/ * 𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖎𝖊𝖉 𝖗𝖊𝖒𝖆𝖎𝖓

now I find I've grown into a tall child.

[halfrest]

head lolls from one side to another, easing a tension that is all physical, although if sutter were a better person he’d seek out guilt from the soreness, find something to beg forgiveness for — find salvation, maybe. he doesn’t feel an ounce of remorse, though. he watches flick squirm, punish herself and wonders why. sure, that could be answered with the names of the bodies in-between them but, still, why? permanence was futile. even if a ring encircled her left fourth finger, it was just a ring. a childhood friendship was just that — child’s play. “he knows. omnipresent. jesus is a perv, but he got a good show.” words tossed to dig deeper into flick’s self-made wounds. “whatever you gotta tell yourself. got any caffeine? i’ll settle for crack.” 

[oflovcrs]

“it’s a shame you didn’t give him a good enough show,” she bites, sticky desires spreading in the pit of her stomach. she adores him sometimes, how he takes his time devouring: slowly, haunting. paled legs swing over the bed, hands reaching for her top. she pauses. glancing back at crowned tresses that meet the top of his head; a fucking halo. “shit, out of crack.” it stings, that hollowed bones rub: her wingless skeleton desperate and yearning. “i might have some coffee,” though she doubts it, and instead allows herself to pull against this raw wound: sunken and sodden. she leans in, pressing a fleeting kiss against the corner of his mouth: a pout tugging against swollen petals. she wants him more than she can admit, “are you going to make it or am i going to have to do everything this evening? roll me a cig whilst you're at it as well.” 

[locustlace]

the need for a drink occurs to him, but he replaces it with the need for a cigarette - another thing he won't let himself have. there's a lot of that lately - or no, actually, the wanting isn't new, but he'd never let himself register the pattern before, and then at some point in the last week he'd been reading in one of those rare hours when he'd been both free and awake and he'd caught wind of it in someone else, and treacherous self recognition through the other had set in. he thinks this has happened before, but he'd forgotten, and hopes he will forget again. easier to stomach things if one doesn't recall they'll be coming back.

she seems so fragile, even when she's like this. she isn't, he knows, but that is what keeps his tongue still - flick's precarious existence. if an apology infuriates her (though it isn't the apology, is it? it's just him, existing in space she has designated hers) what else can he say? what else might it do, might she do?

he tries reason one more time, ignoring the crack about control without really ignoring it. "okay. noted. you don't have to eat dinner with me."

[oflovcrs]

“i didn’t fucking say that, did i?” only she does through tongue bitten silence, their relationship pulled on a wire; she holds his gaze. “i just,” and she heaves, finger digging against the tip of her fork until it decorates that pad of her finger: bruising. “you don’t need to act like i’m going to drop dead at every second.” only she might. since most days she feels that familiar hunger carved in the pit of her stomach: an ache that won't rid. she is always falling. they don’t talk about what happened, the rotten embedded into bones; the malleable parts of that evening that clog in her throat. the way the bile still lingers: the ambulance lights held in the rearview. “i’m fine,” and she sometimes is, despite dreaming of sun soaked evenings spent high, desperate for the numbness that will rid the tremor that chokes her frame. a hand embeds into her pocket, pulling out a carton of cigarettes, “you don’t need to look at me like that,” the way he had that night, fingers digging into the back of her throat, tear stained - anger bitten. she slips a cigarette between chapped lips: lighting it swiftly. “i’m going to be okay.” she offers a smile, crooked pulled: dimpled and toothy. it pains her cheeks. 

[ronan-adam]

casey & izzie - atypical 3x09

[juvinile]

sloane doesn't know whether she wants the other to pet her hair or tug on it - hollowing out memories of mud pies, fist fights, scratches. when disputes could be handled like war rooms, girls born creatures with fangs. she'd bite flick's finger then, draw blood. they'd trade bandaids. hello kitty. hot wheels. monster's inc. by starlight, they'd be laying in bedsheets on a neighbor's trampoline, laughing themselves to pieces between failed horror story attempts. here in her room, two glow in the dark ceiling stars churn pathetic neon. it's all that feels left of her childhood, suddenly. she reaches and rips one down, tosses it onto the other side of the room. "don't call me that," she grunts. head buried back in the other's lap, she's holding a hand over her exposed ear. flick's words ring impossibly close to her head, like she's got lips planted directly over her eardrums. "i can hate you. i do. you fucked me over." because even now, even with what she can bring herself to admit, she can't speak the deed aloud. sloane doesn't remember the last time she cried around someone else, even fia. doesn't remember the last time sobs wracked her entire frame. it feels like someone died, the way she's clutching her teeth so hard she hears them grinding, the way her chest is bubbling up her throat. "i can never be with you now," she adds, like it matters. like it won't push flick farther away. good. let it. "i'm not like him-" but she is, oh, if she could see how she even cried like him, losing her whole body to it- "i actually give a shit. i won't get over it." she doesn't know if it's true, just that she wants it to be. wants to be the one saying no. run before being left for her own brother. her dad picked sean, too. her mom. she bets fia would, if forced. who wouldn't pick sean over her? sloane's cries sound again and she hiccups, smearing snot on flick's pants like a tissue.

[oflovcrs]

she doesn’t know where to place these splintered carvings of a heart; sloane’s carcass that lays, her lap a grave. she presses calloused fingers to her cheek, o, she’s crying. silently grieving, smearing into freckles: she doesn’t like that they both do this. Sloane and Sean: digging into her chest until she’s heaving. coughing. it’s everything and nothing all at once. the way they are exactly the same, both with a desperation to be held. and how felicity slits open her skeleton for them to crawl inside, allows them to press lips against flesh: sickly and bruising. i can never be with you now, leaves ears ringing, an unspoken rule that was made between them in the dead of night. it wasn’t supposed to be like this, so finite. “you don’t mean that,” and a rage that taste of her mother carves in the back of her throat: that angry dog bitten down against rotten molars. “slo,” perhaps she’s teasing, slotting empty laughter between them - how gross they are. how much their mothers would disapprove. “it’s not like that with Sean,” a lie, but one she will not admit: even to herself. instead she finds herself slipping, shuffling until she has allowed limbs to intertwine - slotting beneath her. desperate at her altar, needy to be swallowed whole. “i need you to forgive me,” a beg, a prayer held in grief soaked whimpers.

[locustlace]

he can't go out, really - has neither the life force nor the inclination - but he reacts a shade worse than he ought to here, (if not in substance, then in tone): "yeah, well, i didn't fucking say you would, did i?" the coffee in his system's taken a wrong turn or something, too much energy in the brain with not enough in the body.

this isn't really a day off. he'd picked up a shift that morning, too early, and there goes his time for the week, because now at the doorstep of his evening is this bullshit. (but it's understandable bullshit, he reminds himself, in the seconds after biting back. it is bullshit lying on something of a foundation).

"sorry," he says, not entirely gentle but closer to his usual. "but i'm feeling antisocial. so." he shrugs, though his shoulders barely rise.

the thing is that all of this is true, but as jude says it he also happens upon the fact that yeah, he doesn't want flick out of his sight for too long. long pauses spell death now. his worry is not entirely indifferent to the house, but it isn't focused on it, either. jude doesn't know how to say any of this without raising flick's hackles further, which is clear after a few moments of trying to thread the needle of that sentence.

he sighs. spears another bite of food.

[oflovcrs]

“you’re fucking acting like it.” she corrects, bitterness seeping. i don’t need you here, is what she wants to say, but each time it reaches the tip of her tongue she feels her mother’s rage ripping against her throat; bloodied hands reaching into her chest and twisting organs. instead, she settles in her seat, back pressed, - sliding; her boots digging into the carpet. she wants to run, to unstitch the lines between them ; clumps of their sodden relationship tossed aside. i’m sorry. fuck, she really hates him sometimes. the way grief clings to him, haunts his frame: the way his father’s hues set in his skull. she hates him. “don’t,” a sigh escapes, dropping her fork intentionally until it rattle against her plate. she burns, “don’t fucking do that, make me feel guilty. you have this need to control everything,” she carves her words, wounded. “control me, control fucking dinner time, - we’ve never fucking had dinner before, even when mom was better,” mom, she tastes it, it feels empty: held among her ruins. 

[oflovcrs]

closed for. @locustlace /

the silence between them stretches and aches; hollows out the walls in her chest until all she can hear are bloodied beats. their splintered childhood throttles. he reminds her of something she can no longer stomach; their estrangement placed upon this table before them. "you can go out, i'm allowed to be left alone," she offers a laugh: contorted and hereditary. she is always in this house, even when she is not here, heaving until she tastes the cracked paint that peels in the bathroom: locked and rotting. she wavers, fingers pressing into the grooving of the fork, playing with her food,- "i'm not going to turn it into a drug den." it spills bitter, bile producing. she's always been angry, biting down on the bad dog that holds in the back of her throat, slowly, carefully.

[juvinile]

the memory is nearly enough to elicit a sob from her wine stained mouth, purple teeth. no one gets sloane as wound up as the other, sets her off spinning like a top. right now she feels like she's been dropped in a too large, too dark room. has to claw to the open stream of light at the top. "i still have the scar," her chest feels shredded, there's a breeze blowing straight through her. sutter had been one thing. sutter - the one sloane thought she might one day love, if she could ever pull her gaze away from flick. the one who was supposed to soften the blow, was always there to plug up pain. sloane might have forgiven her for sutter. it almost made a cruel sort of sense. but sean. her brother. her fucking brother. sloane hated sean sometimes. hated him more than she hated anyone. hated how he could stand to be in the same room as their father. hated how he acted more and more like him every day, bulldozing everything that could be good in his life. hated that he was so much like her in so many ways - always loved flick almost the same. "why." it's not a question, though she is falling towards the other already, burying her face in flick's legs, hugging flick's knees to her chin. sloane feels so small .. like a crumpled origami swan. "i hate him." she doesn't know what else to say, presses her lips to the other's pants, forces her mouth closed as she lets out a loud, cracking groan into the fabric. "i hate him, i hate him, i hate him, i hate him. i fucking hate him." she's crying, has been all along, she realizes. "what comes after this, then? kiss and make up?" it sounds so nice. so, so nice. "i think i hate you, too." but she doesn't move, just shifts farther into flick's lap, holds her legs tighter, like a buoy. "why?"

[oflovcrs]

there it is. that horrid culmination of sins that lay sodden at her feet, hands wrapped against her throat: she tastes the bloodied ruins. how sean’s lips still carve into flesh. festering into the wounds that she had stretched open enough for him to climb inside. but she doesn’t regret it. still. even now when her sweet sloane falls at her feet, burning against the seam of her trousers. she hates them both sometimes. how they haunt in the pale moonlight. they are her damnation, pressing thorns into her skull - nailed against the entrance of the trailer park. she wishes that she were gentle. that if she was soft enough, she would brush upon the carvings that sloane had made when they were younger. when they would spend sticky summers digging fingers into thighs, tracing lips against the nook of her neck: intertwined. and there’s that sickening familiarity that flourishes when sloane comes like a wounded animal, leaves her blush stained and dimpled smiled. “slo,” she begins, a whimper fallen. “you don’t hate me,” she pleads, a hymn held in this chapel between them. tongue tied and wine soaked, she wavers,  “you can’t hate me,” though she is not so sure anymore, so instead she settles her touch against the other’s tresses. “you don’t want to know why.” she’s touched starved, ravenous to sink teeth into flesh. she doesn’t want to speak on this eulogy, she does not want to bury herself if it means without sloane. “i’m sorry,” calloused fingers slightly tug against her hair, “i’m so sorry sloane.” and she’s sick at the display, how her free hand traces sloane’s jaw - dipping and curling. god help and forgive me.

[oflovcrs]

closed for @juvinile /

“how many times do i need to apologise?” tumbles from blood chapped lips: she presses the pads of her fingers against them. smearing. bruising. “just tell me how many times,” she heaves guilt speckled breath, unsure of where to place this space between them: endless, relentless. “- like you know.. when i was fucking ten and i picked at that scab on your knee. you remember? i chased you round the whole of the park, you know i didn’t mean to hurt you, i just wanted to,-” slip into flesh: slot between the hollows of her chest. but it isn’t the same as when they were ten, and these rotten flourishes are too thick to swallow whole. “you know i’m sorry.” because it’s always supposed to be them, held in this chapel: knocking knees, repenting in the dark. “let's just skip this part, okay?” she’s always hungry for the other: like a wounded dog, hugging paled bones. “we can do that, right, slo?”

[oflovcrs]

closed for. @halfrest /

she doesn’t like looking at sutter for too long. for those cratered wounds to stretch and dip, to have his tongue slotting against teeth. they had allowed the night to undress them, carve finger and thumb into flesh. his name is sin that lathers rotten. “we’re not doing this again,” she begins, hands spreading against her stomach: pinching. she cannot breathe without the taste of them. fucking sloane and sean. the carcass of their friendships laying at the foot of her bed : everything makes her nauseated. she's spinning, unthreading desperately. “we can’t do this again. he knows.” they don’t speak of them, it’s the guilt that clogs in her throat, mangled remains prodded and prised apart: we keep doing this to them.

[oflovcrs]

FELICITY PREAKER  1 / ?  - INNER DIALOGUE. 

[oflovcrs]

* diana silvers, cis woman + she/her  | you know felicity ‘flick’ preaker, right? they’re twenty two, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, their whole life? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to oblivion by grimes like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole splintered remains of a bruised childhood, knees split in empty parking lots, and a carelessness that makes others uneasy thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is october 31, so they’re a scorpio, which is unsurprising, all things considered. 

pinterest.  google doc. 

[oflovcrs]

:)

[oflovcrs]

she had spent months plucking him out from beneath flesh, unthreading memories contorted in that room she holds in the back of her skull. reminders of what they once had often pierced into her rearview ; blinding her on sticky summer afternoons. she chews what is left slowly, rotting festering ; carcass hugging. she wavers under the neon light pulsing ; the sight of him having her slipping at the vigil that flourishes between lip slotting and tongue licking. you hurt me, asshole, is what is unsaid among the ruins, - held behind her teeth. “what the fuck are you doing here?” draws from her mouth, her mother’s anger wrapped against her throat, - it heaves through speckled breath. “didn’t know that they were letting in pretentious assholes.” satin slipped frame hangs, bloodied fingers wrapped against the strands of her last cigarette. she wants to swallow him whole : bite down and dismember the bad dog she names after him.  / @emptybvds​ . 

[oflovcrs]

↳ INSTAGRAM: @BITCHYFLICK UPLOADED A PHOTO

get it i guess 🤠

❤ 205 ✐ VIEW ALL 30 COMMENTS

joshftm they let u outside?? alissxm we getting married yet 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

[oflovcrs]

crowned tresses spill against paled flesh, pliant bones outstretched infront of her ; silence between them settles. “wait, so - you said those words to him, - those exact words.” she turns her gaze towards him ; eats him up slowly, feasts upon bruised remains. and something shifts within, uneasy, - unthreading. it’s the guilt clogs in her throat, mangled wounds prodded and prised apart ; you did this. “at least you could probably get a nose job out of this, i mean, - he really fucked up your face.” perhaps it's too soon to tease, but a laugh breaks from the back of her throat ; contorted. it tastes like before. of filthy hands wrapped against organs, whispered secrets pooled behind closed words. but she halts before continuing, platform boots digging into chipped grounds, her skateboard laid at her feet. “are you okay?” / @ncbodyshome​.

[oflovcrs]

“i might throw up if i have anymore of this shit, you gonna hold back my hair?” muffled words carve against pink cotton candy floss pressed against lips. the summer humidity clings to flesh ; stifling. it leaves her woozy, unthreading and threatening to spin ; uneasy. everything about them has shifted, the ground beneath them turning, and she’s desperately grasping hold of what is left ; those ruins wedged between teeth. she chews it slowly, - like she had been trained to sew herself shut since she was little. and she can’t look at sutter right now, not when the words do not fit into her mouth, - nor when honey pooled hues are stuck between detailing features or glancing around for the others. but she’s distracted, momentarily, sticking fingers between glossy petals ; sucking against the remains, - sticky and culminating. it burns. “shit, is that at a fucking ring toss?” and she’s picking up her pace, platform boots wedged into stale grass ; swallowing barbed wired secrets. “you want me to win you a prize? not to suck my own dick, but i’m amazing at this stuff. won sloane a bunch of teddy bears in the past.” @fortyfivcs​. 

[oflovcrs]

flick & leo ·:

“Excusez moi, garçon,” Without any sort of grace, Leo shoved past the boy talking enthusiastically to Flick. Leo didn’t recognize him, which didn’t particularly matter - he wouldn’t have attempted to be nice whether they knew each other or not. With practiced familiarity, he threw an arm around Flick’s shoulders, pulling her in close to his side. Leo was already grinning, but it only widened when he imagined how much she’d hate it, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” The picture of a perfectly happy couple - on Leo’s part, at least - when he leaned in to press a kiss right to Flick’s mouth. Her company seemed stunned after the impromptu show, “She wasn’t bothering you, was she? I know she can be a total blabbermouth. I love her but jeez Louise, let me get a word in, am I right?” @oflovcrs·

                                                    ·  * .

his touch carves into flesh slowly, sodden and sinking. bite me, haunts, hungry and devouring. a sun kissed frame falling into his arms, her own tightly wounded and crossed ; guarded. she hates him in more ways than one, and she despises that when he’s licking into her mouth all she tastes is him, - all alcohol drenched and lucid daydreams ; pulling apart at her seams. she lurches. foot kicking against his shin, dimpled smile breaching features ; it carves with a bite. “what the fuck was that for?” she’s swiping glossed lips with the back of her hand, - she wants him to burn, or to cry. each part of their relationship strained ; t-shirt pulled and shoved under his pillow. “jealousy is unbecoming on you, asshole. if you wanted to speak to me, you didn’t need to manhandle me like a king fucking kong. did that make you feel good? did that make you feel like a man?”