skinleft

[skinleft]

          “as far as i know? yeah.”      there’s some chance his father was something else. god knows. the shedding had come as a surprise to his mother, though, so dylan’s only choice was that he was a human freak and not truly part serpent. the explanation behind his odd condition would have been welcome even if it meant being something other than wholly human. the not knowing why might be the worst part of it all.           “what??? it’s not...anything especially interesting. you can if you want, i guess.”      there’s no hiding it from this guy now. now that the skin has been seen as just that and not some weird early halloween costume or prank of some sort. might as well let him watch the gap in dylan’s arm be carefully replaced with art.

     he ought to just throw the skin out or something, not bring it with him into the car. but to leave a ribbon of human flesh just on the street is practically begging for shrieks, dna tests, god knows what else. it’s better to just be careful about disposing of discarded cells. one canvas hand is gently brushed against his jeans as he opens the car door and slides in, careful not to get blood on anything. 

          ‘All the way?’

     kavinsky speaks with doubt, but doubt from experience. might be this guy’s a dream. might be he’s someone’s frankenstein. kavinsky wonders how human all that shit like magic really is. course, this guy’s just as likely a freak with a skin disorder, too. he waves a couple of fingers at his everything. 

          ‘Nice. Hop in.           I’m gonna watch you patch this shit up.’

     his tone doesn’t really leave room for argument. he’s already crossing around to his own door.

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     blink. he lets the stranger touch the shed skin without pulling hand back or away. it isn’t like dylan can feel it anymore. it’s the question, though, that has him drawing away slightly. what are you? it’s something that is nearly never uttered to his face and having it spoken straight has head reeling.           “human.”      dylan bites in response. it must be obvious how the words hit by the way shoulders hunch slightly under flimsy hoodie and tee shirt, how feet shuffle inside cheap tennis shoes. his pale gaze drifts to the car and he mulls over it. if he keeps walking around with a strip of skin in his grasp others will surely question it. if he gets in the car with this guy he’s subjected to questions with nowhere to escape.           “...carefully. with practice. uh, sure? the hotel i’m staying at is a few blocks away.”

     there’s a possibility that this is one of the coolest things kavinsky has ever seen that hasn’t come out of one of his DREAMS. he’s no sense of personal space or respect, so he pushes off the hood of his car, reaches to pinch at the disgusting slip of skin in the guy’s hands. he murmurs gross! with that same NASTY grin, then wipes his fingers on his jeans.

          ‘What are you?’

     beat.

          ‘How d’you fix that? Need a ride?’

     he jerks a thumb at his mitsu.

[skinleft]

               when you run from your conquerors and find no mercy anywhere, only veiled eyes, turned heads and snickering ; when servants, children, and strangers on the street spit at you and call you a WHORE, then, then oh, i hope you think of me.                               independent helen of sparta troy

[skinleft]

         { sᴋɪɴɴᴇᴅ } :: (( literally )) nothing is done here, but! helen!

[skinleft]

     how does one imply that shedding skin is normal in his everyday life? not a day passes without some small part of himself falling. yesterday it was the small patch that was left of his right knee and now this. fingers shift on slippery material held between canvas fingers and dylan searches his mind for some sort of reasonable explanation. after living his whole life with this you would think it would become easier to bull-shit his way out of.           “bit of an accident.”      it could have been so much better, and he knows it. knows that that begs the question what accident and then that needs a response more dangerous than ‘out of control dog-walker’.           “it’s alright, though. just...going to go take care of it.”

   holy shit. he leans forward, mouth curved in a GRIN settled between the place of disgusted and fascinated. he flicks the butt of a smoke away, heedless of where it lands. his back end is parked firmly on the hood of his mitsubishi, one heel propped up on the bumper, and he pushes off with leisurely hum to approach this - GROSS LITTLE PICTURE in front of him.

       ‘What the fuck happened to you, huh?’

[skinleft]

          { sᴋɪɴɴᴇᴅ } :: okay but helen of sparta !!!!

[skinleft]

bold any fears which apply to your muse. italicize what makes them uncomfortable.

the dark. fire. open water. deep water. being alone. crowded spaces. confined spaces. change. failure. war. loss of control. powerlessness. prison. blood. drowning. suffocation. public speaking. natural animals. the supernatural. heights. death, dying. intimacy. rejection. abandonment. the unknown. the future. not being good enough. scary stories. speaking to new people. poverty. loud noises. being touched.

[skinleft]

          `  didn’t say it was GOOD. just said it was the best part. best part doesn’t necessarily equate to good. kinda like how the best part of a slasher movie is the KILLING.  `

          “interesting comparison. i didn’t realize slasher movies had any redeeming qualities.”

[skinleft]

      `  touche, sir. touche. that’s the best part about rumours. you never know what’s TRUE.  `

          “wouldn’t necessarily call that a good thing.”

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         `  WHO KNOWS, though? could be true. wouldn’t really be surprised. guy is fuckin’ WEIRD.  `

          “lots of things could be true, though. who knows. it could not be true.”

[skinleft]

                  @skinleft liked !!

      `  nobody knows his real name, they think he uses what he saw on a GRAVE.  `

          “sounds like the setup for every urban legend ever told.”

[skinleft]

                    had you not dared think yourself a HUMAN CREATURE instead of an engine of MUSCLE and BONE.

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     pale gaze catches on a familiar red smeared across ground and walls in the photographs dropped and scattered against grey cement. far be it from him, with gouges in his face and fingers made of paint, to ask questions. they didn’t appear to be recreational pictures. nothing some murderer would take to document their kills. so long as they remain somewhat innocuous ( as innocuous as images of dead bodies can be ), dylan doesn’t plan to pry. perhaps this is some horror buff or...something.           “thanks. uh...this yours?”      the paint is accepted with a half-smile that pulls long marks across his face in an somewhat uncomfortable fashion as one hand offers one of the photographs out to the stranger. don’t ask questions. don’t ask questions.           “kind of an odd thing to be carrying around, though?”      it isn’t quite a question. he honestly isn’t expecting any sort of response beyond a nervous chuckle or a nod of the head as he continues to move paint and brushes back to their container with care. the paints may be the most expensive thing he’s bought in a while, beside pre-made art for his ever-growing museum of moving canvas.

      stiles really should pay attention, seeing how his running into people in the past has gotten him squeezed into lockers or thrown into a dumpster. but there’s a couple old case files tucked under an arm and he’s typing away at his phone with both hands, and thus — not paying attention.

      and he shouldn’t even have these files, seeing as their contents are bloody photographs of dismembered bodies and uncompleted reports on how and why these people died. those photos and unfinished files are now scattered across the sidewalk.

              ❝ no— no, it’s my fault. ❞

      he kneels, fingers locking around a tube of paint and holding that out. stiles sincerely hopes this guy doesn’t think it’s strange he’s got what are clearly police files. ( his dad is going to kill him if he finds out. )

[skinleft]

don’t you dare turn my guitar into a social justice issue.

          “is ‘i can’t play guitar because the strings are too harsh’ really a social justice issue? ‘cause i didn’t realize that was a social justice thing.”

[skinleft]

❛ did you just put half and half in microwavable potatoes? ( okay but are you surprised )

          “it’s basically the same thing as milk, isn’t it? and cheaper in the little cartons.”

[skinleft]

shit said in johnson room 314: sentence meme edition

❛  is wake me up inside by evanescence a sexual metaphor? ❛  sometimes you just need to sleep in your day clothes. ❛  you know it’s not your high school when they give you condoms at the door. ❛  it’s like when you turn the shower off, but the water keeps going. ❛  shhhh! the window’s open. ❛  can you whistle without vocal chords? ❛  you can whistle with grass and it doesn’t have vocal chords. ❛  that’s a squishy cheese. ❛  well technically, EVERYONE’S hair is colored. ❛  i’m sorry, i hate pasta. ❛  we could have another lincoln as president!! ❛  it looks like what buttered popcorn jellybeans would look like if they were actual food. ❛  yeah, so it looks like ______ lost a tentacle. ❛  oh my god who put harpoons on the floor. ❛  they were soggy! ❛  we are NOT watching avatar. they have sex with weird tail things. ❛  i forgot about the sex tail! ❛  are you proud of me? i just ate 240 individual smarties! ❛  how many calories is a person? ❛  i’ve seen so many babies this week. ❛  wow, isn’t this silence super nice? it’s almost like we’re never not talking. ❛  were those bikers in cosplay? ❛  i’ve had the ‘we just got a letter’ song from blues clues stuck in my head all day. ❛  i didn’t know it was possible to have a sexual experience while bagging food. ❛  put things on a board that make sounds and then touch them! it’ll be like you’re in a band! ❛  and also make it a maraca. ❛  did you just put half and half in microwavable potatoes? ❛  don’t judge me, i know what i’m about! ❛  college debt is the boogieman of american millennials. ❛  it’s ____’s fault. fuck ____. ❛  that was NOT a knock. ❛  it was my personal knock. so you know it’s me and not your roommates. ❛  my roommates usually just open the door. since it’s, you know, their room. ❛  what am i ever going to use a welcoming pineapple for? ❛  why are pineapples considered welcoming? they have spines on them. ❛  you could kill someone with a pineapple. ❛  don’t you dare turn my guitar into a social justice issue. ❛  yeah? well my headband’s louder than yours. ❛  i fucking hate art kids. ❛  you can’t hate art kids, you are one. ❛  the mystery shower girl has listened to both country and rap. the two worst musical genres. ❛  dude, there’s a UK version of the mail song from blues clues. ❛ who the fuck says ‘post.’ are they too good for mail? ❛  just write ‘fuck ___’ in puffy paint.

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     he’s already a frakenstein. a man stitched up by other people, others work his flesh, their memories sewn between his skin. why not be a monster of his own creation? thus the loose canvas under one arm and a small box of paints under the other. if the skin he was born with will betray him maybe he ought to create a new one himself.      not that he’s ever painted before. back when fingers were still flesh-covered they were too delicate to handle a brush without scraping finger-tips off in the process. now that those are gone there’s nothing to stop him from trying. except managing to lose his grip on the small box of brushes and having them scatter before him.           “shit. sorry.”      it’s addressed to whoever might be held up by his suddenly crouching. thin brushes are carefully picked up by sky-colored fingers (( pale blue scattered with white and grey clouds, fading from robin’s egg tips to green grass palms )) in an effort to keep all of them, and his own body, in good condition.

@fireflysmile