a pretty little talking bird. (autoplay)

[princessist]

john.

snag of rampant-run brunette tresses brushed over the shoulder blade, fingers crowd at the depth of a never-empty pocket, thum- bing over the hilt of a collapsed blade absently–she has two, one in the denim, one in the flannel. attention snared by the meekly- posed query, brows lift a slight upon the forehead, something akin to amusement flickering over the features. though she knows the other to be a fountain of composure, she has seen her much lower and much more vulnerable–by her hand, typically.

‘ we’re talkin’, ain’t we? ‘

       amusement at her own expense is met with a chagrined sort        of impatience, shut up held fast behind the soft curve of painted        lips ; claire hasn’t ( though it’s tempting, in some tiny, ugly part        of her taught personality that she hates -- she’s still learning that        boundary, between the real and the not real ) come here to fight,        and the whites of her teeth sink into the lower plush. she’d be the        last person to admit she practiced this conversation under her        breath in front of her vanity, but here she is, and everything she        thought of saying now sounds painfully stupid -- the sense that        she’s about to make an utter fool of herself unavoidable.

                “ yeah, i guess we are. ” an unusually weak half-smile, visibly                    uncertain. “ look, i -- i’m going to be honest with you, i don’t                    really know what i’m doing. but we -- you know, we haven’t                    really talked about saturday, and i’ve been thinking that ...                    that it would be okay if we -- ” claire’s gaze drops, soft flame                    of her hair tumbling into her eyes a moment when she shakes                    her head. “ what i’m trying to say is ... was that just a one-time                    thing? because -- i don’t know what i’m doing, and it’s ... okay,                    if you want someone who’s sure. i mean, you -- i can imagine                    it’d be ... you know, annoying, or whatever, with someone who’s                    ... new. i don’t know if i like -- if i like kissing girls. but i liked                    kissing you, and -- i’ve been thinking that it would be okay with                    me if it wasn’t just a one-time thing. can you please say something                    now before i keep babbling and say something stupid that i’ll never                    live down? ”

[faultycamera]

[princessist]

i was scared of dentists, and the dark. i was scared of pretty girls, and starting conversations.

[princessist]

benderist

                    “ can i, um -- ”

       nervous fingers ( a rarity for one so accustomed to performing        confidence ) tug slightly at the ends of copper locks, close to        the nape of claire’s neck ; better that than waving through the        puffs of smoke surrounding the other girl in the back field of        the school, even if they sting at the lining of her nose. two        weeks since the first detention, and yet ( even with the glint        of her earring still in john’s ear ) claire remains somewhat        uncertain as to where she stands. as to where they, together,        stand -- if there even is a together.

                   “ can i talk to you for a minute? ”

[callmebyyour-destiny]

[jokes-im-serious-deactivated201]

Do you ever just wanna hug someone so tight and not let go until they are convinced they are amazing and worth the world because I do.

[feelthecold]

Visit Original Link

Fleetwood Mac - Landslide

[askyfullofwinterstarsss-deactiv]

[princessist]

Touch my muse! Touching is a quiet way of conveying your feelings, so tell me how you feel with your touch!

Top of head: Sibling affection/parental affection

Hair: Yearning

Ear: "I want you to hear me out."

Nose: "You're so cute."

Cheek: "I want to tell you I love you."/Deep affection/Devotion

Neck: Dislike/Hate/Disdain

Shoulder: Worry/Concern for other/Fear

Waist: Possessiveness/"You are mine."

Over the heart: "I love you."

Butt: Sexual attractiveness/lust

Hip: Interest

Back: Wanting to kill/will betray you one day

Stomach: Fun!/Silliness/"Wanna go cause some trouble?"

Forearm: Indifference/Don't particularly care for

Biceps: Aggravation/Irritation/"You are an idiot."

Fingers: Friendship/amicable

Wrist: Fear of losing you

Knee: "Don't worry, I'm here for you."

Chin: Beauty/attractiveness

Thigh: Sympathy/empathy

Calves: "I will cause you pain."

Feet: "I will serve you forever."/Deep devotion and and feelings of servitude/extreme fealty

[rpfunstuff]

Send me a ▲ for my muse to wake up to yours climbing through their bedroom window.

[orbitae]

Visit Original Link

[princessist]

“Cause everything’s a game Always trying to calculate Trying to look smart but not too smart To threaten anything they say.”

[bangbangtotherocknroll]

Visit Original Link

"Don’t You Forget About Me…" 

   - Simple Minds

[crossconnectmag]

Paintings from Los Angeles-based Vakseen.

I’m invigorated by women, popular culture and the value of self. My paintings evolve around society’s idolization of beauty, the enhancements women endure to obtain this level of “perfection” and the impact this has on the female species.

[universexy]

[wejustwanttomakelove]

[princessist]

benderist.

fingers pry at the covering situated over the meat of his palms, prying the netting away to stuff the gloves into his denim pocket. distress writes into his brow a- -nd cultivates lines into his face, dramatically increa- -sing his displayed stress levels, heightening his age. he’s sixteen, but he could be older. he’s a child, but he could be a corpse. john kneads his uncovered fin- -gers through his hair line and drags them down his face, attack still decimating his body and his levelhe- -adedness.  expelling a low breath, john pinches the bridge of his nose—if just to squeeze at the muscle connecting the brow and bone—and girds his should- -ers back, attempting to swallow down the agony, to lap away the bleeding. it’s like fire in his stomach, and he isn’t equipped to care for the sudden onslaught of opening, invisible wounds. he cannot thwart off the b- -lade, or block the bullets—they tear through, regardless.

he doesn’t cant his head to get a look at her, not first, oblivious to her identity, assuming she is just a patron of the establishment with a need to use a stall. he is thankful there are no other people in the room, thankful stall do- -ors are pushed open and no line of men sta- -nd at the urinals. she comes into clarity, all pink and soft colors, technicolor in vivid disp- -lay, an image of a woman he distantly recalls, a television actress or a magazine cover girl—- the poison swells up in his windpipe again and he’s hunching, shoulders shuffling back. it is d- -ifficult to breathe, and his stomach twists, fing- -ers clenching white against the basin of the sink.

shifting back in an attempt to get a look at her, with a gaping inhale ( it feels like he’s drowning, his chest is burning and his stomach is squeezing, air, i need air ), john twiddles a hand in front of his solar plexus, hovering above the cloth but never touching his twitching heart.  ” i can’t—-breathe, i.. feels like i’ve… been fuckin’ stabbed, or .. ” jaw muscle twinges, and john  manages to take in a shaking, long breath, straightening out to a healthy bipedal stance, settling a hand against tile frame, but his shoulders bend a bit and his hair hands.

       there's a curse on claire's tongue, bitten back, that        she doesn't voice -- expressing her own frustration,        she thinks, with her own ineptitude won't help any-        -one, will only stress her further and spread to john        like a contagion ; she pauses, a moment, to steady        her own breaths, shifts a little closer, but soft, a        blanketing of snow to cool rather than a scrape of        sandpaper trying to round his edges, blunt and soften        his corners, taking instinct into hand if naught else.        what would i want someone to do if it were me?

                              “ i'm right here, ” she murmurs, palms and fingers                               itching to touch -- to hold him, she thinks, to let                               him take some stability from her skin and bones                               even if it leaches her and leaves her weak in the                               exchange -- but not daring to push him that far,                               not without a clearer go-ahead. “ you're gonna be                               okay -- no one's going to hurt you here. ”

       tongue darts to the seam of glossed lips, and claire pulls in        a breath ; glances to their figures in the panelled bathroom        mirror, an unwanted shudder rippling up her spine at just        how distressed he looks in his reflection ( you shouldn't         have said that ; how would i know, i mean, he lies about        everything anyway -- an echo of that moment surfacing,        the wounded snarl in john's voice, the bolting, and her        stomach aches, suddenly, keenly ) before casting her        gaze back to his face, earnest in its care, in its concern.

                              “ look, just -- focus on me, okay? i'm right here.                               you're gonna be okay. just follow my breathing,                               yeah? we're gonna go in five seconds and out                               five seconds, together. you think you can do                               that with me? ”

[discomforted]

A snake was hit by a car. A woman picks him up, feeds him, and gets him to a full state of health. But then he bites her, injecting her with his deadly poison. On her death bed, she asked “after all I did why me?” The snake responds “you knew I was a snake when you picked me up.

(via discomforted)

[aseaofquotes]

Marcus Sedgwick, She Is Not Invisible