#deceivesthem

CURIOSITY can be described for the glimmering in cognac colored eyes that crinkled from a WHIMSICAL smile. It appeared on a nearby crate -- legs spread to accommodate where it sat, elbows propped upon its knees, and fingers ( itching, yearning ) interlocking together in a casual manner. It didn't give much effort -- if there was any at all -- to even bother feigning ignorance. "Doing all that nonsense, and you're here wondering how I'm able to find you," it tittered, leaning forward with its PIERCING GAZE set on the other.

Food was good. It was fuel. It ran the body. It ran the mind. Food was good. Terry ate with gusto, cleaning his plate so fast there was hardly room to breathe between bites. It wasn't until he'd nearly finished that he'd realized he should perhaps leave some for the man who had actually purchased the food.

Aiden would surely scold him for being so rude mannered when he came back from... Wherever it was he'd gone. But that was fine. Aiden was only trying to be a good brother and teach him good manners. Aiden...

Thoughts clouded for a moment with worried thoughts over where Aiden was and when he was coming back, he nearly misses what Oliver was saying. Oliver. What a funny coincidence. Aiden also had a friend named Oliver.

Maybe he should have felt more uneasy but he didn't. Instead it was pure concern that filled him as he regarded the man before him. There was a look of something written on the other's face, something lost, distant even. Rand was unsure what to do and so he took a single step back, hands coming up to rest on his hips somewhat thoughtfully.

Pippa looked up from her guitar to meet Oliver's gaze. He was much more ' twitchy ' than usual. Her eyes found their way up to the clock on the wall, and she let out a soft sigh.

"We have another twenty minutes," she said.

This was her fifth time playing music for him. He'd been one of four people to respond to an online ad she'd posted:

Musician looking for an excuse to practice: For a small fee, I'll play music for you if you're feeling lonely. In person or virtual possible. I can play guitar, piano, brass, upright bass and bass guitar and most percussion. Discreet, no questions asked, minimal verification.

It had been a year and twenty-eight days since she'd completely destroyed her hand falling down the subway stairs. This little 'gig' of hers was a good way to force herself to play. She couldn't bear the thought of performing professionally again with her dulled skill, but playing for people who needed company felt a little less serious. In a way.

Pippa picked at the bottom three strings with her slightly trembling hand.

"We can stop if you want. But I'm just fine," she paused, somewhat regretting her phrasing. She swallowed, smiled, and tried again.

"What I meant is, I'm enjoying this. But this is for you, too. I'm here because I want to be. If you'd rather I go, then tell me. Otherwise I'm going to keep playing."

Why does she always meet the pitiful ones. She's starting to think she attracts them. Has she not been cruel enough? Has she not been sinister enough? It's this face. She curses her double in that regard and yet she is unmoved.

"Jeez. You're not going to get any stronger mopping around." She chuckles, her smile fades and lets out a huff. "Fine." She takes a seat and crosses her leg over the other. "I'm here. Speak your mind or whatever makes you feel better. Hell. Shout to the damned heavens if you want."

*      ―    ﴾  𝙼𝙴𝙼𝙴 ﴿ // still accepting ( @deceivesthem )

   “You’re working on a book?” Craig asked.  That was certainly one reason to come to Shitville, USA, probably one of the more respectable ones.  He had heard about authors living in weird little towns and having remote cabins that they worked in to get away from distractions and that kind of thing.  That part of the job made it sound nice enough that Craig almost wanted to try it out for himself.  However, he wasn’t exactly the best at coming up with fiction.  He was much more of technical person and tended to stay away from whimsical fuckery like that.

   Craig rolled his eyes.  “Must be a pretty messed up book for you to pick here of all places.”  Most of the town’s children and teenagers were covered in a litany of scars, including him, with the left side of his face clearly having had shards of glass raked across it.  Car accident was  what he told people.  Stan had gotten shot, Butters had had an eye taken out, something was almost always going on with Kenny.  But Craig didn’t know how much Oliver had looked around town yet, so how much of that information he was actually privy to—debatable.

₊🎞️❜ |[ @deceivesthem said ]|   :

this isn't what i pictured.

"Awesome. Thank you for sharin' your valuable input." Adam responds, deadpanned. He'd ask him what he did picture, but then they'd be spending the evening talking about unrealized expectations and the oh-so-agonizing shock that is the view of Adam's crummy shit-hole of an apartment. So, instead, he angles his head inwards, signaling for Oliver to enter.

"Your pictures are ready. It's all a matter of payment now, so..." he extends a palm his way. "Cough it up."