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Discoholic πͺ©
Janaina Medeiros
Sade Olutola
shark vs the universe
Kiana Khansmith
noise dept.
ojovivo
Kaledo Art
trying on a metaphor
Show & Tell
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
titsay
YOU ARE THE REASON
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sheepfilms
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romaβ
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DEAR READER
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@unprocione
π‘ carrd.β π‘ google doc.β π‘ interest tracker.β π‘ prompts.
π‘ opens.β π‘ calls.β π‘ headcanons.β π‘ pinterest.
π‘ playlist.β π‘ visual edits.β π‘ promos.β π‘ spam sideblog.
π‘ aesthetic sideblog.β π‘ psd.β π‘ thematic icon borders.
welcome back
another day another leon π«Ά
female lead as well as more focus put on psychological horror elements? re9 you shouldn't have π
The air hums low with soft electric murmur, like a mosquito in the ear, and it's this annoyance that drives a hungover Leon to blearily squint awake, only to instantly squeeze them shut tight again at the sting of light. He rustles upwards slow, aching and sore in every limb and with the imprint of some folded fabric outlined in red on the side of his face. Nausea rolls over him in a wave, the cost of cheap liquor a degree of separation away from rubbing alcohol. He doesn't vomit, nothing left to vomit in his empty stomach (a brief memory of clinging against a greasy alley wall like a drowning man to the side of a ship, struggling to breathe in between each upchuck), but he does gag in a moment of panic, lunging before stopping short, erupting in a fit of coughing, and the raspy sound of clearing his throat. His grip is white-knuckled on his thighs, but there's a slight tremor in his hands, uncontrollable, ever more present these days. Could he even shoot straight right now, if he needed to? Realization dawns that he doesn't know where he is, and a quick hand darts to his side like instinct, only to find his holster empty. Leon goes still. Consequences. These self-destructive benders of his were commonplace these years, so commonplace that he had gotten complacent, predictable. So predictable that more than once, passing out in an alley led to waking up in the backseat of an agent detail's car he had been too wasted to notice following him, unable to flinch away from the disappointed look in the rear-view mirror of someone who thought better of him. All luck runs out, Leon's familiar enough with that promise that the chances of being picked up by someone who didn't have his best intentions in mind weren't lost on him, but he just didn't fucking care. In fact, maybe he even hoped on particularly bad nights that he'd wake up dead, floating in a water reservoir. He was tired. Pissed. Hungover, stinking like a brewery. Eyeing the only other person in the room, dark blue eyes sandwiched between bruise-purple eyebags and greasy blond bangs.
"..Can you turn that fucking fan off?" Leon hisses.
"But of course, only if you answer my questions first:" an unfamiliar voice, buoyed by an unusual accent. Likely to the discomfort of one hungover Leon - especially designed to do just that. "Where is your gun, Leon?"
Just theatrics. It's only Carlos, putting on his best (passable) impression. (He's been watching too many American movies, at least those villains don't keep him up at night.)
If it causes a moment of fright for Leon, then so be it. Let that fear be a lesson: do not treat his comrade's life so carelessly.
Perhaps Leon can recognize the Carlos-shaped silhouette through last night's vapors. Broad and sturdy, quiet earth tones, boundless boyish energy. Neither the passage of time nor life's hardships seemed to diminish that.
"Don't worry," sounding like himself now; husky and breathy with humor. "I put it somewhere safe. Figured you should sleep this off before I let you go pulling it out on any guy unfortunate enough to come across you." Too soft to be admonishment. It's an ill-fitting role: that of a disciplinarian. He simply lacks the barb.
A spartan, metal bucket is boot-scooted up against the chair Leon's on. "Do you even know who I am?" A note of hope warms the question, mostly unconvinced.
"Come closer, and i'll tell you." Leon's voice is hoarse in reply, but to the trained ear, there's an undertone of something grim and unbalanced underneath. Not terror, not exactly, closer to adrenaline. Give me an excuse to hurt, or be hurt, and i'll take it. I have nothing to lose, unfortunately for both of us.
He straightens from his slumped position, eyes trained on the outline of the stranger, shaky as Leon's head throbs with pain. There's something familiar, in the voice speaking to him, in the way the stranger stands. Leon's hungover senses are struggling to zero in on what it is exactly any further than vague and distant recognition. "It's not a brave man that hides his face from his captive, you know. Especially since we've already met." Leon goads dryly. "Already tells me you don't have the balls to look me in the eyes if you kill me. Why the fuck would I tell a coward anything? Lo vuoi davvero? Ti perseguiterΓ² fino alla fine dei tuoi miserabili giorni." Do you really want this? I will haunt you until the end of your miserable days.
The figure's voice changes, and Leon's brow furrows, entire body going still at the sudden warmth and familiarity, a trick, maybe - the figure approaches, and Leon braces out of instinct, a sudden flash of lightning and fight in blue eyes bringing a familiar spark of life to a battle-worn and tired face for a moment, a suggestion of the man he used to be, of who Carlos -- Carlos, recognition dawns on him -- knew before.
"Shit." Breath whistles out of him in a low laugh, leaning back in the chair. "You think I'd forget? Give me some credit. There's not alot of men i've had on their back on my kitchen floor. What rock have you been hiding under, Carlos?" He's not completely relaxed, tension still in his shoulders, eyes locked on the other man.
The air hums low with soft electric murmur, like a mosquito in the ear, and it's this annoyance that drives a hungover Leon to blearily squint awake, only to instantly squeeze them shut tight again at the sting of light. He rustles upwards slow, aching and sore in every limb and with the imprint of some folded fabric outlined in red on the side of his face. Nausea rolls over him in a wave, the cost of cheap liquor a degree of separation away from rubbing alcohol. He doesn't vomit, nothing left to vomit in his empty stomach (a brief memory of clinging against a greasy alley wall like a drowning man to the side of a ship, struggling to breathe in between each upchuck), but he does gag in a moment of panic, lunging before stopping short, erupting in a fit of coughing, and the raspy sound of clearing his throat. His grip is white-knuckled on his thighs, but there's a slight tremor in his hands, uncontrollable, ever more present these days. Could he even shoot straight right now, if he needed to? Realization dawns that he doesn't know where he is, and a quick hand darts to his side like instinct, only to find his holster empty. Leon goes still. Consequences. These self-destructive benders of his were commonplace these years, so commonplace that he had gotten complacent, predictable. So predictable that more than once, passing out in an alley led to waking up in the backseat of an agent detail's car he had been too wasted to notice following him, unable to flinch away from the disappointed look in the rear-view mirror of someone who thought better of him. All luck runs out, Leon's familiar enough with that promise that the chances of being picked up by someone who didn't have his best intentions in mind weren't lost on him, but he just didn't fucking care. In fact, maybe he even hoped on particularly bad nights that he'd wake up dead, floating in a water reservoir. He was tired. Pissed. Hungover, stinking like a brewery. Eyeing the only other person in the room, dark blue eyes sandwiched between bruise-purple eyebags and greasy blond bangs.
"..Can you turn that fucking fan off?" Leon hisses.
"You look like fucking shit." Jill says from nearby, shakes her head when he decides he's going to hiss at her like a pissy little alley cat. Instead of turning the fan off, it stops from the lazy rotating back and forth and is aimed at him, turned up a notch. Seems like no one else is going to give him tough love, so it has to be her, predictable.
But she's not a monster so the fan is turned off after just a little bit of torture and her feet swing off the desk and hit the floor, no reason to be quiet, right? The metal trash can is sat next to him with a little clang on her way by him to the kitchen.
There's some much needed silence and alone time, but she's back soon enough, setting a cup of hot coffee next to him. "Drink it." It sounds like an order because it is, firm and not allowing for an argument, light eyes watching him. Whatever is going on with him isn't good, that much is clear to anyone who can see or smell him. "Wanna tell me why I had to pick your ass up, Kennedy?"
"Did they call you 'Captain Obvious' back in the dog days, Valentine?" Leon drawls hoarsely, scratching at the stubble on his face. She's rewarded with a wince and unintelligible, furious italian cursing when she turns the fan up, increasing in volume but not in clarity, blending together and speeding up with the pitch of the fan up until it clicks off, leaving Leon scowling, silent, and rubbing his temples. "Sadist." He accuses, pointing at her retreating back with two fingers.
"Your mother, too." He mutters, once she rounds the corner away from him.
Leon's still glaring ahead as she returns, bitter as the coffee she brings with her, hunched over with his arms crossed across his middle, hands tucked in his elbows. He snorts at her order, matching eyes with her for a second and opening his mouth like he wants to argue, wants to piss her off so she'll cuss him out, but he falters at eye-contact, silent for a moment. "Whatever makes you happy, sweetheart." He grumbles finally, reaching out for the coffee.
An outstretched hand, visibly tremoring, seizing in a muscle spasm is all it takes to send the mug to the ground. Leon jumps back at the spray of hot coffee with a choked, frustrated bark. "God fucking-- FUCK!" He shouts, an unexpected rise in emotion strangling his voice. He makes a white-knuckled fist with one hand, and covers his mouth with the other, turning his head hard away from her so she can't see his expression. "Shit. You didn't fucking have to, Valentine - should of just let me be! Always fucking involving yourself with shit that has nothing to do with you, just so you can sleep better at night? It's getting embarrassing to watch, Jill. Don't make me a part of it."
replying this weekend bc super busy with work
The air hums low with soft electric murmur, like a mosquito in the ear, and it's this annoyance that drives a hungover Leon to blearily squint awake, only to instantly squeeze them shut tight again at the sting of light. He rustles upwards slow, aching and sore in every limb and with the imprint of some folded fabric outlined in red on the side of his face. Nausea rolls over him in a wave, the cost of cheap liquor a degree of separation away from rubbing alcohol. He doesn't vomit, nothing left to vomit in his empty stomach (a brief memory of clinging against a greasy alley wall like a drowning man to the side of a ship, struggling to breathe in between each upchuck), but he does gag in a moment of panic, lunging before stopping short, erupting in a fit of coughing, and the raspy sound of clearing his throat. His grip is white-knuckled on his thighs, but there's a slight tremor in his hands, uncontrollable, ever more present these days. Could he even shoot straight right now, if he needed to? Realization dawns that he doesn't know where he is, and a quick hand darts to his side like instinct, only to find his holster empty. Leon goes still. Consequences. These self-destructive benders of his were commonplace these years, so commonplace that he had gotten complacent, predictable. So predictable that more than once, passing out in an alley led to waking up in the backseat of an agent detail's car he had been too wasted to notice following him, unable to flinch away from the disappointed look in the rear-view mirror of someone who thought better of him. All luck runs out, Leon's familiar enough with that promise that the chances of being picked up by someone who didn't have his best intentions in mind weren't lost on him, but he just didn't fucking care. In fact, maybe he even hoped on particularly bad nights that he'd wake up dead, floating in a water reservoir. He was tired. Pissed. Hungover, stinking like a brewery. Eyeing the only other person in the room, dark blue eyes sandwiched between bruise-purple eyebags and greasy blond bangs.
"..Can you turn that fucking fan off?" Leon hisses.
The air hums low with soft electric murmur, like a mosquito in the ear, and it's this annoyance that drives a hungover Leon to blearily squint awake, only to instantly squeeze them shut tight again at the sting of light. He rustles upwards slow, aching and sore in every limb and with the imprint of some folded fabric outlined in red on the side of his face. Nausea rolls over him in a wave, the cost of cheap liquor a degree of separation away from rubbing alcohol. He doesn't vomit, nothing left to vomit in his empty stomach (a brief memory of clinging against a greasy alley wall like a drowning man to the side of a ship, struggling to breathe in between each upchuck), but he does gag in a moment of panic, lunging before stopping short, erupting in a fit of coughing, and the raspy sound of clearing his throat. His grip is white-knuckled on his thighs, but there's a slight tremor in his hands, uncontrollable, ever more present these days. Could he even shoot straight right now, if he needed to? Realization dawns that he doesn't know where he is, and a quick hand darts to his side like instinct, only to find his holster empty. Leon goes still. Consequences. These self-destructive benders of his were commonplace these years, so commonplace that he had gotten complacent, predictable. So predictable that more than once, passing out in an alley led to waking up in the backseat of an agent detail's car he had been too wasted to notice following him, unable to flinch away from the disappointed look in the rear-view mirror of someone who thought better of him. All luck runs out, Leon's familiar enough with that promise that the chances of being picked up by someone who didn't have his best intentions in mind weren't lost on him, but he just didn't fucking care. In fact, maybe he even hoped on particularly bad nights that he'd wake up dead, floating in a water reservoir. He was tired. Pissed. Hungover, stinking like a brewery. Eyeing the only other person in the room, dark blue eyes sandwiched between bruise-purple eyebags and greasy blond bangs.
"..Can you turn that fucking fan off?" Leon hisses.
IM SENDING YOU THIS IN CASE YOU GET EMAIL ALERTS I MISS YOU
HI HI THIS IS SO SWEET!!! I get alerts straight to my discord >:3 I hope you're doing well!!! I'm not sure if i'll be around anytime soon to write or roleplay as there's a *lot* always going on irl now, but it means alot to me that you've enjoyed my writing enough to reach out after my months-long silence!!
he thinks he's funny
reminder that my low effort lady dimitrescu blog is up at @demeterscu :3
ππππππ ππππ πππππ ππππππππ/π πππππππ.
you long-suffering, endlessly patient angels get two memes today bc i deleted everything in my inbox on my rp blog and i made these memes to top off a solidly productive day! also, if you ever feel guilty about βnot being productiveβ or having to delete drafts and memes in your tumblr life, DONβT! youβre wonderful and valid and your personal comfort and peace of mind is far more important than an overwhelming inbox or draft count! anyway, these are also self-serving, but also i feel no shame bc thereβs an extreme lack of this very good vibe in my line of work, so here u go besties. DO NOT ADD ANYTHING TO THIS LIST!!
DATE UPDATED: 19/10/22
[ PIN ]: Β Β sender pins the receiver to the ground and straddles them while training together.
[ SWORD ]: Β Β sender invites the receiver to engage in sword fighting practice with them.
[ AIM ]: Β Β sender and receiver go to target practice together (using any weapon of choice).
[ GUIDE ]: Β Β sender readjusts the receiverβs stance and posture with their hands while training together.
[ STRIKE ]: Β Β sender aims a blow (via either their fists or their weapon) at the receiver.
[ BLOCK ]: Β Β sender blocks an on-coming attack from the receiver.
[ ARMOR ]: Β Β sender helps to show the receiver how to wear and take care of their armor.
[ PREPARE ]: Β Β sender guides the receiver through some pre-battle stretching exercises.
[ CHALLENGE ]: Β Β sender challenges the receiver to a sparring match/actual fight.
[ TEND ]: Β Β sender and receiver tend to one anotherβs wounds in the aftermath of a fight.
[ RESTRAIN ]: Β Β sender physically restrains the receiver from attacking someone else.
[ FEND ]: Β Β sender adopts a defensive position that stops the receiver from launching an attack on them.
[ PUNCH ]: Β Β sender punches the receiver (to an unknown degree of success or failure).
[ KICK ]: Β Β sender launches a kick at the receiver (to an unknown degree of success or failure).
[ TACKLE ]: Β Β sender physically tackles the receiver during a fight.
[ DRAG ]: Β Β sender physically drags or carries the receiver away from a fight.
[ UP ]: Β Β sender extends a hand to the fallen receiver to help them to their feet after a fight/sparring match.
[ BACK ]: Β Β sender stands behind the receiver while in the midst of battle in order to help them fight off their enemies.
[ ARRIVE ]: Β Β just as the receiver is about to lose hope and become defeated, the sender arrives at the last minute to help them fight their enemies.
[ EXTRA ]: Β Β sender hands the receiver a spare weapon during a fight to give them a better chance after they break or lose their own.
[ WALL ]: Β Β sender slams the receiver against a wall during a fight/sparring match.
[ COVER ]: Β Β sender lunges forward to throw their body over the receiver and shield them from harm during a fight.
[ POWER ]: sender and/or receiver use their powers during a sparring match in order to develop and enhance their abilities.
[ UNLEASH ]: sender, while fighting with the receiver during a physical confrontation, uses their powers in an effort to gain the upper hand.
blood, blood, gallons of the stuff ! a collection of icky, bloody prompts for those who like to choose violence. actions are reversible. general warning for blood, violence, murder, death.
ππΏπΎπΊπ΄π½ :
" that's a lot of blood. "
" it isn't mine. "
" what did you do ? "
[ sigh ] " what did you do ? "
" come on. have a taste. "
" holy shit, are you okay ? "
" it looks worse than it feels. "
" you should see the other guy. "
" it's a good look on you. you should get covered in blood more often. "
" lean on me. "
" oh my god. oh my god, oh my god, what the fuck ? is that what i fucking think it is ? "
" . . . gross. "
[ standing over a body ] " oops. "
" is that a fucking body ? "
" look, i'm sorry, okay ? "
" what the hell happened ? "
" before you say anything, it wasn't me. "
" at least it wasn't me this time. "
" look at me. this is who i am, no matter how much you pretend it isn't. "
" look at me. this is who i am, no matter how much you wish it wasn't. "
" i'm not scared of you. "
" you don't scare me. "
" shut up and let me help you. "
" i got your shirt all bloody. "
" let's get you cleaned up. "
" that looks like it hurts. "
" i'm fine, just. . . give me a minute. "
" we are so fucked. "
" what the fuck is wrong with you ? "
" are you gonna help me clean it up or not ? "
" the fucker deserved it. "
" red looks good on you. "
" what the hell did you do ; tap - dance all over the body with ice - skates ? "
" what, did you run over the body with your car a couple times after ? "
" i. . . i didn't mean to. . . "
" sorry. fuck, i'm sorry. "
" this isn't what it looks like. "
" it was an accident. "
" motherfucker ran right into my knife, i swear. "
" people need to look both ways before crossing. . . bullets. "
" would you believe me if i said wrong place, wrong time ? "
" hey, look at me. i don't care. are you okay ? "
" they deserved it, right ? please tell me they deserved it. "
" you're bleeding. "
" what the fuck happened to you ? "
" you're getting blood on the carpet. "
" sit down before you fall down. "
" that looks like a you problem. "
ππ½ππΏπΎπΊπ΄π½ :
sender spits out a mouthful of blood at receiver's feet
sender spits out a mouthful of blood on receiver
receiver finds sender covered in blood
sender tries desperately to stop receiver's bleeding
sender helps receiver clean up after a kill
sender wipes blood from receiver's face with a washcloth
sender wipes blood from receiver's face with their thumb
sender licks receiver's blood off a knife
sender licks receiver's blood off their thumb
sender lights up a cigarette a foot away from someone they killed before offering one to receiver
receiver finds sender stood over a body
sender stitches up receiver's wound [ optional wound placement ]
sender digs their finger into receiver's wound [ optional wound placement ]
sender frantically checks receiver for injuries under all the blood
sender guides receiver's bloody hands under a faucet / water source and begins washing them clean
sender bites receiver hard enough to draw blood
sender tilts receiver's head back to staunch a nosebleed
sender draws a smiley face out of the blood they spilled :)
receiver finds sender cleaning up a kill in a daze
sender looks receiver in the eye as they shoot / stab / kill someone
sender ruffles receiver's hair, getting blood all over their hand
sender gets some of receiver's blood on them and makes a face
sender flicks blood at receiver to annoy them
sender stomps in a pool of blood to splash it on receiver
sender slips in their victim's blood but receiver steadies them before they can fall
sender steadies receiver when they slip in the blood sender spilled
receiver comes home to sender covered in blood and waiting for them with all the lights off
sender spits out a tooth and it hits receiver
sender tries to wipe blood off receiver but the blood on their hands just makes it worse
sender takes an injury meant for receiver
sender shows up on receiver's doorstep covered in blood
sender sits down quietly next to receiver after receiver kills someone
sender punches receiver in the mouth
receiver watches sender lick the blood off their fingers like its cheeto dust
sender helps receiver bury a body
sender hugs receiver just to get their victim's blood all over them <3
sender hugs receiver just to get their blood all over them <3
sender leans on receiver for support
sender kills someone to protect receiver
receiver finds sender in a frenzy maiming a body after they've already killed it
sender kills someone and the blood spatters on receiver
receiver finds sender desperately trying to wash the blood off of themself
sender kisses receiver to taste the blood on their busted lip
sender shoots / stabs receiver non - fatally as a warning
ReblogΒ thisΒ postΒ toΒ letΒ yourΒ followersΒ knowΒ you'reΒ fineΒ withΒ beingΒ taggedΒ inΒ randomΒ starters.Β Additionally,Β reblogΒ thisΒ postΒ ifΒ you'reΒ allΒ rightΒ withΒ beingΒ sentΒ old memes,Β noΒ matterΒ how long ago you reblogged them.
