One Nice Bug Per Day
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Not today Justin
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Claire Keane
i don't do bad sauce passes
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Cosimo Galluzzi

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Origami Around
cherry valley forever

⣠Chile in a Photography âŁ
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2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
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@renascenced
     statued maiden,  sat motionless within verdant patch opposite unfamiliar high school for hours,  save for the idle ash of fresh cigarette or swat at the fat bodies of flies drawn to her distinctive bouquet of death and decomposition.  she watches silhouetted forms flooding the hallways during class changes,  watches those rebels who dare skid out of the parking lot during lunch,  watches sun drift tauntingly across brutally clear sky.  itâs all unexceptional,  normal,  ordinary  ------  another day like the one before in bumfuck wherever they are.  it reminds her all too much of home,  and it is during this musing that the distant thrum of dismissal bell rings,  loosing students onto the sidewalks.
     she doesnât know what her plan is,  doesnât even know if heâs in school today,  doesnât even know exactly who he is.  (  just a name,  a quick description from a deity who could have been lying to her anyway.  )  nacreous gaze scans swarming faces as if she knows who sheâs looking for,  loose limbs giving rise as she tosses nearly - finished smoke onto the blacktop of the street she crosses.  thereâs a moment where she considers leaving.  maybe itâs best not to meet someone else like her.  (  see:  rotting from the inside out,  sickening and putrid,  death embodied!  ) Â
     but then she sees him,  and just like she didnât know her plan,  she doesnât know how she knows itâs him either.  maybe itâs the idle tug in her gut,  the tap,  tap,  tap!  at her bones.  maybe itâs divine intervention.  maybe she just has a knack for spotting the preternatural now that she has spent so much time in its midst.  narrowed regard,  wrinkled nose.  he doesnât look that bad.  he doesnât look great,  but he doesnât look as fall - off - the - bone as she had been expecting.  if she hadnât sought him out specifically,  she never would have given him a second glance,  but  ------ Â
      â  hey  ------  !  hey,  shaun of the dead!  yeah,  you got a minute?  â
@zomboye
Soon youâll be ashes or bones. A mere name at mostâand even that is just a sound, an echo.
Marcus Aurelius, âMeditationsâ Volume 33 (via monstrauma)
SOMNAMBULIST.
     â     â    SPIRITS  surround  us  on  every  side   .  .  .     â
      â  yâknow,  thatâs a lot less impressive now that iâm dead myself.  â
I want it back, I want it back / What was taken from me, I want it back.
Chelsea Wolfe, from Hisspun; âTwo Spirit,â (via shieldarmed)
smol  starter  call !
daggerdykes :
*80s pop playing as I lay dead in the middle of the woods*
â Are you gonna kiss me or not? â
@cladhaire | questions meme | ACCEPTING!
     there  is  an  iridescence  nestled  within  earthy  hues  as  they  transfix  âpon  the  curve  of  wicked  lips,  a  glint  which  speaks  to  fluttering  sense  of  exhilaration.  it  still  floors  her  ------  just  how  intense  everything  is  experienced  now.  (  even  things  which  would  have  paled  a  lifetime  ago.  )  chest  rises  and  falls  with  quickening  breath,  hot  and  fulfilling  within  fragility  of  rib  cage,  only  countered  by  the  thumping  of  a  heart  lusting.  her  cheeks  flush  as  gruff  fingertips  press  into  the  flesh  of  hips  and  pull  her  âgainst  him,  petaled  lips  curling  with  wanton  intent.  desire  pools  and  spreads  within,  a  fiery  venom  the  likes  of  which  she  has  only  ever  known  in  his  company.  all  of  it  is  relished  in  its  own  right.
     willowy  limbs  wind  upwards  to  drape  loosely  âround  his  neck,  weight  resting  entirely  on  the  balls  of  her  feet  that  she  might  diminish  the  distance  between  them.  for  a  moment  does  it  seem  like  she  might  yield  to  his  demand,  with  that  lidded  gaze  drifting  to  meet  his  own  and  her  head  canting  loftily  to  the  side;  but  she  has  never  been  one  to  give  so  easily,  especially  not  to  such  a  gentle  request.  he  knows  and  she  knows  that  their  game  plays  out  but  one  way !
                â  make  me. â
I hear. I see. Just distantly. Painfully. Detached, numbed and under that, achingly. What all the world has done to me. Within a trauma trance.
Helaena Moon (via goremade)
Laura Moon in 01x06: A Murder of Gods
hmmm  do  other  ppl  w  SuPeRnAtUrAl  muses  ever  hesitate  following  non-supernatural  show  muses  or  is  that  just  me
QUANDARY.
       chocolate-sweet hues hardly notice the stiffness of her body â they focus instead on the spread of lips into a slight smile, one mirrored and magnified by her own pink petals. icy fingertips brush hers as the matchbox is exchanged for a word of gratitude. the temperature registers, but the thought doesnât linger. it wasnât too often the woman found herself speaking with someone new; her lifestyle complicated the forging of even an acquaintanceship.
       â  sure thing.  â   the words are sweetened by the smile in her voice. feet shift as she hovers at the street corner, waiting for the signal to cross. a needy muzzle sniffs at her hand and she gives her companion a scratch behind the ears when the same voice calls to her again.   â  oh â THANK YOU, but i donât smoke.  â   another, softer smile is aimed at the woman; sheâs almost sorry she canât partake, for it seems almost like an act of gratitude sheâs just turned down.
      a  lopsided  shrug  of  indifference  brings  about  the  rise  and  fall  of  her  left  shoulder.  with  cigarette  loosely  propped  between  sallow  lips,  she  strikes  match  âgainst  emory  and  touches  lucent  flame  to  tobacco.   â   good  for  you,  â  sounds  response  gently  muffled.  momentary  pause  as  blaze  is  dropped  into  a  puddle  below,  deep  drag  taken  from  her  smoke  before  it  finds  itself  riveted  betwixt  digits.  the  coerced  movement  of  her  lungs  feels  good;  for  the  moment  she  might  forget  deathâs  chill.   â   itâs  a  shitty  habit.  â
     innocuously does  she  regard  the  woman  beside  her  ------  cool  gaze  assessing  as  the  air  about  her  clouds  with  smoke  released.  there  is  a  fleeting  thought,  one  that  begs  the  question:  could  she,  too,  exist  something  preternatural?  a  witch?  a  fairy?  (  and  do  you  not  feel  the  delight  at  the  mere  thought  begin  to  fill  your  hollowness,  girl  reborn?  )   â   ------  what  brings  you  out  here?  â
"Rot in hell."
@shuibhnc | drama starters | ACCEPTING !
     barb  rings  tame,  does  not  carry  behind  it  enough  venom  to  garner  reaction  at  all  ------  and  yet  memories  stir  behind  unflinching  hues !  she  sees  feathers  on  scales  which  dictate  her  fate  and  gods  of  death  with  rigid  vendettas  and  a  hot  box  of  poison  for  her  to  waste  away  in.  it  is  this  which,  after  smoke  is  drawn  into  lungs,  does  spark  her  ire,  white  hot  &  roiling.  gaze  sharpens,  cigarette  collides  with  asphalt.  do  not  be  fooled  by  the  insouciant  cadence  masking  malicious  intent;  the  maiden  of  death  requires  blood,  and  she  cares  not  who  she  draws  it  from.   (  BEWARE !  )
     â  which  circle  of  hell  do  murderers  go  to  again?  i  get  the  feeling  itâs  considerably  fucking  worse  than  the  one  iâd  be  going  to.  â
let me tell you something: no one is going to look at you, broken and shattered and think - damn, you are beautiful. no one is going to come pick up your broken pieces off the floor and assemble them into a beautiful whole. hell, you wonât even look at yourself and think - I made broken look beautiful. you know why? because all those writers lied to you. yes, all those with their poems of scraped knuckles and blood dripping down chins, pomegranate songs and loves that ripped through you like hurricanes. liars. so you and i, we are going to make a plan. you are not going to romanticize days when your brain tells you to smash that mirror, you are not going to romanticize the lover who doesnât understand you but still writes about you. here is what you are going to romanticize instead: you are going to romanticize the first day of spring, its gentle hands all over your body, lifting you up until you are as light as a feather. you are going to romanticize the tea and honey kind of love, no hurricanes, but sunshine that builds you up from within, that helps you make it through the worst days. you are going to romanticize gentle hands of a friend in yours, telling you that it is going to be okay. because it is. and donât trust poets, weâre no good, we love pretending that our jagged edges tantamount to a beautiful disaster, but in reality - there ainât nothing beautiful about shaky hands holding a cigarette and empty eyes staring at the cracks in the walls. you know what is beautiful, instead? the days when you can look at yourself in the mirror and smile, scars and all. music that makes your soul flow like a river, books that offer comfort, families flocking together like overgrown birds to keep you safe and warm, friends that give you strength when you can find none, lovers who make you laugh through tears. baby, from now on you are going to romanticize healing; honey dripping down your fingertips, August nights that stick to your skin, the day you find your purpose, long car rides and singing so loud that no one can shut you up now. bad news: no one is coming to save you. good news: you can save yourself.
Lana Rafaela (via wnq-writers)
roses or lavender? //Â vanilla or chocolate? // lightning storms or lights glowing in the fog? // Â blushing cheeks or batting eyelashes? Â // lipstick or lip gloss? Â // Â neon signs or canvas paintings? Â // Â soft winter mornings or flickering summer nights? // velvet or lace?
THE SUN.
@renascencedâ
        the  young  deity  couldnât  help  the  smug  smile  that  took  over  him.  vape  tapping  against  black  clad  thigh,  index  finger  pointed  at  the  DEAD  GIRL  before  him.  â mmm  you  are  fucked  up.  &&  I  didnt  even  have  to  kill  you.  I  wish  there  had  been  cctv  on  that  road  because  FUCK,  to  see  that  would  have  been  fan-fucking-tastic.  heard  you  severed  his  dick,  that  is  hilarious.  ââââ  so, â  brief  pause  was  given  as  he  took  a  short  drag  of  the  synthetic  toadskin  vapour.  â what  the  fuck  do  you  want,  dead  girl ?? â
     gelid  gaze  drifts  languidly  tâward  the  extremity  pointed  in  her  direction,  the  product  of  an  eased  neutrality  which  exists  entirely  unreflective  of  the  ferocity  she  conceals.  (  watch  now  the  obscure  way  nails  dig  crescents  into  yielding  skin,  the  flex  of  taut  jaw  muscles,  the  saccharine  smile  which  distorts  features  ------  a  bear,  mid-poke!  )  own  hubris  makes  maiden  of  death  headstrong,  though  unlike  icarus,  she  does  not  aspire  to  become  a  god;  she  only  aspires  to  maim  one.   â  peace  on  earth,  good  will  towards  men,  psycho  gods  to  stop  hanging  my  fucking  husband  in  trees.  â  a  shrug,  lopsided  and  half-hearted.   â  you  know,  the  usual.  â
reifaun:
whatever at least I give good head