Dollhouseteeth - Mina

I love Logan being in his pathetic little depressed cunt era. Like yeah thats right. your kids all hate you and fucked off like you told them to and they were the only people that challenged you and now you're stuck in room after room of people who cater to your every whim and are too afraid to even crack a joke at your expense. you got everything you wanted and now you're dealing with the consequences. BITCH

green pls. pls. green. im begging. pls. i would die for it. u could release the three lines and it would be enough to make me the happiest person on earth. seriously. like r or s in a ripped cropped shirt killing zombies with blood and cuts on their faces. i would give u my lifes earnings

this is more than i thought i had, so. here you go! a little bit more than three sentences, just enough to sit and rot away in my drafts folder until i inevitably do something with it someday.

tw: blood, guns

Remus feels it before he hears the gun cock.

Hands stilling where he’s gripping his blade tightly, his other under his shirt, wiping the blackened blood on the front of the dirty material. His fingers pause and his back straightens like someone shoved the barrel between his shoulder blades rather than it being pressed nice and soft against the side of his head.

“What day is it?”

Remus closes his eyes; thinks this the most mundane way he could possibly die. He’s a bit put out, to be honest, at the prospect of being shot after he’s made it this far. He swipes the blade through the fabric of his shirt again, tossing it to the ground and letting it clatter against the pavement.

Turning, letting his head fall to the side a bit, the gun presses to his forehead, and the sun is shining down much too heavy for him to see the person holding it. A pale arm, tattoos. A ripped pair of jeans, whoever it is, they’re much shorter.

It’s almost comical.

Almost.

“How am I supposed to know what day it is?” Remus says, tossing a hand up and scoffing. “Do you know what day it is? I’d love to know, hon—”

“Oh, fuck off,” The person hisses, leaning forward a bit. Remus knows he’ll have a lovely pink indent on his forehead from the barrel, something like a target if he’s not shot and painted across the broken concrete under them.

They dig it in a bit harder, bone against metal, and then the arm is dropped, the gun falling to the person’s side as their eyes meet.

Gillian Anderson for Melody Maker Magazine.

to be loved means to be consumed.

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Chiharu Shiota: Earth and Blood (2013)

another Sevika 🫠 down bad

‘do you think i’m pretty, moony?’

its september time to build a new life