Send “I got you” to have your muse save mine from a fall.
Mike Driver
Xuebing Du
Not today Justin

No title available
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
sheepfilms

Origami Around
occasionally subtle

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
ojovivo
DEAR READER
Claire Keane
taylor price
TVSTRANGERTHINGS

Love Begins

izzy's playlists!
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Stranger Things
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

blake kathryn
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Ireland
seen from United States
seen from Spain
seen from Singapore
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom

seen from Türkiye
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from United States
@buscarparamivida-a
Send “I got you” to have your muse save mine from a fall.
👫
4 Relationship HCs | Not Accepting!
It’s not uncommon for others to assume that Victor and Mira are a couple. Victor is conflicted about it for a nanosecond, but it doesn’t consume him. There are far more interesting things going on between them - movies to go see, parties to gate-crash, studying to be done, libraries to get kicked out of - to get caught up in labels.
Mira and Victor often have full conversations in different languages. She’ll speak Spanish; he’ll respond in French or Italian. It drives everyone else around them nuts. Victor thinks it’s great practice to maintain his fluency and he’s grateful Mira (mostly) understands him and he (mostly) understands her.
They binge watch medical dramas while they’re studying. They end up yelling at the TV (especially during “Grey’s Anatomy”) and Mira always teases that Victor is going to be House. “Are you or Igor going to be my Wilson?” he teases back. She never answers, just grins and maybe throws a wadded up piece of scratch paper at him.
Mira’s brothers always regard Victor with an ounce of suspicion. Victor is oblivious to this, largely because Mira does damage control with them. They never fully trust him, but they do like that he treats their sister with kindness and without prejudice.
// Okay but, @actofgenius, now I want to add to these. I hope that you don’t mind. xD
1. Mira loves that Victor always seems up for her next crazy adventure, and there seems to be a running competition of who gets them kicked out of the most places, though sometimes (playful?) arguments ensue over who exactly got them kicked out. Therefore the tally is inconclusive and hotly debated.
2. Their language mash-up conversations have occasionally led to some… interesting misunderstandings and thereby some highly amusing discussions as well. ( Mira also has a very firm belief that Spanish is the best––or rather, most beautiful––language and will argue this likely to the death. Her one exception is Tolkien’s Sindarin, which she also happens to be able to speak as fluently as the constructed language allows. Do not get her started in talking of Tolkien, Victor, unless you are prepared to not go anywhere for a while. xD )
3. House (secretly?) happens to be Mira’s favorite of the medical dramas, as much for the interesting cases, as for the brief glimpses into House’s humanity. The times when he does something nice with absolutely no motive, but then manufactures one later to justify the action as being just as self-serving as everything else he does. The healer in her sees the good in House, just as she sees the good in Victor others.
4. Arman, while he does not entirely trust Victor with his sister, is vaguely amused by the duo’s antics, though he puts on a stern front. After practically raising his younger siblings, he is more a parent than an older sibling, and so he feels that he should not openly approve of them getting thrown out of places and banned… yet, when Mira has walked off from the scolding he gives her––so much as one can ever scold the free-spirited young woman––he often finds himself shaking his head and chuckling.
Teo, though suspicious and wary, is also mildly fascinated by Victor. There’s something about his sister’s rather eccentric friend that merits attention. Whenever Victor is at the house, Teo tends to linger in the room under guise of washing dishes or doing other chores simply that he may listen to whatever discussions the two may have. And if Arman asks him, it is simply him trying to aid in supervising the two (though Teo is a good four years younger than Mira).
theaccurscd:
At first, he didn’t respond, focusing on keeping pressure on her wound so more of her valuable blood didn’t pour right out of it. His face had paled, his lips pulled into a tight, thin line of strain, both from the stress of seeing her so badly hurt, and from the uncomfortable knelt position, the pain it caused his ruined right leg to be sat like that. Then he met her eyes, and there was just the slightest change in his expression, a different sort of p a i n, a worry unexpressed in words. “Ye’re goin’ to be alright, AJ.” No missy this time, nothing else, just his hands holding her together on the floor of her bar, that strange little bar that seemed to draw in all the misfits of this world and beyond. “Ye hear me? Ye’re goin’ to be alright. I won’t let anythin’ happen to ye.” He could hear sirens outside. Could see the pyromaniac and the archer had knelt beside her as well, a little circle of protection. Could hear the rush of paramedics, of equipment, and he only took his hands away when he was told to, and still he had to be told several times. Everything seemed to narrow and fade, and the pounding of his heart was a war-drum, and there was blood on his hands, blood on his h a n d s– There was a circle of activity around a girl who suddenly looked so small, so fragile, so a l o n e in a crowd. “I’m alright,” he told her, because he knew she needed to hear it. “I’m alright, ‘cause o’ ye.” It was a truth and an untruth, a lie and an honesty, because he was unbroken and he was not bleeding and he had not been pierced by that bullet, because of her, because of her sacrifice, but he wasn’t ‘alright’ by a long margin. He was barely clinging on to the humanity that suddenly seemed to him a p r i s o n, the storm in him threatening to overwhelm all in its path. The paramedics were talking about hospital. Trauma surgery. Danger signals. He drowned all of that out, consciously, only breaking his watchful vigil when he saw a slender form slinking from the inn. Blue eyes narrowed sharply, and that war-drum heartbeat rose to a roaring pitch, rushing in his neck and in his ears and he breathed in sharply, fingertips curling into fists as anger surged inside him like the rising peak of a tsunami, and in that second he looked more like a killer. “Don’t leave her alone,” he whispered to the others, knowing there was no more that he could do here. The gunman had fled into an alleyway, chest heaving, running for his life like a man running from the devil, knowing he was hunted like a prey animal where seconds ago, he had been the hunter. As the Captain inched out into the alleyway behind him, he drew his sword in one long, smooth motion. The war-drum was louder than all reason. The rage threatened to consume him, to drown him, to drag him under. He was the tempest, the tornado, the vengeful destructive force. He was nothing and he was void and his victim was in his arms, held in a bear-hug, quivering and sweating, Hector’s blade ice-cold against his t h r o a t…
So many years now she has wandered. She meets with some of the old crew now and again, those who had been so terribly blessed and cursed as she had. There are so few of them. Few enough that you can likely count on only one hand.
But mostly she has wandered alone. Because being around the others is too painful. It makes the memories too much. The constant reminders that he isn’t alive. That he can’t wander the world with her, that they can’t watch the passing of time together, reminiscing and discussing the way the world changes.
That they can’t be together.
It is better that she travel alone, for all the company and all the people in the world cannot stave off her loneliness, cannot stop her from feeling adrift, lost at sea with her home far from sight……
Her travels had at last brought her to the United States not so long ago––though what is time in the eyes of one who has an eternity?––and an even shorter time since, her weary yet restless feet had brought her here, to Central City.
She’s not certain what of that city had drawn her to it. Perhaps it was what she had read in the news, her curiosity still insatiable even after all these years, and so, she had wanted to know more of the Metas, perhaps even to see one.
This day, or this evening rather, she could not settle. And she could not rest. So she had left her little apartment and she had gone walking. She had no aim, no destination in mind. Sometimes she will simply go on walking until she can’t anymore because at least that is something she can feel that is a physical pain rather than that which would come to her if she remains in her empty bed, her feet still and her mind wandering back, back, back…
Even still it is threatening to do as much when suddenly a commotion reaches her ears. Sirens first, but then as she drew closer, there is another sound, a sound like a scuffle.
Wary but wanting to know it’s source, she follows the sound, at last reaching an alleyway and turning her head to look down it.
She stops and her eyes widen, her breath catching in her throat.
It cannot be. No. It is not possible. All of these years, all of the nights spent alone, spent in longing and in anguish with nothing more than memories…
It cannot be.
And yet…
She has seen him like this before, war-like and wild, with all of the deadly rage of the sea, threatening to consume or destroy everything. Never had it been directed at her, of course, but she had seen him, just as he is now.
Surely, were she to imagine him, for her mind to dream him up simply because it can, it would not be like this. That much, she knows.
Still, she hesitates, almost fearing that to speak might shatter the illusion.
But, finally, eyes misting with tears that threaten to overflow, she speaks, her voice almost broken, all the many years of loneliness and sorrow tangled up in but one word, a name:
“ ‘ector… ?”
When their gazes lock, there, frozen, they remain for… minutes? hours? days? years? She could not say how long. But at last, he releases his captive, now unconscious rather than dead.
With that, she can bear this staring, this distance no more. She must know. To know for certain if she is dreaming. Is she has finally lost herself entirely to the grief that she has so long carried… or if her most ardent wish, her most sincere and desperate prayer has at last been answered…
Almost as though in a daze, as though she is walking through a dream, aware of nothing except him, she draws closer, closer, closer… until she is close enough that she could touch him. Yet she hesitates again… To be so close, to have him standing before her again… if it is simply a figment of her imagination, it would be more than the illusion that was shattered with this next moment.
Swallowing hard and gathering her courage, she raises her trembling hand… and she reaches out, faltering only a moment more… before calloused yet so very gentle fingers caress his cheek…
And something within her breaks, dark eyes widening as the tears cascade over, as she throws her arms about his shoulders and embraces him, clings to him, sobbing and so beside herself, so overcome that she cannot say anything more. There are no words that can express her feelings or her thoughts in this moment, here, with him in her arms once more.
He is real. He is alive. He is here.
He is h e r e .
“You catch me at a bad time, mellon-nin. Do you need me at present, or can it wait a little while?” Glorfindel appeared drawn and exhausted, and was in the process of wrapping up a nasty-looking cut from an orc-blade to his side.
She had just happened to have been passing by when she was singled out and asked to inform Glorfindel––of all elves!––that supper was soon to be served, should he be interested in dining with the others. That thought was quickly pushed from her mind, however, when her eyes fell on the cut.
Something that might well have been a curse escaped her lips even as she, rather boldly, walks further into the room and approaches him. She’d have perhaps reconsidered had it been for any other reason. Glorfindel was a legendary figure, one known throughout the lands, even to the South from whence she and her brothers had travelled.
As it is, however, there is a hurt, there is pain, and she has never been one to allow her own doubts to keep her from helping one who needs it.
“What is this?” she questions, fingers just halting from touching the skin around the wound before shifting her gaze to his face.
“Why do you tend to this alone?”
What’s my writing trademark?
I’ve seen this for art, but what about my writing makes you go, “ah, that’s a _____ production”?
// So instead of answering the metas, I was working on two blogs… But I will attempt to answer them tomorrow if my attention span is still good after work. As for the two blogs, as soon as I’m happy with the themes and have most of the important pages posted, I’ll maybe promo them over here.
Looks like a cinnamon roll but could actually kill you
Put which one from the Cinnamon Roll meme my muse is:
{ @actofgenius }
She knows it’s true. What’s more, she could do so very painfully and effectively what with her particular skillsets. And really, I mean…
These are things that the actress did in the movie where I get my FC pictures:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BsmrvuoQ2UU
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ylguu6ucQrI
Both of those show her agility, speed, and skill with knives.
And this one:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CztxQIn5ZhQ
Also shows her agility and speed, including the fact that she was able to, at several times, outrun and maneuver better than the men.
Then this scene, in part just because, and also because she pushes back and briefly restrains a clearly distraught man.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DhcMDcXix9s
All of which is pretty much of what I picture Mira being capable…
…… While also looking like a cinnamon roll.
Put which one from the Cinnamon Roll meme my muse is:
Beautiful Cinnamon Roll Too Good For This World, Too Pure
Looks like they could kill you but is actually a cinnamon roll
Looks like a cinnamon roll but could actually kill you
Looks like a cinnamon roll and is actually a cinnamon roll
Looks like they could kill you and could actually kill you
Could kill you, but is still a cinnamon roll
Would kill for a cinnamon roll
Sinnamon roll
@behindicyblueeyes continued from here
She stares at the man for a moment with a measure of incredulity, caught somewhere betwixt still lingering irritation and mild amusement.
“ ‘ow es tha’ better? My English may no’ be so good, pero I understand it well enough to know that one means the other.”
send me a topic to write a meta about my muse on
I might write anything from a paragraph to a whopping essay, but send me something you’ve noticed about my characterisation or just something you want to know about my muse and I will write what I can!
This is the first of a couple compilations of older threads with @mazenderan from the original sideblog. I have gathered it together here into one post because I find that it is essential both to understanding the relationship between Nadir and Mirela and to understanding the entirety of Mira’s character.
buscarparamivida:
It is not often, since fairly well settling in Paris, that she diverts from her usual haunts––the home she shares with her two brothers, the cobbler shop that she helps them to operate, the routes she must travel for the maintenance of their house.
Yet today she has done just so and, for once in the longest time, she simply allows her truant feet to direct her as they will.
Before she even realizes it she finds herself walking along the Seine, very near the Jardin des Tuileries…
It seems as though it is within the Jardin that most must be, for the pathway is mostly empty aside from a few that seem to have decided upon wandering, as she has.
One in particular catches her eyes, an odd fellow that does not quite seem to fit with the fussy and fashionable Parisians out for their walks.
Curiosity perhaps, at the moment, beginning to trump her wariness––though ever she is aware of the unsettling but necessary weight of the blade hidden beneath the scarf tied ‘round her waist––she casually directs her step closer, wanting to observe more about the strange man. Her gaze she keeps carefully fixed upon the river until at last she halts, not far from where he stands, discreetly scrutinizing him from the corner of her eye while seeming still to watch the river.
Yet this careful observance does not quite satisfy her curiosity as it answers very few of the questions that she now ponders of who this stranger might be and from where he might have originated…
She debates with herself only a few moments more before at last she looks to him, as though having only just seen him, and addresses him in her slightly faltering French, affected by and intermingled with her native tongue.
“Es a day very beautiful, non, monsieur?”
mazenderan:
Nadir felt watched. He couldn’t quite pinpoint why, but he did. It wasn’t an unfamiliar or even particularly frightening sensation anymore. Nadir was a people watcher by nature and he seldom had malicious intents with his gaze; those who watched him were often just curious. There goes that foreigner again, people would whisper. I do wonder what he’s up to!
All Nadir was up to today was sketching. He’d brought along one of his little, black notebooks and he sketched in it intricate designs, geometric patterns that soothed his weary soul. It had not been an easy month. Erik’s antics at the Opera were, naturally, a cause for concern. The anniversary of his son’s death had come and gone without closure once more. Darius still came home from the market irate and murmuring in Persian about how unfair everything was. Nadir still caused the ballet rats to titter with gossip about the Persian’s evil eye and he was weary of young women crossing themselves every time he passed by.
It was a life. A half-life in many ways, but Nadir found moments of solace. In reading, in his faith, in the notes he compulsively took about the people around him. And in beautiful, public gardens such as this where he could almost pretend he was home.
Almost. The flowers smelled different.
But what did he care if the flowers were different or if people watched him and stared? He was as at peace as he could be, given the circumstances. And his sketching, repetitive and mindless, only reinforced that false sense of tranquility.
And then he heard a voice, as heavily accented as his own, but extremely different. He twisted on the bench to look, tearing his eyes away from his drawing, to see a young woman. She was beautiful. Young. Nadir wondered if she was a tourist - she carried herself somewhat differently than the Parisians he knew, with their haughty airs - or else an immigrant, like he was. Habit made Nadir rise to his feet, as if she were some grand lady of the court. For all he knew, she could be.
“It is,” he said. Perhaps his French was not as heavily accented as hers; years upon years of practice, even in jail cell where the guards thought him quite mad to speak in “tongues”. He’d never lost his French once he learned it all those years ago in a garden, such as this, taught painstakingly by the only man who made him laugh after his wife had died… “But every day in this city is beautiful. Every day is, wherever you are, I suppose, if you have the right perspective. But surely you did not approach an old man for philosophizing.”
Send me a "ᕙ( •̀ ︿•́ )ᕗ" and my muse will react to yours challenging them to a fight.
ask-meme-addicts:
// I should really just make a multi-muse blog for all of my history/classic literature-based muses and be done with it. Would anyone actually write with them? I’ve tried doing multi-muse before and there are a ton of people who refuse to write with them. But write now, I’m looking at a RDJ-based Sherlock, Sir Percival Blakeney (AKA the Scarlet Pimpernel), Clopin Trouillefou (of HoND), and Captain Peter Blood (from Captain Blood), and I’m just… I already have a TON of blogs, several of which still lack verse and relationship descriptions (this one included), yet my muse for these four characters––three of them perhaps more than one––is skyrocketing. Which is frustrating because I DO already have quite a few blogs/sideblogs, and because I know most people won’t follow for these reasons:
1. They’re (primarily) from classic literature, which most people don’t bother to read nowadays.
2. They don’t have huge fandoms for the reason above and simply because most people don’t even KNOW about them. (With the exception of RDJ’s Holmes and Clopin.)
3. They would be sideblogs or a multi-muse as I literally cannot deal with another main blogs right now. The argument could be made that I’m not even dealing with the ones I have because I’m rotating them.
Forgive the ranting I’m just! frustrated! Because I don’t know! what to do! about this! Grrrrr.
Show my muse some affection!
Platonic or romantic, as detailed or as simple as you like.
"Nothing can make injustice just but mercy."
‘Robert Frost‘ Quotes; sentence starters
@dame-deparis
“There are some crimes and injustices for which there can be no mercy,” she replies, and for someone so kind as she is, there is perhaps a startling amount of coldness to be found in the words.
“Some can only be righted in other ways.”
Terrible ways. Ways that go against every fragment of the healer’s broken heart. And yet, when justice will not be seen to by those in power… then it must be carried out by those who are directly affected, those for whom justice is blinded by difference and station in life rather than blind to it.
“Señor Trouillefou… ‘e es no' wrong en what ‘e does to keep our people safe.”
As well as to avenge those who were not kept safe…
Tis but a flesh wound
Send “Tis but a flesh wound!” for an injury headcanon.
{@dame-deparis }
Perhaps the most interesting injury headcanon is that, overall, Mirela has a very high pain tolerance. This is, unfortunately, in large part due to her life experience. Cuts, scrapes, and other small injuries, she’ll notice, of course, but it’s fairly easy for her to ignore it, and, as such, she can hide them rather effectively. Larger or more serious injuries are where effects would begin to show, though still less so than other people. A furrowed brow. A strain to her smile or tightness at her jaw. Those are the fairly minor signs.
Now, as mentioned above, a headcanon that kind of goes from this is that Mira has a tendency to hide her injuries. Always more concerned with the injuries/pains of others, she tends to trivialize her own as being less important, at times to her detriment.
I believe I told you this already but I'll say it again. I followed you because your muse sounds very interesting! It's nice to see another female Roma around, plus she's Spanish& almost makes me proud of my roots. I stayed because you seem nice!
Tell me why you followed me and what made you stay.
Awwww! Thank you so much!
Everything you’ve told me thus far has meant a lot. I’m so glad that you followed and I’m glad that you find Mirela so interesting (and that you think I’m nice haha)! I honestly can’t wait to see what we’ll end up writing. ^__^