i’d reach into your body

[bcdysntchers]

                                               “    home     is    where    the    rot    is.    ”      

dependent    mumu    blog    for    redfordhq    ,    penned    by    g.

ANTHONY MEI FANG    :    bartender. thirty2

( intro.    threads. )

OLIVER FINN    :    mechanic. twenty5.

( intro.    threads. )

[bcdysntchers]

“  something  in  me  vibrates  /  a  dusky  dreamy  smell

/ dying  moons  steeped in milk and  shadows.  ”

pinterest.

basics

full name: anthony mei thorne

age: thirty two

pronouns: she/her

sexuality: queer

star sign: gemini

label: the siren ( used in reference to the appeal of something that is alluring but also potentially harmful or dangerous. )

occupation: bartender at hackett's ax throwing bar

theme song: inertia creeps by massive attack

aesthetics:

bracelets that jingle like spells, rings coiled around fingers, soundtrack of every movement. perfume of tobacco smoke, crushed herbs, and something sweet enough to make you dizzy. whispers in town that you’re less woman than omen. dresses that slip off shoulders. desire hanging in silence. eyes that don’t blink often enough, reflecting back more than they should. candles burned down to crooked stubs, wax dripping across the floor like veins. an old velvet chair that sags as though it remembers the shape of every body.

backstory:

redacted

headcanons:

she's this like mysterious woman that showed up a few months after the departure and moved into a house in the rewilded district. eventually she pushed herself closer to town and began working at hackett's, while still keeping her residency in the district. which is insane considering the situation and all the possible danger, but that's the whole point.

she knows people whisper behind her back. she gets it, she wouldn't expect people not to be wary around her, both because of her random appearance and also because her eyes shine with a kind of deceitful mischief. costumers often comment on how perhaps a stranger shouldn't be trusted behind the counter of a bar famous for throwing axes, and she has to remember they're the ones holding the weapon, not her. possibly children gossip about her being a witch, an idea she loves and entertains with growls.

the whole point of her character is living on that blurry line between danger and fear from sensuality. scary and sexy at the same time. she flirts, she dangles, shoulders and collarbones exposed by slipping fabric, the siren as in she has that something that lures you in but you're not fully sure you can survive.

she wears so much jewelry, especially stacked up rings and bangles, that you can hear her coming from a mile away, metal jingling before her feet can make a sound.

biggest men hater in history. like she is attracted to them but her patience always wears thin whenever she has to deal with them. that's why she often prefers women. maybe men are more of a plaything while women actually hold some kind of meaning.

very vocal about her opinions, rolls her eyes like she's getting paid for it. if she's not interested or doesn't like something or someone she will make it obvious, same thing with the opposite. has a very black and white view on the world.

big cynic and very morally ambiguous. kinda seems not to car about the whole departure thing? at times, it actually looks as if she's thriving under such unnerving times.

wcs

anything and everything. from people that are extremely wary around her to flirtations. maybe also someone she hookes up with from time to time?

[hjartasalt]

Normalize getting sluttier, bloodier, and overall more insane

[bcdysntchers]

“  pretty  boy  / 

consumed  by  death  /

with  the  holes  in  his  sneakers.  ”

pinterest.

basics

full name: oliver finn

age: twenty five

pronouns: he/him

sexuality: for now identifies as heterosexual but feels a certain curiosity towards men

star sign: scorpio

label: the flashpoint ( a place or stage at which violence might be expected to begin )

occupation: mechanic at duke's

theme song: he would listen to something like carry me ohio by sun kill moon but his actual theme would be dust bowl by ethel cain

aesthetics:

worn jackets that smell of grease and smoke, sleeves fraying like the edges of your patience. abandoned porches where the paint curls like dead skin. a crooked silver ring and a dangling necklace. an old radio humming between static and old songs. the taste of rust on your tongue. biting your lip instead of speaking, swallowing shards of yourself with every word unsaid. survivor's guilt like an echo, the world feels brittle and you want to bite, count how many seconds it'd take to break.

info: ( tw: death tw )

oliver remembers sunlight like a lie. his mother's voice still drips between his ribs, something he swallows and spits and the same time. it was her death that emptied him out and stitched him back together with grief, anger and teeth bared quite. sure quiet, but bared nonetheless. he remembers his fists reaching places his feet hadn't reached yet, and sometimes the bitter taste of copper felt like the only honest thing left in this world.

now the town also resembles dust. half of it gone, half of it hallow, and sure he'd care more, he wish he did, but there was a certain kind of morbid comfort in seeing himself reflected in the streets he had always walked, now full of cracks and bad weeds. the houses hum with absence and he moves through them like a ghost with sharp edges, listening to the way emptiness bends.

he thinks of the red watch sometimes. maybe there he can twist his teeth into something that don't just sink into soft skin, but something useful that bites back. maybe he can hit and bite at the world and call it justice.

headcanons:

he came up to me on a whim while i was listening to ethel cain's new album and was scrolling through tumblr, randomly coming across his gif packs which just hit me with a vision. so like his whole vibe is southern gothic, rural america haunted boy who turned into anger like a religion after he didn't know what to do with his grief.

he always has rosy cheeks and red lips that contrast with pale skin and often flaunts bruises honestly ... anywhere. but it shows the whole dynamic between boyhood and anger. he's the personification of the quote 'i'm not a violent dog i don't know why i bite.'

loves hanging out on his porch, often just sits there cleaning things or smoking and drinking a can so if you're ever walking by the sweeps it's likely that you'll find him there.

talks little, only speaks when spoken to and if he has something to say that matters. kind of pushes everyone away.

his hands are callous, nails often dirty and knuckles often scraped. he cuts his own hair and has this kind of shaggy mullet that sometimes his hides under caps.

doesn't know how to read too well and has bad handwriting because he dropped out of high school.

wcs:

old friends that he pushed away and now it's kind of weird and strange because they grew up together and now barely say hi. ( we were in a race to grow up yesterday through today 'til tomorrow but when the plant blew up a piece of shrapnel flew and slowed that part of you )

ex girlfriend that he was soooo in love with but then pushed away after the departure.

people he gets drunk with, people he maybe got in a fight with and also would maybe love someone who's kind of a confidant except they don't talk and instead sit in silence drinking packs together.

maybe like ..... someone he sleeps around with and maybe for him it's more out of comfort and escape while your muse's motives are up to you, whether they're genuinely interested or also finding a way to cope.

[damnelves]

- BAD DOG. YOU'RE A BAD DOG. - I BITE. IT'S ALL I KNOW.

"I Would Leave Me If I Could, A Collection of Poetry" by Halsey / "The Cherry Orchard" by Anton Chekhov / "Tongues and Teeth", The Crane Wives / unknown / Vyacheslav Belov aka Belov_w88 - Неуравновешенный человек (Unbalanced Person) / " The One and Only Bob" by Katherine Applegate / "Macbeth ", Act 3, scene 4, by William Shakespeare / "Unicorn" by Angela Carter / "VIOLENT DOG" by Parker Phalen / "Worth Every Hurt" by mischievousdog on tumblr / "The Lighthouse" (2019), dir. Robert Eggers / "Men at Arms" by Terry Pratchett / writing by tumblr user twinnedpeaks / "White Oleander" by Janet Fitch / "dogperson iii. oil painting on coaster." (tumblr user sloppjockey) / "ccaanniidd. gouache watercolor." (prev artist) / "Mudbound" by Hillary Jordan / "More and More" by Margaret Atwood / "The Angriest Dog In The World" by David Lynch / "The Third Hour of the Night" by Frank Bidart / "The Carnivorous Lamb" by Agustin Gomez-Arcos / "Between Aging and Old" by Jack Gilbert / “The Noise Must Become Music” by Fumi Nakamura / "The Death of Me" By Johnny Dombrowski / "Fanny and Alexander" (1989), dir. Ingmar Bergman / "Useless Magic: Lyrics and Poetry" by Florence Welch / "Cadaver Dogs" by B. Narr / "Crepuscolo Infernale" by Roberto Ferri / Picture of dog, via reddit (x)

[woundlight]

would you still think i'm hot if i were left bleeding out on the highway like a roadkill deer

[kameneva]

Excerpt from, 'Boy Sacrifice, 1971'

@kameneva

[ashstfu]

[dandelionapril]

[arrayed-in-purple]

𝐓𝐰𝐢𝐧 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐬 - 𝐒𝟐/𝐄𝐏𝟐𝟎 (1990)

𝐄𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐥 𝐂𝐚𝐢𝐧 - "𝐖𝐚𝐜𝐨, 𝐓𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐬" (2025)

[timotheechalmet]

TAYLOR RUSSELL in Luca Guadagnino’s Bones and All (2022) 

[feuillesmortes]

Angela Carter, Impressions: The Wrightsman Magdalene (1993) | Gregor Erhart, Saint Mary Magdalene (1515-1520) | Hieronymus Wierix, St Mary Magdalene in the wilderness (1570-1619) | Francesco Rustici, The Penitent Saint Mary Magdalen (before 1554)

[cor-ardens-archive]

“I like the paradox within horror film: take the worst of the human condition and transform it into art, into beauty. It’s the only genre that offers this kind of dialectic and I have always found this idea very moving – to create emotion with the saddest, most depressing things in existence. I’ve always felt that horror was a melancholy genre.”

— Martyrs director Pascal Laugier (for Electric Sheep Magazine)

[literaturecravings]

—The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

[metamorphesque]

— Vahan Teryan, I Love Your Dark and Wicked Eyes

[text ID: I love your eyes, their drunken golden haze, eyes that magnetize the lost like wordless beams and torture the soul with their pitiless caress. I love their dark and mysterious depths.]

[soracities]

“She speaks of her own coldness, of life’s great white icebox – she herself is twenty-two below. And of her yearning for something else. It writhes inside her like an imprisoned snake – which may be squirming inside us all.”

— Stig Dagerman, A Moth to a Flame (Burnt Child), tr. Benjamin Mier-Cruz

[odetobillyhoe]

boris