so let’s get swallowed whole, i wanna go where no one else will ever go

sam sax // tracey emin // sonya vatomsky via @geryone // @anouri // sam sax // william adolphe bouguereau // natalie diaz via @feuillesmortes // donna tartt // théophile schuler // sleep token

can uwu pls draw shoko comforting gojo the morning after the night parade of 100 demons and after he killed geto ? 🥺

IM SORRY I FUCKED UP. I did the morning after the KFC Breakup CUZ I CANT READ AAAAAA Hope that's okay too 👉 👈

“You never had time, Andrey, you only had false hope.” Goncharov (1973)

sometimes i think about richard siken poems and then think about lawrusso and then think about jumping off a tall structure

"Good soldier and nothing else. Daddy's blunt little instrument."

@foulbearobservation turn on your location

spending my morning being destroyed emotionally by listening to hozier and simultaneously reading richard siken, sue zhao, and mahmoud darwish.

pov: you're me re-reading crush by richard siken

violent feelings are good, so i have heard, for your health

denis sarazhin // iain thomas // the 1975 // romeo oriogun (via @geryone) // the frights // dante émile (@orpheuslament) // jen mazza // mitski // anna świrszczyńska

I wish I could gif because I'd make so many damn gallavich edits with siken quotes on them y'all don't understand how that combination has rewired my brain

knocks at her door at strange hours is more ordinary than she'd like -------------- never quite knowing what's waiting for her on the other side of a few inches of metal takes most of the fun out of surprise guests. ( but since the door hasn't gone concave after the soft string of knocks and let whoever's outside in before she could get it open makes her a little less wary. )

and those last few lingering pangs of worry melt away when she sees a familiar silouhette backlit by the shitty hallway lighting. "hey tiger," a coo of a greeting as she settles herself against the doorframe, head resting against the metal while she waits for @huntsupe to reciprocate her greeting ------------ or offer up an explanation for why he's been dark for the last three weeks, even from her. 

"you hate me now don't you?" the rumble of his voice goes a long way towards an apology, even if what he's asking isn't anything close to a proper explanation. but that's billy. 

"hate you? never," she pushes herself away from the frame, easing her door open wide enough for two before she retreats into her apartment with the expectation that he's going to follow -------- a proper welcome home that isn't for her neighbors to gossip over. "unless you're planning on staying in that hallway. then we might have a problem."

i hate when your tongue itches. fighting the urge to bite my tongue off 💔 make it STOP

it's  a  reunion  that's  quickly  moved  on  from  pleasantries  ---------  (  not  that  they've  ever  really  been  all  that  keen  on  that  kind  of  banter  to  begin  with;  but  distance  and  time  apart  tend  to  speed  up  the  pivot  to  physicality  even  more  than  usual  ). all  she  has  to  do  is  give  him  a  hint  of  that  wolfish  grin  -----  the  one  she's  picked  up  from  him  over  the  years  (  and  learned  to  exploit  almost  as  well  )  -----  or  help  herself  to  a  fistful  of  shirt  fabric  for  the  last  two  weeks  to  set  off  a  spark.

〝      my  girl,      〞  he  growls  into  her  skin  where  her  jawline  meets  her  ear. lips  hungrily  about  the  sensitive  skin,  letting  his  teeth  nip  and  tug  gently  as  he  pleased. 〝      you're  my  girl,      〞  his  fingers  find  her  hair  and  take  a  large  fistful  of  it  into  his  hand  and  tugging. 〝      say  it. 〞      /      @dicbolical​.

she  can  feel  the  way  his  voice  rumbles  against  her  just  as  much  as  she  hears  it;  breath  and  lips  and  teeth  sending  a  shiver  down  her  spine. eyelashes  flutter  as  she  attempts  to  stifle  the  beginnings  of  a  moan  by  pressing  her  lips  into  a  thin  little  line  as  best  she  can. he  reacts  just  as  she  expects  him  to;  fingertips  clawing  at  the  back  of  her  head  until  he's  able  to  gather  up  an  ample  amount  of  blonde  hair. he  tugs  and  her  head  lolls  back;  neck  exposed  now  that  her  chin's  angled  up  towards  the  ceiling  --------  a  slow,  thick,  swallow  not  being  enough  to  keep  the  sound  from  passing  her  lips  the  moment  she  lets  them  part.

it  starts  as  a  hum;  sharon  taking  a  moment  to  simply  relish  the  feeling  of  his  hand  knotted  up  in  her  hair  (  while  maybe  delaying  the  inevitable,  hoping  he'll  tug  again  to  help  her  find  her  voice  )  before  tongue  -  wetted  lips  comply  with  his  request.

      "i'm  your  girl,"  a  grin,  mischievous  as  she's  ever  had,  "i'm  your  girl."

💭

you are ten, quietly shuffled from town to town by familiar strangers, when you’re not walking on your own path, trying to make your way from your home- tucked in the far corners of edmund territory, to your new . . . caretaker. you’re less than a day’s journey from his estate. you . . .  you don’t know how to feel about him. you don’t feel any type of connection to this unfamiliar man, regardless of any shared lineage.

it’s far too early, and the moon hangs low in the sky- dawn is yet hours away. you curl into yourself as you stop at the edge of yet another barely notable town, this week spent trundled away into the corner of a inconspicuous cart. you are cold and wet from the journey- and the uncomfortable and gross taste in the back of your throat from hunger.

‘ you get off here. you have to walk from here- all carts have to pay a steep price to pass through the town center.. ’ the woman has a shrill voice- and she tosses your pack to the muddy ground- and stares at you with apprehension as you jump into the muddy ground to retrieve your pack. ( what wrong had you committed against everyone ? why were all of these unfamiliar faces so hostile ? ) ‘ someone will be at down by the lake by dawn to get you. ’

the cart speeds away, and splatters you with half-dry mud. you slump against the brick. maybe this meant the goddess really hated your whole family. you want to cry, but something catches your nose. you act on impulse- following the scent through twists and turns, and your stomach drops when you snap back to reality and read the stop sign.

                                                  BUTCHERS.

your eyes land on something in the shop window. rows of cuts and cuts of meat displayed on magical ice. 

your mouth waters at the thought of eating one raw and whole- and your mind shudders at the thought. you lick your lips and rest your hand against the glass. you could easily shatter the glass. it’d be so easy for you.

the goddess hates those who steal. the goddess hates abominations.

you turn away. you force yourself away from the butchers, and the meat, and the want. you can never talk about this. to anyone. you find yourself, in front of the small lake that the town lay next to. the people who take you the rest of the way- are a group of mercenaries, lead by a gruff blond draped in orange cloth, muttering about how he owed your mother a favor when you meet him.

you don’t talk for the rest of the ride- you ignore everyone, and they’re content to look the other way- and you spend the next week in near continuous prayer to the goddess for her forgiveness . . .  because you have to pretend to belong to something.

a past memory.

Can someone explain the “sorry about the blood in your mouth I wish it was mine” quote bc I think I get it but I don’t Know if I get it