#agunthing

[dollsache-blog]

@agunthing liked for a starter.

   Remilia is seemingly transfixed by the red motorcycle in the parking lot. She has seen motorcycles in movies and cartoons but this is the first time she has seen one in person. As she is staring at it someone approaches her so she takes a few steps back. "Is this yours?”

[wegone]

-- @agunthing!

Phones never seem to survive the journey through the tear and Wes had given them up entirely only a few months into his unfortunate predicament. Watching the woman from across the greasy Formica table, his hands folded over his gut as his half-eaten dish of steak and fries grows cold before him, his shoulders deflate with a quiet sigh. “Listen, Ms Rosenthal,” he begins hesitantly; he doesn’t even remember who her son is, what he looks like, how he did in class; unable to connect a student, however former, to his parent, Wes isn’t sure he has their surname right, “your son didn’t like my class - it’s fine, I get it. I was a hardass and statistics is a difficult, unforgiving field.”

Were she one of his students, he might as well have finished his little speech there and let the true meaning of his words speak for itself: statistics are not for the weak-minded nor weak-willed. However, Ms Rosenthal is, unfortunately, not a student, and despite the pause having stretched there for a moment too long, Wes then carries on. “I’m sorry to say you’re barking up the wrong tree, I don’t teach it anymore.” And really: if his unkempt, overgrown hair, the fingerprints on his glasses, the mud staining his knees and the dirt under his fingernails isn’t proof enough of that, Wesley doesn’t know what is.

“I was withholding my judgment, you see.” 

She’s exclaiming this - although using what is an overall perfect, in-door tone. But, the bright easiness that comes from her mouth - and her manicured hand is giving these delicate gestures that seem to be enhancing the punctuation that could not be attached to her words. “Even a man donning ripped skinny jeans can hold a doctorate degree. I just won’t know until we speak.”  Then, June touches the table - well, somewhat. Fingertips are piratically perched, because as Lourdes says ( and she agrees ) these areas can be positively filthy. “May I sit with you?” she asks. There’s a lot that needs to be discussed in her mind, and she certainly wouldn’t be standing for a prolonged time in heels. 

[rekant-a]

@agunthing / here

‘ - i’ve had less sleep and worked longer shifts, ’  she says, firm. jack digs her heels in, stubborn as a mule.

she won’t look any worse than she usually does. a little more sleep won’t have her looking (or feeling) any better, either. she’ll be just as irritable, but this time she’ll have a reason for it. there’s no loss, in her mind, and she wouldn’t want to be left alone, not really, not if she’s honest. 

‘ i can leave from here. ’  he bites into his nail, she bites into the inside of her lip in response. a new, unfamiliar urge to catch his wrist and keep him from making it any worse takes hold, but she doesn’t move. her fingers twitch, like this strange desire to intervene runs right to her very core.  ‘ you don’t have to tell me, ’  she starts, gentle, lighting a second cigarette, and offering the packet. they’d be lighter than his own, less harsh.  ‘ but you can. in my experience, sometimes it helps. ’

[whitefellas-blog]

@agunthing -- FOR ANYONE.

     “I swear to god man, titties THIS small,” he demonstrates with his hands, nodding insistently, his head bobbing incessantly. Maybe you just wanted gas, maybe a snack. But it’s 2:00 AM and no one’s getting away from Louis’s tales. The night’s creeping in, the onyx black sky glowing ozone green from the lights of the shop, placed ominously in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, Texas. Sticky windows and fans billowing. He mops sweat from his forehead, “Titties THIS small.”

[landsfew]

“You’re an odd sight come out at night.” (job @ bobbie, sam or eddie)

hozier / wasteland, baby! | accepting

sam looks up at the voice, confused and suddenly alert for a moment, before smiling crookedly at the comment. it strikes her as oddly friendly, almost complimentary. she’s not sure if that’s right, though. 

“mm,” she muses, “yeah. guess you’re right about that.” she isn’t entirely sure how she got here. she remembers walking. a fair amount of it, in fact. sam suspects that she’s been walking for a while. 

“i’m sam,” she offers, shuffling forward, fighting the urge to stick out her hand in greeting. a little soon for that, maybe. “i’m not on your property or anything, am i?”

[unlikelyroles-blog]

“ i don’t know where i’m supposed to go . ” (job @ monty)

                    ❝  mm  ,  me  neither  ,  ❞

          he  speaks  barely  above  a  whisper  ,  eyes  downcast  as  he  focuses  on  the  page  before  him.  mindless  doodles  ,  as  his  free  hand  keeps  his  head  propped  up.  small  circles  he  keeps  tracing  over  and  over  again  ,  a  hum  leaving  his  lips.  ❝  i  mean  ,  in  general  ---  i’unno  where  i’m  s’posed  to  go  ,  or  where  you’re  s’posed  to  go.  but  i  reckon  we  can  figure  that  out  eventually  ,  yeah  ?  if  you  got  the  time.  you  can  wander  aimlessly  ,  metaphorically  and  literally  ,  all  you  want.  ❞

                    (   cavetown  meme.   )   ---   accepting.

[writedisaster]

‘ what if i reached out… just past the bed and something, waiting there, grabbed me and pulled me down into the dark? ’ (calloway @ charleviox or p.t.)

      “Then I will hold your hand.” Charlevoix’s voice is painfully earnest. He means it, too; his hand finds Calloway’s, song-callused fingertips brushing against the other’s palm. “And wherever the darkness drags you, it will drag us together, and we will be able to find our way through it, because two heads are better than one.”

@agunthing | through the woods | accepting!