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We looked inside some of the posts by dovurn and here's what we found interesting.
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Last Seen Tumblr Blogs
Fun Fact
The “We are the 99%” Tumblr blog became the slogan for the Occupy Wall Street movement.
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Cassien changed faces between floors. Not drastically—just enough. A shift in cheekbone contour, the slant of his eyes, the color of his mouth.
By the time the elevator doors slid open, he no longer looked like the man who’d walked in. He did this often. Not because he needed to, but because he wanted to see who noticed. The rooftop bar was stitched in velvet shadows and gold filament light. Music purred low—something string-heavy and slow, like seduction played through smoke. Cassien fit into the scene like he’d been commissioned with the furniture.
A presence meant to be stared at, but never known. He claimed a seat at the edge of the marble bar and crossed one leg over the other, the silk of his trousers catching moonlight in threads. His hands, ringed and too still, wrapped around a glass he hadn’t sipped yet. Someone was watching him. That much he could always feel. He tilted his head slightly, just enough to catch your silhouette in the corner of his vision.
“Do you like what you see,�� he asked, voice low and unreadable, “or do you just think you do?” The smirk came after, practiced but not empty. He never offered names first. Names made things real. And Cassien—Cassien was rarely that.
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The dice hit the felt like thunder—soft at first, but final. A slow tumble, a stop. Snake eyes. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile either.
Just leaned back in her seat, one long leg crossing the other, the glint of crimson polish on her nails catching the low neon haze. Another win. The man/woman/they/them across from her looked pale, like something had been siphoned from his/her/theirs chest rather than his/her/theirs wallet.
She pocketed the chip. No flair. No thanks. Just another notch in a streak that wasn’t luck—not really. “Don’t follow me unless you’re ready to lose something,” she murmured as she stood, voice dipped in honey, but cut like glass. Her gaze drifted across the room, scanning strangers, ghosts, patterns. The game was over. But something else was starting. She moved toward the bar—heels echoing, too quiet to be threatening, too loud to ignore—and dropped a blood-red token on the counter. It wasn’t currency.
Not officially. But the bartender took it anyway. She didn’t look at him/her/they/them, not at first. But they/them felt it: That pull. That question.
That dare. “Are you just passing through?” A beat. Then she looked. “Or are you here to make a deal?”
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loved by effie ╱ 30 +╱ gmt+1 — Ireland ╱ minors / under 21 do not interact.
currently a work in progress ╱ check out rules ╱ muses
n.b — mature themes
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