#pistolisms

[weatheredsovlarchive-blog]

CONTINUED FROM (X)

    ❝ no, but being a pervy ASSHOLE should be. ❞

[buffyisms-archive]

                    pistolisms liked the thing ❤

                ❛ Okay I gotta say, I kinda expected you to              do the whole screaming and crying and ‘oh god’ thing                by now. So at this point gonna say, not a newbie. ❜

[scldiier-blog]

pistolisms said:

i ' L L F I T e them

      n o i will n ot let u. i’ll hug the hell out of u instead by e.

[perditioner]

pistolisms that sucks so much why does our government hate everyone

[theshatteredteacup]

pistolisms

In the cold of the morning, like a smear of ink on new paper, the stag walked. Its hooves sank into the drifts of snow to its knees; its hide was a mingling of fur and feather, both trembling over quivering muscles. Fog spilled from its flared nostrils as it breathed and with each step, its ears swiveled front to back. For now, all it could hear was the soft whispering of the wind combing through the naked branches of the dark trees, which rose like gnarled hands grasping for the undersides of the grey clouds above. Before it was the forest and behind was the house and the dogs and the man.

When the stag reached the place between forest and house, it froze. One hind leg was lifted, its sharp hoof tucked back; the tall ears were still; black eyes were fixed on some point in the grey horizon, some place where it seemed the snow was rising from the earth of its own accord. Then the snow moved. The flakes and shards of ice rose in a whirlwind that ran parallel to the ground. They writhed and twisted and devoured one another until the swirling snow formed a shape- first lean legs with heavy paws then a narrow snout and fangs of ice that slavered frigid water. A body of lean muscle grew atop the churning legs and a long tail and the snout and body were connected by a thick throat and from this throat came a rumbling like thunder. Two eyes like burning coals blinked to life when the snow settled finally into its wolfish form; the stag began to run. It tore across the snow drifts, a black smudge against the pale landscape, but the wolf was closing fast. Fangs snapped at flank- the stag shied away and gave a shrill cry like screaming. The forest was in sight, and it knew somehow that there it would be safe. Among the dark trees and heavy shadows, the stag would easily be lost and the wolf easily avoided. It was close now, very close, but so was the wolf and the stag passed between the trees just as icy fangs snapped at its throat. Will woke drenched in sweat beneath his blankets; one of his hands trembled against his throat. He brushed his fingertips over the damp skin of his neck, half expecting to find it punctured by teeth. The dream had seemed so real, but most of his dreams did. Swallowing, he pushed himself up from the bed and swung his legs over the side, resting his elbows on his knees. His head dropped into his hands and for a few moments, he sat there, trying to steady his heart and calm the rhythm of his breathing. The air outside the blankets was cold; he shivered. His head shot up at the sound of knocking. Eyes darted toward the clock- it was late or early depending on the way one looked at it, but it wasn’t as if he would be sleeping anymore now. The dream had left him strangely unsettled and wary. Rising from the bed, he made his way toward the front door, gathering his pack of dogs as he went.  Rooster, the large white with the brown smudge over one eye; Charlie, small and fuzzy and tan; Rex the Australian Shepherd; Sludge, big and brown and white;  Wyatt, small with his lower teeth pushing out over his lip; and Winston. The only one missing was... Buster. He had been searching for the little dog, so far to no avail. The weight of his failure to find Buster and bring him home sat heavily on his shoulders. He opened the door with the dogs pushing around his legs and stepped out onto the porch. "Hello?"

[farniliar]

pistolisms

    having no ties to a home has its perks; unattached to where your     heart truly lay, able to see new things, meet new faces. of course,     this isn’t why the familiar roams; it’s merely in search for its owner. 

    curiosity is what brings him into the bar. the smell of alcohol &     clatter of billiard balls. he glances at some of the patrons before     approaching a stool at the bar’s counter. most that he does is     offer the bartender a small, friendly smile before sitting down.     he peers at her with interest though; a different sort of feel those     tossed into the unorthodox & mystical mix is what he registers     from her.