isavamp:

Just in pixiv. 

In a cluttered flat
In a populous city
In a teeming world
They cannot be close enough
These two, who were so alone.

(Reblogged from tippiesonthestrut)

food for ego crushing

‘A[n accomplished] woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing and the modern languages to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved.’

‘All this she must possess,’ added Darcy, ‘and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.’

by darcyian standards, i know no accomplished people. how many do you know? 

Her smoke rose up forever Tip wore the most gorgeous dresses that had ever touched woman-flesh, and her lips looked they’d been dipped in honey. She was a chain-talking, fast-smoking, careening machine of a woman, and she drove us all crazy. “Tippy, darling, watch where you’re going. You could put someone’s eye out.” She hitched up her pencil skirt and layered herself atop my lap. “Oh, Ricky,” she said, dotting invisible kisses on my lips with the benign end of her cigarette. “As if you’re any more careful with your fags.” I jerked my sensitive regions away from her bullet bra. “I’m a lot more careful with my tits, Tip, which is what I was talking about, anyway.” “Don’t be dreary, darling.” She slipped me a drag, and I blew the smoke over her décolletage. “Buchard’s going to read us her latest opus, and she always gets too sympathetically swoony when you’re dreary. I do wish you two would shag and get it over with.” Buchard dropped her agonised eyes before Tip could see them to make fun. “Off, Tip.” I gave her half a moment to flee my shrinking lap, then stood and stretched. “Try to not make anyone cry tonight, would you? I’m not going to be around. Got a date.” “Oh?” Everyone’s eyes swiveled to me, fixed me with expressions that contained varying portions of shock and pride. Tip took an unconcerned suck at her cigarette. “You could stand to be a lot less careful about the tracks your tits take, then. Who’s the lucky fella?” I grabbed Buchard’s arm and walked us to the door. ***** “Don’t say anything,” I said as we huddled into ourselves and stalked down the path. “Don’t say anything at all.” Buchard tripped as light as a unicorn in her worsted wool coat. “She’s really not all that bad.” “She’s a monster, Bouche, and you could do heaps better than her.” “You like her well enough.” “She’s my twin. She’d murder me in my sleep if I didn’t.” “She’d never.” “She’d never,” I agreed. “But, oh, how she’d talk about it. And there’s nothing on God’s green earth worse than Tip’s mouth when it’s stuffed with self-righteousness. Don’t even,” I said, cutting her off. “Don’t you even dare start thinking about what you’d like to stuff in there instead.” “I should never have let you read my romantic poetry.” “Bouche, honey, those weren’t romantic poems, they were pornographic odes to my sister’s thighs.” She grinned at me through her muffler. “How d’you know they weren’t pornographic odes to your thighs?” “Because I’ve laid more tracks in my thighs than the Missouri-Pacific has all over North America. And because I’ve seen you and Tip every day in the last semester, and a blind man could tell the way you pant for her. It’s a little sad, Bouche. I’m amazed she hasn’t thrown you down behind the stacks and shagged you senseless, just to get it out of your system.” Bouchard ducked her chin until only her eyes stood out from her coat. “It wouldn’t get it out of my system.” Tip in a torn kimono, wrapping my arms in the silken strips. Tip eying me sidelong, seeing if I’d notice that she’d switched our lipsticks. Tip burning my initials—the same as hers, admittedly, but I could tell she meant them to be mine—on the sole of her left foot with a cigarette stub. Tip wiping me clean with a warm flannel, doting on me like a Chinese whore. Tip, tasting me taste of her. “No,” I said. “It wouldn’t.”

Her smoke rose up forever

Tip wore the most gorgeous dresses that had ever touched woman-flesh, and her lips looked they’d been dipped in honey. She was a chain-talking, fast-smoking, careening machine of a woman, and she drove us all crazy.

“Tippy, darling, watch where you’re going. You could put someone’s eye out.”

She hitched up her pencil skirt and layered herself atop my lap. “Oh, Ricky,” she said, dotting invisible kisses on my lips with the benign end of her cigarette. “As if you’re any more careful with your fags.”

I jerked my sensitive regions away from her bullet bra. “I’m a lot more careful with my tits, Tip, which is what I was talking about, anyway.”

“Don’t be dreary, darling.” She slipped me a drag, and I blew the smoke over her décolletage. “Buchard’s going to read us her latest opus, and she always gets too sympathetically swoony when you’re dreary. I do wish you two would shag and get it over with.”

Buchard dropped her agonised eyes before Tip could see them to make fun.

“Off, Tip.” I gave her half a moment to flee my shrinking lap, then stood and stretched. “Try to not make anyone cry tonight, would you? I’m not going to be around. Got a date.”

“Oh?” Everyone’s eyes swiveled to me, fixed me with expressions that contained varying portions of shock and pride. Tip took an unconcerned suck at her cigarette. “You could stand to be a lot less careful about the tracks your tits take, then. Who’s the lucky fella?”

I grabbed Buchard’s arm and walked us to the door.

*****

“Don’t say anything,” I said as we huddled into ourselves and stalked down the path. “Don’t say anything at all.”

Buchard tripped as light as a unicorn in her worsted wool coat. “She’s really not all that bad.”

“She’s a monster, Bouche, and you could do heaps better than her.”

“You like her well enough.”

“She’s my twin. She’d murder me in my sleep if I didn’t.”

“She’d never.”

“She’d never,” I agreed. “But, oh, how she’d talk about it. And there’s nothing on God’s green earth worse than Tip’s mouth when it’s stuffed with self-righteousness. Don’t even,” I said, cutting her off. “Don’t you even dare start thinking about what you’d like to stuff in there instead.”

“I should never have let you read my romantic poetry.”

“Bouche, honey, those weren’t romantic poems, they were pornographic odes to my sister’s thighs.”

She grinned at me through her muffler. “How d’you know they weren’t pornographic odes to your thighs?”

“Because I’ve laid more tracks in my thighs than the Missouri-Pacific has all over North America. And because I’ve seen you and Tip every day in the last semester, and a blind man could tell the way you pant for her. It’s a little sad, Bouche. I’m amazed she hasn’t thrown you down behind the stacks and shagged you senseless, just to get it out of your system.”

Bouchard ducked her chin until only her eyes stood out from her coat. “It wouldn’t get it out of my system.”

Tip in a torn kimono, wrapping my arms in the silken strips. Tip eying me sidelong, seeing if I’d notice that she’d switched our lipsticks. Tip burning my initials—the same as hers, admittedly, but I could tell she meant them to be mine—on the sole of her left foot with a cigarette stub. Tip wiping me clean with a warm flannel, doting on me like a Chinese whore. Tip, tasting me taste of her. “No,” I said. “It wouldn’t.”

(Source: nevver)

(Reblogged from lambandserpent)

we always headcanon the ones we love

trigger warning: domestic violence

theavengersheadcanons:

#27

Clint and Natasha will never have normal lives. They have accepted this as fact. Once a month, they pretend  by putting on some old rings and going to Ikea to pick out furniture. Or to Home Depot to look at paint samples. Or to Walmart to check out baby clothes.

Because they will never have normal lives, but it’s nice to pretend.

It doesn’t happen every time Clint and Natasha go off on their little honeymoons, but it happens often enough. Usually they’ll be on line waiting to check out, and Natasha will say something like, “Oh, honey, I forgot the Cherry Garcia.” At which point Clint will say, “I’ll get it, babes, be back in a flash,” and then race to acquire the ice cream before she reaches the cashier.

It’s almost always a younger woman with soft eyes and a hard jaw who steps over while Clint is sprinting through the supermarket, who leans in near—but not too near— Natasha and murmurs, “You don’t have to stay with him, you know. There are places you can go. You’re not alone.”

And Natasha will remember the fading bruises shading her temple, mottling her biceps, surrounding her wrists. And she’ll look over at the well-meaning woman, smile as gently as she can, and say, “Thank you. This is very brave of you. I’m a self-defense instructor, though, and these are just part of the job. He would never, ever hurt me, and even if he would, I would never, ever let him.”

Sometimes they believe her. Sometimes they don’t. She tells Clint about them in the car (which she lets him drive exactly every other month), and he reaches over and clasps her hand, as gentle as a dream.

*****

They’re not due for their monthly outing for another week, but after New York, everyone just wants to feel normal again. So as soon as Clint and Natasha finish their reports, they slip into civvies and escape to IKEA.

They’re escalating a completely inane conversation regarding the merits of argyle over buffalo checks into a full-fledged, giggling argument in the middle of the dining section when a woman in a blue button-down taps Clint on the arm and says, “Excuse me.”

They turn to look at her. The glowing joy in Natasha’s eyes dims as they take in the woman’s patience-thin lips and crossed arms.

“Yes?” Clint says, gently, respectfully.

The woman glares at him. “You’re not fooling anyone. People like you are sad and sick, but you can’t keep taking it out on her.”

Clint fights to keep his voice even. “Ma’am?”

“And you.” The woman shakes her head and softens her gaze as she looks at Natasha. The bruises aren’t fading this time: they’re deep and fresh, as dark as a ripe plum and sickening as a rotting one. “You do not have to put up with this. No one has the right to hurt you. You are a strong, beautiful woman, and there are places and people who will always be there to help you.”

“Hey,” says Clint, stepping forward. “We appreciate what you’re trying to do, ma’am, but I would never hurt—”

Natasha can see the exact moment Clint realizes that “never” happened yesterday.

what the shadows are made of.

Hands painted by Picasso, photographed by Man Ray, 1935 Pablo always has paint under his fingernails, and Manny smells of things even the French won’t mention. But that girl, that lissome banquet of a girl, she takes the two men and gives them common ground. People always say she is the salt of the earth, and it is not true. She is the earth itself. And Pablo, who for the first time sees not a subject, but a canvas vast enough to underpin the whole twisted world, and Manny, whose spasmodic fingers twitch without ceasing in her presence (is he snapping a shutter? tickling the ivories? rolling endless lines of breath-stealing cigarettes?), find that they are not sharing her, but each other: rich and slick, driven and thin, light and dark and darker still.

Hands painted by Picasso, photographed by Man Ray, 1935

Pablo always has paint under his fingernails, and Manny smells of things even the French won’t mention. But that girl, that lissome banquet of a girl, she takes the two men and gives them common ground. People always say she is the salt of the earth, and it is not true. She is the earth itself. And Pablo, who for the first time sees not a subject, but a canvas vast enough to underpin the whole twisted world, and Manny, whose spasmodic fingers twitch without ceasing in her presence (is he snapping a shutter? tickling the ivories? rolling endless lines of breath-stealing cigarettes?), find that they are not sharing her, but each other: rich and slick, driven and thin, light and dark and darker still.

(Source: blankverse)

(Reblogged from pudentilla)
this occupies the space where a flea market used to be. View high resolution

this occupies the space where a flea market used to be.

heathertumbles: Vanishing cityscape…….. dear new york, what separates us may now reasonably be measured in hours, not days. all love and countdowns,me View high resolution

heathertumbles:

Vanishing cityscape……..

dear new york,

what separates us may now reasonably be measured in hours, not days.

all love and countdowns,
me

(Source: heatherroams)

(Reblogged from heatherroams)

Anonymous asked: Darling Mortal ~ I send you this missive in hopes that you will find my suit favourable. Soon I shall be manifesting upon your plane of existence and I require a consort upon whom to lavish corporeal pleasures. There are few of your kind whom I can envision wrapped snugly in my tentacles, writhing with sensory overload and abandon. You are one of those few. Will you consent, my dearest fragile little mortal creature? I coil my tentacles tightly in anticipation! ~ Your Incipient Admirer

O Great One,

Could I but twist my tongue to master words as you twist you tentacles to master souls, I might have some hope of crafting a fitting reply to your suit. As I cannot, I must resign myself to this fleshy offering and beg your forgiveness for my meagre sacrifice. I do not hope that you will find me deserving; I only pray that your devouring of my pitiful body and even more pitiful mind give you some small measure of strength, that you might continue your search for one who is worthy of your glory. I beg you, o adored one, o magnificent one: consume me slowly, and without mercy. May my agony give you strength.

Yours in torment,
me

got the hiccups? there’s a headcanon for that.

Everyone who doesn’t know them personally thinks the Avengers are perfect. Everyone who does know them personally knows that the Avengers burp, fart, sing off-key, have morning breath, and make dumb faces during sex just like everybody else.

(Okay, the general public knows about that last one. Hard not to, what with Tony constantly liking his own videos on YouTube and all.)

The Avengers also hiccup.

The first time he heard Natasha go “Hic!” Bruce looked over concernedly and said, “You know, some people think a good scare cures the hiccups. Want me to get the other guy?”

Natasha’s eyes went wide and her diaphragm went still.

Bruce smiled.

The first time he heard Tony go “Hic!” (causing the arc reactor to spasm in time with Tony’s chest and creating an interesting disco effect for a split second), Bruce looked over concernedly and said, “You know, some people think a good scare cures the hiccups. Want me to get the other guy?”

Tony’s mouth dropped open and he actually jumped up a down and clapped his hands with joy. “Man, that’d be perfect, that’s what I’m always saying, Brucie! Gotta let go, you know, gotta—hic!”

Bruce dosed Tony with a spoonful of sugar, a half-teaspoon of salt, and, finally, a lemon wedge. Getting Tony to gnaw on a lemon wedge took so much begging and cajoling, and the face Tony made while swallowing the juice was so pathetic, that Bruce gave in and Hulked out as a reward. Positive reinforcement, right? How To Train Your Genius Billionaire Playboy Philanthropist.

Tony got so excited that he promptly got the hiccups again.

crownedinwood: So in the grand tradition of the English language, let’s steal them! English speaker. n. A shameless word-thief, a verber of nouns, a singer of the spoken word; a navigator of thrice-twisted grammar where the exception is the rule; incapable of leaving anything as they found it.

crownedinwood:

So in the grand tradition of the English language, let’s steal them!

English speaker. n. A shameless word-thief, a verber of nouns, a singer of the spoken word; a navigator of thrice-twisted grammar where the exception is the rule; incapable of leaving anything as they found it.

(Source: ttthalia)

(Reblogged from crownedinwood)

Reblog if you’d like a love letter in your ask box.

okay, who wants to write an epistolary fic with me?

(Source: themagic-carpet)

(Reblogged from consultingdepressive)
His name was Alexander, and the world was about to be his. If— The woman hung limp in her bonds, her pallor salt-white under the mottled surface of her scorched skin. They had not even erected a shade above her, and weathering had burned her blistering, flayed her bleeding, and tanned her leathern. “Alexander,”the oracle intoned, “Here before you is the Knot of Gordium. He who unties this knot shall rule not only Phrygia, but all of Asia.” The knot had not survived the weather any better than its occupant. A thick crust of sweat, sloughed skin, and shit forged the individual strands of rope into a single impenetrable whole. Alexander scratched at its surface with his nail, watching the woman’s face as he did so. Rivulets of tears ran down well-worn trails over her forehead and into her matted hair. She was very, very beautiful—once. The knot was so huge, stood so tall, that Alexander could whisper in the bound woman’s ear without kneeling. He did not. He drew his sword and set its edge against her throat, just where the cornel bark began rubbing blood and pus from her skin. She opened her eyes, dark as Alexander’s conscience, and her mouth began to remember how to smile. Alexander lifted the blade a hand’s width and dropped his weight to the earth, slicing cleanly through the tendons that stood out on her neck and into the knot. It cracked open like a nut, and the emaciated wasteland of her body tumbled to the ground in two pulsing pieces. He stepped forward and wiped his blade on the silent oracle’s robes. The he sheathed his sword, nodded once in the dead woman’s direction, and walked away. View high resolution

His name was Alexander, and the world was about to be his. If—

The woman hung limp in her bonds, her pallor salt-white under the mottled surface of her scorched skin. They had not even erected a shade above her, and weathering had burned her blistering, flayed her bleeding, and tanned her leathern.

“Alexander,”the oracle intoned, “Here before you is the Knot of Gordium. He who unties this knot shall rule not only Phrygia, but all of Asia.”

The knot had not survived the weather any better than its occupant. A thick crust of sweat, sloughed skin, and shit forged the individual strands of rope into a single impenetrable whole. Alexander scratched at its surface with his nail, watching the woman’s face as he did so. Rivulets of tears ran down well-worn trails over her forehead and into her matted hair.

She was very, very beautiful—once.

The knot was so huge, stood so tall, that Alexander could whisper in the bound woman’s ear without kneeling.

He did not.

He drew his sword and set its edge against her throat, just where the cornel bark began rubbing blood and pus from her skin.

She opened her eyes, dark as Alexander’s conscience, and her mouth began to remember how to smile.

Alexander lifted the blade a hand’s width and dropped his weight to the earth, slicing cleanly through the tendons that stood out on her neck and into the knot. It cracked open like a nut, and the emaciated wasteland of her body tumbled to the ground in two pulsing pieces.

He stepped forward and wiped his blade on the silent oracle’s robes. The he sheathed his sword, nodded once in the dead woman’s direction, and walked away.

(Source: unicornsvictory)

(Reblogged from lambandserpent)

the headcanon spreads like palladium poisoning

Back when he was still “Agent Coulson,” Pepper Potts woke from a much needed nap to a jubilant text from Tony that read “AGENT CHEESE WHIZ EN ROUTE TO NEW MEX.”

Pepper stuffed her phone under her pillow and padded downstairs for a cup of coffee. Sitting on her dining room table were a dozen dark pink roses and a box the size of an encyclopedia in Tiffany blue. The first item in the box was the complete first season of Supernanny, with a post-it note that read “She could learn a lot from you.” Under the DVDs, nestled on a bed of black velvet, was a custom TASER engraved with the missive, “To Virginia “Pepper” Potts. All my respect, Phil Coulson.”

Agent Coulson was a good colleague: competent, powerful, and confident in Pepper’s ability to handle anything that needed to be handled. Phil, though? Phil could be a really good friend. And given the choice between the two, Pepper knew which one she’d rather have.

he rises in more ways than one. pumping his arms through the roiling heat, his toes curling on the ends of his airborne feet, his cock stiffens and bobs as he creeps infinitesimally closer—closer—closer. “faster,” he urges, already breathless, already laughing, already sobbing, and he gives himself what he asks for. “harder. higher. faster.” the ground drops away in a dizzying rush, the stone walls of his prison shrinking as small as they always seemed in his mind’s eye. this is what is means to be more than human, to have the world so far below your feet that earth is no longer a part of it. this is what it means to be icarus.

he rises in more ways than one. pumping his arms through the roiling heat, his toes curling on the ends of his airborne feet, his cock stiffens and bobs as he creeps infinitesimally closer—closer—closer.

“faster,” he urges, already breathless, already laughing, already sobbing, and he gives himself what he asks for. “harder. higher. faster.”

the ground drops away in a dizzying rush, the stone walls of his prison shrinking as small as they always seemed in his mind’s eye. this is what is means to be more than human, to have the world so far below your feet that earth is no longer a part of it. this is what it means to be icarus.

(Source: nobodyiswatchingus)

(Reblogged from nobodyiswatchingus)