Finding Out There's A Frankenstein Ballet And That It Was In October Of Last Year…DEVASTATING

Where the Wild Roses Grow

Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds & Kylie Minogue

dilf (dostoyevsky i’d like to finish)

John Keats, from a letter to Fanny Brawne

Forest in the Fog

The art history version of “you’d look prettier if you smiled more”

like, yeah.... obvs.

hey @cocoamoonmalfoy i'm all about making dreams come true

please enjoy!! 💖💖

tags: @if-n0t-l8ter-when @jessespencer @secretlyscottishkat @anais117 @awww-sugar @allskynostars @maddyrosew @chloefran @imnotoverlyobsessive @beige-honey @softhecreator @visionsofsweettea @lucyshea @staceystoleyourheart @hexrtbrexk-hotel @myheartdesirepure @no1partyanthem505 @madeinthemidnightmemories @weakling-grace @aomi-nabi @okaydraco @myownbravado @osnapitsabbie @biggestmessonhere @emilysprentisss @angxltimmychampagne @angelboyy @stuckysdaughter @thc-chalamet @dreamingformuses @lmfaosoph @everythingisspokenfortbh @missamericana69 @sufferingstarlight @reddir14 @lovelyrocker @dayafied @louievr @misswestfall

(a little fluff but mostly smut)

It wasn’t right. 

It wasn’t proper.

Nothing about it would ever be seen as acceptable, and that only made you want him more. 

This was the only way. 

Half past midnight, holding your dress up as you ran through the trees to your destination, your heart hammered desperately with anticipation. He was waiting for you. Knowing that your dress would be covered in mud and probably wet on the hem by the time you returned, you made a mental note to put it somewhere safe until you could take care of it. Whether the note would remain in your mind after what was coming remained to be seen. 

The greenhouse came into view just as the first lightning strike lit the sky, and you gasped as rain began to pour from the heavens, nearly drenching you before you were able to get in and shut the door securely behind you. 

“Sweet girl?” His voice was low, raspy, inviting. Following it like a puppy, you moved through an assortment of plants and gardening tools to find him crouched down in a corner on an unsturdy chair, his eyes lighting up like stars the moment you came into his view. 

“Tim,” you breathed, crossing the space between you as quickly as possible, your arms reaching for him as he stood to embrace you in return. 

“Did anyone see you?” He pulled you close, his fingers gently tracing along your jawline and his eyes on your mouth. 

“No,” you whispered, your breathing coming in short, intense bursts. “You?” 

“I don’t think so.” A little smirk, enough to make you squeeze your thighs together. 

“Thank God.” 

Weaving your fingers hungrily into his untamed curls, you kissed him hard and with every ounce of passion you could muster, knowing that not only was your time limited, but that you had no idea when you could meet with him this way again. No one knew. And it made the entire thing so delicious. 

Kissing you back, his eagerness spilling over as your teeth bumped together, his hands slipped down your sides to grip at your dress, knuckles white. You exhaled blissfully into his lips, and he deepened the kiss instantly, trying to get the dress out of the way at the same time with little luck. 

“Baby, Timothée,” you managed to moan out, enjoying the soft grunt you received in return. “We don’t have time, can you just lift it up?” 

Pulling back with obvious reluctance, longing in his eyes that you could feel in your own bones, he nodded and reached down to begin to tug it up and as out of the way as possible. The layers made it all the more difficult, but suddenly he was on his knees with his entire head up the skirt of your dress, tugging with greedy fingers at the fabric that kept him from where you needed him the most. When he finally removed it, you felt a small rush of cool air before his mouth was on your sex, devouring you relentlessly, his hands finding firm grips on your legs. You cried out, knowing you could be as loud as you wanted between the distance from the house and the noise of the storm. He made another grunt in return, clearly pleased with your reaction, his tongue dancing against the sensitive bud above your entrance before briefly dipping inside of you. 

“Fuck, oh fuck, Timothée!” Your entire body was buzzing, legs shaking, chest heaving, the pleasure he was giving you spreading like wildfire. 

“Mmmm, you taste amazing,” you heard him mumble, causing your heart to sputter. Wanting to see him, needing to see him, you managed after several awkward attempts to lift the dress up, revealing his gorgeous, flushed face and wild hair. 

“That’s so good, fuck, that’s so fucking good,” you babbled incoherently, a loud rumble of thunder making you jump. So lost in him, in the moment, you had completely forgotten there was a storm going on outside. What was happening inside between you made it look like a drizzle. 

His eyes found yours and locked in, pupils blown with lust and a determination there that you knew very well. Finding one of his hands, you linked your fingers together and let your head fall back, closing your eyes to enjoy him with every sense. He made quiet, contented sounds as he continued, eventually deciding to push further by slipping two fingers into you with his opposite hand. Nearly yelling, you clenched around him, feeling suddenly possessive, not wanting him to ever be this intimate with anyone else again. 

Do I dare? 

Pushing the words you wanted to say back stubbornly, you felt pressure beginning to build in your lower body, the need for release so overwhelming that you were dizzy. But he knew what he was doing. As usual. Wrapping his lips around your clit, he gave it the slightest tug before pressing his tongue back against it with more pressure than before. Shaking his head back and forth to create friction, his curls bounced, fingers gripping your thighs with hunger. It hit like a fucking train, the pleasure spreading from between your legs throughout your body, a loud, drawn-out moan of his name dripping from your lips without you even noticing. 

“Fuck baby, that’s my girl,” he praised softly, pressing tender kisses along the insides of your thighs and lower tummy as you came down a little at a time from the high. 

But you were not even close to being satiated. 

Hands still shaking, you pulled him up to be close again, gripping his hair hard and kissing him deeply, the taste of you still on his tongue. Groaning your name into your mouth in response, you could sense the impatience behind it. Reaching down between you, refusing to waste a single second of this precious time, you fumbled with his pants and belt until you could shove them out of the way enough to free his lust. It stood straight against his belly, your eyes widening considerably and your mouth going dry. 

“Turn around, gorgeous girl,” he breathed, backing you toward the wall of the greenhouse, his eyes full of promise. 

Obeying immediately and without question, you faced the wall with your hands against it, breathing heavily as you felt him try to arrange himself properly. It took a few seconds, a slight pause of movement before he was inside of you, the both of you releasing a crude moan at the same time. Wrapping his arms around you securely to hold you up, his lips seemed to be almost as famished as him, attacking your neck with wet, messy kisses and lovebites as he began to thrust in and out of you at a steady pace. 

“O-oh, oh fuck, oh my God, Timothée!” Wishing you could make more coherent sentences and knowing that it was probably impossible at this point with the high you were riding, you leaned back into him and let your head rest on his shoulder. 

“You’re… so fuckin’ tight,” he somehow managed to say between his endless sounds, sounds that only set you more alight. “You feel amazing, baby girl, fucking hell.”

Your eyes fluttered, lips parting and cheeks flushing in response to his praises. Another loud rumble of thunder – that, this time, you completely ignored – was accompanied by even more violent rain, the water pouring down the sides of the building like a waterfall. Twitching against your walls as he continued to move, you knew he was already close by the sounds he was making, and you moaned his name in a soft, feathery tone to encourage him further. 

“Fuck, fuck, keep saying my name, please,” he nearly begged, his thrusts suddenly becoming erratic, uneven, and sloppy. 

Before you were able to finish the final syllable of the word he was coming, biting down on your neck forcefully without intending to and filling your insides with his seed as he cried out your name over and over again into the skin on your throat. Overwhelming emotion took over, then, and you reached back to cling to him as best as you could from the position you were in. His arms tightened around your middle to pull you closer against him as it ebbed, the both of you gasping for air and shaking from head to toe. 

“Timothée?” 

“Mmm?” He brushed your hair back from your shoulder and pressed more delicate, loving kisses there, causing you to whine. 

“I just… I just…” Having an incredibly hard time letting it out, you exhaled sharply with surprise when he pulled out and gently turned you to face him. He looked absolutely fucking glorious, cheeks and neck and chest flushed, his hair somehow messier than ever, eyes sparkling as they gazed at you with adoration. 

“What is it?” He pulled you close for a light kiss, wanting to encourage and reassure you that it was okay to speak, it was okay to tell him. 

“I love you.” 

His reaction was not immediate, though you saw something register on his face as he digested the words. Anxiety began to spread through you, fuck, fuck I said it too soon… but then he was kissing you again, more force and passion behind it than you could ever remember having received before. 

And he was saying it back.

situationships and talking stages are OUT passionate obsessive all-consuming soul ties and love affairs are IN

Written for Alexa Chung by Alex Turner.

I got to hold a 500,000 year old hand axe at the museum today.

It's right-handed

I am right-handed

There are grooves for the thumb and knuckle to grip that fit my hand perfectly

I have calluses there from holding my stylus and pencils and the gardening tools.

There are sharper and blunter parts of the edge, for different types of cutting, as well as a point for piercing.

I know exactly how to use this to butcher a carcass.

A homo erectus made it

Some ancestor of mine, three species ago, made a tool that fits my hand perfectly, and that I still know how to use.

Who were you

A man? A woman? Did you even use those words?

Did you craft alone or were you with friends? Did you sing while you worked?

Did you find this stone yourself, or did you trade for it? Was it a gift?

Did you make it for yourself, or someone else, or does the distinction of personal property not really apply here?

Who were you?

What would you think today, seeing your descendant hold your tool and sob because it fits her hands as well?

What about your other descendant, the docent and caretaker of your tool, holding her hands under it the way you hold your hands under your baby's head when a stranger holds them.

Is it bizarre to you, that your most utilitarian object is now revered as holy?

Or has it always been divine?

Or is the divine in how I am watching videos on how to knap stone made by your other descendants, learning by example the way you did?

Tomorrow morning I am going to the local riverbed in search of the appropriate stones, and I will follow your example.

The first blood spilled on it will almost certainly be my own, as I learn the textures and rhythm of how it's done.

Did you have cuss words back then? Gods to blaspheme when the rock slips and you almost take your thumbnail off instead? Or did you just scream?

I'm not religious.

But if spilling my own blood to connect with a stranger who shared it isn't partaking in the divine

I don't know what is.