crossfire ;;

[resourcesfortheavergaeroleplayer]

Send 🎶 and I'll create a mini playlist (3 - 7 songs ) for our muses relationship

[poetbitesback]

the sun tells me            “if you keep going on like this           eventually, no one will recognize you.           Even I won’t know you.” and I think          Good.          Maybe then the moon will have reason          to get to know who I am.

fade from day || O.L. (via poetbitesback)

[phlegmctic-blog]

Impressive, the other actually had the ability to talk. It was just one word but it was enough to make Ares laugh. He wasn’t sure why the guy thought he was under control of this situation, no one gave him the authority to bark orders. The last time Ares really followed orders was in the military and even then he knew how to get exactly what he wanted. The gun in the other’s hand didn’t scare him, it was just a pretty toy. “ I am not going to leave that easy buddy. I was the first one in this cabin and I plan to get exactly what I want. Just lower your gun before this situation gets ugly. I didn’t plan to be violent today.”

Nicholas was not about to argue with a STRANGER, let alone one he was not inclined to like. ( Then again, he wasn’t really one to like ANYONE and despised the ides of speaking to strangers. ) The gun in his hands was not threatening to the other man. In fact, he didn’t even FLINCH. Just talked. Talked and talked and talked -- a TALKER. Nick would’ve sighed, exasperated, but any show of emotion -- even annoyance -- would feel like defeat. He painted his features in monotonous expressions and held in that desire. “Plan?” He repeated, tasting the word ( oh, but at least words were COMING OUT -- a rarity ). “It’s not...PLANNED.” It just happened. It just occurred. And they, the survivors, as humble servants of the cycle of life could only oblige. Plannification had nothing to do with hurting another. Not for him, anyways. 

[genius-lyrics]

Bryson Tiller - Been That Way

[helpersofindie-archive]

Crackships of Amber Heard and Sebastian Stan, created by Nina as requested by Anonymous. None of these gifs are mine, I just meshed them together, credit goes to the original creators. Please like and/or reblog if you found this helpful.

[ghostsandgoblins]

[larmoyante]

Sometimes I feel like a caretaker of a museum — a huge, empty museum where no one ever comes, and I’m watching over it for no one but myself.

Haruki Murakami, Pinball, 1973 (via larmoyante)

[jessicahenwicks-deactivated2018]

[wulfhalls]

You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love… I love… I love you.

[a-hagar]

I didn’t mean for you to see my soul,  you just stumbled upon it.

you saw my darkness and loved me anyway, how can I let go of someone like that without breaking apart // a.hagar (via tender-souls)

[phlegmctic-blog]

☞

muse’s reaction ;; { ☞} accidentally slamming your muses hand in the door.

HE DOES NOT REACH TO MUCH ; in fact, if he can avoid demonstrating much of anything, that’s exactly what he does. Stoic and blank – this is his nature. The security in nothingness is the only thing that makes him feel at home, comfortable in his skin. Any lack of control, then, causes Nicholas to become unstable.

The ground he stands on is usually still: cement upon even ground, carefully constructed by his own two hands. While there is no home on top of this hard foundation, it still feels right – Nick’s figure has never been a complete building, so it would only make sense that his internal household would be built up much the same. 

That’s what he is: just a ground, just a stable ground. Hollow and empty. He’s a stock character; a bland thing made up by fiction novels written by careless, silly authors whose popularity will pass in the blink of an eye. Even the breeze slips past him without noticing. That’s how blank he is. How nothing. 

Ah – but Nicholas Wayland is so much more than what he seems to be, what he shows as his true colors ( that black and white he demonstrates daily ). There are shades below the surface; small flashes of joy and anger and jealousy. Bits of discomfort and pleasure. There is more there, no matter how much he wishes to hide it. And that more is willing to come to the surface if coaxed out correctly. 

– This is not how correctly works. Doors slamming recklessly; hands being squeezed and turned red under the impact. This was not how to coax him into anything. 

This…this was forcing; and stubborn stones never appreciated being forced into anything. 

The pain makes him hiss – wounded cat ready to claw at his aggressor – and he retracts his hand as swiftly as reflexes and human nature allow. Nicholas does not cuss. Does not argue. Does not provoke. He is a silent man – the narrowed gaze on his features says more than any words could in such a short span of time. A threat lingers there; dark aura painting his skin. 

He is quiet, not stupid, and while he is willing to forgive this mild transgression, the next time he will not be so kind. 

[musingmemes]

send me a ….

☀ for my muses reaction to yours bringing them breakfast in bed.

✎ for my muses reaction to your muse getting my muses’ name tattooed on them. 

▲ for my muse showing your muse their new tattoo of your muses name.

☤ for my muses reaction to finding yours in a hospital bed. 

✖ for my muses reaction to waking up in a hospital bed and finding yours asleep in the chair beside them.

☎ for my muses reaction to seeing them as your muses phone wallpaper. 

☞ for my muses reaction to accidentally slamming your muses hand in the door. 

✉ for my muses reaction to finding a cute love note from your muse. (bonus points: tell me what the note says)

✈ for my muse to get nervous on a plane and seek comfort from your muse. 

☃ for my muses reaction to getting hit with a snowball thrown by your muse.

[phlegmctic-blog]

The silent treatment, how generous. Usually it was easy for him to read people , their actions told him everything he needed to know. But in this case, there were no actions. The man was just standing there and Ares was not sure what he truly wanted. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the whole time in the world. “ You  might enjoy this big guy but I think that staring at each other for such a longer period of time is quite awkward. If you are really going to shoot me , just do it already.”

Nicholas was not quiet because he aimed to intimidate, nor did he believe it made him look badass or tough or anything. He did not zip lips tightly due to something so silly. The man’s mouth was clamped securely because he did not know what to say. Which circumstance required what tone, what words. Communication was not his strong suit -- all he knew was that he did not like the man before him and that turning his back was not an option. Not one bit. After a moment he said: “leave.” His gun did not lower, his gaze did not falter. His tone was flat, face blank. 

[musingmemes]

sad / heartbreak starters

“i feel like i’m losing you.”

“i didn’t mean to push you away.”

“i don’t want to lose you.”

“please just stay with me.”

“give me another chance.”

“don’t you care about me at all?”

“i thought you loved me.”

“you promised you wouldn’t leave me.”

“i don’t know what i’d do without you.”

“i never thought you’d be the one to break my heart.”

“i need time to think about us.”

“please don’t leave like this.”

“i’m begging you to stay.”

“this can’t be goodbye.”

“don’t you love me anymore?”

“do you… not want me anymore?”

“i wish i could be enough for you.”

“i wish you could see how much this is hurting me.”

“i’m scared of losing you.”

[phlegmctic-blog]

“ I am still not sure if you are really trying to kill me or annoy me to death.”  He was not afraid of the gun pointed at him; there was nothing dangerous about the toy. It was all about the player’s intentions. “Are you trying to defend yourself or rob me? Because if it’s the latter you’re going to be disappointed.

This man -- this brittle looking thing when compared to Nick’s own muscular form -- was a handful. It wasn’t anything he did or said. It wasn’t that Nicholas knew him. But Nick did know people; or rather, what people showed. It was in the eyes. ( Jameson, his sister, loved this mumbo-jumbo shit. Nicholas preferred to think of it as instinct. ) And those eyes told the ex-soldier that this was trouble. Gun remained pointed, never faltering. He’d shoot if need be. He’d kill. Nicholas answered nothing, added nothing to the conversation. Silence was always the safest bet. 

[phlegmctic-blog]

“You don’t think this whole get up is a bit… much?” Juanita inquired as she tried to cool herself off, a futile attempt in the makeshift post-apocalyptic armor. “I think I would have preferred the faux pas of a jean jacket, jean shirt, and jeans armor to this — ‘cause at least I’d have jeans.” She complained to offset the fear and distract. She didn’t want to think about WHY they had to wear armor to venture even a little bit away from the safety of walls and doors.

“I actually can’t hear you with the helmet on. We should come up hand signals. This means ‘you look good in your armor,’” she lifted up a gloved have and flashed them the bird with a huge grin on her face

Long face -- why the long face? As if the expression that permanently rested upon his features -- he preferred to call it a scowl -- was due to something as trivial as being sad. As if there were anything to be sad about. The dead walked the earth. Children died. People were starving. All semblance of light was faded. His sister was dead. No -- there was nothing sad about any of it. Nothing sad about their world, about the apocalypse, about any of it. Why? Because nothing had changed. Had poverty not been a thing before, too? Had children not been mistreated in their suburban life? Had walking corpses not shuffled their feet across barren lands for the sake of water blood? Nicholas knew too much of the world to be upset. 

No. His features depicted something...else. Something neutral. Something...vacant. Blue eyes, deep like the ocean, were as disinterested as ever. The armor -- uncomfortable at most -- was not pleasing to wear, but unpleasantness was a normal feeling. If this stranger was fishing for compliments, she should look elsewhere. Nicholas looked at her hand sign and then shifted his gaze to other things, such as the dead adding themselves to the porch below. He did nothing. Said nothing. Nothing -- that’s what his face was. Not long. Just nothing. 

[phlegmctic-blog]

open.

          he’s irritable. well, he’s ALWAYS irritable but the last three days have left the twenty year old a lot more snappy than normal, even towards his sister. he’s tired, CRANKY and downright sour, sitting down with his head between his legs. a second of REST, he tells himself, a second before he keeps moving, pressing on to do his job and get back home. the thing is, he KNOWS this feeling, recognizes the lethargy and anger settling in his bones as it has several times in the past. the truth is, his TYPE I diabetes has always been unchecked, always taken a backseat to everything else and even worse now that the world’s gone to shit, allowing his blood sugar to spike which causes days like this, leaving him tired and breathless and, most notably, ALONE.

          he should probably try to get to the hospital. he needs INSULIN, his pancreas needing the extra help because, if he keeps going like this, he’s not going to make it very long. ❝ fuck. ❞ he breathes out, running his fingers through his hair. he needs to get up, needs to do SOMETHING before his body gets any angrier than it is now, because it GIVES OUT on him.

He stopped worrying about collateral damage the first time blue eyes gazed the depth of destruction -- when grenades removed limbs so violently it made him flinch. It looked painful, just like truth ought to. War was not beautiful. Nor was chaos or violence or destruction. It was not nice, no matter what the poems or songs of old wanted to depict. There was nothing lovely about death. But Nicholas was not one to fool himself -- not ever. He’d seen the gore and understood; where any other may had falter he continued. War was war, and war was pain. Nicholas knew how to deal with that particular feeling. 

Finding strangers in need of aid ( clearly this boy needed it ) was not a rare occurrence -- although this account was told in the perspective of one who’d rather not see anyone at all, ever, period. The man was never really sure what to do with these people. Help? Soldier or not, he was no hero. No selfless agent of justice. No martyr. Nicholas Wayland lived for himself -- each breath was one he acknowledged. Cherished? Not so much. He was a man who was not entirely sure what to be thankful for -- if he should be thankful for anything. Strange bug. His arms crossed his arms over his chest at the sight of a breathless other ( even as he stood there he had no clue what to do with the suffering human -- putting him out of his misery seemed like the kindest thing to do ), and like always words were...hardly there. His tone was nothing more than a soft mumble, easily carried away by the faintest breeze. “Fucked.” A statement. An observation. What he meant was ‘what’s wrong?’ or ‘are you hurt?’  or even ‘what do you need?’. What came out was not what he meant. What came out was always wrong because words were alien. Otherworldly. Out of reach.