skins s03e05
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Claire Keane
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祝日 / Permanent Vacation
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@foreffy
skins s03e05

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diabulii:
sharp words matching cheekbones . beautiful looks to lull you asleep before you’re devoured . these teenage girls are dangerous , make his skin itch with invisible bug bites . but effy always seemed to so easily press into his dull bruises the fiercest , causing flesh to crawl as he wish to dig down to the bone . but he won’t do it here , only when the sole eyes of god can condemn him . uncaring to the blood poppies forming & running over his arms . ‘ what makes you think i do ? ’ teeth digging into the loose flesh of his cheek . only knowing destruction , he was force fed with a rotten spoon that it is all he would ever be . a monsoon is uncaring to the lives it destroys , a earthquake unnerved by the ruins it creates . he doesn’t think he is allowed to care . & so he tries his best not to .
eyes settle , giving him that same look she gives everyone , the look that crashes seas and inhales fire , the look that meant she knew something , something nobody else did , something nobody else ever would . ‘ the girl . ‘ which one ? she didn’t feel she had to get specific , the mention alone would stress her point enough . head cocks , studying features littered in black and blue . ‘ maybe i got it wrong . ‘ sarcasm drips like black tar , she knows she doesn’t .
glass stare , she’s stoic throughout the encounter . ‘ it’s fifty . you either pay it or you fuck off . cool ? ‘ / @putridities
“From the moment I saw you, I knew you’d be the closest I’d get to being.. close. I didn’t know what to do with that feeling: happiness”

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decrates:
A GHOST WALKING , undeterred beauty precedes her. yet the MEMORIES come and go and she’s STILL THERE . murky hues blink expecting a sense of history to DISAPPEAR . ❛ EF ❜ @foreffy·
with a body found , police buzz . he startles her , walking briskly in the comfort of night . dark , dark , dark ! her mind aches in grief , cries in pain , longs in remembrance . this was her fault . her fault ! regret squeezes tight into a glass bottle . ‘ you’ve gotten yourself in trouble . ‘ her voice sings as a question , a subtle haven’t you ? but she already knows the answer . ‘ what do you want , cook ? i can’t help you . why don’t you just leave me alone , yeah ? ‘
why
obviously u dont follow me on @crimeo blake
‘ why do you do that ? ‘ inquiry comes nonchalantly , with little care for it’s genuine answer . people were so strange , motivated by minuscule things and troubled pasts . ‘ act like you don’t care . ‘ when he certainly did , to some degree . his facade wasn’t as bulletproof as hers . / @diabulii
tag dump !

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when routine bites hard, and ambitions are low, and resentment rides high, but emotions won’t grow, and we’re changing our ways, taking different roads. then love, love will tear us apart again. love, love will tear us apart again. why is the bedroom so cold ? you’ve turned away on your side. is my timing that flawed ? our respect runs so dry. yet there’s still this appeal that we’ve kept through our lives. but love, love will tear us apart again. / effy stonem , by stephanie .
amongtheworst:
HE FEELS HER, HER PHYSICAL PRESENCE overbearing. his mind races but he finds himself pushing thoughts away. it’s what he’s prone to doing, and eventually he’ll develop an expert skill. she draws away, peeling off her shirt. he allows the distraction to speak against his racing mind; he’ll convert his attention to her. he finds a grip on her hips, leaning back so she’ll drape over him. tate breathes gently, lips tasting her collarbone and tracing her jawline. his fingertips move to her lower back, holding her as if she’s fragile.
she’s keeping to his request; it’s to tate’s amusement that he finds her putting it to utmost consideration. langdon draws back from kissing her neck to take off his own shirt, paying no attention to the scars that she will have seen for the second time. in the dark it’s like connect-the-dots, a scattered amount of several holes dotted along his chest. his fingers trace around her face again, strands of soft chestnut hair at his touch. kisses meet at her lips this time, passionate but more gentle than before. it’s nothing, he reminds himself as his senses become flooded with her. a mindless means of wasting time.
devoured one kiss at a time, she falls prey to a touch intoxicating and ghostly ( literally. ) she reminds herself of his wicked ways, his cruel intentions, the origin of the scars that decorate him like stars in a damaged galaxy------- he’s ugly, but beautiful, in the way most ugly things are. god, she fucking hates him. she fucking despises him. fuck him. fuck him. fuck him. her hate mixes with her lust and her hips thrust to and fro in their hungry rhythm. she’s going to fuck the shit out of him because she fucking hates him. digits slip down off-white skin, imperfect with bruises and dried blood. he attracts her the way darkness typically does--- it’s the curiosity of it all that tempts and calls like a siren by a river bank. it is this desire, this temptation, this lure that brings her hands down to the buckle of his belt.
amongtheworst:
IF THERE WAS ONE THING effy could work in her favor, it’s tate’s sex appeal. her soft hands, working delicately through his hair, makes his jaw tighten. white knuckles fall by his side and he’ll focus on everything but her. the soft tick of the clock in the far room of the basement, an unending laugh chiding at the dead. for them, time is nothing.
there’s the gentle whir of the vinyl in his room, washed out in crackles and undetermined music, unable to be distinguished from across the basement. her lips meet his skin, her words hanging in the air until he latches onto them, making sense of the noise she was making. she’s right, tate has never been a man of logic. it’s funny, the idea that the words just moments ago had actually came from his own lips. a smile edges on his mouth, but he cannot distract himself from her lips. his chin is tilted upward, and he shifts subtly on the couch. his mouth shapes her name, but he refrains from any words.
so many things come to his head, smart remarks, snide let-downs that he just knows will stop her then and there. but… he’s realizing— he doesn’t want that. for once, right here, he feels her. he wants her. OH GOD. panic creeps down his spine, spirals up to his throat. he hesitates, then bites the inside of his cheek. she’s kissing his neck, and this time his eyelids flicker closed. failing to keep himself composed, tate moves from his reclined position to brush some hair from her shoulder.
he traces her jawline, tilting her face up before he encaves himself in her lips, meeting her there and supplying back what she’s been insinuating. he holds her face, but keeps the kiss short, brief, testing her with his eyes after he draws back. ' do me a favor. ’ he narrows his eyes, but with a twinkle of amusement. ' shut the hell up. anything you say can and will turn me off toward you.’
shut the hell up. gladly. snogging seemed like the easier answer, the natural one, the simple one. in many ways, fucking was the only thing that felt natural in this hell hole; like waking up on christmas morning, or getting your braces taken off. normal, boring shit like that. in many ways, it felt normal, and god ( if he even existed, which she doubted immensely, ) only knows that they both wanted to feel a little normal. rotten digits comb through wavy sun beams like clouds passing by, and her motions are delicate, calculated, talented. there was a time where she once felt like she was falling in love with him, and those emotions drown her, fill her lungs like black smoke and consume her thoughts like a bad trip. she has to remind herself that he’s a piece of shit. asshole. wanker. douchebag. tosser. she pulls away from their lip locking momentarily, if only to amuse him with her finger zipping across her lips, a gesture made to show that she’d keep quiet, as per request. digits come to the fabric of her shirt, and she unwraps herself for him. talk about christmas morning. she adorns a purple, striped bra---- it almost looks new, when contrasted to the decay and the rot of the rest of the house. lips lock again, and she holds him like a lover, like a friend, like he is the only thing that makes sense in this fucked up world. it makes her sick, to think she can hold him like that. she tries not to think.
amongtheworst:
AND JUST LIKE THAT, SHE’S WINNING. this ongoing battle between the two, ( WHO WILL CAVE FIRST? ) his body seems frozen, his throat dry. he hadn’t expected this, she’s definitely got him on that. ❛ jesus— ❜ he’ll think aloud, not even noticing he’s said it. his eyes blur out, trying to find the clarity he’d had seconds before. he swallows the lump in his throat and for a moment is able to recollect himself.
he tilts his chin forward, so he’s gaping up at her, her hair falling forward to conceal the clear view between her face and his. tate blinks, something slow and laggish, and drunkly makes connection between two pairs of optics. ❛ you think— ❜ his voice fails him, only subtly, ❛ this is a good idea? ❜
‘ what is good ? ‘ she inquires, more-so to herself. hips continue to beat in it’s back and forth rhythm, rotten digits combing through ash blonde locks. he is beautiful in the way most ugly things are---- so beaten, so bruised, so damaged, you can’t help but succumb to his darkness. ‘ no. it’s a fucking terrible idea. but we’ve never been one for good decisions, have we ? ‘ lips brush against his cheek, lazily peppering down his chin, then his neck, and back up again. part of her wonders if this will make things complicated. part of her hopes it does. she’s been so fucking bored.
amongtheworst:
HE CAN ADMIT IT TO HIMSELF, her question daunted him. already he’s admitted his commendation for her, if not to her verbally but to himself. but he won’t allow her to get through to him. a smile is evident enough in his eyes, calloused expression discerning something dismissive.
❛ it wasn’t too patently obvious, was it ? ❜
clock ticks to an eternity; if she was going to be trapped into an endless forever, she might as spend it doing the one thing she’s good at----- fucking. she straddles him, settling into his lap. elbows rest lazily against his shoulders, baby blues focused on callous features. such an ugly, vile boy. cruel, wicked, disgusting, restless. she reminds herself of these things as to not let his venom pierce her skin and shatter the cage of her heart. ‘ so why don’t you ? ‘ hips move gently, if only to provoke him. ‘ fuck me. i dare you. ‘

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amongtheworst:
he squints. ❛ oh. that’s right. ❜
it takes effort to keep himself from staring. he’ll admit it to himself for once— he’s missed her. and her lips… those are another thing. for some reason he’s wed to the thought of them.
❛ your loss, old sport. ❜
time heals all wounds. she would consider her feelings for tate a passing fancy; a lonely, desperate desire. but, then again, she’s always ruined any relationship she’s ever had. even still, blue moonstones focus on his infatuation; she can still feel his pull, magnetic and electric. ‘ did you want to fuck me ? ‘ scoots closer, daunting, tempting.
‘ it’s called a spliff. you smoke it. ‘ she feels like she’s teaching a toddler. gather round kids, let’s do some drugs ! // @thedollboy