❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
titsay
Love Begins
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if i look back, i am lost
sheepfilms
taylor price
Cosimo Galluzzi
@theartofmadeline
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Cosmic Funnies
YOU ARE THE REASON
occasionally subtle
Kiana Khansmith
Product Placement
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Not today Justin
macklin celebrini has autism
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@unholywoods-a
* google slides. * thread tracker. * spotify.
#𝖀NHOLYWOOD. 𝖙his is to anyone out there who’s still listening or still breathing. it turns out, hell does have a bottom ⅋ heaven, a ceiling. — plot-orientated multi-muse curated by sephonè (prev. known as korè). she/they. 25. do not interact unless you are eighteen or over.
[..] FOR THE GOOD TIMES, I WISH YOU FIVE MINUTES IN HEAVEN BEFORE THE DEVIL KNOWS YOU'RE DEAD.
[..] FOR THE GOOD TIMES, I WISH YOU FIVE MINUTES IN HEAVEN BEFORE THE DEVIL KNOWS YOU'RE DEAD.
[..] FOR THE GOOD TIMES, I WISH YOU FIVE MINUTES IN HEAVEN BEFORE THE DEVIL KNOWS YOU'RE DEAD.
my intention: revamp this. i’m mostly still @martyroshka
i’m still taking a break from this blog. i would like engagement @martyroshka. you don’t need to know anything about teen wolf (god knows that i don’t)
*
for you, i am me /point - blank, egotistical & wanting you. before you, i am the real, uncensored me. I AM THE ONE WHO WANTS YOU. —feed the hungry dog (my ego), give what’s desired, take what you wish to take.
it was barely audible, the pleasure - showcasing hum that he soon swallowed with feverish, hasty kisses & with my mouth working against his. eyes close, slowly succumbing into the desire; into you with nails scratching at his scalp, grabbing a tight hold of white hair, to pull him further to her (into her). unspoken, carnal desire that festers within the core; “ samuel, ”
(cont’d).
thoughtless, intangible, barbiturate fever. he is submerged as the kind of intoxication that taxes the soul. every word she gives him of her gluttonous demand aids his ache as much as it pilfers the seams of him & his being (metaphysical). inches of formation strain the denim as well as his quickly thinning self-control, his name in her mouth & sap undoing the bark of her, stripped & uneased of archaic concentric circles.
“ say no more. ” muffled, half-drunk of her tongue, eased in a teasing notion to sublime combination of hers & ebbing as feverish vivisection. he parts his mouth from hers with both willing & unwilling greed, a stolen sampling.
he departs her with seething ache, hands grasping at her to lift her onto the desk behind them with a preceded sound of commingled exertion & the boundary of his hips briefly aligning hers with soul-deep gnaw.
*
‘ i dont know what the fuck that was ’ but it is something mauled. lying on it’s side, glottal with cough. it not longer moves when it has left. he is burdened, after the thing reverses from itself. with the undeniable stain of it. that something-witch, irreparable as it were ugly. every death becomes something in me, bloated and arch— it vanishes in a glob of ink, a black and tarry sludge. the sputum of being annihilated. by something in her, of her. you are the ultimatum of this. even as she hung by a thread. neck disperse and viscid to tendon— he cannot help how he swallows it up. the energy, a cathartic dark wave somehow blesses him at it’s sucked. from bored, to filling him. it is derived from purge, from abyssal. you gave me that, as i realize. you have become more to me. you are why i did not use my jaw, or teeth today. my body, long and ornery and unused. i gave no effort, i worked nothing. and i was filled? oh you inflate the parasite for me. & somehow, i become more infatuated to that. and this short-lived affair. almost pompous to it— i like how you bled. i like how you took care of it. you succeed the deadline, i never lifted a finger for any of it. can i give you health? would you take it from me, as gratitude to give you the grain of my genetics. i know i am capable of repairing your damage. even though your agony is something pinning, erotic to me.
‘ do you heal on your own? i can take care of it for you. if not. ’ wait the response, instilled in my own deep grave of disturbance. ‘ when you were telling me about you. this it what you meant? you atleast gave me a warning then, but you never said anything about the target at your.. neck. ’ it is rotten in my verbose— how my tongue is lengthening hard. to deprecate ,disregard in sigh. ‘ i knew you were gonna be trouble. ’ it is deeper than this. how did hell not vacuum you? the second altercation commended, i knew you as killed. soul-decimated, assumed as permanent loss. for me, it was hard to bite. yet somehow, i am relieved to see you. in white— scaring color, in re-emergence as something above-edict. yes, as hardly-attached in your part. you never yelled like that before, it became an eager ambition for me, & it is personal. consider it that way.
“ i heal on my own. ” the rasp of her is blunt, strangled (strained) in retort as she felt the hew of her being close in the visceral sensation. it always hurt. the pain was not outside of her but the way she consumed it, the way it did not consume her; mild noises of discomfort expel as the lines drawn of her being would close. sanguine mulched nails dug at the seams of a pried being, pursing it together & met with the choked swallowing of immortal derange (an ache parallel to consumption).
my inner soul is ungodly design. canvas lover, blood spatter amore- tend to the flesh as the livery’s sorrow & despairing apprehension. pay attention to the sounding scourge, the hissing snake; the eating is the suffix in every means of your mouth.
“ i was clear with you about what i am. whatever’s going on here; i was always left alone. they knew my screams could kill them. ” what i will become. what will (un)become of me. we are the gestation of royal pariahs in the underworld of seeded wealth as filth. a following preface; they could kill you. they sought to neutralise her out of fear, out of passing desperation at the sink of her throat & how it lived (vicariously) in her mouth.
i swarm to you like locust(s) in the season of a red monsoon. are we so wilfully characterised by our greed, love? to say where the other ends & begins, i couldn’t tell you. unhinged at the jaw, at the sternum; two places that had begun to converge as the apprehension of the singular. i am opened at the threshold. staunched now, closed in the gullet; she breathes, implied by cthonic will & meets his invading eyes with her own, measured & full of vernal green.
“ you call me trouble with the things i’ve seen your mouth do. ” vitriolic in the reprieve of her, baltic-teething conniptions & feeble bribery of her soul in the mortal shrug. blackened aspic of the condemnation! death! death! it confides in her, weeping confessional & grief as parlay.
the echo of her throat now, an expulsion of high chorus harmony; splitting, desperate wanes on the vessel of her strained vocal chords in the eyes of white, unseeing pupils for the raucous clarity of- the open of her seals, eyes half-occluded by her lids as the waterlogged sensation dissipates.
“ i’m still weak. ” husked, mildew of morning (mourning) as she spoke, acclimation pending. i should be dead. but i’m at the cusp, the precipice of what we are entitled as “rebirth”. the quotations are important for what, like us, does not live- therefore, we cannot be reborn. we simply leer at the animation of oblivion.
florence pugh photographed by paola kudacki
*
𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚈𝚂 𝙰𝙵𝚃𝙴𝚁, 𝟷𝟶:𝟹𝟻𝙰𝙼: –––––––– enter the unrested, this atmosphere dampened with cruel exhaustion. her eyes are weighed down with heavy bags, the makeup that smoothly covers them only adding more to the weight; since the painting had come into her possession, sleep had evaded her more than once. how fitting, especially considering the painting’s name: 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏 was what the merchant called it. he made promises that sounded more like threats, his eyes widening when nancy had shown interest in the artwork. still there was no hesitation to sell it, and there was no hesitation from nancy when choosing a place to display it.
today, [ three days after ] the detective returns to the bright public, the small bell above ringing a soft ding! when the door is opened and swung shut. an empty table is claimed and she waits for the line to die down.
𝙼𝙸𝙽𝚄𝚃𝙴𝚂 𝙿𝙰𝚂𝚂 ( … ) the bell rings again, the door swings shut. her gaze lifts long enough to glance at whoever came in –– but looking once only requires her to look again. nancy can only see a portion of her face, but that is more than enough to identify some similarity between the woman here and the oil artwork that sat on her wall. smoothly, she moves from her table and as her hands sneak into her pockets, the exhaustion she feels rolls off her shoulders; intrigue supplants fatigue. as always, as ever.
❝ i’ll pay for whatever you’re getting. ❞ she slips besides the woman with ease, a friendly smile on her cheeks as her gaze lifts towards her. ❝ i must insist ––– will you be in here a while ? i have a table - for - two, but i’m only one person. ❞
[ @unholywood· ]
you enjoy the witnessing, the passage of time as the swell of the current; the mundane of human life that so evades you & obtains itself (mimicry) as you, simultaneously. it is not to say you miss it, you don’t remember [..] too much time has passed, decaying those dull human thoughts from the precipice of your rebirth & you enjoy it. it’s what keeps you apart (yet together). it’s what keeps you kind.
you are hungry as the matter of fact. you’re always hungry as the matter of greed. the scents commingling the air, sweet & savoury in the mix of heat make you ache apart from them all; the food is of no consequence to you, the sap grows inside the living & satiates you from the brink of rot. you are weary, now; more human-like in the flaws of you, no brilliant shine but the weathering of living as the need to feed & how it subverts your patience.
“ i have no plans. ” low, dulcet resonance sidled of composure; soft but derelict as implied. midnight unfurls itself to her shoulders, coarse & thick as the endless eve would be eager of her to suggest. it was a remark of curiosity. humans are so rarely alive as living would imply. but she burns, she throbs; apart the mediocrity of living & curiosity of you. you do not pull back the curtain. the thought is there; but she is entitled to shield the windows of the soul without invitation & the light of home that burns in the iris.
“ i have time. i’d love to join you. ” the cadence is intent, amber eyes burn a wild preserve as ancient rumination.
*
bilious, gallbitter & fire - fueling perversion wrenches through the vessel; i squirm ‘neath your touch, i experience it (pain) to its fullest. racking numbness of torment being the cause of cell’s dissection & even so gnawing re - collection. distinction decides, it distincts, puts a rampart between the you & me. you; quiet, unrecognizable as a hazard /me; the opposite, a loud disastrous end. you may see me as prophetic but i was a damned thing made to destroy what stands in my wake.
fervid fingers release themselves from the cramped despondency to hold on to you, to condemn you so that death (or i?) may take you. body was nothing but heizmaterial* &through the acrid, black smoke i gasp for air as the rest of the head is consumed by the white heat. consider yourself lucky that i let you speak without interrupting you, this certain nicety is not granted to everyone.
like a prayer i kneel before the irritating you; call me liar /I STAND UP TO VETO. the hand, my very own hand, that was on my throat before was now on yours. in the spurt of anger (a cloth very well worn by me) it sprung forward to grab a hold of the alacritous sounding fool— through sizzling fire the voice cracks as well & was hard to make out, “ and who the fuck do you think you are, to ask me that? ” the swallowing adams apple between calloused fingers, the back of the white - haired head ‘gainst red bricks.
poor woman’s screech was the cause of head turning away, a witness seeing the supernatural; beware of the woman with the burning head! “ lady […]LADY! calm the fuck down, we’re just talkin’. go— mind your own damn business. ”
back to you: “ answer me. who are you, who do you work for and why are you after me? ”
“ after you? ” fear hid well. he could shield his eyes from her burn, but ash welcomed him behind the lids, regardless; she was brighter, to abscond, to raze. he thought nothing of it.
“ i don’t work for anyone. i just wanted the truth. you- we, we’re something else. that sounds- ” his hand jerks involuntarily as a similar movement to checking his watch, an empty wrist twisted inward of his eyeline. what are we? forgotten, godless omens! even in his mind [..] the thought is a dramatic inclination of feverish brutality or physiognomy of what fear has made of me.
scintillation of phlogiston, brumal (brutal) aspartame; crystalline aberrations & rippling coils of infernal being of her. no mortal; just burning, endless wildfires & straining red on the white of his eyes from the smoke burn.
“ if i say chill, does this get worse? ” hands vaguely expend of him, a gesture to the pulsing hesperidium of her & the formidable composure of him, sweat-bidden by calefaction. child of the light, child of the dark; hel has given into you, the smokestack of inhuman condition (contrition) alike.
“ i don’t like being lied to. i am son of baldr. you are the woman who broke the earth ” a hesitation in the low timbre of regard [..] this felt duplicitous. “ the firesong. ” recant to the prophecy; these words held archaic on a modern tongue, the mellifluous rebirth of youth & lived-in (partial) flesh of him. i work for no one. i am no-one. i have lived defined by agony, yet you- you burn, endlessly, heretically. the ash is further.
(i am not sure at all); if love is salve .. or just a deeper kind of wound. @unholywood
*
“i don’t know. i cannot imagine living a life where i wouldn’t want that, truly– i simply wasn’t able to stop them from doing what they wanted, and then eventually it was too late anyway. what could i have done when any sign of ‘straying’ was met with death? die myself, i think, but i should’ve acted sooner anyway."
the seraphites who sought to change things took advantage of a kindness that need not be exploited. they told her that this was to save the outsiders, but the wolves didn’t deserve what happened. neither did any of the innocents who lost their lives in the chaos between the two waging factions. orion may not have had a hand in the fighting herself, but that did not absolve her of the guilt of it.
"lev will do even better with someone who learns to let someone take care of them again. he hasn’t told me much about what happened to you two, but what he’s said, how he said it, gives me enough information that i need not know more.”
the sound doesn’t fall upon unhearing ears. orion’s pack is opened, bundles of washed vegetables wrapped in crossweave laid out to take stock of what she’s scavenged with lev and traded for earlier that day. one of dried fruit is inspected, a strawberry slice popped into her mouth and tucked into the cheek to savor its sweetness before she passed it over.
“come help with dinner, then ; have some fruit to hold you off until it’s done?”
we are wading waters, hip-deep in casual discussions & friendly familiarity; a disconnect of the prior. her eyes, hazel-backlit meet orion with a relative determination of one thing; to trust (how she can).
HEAD: starvation is empty & weighed at the same time. it bides its times in your muscles as weakness, but sits in your chest & your stomach as something both hollow & heavy to the swilling nausea (the tide coming in). the large frame of you is sinews & bone, now; working towards the latter.
“ everything takes time. ” too much of it. too much to spare, a sparse commodity; an inventory, in practice, of none. it is not guaranteed & still wasted. fuck.
a hand reaches with dirtied fingernails, skin softened as a poultice by the torrential downpours of living in seattle but calloused in the grasp of upward facing palms as abrasions of violence, of self-defence & survival. taking the dried fruit, she tries to savour it as she feels the contention of gurgling from a hungered chasm, the sweet tangy-glace residue of it cloying in her mouth & over-salivating. the shotgun is stowed away [..] you’re no threat. not to me, anyway.
HEAD: at least, you reconcile, this feeling does not live inside lev. you’ve hidden it from him. without yara- you promised. in your mind, you promised her, you will look after him (you, be damned). how is the self deprecation treating you?
“ that’s a lot of food. ” longing of chapped lips paired the ache in your jaw, salivation commingled with deprivation sink as she sat herself straight, shifting the exhaustion. “ what can i do? ” a limited skillset, be assured.
*
there is violence, and there is exigency, and there is her; lydia martin, his own personal trapping in the second circle of dante’s inferno. the hyperbole does feel literal, in the sense that he’s spent the past half-decade a walking corpse without her, that half-life of a half-person with half-feelings. when it comes to her, he never half-anythings, and there are no exceptions to this rule. even in this moment of hushed breaths; in the orange glow of a single bulb swinging in a storage closet. she is so beautiful, and he is enraptured.
her chest heaves — he can feel the way it curves towards him, as if aching every second spent without his touch — and he is enamoured. it’s like freefalling from high altitude, being so close to her in a space so small, a spinning feeling making him dizzy with the gravitational shift of her demands. but he has always been careful with every brush of his fingertips upon her skin, always intentional with every kiss from his damaged mouth.
isaac touches her now, those steady hands pressing callouses against the fine arch of her throat. gentle, as if cradling an ancient manuscript, he traces the words hidden beneath her skin. everything feels loud. or perhaps that’s just the treble of his heartbeat ringing in his ears, a blood rush to the head being close quarters to the first and only girl who ever made him feel truly alive.
fingertips draw patterns, playing connect-the-freckles along her jawline, cheeks, temples. he cannot look away. hammering, hammering heartbeat — hers in sync with his. he’s missed this secret song. he’s missed the rightness of it.
‘ i never stopped loving you. ’ ( never stopped aching for you. so many late nights spent hoping, wishing, dreaming i’d see you again. that you’d still love me too. ) he is lovesick; a sailor lost in her siren song falling wilfully to his doom. the hand moves — presses a thumb to her bottom lip, dark eyes caught on the taboo. you are so lovely. ‘ i won’t ever stop loving you. ’
this felt simple. so the language must pursue it; the pulse felt like it ought to choke her. it was heavy in her neck, heavy in her chest; an anchor of them & what it means to stay. with his hands at her neck, she felt her skin burn as if to raze the imprints of any other & decide on him.
“ i- i still... ” frightful of dissonance; his words overwhelmed her. his touch felt like it bit her with static, like it had lived inside her all this time. reclusive little words, aren’t they? confessions of this open truth of one thing: i don’t blame you. i never thought to blame you or hate you. i just wanted you to come back. i have learned to clear a space beside me, not inside of me [..] i am ready.
stutter shook & tongue-tied, she feels herself swilling down inside of him as he spoke (visceral means of possession), her eyes burning back into the ocean of his own; lachrymose, tendered & loyal. to want, to need; it was the truth of hoarding, the truth of over-extending & knowing not how to love, but how to see him as simply part of her, a limb to lose, a heart to break; but for love, you are beside me & i, you. we hold onto each other as means to share & not to lose, not to consume.
“ i love you. it’s- isaac, it’s always been you. ” the words trembled on her self-assurance, cheeks burning with the vulnerability of it all. it was always going to be you. it was a reply. it was to correspond. i look at you with this, i touch you back (but as well), my hands clasping against your own as if to hold you still with indulgence but the need to contend that reality has salvaged my dreams & how awake i am.
the pull of his thumb against her lip, the merge of her frame forward into his own & the quiet breathing met by the only sounds she knew for sure. his voice & her heart, the throb of it all as nostalgia. the rounded, upturned tip of her nose inches against his own, lashes sinking cheeks as her eyes closed & so the burning could dissipate. the burning of her eyes, the burning of it all; the strike of a match in a quiet, dark space of coming closer.
“ all i’ve ever wanted is you. ” barely a whisper. a nod to her impatience as to her greed, we do not find ourselves without flaw; her thumb catches his, clearing it from her mouth as it beseeches his own. an open door; a (kismet) kiss. it did not define itself as passion or lust nor the ingredients for mindless caving. it defines itself as a kind of mourning, to old selves, to old patterns; it felt like ten years [..] it felt like time.
r + revival !!
M. calyx combed, hive-like- cicatrices to the stem, to the forefinger & to the wain of the overwatered roots. propagation is i; furtive, over-fed & still the soil is dry, hungry (wasted). the green is expectation, insipid as the chlorophyll stained skin of me as succulent [..] browning recompense.
“ you murdered my children. ” the body of it; vines unfurl in nauseating breaks, opening the sternum of the begging man, veins pulsing the green of corresponding & festering as nothing but open as a pig-carcass.
“ so, i’ll take them back from you. ” lip curled in guarded fury, the glaze of her eyes & reflection of agony turn flat; matte as reduction. it is the cutting, the grafting; garrotting as revival, as hamose serration through the prise of his dermis, rending & stretching around the veinous systems of stalks expanding in the red of his torso.
lachrymose as her rage, as her revenge. outward, one hand extends- carnose reality, indulgent of the screams & dead end of cardinal rain as the leaves detail the death rattle of unverifiable ill [..] he is nothing but sponge-like viscera, sustenance of the vines that rise in place of the ash. the shards of the greenhouse, razed & ash-dethroned. in parts, he will become her new garden & his bones will fertilise the soil of what he stole.
*
you cannot deny persistence, would you gather your thoughts & fall in me, a carnage swan? ‘ lydia. ’ .. such a morose beckon to you, the shy and nervous creature in me sits in the corner, decaying. philandering were we? yet the immerse intensity could not subdue this .. levying a large hand to take, to be stroked, to lift you into near-departure, just a bit closer. the large— enslabbed marble empty except us .. i was trying to court you through it’s history. do you have the prosody for it? these blood-run details & the disembodied voices of us ..
think of me this way, of how i love to drape your body, one-handed incline. the sizeable organ-moan loiters a hardy strife. (op.62 frühlingslied) glitches incredibly down here, under the ducts & faucets of our fire. (it does not) stop me from initiating you. swallowing— drowning myself licked in red-gardenia .. over the arm, i dip exceedingly. the ends of my mouth barely hover, hands remain in-locked. this is our lowering redowa, our à deux temps. ‘ i’m not going to drop you, if that’s what you think.. ’
fever-dream, static chords struck & echoed as barbiturate sensations ensconced her in the envelop of (gilded) cage-like arms.
“ vladymir. ” pray tell, confession; an echo of his sentiment in the soft, entranced lull of dulcet purrs. i could stitch myself into your skin; abide in a new abode of intermingled beings. inches from the ground, her feet are dangling, relaxed to a pointe as her soft frame moulds against the bones of him & the length of her dress as it pools beyond her.
i forget to breathe. does he know? subset, subservient; he lifts the ache in me. he dips, close, an inch if- eyes are wider, doe-like in the swell of her chest. “ i don’t think that. ” a vice-like grip of words, tight, stunted & breath-like in the murmur. i am stifled often by nightmares, by sycophant-men; but you pull at me, dig your greedy fingers in the sides & pry (genuine). the upward tilt of her nose lifts, tips into his in the stolen moment; tongue softened in her lips as they find his, rose-petal scathe & wilful bloom in the mouthful of him. a kiss, lover-
the abc’s of death: send in a letter of the alphabet + word beginning with that letter to receive a creative conceptual one shot, drabble or viewpoint characterised (specify for multi’s) by the letter & word association surrounding death (be it synonymous or metaphorical).
an example: h is for house.
these can be either canon associations, unwitnessed or part of the lore of your character. they do not have to be canon moments, you can evil get real evil with it & have it be about your own dynamics with someone else! get fun, get creative.
