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#horror muses
v1scera · 4 months
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WHEN THE CURTAINS CALL THE TIME, WILL WE BOTH GO HOME ALIVE? IT WASN'T HARD TO REALIZE... LOVE'S THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND. WHEN THE CURTAINS CALL THE TIME, WILL WE BOTH BE SATISFIED? YOU COME AND GO IN WAVES, SWALLOWING EVERYTHING.
#V1SCERA: multifandom multimuse written by cinna. mostly horror-based. features characters from saw, resident evil, dead by daylight, and more!
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locallibrarylover · 7 months
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*by live theatre i mean plays, musicals, operas, ballets, concert versions of musicals, staged readings, & things of that nature. EDIT: YES this includes amateur, local, kids, high school, & community theatre. almost every show i've seen has been local
if you want, list the names of the shows you've seen in the tags!
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cinemamind · 4 months
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There was a time when I considered developing a Dracula/Winnie the Pooh story (with Sherlock Holmes and Van Helsing, too).
It would have been about Dracula acquiring land in the Hundred Acre Woods, with Pooh and Piglet being stand-ins for Renfield and Jonathan.
(Also, Dracula would have used honey barrels and bees to move his body across continents.)
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Tho, now that Steamboat Rodent is in the public domain, I can't help but imagine how perfect he would be as captain of the Demeter.
╭( ๐_๐)╮
(If you don't want to see a dead Captain Willie graphically tied to the helm of the Demeter while clutching a rosemary, you don't have to click below.)
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Leonid Pasternak (1862-1945) "The Night Before the Exam" (1895) Oil on canvas Post-Impressionism Located in the Musée d'Orsay, Paris, France
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I gotta say, it's incredible that just ONE GUY wrote, voiced, soundscaped, and composed all of the music for this podcast. It is genuinely baffling how Harlan can sound so convincingly like 20+ different characters while making such a convincing horror soundscape. The fact that he wrOTE the thing too. He is every aspect of this podcast's creation, and it's such an immensely high quality that it boggles me every time. The emotions are so palpable, the characters so intense. Like, holy shit, Harlan. He's so good at what he does.
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vsemily · 2 months
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Muse
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mariathechosen1 · 10 months
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Digging too deep:
Philosophical obsession to the point of self destruction
[Image description: A collage consisting of 10 different photographs and quotes, all related to digging and holes. From top to bottom:
A wikipedia headline that says “Law of Holes”.
A close up of a shovel, digging into loose dirt.
An excerpt from a wikipedia article about the law of holes: The law of holes or the first law of holes, is an adage which states: "if you find yourself in a hole, stop digging." It is used as a metaphor, warning that when in an untenable position, it is best to stop making the situation worse.”
A lyrics excerpt from ‘The Song With Five Names’ by Will Wood: You can break a shovel when you break new ground / You dig dirt up when you dig deep down / You should know better than that by now / It's not profound to know that you could never know!
A blurry photograph of a dark rectangular hole in the ground, seemingly a grave. The hole is so dark the bottom of it isn’t visible. Besides the hole there is a pile of dirt.
A lyrics excerpt from ‘Hand Me My Shovel, I’m Going In!’ by Will Wood and The Tapeworms: Gotta get to the bottom of this/ Gotta get to the bottom of this / Gotta get to the bottom of this / Gotta gotta get, gotta gotta get, gotta get / Gotta get to the bottom of this / Gotta gotta get, gotta gotta get, gotta get / Gotta get to the bottom of this / Gotta gotta get, gotta gotta get, gotta get / Gotta get to the bottom of this / If it kills me
An excerpt from a wikipedia article about the law of holes: The second law of holes is commonly known as: "when you stop digging, you are still in a hole."
A photograph of a deep round hole. There’s a ladder going down into it and the bottom of the hole isn’t visible.
An excerpt from the transcript of episode 88 of The Magnus Archives: It was very strange. It was just the one word, solid capital letters in a small, neat typeface at the very centre of the page. It said ‘DIG’. I took that to be the title, and turned to the next page. ‘DIG’. Exactly the same. The third page. ‘DIG’. The fourth page. ‘DIG’. Dig, dig, dig, dig.
A lyrics excerpt from ‘Hand Me My Shovel, I’m Going In!’ by Will Wood and The Tapeworms: Looking down I could say heaven sent me / Hand me my shovel, I’m going in!
/end ID]
[‘Law of Holes’ - Wikipedia, ‘The Song with Five Names, a​.​k​.​a. Soapbox Tao, a​.​k​.​a. Checkmate Atheists! a​.​k​.​a. Neospace Government, a​.​k​.​a. You Can Never Know’ - Will Wood and the Tapeworms, ‘Hand Me My Shovel, I’m Going In!’ - Will Wood and the Tapeworms, MAG 88 ‘Dig’ - The Magnus Archives]
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blood-red-ocean · 4 months
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It is 1am, I am half asleep, here's some thoughts about Alcina that have me in a goddamn chokehold
- Alcina tensing up when her mortal touches her on the cheek for the first time and it's the first soft and gentle touch she's gotten for over a hundred years or maybe ever
- Alcina being confused at how someone so small and fragile could possibly feel safe around her considering she could break their arm with one hand
- Alcina getting restless when her mortal isn't around and then becoming agitated when she realises that for the first time she misses someone and how could she possibly miss a mortal when she's killed so many
- Alcina looking into a mirror and frowning at her reflection as she tries to see in herself what her mortal sees in her
- Alcina silently panicking because she can't figure out if that was her mortal on the balcony last time she mutated or if it was just her imagination
- Alcina panicking even more when she finds out it WAS her mortal and what was her mortal doing out in the cold like that anyway
- Alcina mentally preparing for her mortal to request to leave the Castle and trying to learn to be okay with that because why wouldn't her mortal want to leave after seeing her like that
- Alcina not moving for hours after her mortal climbs into her lap and falls asleep against her, the ultimate form of trust, after telling Alcina that she's beautiful in every form and context
- Alcina putting her hand V E R Y gently on her mortal's back as she sleeps and silently vowing to protect this one
- Alcina realising that she loves her mortal and throwing her desk across her room (again) in a rage because she can't possibly love someone, she's never loved someone in all her 100+ years
- Alcina spending weeks coming up with the best way to tell her mortal while also sending herself into an overthinking spiral because oh god what if someone else gets their hands on her mortal before she has a chance to tell them
- Alcina spending weeks coming up with the perfect way to tell her mortal and before she even gets a word out her mortal just kisses her and says 'I know. I'm in love with you, as well.'
- Alcina gets her happily ever after in the most unexpected way and her daughters have never seen her genuinely smile as much as they have after that moment
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melit0n · 4 months
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Half-Starved
- Oneshot
- Obsessive! Ghost/Reader
- Word Count: 3.2K
- Warnings: Descriptions of gore, canabalism as a metaphor for love, mentions of past domestic abuse, stalking
- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52474849
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Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley was born hungry. 
Born with a relentless nagging feeling curled up right between his oesophagus and the squirming muscle of his stomach. From the very moment Simon opened his eyes, he was hungry for something he would never have. Left to starve in the gloom of the locked cupboard he was shoved into for not shutting up. He spent fifteen-odd years greedy for any drop of affection he could get. Anything he could grasp and hold onto, no matter how many bruises it would leave him with. No matter how long he would have to spend chained up like a bad dog in the corner of his room licking his wounds telling himself that it was worth it. That the blood was worth it. The pain was worth it. 
Anything to be acknowledged. 
Now, once again finding comfort in the gloom of his home, he is still hungry. Even more so. However, he didn’t like to be touched, because of him, but he still craved it. Maybe too much. He wanted, wants, to be held tight enough so he doesn’t break. Wants to be vulnerable. But he’s still afraid he’ll end up being a scared kid looking into the slit eyes of a snake again.
He blames his younger self for the predicament he’s found himself in, wants to sit down with him and shake him by the shoulders and ask why. Why he put himself through that for that long. But even so, he can’t blame the kid. He knows how hungry he is now; feels the scraping like dull claws against the soft spot between his liver and his spleen. He can only imagine what it was like for him as a kid. He’s blocked most of those memories out now, though.
He sits through the tugging, the pulling, through each dull meeting. Each dark night spent alone in his bunk. Each evening he spends licking wounds that just won't close. 
Unfortunately, this issue, this dilemma, is a hard one to fix. A hard want to satiate. Being a 6’4 SAS agent with a heavy Manchester accent and an apparently unapproachable demeanour, most people tending to avoid him in the streets, makes it a bit hard to gain attention, let alone affection.
But then there’s you. 
The first word that would come to his mind is kind.
Out of the blue, draped in moonlight and glimmering stars, you begin to appear everywhere. He doesn’t know if you’ve moved here recently, or if his brain has randomly decided to notice your presence, but you’re here. And there. And everywhere, really. 
He sees you in the local corner shop, holding tightly onto the baggy sleeve of whoever you’ve brought along for your midnight excursion, brushing your hand, intently, against that of your work friends on the crowded train you both take every day into the city. You use physical affection as not only a way to show affection itself, platonic or romantic, he isn’t particularly good at guessing unless it’s incredibly obvious, but as a form of comfort and encouragement as well. 
In less than a month into his leave, you’ve managed to become a staple in his civilian life. He sees you in the morning, always at the train station with breakfast and lunch in hand looking quizically around to see if you’ve missed your train like a doubtful deer. He knows you know you haven’t. You’re like him; you’ve got an obsession with time. While his is instilled by the harsh words of the military, yours is brought about by a tight work schedule. And maybe something else. He wonders what the something else is as you both board the already stuffed train, both standing in the same carriage full of warm, tired bodies. 
He sees you in the afternoon as well, sitting outside on a park bench with a friend eating lunch. While you talk, you have a habit of taking tiny crumbs off of your sandwich, flicking them off to the ratty pigeons that flock around your feet like moths to a flame. You always have the same lunch; the same sandwich bread from the same corner shop with the same filing. You have a thing with regularity, routine, as well, it seems. Just like him. 
Of course, he sees you in the evenings too. You both take the same train home, and almost always end up so close yet so far from each other on the carriage. Your work friend gets off at the stop two before yours and Simon’s; always leaving you with a pat on the shoulder and a closed eye smile, which you almost always return. You have a habit of doing a little jump when you get off the train which Simon finds quite cute. It’s almost as if you’re actually afraid of the gap.
Of the fall. 
Either way, you part ways without knowing you’re parting from him, leaving him incomplete in an odd way, and head back to your home. Ghost has an impulse to follow you, in between curiosity at where you live and to make sure you’re safe, but Simon urges himself to head home. To sleep. You linger in his thoughts each time he walks back. 
At first, he’s oddly amazed, a bit in awe, if he were honest, that you can give so much affection so easily, touch so easily, and receive it tenfold from the people around you. 
Then, there’s annoyance, titering on the fine, chipped-away line of anger. Like a mantra, he asks why it’s fair someone can give, give and keep on giving, let alone receive something back, and he can’t? How can you hold someone so closely and not be afraid of a knife in your back? 
Maybe that’s Ghost talking, he thinks. 
Eventually, he falls off the fine line of annoyance and anger into the muddied trench that is jealousy. Jealous not only of you, how you can give and receive so easily, but of the people in your life who get to experience the affection that you give to any warm body that passes by you. Said people who don’t understand how precious and rare that experience is to others. To him. He wants to taste it. Badly. 
Then, it morphs. Twists and turns like a dying thing, all red with chunks of fur sticking at odd angles, into attraction. Turning from a want to be held, a quiet plea to the void for you to keep him together for just a little bit longer, to a need. A need to kiss until both your lips are bloody and raw, bitten and chewed like a pomegranate, seeping your liquid life for him to drink as an elixir. He wants, needs, hungers to feel the comforting weight of your blood in the bottom of his stomach. 
He’s seen the way you kiss, and God above he needs it. Needs you. He doesn’t care if it’s the fleeting, platonic kisses you gift to your friends on the cheek (he wants you to take a chunk out of his cheek. Wants you to chew on the fat like the gum you always have in your mouth), or if it’s the rough ones you give to the men you bring home. The ones that have them chasing your lips for more, which you always allow because you never stop giving. 
Simon wants it. Ghost needs it. 
Consequently, the dull scratching of the claws in between his liver and his spleen grows sharper. After years of the scratching, the pulling, the tugging, he’d thought his hunger pang’s talons had grown weary, but he feels them. He feels the sharp ache like a pistol’s bullet and it bloody hurts. Has him hunched over on his bed trying to claw out his stomach because, for the first time in years, it's hurting him. 
And, for the first time in years, Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley decides to listen.  
As more time passes, more time spent getting soaked outside your house in the rain waiting for you to come home because you’re oddly late for all the time he’s known you, it changes again. Writhes around in his stomach and the fat in his veins, to something much worse. Much more harmful, at least, to you. In all the pain of his hunger, he contemplates taking chunks out of you. Maybe that will satiate the creature that squirms in his bloody viscera, laying claim to all of his innards in an attempt to get him to feed for once in his life. 
To allow him to know what it feels like to be full, instead of half-starved. 
Zoning out during meetings easily turns to daydreaming of taking one of his hunting knives to your flesh. Cut strips of skin, like your his sacrificial lamb to slaughter and devour, and finally put those butchering skills he gained to work somewhere other than on the field. He promises he’ll be delicate. Promises he’ll be kind. He wouldn’t dare show you the bloodthirsty rage his opponents see on the field.
Oh, and he can just imagine how you’d cry when he’d do so. He hates hearing people cry. After all, he’s haunted by the echoing sobs of someone lost to him in some distant, sun-stunned, sand-smothered land. But you? He doesn’t mind one bit. It’s another piece of you for him to consume, another piece of you that you can offer to him, gift to him, to bring you two together. 
He knows how much it takes to be vulnerable, so he wouldn’t even be able to describe what he’d do to taste your tears. To savour your salty sadness upon his tongue and be able to offer comfort. To lick your face dry and hold you in his arms; warm body against warm body just like he’s daydreamed about.
The more time that passes, the further he falls. 
On slightly rarer occasions, ones where he’s alone in the quiet of his room for longer than a human should be, he thinks about feeding your own lovingly cooked gore to you. Get’s him more riled up than he’d like to admit.
He can see it as clear as a freshly painted watercolour; a candle-lit dinner. Warm lighting. He’s tried his hardest to cover up the smell of his cigarettes for you, a scent that clings to his walls like mould, with roses. The smell of whatever he’s cooked for you permeating the air.
Soup sounds good, doesn’t it, love? 
It’s a macabre yet intimate fairytale that finds its way into his thoughts when all else is quiet. Leaves him tossing and turning in his bed because the scraping just won't stop. He swears he's bleeding out from the inside, and he’ll break his own kneecaps from how long he’s been on the floor at your feet begging you to make it stop. To stop the scratching, the itching, the nagging feeling. For you to clean and stitch up his wounds, new and old. 
He’s utterly enamoured with the thought. The idea of being that close to another human being. To be able to physically intertwine each other’s atoms through mutual consumption. To be sewn into the quantum patterns of your being. For you to feed him a proper meal like his parents never could.
He remembers being taught in his History class, the one with the old hag of a teacher who, with her droning words alone, convinced him not to take it for GCSEs, that in ancient times people used to eat each other as well. They did this so that in life, and eventually in death, the two of them would share an utterly unique bond, as well as each other's attributes. 
He only really remembers that because his mates laughed at the idea of aristocratic Victorians eating mummies like it was a five-star meal for weeks after that lesson. 
Even so, Ghost decides he could die happy on the field knowing that a part of you rested within him. That even when he was dead and gone, probably much earlier than he should be, you two would still be connected. He would have a piece of you, and you him.
And you, him. Mutual consumption. He doesn’t mind extra scars, extra wounds, because he knows you’ll lick them clean for him. Knows you wash them, stitch them up and check on them so they heal properly. 
In the end, that is the intimacy he dreams of. The affection he wants from you. 
His body is yours, as yours is his. Let him be yours. Let him feed. Let him fulfil you. 
The idea leaves him with a small smirk on his face that Soap nudges him in the ribs for with a prodding grin of his own. 
So, he makes a decision. For once, Simon and Ghost agree on something and work together as one instead of turning the other off for the greater good. 
The decision? To feed. To finally know what it is like to be full instead of half-starved. 
The scraping, the nagging, only grows stronger. 
He makes it a point to bump into you as much as he can before his next mission. 
Anywhere is a dinner table to him. On the crowded train, brushing his calloused hand against yours to ease the hunger for even a second. In the artificial lighting of the run-down corner shop, grabbing that bag of snacks that are just out of reach for you. Anything. Anything will do. But it only temporarily satiates the pang, doesn’t satisfy it. He just gets hungrier and hungrier and hungrier. 
He knows you’ve begun to notice him. You’re getting hungry too. He just hopes it’s in the same way he hungers for you. He hopes you’re hungry for him, and him alone.
At first, you attempt to offer him platonic comfort, which, God above, tastes so sweet. You offer soft touches on his shoulder. You gift your fingers intertwining with his as you cross the street to his home because he’s gone off on another bender trying to stop turning over in his bed and seeing the inside of a coffin that he has to dig his way out of again. 
‘N you’re just some poor night owl who’s trying to be kind. 
It becomes a routine. Both for you and him. You know he’ll come out of the pub at quarter to one and you know he’s expecting you. You’ll walk the same walk to his home, fumbling with his keys as he looks at you with the softest eyes you’ve ever seen on a man, hands intertwined. You’ll still carry him home and close the door softly with your foot as you lay him on his couch and get him a glass of water and whatever painkiller he has lying around. You’ll still stay as he chats, drunkenly, to you. You’ll take care of him and he’ll be whole again, for just a moment. 
At least until the morning comes, anyways. 
He hungers for your touch the same way water hungers for the cavities of people’s lungs. Hungers for your skin like he hungers for the nicotine in his cigarettes. Hungers and begs and pleads until you both fall like Icarus; wax melting and dripping off your backs as you try and crawl your way back to the sun, back to the light, while he drags you down into the depths of the deep blue. 
It's almost poetic.
In the midst of your drowning, the front door opening startles you out of your stupor. You do that a lot, Simon notes. You’ll black out and stare at a wall for hours, whether it be to awkward silence or a piece of music. He doesn’t question it, verbally, at least. From how easily you dissociate, he’d say it's something you picked up a long time ago. He’ll find out when, eventually. 
Carefully, you get up from the couch, approaching him as he walks over to the kitchen counter. The blue plastic bag he has rustles loudly in the spotless kitchen. 
“What’s that?” You ask, gently, placing a hand on his shoulder to get a better look. 
Please give me more. 
He lets out a knowing grunt and pulls out two round, red fruits. At first, you mistake them for apples, but the star-shaped top throws you off. 
“Pomegranates?”
He nods, looking into your eyes for some sort of approval. 
Gingerly, you take one of the pomegranates out of his hand, his fingers twitching as the pads of your digits brush against his. Your eyes dart back and forth between him and the fruit as you do so, careful to earn his compliance as you inspect the fruit. 
I’ll take anything you give. Just please give me more. 
They’re a deep red, almost crimson, and the shine reflects your face on its vermilion skin. 
“Chopping board,” He pauses, “please?”
Nodding absent-mindedly, you place the fruit back into his cupped hands. 
You open the drawer behind the both of you and pull out an old chopping board, red soaked and stained into the wood that Ghost just can’t seem to get out. You place it on the counter next to the pomegranates, along with a clean bowl he didn’t even hear you grab, and then find your way to the knife block. Hearing the subtle shink of a blade against wood, Ghost turns and scrutinizes you as you try to remember which knife is the fruit knife. Choosing the shortest one, you hold it by the handle, facing downwards just like Simon taught you, and place it on top of the chopping board with stitched-up hands and missing fingers from all the times he’s begged for more. From all the times you’ve said you have nothing more to give, but he knows you always have more. 
I’ll take even the spare and broken bits. Just look at me. Touch me. Let me be full.
You watch, intently, as he delicately cuts the top of the pomegranate off, slicing through the thick skin. Gently, he peels the layers of the pomegranate back, kissing each one with the tips of his fingers, letting it stain them something beautifully violent. He reveals the soft viscera inside, glancing back over to you again and again. Looking for something in your eyes you’re not sure you can give. He cuts it into quarters, continuously surprising you how utterly gentle he is with it, but not down to the skin. Leaving it in a fileted star-like shape, he turns it upside down on the bowl, and, using his hand, slowly shakes the seeds off of the fruit into the bowl. 
Once he’s finished, sure he’s got all of the seeds off, he sets the empty corpse aside and just…stares at the bowl of red. 
The silence is deafening. You want to fill it.
Simon takes a bloody scoop of the red viscera with his right hand, letting the pinkish juice dribble down his hand, his forearm, and drip onto the immaculately clean counter. 
The kitchen smells like bleach. It makes the back of your throat itch. 
He offers his hand out towards you, like an olive branch, like some lurid type of eucharist, and, like the obedient dog you are, you feast. 
“I love you.” He mumbles, fondly watching the muscle of your tongue dart out to catch the pinkish juice dribbling from your frothing maw. 
Be full. Let me fill you, and in turn, you fill me. Feed on me until there is nothing left. Let us decompose, intertwined. Please. Just say you love me, too. 
You’re eating, and you begin to repeat it, but Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley taught you well not to speak with your mouth full. 
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Note- If anybody believes this needs the Dead Dove: Do Not Eat tag, please let me know. I've seen much more horrific works without the tag, but I'm mildly worried this is inching into the category. 
I've spend the past week hearing Abbey by Mitski at every turn, so I wrote this out in an hour or two. I think if I heard that song or saw something about bloody pomegranates one more time I think I would've started chewing the flesh off of my own bones. Canabalism as a metaphor for love is a incredibly profound, and, in some ways, poetic literature device for the sheer destruction a toxic relationship can cause, so, I wanted to try my hand at it! And also to stop myself from clawing my face off from hearing anything about this canabalism metaphor from literally everywhere on the internet.
I apologise for this being description and inner monologue heavy. I wanted to focus on the horror aspects in this rather than the romance aspects, so I'm sorry if you didn't get what you came here for. 
Do tell if this feels too out of character for Ghost. It was originally written for König, but I changed it last minute. Thank you for sitting down and reading my work! It means a lot <3
I'll leave it up to you if the metaphor is really a metaphor in the end. 
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mccoyquialisms · 8 months
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“there’s a shadow downstairs”
I got literal, actual irl chills Brennan what the fuck
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thefuriousmagician · 5 months
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My own version of Jared, Mother's #1 Special Boy
I've seen a lot of versions on Tumblr already and I wanted to go a little bit of a different route, so centipede body
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mendingbone · 11 months
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River & Loey & Adam— ʟᴜᴄʏ ᴅᴀᴄᴜs,ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ sᴛᴀᴛᴇ...//sᴜsᴀɴ ʜᴏᴡᴇ, sɪɴɢᴜʟᴀʀɪᴛɪᴇs//ғʀᴀɴᴢ ᴋᴀғᴋᴀ, ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴍɪʟᴇɴᴀ//ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀɪᴀssɪᴄ ᴄᴜᴅᴅʟᴇ//ᴇᴛʜᴇʟ ᴄᴀɪɴ, ᴛᴡᴏ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴛᴇʟ ʙᴇᴅ//ɪsᴀᴀᴄ ᴍᴀʀɪᴏɴ, ᴡᴀʀᴍ ʙᴏᴅɪᴇs//ᴍᴀʙᴇʟ, ᴇᴘɪsᴏᴅᴇ 𝟸𝟾: ᴍᴀᴛʀʏᴏsʜᴋᴀ//ᴇʀɪɴ sʟᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ, ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴛʜɪs sᴛᴏʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ sᴜɴ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ sᴜɴ.
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cinemamind · 11 months
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ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʟᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ᴍᴀɴ
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behindthemarks · 18 days
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Can we kiss with poison on our lips?
Well, I'm not scared.
Can we touch and taste forbidden bliss?
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divnydoodles · 2 months
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The Mona 💗
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alxlxlx · 1 month
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lil bit of a face study / warmup
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