#EN-57

[snippit-crickit]

Perfectly normal train running to greet you cmon give it a hug (FYI, its this guy i drew half a year ago and i still think about it)

[feedyourheed]

Będę za wami tęsknił, kibelki...

[caostalgia]

Dime, ¿Alguna vez me miraste y te sentiste enamorada? ¿O todo fue una mentira?

-Feuer

[chicinsilk]

US Vogue October 1, 1956

Lucinda Hollingsworth in a sherry brown wool coat, lined with dyed coypu, over a shaping dress in brown worsted jersey with silk bands. Morning coat in Forstmann fleece. The whole, by Herbert Sondheim. Alaskan fur seal hat, by Tatiana. Jewelry, David Webb. Lancôme eyeshadow; “Fire” lipstick.

Lucinda Hollingsworth en manteau de laine, brun xérès, doublé de ragondin teint, sur une robe gainante en jersey peigné marron à bandes de soie. Manteau, de matin, en laine polaire Forstmann. L'ensemble, par Herbert Sondheim. Chapeau d'otarie à fourrure d'Alaska, par Tatiana. Bijoux, David Webb. Fard à paupières Lancôme; Rouge à lèvres "Feu".

Photo Karen Radkai vogue archive

[starzec]

Icons of polish design, November 2022

[awsugar]

should i start watching love island again be honest

[labrecha]

Incendio en Carretera 57, Cierran Ambos Carriles en Los Chorros

#Incendio en #Carretera57, Cierran Ambos Carriles en #LosChorros

Arteaga, Coahuila de Zaragoza / Abril 14 de 2024.- Incendio de un tráiler que transportaba bolsas de aire para coches provocó el cierre de ambos sentidos de la carretera 57 en el tramo de la Autopista La Carbonera – Puerto México, así como las casetas de cobro Los Chorros y Huachichil. La madrugada de este domingo, pasadas las 00:20 horas se reportó el incendio de un tráiler en el kilómetro 227,…

[armatofu]

[transportemx]

Carretera 57: la interminable pesadilla para transportistas y automovilistas

Armando tiene más de una década laborando como operador de carga, siendo la carretera 57 una de sus principales vías de trabajo. En estos años, ha aprendido a cuidarse mucho más al circular por esta carretera, ya que los robos y accidentes son el pan de cada día. “Uno ya no sabe si le van a robar o va a tener un percance, sobretodo en el tramo de México a Querétaro que es donde se pone brava la…

[dentaduraderubi]

Se dice mucho que cuando la vida cierra una puerta, abre una ventana. Pero creo que eso no es verdad. Cuándo la vida cierra una puerta, es mejor que la deje cerrada. Que las cosas que tengan que morir, mueran. Que las memorias que tengan que desvanecerse, lo hagan. Que todo lo que se tenga que acabar, acabe. Porque cuando el fénix resucita de las cenizas, que no sean un par de pensamientos lo que hagan que se prenda en llamas de nuevo. Que cuando finalmente sea libre, no sean un par de recuerdos sueltos los que hagan que vuela a caer en la esclavitud. Así que si hay que destruirlo todo, que destruido sea, y si hay que quemarlo todo, y prenderlo en llamas, que arda, y que así sea.

[afranciscomiradiezblr-blog]

¿Inglaterra o Gran Bretaña?

En Cambridge,solo 57% de los ciudadanos se consideran «ingleses»

De tendencias políticas también se ve una diferenciación clara. Los que se consideran ingleses suelen tener ideas más conservadoras, que ven con recelo a la integración europea y la inmigración extranjera, mientras los que se consideran británicos suelen tener una actitud más abierta hacia influencias extranjeras.

De ahí, parece evidente que el ser británico es una identidad nacional asociada a un estado, pero el ser inglés es una identidad cultural y étnica. De hecho, una persona nacida y criada en Inglaterra puede considerarse muy británica pero poco inglesa. Otra encuesta realizada en 2008 revelaba que la mitad de los ingleses no consideraban a cociudadanos de origen africano o asiático como gente inglesa (pero sí como gente británica) a pesar de haber nacido y crecido en Inglaterra.

[caostalgia]

Comencé a odiarte.

Me hubiese gustado decir que no me gusta por lo que estás pasando, y que no es justo para tí.

Pero me alegro tanto...

Al fin pudiste tener una probada de tantas cosas que me hiciste y como me hiciste sentir.

Te lo mereces.

-Feuer

[chicinsilk]

Jacques Heim Haute Couture Collection Fall/Winter 1956-57 Monique Chevalier wears the “Safran” suit, hat by Svend-Heim. Photo Georges Saad.

Jacques Heim Collection Haute Couture Automne/Hiver 1956-57 Monique Chevalier porte le tailleur "Safran", chapeau de Svend-Heim. Photo Georges Saad.

[alien-girl-21]

Luzu cayendo en una mina y explotandole la casa a fargan y sintiéndose super mal OUGHHHHH

[darklordofthesimp]

Delirium (Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader)

Summary: Being partnered with Ghost was never easy. However, when you find him bleeding out on the kitchen floor and delirious from blood loss, you make a discovery. The L.T loves to talk.

Requested by Anon: #57 You're shaking.

A/N: Some Sunshine to feed you while I work on Anything III.

Category: Mutual Pining

Warnings: Description of injury || Graphic language

You weren't a medic by any means. 

There was the combat first aid course that you were all forced to do during basic training, but that had been a century ago. You'd handled your own injuries when an enemy sniper would get a lucky shot. Again, there's not much to do there other than put some pressure on it.

Otherwise, you were fairly inexperienced when it came to handling injured team members. There were shortfalls to being a sniper, hand-to-hand combat wasn't as relevant and having to provide first aid was rare. 

You call them shortfalls because now, in a situation where those skills are required, you're fucking struggling. 

You'd opened the door to the safe house with a sigh, frowning when you couldn't see Ghost through the windows. You'd assumed he'd be waiting for you to arrive from your nest but clearly, he didn't give enough of a fuck to wait around. 

You could have died en route and he'd be sleeping. 

For some reason, the thought hurt. 

You could think of a million things that he probably thought more important than you; staring at a wall being high on the list. What you hadn’t expected, was to find him collapsed on the kitchen floor.

“Ghost,” you rasped, choking on his name. His eyes flickered open at the sound of your voice, the relief palpable in his gaze. He groaned and let his head fall back against the wall with a strangled noise. You were frozen. You’d never seen him injured and honestly, you thought that you never would. 

You’d even told Soap that Ghost was probably just a bootleg Robo-Cop beneath the mask.  

But, the blood soaking through his uniform said otherwise. 

“You gonna give me hand or not?” His voice was low and rough. It had no edge, though. There was no bite behind his words like there usually was and it scared you. The man hated your guts and if he was too injured to convey that then he was definitely dying. 

“Oh God,” you breathed, leaning your rifle against the wall slowly. Your eyes never left his crumpled form and his eyes never left your face. “Oh God.” 

You slid to your knees, rushing to his side with frantic curses. You couldn’t see the extent of the wound from beneath his armour and he clearly didn’t have enough strength to take it off himself. 

“Stab wound,” Ghost offered the cause of injury through gritted teeth. “Got me good.” 

“This shit needs to come off,” you tugged at his armour, reaching for the quick-release cord. The man groaned but he didn’t object. One hard tug of the plastic ligature had the vest falling apart at every seam, the line now loose in your hand. 

“Fuck,” the man gave a startled chuckle, taking a large breath with his chest free from pressure. “Feel better already.” 

You didn’t reply, eyes narrowed on the wound beneath his ribs. You pulled up his shirt, tucking it beneath his arms as you scanned over the injury. It was clean cut, a clear entry wound that was steadily leaking a shit tonne of blood. 

No sounds of air sucking in through the jagged flesh and you thanked whoever was listening that it wasn’t a punctured lung. You didn’t have any seals on you and you didn’t want to slap him with some duct tape instead. He’d never let you live that down.

“How’s it lookin’, Sunshine?” Ghost asked, breathing heavily.

“Unfortunately,” you began, pressing the cotton padding from your kit against the wound, “if you apply pressure, you’ll live.” 

“Unfortunately?” He coughed,  the sound strained and you could tell he immediately regretted the movement. 

“Very fucking unfortunate,” you confirmed with faux seriousness. 

You stuck a gauze pad to the wound once you had finished packing it, reaching into your med pouch for a bandage. You’d wrap it around his midriff to keep pressure on the wound, you decided. 

“A ray of Sunshine you are, as per fuckin’ usual.” 

You clenched your jaw, reminding yourself that he was injured and that you couldn’t stick a finger knuckle-deep in his wound as retaliation. At the very least, he was back to hating you. Meant he wasn’t dying any time soon. 

You frowned at the bandage in your hands, desperately trying to remove the plastic wrapping. You couldn’t think straight and your body felt jittery as the adrenline began to settle. You couldn’t believe how vulnerable he was, unable to gather the strength to take off his own body armour. 

You hated it. 

Why the fuck couldn’t you open this wrapping? 

You pulled harder on the plastic, trying to bring your heart rate down. Why were you breathing so hard? 

A gloved hand fell over your own. 

Your frantic tugging came to an immediate halt and your eyes snapped up to meet his, startled. Ghost's gaze was half lidded but just as intense as always, grazing over your features. Heat flushed through your body at his drunken stare. You knew it was from the blood loss, you knew he could barely see straight, but that kind of look was reserved for someone he was sharing a bed with and you couldn't function at the sight of it. 

For a moment he said nothing, blinking slowly- too slowly- as he took in a breath. 

"Relax, kid," he murmured eventually. "I'm okay."

You swallowed hard. 

His fingers were soft over your own, too weak to apply pressure but curled over your hand just the same. 

"I am relaxed." You bit back at him, returning your gaze to the stupid fucking bandage beneath both of your hands. You didn't want him to see how much this affected you, you didn't want him to think you were a cowardly mess. 

There was a soft huff as he patted your hand lightly. "You're shaking, Sunshine."

You sucked in a breath.

Your eyes flickered back to meet his, lips trembling at your exposure. He knew. The gentleness in his gaze was otherworldly, so foreign you wondered if it was even Simon Riley beneath the mask. Blood loss was clearly doing a number on him and he was doing a number on you. 

“I’m a sniper, Sir.” You coughed, trying to tear yourself from the sudden intimacy of the situation. “I don’t shake.”

Ghost tutted from beneath his mask. 

“Haven’t been with the right bloke, then.” 

Your jaw dropped. 

Ghost blinked at you as though he couldn’t believe what had come out of his mouth, either. Jesus fucking Christ. You suddenly realised why Soap had made fun of Ghost for never drinking when you’d all be at the pub. You remembered asking the Sarge why the masked enigma would always bail after an hour or two and his response was simple. 

“The L.T can’t hold his tongue when he’s on the piss.” 

You thought that implied aggression. 

Clearly not.

“There is no right bloke,” you rasped, slowly pulling the bandage from beneath his hand. The loss of contact left you feeling empty but suddenly you could breathe a little easier. 

Your fingers shook violently as you tried for the plastic wrapper again and your gaze flickered to Ghost’s face, praying he hadn’t noticed. You should have known better. 

His eyes were on your trembling digits, a soft exhale making it’s way to your ears. 

“Looks like I’ve proved you wrong, Sunshine.” 

The words were low but there was no heat behind them. It didn’t feel lustful, they were murmured like an afterthought, his mind elsewhere. You wondered where Simon Riley disappeared to in his head when he looked at you. 

“You crack a lot of jokes for someone who’s a literal shish kebab,” you snapped, tearing at the plastic wrapping with your teeth. Finally, the bandage came loose.

“And you talk a lot of shit for someone who cares more than they let on.” The words were fired back, demanding your attention. 

You stared at him for a long moment, resisting the urge to squirm beneath his dark gaze. You’d never seen that expression on him before, as though he were daring you to disagree. As if he were waiting for you to say something. 

“Can’t care too much in this business, Sir.” You choked on the words, unravelling the bandage.

“I believed that once,” he tilted his head. 

“And now?” You prodded, leaning over him to wrap the bandage around his midriff. You tried to ignore how close your face was to his, how your fingers trailed against the skin of his stomach. The Lieutenant shivered beneath your touch and you kept your gaze downcast. 

Fingers gripped your chin softly and you gasped as he tilted your face upward. 

You were half on top of him, nose to nose and his stuttered exhale brushed against your lips. Simon’s eyes were half lidded and this close you could see the blue of his eyes, a stormy ocean that swallowed you whole. You were caught in it’s rip tide, drowning in the reverence of his stare. 

“Now,” he murmured, lazily examining our features. His eyes lingered on your parted lips, his thumb slowly swiping your bottom lip. “Could say I’ve had a change of heart.”