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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Apex Legends (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Bloodhound/Fuse | Walter Fitzroy Characters: Bloodhound (Apex Legends), Fuse | Walter Fitzroy, Artur | Bloodhound's Raven Additional Tags: Bloodhound Headcanons (Apex Legends), Making Love, just some bros reading a bodice ripper together, bloodhound romanticizes everything, Hand Jobs Summary:

“Ástin mín,” They correct him, their nose curling. 

“Ow-stin men,” He tries again, slower this time. Somehow he only makes it sound worse. They shake their head as he visually recites the words in his head, mouthing around the consonants. They think he’s doing it to make them laugh, which they do, softly. 

“Here. Allow me.”

#fusehound #bloodhound apex #walter fuse fitzroy

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Nikki Giovanni, “My House”

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Shoutout to the breakers of generational curses.

__________________

Update: 11/23 WOW. Firstly, I’m totally overwhelmed and honored by the response this piece has gotten. Seeing it resonate with so many people has sincerely moved me. I’m so incredibly happy that it means different things to different people.

A couple people have sent me messages asking if they could have my blessing to get the Ouroboros tattoo’d on them.

The short answer to that is- absolutely. I would be honored. If you do so please tag me! I would love to see the final product=^} this is a very personal piece to me and I hope to get it on myself soon.

However; I am apprenticing to become a tattoo artist myself and while there is absolutely no pressure, I would greatly appreciate anyone using the design as a tattoo to consider donating to my donate links any small tip they could spare to help support my art as I pursue this career. It’s really tough now doing unpaid work during the pandemic and It would really help me since I can’t afford to currently reproduce any designs. (Donate: www.paypal.com/paypalme/Tagtaylorsit) again, absolutely no pressure. I know times are tough.

If you feel inspired by the Ouroboros and would like to do your own artwork that is totally fine, who am I to stop another artist from expressing themselves? If you would like to draw this particular design on something (someone talked about painting it on their jacket, which I thought was really cool) I am cool with that as well. However; I would like to produce a small run of patches or pins of this design so I do ask that you refrain from selling products using my art.

=^) I love reading everyone’s stories about how they are ending toxic cycles in different forms in their lives and support all of you in your battles. Thank you all so much.

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Chapters: 9/? Fandom: Dead by Daylight (Video Game) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Frank Morrison Characters: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face, Frank Morrison Additional Tags: Roadtrip, lots of headcanons for both frank and danny, Trans Male Character, Flashbacks, no entity's realm but still plenty of murder, Kidnapping, Attempted Murder, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Emotional Manipulation, Unhealthy Relationships, Hybristophilia, Unreliable Narrator, Serial Killers, Murder, Horror, Body Horror, the legion make appearances, Past Relationship(s), Face-Fucking, Vaginal Fingering Summary:

frank's time in ormond is up. when clive can't cash in any more fostering cheques and the last of his beer bottles run dry, it's time for him to hit the road. maybe he'll face some demons back in calgary; or, maybe, he'll hitch a ride in the wrong 1991 toyota carolla with a pair of florida licence plates.

#ghostfrank #dead by daylight #frank morrison #danny johnson

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they've been aiming for the heart, the nails that are hollowing out my sternum & my stomach, but they just can’t seem to find it. as they search, i shall venerate the boy & his hands as they stitch me back together again, cleansing the cuts they've left with sugar water (and the breaths that leave your mouth are far more holy than what i have left within my chest, & i wish my bones were your bones, i wish they'd been entwined with one another like moss crossing over stone). with you i can see the silverly earth that swallows my pride & spits it out anew along your pale collarbone, and the little flecks of red covering mine, salvation and hyacinth. i can visualise sitting on the edge of our bathtub next february when it’s cold enough outside to see your sighs like tiny tufts of white (& it doesn’t matter if it’s toronto or minnesota or wisconsin or nagoya as long as it’s with you), & i’m shaving your head & your hair tickles my thighs & i kiss you, & you laugh, & i drop the clippers to the floor & imagine a vanilla candle at the summit of a mountain rising bronzed-yellow from the mist. i tell you I can see my gods in the reflection of your eyes, mirror images shedding skin just beneath the softness, & you tell me you don’t know what i’m talking about (& nobody ever does, but that's why there's still beauty left in me, i think) but you humour me anyway.*

m

#happy valentine's day :) #spilled ink #love poetry

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i’m sorry nobody told you it’d be like this, loving Ophelia; nobody told you she would circle you with boughs of bones in her arms as embers burn the soles of her bare feet, laughing as her flesh is seared black and the scent of boiled iron fills the room. she finds it divine, / this perversion of a post-rain petrichor and it scares you sometimes, / how she bends things towards the beautiful. bruises become blush and cigarette burns look like love-bites and the femur she stuck between her split lips is a red rose without / thorns to slit her wrists with, unlike the broken glass that litters her satin sheets, unlike the crucifix mounted above her bedroom door that she’d / sharpened to a point at each end just to make sure / that nobody would turn it right-side-up. nobody warned you that she would delight in the way her mind / wandered from her, and how she likes to squeeze herself into liminal spaces that are too small for her, and how sometimes, / when the moon is full, and your skin is flush to hers, / and your breaths are intertwined like rope / pulling back and forth (she exhales and you inhale, in and out / in and out / in and out…) you open your eyes and she’s staring right at you, / tapetum lucidum, unblinking, her smile small and thin.

#spilled ink #poetry #mental illness poetry #actually psychotic

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An interview: Audre Lorde & Adrienne Rich

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Fyodor Dostoyevsky, White Nights

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“Today I want to resolve nothing. I only want to walk a little longer in the cold”

— Kim Addonizio, closing lines to “New Year’s Day,” Tell Me (BOA Editions Ltd., 2000)

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“I have the tongue of some endangered animal. No one can understand me / anymore”

— Tommye Blount, from ‘The Tongue’, in Poetry

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“Φριξοκόμᾳ τόδε Πανὶ καὶ αὐλιάσιν θέτο Νύμφαις δῶρον ὑπὸ σκοπιᾶς Θεύδοτος οἰονόμος: οὕνεχ᾽ ὑπ᾽ ἀζαλέου θέρεος μέγα κεκμηῶτα παῦσαν, ὀρέξασαι χερσὶ μελιχρὸν ὕδωρ. - For bristle-haired Pan and the rustic Nymphs lone-grazing Theudotos set this gift under the hill-top: because, when he was worn out by scorching summer, they made him rest, holding honey-sweet water in their hands.”

— Anyte (Greek Anthology 16.291)

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ρ ρ ρ your boat

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“Every character in Agamemnon sets fire to language in a different way. Klytaimestra is a master of technologies, starting with the thousand-mile relay of beacons that brings news of the fall of Troy all the way from Asia to her in the first scene. She reenacts the relay in language that is so brilliant and so aggressive, she is like a conqueror naming parts of the world she now owns. She goes on to own everyone in the play- the chorus by argument and threat, Agamemnon by flattery and puns, Aigsthos by sexy cozening- with one exception. Kassandra she cannot conquer. Kassandra’s defense, which is perfect, is silence. When Klytaimestra demands to know whether this foreign girl speaks Greek, Kassandra does not answer- for 270 lines (in the original text). Klytaimestra exits. There is no reason why Kassandra should speak Greek. She is a Trojan princess who has never been away from home before. In fact, she will turn out to command all registers of this alien tongue- analytical, metaphoric, historical, prophetic, punning, riddling, plain as glass. But Apollo has cursed Kassandra. Her mind is foreign in a much deeper way. Although she sees everything past, present and future, and sees it truly, no one ever believes what she says. Kassandra is a self-consuming truth. Aiskhylos sets her in the middle of his play as a difference you cannot grasp, a glass that does not give back the image placed before it.”

—  Anne Carson in the introduction to her translation of Aiskhylos’ Agamemnon as part of ‘An Oresteia’.

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William-Adolphe Bouguereau, Three Marys at the Tomb.

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Francesca Woodman (April 3, 1958 – January 19, 1981) was an American photographer best known for her black and white pictures featuring either herself or female models. Many of her photographs show women, naked or clothed, blurred merging with their surroundings, or whose faces are obscured. Her work continues to be the subject of much critical acclaim and attention, years after she died by suicide at the age of 22, in 1981.

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                       i think i am feminine i am girl almost i am                        snake-haired            & sometimes my mouth                        opens my voice and asks     but when  do  we exist

— ari k. castañeda, from “<3 Letter to Tim Gunn from Project Runway,” published in Leopardskin & Limes