@onesteptotheend / onesteptotheend.tumblr.com
“ Yeah, big deal. You’re not the first bum to piss on that wall this afternoon. There’s a reason the streets of Hollywood are lined with the stink of dick cheese. ”
Mortem sighed, shaking his head. “Fuck off, man.”
When he was finally done, he put his junk away and turned around. “You got a problem? Aside from being a piece of shit?”
“Hm? Dude, eyes to yerself. I’m tryin’ to take a piss, here.”
“Keep staring like that, you’re liable to make me blush.”
wish i could wake up to this every mornin
(via seduceddeath)
Madonna tonight in Zurich with her “Unapologetic Bitch”, Stephen James.
Being who she was, Stephanie was used to being among the unusual ( her best friend was an alien, after all ), but she had also learned that some things weren’t that unusual, they were drug induced or lacking-of-psyche-meds induced. His rantings? Yeah, she assumed they fell into the latter category. He wasn’t an alien or superhuman being weird, he was probably on something. That didn’t stop her from wanting to help, though.
“ I don’t know what you’re rantin’ about, but if you don’t give me some sort of answers about what the heck happened to you, you really are gonna die. ”
Cue a short pause filled with Stephanie sighing and stepping closer, despite thinking he was a total lunatic. With any luck it was something she could patch up, if he wouldn’t let her take him to the hospital.
“ Whining ‘bout it sure isn’t gonna help. ”
Mortem tried to scrape further away from her, but he was up against the wall. With no place to go, his finger nails dug into the dirty brick. “Get away. I don’t need a bat in my business!”
The festering wound had left him delirious, unable to think clearly. He hated this feeling, being weak. He’d bested a god, attained heights of power no mortal being could hope to match. Yet he was laid low by a glorified paper cut.
With a growl, he called on what little magic he could muster. It was enough to get the point across. He held out his hand, releasing a buffering shove of kinetic energy. Not enough to hurt, only enough to get her away.
Somehow, he felt he’d regret it.
Lower spine rested against the rock of of a law wall, made to separate beach and the grounds of the merchants and fishermen from the dry and arid land. The young prince adored nothing more than to spend his time outside by waves that lapped at the sea-city’s edge, he found a solace in interacting with the interesting peoples, sharing jokes and fruits under the sun.
Yet another foreign tongue (was this Greek, Latin?) floated through the country, and truthfully he had been unaware of this man’s presence for however long he’d been here. How he’d arrived in Sidon was a mystery, who he was double that. Blackened hair and pale skin, Bōdashtart assumed he was from the higher Mediterranean or even so more north. He held a strange appearance, strange tongue, and though the royal youth did not fully understand him, he would welcome him without a fierce, prejudiced judgement because he did not present any harm; all peaceful were welcome to the Phoenicians.
“Shoo, ya Aḣ?” Tone dragged, loose with the relaxation of a salt mist and fresh air, eyes didn’t bother to even move from the horizon as he questioned the mumbling stranger. A hand came up as the glint of the sun bore aggressive into his gaze behind the parting is cotton clouds, bracelet woven of Cedar wood and gold shone and slackened down slightly on his wrist. It was almost baking, the heat, kissing his skin with a passion and making him want to go back into the water.
He should never have left Greece. No, in fact, that had been a good idea. He had too much history there. The place he should never have left was India. The beautiful colors, the spices. It was the most spectacular place he’d ever been. The sight of his greatest triumph.
And now he was here, laying in the dust as the sun beat down on him. He was barely listening to the din of voices around him, not wanting the chore of translating everything they said. Until someone spoke directly to him, that is.
He took a moment, looking at the man. He was dressed in fine clothing, which made Mortems own finery look rather dull by comparison. Imagine that.
He let himself slip into the native tongue of the region, watching the man with a wary gaze. “Trouble with matters of the heart.” Or lust, as the case may be. If he hadn’t been stabbed in it a few years back, Mortem wouldn’t be sure he had a heart.
“Any being old enough, and with enough power, could call itself a god. The title doesn’t impress me.”
Focus on today. Be the best Gwen Stacy you can be. Right here, right now…
