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THE WELL (1997) dir. Samantha Lang A young woman named Katherine and her older friend Hester live on an isolated farm run by Hester and her father Francis. Katherine works as a maid and wants to leave because there’s too much work. Hester, however, becomes attracted to Katherine and holds her there, promising to give her less work in the future. When Francis dies, Hester decides to sell the farm for cash. They move to small cottage on the edge of the farm and plan to go to Europe. But a tragic accident and the theft of their money change their plans. (link in title)

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Lara Croft. I made this drawing based on one of the concept arts from the 1996 Tomb Raider by Toby Gard

Hope you like it :)

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everything better with women

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thinking about the sirens in suits/suit adjacent clothes plus a little genderswap moment... ;-; just for me

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im weak for women in showbiz

bit of lyrics from lemon demon - reaganomics

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─── a piece of her

this post is about lesbian vampires, men and minors DNI

Misha (the Nagaraja) & Joanne (the Ventrue); sapphic bloodbonding, kinda cannibalistic but they are vampires so it's more of a Kindred thing, almost angst if you tilt your head and squint a little, spicy if you squint very hard, no "y/n", both are Vampire the Masquerade OCs.

summary: They say that Ventrue blood tastes like luxurious, expensive wine compared to the blood of any other Kindred. But Joanne gives more than just her blood—she allows Misha to taste her body.

a/n: a big thank you for all sapphic vampire enjoyers out there. we'll keep winning, gals. Misha belongs to @pellicientesavem — shout out to my pookie — and Joanne is mine.

She clenched her teeth and tore. Flesh makes an oddly crisp sound when ripped. Blood—thick, murky brown—began to stream down, pooling briefly in the curve of the collarbone before trickling across the chest. A cold glance followed, the quiet sound of chewing—Misha swallowed, and when Joanne stroked Misha’s cheek with a relaxed gesture, she was practically ready to purr.

"No more," Joanne’s hand fell from the pain, and with the other, she pressed against the wound. "Many things in un-life can become addictive."

"You, for example."

"My dear," Joanne chuckled hoarsely, leaning back against the headboard as Misha followed her. "Want me to kiss you?"  And in that moment she halts Misha softly, holding her by the shoulder. "Give me a cigarette first."

"You’ve been smoking in bed a lot lately." Misha tilted her head slightly to the side, animal-like, expressionless, never breaking an eye contact. But after a couple of seconds, she obeyed, walking over to the table and returning from the other side of the bed.

"Really? Have I?" Joanne lit the cigarette, savoring the heat of the smoke beneath her unbeating heart. She smiled.

Misha remained silent for a while, looking down at her, clicking the lighter’s lid shut to extinguish the flame. Darkness settled between them—only pale moonlight streamed through the massive windows. Smoke curled in a spiraling ribbon.

"The sheets are soaked," Misha noted, and indeed, the blood had reached the edge of the fabric by Joanne’s thighs, spreading in an uneven crimson stain.

"Not for the first time, though."

"Want us to move to another bed?"

"Let’s stay," Joanne murmured around the cigarette in her teeth, reaching out with her free hand. "Come ‘ere."

The embrace was heavy, almost weary. Painful. When they pressed together, body against body, the blood—already drying, sticky—left its imprint on Misha’s face, her hands, everywhere they touched. She swallowed.

And it wasn’t sexual; it was intimate. Too close. When they kissed, Joanne flinched slightly, tensing as her dead flesh forced the wound closed—not perfectly, grotesquely, leaving a deep, aching mark. This was why it happened so rarely—it left scars. It left gaping wounds, hollows. How lucky Misha was to love her of all people, to crave only her—the one who healed so slowly, with such difficulty, and yet still allowed almost everything.

It was hard to say when they should have stopped—but they wouldn’t stop anyway.

The ashtray on the nightstand—Joanne flicked her wrist, tapping off the ash without looking, wincing when Misha tilted her head to the side, kissing her neck, licking up the blood carelessly, shamelessly.

Pain.

"Sorry," Misha whispered in her ear. Joanne closed her eyes and smiled in response.

This wouldn’t have been possible if they were truly alive. Not like this—no, truly, fully alive. Would they have even met at all?

Misha was afraid. She knew—whenever she fed, she always wanted more. She knew that if she had fur, it would bristle at the taste of Joanne’s body—anywhere. She knew that year after year, something inside herself slipped away like sand through fingers, something that had once made her human, leaving behind only a hungry, cold something, forever seeking, forever hunting.

Joanne never left her alone with that something. She stood beside her when Misha looked in the mirror while dressing, distracting her, not letting her stare too long at her own distorted, ruined features, the loud reminder—"You don’t control these changes." Joanne controlled them. The beast quieted in her hands, whimpered and begged for mercy, granting Misha just a little more time—a few more minutes, stretching into hours, into days, into years.

The curse of un-life wasn’t even in the fact that everyone Misha once knew would die like ordinary people, that everything around her would crumble to dust—no, not at all. Such things never troubled her; she had always felt somewhat detached from the world.

The curse was that in living endlessly, one could only spiral downward. And intimacy—intimacy was a dangerous game in the face of an infinite descent into hell.

Because the most human thing left in her, the one thing that stood like a pillar inside her, burned like an unextinguished candle, the last light in an empty cathedral, was restraining herself—and that choice is so tough when to drain to the last drop, to devour to the last crumb, was the highest of un-life’s ideals and desires.

Nothing compared to it. The triumph of the animal, the drowning of consciousness in that dark, opaque haze beyond life and death.

Misha sometimes thought about how, after diablerie, the consumed soul remained inside the killer forever. Perhaps Joanne’s presence—indivisible, eternal—was meant to be the main course after it all.

But not today.

For God’s sake, not today.

Tonight, she was still not close enough. And she was silent, finishing the last of her cigarette in the blood-soaked bed, sliding down the pillows, slipping from Misha’s arms as she turned onto her side. She stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray—smelling so good of smoke, of cold air from the open window, of blood.

It wasn’t the fear of becoming a beast.

It was the fear of forgetting the love that had once stopped her from becoming one.

"Mine," Misha purred heavily, in love, obsessed, wrapping her in an embrace like in a snare.

"Mine," she whispered again, drowning in the scent of Joanne’s hair, pressing kisses along the crown of her head, down her temples, murmuring into her ear, "Mine," as she slid lower through the sticky, bloody mess, nudging Joanne’s knee aside with a gentle motion, touching her carefully, asking permission and receiving it so easily in the answering tilt of her hips.

"Mine."

And in the next second, when Joanne lay defenseless, soft, so beautifully vulnerable in her hands, Misha was scared again. She was angry at herself, salivating, losing herself in that impulse, biting, caressing, kissing.

"Yours," Joanne moaned in response, pressing closer.

She always had been, it seemed. From the very beginning.

Fated. Destined. To be a torment, a temptation, or (and?) the only possible salvation.

Or maybe, in the end—just a lover.

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watching people trying to argue morality over characters from YELLOWJACKETS is so exhausting PICK your favourite cannibal and BE QUIET

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Lynn my beloved ❤️

apprentice Lynn design by @motherdanger 😁

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it's gonna be a good day

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JOSEFINE MY BELOVED

touch-craving woman with mother issues and filled w silliness????????????yesssssssssssssssssss

those are mostly redraws but still makes me giggle and kicking feet

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is that you, Josef...ine?

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Source: Common Lives Lesbian Lives; A Lesbian Quarterly ( #36- Fall 1990 )

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yeah. whatever. im doing this now. i guess

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wait I didn’t remember amanda riding the back of the wheel chair like a shopping cart 💀💀 excuse the shitty gif but look

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Helena Janecic – "City Gals" series (2011-2012)

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Rule of Rose