ironmxde:

                                   letting out a lackadasical hum, tony flips at the lighter again,
                                   watching the small flame ignite and extinguish with a delighted
                                   quirk of his lips. he pockets it, before flicking his gaze to the
                                   wannabe revolutionary once more, cocking his head like a dare.

            ❝ whatsa’ matter, voltaire? i thought the
                 freedom thing was your whole schtick.             as in, 
                 the freedom for me to light this hundred dollar bill on fire. ❞

:: { ℑ⋅ℇ } ─ ─ ─ ::

                              Wannabe– pfffffft.

            He’s infuriated, blue eyes flashing
         warning signs as he grits his jaw and
         the words, heavy with his accent, spits
         from his lips. “It’s a fire hazard.”

                That’s not what he wants to say, but
             it’s what he does, with all the disdain 
             he can muster into those four words. 
             Voltaire– honestly, did you just pick any
             French intellectual you knew? That
             absolute  p e s s i m i s t. 

            “You’re making a fool of yourself–
          and it’s not that freedom schtick.”
          He bites out the word like it offends
          him on a deeply personal level because
          it does. “It’s fighting for the people.”

              (    You heathen, goes unsaid but not unheard.   )