Stranger Things
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Claire Keane
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
AnasAbdin
taylor price
trying on a metaphor

Janaina Medeiros

shark vs the universe
hello vonnie
Sade Olutola
Game of Thrones Daily
Peter Solarz
One Nice Bug Per Day
$LAYYYTER

@theartofmadeline
h
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Monterey Bay Aquarium

seen from Slovenia

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Spain

seen from Canada
seen from Canada
seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom
seen from Morocco

seen from South Africa
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Germany

seen from India
@workergear
Greg leans back against the unfinished concrete, the midday heat pressing into his skin and into the glossy orange rubber that clings to him like it was made to reveal every quiet thought he cannot hide. It shines too much, reflects too much, feels too alive. Every movement pulls light across his chest, across his thighs, turning even a simple breath into something that draws attention.
He glances sideways, voice lower now, almost embarrassed as he admits it. How everyone seems constantly charged, constantly watching, constantly reacting. How the rubber makes everything feel louder inside his own body. There is something restless in him, something new he cannot quite control yet.
Beside him, the older man listens with a calm that feels unshakable. The same orange gloss wraps around him, tighter in some places, stretched with experience, catching the sun in deeper, slower reflections. When he turns, there is a quiet authority in his gaze, the kind that does not question the rules but understands them fully.
A hand settles on Greg’s shoulder, firm, grounding. He explains it simply. This is how the world works now. The rubber does not create the feeling, it reveals it. Teaches you to carry it with control, with confidence. Not to fight it, but to shape it.
Greg exhales, tension easing from his posture. His fingers brush the smooth surface at his waist, feeling the pull, the shine, the strange comfort of it. Maybe it is not something to resist. Maybe it is something to grow into.
The older man smirks, nudging him lightly. Plenty of time to explore that energy out in the city. But only after learning how to hold it steady right here. Greg laughs, softer now, more certain, leaning in closer without even thinking.
And somewhere in this frame, an extra arm decided to join the shift early. Must be management keeping an eye on productivity.
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Rubber boots stained with effort, heart fueled by dignity.
Rubber boots stained with effort, heart fueled by dignity.
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The end of a hard day's work (1)
Boss appeared to the site.
Century Waders
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