#quandare

[dianeworms]

@quandare​     ˊˎ˗     ‘ I CHANGED MY MIND. ’

‘ ugh. ’     she  stops.     ‘ you’re  JOKING  me. ’     she  turns  around,  living  half - strop.     ‘ are  you  serious?  you  can’t  change  it  back?  we’re  nearly  there  already!  the  rain’ll  clear  up  if  that’s  what  you’re  all  fussed  about. ’

[dianeworms]

@quandare​     ˊˎ˗     ‘ YOU  THINK  OUR  HOUSE  IS  HAUNTED? ’

‘ in short, ’     diane  starts,  satisfied,  as  she  spins  on  her  heels.     ‘ yes.  it  would  take  a  better  lawyer  to  argue  for  the  regularity  of  this  house  than  it  would  the  haunted.  it’s  the  vibes.  they’re  unarguably  off. ’

[dianeworms]

@quandare​   ˊˎ˗     ‘ SO WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME? ’

‘ boooooooo. ’     and  there’s  a  tut.  diane  doesn’t  so  much  as  break  stride.     ‘ on  a  walk.  don’t  be  boring  about  it.  it’s  a  nice  day  —  i  lead  you  somewhere  crappy:  the  sun’s  still  shining.  we  can  turn  around  and  head  somewhere  else.  you  can  do  with  a  bit  of  adventure,  yanno.  ’

[autumnnal]

♡     ‘      you can’t remember   . . .     (   @quandare​   )      !

           she  turns  and  faces  him,     and  in  her  stirring,      windblown  red  -  wood  mane  billows  ‘round  her  shoulders.      there’s  evident  avoidance  from  his  eyes,      as  downy  velvet  as  they  are,      as  she  reddens,      a  fair  dust   ‘pon  sun  -  flecked  countenance.      ❝      WELL,   NO.      ❞       she  simpers  through  nerves,     a  smile  that  can’t  even  bare  to  rival  her  others,      half  of  a  crescent  -  moon  in  the  pale  expanse  of  her  face.      near  the  entryway  of  stables,     that’s  where  she  dithers,     supernova  totters  over  a  loose  shoelace  with  airplane  arms  and  a  minor  exclamation  of     whoa,     oopsie  -  daisy    !                striking  white  mare  is  the  first  that  catches  her  eye,     tacked  for  a  noon  ride,       and  she  is  a  glorious  sight  in  such  a  wearisome  day.     the  humidity  isn’t  lost  on  darling  susie,      she  smells  of  aurora  rain  and  withering  harvest  leaves.      to  -  and  -  fro  rocking  of  her  heels,      fretful  enthusiasm  is  tangible  in  the  modest  sweat  of  her  palms,      and  she  says,     ❝     it’s  just  been  awhile  since  i’ve  rode  with  you,     so  i’m  a  bit  nervous.     i  remember  most  of  it     :     pads  first,     then  saddle,     adjust  stirrups    . . .    and,     um      ━     ❞

[archived-borispavsky]

         @quandare​ from ‘roxanne’ by the police 

     ---       “ you’re never going to love me but it’s alright, ”

[parasiteen]

@quandare    /     ❛ Too many people have opinions on things they know nothing about. ❜

❛     FUNNY,     I DON’T RECALL ASKING FOR YOURS.      ❜     it’s followed by a snicker,     a sour one at that.     the kind that makes you feel uncomfortable,     the kind that makes you want to head for the hills.     (     PUSH THEM ALL AWAY,     YOU DON’T NEED ANYONE BUT ME.     YOU DON’T NEED ANYTHING BUT ME.     )    there was a comfort in knowing the boy standing before her was a strange one as she was,     but there was no room for forming bonds.     that role was taken.     yet,     her sourness is a facade.     there was no need to upset the demon,     no need to upset her jealous BLOOD mother.     a friend would have been nice though,     one you could call in the late hours and speak of dreams.     ❛     DON’T BE A HYPOCRITE NOW,     IT’S NOT A GOOD LOOK ON YOU.      ❜     (     WALK AWAY NOW,     MARYANNE.     )     yes mama.

[jennifercheck-a]

@quandare​:    ‘  that cut is nasty.  ’

❝             you’re    nasty    .           ❞          a    battle    between    two    children,        it    seems,        and    he    appears    to    be    the    oldest,        mentally    .        she    hisses    at    her    state,        it    burns,        it    stings                    &.      it    should,        but    never    for    this    long    .        cherries    lightly    twitch,        veneers    gritting    within    mouth,        THIS    ISN’T    SUPPOSED    TO    HURT    THIS    MUCH    .          ❝             something’s    wrong                here,        punch    me    in    my    face    .           ❞

[ugliy-moved]

@quandare​   asked:     “i’m not really anything like a person.”

           There’s a delicate nature to the action her feet take, kicking out gently at the gravel beneath her shoes. That’s the thing, the thing is darling   ––   ladylike and loving, meticulous in its intricacies. Kicking with her mary-jane shoes, placed sweetly on her feet by an adult with one of those expressions on their faces. Cute doll. She does make for a very kindly subject to dress up. Doesn’t move, doesn’t talk further than the standard answers to useless prodding, well trained in her etiquette so thoroughly that even now she keeps her posture straight and her eyes settled forward. 

            Companion’s words, however, steal her attention, head turning as if she might better comprehend it with eye contact. As if she doesn’t understand it as it stands in the space between them.     TO BE A LIVING THING:     “We’re all people,” she says, feebleness in her tone. “Whether we like it or not, I think.”    Features wince. There’s something disappointing in feeling so silly, a little empty headed. Stare flickers away with a pink tint taking hold of her complexion.    TO BE A BREATHING THING:   at the very least, we are this.     These live, real things. We have to be. She’ll repeat the thought to herself sometimes, pinch her arm with an intent to remind herself of the heavy concept that is existence. I do live, she thinks. I do live. But it’s hard to recall when gazes feel hollow, looking through you blankly.

             “You seem like a person to me.”             SOME PEOPLE BREATHE,     SOME PEOPLE DON’T.    This extends to thoughts as much as it does lungs. Fears that creep into her dreams often resemble losing your breath, losing something that makes you yourself, or never having it to begin with.    You look like you breathe, she wants to say, but she bites back on her tongue.