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i write stuff sometimes. mostly an original character/rp blog. poetry/prose blog found here.

[coltre]

Dana Lauren Goldstein

[javierrey]

[lessgirlmoredisease]

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[spinelesss]

"I’d do anything you told me to." Now here’s something he hasn’t heard before, something he hasn’t previously known, and it’s honeycomb on his eardrums. Ethan listens to her mutter, watches her hide behind her palms and wrists and he can’t…

[spinelesss]

It’s not fair, that’s all Ethan can think. He tells her it’s okay and it’s an invitation. It’s okay, also known as… Kiss me, grab my hand, let me touch the jacket you’re wearing, come home with me, let’s fuck, let me make love to you. Kiss me as in — and she doesn’t hear it. “What do you mean that’s it?” He looks at her now, pushes some dark blonde hair from his eyes.

[lessgirlmoredisease]

Hera stands up and she can’t believe that she’s doing it. As she stands it feels alien, she’s not in control of her body. “I mean…” she says, she thinks for words and swallows dryly. Her hands are shaking slightly and she shoves them into her pockets. Her stomach is turning. “Dunno.” She looks at Ethan in the dim light and she looks at his car and at everyone with an ear pressed to them. She kicks some loose gravel with the toe of her boot. “Dunno…” she repeats and her voice sounds weak. 

[spinelesss]

Don’t know. Ethan wants something better than that. He wants to know how to fix this (them); he wants to know how they can be functional. He’s as loyal as an old, sick dog and it doesn’t matter, he will forever keep coming back. Or, change of pace, let Hera come back. “I miss you.” His shoe, one of his battered up Vans, scrapes forward on the asphalt and bumps into one of her boots. It’s affectionate, it’s prodding, it’s trying to keep her attention. “Do you miss me?” More importantly.

[lessgirlmoredisease]

That’s the exact wiggle room she needs. She looks at his foot for a beat, another. Hera bites her lip and then, faster than she thought her creaky bones could manage, she’s down on her knees and wrapping her arms around him. Worn denim on the ground, her face buried against his chest. “I do, baby, I do.” She breathes him in, that signature smell of Ethan, and she wonders how she went so long without it. She wonders how she went so long without touching him but most miraculously, she loves that it feels like no time at all. 

[spinelesss]

And this is what he’s been waiting for. The drop to the knees, the contact, the lapping that contact up like dogs. Baby. Baby, baby. He wants to hear it over and over again but instead he just wraps his arm around her, tugs her onto his folded knees without giving her a chance to object. “Thank God…” He doesn’t laugh. Ethan doesn’t smile anymore when these things happen.

[lessgirlmoredisease]

Hera just sighs, low and heavy and she keeps her arms wrapped tightly around him because she’s afraid that if there’s any slack, any leeway, he’ll dissipate like smoke from her hands. She’s been aching for this and even though he’s the one who told her to leave, she can’t be angry. She wants to stay. She pulls her head up from his chest and kisses his face, everywhere but his lips. Pressing kisses into his forehead, cheeks, nose, eyes. “Take me home,” she punctuates the thought by finally kissing Ethan on the lips, but only lightly. 

[spinelesss]

She kisses his skin and he closes his eyes and, holy shit, he might break in half, he loves her that much. The anger dissolves, the brief hate, the frustration, the regret; all fades away in a matter of a few moments and he just nods at what she says, grapples in his own coat pockets for keys, where the fuck are the keys? "Okay." Opens the passenger door for her, watches her every step like she's gold, about to flee, and he's rich but once she runs he'll just be a poor man again. He starts the engine and ignores the gazes that watch them, some bored, some curious, some rolling their eyes.

[wolfsbanepunch-deactivated20160]

I’m seventeen, and I love a girl who is both heaven sent and hell born, who wears a halo atop her horns. Her red hair sets flame to my pillowcase when it’s fanned out like a forest fire. She’s narcotic, all honey and heroin and haikus. Marionette strings grow from her hands like fingernails. Her hand moves and my heart turns puppet in my chest. She makes me a vixen a villain a victim out of the “V” of her hips. I steal kisses from her like a thief, I worship the deity of her wrists, press prayers to her pulse with my lips. In her gray dress that rolls and unfurls like storm clouds, her legs, pale and bright, are lightning strikes and I wanted them wrapped around my head, electrocuting me to oblivion and skin heat. My switchblade smiles her machine gun mouth our tongues are daggers we spar with and I was taught that a woman is a weapon and I learn that she is never more lethal than when in love. For her, I want to be the shore she builds her sandcastles on. For her, I want to be the tree she carves her name into, a declaration that she was there, she’d climbed my branches, she’d touched my leaves. I’ve heard people say that the person you love is like your favorite novel and here is my greatest fear, my cobwebbed covered secret: she is a book I’ve borrowed from the library, she comes with an expiration date, with the inevitability of return. She’ll be consumed by others who will bookmark her pages, and will memorize her passages. Will they find solace in her soft similes the way I had? Will they read between her lines? If our passion is borrowed, I’ll return her dog-eared, her spine cracked from my love. I’ll leave my favorite parts of her in fingerprints and tear stains. Whoever takes her off the shelf, will find the flowers I pressed between her pages and know that she had been loved fiercely. I will remember her by the scorch marks on my pillow.

(via wolfsbanepunch)

[clementinevonradics]

Here is what I know: You drink your coffee black and we are afraid of each other. Once you kissed my neck in front of your friends and it made me very shy. Once you kissed my stomach and I started crying. I see the tender way you touch things and want to kiss your nose but I keep my mouth to myself. Your collarbones are craters big enough to fit my fist into. You are the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in months. I was not good to the last person I loved so I punished my heart (I let it break and bleed out then roughly sewed it back together) It is hard to write poems when I only know how to fuck you. I am always trying. I am thinking of Somedays. I am saying goodbye. You asked why I never write anything honest so I am writing you this.

Clementine von Radics (via synthetic-synaesthesia)

[spinelesss]

this kid thinks he can preach

[affinitied]

I Had a Dream About You / Richard Siken

[kaitrokowski]

HOW THE CYNIC FALLS IN LOVE

When I realized I loved you  it was not romantic  Not flush with pink roses & wine but rather normal  Rather standing in line at CVS  clutching a four pack of peanut butter cups  & cold medicine It was a quiet realization  Like checking the weather I was currently standing in  "Huh. It’s a bit warmer than I would have guessed.” 

[spinelesss]

--- Ethan wouldn't be so foolish as to stop her from coming closer. At first, he's too preoccupied trying to compose himself to notice, anyways. Surely he has a match in here somewhere. His hands feel for smooth plastic or paper but he only feels like soft interior and he scowls, frowns. It's like the frown is a permanent part of his features these days; he wears it so well, too. He notices her sit but he says nothing, just tenses his shoulders, curls his fingers up at his palms and bites his tongue. The red is a flick of color on the edge of his vision. He watches her shake, doesn't know what to think of that. It's chilly outside but he knows her body has rarely previously cared enough about the cold to shiver and shake. He's still for a long time, watching her hand, before he finally plucks the lighter from her grip. He cups his hands and returns the cigarette between his lips, puffs at it a few times until, finally, the end glows hot orange. "Thanks." It's a mutter. He takes a drag, exhales smoke for too long. He wracks his mind for anything to say to her, anything else. He wants her to feel guilty but instead he feels it himself and man, does it bite. His brow creases low to his eyes while he counts the stray rocks on the asphalt, the cigarette butts in the cracks. It's scary that, even in this tense silence next to her, he feels whole again. He's no longer missing because this girl is next to him and even if she has his hair on edge and his mouth in a scowl and his shoulders tenses up under those layers of fabric, this feels right. They're a team. They always were more partners (in crime; in general) than they were lovers. His eyes squint at the fender of his car finally, inspecting for damage, his body leaning a little to see over the curve of it. He inspected the car because he wanted to inspect Hera but couldn't. He'd much rather be turning her around in circles, lifting up the leather and thin fabric to check for wounds, but he can't. He won't fucking do it this time -- he won't. He will try not to, at least. "In my defense, you just left. You didn't even try to stay."

[fhauly]

You were addicted to her like alcohol every single day you drank her up. She was in your veins flowed through like blood. Then you decided to go sober.

[spinelesss]

Shouldn't have done that. Ethan regrets what he did; regrets turning her away, regrets taking clear stabs at her dignity and pride just to knock her down a couple levels. He doesn't realize the power he has because she makes him feel quite the contrary. She makes him feel like a beggar on his knees with his wrists bound behind his back, whimpering for a taste of honey dripping off of thrones. So instead he flipped the blade around, turned the tables.

The house was empty to begin with but there's a bigger void where she would come some nights. The mattress on the floor is cold, he has to use the sheets and blankets now. Nothing changes except that he shoves what little she left behind (she doesn't own much) into a box that sits in an empty corner against the white plaster wall. He also hangs up a poster on the wall with light bubblegum pink sticky tack (wad of light green chewing gum in his cheek) and the bedroom becomes a mattress on the floor with a poster on the wall and a dresser in one corner and a box in the other. It’s more than before, but it's also less.

That same pink tack is the only thing that held he and Hera together but it’s not like he's accepted that. You can’t justify that much time with safety pins and thumbtacks and duct tape. Drinking her in booze feels like a sin, but he does that anyways. He sucks Hera out of light green and dark brown bottles and clear glasses of whiskey over ice and silver/red flasks he carries in his inside coat pocket.

The thing about Hera is that he's still got second degree burns on his throat, still got callouses on his palms and when he looks at the dirt caked under his fingernails he mistakes it for her eyeliner. He lived in the back of a van with her, busted glass on the pavement and kicked over shelves in convenient stores with her. She left him with nothing but blood stains from her busted noses on more than one of his t-shirts and hoodies but he'd always known that’s how it would be. 

He hates her for not coming back. He wants her to be just like him, a dog tied to a tree. He gets too, too, too drunk and gags over the toilet. 

That's why he isn't exactly as mad as he should be when he sees her kick the fender of his car. He isn't as mad as he should be because she's Hera, blonde or not, and he's Ethan, and God only knows he can't hold his ground, not when it comes to her. 

He'll sure fucking try, though.

"You've got nothing better to do than hurt yourself on my car?" His voice slides off his tongue with dark malice yet he can only stand there with his arms crossed, too scared to come closer, just like a mouse taunting a cat. He might not have recognized her but the bruise was the clarification he needed, and his light eyes quickly skitter away from it, from her. This is just picking stitches too early.

[larmoyante]

He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

W.H. Auden, excerpt from “Funeral Blues” (via larmoyante)

[larmoyante]

If you hate a person, you hate something in him that is part of yourself. What isn’t part of ourselves doesn’t disturb us.

Hermann Hesse, Demian (via larmoyante)

[lastdaysofmagic]

He felt warm and familiar. He felt solid and safe. I wanted to cling to his shirt, bury my face into the warm curve of his neck, and never let go.

Becca Fitzpatrick, Crescendo 

[spinelesss]

Boy With a Coin pt II

The thing is, holy shit, it isn't like this is anything new.

The first time it happened, Tom was a sophomore and Peter was a junior and they were in a car. They were stopped in a parking lot because Peter was so fucking upset, and Tom ended up sitting on the fucking center console, his hands on Peter's arm and wrist and his forehead against Peter's temple mumbling something about breathing. And when Peter calmed down they didn't move. They didn't move and the burning was back and all Tom could feel was how hot Peter's palm was against his, and his own hand was sweating but he wasn't going to pull away, and he should kiss him. He didn't know why, but he should, he just had a feeling. Peter needed to be kissed. But Tom was too scared, he was always too scared, and he didn't like going off of impulses so he just didn't, he didn't kiss him, just bumped his bare foot against Peter's calf while he wondered if Peter felt the burning, too. 

It's just that Tom didn't worry about things like that. It was a natural feeling, it was affection, it was just that he loved Peter, he really did. And though he fought the desire more and more often it still wasn't ever considered an issue to him. Peter dated other people and fucked other people but it didn't matter, Tom sort of knew in the back of his head every time that they weren't permanent, and maybe that's why it wasn't ever such a problem. Maybe he feared the static of this. Maybe that's why just Audrey's name made him uncomfortable, made his fingertips ache with the need to touch Peter because Peter was his first. (God, no he wasn't, he'd never been Tom's, not technically, not really.) 

He watches Peter put his arm around Audrey and his mind wonders, trails off, spins in circles, and when he looks away he imagines Peter putting his arm around him instead. It's pointless. His heart doesn't jerk at the thought, mostly because it's not real. It doesn't ache. It isn't so bad, yet, he can deal with this. She's decent, even if sometimes Tom thinks she's looking at Tom like he's something to be chased away or trapped or eaten. She's moody and Peter isn't the only one who gets whiplash. Tom just tells himself he doesn't need Peter's arm over his shoulders to know he's still important. Stop being petty. It doesn't matter, not really, not when Audrey leaves and Peter stays and they go play basketball and Peter fucking nearly dunks and Tom tells Peter he just let him make that shot, he's just giving him a head start cause he's gonna whoop his ass, and Peter says whatever and laughs and it echoes against the cement.

- 

It doesn't matter one bit. 

Peter showers and passes out on Tom's bed and Tom stays on the floor doing some homework, because unlike Peter he has school tomorrow. Math isn't his strong suit, though, and he must slam his book pretty loudly because Peter says, "Hand me that." Tom starts because he didn't hear him wake and when he looks up Peter's sitting up in the bed, hair messy with his hands out and his eyebrows raised even though his eyes are still sleepy. Tom sighs but doesn't protest, just hands him the book and then crawls onto the bed beside him. 

"I fucking hate math." 

"I know." Peter snorts, takes the pencil that Tom hands him next, and starts to work. Tom made it a quarter through the assignment in half and hour but Peter speeds through them fairly quickly, mimicking  Tom's handwriting and telling Tom what to punch into the calculator and trying to explain some things. Tom doesn't know how he does it. 

Peter shuts the book when he's done, slides it back toward Tom.

Tom takes it, fiddles with the worn edge of the hardcover, bites his lip. "Go back to bed, sleepyhead." With a lazy, fond smile. Peter smiles back once, then sinks back into the pillows and says something about expecting monthly payments for homework starting on the 30th, but he's kidding, and he closes his eyes quickly. Tom pushes blankets up to Peter's middle and then slides in beside him. 

-

Peter ditches Tom to go to Audrey's and Tom tells himself it's stupid. It doesn't matter. He tells himself he's overreacting and everything he's feeling is unnecessary and for God's sake relax. He's still your best friend, you still come first. But he cries with his palm against his eyes and progressively feels stupider and stupider, because Peter is her's now but was never really his own to begin with. (He's not an object, anyways, even if Tom would much more like to wrap him up and put him in his wallet and write "Tom" all over him so people would know.) 

It's when Peter doesn't apologize that Tommy feels his emotions are entirely unwarranted. Peter drops him off at home and that night he folds his feelings neatly and stores them away under his bed, in dresser drawers under t-shirts, in the pipes of the bathroom sink, underneath his shoelaces. In the shower they wash out of his hair and off of his scraped palms and he doesn't watch them swirl down the drain with the grime.

He doesn't want to find them again but he stores them for safekeeping, just in case. 

- 

They didn't used to get drunk like this, at least not together. They've been drunk but Tommy can't remember the last time he's been this drunk, past return, alcohol so heavy in his blood he can hardly walk straight. Peter turns the shower on and Tom's coughing like he might throw up, but he doesn't, he just laughs, and Peter laughs back. "Get in, Tom." Tom does what he's told when he's this drunk. He gets his pants off but that's it, he doesn't think about everything else until his feet are over the edge and he's sitting on the tile under the water. He pulls his socks off, already soaked, and tosses them back out. "Dammit."

Peter gets in, boxers only, and his knees bump Tom's back, slide and therefore tug the fabric of his shirt, stretch it. He says something about how cold it is and Tom says something but it's not really coherent because he sticks his head under the spray and water dribbles unevenly over his lips and the words sort of get lost there. When he opens his eyes the world's still spinning and he laughs again, edging closer to a giggle. "This isn't working," he tells Peter, looking over his shoulder. Peter's knees dig against his shoulder blades. 

"You're wearing your shirt, dude, no wonder." Peter points out, and Tom just sort of looks at him like this makes no difference because he's still shivering regardless. 

When they get out, Tom grabs towels from the linen closet and shoves one at Peter's chest, causing them to both stumble. "You're so drunk!" Tom accuses and laughs again, and Peter scoffs and rolls his eyes, then rubs his face and hair with the towel.

"You're drunker."

"I don't think so."

(He smiles to assure him, but the words slur.)

Peter lays down first and Tom lays down beside him, on his side of the bed, because they've had sides since junior high when Peter started becoming a fixture of the Hanes house on weekends. Peter's back faces Tom, his face half smooshed into the pillow. Give it two minutes.

Two minutes later Tom's on his side, scooted closer than necessary, rubbing his hand lazily up and down Peter's back. This is what they do. Maybe it's more intimate when they're drunk, maybe it's more intimate when they're sober. Neither of them think much of it. Tom's fingers plant things in the notches of Peter's spine, and when he yawns his breath, heavy saturated with alcohol, comes out warm over Peter's neck and that's what waters those things he plants.

"I love you, man," Tom says, knowing that Peter won't hear the hidden meaning behind it, even if it's a meaning Tom isn't even trying to hide. Not when he's this drunk.

"You, too," Peter says easily, the words sliding out whiskey smooth off of his tongue, like they're effortless. Tom lets them soak into his skin, through his palms and under his ears. He wants to apply more to those words than what's really there but lucky for him his head is too fucking drunk.

Peter's breaths even out and Tom's arm slides over his middle before he slips under and stills.

[requestmodels]

Nicola Wincenc photo by Marco Torres (follow us on instagram click the picture to be redirected!)

[jadewootton]

Our hearts beat so loud the neighbours think we’re fucking when I’m just trying to find the nerve to touch your face.

Andrea Gibson, “Pansies”