@pxmos - Tumblr Blog

unfaltcring.

tearing his eyes away from the thing that comforts him so, he remembers why he zoned out in the first place–this is all weird. whiskey has never made him hallucinate. then again, maybe his father spiked it so he’d stop getting into his precious liquor cabinet. either way, what aleksy sees before him is something the alcohol won’t let him fully comprehend.

❝ that’s because you’re– ❞ he pauses to let out a chuckle, ❝ that’s a 70″ flat screen television your ass is parked on. ❞

squinting slightly, he notices it’s more like he’s floating. how is that even possible? maybe he’s a magician. that would explain how he got here without being let in (because the maid never lets strange people in–under his father’s strict orders, of course).

❝ –so, are you gonna go all criss angel on me? because that guy’s a douche bag, and to be honest, i prefer card tricks. ❞

he floats gently to the floor, as if the very air above the ground were cushioning his fall. he stares at the black, unlit screen in front of him, cocking his head to the side as he examines the machinery. ‘ WELL THAT SEEMS EXCESSIVE. ’ he murmurs, lifting himself up off the ground to examine the rest of the room. if it were in his power, he would sew the other’s mouth shut -- mostly since they’re choosing to be distracting. his excursion is put hold so that he may grace the other with an appropriate response. ‘ I AM NOT FAMILIAR WITH WHAT A ... CRISS ANGEL IS. IS IT A WEAPON? ’ as a passing thought, he decides to spare the other from an early death. he may need further knowledge about the culture of this room and it’s greater affect on higher class urban culture.

#unfaltcring #hello rhys #im sorry he's an oddball

unfaltcring.

he looks down at the chilled glass of whiskey cradled in one hand, watches beads of condensation drip down the sides. it’s pretty cool how each drop creates its own path and that the lines behind them disappear–why can’t people be like that? why do they choose to follow the paths of others instead of making their own? one of the little tears looks like his father’s face for a moment–god, he’s such a loser. partying with his so-called friends from wall street, hooking up with random women every fucking night (who are all young enough to be his daughters), treating his own son more like an employee rather than a human being that he created. why can’t his father be a drop of condensation?

aleksy’s hearing tugs at the sound of another voice–he didn’t realize they were still talking.

❝ —–wait, what? ❞

‘ I WILL NOT REPEAT MYSELF TO THE LIKES OF YOU, ’ he dictates, eyebrows furrowed and stern, voice cold and slick, infused with little to no regret ---- over anything, really. however, curiosity seems to get the better of his being. still rocking back and forth on a nearby table? DESK? funny looking chair, he opens his mouth to speak again, hoping to the creator this one was listening this time, otherwise he’d have to do something regrettable. not to them, to himself. he can’t stand repeating.

‘ I SAID, THIS IS A VERY UNCOMFORTABLE SITTING TOOL. I WOULD RECOMMEND REINVESTING. ’

#unfaltcring #not assuming past connection he literally just floats into houses sometimes #he's probably sitting on like a television or something #something that definitely isn't a chair #also hello i am berry

streetspeakin.

‘ yeah, that’s, uh … ’ huh. he’d barely been listening, having been way more focused on patting the dirt off of his jacket – genuine leather at a five-finger discount, gotta keep up with it – to really make out what the dude’s been mouthing. i mean, he’s pretty sure he heard it right, but for the sake of how god damn twisted it came out, he’s hoping it’s just a nice concussion blossoming.

‘ … unfortunate. ’ now he’s all ears; and all eyes, too, a poor choice to make at first glance of the unusual UNNATURAL what the FUCK? shift of color. a deer in the headlights, he’s got that familiar curling of danger knotting in his gut, just enough to even warrant a few uneasy steps back, hands ( bruised as they are ) balling into his pockets. ‘ yeah, i’m, mmmm. so good. i mean, i’m fine. i should be, y’know, gettin’ back to … not here, though. things-to-see-people-to-do. ’

‘ IT IS UNFORTUNATE, IS IT NOT? ’ he murmurs, mostly to himself, very only vaguely aware of the other’s ADAMANCY towards fleeing. however, once pamos is seen, there is no fleeing. not so easily, at least. this unfortunate soul was stuck with pamos, at least for a little bit.

‘ IT IS DURING TIMES OF SEVERE PAIN WHERE THE HUMAN SPIRIT IS MOST INCLINED TO FLEE THE BODY, OR DUE TO ANTICIPATION OF SAID EXTREME PAIN. ’ his phrases are soft and alluring, almost like a fog settling comfortably in a thick wood. he blinks, but his eyes remain closed for only a fraction of a second too long, and in that moment, irises shift to a dramatic icy blue. he grins, all cheshire cat like, following the other’s steps. ‘ BUT, I SUPPOSE, IF THEY ARE NOT BROKEN . . . YOU ARE SAFE. ’

#streetspeakin #hopefully he finds this one endearing too #👻* CALM MIND

streetspeakin.

‘ ALWAYS. —- gimmie a minute. ’

and, after a series of nine consecutive fucks and shits ( and even a little fuckfuckfuck at the end ), he manages to steady himself on two dusty-yet-mostly-unscathed limbs. a loud cheer of satisfaction follows, along with the single hearty clap of his hands.

‘ a’ight, well, legs ain’t broken ! so that’s … new. wha’ ‘bout you, man? you good? ’

he does not rise, he instead looks up at the other with hungry, fire-orange eyes. it would be easier if the legs were broken. it seems, however, that this one was a bit more ... sturdy than originally antici- pated.

‘ MY BODY IS A METAPHYSICAL ILLUSION. ’

he states, words articulate and factual, as if there were no more precise statement uttered. he rises, motions deliberate, cautious, and eerily graceful.

‘ ARE YOU POSITIVE YOUR LIMBS ARE NOT BROKEN? ’

#streetspeakin #eye color changes with how hot his inner flame is?

@streetspeakin

‘ ARE YOU HURT? ’ he’d ask, ghastly white digits trailing lightly upon the skin of his own face, wondering how much it’d take FAUX flesh such as his to scar.

#streetspeakin #👻* THE RINGING OF THE BELL COMMANDS YOU