#chst

[lycanthian]

fuck it we BLALL

[manderleydesign]

The first of my series of polaroids. thieves home! <3

[nicogarcias]

↳ @summertownsend

The Jeep’s tyres come to a screeching halt in the diner parking lot, shadows stretched long across cooling tarmac by the slow setting sun. A bell chimes as he enters the squat one-storey building, a waitress poised by the door ready to ask if she can help him only for a flicker of recognition to sweep across her features as her gaze settles on his own. "She's in the bathroom -- has been for the last twenty minutes." If Summer's decision to call who her colleagues know to be her neighbour ( he'd been introduced to them as such after picking her up from her first shift ) is any surprise, the woman before him doesn't express it. Instead, she ushers him to the door of the toilets, offering a nod of permission and a reassuring "she's the only one in there." Nico is tentative as he steps over the threshold, met with the smell of cherry-scented chemical bleach. The tread of his boots is slick against the smooth floor, black-clad like a shadow in the otherwise brightly lit room. He approaches the sole cubicle with its door locked shut, eyeing the red of the occupied sign. A careful knock is pressed into plastic, the sound bouncing off of powder pink tiles, accompanied by a gentle, "Summer, it's me."

[no-magical-mistery-your]

Looks

[manderleydesign]

More blaseball fan art, POV you just said Gunther isn’t a credit to the team.

[manderleydesign]

An old one I found of Alt!velasquez Alstott from the thieves.

[nicogarcias]

↳ @summertownsend.

It’s a new car. A Jeep Wrangler, because what he asked for he got. The perks of being semi-notorious and praised by the right people, he supposes. He’s already adjusted the seat twice; had to fix the rearview mirror and re-tune the satellite radio so that it played something, anything, other than the tinny-sounding dance music it had been set to. It still smells of leather and carpet fibres and plastic, warmed by the morning sun. The indicator ticks like a metronome as he waits for the signal lights to change, fingers flexed firmly around the steering wheel. “You religious?” Nico asks, glancing at Summer through the tinted shades of his aviators. They’ve been driving for the last ten minutes but he’s yet to figure out whether or not she really needed to go grocery shopping or if she simply wanted to get out of the house. Either that or she was keen to take a look around the place she’d be calling home from now on. He inclines his head towards the bright white-bricked Catholic church to her left, attention swift to turn to the road as the light turns green. 

“One of you is going to have to make a shopping rota. Unless you’re planning on doing it every time.” There’s a brief pause, filled by thought. The sound of traffic filters in through his open window. “You don’t seem like the sort who would only pick up groceries for herself.” He half hopes that she doesn’t ask what he means by that -- is pretty certain she knows he’ll have read up about her. Police files. School reports. General data. Everything that no longer exists thanks to the witness protection teams’ purge. 

[nicogarcias]

↳ @summertownsend​.

The villa is quiet when he checks in on them. Takeaway bags litter the table along with half-empty alcohol bottles, the scent of vodka and food grease warmed by the morning sun as Nico opens a window to let some fresh air in. A lack of shouting and broken objects is welcomed gladly by him, but there’s an uneasiness that lingers within the walls. Unable to leave the mess as it is, he tidies for the sake of his own peace of mind, throwing away cold fries and crumpled wrappers, gathering lipstick-smudged glasses in the sink. Painkillers, a vitamin pill, two bananas, and a cooked breakfast have done well to soothe his hangover, but he chases a lack of sleep away by boiling the kettle and helping himself to the coffee in the cupboard, leaning against the kitchen counter with his lashes pressed closed for a brief moment of rest.

He hears her before he sees her. The third-to-the-bottom step on the staircase creaks, ever-in-tune with his surroundings despite the fog that clouds his brain. Nico opens his eyes, looking towards the figure now stood in the doorway. His pulse stop-starts, memories from the night before sweeping over him like a flood. “Hey.” The gentleness in his tone comes out hoarse, the word more air than sound. He studies Summer, the stretch of linoleum between them too far and too close all at once. He keeps his following question tactically vague. “How are you feeling after last night?”