₀₁. ㅤㅤㅤㅤ › › ㅤㅤㅤ @crushsung : it's not often that this happens. she's standing in the dark back alley outside a bar with a stranger, locked in a kiss. it's certainly questionable for alice, but then again, she hasn't been making very good decisions for herself as of lately. she's getting a bit reckless, a bit too impulsive lately. this might very well end up in the papers tomorrow.
her arm is draped over their shoulder, fingers woven through cherry red hair. that might be why she picked him, out of all the people she could have kissed tonight. it's valentine's day -- red seems on theme -- not that she's ever been the celebratory type. pulling away for a breath, she can only see half their face in the dark, the other half obscured by shadow. but they've got a nice face, she decides, one she doesn't mind being close to, if only for a brief moment. the air between them is silent, still. she says nothing before leaning back in to kiss him again.
Angelheaded hipsters and devil - horned motorheads ˢᵗᵃˡᵏᵉᵈ the neon littered nightlife, reaching and grasping for that ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑢𝑡 missed connection between bars and glitter - puke coated clubs. The rat’s nest of socialites threaded together with amped out college kids and the heavenly members of the 𝑳𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝑪𝒍𝒖𝒃, ˢᵉᵃʳᶜʰᶦⁿᵍ … searching for someone, searching for anything just to feel something. People taking the place of isolation, sinking hooks into flesh in place of inner peace. Alleys become grit coated bedrooms, the darkest corners of the earth holding intimacy between strangers, hysterical and half - clothed, liquor seeping through pores and wires, coating the fibres of your very being with your heart 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒖𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 like an EDM bass.
Saint Valentine held you in his clutches, beheaded and martyred, layers of rich history ˢᵗʳᶦᵖᵖᵉᵈ and replaced with pink and red cardstock. Chalk - flavoured candy hearts and streamers. She was radiant, she was perfection. 𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢, just for tonight. ( 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙳𝚁𝚄𝙽𝙺. 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙷𝙸𝙶𝙷. 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙳𝙸𝙳𝙽’𝚃 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙽𝙰𝙼𝙴. )
Reckless was the word, and you were the definition, your spine ᴮᴼᵁᴺᴰ together with 𝒃𝒂𝒅 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 like a dictionary containing textbook examples of what not to do. You weren’t a liar, but you might be if you said you didn’t do this often. Displayed in the Basilica like Valentine of Terni himself, skull and legs ᶜʳᵃᶜᵏᵉᵈ ᵒᵖᵉⁿ on the pavement for the world to see. You are too wrapped up in what might be a mistake. Lips swollen and cherry red to match your hair, fingers tangled in the cloth she was cut from and pumped full of steam - heat. The moment she pulls away, your breath catches in your lungs and burns for more ⸺ like a hot, thirsty engine aching to swallow more oil. 𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑎𝑛𝑡, magnetism drawing you back in like a moth to a 𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔 - 𝒄𝒐𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒆.
❝ We can, ᵘʰ ... get out of here, if you want. Wherever. ❞
Getting out of here didn’t always mean going back to your place. ( 𝙱𝚄𝚃 𝙸𝚃 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳, 𝙸𝚃 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝙸𝙵 𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝙸𝚃 𝚃𝙾. ) Streets dotted with twenty - four hour diners and shit coffee, steam curls ʳᶦˢᶦⁿᵍ from factory ceramic cups and dissipating over the course of a late night conversation. Your head was just 𝒑𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 to get out and go anywhere but the outskirts of this dead club.
