#saintpeggy

[sepiol]

to: @saintpeggy​​ ┊ re: starter call

               ‘Hey. You’re Peggy, right? Where’s Kavinsky?’

[clitorya-blog]

@saintpeggy!

    “Sometimes we do private dances, but that starts to head into territory where I can’t freestyle across a room.”

[meurvor-blog]

saintpeggy.

     “You look like the girl from the thing with the death.      Saint whatsit.”

[druidaearchive-blog1]

saintpeggy.

       ( percy took their own advice for the first time ever and made themselves an        anti-anxiety smoothie and maybe it was a bit much because, hand to heart: )

            You are so incredibly pretty.

[venividivicii-blog]

saintpeggy.

      what a miserable place Boon Glades was. The whole place felt like the town        equivalent of a sick dog;   Frank had been to a few small towns that felt this way --        you do tend to find them, on the presidential trail when trying to look as if you care        about all of America, not just the shiny parts -- but none of those places had made        a saint out of some dead girl, not one of them.     In his own hands, Frank might've        seen it as a brilliant, opportunistic move;        exonerate anyone who might've been        involved by bringing the victim on-high. It was not in Frank's hands, however. 

       He needed a cigarette. It was not becoming of a president, not at all; cut him some        slack,         the evening's unusually oppressive and warm and he's pulled his tie off,        leaning against brick as he opens a carton.  Security, good for a great many things:        including buying the things Frank shouldn't be seen buying     ...     but not a lighter,        apparently.     Frank's too proud to re-find his detail and chew them out for the slip.        He doesn't even look up from leering at the smokes - just asks the first warm body        to walk nearby. 

                          " -- excuse me, I don't suppose you have a lighter."