I am both worse and better than you thought.
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath (via the-book-diaries)
I'd rather be in outer space šø
Sweet Seals For You, Always
dirt enthusiast
Stranger Things
Not today Justin

Discoholic šŖ©

JVL
almost home
noise dept.
KIROKAZE
we're not kids anymore.

Andulka
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

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@caddockdrengith
I am both worse and better than you thought.
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath (via the-book-diaries)
https://instagram.com/storydj
Ashley Brooke
Johnny Flynn - The Wrote & The Writ
Norman Reedus || photographed by Amanda Demme
cassbrooks:
It started with a whimper. The loud whine outside her bedroom door waking her up in the middle of the night. Half awake, she opened the to find a little bundle of black and brown fur standing on her back porch. Unable to locate the lost pupās owners, a week later Cassidy Brooks is the owner to a German Shepard. Sheās always wantedĀ a dog growing up but never having a stable home and her current lifestyle stopped her from getting one. But, like most things in Cassā world, life threw her in for a loop and she couldnāt be happier. Stopping at the local park, she gets out of the car with the quickly growing dog in hand. Setting him down, about to put on his leash, the dog goes dashing in the direction of a stranger.Ā āBowie! Bowie, no!ā The blonde calls out, slamming her dog shut and running after him.Ā āSorry, he gets a littleā¦excited around people.ā Cass says, letting out a breath and bending down to attach the leash to his collar.
Although he had nothing against the species, there was something about hounds that always struck him with slight uneasy. Plenty of dogs had been used by local police when he was growing up, their tactics far less admirable than the state wished to paint them. There had been occasions where he had outrun a dog or two himself, clambering over a wall just tall enough to keep the baying canines away. Yet this moment in the park was far different, in a place where he hadnāt made a name for himself by smashing shop windows or setting establishments aflame. He wasnāt being chased or run down for posting crude posters about government elects, or because he had turned the fountains water red with food dye ā āThis is the blood of the people!ā
No, this had nothing to do with that; none of those things.
As the dog padded forward and stood by his feet, the Hungarian took little notice of the woman as she offered an apology and leashed the animal.
āItās fine,ā he found himself grumbling, more than even he had expected to speak, bright eyes focused on the Shepard before wandering to the womanās face.Ā āBetter than chasing cars.ā
Heād gotten in trouble for doing that as a teenager. Heād chased the cars of a few communist party members with buckets of red paint before.
holly-myers:
Holly loved a themed party, so when she received an invitation to the gala, she immediately decided she was going. She would go and have a fun time, especially since she didnāt have a show the next day. She made her way around, making small talk with the people she knew and the people who knew of her. The fact that people recognized her for her work would always be something that was hard to wrap her head around.Ā āDo you mind if I join you for a moment? Iām pretty sure the beading on this dress is heavier than I am,ā the petite woman asked with a laugh as she approached an open seat at one of the tables.
Everything but the womanās face was familiar to him.
The beading, the colors, the material of the inner lining that was visible at a brief fold in the hem. ... He had always been good with clothing, something he almost hated to even think about considering the attention it brought to itself over the years, but it had also worked to his favor, for he didnāt get the nickname theĀ āHungarian Warlord of Fashionā for nothing.
But still, he had little idea as to who the woman was, and in truth, he almost certainly didnāt care.
As her words reached him, the manās blue gaze shifted to meet herās, a look of malcontent prevalent on his features as he wished to do nothing more than look away... Yet he knew the feeling of wanting to escape the bright lights and fake smiles people wore like well-worn plaster molds. Fuck, he despised these sorts of things.
āItād be worth it if they were Dzi beads,ā was all he said, his strange way of offering a set at the otherwise unoccupied table.
remykeo:
The Gala was the first event in ages that Remy could enjoy off the clock, without spending all her time in the shadow of some rich client. She was relaxed, mood as bubbly as the champagne in her glass. Scanning the crowd from the edge of the pool, she startled as someone knocked into her, but regained her balance.Ā āHey, watch out,ā she said cheerfully.Ā āIf I fall into the pool, youāre coming with me.ā
As if a foil to her jocular nature, the man that had done little more than brush past her was to provide even disinterest and disdain for everyone at the event. The place smelled of sicken perfumes on slack skin, faces painted with toxin-thick make up, and enough alcohol to kill an entire village of -- Well perhaps that was a bit too far. Bright blue eyes snapped towards the woman as she joked, his veins not saturated in booze, for if he had been maybe heād have cracked whatever version of a smile he could.
Maybe.
But instead he stood as sober as a preacher on Sunday morning, upper lip twitching for a second before he spoke.
... Well he thought about speaking, but instead just stared at the woman as if expecting her to apologize, to take back the joke that surely had sheered a year off of his life with its terrible punchline, dare it be called such.
āYouād know better than to do that,ā he grumbled, bitter about the atmosphere and these sweat riddled bodies that slid and slithered past. He knew the woman, although that only extended niceties so far when it came to his kindness in such a place as this.
notyourvalium:
Avoiding the mom bod with a heavy schedule and a kid was practically a full-time job. Val did SoulCycle, yoga, and took dance classes three times a week. She still occasionally pointed at the stretch marks on her stomach and thighs and chantedĀ ālook what you did to Mommyās bodyā while chasing Lena around before bed. Her daughter hadnāt developed anything even resembling a conscience yet, so all she did was laugh almost maniacally and poke her motherās stretch marks with amusement. Still, she looked damn good, if she said so. Stretching in front of the mirror, she pirouetted, moving through a basic dance warmup. She was too old to ever excel at ballet, but it whipped her ass into shape, and if she was honest, she loved it. The studio window faced the street, so all the passersby could watch soccer moms and college girls do plies at the barre. Turning, she realized that she had an audience, even though sheād specifically stayed after class to have the space to herself.Ā āIād say, take a picture, it lasts longer, but I really donāt want to end up a meme on Reddit.ā
A roll of bright eyes was the only answer the woman would get from the likes of him, a sneering sort of curl of his lips as he turned back to the street, finding it difficult to find any true interest in whatever was happening back in the studio now. Heād never been much of a snooper in cities like this; he only had interest in war-torn ones.
Toxic smoke curled around dark locks, small eyes narrowing further as he felt the turmoil churn and boil in his gray matter, like some sort of ill-meaning disease that refused to complete its task in taking over his body or in simply letting itself die out. Either way, he was hoping for some sort of answer to the meaning of it all.
The womanās words rang in his head like the resonance of a church bell, although he couldnāt figure out which he despised more. The cigarette between his lips served as a reason to keep his mouth shut, to keep to himself. Sure, he shouldnāt have peeked inside the open window, but the bloody thing had been opened in the first place, so was he truly the one at fault here?
christian-amari:
In the back of his mind, he expected a no. Heād been kicked like a dog when he asked to things or cursed out and shoved away by people enough times that a simple rejection was seen as a kindness. People watched too many TV shows and thought that the dregs of society like him would do anything for a single dollar. From being asked to participate in ābum fightsā to being offered money if he let someone beat him up ā even the most vulgar offers to use his body for other reasons in return for money were given. Even at his darkest, Christian refused them. He had to. He had to keep his humanity. He had to hold onto whatever dignity was left in him.
But he could still beg.
Ā The man by no means had a friendly face or a kind expression, but he had something Christian wanted and was willing to be looked down on for if it meant heād get a handout. Still, no matter how he tried, he couldnāt stop himself from scratching at his arms. The lingering sensation was just a memory, but it felt like his veins was begging for a hit. His hoodie hid the small holes in his arms, maybe the rash on the back of his neck if it was up, but nothing could hide the yearning in his eyes and the way his jagged nails irritated his flesh through the worn cotton.
And of course he didnāt want to be rude or ungrateful, but food wasnāt going to help him right now.Ā
āPlease, man I donāt ā I just want a cigarette, not breakfast. I need a cigarette.ā he pleaded, hoping the urgency in his voice would change the manās mind. Were he in his right mind, Christian would have accepted the food and spit shined the manās shoes for it, but the need in his blood was driving him crazy.
The human skin: the scratch and sniff sticker that never smelled quite right.
Nothing went unnoticed under blue eyes, flickering marbles in his skull like an upturned submarine with its periscope going wild.
Fuckinā junkies, was all that could scrape through his mind at that point, all that bubbled forth and frothed at the front of his skull like a poorly made latte. One too many scoops of gray matter, perhaps. That would make quite a bit of sense, considering that wasnāt an ingredient for such a drink in the first place.
An ill-placed smirk at the thought tugged at the corners of thin lips, quickly suppressed back into a deadpan expression that offered the stranger little to read aside from the momentary blip in human emotion.
Dead men were numb men were dead men.
Smoke curled from the end of the cigarette as if to tease the boy, tickling the tip of his nose like a feather duster. The Hungarianās lungs wheezed as he demanded they take another dose of the chemicals.
āA cigarette isnāt going to fix those bruises on your arm.ā An exhale. Gray haze from his nostrils; a release from the fire that constantly burned and brewed in his chest like the flames under a conniving witchās cauldron.Ā āNor is it going to keep you from sleeping in cardboard boxes.ā
Small eyes narrowed further. Contemplation.
āIāll cut you a deal. You let me buy you breakfast and Iāll give you a smoke afterwards.ā
One more drag, one more painful sounding wheeze.
āWin-win.ā
Give me a few days of peace in your armsāI need it terribly. Iām ragged, worn, exhausted. After that I can face the world.
Henry Miller, from a letter to AnaĆÆs Nin, featured in A Literate Passion: Letters of AnaĆÆs Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953 (via luthienne)
christian-amari:
He was hurting. The withdrawals were agonizing as hell, but this was one of those times where Christian had deluded himself into thinking he was going toĀ get clean. He knew he couldnāt keep living his life like this, and that his vices only lead him down one path. In spite of how depressed her was, how much he loved to remind himself that it was pointless to try and that he should end his own suffering and overdose, there was a bigger part of him that wanted to live. A part that wanted to see tomorrow; to get clean and save up money working an honest job and bounce back from allĀ this to make his parents proud of their only child.
But he was hurting. The need for the high ā for any high, was so great that he couldnāt sleep, wasnāt hungry, felt paranoid, felt hot, then cold, then hot again⦠But I have to get clean this time. I have to mean it. He reminded himself.Ā Maybe if he walked around enough he would exhaust his mind and body enough to pass out long enough for the craving to pass. Maybe if he had a taste of a lesser vice he could sustain himself and take some of the edge off. Yeah⦠Maybe⦠Heād always heard the a cold turkey flush of the system wasnāt easy, so maybe baby stepsā¦. Just a tasteā¦.
It was in that moment that he smelled it. The gentle lure of nicotine that made most people cough and gag, but to Christian it was calming and inviting. He followed his nose and didnāt have to go far before he saw a man smoking, just simply looking at the cigarette making Christian shake with desire. Braving the pains of social interaction, Christian wandered over to the man as non-threatening looking at he could.Ā ā Hey ⦠Think I can bum one of those off you?ā He asked, trying to keep his voice as steady as he could.
@caddockdrengith
Disease ate at innards like a blackening plague, a guise under which society was brought to believe all was well, that all could be cured and reassured that everyone would get better.
Everyone, everyone.
A sickening sort of hum that trembled on peoplesā lips, producing minimal words and fewer syllables under acrid tasting saliva that trickled down their lips.
Like rabid dogs, white at the mouth. Hazy, foaming.
His nose wrinkled at just the thought of it, although those that moved and paced around him like a stream around stone likely thought it to be caused by the cancerous fumes that seeped from the end of the cigarette, hanging idly between thick fingers that raised the device back to thin lips.
Another drag.
The only cancer he worried about was the societal one, the manner in which man had turned on one another, sucking marrow out of bones like psychotic beasts of no nation, no semblance under a flag, no allegiance except to their own bodies, their own lives.
One for one and one for... me.
That wasnāt how it went now, was it?
The man ran his tongue over his teeth, tasting the coating of nicotine and rat poison. It didnāt matter how many times he got his teeth whitened or realigned or properly twisted back into place, no, they would also be slightly disfigured, discolored, just like the ribs in his chest, mismatched puzzle pieces that hadnāt been bothered to be put back together.
Broken, shattered, pinching his side with each breath, as if his organs were trying to tear through his skin, to taste the fresh air they very much desired, but instead were fed the black smog.
The worst of torture, they said, came from within a manās own head, and while otherās believed those outside of themselves were theĀ ābad onesā, well, there was no fooling the Hungarian, the crippled warlord of wars past and often forgotten or kept hush-hush. Sure, he had only raised a pen in battle and not a sword, but he had been a crusader nonetheless.
A knight without a shield, he had sustained enough blows around the globe to dent his already ruptured skull, splintering gray matter that threatened to poison his own form, as if that were to solve anything.
āThere was never any solving anything.ā
Thatās what his psychiatrist ā or at least one of them ā told him during a meeting, after the Hungarian had spewed some rather unpleasant words, observations made about the medical professional that perhaps should have been kept behind the former war correspondentās sneering lips, curled back like a cat hissing.
Pissing. Pissing on himself.
He was constantly pushing himself towards edges unseen, into situations that should have been avoided, but when you smell Death and hear His lovely song ā Oh, but can a mortal man truly be blamed?
Like maternal lovers calling it quits, the Hungarian had departed from War, by force, may it be noted, and in turn he was torn from Death, their strange step-child that truly belonged to neither of them but followed each nevertheless.
He grit his teeth at the thought of it, mind in torrential downpour as words from the external world bubbled forth, like blisters against the inside of his skull the more he attempted to ignore them, but as a man who constantly felt pain, it would be almost rude of him to ignore the communication sore, as if he were kicking his aunt out of his own after welcoming her in but moments before.
Smoke billowed from his nostrils like a dragon disturbed, small eyes scraping slowly along the rims of their sockets in order to get a good look at the... boy.
Thatās all he was. A boy.
Regardless of how many years he had or how many places he had stuck his dick, this was a boy, plain and simple. Heād seen many like him, addict eyes shaking in their skull like marbles in a jar.
Shake, shake, shake.
Except no seƱora was there to stop them.
A look of malcontent painted the manās face as he took another drag, cigarette hanging lazily from thin lips. His tongue poked out the side of his mouth, licking the corner that cracked under dry skin.
āYou should be hooked up to an IV,ā the foreigner murmured, eyes narrowing as the dying cigarette bobbed up and down as he spoke, words seeping past the butt of the cancerous device.Ā Ā āNot inhaling batteries and pesticides.ā
Cadmium. DDT.
The Hungarian shook his head.
āClean yourself out. No one likes a strung out snowbird.ā
In all honesty, he wasnāt too focused on what the kid had taken, even though he would have been able to tell if he studied his face long enough, but... it didnāt matter.
A junkie was a junkie was a junkie.
He should know.
Sure, he had been a Pharmy, not a cocaine sniffing, eightball busting crank, but heād been there. Seen those eyes in his own head. Felt those chills...
Another shake of his head.
āIāll get you breakfast, but thatās it.ā
peytcnash:
Peyton had stepped outside of the bar in order to have a quick cigarette, knowing that she wasnāt in the area designated for smokers, but she couldnāt seem to care any less than she already did. However, when someone else seemed to walk by or step out, the girl couldnāt help but smirk at them.Ā āKnow itās illegal to loiter, right? Maybe I should work on my quota tonight.ā Her brows wiggled, half teasing.Ā
Click, click, click.
A thick finger sought to bring forth a flame, flint against wick in the small lighter that seemed to silently gurgle and grunt in agitation at even being asked to perform such a task, and its proper job at that.
The soles of dress shoes snapped sharply against the pavement as the man exited the establishment, broad shoulders brushing against whomever attempted to shift past him in the process. It had been quite some time since he had visited such a place as this, where the petulant stench of human existence was so openly available.
Christ, the populace was a slime, a creeping sort of infection he couldnāt get away from no matter how hard he tried. No matter where he went it just seemed to seep through the cracks and crevices, wishing to poison his already fever-ridden mind.
And then there were people like this woman.
Christ Almighty.
Small, bright eyes like polished marbles in his head swiveled to look at the stranger, brandishing a glare as the cigarette between thin lips hung lazily behind cupped hands that sought to produce a flame from the metal device, yet still to no avail. He knew himself far too well to know that speaking on such a preposterous topic as the one she mentioned would have brought little joy to the evening, and instead the Hungarian chose to ignore her, gaze shifting back to the headlights that streamed past on the street before them.
The end of the cigarette hissed quietly as it was lit, charcoal-colored lungs filling with toxic fumes as thick fingers stowed the lighter in his coat pocket. The patrons that streamed in and out and around the bar became a blurred white noise, his chaotic skull unwilling to allow more mayhem to enter while some alcohol had been allowed to slick both his mind and tongue.
dylanrcarter:
Dylan took a huge bite out of the double meat and cheese croissant, before sitting it back down on the place before them. Glancing over at the other beside them, āWhat?ā They spit out, āThe diet is going fantastic. Be a champ, and work out with me. Order something, have a drink, eat a slice of cake ā lifeās too damn short.ā
The last thing he desired was a lecture from a stranger gorging themselves on a rather large sandwich. Icy optics watched the other with malcontent as they spoke before wordlessly returning his gaze to the newspaper that was held between thick fingers.
Give the paper a quick snap, the papers stood at attention.
āI donāt care,ā is what he wanted to say, but instead remained tight-lipped, inhaling deeply, unevenly as charcoal colored lungs sought to expand as much as possible.