SHARP OBJECTS ✂︎ episode 1, vanish.

No title available

Janaina Medeiros

Product Placement
DEAR READER
Mike Driver

#extradirty

pixel skylines
todays bird
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

tannertan36
No title available
Three Goblin Art
Jules of Nature

No title available
almost home
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
ojovivo

if i look back, i am lost

shark vs the universe

JBB: An Artblog!

seen from United States
seen from Netherlands

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Hong Kong SAR China

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Mexico

seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Lithuania
seen from Bolivia

seen from Germany
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
@bitch-butter
SHARP OBJECTS ✂︎ episode 1, vanish.
Sam Reid and Jacob Anderson | GQ bts photoshoot
eion bailey as david webster in band of brothers (2001)
I shared a piece of the Ben-Hur fic, now here's a piece of the Rope fic bc it's pride month, necrophiliacs ~ 🌈✨️🖤
"Would it kill you to pay me a compliment?" Phillip spoke on the edge of a sneer, a wry note creeping into his voice. "You're just jealous I can play at all."
Brandon scoffed. "As if I'd waste my time on something like that," he shot back, in part to hide the fact that he was jealous. He had always secretly harbored a yearning for some type of artistry that could be outwardly expressed - writing, music, acting, painting, anything, but at least until now his talents seemed to be reserved for thinking.
People like Phillip fascinated him. Phillip fascinated him. It was as though he didn't even have to try.
"Didn't your mother every try to get you to learn?" Phillip asked, sounding earnestly curious.
"In fact, no she didn't, Phillip. She must have had something else on her mind for the last fifteen years."
Shrugging, Phillip let his sarcasm roll off his shoulders. "It isn't so terribly hard once you start," he said simply, as though just anybody could plop themselves down in front of the piano and become Schubert.
Rolling his eyes, Brandon shook his head. "If it was easy we'd all play the piano as well as you do," he grumbled, tongue catching on his braces and lending a bitter lisp to the words.
Phillip raised a brow. "Was that a compliment?"
"Do shut up, Phillip."
Shut up he did, but only so he could give Brandon one of those long, curious looks while Brandon attempted to look absorbed in his textbook. The weight of the other boys gaze on his bespectacled face was not uncomfortable, and yet it made him feel distinctly itchy, aware of every possible imperfection. Usually he was a master of ignoring others when it suited him, and yet his powers of avoidance seemed lost on Phillip, who had a habit of seeing past his worldly artifice, from his glasses to his braces. Nobody had eyes like Phillip, which could one moment be as wide and guileless as a frightened rabbit, and then in the next be dark and cold as coal, changeable and erratic as a storm. He could look at him all day so long as Phillip looked back at him. Saw him.
Not that Phillip needed to know that.
"Would you like to learn a little?" he asked gently.
Lifting his head in surprise, Brandon frowned. "Aren't you rehearsing?"
"I'm practicing, not rehearsing. Very big difference," Phillip said, a smile teasing up the ends of his words. "I can practice by doing anything."
Brandon felt himself oddly hesitant, unwilling to make himself look clumsy or foolish in front of anybody and Phillip in particular, a fact that made the back of his neck feel hot. "Well..." he began, searching his brain for any excuse as to why he couldn't, all too aware of the way Phillip continued to look at him, taking in every detail of his reticence.
"Humor me, Brandon," he said easily, moving to the corner of his bench and freeing up the space beside him.
"Phillip..." he trailed off, already feeling his resolve crumbling in the face of the other boy's expectant tap of the seat.
"Come here," he ordered, turning his chest back to face the piano, shuffling his music back to the beginning, allowing Brandon to slowly set his book down and join him with purposefully lazy movements. "Sit up straight," he instructed, and before Brandon could process the words he felt the other boys hand against his lower back, giving him the lightest of pushes.
He sat ramrod straight at the gentleness of the touch, hoping he wasn't doing anything as embarrassing as going red at the ears.
If Phillip noticed his reaction he didn't let on, his eyes now focused down on the keys, his hand placed above them in demonstration. "Put one hand just like this," he said, holding his hand aloft until Brandon reluctantly replaced it with his own. "And the other like this," he went on, his other hand placed just a few keys away from the other, watching as Brandon followed his direction. "Now press down."
Frowning, Brandon pressed down on the keys, a long, unsure groan of sound echoing out at his touch. "You've made a musician of me, Phillip," he remarked dryly.
Undeterred, Phillip reached for his hands. "Now here," he said softly, placing Brandon's hands for him, another unclear note meeting the air. Brandon paid only minimal attention to what Phillip was saying, far too engrossed in the sight of their hands together, of Phillip's long, elegant fingers and well-defined knuckles, each detail as carved and distinct as a work by Rodin.
Phillip moved him down, back up, down, up, setting the rhythm for him. "Now do it by yourself," he said quietly, watching Brandon's hands carefully as they began to follow the chords independently. To Brandon's ear it sounded better when Phillip was guiding him, but he had to admit the melody was certainly akin to music, the beat itself as steady as a heartbeat: ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. "Look, Brandon, you're playing," he said far too kindly.
Sighing, Brandon gave him an unimpressed look. "Satisfied?"
Smiling, Phillip gave him a knowing glance that Brandon felt absurdly caught off guard by, his hands faltering gently in their repetition as Phillip's own hands joined his on the keyboard, his fingers tapping out a delicate, playful dance just beside Brandon's own thump of a beat. Suddenly he felt childish in the best way, almost giddy, as together they played out the now familiar strains of a song he hadn't realized he knew.
Heart and soul, crooned through his memory.
They were playing together. They were making music together. The fact had him stifling a smile that threatened to split the seams of his mouth, his braces pushing against the tight fold of his lips. Without realizing it he leaned his shoulder into Phillip's, the warm press of their bodies against one another strange but comforting, as though he had always been able to touch him, as though they had been born in the same bed like twins. Glancing at him revealed that he was already being watched, Phillip's eyes like earth still wet from the rain, deep and rich, his mouth soft and satisfied. He never looked so happy as when he played piano, and even then he never looked that happy.
Brandon was struck by the sudden urge to kiss him. He found he wanted to very, very badly.
The thought flew from his mind almost as soon as he had it, replaced by a sick, queasy feeling in his belly that told him this would not be the end of such thoughts.
He pulled his eyes from the other boys reluctantly, his hands pausing atop the keyboard as he forced a half-hearted smile onto his face. "W-We'd better stop," he said, hoping Phillip wouldn't notice the stammer. "Any more practice and I'll be better than you are," he teased lightly, relishing in the way Phillip hummed out a small laugh.
A clatter of footsteps rattled down the stairs, David's body swinging through the door frame to give them a weary glower. "Will you two fairies keep it down?" he griped, though his voice was absent of malice. "The whole place can hear you, Phillip, it's late."
A furrow appeared between Phillip's brows, but Brandon's mouth was faster. "Phillip is an artist, and artists don't need to respect the leisure time of lazy bums who should be studying anyway," he called, punctuating the words with a hard, dissonant press of the keys before them.
David rolled his eyes. "You're one to talk," he parried halfheartedly, already turning to go back out he way he came. "Keep it down, everyone is trying to go to sleep," he finished, turning to make his way back up the stairs.
In his absence Brandon turned back to Phillip, still looking chastened, and gave him a gentle nudge with his elbow, merely an echo of the warm way their bodies rested against each other as they played together. "I'll smother him in his sleep tonight," he whispered, the words conjuring a hard burst of a laugh out of Phillip's mouth. "By morning we'll have all of his money, and I'll buy an apartment where you can play whenever you like."
The words were a touch too earnest, and far, far too sentimental. He wanted to cringe at himself, unsure of where exactly the thought had even come from, but Phillip met his eyes with a look that radiated heat like pure sunlight, like he was standing with his back to a fire. Again, he felt the urge to reach out and take his face in his hands, to kiss him like he was sure nobody ever had before. It was unbecoming of him to be so careless with his feeling, especially feelings like these. Childish crushes on ones friends might be normal for other boys, but Brandon wasn't like other boys in many, many ways. They may grow out of such feelings, but Brandon was unsure if he ever would, especially if he stayed sitting on this piano bench with Phillip so close to him.
"My hero," Phillip murmured, his eyes soft, and Brandon felt himself melt into it like any other boy might.
how we doing
you seem like you’d fw crash (1996) and my own private idaho (1991). also ingmar bergman
so true
a Small Piece of the Ben-Hur fic - I'm obsessed with them and think you should be too lol
He wept, and wept, and wept until his throat was a burning column, his own pillar of fire smoldering with anguish. The smell of his drying blood caught in his nostrils like an animal into a trap, the smell squirming through him and making him curl even deeper into his misery, the room black around him as the night thickened, the day heavy at its corners. Surely his father had retired by now, paying no mind to his wretch of a son just out of earshot, and the sensation of being passed over so parlously had him weeping once again. It was a long circle of sadness, like the great circus of Rome, and he went around and around inside of it without the ability to stop.
It could have been hours, but his ears pricked at the familiar sound of feet against the stone of the balcony, at the blessed way the curtains swept aside to usher in a pool of moonlight across the blackened floor, swishing shut once again to douse the room back in shadow. He pushed his face into his covers, red and splotched with unending tears, and did his best to pull his breath back into his body as he felt the warmth of Judah’s body lie down beside him, the other boy’s hands gentle but insistent against the quivering muscles of his back.
“Are you alright?” Judah whispered, his voice loud against the fragile tension of the room.
Sniffling pathetically, Messala shook his head against the bed. “Don’t look at me, Judah,” he begged, his voice thick with agony, unable to lift his head.
“Why not?” Judah replied urgently, but Messala could only continue to muffle soft, strained sobs into the cushion beneath them. “Would you like to be alone?” he ventured, softer this time, his hand beginning a slow, easy stroke up and down Messala’s back, as though he were a baby to be soothed.
The small action was enough to have him trying once more to gather his breath, the stutter of his cries fought into some measure of control as he swallowed, the feeling hard and painful. “No, I would not like to be alone,” he said, as clearly as he could manage, lifting his head just slightly to smear a palm across his eyes, gathering up the remains of his tears to leave just their burning imprint against his face. It was a useless endeavor and all too quickly more tears gathered against the corners of his eyes, a rain that refused to abate, and he kept his face close to the bed, afraid to be seen.
“What would you like?” Judah asked again, his voice still hushed and searching. “How can I help you?” he went on, his voice lost, and the words made Messala burn with shame at his own failures, at his inability to reassure his friend that he was fine, that he was strong and needed nothing from noone the way a man was meant to be. It wasn’t true, it may never be true, for Messala needed. He yearned. It had never been more true than in this moment, and he wished to be shattered under the wheel of the universe for how awful it felt to want.
The feeling was bone-crushing, horrifying, and as quickly as it rolled over him it was gone. In its place was the sensation of Judah’s arms coming to wrap around him, his shaking body pressed back against the firm barrier of his friend’s chest.
He fought for breath again, but this time his tears only had a little to do with it.
“Does this help?” Judah pressed, his breath hot against Messala’s ear where blood roared through the channel, making his voice sound as though they were both trapped underwater.
Nodding, he knew his voice shook as he said: “Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Tighter, Judah,” he whispered, shivering out a gasp as his request was granted. It was gorgeous to be held, and the power of it coursed through him like a river, spilling from his eyes once more as the mingled pleasure and pain soured in his heart. How could he ask this of Judah? How could he debase their friendship by making Judah hold him as if he were a child, as if Messala did not want him far too much already? He deserved to be punished.
Judah held him as the fresh wave of tears flowed from his eyes and down to the bed, the sound of it muffled by exhaustion. “Please don’t cry,” he spoke softly, nose pushing against the nape of Messala’s neck, holding him surely even as his body jerked minutely in their embrace.
“I can’t control it,” Messala replied, voice still a wobbling mess of sound. “My father is right, I’m unworthy.”
He could feel the other boy’s head give a steady shake. “It isn’t true.”
The kindness was a balm to a pain he should have already formed a callous to, and his chest tightened once more with embarrassment. “How am I ever to live?” he asked helplessly, voice no more than a pained whisper as he reached to wipe burning tears from his eyes once more, letting his fingers linger over the sore lids and block out the noisy dark of the room. “How am I ever to take hold of myself enough to change, Judah, how?”
One of Judah’s hands travelled up from his chest to take hold of the hand that Messala had let lie across his face, gathering it into a loose hold and ushering it down. “There isn’t anything within you that needs to be changed, Messala, please hear me,” he spoke strongly, touched with kindness, Messala’s hand buttressed by both of his own. “Were you any different you wouldn’t be yourself, you wouldn’t be half as brave, as spirited -”
A bitter laugh clanged against his throat, and he made an ugly, disbelieving sound. “I’m not brave,” he muttered, sniffing hard against the wetness in his nose. “I can’t even stop myself from weeping.”
“There’s no shame in it, Messala,” Judah assured. “Please don’t shame yourself for the pain that others have brought you.”
Swallowing once more against the pain in his throat, Messala cracked his eyes open. “I bring it on myself, Judah,” he admitted, small and soft but unable to be reigned back. “Every day I feel such hopelessness, such sadness for what I can't help but feel. My heart is not my own, I can’t control it. It beats inside of me like the wings of a bird, and it moves outside my reach. It’s awful."
Judah allowed him to speak undeterred, Messala’s tears tapering off as he talked himself towards a semblance of composure, control. “Why are you so sad?” he asked finally, cautiously. “What brought your heart to this feeling?"
His stomach churned against the truth, and he went cold all along his bones. If he allowed this moment to pass him by he may never be able to say the words again, and each day he would slowly wither away at their stain across his soul.
He must be known fully by at least one person, or he would forever be half what he could be. How may a human being exist with only half their heart?
Fighting his hand from between the other boy’s, Messala pressed his hand once more over his eyes, unable to bear it. “I love you, Judah,” he admitted, nothing more than a weakened whisper that seemed to ricochet around the room.
“And I love you,” Judah replied, insufferable and beautiful.
Shaking his head, Messala didn’t allow him to posture. “I don’t love you as I should,” he said harshly, all teeth, hating himself and hating the world in equal measure.
He had said it, and it was done. Their friendship could never be what it was ever again, and Judah would leave him to his sickness and become a prince of the world, loved by all for his goodness. He didn't deserve to be touched by Messala’s wrongs.
Silence permeated the moment, a long and deathly pause as Judah took in his admission. “Messala, I…” he began, his voice as soft as a dove’s breast, almost difficult to hear over the pound of Messala’s own heartbeat in his ears. “You might not want to understand me. Sometimes I’m reluctant to understand myself,” he noted, a touch of darkness in his voice even as he refused to stall. “But you have to know that there’s no way you could love me that I wouldn’t grasp with both hands, that wouldn’t humble me just by speaking aloud."
He couldn’t allow himself to believe in it, and opened his mouth to plead with Judah to stop being kind to him but found his voice trapped in the maze of his heart. It was impossible to allow, it was too much for him to accept.
Judah moved gently, slow like a cat before its prey, turning Messala onto his back and angling his body above him. Messala was too dumbstruck to care for his face, as horrible as it probably looked, and could only gaze up at him with a hope that was too dangerous to name, drinking in the sight of Judah’s loose, parted lips, his eyes where they narrowed against his own.
“I’d be your friend if that was your wish,” Judah spoke simply, his hand cradling Messala’s bruised jaw. “I’d be your brother if that was your wish. All I want is your love."
A breath trembled from his mouth, and he blinked up at the other boy with a furrowed brow. “You can’t mean what you’re saying."
Judah half smiled, and the gentle twitch of his mouth bent in towards Messala’s own, closer than they had ever allowed themselves to be before. “I would be loved by you,” he breathed, the touch of air between them making Messala part his own lips in return, eager for the breath that gave him Judah, that carried the words that sang themselves into his spirit. “I would love you."
“As your friend?"
Head shaking, Judah closed the space between them to press a kiss against the drying wound at Messala’s temple, the touch both chaste and breathless with passion. “As your lover, Messala,” he spoke lowly against his skin, the words making him quake like the earth beneath a thunderstorm. “I would lay my love down for you to wrap around your shoulders, for you to trample over in anger,” his words hushed across both of their lips, close enough that they seemed to come from both of their mouths. “I would give it to you for it’s yours - it always has been."
A sharp, startled smile broke over Messala’s lips, breath tumbling from him like a collapsing tower. “Judah…” he began, awed, feeling himself close to weeping once again. “I could never deserve it."
Judah seemed pained by the idea, and pressed another soft kiss against his face. “Take it anyway,” he said simply, an entreaty that afforded no recourse as his mouth murmured against Messala’s skin. “Take it anyway."
Breath catching once more, his tears broke free again as he allowed himself to reach for the other boy, but this time it was not touched by sorrow, pain, but instead with an otherworldly joy. “Judah…” he said, all reverence, his hand sliding between the soft strands of his love’s hair, pulling him into a kiss that he had dreamed of, a kiss that he had lived for the hope of. Their mouths slotted against one another as though they had done so a thousand times, and the way their noses knocked and smushed together was also perfection, something pure and divine at once. Judah’s arms snaked beneath him and crushed them both together, Messala’s legs moving to wrap around the other boy’s body, afraid to be parted, the two of them pushing against the power of the moment as though through this one connection they could be made a whole, singular being.
He could no longer smell blood. His pain, it seemed, melted away from him like rain into parched earth.
she had to go to the vet today 😭
shavuot is over (for me lol) so I'm Officially ready to talk about gay porn again!!!!!!!!
Ever After (1998) dir. Andy Tennant
ROSS MCCALL as JOSEPH LIEBGOTT in Band of Brothers (2001)
Lieb, I fucking hate this.
DAVID WEBSTER EP 10 Points | Band of Brothers
Band of Brothers | Part 2: Day of Days The Pacific | Part 5: Peleliu Landing
It has nothing to do with Satan, Mama. It's me.
Carrie (1976) dir. Brian De Palma
FARLEY GRANGER as GUY HAINES Strangers on a Train (1951) dir Alfred Hitchcock
bad news the Ben-Hur fic is 30 pages long and now I have 8 pages of script notes for a Rope fic