#voicelost

[solitarysurvival-arch]

" come on, jake. don't you think the french canadian deserves a french kiss? " : )

Jake visibly flushes, before his eyebrows furrow down irritably, and he gives Nea a light elbow with the intent to knock her off balance. “Mind your business”

[snowwhite21318]

#photography 做人如熱火烹油繁花似錦，應當要低調簡樸，以免遭人眼紅妒忌。 一家公司如果不知如何解決問題，而是解決提出問題的人，不如歸去！ #tired #voicelost #hot #tomford

[solitarysurvival-arch]

stabs him, but with feeling.

Two had to die during a trial for the entity to be satisfied with the carnage, they both know this. It’s why he stands in the open now, the battlefield very quiet as she moves, always like a skater on glimmering ice toward him. He doesn’t say anything and neither does she, an unspoken agreement listing overhead. He owes her this much, and he doesn’t much like to be indebted.

Jake barely flinches as the jackal approaches in a single, colourful–swift motion, like a gust of wind, hands curling at his sides to brace in the best way he can. He meets bright, rueful eyes with an undertow of calm taking him 

It’s okay.

Slowly, gently, she brings him in like an embrace, and then, just like that, it’s over, with a quiet choking noise from between his teeth. He tastes the familiar copper bubbling in his throat as the sword is pulled free, and he has to grip at the drifter’s cloak to keep his knees from buckling. Quick, unceremonious, kind. She lets him down, down, slowly to the earth, and he looks up at her without remorse, merely a twinge of veiled pain in his expression. It’s the most comforting it can be, he thinks, as he drifts into quiet void–for bleeding out in the arms of a killer. 

[solitarysurvival-arch]

@voicelost (cont.)

           sword   is   poised   as   though   she   were   to   strike,   but   the   wooden   barrier   lay   between   them   deters   her   from   making   much   progress.   a   thing   which,   most   often,   can   easily   be   rid   of,   but   the   jackal   gives   pause   when   he   speaks   to   her.   it   seems   so   rare   that   they   do,   these   humans,   far   more   focused   on   ensuring   their   own   survival.   if   only   they   knew   that   she’s   burdened   with   similar   purpose—executed   differently.

            and   so,   her   sword   lowers   and   her   head   tilts,   not   dissimilar   to   a  canine.   might   have   even   been   cute   under   other   conditions.   she   feels   the  entity’s   displeasure   over   her   ounce   of   hesitation,   rolling   in   waves   of   angry  whispers   and   a   familiar,   heavy   weight   in   her   chest.   but   the   drifter   imagines  that this   time,   it   is   not   a   result   of   her   disease,   but   a   warning   from   the   eldritch  god   of   this   realm   that   it   can   do   much   worse   than   her   own   body   inflicts  upon  itself.   still,   she   has   to   pause,   again,   to   lift   her   mask   just   enough   to   cough  the blood   from   her   throat   and   into   her   hand.

           no.   there   isn’t   room   for   hesitation.   she’s   indebted   and   damned   to   this  eternity   of   labour   for   some   chance   at   life;   whatever   life   in   this   realm   is   worth  living.   “   there   is   no   try,   my   friend.   “   swift   steps   are   taken   to   catch   him  on  his   side   of   the   pallet.   she   snatches   him   by   his   jacket,   dragging   him   into   the  dirt   before   he   can   think   twice.   “   only   do.   “

This one is new. The first thing he takes note of is the colour, neon and nightmarish, her drifting step across the red forest like that of a wandering spirit. A lonely hunter, a sense of sorrow. She phases through the hard surfaces of walls--like the nurse, but she is different--with the head of a wolf, long ragged coat flowing behind her, bright eyes like highway signs in the dark. 

He hadn’t really expected the killer to speak--many refrained while they stood opposite on the trial fields, or perhaps couldn’t at all. But the cool, almost serene voice that comes from the maw of the canine makes him take pause, and maybe it’s how she crosses over to him so easily, taking him by a handful of parka and throwing him into the hard ground.

The impact with the earth knocks the air clean out of him, and he gasps, winded and sputtering on the dust that scatters around him. He dares to stare up into the bright lights, searching them, wondering if there’s something human underneath. “Where did you come from?” It’s all he can think to ask, quiet, watching. 

[lifestylehappyplace]

🤐 Well, Its Official! I have lost my voice. 🤐The Universe has spoken and its telling me to rest and relax. 🤐Typical of the change in season. 🤐Who else gets sick in between the seasons? #coughingcat #voicelost #sick #pentopapertime https://www.instagram.com/p/B2hg6QuF-i_/?igshid=12xens4grck6d

[solitarysurvival-arch]

@voicelost​

           cool   metal   on   her   throat  feels   like   a   haze,   lost   somewhere   with  her   in   the   fog.   her   throat   congealed   with   her   own   blood,   she   remembers  watching   his   hanging   body   above   her;   that   image   is   replaced   with   something  softer,   now.   more   kind,   with   his   forehead   pressed   to   hers.   some   false   sense  of security   that   they’re   okay   now—that   they’re   here,   with   each   other,   away   from  gore,   and   swine,   and   razor   blades.   and   she   might   have   believed   it,   too,   if   it  weren’t   for   the   way   she   holds   his   still-shaking   hands.   or   maybe   that’s   her.  she  can’t   tell   anymore.   “   …   it   wasn’t   your   fault.   “

His head is full of black smoke, pieces of the trial splintering him at the fingertips, pressing between ribs, clinging to his frame like rainwater. The dim warehouse, the ache of where the traps had bitten into skin, made his head swim with toxin. The persistent drip-drip of his blood to the concrete under the hook, the emptiness of a lost trial. The woman in the pig mask is wrestling her to the ground at his feet, and immediately he kicks into a struggle, like an animal in a beartrap.

“Stop,” he hisses, and the hook digs in deeper.

"Stop,” he whispers, and the knife glints cruel in the fluorescent light. “Nea--” and it’s desperate, pupils like pinpricks, knuckles white where he fights with the metal in his shoulder. You did this. He’s torn the wound ugly and ragged from his struggling, and the spider legs curl down in hazy peripherals. And it’s so desperate.

“Please,”

And she doesn’t, the knife comes down in a pretty arc, the red splatters the wall, Nea chokes on blood in the silence, and he shouts her name with iron in his teeth.

The warehouse is gone, the fire painting orange on their faces and in the treeline. He looks down at their hands and his wounds don’t matter.

“You’re stubborn.” His mother’s hand curls in the sleeve of his jacket as he turns away; “doing whatever you like--there are consequences in every choice.”

He pulls back slightly enough to look at her, cold and sobered and guilty.

“Yes it was.”

[lifegambled-blog]

" man ... go to hell. " from nea im sry she's a GRUMO

random sentences || accepting || @voicelost

          “Well, you certainly aren’t a joy to be around. Didn’t you have your morning coffee?”    Not that he wasn’t used to it; not everyone seemed to like him, but he didn’t really care about such. Yet, knowing they needed to help each other out during this time, it would be better to get along. There was no need to create more enemies than he already had ----- and he was sure the list was still growing.     “If I had some I would have given it to you...”

[surviiveur]

​❝ i heard you all the way upstairs. ❞ from nea!

five senses ! | accepting .@voicelost​

            oh ,  pretty little suburbia ,  how   noisy   you could be  !    laurie wears shame like a mask ,  it pulls at her lips in the semblance of a sheepish   smile .     ❝  i’m sorry . ❞   ONE AFTER ANOTHER - she apologizes    frequently    to many that she   swore    she would never care about .     for their sake .      ❝  i’ll try to   keep it down   a bit ,   i   promise .  ❞   no hostility in her tone ,  she was far to tired - too    worn out     to try anything    snippy     with the artist .   ❝  i didn’t, um— ❞   she spares concern so    infrequently   nowadays ,  and it tastes like     acid     on her tongue , but she presses on out of courtesy for words already spilled .  the only sign of her discomfort was the tugging of slim fingers on an already    worn out    sleeve .    ❝ —i didn’t    wake you ,   or anything , did i ?  ❞   laurie knows late ,     sleepless    ,  nights ,  and as little as she    wished    she cared , she’d never    willingly   bring something like that on any of them - no matter how   wrong    they tried to do her .   she was   guilty    of doing the same , after all .