#drusjer

He snorts, gaze now meeting that of the older boy. "I think everyone in the school could tell you. Why are you asking me?"

and she melts, she melts and melts and melts, seeping into him like simple syrup into cake: deliciously, perfectly sweet. she's strawberry-stained at her cheeks, feathery lashes casting shadows against the early morning sun. ( could someone be so perfect ? could a moment be so purely good ? ) he holds her like she means something, like she's worth cradling and kissing and loving. worst of all, he makes her believe it, with every breath, every action, every beat of his lovely heart echoing in her mind.

It's rare that Wylan ventures into the Crow Club. It's too loud, too packed, too everything. There's dozens of overlapping voices: good-natured conversations about winnings, bad natured conversations about who'd lost. A fight could break out at any moment - although Wylan knew that security was too tight, and there was a reputation to uphold. Anyone who looked even close to throwing a punch would be out on the street in three seconds flat, and none of the other patrons would be any the wiser. It was a safe a spot as any in the Barrel, made safer by the fact that Wylan was, apparently, under Dregs' protection. He could stand the noise and bustle for the sake of not being alone, of knowing that his father wouldn't dare come for him in here. So Wylan had found a secluded table in the far corner, and set about his equations for Kaz's latest problem. What he hadn't counted on that someone working quietly in the corner would stand out, simply by virtue of being so thoroughly out of place. The small group of men were amicable enough, belligerent and disappointed by their losses, but harmless enough that security didn't see the need to eject them. They were an unwelcome distraction, though, and Wylan wanted to be left in peace. He felt Fred's presence before he spoke, and the tense set of his shoulders relaxed just slightly. Wylan didn't know Fred, not beyond a few brief conversations in passing, but he was an intimidating figure and the men sat around the table shifted uneasily as they exchanged glances. Wylan sat back, privately enjoying their discomfort, and tipped his head back to look up at Fred. "If you'd like," he agreed easily, as though it didn't matter to him one way or another. It was important not to look weak, like he couldn't handle things himself, but he would very much like it if the men were gone.

         ❛   just because they weren’t happy doesn’t mean what they did wasn’t important.   ❜    his tone is short and terse but perhaps lacking the edge it would have otherwise had.

            ❛   i’m so glad you do.   ❜

       it was as if he was speaking the thoughts she’d never been brave enough to name. the weight of truth that sat heavy in her chest. they were surprisingly similar — for two strangers that had each once attempted to kill the other. heartrenders in a world unapologetically hateful toward them. runaways with nobody else to turn to. she settled slight weight beside him on the lumpy mattress in that leaky box they called home. fingers toyed with the red thread tied round her wrist.   ❛   is it lonely if we’re both lonely together ?   ❜   a weak attempt at a joke. honeyed eyes searched for his, seeking to gauge his response, to see if she’d done anything to alleviate that weight.

@drusjer​ : 🗣️ for you know who

        this was, however, the first night she’d been stopped. the first night the weight in the bed had rustled as she stood, propped itself up to say something. hesitation flooded her. stay. it echoed between them and in the dim light of the lamps outside, blond and blue were barely visible. sleep still hung over the flat like a mist, and shoulders sagged. ‘ no ‘ didn’t seem to be in her vocabulary for the evening. a pause but response is silent. fingers unlace boots, slip out of coat, and find worn clothes for sleeping. she had never been good at saying no to him. she didn’t think she ever would be.