bones4breakfast

and soup beware i post gore sometimes 20s

[azamansource]

hello, gorgeous (x)

[messvoid]

Let gremlin Armand behead people!

[userarmand]

love when a nish expression sneaks outta armand <3

[squid--pro--quo]

[realpeoplefiction]

strange decanters by etienne meneau

[pmamtraveller]

Party Pooper by Matty Newton

[gumbyfan3140]

reblog to have trent reznor pee on your dirty dirty profile

[persephoning]

Fictional 500 year old vampires will have you doing shit like reading up on the Bengal Sultanate in the 16th century to better understand how he ended up on the opposite side of the subcontinent as a teen.

[hinasho]

I think I better understand Gabriella now with Ep 4. If I’m interpreting her right, I do think what they’re doing with her is interesting.

She is evil and that’s the point. Once she becomes a vampire, she finds liberation in not only becoming a monster, but specifically embracing evil. She wants to conflict with all societal values and morality. Goodness is expected, it is desired, we are all raised and taught to either try to be good people or at least do good things. This is what it means to coexist. Which is why she rejects it wholeheartedly. She finds freedom, happiness, and identity in being evil. This is quite horrible for anyone around her, but she wants to be horrid.

I can see how this may come off as one dimensional, but I think that may be from a perspective of viewing dimensions as there needing to be at least some aspect of goodness. Something sympathetic. But different from so far every other character in the show, Gabriella does not want to be sympathized with.

We know parts of her backstory. We can understand that her family, title, misogyny, and the overall societal restrictions she’s endured has made her feel smothered. But different from the other characters, she is not seeking connection or acceptance. She seeks complete & total freedom. She seeks monstrosity.

But her fear of societal confinement still wins over this. When it comes down to being revolting vs being unlabeled, she chooses the latter every time. In the tavern, owning up to being the Vece he remembered would’ve disturbed that man. Being acknowledged as Lestat’s mother in 2025 would create disgust in anyone who knows. And yet she denies both identities because her fear of being confined, of being societally comprehensible, is greater than her desire to repulse.

It makes her very unpredictable while at the same time very predictable. It’s interesting.

[vampireamadao]

this is the worst day of armand's life

[hansoeii]

fledgling

[lourocarmim]

cette cacophonie qui me scie la tête

[fullmetalfisting]

Me: *looking at a porcelain hand in the home decor aisle of a store* if I lost my hands in some kind of tragic accident, I’d decorate my entire home with hand-shaped things. Then I’d invite guests over for like, dinner parties and such and sit there expectantly just basking in their discomfort.

My boyfriend: Do you hear what you say when you talk? Do you know what you just said to me?

[stagbeetleboy]

I finally had a normal dream and it was literally just about rewatching the hitcher so I guess that’s what I’m doing tonight

[fruitgravies]

i spy the light going out of your blue eyes

insta • twt • bsky

[splrinky]

[littlesouljournal]

PROFANE by Ashe Vernon

The first time he calls you holy, 
you laugh it back so hard your sides hurt. 
The second time, 
you moan gospel around his fingers between your teeth. 
He has always surprised you into surprising yourself. 
Because he’s an angel hiding his halo behind his back and nothing has ever felt so filthy 
as plucking the wings from his shoulders— 
undressing his softness 
one feather at a time. God, if you’re out there, if you’re listening, he fucks like a seraphim, 
and there’s no part of scripture 
that ever prepared you for his hands. Hands that map a communion in the cradle of your hips. 
Hands that kiss hymns up your sides. He confesses how long he’s looked 
for a place to worship and, oh, you put him on his knees. 
When he sinks to the floor and moans 
like he can’t help himself, 
you wonder if the other angels 
fell so sweet. He says his prayers between your thighs 
and you dig your heels into the base of his spine 
until he blushes the color of your filthy tongue. You will ruin him and he will thank you; 
he will say please. No damnation ever looked as cozy as this, 
but you fit over his hips like they were made for you. You fit, you fit, you fit. On top of him, you are an ancient god 
that only he remembers and he offers up his skin. 
And you take it. Who knew sacrifice was so profane? And once you’ve taught him how to hold your throat in one hand 
and your heart in the other, 
you will have forgotten every other word, except his name.