⠀ 〝 a creation MYTH¹

..   ended up with a pair of cracked lips.

[nearends-a]

.. an ᴵᴺᴰᴱᴾᴱᴺᴰᴱᴺᵀ and highly private multi-muse for characters exclusively belonging to 𝚍𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚊𝚗 / 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚌 literature, film and television. including, but not limited to: the divergent series, the hunger games, the hundred and the walking dead. muses. pinterest.

Visit Original Link

[nearends-a]

i may overhaul this blog at some point bc i find writing on here rly difficult atm. a mini softblock spree / askbox clearout / muse list edit may help

[uptowne]

GOSSIP GIRL HERE! you guys sent me tons of letters and i had the best time reading them all! thanks so much. DOESN'T IT FEEL GOOD TO BE BAD? Q: hey gossip girl, i heard about a girl up in district 1 who just got chosen to design some outfit for an incoming quarter quell tribute. something about getting another chance? do you think that was B? i mean it sounds like her, right? later. A: dear reader, i don't know but i wouldn't be surprised! B is a big fan for some killer parties. once, at her penthouse, i heard she designed a whole collection for one of the escorts but supposedly, she'd been a little too busy shacking up with a N to actually deliver through to the escort. I'D BE SHOCKED TO HEAR THEY'RE GIVING HER ANOTHER SHOT, THOUGH! that's all for now! you know you love me, ㅤ gossip girl.

ONE MISTAKE AND SHE'D BEEN BLACKLISTED. a forewarning for any fellow fashion designers attempting business with the capitol: any screw-ups and your ass is grass. when the chance to tailor a quarter quell tribute arrived at her doorstep, blair would have been a fool to refuse. (and she was no fool, against her better judgement most times.) in this instance— she was proven wrong once again. the atmosphere is tense, she's already exhausted and at her limit. his sentence hits a nerve— peter's been hitting them relentlessly throughout the session. A WOMAN CAN ONLY TAKE SO MUCH BEFORE SHE BITES BACK.

“ my career highlight was actually designing a custom-made dress made out of wings from monarch butterflies. it was also for somebody known far more than you will ever be. TURN, PLEASE. ” a safety pin in her grasp, she pierces it through the fabric with enough force to make sure it hits his flesh. (whether the pin actually draws blood— that's a him problem, not hers.) rising from her crouched position, she takes in his appearance— the way the fabric dons on his body. the story that resonates with the look, the emotion it draws forth. at first glance, nothing sparks. all she sees is a douchebag in the colors of bloodshed and victory. something she doesn't believe peter's capable of. (every man is capable of talking; most men fall through on their promises. she's learned her lesson with men who masquerade their insecurities through the means of a faux ego.) bringing a hand up to her chin, she shakes her head.

“ you certainly fit the image for douchebag victor who murders his way to the top, that's for sure. ”

[nearends-a]

his body jerks at the unwelcome sensation of pin digging into skin, gaze soon darkening with the shade that furrowed brow casts over his eye sockets. her harboured hostility had become a damper on the sun of his yet-to-be triumph, the honour that accompanied selection for a second time. (he thinks she should share with him that honour, the one who gets to forge the public image of the acclaimed, the one who ultimately creates a winner.) not many could say they had dressed a victor, none could say they dressed the victor of the commemorative quarter quell. her ingratitude, if one could call it that, irked him beyond ineffable detail, since the craftsmanship of his pre-show attire would be a far more valuable feat if they simply combatted their ideas and worked together. too much relied on the look to fool around on, both her reputation and his, and yet each were as painfully stubborn as the other, and worked to resist their wants with own obstinacy.

"play nice, blair." peter responds, rapidly reconfiguring that blasé nature of his and fixing it to his features, though it was impossible to deny that it had stuttered in the wake of her remark. he straightens, pulling himself taller than his mediocre height could ever claim to be by the haughty raise of his chin. he always fancied himself the largest in the room, voice trickling over the notes of others with elevated sense of self-importance. it is no different now, sizeable stare trivialising his false friend through the mirror lens, diminishing her value by ballooning his own. he smoothes out the rumpled material against his torso, turning his attention to the fabric as he masquerades in nonchalance. "unfortunately for you, both our reputations rely on how well i pull this off and if i don't tsk, back to nothing you go."

[hightabled]

hi everyone omg i'm back from vacay!!! i mean i was literally 3 days ago and then i got food poisoning and my period at the same time so i am in literal Hell rn i hope ur all doing okay!!! gonna try and crawl out of the trenches and get back into writing/back to ims today if i feel up to it <3

[nearends-a]

@uptowne ››› random starter.

in the bright chamber that housed capitol elites, peter's vanity became stifling. there'd been an array of colours set out in front of him that he glossed over with some meagre interest, finding fascination inside the mirror image instead. he was to bore the honour of the most ostentatious outfit the capitol had ever seen, that had been his sole command, not entirely bothered by the scheme but more so the symbol, so long as he stood out amongst the rest. (if katniss everdeen was the mockingjay, then he had to be the phoenix, dripped in an obnoxious combination of red and gold that triumphed her miserable blues.) peter was an unsavoury opponent, a capitol luminary: he loved the show just as much as they did, where few of his peers grew desperate to duck away. (but unlike them, peter didn't feel he existed in the world without a camera centred on him, without a projection of his own pride illuminating every screen in panem.) he lived for the prestige, his sense of satisfaction waning with every year that passed between his game and theirs, his household name rapidly falling into line with forgotten foes. peter had leapt at the chance to reignite recognition, a taste at fame leaving behind only an insatiable hunger.

"what's it like to tailor the upcoming victor of the quarter quell? career highlight for you, i imagine." peter sweeps a hand through meticulously arranged locks, returning to an acceptable level of bedlam that had been inaugurated through years in front of the camera. unlike finnick, peter was never quite the beau of the capitol, littered in haphazard scars that formulated no desirable pattern across the span of his chin, cheek and neck, rogue in his appearance in a way that had been deemed palatable to capitol eyes. he offered a sense of resistance to establishment that posed no real threat to them, the perceived bad boy image sequestered to sheep's clothing. "when this is over, you'll be just as known as i am. well, not really."

[nearends-a]

this was so real of me

[sourfilm]

#PRESENTING: 　　 MAY YOUR SURVIVAL BE LONG. MAY YOUR DEATH BE SWIFT.　˓ starring: 　@nearends. ˒

“ looks like it's healing nicely. ”　fingers take hold of the others chin, turning him slightly, scanning along the plump line he'd received back in jackson. she can still feel the cold creeping in, the stench of death filling her senses — she should be used to it by now. the infected—scars; death all smelled the same, really. but nothing made her body more tense and rigid than the sound of a skull being crushing repeatedly.　“ heard they're shipping leah out to the tv station in a couple of days. ”　fingers drop from their hold, a small smile twitching as she takes a step back, hand moving to reside on the growing bump.　“ everything all good between you two? ”

[nearends-a]

skin mends but memories do not, jordan feels the rot creeping into scar tissue and embedding itself in the hollow of his cheek: it was strange how one act of violence pits itself above the rest, and if his body were an outlet to his sins, not an inch of untampered skin would remain. too long had jordan gone unscathed, his looks pristine without resistance, and yet a single unsystematic strike had marred him into perpetuity, a molten reminder of his untimely inattentiveness that scorches the span of his cheek. there had been no method to her fight, just mess: haphazard in its performance and the subsequent outcome that severs his face from lip to cheekbone, a mere inch or so from taking with it his eye. he dwells on it because it feels easier, the nauseating squelch of club hitting skull and then brain pushed far from his reach.

"yeah, we're good." jordan forces out between the small space of near-gritted teeth, a suppressed lack of wanting to indulge the conversation. there was always a strain on relationships within the barracks, the vague sense that when someone left, they may not come back. it positioned him outside the group far more than he'd care to admit, issuing arms length contact for the continuation of self-preservation. it left him cold. "it's only two weeks." two weeks of silence, of unknowing. "be over before we know it."

[nearends-a]

@waysteland ››› let me take care of you.

"okay." the moment needed nothing less and nothing more. conversation from ellie had lately came in sparsity, a necessary rationing that sufficed but did not satisfy. ellie found they had little left to say. it was not out of spite or purpose, but simply because it ate up too much energy, which she found she had lately been lacking severely of. it was though with burying joel, they had buried a part of herself that she could not source. something like an organ, one that thought and felt and lived, as opposed to this mindless monotony that ellie had found herself ritualising as some new routine: everything between waking up and falling asleep passed by in an illegible blur, bodies without faces, words shaped without a voice. (they heard without hearing and saw without seeing, as though a passenger to the vessel whose hands would not stop hurting.)

the thought of ceasefire had never even crossed ellie's mind, too rigid in revenge that stopping didn't feel like an option. how much was one man's life worth? everything. placing hyacinths was not enough of an apology, nor the words she couldn't profess that his rotting corpse couldn't hear anyway. she wanted to drag and drop bodies to nurture the soil around him, the twisted expressions belonging to the room that comprised his tomb pressed against the turned ground of his grave so that maybe he could see if he just looked up. then he would know, would understand. if they had to give themself to this feat it would be worth it, if only to stop the whir of a restless mind and allow her to sleep without waking. she would crawl in the empty spot beside him and lay herself down, curled up as she always had been, drifting out with the details of his face to comfort her. i'm forgetting what you looked like, please don't let me forget. "i'm how are you feeling?" a voice changed, it departs from them with a discordant hoarseness, dry from dehydration and a distinct lack of use. she was losing everything she was, and she wasn't fighting it.

[seoinquk-deactivated]

LEE JE HOON as CHO SANG GU MOVE TO HEAVEN (2021)

[bloodset]

THE 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 ARTIST¹ ⠀ a character that strives to perfect their chosen craft and better themselves at it by any means necessary, which can lead to their own 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 in their pursuit of perfection.

[nearends-a]

continued with @jedicide.

they exist in opposites: conflict and demobilisation epitomised in each resolute stance, both much too firm in their opinions that it leaves them in stalemate. he plays god in a world that was never theirs, she a nonbeliever, palms never presented for the salvation he offered. (gods were self-serving, sacrificial, a heady profession of egalitarianism expelled from their lips as though he would save them all whilst hands manipulated the opposite outcome.) but the thing about chess was chance, the requirement of your win was entirely dependent on a moment where your opponent falters. but raven was steadfast, each move he made matched with her own until the board gets thrown by either hand, and the exchange of guns took their polite place. his wavering sense of rationality was something she was increasingly mindful of, expecting the latter reaction over disengagement. she envisioned no shake of hands that symbolised the mutual end of a match, only violence. only her blood soaking into the ground, having left her guard uncovered for far too long for the sake of nostalgia. they were friends, are friends, but she doesn't doubt anakin would see her overthrown in order to meet his ends.

"it seems like you're pushing for war, not peace." raven pulls her arms closer around her, as if to enclose herself within for the dreaded outpour his impending wrath. there had always been an air of unpredictability about anakin, her suspicions only deepening as she navigated the muted shades of black within his pupils, a pair that once housed nebulas now only encased crumbling stars, decaying with the world he would set out to destroy. "there are other ways, anakin."

[likewiley]

in ten years' time, i want to live in a house with big windows, i want the house to be large enough to have a kitchen table with four chairs but not too roomy to ever feel the depth of my aloneness. because i'll probably be alone. but I think aloneness won't feel so all-consuming with windows that protect me from the world but still let me watch it.

[nearends-a]

@waysteland ››› you lie. worse, you lie poorly.

peter smirks as though he was merely caught with his hand inside the cookie jar, boyish charm illuminated through the warm glow of his cheeks as a makeshift fire flickered in their peripheries. he doesn't care for pretences, recognises when his lies go detected and thus offers little resistance against victor's claims, presenting no case in his own defence. (the dead may now rise out of their graves, but humans remained, in essence, the same: ever ensnared with the tendencies to deceive.) peter had evolved in few facets since the then and now, still pertaining to the same proclivities that accompanied feelings of adolescent deity. his untampered sense of arrogance was yet to be displaced, in spite of all that had strived to take it from him. and perhaps to some, his behaviours reflected days that had long since passed them by; attitudes vaguely reminiscent of the testosterone-driven duels cast across football fields that existed at the centre of teenage livelihood, when nothing else mattered but the vacuous nature of school popularity and the coronation of that year's prom king. ironically, these futile triumphs within schooling subculture would have been subsequently forgotten in the students' anticipated thereafter that, ultimately, never arrived. a graduation cap had never even touched his head, and yet peter was expected to ingest untaught maturity nonetheless, as though initiation into adulthood had ever been that simple. peter still mourned that of what could have been in the years that followed, in spite of its sheer vanity. he dwelled often on the life that had been stolen from him. what would he have achieved?

"what can i say? it was how i was raised." a cold house that spared him no lies, he'd been taught to say exactly what he meant in every available moment, no matter the cruelty that could often accompany a truthful tongue. "you got any tips? i mean, you're obviously the best liar here."

[dailyfeartwdgifs]

“I guess it’s the price you pay.” | Fear The Walking Dead s03e13

[nearends-a]

the thing about using a couple of super unique fcs is that they don't have Any content on tumblr for me to reblog

[nearends-a]

@25spear ››› i made the call, and i’ll live with that.

"bellamy.." her voice leaves her as an unintentional whisper, cradling the fragility of his conscience with all the benevolence her blood-stained palms could steadily present. it was a delicate situation that required her resolve, but granted in a manner that was alien to their previous encounters: they'd never found themselves in accord of anything, and yet their sudden solitude necessitates the need for new behaviours. their history reflects back at her in the details of his face, a vast and unspeakable chain of events that could not be correctly contained into words, nor should it be. there had been too much anguish shared that the dictionary could not even attempt to accurately relate it.

but as clarke stares at her adversary, she cannot escape noticing that their fates were eternally intertwined in a way she could not quite fathom. wherever i am, there you are. no one on this planet that she hated more, no one who knew her better. she purses her lips together, steadying her tenacity as well as she could muster, though her eyes shimmered like the galaxies they'd long since left behind. all animosity was absent from her blank expression, only issued the extent of her understanding and the subsequent sorrow that swam in the twin pools she strived to blink back. "you don't.. this isn't for you to bear alone."

[artisanals]

starter call !

❛ god, it’s been a minute, ❜ he mutters, bringing a comb down through @nearends ’ thick locks. ( you know enough about long hair to tease the knots out slowly ) , making sure not to pull too tightly on her scalp. ❛ why’d’you have to have so much damn hair, ❜ he speaks up a bit more this time, smile softening the false annoyance of his words, because ( of course you don’t mean it ). bright grin is plastered over lips with such ease. sisters’ kinky coils were nothing like tris’ sheets of seemingly endless silk he brushes through, ( but hair was hair, right ? ) finally, only once he’d deemed hair sufficiently detangled, did he lean forward to catch her eye. ❛ how high do you want me to start ? it’ll look different depending. ❜

[nearends-a]

"i guess it's the stiff in me." tris had made vast attempts to distance herself from her biddable beginnings, before recognising that it flourishes within: it runs through her blood, runs through the long locks of hair that she is finally able to let free over her back. (you could leave your old faction, but it never leaves you. the candor's often discourteous levels of honesty was proof of that.) she partakes in the ridicule as to feel a part of it, prompting a smile big enough to plump out her cheeks. and if only for a moment, as kyle brushes through her hair, tris is home, partaking in age-old rituals that she never thought she would ever miss. she fumbles over his question, having known little besides the modest bun that had always been fixed to her skull. uncertain what to ask for, she thinks of the other initiates and how they had made supplementary efforts in order to pledge their new loyalties. hairstyles, piercings, tattoos. above anything else, it was about looking the part. "i just make me look dauntless."