#grecnleaf

[wealthyblood-blog]

@grecnleaf

             “S o. How is your evening going?” She is standing in the parlor, a champagne glass in her fragile grip. A party is bubbling around them. Men in suits mingle with women in expensive, silk evening wear. Georgette was trying to find someone to play with and it just so happened he had stumbled across her path. Perhaps, he would end up with blood all over her dress later tonight. Behind those cloudy, pearl blue eyes, she had much in store. 

[cessatiion-blog]

          weston twirls a pen absentmindedly, staring off into the distance. he isn’t lost in a train of thought, nor is he distracted by anything other than the gentle breeze that brushes against the bare skin of his arms. weston has never been one to relax, considering his line of work, but he’s allowed himself to do so for this moment. he closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath before the words leave his lips, his voice soft,

                    “ i could never LIVE here. not for too long, anyway. but then again, i always find myself leaving. it doesn’t matter where i am, really. ”

@grecnleaf  ♡’d !!

[tclented-blog]

@grecnleaf | intro.

    Sand scattered over the bed sheets, uncomfortable tiny particles that bit into his skin when he rolled in it, that peppered him like freckles. He stood up and brushed his back off and stared out the window at the expanse of the Tyrrhenian Sea, endlessly blue. 

     He couldn’t quite determine the time based on the placement of the sun like he could when he was in Boy Scouts, but he assumed it was nearing noon. He exhaled and walked to the record player, which was skipping on “The More I See You.” How very fitting. Shaking his hair out like a dog, Tom lifted the needle and looked at Dickie, sprawled asleep on the bed. There were no curtains to keep the sun from slanting in through the open mouth of the window. Dickie’s skin was berry-brown even now, especially obvious against the sheets. Tom touched the back of his own neck and winced at the sunburn that crept pink to his hairline.

      He couldn’t remember last night just yet. He was still dressed in the shorts he’d worn when sailing, he knew that much. His mouth tasted horribly of fermented wine and the conventional morning halitosis. After he’d brushed his teeth and stared at Dickie from the bathroom doorframe (a little creepy, but not out of the ordinary for Tom), he sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand on Dickie’s bare back, warm from the sun and sweat-slicked from the heat.

      “Hi,” he said weakly when Dickie opened an eye. “You look beautiful when you’re unconscious. Only time I can stand you.” His joke was weak but he smiled nonetheless, a full bleached-teeth grin exclusive to Tom Ripley alone.