#inrovina 02.

[gildedlife]

@inrovina.

‘ they’ve decided to send me to the arctic. ’ it’s the first time james has said this aloud, to anyone, though he’s known for a few days and should already have begun making arrangements. it sinks like a stone, though he’s made an effort to deliver it like something to be waved off, moved past quickly.

he slumps farther into the couch next to xeno, pretending to pay attention to what’s on the screen before them. he won’t look at him, fearing he’ll find some weight in his gaze he isn’t prepared to shoulder.

‘ a promotional thing. ’ a photo op. ‘ must’ve forgotten i’ve aged since my last—adventure. ’ this, too, he tries to make sound like it’s less important; like his physical condition matters as little to him as it does to the company shipping him out. ‘ feels a little… rushed, i suppose. ’

[utilgitt]

@inrovina

"i can get you a room, if you need it."

[agunthing]

This is the one night Cal looks forward to all month. Between hauling container after container’s worth of product at the docks and bouncing in this, The Anvil, six nights a week - everyone on staff knows Punk Night is the one night Cal will only attend as a customer. When the Dead Kennedys wind up and make their way for Billy Idol to take over the playlist, to Cal’s great disappointment, he shoves his way out of the dance floor (which, tonight and to no one’s surprise, has turned into more of a moshpit) and out the front door in silent, yet evident protest. A six-foot-seven ginger built like a brick shithouse, his eyeliner running and his shirt (a white tee reading SUCK MY DICK in large, bold sharpie lettering) sticking to his chest with sweat is, in fact, a tad hard to miss.

Leaning his back against the filthy outer brick wall, he wipes the sweat off his face, wipes the eyeliner remnants on the palm of his hand down the front of his torn jeans and fishes for his carton of Lucky Strike as he watches a black-haired kid who does not look a single day over sixteen struggle to light a crooked, crumbling joint. Without prompting, taking a long drag off his freshly-lit cigarette, he tosses his own clipper at the kid and it his him on the shoulder and bounces off to the pavement beside him.

@inrovina surprise! sort of.

[vcyna-blog]

❝ no one will ever want to sleep with you. ❞ @ donovan

   —-  prompt !  *

‘  boo  hoo !!!  ’           he  cries  out  ,  hands  slapping  harshly  against  own  chest  as  he  throws  back  his  head  and  fakes  a  terrible  sound  of  crying.   ‘  palant !   stop  hurting  me !  ’   donovan  breathes  out  and  quiets  down  before  returning  to  his  previous  position :   back  hunched  ,  elbows  on  the  table  ,  hand  on  the  glass  of  wine.   ‘  word  says  you  suck  enough  dick  for  all  of  us.  you  eat  that  much  shit  ,  too ?  ’