The hands of my lover yesterday praised my whole body. Made angels from my lips. Ave Maria. Full of Grace
All the Dead Boys Look Like Me, Christopher Soto
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Richard Papen: If I had stayed in California I would've joined a cult.
Also, Richard Papen: Goes to Hampden and joins a highly exclusive greek class, with a teacher who discourages him from taking any other classes. Then proceeds to follow the plan of a guy who's never heard of the moon landing, and help him to murder his best friend.
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Remus, Regulus and Lily's friendship is so important to me.
Remus and Lily had this bookclub where they discussed books they were reading (mostly muggle books) and one day they find new copies of Maurice left on their little library shelf and they turn around puzzled to find a very hesitant Regulus standing as if asking them if he could be part of their group and they look at each other with smiles on their faces while beckoning him to come over to their designated reading spots and yeah the rest is history.
And whenever they sit together in the gryffindor common room reading, no one dares to disturb them because who wants to be hexed by the three scariest people in Hogwarts, huh, definitely not Sirus and James 🥴🥴🥴🥴🥴
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https://music.apple.com/us/album/greek-tragedy-oliver-nelson-remix/1548695569?i=1548695570
I’m thoroughly indulging in ouid currently and this song is making me CRAVE an unhinged intoxicated party with the group
hi, gwyn! <3 good for you on the consumption ;) hope you had an enjoyable experience.
i love that song, specifically the original. and in the mental framework of a party with the greek class? well, you've inspired me to say the absolute least. i'm thinking along and the allure of the idea is not letting me go, it has sunk its venomous little fangs into me. i'm sold.
it would have to be at francis' country estate. let's say it's the beginning of spring; the weather is still reduced to a crisp, annoyingly damp chill, and the only factor thereof instilling hope and solace into you are the early bloomers peppered about, peering out of the drab ground — the snowdrops, the crocus, the primroses. on a day as unassuming as any, you would lock yourselves away in the house, consuming refreshing and biting drinks that would remind you of the season and the weather: all sorts of sours and sodas (whiskey, vodka, tequila); gin fizzes; french 75s (overindulged in by francis); gin blossom martinis...
the party, although thrown in the evening, would honestly feel like some sort of brunch, lightened mood and all. that's what the song is making me feel like. a light, breezy, morning-like get-together, with lots of dancing and thrashing about and screaming in one another's faces and taking apart your surroundings and trying your best to lose your mind.
of course, you would get hammered. upon waking up, you'd realize someone (most probably you) had tried to write horace's "hymn to bacchus" in lipstick — yours, dark red — on richard's chest (only until the first word of the third line, in shaky, smeary writing); someone had arranged the multitude of produced cigarette stubs to look like the side profile of ovid on the kitchen counter; someone had moved one of the house's most ancient, tremendously heavy sofas to the middle of the drawing room. francis would be mildly mad, but only until his first glass of champagne as hangover relief at as early as 10 in the morning. then all would be all right again, and you'd rinse-repeat the same thing the following evening.
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we were best friends.
we were enemies. we were beloveds.
we were broken.
oh, what a tragic story to tell;
two kids, just for the hell of it, trying to fix each other up with their own broken pieces.
trying to make each other whole when their pieces came from two completely different puzzles.
hoping that somehow, in each other’s lives, love was attainable.
when neither even knew to love.
i loved her.
she loved me.
we tore each other down and cried together when we crumbled.
just like children.
surprised when our fighting ended in pain.
surprised when our falling ended in broken bones.
maybe it was all an illusion from the start.
maybe we were nothing more than acquaintances of a past life,
somehow destined into meeting in this one, except in this one the compatibility was gone.
perhaps in another time, our pieces could have come together, could have formed a picture.
but this time we were nothing more.
nothing less.
dusty.
broken.
crumbling.
fallen.
in effort to bandage each other’s wounds, we abandoned our own,
until they bled out.
and that was the end of our story.
broken dolls, perhaps once porcelain;
hopeless fools for thinking we could repair one another,
shattered on the floor,
breathing in each other’s last breaths in an effort to continue on,
our blood spilling out on one another
and blending into a single red pool
of intertwined fates and tragic coincidences—
what once was and what never will be.
- rhyme, Vestige
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