itâs really important to me that people know this is inspired by a supernatural ship



#iwtv#interview with the vampire#the vampire armand#amc tvl#assad zaman

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seen from United States
seen from Pakistan

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itâs really important to me that people know this is inspired by a supernatural ship

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Becoming -- s.s.
lacuna;
/lÉËkjuËnÉ/ Â (n.)
i. & it hurts. ithurtsithurtsithurts because the rain feels like shrapnel & the stars taste like old blood & the ringing in his ears sounds like a grenade -
ii. & he remembers only frayed lungs hacked blue and cold bones in his bed -
iii. & the ghosts in his chest plant dead flowers in the crevices along his spine / each decaying segment a gravestone / & names scratched deep into the marrow / each calling blood to his hands -
iv. & he chokes on moonlight, screams âis this what you call salvation?â
- homecoming pt.3 ( j )
[ format inspired by @boykeats ]
-- s.s.
i. there is old blood crusting under your nails like rusting metal and you donât know if it is yours or someone elseâs but he looks at you like you are something holy and you forget about the sins crawling in your bones.
ii. he finds you in an overflowing bathtub - head between your knees, nails carving bloody moons into your skin; later you tell him yes, sometimes shower water against porcelain sounds like gunshots raining on your skin.Â
iii. your name is a whispered prayer that spills from his mouth and he repeats it over and over like a mantra; he breathes words you recognise from a dream and they condense in the frosty air between his lips and yours.
iv. he tells you that your bruises look like galaxies and holds you like the world has cheated him of you for far too long. tonight, you run out of names before he runs out of kisses.
v. hazy-gold sunlight sieves through the moth-eaten curtains and frames his face and you canât stop holding his cheeks in your palms because he is here, he is here, he is here, and youâve long grown tired of wondering why he hasnât left yet.
 - homecoming pt.2 ( j )

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i. you donât remember often. but when you do, itâs the ocean, always the ocean. but not wrathful, tempestuous waves crashing and wrecking and destroying-no. just the cool, the calm. itâs the only calm there is in that tripwire brain of yours, the only calm you can hold on to. you clutch it in a death-grip.
(itâs funny, though-you donât remember ever being to the beach before. then again, you donât remember anything.)
ii. your mouth tastes like rust and your knuckles burn. the words ring in your ears like the shrill screech of metal against metal, carving into the air, carving into your skin. you turn and you run and you only stumble once. the air smells like asphalt and choked screams. Â
iii. soft rays of light hit the surface of the water and pool in green where there should be gold, but it feels more right than it has ever been in a long time.
iv. a name spills from his lips and latches onto your ribs. you are standing there and you are looking at him but you also see a boy, slumped in a back alley with blood-stained teeth and bruises in full bloom; and charcoal-stained fingers tapping against the windowsill back in a room in a home in a place in a memory that feels so far away you think itâs a dream; and a smile like the brooklyn sunrise except it was for you; and a boy, this boy: with sun-streaked hair and oceans for eyes.
v. you remember him. you remember, you remember, you remember, and now it feels like maybe you never forgot.
- homecoming ( j )
Please, Castiel, just talk to me (x)
for @jimmynovakweek
Day 6: Celestial/Astrology
My skin was a suit several sizes too small. I've got stretch marks on my hips, arms, thighs, chest -- all the places my body couldn't quite hold me in. I will not tell my twelve-year-old self just how long it will take for her body to feel like home; how many loves, labors, losses, how many scars, chosen and not, how many modifications this vessel will undergo before it's beaten it into a shape she can withstand. I will not tell her how many years she will spend haunting her own house, scrabbling at its walls for a foothold. Â Â Sometimes, I think I was yanked from the world before I ever got to set foot in it. Sometimes, I think my life thus far has been one long DMT trip with me standing on the threshold, staring out, imagining what it would be like to be. Â Â I will not tell my twelve-year-old self how long she will stay planted in that doorway. Â Â I'll tell her this: the sun rises regardless of whether you believe in it. You were born in the dark, and you think it's all you know, but you're missing something. You were born in the dark, and you fear the break of day -- you fear it will break you; you fear it won't, but in the end, you will only be grateful and awed when the light finally touches your skin. When the dawn finds your stretch marks, you will find yourself in love. You will find yourself in a house, weathered, scarred, lived-in, ancient, and still there. All at once, you will be, as though that last forgotten switch finally flipped -- the circuit will close, the current will come, and you will not wish to be anywhere else, because you have built a home of your own flesh and bone, and you missed something: you're missing nothing. Â Â I will not tell my twelve-year-old self of the turbulent days ahead. She already knows, and what she doesn't she'll weather nonetheless. Â Â I'll tell her this: Such a strange feeling, the sudden rushing tide of corporeality overtaking you. You won't know you're a ghost until you're shocked back into life.
Becoming -- s.s.