thrice fool;

lanugo brimming on her neck; she tastes like lion honey, fermented venom & dust. reinc. delilah of biblical lore indie. private. selective.

[philosophiie]

“ Take a guess. ”

   A smile makes its way onto his lips – his free hand reaching for the cash tucked between his chest and his inner jacket. Precise and all counted for. He likes it that way. As for the contents of what he’s bought, not so much. Or, rather. It’s divided. Like so, he hands her the money with a trained hand – more out of routine than anything. It has become easier with the many times he has done it now – his grip tightening slightly around his newbought treasure.

[soreq]

she doesn’t like to meddle, just like she doesn’t dip her spoon too many times in the pot when it’s stewing the broth. messes up the magic of the soup. but she’s hungry, and he’s left enough to salivate just a little.   “ i don’t know. something political. a cover-up. you dress too nice to play petty, i suppose. ”

[taiijitu-blog]

               ‘make me’ and ‘big guy’. hmph. while he could certainly DELIVER on the former, he preferred not to.  && the second was just plain RUDE  ( never in his life would li be considered ‘big’—- unless he was in a room with school kids… maybe ).           ❝  i shouldn’t have to.  ❞

[soreq]

“ yeah, well, ”   she said, standing up on the couch, miming wiping away comically large tears,   “ life just really isn’t fair. ”   a triumphant crunch of another chip.   “ i guess you must know that. being so ... small and all. ”

[bloodbcg]

        HE’S sitting up slowly now, blankets still tangled in               his legs but he’s clear-eyed and his hand is               already on his gun, hidden.

                         “ why are you in my room. “

        IT’S not a question.

[soreq]

her veins feel thick, her head is a stupor-soaked ancilla. if there are errands she must run, she must run now. her voice is meek --

“ you have a delivery. ”   the package is solid and mutable on the coffee table. 

[celestialborn-blog]

                                      ☆┆@soreq.❜

❛     he loved you, & you hurt him.     ❜ there’s almost a bitter tone in her voice ; something akin to verdant-tinged envy. she loved, once, & was hurt in the cruelest of ways ( but she never stopped loving him, not really ) ; but she would give everything to hurt him, too. maybe then she wouldn’t feel so cold, so empty ; like a black star pulling everything around it into its gravitational pull, destroying every good thing … glitter-lacquered nails tap tabletop & she turns away, apathetic once more. ❛     i wonder if he deserved it.     ❜

[soreq]

he did. the skeleton of her day sags low and heavy on her back, a nebulous burden whittling away at a lumbar point. grit and gooseflesh rubs her skin raw and tender in the cool spring breeze, as she drinks the torpor of the air, of the voice, of an alembic lungful sigh -- reminiscent of her hot breath against his silt-worn jaw or the ironironiron of cheek pulp on her teeth. she hurt him? god, a funny way to hurt.   “ he didn’t, ”   she says, drawing closer,    “ but i wonder if you think otherwise. ”

[taiijitu-blog]

                                  hands raise  ( in a gesture that’s both surprised and slightly annoyed )  as brows pinch together his head falls to the side in a brief shake.           ❝  AIYAA !!   how many times i tell you, huh?  stop eating my shrimp chips!  ❞           there may have ben a parental-esque finger wag in there too.

                   OPEN  bc come @ me bros

[soreq]

she swats his finger away, a laugh hollowing out her cheeks. another shrimp chimp is already in her mouth, and the flaky dust brushes off on her lips. her comment comes out amicable   ---   “ why don’t you make me, then, big guy? ”

[justrpmemesandmusings]

Send me a faceclaim and I’ll tell you who they’d be in my muse’s life as a NPC

[soreq]

a porn blog just im’ed me their kik. n*ce.

[soreq]

003. she is fastidious about things entering her. needles, piercings, penises are all taboo for her because she becomes literally nauseous when things go into her. even eating things whole can be exhausting. save for alcohol, which she can slosh down warm and full, she is clean of nearly everything else (knives, drugs, smoke, sex). her body is a temple, even if no one worships it.

[sinstress-archive-blog]

⌠ 𝒰 n c h a i n e d⌡— She sighs, but now it is quite evident that Delilah really does require some of the Seductress’ aid. With haste, she tugs Delilah along, heels quick to  click and clack with each hurried step.

❝Honey, you’re coming home with me--let’s get you cleaned up, hm?❞

[soreq]

“cleaned up!” she trumpets, a belch curtailing the end of her sentence. “like some kinda arist’crat or...” she loses that train of thought, as well as her balance, stumbling along like a baby duck behind another duck who was significantly more sober and helpful.

[spitfcre-a-deactivated20180514]

disarming a knife at this easy an angle is child’s play, the same that warranted the smirk to spread against her lips, just before she moves to engage. the quick lift of her elbow, blithe and made possible by the simple slide of her right foot forward, striking sharp enough to levy the knife from the woman’s hand; swiftly caught by the blonde and held out to her like the beginnings of a gentleman’s duel.  ❝   really — ?   ❞   is all she offers as commentary.

[soreq]

she doesn’t really see or feel the knife leaving her fingers, so much as she witnesses it melt from her hand like an apparition. the tremor crinkling her voice is defiant, but frightened, anemic like the sea --   “ is it time for me to beg? ”   she asks.   “ i don’ have a cardboard poster, but i got wicked stomach noises to convince you of my need. ”

[cyberspaced-blog1]

this would be a good time for her memories to come flooding back, as they sometimes did, but her mind remained a dry well, not a hint of the past coming to refresh her. eyebrows knit together, face caked in layers of confusion. who IS she? what did i do to her? whatever it was, it must have hit her like a bullet, because the words come with a sharp edge, slicing right through her chest, deep into her flesh and bone.

“i— i’m sorry, i really think you have me confused for someone.” head shakes, eyes still searching the woman’s dark features in attempts to resurrect any sort of memory. nothing comes. ayla had died in her mind, buried next to the dozens of other versions of herself, another mask burned in the fire. she had never been CONFRONTED by someone from a life long past, if this was the case. who was i? how, how, HOW does she know me?

“really, my name is ember aksoy. i work at the blue moon cafe next door? i— i’m really sorry i remind you of someone who obviously PAINS you, but… i really don’t think we’ve met before.” hands become balls of nerves, each digit tingling and she smooths out her skirt, hoping the action will calm the slight burning of her fingertips. “look, i FEEL bad — why don’t i get you a coffee? my treat, you know, for having the same face as some asshole.”

[soreq]

there’s a fearful moment where the world is only a little tadpole between delilah’s fingers, viscera spooling out as she pinches. could she be mistaken? could the echo-echo-echo of her concave heart be looking for trouble where there was none? the jut of ayla’s jaw, the slope of her waist -- all poison, all pleasure.

she acquiesces, aching as a tooth does ( from the root ) .   “ yes, sorry. i’m -- ”   she grapples for an expression that can envelope the hollow mercury she feels coursing through her veins. there is none but a thick sigh.   “ i’m...sorry. i don’t know what came over me. it’s fine, i...i can pay. ”

that’s a lie, but there are so many nowadays, she can cast a line and reel any of them in -- they’re all swimming, gills open and fleshy and ripe for picking and putting in her mouth like sweets. she exits the greenhouse, eyes flickering between her own chest and the concrete under her feet. she almost wishes that ayla ember won’t follow her.

[soreq]

i just dropped a bunch of threads !! just short stuff, not plotted out stuff, stuff people haven’t replied to in ages. if you’re not sure if it’s you, just ask. we can always make new threads too

[bloodbcg]

       HE nearly flinches in sympathy pain, but restrains                   himself. he does allow a smirk to cross his                   face at her excuse.

               “ housekeeping. “

[soreq]

She returns his smirk with a grimmer, starker, more bitter parody of her own. The cheap air conditioning whistles.   “ yeah. you didn’t have the ‘do not disturb’ sign on. so -- ”   ( she crosses her arms as if it’s he’s the intruder )   “ really, i don’t know what you expected. ” 

[quotethat]

The past beats inside me like a second heart.

John Banville, The Sea (via quotethat)

[seatneedles-deactivated20160425]

I don’t know but looking or knowing that you don’t know is the difference between a leather seat and a plastic bag around your ankles. Exactly why it was imperative to reverse the situation in the Honda, long-discarded.

                          “ Oh, um–* ”

“South. As far as you’re going.”

More embarrassment. More looks to his boots. You can’t be blonde and blue-eyed and male and early-thirties and confident all at once. Confidence is never valued in beautiful friends-slash-strangers without some level of separation.

In a car, there was none. Barely any besides the gear stick. A thin wall mutually maintained through a level look towards the road markings.

He slides in, the axel barely lowering as he heaves the door closed like iron wings. A car like this is used for bigger catches than hitchers. The sea must be near. “Thank. You. Thankyou,” slotting the seat belt over his anorak’d chest. The world can’t be kind to everyone. And this woman has known unkindness bigger than the ratio of a bruise.

[soreq]

The truck shudders under the impact, still a virgin shiver every time a door slams shut. His voice mingles with the bait scent -- it unsettles her, like an itch before you fall asleep, consciousness just tickled to lucidity. She scratches half-heartedly at a scab blooming on her knee and wonders if he’ll ask. He doesn’t look nosy, but he doesn’t look like he should be panhandling on pavement, either. She starts to drive, and the window renders everything combustible.

His body curves away from her, broad shoulders tapering into long willow limbs -- fleshy parentheses. Guess her crooked back renders her a question mark. When she responds, it is meaty and punctuated with a spinal trepidation, like every close encounter with a stranger who may meet the thigh of her pistol ( starchy and warm like another vertebrae under her shirt ) .

“ It’s all right, ”   she says.   “ You look like you could use a rest. ”  Must be true, but can’t be confirmed since she doesn’t want to look at him. She’s afraid her eyes will linger too long, and she knows these situations never breed a pretty sight.

[aftaabmahtab]

This is Iran. (source)

[philosophiie]

A faint hesitation lays within his eyes, his hand twitching before he reaches slowly – tentatively, for it. It’s feels far too natural for him – a habit he’d rather shake but refuses to let go. “ .. The whole deal, then.” he swallows, searching for her eyes. Horatio has not told anyone. None at all.

[soreq]

Lets go, fingers lingering on the secret ( bomblike proportions, slight, metallic, sleek all in a pretty case -- how exciting! ) . She holds out her other hand, droll.   “ Pay up, son. ”   She clucks her tongue, looking him up and down. He looks more fit for penning poetry than downing this line of work ... whether it was his first time, his last, a blip in a sea of many, not her business. But she asks anyway.   “ What’s in there? ”   Not expecting a serious answer.