#trysts

[mega-delicatelysuperbcollector]

OPIUM DEN

Swirling vapors within, Clouding views of your sin… Fantasy Important to me What’s real takes it on the chin! – Opium wrapped up in dreams, Nothing is as it seems…. Faithful friends Have other ends, Feeding themselves off your dreams. – Internet lovers appear, Daily all times of the year…. Ready to sell You dreams as well That they can’t wait to be there! – Letting you buy…

[philgennuso]

Fading #Poem #GraphicArts #MusicVideo

By Phil Gennuso Arts Lampshades in the dark,covered with our own smoky dreamsof secret trysts and stolen words,all left behind to glow briefly at night,before they slowly melt awayinto the foggy mists of distant memories. The moods, shadows, nostalgia of memory. The beauty of Chopin.

[elainiisms]

y'all are always complaining about how gay rep has to be perfect and unproblematic like speak for yourself i personally love it when they try to murder each other

[cuepickle]

“William-“

“Once more is all I ask, Steven”

(Literally obsessed with the idea of Royalty!Harringrove, wherein William the stable hand can’t help but take one last visit to Prince Steven’s chambers the night before his lover is wed to the princess of a nearby kingdom)

[roguerambles]

Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus: "Lord Zeus, you repeatedly broke your marriage vows, having numerous affairs, including with your son's wife--"

Ares: "Wait, what?!"

Hera: "I FUCKING KNEW IT--"

Zeus: "...."

Reader: "Oh, great--"

Hades: *sips wine*

Ares: "You've been fucking my FATHER?!"

Reader: "I don't know what you're yelling at me for, you've been bedding Aphrodite our entire marriage!"

Aphrodite: "I'd rather not be involved in this, thank you--"

Hermes: "I think it's a little late for that, don't you?"

Ares: "THAT'S NOT THE SAME--"

Reader: "HOW IN THE UNDERWORLD IS IT NOT--?"

Minos: "....if we could perhaps focus on--"

Courtroom full of yelling Gods: "NOT NOW."

Zeus: "....I'm going to Tartarus, aren't I?"

Hades: *sips wine*

[bubbarnes]

from deauvilleus' instagram story - september 09, 2024.

[recny]

are people asking him this or is he just volunteering the information

[wordsinhaled]

it was really only a matter of time until edwardian payneland happened and what if i channeled maurice about it. just a little

-

Charles is the son of the groundskeeper at St. Hilarion's School for Boys while Edwin is a pupil there. And he can't help but notice Edwin—how he’s nearly always alone, or else being harangued by the cruel older boys who call themselves his peers.

Charles privately thinks they hardly seem equal to him in poise or grace or manner. They are boisterous, brash, crass, violent, all overlaid with a veneer of false propriety, but Charles can see the cracks in it. He knows that sort by how they are inside, and they cannot be like Edwin at all. No, Edwin Paine's got a sad, drawn sort of look about him that Charles can't help recognizing. This lonely boy who feels somehow kindred in a way he can't put a finger on, but is pulled to him all the same, though by rights he'd do better to keep his distance.

Edwin often sits by the lake by himself, to read, or to do his assignments in the shade of the trees. Picturesque as a painting, he is. One day Charles dares to approach him, though he knows the risk in it—prepared to be rebuffed, rebuked for his untoward attention to someone he is meant to ignore; but the boy does not turn him away.

And so they become friends. Tentative, and then less and less so.

Together they explore the school's sprawling grounds, all of whose surprising hiding-places Charles Rowland knows by heart, having wandered them himself for years and made them his own refuge. The woods become theirs; the shore by the lake theirs; the shade of the trees theirs. The attic, where no one comes to look for them in the dead of night, also theirs.

And then one day Charles notices a group of boys surrounding Edwin. The usual cadre, and they're posturing, their voices loud in the autumn air. They’ve ripped Edwin's penny magazine from his grip and are tearing pages out of it, scattering them to be plucked up by the wind. Charles can do nothing else but step in. He shouts at them to back off, puts himself between them and Edwin, and gets himself thrashed for his trouble—but they, at least, finally leave Edwin alone.

Edwin, for his part, cannot believe Charles would be so reckless for his sake. Charles has not yet mentioned to him that he is used to this sort of treatment, and sees worse at home. They sit together in the boathouse by the lake, cross-legged, close enough for Edwin to dab carefully at Charles’ split lip and bleeding knuckles.

“You should not have done that for me,” he chides, though it carries no heat. “What will happen now?” He thinks word is sure to get back to the school, and there will be a scandal. Those boys, who so vocally despise Edwin, will hardly be quiet in their outrage, their humiliation. Charles’ father might be relieved of his post, and then Charles’ family will have to leave St. Hilarion’s. That is how these things go.

And what was it all for? For Edwin? How could it have been worth it?

“Doesn’t matter, does it?" Charles is saying, when Edwin surfaces from his troubled thoughts. "Couldn’t let them treat you like that. They had you five to one. And that, just ‘cause you’re different. I know how it is.” Charles’ eyelashes are very long, and the light turns his eyes a warm, deep amber as he talks fiercely, insistently, in defense of Edwin.

It’s terribly forward, Edwin thinks. And, despite every misgiving, he welcomes it. No one has ever fought for Edwin before. No one has ever spoken about him with such conviction.

Then Charles seems to lapse into pensiveness. “You didn’t have to…” he says softly. "All this." He gestures, with the free hand Edwin isn’t busy wrapping up, at the little bottle of antiseptic, the scissors, the roll of bandages and the cloths, all spread out on the floorboards between them.

“Of course I did,” Edwin says.

Really, he had not given it much consideration. He had had only the presence of mind to memorize the sight of Charles kneeling in the dew-damp grass, angry gaze still spitting fire at the backs of Edwin’s retreating bullies. He’d had blood in his bared teeth, and the briefest flash of desire had seared through Edwin—to kiss him. Merely in thanks, perhaps, but still, to kiss him.

He would know the warmth of Charles’ mouth. Fleeting, forbidden, it would sear itself into his mind for ever.

Of course, he had done no such thing; for he could not. Instead, he’d done the only thing he could do—bent low towards Charles, and squeezed his shoulder once, as if to say, Wait here for me. I will come back to you.

And as he'd turned on his heel and gone off in the direction of the infirmary, leaving Charles there with dusk encroaching, Edwin had hoped Charles understood his gesture for the indelible promise it was.

[bluegiragi]

mission start!

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[hajihiko]

I'm just saying... they're responsible 🤷‍♂️

[everchased]

i confess i am very curious... what is finch like as a lover

depends on who's holding the leash

[sparring-spirals]

Occasionally I'll forget that Ashley Johnson is an immensely talented actress/voice actor who can absolutely wreck all of my emotions with just a few phenomenally acted sentences. So its always nice to be reminded that Ashley Johnson is an immensely talented actress who can wreck all of my emotions with a few phenomenally acted sentences. (said through gritted teeth)

[elainiisms]

[staracket]

uelp me i am ill

[effen-draws]

“Oh tragic clown, so much sadness now. You built your mountain and now it blocks the sun.”

Alts and lines under cut:

[perplexingly]

that was so sweet, I'm beginning to see what people see in Astarion...