#dusterangel

     He presses himself flat against a neighboring tree until he can feel it’s coarse bark prick at the middle of his spine. It’s far from comfortable, but sacrifice was necessary in these gallant times. Charlie and him had parted ways with Mac, Frank, and Dee, when they had decided to take an opposite path from the latter; it was steeper, a practical riverbed of brambles and thorns and abandoned Ambrosia beetle shells. 

     Charlie trusted Dennis’ intuition. Dennis trusted his instincts too. Surely, he’d lead them back to civilization in no time, or not. 

     Oh, Charlie. Poor, poor, brainless Charlie. Dennis had lost him at some point; he’s not exactly sure as to when, but he’s got a lucid feeling it has everything to do with the hard-bodied lil’ blonde he saw lounging about atop a bed of Schist looking as precious as a naiad. 

     He almost had her, really. Until she was joined in company by her bonehead boyfriend and by then Dennis figured , that for once, he wouldn’t play the master to their fate. He’d allow for their fleeting romance to burgeon like some blackened, tumorous, mass between their ribs, only to consume them entirely and leave nothing behind but a pulsating paralytic mass of tissue and yellow pockets of fat.

     You know what they say, if you love something, let it go. 

     Of course, Rickety Cricket, of all people, showing up couldn’t have made things more awkward. Only, it did. It totally did. 

          ❝        Heyooo, bud, how ya’ feeling there?        ❞        Dennis coos. The lower-half of his face,from the bridge of his nose down to his chin, is completely obscured behind a veil of polypropylene.The surgical mask is fitted snugly around his head; one can almost hear the sound of his angular teeth scraping against the inner-most material, lasciviously. 

         Dennis maneuvers around the cot: a crudely made make-shift torture-device, there’s no doubt in mind that it was bought from a online BDSM seller, complete with rustic restraints, that, if you pulled hard enough, would snap in two at the slightest hint of pressure. It’s why he kept rope handy at all times, plus, it’s not like the guys ever bothered to check the closet in the back office. It’s not like they actually owned things. 

          ❝        I dressed up all nice and pretty for the occasion, I’d say this moment warrants a compliment. Don’t play so hard to get, Cricks.       ❞            

Nonverbal RP Starters                      //        @dusterangel

✍️ Pass my muse a note

     The first mistake of Junior year had been walking into his Trigonometry class ten minutes late and being forced to accept the fate that is the only available seat in the entire classroom being beside infamously dubbed Matthew ‘Rickety Cricket’ Mara.Although this was an utter first-world tragedy for Dennis Reynolds, to be stuck beside St. Joe’s first-and-only budding Robert Smith wannabe for the rest of the school year, it was certainly an act of saving-grace for Nosferatu here. 

     Most would give an arm, maybe an eye too, to be blessed with the salvation of Dennis’ presence. He was popular,fashionable, handsome and rich, and his mom let him get dermal-filler injections in his lips this summer; which was totally wicked,because name another sixteen year old who’s had the privilege.

     That’s right. Think long and hard on that one.

     None.

     But, for fucks sake, why couldn’t he have gotten stuck with Kimberly Jones as his god damn ‘study-buddy’. She’d lean over her desk, all ditsy and stupid with her cotton-candy pink shell bra just barely containing her behemoth breasts and ask him what the square root of four was.And that’s when they’d really get it on, eventually their classroom child’s play would end with a ‘private tutoring session’ and lots of banging. Most importantly, Maureen didn’t have to know.

     Shit, he’s practically half-chub in the middle of class just thinking about it, his pencil leaving stray marks of dusty graphite along the page when his thumb grows a little weaker at each chance glance he steals in Kimberly’s direction.

     Dennis is just about to excuse himself to the bathroom when a crumbled ball of paper lands in his lap      (     dear god why his fucking lap     )     . Curiously, he reaches for it and unravels the note. His expression drops after reading the crudely written ‘is your sister single?’ and he turns to glare at Cricket with a look that could turn waves.

     In retrospect, the prospect of some Goth bastard with leg braces dating his sister, who for the record, also painted her half-chewed fingernails      (     albeit poorly     )      tar-black and wore a back brace, was rich with comedic enterprise. They’d be like Frankenstein and his Bride with a hint of tin-man. Dennis almost giggles at the image of them both walking down the hall hand-in-hand with resemblance to two love-struck human-sized tin-foil figures.

     But also, this was HIS sister they were talking about and he’d be damned before he allowed her to date outside of his chosen selects.He frowns, the pink tip of his tongue poking out from between glossy lips as he scribbles away; despite the fury burning behind baby blues, his script remains as loopy and girly as ever.

     ‘Stop asking about my sister, you fucking creep! I swear to god, if I see you so much as look at her I’ll kill you! And I’ll keep your bisected head on my mantle piece!’