#tbt💕

[saltuary]

⪼ @gatheringrust // cont.

Faramir regarded her in silence, though silence, in his soul, was never the absence of thought. That modest, sun-gilded fruit – riven so precisely in twain – seemed suddenly to him an object of profound gravity, a sacrament in miniature.

“Yes, thank you,” he murmured.

He took the orange half, the juice sticky against his fingertips, jewel-bright, and he marvelled at how even the most innocent pleasures were things he had once learned to go without. In the wilds, hunger had been his tutor. Restraint, his lifelong companion.

Beyond and below them, Minas Tirith lay swathed in late afternoon, her stone towers dreaming beneath long shadows. A slow wind stirred Rani’s hair, threading it like dark ribbons against the white stone, and Faramir found himself watching.

To busy his hands, he bit into a segment of orange. Citrus sweetness flooded his mouth – sharp, sun-kissed and sudden. The flavour lingered, fragrant and golden, like the memory of Gondor’s far orchards before they burned.

She still dangled one leg over the rampart, heedless of the drop or perhaps in quiet defiance of it. Faramir joined her, his own feet suspended in the open air, as though they, too, could forget the weight of the stone beneath them. For a moment, he felt like a boy again, fawn-eyed but fearless.

“You remind me of the gardens that grew wild on the terraces of Emyn Arnen. Defiant, some called them. Vines broke through old paving stones and flowers rooted in the very cracks of our defences.”

A pause, another segment of orange.

“In such places,” he went on. “Life does not wait for permission.”

[swordluck]

⚘ starter for @whitesharks

Horace’s absence was an amputation. Days were relentless – nights even more so – and both were insufferable alone. Anri had no choice but to learn to live limbless, to travel in silence, knowing that to call his name would be to draw attention from them. They wandered the streets, operating on instinct or perhaps a distant sort of memory. Swaying, jaws chewing cudlessly, hair matted and falling out in unkempt clumps. Eyes were capped milky-white and by all rights should have been blind.

Rain added to her misery. It soaked the tips of blonde hair that stuck out from her hood, it saw the ground turn to muck, mud clinging and caking to Anri’s boots. Her trail could be tracked, each footstep leaving a crater. Prey animal, fawn-like and fearful, with a fever burning in her blood. Living in imposed solitary, she could not say where she picked up the sickness.

Sunlight leaked from the sky. Eager to escape the growing dark, to rest the bones that ached, she closed herself inside what had once been a pharmacy. Air once clean and vaguely antiseptic was now stale, leaf little blown in to rest among the snowdrifts of scattered pill boxes. Picking through the chaos of its shelves, she found a box of Panadol and dosed herself, the powdery pills washed down with sips from a room-temperature bottle of water, plucked from the tomb of a glass-fronted commercial cooler. The taste of plastic laced her tongue as she settled on the floor behind the till counter, shrugging off her rain-soaked coat and repurposing it as a blanket.

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — dave’s night off.

DECEMBER 14, 1985, 7:46 PM

“Okay, McFly, focus. You got this.”

Marty’s staring at the pristine living room wall, hands drumming his thighs. The familiar motions help him to think, be calm.

“Nobody knows what happened to the boat that Grandpa Artie gave Mom and Dad,” he begins, like he’s studying for a history test in the garage, “but that doesn’t mean it’s gone, it’s just… in storage… somewhere. Uh… Grandma Sylvia’s crochet blanket is in your room. It smells like her perfume, not popcorn, and that’s okay, ‘cause you miss her anyway and you need to call her soon. Nobody knows what the hell happened to Grandpa Sam’s scratchy plaid couch with the busted up cushions and Grandma Stella’s quilt’s in Mom’s hope chest… she thinks.”

“The weird modern art thing Mom and Dad picked up on… their honeymoon?...” He smacks his forehead, running a hand through his hair. “Dammit, no, not their honeymoon, it was their anniversary, their tenth anniversary. Dad replaces the flowers in the vase with fresh ones every week for Mom. There’s a million throw pillows on the couch so I guess nobody sits there anymore?…”

He rubs the back of his neck.

“Uh… kitchen. Right. We got the good chips and the good cereal, not the store brand, but... only one box ‘cause I’m the only one that still eats that junk. Everybody else has… bran and muesli and shit.”

He sighs.

“Photos…” Marty picks up an immaculate frame. “This is from Dave’s tenth birthday trip to Disneyland but you were five so it’s okay you don’t remember anything.” He stares at the family in the photo; a happy mom, a charming dad, three beautiful kids, the littlest one with a grin that looks like it’s about to break his tiny face in half. He thumbs over the glass. “I’m sorry, kid. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I hope you’re okay… whenever you are.” He sets the photo back down.

“We’ve been to Knott’s Berry Farm, Florida, New York…” They keep asking him where he wants to go after graduation and he’s beginning to run out of ways to stall.

“At least Long Beach still happened,” Marty continues. “Jen remembers, so do the guys. And you got the album and the poster and the t-shirt to prove it, so—“

“What the hell?”

“Jesus Christ!” Marty jumps, whirling around to meet his older brother’s eyes. “Dave, you scared the shit out of me! What are you doin’ home? It’s Saturday! You’re supposed to be out with the guys from the office!”

He’d had it all planned: Dave was supposed to be out, Linda was working late and then had a date, and his parents were off at the Baxters’ Christmas party. He thought it was safe.

“Oh, I scared the shit out of you?” Dave retaliates. “And yeah, it’s Saturday, but it’s the week before Christmas, genius! Maybe I’m supposed to, I don’t know, hang out with my kid brother!”

“I-I’m sorry, Dave,” Marty sighs, deflating, hanging his head and sticking his hands in his pockets. “I just…”

“You gonna tell me what that was all about?” Dave asks, putting his hands on his shoulders. Even without looking up, Marty can feel his brother’s eyes on him, searching.

There’s a long moment of silence.

“‘At least Long Beach still happened?’” Dave prompts. “Of course it happened! That stupid concert was all you talked about for months!”

Marty manages a smile, before it falls.

“You ever feel like you’re goin’ crazy, Dave?” he ventures. “Or maybe… like the world is? I-I know it doesn’t make sense, but…”

“Of course it makes sense,” Dave cuts him off with a sigh. “I was seventeen too, y’know.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Marty laughs, “you were kinda the worst.”

“Sure I was, I was a pain in the ass,” Dave agrees. He tilts Marty’s head up with his finger like their mom used to and gives him a smile. “You’re not crazy, Marty. I’ll tell you what’s happening. Senior year is makin’ you screwy and I know you haven’t been sleeping.”

“I-I haven’t,” Marty admits.

“So, here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna order pizza, you’re gonna kick my ass at Nintendo while we wait, and then we’re gonna watch a movie. Okay?”

“…Pepperoni with extra cheese?”

“Duh. What am I, a monster?”

“Okay.” Marty smiles as Dave ducks into the kitchen to order. “Hey, Dave…?”

“Yeah?” He sticks his head out, receiver already up to his ear.

“…Thanks.”

Dave winks.

“Anytime, Marty. Anytime.”

DECEMBER 14, 1985, 11:29 PM

Dave turns the volume on the TV down, opting to watch the rest of the VHS on as close to mute as possible. He sets the remote down, turning his attention to his sleeping brother, curled into his side like a little kid. He ruffles his hair, sighing.

Normally, he’d tease Marty when he’d wake up about how he took photos or something stupid like that, or he’d just carry him up to bed, but things hadn’t been normal for months now. Something happened, he didn’t know what, and at least if he was right here he could watch him and make sure he was okay.

The front door opens and he recognizes his sister’s footsteps, the way she slips off her heels and the jingle of her keys and handbag as she sets them on the counter. She walks into the living room, about to say something, but Dave raises his free hand to his lips in a shushing motion.

Linda takes in the scene, then sits down on Dave’s other side. She grabs the remote, starts rewinding White Christmas, then leans her head on Dave’s shoulder as the movie starts to play.

[visionkept]

art credit. | gallowdancers. 🌸

[ripgray-moved]

good now, i'm so tired i feel i could fight god and instakill him

[coffeejerk]

❝ well jeez, sal — ❞   there's a subtle pause as she blinks back the evidence of her sentimentality, gathering herself to offer her old friend a heartfelt grin.   ❝ — i missed you too. ❞

@troublewithvampires

[saltuary]

⪼ @ghostscribes // cont.

The river sang a lullaby for the bone-weary – a low and mournful litany, washed over age-old stones. Faramir stood heron-still on the embankment, with Ithilien sleeping restlessly behind him. Wind tugged at the green folds of his cloak, bringing him the scent of damp earth and bruised grass.

Then came the sound. A muffled thud, flesh to sodden ground.

He moved with the soundless instinct of a hunted creature, his hand to hilt, his mind alight, but what he found was no threat – nor man, nor beast. A figure collapsed beneath a willow’s weeping boughs, slick with the same river-mud that stained the banks of Osgiliath and the fields of Pelennor. Hair like a shadow loosed from the stars tangled against cheek and brow. Blood, rich as autumn wine, soaked his flank. Faramir could smell it, staining the air with copper and salt.

The wounded Elf was beautiful even in his suffering, his pain sculpted by inherent grace. Ageless, though weary beyond measure, laid low as a mortal man might be. He spoke, though barely, his words not a plea, nor a cry, but an invitation to end it.

I have known the desire for oblivion, Faramir thought sorrowfully. I have stood upon battlements and all but envied the dead.

He knelt in the muck and silt.

“Then you are more fortunate than you know, for I am no executioner,” Faramir said, his voice low, shaped in the cadences of Gondor’s high tongue, though tempered with gentleness. His hand found the stranger’s shoulder, the warmth there waning, the breath shallow. “I will tend to you, if you will suffer it.”

[murdermade]

@spiderwarden

Inktober: Boss

it's been a while happy minthara

[swordluck]

Afflicted as they are, undead and ashen one alike, such things as eating or sleeping are scarcely required. But to go without only further distances them from their now bygone mortality, the eventual wearing away of the self and soul from their affliction quickening without such human acts to ground them. Perhaps it might worry Anri then, that in the time since their reunion in the Cathedral of the Deep, he's not so much as laid his head down at their camp fires. "Taking first shift," Crow'd say, only for the morning to greet her with estus soup on the fire and the sound of his cruel sword being sharpened. "Gonna work on some firebombs 'fore tucking in," he'd reassure, yet his bedroll remains as untouched and rolled up as it's been since the start of this venture. Maybe she can see it, in those glances he spares her when the cowl is pulled down and his gaze is weary and worn-down but grateful. Nightmares dogging his step, the wages of Aldrich's terror having left stripes upon his head and heart... yet above them both, sleep he'll abstain solely to assure himself that the Anri next to him is not merely a dead man's dream.

Their path wound through a dense grove, thorn-hooked vines reaching as if to snare them, snagging their tattered fabrics. The weeping ground beneath their boots was rich with mulch, the stagnant air steeped in the earthy scent of moss and fungus. Twilight filtered softly through the claw-tipped boughs that scraped the sky above, cloaking the world in muted blues and greys. Anri walked ahead, her step light – buoyed by Crow’s steady, familiar presence. It was she who stopped first, her helm tilting slightly as she caught something in the thin sliver of her vision.

“Blackberries,” she exclaimed softly, something akin to joy bubbling behind that single word. Pushing up her visor, she turned to face her companion, her pale face framed by wisps of fair hair that had slipped free of her helm. “Look there.”

A tangled, sprawling bush stooped under the weight of ripened fruit, the beaded bodies of berries gleaming like dark jewels. Anri removed her gauntlets as she approached, peeling away not only steel and leather but the weight of the day’s trials. Bare fingers, pale and slender, reached carefully into the thorns, plucking at a particularly generous cluster.

“Oh, they look so sweet,” she murmured, turning to Crow, her face aglow with an unguarded smile. Her eager palms cradled the dark fruit, their juices already staining her skin in hues of plum and crimson.

“If you will not take care of yourself,” she said both playfully and plainly, “then I may be forced to feed you myself.”

Before he could summon one of his deflective remarks, she found the best berry of the bunch and held it to his lips.

“Humour me, Samuel.”

For a moment, he was stock-still, the shadow of his cowl obscuring his expression. Then, with a sigh that sounded like the loosening of some inner knot, he leaned forward. His lips brushed against her fingers as he took the fruit. Anri tried to ignore the warmth that bloomed in their wake, tried to focus instead on imagining the burst of juice on his tongue, bittersweet and autumnal. A grounding simplicity, a scant meal shared. A gift to be grateful for.

“These small, unremarkable things – they tether us,” she murmured, her gaze fleeting and fond. Eyes settled on him for only a moment, before diverting to the thicket around them. Then, as though reaching a quiet understanding, they stood side by side and feasted out of the cups of their hands. Fingers pincered, purpled, sticky with juice, they picked the fattest and ripest of the wild fruit, sharing small murmurs of appreciation.

When the last of their impromptu harvest was devoured, Anri tugged on her gauntlets and gathered her resolve.

“Come,” she said, gesturing to the narrow deer-trod path ahead. “Let us find a place to settle for the night – a place for you to rest.”

A pause, as her blue-sky gaze skirted over Crow’s shabby edges, the tang of blackberries loosening her tongue:

“Your kindness is commendable, but you must let me take the first watch tonight. Please, trust me to keep you safe.”

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — jennifer’s porch swing.

MAY 16, 1989

He’s still not sure this is actually happening.

If he stops to think about it, focuses too hard on the wrong thing, it might turn out to be a dream.

Jennifer is tucked into his side, her head on his shoulder, as he pushes them gently back and forth with his foot. The old porch swing creaks and the chain rattles. It’s the same as always, as familiar as breathing, but tonight, everything’s changed.

And they’re the only ones who know.

Marty kisses the top of her head, smiling.

“So, the future Mrs. Parker-McFly,” he begins, and she giggles.

“Yes, the future Mr. Parker-McFly?” she replies. God, the sound of that!

“…We got our whole life in front of us,” he continues. The album comes out in July and by this time next year they’ll each have degrees; real, actual college degrees. Somewhere further down the line, they’ll have kids and a place of their own and it’ll be so, so good. “How d’you think it’ll go?”

“We’ll graduate, get married,” Jennifer hums, with a dreamy sigh. “And once the album’s out, you’ll be so sick of hearing your songs on the radio all the time. But I won’t be.”

“You think so?” Marty teases. “Even after all the rehearsals?”

“Even then,” she reassures. “I’ll start writing. Maybe someday I’ll get a job as editor-in-chief.”

“There’s no maybe about it, Jen.” He squeezes her shoulder. “You’re gonna be great. You’ll win a Murrow Award and we’ll frame every article you write.”

“But you know something?” Jennifer asks. “Even if none of that happens, I’ll be happy if we just have one thing.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

She pulls away from him then, taking his hands in hers— he’s gonna have to get used to the feeling of the ring around her finger— and searches his face.

“I wanna be sitting on our front porch with you sixty years from now, still holding your hand, and just as in love as we are now.”

Marty leans forward so their foreheads are touching, tracing the back of her hands with his thumbs.

“I want that too,” he agrees, “more than anything.”

[ofhope]

[ recline ] eula to diluc

... sender climbs ontop of receiver and steals a kiss.

"Mmh."

A pleasant weight settled on his lap, knocking near askew his already forgotten novel. Blinking away remnants of sleep, Diluc murmured incoherently, happily against lips he had grown to know, sticky chapstick sealing their lips together with a muted pop. Letting the book clunk to the floor, he settled his arms securely 'round her middle, before tugging back to have gloved hands rest on her hips. A perfect placement; his lover, a chiseled artpiece. A sleepy image conjured to mind of a statue bearing her features, centered in their garden, given view to all whom pass.

She was perfection made manifest. Diluc nipped at her lip, gingerly, playfully as he tugged back, groaning softly.

"Apologies. I must've fell asleep at some point," his lips met the innermost of her jaw, placing a lingering kiss there. "And neglected both you and my novel, unintentionally. I pray this doesn't mean attribution."

Thumbs smoothing over her hipbones, Diluc guided her into another brief exchange, lips missing hers... his actions intentional, this time. In this light, the glowing twilight haloing her elegance. How her hair scant met her jaw, the wild strands curling 'round her ear and spiraling - just barely - down her neck.

"You're beautiful," Diluc breathed, eyes finding her own. "Outstanding."

[nimbustheory]

NEW MUSE LIST:

1. Kai

2. Karmi

3. Yadriel (getting his own blog)

4. Rayla

5. Corvus

6. Gus Porter

It’s going 2 b a very short list once I make this post more formal cuz I’m trying not to get too overwhelmed. This is kind of an effort on my end to start enjoying life again so it’s going to be hard but I’m hoping it pays off. I miss you guys so much 🤙❤️

[wiredsmi1e]

@nghtmarish ( anna/huntress ) & @deadlysmile

Decided to finish up this sketch that I did a hot minute ago ! Just wanted to do some simple coloring since sketching hasn't been my friend the past couple of weeks :'3 Anna 100% adopted these two idiots the minute they stepped into the Fog and you CANNOT change my mind <3

I really wanna draw my Anna HCs now cause she was the first Killer I obsessed over, and is still one of my favorites to this day <3

[visionkept]

Happy new year ! ! ! Cheers for a successful 2024 💕🌸

[afterglowsainz]

obsessed | oscar piastri

summary: in which oscar, your boyfriend, is obsessed with franco, your ex

pairing: reader x oscar piastri, reader x ex!franco colapinto

fc: kaia gerber

a/n: overdone concept with a little twist😋

—

liked by oscarpiastri, lilymhe and others

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oscarpiastri 😮‍💨

yourusername 🥰

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francolapinto break well spent 🇦🇷 now back to the office

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tagged francisca.cgomes

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pierregasly 🤨

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oscarpiastri ❤️

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tagged oscarpiastri

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francolapinto happy mother’s day💙

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oscarpiastri 🤭

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liked by oscarpiastri, francolapinto and others

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tagged oscarpiastri

comments on this post have been limited

landonorris your boyfriend the attention whore*

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[saltuary]

9o﹕ sender helps receiver patch up a wound .

Long windows wept the last gold of the sun, spilling tarnished upon the marbled floor. Beneath the silent regard of Rivendell’s architecture and the slow breath of the evening air, Faramir sat, his raiment darkened by dust, his spirit wearied more deeply than his flesh. A cruel wound marred the fine line of his side – an old orcish hurt, wrought upon the fields of Pelennor and ill-mended even in the Houses of Healing. With a stiff and stubborn pride, he bore it still, disdaining complaint.

Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, moved about him with a quietness more profound than silence. Grave and immutable he seemed, as though sorrow itself had carved his form, and to be touched by those hands was to feel the brush of ages beyond mortal reckoning. Faramir, who had spent his years beneath the shadow of steel-stone walls and the slow crumbling of men’s hopes, felt as though he were a child again – before pride, before grief – laid bare beneath that fathomless gaze.

The cloth in Elrond’s hand, steeped in a balm of sweet, sharp scent, pressed against the old, corrupted wound. Faramir drew a slow breath, the pain kindling his senses into a vivid, trembling clarity. He dared not speak, dared not shatter the consecrated hush that had settled between them, until the pressure relented, and the lord’s hand moved with spectral gentleness to bind the hurt.

Then Faramir, bowing his head as though beneath a weight unseen, spoke low:

“I am grateful for this kindness,” he said, gentle and low. “To be honoured by your hand, by your skill in healing.”

The fire in the hearth, banked low, breathed and sighed. There was no immediate answer from Elrond, only the deft, tender movements of his hands, weaving linen and salve into a pale sigil against Gondorian flesh. In that silence, more eloquent than words, Faramir felt the vast, aching mercy of the elder days descend upon him – not a mercy that spared suffering, but one that bore it alongside him.