#(queued).

The stitches along her wrist pull uncomfortably as she reaches for a flower that's growing between pieces of cracked stone.

It's not exactly what one would call the prettiest part of any bouquet as it's half wilted and its stem is bent, hanging it's bloom at an awkward angle. Still, Sally looks to it with a soft and gentle smile.

With a modicum of difficulty, she kneels into the dirt, parting and pulling at the weeds at the very base of the weathered plant.

❛ You are trying very hard, aren't you? ❜ She doesn't expect the plant to speak in turn but it does not change the softness of her voice or her small action to better it's surrounding area. Her fingers toss the final bits of weeds away and she hums, pleased. That expression soon changes as she starts, looking around curiously.

The rag doll had the certain and distinct feeling that she was no longer alone.

hello GH! i'm birdie and i'm here to offer you my Problems Cat.

like or reply (with your preferred contact method, perhaps?) and i will message you about getting some interactions going with our muses!

CORAL : a manga focused psd 

@snakereign said to morfin gaunt,  ❛ you don’t know what i’m capable of. ❜  ✦

MORFIN grimaced at his nephew — his beady eyes holding nothing less than malicious intent. he spat loudly onto the damp, rotting floorboards of the gaunt shack  — the wet glob sank into a small pile of black soot. his yellow teeth were broken and sticky  — decayed from years of spouting foul curses and muttering in a wicked tongue. the boy was that muggle’s double  — right down to the smug look on his handsome face. morfin wasn’t totally unconvinced it wasn’t him  — which only served to anger him further.

something of beholding within jon acts as a radar for these things,      for fear,      ever-present and unblinking in his mind      :      something approaches,      deathtouched and unburnt,      and the outline of it in his mind feels oh-so-familiar even as it scratches at the edge of his vision,      figure making themself known against the eye-scattered sky.      that horrible sky does not flinch,      but jon doubletakes.      

jon thinks      :      a shaking hand,      a burnt page.      jon thinks      :      you were gone.      i did as you asked.      ashes scattered in a park near the institute in a poor semblance of a funeral rite,      the realization coming too late that he had not thought to ask gerard what to do with them      &      managing the best he could.      and yet      :      familiar shape of the end.

@bookburnt​      :       "you, don’t i know you? Jon, weren’t we friends?"      *

‘      gerry?      ’            jon’s surprise comes as a surprise in itself,      for perhaps nothing should shock him anymore,      in this world gone so horribly wrong.      still      :      his eyes are widened,      a near-forgotten wonder refound.      the name itself answers the question,      he thinks      :      i always wanted my friends to call me gerry.      and nothing more important than connection in this world.      nothing more vital than anchors.      georgie’d told him that,      a year that feels like an eon ago.      something grounding,      something to hold one another to humanity and refuse to let go      —      a small thing against the horrors of this new and fearfilled world,      but something,      and that is not nothing,      in the end.