greasedheart-blog

[greasedheart-blog]

"Next person to tell me a cheesy pick up line gets slapped." ( from luna )

          “Is that really necessary-- it’s just a cheesy pick up line, I don’t think violence is a good jump. If it’s something gross then yes, but cheesy?”

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"Werewolves are hot." (Wendy)

          “... okay..?” How does one respond to that? He blinks at the other, fingers running over the pocketwatch in hand. “You know they aren’t real, right?”

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"Sleep is for those who haven't spiraled into a life of chaos." - From Sam

          “As edgy as you like to act, you should really go to sleep, Sam. How long have you been up again? This can’t be healthy.”

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▿ ┋           “I vote we don’t give you any more alcohol for the night,” Hugo declares, hand raising in the air while he finishes up another mouthful of fries. Parmesean garlic, mmmm..

“Don’t want you doing anything stupid,” he adds on, reaching over to lightly pinch the other’s cheek.

Sam leaned against the bar, a giggle on his lips. He didn’t have a care in the world. In his state, he couldn’t have. “An, that was fun. We should do it again.”

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Send One for my Muses Reaction

"I love you."

"I hate you."

"Worst date of my life."

"How do you feel about polyamory?"

"So... I stabbed him."

"I might have killed him."

"Wanna go on a date?"

"Alcohol is not my friend."

"Can I marry whiskey?"

"I'm a drunken one-night stand type of girl."

"Will you marry me?"

"I'd rather marry the cactus."

"Wanna have the sex?"

"I killed my pet rock."

"Call me Satan."

"Why are bar fights frowned upon?"

"Why study when you can drink?"

"I have the power of a thousand unicorns."

"Werewolves are hot."

"I may or may not have binged Teen Wolf."

"I have the mutant ability to watch two weeks worth of episodes in two days."

"Sleep is for those who haven't spiraled into a life of chaos."

"I'm fluent in geek."

"Next person to tell me a cheesy pick up line gets slapped."

"That sweater has more sex appeal than you."

"Punch me."

"Netflix and chill?"

"I'm too adorable to slap."

"Just hit me."

"I never say no to drugs."

"You caught me, I'm a drug dealer."

"I think I married the vodka."

"My girly-ass drink has five times the alcohol than your wheat tea."

"So many fuckboys."

"Are you a serial killer?"

"I've killed more people than I can count."

"Brainwashing is fun."

"All I want is a kitten and vodka."

"Kiss me."

"You have nice skin, I can't wait to try it on."

"Stop yelling at me."

"Why do you have marshmallow flavored vodka?"

"I'm only drunk 99.9999999999999% percent of the time."

"He's only slightly dead."

"Don't judge my music."

"I don't like your pants. Take them off."

"We might have to huddle for warmth."

"Turns out, our parents/family/whatever arranged for us to get married."

"Satanism isn't all that bad."

"I'm a pagan, suck it up and move on."

"Your hand looks heavy. Let me hold it."

"I' trying to flirt."

"I'm kinda drunk."

"____ stole my vodka."

"Call me Batman."

"Be the Batman to my Joker?"

"I'm trying to tell you I want to have a homoerotic relationship with you."

"I will go done with this ship."

"Makeout session?"

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cloakofred‌:

     luna hadn’t meant to scare the other boy.  she simply had her eye in his pie.  perhaps it was a little rude, and even a little more weird, to go up to someone and ask for a bite of their desert - but sweets often clouded her judgement.  she had walked up to him, her own slice in hand, and cleared her throat.  he hadn’t looked up when she spoke, so she lightly tapped his shoulder, wondering if he just hadn’t heard.  when he jumped, she stepped back slightly, the startling noise almost causing her to drop the plate to the ground.  thankfully, she hadn’t.

     “oh goodness, my apologies,” she said, her hand resting against her chest.  she chuckled softly at his unusual choice of words.  “sorry, i didn’t mean to disturb you.  i was- well i was just wondering if you would perhaps like to share your pie,” she gave him a warm smile as if it was a perfectly normal question to ask.  “you see, i was up there forever trying to decide what i should get.  i love pie, and it was impossible to pick between apple and strawberry rhubarb.  but i noticed you over here all by yourself with half a slice left and i- well i thought maybe i could have a few bites of yours and you could have a few of mine.  the best of both worlds, you know?” she laughed, her cheeks flushing a bit.  maybe it was a bit weird after all.  “i suppose it’s a strange thing to hear from a random person in a diner, but here i am nonetheless,” she held her fresh slice of strawberry pie up for him to see.

▿ ┋           His first coherent thought after having about 4 years shaved off his life is just... how odd this situation is. And this girl is. Often times he does not like referring to others as odd but this is the first time a stranger has ever come up and asked if she could have some of his pie.

A glance to the plate and back to the girl makes him hesitate. While it isn’t like he was going to finish it at this point, part of him doesn’t want to hand it over if only so as not to encourage this kind of behavior in the long run. It can’t be safe, can it?

Still.. the expression on her face ends up making his decision for him. He sighs, reaching to pick up the plate and slide it towards the opposite side of the table, only to pick up his tool to get back to fiddling with his project.

“Go ahead, I wasn’t gonna finish it anyway.”

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▿ ┋          His workshop is not a storage closet. It is not, despite his mother’s claims, thank you very much and he has everything he needs as well as no distractions. Yet still his mother has insisted he go out and ‘get some fresh air’ as if he’s not left his apartment in a week ( and he has, thank you ).

This is how he finds himself at Granny’s Diner, seated in a booth in the far corner with a pocket-watch and his toolkit spread out across the table. A half-finished milkshake sits to the side, along with a similarly half-finished piece of apple pie.

So focused on the task at hand, he doesn’t realize someone is speaking to him until a touch to his shoulder has him very nearly jumping out of his skin, mini screwdriver clattering to the table.

“Holy fuzznuts--”

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lilybloodcd‌:

( flashback thread! location: nyc )

—❧ Haerin was trying her best, she really was. Raising a young boy was no easy feat. In fact that could be said about raising any child alone. Which is what Haerin was trying to do at such a young age with barely any support. She loved her son, loved him more than the stars in the sky and the sweetest smelling flowers. There was nothing in this world that could change her love for her son.

Which made punishing him all the harder on her heart. She wasn’t a weak willed woman by any means. Haerin was strong and knew what was good for her and her son. But, getting a call from a teacher, again, was never a good way to start the night. Sometimes she thinks that these nights are worse for her then for Hugo.

But perhaps she is being a bit overdramatic (that is her thing after all), but it’s never good to lose ones cool in front of a child. Hugo was only 12, the world was still a mysterious place to him. Hell, it was still to Haerin. She hears the door click open and takes a deep breath preparing herself for the words and the emotions to come.

She steps out of the kitchen and looks at her darling little boy.

“Hojun ? “She calls out. That should be the first sign, she rarely uses his Korean name even if they spoke mainly Korean at home. She purses her lips and continues. 

“You know I got a call from Mrs. Winter again…”

@greasedheart

▿ ┋          His stomach is all but programmed to drop at the sound of his birth name and it does just that, causing the boy to freeze just inside the threshold of their apartment. Fingers constrict around his little thinking notebook, one he uses for his projects at all times, and he finds himself swallowing around a lump in his throat.

“Oh.”

What else can he say? This isn’t his first offense and, as much as he has promised time and time again, it likely won’t be the last. An apology tickles his tongue but the fear of getting snapped at keeps lips pressed into a flat line, gaze actively avoiding his mother’s face.

School is hard. Not because he doesn’t understand what he’s being taught, but because he does. It doesn’t challenge him, the monotonous drone of homework and classwork day after day does nothing to engage his mind and as hard as he tries to focus on it, his attention always drifts back to his projects.  He knows the material they teach, learns as they lecture and his test grades show that. But the busy work is something he can’t stand, something that doesn’t make him think, unlike his projects. They preoccupy him, make him think of new ways to tinker with their inner workings, force him to in some cases. 

—  Like his current ‘child’. Oh it’s a beauty; an 18th century clock meant to sit on a mantle, set into a mahogany case with ornate designs. He managed to weasel it from the antiques shop down by the pier in exchange for fixing the owner’s grandfather clock because he knows nobody would appreciate it like he could, like he would —

With a start, he realizes he drifted again, attention refocusing on the situation at hand and the fact that he’s still lingering in the doorway. Shoulders hunch and shoes are slid off, backpack delicately placed to the floor before he moves further into their home.

“... M’sorry, Momma.”

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  a smile as bright as the sun 🌞🌞🌞

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