⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀‘ @odetoaddiction, 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦. ❁ཻུ۪۪♡ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Joined July 2013
⋆˙ ͙۪۪̥˚ ❀┊❛ ℐ had absolutely no interest in being somebody else’s muse; I am 𝘯𝘰𝘵 a muse. I am the 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮. ❜┊˚ ͙۪۪̥◌
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‘ 𝓭𝒂𝒊𝒔𝒚 𝓳𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔 ❀ retweeted
a good story tastes like whiskey ; it burns, it soothes, and it lingers.
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⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ * ˖ ݁ ☾ @odetoaddiction . ⠀ ⠀
they called me a tragedy, a beautiful waste, a cautionary tale wrapped in lace. but you— you were the one left to sweep up the glass.
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⠀⠀𝗚𝗔𝗥𝗕𝗘𝗗 𝗜𝗡 a shimmering golden dress that shone in the hotel room like a thousand tiny suns, she twirled alone; her bare feet whispering over the plush carpet —— each spin a 𝘯𝘰𝘵-𝘴𝘰-𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘵𝘭𝘦 rebellion against the world outside her door.
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‘ 𝓭𝒂𝒊𝒔𝒚 𝓳𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔 ❀ retweeted
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 — 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞. ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀
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⠀⠀⠀𝗗𝗔𝗜𝗦𝗬 𝗟𝗔𝗨𝗚𝗛𝗦. A slow, syrupy thing, rich with something almost affectionate—if affection could be barbed, if it could slice straight through bone. She watches him the way a cat watches a mouse that already knows it’s lost—drawing it out, relishing »
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» “ Hate to break it to you, honey, but not 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 is about 𝘺𝘰𝘶. “ But she steps closer anyway. Because, well. That’s the game, isn’t it? Toe the line, lean in just enough to blur it; it’s all part of the rhythm—give a little, »
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» take a little, see who wavers first. ( And she’s never been one to stand 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭.) “ . . . Besides—if I wanted to get under your skin, “ Her fingers brush over the lapels of his jacket, a fleeting, featherlight touch. Then gone. “ I’d already be there. “
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⠀ ⠀𝗦𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗨𝗠𝗕𝗟𝗘𝗦 right into the 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘦—see what she did there?—of @odetoaddiction’s arms.
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✰ an independent & highly selective depiction of 𝗗𝗮𝗶𝘀𝘆 𝗝𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘀 from 𝗗𝗮𝗶𝘀𝘆 𝗝𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘀 & 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗶𝘅, inspired by both the book and the show.
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she/her, 21+ mdni | est. timezone. musings of a scribe with moxie .
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⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ❀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ┊⠀𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙚. ┊ ⠀ ⠀
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⠀⠀⠀𝙎𝙃𝙀 𝙀𝙓𝙃𝘼𝙇𝙀𝙎 𝙎𝙃𝘼𝙍𝙋𝙇𝙔, dragging a hand through her hair, fingers catching at the tangles like she could rip the frustration straight from her skull. She’s still gripping the book, spine digging into her palm. »
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» “ Privacy’s overrated. “ Her gaze flicks to Graham, sharp at first, almost daring him to argue, to say something that will justify the coil of tension winding tighter in her ribs. But he just stands there, unreadable, and something in her expression »
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» wavers—just a fraction, just 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩. She sighs again, this time slower, like she’s choking on the words before she spits them out. “ . . . You don’t have to go. Unless you want to. “
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