Jan. 24th, 2013

fairytalenoir: (but now I'm alive thinking is killing me)
[personal profile] fairytalenoir
[ It takes him a few minutes to maneuver the cheap, wobbly card table through the door; he's thin and wobbly looking himself, all awkward-jaunty teenager angles, and maybe a bit sick, besides. Hollow eyes, pasty skin. He'd look right at home in a 19th century tuberculosis ward, though he is not in fact coughing or anything.

Once he's got the table set up, the Boy tapes his cardboard sign to the edge:


At which point he seats himself on a stool behind the table, a slouching and patient figure in a blue hoodie, black peacoat, jeans, and red sneakers. A single deck lies on the table, face down, the patterned backs evincing some sign of wear. ]
fuckvampires: (suck it)
[personal profile] fuckvampires
[If there is something to lounge on, no matter how improbable, Harvestman will find a way to do it. This time it is a ripped up lawnchair, looking like someone dragged it from the trash to deposit it here for effect. This is more or less what happened.

He's got his hands under his head and a cigarette in his mouth - it would be more impressive if it were lit, but we can't have everything, can we? When he speaks, it's in a slow, lazy draw that betrays its origins from the US South.]

Why the hell are folks so attached to monogamy? Shit ain't even biological.