𝑎𝑚　𝑖　𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙　𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑔 @interdeos - Tumblr Blog

𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 : 𝑙. 𝑜̈𝑑𝑒𝑡 @seethinghearts

liszt 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 and 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐲 , bounces off marble and gold . digits cradle glass flute and irises that see only reveries like honey : 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟 —- scream restless in caged lungs , chest aching . swallows remaining champagne before soles are among the crowd , bare skin 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐮𝐫𝐬 . eyes brimming with intrigue , temptation ( and though she 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑑𝑚𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑡 : reverence and awe , or something like it ) when they seek familiar silhouette . ❝ funny , i didn’t think this was 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 . don’t you have some other wretched place to sulk ? ❞ swollen with 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑒 / digits claiming the drink in his hand as her own , wicked lingering simper as 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 .

#* ◞ 𝑟. 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝 ╱ scripted .#seethinghearts.

literature-liv

hands; MAURICE (1987)

#* ◞ 𝑐. 𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐭 ╱ studied .#* ◞ 𝑣. 𝐝𝐞 𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐚 ╱ studied .

* ◞ 𝑠. 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐲𝐚𝐥 ╱ archived .

“ well … i can take a look at it, if you'd like? ” voice melts into musing, elbow upon countertop and chin laid in palm. a kind of curiosity, unspoken, prickles at the skin — it is the chance to mend something, reclaim its wonder, that tempts. “ there's no reason to let it gather dust, hm? not when i could care for it. ” lone finger traces shapes in the glass, belying interest. “ what do you say? ”

𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠𝑛’𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑠 , is the thing . would have sold the thing for a case of beer had reveries not bubbled into a 𝐟𝐨𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 : something about these old things being worth a penny or two . ❝ well . . . 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 ? i mean , it looks pretty busted up to me . ❞ crossed arms and 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬 —- quick to lapse with a 𝑝𝑜𝑝 ! and silhouette now resting upon the dividing countertop , digits idly dancing along cracked shutter . ❝ but hey , 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐭 . is it salvageable ? ❞

#photoshop shid the bed on me as i was talking abt these beaudiful avan gifs ?#a sign i gotta break the icon aesthetic to use them ig x #* ◞ 𝑓. 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐨𝐝𝐢 ╱ scripted .#hvraeths.

* ◞ 𝑟. 𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢 ╱ archived .

brilliant purples stalked his son carefully , never losing sight of the boy with no sense of preservation . ( he’d caught him mid fall from the slide on several occasions ) . a second was an eternity : he felt exposed out in public , but it was crucial to teach his son how to be social . expose him to humanity’s charm . ‘ one of them yours ? ’ he asked out of the blue , catchin a silhouette in his peripheral .

blood that runs hot down the paled chaste neck of a stranger —- ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑗𝑒𝑎𝑛 𝑐𝑜𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑢 , he thinks . it’s risky , perhaps : draining the life of another in a place so public 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬 ? oh , it’s a beautiful thing . . . to see crimson flow from so delicate a neck , 𝑎 𝑠𝑎𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙 . spent cadaver slumped against stained brick to watch departing soles emerge from the shadowed alley . call it a 𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐫 , the park full of buoyant youth . ❝ hmm ? ❞ brows barely risen , smile just wide enough to be polite . ❝ 𝑜ℎ , ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑠 𝑛𝑜 . though they are quite charming , i never found myself wanting . ❞ smell of something acrid like copper 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝 , slight grin as punctuation . ❝ and i’m correct in assuming one belongs to you ? ❞

#* ◞ 𝑐. 𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐭 ╱ scripted .#godsfae.

yeah-yeah-beebiss-1

#consider: this in place of an intro #* ◞ 𝑓. 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐨𝐝𝐢 ╱ studied .

tatumriley

Oliver Jackson-Cohen as Peter Quint in The Haunting of Bly Manor - “The Altar of the Dead”

#* ◞ 𝑐. 𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐭 ╱ seen .

* ◞ 𝑔. 𝐝𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐨́𝐧 ╱ archived .

their wallet slipped from pocket , an action not uncaught by the vampire . an attempt to give it back to the owner proved futile , crowd too thick and even the tuned senses couldn’t help her . ‘ … excuse me . ’ catching whoever was unlucky to walk pass her vision at that moment . ‘ could you point me towards the nearest police station ? ’

sunlight like a halo : cheeks stained 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑜𝑐ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑔𝑜𝑙𝑑 , tresses a placid river on bare skin banks . looks to the clouds and he is homesick for a place unknown , 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 . movements that carry a weary body to the public and lungs that sigh 𝑖𝑛 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑐𝑟𝑦 . lilt like honey in his ears , slow and soft . ❝ what’s the matter ? you turning yourself in ? ❞ a 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 , pearls that paint a visage benevolent , kind / dichotomy between what's offered and 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑖𝑛 .