#wldflwers

[childactress-a]

❝     you ever wonder what the death statistics for these things look like?     ❞          she asks,  and is privately thankful they’ve grown beyond the stage of preliminary pick-up lines and small talk     (     no,  thank you!     she’ll take her flirting with a side of morbidity,  just enough to offset the discomfort of comfort.     ).     cool metal of a rooftop barrier touches at her back’s exposed skin,  mara warmed only by a vodka cranberry in hand and logan at her side.          ❝     you don’t ever hear about ‘em,  but,  like,  it’s people drinking and dancing on a roof.     who the hell came up with that?     anyone could fall off.     i could fall off,  potentially.     ❞

@wldflwers for logan little     ...     🎁

[arcanetrickstr]

nina @wldflwers​ has a piss kink here’s how i know: 

-once offered me $50 CAD to pee myself in front of them (i almost did. my dignity isn’t worth that much)

- this message

[junksaw]

THE  NIGHT  AND  ALL  ITS  INFINITES,   SUFFOCATING     —     SHE  USED  TO  FALL  IN  STEP  WITH  THE  MOON.     it  called  and  she  came,   beckoned  by  lurid  affairs  under  the  dark.     the  sun  liked  to  rise  afterward,   shake  off  the  pieces  of  amanda  the  night  wouldn’t  take     [     PIGSKIN  SMELLS  THE  WORST  IN  THE  HEAT     ].     the  difference,   she’s  reminded  with  every  breath,   is  that  in  this  place  night  is  all  there  is.

OLD  HABITS  DIE  HARD.     that’s  the  silver  lining.     hell  is  okay,   as  long  as  it  isn’t  only  her  own     [     HOW  MUCH  OF  A  HELL  CAN  THIS  PLACE  REALLY  BE?     THERE  IS  DEATH  BUT  NOT  HER  OWN,   AND  THE  ENTITY’S  BREATH  ON  HER  NECK  IS  PREFERABLE  TO  HOFFMAN’S     ].     with  new  freedom  comes  new  opportunities,   and  with  those,   new  pigs  for  the  slaughter.

❝     IMPRESSIVE.     ❞          in  her  grasp,   a  weapon  of  generations  past     —     wood  weighs  heavy  in  her  palm,   mass  of  darkness  reflected  in  the  grime.     amanda  eyes  herself,   then  away  too  quick.          ❝     AND  IMPERSONAL.     ❞          admiration  lingers  in  her  touch,   though     :     her  fingers  stretch  across  the  hatchet’s  head,   held  there.     against  the  metal  songs  of  horror  have  been  etched,   a  keepsake  she  would  envy  if  not  for  the  blueprints  and  machines  she  fills  her  time  with.          ❝     if  all  you’re  trying  to  do  is  kill,   they’re  fine.     but  i  guess  you’re  not  much  of  a  showman,   anyway.     ❞

@wldflwers​  for  anna.

[cutfoot]

i loooove seeing nina on my dash. they did a little writing and i’m like :)!!!! that’s MY they/them!!!!!!

[nlustris-arch]

valarie kaur  /  les amours imaginaires (2010)  /  still here by ari banias  /  to the desert by benjamin alire sáenz  /  the boys 2x06,  the bloody doors off  /  the boys 2x06,  the bloody doors off  /  the boys 1x07,  the self-preservation society  /  bloodsport by yves olade

[psychewrote]

        ❝  and you don’t skate for russia because... ?  ❞   it’s an innocent enough question, though it was probably much too direct  ( and maybe even a little unprofessional )  to ask in a first meeting. not that her home country was lacking in talent, however; it was so easy to get lost in the mix in russia. but vlada was genuinely curious and she had no intention of running her mouth about whatever his answer was going to be.   ❝  ---  ya proshu proshcheniya, if the question is too much, you don’t have to answer.  ❞

@wldflwers​ - vladislava for pyotr !     starter call.

[vswrld]

OUCH,   YOWCH,   ZINGER,   BANG,   BINGO*.     scott’s  nose  catches  on  the  end  of  one  of  those  shiny,   uh,   those  gold  things?      they  look  like  someone  blew  up  a  tambourine  and  made  it  gold  and  they  go  clank  -  clank  -  clank  when  you  eat  dirt  into  them**.     scott  pilgrim  vs  the  trying  to  stand  up  and  look  cool  when  you  were  diagnosed  with  uncool  at  thirteen      (    my  god,   scott,   it’s  terminal      ).     he  rests  a  hand  against  the,  uh,  middle  part  of  the  drum,   that  used  to  be  made  of  lambskin  or  pig’s  blood  or  whatever  else  kim  had  told  him      ...       stable,   he  loses  his  flush  quick  as  a  snap  of  the  fingers   :      his  body  is  a  disappearing  act.

*      AND  OTHER  SOUND  EFFECTS  THAT  CONNOTE  THAT  SCOTT  PILGRIM  IS  TAKING  THE  POUNDING  OF  A  LIFE  TIME       (      HA      )       FROM  KIM’S  DRUM  SET. **     THEY’RE  CALLED  A  CRASH  CYMBAL.     AREN’T  YOU  A  MUSICIAN,   SCOTT?     (     YEAH,   BUT  A  BAD  ONE!        ).

‘   what?       huh?      our  music?      no  way   :       sex  bo  -  bomb  is  authentic  and  old  school  and  new  school  and,   like,    middle  school.     if  you  were  forced  to  spend  middle  school  with  your  jackass  friends  creating  lame  -  awesome  -  lamely  awesome  music  in  one  of  their  living  rooms.   ’      NEXT  PANEL   :      scott  stretches  out  like  a  speech  bubble,   filling  up  all  the  unwanted  space  in  stephen  stills’  living  room.        ‘   your  sound  is,   like      ...        well,   man,    it’s  just  not  great.   ’       [        SPOILERS  FOR  THE  NEXT  ISSUE   :      SCOTT  IS  BLEEDING  A  TINY  LITTLE  BIT       ].

@wldflwers​        ...        “ let’s be honest, we kinda do sound the same. ” ( from logan! )

[viciousgracearc]

@wldflwers​ sent :  “ he looks normal. and nobody can tell what he is. ” ( from baghead / to abigail )

PROMPTS & MEMES     /     ALWAYS ACCEPTING

          THE WAY SHE STIFFENS IS SUBTLE, unnoticeable to the untrained eye. Abigail knows by now how she should play this game: feign ignorance, use those brown, doe eyes to their full potential, laugh casually, change the subject. But something about this particular instance makes her hesitate. Perhaps it is the knowing in Baghead’s voice, the undertone that hints at an intimate knowledge of people who look normal and are anything but. Doesn’t she know more than her fair share of people like that? Isn’t she technically one of them?

          “Maybe he is normal,” Abigail says, careful gaze shifting towards the man in question -- unremarkable, for all intents and purposes. Her voice sounds phony even to her own ears, so she clears her throat, brushes invisible lint from the white of her blouse, and smiles openly at Baghead. “You think there’s more to him? Bodies in his trunk, maybe? Or does he bury them in unmarked graves?” She sounds almost too casual, like she’s trying too hard to hide just how much she knows about graves and bodies ( a lot, too much ). “Maybe he eats them,” Abigail says suddenly, tone evening out like an electrocardiogram flatlining. “Maybe he consumes the evidence.”