warbloomed

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hi besties. im bringing brighta back, and so many of you i follow on here i met on her. so much shit happened on her blog ( thankfully all resolved ) if you're cool with a follow pls like this? I've missed her so dearly

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do you remember her?

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WE ALL HAVE OUR LIMITS. EVEN YOU, 47. INDEPENDENT AND HIGHLY PRIVATE AGENT 47. NOVELLA BASED. NSFW THEMES PRESENT. WRITTEN BY R. ©

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› FIRST TOUCH PROMPTS → sender to receiver espionage / spy / romance inspired

brushing hair behind their ear hands grazing while reaching for the same object catching them by the waist sliding a hand over their holster while checking for weapons tending to a gunshot wound in silence brushing fingers over their pulse to check they’re alive pinning them against the wall to keep quiet wiping blood or sweat from their brow gripping their hand tight during an interrogation pulling them behind cover with a firm grasp lifting their chin to check for signs of life steadying them after a sudden explosion or attack wrapping a scarf or cloth around their neck for disguise touching their lips to silence them brushing past them in disguise, pretending not to know them adjusting their cufflink or watch mid-mission helping them out of a tactical vest gripping their wrist before they walk into danger holding their face after a close call brushing dirt or ash from their cheek gently sneaking a hand under the table to reassure linking arms to pass as a couple tracing a fresh scar with careful fingers pulling them close while hiding in shadows fixing their earpiece, lips inches apart pushing hair away to whisper a secret pressing a hand to their chest to feel their heartbeat zipping up their suit slowly, lingering at the collar wiping a cut on their cheek with a thumb lacing fingers together before parting ways touching their face to make sure they’re real grabbing the back of their shirt to stop them brushing a hidden note into their hand tapping their knee under the table for reassurance laying a head on their shoulder after a long mission cupping their jaw while patching them up gripping their coat lapel to make a point letting their fingers linger after handing over intel holding their gaze while adjusting their glasses brushing off shards of glass from their back wrapping arms around them after a near-death moment trailing fingers down their spine to check for wounds sliding their hand over theirs in a tense car ride resting a hand on their thigh mid-interrogation pulling a splinter or wire from their skin grazing their fingers while sharing a burner phone tilting their chin up with two fingers to meet their eyes tugging gently on their jacket to stop them from leaving laying a hand over their heart after a confession smoothing their collar after a close encounter letting their fingers linger on a fresh bruise catching their wrist as they reach for their gun leaning forehead to forehead behind enemy lines pressing a palm to their back before a mission brushing off flecks of blood after a takedown squeezing their hand before going separate ways resting a palm on their chest during a rare moment of quiet helping them out of a disguise, brushing hands often letting their hand hover before finally touching

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why do we need another megan movie.

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FAVORED BE TO THE WICKED GIRLS FOR YOU WILL FIND NO SALVATION IN GODLESS MEN.

welcome to warbloomed. this is my introduction to my muse genia kallor. est 2016. revamped in 2026.

THE FUTURE [ V1 ]. . . in the year 2020, something began to stir deep within the core of humanity. behind the curtain of progress, a secretive and calculating organization known as unity labs advanced its quiet mission. one built on the dream of a human-free world. a society designed not for all, but for the elite who could afford to thrive in its cold gleam. be humanless, they whispered. be gleam, they commanded. thirty years earlier, during the earliest phase of their creation, a young girl vanished from one of unity’s hidden facilities. they said it was impossible: no one escaped. but she did.

THE FUTURE [ V2 ]. . . Centuries after an unexplained apocalyptic shift, Earth has stabilized but at a cost. The post-human species known as the Gleams have replaced traditional humanity, erasing its emotional, chaotic past. The Gleams cannot dream. Dreaming is forbidden, seen as the cause of collapse. Memories, imagination, emotion all are considered forms of soul-disease. The last human dreamer, Eugenia (genia), is hidden beneath the surface in a forgotten luxury tomb called Saltmire. She dreams of spring… and it comes true. Thus begins her escape and the world's unraveling.

this is the story of eugenia kallor. the one who saw it all. the human who got away.

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FAVORED BE TO THE WICKED GIRLS FOR YOU WILL FIND NO SALVATION IN GODLESS MEN.

welcome to warbloomed. this is my introduction to my muse genia kallor. est 2016. revamped in 2026.

THE FUTURE [ V1 ]. . . in the year 2020, something began to stir deep within the core of humanity. behind the curtain of progress, a secretive and calculating organization known as unity labs advanced its quiet mission. one built on the dream of a human-free world. a society designed not for all, but for the elite who could afford to thrive in its cold gleam. be humanless, they whispered. be gleam, they commanded. thirty years earlier, during the earliest phase of their creation, a young girl vanished from one of unity’s hidden facilities. they said it was impossible: no one escaped. but she did.

THE FUTURE [ V2 ]. . . Centuries after an unexplained apocalyptic shift, Earth has stabilized but at a cost. The post-human species known as the Gleams have replaced traditional humanity, erasing its emotional, chaotic past. The Gleams cannot dream. Dreaming is forbidden, seen as the cause of collapse. Memories, imagination, emotion all are considered forms of soul-disease. The last human dreamer, Eugenia (genia), is hidden beneath the surface in a forgotten luxury tomb called Saltmire. She dreams of spring… and it comes true. Thus begins her escape and the world's unraveling.

this is the story of eugenia kallor. the one who saw it all. the human who got away.

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ooc. late to munday but here is me and my mother 💅🏻

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not me being blessed that two of my fucking favorites came back / joined indie!!! @houseaves & @champagnewolfe

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when you understand the difference between people who love you, people who want to be around you, and people who love what you can do for them

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im reworking persie into likely new lore. im really excited this time around. a spy world haunted by an ancient deity? yay.

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as its pride month. I just want to share that I officially now identify as demisexual. this is a great relief to me as I've always been trying to discover that part of myself and after lots of reading and research im happy to say i know myself a little better 🏳️‍🌈

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champagnewolfe / lucien armand wolfe.

a god complex is nothing when money is god.

an independent & private muse. exclusive. selective. entirely unbothered. 25+ only. nsfw themes. fandomless original character. interact with the rules before following. written by R (35+ / older than dirt) he / they / them.

guidelines / full stats / graphic credits: imnikkiheat

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IF  SHE  WAS  BEING  HONEST:  IT  WASN’T  AS  IMPRESSIVE  AS  HE  MIGHT’VE  THOUGHT.  Not  the  condo.  Not  the  view.  Not  the  man  who  owned  it.

He  owed  her,  and  if  it  had  been  up  to  her,  she  would’ve  taken  him  out  in  the  street—messy,  public,  loud.  But  no.  That  wasn’t  the  game.  That  wasn’t  her  anymore.  And  besides,  this?  This  she  thought  she  might  enjoy.  So  she  slipped  in  quiet.  Past  the  lobby.  Past  the  doormen  with  polite  smiles  and  little  spines.  The  elevator  ride  had  been  smooth,  almost  theatrical.  A  lie  told  with  steel  and  velvet.  The  guards  were  nothing:  she’s  his  girlfriend,  she  forgot  her  bag,  she’s  in  a  rush,  don’t  you  know  who  you're  talking  to?

Once  inside,  she  shed  her  coat  like  shedding  a  second  skin,  tossing  it  across  the  expensive  leather  sofa  without  ceremony.  She  wasn’t  here  to  blend  in.  She  was  here  to  make  herself  at  home.  Her  gaze  dropped  to  the  soft  glow  of  her  smartwatch.  he’d  be  back  soon.  She  knew  Wolfe’s  routine  better  than  she  knew  her  own  heartbeat.  And  what  he  owed  her?  It  was  more  than  money.  More  than  assets.  He  ripped  her  from  her  family.  Split  her  body  from  her  will  with  scalpels  and  promises.  All  in  the  name  of  advancement.  His  name,  stamped  across  her  agony  like  a  brand.

The  world  was  shifting.  There  was  something  wrong  in  the  wind.  But  the  average  man?  The  woman  on  the  bus?  The  boy  on  his  bike?  They  didn’t  know  they  were  being  hunted.  They  didn’t  know  what  was  coming.  Not  yet.  And  by  the  time  she  stood  in  his  polished  home  with  a  gun  aimed  straight  at  his  ribcage,  the  rage  in  her  had  crystallized  into  something  silent.  Chin  lowered,  eyes  steady,  something  dark  flared  behind  her  gaze.  Something  that  frightened  even  her.

Was  she  a  monster?  A  byproduct  of  ambition?  A  godless  human.  A  lab  rat.  His  lab.  His  money.  Her  blood.

The  weapon  in  her  hand  was  steady.  She  held  it  with  care,  the  same  way  someone  might  hold  a  loaded  truth.  “It  was  pretty  easy,”  she  said,  watching  the  way  his  fingers  danced  too  casually  around  his  glass.  “You  should  get  better  security.”  Her  voice  flat,  clinical.  Measuring.  Calculating.  That  glass:  a  potential  weapon.  Her  gaze  lingered.  Noted.

Her  grip  on  the  pistol  tightened  slightly.  A  tilt  of  her  head  followed.  That  same  expression  she  wore  when  studying  something  under  a  microscope.  “Your  indulgences  scream  blight,”  she  murmured,  letting  her  eyes  sweep  across  the  opulence  around  her.  “I’d  hate  to  think  the  experiments  you  fund  aren’t  working  on  you.  You  don’t  exactly  scream  humble  in  that  get-up.”

The  muzzle  of  the  gun  trailed  him  up  and  down  with  lazy,  loaded  intent.  Her  silence,  her  presence.  it  wasn’t  just  a  threat.  It  was  a  reckoning  in  human  form.

new york condo / genia kallor

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His gaze feels like it might tear right through his skin, as if his own eyes could claw their way out and escape the wreckage of the man he’s become. Everything he’s ever repressed every brutal want, every strangled feeling, every decaying memory surges forward, unrelenting. There’s no more pretending now. The cravings, he thought, had finally ceased. But the stillness of the night has only replaced them with something worse: an exquisite emptiness filled with the reek of indulgence and rot. This moment is stitched together with threads of decadence and deviance, of sin too familiar to name. And what does he want from this night? Nothing pure. Nothing redemptive. He wants to stand here, still, letting his wide hazel eyes soak it all in this relapse, this descent, this fucking spectacular fall from grace. And he wants her: no, he needs her to be the catalyst of it. The gun pointed at him gleams like a lover’s necklace, her finger curled so easily, so lovingly around the trigger. The permanence of death lingers between them, and he wears it like cologne. He would almost thank her if she pulled it.

His eyes, still locked on hers, boil with a kind of vengeance he no longer bothers to hide. Rage lives just beneath the surface, clenched tight in fists that ache from restraint. His scowl hides behind a mask too intricate to be dismissed a warped, asymmetrical filigree skull that sneers in his stead. There’s something ancient about him now, something monstrous. His lopsided smirk cuts like a blade, and in it, there’s recognition. Of her. Of himself. Of what they’ve both become. Dressed in a sharply tailored charcoal suit, the shade of soot and fire-choked sky, he looks less like a man and more like a warning. The shadows twist at his back, forming new versions of him: ghosts or devils, it’s hard to tell. The storm inside him churns, rising from the abyss he’s kept sealed for too long, each wave stripping him of consciousness and replacing it with something colder. This is what he is without a leash. This is what they feared he’d become. And she is everything they told her never to be. Untamed. Blood-drenched. Unholy. And still standing.

Maybe he sought a god tonight & not out of belief, but out of desperation. To see if any divine thing might look down and flinch at what he’s capable of. Or maybe he just wanted to see how far depravity could stretch, how tightly it could wrap itself around desire. If they kept dancing like this lips hovering over destruction, hands slick with the aftermath, how long before they both burned alive? "Impressive," he breathes, not to flatter but to confess. There is something beautifully grotesque about her in this moment. His instincts scream at him to push the gun away, to rip it from her grasp and assert his dominion. But he doesn’t. He stays. Watches. It isn’t the first time he’s seen her drenched in lies and violence, but tonight she wears them like silk. He sets his glass down with a gentle precision, onto the old French table gifted to him by a mother who claimed she birthed monsters, not sons. It was her last attempt at beauty and he never had the heart to throw it away. He leans back slightly, the quiet creak of leather beneath him, and his lips curl, sharp as ever. “I’d say good girl,” he drawls, voice rough with memory and something darker, “but that wouldn’t be appropriate now, would it?” He lets it linger, his amusement turning bitter at the edges. “How did you get in here,” he finally asks, though the question is meaningless. She was never outside. She’s always been here. Inside him. Under his skin. Waiting.

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@champagnewolfe

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Pretty Woman (1990) Dir. Garry Marshall

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thank u for following my naked blog.