Moth-feeet - K
More Posts from Moth-feeet and Others
Part of me will know deep down that I am pretty cool
The part of me that knows I never cared for being cool
i just hate pants :(
“Are you decent?” Morally? Absolutely not. Decent like do I have pants on? Also no
the theme is: FBI favorite wh♡re
an older man would cure me
see this is what i was talking about.
with aubrey i’m CM he has such a magnetic pull to her in the kisses, his body moves into hers as if he needs to touch her with every inch of his skin.
his hands move through her hair reflexively, his body is straining to get more.
and in beautiful girl, it’s once again so pure. you watch as he genuinely puts passion into the kiss, not as a character but as a person.
he and kat had only just started dating when the filming of suburban gothic had begun, and that real chemistry appears on screen multiple times, making it one of my personal favorite romances of matthew’s characters.
and, like the other examples, this kiss is so raw. it’s real and full of emotions. it has the same magnetism that the kids with aubrey had, the emotion of 68 kill, and the purity of beautiful girl.
there is a clip of him in the pool trying to remember his lines for the kiss with amber heard in CM, and he is genuinely flustered, genuinely feeling things. the kiss, however brief or passionate has this brain freeze effect.
ultimately, what im saying is, matthew has such a real emotional tie to the on screen kisses he preforms. it’s so much more than acting.
no one has any idea how much i adore this kiss scene from 68 kill right here
so full of gentleness and tenderness and trust and he's holding her almost cautiously as if she'd break if he didn't hold her as if she was the most delicate thing on earth
god i love the way this man kisses, it's literally like it's the last time he'll ever kiss anyone and i envy every single person who's ever got to experience this fr
Y’all are scared of them clocking you, im shooting my shot. We are not the same🙂↕️🙂↕️
Hi Matt 😛😛😛
Follow my ig @/moth_feeet
blah blah something something, lace, bows, thigh highs, white, pink, bras :3
y'all know davy jones who can only step on land once every decade?
right, make that Simon, but he's something else.
He shows up hours before someone's passing. An inky nondescript shadow that blends into the background, unnoticed by most. But to those whose final specks of sand trickle through their hourglass?
They see him.
An entity condemned to a lifetime of servitude. A wretched, pitiful existence. Something that saps the life out of everything it touches. Something that can't feel the warm rays of the sun seep into his skin, can't smell petrichor in the dewy morning, when the world begins to wake.
He lives yet he doesn't. An eternity of suffering, of wishing he never begged for a way out of the braided strands of hemp that had tightened around his neck for his crimes so long ago.
His freedom forfeit the moment he pleaded for it.
With a lantern that glows an eerie green, he leads deceased souls to their final destination, even the ones who resist, who cling futilely to life, to what is no longer theirs.
Some might call him death, others Hermes. The only name he's ever cared for is his own, the one that his mother had given him back when men still sailed the seas in search of treasure, when men and women alike were hung at the gallows.
But now he is a nameless servant of the natural order that guides them all.
However, he was also given a boon. One single day, out of every ten years, the tight collar around his neck comes off, and he turns human.
A man of flesh and blood.
His lungs fill with the crisp, biting air that he never feels. Cheeks sting from the cold. Fingertips numb without gloves.
For one blessed night, the heart in his chest beats. For one blessed night, his body is warm, flush with life.
And it's been this way for as long as he can remember. He would roam the docks of back then, the briny air stinging his nose, the dulled thumping of hooves resounding in his ears. The chants of drunken men coming from inside lit taverns.
He roamed when cars began to be a form of transportation, when children, boys, began marching to war.
He had been so busy, then.
And he roams now, in the modern age, where medicine forestalls the inescapable.
But then, you. Blood rushes to his face the moment he lays eyes on you. His throat dries, turns to the paper that's used to strip paint.
He's never seen something so beautiful. So plump with vitality, life coursing through your veins. A sweet little thing, whose dulcet voice makes his knees weak.
And when you shake hands with him, palm engulfed in his much larger one, as you ask him for his name, his tongue feels as if it's coated with tar, swollen and heavy. But he garbles out his response anyway.
"Simon."
The way you breathe it back, like a sigh from a lover, could still his heart.
Everything else is a blur, his eyes only ever focused on you when he ends up in your arms, in between your spread thighs, inviting him where no creature such as he belongs.
But he's always yearned for what was never his, and so with fervor, he takes. Grabs at soft skin, and whimpers at the fact that you're not dead with his touch. Surrenders himself to you, completely; makes the little dove under him sing until the short arm on the clock gets close to 12.
This is where he departs, with a promise he swears to never break, and wrenches his heart out of his own chest, placing it in your gentle hands.
He swears to come back for it, once every ten years.
Whenever Simon turns back to whatever he's cursed with being, he keeps a keen eye on you. And then the one time he passes by, feeling like nothing but an artic breeze to you, he sees your life is close to an end.
Simon, for once in his pathetic existence, saves a human life. The car that crashes into you at a lethal speed, does nothing but total your vehicle. It is considered an absolute miracle to everyone, except you.
That should've been your demise. That should've been it.
His little dove, too smart for her own good.
The time will soon come again, and when his head rests on your chest, listening to the lulling sounds of your heart beating, will he tell you what he is.
(maybe, or not idk)
"It's a heady tonic. Holding life and death in the palm of your own hand."
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moth-feeet reblogged this · 1 year ago
