#rigamortician

[foulmouthpiece-moved-blog]

◎ = taking care of them while ill .

send a symbol. | no longer accepting.

     “Listen.” Lissen. Her words are always a blur when she’s sick like this, drunk on sleep, cough syrup, fever reducers. Millie’s hand snakes out from the pile of blankets atop her and grabs Grian’s wrist, no more mindful of the germs she’s undoubtedly spreading to him than he is of the fact she’s totally, 100%, copacetic. If you ignore the redness of her mouth, nose and eyes, the way Millie just oozes pestilence from her clammy palms, yes -- she’s in the best shape of her life.

     “I feel great.” The words clip in and out, giving way to the gunk in the back of her throat. Millie chokes it back and tries again. “I think I’m better. And -- and -- and I want to -- go to the movie still. With you.” She’s been looking forward to this all week. It isn’t fair she should abandon all plans on account of a stupid cold. “Please, Gri?”

[dochvolkov]

@rigamortician

        “You’ve got -- blood? I think? Or           ketchup. Right there.”

[foulmouthpiece-moved-blog]

rigamortician replied to your post “someone: calls millie princess millie:”

but what if grian did it jokingly

i hope he’d be ready to be headbutted in the stomach

[foulmouthpiece-moved-blog]

one (blake’s got a new face) -- vampire weekend.

     “English Breakfast tastes like Darjeeling. Right?” Millie turns the two tins of loose leaf tea to face him, plainly confused. The world of tea is an honest-to-God mystery. “Because they’re the same fucking things. Right.”

@rigamortician liked this for a lyric-based starter !!

[bogisms-blog]

@rigamortician

“You don’t belong here.”

Said a voice, though it echoed through the Swamp like the wind whipping through the tree tops. The dull, green grey of the area was as stark dead as the lack of sound that kept in Limbo, making the sudden voice all the more commanding. 

One of the nearby stagnant pools of water bubbled faintly and the black water rose upwards as a shape came forth. The figure was nude, though pale skin was littered with too many eyes and open, gaping mouths to warrant being seen as naked. A great horned head, with massive singular eye, turned to stare at the intruder, all the while black ooze dribbled out of the large, gaping maw that was in his throat. 

         “You don’t belong in Limbo.                  Go back.”

[foulmouthpiece-moved-blog]

❝ if i had 15 minutes, we’d drink tea, eat biscuits; i’d talk, you’d laugh, and we’d be on our way. ❞

the man from u.n.c.l.e. sentence starters. | accepting.

     In a flash she goes from grinning to melancholy, leaning her head on his shoulder, holding a handful of his jacket in her fist. She should consider herself lucky that she gets to Grian as often as she does -- but, as they say, parting is such sweet sorrow. “Are you sure you can’t stay a while longer? You only just got here.”

[foulmouthpiece-moved-blog]

@rigamortician.

Grian kept his back to her and chewed his lips until they bled inside his mouth. He wished this was a joke. He wished he could turn around and laugh and say he planned a nice little road trip, but he wouldn’t lie to her. Cancey deserved to know.

“There are some people who want to hurt you because of me, and I’m not going to let them get the chance, Cance,” Nervous rhyming. When did that ever help anyone? Grian grabbed his worn canvas messenger bag and finally turned to watch her expression intently.

     As her feet touch the floor, there’s a moment of hesitation where she fixes him with a hard confused look as if to say, is this happening? Is this real? It’s with difficulty that she tears away, stuffs her feet into some shoes, and begins grabbing clothes with the practice hand of someone that has disappeared many times before. (She wishes, in some panicked unconventional way, she had been given prior notice so she could tell her poor roommate.)

     In six minutes she has a duffelbag prepared, veritably stuffed, and jacket in hand. “Let’s go before I freak out and try to resist.”