#dreamhued

[cutfoot]

not only is lea singlehandedly running rpcgossip, they kissed me on the lips and said they loved me, and then the very next day they were running around with eve from the saw franchise. watch out besties!!!!!

[geliath]

he is dreariness personified.     sleepy yawn muffled in a mouth that had devoured rage moments earlier,   the museum seemed to ripple  &  shudder around him.     his eyes stand out of focus,   a smile worn as paintings twist around him       [     he would usually know their names,   but his mouth is stained with a soft cool down period,   where intelligence is more foe than friend     ].     his shirt hands loose  &   stretched around his shoulders,   a missing shoe drawing attention of those that have spent their evenings admiring beautiful things,   now faced with the remnants of a monster.     to his credit,    AT LEAST HIS PANTS ARE IN TACT.     the small victories have always tasted most divine upon his fruitless tongue.     he collapses against a bench,   blank eyes laying waste to the world around him.   numbness is well known  &  a fatal friend,   the soothing over of burning muscle  &  piecing together the fragments of a mind half - deluded into grandeur. 

‘    sorry...     i didn’t realise anyone else was sitting here?     ’        brain waivers deliriously through stimulus,   separating noise from being from sight from taste until he could finally level his gaze upon the stranger sat near him.     while his bliss was scraped  &  haggard,    the dream  -  like quality that followed abel arden was wholly pure,    derived from nothing but the self.     the museum fades in,   fades  out,   solidifies.     this is the image of the world resetting,   getting to know itself again in his mind,   letting thrill draw itself away from danger.   hi,   i’m the incredible hulk,   please excuse the appearance,  i’ve just been fighting a few blocks down from here with the hulkbusters.     what comes out is a soft hum as he nods along to nothing at all,   stopping only when his brain managed to remind him what an odd sight he made.      ‘    this place is huge.    ’

@dreamhued​

[slashre]

‘   i  don’t  believe  in  it   :        limbering  up.       that’s  one  of  columbus’  dumb  rules.   ’        his  hands  grapple  with  her  bag,   contents  tipped  out  over  the  dining  table        (        better  to  be  safe  than  sorry      ...       he  wasn’t  gonna  fall  for  any  cute  face  like  some  dumb  old  man      ).      fingers  pick  through  this  and  that,   the  oddest  array  of  knick  -  knacks  he’s  ever  seen       ...       and  witchita  was  a  serial  collector.        ‘   you  ever  see  a  lion  limber  up  before  it  takes  down  a  gazelle?        didn’t  think  so        ...       you  carry  yarn  around  with  you?   ’        @dreamhued

[arcrootkill]

closed   starter   @dreamhued   /   abel

a sigh / she does not dare look into your eyes / instead focusing her gaze on an imaginary point in front of her. you are too soft, too gentle, too kind for this world / she doesn’t deserve your affection, nor does she deserve you. “ you know me. i have no heart. ”

[dutyburdened]

𝐇𝐄   𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐒   𝐈𝐍   𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐇𝐀𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐀,   𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐒   𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃,   𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒   𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆   𝐎𝐍   𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐒:  palms  face  up,  index  fingers  pressed  to  thumbs.  the  smell  of  tea  is  in  the  air;  empty  cups  sit  lonely  on  the  table.  teaching  is  harder  than  learning,  he  has  come  to  find  out.  how  does  he  explain  the  intricacies  of  a  practice  he  now  knows  so  well  that  it  feels  as  if  its  mixed  with  the  marrow  of  his  bones?——   with  time  and  patience,  he  has  learnt.  clear  your  mind,  he’d  said.  close  your  eyes.  his  eyes  are  open.  a  teacher  watches  his  student  with  an  expert  gaze.

“relax,”  he  tells  her,  spotting  the  wrinkles  between  her  brows.  meditation  was  the  easy  part.  learning  to  astral  project  is  like  riding  a  bike  for  the  first  time  without  stabilisers:  frightening  at  first,  but  easy  once  you  know  how.  the  trick  is  remembering  that  you  have  brakes.  you  can  always  stop;  you  can  always  turn  around  and  come  home.

“keep  your  mind  clear,”  he  says,  watching  her  closely  for  a  sign  of  success,  “and  imagine  pushing  yourself  out  of  your  own  body.”

@dreamhued     ╱    pre-plotted  starter  <3

[foxenhund]

uncombed from the private archives of john watson’s mind   [   that’s sherlock holmes presented in his evening best and his sunday worst,    a man untethered to any mortal fathomings   ].     the classic drawing room scene,    a table set - up in a mockery of science itself.    sherlock does not know how artful he is being     --     the world yields to him only what he wishes to pick out from it,    an exaggerated motion of a tan hand:     his einstein and his shelley were equally limited,   though he reckoned he had once heard of an edison.     THERE IS NOT ENOUGH KNOWLEDGE TO INDULGE IN THE WHIMS OF PARODY...      sherlock treats every experiment as a first and a last.        ''       don't hover,   abel,       ''        huffs a mouth that is cigarette - bound.     he waves a hand behind him,    a gesture filled with dismissive intent,    his other hand filled with the cool imprint of a bottle.     SAGE DOES NOT WHISPER HIS NAME:      this chemical concoction comes with a skull and crossbones,   as if life itself intended to be an upturned mouth of inside jokes.        ''       these scars are not from experiments,  you know.    they're from street tussles and other horrid acts of violence.    you should keep your distance.    no,   really,   stand back now...      i'm trying to make something explode.       ''

[dhufeainnewedd]

she    knows    of    love    the    exact    same    way    anyone    knows    of    anything        ;        she    knows    of    [her    mamma's    fingers    on    her    head,    peaceful][struggling    body,    head    under    water.    mamma's    silent    prayer]    love.        (baptism    is    a    matter    imbrued    with    self-loathing    and    if    one    lacks    it,    devouring    mothers    are    willing    to    make    you    choke    on    theirs).        she    knows    of    [palms    warm    against    her    shoulders.][sickly    sweet    murmur    of    sister    moguerre    telling    her    if    she    doesn't    stop    moving,    they'll    cut    the    skin    underneath.][strands    of    blonde    hair    falling    to    the    ground,    forgotten    feathers    of    a    bird]    love.    (can    we    blame    her    for    growing    scales    instead?)    

she    knows    of    love    the    very    same    way    anyone    knows    of    anything        ;        a    preposition    the    size    of    a    wall    standing    between    you        &        knowledge.        and    if    not    a    wall,    then    a    window    on    which    her    fingerprints    are    painted    a    thousand    times    in    irregular    patterns.        some    similar    to    desperation.        some    spelling    "please".        some    resignated.        some    so    jealous    they    might    as    well    be    green.        human    as    any    others,    she    has    tried    to    hold    with    both    hands        ;        but    underneath,    only    cold    glass.        she    might    have    gotten    some    bruises    from    pressing    too    hard,    but    that    is    the    only    proof    of    her    approaching    too    close    to    the    sun        &        not    knowing    when    to    stop.        she    knows    of    it,    watching    it    go    by,    the    echo    of    warmth    behind    stained-glass    windows,    no    longer    a    cathedral    for    god    but    god    looking    down,    impotent    in    the    only    way    god    knows    how    to    be,    eyes    observing    through    the    art    made    for    him,    unable    to    sing    the    prayer    back    to    you.

@dreamhued    said        :        what    do    you    know    of    love?

so    perhaps    abel    is    right,    with    her    reproachful    tone.        jaw    clenches    under    the    assault    of    that    thought,    body    closing    up    on    it    as    if    the    girl's    words    had    been    a    punch.        what    do    you    know    of    love?        mamma    would    laugh,    would    say,    i    know    love,    i've    met    love,    i've    told    love    to    fuck    off.        malborne    would    look    at    abel    with    a    long    hard    look    and    all    that    would    leave    his    lips    would    be    a    clean    definition    found    in    some    obscure    dictionary    that    he    has    learned    by    heart.        ishtar,    too    proud    to    fall    into    mamma's    steps    and    too    angry    to    pretend    to    have    malborne's    calm,    simply    stares    for    a    moment    before    her    head    is    tilted    up    defiantly.    

«        i    ain't    grown    up    in    daisies    but    i    still    know    cupid's    work,    yeah.        »        smack    of    her    lips    on    a    chewing-gum,    newly    straightened    up    white    canines    fiercely    presented.        the    braces    paid    by    malborne's    insurance,    now    as    gone    as    the    man    himself.        leaning    in,    her    smile    softens    into    a    confession,        «        ain't    i    been    showin'    ya    all    i    know    'bout    it?        »        she    knows    that    kind    of    love        :        sultry    tone,    fingers    soft    across    abel's    cheek        ;        playful        &        lovely,    girl    finding    her    footing    once    again    to    imitate    the    puppets    on    the    other    side    of    the    window.        (after    a    time,    even    god    revels    in    pretending    he    knows    of    life)        «        could    try    again,    if    yain't    convinced.        »

[slashre]

charlie fills the fields with laughter.     they’re haystack girls curling in summer grass,    the serpent - snakes of people who were made for crueler ends       (       their happy endings will be bathed in blood,    but at least they’ll find them   :        they don’t realise yet that their conjoined love will be slashed in two,    the spine broken open to reveal two separate bodies,   a single set of lungs,   a terribly interwoven heart        ).        CHARLIE CALLS THEIR LOVE A STAGE,   AN OPENING ACT,   AND MISAPPROPRIATES THE SPOTLIGHT AS AN OPERATING THEATRE.      one careful incision and they would fall from each other,   two bags of flesh for the price of one.     she rises to her knees,   blanketed by the sunset,   as her hands reach out to collect abel’s face in her hands.     she laughs again,    pollinating every gentle flower,     brutalizing the farmer’s orchards.        ‘   we’re happy where we are,   aren’t we?   ’

@dreamhued         ...        “Charlie, I could take you somewhere where you’d be safe and you wouldn’t be alone.” for miss townes herself