nyc
tired
o brave new world
audrey. kermitinlove.jpg
She felt one thousand years old. She also felt like maybe she was a condescending brat. She wanted her bike. She wanted her friends, who were also one-thousand-year-old condescending brats. She wanted to live in a world where she was surrounded by one-thousand-year-old condescending brats.
highlight of bllb: piper greenmantle, femme fatale queen of my heart, telling blue to “go be short somewhere else”
can u imagine how terribly dressed blue and gansey’s kids would be. like here’s gansey on one side demonstrating the wonders of sperrys top siders and blue on the other teaching them how to artistically rip up their clothing
She wasn’t interested in telling other people’s futures. She was interested in going out and finding her own. (for an)
There are only two reasons a non-seer would see a spirit on St. Mark’s Eve, Blue.
Either you’re his true love, or you killed him.
The only thing special about her was something she herself couldn’t experience.
The only thing was, she didn’t really want to see the future. What she wanted was to see something no one else could see or would see, and maybe that was asking for more magic that was in the world.
The fact was, by the time she got to high school, being weird and proud of it was an asset. Suddenly cool, Blue could’ve happily had any number of friends. And she had tried. But the problem with being weird was that everyone else was normal.
“Blue. My name’s Blue Sargent.”
“Blair?”
“Blue.”
“Blaize?”
Blue sighed. “Jane.”
endless list of character aesthetics | Blue Sargent
“Blue was a fanciful but sensible thing, like a platypus, or one of those sandwiches that had been cut into circles for a fancy tea party”
collab with (x)
Currently, he was engaged in one of his creepiest activities: reenacting his own death. He glanced around the tiny yard as if appraising the forest glen containing only himself and his friend Barrington Whelk. Then he let out a terrible, mangled cry as he was struck from behind by an invisible skateboard. He made no sound when he was hit again, but his body jerked convincingly. Blue tried not to look as he bucked a few more times before falling to the ground. His head jerked; his legs bicycled.
Blue took a deep, uneven breath. Though she had seen him do it four or five times now, it was always unsettling. Eleven minutes. That was how long the entire homicidal portrait lasted: one boy’s life destroyed in less time than it took to cook a hamburger.
