𝙔𝙊𝙐 𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀 𝘽𝙇𝙊𝙊𝘿 𝙏𝙊𝙊 𝙈𝙐𝘾𝙃. 𝘽𝙐𝙏 𝙉𝙊𝙏 𝙇𝙄𝙆𝙀 𝙄 𝘿𝙊. 𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐨'𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫, 𝐚 𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢-𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰. 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐝. & 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬. & 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬.
noise dept.

★
Keni

Discoholic 🪩

PR's Tumblrdome
Show & Tell

Andulka

#extradirty

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Misplaced Lens Cap
Game of Thrones Daily
Three Goblin Art
No title available
ojovivo
Stranger Things

izzy's playlists!
Not today Justin
Mike Driver
Peter Solarz
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
seen from United States

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seen from Malaysia
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seen from United States

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seen from France
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seen from Bosnia & Herzegovina
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@handspike
𝙔𝙊𝙐 𝙇𝙊𝙑𝙀 𝘽𝙇𝙊𝙊𝘿 𝙏𝙊𝙊 𝙈𝙐𝘾𝙃. 𝘽𝙐𝙏 𝙉𝙊𝙏 𝙇𝙄𝙆𝙀 𝙄 𝘿𝙊. 𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐨'𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫, 𝐚 𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢-𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰. 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐝. & 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬. & 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬.
𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙜𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙡.
𝘼𝙡𝙡 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙜𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡. 𝙁𝙤𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧.
LIKE A SPIDER, THESE DAYS I EAT MY OWN HEART !
✧ ˚ · . # WHITEWDOW ──── a private & selective portrayal of marvel's yelena belova. heavily headcanon based with inspiration from comics, mcu & secret sisters. minors do not interact. mature & triggering content will be present. very oc & crossover friendly ! dearly loved by mei. 25+. she/her.
@saltwaters asked, "When men see me now, what do you think they feel?"
Tired girls, broken girls. Girls that wear white, girls that wear black. Fractured girls, splintered girls, girls that put themselves back together again. Perception, perspective. None of it matters. All of it matters. People look too close they'll see the specks, skid marks on the glass.
Reggie wonders if she could speak for millions. When her gaze really lingers upon Alice's profile, she's trying to embody every single spirit. But she doesn't like to think too hard about the particularities of what men see, how they see. (Especially when there's one voice in her head at the root of all evil, taking up too much damn space.)
“Does it matter?” Smooth smile, long drag from a cigarette, “They don't matter.” Another shrug, “I think you're fucking cool.”
@bledhard asked, “When men see me now, what do you think they feel?”
Hairline trigger, there's the twitch of a smile. It's faint, but it's there, scratching at the surface like a hangnail on her pinky. She can't help picking. She can't help the quirk of a grin.
She saw the bloodlust. His eyes not vacant, but consumed. Vacuous with anything but the hunger. She the canvas of the carcass and the deceased, when she donned sanguine shroud, she saw the beast beneath the skin, she saw the starving itch to bite and fright.
“I think they look through you,” Reggie's voice is soft, because she has always been unassuming. She can be invisible. She can hide in plain sight. “We're all ghosts, but some of us float better,” translucent apparitions just fluttering by, “I don't think they feel anything at all.”
It's a delusion to assume men think, when they are so oblivious to what is wrong right in front of them. She thinks it's better that way. Get by unnoticed.
“But when you show your teeth,” her digit traces against his shoulder, “they feel whatever you want them to feel.”
appreciatively he raises his glass a little , before taking a tiny sip. kind. his eyes dart around the space, checking out the one guy behind him before lowering his voice in a sorrowful crack. " something … i mean mainly just people leaving. losing people. it never ends. you ever lose someone like that? " not something normal to ask, he's vaguely aware of that. but it's too late, and he's hoping to feel a little less alone in getting left behind.
it's the kind of talk that makes her eyes bleary - after work, she can focus all her energy on it, and bleed and bleed all these thoughts out. but she's bleeding friends left and right. “yeah,” that's what happens when you're sick, that's what happens when something is wrong with you, “all the fucking time,” her voice doesn't break. it's a bit more rehearsed. but it shines in her eyes. “they say it's a revolving door,” she's spinning and spinning, “people go in and out. for me, it's more like a party. and everyone's already gone home."
she serves herself a glass. oh, well. nobody's here to judge her. the bar is empty, but the lights are still on.
Edwige Fenech in All the Colors of the Dark (Sergio Martino, 1972)
@strawhatted said, “i guess you have to rebuild this… you know, i'm something of a weapon technician myself…”
Nami never thought she was so precious about the staff until it splintered, obliterated in her palms. Her hands were raw-red, but the only wound stemmed from losing the battle, and much to her dismay, her weapon of choice. She didn't have a real weapon that was her own, she was adaptable. But it would be nice. Her own little treasure.
“That so?” Her features aren't dour, but the smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. She passes off the broken pieces to Usopp - the truth is that the staff can never be remade the same way. But hope glints in her gaze, “Have at it.” All she had were fragments, and she couldn't fight with that.
“Build me something better than that old stick.”
" right? " he's rubbing his hands over his face, gives her an intense stare from the other side of the bar. " i mean, you just get dealt a hand and you've gotta … " another meaningful look, he tries to take a sip from an already empty glass. " from then on it's just things happening. over and over. it's messed up. "
it's past last call. but she gives him a little more - on the house, on account he's such good company, and they stopped lining the bottles three weeks ago. more booze for everybody that needs an extra sip. “something happen?” she's inquiring. she's done cleaning. she's fixed, her focal point his intent gaze, “before?” ten, fifteen minutes ago? “or, just?” she makes a little motion with her hands, life in limbo, “fucking life?”
she looks about as miserable as he is — at least until she smiles. jd never comes to events like this, and he’d likely be happier if he hadn’t broken his streak.
“people call me jd,” he says vaguely. he likes being a man of mystery, likes it better than explaining yes, i’m the new kid, seven schools in seven states and i can’t do a damn thing about it. sooner than later this party, and the townies that host it, will be nothing more than a blip in the rearview.
he knows why he’s out here — he’d been leaving, about to slink back home in the dark, his worldview on teenage debauchery correct and validated. “you hiding from someone?” god, he hopes so. if she says something boring, like she just wants some fresh air, jd might actually die. he needs something, anything, to happen.
she's an expert in masking, but she's really happy to be outside. the fresh air was enticing. it was suffocating in there. she made it to all the parties. better than being home, better than struggling to fall asleep.
“jd, i'm reggie,” she's known the same faces all her life, the usual suspects come to the same parties at the same houses. she doesn't know his name. she doesn't know his face. peaks her interest.
“someone?" inhale, exhale, soft flume billows out, dissipates, "everyone," it doesn't sound so much melancholic as it sounds revelatory - it's her truth, fact over fiction, spoken so plaintive and unflinchingly, how could a girl like her have a fear in the world?
“i'm getting the fuck out of here," but first, she's gonna finish the cigarette he so kindly offered her, “you staying for a slice of cake?” it's a merciless tease, she drags her gaze back to his, “or you wanna go for some pie instead?”
syrin’s got me reading the one piece manga, so one piece writers, I am coming for you. 🔪 ❤️
[ SWEAT ] - reggie & @ext-backlot are lying in bed together post-coitus. + “all i’ve got is a head full of memories i’ve had to live with all my life.”
not all of his memories are his own, and reggie knows the feeling. she doesn't keep a series of them under lock and key. it's just one voice, one mind, intersecting with her own voice, her own mind. she's never been able to box it up. he's always been a little bit louder than she can be.
it's quiet now - her stomach's still buzzing from the butterflies, his breath's still hot on her shoulder, the scent of sex still lingers on the sheets, tangled around her midsection, her ear pressed to his chest, her gaze tied to his.
“do you put all of them away?” fingernails graze at his sternum tenderly, “i can't,” shelve them, hide them, abstain from the memory of being, “i couldn't,” the flicker of a smile, the roots of melancholy twitching, “i remember everything.”
Bro, I came into your inbox because your writing has me floored. I love your description and tone. It’s so beautiful.
thank you sweetheart, this is really so sweet. I appreciate you. I’ve been lurking your blog too and I’ve been so interested and excited to interact with you ❤️ your graphics are stellar and your writing is amazing! feel free to hit me up anytime or spam me with memes. I’m here to clown with you 🙏🏻
SPRAIN : for tommy to carry @anarkissm after spraining her ankle.
claudette needed a little bit of elevation - a pillow tucked under her ankle, tucked behind her lower back, a remote control in her hand, and his complete willingness to wait on her hand and foot day and night. she needed an ice pack and her favorite snacks, him nuzzled against her shoulder, the healer needed time, nothing but time to be tended to, and cared for.
time was rarely afforded them.
make it through the exit gates and end up elsewhere - there were nooks and crannies, safe houses in the outer regions, just beyond the gates. they couldn't evade the game for long. she didn't have time to heal.
so tommy would have to carry her even further beyond the gates, beyond the entity's reach, beyond the tick, tick, ticking of the clock, the chimes of death taunting them beyond the grave.
he's strong enough to carry them both, he breaks a sweat only when they cross the threshold, his head is on fire, his heart is on fire, he will only settle once they're back by the campfire, and she's safe.
“are you okay?” he's set her down, he's using the log to elevate her ankle, he's using the other log to perch her up against. there is nothing for her to watch but the trees, and he sinks to his knees to meet her gaze, “here,” he's holding up the canteen of water to her tiers, helping tilt back her head, “drink slow. are you hungry?”
@etonnante said, "the moment that i get back, i will show them who's the boss."
“jules,” digits curl around the other's wrist - leviathan's the relic that's driven the space between them, luka dissipates all of that now, steps into him, so they're almost chest to chest, nose to nose, eye to eye, “they're not worth it.”
it's not so much turning the other cheek, but he doesn't want to endanger his life. they don't have to lose themselves to the impulse. luka's taken a lot of hits in his life.
he can take this one.
“you are boss. you're the ultimate boss.” thumbs stroke at his cheeks - anchoring jules to himself, trying to guide his sight back, away from conflict, and towards the semblance of peace, the silver lining offered, “don't let them ruin our night.”
not another glance spared for the bottom feeders, just a nudge away, away, towards the starlit night, “pretty hot when you're all riled up.”
LEWIS PULLMAN as Rhett Abbott OUTER RANGE 1.01 — The Void
DANCE : for @kuhlgirl to ask blue to dance at a party.
fish outta water, he's got two left feet, but a wayward smile that twitches at her beckoning. there's a lump in his throat the size of an anvil and it's hard to swallow when his mouth is too dry to deny a pretty sight reaching her hand out for him. he nods his head, though his eyes are shy,
they won't be looking at him though, she's brighter than the whole sky. “you're gonna have to lead,” blue's voice is low, he's leaned close as she guides them backwards - the crowd seems to move for her, without her so much batting an eye. she's already leading, and he's just following the rhythm she sets. their fingers entwine and he hovers close, “i don't know my left from my right.”