don't sell your soul, baby, you're a dirty gold

Cameron Keisha Kruger-Douglas | 28 | living in SIN in a catholic church "Trauma and nostalgia are SISTERS and they kiss each other on the TEETH."

[reliqucry-archive]

divinums

   ❝ — i’m sorry, ❞ her voice is soft, lilted. ❝ i figured if you weren’t going to take me, i could … ❞ hazel eyes fall to the dog at her side. she’s perfected this act before : small, weak, lost. in need of a hero, perhaps? her throat bulges as she swallows back saliva. ❝ there’s some apartments nearby … sundance, i think they’re called. does it sound familiar? ❞

Cameron resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the apology, more due to the caustic reminder of how unpleasant she could be. It didn’t feel GOOD to be an asshole, but it didn’t feel good to be anything else either. “You’re fine.” The dog is nice at least. Cameron had never had a dog--the Kruger-Douglases were CAT PEOPLE, but she’d always admired them. “Can I pet your dog?” The question is as innocuous as a child’s, spoken with the surly voice of a jaded woman. “Sundance?” It did sound familiar. “Yeah, I think I’ve seen them. They’re by some second rate motel?”

[kieraknightley]

[apostolate-blog]

—why are you so nice to me? —it’s because you are the weirdest, most beautiful person i’ve ever met in my whole entire life

( @reliqucry )

[jdramastuff]

[joli--coeur]

[childmagazine]

[oitnbgifs]

[joli--coeur]

back at it. 🕊 Instagram: kokokourtney

[reliqucry-archive]

“STOP following me.” Cameron spoke between gritted teeth. The sensation of being followed produced the tingling sensation at the nape of her neck. The same one that stood her hair on end and told her to RUN. This was no ghost tailing her and--though the dead did walk the earth--HE was not among them. “I don’t know where your stupid camp is, okay?” She marched forward until she thought she heard a defeated sigh, punctuated by the absence of footfalls on gravel. Against her better judgement, Cameron sighed and halted her pace, pausing briefly to allow herself to change her mind. “Fine.” The agreement finally left her lips, which up until the word reached her tongue, had been firmly pressed together. “Fine, okay. Just--don’t talk my ear off and I’ll help you.” Without turning to look back at the person, she continued. “Give me a landmark or something to go on.” Helping a stranger like this? Finn would be so proud.

[reliqucry-archive]

ettiemae

Ettie sat in a patch of grass, small flowers around her that had been naturally growing. She picked them delicately, weaving them all together to form a crown once she’d finished. However, half way through, she heard a branch snap behind her. Dropping her work, she grabbed her knife and turned around, sighing once she noticed it was another person. She knew people could be dangerous but she wasn’t in any mood to care right now, going right back to weaving her daisy chain. “You’d look good with this, y’know.” She commented. “Why don’ ya sit with me? I don’t bite.”

“No thanks,” Cameron frowned at the flower crown--a remnant of a past that was neither simpler, nor happier. It hadn’t been safer, either, not for her. The nagging feeling that spread as a tingling sensation across her head, with the pressure of a tension headache, reminded her not to drop her defenses. She added, with pursed lips, “I’m sort of not into Coachella.” Arms folded across her chest, dark eyes glanced furtively from the halo of blonde locks to their surroundings. She had been running and scavenging most of the day and, with the sun high up in the sky, the heat was burning a hole in her thirst reserves. She needed a break. “Very clever.” She responded reluctantly, carving out a piece of grass--just NEARBY--to sit on with crossed legs. “If you turn out to be raider bait or try and get stabby with me, you’ll regret it.” Her voice was stern, brows drawn tightly together on her forehead as she took a sip from her nalgene.

[apostolate-blog]

AND I’D RATHER  B U R N  MYSELF DOWN THAN CHANGE THE LOCKS —rachel mckibbens

                                                                                                    ( @camcuflage​ )

[reliqucry-archive]

contractcdkiller

        the siren tore through him - shill and painful - his ears rang as he was RIPPED from a dozing slumber - the sound of distant voices; screaming… snarling… walkers and people and a massacre and gigantic DINNER IS SERVED sign flashing across cheyenne as the siren continued.    his gun was in his hands before his bare feet hit the floor, knife in the other as launched himself downstairs.

                   ‘fight or flight, kit.’   that’s what mr. hanson had always told him,                    ‘find your target MR. K  & never get caught.’                    ‘if you’re caught,          you   d i e.’

            it took him a moment - only a MOMENT - between the first floor and the second - for him to realize this WASN’T a raid - —   it was the APOCALYPSE.   he heard the banging on his door - the screaming - a plea for help.    time-wise, he would have let them scream themselves HOARSE - but carly wouldn’t have done that… ( would she? )      but he can hear the walkers, so he tucks the gun into the waistband of his jeans and he shoves the cabinet away from the door.   taking a deep breath as he REMINDS himself he’s not facing down COPS  & a S W A T  team, and rips the door open;      “inside, now. pleasantries LATER if we don’t fucking die.    what the hell is going on?”

Cameron poured herself into the entryway of the house, for once the instinct to snap back with a smartass response failed her. The shrill sound was too much like police sirens and the disorientation of it seemed to remove her from the grounding of the real world, putting her back into the surreal dissociation of old memories and a HEIGHTENED sympathetic nervous system response. Worse than if she were a walker, Cameron felt as is she had no skin--everything HURT. Once inside, she was able to take a look at the man who’d let her in--later, when the adrenaline wore off, she’d be able to appreciate the risk he’d taken in letting her in. Now, her heart beat in her throat, blood pumping to muscles--fueling the screaming need to stay and fight or run--neither option necessary now, but the lizard brain doesn’t account for logic.

Cameron shook her head at his question. If there was a way to know what was going on, it had not presented itself to her. “Just the noise.” She spoke softly, too quiet to reach him over the din of screams and footfalls and sirens, sirens, sirens. Clearing her throat, she spoke louder. “I don’t know.” Practically shouting, she tried not to let the strain into her tone--unsure of how volatile her new, temporary, roommate might be. Some people were unhinged and while she had survived well on running and krav maga, she had never gotten cocky. Killing had broken her BEFORE the outbreak, she wasn’t interesting in revisiting it anytime she met someone new. “It came without warning. I can’t tell where from.” Stepping back to create more space between them, Cameron surveyed the room available to her periphery. “Is it just you here?”

[kieraknightley]

[fckin-deactivated20171107]

yall still trust people in 2017? LMAOOOO

[gideonseymours]

miscommunication as a plot device makes me angry

if you just talked to each other but no

[reliqucry-archive]

∘⡊❦  OPEN STARTER — SIREN CALL

The horrible siren sound summons long dead blue and red lights from the night she’d killed the girl she’d been (one she’d hoped to cling to with every piece of desperation she had after that dark night in the Seattle suburbs ). She can still see the BLOOD on her hands, hear the slow gurgling rhythm of Nathaniel’s uneven breath, and feel the stinging threat of tears in her eyes. As she approaches the nearest, decent-looking house, thighs and lungs burning with the intensity of such a long sprint, she wonders in the midst of the chaos if she would’ve been running even if there wasn’t a steady horde nipping at her heels. 

“Hello!” The scream is shrill and unnatural in her throat; it doesn’t sound like her. “Please! Can somebody help me?” Under normal circumstances, the request would’ve been pried from her with pliers as if each word were rooted into her gums like teeth. These are not normal circumstances, Cameron cannot think or fight or fucking BREATH between the encroaching death behind her and the memory that haunts her in her sleep of when death became a machination of her own hands. Lady Macbeth had never seen such blood. Banging hands unclean against the doors, Cameron tries to slow her breath. “Open up, please!”

[bonneibennett]

… and sometimes those two things are the same.