Monterey Bay Aquarium
oozey mess
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Andulka
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titsay
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
blake kathryn
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Jules of Nature
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
One Nice Bug Per Day
Mike Driver
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❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Stranger Things
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@tensleepkite
" YOU LOVE BLOOD TOO MUCH — BUT NOT LIKE I DO. " Independent original character ⋄ Private and selective ⋄ 21+ ⋄ Written by Ness A tale of transformation, transience, spiritual ecstasy, consumption as devotion, self-punishment, and the blighted path of he who walks in corruption. May be triggering. Follows back from tensleepshrike Tracking #tensleepkite HOME ⋄ RULES ⋄ STATS ⋄ SPOTIFY
my buddy says the craziest stuff when i make him plead for his life
His Herculean resolve crumbles at that nonchalant, informal gesture, and his hands find themselves balling up Kyle's lapels. Mathias yells a frustrated mess of Welsh and English into the other man's face as he slams his back into the wall. It's harder than he intends— part of him registers a dull cracking sound— but he can't stop himself. It's hard to ignore the way that satisfied smirk seems to widen at the violence he's dealing. So, when he draws back his left fist and drives it into Kyle's right cheek, Mathias can't stop at one.
Later, when he recounts this story, he'll say all sorts of things were running through his head that nothing in particular pushed him over the edge. It could have been justice for the Crypt Sleepers and the other bands. Or for show-goers who have complained about Kyle in the past. But no. His mind is empty, save for the echo of his fist landing on flesh. However, there is a deep-seated anger inside of him that he recognizes is not his own. It's a rage that feels like... betrayal?
Mathias' arm stops mid-swing. His blood turns cold, and the taste of it in his lungs is almost sickly sweet. Nectar. He feels the itch of thorns under his skin. The anger is divine.
Millie.
"Whoa! Holy fuck, Merc!" Before he knows it, Nick has him by the wrists and pulled away before he can get another punch in. "Shit, dude, chill!"
Kyle's still wearing that stupid, chimpy grin when Mathias bounces his skull off the wall and flecks his face with spittle and obscenities. He hears someone say flatly, Oh, Jesus, followed by the backdoor slamming shut behind them. He will have no allies here. This has been a long time coming.
The first punch buckles his knees. His hand shoots out, hooks into the collar of Mathias's shirt, and drags them both on his way down. Still, Mathias maintains the high ground. He swings again and connects with his jaw. Kyle's grip on the other man's shirt never loosens. The free hand never makes a fist. His breathing slips from the rhythm of adrenaline to the cadence of arousal.
Mathias cocks his arm back again, but the impact never comes. He's restrained in a moment that happens too quickly to process and dragged back. Kyle sags against the wall, turns his head to the side, and spits a red glut, extinguishing a dropped cigarette.
"You better get your man," he crows, inexplicably triumphant, entirely gratuitous. "He beat the shit out of me for no reason. I could press charges, you know. I could fuck his life up."
@thecryptsleepers
The Glimmering Room, Cynthia Cruz
SUCCESSION | 1x10 Nobody Is Ever Missing “You're incredibly rich?” “That's right. I am fuckin' loaded beyond your wildest imagination.”
“Go home and fuck yourself.”
"Oh, relax. I'm here for business, not pleasure. See?"
He lifts his laptop bag and indicates it with a tip of his head and a grimace. Woe is he, bound by an immovable, fast-approaching deadline, and too picky by half for the coffeeshop chains that populate his city of residence. If he's going to get anything done, he needs only the best, handcrafted with love. That's where she comes in.
Now for the order: "I'll do a large blonde roast. Give me three ristretto shots pulled separately. I don't like when they sit."
Julie scowls, opens her mouth to say something. Holland interrupts by shoving his index finger in her face and begins unloading the entire contents of his laptop bag onto her counter.
Scripts, headshots, contracts, takeaway menus, receipts, sticky notes, every flavor of refuse under the sun wallpapers the space like it's a landfill. He's got a punch card somewhere in here, he knows it. Not the one he's almost finished with — the new one that he opened just because he loves to watch her boulder roll back down the mountainside, the twitch in her eye when she realizes she has to start pushing again.
"And don't give me whatever crap you've had sitting open since last week. If the roast isn't fresh, make it a cold brew. Still three shots. Leave room. You get all that?"
Shapeshifter characters are so inherently tragic and i eat that shit up every time. I fucking LOVE when a character's sense of identity hinges upon being anyone but themself. Like yesssss babygirl struggle with your identity as an individual person and not just a reflection of others youre so sexy haha
The plus one catches his attention. That production party is not merely a production party, but the production party, a once-every-five-years event where careers get made and lives are changed, if, of course, you have the right connections.
How Sheri wound up in possession of that invitation while he got jack shit, God only knows — the fact remains that she's in and he's not. And yet, therein lies the sticking point: why does she need his help getting into a B-list party when she’s already in with the A-list?
Holland guides one of her arms to rest on his shoulder, caresses its warm, soft skin as he mulls her offer over. The heel stabbing into his foot hardly registers. His shoes are full of nails and blood already, anyway.
"So, you'd rather go through the trouble of either making me your plus one or poisoning me than tell me a shred of information?" Smell that? Eau de desperation. "You must be in deep shit."
An exaggerated eyeroll. She lets a sigh escape past her perfect red lips.
"If I said I was, would that interest you more? Would it make you feel good? Feel like you have something over me?" Dark eyes gaze up at him from underneath long lashes.
"Believe whatever you like-- either way, you'll have quite the prize by the end of the evening. And something pretty to wear on your arm to both parties." The faint scent of pink peppercorns and tart apples wafts as she flips her hair over her shoulder. Fingers from the arm he raised brush at the nape of his neck, toying with the hair there. "Do we have a deal?"
How are these questions? Of course it would.
She's giving him the hard sell, trying to get him to invest in her trouble sight-unseen by using his baser appetites for flesh and fame to get him to sign, thinks he's going to do it because she asked, because he owes her, because she tossed her hair and touched him like he wasn't repulsive, and he should be so fucking grateful that she can get him into a party no one wants him at for the low, low price of his cover and convenience.
He should rebuff her on principle — don't bullshit a bullshitter.
But he doesn't.
Slowly their eyes meet, umber on polished glass. Sheri asks, Do we have a deal? and Holland draws in, closing the remaining space between them, his breath lurid and warm at her ear as he says: "I just want to hear you to say it."
A heavy beat. Two. "Fuck the party. Just tell me that you need me. That I'm the only one that can do this for you. Give me that, and I'm yours."
She doesn't resist when he pulls her close, but there is a glimmer of intrigue in her eyes when she feels that abnormal energy at her hip. Both hands are on his chest now, completing the illusion. The red-painted smile never leaves her lips. In fact, it arguably grows a little wider.
"Well, I can think of a couple of reasons." Sheri's head tilts the other direction, dark eyes catching some of the colored lighting. "For one, they're filming that big sci-fi blockbuster just a few blocks away for the next couple months... And I know for a fact you haven't been able to schmooze your way in with the casting director but-- oh! I happen to have a personal invite for their start of production party. And I am permitted a plus one..."
"As for the other reason--" her foot finds the top of his, heel purposefully digging into him, "I seem to recall a little worm on the floor of my shop begging me to help him purge some poison. Would certainly be a shame if you were to accidentally consume it again and there was no one around to help you."
The plus one catches his attention. That production party is not merely a production party, but the production party, a once-every-five-years event where careers get made and lives are changed, if, of course, you have the right connections.
How Sheri wound up in possession of that invitation while he got jack shit, God only knows — the fact remains that she's in and he's not. And yet, therein lies the sticking point: why does she need his help getting into a B-list party when she’s already in with the A-list?
Holland guides one of her arms to rest on his shoulder, caresses its warm, soft skin as he mulls her offer over. The heel stabbing into his foot hardly registers. His shoes are full of nails and blood already, anyway.
"So, you'd rather go through the trouble of either making me your plus one or poisoning me than tell me a shred of information?" Smell that? Eau de desperation. "You must be in deep shit."
This is exactly why she doesn't deal with stardom chasers. Insufferable, obstinate divas, every one of them.
Though, she'll admit she has her share of moments.
Sheri steps into his personal space, looking up at him even in her 3-inch heels. Bats her eyes before pressing a finger into his chest, charming smile on full presentation.
"Thought you didn't wanna be a narc, Kyle." The name drips off her tongue like she's spitting out bad fruit. "I don't want liabilities and you want to stay in with your little starlet buddies, right?"
"That's what I can't figure out, Sheri."
With her in his face like this, she's an easy catch. A muscled arm snakes around her waist, pulling the witch flush against him. The least she could do if she's going to seek him here, at this club, with these people, is pretend to dance – not blow his cover bitching in his face with a grin.
His fingertips rest at the swell of her hip. Through them, he returns her sparks with his own pulse of aberrant energy.
"Is how the fuck helping you keeps me in with them."
every time someone breaks holly's nose, an angel gets its wings
deranged fancam of holly set to no doubt's "just a girl", thank you
THEY'RE FUCKING PANTS! How complicated do they need to be?
"That one is fine. You literally just need pants and a shirt. Maybe the shirt should have buttons. Like, it's fine that they do."
Grousing: "If you're afraid I'm going to look better than you — "
He pulls the Red Lobster pants over his hips and an alligator skin belt through their loops.
"Maybe you should try to make your peace with it instead of dressing me like a dickhead?"
"Heyyy, you're awake."
If he sounds surprised at the fact, it's only because he thought he severed something when he struck Mathias in the side of the skull earlier. Despite being outfitted with improvisational restraints and a gag, the mortician had slept so soundly through his abduction that Holland nearly mistook him for comatose.
His front teeth click together a few more times before he gives up chewing the hangnail on his thumb and he busies himself finding the hearse's cruise control.
Then turns full attention back to his captive.
"Jesus, it's about time. I was getting so bored."
@alonggoodbye
holland + social media (3/?) : sex & relationships edition
STEP ONE of treating that stab wound I gave you is letting me tonguefuck it
