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@atleur
( # 𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐮𝐫 ) — Independent & selective rendition of 𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙏𝙄𝙉 from Hergé 's Les Aventures de Tintin. Heavily influenced from mixed media with a focus on crime and [fantasy] surrealism.
Written by Duckie. 28 . he/him two-spirit. Japanese, K'iche and Kaqchikel. Personal blogs are not welcomed. I rarely follow first.
¹ Carrd. ² Pinterest.
I'm going to put Tintin on a very brief hold and focus on my Frodo Baggins blog @ineder . I have such high muse for him, especially since I'm meeting Elijah Wood + Hobbits soon...
Happy pride and indigenous peoples month. ♡ From your two-spirit, bisexual tintin lover.
HIATUS FROM MAY 14-25
My husband @kalemet and I are in our little honeymoon trip and I'm graduating. ♡ See you soon!
I'm back and I have a degree now! Next stop, PhD...
HIATUS FROM MAY 14-25
My husband @kalemet and I are in our little honeymoon trip and I'm graduating. ♡ See you soon!
[...] His origin story remains a mystery. Some say he is a metahuman; others say he is a ghost wearing skin. But one name sticks out from the rest: Tintin! He's the world reporter, golden-boy sleuth, he seeks adventure and the obscurity (it calls his name and he answers). Make no mistake, he'll do all that it takes to tell a story! // A love-letter, written by Duckie.
“ oi, ging. they don’t let just anyone back here, you know. ” oh, she’s going to have to have words again with pop, isn’t she? scaramouche FROWNS, lace clad arms folded, violet painted lip curled. a surprisingly intimidating sight for a rather petite girl.
@atleur * 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚍.
Little mind is paid to her bravado. It caused a pang of annoyance, yet another individual prodding at him. "Is that suppose to scare me? Is it my cue to turn around?" Words are shot back to her, an eyebrow arches in idle amusement. Tintin takes a step forward, slender hands taking hold of the leather satchel at his side. "I'm not a fan of being interrupted during my work, miss, especially when it comes to this kind of work. Sorry."
" me? acting the goat? AcTiNg thE gOaT?! "
"Professor—— please try to calm down!" The last thing Tintin wants is his dear professor to his temper (even further). Mood is mirroed, annoyed expression passes over sun swept features as he holds Professor Calculus still by the shoulders. One eyebrow arched imperiously at him.
“Oh my goodness!” She pulled him up and brushed him off. “I thought…I thought you were done for!” Bea pulled him by the collar and kissed his cheek. Then ensues a fury of kisses, painting his face in light pink marks. “Had me worried half to death.”
Crimson flushed skin heats up, colors freckled cheeks, given no chance to speak. Eyes blink, momentary confusion, then Tintin blazing in mirth (too rare that impish delight finds its way upon the face of the world reporter). Countenance now adorned with pink lipstick stains. "Ah, miss Kuhl! Worry no longer, I'm here in one piece!" Words spoken softly, a grin curving his lips. "Now... here we are, standing on the face of something amazing." Whatever outstanding quality their objective possessed remain shrouded in mystery, but he remains optimistic. Window, opened. Building, abandoned (or so they think).
"Shall we?"
@kuhlgirl
Guy who is obsessed with reminding people that Tintin is a dangerous, dangerous man. Dangerous to be around, leading to your doom. At his call, you hear dulcet lilts of harp strings. You will follow to hear the rest.
It's me, I'm guy.
Graduating in 4 weeks... I am now returning here!
hi, hello. i'm a homeless trans man, temporarily out of shelter. i need to pay my phone bill again. i get paid wednesday, but my provider is threatening to cut me off soon. it's about $68 USD. i need my phone to keep in touch with my caseworkers, psychiatrist, therapist, and doctors for my chronic illness. anything is appreciated, and i thank you in advance. my paypal is [email protected], my venmo is zekecommissions, and my cashapp is torchycomm. again, thank you.
Do you have time to linger for just a little while?
He tilted his head, as if catching the question between breaths of wind. Superman’s voice still trembled faintly in the air, a low hum that seemed to bend the light around them. His lips parted, words are soft but steady, laced with something tender and unnamed. ❛❛ For you, I could linger past the turning of the sun. ❜❜
His eyes caught the golden outline of the man before him: sun-forged, impossible, a creature who had outgrown the earth’s gravity (but not its longing). Sleuth stepped closer, boots whispering against the grass. The scent of rain clung to hero's cape—that strange electric sweetness that came before thunder. (Superman’s gaze softened and Tintin felt the pulse of it, that gravity drawing him in, the warmth of a man born of sunfire.)
❛❛ Just a little while, ❜❜ he murmured again. ❛❛ Let the world spin without us. I have no wish to run tonight. ❜❜ And for a moment, the sky bent low around them—two myths caught between duty and desire, the mortal and the divine meeting in the hush before dawn.
jumping on the bandwagon with smoking!tintin :D
jfc copic multiliners are so GOD
Her grip is iron and the words crack like whips against him: “Stay — dead?” @laperlina from x.
The soil clings to him like a second skin; wet earth and roots dragged up with his every breath, every trembling movement. Sleuth only breathes once, sharp and steady, surfacing from beneath blackened ground. His smile flickers, not cruel, not mocking... It's quiet, as if answering this siren's fury with a [thrilling] secret. (He rises from the grave with the ease of one stepping off a train, brushing soil from his coat. Then, like a gentleman leaning toward his chosen misses, he finds Death’s waiting mouth and kisses it softly, reverently. She's always there for him, his shadow-bride. Alas, she never keeps him. She can't.)
❛❛ Oh, I can't, ❜❜ he says, his voice rasping, raw. ❛❛ My grave wouldn't keep me. Not when the world keeps asking. ❜❜ His fingers reach, not to push her away, but to steady himself against the fury. His grave—a dark mouth still hungry. (Death is his beloved, and still, he leaves her waiting at the altar.)
This is how Tintin sounds like when speaking French (his mother tongue). It's almost dream-like. I'd say he has almost the same timbre when speaking English, but just a tad higher (and adapted a English accent).
@atleur ; [ 7AM ] a crowded coffee shop, patrons in a rush to escape the morning rain. ( accepting )
another body presses in, jostling the empty chair across from her with a bag or a coat. there is something about her that puts off the expected asks of anyone sitting here and the like; if asked, cheyenne would say she doesn't know why, but the way she glares at each person who approaches is likely something to do with it. fingers drag through her hair, elbows resting on the surface of the table, gaze focusing on her mostly empty black coffee and the half-eaten shitty croissant she has been picking at.
another jostle, another glare. the place is getting packed in now, as if every person in new york is made of spun sugar and is afraid of melting in a little drizzle. a crack of thunder, a flash of lightning, another jostle as another person enters.
"christ - just sit, make room," she makes a sweeping gesture to the seat across from her, the offer up to the room, to whatever soul decides to take her up on it.
The door rattled on its hinges as though the thunder itself had given it a shove. He slipped in with the draft—umbrella half-collapsed, rain clinging to his coat as if reluctant to leave him. (Tintin did not so much enter as appear, the way a thought arrives uninvited but inevitable.) A blur of motion that rearranged itself into a man—reporter’s satchel slung at his side, a dog nosing at his heels.
He blinked once, twice, and the café seemed to blink back. Light overhead stuttering, cups rattling faintly in their saucers. The hum of a dozen conversations dipped for a heartbeat, as though every voice recognized something before the people carrying them could. Tintin’s eyes swept the packed room, pale and sharp, landing on the one table with a vacancy: hers. Her glare still simmered in the air, a warning flint struck into smoke. Yet, something in the look he gave back made it seem he hadn’t noticed the hostility at all, or else he’d pocketed it like another story lead. (Forever unbothered by obscurity.)
With a small nod, he crossed the room, movements at odds with the chaos of umbrellas, coats, steam, and chatter, as if the whole crowd bent around him without realizing it. Snowy, shaking droplets from his fur, slipped under the table with the entitlement of a creature that had always belonged everywhere. He pulled the chair back and sat. No asking. No hesitation. The storm cracked again outside, and the lights flickered once more, as though affirming his place there. ❛❛ Hope this seat’s not taken, ❜❜ he said, already reaching for the napkin holder. A smile slowly blossoms upon cherry lips. ❛❛ I'm sorry to disturb you, but what do you recommend from the menu? My name is Tintin, by the way and that's Snowy. ❜❜
