ROTTING IN THE SUN, @fanghoria - Tumblr Blog

i bet lilith thought fuck-all, torch it all, what an unqualified crock of shit.

independent, highly selective, low activity multimuse featuring characters from various fandoms. rated r, triggering and sensitive topics present, follow at your own risk; minors do not interact.

¹ 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙳 . ² 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙿𝚃𝚂 . ³ 𝙼𝙰𝙸𝙽 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙶 . 𝑚𝑜𝑏𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑐𝑢𝑡.

#PINNED POST: wip.

wrath, lolthsworn lolthtouched shadow magic sorcerer drow.

prudence, isilmnir’el cleric (sword dancer) of eilistraee tiefling (former drow).

#they're' sisters <3333 #one evil and one good #yes i'm coming back here eventually i simply cannot tell u when

fanghoria

i bet lilith drug her tongue along the rottenness – soil of your torso, below-mason-dixson line grime . you hip-swinging cadaver , bag of osseous matter and seersucker love , what pagan wasted trucker has come to run us off the road ? in smoked out foxholes shall the lilith repose . she touches herself . she skins off her clothes – brandi nicole martin, from “exit music (for my sweetheart the cheater)”

𝙰𝙽 𝙸𝙽𝙳𝙴𝙿𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝙼𝚄𝙻𝚃𝙸-𝙼𝚄𝚂𝙴 , 𝚂𝙻𝙰𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝙱𝚈 𝙼𝙾𝚆.

#kicking tumbleweed across my dash #so uHHHHH .... anyways <3 hi #001. | 𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐏 𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐘𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐒 ﹆ promo.

re-emerging after an unannounced hiatus? me? maybe.

sovietstrings-arc

the world always feels the same when he sleeps ; like floating or puppetry. when all nerves are deadened and he's deaf to everything besides his own slurry of a mind. a scream. a thud. his pulse a fractured wardrum in his ears. if he could name it, he wasn't sure which he'd choose. comfortable disquiet was, in itself, a contradiction. but the familiarity loosened the tension his unwaking muscles still held, turning the soldier from a knotted dead weight to something pliant and more easily moved. slumped burden that sagged across narrow shoulders in a way he would, fondly, if able, admit wasn't a first. wouldn't be a last, either. an untamed trajectory called for it. planned behind his back for another round. another after that. until the dance was as old as they were — older even — and, perhaps, he learned better ways to step.

he doesn't feel the shift, nor the bite of steel bonds that crimp skin to metal. he doesn't feel the lurch of the van or the lull of his head, fallen forward, to touch chin to chest. james feels cold. at the brink of hibernation, he walks the tightrope strung over a chasmous void still sloshing beneath. from the mechanical programming and a string of muted words to warmth, bright and waiting for him, at the other end.

stalled in the middle, he rocks.

if they sped or cut sharp, he didn't know. registered little beyond fingers that moved in sluggish, twitchy stir. boots that shifted a thunderous drag amid the silence inside the cripplingly antiseptic guts of the vehicle. as though it were made for something just like this. grinding cybernetics, come back online... glassy gaze staring blind into the veil of dark hair his slouch had left for it. whose hair is that ? his was long.. longer, once, too. but the knots were new. they curled in sweaty rings around one another, swaying with the next set of turns and his own rising head.

give it some time, the ache would be shed. he'd go back to an itchy hum no digging knuckle could reach in his temple. he'd go back to his mission. mission ? the man in the file. right. the one with the square, tortoise shell glasses and smile lines that sank deepest when under a camera's lens. he'd been hot on his tail, tactical blade in hand and..

and——

there she is. sat across from him, expression patiently vacant. red hair.. red lips.. he knows her, he thinks. feels the tickle of familiarity tiptoe a hazardous route up his straightening spine. he knows her, but he can't remember from where. can't place the skip in his chest or why, now, it's paramount he close off. reconstruct a wall decades in the making by doctors and scientists who'd sculpted him equal parts inside and out. down to tenderness cleansed from his stare and a finite punctuation once shoulder blades hit the back of his seat. upright but not-so-attentive, the soldier's survey is a quick one ; a driver out of reach beyond heavy iron bars he knew without testing, he could break through if desired. no weapons, save the ones on her person.. a loose screw that squealed when he shifted his weight further to the right.

he knows her but his expression won't admit it, thin-lipped behind tested tape and neutral as his heels drug back, further. not relaxed, but coiled. waiting. somewhere a needle dropped and even the asphalt underneath them lost its music against rolling tires.

fanghoria

patience is a learned behavior. not one she inherently finds pleasure in, but one that's worth its weight in gold. so she listens, watches – counts the revolutions of the tires on the pavement, mentally files away the target he'd been after. she'll send the poor fucker an edible arrangements later this week, ensure his security team knows how close of a call it'd been. her fingers are busy, set to the task of re-aligning and calibrating the prongs of her widow's bite. when she hears the change of pace in his breathing, the shift of awakening from from forced unconsciousness.

“<Доброе утро, спящая красавица.>” lazily spoken as her fingers finish their work, as green eyes shift to land on his face – realization that he isn't all there yet apparent in the cold stare. she wishes she could feel any amount of surprise, that she could feel anything other than the annoyance of a job not yet complete – surely, some part of her lingers towards an ache of wanting to be remembered by the only man who matters; but wherever that part is, is long unattached. misused. out of service and no hopes of a grand return. her boot kicks his ankle, purposeful drag of the soles across the floor of the van, before her head tilts, and she nudges a knife just out of his reach. “<Если сможешь дотянуться до него, я позволю тебе сделать один взмах.>”

tempting fate, teasing the hungry, never loyal dog. if anyone gets to kill her, it's james. purposeful or not. she pretends to not think about the fact that he'd never forgive himself for it, pretends to not know the slippery slope he'd careen down if he were successful. natalia relaxes back into her seat across from him, unbothered, back to counting revolutions of the tires, back to tracking each turn and mile. only a few hundred more before there's enough distance between them and his handler; only a few hours left of travel before the safe house is on the horizon and she can tote him inside to think about his choices. consideration for the fact that maybe, after all of these years, she should think about her own. how many more times would they do this dance? how long until whatever ticking timebomb exists in her own cells ruptures and the end comes? would it all feel worth it, then?

“ get comfortable, it's a long ride. ”

#sovietstrings #002. | 𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳. ﹆ romanova † riposte.

stares at my blog in wanting to change my graphics again.

#hMMM.

fanghoria

i bet lilith drug her tongue along the rottenness – soil of your torso, below-mason-dixson line grime . you hip-swinging cadaver , bag of osseous matter and seersucker love , what pagan wasted trucker has come to run us off the road ? in smoked out foxholes shall the lilith repose . she touches herself . she skins off her clothes – brandi nicole martin, from “exit music (for my sweetheart the cheater)”

𝙰𝙽 𝙸𝙽𝙳𝙴𝙿𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝙼𝚄𝙻𝚃𝙸-𝙼𝚄𝚂𝙴 , 𝚂𝙻𝙰𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝙱𝚈 𝙼𝙾𝚆.

#hi i'm alive (allegedly)#001. | 𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐏 𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐘𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐒 ﹆ promo.

the crowd goes mild, i add the two additional asoiaf characters i have the most muse for here and continue to exist every 6 days

#for context .... it's sara and visenya (no one is shocked)

wulfmaed

Visit Original Link

would you believe me if i said that predators are quiet? you never die when you think you're going to. one day you'll hit your head & something will leak out and you'll think – oh, so this is what death is like. because it's never what you think it is. slow, deafening. one blow after another. your teeth will never be straight again.

𝘍𝘙𝘖𝘔 𝘎𝘌𝘖𝘙𝘎𝘌 𝘙𝘙 𝘔𝘈𝘙𝘛𝘐𝘕'𝘚 𝘈 𝘚𝘖𝘕𝘎 𝘖𝘍 𝘐𝘊𝘌 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘍𝘐𝘙𝘌, 𝔖𝙰𝙽𝚂𝙰 𝔖𝚃𝙰𝚁𝙺.

#i am still dead from my millions of hours at work but sansa got a lil blog reboot for when i am back #( i will still be here to haunt all of u )

i drag my carcass onto the dash, i expire.

#i cannot even begin to describe #… how awful and long today was

me showing up on my dash 3 hours late, tired from work, and covered in spray cheese (also from work).

bonk the lil heart if you want some memes from your tag sent your way <3

#feel free to specify who you’d like or become a victim of the randomizer #🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

inafieldofdaisies

Fountain of Youth (2025) | Eiza González as Esme

“Hello again?” “I'm hurt. You've not mentioned me?”

#002. | 𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳. ﹆ romanova † countenance.#gun /#i lov her ur honor

sovietstrings-arc

there's red hair between his fingers. tangled as fleshy pads rub circles against the scalp beneath. he doesn't open his eyes. he doesn't try to prove to himself she didn't leave. for james barnes, this is enough. this tender silence under threadbare sheets, one slender arm resting over his chest while the other moves against scar-riddled side. " <не вставай.> " he isn't a beggar, but he could be, for her. a pious man, forfeit his valor, at the foot of her altar because only she listened when he called out against the dark. only she was the warmth that saw him thaw.

he is frigid, now.

there's red hair between his fingers and the soldier torques, best he can, to attempt to rein her back in. steal what distance another firm blow had claimed in thanks to her superior speed and the bulkiness of a hazy hard drive in the choke of the alleyway. not enough space to swing, knuckles clipped brick, its crumbling a racket that moved vermin somewhere out of sight against discarded newspaper and tin trashcans. there's no pain, not when skin splits and a cold night finds that bitter warmth still in him. too mundane is a busted knuckle when the purr of steel prongs meet his neck and, for a second, brief and liberating, his mind is quiet. it's a fuzzy hum.. the static of a radio out of sync. cresting waves against a shoreline. the chatter of a full crowd on the boardwalks of coney island..

there's red hair between his fingers and the soldier torques, his grin wide and taunting when another blow is blocked and natalia resorts to a temporary retreat. spindles, every bit the spider in her web when she moves, the dance is one he practices, often. in a soldier's clumsy boots, he ought not've learned the steps so quickly, " < уже сделано? > " asked as he's crossing the room ; prompting the next round of choreographed strikes that'd become his second favorite reason for sore muscles with her.

a clenched jaw, teeth grit and he thinks he hears a scream in the distance. guttural, rose up from the belly, it's only once his throat bore a burn that he realized it was him. cybernetics all twisted and seized, bionic arm a dead weight that sagged his left shoulder and dropped him, with a thud, to a knee. just the one, he's of a mind to push upward with the other, but finds his sole rooted and the air around him sparkling static. between his ears.. down his spine. there's no second wave to the electricity, but his muscles quiver all the same. provoke him to reach for a delicate wrist he can't manage to squeeze into submission, but chooses, in consolation, to make his anchor. hold tight with the promise he'd drag her down with him.

that's what you're always doing though — dragging her down with you.

the world doesn't go black so much as it fades to a dove's delicate grey. it's the inside of his closed eyes, clicking heels on the cobblestone of the street now forgotten and dreamlike. there's nothing outside of this alley. there's nothing outside of this quiet. there's nothing but red hair, still, between his fingers, as he plummets.

fanghoria

there are, undoubtedly, some people who are capable of doing this – their job – with all the cold, sterile, calculations that's preferred of a russian operative. unattached, disinterested. natalia romanova, for her part, used to be one of them. what difference was the blood of an innocent to the blood of someone who wasn't if they got in her way? easier to merely take out whatever distraction, whatever momentary hardship or speedbump in the road and go about her business, no matter who else suffered. time has changed her. love has warmed a heart meant to be coated in permafrost. the death of an innocent twists her stomach in ways that'd make professor grigor ill to think about. undeserving of a hardship at hands meant for helping relieve a future they'd not asked for. she may not be a hero, may not consider herself aligned in goodness with the likes of steve rogers, but hers is a part played nonetheless. she has james to thank for it.

he is a good man, without the solider's reprogramming. a caveat distinction, the asterisk that often leads to a looking down upon. he's not himself when he's like this, can't be held responsible for actions that were given as orders – not to a man who's lost control of his body and mind.

she does not let him fall. it would be easy to, so simple to watch him crumple to dirty pavement like a worn aluminum soda can. quick reflexes and an adoration insist otherwise, shifting weight from where he'd gripped his wrist to sling his arm over her shoulder before she squats low and lifts all two - hundred and sixty pounds of him across her shoulders in a fireman's carry. a feat she'd never come close to managing without the widow serum coursing through her, then again – without it, he'd no doubt have killed her by now either way. better to die at his hands than anyone else's, but she can't imagine the guilt that'd settle into the depths of him when he awoke. if he ever did again.

heels of her boots click on pavement, steady movement as free fingers tap at the gauntlets on her wrist – and their ride appears at the alley's opening moments later. unassuming food truck, closed down for the day or so it would look to those who'd see it on the street. james is loaded into the back, cuffed at his wrists and ankles, duct tape placed over his mouth – before nat taps a rhythm to the front, and ivan begins to drive to the designated safe house. it'll only be peaceful for a handful of moments, only be quiet for a little longer before the body before her wakes – and she'll be forced to carry on a conversation she may not want to have. all depending on who awakens in the body, solider or sweet james, killer or lover?

#002. | 𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳. ﹆ romanova † riposte.#sovietstrings #ily. nat loves james.#black widow does not love the winter solider but alas <3

altierra

samara weaving as bee in the babysitter (2017)

#002. | 𝙾𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙰𝙻 𝙱𝙸𝚃𝙲𝙷. ﹆ rebekah † countenance.

𓈒 ೃ࿔*˚⁺‧͙̩̩͙̼ ✟͏ 𝗩𝗜𝗢𝗟𝗘𝗡𝗧 𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗣𝗧𝗦 , ft. @borndie + dean.

the twenty - first century humans have a word for this, for the reckless nature she carries herself, for the way she flirts with danger at every turn. adrenaline junkie, seeking the rush of a situation that might go wrong – that could go wrong, perhaps, given the right set of circumstances. the thrill of death lingering so close and yet so far away is a feeling she can relish in; one she hasn't felt in centuries. he'd had every reason to track her here, every reason to believe she's none the wiser, too. her brothers might not have taken an interest in playing with their food, but there was a certain enrichment to a long-standing dullness of time watching a struggle arise in confused eyes. watching realization settle in, the aha moment, before it all comes crashing down in an instant.

a graveyard should be too on the nose, but rebekah'd be lying if she didn't enjoy the stereotype. another thrill of playing into such steadfast beliefs brought on by decades of hollywood propaganda.

the steady click click click of her heels on the worn pavement of the car path, feigned ignorance to the barely there shuffling of boots on grass; as if she couldn't hear the very breath drawn into his chest each time he carefully chose to exhale. her pace slows as she nears a mausoleum, glides perfectly manicured nails across marble before she shifts one inch to the right, narrowly avoiding the wooden crossbow bolt that shatters against the mausoleum wall instead. she turns slow, a purse of her lips, predatory blue eyes landing on his frame immediately, tsk falling from her mouth as she crosses her arms over her chest. “ now now, there's no need to be rude, darling. ”

wooden bolt nudged with the toe of her heels, rebekah tilts her head, a sigh that signals more disinterest than disbelief – but something about him feels almost familiar, on the very fringe of a memory she can't quite place. a thousand years worth of memories were awful to keep track of. “ didn't anyone teach you it's proper manners to introduce yourself before you try and shoot a lady in her back? ” half a dozen steps closer, slow on purpose, she wants him to see all of it. “ or did you just get nervous and have a little … pre-mature release? ”

#002. | 𝙾𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙰𝙻 𝙱𝙸𝚃𝙲𝙷. ﹆ rebekah † riposte.#borndie #borndie: dean winchester #i am VERY sorry for everything rebekah does and says #dean should absolutely shoot her for real

okay … not around tonight but tomorrow!! perhaps !! when i am home from … the pokening ™️

#i.e: getting my first awake steroid injection.#i will not say where on dash bc it is in fact … not a fun spot.#:blows kisses: i hope ur all doing well #i am around on discord until i pass out <3

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