❛ concept: it is a quiet summer morning. warm sunlight and cool, crisp air stream through my open window. my room is heavy with the smell of flowers, vines, grass, and growth. the only sounds are of bees outside, a gentle wind chime, and my own steady, deep breathing. / autoplay enabled. do not reblog to personals.
St. Peter’s Basilica || Vatican City
tbh it makes me sad how small the uncharted fandom is :<
Simone Weil, from “The Self,” Gravity and Grace (via lifeinpoetry)
you’ll regret CROSSING me when your blood stains my hands.
i need you to be my boyfriend —— just for tonight. any other circumstance and maybe that would have sounded very briefly like a horrible way to ask for a hookup… but this isn’t any other circumstance. familiarity in these moments, the man coming in well after samuel had turned in for the night with a book and zero intentions to actually sleep ( when did he ever manage to sleep? ) and asking for a favor. usually it was business meetings, a fake name and some elaborate backstory. this? this was certainly new. maybe hitting a little too close to home, even. ❝ …sure, rafe. whatever ya’ need. ❞ / @foolsgvld.
of course he hadn’t expected to be denied. whims, after all, are always bent to no matter how fickle ( and if not of their own accord then the promise of riches is always enough to persuade ). but amiability is still enough to tempt a smile, as close as they’ll get to gratefulness painting countenance unusually soft, the lines of tiredness and such familiar irritation eased until they’re almost unnoticable. almost, though not quite. ❛ good. ❜ a single utterance, tone agreeable and sure even with the repercussions that such a rouse should bring; toeing the line between business and personal matters never has been advisable. ❛ —thank you. ❜
Louise Gluck, Hesitate to Call from Poems 1962-2012. (via deslavandieres)
tfw ur suddenly hit by the fact that you are so unlovable and no one has ever liked you and you always always get abandoned no matter how hard you try to prevent it
Hamlet (Hamlet, Act I scene v)
there’s nothing more satisfying than the sound of hitting someone solid in the fucking jaw.
ironclad replied to your post: “I don’t understand you at all.”
lara: OH BOY R U IN FOR IT NOW
rafe: what are u gonna do w ur weak woman arms
“I don’t understand you at all.”
meme || @ironclad
well— he can’t exactly say he’s surprised by such an admission now can he? always had suspected her to be a little ( a lot ) on the dim side when she’s so intent on speaking to him the way she does, disrespect colouring every word that leaves an impudent mouth before thought has a chance to reason. regardless, that isn’t to say that he’d like to be understood by her, as enjoyable as her continued, persistent company is, he rather enjoys the frustration borne of existing as an enigma.
❛ this is why women are rarely in charge. ❜ a snort, gleeful with the jibe only intended to rile and make her dance like the puppet master he’d so like to imagine himself as. antagonising always has yielded itself as entertainment in a world otherwise filled with dragging corporate days. ❛ you can’t understand anything. ❜
❝ you’re actually a disaster, y’realize that, right? ❞ despite the complete seriousness of the statement, there’s a lift to his voice… something that would suggest it be said in jest, if it weren’t for the circumstance between them at the moment. you could blame it on the time together, maybe. blame it on rafe’s stubbornness. blame it on samuel’s undeniable instinct to care. lips twist into a smile that’s anything but kind ❝ i dunno who the hell made y’this way, rafe, but god forbid anybody show any sign’a wanting to help you, and you’re threatening them. ❞ he should hate him —— he wants to hate him; an unwanted debt that he’s been forced to repay for the last year and a half. hatred toeing the edge but not quite spilling over. ❝ tell me how i’m supposed t’give a shit about helping you with this damn treasure, when y’don’t give a shit enough to let me unless s’convenient for you? ❞ / @foolsgvld !
he, rafe adler, apple of everyone’s eye, man who walks on ground blessed by god himself, has never had defiance thrown so mercilessly into his face. forgive him the stupor with which he’s silenced into, the way the colour drains, swirling dirty water away from feigned composure as the words process ( tiny little well aimed daggers that writhe their way past self—control to the point where they’re actually felt, where they produce a stinging ache the likes of which he hasn’t felt since he’d been but a child ).
a moment of weakness before the hackles are raised and teeth are bared, resentment bristling him into something savage, an untameable disaster that’s pointed words and digits a sudden, white knuckled curling in the fabric of samuel’s shirt. ❛ you think it was convenient for me to get you out of that hell hole? i could’ve left you to rot. ❜ snarled, he spits venom from a barbed tongue, chokes on the animosity that rises up his throat like bitter bile to burn caustic in a self righteous mouth. ❛ i don’t owe you shit. ❜
