Starter Call! Specify Muse Or Else You Wont Get Anything.

starter call! specify muse or else you won’t get anything.

i’m in a shippy mood tonight so like this and i’ll im you about shipping our muses. please try to have some idea of who you want to ship with before i approach you.

Anything could be deadly in the right hands. A marriage. A career. Court documents. A relationship. Art had too much experience with people using him to take anything at face value. “Just be careful.” He glanced at the radio. MJ had turned it off when Patrick’s name had come through the static, but Art had the morbid urge to turn it back on and see what they were saying. “You won’t know it’s too late until it is.” He had too much experience with that, too. He was too stupid to see what was going on and he’d paid the price for it. He didn’t want MJ falling victim to that.

˖ ⭑₊˚ He focused on the oil on his fingers, on working the rag over them methodically, smearing black grease as it pulled away from his skin. His mouth flickered up in a small smile and he searched out Art's eyes. The small of his back was pressed into the countertop where all of his tools were laying out, but he had finished up on the car for the day nearly a half hour ago. He had turned the radio off a little while before that, when it had turned to celebrity news, and now it was just them. Maybe he didn't know everything, but he knew that whatever made Art go pale and tense when they heard his old partner's name was bad. He replied after a minute, as careful with his words like he usually was, ' you make a modelling contract sound like it could be deadly. '

— @notefinal : ‘  don’t  let  what  they  want  eclipse  what  you  need .  ’

Tashi hated parties like these. She always had. She knew they were necessary, but she hated them all the same. She watched with mild interest as Carnegie picked the lock and smiled as the bottle was held out. She grabbed it from Carnegie’s hand and tugged the top off, taking a drink straight from the bottle and setting it on the edge of the desk. “Now I’m ready.” She said it with a sharp smile and her fingers still wrapped around the neck of the bottle. “What do you want to know?” She didn’t quite know why she was entertaining a ballerina’s questions about her life, but she had nothing better to do.

˖ ⭑₊˚ Light eyes narrowed and she stared at Tashi Duncan for a long moment before humming. Carnegie crouched in her thousand dollar dress, tugging on cupboard doors shamelessly, until she found a locked one ; that would be where the good stuff was stored, not just the champagne on little trays being served by waiters out there where the party supposedly was. In her opinion, there was little to prove that was really the case. The real party was wherever she decided, and tonight, that was with Tashi in some the office investment guy with shares in athletic wear. A wave of blonde fell in front of her face as she pulled a bobby pin from her hair and unlocked the little door. With an elegant turn, the ballerina held out a single barrel whiskey, ' I believe I have come to your rescue. '

— @notefinal : ‘  i  need  more  liquor ,  i’m  not  ready .  ’

you should add these three on wire (and add me on discord: haunt.humans)

Patrick didn’t know what was wrong with his car. He didn’t really care, either. He just wanted to get under MJ’s skin. He didn’t know how he’d found out Art frequented the garage, but he had, and so he’d decided to pay the mechanic a visit. He wasn’t much. Patrick had no idea what Art saw in him. Then again, Patrick had no idea what Art saw in anyone that wasn’t Patrick. They couldn’t take care of Art like he could. They didn’t know how to. Art had been with Patrick for fourteen years. He was the only one that knew Art the way Art wanted to be known. And they both knew it.

“Great.” He had to force himself back to the conversation. “How much? And how long is it going to take? I’ve got a tournament in Chicago in three days.” A lie, but MJ didn’t know that. “And I’m serious. Be careful around Art. I doubt you want to get hurt.”

˖ ⭑₊˚ For no more than a second, Micah was struck by images of bashing the oily wrench clutched in his hand against the other man's head until he stopped moving. He imagined red staining concrete floors and sticky on his palms. He imagined fixing a problem for his friend and not caring how much time he'd serve for it. And then his shoulders dropped ; his best impression of relaxed. He had to fix the car. That was what was important – fixing the hunk of metal that Patrick Zweig had pulled up to the garage in – because as soon as it was done then the other would leave. MJ could stop being so worried and angry when he left. His eyebrows rose and he turned away from the engine he was staring fixedly at to look at the other, ' I'm just here to fix your car, Mister Zweig. It's probably your cylinders. '

— @notefinal : ‘  it’s  not  true …  it’s  not  true .  he  takes  the  truth  but  he  twists  it  and  changes  it  to  fit  his  own  story .  ’