𝙞 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙢𝙮𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙙. @openness - Tumblr Blog

𝗢𝗣𝗘𝗡𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗦 * — a priv. & sel. multimuse. featuring vincent valentine of final fantasy vii. as imagined by sinna / sidonie.

𝙖𝙣 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙣 : the willingness to kill & die for your ideals, an eternity of loneliness, living between two deaths, imperfect victimhood, atonement in excess, girls against god, the body as prison, but also as playground, antigone's legacy, self - made messiahs, false prophets & the pains of loving them.

𝙞. 𝗱𝗼𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗲𝗿 𝙞𝙞. 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗺𝗽𝘁𝘀 𝙞𝙞𝙞. 𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗱𝗶𝘁

blogroll : @serapime & @manipulation

mobile friendly roster & rules under cut.

#DNI: DO NOT INTERACT.#SINNA / SIDONIE. TWENTY - SEVEN. THEY/HE. B/W. CST.#𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴 : 7.#𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴 : 15.#𝘶𝘱𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 : 6/24/26.

on akira & the issue of the rpg self - insert : any portrayal of her has to contend with the disease of the self - insert, of the supplication that goes both ways— she must anticipate the exact thing that the people around her want to hear, want her to do, and she must do it, otherwise she will not be loved, and in turn she becomes an object of obsession; she can do no wrong, she is perfect and personal and intimate in exactly the way they want. she is everything you want. but who is she?

the player is punished for answering things honestly; you must consult guides or know the characters well enough to respond “ perfectly ” so that you may deepen your relationships faster, and i use scare quotes because there is no real perfection in these sorts of conversations, there is just what the developers and writers want you to think is correct. relationships are min - maxed, gameified. the point of these relationships is not to get to know the characters better but to see how quickly you can reach their conclusion, how fast you can fix them or the problem that comes to define them, but even worse, to see what they can do for you. (people like ohya are seen as useless because her confidant benefits are bad, gameplay - wise. your relationships only matter if they are beneficial, transactional.)

in this way, akira is inherently manipulative. she does not mean to be, does not act this way maliciously. but she is rarely telling the truth when interacting with others, because she is so caught up in the act of performing. she must know what people want and must give it to them. it doesn’t matter what she really thinks, and anyway, does she really think anything? what she knows: she wants to be wanted. and she will get this by any means, even if it means making others reliant on her, or at least the idea of her that they hold in their heads.

she’ll do or say anything if it means that someone will love her for it. she divines what a person wants and embodies it, or pushes them towards it, reifying their biases or the little voices in their heads that they otherwise ignore. i think of the exchange between her and yusuke in the church: “ spending time with you has helped me discover new aspects of myself […] you are perhaps … a mirror of sorts. ” ; or yoshida, “ just talking with you always helps me make up my mind [...] it’s as if my heart is being manipulated. ” these things are said as if they are compliments, and akira takes them as such, but are they, really? they are plainly telling the player that she is purely reflexive and a bit of a user. she doesn’t care, she just wants to hear that she is needed.

being chosen by god is not a blessing. i think it is significant that yaldabaoth embodies control. its chosen do, too, but the control they exert is mostly towards themselves. they aggressively self - police in order to create the versions of themselves that are consumable. akechi doesn’t know who he is and it destroys him, because he cleaves himself in two, and his performance fails both times. akira doesn’t know who she is but doesn’t really care. she is always successful. all her relationships serve her, her friends are her power but it is not because they enrich her as a person, but because they do tangible, easily measured things for her. everyone believes the play she puts on. she is exerting her own kind of control, not just over herself, but the cost— the blood price— that’s all hers.

i feel that this is contradictory to satanael and what it is supposed to represent ... liberation, chaos, independence. free will? akira is a prisoner to her own performance, which she does so well that even she has started to believe it. the only times we see her truly happy are when she has thrown herself into exaggerated displays of the gentleman thief character, intrinsically understanding that she is being watched and consumed. the decisions she makes are not truly free, they never were, and never will be, because everything that she does is in service to this eternal play. player character blues. maybe we can use this to mean that (wo)man will never be free from self - control, not unless everything, and i mean everything, is torn down.

#ok this is just me talking in circles. BUT.#if you get it you get it.#akira is such a. little creature.#but her own belief in her performance makes her incapable of ever really seeing herself for what she really is.#me when everything is secretly rgu :D #𝗶𝗶𝗶. akira ‚ 𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙖. *

memeishlyy

makima

#𝗶𝘃. makima ‚ 𝙞𝙢𝙜. *#when shes in her big formless columbo jacket>>>>>

owainigo

chainsaw man

#𝗶𝘃. makima ‚ 𝙞𝙢𝙜. *#𝗶𝘃. aki ‚ 𝙞𝙢𝙜. *#this style is soooooo facking good.

tiffsmemes

the house of forgetting taken from the 1997 benjamin alire sáenz book.

don’t argue with me.

if you don’t open this door, i’ll break it down.

would you like a blanket?

i’m not myself.

think about it, honey. just think about it.

that quiet will kill you.

we better get this arm taken care of. hurt much?

you’re a survivor, honey.

you can’t teach them to love you, but you can teach them not to fuck with you.

you look like you’re feeling better.

shhh, you’re just a little tired.

it’s just a little blood.

that’s how the fucking world begins to die.

open the door.

sorry. bad habit.

it’s not anger, it’s love.

how long is a long, long time?

it’s better not to talk.

sleep won’t take away the pain.

what are you mumbling about?

it’s time to wake up, honey. no more sleeping.

i’ve been fucking things up lately. it won’t happen again.

take a shower. and then i’m going to feed you.

you know what your problem is? you forgive yourself too easily.

this is one thing you have to do for yourself.

i wish i’d died.

you don’t have to hide.

#𝘃𝗶. not ic ‚ 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙩𝙨. *

𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙖. @songsofreason : “ the language i’m most fluent in is story. ” to louis.

𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻. planted there by human hands, the morningstar has watched over the gentler species for ages upon ages, mesmerized by their day - to - day, by their capacity for cruelty, and for destruction. left to their own devices, a human can raze whole swaths of the planet. they are the vector for disease, famine - bringer. man is the locust. louis first read of these conquests in books with crumbling binding, pages full of foxing and reeking of the damp. then, he began to observe it directly. this was done with religious vigor. it is as though these things were their god.

dew makes soft the saint - juste curls crowning their lovely skull and gathers in pearl - colored raiments which fail to completely obscure the body beneath. there is a delicate balance between them. two animals hold one another at arm’s length: louis sits in her designated place, shoulders squared, never looking away from the other for more than a single breath. how many times can they reenact this dance? draw close, then pull away again. make no concessions. there is no shaking vergil’s commitment to whatever it is that he has determined is his only way forward; she, too, refuses to falter. pink - rimmed, eyes like the shards of smashed china bear into vergil. she will not flinch. son of sparda or no, he bows to none.

“ tell me one, then. ” though flat, without much affect to speak of, there is a certain childishness to louis’s demands. an absent smile makes the lower half of their face precious as the cherub. “ and make it good, won’t you? i tire of stories of knights and princesses. ” there is, to her, no room for this, not anymore. the time for fairytales has long passed. his hands fold neatly in his lap with an unnatural stillness, as if the rest of her body were stone and only the arms from the wrist down possess any life.

‘ what is your game? ’ he could ask but knows that there is no answer. for all of vergil’s decidedly unpleasant traits, he is not one for manipulation, she knows. he sees the demon as little more than something to be swatted away. a black fly. one day, he will come to regret this, but not now, because they have to uphold their end of the play. “ they always end in the same fashion. a slain dragon, a unicorn’s blessing, true love’s kiss—, ” obscene lashes close with the slightest upturn in the corners of his eyes, giving the impression of a pleased feline caught in a sunspot, and he cuts himself off. “ it puts me to sleep. i need something new. ” massacres, gardens of red agonies, beheaded queens or maidens with bloodied stumps where their feet should be, stinking seas of sin, the wolf: these are fantasies worthy of telling, and if louis has her way, they will be brought into being soon enough.

#eyeeee i have no idea if this is any good but (sniffles) my meow meows....#well behaved bottoms rarely make history or whatever....#feels weird 2 actually write louis lol i think shes one of my only muses who cant shut the fuck up.#so if his dialogue is bad. </3 im sorry #𝗶𝗶. louis ‚ 𝙞𝙘. *#songsofreason

madlapse

actually finished metaphor a month ago just forgot to post smth so here's a sketch dump

#𝗶𝘃. rella ‚ 𝙞𝙢𝙜. *#𝗶𝘃. louis ‚ 𝙞𝙢𝙜. *#rella art... thank U op for my life.#love love love the colors.

mezzeerie

Pewsona!! 5!! Babes!!!

#𝗶𝘃. akira ‚ 𝙞𝙢𝙜. *#𝗶𝘃. haru ‚ 𝙞𝙢𝙜. *#both of them!!! both of them!!!!!!!

desire3atsy0u

#𝗶𝘃. geto ‚ 𝙞𝙢𝙜. *#shes so pookie :).

ok im gonna clear some of my inbox and drafts out ... rb new prompts mayhaps ..... GUESS WHOS BEEN WATCHING RGU LOL....

#all my oomfs on sephi know alr. but still.#i will be adding juri and miki </3 sorry women.. bitches with internalized misogyny keep winning..#im also finally almost done with p5r lmaoooooo its only taken me 500 years.#which is to say... haru <3 #and akira <333333333 #also finally started playing xiv after being a hater for years so if anyone from there shows up PLEASEEE LOOK AWAY.#ooc tbd.

𝘀𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗰𝗵𝗶. haru puts herself to sleep in a too - big house, in a too - big bed, on a too - soft pillow. the air conditioning never lets up, so every room is cool, but even the central air can’t keep up with tokyo humidity, so there is an ambient dampness that is like being sealed inside something underground. everything echoes, too, like a cavern. her footsteps on the cool laminate floor go on for miles, so does the loud thump when she lets a door swing shut behind her rather than gently easing it closed. she is alone in this mausoleum and it is his fault. she should hate him. standing at the head of his table, tucked in the back of leblanc, where he maybe thinks no - one can see him, haru looks at his sleepless face and realizes that she cannot bring herself to, and this scares her.

blinking hard, it takes a minute to take everything in. is he a ghost? a trick of the light, maybe. sakura - san has not reacted to the boy and so she thinks that maybe she shouldn’t, either. some spirits excuse themselves if they are not acknowledged by the living. haru is frozen in place for what feels like an eternity as the waves of recognition wash over her and her face flickers with emotion; all of them, one - by - one. the years spent with her hands folded and lips sealed and dresses down to the knee and her head held just so— not so high that men think she is entitled, but not slouched, is that any way for a lady to hold herself?— pile up until haru can’t take it anymore, that passivity. he won’t get away from her this time.

the worn seat is hot under her thighs. it is run through with cracks like hairline fissures in bone, or thin sheets of ice over a body of water. a chipped saucer with a mismatched teacup is set down across from goro’s own mug and haru crosses her legs at the ankle, her hands pressed flat, palm - down, against the well - loved tabletop. there is a gaudy - looking flower printed on the teacup, a peony or a double tulip or something else bred for its beauty alone. she has always hated these. last week, she ripped up all the ornamental beds at the estate until all that was left were patches of clover and trefoils the groundskeepers missed and felt satisfaction curl up in her belly at the sight of the dying annuals heaped into a mound in the wheelbarrow, like a cat in a patch of sun.

today, black dirt is caked under her nails. if father saw this, he’d be furious. it wasn’t that long ago that this was a factor to be considered in every decision she made: what would father think if i wore this, if i went here, if this was someone i called my friend, if i speak this way or that? father rots like spoiled food in her mouth. dreadfully, she accepts it: he had to die. many girls come to this conclusion about their fathers only when it is too late. ‘ but he— ! ’

it tumbles out all at once, before she can refine it, make it less of an outburst. “ is this alright? you—, ” a trembling inhale cuts haru off; anemic. “ you probably want to be alone. but—, ”

curls dance against her cheeks as haru shakes her head. a dark nail rubs against the side of her cup, still hot to the touch. the liquid inside is a warm, peachy brown. “ i think you wanted to be found. ”

@spirestar , for akechi.

#BOO!#akechi literally never safe from me..... from HARU........know that #i hope dis is ok ehe. trying to feel her out still.#i think ... they could make each other worse? or better. its unclear.#𝗶𝗶. haru ‚ 𝙞𝙘. *#spirestar

ruinskies

It doesn't feel real, leaving home again. A handful of years ago Sylvain left for school and hoped that he would never return. Then she came back and it was too late--The malleable future she'd hoped for had become a solid thing in the face of war. No matter how much he tried to grow away from the trellis, his fate in Faerghus grew around the wooden slats anyway. He used to think he should've borrowed someone like Dorothea's charms so he'd have better thorns. This morning he saw her for the first time since the academy and regretted ever considering the notion. He's always known that he's cruel. Sometimes he forgets that everyone's been as miserable as him... and even moreso.

His old dorm room stands in a nearly destroyed wing. Dust shows that it's stayed abandoned even with the former Black Eagles taking over Garreg Mach. Perhaps the Blue Lions class decorations and their crumbling old possessions draw too much ire. A bitter reminder of simpler times. Sylvain understands--He's not sure that he belongs here either. A puff of dust flies into the air as he drops his meager belongings to the floor. It's a great boon that Edie's allowed him to come at all, and an even bigger one that he's the only one who's led Sylvain back to this place. Hubert isn't following at her heel because he's in Faerghus. For Sylvain. No, for Edelgard, for the Emperor, but Sylvain lets a sad little smirk cross his face at the reminder that now they may as well be one and the same. Sylvain is with the Empire now. With Edie.

The cool eyes on his back don't widen when he laughs softly or when he slides the fabric-wrapped monstrous lance off his back and sets it on a dirty old dresser. Somewhere on the side is a heart carved into the wood grain, some initials intertwined that he can't remember anymore. Did Mercie ever actually take him up on that date at the lake, or was he just hoping she would? It's all a fog, a mirage. Sylvain turns on a heel and smiles as he looks Edelgard up and down, the two of them still covered in plate and grime from the road.

@openness says, “ this is your home now, ” and her nose wrinkles just so when she adds, “ though you could have any other room here. ”

He laughs again, so quiet, and folds her arms across her chest. Edelgard understands, she's sure. When even home isn't home, how can anywhere else feel like it is? But: "I know, I know--When Hubert is back and everyone's blaming me a little less for any messes I've contributed to, I'll come around more. I don't." She shakes her head. The looks Sylvain saw on those faces when their party arrived... "I'm glad at least someone's happy I'm here." And their journey here was no small feat either. Aside from small skirmishes, they escaped mostly unscathed aside from the rough elements of the weather. Even the monastery isn't free from the chill of winter. And Sylvain is sure that sooner than later Edelgard will receive notice from Dimitri (or, rather, Dedue and Felix) about Sylvain's betrayal, a warning or threat or all of the above to her for harboring him. Another drop in the bucket of hate and misalignment, but it's enough to make Sylvain want a job to do so he's out of view when it arrives. He's going to catch an axe in the neck from Caspar otherwise, or it feels that way.

"How long will I have your undivided attention for, hm?" She smirks again but this time it's mischievous. She's looking for any trace of the person she spoke to in her tent on that hilltop within this portrait of an Emperor standing before her--trying to poke a little of that person out of him even now that they're here where the words shared must become a true thing. Sylvain knows he's only twisted fate with his own hands with help. Now, it's her turn, and she takes a step closer, tone knowing and teasing: "I'm sure there's a real reason you agreed to accompany me here. You could've sent a footman to pretend to guide me around this place. I know it well, as you remember."

openness

𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗱, 𝗺𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲. edelgard tries to not let herself be taken by these old superstitions— that any move against holy ground will doom a heretic in this life and the next, or perhaps that the goddess herself will reach down from heaven and blot you out, blast you to tartarus. it can be hard when there is about everything a heavy weight, or when the air begins to taste of decay. when he leads sylvain through the heavy doors of garreg mach and into the crumbling wing where the nobility of his former house once stayed, he cannot shake the feeling that they are doomed. the goddess whispers in her ear that they will both die, alone and unfulfilled. it may even be one of his childhood friends that kills him. she has ruined his life, surely.

sylvain's reticence upon their return is palpable. he goes from chittering near - relentlessly, like a shrub sparrow, punctuated by these breathless little laughs as if the air were being squeezed out of him, to uncomfortable silence until they reach what she recalls was his old room: untouched by man, just by time. he stumbles over his responses. his tongue must be in knots. edelgard juts her chin out just so, her mouth a flat line. “ they will learn to accept my decision. ” he says of the strike force, because there are times as a leader where dissent is unforgivable, and this is one of them. leading by force is ugly but at times necessary. this is one of many lessons he has learned after crawling out of the muck of his childhood.

edelgard shakes her head and with it goes some of the cobwebs, but not all. the journey back from faerghus is visible on her face: plum - colored shadows below her eyes, a patch of cold - burn high on her right cheek, a split in her lower lip that has yet to heal. his patience is as thin as it ever was, if not made worse by the exhaustion of the weeks spent on horseback. “ i have made my stance clear to them and they know better than to challenge me. you shouldn’t concern yourself with these things. ” there’s no point in reminding him that they are at war, that he betrayed dimitri and his ilk for a greater cause, and that whether or not she is liked by their comrades means little now. sylvain knows this already. he is equally vain and self - conscious, that’s all. it is for this same reason that he descends on him now, searching for warmth, for a reason stronger than pure ideals that she left home. the small face below her crown is glacial.

his voice bites, but it’s closer to the warning nip of an exhausted pet who has had enough of its owner’s childish games, “ what would you like me to say, sylvain? that i asked you here for a tryst? ” once, she may have considered it. in need of release, and urged, perhaps, by an even stronger desire for real, human closeness, edelgard had watched sylvain from across the library or the mess hall and imagined her hand between her legs. her ghostly eyes had hardened to flint and she stared at his throat and the soft flesh right below his jaw. she’d thought about the gentle swell of his chest and what his skin would taste like. but they are older now.

edelgard won’t admit that she is tired and cold and can feel death creeping in her bones; for all the openness between them, there are certain appearances she must keep. instead, she lowers herself onto an old chair pushed up against the wall, close to the door. her armor butts up against itself uncomfortably and she considers removing it all, but abstains, if only to catch her breath, or maybe she is too afraid of the other woman seeing something she’d rather keep hidden. it would take seconds to excuse himself, if he wanted. but here, no - one will come looking for him. so, she stays, ignoring the lack of space that exists between herself and sylvain now. he is so close that she could collapse into his arms.

in place of an apology, a heavy sigh is stifled, pushed slowly from her nostrils. in her bloodstream are the heaviest of metals and they weigh her down to the earth and pin her there. pale eyes lift to sylvain's face, soft, but wounded. ‘ i feel like an injured animal. ’ she thinks. ‘ i am aware of my mortality. ’ he has never been further from god. “ i’d like to rest for a moment. i’ll be out of your way soon, i promise. ”

#shaking you violently.#happy birthday sylvain U get kind of bitchy edie. he dont mean it tho.#this really is going to be the slowest burn on gods green earth huh......#made worse by how heinous their yearning is. AUGH!#𝗶𝗶. edelgard ‚ 𝙞𝙘. *#ruinskies

sugurustatic

Those eyes of yours could swallow stars, Galaxies and universes. What hope did I ever have?

openness

@heartinhands

#𝗶𝘃. geto ‚ 𝙞𝙢𝙜. *#:)

𝙠𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙨. @spirestar : eighteen, a kiss while laughing, from akechi, to akira.

𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗻𝗼 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 - 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻. you could chalk this up to pure stupidity, or maybe a total lack of regard for human life. she’s reckless and ruled by impulse, and if she wasn’t, she never would’ve found herself in tokyo. akira is fond of the gun. she puts the barrel in her mouth but does not pull the trigger because someone else has his finger on it. it is through luck alone that she stands here now, the toes of her loafers wet from the little waves rocking the surface of the pond, the tip of her nose and the apples of her cheeks flushed. for may, it’s a cold evening, with a brisk wind that rolls off the water and bites at their exposed skin. the chill goes unnoticed as her eyes crease into small crescents, a hand half - covering her mouth, shoulders trembling with a laugh that she can’t hold back. really, he’s too self - serious.

the stars, hardly visible through the heavy pollution of the city, must have aligned: after a pregnant silence, his sentence cut short by her outburst, goro laughs, too. it’s an odd sound. odder still is his face, which lights up in a way she’s never seen, because his features are always pulled too taut, like someone’s fingers were physically forcing him to smile. usually, his laugh is fake. all of him is. akira knows this and still leans in, still presses a kiss to the upturned corner of goro’s mouth mid - laugh. somewhere across the pond, something breaks the surface of the water, maybe a carp or a fishing bird. everything else is worlds away from them. he is soft and lovely against her, so she goes in again, but this time, their lips slot together. she expects to taste plastic or something bitter, like the glue on the back of an envelope. instead, there’s a sweetness lingering on the flesh, she imagines he just had a piece of hard candy that he let melt under his tongue, coating the inside of his cruel, pretty mouth.

the short heel of her left shoe sinks into the soggy grass as akira pulls away, slow. her cheeks are ruddier than ever and her fingers flex into a fist, then relax, then curl back in again. vaguely, she thinks she shouldn’t have done that. they both lack trigger discipline. suddenly shy, a tiny shake of her head sends curls tumbling over her forehead, catching on the thick rims of her glasses, which keep threatening to fog over, though she’s not looking at goro anymore. her tongue is dry and useless in her mouth. a cricket hums now in the reedy undergrowth, punctuating the quiet.

“ it’s nice, you know. when you smile. ” she says finally, the remnants of a last laugh curling up the ends of her words. lit only by the halogen bulb of the streetlamp streaking the water, her eyes return to his, which are completely unreadable under his overgrown bangs. akira’s hands find his, warm in her own, her thumbs pressing down into the delicate bones of goro’s knuckles. the skin and ligaments shift slightly. she sticks a pin through an insect. now, she can observe him forever. they can never get away from one another. “ a real smile. ”

she won’t say ‘ i love you ’, because she probably doesn’t. still, her heart lurches and settles high in her throat. not even a small cough can dislodge it. akira tries, but it remains trapped. a hard swallow doesn’t scratch it, either. the smile that she offers him is tinged with pain, but still a bit shy, maybe because she can still taste him when her tongue unconsciously darts out to wet her lips. gripping his hands tighter, almost hard enough to hurt, her head tilts to the side.

unhelpfully, she states the obvious. “ you’re a lot different than you are on tv when it’s just us. ” her voice is soft and flat. it is perfectly inoffensive. everyone gets vulnerable around her, she knows. their muscles go lax and tongues get loose, and she sits and takes it all in, her own edges fuzzy and undefined. she builds herself. she is the sum of many parts. “ i like you better this way. ” akira says this knowing that he is like her; his stomach is heavy with his many selves; and this, too, is not the real goro.

#erm.......... (hets your yaoi)#it is still valentines day... TO ME!#and i think.. they should....make each other worse. <3 #𝗶𝗶. akira ‚ 𝙞𝙘. *#spirestar

inabyssata

Today, suddenly, I reached an absurd but unerring conclusion. In a moment of enlightenment, I realized that I'm nobody, absolutely nobody.

theoptia

Fernando Pessoa, from The Book of Disquiet

#𝗶. johan ‚ 𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙮𝙨𝙞𝙨. *#AUGH.

heartinhands

His head is like a fog. Blonde strands dangle in his face as he's pulled from the realm of lost time and into... whereever this is. The space under James's head is warm. Dimly a moment comes and goes like water pulling memory from him like a knot unraveling and then he recognizes the heat as a lap. Again blonde strands tickle at his face, this time more intently, clearly shaken at his eyelashes with the goal of stirring him out of his stupor. James blinks and tries to shuffle his awareness around, make sense of the world around him. Bokehs of light speckle his irises. There are eyes above him. He's being watched. This is a human body. This is the body of a lady. A lady, a woman--Mary? and his heart leaps about out of his chest--is bowed over the top of him, grinning down at him.

No, not Mary. This woman stinks of alcohol. Her lips are too red, her eyes too devious. James is too tired to be filled with some sense of repulsion but his hands at his sides twitch. An impulse he's afraid to name. Disgusting, I'm disgusting. Lips part but before he can say anything--

@openness says, "Here I am! All alive."

The impulse dies. A moth, belly-up.

Did I faint? I don't remember. Where am I? James wets his lips, his throat dry. His voice is barely audible but it's not because he's not trying to speak when he asks the woman, "Who are you?" and immediately remembers her name as Eva. "...Eva?"

"Are you alright? I don't ... remember how I got here. We--got here."

openness

𝗵𝗲’𝘀 𝘂𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀. eva hates him, she thinks, but holds her tongue, loose as it is. instead, she rolls the hate around the inside of her mouth. it presses to her soft palate, knocks the backs of her very straight front teeth, is cradled under her tongue, hot against the sublingual tissue. she can’t let it go. without it, what is she? nothing. anger is a sweet becoming.

fingertips brush over the barely - there stubble on james’s cheek— he’s soft, almost all - over, just like kenzo. but not quite, because his skin is clammy and cold and the eyes that look up at eva are not kind, just dead. is this what she deserves? the ground is freezing under her folded legs and the heel of one scuffed leather pump slips off, exposing a small snag in her pantyhose. she should really buy new clothes. these ones have seen better days, but all that's left at the bottom of her purse are some crumpled bank notes. ‘ and those, ’ she thinks, ‘ are for the bartender tomorrow, or maybe tonight. ’ she is rich in sin alone.

a plum - colored nail, chipped, fingers at the tender skin of the lobe of an ear. “ did you hit your head? ” eva coos. or, he’s strung out. he’s definitely not drunk, that fermented stench is too close, it has to be from her own mouth. his face, too, is bloodless. it’s like he’s seen a ghost. her lips curl into an odd shape, more mocking than fond. “ i can’t leave you alone. ”

continuing, tracing the shape of his ear, she considers the numbness spreading through her calves and up to her thighs, and wonders where she’ll sleep tonight. with him? it would be better than on the street, if only marginally. her father must be rolling in his grave. “ you were at the bar— we were. i come back from the corner store and find you knocked out, on the pavement. silly boy. ” venom drips from wet, bitten lips, wrapped in a paper - thin facade of compassion. she really, truly hates him.

#maria 2 meet martin 2!#youve never seen people worse for each other!#this is so awesome i cant wait to put james into the marrow furnace.#𝗶𝗶. eva ‚ 𝙞𝙘. *#heartinhands

megthemariner

@ryebreadgf / The Truth About Grief, Fortesa Latifi / bone deep, m.v.e / Sidewalk, Richard Silken / @fridayiminlovemp3 / 60 hours, m.v.e / @itsblackleader / Salt, Nayyirah Waheed / @heavensghost

#𝗶. aqua ‚ 𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙮𝙨𝙞𝙨. *#𝗶. aki ‚ 𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙮𝙨𝙞𝙨. *#augh.

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