[ kissing him. asking if he wants to fuck in the back of his truck. the ocean. the low, pulsing bass from further up the beach. anything except for what it must feel like to be lit up from the inside, or that he almost died a half-mile from here, pulled to a watery grave by a woman with nails like razor-sharp claws and scales on her hands.
anything except for the man near the shore, too. ]
My head is pretty perpetually empty, dude.
[ delta noticed the man near five minutes ago, shortly after he sat down and started building ashe his sand dragon. he didn't think anything of it because he sees dead men all the time, what's one more dead man in the dark, but he's closer now, and that familiar scent hits him, melting flesh on an ocean breeze. like salted fucking pot roast gone way bad, left in the sun to rot. he sinks his hand into ashe's silky hair and maintains eye contact as the man ghosts across the beach, inhaling a deeper, fuller drag, smoke filling his lungs.
who the fuck. why the fuck — ]
Ashe. [ he almost tells him, but a feeling stops him short, tongue to the roof of his mouth. dead people don't wander, in most cases. ashe probably doesn't know that. dead people linger close to the trauma that caused their death. dead people stay where they died.
unless they have a reason to be in two places.
unless their bodies were dumped.
his eyes slide to ashe's face, soft-edged and deceptively sweet, and strokes his hair from his forehead. he stamps the joint out in the sand and wraps it back in the baggie to throw in a garbage can for later. ]
no subject
anything except for the man near the shore, too. ]
My head is pretty perpetually empty, dude.
[ delta noticed the man near five minutes ago, shortly after he sat down and started building ashe his sand dragon. he didn't think anything of it because he sees dead men all the time, what's one more dead man in the dark, but he's closer now, and that familiar scent hits him, melting flesh on an ocean breeze. like salted fucking pot roast gone way bad, left in the sun to rot. he sinks his hand into ashe's silky hair and maintains eye contact as the man ghosts across the beach, inhaling a deeper, fuller drag, smoke filling his lungs.
who the fuck. why the fuck — ]
Ashe. [ he almost tells him, but a feeling stops him short, tongue to the roof of his mouth. dead people don't wander, in most cases. ashe probably doesn't know that. dead people linger close to the trauma that caused their death. dead people stay where they died.
unless they have a reason to be in two places.
unless their bodies were dumped.
his eyes slide to ashe's face, soft-edged and deceptively sweet, and strokes his hair from his forehead. he stamps the joint out in the sand and wraps it back in the baggie to throw in a garbage can for later. ]
You wanna chill in my car instead?