06-24-2019, 11:05 AM
[align=center][div style="width: 450px; text-align: justify; font-family: nyala; font-size: 9.2pt; line-height: 12px; color: #000"]As Time fondly brushes against their soft / rough skin, the couple walks over to where the call for volunteers was made, with the lover waving towards Wolfbanes and Abd al-Malik in greeting / the loner staring at the ground in...something. Duality at its finest. “We’ll just take the task, Bane!,†chirps the lover. “You know the lad over here.†A poke to the sore hips. â€ÂI don’t think it’ll be able to control itself when it wants to scare people like it’s Halloween already!â€Â
Through the laughter created from lovely lungs, the loner hisses at them, but its narrowed eyes does not match the irritation it expelled of when affection gleams in them. A pair of lights in the dark, faint, but existing nevertheless. To it, everyone but the lover wears a blurry face. All eyes white, only there are teeth, teeth, teeth. Kill, kill, kill. If it can not find itself willing to drop its knees to anyone of Los Santos, why bother with those who weeps and bleeds just as easily as those here that is dearly dubbed Hell?
Of course, of course, the lover understands its paranoia. Though, they loves and loves and loves, they also come to an awareness that this world bears the mouth of Death: teeth akin to trees, diseases akin to creatures, tongue akin to lands. Ever are they roaming across the gaping jaws, dressed in tender flesh and rich organs for Death to feed upon with empty eyes and decayed heart. They only hopes for love in return, but they understands. Compassion forms between eyelashes for the loner as they watches it glance away from them. Lights out.
The lover tenderly slips the other’s fingers with their own, locking reassurance between warmth and cold. It shakes, but they both do not flinch, unperturbed. The lover faces back to Wolfsbane with a small smile, nodding as they accepts whatever he will have in mind for them. Anything that can bring some sort of comfort to the loner.
Through the laughter created from lovely lungs, the loner hisses at them, but its narrowed eyes does not match the irritation it expelled of when affection gleams in them. A pair of lights in the dark, faint, but existing nevertheless. To it, everyone but the lover wears a blurry face. All eyes white, only there are teeth, teeth, teeth. Kill, kill, kill. If it can not find itself willing to drop its knees to anyone of Los Santos, why bother with those who weeps and bleeds just as easily as those here that is dearly dubbed Hell?
Of course, of course, the lover understands its paranoia. Though, they loves and loves and loves, they also come to an awareness that this world bears the mouth of Death: teeth akin to trees, diseases akin to creatures, tongue akin to lands. Ever are they roaming across the gaping jaws, dressed in tender flesh and rich organs for Death to feed upon with empty eyes and decayed heart. They only hopes for love in return, but they understands. Compassion forms between eyelashes for the loner as they watches it glance away from them. Lights out.
The lover tenderly slips the other’s fingers with their own, locking reassurance between warmth and cold. It shakes, but they both do not flinch, unperturbed. The lover faces back to Wolfsbane with a small smile, nodding as they accepts whatever he will have in mind for them. Anything that can bring some sort of comfort to the loner.