. Do not panic, he pleads with his own body, and focuses intently upon the cadence of his breaths, and allowing them not to become too shallow, lest he should spiral into worry.
"Capture... mine essence?" he repeats, "in... sketch?" His gaze searches the stranger's countenance for answers, and upon it find none. Still, the human has said it all with a smile; it can't have been bad, could it? But, oh, he does not know, Ingvar. "I... I would not want to be..." he pauses a moment, swallowing uneasily; one of the birds upon a shoulder puffs out its feathers as though in disapproval, "c— captured."
Why, though; why does he smile? What is Ingvar missing? Capture is not something humans ask permission to do. Never! Nor is such a thing ever spoken about as though pleasant. It doesn't make any sense, then.
── Maybe that isn't the best wording he could have used. sisyphus has never prided himself all too much on understanding others (this is a lie for his own confidence's sake; he thrives on expressions and knowing a little too much about what eyes can give away), but... hm. the way the large eyes of the giant seem to search him, the way they widen - yes, this was bad wording. probably really bad wording.
well, he's not squashed to death. evidently, that means he hasn't screwed up too bad... yet, anyways.
❝ oh - uh, no, no, not... okay, uh. when i say captured, big guy, i mean, uh. ❞ he holds his sketchbook out, disregarding his prior concerns. best to put someone at ease, even if it does mean patching a few torn spots from the book here and there, right? he's not here to cause fear. far from it.
❝ i draw. i'm an artist, mon ami. here - you can see the stuff i've drawn, just be careful not to hurt the book any. ❞ it might be a fool's request, given the sheer difference between them, but he doesn't seem to mind it all too much; it's not as if he hasn't had to repair it in the past, after all.
❝ it's. it's... mostly people and buildings. some weird animals, too - there's an anteater in there, one of my favorites-❞ a pause and, despite himself, a quick snort, ❝ do... you guys have those here ?? ❞
19th c. book cover with mother of pearl
OOC. gonna be doin replies tomorrow!! sorry for the comparative radio silence over here lol, been cookin.
𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 — —𝐍𝐎 𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇 — — 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 !!
#𝘛𝘈𝘒𝘌𝘋𝘊𝘞𝘕: a case study of instability && what happens when you abandon humanity to return to the wolves.
independent && highly selective demon oc highly influenced by kpdh && by dante's inferno penned by theo. minors dni.
Verso softens measurably when asked about his music; he’s not a particularly standoffish as it is, born to aristocracy to be certain but his rebellion is a certain bohemian rejection of such things, at least when presenting outside his family’s company. But to ask him about music —— ah, but that’s something personal.
He’s glad to not have to play at politics, and some of stiffness melts from his shoulders. So while that little smile he offers in return starts small, polite — it softens, eases, something almost boyish in it all.
" Good luck wandering Paris without running into a musician on every corner, " rebounds he with an exhale of a little laugh, but it’s an amused thing, too, and pleased. He likes this city’s music and art scene, particularly that that thrums beneath the stiff surface of it all: breathes it, thrives in it. " We’re everywhere. "
How long? " Since I was four, " comes the practiced answer, the immediate answer; he’s skilled, has talent, and has been asked it more times than he can count. " Well, " he amends, with a little grin. " Or so my parents tell me that’s when I started. It feels like I’ve been doing it as long as I can remember, now. "
Introducing the children to all the arts, as they were: never expecting that one would cling to anything else but Painting, but cling he did. Like a lifeline. " I have some friends who are putting on a show tomorrow night, if you’re really looking for a performance to go to. A little more —— " A crooked little grin, " ah, avant garde than the usual, but it’s worth the time. "
─ Behold: the casual demeanor of his ilk that was once thought dead, now brought back with... well, not with a vengeance. certainly not. more so with an eagerness; there's a certain relief that comes with avoiding a discussion about family or responsibilities and, instead, delighting in talks about passions. a shame though it is to admit, sisyphus is of the (perhaps correct) opinion that the damn feud has either intensified or outright killed some wayward dreams here and there - metaphorically, at least.
the comment towards paris's constant streak of musician earns the dessendre a snort. ❝ well yes, but i mean... and i say this with, you know, all the respect in the world for those who perform on the street, ❞ which is a polite way to say that what follows will have only enough respect to still any suspicion of outright hostility towards those particular souls, ❝ i mean good musicians. ❞
he waves his right hand in a slow and small circle, choosing his words as it completes the first loop and speaking again as it rounds the second, ❝ i swear, i passed a man not long ago playing the guitar, and... i don't think that man would know a chord progression to save his life. ❞ there's a chuckle on the edge of his words; for as scathing as it may sound out of context, there's the air of a joke in there - it isn't that serious, after all.
❝ four ?? ❞ he whistles, ❝ damn. ❞ perhaps he should say something more civilized, but that's all that he can manage on the matter. to be introduced that young, to stay with it for as long as he has - there should be no surprise at the fact that his voice carries a twinge of admiration, if only for the length of the other's devotion.
it is, however, the mention of the avant garde performance that seems to truly ensare his attention. he puts one hand on his chin, the other sliding back into his pockets, brows furrowing and the corners of his lips tugging up into a smile.
❝ how avant garde is it, exactly ?? ❞ it's better to know now, in truth, if he'll walk into a show with some oddities... or, if fate truly isn't on his side, an abstract meditation on the mortality of grapes told through improvisation on instruments better left unplayed.
bard energy, huh? kaishu could agree with that ; bards come in all shapes, sizes, and energies. their magic is unpredictable and don't even get them started about the whole gift of prophecy thing. kaishu envies people with that sort of energy. personable, real go-getter types with lots of charisma to spare. not kaishu, though — hell no. if anyone were to describe kaishu, it would be the least personable person alive. and yet, here they are, hosting a total stranger in their apartment again. weirdness just seems to flock to them, at this point, and who is she to decline a stranger in a foreign land?
onigiri seems pleased with the belly drums, so kaishu doesn't tell him to stop. she slurps more udon, and then chuckles after her mouthful. the bowl gets set down as she speaks now, trailing to the fridge again to retrieve a deep, brown bottle of beer.
" the shop is my dad's. he has his own place, so he lets me kick it up here. it's a body shop, yeah ? i help out here or there. i like the work. "
the godeater presses a fang against the cap of her drink and cracks it open, spitting the bobble into the trash can before taking a long drink.
" i own a tattoo place. ' mirror image '. we do tattoos, piercings, permanent makeup, body mods. that's how i get my art down when i'm not painting. "
she doesn't mind the barrage of questions, it seems. if anything, it has her relaxed. people who don't talk about themselves a lot — or stagger themselves, even — tend to get you talking about yourself first and foremost. kaishu doesn't care about all that, even if he is a warlock, or some other sinister type. she's an open book, at this point. no need to hide.
" i'm hiring, if you want. could really use someone with your expertise. "
it's a joke. dry, sardonic, as always.
── Onigiri, the world's luckiest cat, receives more cat bongos. sisyphus seems to delight in petting the feline once his pats stop; he takes a great deal of care in how he treats the animal, watching every little twitch, listening for any particular sound. people can be cruel, animals even crueler at times, but this little guy ?? nonsense. the cat already owns his soul. maybe he is a warlock. maybe onigiri is his patron now.
he has had decidedly worse fates. this one, he can abide.
he whistles at the mention of her father, seemingly impressed with the notion. ❝ props to him. small businesses aren't common where i'm from; lots of bigger fish eat 'em up. bet he's a hard worker. ❞
he swallows his distaste for the mechanical for the purposes of the compliment, and it does indeed have a fair bit of truth to it: for as much as he loathes the process of machinery intruding on the rightful jobs of people like him... well, mechanics often have it hard enough, don't they ?? even those who work on auto-body.
his eyes flick to her for just long enough to see the fang get used as a bottle-opener. then he turns back to onigiri, taking all of a second to recuperate from the sight. not for want or anything particularly lecherous; for curiosity, to ground himself before he asks another billion questions of her. a barrage of inquires cannot possibly be enjoyable - he knows from personal experience that they aren't. he clears his throat after a short pause.
❝ mmh, i travel too much for a job, unfortunately. ❞ he shakes his head, looking back to her when his face isn't quite as obvious about his curiosity. ❝ and besides, i don't do tattoos on people. hard to work on a moving canvas, you know ?? ❞ there's that smile again, as teasing as it is relaxed.
❝ if i can ask... what is a body mod ?? ❞
" what is my problem ... "
kioko rolls an ice cube, half-melted and small, over her tongue before it cracks down beneath her molars. repeating the question, thoughtful, not angry. instead, her fingers lift to her chin and pat, almost theatrical. all of her is a bit of a theatre, an act, a cutesy little facade of quirkiness. what's her problem? yeah, kioko, what is your problem?
how about:
one-thousand four-hundred and sixty-one days in hel? how about starving, endlessly, in a frozen wasteland with no sky, with no people, with only the draugr and songbirds to hunt you, to keep you even a modicum of company. how about hunkering down in broken ruins, shivering, undying because you're already in the world of the dead, fingers and lips and everything blue with frostbite that will never fucking kill you, but will keep it hard to not lose your shit.
carved number markers in the walls, never sleeping, drinking from the river, the river, the river and feeling the water sink, heavy, in your stomach. just you, the river, and a rifle to keep you company. just you, the noose-necked girl, and the dead child to keep you shame-ridden and eaten with guilt.
one-thousand four-hundred and sixty-one days of it. and sometimes, she's still there.
" oh, there's a laundry list, probably. but for the sake of our game, i'll just say ... something truly undiagnosed and grotesque ! maybe PTSD? yeah, let's call it PTSD. "
kioko smiles wide, clapping her hands together.
" my turn. what's your problem ? "
── Nothing about this surprises him. the venom in his mind is uncharacteristic, floating on whiskey and sweet aftertastes, but he would be wrong to say that it was entirely off on such an assessment: part of the boons of traveling as frequently as he does is to entertain different kinds of people. heroes. villains. the scarred remains of both. his is a story of walking graveyards and asking the groundskeepers what stories the corpses have left to tell. his is a story of always leaving before his casket is rolled out; a ghost afraid to go.
he's no psychiatrist, nor does he have such a sharp sense of emotional awareness to pinpoint the woman's exact mental condition. however, there's tension in the air still. there's something about how she regards him. about how she cracks down on the ice between her teeth, perhaps wishing it was instead a piece of him. perhaps already thinking about tearing him asunder.
he couldn't blame her if this were the case. he would deserve it. and besides, he has noted once before: he will let wild cats do just about anything to him, and that includes their triangle-pupil'd kinfolk.
he exhales. these thoughts won't help him.
❝ sorry to hear that. ❞ and despite the furrow of his brows and that still-present tension, he's not entirely lying when he says it. nobody likes to see other people hurting. that, however, does not mean he's obligated to help them - not this time, at least.
her question reaches him as he takes another moment to nurse his drink. he lowers the glass, swishes the captured contents around in his mouth, then swallows. time to bullshit.
❝ i'm too handsome for my own good, ❞ says sisyphus, ❝ it tends to attract the craziest people, i'll tell you what. ❞
the look he gives makes it clear: with his drink in hand, he will continue to dance around questions - answering them with just enough honesty to count, with any luck. he's already asking his next question but a beat after his response-
❝ how do you know kaishu ?? ❞
THERE IS A SNEER AUDIBLE IN HIS VOICE when he says: "you are no artist." it is unbecoming of his status & renoir will have time to clench his teeth over it later, though could anyone truly put the blame on him? to come to a house in mourning still when you are part of the perpetrators yourself is more of an insult than any of his reaction ever could be———— "& you have earned none of my time." & still he does not slam the door in his face, which perhaps he should have done. too much harm has already been done in the pretense of civility. it is the streak of curiosity that has him hesitate, neither confirming nor denying his interest in the story that is sure to follow. (IT IS THIS CURIOSITY THAT KILLS THE CAT, ALSO.)
── Good. Good, good, good, good, good, sisyphus tells himself, the door is not slammed in his face. already, this is the greatest outcome he could ask for; the finest result in an affair that perhaps would be better left abandoned, but now has sunk its teeth into the two of them. curiosity compels, as does desperation. he is fortunate to have grown a thick skin as of late: his expression does not betray the pang of injury, though he cannot blame the man for it. he's not wrong. sisyphus himself is far from an artist - not of their caliber, anyhow.
still, the door is not shut. time to capitalize. time to dig his own grave.
❝ the lecuyer's lost their patriarch; my grandfather passed some days ago - i do not say this for any other reason but as an explanation, i know you couldn't care less. ❞ he clears his throat, adjusts his glasses with the bend of his right knuckle. ❝ point is, it affords me a level of authority. nothing grand, but... ❞ he takes a deep breath, and does his best to meet the gaze of the older man - only to avoid it a split second later.
❝ we both know it was the Writers who caused this, but - if you'd allow it - i'd... like to help, in any way i can, get justice or something similar for your family. ❞ he swallows hard, quickly adding - ❝ i know it is foolish to assume that you would need any help, or even want it from one of my ilk, but the matter deserves to be put to rest at some point - and i doubt any other Writer will come knocking with good intentions. ❞
── ❝ Yikes, sorry man - got a lot of ink on you, didn't really think the landing would be that rough !! uh, it might come out if you wash it or pray hard enough... ?? ❞
@yalldved // one liner call (accepting)
── ❝ Good news, i'm almost done with a new portrait of you. bad news: it's... it's mostly purple. ❞
@soulsfeasted // one liner call (accepting)
ㅤ
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤInsects singing, in the dead of night. ㅤㅤㅤWhen the rest of the world, fell into slumber, and the moon shone above.
That which would plague her, a nightmare ; a memory. The weight, of irons 'pon her wrists, the heft of it, at her neck. Tight, but not too tight. Enough to keep her FEARFULLY COMPLIANT. A restless dream, a hell of her years past. To say, she was thankful for the echo of a voice, foreign, was somewhat of an understatement. Groggy, is she that rises from her nest, hair bed - raggled and wild.
However, the first thought that comes, is they must be silent ; for though, the Dreadwood breathed silent, a sleeping thicket, not all within it, were diurnal. Some, waited until the hour late, to hunt their prey, DRAG IT INTO THE DARK, and devour their prize. Body, pushed up with thin arms, stretch brief, enough only for limbs and back to loosen. With that, she's quick, to leave her home, in that massive, black tree.
Branch creaks, only slightly 'neath feather - weight, and eyes shine beneath the light of the moon. OWLS' GENES BE BLESSED, for her vision in the dead of night was not so poor as some others. A stroke, of wings - unpreened - and she takes to the sky, weaving with effort 'tween thin stick and thick limb alike, until the voice that dies quietly, is closer than it was at FIRST ; yet, when she comes upon him, remaining high ... his scent is unique. She'd smelled it once, put to parchment, dark in its' hue.
Down, she would flit, talons landing 'pon fallen leaves that rot slow, and soil that nourishes all within her home. She approaches slow, hands up to shush him, keep him quiet. A single claw, set to her lips, but she does not close the distance. For she, in her make, must be a fright onto he, whom looks so standard. SO, PAINFULLY HUMAN.
❝ Are you mad ..? Do you know where you are ? ❞ No, you daft thing, for if he had known, he'd not step foot in this place. Her sigh is a silent one, out of necessity more than courtesy. ❝ You must stay quiet. There are things, that weave between the trees and latch onto soft flesh. Worry naught, for my name ; know I am here to help. Tell me what ails you, and we can solve the issue from there. Please. We cannot be out here long. ❞
── And he tells himself, deep breaths. And he tells himself, this might have been a mistake - no, it was definitely a mistake. certainly a mistake. he shouldn't have said shit. he should have kept on walking. he should have done anything but what he did, except he's already did it, and there's no turning back now. there's simply an inhale, an exhale, and a figure before him. eyes that reflect starlight right back at him -
this is not the weirdest thing he has seen, but it is the most intriguing, and that makes it worse. sisyphus's intrigue bleeds heavy and hard, urging his curiosity onwards; maybe this is the person that helps him learn to live again, says his curiosity, much to the ever-displeasure of his more cynical side. he's getting ahead of himself.
slowly, carefully, he nods. he doesn't relax, but he adjusts how he stands all the same; his jacket hides the tension in his shoulders, the gloves and sleeves obscure the black tainting his limbs. for now, maybe just for a little while, he can still pass as someone relatively normal. a man down on his luck. a traveler making a horrible, horrible decision by moonlight.
he keeps his voice low - terribly low and quiet now - when he speaks.
❝ i have no idea where i am, actually, ❞ sisyphus begins, ❝ my ankle just... hurts. i twisted it wrong a ways back - i could make something to carry me, but that just causes cramps. ❞ cramps is a funny thing to call what occurs, but it's not entirely wrong, either. he takes a breath, shakes his head, and tries to right his senses. one small issue, and he's already forgotten his manners when it comes to new places and strange people.
❝ also, sorry for asking, but what things ?? ❞
