#jv.

[danteskitty]

What if I, and hear me out, started genuinely self shipping with Jill 🎤

[tacticalvest]

@redclaire​ // ladies...

“I’m glad you came.” And Jill means it, really, with her whole heart, but it’s still hard not to think: “Using your rare trips home to see me in the hospital? Call a girl lucky.”

[witchtwinsssss]

tag drop, new tags

[johana-ovp]

Hoy soñe contigo ver tus ojitos, tus labios, y ver tu carita hermosa que tanto me encanta fue lo mejor te extraño tanto mi vida .

[irritablefacade]

(  ︻デ═一   )  —       @dokkstjarna   ▸

THE YOUNG GODS SCREAM LOUDER THAN USUAL;  they split the idyllic hills of Llandudno like a well-swung mallet would a skull.  Brian hasn’t looked over at her since they made the turn onto Victoria Road.  He’s been glaring at the greenery and cursing the sunlight under his breath.  Strangely gaunt,  his usually tanned face is pale enough to make him appear just like the corpses he’d dug out of shallow graves on the mountain side.

He can’t feel Jane’s lips on his bruised knuckles,  and he can’t hear the sea wind whipping over the bonnet of the Mercedes.  They’ve stopped on Hargrave Avenue,  a slim,  paved road hidden between rocks and bushes.  No one walks further than the viewing point on the corner,  just how his parents always seemed to like it.  On their far left peeks a wall painted a dirty ivory through the foliage.  Barbed wire and electric fencing coils around thin air on top of it,  just looking for something to strangle  -  and a weather vane in the near-distance stabs the sky.  The electronic gate will slide to the right when they pull up.  He has wanted to sling the flowers balanced on Jane’s knees out the window more than once.

Brian Epkeen hides his bruised eyes behind his sunglasses.  He hadn’t slept,  his eyelids sting,  his fingers jitter like a boy’s,  and he smells of dagga.  He swallows the acid in his throat and gently prises his hand away from her own.      ‘  Pretty fucking picture,  isn’t it?  ’

[irritablefacade]

(  ︻デ═一   )  —       @dokkstjarna

THEIR NEW NEIGHBOURS WILL COMPLAIN;  SAWDUST IN THE AIR  and the rattle of an electric saw.  The clock they’ve left for the time-being on the bar in the kitchen would read 01:34.  Brian doesn’t care.  He has lined three of his empty beer bottles alongside the patio doors,  a forth hangs between his fingers,  empty too.  He’s crouched,  hovering like carrion over a corpse,  with a shadow stretched strangely thanks to the patio light.  He’s surrounded by a mess of plywood;  one flat plane and five small trunks,  all dark oak.  He knows she’s watching,  the bones in his neck clack at he swivels his attention.

‘  We don’t need an office.  ’      He says,  by way of explanation.  If Jane were to check the supposed study of their new home,  she’d find the fitted desk torn to pieces.  About one third of it is now strewn at Brian’s feet.  He tries for a smile hidden behind his mask.      ‘  Dakotah needs a toddler bed,  though.  ’

[irritablefacade]

(  ︻デ═一   )  —       @dokkstjarna

IT’S NOT THE FIRST TIME HE’S PEELED OPEN THIS BOX.  It’s not even the second.  Brian’s been ambling long enough to have picked through its contents four times since the children upstairs fell quiet.  The city has less than ten percent of its water left for nearly four million residents,  within three months everyone will queue for daily rations  —  it isn’t absurd for a growing family to feel the need to leave.  They’ll join countless others on this gradual exodus.

But Brian’s hands shake,  and his head aches.  One of Jane’s echoes peers at him with its big black eyes from a box under the mantle;  its adoptive mother,  dearest to him,  he feels over his shoulder.      ‘  Feels like we’re missing something.  ’