forlorn-flowers

[forlorn-flowers]

Once again thinking about attack dogs vs guard dogs and how in another universe Saint was almost literally made into an attack dog. Even in XIV he was made into an attack dog, just with the appearance of a cat. All jaw, all teeth, all bite. He doesn't know how to curl up in a field of sheep or on a rug at home. He was never given the chance. Surrounded by anything—anything at all—all he sees are enemies. Sheep, loving hands, it doesn't matter. Surround him, back him into a corner, and he'll fight like hell for a breath of fresh air, for freedom.

AND YET!! He protects his home and his people like a guard dog madly in love with what he's been given. Mostly because he's been given so very little over the course of his life. So much has been taken—stolen technically—and he's at the point in his life where he can finally defend those things. To not do so would be an injustice to the work he's done to escape that hell he had been dragged into when his world imploded.

But he doesn't guard like a guard dog. Because he has no idea what kindness, gentleness, or even love look like. He's gone so long only knowing what it means to attack when told, to bite and rip and tear when told that it's the only way he knows how to defend. Threats he can deal with. Peace he can not.

And yet when he walked—well, ran actually—away from James the first time it was a choice he made without even really realizing it. To lose so many people he loved and cared about over the course of his life, and to feel grief to such an unhealthy level, he chose to become a guard dog. To take his freedom and say "I'm tired of taking, of killing. For once in my life I want to defend something. To know what it means to love and be loved."

[forlorn-flowers]

elizabeth bishop // @heart-of-corundum and I's wols // closeup of william-adolphe bouguereau's pieta // marina tsvetaeva

[forlorn-flowers]

@bygone-eras / @heart-of-corundum

There's this distinct humming sound whenever the house gets unlocked, some kind of primordial echo that rumbles through the entire building, ancient mechanical warbling to call to attention that someone has returned to the nest. It's a rare sound these days, one could easily mistake Tyler for being the sole inhabitant. Even though she had her own business, more often than not, she was usually the only one home.

Today she's in the kitchen, it's eight o'clock at night, and she's just realized she hasn't eaten dinner. Saint isn't home, or wasn't—that's him now, it's got to be—the door is opening and someone's heavy footfalls echo through the foyer. She can hear them, all the way in the kitchen. 

She quickly plucks the pancakes off of the griddle before they burn and goes to greet him.

She rounds the corner with a quick, "Hey!" She's excited to see him, but she knows he's tired more often than not, these days. Something about his father. Something about unfinished business. 

She stops short about two feet away from him, because he looks so much paler than normal and there's a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, and suddenly Tyler comes to wonder just how he managed to get back to the house in this condition. She really, really hopes he doesn't fall, because if he does, she won't be able to catch him. "You okay?"

Saint nods. "Yeah, I'm fine."

I doubt that. She doesn't say that, though. "I um—I made dinner. I didn't know when you were coming home, but..." he brushes past her, towards the hallway that would take him upstairs, up to empty, unoccupied rooms and away from her.

"I'm not really hungry."

"Oh. Okay."

He disappears into the hallway. Tyler makes to go back to the kitchen when he calls out, "what did you make?"

"Um—breakfast for dinner...?" She feels silly saying it. It's the sort of thing a child would say, breakfast for dinner, a chorus of excited shouts and nonstop jumping before being shushed by an older hand, quiet, quiet, you'll wake everyone else up. Pancakes and scrambled eggs and crispy bacon, if you were lucky. And she happens to be very lucky, because now she can have all of those things, and more, if she really wants to. 

Silence follows for a moment before she receives a response. "I'll eat when I get out of the shower. Okay?"

"Okay!"

More silence. She moves towards the kitchen again right as he asks her, "could you lock the door for me?"

"Yeah!"

There’s a lock on the front door keyed to Saint’s aether. It’s keyed to her own as well, so she could lock and unlock it at will. It's what makes the mechanical hum, the thing that wakes the house and puts it back to sleep, bolted and shuttered. He tried explaining the mechanism behind it, some ancient Allagan tech far more advanced than anything she’s seen in her life, but she understood maybe half of what he was saying, if she were lucky. It works because it knows her, just like his motorcycle works because it knows him. She begged him more than once to let her on it, to let her drive it, but when she sits on the seat it was as good as dead. Tyler waves her hand across the small lock and it responds in kind, sealing the house. He never did key her to his motorcycle. Something about her not being old enough. 

Tyler thinks if she gets any older she might die.

She left the stove on and unattended, Mahlu might kill her for that. She was going to go back to it, but that doesn't make her leaving it in the first place any less of a risky mistake. She could've burnt the house down. Mahlu or a house fire, either is a pretty bad way to go; but better than dying at the hands of her brother. 

The look in Saint's eyes is similar to her own. That far-off cloudy stare, not really focused, just barely there at all. Some world-weary gaze that never truly goes away, that's revealed in a mirror at the end of the day when you think you're finally fine. It gets worse when the going gets worse. Something about a father. Something about unfinished business.

Tyler tries to busy herself with finishing dinner. 

He comes back before she's entirely finished. Incredible timing on the part of the universe. 

"I'm almost done," she tells him.

"Okay." Hair still wet, wine red hair made darker by all the water still clinging to it. He sits at the bar top and waits for her to be done.

Silence stretches between them. They got into a screaming match in the middle of Kugane once. She doesn't remember the whole of it, but she remembers what started it—some talk about him being an impeccable bastard and her getting tired of it and telling him he was wrong. Because he was wrong. There was some yelling before they decided to make up and go eat like they had originally planned, but dinner that night had been full of loaded silence and stilted requests for someone to pass whichever sauce or spice they wanted on their ramen. 

It's not quite like this silence, but it's close. What has father and unfinished business done to make him like this—pale and shaky, partaking in silence that was wholly un-Saint-like. Not that being silent wasn't in-line with his behavior usually, it's just... the wrong kind of silence. This wasn't comfortable. This isn't something she could exist in. Not for long.

Despite this, she tries to be cheerful. She serves dinner with a smile. They eat in silence, side-by-side.

What kind of nonsense does his father have him doing that could do this? Her wonderings call to mind images of her own brother, of his hands that slapped and feet that kicked. Of his experiments, and the strange non-space she seemed to inhabit afterwards, that conscious-non-consciousness, wandering without aim. Nothing had seemed real, walking through a dream until she came back to herself with shattering clarity. 

“I’m not stupid, you know.” She’s not thinking, it just comes out, like when she screamed at him in Kugane.

A sigh. The clatter of metal against porcelain as he sets his fork down. “I know you’re not stupid, Pigtail.” 

“If there’s something going on, you can tell me.” He doesn’t want to involve her, because it’s dangerous, as if she hasn’t faced danger before. She’s not a child, and she’s not naïve either. She’s his friend and sister and truth be told she hates the idea of being left out, even if it is dangerous and it could be risky and she doesn’t know all the gorey details. She just wants to help—she could help, she could— “you’re the only person I’ve got left, you know. I want to help you.” 

She looks over at him, sitting right next to her. Their arms were just inches apart, but it might as well have been miles. He feels so far away. He looks so tired. 

"You are helping." 

It doesn't feel like it. It feels like she sits uselessly in this house, uselessly doing leves, going about her business while some sinister shit goes on right under her nose. She knows sinister shit. Her brother used to do it too.

He looks so tired.

"Tyler," she's afraid he actually might be pleading. "C'mon..."

She bites her lip. "You wanna play majong or something after dinner?"

That gets her a smile. "Yeah, sure."

[forlorn-flowers]

@mothervvoid // @forlorn-flowers and I got to talking about Tyler loving Saint even after she finds out about his lengthy past deeds and the lifetimes of blood that coats his hands. One particular line they threw at me stuck, so I wrote it into a short little blurb of a story. If anyone has kept this sad catman's timeline straight, this would likely have occurred many years down the line from whatever canon would have been.

“Well I don’t know Sylrin!” Tyler screams, ears flat and tail bristled. “I only know Saint. I know you!” She punches your chest. Punches you because the anger needs to go somewhere, the unspoken desperation needs to be seen and felt and understood. You feel nothing, though you know she threw her weight into it. "You are my brother. I chose you! Your name! I am Tyler Graves because you were there for me when—”

She stumbles on the words and you watch her eyes go glossy, her brows crease as she holds back a wave of grief and horror both.

You open your mouth, but to do what you don’t know. Console her? Like you had ever been good at it. Every step along this journey with her you’d only ever hurt her, ruined or made things worse—

“You were there for me when no one else was," she says after once again finding her voice. "When even my own brother had abandoned me! You don’t get to decide that I don’t know you, that I can’t love you as you are!” Every word breaks, every breath shaky as though the small platform upon which she’d built her courage was now crumbling beneath her feet. “I make that choice. I decide if I can love this version of you.” She finally withdraws the fist from your chest and cradles it to her own. Curls in on it like it might disappear at any moment, that all too brief physical connection you too rarely let her steal. Her last words are a whisper, a prayer to that little thread now broken. “And I do. I do love you."

Silence finally falls between you, that gap between the beating heart of you and that little curled up fist now entirely too wide. And for the first time in your life, you want to move and can’t. You don’t know what the right thing to do is.

Bekker would have you raise your walls. Break the small, fragile thing laid bare before you. Remind it that life is cruel...and that people are worse. And yet you are of two minds about it.

I don’t know Sylrin. I only know Saint. I know you!

Gingerly, you reach out a hand and place it atop her fist. You don’t even know what expression you're making. What you're thinking. This—this barely functioning relationship between you, it was a shit show. It was pain waiting to happen. Hells, it had happened. Over and over and over again you'd torn each other to shreds. And yet part of you clung to those words, prayed they were true—that someone saw you: the tiny, blackened flame flickering beneath an endless red sea, desperate to hold on. The sad, pathetic mess you'd become behind the obsidian wall someone else had built for you…

But for all the times you'd argued and drifted apart, for all the times you tried to save her from the monster she'd legally made her brother, she'd still crossed those burning bridges. Walked through fire and worse, just to call you—

“Graves?” She’s looking at you now, her sunset orange eyes still glossy but more confusion than grief. You hadn’t moved or spoken, though you’d meant to.

You yank on that fist, and the little Seeker comes with it, the full force of her quickly wrapped up in your arms. You bury your face in her hair, unsure of what words would even suffice to explain the full gravity of what you felt.

I only know Saint. I know you!

She grunts against your grip, not yet realizing it for what it was. How could she? You'd never offered it willingly before. So you take a hold of her head and tilt it back the slightest bit, press a kiss to her forehead. More gentle than anything you’ve done over the course of your bloody, brutal lifetimes and whisper onto her forehead, “Thank you.”

[forlorn-flowers]

Snippet of RP w/ @forlorn-flowers that makes my heart happy and full.

“Are you really asking the dumb brutish older brother what he wants to do on a day off? Is kicking your ass in the ring an option? You could probably use the refresher.”

“Yeah sure, why not?” Tyler says with a laugh, “You wanna go? You want a piece of me, huh?”

“Yeah? A whole piece of you, huh?” Saint goaded, nodding. “Okay, sure, I’ll take this piece…right…here.” Raising his hand, he attempted to plant it directly onto Tyler’s face.

“No, no you can’t have that one!” Tyler lets out a hiss as his hand grabs onto her face. Naturally, she licks his palm in an attempt to get him off of her.

[forlorn-flowers]

SEND 👨‍👦 + A QUESTION ABOUT MY MUSE AND THEIR FATHER WILL ANSWER IT

@mothervvoid asked— 👨‍👦was saint a happy child?

"I think you're asking the wrong question, darling," James sighs before crossing his legs, dusting invisible lint from his knee with his knuckles.

"Does Saint know happiness?" Amusement tugs at thin pale lips. "Can he recognize it for what it is?" The Hyur shook his head, more in astonishment than disappointment.

"I don't think the boy would know happiness if it pierced his heart, which—forgive me my frankness, but—is rather funny given the relationships he tends to cultivate. Ask yourself, what does his 'sister' know of him, truly? That he has shown her kindness? That he is rough around the edges but means well?"

James waves the rhetoricals away. "But to answer your question, no. I found him on the street with a fire in his eyes and it has not left him since. It pains me to say I never did discover a way to put it out, though I encouraged him to find ways to ease it. Some, I'm afraid, might have...backfired more than anticipated. But I did what a father could and did it to the best of my abilities. Had he wound up on my doorstep sooner..." James shrugs. "Perhaps I could have helped him more."

[forlorn-flowers]

It was just red

Wrote this in response to And the heat goes on (where the hand has been) by @forlorn-flowers but never posted it since I was on hiatus. Enjoy the same scene but from Saint's perspective 👍

Anger was rarely ever pretty. Justifiable, yes. A necessary cleansing flame, occasionally. But to Saint it had only ever settled over his life like a miasma which choked the air from his lungs and blurred his vision. 

And as he watched Tyler lunge for her sister, manicured nails tearing into flesh, he knew it for what it was. Could see the rational thought and common sense leave his sister as Pythag slammed her palm on every button the smaller Seeker had long hidden away from even him. Careful, pointed blows. A father whisked away, a brother starting a new life. A promise broken. Abandonment of the worst kind. All careful wounds Tyler had hidden beneath that radiant smile and childlike demeanor.

A scene flashed before his eyes of a darkened room, empty save for a small red-headed Miqo'te who had huddled into the corner beside a cold couch, its blankets and pillow still astray from their use several nights before. Tears streaked the small boy's face, but it wasn't grief that lingered in the darkness of his features. A fire had been lit hours earlier, that much he could recall. And already smoke had begun to cloud those bright teal eyes. 

Saint began moving before the scene had played through, the boy's knuckles paling as he balled his fists and rose to his feet. Before that haze had fueled him for weeks. But he knew how it ended, where that anger had taken him.

Saint's hand wraps around Tyler's wrist as her blade glints in the air above Pythag, poised for a heart strike. "That's enough."

More buttons are pushed, Pythag's words no doubt carefully chosen to ache and bleed long after this confrontation had ended. He couldn't see Tyler's face, but he knew those wounds would only open later, once the anger ebbed and rational thought returned. Knew the regret she'd feel as if it were his own.

"You're sick!" Pythag screams, the last word sharp as the knife that loomed over her chest.

He knew his features made it dull by comparison as he said, "If you know what's good for you, you'll run and never come back. If she breaks this grip, I won't stop her a second time."

Wide-eyed, Tyler's sister scrambled to her feet and bolted back into the shaded boughs surrounding their family home.

Only when the rustle of Pythag's desperate retreat faded into buzzing silence did Tyler finally break. The switch blade was the first to go—as had been his sword, once upon a time—discarded into the grass by weak and trembling fingers. Her shoulders curled inward, her breath too quick, too tight. 

He could almost see the thoughts, even without the aid of his sister's expression. It was laced into every heave, into the iron grip she held on the blades of grass between her too-white knuckles. 

Tyler had been ready to kill her own sister for the wrongs done to her. She had wanted revenge of the most satisfying kind. And she had meant it.

"Breathe," he soothed, one feather-light hand at her back. And she did, but still too quickly. "Slower. You can do it."

Rain began, lightly plinking off his armor. His ears twitched at the sensation, but Tyler hardly seemed to notice. But slowly, so slowly, her breathing eased and the panic with it.

Several minutes passed that way, Tyler working herself back from the edge of outright panic. "Fuck."

He would have laughed had he a sense of humor and had fate not been a twitched bitch. Instead, he nodded. "Yeah." Fuck was right.

You have to mean it, he had told her once upon a time through the mouth of another. But perhaps what he should have said instead was you have to ask yourself, do you really want it? Is it worth it? The stain a kill like that will leave on your soul…

She was a mirror of all his regrets. And despite his most desperate attempts to steer her otherwise,  they had wound up here.

"Can you help me up?" Tyler was working shaky legs. More fawn than Miqo'te.

Saint was already moving to help her, an arm wrapped around her shoulders as he asked, "Can you stand?" He knew the answer, but drew thought back to the surface with conversation.

"Yeah." Convincing, if only in tone.

She was nearly dead weight against him, but he didn't balk or buckle. Never would.

"Thanks, Graves." 

He didn't dare look at Tyler, at what expression he knew would be muddied with uncertainty. An expression he'd made so many years ago. 

But no matter what the gratitude was for, he didn't stop himself. Didn't second guess winding up right here, wrapped around her shoulders to keep her from falling into the same deep hole in which he lived. He would have been her ladder back to the light, even if she had hated him for it.

"You're welcome, Pigtail."

But a ladder couldn't stop a fire. Nor could it make anyone climb.

The problem was, when he had been right here—in the shallow pit of the hole he'd started for himself—he hadn't wanted to be saved. He'd wanted to watch the world burn. And more than anything, he'd wanted the world to take him with it.

[forlorn-flowers]

and the heat goes on (where the hand has been)

Rating: Mature | WC: 1.4k

Summary: In which Tyler confronts their older sister, again. Featuring @flood-of-shadow​

Wearing heels in the forest probably wasn’t the smartest decision.

Saint had griped at her constantly for her impractical choice in footwear, but Tyler found they were quite partial to the aesthetic of it. They looked good in their high-heeled boots, despite the way they could feel their heels slowly sinking into the muddy earth beneath their feet. Making her feel rooted to the spot. It’s fitting, standing at the precipice of the burnt remains of their childhood home.

“You good?” Saint asks, only a few feet behind her. 

Tyler’s ears prick up, swiveling at the sound of his voice. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Saint lets out a noncommittal hum. He probably didn’t believe her, but he didn’t press her either way. 

Then, she appears. Her hair was a shade darker than Tyler’s own powder blue hair, lips a bit fuller, a little taller. Eyes a bit darker. Tyler watches as her sister surveys the area for a moment, and then steps out of the tree line, walking towards her older sister.

“Tyler!” Pythag calls, a smile spreading across her face, “there you are!”

“Hi Pythag.” Tyler calls back, carefully schooling her expression to one of neutrality. They’re not exactly happy to see their sister, but they had to come see what she wanted. “What do you want?”

Pythag isn’t listening to her. She’s craning her neck, looking just past Tyler’s shoulder back at the trees. “You brought him?” She doesn’t sound scornful, just curious. Like Saint is an interesting bug she found when she turned over a rock or something.

“What do you want, Pythag?” Tyler says, a bit more forceful than the last time.

“Wooow, you got rude,” their sister snickers, “maybe I just wanted to check up on my favorite little sister—”

“That’s not what you want and we both know it.”

The sky darkens as a cloud passes by overhead.

“Gosh, you’re so boring now.” Pythag sighs, her shoulders falling in disappointment. “Fine. I know where Dad is. Klaus too. He lives in this dingy little cottage out in the middle of the Shroud and took Dad with him.”

Tyler’s breath hitches, her throat feels tight. Klaus? Out in the Shroud, alive? With their dad? Tyler tries to speak, tries to find the words, but nothing comes out.

(how can she say ‘thank you’ to one of her abusers?)

First Klaus, then Dad disappeared, and now Pythagoras was offering them to her on a silver platter. The information was their’s for the taking and—

Klaus left when they were twelve. They remember it clear as day, the shape of his back retreating into the darkness. He went alone. Dad disappeared two years later.

Dad disappeared two years later.

“... he took Dad?” Is what she finally asks. Her voice sounds a little hoarse.

At this, Pythag cants her head to the left. “Yeah, he took Dad. Beau reached out to him when he couldn’t take Dad’s meddling anymore. He was annoying like that, you know? Klaus showed up and took him off our hands.”

Tyler opens her mouth again, and no words come out. She gasps, like a fish out of water. Her mouth closes.

“Took him and not you. Poor thing.” Pythag says, a wicked grin spreading across her face, “guess you weren’t worth the trouble, not that I blame him.”

Tyler feels their mouth twisting, their lips pulling back in a snarl. Thunder rumbles, somewhere off in the distance.

“Did you know he has kids now?”

Tyler hisses through their teeth. “Shut up!”

“What are you gonna do? Hit me? You’re too much of a—”

Tyler is on their sister in an instant, grabbing her blouse with both hands. She jerks her sister, originally intent on pushing her to the ground before she reconsiders and punches her across the face. 

It felt pretty damn good, too.

“Fuck you!” They spit, their hands uncurling from around their sister’s collar.

Pythag spits a gob of blood out into the dirt. “You don’t like the truth? All I’m doing is telling you the truth, Tyler. I figured you’d be grateful. I mean, we all knew how much you idealized Klaus—”

“You’re just telling me all this to antagonize me—”

“It’s not hard.” Pythag grins, “you’re pretty easy to rile up.”

“You’re a bitch,” Tyler snarls.

“And you’re a little cretin,” Pythag says, “barely worth the time we spent trying to toughen you up.”

Tyler comes at Pythagoras again, fist raised, only for Pythag to smack them, open-palm, right across the face. Tyler reels back, head spinning, cheek stinging from the slap. From the trees, they can hear armor clanking.

“And not even your new adopted ‘brother’ wants to come and help you.”

And like that, they’re on each other. Pulling at each other’s hair, raking nails over each other's faces and arms. Tyler doesn’t know how it happens, but Pythag manages to wrestle them to the ground, landing a good punch right to one of their kidneys.

And fuck, that hurt.

Bitch.

She’s choking her, and Tyler’s vision is going spotty, one hand tugging against their sister’s iron grip around their throat as the other wraps around the cool handle of their switchblade, tucked away in the pocket of their shorts. They jam the blade into the meat of an unsuspecting Pythag’s arm.

Pythagoras shrieks, her hands jerking away from Tyler’s throat but before she could grab ahold of the switchblade, Tyler has already pulled it out and is raring back for a second blow, the blade sinking into Pythag’s arm yet again.

Her sister shrieks and spits again, pushing back against Tyler as they roll over, their roles reversed, and Tyler has the blade raised above their head once again in preparation to bring it down for a third time. They can feel a grin stretching across their face, a dark sense of giddiness curling in their gut as they stare down at Pythag’s terrified face.

Am I tough enough now, Pythag?

But before the blade can fall for a third time, a hand clamps around their wrist, the grip so strong Tyler almost thinks their arm has been frozen. But when they look up, all they see is Saint, his jaw set and his lips pressed into a thin line.

“That’s enough,” he says.

Tyler looks back at their sister. 

Pythag takes the opportunity to crawl away, scooting backwards on her heels and elbows. She has a look of revulsion on her face, and it takes Tyler a moment to realize that look is fixated on them. 

“You’re fucking crazy.” Pythag says, “you’re just as crazy as Beau.”

All Tyler can do is stare. Numb.

“You’re SICK!”

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave.” Saint growls, “I won’t stop her if she breaks my grip.”

At his words, Pythag is up and running, back into the dark of the trees surrounding the remains of their family home. Out of sight out of mind.

And once she’s gone, Tyler breaks. The switchblade slips from their grasp, falling into the grass. They gasp for breath, folding over themself to dry heave into the dirt. They were going to stab Pythag. They wanted to stab Pythag. They wanted to fucking stab Pythag to death—

“Breathe,” Saint’s voice breaks up the chaos of their thoughts. He’s crouched next to her, a hand on her back. She sucks in a frantic breath, her lungs suddenly desperate for air as if his words had just reminded her of their existence. “Slower, you can do it.”

It’s like that for several minutes, Tyler struggling for breath while their heart hammers against their sternum so hard they’re fairly certain it was going to break their ribs and burst right out of their chest. She slowly comes back to herself, feeling sharp twigs biting into the meat of her hands from where she had them clenched in the grass. Cool droplets of rain land intermittently on the bare skin of their shoulders. In their panic, they hadn’t even noticed it started to rain.

Panic. Murderous fugue. Whatever the hell it was.

Finally, she gathers herself enough to say one thing. “Fuck.”

Saint nods his head as if he agrees. “Yeah.”

“Can you help me up?” They want to get as far away from this place as possible.

“Think you can stand?” Saint asks in turn, already moving to help her up regardless.

They had no fucking idea. “Yeah.”

He keeps an arm wrapped around their shoulders anyway. They’re grateful for it, because if he hadn’t they probably would have crumpled back to the ground.

“Thanks Graves.” They aren’t sure what they’re thanking him for. For being here? For helping them walk? 

(for stopping them?)

“You’re welcome, Pigtail.”

[forlorn-flowers]

[forlorn-flowers]

[forlorn-flowers]

Sometimes the worst of ‘em have the best disguises He’ll go as far as it takes to stay in hiding

♪ ♫ ♪

[forlorn-flowers]

[forlorn-flowers]

I love you angry characters I love you revenge arcs I love you protagonists who kill people and don’t feel bad about it I love you manipulative heroes I love you gray morals I love you terrifying protagonists I love you characters who hold boiling grudges I love you characters who reveal that their perceived harmlessness was just patience the whole time I love you stories about atonement and rage and vengeance that don’t end in forgiveness or guilt I love you stories that explore the healing power of incandescent rage

[forlorn-flowers]

[forlorn-flowers]

if ur media doesn’t have at least one (1) deeply fucked up pair of siblings then i’m not interested

[forlorn-flowers]

[forlorn-flowers]

@blxckpetal