pipesbomb-blog

[pipesbomb-blog]

[pipesbomb-blog]

🔪 ⋮ SUNBRUISE .

his finger treks along andrew’s jaw,    winding back up and descending once more.   it’s nothing forceful,   nor curious    (   see,   he asked permission and got a yes   )    ;   it’s gentle,    and somewhat certain.    he brings it down towards the boy’s mouth and curls it against his chin,    tilting his face to where he could better see his eyes and breathe only a little more quietly than before.    it was a stillness loud enough that he thought,   for a minute,    that he was holding his breath.       ❛❛       yes.   i like this game.        ❜❜     a pause,   but it didn’t extend into nothingness.    he found it short and sweet,    and in that space he manages to press his nose into andrew’s cheek,    fingers reaching back for the tufts of hair by his ear,   a closeness he could never get use to but trusted more each day.    there’s a kiss   -      he leaves it by the boy’s jaw and pulls away,    eyes wide and naturally attentive with the rustling of the tiny tiber behind them.        ❛❛        what are you thinking now?        ❜❜

a game, is it?  could’ve fooled him, for all the realness thin-spread in between.  unless it’s a game of chicken.  see who can push the bounds of physicality furtherest first.  ken’s got a head start, with his wandering hand burning scars into andrew’s skin like a molten hot knife searing.  andrew half expects spontaneous combustion when he’s graced with a kiss to the jawline.  he doesn’t.  god isn’t that kind.

     ‘ arcadian. ’     hazel meets mismatched eyes in challenge, a singular quirked eyebrow daring ken to venture further into the unknown of andrew’s disposition.  two can play chicken, though he’s always been more of a wordsmith than a fire starter.     ‘ idyllically innocent. simple and untroubled by fear and worry. you play the part well. ’

[pipesbomb-blog]

V A R E C K : @dayfire·

johnny cash.   it ruined whatever peaceful spell he was under,   because he realised it sounded a lot like something julian would have said,    minus the gun.   the strange warmth of the room that had managed to sober him up swiftly left,   and he looked to the guitar as if he couldn’t remember how it had ended up on his lap.   brows bent and hands calloused,   he pushed it aside over the bed and caught sight of two initials carved over it’s lower end.   J.O.         ❛❛      hm,       ❜❜      abandoning it,    he got up to his feet and inspected the drawers to his immediate right.   leftover ammo rolled to the bottom,   so he picked it before circling around to the dead body,    the blood having fully dried up over the carpet floor.   it’s habit by now,   how quickly he reverts back to his cold nature,   the hilarious incapacity,   or incapability   -   you pick   -    to feel much.    it’d take another blue moon for it to show again,    not that anyone was in line waiting on his leniency when his gun would sooner finish the job.    was it the end of the world,   or any other day?    as far as he was concerned,    this situation was a lot less complicated,    straight forward with the whole survival memo.    with his foot to the body’s head,   he yanks the blade out of the gutted neck with a low murmur in his throat.    stalking up towards the window,   he cleaned it away with what remained of the curtain before equipping it behind his boot.    with a huff of effort,   he snapped the window open and vaulted his way out,   music long behind him in that trapped up little room.    it left the forests to open up before him.    the way the sunlight poured in through the greenery almost felt like a taunt,   but he ignored it and began suspecting the houses around them,   everything from the chipped side walk to the tilted traffic lights.    what was suburban before was now a dump of nature’s finest permafrost.   

the camp rumoured to be closest to them from this spot had probably gone to shit.   there was no indication otherwise,       when their surroundings had so far revealed little more than left over supplies and a mass of dead bodies.      it must have been a while by now,   too,   judging by the colour of the shot corpses:    it had long been drained out of them,     and the work couldn’t be credited to the undead but mercenaries,   or whatever they wanted to call themselves.    the same lot that had attacked the previous camp he had seen.   when he looked back to andrew,   he briefly recalled renee walker.    ❛❛       we should leave,       ❜❜     because he could smell the death from here.    his voice flat lined to mirror andrew’s expression.    when he moved his stare again,     it was to scrutinise the direction in which they had first arrived.    somewhere back there,    three little kids were relying on them to find them a fucking safe house.    simple man,    few words.       ❛❛       camp’s dead.    stupid kids will just have to wait.       ❜❜

a dead-quiet town no longer held the same note of ease in a world full of stone-cold silence.  ken’s restlessness would be unnoticeable during the time before, but to andrew now, it’s like a flashing neon light in a dark cavern.  the way he holds himself poised, casually alert to his surroundings, is an admirable trait of one who not only survived, but conquered.  he briefly recalled renee walker.

thoughts sufficiently buried, andrew picked up an abandoned handgun by a rotting rocking chair, checking the magazine for a welcomed sight.  well met.

     ‘ they didn’t do a very good job of robbing the place. must’ve gotten interrupted. ’     the gun slipped comfortably into the back of his jeans, tucked into his belt.  ken was right.  they shouldn’t linger here.     ‘ found a few cans of food and a couple water filters so the little fucks don’t have to keep borrowing our shit. here. ’

launched spectacularly in ken’s direction, expected to be caught -- of course -- is a roll of duct tape.  a rare but deeply desirable commodity during the end times.  perhaps it’s a show of ally-ship, a show of trust, to give ken anything so invaluable.  perhaps not, since he’s pocketed three other rolls himself.  it doesn’t matter.  the focus is on, a profound need to find a safe place before night falls in less than ten hours the point of intercept.  he pulls a map from his back pocket that he’d found during ken’s musical awakening, marked with warning signs.  later on, he’ll transfer it to his own map -- an uncomfortably busy scribble of lines and numbers.  for now, it’ll have to be read from.

     ‘ ten miles out: safe house or an undead lock-up. can’t tell if these guys were using a code to throw off mercenaries, or if they really were stupid enough to actually mark a map properly. jury’s still out. ’     it’s the most he’s spoken all morning -- all night -- all time, since renee.     ‘ the lack of proper defence at this place seems to suggest stupidity. risk it? ’

[pipesbomb-blog]

J O S T E N .

jacob wasn’t happy he had his phone out in the room.   turning the knob was apparently loud enough to wake the guy,    because he lulled his head up in a daze from the pillow and glared at neil,    who had his phone out and was staring intently into the bright screen.   when he called out to him,   neil’s shoulders jerked up in alarm.   go the fuck to sleep,   josten.   he looked up at his top bunk and wondered how it would sound if it came crashing down on jacob.   with another irritated noise,   he climbed up anyways and stuffed himself under the only thin blanket he had and pulled the phone up to his chest.   finally,   the bleariness of his vision made him want to close his eyes.   with the last of his energy,   he punched in a few keys before slipping the cell phone under his pillow.

you have (1) new sms!

[ MESSAGE FROM N. JOSTEN. @ 3:10 ]:    shut up.

sleep deprived,   determined,   and cranky;   friday night’s game demanded he play at his wit’s end,    slamming left and right into the shoulders of the backliners who checked him before he had to hustle the game towards the adversary’s goal.   a few times that night,    the goal lit up red for him with the home stadium erupting into applause from all corners of the playing field.   even with his eyes red rimmed and his lips twisted into a frown,    he could feel the plexiglass shaking.    to the team’s disarray,   they tied with the texas rangers at the very last minute.    because neil didn’t have the time to let his disturbed groans stretch out to the locker rooms,   jacob did that bit of grumbling for him.    wymack barely got a sight of him before he was shouldering his duffel and patting his pockets down for his keys.    it was wordless but the coach knew;   neil had progressed a lot from when he first showed up to the fox tower,    from not knowing where to go on holidays to having even his weekends planned out every now and then.    the flight couldn’t have lasted more than hour either,    before he was landing in orlando airport,   orange county.    he didn’t want to think about the plane and the attendants there,   or the people who checked for his ID when the spike of fear tied to it was far too fresh and familiar even now.    he shoved that blue passport deep into his bag where he couldn’t see it before flagging down a taxi,    paid at the door and made his way lethargically to andrew’s door.   by the time he’d knocked once,    he felt life drain away from his body and the exhaustion of poor sleep,   an entire game,   and a full flight take its bloody toll on him.    he didn’t try for a second knock,    hand still against the door frame.    but the cats;    they knew.   they caught on.   and they rushed to the door for him.

105%, he wants to reply, but the night lights seem far more interesting.  the phone finds its home within his pocket as he stubs out his cigarette and makes his way to his own bedroom.  you might’ve won this battle, neil josten, but there’s no way you’re going to win the war.

the change of course for a life formerly valued less than a packet of cigarettes was substantial, andrew’s introduction to the pro leagues and willingness to participate in weekly matches an unexpected turn of events.  though kevin day wished he could claim credit for the dramatic shift of andrew’s perception, everyone knew only one person was to blame; neil josten.  it vexed andrew to no end, how easily his former patterns lost their repetitiveness -- how neil slotted himself into his life a natural fit, despite being a square forcing its way into a triangle-shaped wound.

sitting in the soft glow of lamplight, nursing a half-full glass of whiskey as he reads the highlight reels of the familiar college-levelled sport, he pays no mind to the knock on the door, wishing neil would simply dig out his set of keys that had been pressed into his palm the minute andrew had moved in.  of course the cats had other plans -- knew when their irritating, exy junky owner lingered on the other side of the door -- wouldn’t shut up.  with a show of irritation visible to no one but the ratty, furballed menaces wrapping excitedly around his legs, andrew pulled open the door.

no malice, purely observational.  the match hadn’t gone in the foxes favour, naturally.  he’d read all about it -- knew he’d be graced with a dramatic, theatrical boyfriend come 9 o’clock touchdown.  take him back to the time before, god.  he doesn’t want to deal with the crushing weight of despair radiating from an idiot so hellbent on winning that he can’t even fathom a tie means nothing in the grand scheme of the season.  they’d already guaranteed themselves a place in the next round.  did it really matter that much?

     ‘ get in already. your stupid cats are going to have an aneurism if you make them wait any longer. ’

[pipesbomb-blog]

You ask me why I’m not afraid of knives and I show you each scar that I collected over the years. Words that were sharp enough to cut. Words like unworthy. Words like cold-hearted. Words like monster.

Excerpt of The butterfly effect from Moonprints r.m | buy me a ko-fi

[pipesbomb-blog]

V A R E C K .

apocalypse starter,   tlou inspired.   ft.    @pipesbomb.

he watches his open palm,    the way it trembles insistently with thick lines of dirt tainting his fingernails and the dulled out stain of blood over the skin of his wrist.     julian use to think they were pretty,   but he couldn’t see truth in that anymore.   slowly,   he closed his palm into a fist.   outside,   the trees were a shade of green so alive and beautiful,   that it almost took away the suspicion of the rusty,   broken up cars that were stumped around the grey cottages.  a few jagged up logs were littered about too,   with the body of a moth spray painted on tilted stop signs.    at the corner left was the house he had picked out to loot first,   only,    he had gotten side tracked along the way.    sat over a child’s bed,   a guitar on his lap,    he opened his palm again and rubbed his thumb against his fingers.    then he pressed them to the strings of the instrument,    and with the softest brush created a sound too gentle,    cracking at the end.    with a grunt,    he tunes it slowly and tries for a second sound;   finding a rhythm,    he reached back into his memory where he could just barely make out the print of a song.    when he found it in himself to sing,    it was just enough to make make the splatters of blood coating the side of his face,    the ocean’s worth of weight of his lover’s necklace,   the dead body a feet away from his feet,    the knife he had lodged into the man’s throat,    and the gun laid innocently to the bedside of a long gone child,    go away.      i walk,   he started.    through the valley of the shadow of death.    notes of the guitar,   now perfectly in tune,   reverberated in his chest.    the footsteps that were next to me,     have gone their separate ways.     carefully,    he shifts his knee.     the song stayed the same.    i’ve seen enough now,    to know that beautiful things     ━━━     a sharp breath,    and he felt his eyes flutter to a close.   andrew’s footsteps were catching up now,    just outside the main door with a gun in his hand.   and the dead man by his feet,     the blood puddled up in his open hand was drying now.      ━━━      …     don’t always stay that way.    i’ve done enough now,    but his voice grew raspy.    had he forgotten?     to know this beautiful place,    isn’t everything they say.    his fingers stop over the strings,    a stray sound the ending note.    andrew was at the door.    he looked up at the lone window inside the room instead,    the patches of leaves and greenery that had managed to grow around the wood.    when he did look back at the door frame,    the only person he had left in this world standing by it quietly,    he felt himself stiffen again,   by the shoulders and by the brows,   the wink of gold in his right eye disappearing somewhere it couldn’t be found.        ❛❛       end of the world,   is it?        ❜❜ 

god is dead and the world is a ruination -- at least that’s the sentiment ringing true among its remaining population.  fool for them, to believe god existed in the first place.  hell on earth, some people called it; the apocalypse.  andrew just saw it as another speed bump in his menial, eternal existence.  an existence whose years seemed to always extend beyond those he’d grown familiar with.  all of these people, hanging on for the rapture, expecting god to save them when he had never shown up before.  probably why all of those people were buried six feet under, or walking dead.

trust ken to find a guitar among the carnage and bloodshed.  trust him to interrupt the deathly silence loaded like a gun, trigger spring a mere hair's breadth away from setting off.  andrew doesn’t sigh -- doesn’t do much of anything, other than trail the bloody bludgeon of his shotgun hilt along the hallway wall.  the sound must alert ken of his presence, because he doesn’t bother looking up or pausing.  andrew brings the gun up, the blank expression on his face a startling contrast to murder-scene around them.  ken speaks, of course.  always has to say something theatrical in the moments of quiet, as if poetry spilled from his throat as some kind of poor attempt to bring a resurgence of beauty into a decaying world.

     ‘ bang. ’     -- is his only response, pretending to shoot his companion square between the eyes.  mercy is funny like that.  his deadpan is perfectly in place.     ‘ if you’re done having a moment, johnny cash. up. ’

[pipesbomb-blog]

J O S T E N .

he’s getting use to this honesty thing.   it felt as strange on him as new clothing did,   something he had only recently    owned with his memory reaching back to the first time andrew had lunged him into the mall with kevin and nicky.   not that he had expected to hear it back;   what was he,   in love?   yeah,   actually;   but he wasn’t stupid,   and had long since learned that affections bled through actions,   not words.   his mother was a starter pack for it;   no matter how much she had cussed at him,   beat paranoia into it,   her primary instinct had always been to protect him.   he got enough of that from andrew the past two years to know it was tangible and real.        ❛❛       almost a week.        ❜❜      is that really the problem?   he huffs out a puff of smoke,    stubbornly stuffing away another yawn before his body lethargically melts against the rooftop’s wall,   sliding down until he was sat pathetically in the night sky.       ❛❛       safe.       ❜❜       it’s funny how a single word had so much coded into it,    everything from i’m not scared to it’s tolerable and of course,   anything is safer than kevin day.    uncomfortably,   he shifts.      ❛❛       i can’t get use to him.    he’s noisy.    and wakes me up.       ❜❜     that was binary code for he’s not you.     the cigarette catches against his thumb and he drops it with a hiss,   kicking its remains away by the heel before he’s stacking himself back up against the wall again.    it was 3 am.   andrew needed sleep,    and probably didn’t have the kind of time neil wanted him to have.   he would have training,   and games,   and what other nonsense he couldn’t imagine for his own future just yet.      a fire started in his chest,    and the heat reached up all the way around his neck in a chokehold.

❛❛       just wanted to hear your voice.     go to sleep.       ❜❜     with a click,    the cell’s screen goes dark.   dropping the tech onto his lap,    he brings his hands up again to rub all over his face and prod the bits of sleep that had managed to exhaust him.    for a minute he wondered if he could get away with snoozing off just there,    but,    with irritated effort,   pulled himself to his feet before hauling off to bed.

fucking theatrical, this one;  the line goes dead with all of the abruptness of a downed service tower in the midst of a natural disaster.  andrew rolls his eyes, a common motion when one deals daily with the living stage drama that is neil josten.  his sleek, black flip phone greets the granite benchtop before he downs his drink in one fell swoop.  seems to be drinking less these days -- a strange, foreign thought if he lingers on it for too long.  bee would call it progress.  andrew calls it substitution; a bottle of bourbon for a braindead boyfriend.  a distraction is still a distraction.

glass now resting empty, andrew digs around in his back pocket for a pack of cigarettes, picking up his phone again on the way towards the fire escape.  if you think he’s tired, neil, think again.  the only thing he’s tired of is your own stupidity.

lighting up a drag, andrew inhales a sharp breath of acrid smoke as he watches over the busy streets below.

you have (2) new sms!

[ MESSAGE FROM A. MINYARD @ 3:03 ]: generally people don’t hang up on someone when they want to hear their voice. [ MESSAGE FROM A. MINYARD @ 3:04 ]: don’t know why i’m surprised. you’ve never shown any particular aptitude for intelligent thought in the past. why start now?

[pipesbomb-blog]

you love him, don’t you? him and his pale, long fingers tangled in your hair, running down your spine. him and his cold lips against your neck, your jaw, your chin. and in these empty church halls, with him, religion shifts and turns and blurs. his mouth is your confessional, and you sin, you sin, you sin.

the devil never seemed so holy  (via holtbekah)

[pipesbomb-blog]

by Not Vntina

[pipesbomb-blog]

J O S T E N .

❛❛      i have to ask?      ❜❜    it’s more or less a tease,   finding himself in a scoff at even the inclination that he wouldn’t have cared to know otherwise.    the entire change had been disorienting enough,   and more often than not he found himself wondering if andrew was as uncomfortable with it as he was  -  if he wanted the comfort of their home back as much as he did,   or find something new,   something close,    home.    through the phone,   he hears the demanding sounds of the cat.   it mirrored whatever noise had popped up in his chest.        ❛❛      just to visit it,    huh.   maybe i will.       ❜❜    belatedly,   he’s reminded he very well could;   thank fuck,   kevin day wasn’t around anymore to nag him over every little thing,   or scream at him in the mornings if he ever missed out on training.   it felt too much like the jokes nicky would made about graduating from university and still waking up in cold sweat over the panic of a possibly missed assignment.    he had a similar trauma,   except it revolved around the probability of the former national champion frightening him up from his sleep.   he was gone,   though,   and neil couldn’t stop the small bursts of relief and excitement he felt in his hands and heart.       ❛❛      i keep forgetting he’s gone.   suddenly everything feels possible.      ❜❜     he almost smiles,   another stretch of intake of nicotine before he’s blowing the smoke out and away.    carefully,   he leans up on his toes and stares down the roof,   thinking back to the many nights he’d spent here with andrew,   whether in glee or confusion.     and as you’ve said,    you want nothing.     

really,   he should be use to change by now.    his whole life had been a cocktail of random cities,   different homes and new identities.   the seniors had left and the monsters had broken apart.     to him,   it was the many ordinary transformations of perhaps any sports team in existence.    even the ravens had ended.    the trojans,   too.    it had already been a year since jeremy knox had resigned.    almost a year since riko had died.    almost a week since andrew had left.   and yet.        ❛❛       i miss you.       ❜❜     he brings his hands up,    rubbing his knuckles into his eye.    a yawn finally comes out,    too.  

honesty sounds as bad on neil as it looks, those three words striking a raw nerve ending andrew isn’t willing to bandage.  but these days, ignoring the sentimentality of his boyfriend is growing more and more difficult.  the concept is terrifying, yet andrew finds he no longer wants to push neil away.  funny, how things work out -- takes six hour's worth of distance to put things into perspective -- to make him crave.  it scares him more than the rooftop, more than hanging over the edge.  at least then, he could take a step backward; survive.  but then there’s neil.  and wanting neil feels an awful lot like jumping without a safety net.

bury that thought.

    ❛ dramatic. it’s been five days. ❜     deadpanned like the dead thing he is, andrew listens to the softened puff of breath as neil yawns.  he craves, craves, craves.  does he have bedhead again?  is he wearing his stupid, old running pants that hang loose on his hips?  are his eyes bruised?     ❛ sounds like your problem. ❜

there’s a rustle and a thump in the background, the other stupid cat attacking andrew’s shoes by the doorway.  he sighs theatrically, longing for a moment of peace.  doubtful he’ll get it any time soon.  between training, impromptu visits from teammates, idiot cats, and an idiot boyfriend -- it seems his life has truly taken a turn for the worst.  andrew removes the other cat from his lap before standing up, one arm stretching high above his head as he hums.  it’s late.  it’s dark.  he pours himself a half-glass of whiskey.

    ❛ shit roommate, then. you safe? ❜

[pipesbomb-blog]

If someone points at your black clothes and asks you whose funeral is it, a look around the room and a casual “haven’t decided yet” is always a good response.

[pipesbomb-blog]

J O S T E N .

flick a cigarette a metre and a half and it’ll always hit a bomb.   though his bomb seems intent on staying away,   not that neil could blame him.   with graduation and moving for a state team,    andrew being a grade ahead of him,    he’d come to see the inevitable demolition of their once-apparent house.    weeks later and the thought of it still stung him,   how empty the walls had looked and how awfully spacious the bedroom felt.    moving into the fox tower meant having to readjust to the uncertain company of a room mate,     not that he expected anyone to match matt’s patience or andrew’s familiarity.   maybe it had all happened too fast and the frustration of it made it difficult to even smoke,   cellphone pressed to his ear and balanced on his shoulder,   hands trying to hold the lit cigarette without shaking to the point of dropping it.   the cold wind out on the roof top wasn’t friendly.    it bit his skin,    made him shudder,    with shitty sleep,    his voice came out groggy.       ❛❛      let’s leave that for betsy to diagnose.      ❜❜

the little chiding he got didn’t hurt as much as the bruises over his skin did.   in fact,   he took it with a little more grace than any other interaction he’d had this week,   including any back and forth with wymack.   there was a certain calm that came with it,   made his eyes close a bit too easily,   and for a minute simply hearing andrew’s mockery was more soothing than the nicotine he’d inhaled.    

❛❛        i know.   i know.   it’s just   -        ❜❜     flicking the end of the cigarette,   he watches its remains crumble down towards the asphalt some 10 stories below.   a car strolled by.   a pawnshop 2 stores to the left lost its lights.   passing the gates of the fox tower,   a group of drunk friends passed with shouts.   distraught,   he sighs into the phone,   switching it to his other ear with his voice a little bit quieter than it had been a few seconds before.        ❛❛        i’ll be fine.    coach can handle it.    what about you?   you didn’t tell me about your team.        ❜❜

the palpability of neil’s melancholy is both frustrating and heavy in its suddenness.  andrew chalks his own discomfort down to the new arrival of one of neil’s beloved cats seated atop his lap, rather than the acknowledging the truth.  seems neil really has rubbed off on him, with lying by omission a new readily-used skill added to his repertoire; the distance spanning between them both a gift and a curse.  betsy would have a few choice words to shoot in andrew’s direction right about nowl -- words he’d loathe to hear, and deny through bloodied lips to the grave.

neil was and always would be nothing.  but that wasn’t necessarily true anymore, was it?

     ❛ you didn’t ask. ❜     he plays hooky with houdini, missing the way cigarettes tasted after they’d spent a minute hanging from neil’s mouth.  never mind the smoke, number ten didn’t need it to make andrew feel grey.  the unspoken words hang heavily between them.  it makes him want to reach through the phone and wring neil’s neck for daring dial his number in the first place.  you can’t miss someone unless you choose to think about them, after all.      ❛ your cat is being insufferable again. you should visit it soon. it keeps trying to destroy my jeans. ❜

sounds an awful lot like ‘i miss you, come over’, doesn’t it?  andrew swallows the acidic aftertaste threatening to spill over, the burn numbing his throat like cheap whiskey better served as lighter fluid.  his voice drops.  seems neil’s despair is contagious.  not that he’d ever admit to feeling something as base-level as longing.

     ❛ team sucks. at least kevin’s fucked off to new york to shove his obsession down some other poor bastard’s throat. ❜

i miss you.

[pipesbomb-blog]

→   HOW YOUR MUSE LOVES.

based on the colour wheel theory of love .     repost ,   don’t reblog . bold the traits of each type that are most relevant to your muse .

all of these types of love are valid , with both benefits and pitfalls .     people exhibit them in different ways with different people ,   but tend to follow trends .     everyone experiences more than one .

primary  love .

eros     →     romantic  love .     (  sensuality ,   intensity ,   passion  )

feels strong physical and emotional connection through the relationship  |   begins with a partner who is a stranger and evokes immediate excitement   |   may be exclusive but not possessive   |   seeks early sexual adventure ,   variety ,   and technique   |   is ready for love and the risks.

ludus     →     competitive  love .  (  teasing ,   attention ,   fun before commitment  )

is not ready to commit to anyone   |   has no intention of falling in love   |   is anxious about a partner who is too intimate |   allows early sexual activity only for fun ,   without emotional connections.

storge     →     familial  love .     (  loyalty ,   siblings and friends ,   commitment  )

is not looking for love but is ready if encountered   | is quietly possessive but not overly jealous |   believes love comes from friendship but not a goal of life   |   only has sexual desires after commitment is declared.

secondary  love .

mania     →     obsessive  love .     (  obsessions ,   possessiveness ,   jealousy    —    ludus – eros  )

is anxious about falling in love and has expectations of pain   |   quickly becomes overwhelmed by thoughts of their partner   |   forces partner into showing affection and emotion   |   is easily frustrated and does not enjoy sexual intimacy   |   is very possessive and jealous.

agape     →     altruistic  love .     (  unbreakable ,   forgiveness ,   wholistic    —    eros – storge  )

is attracted to several types of people  |   meets people easily so most likely will begin with a stranger   |   feels concern and care for each partner they have   |   is neither jealous nor obsessive  |   enjoys sex and is willing to improve it.

pragma     →     practical  love .     (  rationality ,   realism ,   collaboration    —    storge – ludus  )

is certain of their preferable  “ types ” |   begins a relationship with an already familiar person  |   believes a loving relationship is desirable for a happy life   |   expects reciprocation with feelings  |   believes sexual compatibility can be worked out.

tagged  by :     @sunbruise  ♥ tagging :       you !

[pipesbomb-blog]

flick a cigarette a metre and it’ll always hit a runaway.  though his runaway seems intent on staying in one place, these days.  fool for andrew, he’d mistakenly believed neil josten’s home was the foxhole court.  the process of graduation -- of pro-leagues while a certain blue-eyed conundrum stayed put elsewhere -- certainly proved him otherwise.  it had only been five days since they’d last seen one another, since the forced move back into fox tower at the start of a new semester leaving andrew’s apartment stripped empty and outlandish.  five days to hear it on the grapevine that neil had instigated several pissing contests with the new freshmen line-up hopefuls.

typical neil.

    ❛ i’m beginning to think your death wish is a full-blown psychosis. ❜     the incessant prattling of his humourless boyfriend on the other end of the line wears him thin and thinner, phone switching ears as if it could even out the nerve damage neil’s voice gave him.      ❛ making new enemies already? really neil, i thought we were above this now that you’ve graduated to the upperclassmen leagues. ❜

sarcasm drips from his voice.  andrew knows better than to think his nuisance has grown.

    ❛ i can’t have your back from here. stop it. ❜

@pipesdream

[pipesbomb-blog]

V A R E C K .

❝      EASY  DOES  IT .      I’M  GETTING  THERE .       ❞     gods  know  he  means  it ,    with  how  his  lips  twist  down  into  a  snarl  and  the  liquid  gold  of  his  eye  near  illuminates  itself  with  a  sharp  streak  of  ambition .     perhaps  it  was  easy  to  collide  his  image  with  death ,     when  the  sun  itself  never  mirrored  the  underworld .    but  he  walked  step  by  step  with  it  every  day ,     dauntlessly ,     whether  it  was  when  he  held  a  scythe  in  his  hand  or  when  his  poisonous  touch  spoke  in  black  plagues  and  fever  dreams .         ❝      very  little  has  stopped  me ,    if  i’m  sloppy .     oh ,    and  i  will  handle  you ,    in  the  meantime .      ❞      his  hand  lifts ,    tentatively  pressed  to  his  jaw  before  it  drops  down  to  his  side .     here ,     he  turns  lethargically  and  swiftly  all  at  once  as  if  the  pain  had  been  dismissed  by  will     :     as  if  he  were  pondering ,   now ,      whether  to  bask  in  the  sun  again  or  to  go  start  a  war  in  his  leisure  time .        ❝      don’t  look  to  me  for  second  hits .     yet .     we’re  going  to  eden .       ❞      

his  stare  lifts ,     if  only  for  a  minute  where  his  eyes   shimmer  with  a  fire  more  chaotic .      there’s  no  care  to  wait ,    when  the  hits  from  mere  seconds  before  remain  fresh  and  alive .    the  oh  so  celebratory  mark ,     but  it’s  jest  rather  than  anything  material .    onlookers  would  never  suspect .     andrew ,     his  manic  grin ,     dust  and  nothing  before  behind  them .    additionally ,    he  would  find  the  space  he  needed  away  from  camp ,    to  watch  as  the  hierarchies  of  power  he  had  just  undone  for  himself  crumbled  down  at  his  feet . 

it’s always a funny disconnect when the tabby cat thinks itself a lion.  all these demands made -- as if ken has the capacity to handle this heart-attack of a human being -- as if andrew were a mere child at the ready to be disciplined.  funny, funny.  the word is a singsong in his mind as he saunters, though it would be a mistake to dismiss his fixed grin as a show of willing compliance.  ken always seemed so fixed on warfare, as though fixing an unfair fight would fix friction;  as if words meant shit to someone who’d heard nothing but lies.  andrew watches him shimmer and gleam, behaving like the promotion fit his too-tight shoulders and his coil-wound glare.

it didn’t.  doesn’t.  won’t.

     ❛ oh, are we now? ❜     his own shoulders are lax and loose, a forced habit intended to act a lure to those who dared think him unprepared to slip a knife in that delicate space between rib four and five.  andrew prowls now, the familiar weight of a blade sliding into clever fingers, twirled without a glance down.  his head tilts, curiously, considering.      ❛ and whatever gave you that impression, hmm? was it something i said? ❜

the gleam of his blade matches his eyes.

     ❛ ken, ken, ken. don’t think you can control me -- or bid me to do your will. it will not bode well. ❜