May 18, 2014
♒
Send a ♒ and I will generate a number for what my muse will say to yours!
( result: 49. )
“You really need to go to bed...."
seen from China
seen from India
seen from China
seen from Türkiye
seen from Senegal
seen from Thailand
seen from Norway
seen from Poland
seen from Australia
seen from Sri Lanka
seen from China
seen from Yemen
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Maldives
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from Germany
seen from United States
♒
Send a ♒ and I will generate a number for what my muse will say to yours!
( result: 49. )
“You really need to go to bed...."
guiding-ferre:
Combeferre gave a groan, finally giving up on the hopeless cynic. Of course, the man must have been drunk when the kissed happened. Why didn’t he ever think of such a thing. Possibly it was because he had accidentally fell in love with the wine-cask. Though, he could not leave the man without an answer.
"A week ago—but it doesn’t matter. You can ignore me." He looked downed, a red tint coming to his cheeks as he walked away.
The artist's brow pulled together in a frown at that: a week ago. An entire week. How had he not remembered doing that? It was sad that he hadn't remembered, and he felt like a complete arsehole -- Combeferre wouldn't have brought it up had he not thought it important to. Maybe he was even hopeful, and Grantaire had just crushed whatever his reasons were by not remembering. He liked Combeferre, there had always been something about the other man, but he'd never really thought about what before. Apparently his drunker self had, though, and apparently liked what he saw. Liked enough to actually kiss someone in the circle of friends that were like his family.
“I--I don't want to ignore you, 'Ferre," replied Grantaire carefully, not wanting to push but not wanting to let it go right away, either, "I-- Just because I don't remember doesn't mean I don't want to..."
"You can't kiss me and then act as if it never happened."
Kissed.
Combeferre.
Grantaire had kissed Combeferre. And Grantiare was one-hundred percent sure that he had no memory of doing that whatsoever -- which was both worrying and upsetting. He would have liked the memory of kissing him to stick forever, but apparently it hadn't even stuck, what, overnight? He really didn't know, and now he was going to have to ask. What an awkward conversation that was going to be for the both of them.
"I-- We-- When did that happen again?"
Drugs
Grantaire grinned as he walked into the alleyway, where he usually bought his stash. He tapped his foot, waiting for his dealer to get there, anxiously as always. He sighed and leaned up against the wall of the alleyway, looking side to side.
☠
Send ☠ for a threatening message.
[text: I’m currently holding your most prized book about moths over the toilet with my other hand and I’m going to drop it if you don’t get back here and fuck me.]
"You’re the one who left!"
"And now I’m asking you to take me back," the artist replied simply, "what’s the problem?"
guiding-ferre replied to your post:3,5,18,19,23,33,48
Pretty mun~~~
shh you
⁀⊙﹏☉⁀ - our muses hear a bump in the night
Grantaire hadn’t been sleeping when he heard it, he had been sitting up in bed sketching from the mere light of the moon — which, yeah, Don’t do that, it’s bad for your eyes. It was a thump!, like something had just fallen, or been knocked to the floor. His imagination, could run wild, though, and instead of writing it off as most likely one of Combeferre’s books falling from the table, he wrote it down as a murderer.
"Wake up," hissed the scpetic as quietly as he could, shaking the guide’s shoulder roughly.