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maybe they shouldn’t have put so many of the major arteries in such erotic places. Have you ever thought about that

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SOPHIE THATCHER Photographed by Shane McCauley for Marie Claire, November 2024

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mutual pining IS the best trope. no they’re not trying to move on, no they’re not brave enough to risk it, no they’re not trying to date other people, they don’t know they can have it but it’s okay if they can’t (but they CAN)

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AM I ENOUGH? MY FLESH AND BLOOD;

she's red. her nails, her lips, the soft inside of her mouth, the claw marks on her outer thighs where he grasped her, possessive—possessed. if the place they remained was hallowed ground for shadows, a holy place for the foul and decrepit, then this was the only home acre maddon knew. a boy of horror, of oil-slick dreams, of silver glitter and cigarette ash.

he knew he was tainted, he knew it from the moment he was conscious enough to form thoughts of his own. a product for failure, for lust, for desires not of his own creation. he allowed this truth to shield him, to blanket him when he made the same mistakes again and again. acre maddon was hardly a man at all. he could not be a thing of light, so he would have to drag the light down to him; to swallow, to condemn.

zephyr maddon was across the room from him, watching the crowd as lights bled over the mass of people dancing; a sea of limbs and sweat. she searched and searched, white and red lights throwing her in and out of shadow, like a trick of the light; a mirage. there were moments when the light would encase her in white, incandescent in a house of shadows. disappear and forget. those were the last words he spoke to her before slamming the car door behind him. a crack of lightning, violent against what he could not claim. a horror, a failure, a spoiled fruit of a man. he was nothing more than blackened mold, a rot so profuse no amount of fire could burn out.

so why could he not avoid her? why not save her the grief of his damnation? why harbor such affection, such burning starvation? why could he not leave her behind? the consequence of his love would burn a hole through the center of her and he knew it but he went to her anyway.

music pulsed from the heel of his feet to the heart in his chest, a droning roar that silenced with each step he took towards her. the world tunneled, darkened, a cone of streetlight dimming to a singular halo of golden light above her. he stops just in front of her, watches her as she watches him, searching, searching. it could not be enough, he thought, this could not be enough to sustain them for a lifetime. it was not enough to just want it, was it?

i thought we were forgetting, disappearing.

it was enough, acre thought, to want it. his hand is in her hair, curled like a claw as he tugs her head back in one sharp move, her mouth parted—gaping like a fish out of water. crimson. her mouth was red, wet, swollen from their stolen kisses in the car. "we are," he hovers over her, his nose brushing against hers in an uncharacteristic act of tenderness. "this is me, forgetting." his mouth, sharp like the tip of a blade, curls into a smile, harsh lines. he crushes his mouth against hers, a flash of white, of red, a blackened sky above and around them. this kiss wasn't stolen between whispers and stage lights, it wasn't taken by force in between car pools and hallways. it was a knife in the stomach. a punch to the jaw. a bite to the shoulder just before you cum. it was a sin coated in sweat and familiar dna. and it was finally, finally something he could give that was something of his own.

he holds onto the back of her head, letting the rush of her cherry lip gloss coat his mouth, to let it infect his bloodstream with all her sugar. a free hand finds the hem of her dress, silk black fabric that easily gives to his wandering fingers. he presses his head to hers, lips wet, reddened stained by her make-up, and he smiles, smiles as he toys with the lace bow on the front of her panties. he watches her now, eyes dilated as he slips his fingers beneath the fabric of her thong, lower, lower, lower until he can push his middle and forefinger inside her.

she moans, a rush of air, broken, cracked, a choked up sound as his mouth hovers nearby as if to catch it between his lips. acre sinks his fingers in deeper—wetter, "and this is me, disappearing." he bites down on her chin, tasting the salt of her sweat as he thrusts his hand out, back in, again—again.

DOES IT SATISFY YOUR L U S T?

closed starter ;

@cvnin-e / zephyr & acre

         ━━━━        A CATHEDRAL OF SHADOWS. the nightclub was a cathedral of shadows where flickering neon lights pulsed like a heartbeat, their glow mingling with the smoke curling in languid tendrils above the crowd. the air buzzed with electric tension, music throbbing through the walls and mimicking the steady rhythm of an unseen predator. bodies swayed together in a ritualistic dance. the whole place felt like a sanctuary of the damned, its occupants slick with sweat and its floors sticky with unknown substances. a place where only those willing to lose themselves — or who had already done so — truly belonged.

zephyr maddon leaned against the back wall, half-hidden in the dim light, her gaze drifting over the sea of strangers and searching for the one face that BURNED like an ember in her thoughts. letting out a slow breath, she felt the weight of the night settle over her like a shroud. the girl couldn’t help but wonder how she ended up in a place like this, where the line between sacred and profane blurred, where secrets buried themselves in the bassline. tugging at the edges of her black dress, fingers brushed the silver cross hanging around her neck. it felt like a mockery, really, this fragile image of purity resting against her skin. skin that still carried the remnants of an illicit encounter. her thoughts slipped into that familiar spiral: the way he had looked at her with something twisted that mirrored her own desires.

they came tonight as something she dared not put a name to and there was a sort of wicked satisfaction that came with being surrounded by people who had not a clue of what festered beneath their facades. a part of zephyr found it poetic — two souls damning themselves under the watchful eye of a world too blind to see.

her eyes caught a glimpse of crimson light flashing across the far wall, a shade that bled like a warning. she felt the pounding bass in her chest, each beat a reminder of the dangerous game they were playing. disappear and forget. at least, that’s what he had told her moments before they walked through the front doors. disappear and forget. but the night had a way of twisting intentions, turning the simplest of actions into something laced with consequences.

somewhere out there, he was moving through the throng, closing the distance between them. her fingers tightened around the cross, its edges biting into her skin and for a moment, she wondered if she was praying or merely holding onto the last thread of her conscience. when she finally saw him emerging from the crowd, her pulse quickened — the pull between them undeniable and relentless. refusing to move from her spot in the corner, she waits for his arrival. he seemed to move fluidly, deliberately, as if the chaos of bodies parting for him was just an afterthought. the crowd blurred, colors and lights smearing together. it all became background noise. the drinks, dancing, fleeting touches. the stolen glances and brushes of skin disguised as accidents. it all became peripheral.

she caught the faint scent of smoke and leather as he drew closer — cinnamon and amber trailing close behind. the music throbbed low and heavy, mocking the beating of her heart. nerves spark under her skin as he closes the distance, stopping just shy of touching her. close enough for warmth to BLEED between them. close enough for his presence to overwhelm the air she breathed.

it was maddening. this dance they played always teetering on the edge of disaster. when her eyes flick up to meet his, she doesn’t flinch. no, the corners of her lips curve into a smile. the temptation to reach out, to erase the gap between them gnawed at her. they were surrounded by people, a writhing mass of oblivious strangers lost in their own pursuits. yet here they stood. playing with a fire that was already burning too hot.

acre maddon was magnetic, pulling her closer without him needing to move. tension hung thick in the air, thick enough to taste.

hazel eyes flicker over his face, searching for a crack. for a sign that this — that they brought him a similar feeling of guilt. she found none. just the same hunger reflected back at her. zephyr straightens, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “i thought we were forgetting, disappearing.” her words slip between them like silk.

their connection was like a blade held to their throats, dangerous and thrilling. it was impossible to pull away without leaving scars. perhaps that was the point. they were already tangled in something complicated and the deeper they went, the harder it became to see a way out.

how long could they play this game?

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LOGAN LERMAN 2023 | Caroline Tompkins ph. for The Cut

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My doctor said we can't choose where we come from but we can choose where we go from there. I know it's not all the answers but it was enough to start putting these pieces together.

THE PERKS OF BEING A WALLFLOWER (2012) written and directed by stephen chbosky

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trying to write lately feels like pulling out teeth.

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ninaljeti Stills from “Your Apartment” for @wallowsmusic

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DAISY-EDGAR JONES as KATE CARTER TWISTERS (2024) dir. Lee Isaac Chung

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@cherricdwines

Alex Light

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lighting a cigarette off the rim of my guardian angel's halo and they have to watch and let me shorten my lifespan by smoking it even though they're assigned to protect me from harm. because of free will.

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pearl teeth;

closed starter: @cherricdwines

HEAVEN forgive me for what I stole with a greedy mouth and torn up gums. I only want what I am owed, what your angels promised me late at night, something to call my own.

As a child, Bode used to watch his mother fold herself close to the ground, loose blonde curls like a puddle on the laminate floor around her, a reverent sigh eclipsed by prayer. There had been a time in his life that he'd taken the space beside her, folded himself small to imitate her faith, her unrelenting loyalty. But time, has a way of eroding the sweetest of memories, washing and yellowing, a blurring of fiction and reality.

Something once shared, something once clean, grew pale, filthy around the edges. That gentle folding of oneself had changed from reverence to fear, to a withering of spirit so small it became unrecognizable.

Eventually his mother replaced her prayers with liquor, with strangers, with pills. Memories wilted, curling in on themselves like a photo on fire. Bode would fall asleep just outside her door and prayed, and prayed, and prayed. When he found her the next morning, laying on the floor, golden curls pooled around her, he was not surprised.

Little blue pills littered the floor like jewels, shining in the early morning sun.

She had smelled sweet the way all meat does once it's gone rancid, flesh warmed by the heat of a brutal summer sun. Nauseatingly saccharine. David Greenwood did not smell like rotted meat, he smelled of sweat, of metal. Blood pooled around him, a blackened mirror of iron and regret that grew wider by the second; an animal with a gaping mouth, swallowing up air while it's owner remained unmoving and lifeless.

Lucien sat before his father's body, head bowed and on his knees, hands coated in liquid scarlet. The room was silent except for Lucien's ragged breathing, his frantic murmurs spilling out of him under the cold moonlight. Mind unraveled.

He wanted the image before him to rewrite itself, to burn away and reveal something else in its place, something honest but less awful. He didn't care that David Greenwood was dead. He cared that Lucien Greenwood was at fault. That his fingers and clothes were covered in his father's blood, that the knife under the coffee table had his fingerprints and his sweat, that his brother and his mother will be home soon. They will be home soon.

He carefully side steps the pools of blood, careful to watch the edges of his shoes before plucking the knife from beneath the table. They can't leave it here. "Lucien, we need to go." Bode grabs an old tattered kitchen towel off of the dining room table before wrapping it around the kitchen knife. The lambs that adorned the fabric of the towel began to bleed, them too, tainted by David's blood. He shoves the covered knife into his pocket before returning to his friend, who remains unmoved. "Lucien," it comes out sounding closer to please.

Bode moves to his side before wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling the boy up onto his feet. They cling to each other now, swaying as one, Bode meets his faraway gaze. "Lu," a prayer, a plea, "I need you to come with me." They breathe as one, an organism that cannot exist without the other. "Will you come with me?"

If I decay at your feet, it's only to return myself to you.

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hands that let go, Katie Maria

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Salt. Cardamom. Vanilla. Pomegranate. He ticks them off one by one in his mind. Salt. Cardamom. Vanilla. Pomegranate. Clove imagines the boy undressed; in his lap, a bundle of tight nerves and fleeting heartbeats, of pale flesh, of tongues and sharpened teeth scrapping across him, of blood, of blood, of blood. He forces the image out of his head, presses his spine hard against the wood of the shelves behind him, but it does little to distract him from the miraculous creature in front of him. They do not look away from one another, two stars contained within a forest of dark stain and worn through books.

The boy's voice is soft, gentle like a lamb's as it rambles, his starts and pauses sweet in their nervousness. His heart on the other hand is less behaved, wild in its run. It roars in Clove's ear, his heartbeat, a drumming creature whose dance keeps him rooted in place. He wants to press his hand over it, his mouth, his teeth, a hungry wolf chomping at the rabbit's tail. His fingers curl behind him, wrapping tight around the edge of the alcove's shelves.

"Every book? You must have quite the memory, —." His eyes wander again, this time to the man's work apron where a nametag is pinned to his left breast, a nametag that remains willfully blank. Clove smiles at this, like a secret had been divulged instead of kept. "Whoever you are." He cradles the word on his tongue with kindness, like a kiss to the brow, unprompted and welcome.

"I'm in search of a 1911 Gothic Architecture hardback by George Herbert West," he supplies, "The last book missing from my collection."

He glances at the man's pale hands, delicate like the bones of a bird. His hands itch. He looks away. "I could live without it, but I think I would rest easier at night knowing it was mine."

         ━━━━        THE JINGLE OF BELLS alerted the shopkeep of a customer, but the boy remained nestled between tall oak shelves. in truth, judas greenwood much preferred the company of his books over the dull bronze of the cash register up front. and so, that is where he often was unless a customer was ready to take their items home. to say judas sometimes resented himself for choosing his profession was an understatement. parting with first editions and signed copies alike was nearly as difficult as locating them in the first place. still, he knew better than to hoard such wonders — to keep them to himself. so, the shelves remained stocked and his door open.

standing on the tips of his toes and reaching far above his head, judas attempted to place a book back on the highest shelf, his height failing him. he nearly stumbles backward. where was that stool? then, a hand is pressed against the small of his back, gentle but steadying, cool even through the fabric of his clothing. turning, he looks at the stranger, lips parted and eyes slightly widened. the stranger was striking and judas felt his heart skip a beat. too close. they were too close.

honey — warm, sticky, sweet. it fills his ears and judas can’t help but hold his breath, lest he give away how nervousness ate away at him. who was he? this man whose touch was icy but whose voice reminded him of the sun? releasing the book, the boy doesn’t dare to tear his eyes away from the stranger. it felt a strange betrayal to do so.

when given the opportunity, judas moves away, presses his back against the bookshelf he was previously facing. his gaze never falters and it’s as though he’s under some sort of trance. “what um — yes. i’m sure i could… point you in the right direction, at least. what is it you’re looking for? the book, that is. the title.” he’s rambling now, that much he knows. “i know every book on these shelves. it’ll only take me a moment to help.”

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it sucks that you can only die once and its permanent.. imagine the kinda sex we could be innovating if that wasnt the case

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jeremy and jean

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DARK 2x06