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@laswells-ashtray
Uh...ignore this if it's weird but!
I painted orca...big ol' eyes captivated me👁👁 (the flowers are shitty cornflowers, a symbol of hope for the future)
Oh my fucking God. That's my baby and her silly eyes.
THE MARKINGS ON HER HEAD?! Actually damn near greetin at this.
I'm meeting Nikolai's actor in a week at a con *shakes violently like a small dog*
Fuckin hell. He's a braw fuckin man, it'd even gie me the fear.
What is your favourite flower? 🌻
I like red carnations because they were ma Papa's favourite, but really a like the hydrangeas when thir between blue an purple.
Soap's favourite drunken bit is doing iconic movie character quotes with a heavy Scottish accent.
Scottish Vito Corleone: "A'll make him an offer he cannae refuse."
Scottish Chief Brody: "Yer gonnae need a bigger boat."
The possibilities are endless, and he finds joy in everyone around him fucking despising it. There is no greater feeling than watching Kyle's face fall upon hearing his Scottish Swayze with, "Naebdy puts baby in the corner."
i have tanned and it is ruining my cool dress in all black and look half dead thing i have going
god forbid you ever criticise nurses/doctors infront of someone's who's mother was a nurse
you could tell those motherfuckers "yeah, I had a bad experience with a nurse when I was a kid that left me wary of them so I won't jump to praise them"
and someone who's mother was a nurse will hear "fuck your mother specifically and all nurses should commit mass suicide."
you say one thing, and suddenly, their mother extracted an alligator from a soldiers arsehole in the Vietnam war
as someones whos mum is a nurse, fuck nurses lmao
they are wholeheartedly the most judgemental group of people ive ever met in my life. on top of that, you can tell them anything and they will call you a hypochondriac
good because i was being kind. my sister is a nurse and it furthers my belief that the most abusive personality types want to work as nurses or in health care because they like the power trip
They bicker like an old married couple, get into screaming matches over football when drunk and smack each other like wains fighting over a toy if they sit on the couch together for too long.
But they don't fight.
At least, they don't fight until Simon washes a blanket. It's red, white and blue, and it's been on their bed for weeks. It smells like sweat, fags and the faint hint of aftershave. Common sense tells Simon to toss it in for a wash.
It's childish, Johnny's reaction. Slamming things down on the kitchen counter as he unpacks shopping bags, red in the face and swearing him out in that heavy, almost indiscernible Scottish brogue.
Quite frankly, Simon wants to leave until the other man can get his act together because he won't tolerate a tantrum over a household task. Until Johnny's voice wavers and he catches a glimpse of the other man's eyes, rimmed with tears.
"What's so special about that fucking blanket? You don't kick up a fuss when I was any of the others."
"It wis ma da's. Huvane fuckin washed it since he-"
Since he died.
The blanket that Johnny's dad kept over his chair at the sergeant's childhood home, because it's his team's colours, something the man had told Simon when Johnny had reluctantly dragged him away to meet his parents.
And Johnny refused to wash it because it still smelled like his dad's aftershave, one he'd been using for years on end and refused to change, claiming loyalty to the brand that made it.
Suddenly, Simon feels like a cunt. The idea of holding a parent close after their passing, remembering their smell and the sound of their voice, was something that never crossed his mind. He can't relate to the experience. Once again, his own father managed to ruin something for him, and the man is long dead.
Andrei finds no use in seeking God. It's like an addict with a needle in their veins, asking for weed.
He has something better than a God, someone real who's purpose he devotes himself to. He doesn't find love in bible passages, he's rewarded a rush of adrenaline whenever he plants a bullet between the eyes of someone who was just a step too close to his commander.
Absolution is worthless to him in comparison to dark eyes appraising his worth when he offers a suggestion that's equally as sadistic as it is tactical.
He sports no cross, yet a bloodstained patch sits proudly on his arm.
He kneels for no deity, he never will. He won't offer submission to that which he cannot see. When gunfire is a mere echo in comparison to his heartbeat pounding in his ears, he ache in his knees is a secondary thought to getting his leader back on his feet. The other man's grip is tight around his wrist and offers him that which God cannot, a mark upon his skin that he'll poke and prod later, in hopes the bruising lasts.
He may be led, but God's word pales in comparison to that of Vladimir Makarov and the flash of his canines that Andrei glimpses whenever he speaks.
"Ken, thuv always reminded me of Sooty an Sweep."
Kyle can keep a straight face in almost any situation; he's good at keeping his expression blank and untelling. Half of the time, no one can tell Simon's delighted face from his "there's a bruise on my left arse cheek" look.
Neither of them remains steady under the cheek of a mouthy Scotsman.
In all fairness, Kyle has to admit that their captain and his pilot, whom he is erotically entangled with, even if he refuses to admit it, do have a certain Sooty and Sweep quality about them. Without the human hands inside of them.
Maybe not, but Kyle doesn't want to know that much about their private lives.
When he catches a glimpse of their lieutenant, Simon is desperately biting his lip to avoid any hint that he's amused. It isn't working. Kyle doesn't attempt a facade; he simply lets his head fall against Johnny's shoulder and muffles his cackling using the man as a shield.
They're all too caught up in their little trio to catch John mouthing "Sooty and fucking Sweep?" to himself, or Nikolai tilting his head in consideration. John, however, sees Nikolai nod in agreement and kicks his shin.
He'd smack his arse if he weren't attempting to retain some sort of professionalism.
I don’t know who they are but the fact that they’re hand puppets, it’s funny no matter what. Lol.
Is that a version of Bert and Ernie?
They predate Bert and Ernie. They're from the 50s.
i'm calling it god's least favourite son
he gets the joy of the sun one last time before it all ends
i'm calling it god's least favourite son
"Ken, thuv always reminded me of Sooty an Sweep."
Kyle can keep a straight face in almost any situation; he's good at keeping his expression blank and untelling. Half of the time, no one can tell Simon's delighted face from his "there's a bruise on my left arse cheek" look.
Neither of them remains steady under the cheek of a mouthy Scotsman.
In all fairness, Kyle has to admit that their captain and his pilot, whom he is erotically entangled with, even if he refuses to admit it, do have a certain Sooty and Sweep quality about them. Without the human hands inside of them.
Maybe not, but Kyle doesn't want to know that much about their private lives.
When he catches a glimpse of their lieutenant, Simon is desperately biting his lip to avoid any hint that he's amused. It isn't working. Kyle doesn't attempt a facade; he simply lets his head fall against Johnny's shoulder and muffles his cackling using the man as a shield.
They're all too caught up in their little trio to catch John mouthing "Sooty and fucking Sweep?" to himself, or Nikolai tilting his head in consideration. John, however, sees Nikolai nod in agreement and kicks his shin.
He'd smack his arse if he weren't attempting to retain some sort of professionalism.
today on Rem tries things:
Farah only ever trims her dead ends by herself. It's a matter of autonomy, having control over her own person and what happens to it, hair included.
When she sprains her wrist, she's forced to evaluate her trust for the man she loves. Her ends are dead, they need trimmed and she cannot do it herself without further injuring herself or risking a hack job.
Alex doesn't make a thing of it, he accepts the task without faltering when her hands tremble as she watches him. He doesn't take it personally when her breath stutters in her chest as he makes the first snip. He talks her through every step, to make sure the length is alright and she knows what he's doing.
What she loves most about Alex, is that he allows her to walk away without a word, to stand outside and breathe until her mind and body are free from the stress of the endeavour.
When she returns, he only has one question.
"Do you want water?"
just found out one of my favourite actors is involved in DV , now i can't even look at his character without being disgusted
the reality of liking actors i'm afraid, who was it?
power cut right when i get in the shower, wet, naked and afraid, only to find out it's happened to my entire fucking town.
so, now i'm damp, i smell like sweat and cheap deodorant, and everything is pitch black. could god have wined and dined me before he fucked me.
dumb tanlines are a key accessory for Jackass: Best and Last
