POP IT DON'T DROP IT [grossover]

Информация о пользователе

Привет, Гость! Войдите или зарегистрируйтесь.


Вы здесь » POP IT DON'T DROP IT [grossover] » альтернативное » i hear your voice inside me


i hear your voice inside me

Сообщений 1 страница 10 из 10

1

https://i.imgur.com/DtfqNul.png

we belong to the light,
we belong to the thunder /c/

тут возможно будет красиво но потом
[nick]Adrian Woodhouse[/nick][status]give in[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/zk104mq.png[/icon][fandom]Rosemary's Baby[/fandom][lz]worship now and get 15% off your next damnation[/lz][char]Антихрист[/char]

Отредактировано Aleksandr Privalov (2021-03-22 18:13:50)

+6

2

Countless hands blindly reach out to me and I feel as alone as it gets in the middle of a crowded party. They can feel something that they interpret as a raw sex appeal and they want some. I flinch as someone's nails dig deep in my hand leaving red marks and try to escape the trap I am enclosed in. Something is rotten in the kingdom come. Therefore, it's all about poor judgment or lack thereof.

The atmosphere is smothering and it feels like there's a tube from the tailpipe sticking under the door and we all now eagerly breathe in carbon monoxide fume. It sure must be a big truck to fill this big hall and result in enough air compression to explode after it kills everyone inside. The one that gets you smeared on the hot asphalt and drags your guts for another ten miles.

I should have left like ten minutes ago.

I feel someone snatches my phone and I let it go, just like I let go of everything I ever had. I forgive them and all that jazz. I am eyeing the room and reading it like an open book while still trying to shake palms that still are digging into my clothing and my skin. We're all dead here, or some shit. Since the dawn of time, people uttered phrases like this one, wannabe philosophical mumbo jumbo, so it became meaningless. Of course, we are all dead here, in various degrees of being shitfaced and, to be completely honest, you get excited the first hundred times to die from alcohol poisoning or drug overdose. Then it becomes a routine. My eyesight is not as sharp as it was millenia before.

Today I am picking up the fight so someone special can find me faster since my phone is long gone.

I make it appear that I know what's the drill if being completely transparent. They give you an outline with little to no details. The biggest tragedy that ever happened is the glimpse of free will you get from people when you hang out with them for long enough to become a son of man indeed. On my way out, I push a random dude too hard, call him a puff too loud, dodge the blow into my head too slow. There's not much of a fight, the interest sparks like a match and then dies out as if someone pissed at it. It really smells like piss down here and I have to pick myself up.

Come save me, follow the trail of holy blood, idk. Do something, I'm not in a mood. Hit me like one of your Soho girls and we square, — I feel the tension slowly building in the bridge of the nose.

My heart is just another liminal space that he occupies without being noticed most of the time. We meet somewhere in-between and the desolation of previous knowledge is not yet done but already commenced. People  usually call this type of situations a slow burn, a neverending shitshow where someone always fails to complete tasks. I am not good at teamwork these days.

[icon]http://www.fansshare.com/media/content1/550x298_noel-gallagher-and-damon-albarn-working-on-new-projects-together-6597.jpg[/icon][status]et tu, bestie?[/status][char]Иисус[/char][fandom]Christianity[/fandom][lz]better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunk Christian[/lz][nick]Jesse Joseph[/nick]

+3

3

There it is – among the mix of sweat, lust, and sperm, among the wet and the horny, the suffering and those fed on loneliness, blossoming like a poisonous flower. I breathe it in – after all, it was left for me – and feel the oxygen burning deep through the brain matter when it splits and immediately heals itself. A masochistic tango of sorts, this soup in my pulsating head, kinda like the one you and I usually have. We both know who’s the masochist on that spectrum, but lately I’ve been wondering if maybe (unwillingly) we’ve switched places for the fun of it. Or how come I’m the mother of this friend group?

My pupils dilate and open up, swallowing whatever is left of the whites – feels like reverse blinking.
I inhale again. The breadcrumbs. Are you luring me in with the wine of your sacred veins? Half an hour ago I was pissed. now I’m blessed, and the totally illegal jailbait who I run into by accident catches a glimpse of my face, the real one, you see, and is ready to dry hump me on the spot. Her body, that is. Her mind is splattered and horrified, impregnated with terror – she'd cry if she had the chance. But you know what they say, – I have no mouth, and I must scream – that’s the devil for you. Not some lush English guy flexing abs on Netflix, but the void and the horror (and the obsession, the evil kind too, so hold onto your panties). Don’t get me wrong, I’d go for any of the Englishmen myself, my mama ain't raised no monster, but no one actually asked me. Not the ancient farts from my dad’s fan club, not the bearded goof from high above, nadie. Joke on them – the Church of Satan's congregate will bathe in their own blood to spell my name in fancy crimson. That’s the antichrist for you. The loving, and forgiving, and rotten to his core anti-saviour.   

I tell the girl to go home and sleep it off. I also recommend a hobby which combines four out of seven deadly sins and makes any adolescent feel wholesome. Preaching wholesomeness is important, we’re not the fucking wives of Jedediah or whatever they call those miserable mormon birds these days – I crave consent, the utter willingness to sacrifice oneself for the greater good. That’s what daddy dearest doesn’t get – you can’t evoke devotion through slavery.

Speaking of the greater good, I find its mascot looking like a devoured trash bin if trash bins were actual people and stray dogs took bits and pieces of flesh out of them. Fortunately, it’s not the result of his lil ole fight so much as the hobo style he’s going for these days (and even if it was the result of the fight, the babe’s immortal anyway like a lovely cockroach or a particularly adorable fungus).

"Well, aren’t you the sight for sore eyes. Lemme help you up," like babysitting a divine toddler, now isn’t it? We are technically family, what with his dad creating mine, but I try not to pay it any mind. Incest is a bit outdated and heavily unbecoming when one of you is holiness personified and has major daddy issues. "Mine or yours?"

I ask him alright, but I don’t care for the answer. A buddy of mine pays for the penthouse at Trump International Hotel a couple of blocks from here where the sheets are soft and the bathtub is big enough to perform front crawl so we definitely aren’t exchanging it for whatever shithole J resides in. The dude died for humanity, the least they can do is let him sleep on a decent pillow. [nick]Adrian Woodhouse[/nick][status]give in[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/zk104mq.png[/icon][fandom]Rosemary's Baby[/fandom][lz]worship now and get 15% off your next damnation[/lz][char]Антихрист[/char]

Отредактировано Aleksandr Privalov (2021-03-27 12:03:38)

+2

4

I don't have to double-check the identity of Good Samaritan. I feel you and it aches. Before he manages to say something, I mumble under my breath:

— Don't trust people you meet, they might promise you that the river ain't deep, said in the Holy Scripture, — which is not true, according to the genius dot com, but we ain't here for the Bible study and who's gonna check me? Jesus? Oh, wait. The voice is all low and raspy as if I ran the marathon. Away, away from my problems and responsibilities. You keep finding me and I pretend I'm stupid enough to think we exist on the same ends of the same thin line.

I take the hand pointed at me and squeeze it just like every father taught every young boy. Show 'em your dominance, be a man. Point a gun in their crotch, if needed. Or something... I didn't listen well. In a previous life, I have rejected the temptation and sodded off to the Judaean Desert. This time I drunkenly giggle and lean heavily on him. His breath smells sweet, and his skin is melted gold that leaves pretty marks on my palms. The irony is that all of his kisses taste rotten, and the marks hurt like motherfuckers.

I don't respond because who cares. My place stank with those cheap incense sticks with the scent of asthma and cancer to the core. I had a roommate who also smoked weed and did meth, every now and then. He got stabbed seven times and all I've got is a dirty carmine stain right in the middle of the living room. To die in the living room, what a concept. It's just like that one time when some dude died and returned after three days. Maybe it was a hangover, maybe it's Maybelline. The degree of blasphemy of all of this reaches the heating point of no return. The point is - fuck you and your fucking posh attitude, my place would be just perfect for whatever bullshit we gonna do.

He pushes my wobbly body into the backseat and then rushes me to move. I don't open my eyes, having the most nauseous face I can, just to make a driver glance back at us with a concerned look.

"If he throws up, y'all, I swear to G..." He abruptly shuts up, and I wheeze.

If I start puking, you make a fortune of this holy art object. Is shooting a cat a performance or happening? Depends on who's cleaning the shit up. The night city is vibrating and warm, it's full of sorrows and happy moments. It makes me want to open the door and fall out of the vehicle that just speeded up. I don't do that. I place my palm on Adrian's lap and tighten my grip. Oh, is that 100% cotton? Name each child who died while picking it!

— We should turn back, — I exhale quietly. — I have labrador-sized rats in the basement. You would love it.

The alcohol is wearing off bit by bit. I need to do something about it, or I start doing random miracles. I had a long discussion about it in the office, last time I got stabbed. There's some party miracles I'm still working on. 

— If you get me more booze, I show you a party trick, — his eyes reflect strobe light of the traffic.

I stay silent for the rest of the cab journey and fight the desire to touch the driver's neck and take away all his wickedness with me. I would need that one tonight.

[icon]http://www.fansshare.com/media/content1/550x298_noel-gallagher-and-damon-albarn-working-on-new-projects-together-6597.jpg[/icon][status]et tu, bestie?[/status][char]Иисус[/char][fandom]Christianity[/fandom][lz]better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunk Christian[/lz][nick]Jesse Joseph[/nick]

Отредактировано 2D (2021-03-28 10:23:50)

+2

5

People look but they don't know what they see – a roofied lamb about to be taken advantage of in the nearest alley or a wasted friend who’s gonna spend the night carefully tucked in. Excitingly enough, only some of them get uncomfortable, and none come up to our little party of two. I’d love to whisper the next phrase but I actually have to yell.
"What is it with you and unreliable people?"

It’s a fifteen-minute drive even through the clogged traffic of the Big Apple. The streets are bleeding with artificial light, and that’s why we don’t talk much: not in front of the driver, not in this private setting of one inch apart.

"Didn’t know they handed out basements with one-bedroom apartments. Or is it a communal one? Will I have to wait in line?"
I don’t mock poverty when it’s unintentional, but J can have whatever he wants. People see his face (granted, the old one) on a piece of toast and it makes them choose pilgrimage over wives, children and social security; they would literally chew his apples for him and wash his feet in Magdalene’s creepy fashion. 

"Show the trick first and we’ll talk".

I follow his hand with my eyes but say nothing. I wonder if that’s his way of hinting a sudden urge to share handjobs or if he’s just dizzy and lost all touch on how social cues work. The driver starts to fidget like a blind hound dog who sensed a fox, and I smile at him in the rearview mirror.

We are followed by curious glances all the way to the penthouse, and when we get there, I drag J into the bathroom.
"Hope you’re up for some blasphemy, babe" I say, and turn the tap on. My hand is in his hair, the soft silk clinging to my fingers as if it belongs, and I pull just a bit before basically drowning him in what has to be one of the fanciest sinks on Manhattan. "Clean water, a new heart, a renewed spirit. Not the most creative this one, isn't it?"

I put a towel over his shoulders and a chair under his ass, and that’s the last droplet of care I have in my body for today. Patience is a virtue, you see. Let the virtuous keep it.

"You’re good? A-ha," I look into his eyes (they’re navy blue and in that state where you can tell the person has just woken up a second ago), count to two, and slap him on the face. "What the actual fuck, J?»

There is half a dozen things I’d rather be doing in his presence than this, and yet the want and the necessity rarely if ever coincide anymore. He looks like a surprised pup but the thing is: he is not surprised. He saw it coming when it was still in motherloving Siberia.  "You wanna run around pretending to be a victim, be my guest," I know my voice changes, the pupils probably do too (for them it’s full disco ball mode tonight), and the French windows of the penthouse start to tremble. l choose to ignore it. Sometimes a little bird needs a little scare. "But if you could find it in your busy schedule to save, I don’t know, A FUCKING BEN AND JERRY'S FROM MELTING IN A CHILD’S HAND, it sure would make my heaven of a life easier."[nick]Adrian Woodhouse[/nick][status]give in[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/zk104mq.png[/icon][fandom]Rosemary's Baby[/fandom][lz]worship now and get 15% off your next damnation[/lz][char]АНТИХРИСТ[/char]

+2

6

The moment my hair gets soaking wet, I squirm and feel my hands cover with goosebumps. The tiny sound of water getting into my nostrils and wheeze of air out of my lungs reminds me of seconds before the first bomb dropped in Warsaw. People knew nothing will be the same anymore. It's not the same when white people massacre white people. Another problem is again something we don't want to discuss this night. The muscles roll under the skin between my shoulder blades as I try to stabilize myself.

Don't make a scene. Don't flood everything with a disgusting mass of blood, saliva, torn tissue, and broken teeth. We're far from doing a little twisted role-play when, at some point, the sound of Latin and Greek mixture would fill the walls. That would be the turn-off of the century. I sit there and place my hand into the burning spot he smacked me. I start drifting away, unsure, am I one step away from busting my meat bag and having to find a new one, or am I so good at pretending I forget to offer him another cheek. 

— Wasn't that Tom and Jerry? — I blink stupidly, and my mouth curves into a confused "O". — Oh, my bad.

I live with a stupid amount of credit. Humankind was designed in dad's image, and nepotism was like a small gift only a few could unlock and truly appreciate. Of course, I'm not critical of my cause or mission. Otherwise, I would be on the opposite side of the barricade. Still, all I want to have is an eviction note from the sky-landlord and an e-mail from Heaven that I got fired. A boy can dream.

He makes it not a biggie of, almost Biblical, whatever he's doing, and I ignore it as well. Tomorrow daily papers would be concerned with a small earthquake no one could predict. I look at his eyes again and again. Lick my lips and carefully think about what to do next. However, there's something we should clarify, and all of a sudden I am as sober as one can be.

— Okay, first of all, chill, — the best thing to say to an irritated prodigy who can chew your head off. — Technically, it's a bad taste to hang around kids these days, or any days for that matter.

I take the generously given towel and start drying my hair, feeling how my body gets hot, and blood rushes down the spine. I look at him as if it was his problem, but I need to put a disclaimer, with a heavy sigh: "No, it's not your problem". 

— This leads to the second point, I don't interfere. I can't just show up and save everyone. Also, not my division to argue about interpretations.

Way too much shit were made in my name, and I didn't sign up for that. I can't interfere. People go shot their children in a delirium and say angels told them. I can't do anything about it. Listen, I wish I could. We have this little tango dance again with me trying to find any trace of any emotion I know inside the abyss that stares at me. Here is when I should shut up and listen to his breath. I tense and can't tell for sure, whether next thing I know would be light and nothingness.

— So, no booze for me then?

[icon]http://www.fansshare.com/media/content1/550x298_noel-gallagher-and-damon-albarn-working-on-new-projects-together-6597.jpg[/icon][status]et tu, bestie?[/status][char]Иисус[/char][fandom]Christianity[/fandom][lz]better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunk Christian[/lz][nick]Jesse Joseph[/nick]

Отредактировано 2D (2021-03-29 14:41:09)

+2

7

They say, everyone’s born in sin, but it’s not particularly true, not really. For some of us (for both of us) it’s different in its own way, – kinda like the God’s fool smile on his face is different from my clenched mouth right now. Because J’s mom, you see, was stripped off original sin while mine was raped and then gaslit to the point of madness by a bunch of old dudes. It seemed they’d expected me to show up before finally starting dying off, or maybe dad promised them eternal life, or maybe both. You’d dedicate your life to something if the mere prospect of it could drag you out of hell covered in gold, wouldn’t you? Funnily enough, eventually it was excatly what killed ‘em all – that, and a cleaver knife. Fear the petite lady with postpartum depression who just gave birth to a Satan’s child – evil was brewing in her like in a cute little pot of terror for nine whole months. 

Come to think of it, it’s hard to tell whether I did actually infest her with my rage or she left me some of hers – maybe it mutated like a transformer made of flesh and resentment and landed itself a new host, the one who’ll know what to do with it and how to hit the hardest. I fancy myself deserving of this wrath.
Feel it tingle on my fingertips right where they collided with his baby face. I’m almost thirsty.

"Is that what you tell your daddy, J? 'I wasn’t allowed to interfere, so here we are. Whoopsie-doopsie, who would’ve thunk!’" I grab him by the hair again – this time to make a point – and read through this vegan junckie bullshit he’s pulling off. If you squint and look real close, there are holy cracks in his demeanour capable of making virgins out of porn stars.

"Now, do me a favor and remember who you’re talking to. We both know what you can do. You’ve done it once, how fucking hard can it be?"
Oh, he’s bored, alright. He doesn’t want to plant seeds and wait for them to strengthen the earth, he wants to take a sip of dandelion wine and wake up five years later in a ditch, like a fucking Mowgli raised by a feral cat who feeds on her own litter.

I only catch my other hand on his throat because he's extremely fascinating to gaze at while choking.   
"Well, would you look at that" I say, because even considering my lack of sincerity, this is a strange turn, a darker turn, the one I hadn’t plan – and yet it feels like the epitome of order. I squeeze harder. Have you ever wondered what would happen if you accidentally stepped on a fish? Your foot would know it’s there. Would feel its life leaving through whatever channel it can find – the eyes, the ears, the slowly getting paler mouth.

I let him go. There’s a fifty percent chance I’d kill the fish.
Then there are those other fifty that force me to adjust myself through jeans and exhale like an enraged bull.    [nick]Adrian Woodhouse[/nick][status]give in[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/zk104mq.png[/icon][fandom]Rosemary's Baby[/fandom][char]АНТИХРИСТ[/char][lz]worship now and get 15% off your next damnation[/lz]

Отредактировано Aleksandr Privalov (2021-04-19 02:22:47)

+2

8

I forget everything that I want to say to him and try not to smile too eager for this confrontation. We both know what I can do, fo sho, it's ain't how it works. As he unlocks the hold, I am the rag doll that makes a step back and runs into the wall just to slip a little down it. Just like in those arthouse realistic movies. I feel tears blurring my vision and saliva dripping the right corner of my crooked mouth. The rough cough forms in my lungs and comes broken from my throat. I desperately gasp for a gulp of air and the vessel granted me this time for a moment feels a very human thing, the emotion that forms in the brain in response to the physical condition. I start panicking. It feels like he almost snapped my neck and it's impossible to get a big 'ol inhale.

I want to plead: "Do that again," but instead I wheeze:

— Look at what, at the living proof that we have our methods?

Then I feel how I gag and make two more steps before I drop on my knees before the toilet. Oh, he should destroy it afterward, or his ass cheeks get burned. I'm not sure how it works. I should probably bless it. I'm way too busy with convulsing like a cat that needs to get rid of a furball I process everything that happened within a blink of an eye for a mortal being. I use his sink again to clean my face from spit and foul. My tongue tastes like wormwood and I want to rinse that out. 

Time again slows down, and I just hope he won't leave me here because we're not done yet. I think about all small things. I watched Saint Teresa of Calcutta figuring out that she wasn't on Peter's special list. What a shame. But we don't indulge these things here, it's off the script. I granted some mercy to people who deserved it. Some people were less deserving of it. Isn't that ironic how the father's plan always involves the free will that pisses him off so much? Maybe, Ilya Kaminsky was right when he wrote: At the trial of God, we will ask: why did you allow all this? And the answer will be an echo: why did you allow all this? But we will know that much much later.

I rub my skin and still feel his hands there. We had something like that written down in scriptures and deciphered by people. Where were we?

— Last time I was less subtle, they didn't stop, you know. — I make an unreadable gesture. — Also, you forget something vital, I would say, crucial for this debate.

I am a bit hesitant for a moment. It would be a shame to be torn apart and scattered in the one of the fanciest bathrooms on Manhattan. I come closer to Adrian and enclose him in my arms, brush his shoulder with my shaking and cold palm, enjoy this small moment of calmness before calamity that grows inside of his heart. I hug him and forgive him. I give in. I press my lips to his hot skin in the spot where the masseter muscle is hidden underneath. I open my mouth and tell him very quietly, so no angel or evil spirit can hear it:

— If I show up, how would they tell the difference between us?

It's your job to deceive them, then do it and do it well. I don't say it, it sparks in my mind and dies with the wave of heat that comes from him. Our battle is way ahead and his rush into it makes him almost vulnerable. I still embrace him, breathing in his scent. As exposed as I am, everything here screams murder.

— You look tense. I can fix that.

Whatever that means along with my hands palming his lower back through the layers of clothing. There was always something good in having the luxury of knowing human pleasures. I grant you my mercy and benevolence, and you grant me your wrath and pain. That's how it is supposed to be.  It's inherent for my nature to save. Interpret these signs now.

I again dance a small tango backwards and smile under a heavy gaze.

— I want some water, please.

[icon]http://www.fansshare.com/media/content1/550x298_noel-gallagher-and-damon-albarn-working-on-new-projects-together-6597.jpg[/icon][status]et tu, bestie?[/status][char]Иисус[/char][fandom]Christianity[/fandom][lz]better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunk Christian[/lz][nick]Jesse Joseph[/nick]

Отредактировано 2D (2021-04-06 11:10:05)

+2

9

"Can you?" I ask matter-of-factly, because his naivety, however adorable, is also annoying the way many mortal things are. That is a piece of gospel truth, children: the moment your first breath leaves your agonising lungs and the toxicity of fluorescence grants your little foreheads a kiss, you’re half drown. Insignificant quite pains and scratches freshly manufactured specifically for you (though don’t dwell on it for too long, or G*d forbid you start to think you're special) are there to drive you to the pearly gates covered in indulgence. Indulge yourself in a bit of whiskey, in a bite of MJ cupcake, in a quick fuck which will bring silence but not joy – and survive this life trip with as few casualties as possible. It’s not exactly what the Book says, but then again what does it know about human suffering? It sent this ragdoll full of hurt to save someone. Kinda like sending a pup which can’t swim to help a child who drowned half an hour ago. Holy sufficiency.

"That’s an interesting request but I can’t see any of your flock babies here to act on it. Guess you’re fucked" my tap is fucking right there, still warm from the touch of his fingertips, so I exhale. This daddy-little girl dynamic doesn’t do it for me – pedophiles and alike on religious spectrum are closer to God than Satan. Yeah, yeah, a kink and a drill on toddlers are two different things, see if I care. You know what, do better: see if the Bible differentiates. Bet you a Franklin, it doesn’t.

"Well, go on then" I say, and we both wait for a second, the way the shore waits for tsunami to bring its inevitable wreckage. I push J into the sink and force him to turn around. The mirror wolves down his flushed face and the black of my eyes while I unbuckle his jeans. There’s a definite sadistic urge in me to do him like that – unprepared and unready – and I submit, using the first visible thing on the shelf. It’s rushed and messy, my hand and dick smell of lavender, first thrust is heavy like a punch. I place my other hand on his neck, place a kiss next it and breath in.

"You’re good?"[nick]Adrian Woodhouse[/nick][status]give in[/status][icon]https://i.imgur.com/zk104mq.png[/icon][fandom]Rosemary's Baby[/fandom][char]АНТИХРИСТ[/char][lz]worship now and get 15% off your next damnation[/lz]

Отредактировано Aleksandr Privalov (2021-05-04 01:07:49)

+2

10

I let myself watch his face in the mirror, not making eye contact though. I like his face, he's handsome, he's warm and alive. I like him in every form he possibly could take. Maybe, it's in my nature. We are made from the same breath if thinking about it. I don't want to think about it, it would be weird. 

A constructive discussion, if healthy, always involves some levels of physical altercation. I gasp like I didn't foresee it coming. I tell myself, you know, it's never late to call it a day and just let the clusterfuck reach the point Nemo of absurdity. Just like someone can fuck up their homecoming, drunk and angry they didn't achieve shit in their life, and they end up in the hospital, obliterated. The first time I was here, everything went according to plan and there was no wonder. I can say, "Listen, fuck 'em people" and go awry.

How many pagans were burned when they brought Abrahamic religions to once prosperous lands?

I know the thing or two about the pain. There's something pleasurable in being sincere like this. I want to describe it as something beautiful. Something very close but out of reach. Pivotal, even. Everyone has violence blossoming in their heart, I am not an exception to it. But when I feel lost, everything goes by default. I am me regardless of the choices made, that's the biggest catch. I could deny I don't like it and this body responds because it's human to seek pleasure as a way of coping.

I ache my back and try to adjust and still, I want to drink. No one said I can't drink out of the sink while being screwed. No one makes rules and no one watches us, indeed. Sometimes I wonder, how many times the type of "get out of my room, mum" situation happened and no divine messenger brought it up.

— Just, yeah, like that, go on, — I bend over the sink and let the water fill my nose and mouth again. That's more like it.

I am great at multitasking. I focus on the pain and think, how many times he may think (or didn't think at all) about me being a personification of Pulp's "you see I spy for a living and I specialize in revenge." Nothing will change because it's written in ether. Especially lunatic believers love the idea of the Grand Plan not changing. No matter what you do, in the end, it's kinda determined.

— Don't hold back, love. You always ask me if I'm good. I'm better than ever.

That's the basic concept of politeness, for... someone's sake. I grab his neck and pull him closer and kiss everywhere I can reach.

[icon]http://www.fansshare.com/media/content1/550x298_noel-gallagher-and-damon-albarn-working-on-new-projects-together-6597.jpg[/icon][status]et tu, bestie?[/status][char]Иисус[/char][fandom]Christianity[/fandom][lz]better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunk Christian[/lz][nick]Jesse Joseph[/nick]

+2


Вы здесь » POP IT DON'T DROP IT [grossover] » альтернативное » i hear your voice inside me