#wasscared

this is my favourite image of my cat, juniper. neither one of us expected the flash to be on. here u go spark ily hope you feel better

PLEASE give Juniper a whole bunch of scritches for me oml what an expressive cat ♥

And take this doodle

       Luke felt sick.

       The kind of sick where, if he wasn’t already sitting down, he would have asked someone if there was a place where he could (or simply found a corner of floor that didn’t look like a walkway.) And, since he was sitting down, and he still felt awful, he was bouncing his leg and coaching himself to breathe in through his nose…and out through his mouth. In through his nose, out through his mouth. It would have been a much easier task if his heart wasn’t crawling up the back of his throat, slamming itself against every nerve and wall between there and his stomach. He kept at it, though. In through his nose, out through his mouth. The way they were looking at him was bad enough without him hurling all over the floor like some kid who had wolfed down too much street fair food. In though his nose, out through his mouth.

       He couldn’t really blame the lady behind the desk for her lingering side-eye or the guy for hovering over his shoulder. Luke had seen himself after he’d come inside: the windows had lent him a near-mirror view of his hair pasted down on his forehead by sweat and rain and the rip in his jeans (not an aesthetic choice— he’d tripped a few blocks back) and his lack of sleeves even though it was cold enough out that he had been able to see his breath while he ran. That one had shocked him a little, too, seeing his bare arms. He’d forgotten entirely that he wasn’t wearing a coat. And then, not a second later, remembered that he’d left it behind. And now he wasn’t cold, exactly, but he was still shivering. And they… they weren’t staring, but they were watching him. Like how you watched a snake that had invited itself in out of the cold and curled up on your kitchen floor. This was a mistake. He shouldn’t have come, or handed the guy the card (they weren’t going to give that back, were they?) or… he shouldn’t have run to begin with. He turned in place, trying to look out at the hazy drizzle and buzzing streetlights, but his reflection was in the way still, staring back at him with huge, dark eyes and breathing rapidly. Ready to pounce. Luke faced forward again and squeezed his eyes shut.

       He was bouncing his leg. His wallet chain was rattling. He remembered he was supposed to be trying to breathe so that he wouldn’t throw up. It was an…F? …a G? In through his nose, out through his mouth. If he got up, would they try to stop him? ..Were they armed? A G#, give or take. His chains striking against each other was something roughly like a high G#, the kind of delicate tink you’d hear from a wind chime. The squeak of his sneaker as he stood up was the B above that, all the way almost at the end of a piano’s keys, but with none of the melodic tuning - more like the sudden screech of a rookie saxophone player pinching their reed too tightly. He should go. Only-

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Reply to @wasscared 's open starter

A year. It had been a year since Wyatt had been convicted of a crime he didn't commit. A year since his life as a drug addicted prostitute had ended, and his life as a prisoner began. Never in his life had Wyatt thought he'd actually end up in a place like this, let alone for murder charges.

But then...he hadn't committed murder, he'd just been accused, tried...and convicted. Convicted for reasons he didn't even understand, for being a throw away. He wasn't stupid, he knew that's what had to have led to this. He was someone nobody would miss afterall. At least no one important as far as the law was concerned. It wasn't fair.

He sat alone, in his little corner of a table in the cafeteria, nibbling at the breakfast on his tray. The man hadn't known a moment of peace since he'd gotten here. At the start it was the withdrawals getting to him, but now...it was the prisoners. The guards too. They were cruel to people like him. Far crueler than anyone Wyatt had met on the outside. Far crueler than his friends or even his customers. He didn't like it here, a year later and he still hadn't adjusted. Wyatt didn't belong here. He was tempted to say that no one did.

With a sigh he got up and threw his food away, he wasn't hungry. He could rarely get himself to eat breakfast, he'd rather use the extra time to prepare for the day, brush his hair, maybe nap if he could.

And he did, just a little bit before lunch he'd been woken up by a prison guard. He had a visitor. Strange, he'd never had visitors. It wasn't even visiting hours.

He was all too eager to see who it was, hoping that it was Kelli. It had to be Kelli,  no one else would visit him, not here. He'd doubted she'd ever come, but if anyone did it would be her.

But then he arrived at the cafeteria for the second time that day and...it wasn't her. Wyatt's face fell, the excitement He'd unwittingly let build on it turning into disappointment. He'd thought for sure that if someone visited it'd be...it'd be his best friend.

But no. It was just some cop. Wyatt was suddenly a lot less excited. Whatever this was, it couldn't be good. The dude wanted his help with...something. Wyatt had a feeling this wouldn't go anywhere good.

"Hi Connor..." Wyatt mumbled, awkwardly standing a few feet away," Questions?"

He thought for a moment, confusion crossing his face. Questions about what? There was no reason for a cop to ask him questions unless it was to rat someone out. Still, Wyatt couldn't help but be curious,"What-What kinda que-questions?"

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“ is this seat taken? ” (probably not flirting so much as. just a first interaction) - @wasscared​

          “Ah. No, have at it, man.”

          Connor would have to excuse the sweeping look Sean gave him, or the way his spine subconsciously straightened the moment he noticed he was a cop. It wasn’t his clothes so much as the way he carried himself; different in some subtle way that recognising it almost became sixth sense for most criminals serious and petty alike. And though Sean hadn’t stolen so much as a stick of gum in two years, he suddenly had the paranoiac urge to change seats before Connor could find a reason to frisk him.

          Frisk for what? The keys in your pocket? Some lint? Chill out.

          Sean watched from the corner of his eye as Connor sat down. Then, perhaps only to remind himself that he had nothing to hide: