A sharp inhale.
"Anything."
Stranger Things
Sade Olutola
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
d e v o n
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

#extradirty

tannertan36
Xuebing Du
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

if i look back, i am lost
noise dept.

Kaledo Art

No title available
Misplaced Lens Cap

oozey mess

blake kathryn

titsay

⁂
sheepfilms
🪼

seen from Spain
seen from Malaysia
seen from Spain
seen from United States
seen from Brazil

seen from Taiwan
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States

seen from Italy

seen from United Kingdom
seen from Greece
seen from United States

seen from Ukraine
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from Vietnam
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Sweden
seen from Vietnam
@blackarwing
A sharp inhale.
"Anything."
And you lay there like a painting of Christ; bleeding on the heads of the ones who nailed you down.
(July 20th) was Chris's birthday and so of course I had to reblog this.
"Fara...??" Not exactly the person he expected to run into in Sargasso -- exactly /not/ the person he'd expect to run into here, for that matter.
It's a voice that she recognizes, but not one she expects to jump out of her in this choppy ocean of criminals. Fara turns sharply, her breath catching in her throat as emerald gaze meets his figure for the first time in years; her heart pounding in her chest as the familiar face of Fox McCloud focuses into view. For a moment, she can only stare at him in stunned silence as the weight of the sheer impossibility of his return practically rocks the ground beneath her feet, completely shifting her off-kilter.
"Fox..?" Her voice marked by a mixture of shock and confusion; she blinks her eyes to snap herself out of her surprise. Her need for secrecy already way ahead of her mouth, coming up for excuses to explain why she's here while her mind builds walls around the truth. Determined to take control of the conversation and steer it away from any questions he might have for her, she takes a step closer to Fox, both of her feminine hands reaching out to hold on to one of his arms in an act of gentle empathy.
"Fox, you look horrible! Where have you been -- what happened to you!"
THE RUMORS OF MY DEATH HAVE BEEN GREATLY EXAGGERATED
CHRIST, TUMBLR.
[@pilotofstorm || continued from x]
With the new sound of giggling now infiltrating the air, Fara’s heart begins to pound in her chest, the creepy laughing invites a chilling shiver to travel down her spine. Unfortunately, with the introduction of the giggling, she can no longer consider the clunking and clanging sounds to be some kind of malfunction and with her deeper fear now realized, the vents now take on a sinister quality; the revelation that someone is actually up there amplifies her sense of alarm. Post-traumatic stress manifests itself in the fennec as the giggles crescendo, their echoes resounding through the metallic passages, drowning out all other noise. It's the disconcerting caterwauling that grips the young lady with a sense of imminent peril and she tries to swallow the thick knot in her dry throat as her worried emerald orbs peer up at the air vents above her.
Fara's gaze continues to fixate on the vent above her, her mind struggling to comprehend the sight that seems to be unfolding behind the vent’s horizontal slats. A flicker of confusion, she squints her striking green eyes as she tries to decipher the shape within the total darkness. Time seems to slow down to a painful crawl as the realization dawns upon her that, oh yes, she sees them, that ominous pair of eyes staring down at her. The dilated pupils lock onto her, their intensity piercing the veil of darkness only drawing her into their menacing gaze. It is a moment of profound realization, an instant where what she thinks is the true nature of the threat revealing itself, and the weight of the situation comes crashing down heavily upon her.
A strangled gasp escapes her trembling lips as her mind comprehends what she thinks is the full magnitude of the danger she faces. Her throat constricts, choking back the scream that wells within her, as if trying to suppress the instinctual response to flee. But it's futile. The fear inside her building to a crescendo, overwhelming her senses until she can no longer contain it.
Breaths become shallow and quite rapid, her chest now struggling to find its rhythm amidst the chaos unraveling in her mind. Each inhale feels insufficient, leaving her now gasping for air, while each exhale is a desperate attempt to expel the mounting tension that tightens around her lungs. The pounding of her heart reverberates through her entire body, its erratic rhythm mirroring the frantic pace of her newly-racing thoughts. The world around her warps and distorts, as if reality itself has become a hazy blur. Colors lose their vibrancy, and sounds blend into an indistinguishable wash, overshadowed by the deafening roar of her own anxious thoughts. Her senses heighten and sharpen, yet they betray her, amplifying every sound, every movement, feeding her paranoia and deepening her sense of impending doom.
Images from her past flash before her eyes, replaying like a haunting slideshow. The memories of being held captive, of being a bargaining chip in someone else's dangerous game, flood her mind with a chilling intensity. It becomes real all over again, like she’s been transported back in time. The heavy weight of that Venomian-issued gun's cold steel against her forehead lingers in her senses, defying the passage of time. She still can hear the threatening hisses of her lizard captors and her wrists feel tight with their strong grip holding her down. Though years have passed since that fateful encounter, the memory remains painfully vivid, as if etched into her very being permanently; almost as if she’s living it all over again. The walls of the hideout seem to close in, threatening the vixen in her moment of horror and a sense of powerlessness engulfs her, squeezing her like a vice grip. She feels trapped, cornered, and utterly vulnerable. The absence of her weapon and the inability to locate Monty, her trusted bodyguard, magnify her anxiety to an unbearable degree. Panic courses through her veins, urging her to scream, to release the primal cry for help that simmers within her. Fara's trembling hands instinctively reach for the familiar weight of her Cornerian-issued gun. She pats herself down in a frantic, desperate search, her fingers tracing every pocket and crevice of her clothing.
Her search becomes increasingly desperate, her movements growing more erratic as panic fuels her urgency. She can feel her heart pounding in her chest, the adrenaline coursing through her veins like a surge of electricity. Every second feels like an eternity as she hunts for the weapon that would offer her a semblance of security in this moment of terror. But as her fingers traverse the fabric of her clothing and the contours of her body, a growing dread envelops her. The realization settles in like a heavy stone in the pit of her stomach. Her gun is not there. It's nowhere to be found.
How could she have been so careless? How could she have left her only means of defense behind, tucked away in the safety of her quarters? Her mind races, frantically calculating her options. Without her gun, she feels exposed, vulnerable and without Monty nearby, a thick cloud of doom rolls over her and fogs up her sense of judgement. Her hands, now completely trembling, continue their desperate exploration, searching for a lifeline—something, anything in the absence of her gun. But as seconds tick by, her hope dwindles. It becomes painfully clear that her immediate salvation lies outside her own grasp. Fearful tears well up in Fara's eyes, blurring her vision as she fights to catch her breath. With each panicked gasp of air, her chest tightens, constricting like a vice around her pounding heart. The weight of her anxiety presses heavily upon her, threatening to suffocate her with its intensity.
Though fear continues to grip her, Fara refuses to succumb to such helplessness, to give in to the paralyzing fear that threatens to consume her. With every ounce of remaining determination and mental fortitude, she steels herself using her military training and allows her instincts take over. She knows she has take action, find her weapon or perhaps refuge in the presence of another, even if it means she accidentally finds the very person she hopes to avoid—Wolf O'Donnell, she’ll take his solace. Anything to find a semblance of safety, to free herself from the suffocating grip of her terror
Without another moment's hesitation, she bolts forward, propelled by a surge of adrenaline. Her legs carry her with desperate urgency, every step echoing against the steel hallways the same thunderous beat of her racing heart. The world around her blurs as she focuses solely on the direction she last saw Monty, her faithful bodyguard.
[@pilotofstorm]
The vents were causing a ruckus today. But, why is there suddenly the feeling that there is a threat? Hmm...
The vents emit an unrelenting metallic clunking, sounding like a hailstorm of ball bearings. The noise is incessant and grating, a constant disturbance that reverberates throughout the corridors of the space station. Occasionally, there's a distinct hiss of air escaping from somewhere in the ventilation system, like a snake slithering through the ducts. The noise is constant and unrhythmic enough that it's impossible to ignore; it's a persistent reminder that something is not right on the station.
Fara's head snaps up, her large fennec ears swiveling towards the source of the continued clatter emanating from the ducts. The noise is becoming increasingly concerning, and she wonders if something--or someone--might be stuck in the system.
Though she's totally focused on the sounds in the vent, she can't shake the nagging reluctance in her gut to confront Wolf about the noise. A wave of trepidation washes over her as she considers the possibility of encountering him. Memories of their past flood her mind, stirring up a mix of emotions: anger, hurt, regret. She knows she can't avoid him forever, especially if she intends on staying here, but the thought of confronting him now, with the sounds coming from above, only adds to her unease.
Her ears swivel back and forth, listening to the sounds emanating from the vents, while her mind races with possibilities of what could be causing the disturbance. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves, and the fennec debates with herself about what to do next.
Does she ignore the sounds? Surely Wolf isn't so drunk that he can't hear it... Or does she grab Monty and find out for herself what's happening inside the guts of Sargasso Space Station?
@thebastardmeteocrusherpilot || continued from [x]
Galaxicos’s voice falls to a whisper and Fara's ears swivel in his direction, moving like a satellite dish towards the source of his quieted sound, keenly attuned to his every word. Despite his hushed voice, Fara has no trouble listening to the near-silent sounds that he utters thanks to her tremendous ears and exceptional hearing. She tilts her head slightly in interest, the furrow on her forehead indicates her concern, and her expression paints itself with a hint of amusement at the absurdity of the situation.
As the Meteo Crusher pilot finishes his confession and falls silent, Fara's alert ears visibly relax. The previously taut muscles that held her tall ears proudly upright now soften, allowing them to curve and droop a little in a more casual, comfortable fashion. "Dead worms in a soup,” she parrots incredulously, fighting the smile that threatens to spread across her face in response to the comedy of the chimp’s anxiety. "That doesn't sound very appetizing..." Fara crinkles her nose in disgust as the picture of consuming dead worms begins to color itself in within her mind. "Yuck!" She adds, shaking her head.
"But, well, I don't think eating one little worm is going to hurt you..." Fara draws her emerald gaze up towards the taller pilot, studying Galaxicos carefully. "Well, unless it’s rotten or something, I guess," she concludes with a shrug, hoping to ease his worry. It’s quite clear to the test pilot that this is truly affecting the poor guy and the empathetic fennec lifts a hand to the elder’s shoulder and gives it a friendly, reassuring squeeze.
Her father, the Premiere of Corneria, is named Joseph Lowell Phoenix. Her mother is Daphne Eloise Clark. Fara’s entire name is Fara Addison Ramsey Phoenix. Monty is ... just Monty. That’s all you need to know.
one of these days I’mma actually write a character analysis for this BRAT but
that requires energy so
unless anyone has a shot of adrenaline--
"Fara, if that idiot talks to you again, you can come with me and I'll take care of him..." [ @thebastardmeteocrusherpilot ]
She cocks her eyebrow and offers a soft giggle, indicating the incredulousness she feels towards such a remark from Galaxicos.
"I'm sure Wolf over there shares the same sentiment." Her ears flop with a simple gesture of her head, nodding towards the lupine across the bar; his red eye glancing over towards Pigma's, Galaxicos's, and Fara's general direction in an obvious display, evemn despite how hard he's trying to stifle his protective feelings towards the innocent young woman.
"I'm not looking for a mating ritual from my two sweet suitors." She continues, her voice rather dismissive yet, her sarcasm is still spoken with a friendly tone. "I appreciate the sentiment, Aaron, but ..."
Another nod, another flop of her heavy ears. This time towards the large ape whose intimidating form haunts and looms quite closely over Pigma.
"I've come armed~" Another soft giggle.
I want to fuck your tight little ass so bad Fara
Such words catch her off-guard and she gives an audible gasp of surprise as the statement is spoken while her cheeks burn under her fur, however she opts to try to take the compliment of the faceless stranger in stride.
A little wiggle of her rear-end, her long tail sways and the palm of her left hand cups the contour of her ass cheek.
She laughs; it's forced and a little stilted, but she tries her best to remain calm: Monty is nearby, after all, and Wolf--
--no. She can't rely upon him to keep her safe anymore. Things aren't like they were before.
"I'm lucky to be well-endowed one area, I think! Thank you!"
That's because I didn't talk to you. I talk to men. boys being boys! [ @greedypigman / lets continue with this bfdhbghj ]
A humored scoff. Green eyes catch a brief image of Monty tensing in her peripheral vision. "Oh, no, sir. What you really did was talk to the open air and hope someone had heard you. When somebody did hear you and it turned out to not be one of the few people you were anticipating to hear from tonight, you started backpedaling. You don't talk to men. You talk to anybody who will give you the time of day, because that's the type person you are anymore, Dengar."
The so-called Princess of Corneria speaks rather dismissively to the older swine, her attention pouring into the the bar's patron cautiously, watching to see how he'll continue this conversation.
"Miss, cover your huge ears. You shouldn't listen to what a dirty pig man like me should say." [ @greedypigman ]
"You're right, I shouldn't listen to it -- and yet, you still choose to talk." Her voice is cold. "Boys will be boys, right?"
thebastardmeteocrusherpilot:
As it was a typical Sunday night, it was a karaoke night for the ape. Maybe he didn’t get the attention of all the men, but he did get the attention of some other women who are drinking, playing and resting. In any other scenario, Galaxicos would flirt with the first woman he finds he likes. Some woman with an hourglass silhouette body, attractive breasts and elegant lips.
But he has only his gaze fixed on a single woman.
“ They say for every boy and girl There’s just one love in this whole world And I know I’ve found mine ”
Singing from his space, he can see her drawing from that corner that many see dark but in only one eye he could see a beautiful light of pure tenderness and affection. Since he saw her drawings, he was fascinated to know what images she imagined or what models were her favorites.
“Young love (young love), first love (first love) Filled with true devotion Young love (young love), our love (our love) We share with deep emotion”
He continued with his song, ignoring all those gloomy drunks and some woman who gave him some attractive look to get closer to Fara and get a better look at the new drawing of him.
But Monty’s somber company was…uncomfortable. Galaxicos already knew that he is always by her side, but there was a desperate wish to push him away and sit with her.
His single apple-green eye focuses too much on that other ape, wondering just one thing.
Is Monty a dangerous man?
Galaxicos on the stage isn’t necessarily an irregular occurrence. The evenings were graced by his presence at Sargasso and it wouldn’t be a weekend at Sargasso Lounge if the chimpanzee hadn’t performed a few karaoke songs for the patrons.
It’s not like he was a particularly bad singer, either; the guy can sing. At least, Monty believes so: with Fara’s regular visits to this place, the ape has found himself suffering through many, many painful acts and any time old man Galaxicos got on the mic, the bodyguard could be rest assured that his eardrums weren’t going to be assaulted by whatever sound he’d been preparing.
A soft love song graces the duo’s ears while Fara chatters away gently about some airplane. The sight before Monty is just like it was thirty-some odd years back. He remembers the young girl kicking her little legs up into the air while nursing a sippy cup, rambling about some interest she’d picked up -- a topic he could hardly follow, really -- all the while the young girl drew pictures or played games.
There’s a warm smile that cracks itself upon Monty’s dark features. With watching Fara lose herself in her drawing, talking about some-some propeller aircraft or something, the protector quietly muses to himself just how much has stayed the same in what has changed over all these years.
Monty, however, is not a particularly sentimental man. Whatever nostalgia within him over the girl he helped raise fades quite rapidly; the strongman, of course, couldn’t linger within any weakness out in public; he couldn’t afford such distractions -- not while remaining accountable for Ms. Phoenix!
A gentle hum rumbles, a quiet “uh-hmm” is given to his ward to reassure her of his attention. Her mechanical pencil expertly drawing a impressively straight line across the page as she chips away at her sketch of the aircraft she had been chattering about. By chance, his striking eyes pull away from the beauty of Corneria’s art...
...and catch Galaxicos’s lingering gaze.
Monty offers a slow sigh through large nostrils. He sits up, full attention now on the performer, whose sights linger on him -- not her, but him: Monty. Fara Phoenix’s shadow.
So Monty stares back.
There the test pilot sits; settled in one of the bar’s corner booths. Her legs outstretched along the length of the shaped cushion she sits upon, while in her hand she gently swirls a crystal glass of champagne.
Who sits at her table, just across from her? Why, Monty, of course. The daunting ape, the bodyguard who has protected her since she was a child. His sunken brow and harsh gaze locked onto the sketchbook on the table. Art of Fara’s, really. He’s glad she still draws.
You've flown a lot of jets, but have you flown any propeller aircraft? (this is the same anon who asked about helicopters a while ago, by the way)
"Actually, yes! I have!" Her demeanor brightens up, a warm smile pulling at her muzzle. "My grandfather was quite the geek when it came to flight. He used to have an entire hangar filled with different historically-significant crafts. Before he had passed away, my dad and uncle insist that the old guy was certain he'd eventually get his hands on one of the units that James McCloud had piloted -- the Arwing was such a revolutionary advancement in spaceflight that he had to have it for his collection. My uncle regularly joked about how my grandfather was likely to move his family into the Arwing, because he would go as far as to sell his house just to get his hands on it!"
Fara gives a soft laugh, however, a sad twinkle shines behind her emerald gaze. "I'm a little bummed that he never got the chance to fulfill that wish, y'know?"
"--Anyways!" A quick shake of her head, she glances away from the friendly stranger and cast her eyes forward. Her tail sways slowly, casually. "Aha, I have flown a propeller aircraft, yes! Like I said, my grandfather lived and breathed flight technology and he owned a P-47 Thunderbolt that he was in love with! I have very vivid memories as a little girl, getting lost in the sky, sitting with him in the cockpit. He was flying, obviously, but he let me keep my hands on the yoke -- the, ah, the control column -- and I think it might have been those memories that really led me to my career choice! There's just nothing like being so close to dragging your fingers against the bright orange, purple, and red Cornerian sunset!"
"The very first propeller aircraft that I ever flew officially, on my own without any cutesiness was the XF6F-6. Once again, it was a plane that my grandpa had owned, I don't even want to begin to think about the hoops he had jumped through to get his hands on it!" A giggle. "After getting licensed with the CFA and expressing my interest in becoming a test pilot, the old guy decided to introduce me to Hellcat and he just... He just let me go at it! He totally, completely trusted me! Even as a new pilot! It was an incredible honor, frankly, because, I mean -- that thing must have been extremely expensive, given how rare it is as a prototype. I -- heh......"
"I really..... I miss him. I'm really glad my uncle now owns that hangar and has kept those planes."