#Bertha fears Scott

[lovemidnighteclipse12]

I have confirmation that Bertha fears Scott

He has done it people, he has gained the literally host of the competition to fear him

How does it feel Scott? For Bertha to be scared of you

[uhyeahmaybenoidk]

Welcome to part 1 of ‘I’ve connected the two dots’ the Gilded Age edition. Basically, I decided to make this sort of post after each episode because I want to ramble about this show but I don’t know anyone who watches it too so I share my thoughts here instead. Fair notice to everyone: I most certainly suck at making predictions, I fully aware of it, later on I’ll be laughing at my own dumbness and you all are free to laugh at me too. Considering that I’m about to make some sort of conclusions after just one episode when we know next to nothing about the plot, it’s bound to end bad. That never stopped me though so let’s go.

I’m not sure whether I like Marian Brook as protagonist so far to be honest. She’s nice but a little bit bland. I got this feeling based on that scene with Agnes and Oscar that she’s supposed to have the wow factor but… nah? I just don’t see this sort of charisma in her. 

However, I absolutely adore Larry Russell. He’s this golden retriever kind of character. I just want to hug him and hurt everyone who hurts him. I’m curious how he’ll manage to work with his father because he doesn’t have this ruthlessness in him to conduct the business in the same way. I expect some sort of existenatial crisis to happen when Larry gets more familiar with the world outside of ‘greenhouse’ he was raised in.

Love triangle is coming, right? Or maybe even love square so to speak.

Marian and Larry make almost too much sense for me. IMO they would be ideal end game. It’s not important that she is technically poor because his family is so damn rich that money are not an issue for them. If they end up together, her family would have to accept his family into society. It would be sort of win-win situation. She gets financial security, he gets status. Also, both of them seem to be too naïve for their own good. They think they know life but they don’t know shit. So I expect it to be used against them and cause all sort of drama.

I slightly dislike Tom Raikes. Please don’t @ me. I have no objective reason. It’s just a gut feeling that he will cause the drama mentioned above.

Another source of drama can and will be Bertha Russell. Maaaan, that promise to make everyone who rejects her regret it one day will cause lots of tears. And I fear that it’s the innocent ones who will be crying the most.

Speaking of innocent. Gladys Russell must be protected at all cost and I have a feeling she’ll need that.

Agnes van Rhijn is a mood. I really don’t want to make any comparisons with Downtown Abbey and bring up Dowager Countess of Grantham so I’ll just say this: Julian Fellowes sure does know how to write sassy characters. I love Agnes and how everyone seems to be terrified of her. I also appreciate that even though she’s The Bitch™, she is nice to Peggy and recognises her cleverness and talent.

Ada Brook is weird. She creeps me out. That’s it. I said it. I’m not sure whether it was intended or the acting is to blame here.

As much as I like watching glitter, glitz and petty fights, I’m really curious about Peggy Scott plotline. I think that there’s a lot of potential.

Also, Peggy’s mom saying ‘I’m your mother, I’m allowed to give you money’ is such heartwarming moment. It reminded me of my mom who gives me food so I don’t need to cook and my granny who puts money in my pocket and whispers that it’s for me to buy candies every time I visit her. Mothers being mothers no matter what era you live in.

I’m F1 fan so I couldn’t help myself giggling every time George Russell was mentioned.

Screw Bertha’s maid. Me and my homies hate her.

Was that corset comment truly necessary?!

As usual the visuals are gorgeous. I just love love looove watching period dramas and this one is an eye candy. I’m not an expert on historical costumes and I’m sure there are screw ups here and there but overall I think it does the job. It looks great to me. Although, jewellery occasionally looks kinda cheap.

Ahh that’s it. I think that I said everything that I wanted to. I’d like to chat with others so pretty please share your thoughts about the show.

Have a nice day ☺️

[caffeineforbucky]

As Time Goes By...(Chapter One)

Post-blip (five or six months later)

A/N: This is my first time writing on this website or anything public really, I usually just write for me, please just bear with me if it looks or sounds janky. Also, thanks for taking the time to read. I deeply & wholeheartedly appreciate you. Enjoy!

Summary: I suck at them but, I'll give it a shot. You- the reader, are surprised by 'old' friends when they show up out of the blue, asking for your help on a mission. (This is just the sum for chap. 1)

Word count: 2,760

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem! reader

Warnings: Angst, swearing, ex-boyfriend jealousy...

The day was coming to an end, a small heatwave conjuring up a sweat as you wiped down your last table for the night. You blew out a breath, brushing back a sheen of perspiration with your forearm, watching the last customer walk out of the restaurant as the bell chimed above their head.

You never understood why people chose to sit inside when there were tables out on the sidewalk. It was hotter in here than out there, especially since the air conditioner had gone out just a few days prior and the fans above the tables were only circling the air inside. It was an actual oven, but they contended.

Your hightops heaved across the tile, dragging yourself with the sufficiency of a person who was only working because they had to. You kicked up the doorstop, pulling the door towards you with a small amount of goodwill and vigor to finish locking up, flipping the paper sign over from open to closed. It wasn't as if you hated your job. You thoroughly enjoyed the atmosphere of it all. It was the only person working the night shift job you hated with every fiber of your being. You weren't completely alone in the restaurant, having a few cooks and the owner to keep you company, especially on busy nights like the one you just had.

"I'm clocking out, Mrs. Turner!" You call out, reaching behind your back to untie the knot of your apron, pulling it up and off your neck once the ties came undone. Trudging back to the table, you picked up the disinfectant wipe and toss it in the bin, making your way to your boss's office before hanging up your apron on the hook. "Mrs. Turner...?" You murmur softly, poking your head in through the doorway, only to see her counting the profits for the day. "I'm heading home," You chime, pointing behind your shoulder with your thumb as she glances up at you.

"Alright, Honey," She beams, a bright smile pulling at her lips as her eyes meet yours. "I'll see you tomorrow then?"

Working for the Turners wasn't supposed to be a permanent job, in fact, it wasn't even your original plan, as opposed to the small favors you would complete now and then for the people that were willing to pay a pretty penny for your...services.

But you figured having a stable job was smarter and safer than the alternative. And the help wanted sign was very persuasive, due to the pretty colors and splashes of glitter. It looked like it was made by a child, which you later found out, was decorated by Mrs. Turner's seven-year-old. "Always." You accede, tapping the doorframe as your goodbye before parading into the breakroom to gather your things from the lockers.

You take your backpack off the hook and swing the strap over your shoulder before time punching your card and going straight through the back door. The sounds of the city hit your ears as the heavy door slammed behind you. Traffic honks and tires treading against the grain while you walk further into the busy streets of San Francisco.

As you were about to turn the corner, you were met with the sight of your friend's van, followed by a trumpet rendition of La Cucaracha. You grinned widely, gripping your strap tighter as you jog up the 1972 Ford Ecoline, aka Big Bertha. At least that's what you called it. "Luis!" You rejoice, resting your palms on the ledge. "What are you doing here?"

"Scotty sent me out for a few things," Luis answers, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his head turned to you. "I was just about to go when I saw you. Thought you might need a ride." He shrugs, a cute smile playing on his lips.

You nod, reciprocating the smile at his answer. "Yeah, if it's not too much trouble..." You drag, your voice hesitant, as if he didn't offer at all.

"Nah, get in." He gestures, beckoning you with a wave of his hand. "Your place is on the way," Luis loosens his seatbelt, reaching over to the passenger side to pull up the lock, opening the door for you.

You climb in, plopping down on the tufted leather seats as you pulled the door towards you, closing it shut. "Thanks, Lu," You breathe, dropping your backpack below your feet, then you fasten your seatbelt. "How is Scott, anyway?" You ask as Luis changes gears and presses the gas, the van rolls onto the street.

"Ehh...he's...he's alright, know what I'm sayin'?" He answers, glancing at you before focusing back on the road. "I mean, he missed like five years of his daughter's life. He's just trying to spend as much time with her to make up for years they both lost."

You nibble at the inside of your cheek, nodding softly in agreement as the city lights passed you by. There wasn't much you could say to that, having lost so many people yourself. People you considered family just...gone.

"Yo!" Luis pipes up, snapping you out of your train of thought. "Didja see the news today?!" He shakes his head, whistling at the thought. "I can't believe they would just give some random dude the shield like that, ya know?"

You drew in your bottom lip in contempt, nodding once again at Luis. You had seen the news, and they couldn't have picked a better time to broadcast. If it hadn't been for Mrs. Turner asking you in, you would've hunted Sam Wilson down and kicked his ass yourself.

The van rolled to a stop, brakes squealing as Luis pulled up beside your apartment. You sighed heavily, glancing at the small apartment you shared with your Ex-boyfriend. By the looks of the living room light illuminating behind the curtains, he was home, and you absolutely dreaded when he was. It wasn't as if you wanted to live with him, but you had no other alternative. Ever since dropping your side job, money was tighter, and he was kind enough to let you stay, just until you found a place. "Thanks again for the ride, Lu." You mumble, unclicking your seatbelt as you took hold of your backpack. "You didn't have to."

"Don't even mention it, Y/N," Luis reassures, watching you as you pull at the door handle, opening it to get out. "I know how hard it is to get back into the norm."

You shut the passenger door, shooting him a sympathetic smile. "I'll see you around?"

With a smile, Luis waves goodbye and drives off into the night, the exhaust pipe blowing smoke as he rode off. You shook your head, cracking a smile at the honk of his horn. You turned towards the front entrance of the apartment, your stomach twisting as your smile dropped completely. You swallowed thickly, rolling the tension from your shoulders to prepare yourself before jogging up the small flight of stairs.

You fished your keys from the front pocket of your backpack, taking a breath before shoving the key into the lock, twisting as you pushed the door open with your shoulder. "Joshua?!" You voiced, calling out your ex's name to make sure it was him. You dropped your belongings beside the door, pushing your sneakers off before kicking the door shut with your foot.

"Yeah, in here!" He responds quickly, a slight tremor to his tone.

You frown softly, tossing your keys into the bowl on the console table before sauntering to where his voice was emanating from. "Josh, are you...?" Your voice came to a halt, your footsteps stopping altogether as you walked into the living room.

"Hey!" Joshua exclaims once your figure comes into view. "You wanna explain who they are?" He presses, his face crossed with fear as he gestures to the two men sitting calmly on your living room couch.

You remained quiet, your body tense, eyes wide as your focus shifted between the men on the couch and your ex.

"Well...?" Joshua demands, crossing his arms over his chest, shifting in his stance at the unsettling glare one of the men was sending his way. "I was in the middle of hosting game night-as you can see, when they showed up," Josh drops his arms, hands splaying out to gesture to the coffee table consisting of five different dips, two bulk-sized bags of tortilla chips, and a twenty-four pack of Blue Moon beer. "The guys were just about to come over."

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes to refrain from any and all insults towards your ex. That explained why he was home. "Um..." You utter, pinching the bridge of your nose, "Fucking hell," You curse under your breath, eyes fluttering open to look at Joshua. "Josh," You begin, clearing your throat as you start with the man on the left. "They are Sam Wilson and..." You hesitate, eyes settling on the man to the right, his sight alone bringing back the memories that you swore you didn't want to remember. "James Barnes," You finish, ripping your eyes away from his baby blues to look at your ex. "Aka-"

"The Falcon and The Winter Soldier..." Joshua finishes for you, his eyes flashing with amazement, head whipping towards the guys. "Shit!" He curses, smiling widely like a kid in a candy store. "Can I get you guys anything? A plate? Beer?"

"Actually," You grunt, interrupting before Sam or Bucky could answer. "Can you give us a minute, Joshua?" Insisting while your foot tapped impatiently against the hardwood floor.

"Should I be worried?" He inquires, eyes filled with confusion as he looked between the three of you, trying to piece together the situation at hand. The main reason you and Joshua couldn't work it out was that you kept a lot of secrets, mostly from him. He didn't like the fact that you wouldn't let him in. Sure, you lied to him, the biggest lie being that you were an Avenger, but that was just to keep him safe. There were other reasons why you decided to split up as well. Joshua knew...he knew deep down you were just with him to pass the time. He could see it when he looked into your eyes. There was someone else in the reflection and it wasn't him. If he was honest with himself, he could admit that it did hurt him. That he wanted a chance to make it work with you, but with the way you were staring at James, he finally recognized that reflection.

He should've noticed it early on-like that day he had somehow convinced you to take a trip to D.C for a tour of the Captain America museum. You were hell-bent on not going, trying to make up some elaborate excuse or an alibi of sorts, but alas, you still went. And for some odd reason, you couldn't stop coming back to the Bucky Barnes portion.

"No," You reply, keeping it short to dismiss him.

Joshua's mouth set in a hard line, a foreign feeling forming in the pit of his stomach-jealousy. He never had to worry about it before, especially when his friends used to come over, back when you were still together. Except for that one time, but how could he blame them? You were the kind of person that listened, laughed at the jokes being made, could lend a hand when needed, and your looks were just a bonus in his book. "Uhm, yeah," He coughed, frowning softly while nodding his head at you. "I have to go pick up the pizza, anyway," Josh brushes past you, fetching his keys from the bowl while slipping on his Vans that sat up against the wall ledge that separated the front door from the living room. "Are you going to be okay?" He mumbles, glancing over his shoulder to look at you.

You shoot Josh a smile, nodding reassuringly, his footsteps approaching closer before stopping in front of you, the palm of his hand landing gently on your shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. "Let me know if you need anything, m'kay?" Josh's voice is soft, the concern in his eyes making you feel guilty. You knew he cared about you, and there wasn't a time where you'd catch him staring at you for far too long, but you were well past that. "I'm just a text away," He notes, waving his cell in his hand.

"Josh, I'll be fine," You sigh, stepping away from his touch, the sound of his hand hitting his jeans as it dropped from your shoulder. "I always am."

"Right," Josh nods, looking over at the men on the couch before gazing back at you. "I'll see you in a bit, bug." And with that, he turns, opens the front door, and steps out, shutting the wooden door behind him.

You close your eyes, the pet name Josh had coined for you making you sigh. He agreed to stop calling you that all together and it only made you feel that more guilty for ending things. "So..." You pipe up, opening your eyes as you turned to look at the guys. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Bug?"

Bucky is the first to speak, his jaw clenched at the mere sound of the word. Indignant at the way Josh had touched you, even if it was just your shoulder. "I didn't know he knew you like that," Bucky flashes you a taut smile, nodding softly as he shared a look with Sam, but the falcon only shook his head. "How long have you been..." Bucky couldn't even finish the question, his glove-clad hands tightening at the thought of you being with somebody else...someone that wasn't him. Though, it was his own fault. If he hadn't done what he'd done-you'd have never found another.

"Wow," You scoff, padding closer to where they sat. "You don't miss a beat, do you? Just..." You sink into the sofa adjacent to the one they occupied. "-Right into the big stuff."

"I didn't bring you here to question her about her love life," Sam voices, his scolding eyes on the man beside him. "And she sure as hell isn't obligated to answer you, Bucky."

You smile gratefully at Sam before glancing down at your leg that had begun to bounce in anticipation. "What are you guys doing here? And how'd you find me?" You ask, tilting your head in curiosity as you look up at the guys. "When I resigned from the Avengers initiative, they ensured me that I wasn't able to be traced, not by your or any other remaining member. I was supposed to be scot-free," You declare, hitting your thigh with your fist.

"Oh, come on, Y/N," Sam chuckles, shaking his head at the naivety. "We both know that's a bunch of bullshit. The government is always going to have its eyes on us. Especially free agents like you and us."

You draw in your bottom lip, biting down, eyes flickering between Sam and Bucky. You knew it was too good to be true, and part of you sensed the bullshit when the government explained it to you. You just didn't want to believe it.

"You were an ex-assassin. How could they not keep tabs on your whereabouts?" Sam recounts, emphasizing that it was in the past. At least, that's what they thought. "And I had some help from Redwing as well." He shrugs nonchalantly.

You choke out a laugh, shaking your head at the smug demeanor emitting from Sam. "Redwing," You whisper, smiling thinly. "Of course, nothing could ever be hidden from your personal P.I, huh?"

"I hate that thing," Bucky grumbles, folding his arms across his chest. in annoyance. "Invasion of privacy, I'm telling you."

"You love redwing," Sam jokes, playfully jabbing Bucky's arm with his elbow, "It's okay Bucky, you can admit it."

"Can we get back to the issue here?" You interject, "Not one of you has explained the reason you're here. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's great to see you...one more than the other," You whisper that last part but, completely aware that Bucky could hear it. "But, you both showing up out of the blue...? That's almost a bad omen."

"I didn't ask him here, by the way," Sam acknowledges, raising his hands in defense, "I just want to get that out of the way. Bucky came because he wanted to. I'm here," Sam gestures to himself, "-For one reason and one reason only..."

"And what's that?" You ask, leaning forward in your seated position.

"I need your help, Y/N."

[ofmemories]

character study   ——   traits & characteristics   *//  mal bertha classic novelist aesthetics.   ( bold for definitely ;   italicized for partially )

Repost, don’t reblog!

JOHN KEATS.     the lavender in sunsets,   flowers in the rain,   sunlight slipping through clouds,   lazy summer afternoons,   the heavy scent of musk,   flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books,   fireflies on a cool summer night,   being wrapped in fresh bed sheets,   the ache of wanting what you can never have,   dripping sunlight like gold,  loving someone so exquisite,   soft lips and soft whispers,   fingers through hair,  names of lovers carved in trees,   broken glass,   the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.     crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,   mahogany wood,  the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog,   empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room,   bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,   cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,   a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered,   the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment,   your favorite sweater,   parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing,   the contrast of blood against snow,   a purple split lip oozing blood,   black eyes fading to blue to pale skin,  the butterflies of falling in love for the first time,   the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries,   the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.   the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future,   decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there,   the way not even light can escape a black hole,   the rich smell of old books,   delicate veins in the wrist,   ghosts filling lungs,   shattered bones,  raindrops on the tongue,   rusting metal,   nostalgia that aches,   the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT.   the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,   pouring rain and mud,   a child’s fear of the dark,   thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean,   the silence of three a.m.,   ouija boards and urban legends.

JACK KEROUAC.     the brisk pine air of being on a mountain,   travels without a destination,  those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,   screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive,   coffee shops late at night,   car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark,   naps spent in the sun,   novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins,   the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders,   ignoring flaws and loving life,   wind through hair,   depression as fog in the brain, impossible ideals,   a quiet sunrise,   walks alone,   when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe,   dazzling people,   open lands stretching out into infinity,   falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.     the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog,   hollow bones,   a preserved heart held in hands,   twinkling stars above an old graveyard,   the way everything turns to dust,   silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom,   self-inflicted flames,   perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,   death as bricks in the heart,   lips barely brushing against each other,   glassy glazed eyes,   biting into a lemon,   heart-shaped bruises,   rotting flowers on a grave,   dried blood and spilled liquor,   the hush of dusk when it begins raining,   the intimacy of a secret.

TAGGED BY: @azaleatides & @dawntides , thank you both sm !! <3 TAGGING: *cracks knuckles* @clavem-est-finis, @slccpingheart, @igniisium, @telluriis, @thalassus, @demyxthemulletmuffin, @caelumsplendida, @productnumberthirteen, @sketchedinnocence, @dawnblxde, @luciumsa, @nortwithnomemories, @thewindywielder, @dxgstreet, @tatarian-memory, @aertha AND !! you !! you there reading this !! tag me in your own post so i can see it !! <3

[lazlo234]

character study   ——   traits & characteristics   *//  mal bertha classic novelist aesthetics.   ( bold for definitely ;   italicized for partially )

Repost, don’t reblog!

JOHN KEATS.    the lavender in sunsets,   flowers in the rain,   sunlight slipping through clouds,   lazy summer afternoons,   the heavy scent of musk,   flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books,   fireflies on a cool summer night,   being wrapped in fresh bed sheets,   the ache of wanting what you can never have,   dripping sunlight like gold,   loving someone so exquisite,   soft lips and soft whispers,   fingers through hair,  names of lovers carved in trees,   broken glass,   the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.    crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,   mahogany wood,  the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog,   empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room,   bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,   cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,   a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered,   the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment,   your favorite sweater,   parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing,   the contrast of blood against snow,   a purple split lip oozing blood,   black eyes fading to blue to pale skin,  the butterflies of falling in love for the first time,   the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries,   the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.   the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future,   decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there,   the way not even light can escape a black hole,   the rich smell of old books,   delicate veins in the wrist,   ghosts filling lungs,   shattered bones,  raindrops on the tongue,   rusting metal,   nostalgia that aches,   the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT. the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,   pouring rain and mud,   a child’s fear of the dark,   thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean,   the silence of three a.m.,   ouija boards and urban legends.

JACK KEROUAC.     the brisk pine air of being on a mountain,   travels without a destination,  those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,   screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive,   coffee shops late at night,   car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark,   naps spent in the sun,   novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins,   the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders,   ignoring flaws and loving life,   wind through hair,   depression as fog in the brain, impossible ideals,   a quiet sunrise,   walks alone,   when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe,   dazzling people,   open lands stretching out into infinity,   falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.     the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog,   hollow bones,   a preserved heart held in hands,   twinkling stars above an old graveyard,   the way everything turns to dust,   silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom,   self-inflicted flames,   perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,   death as bricks in the heart,   lips barely brushing against each other,   glassy glazed eyes,   biting into a lemon,   heart-shaped bruises,   rotting flowers on a grave,   dried blood and spilled liquor,   the hush of dusk when it begins raining,   the intimacy of a secret.

TAGGED BY: @hyaciiintho (thank you ilysm!!) TAGGING: @kadcn @timidplum @inigmati @necrogal @fatedemblem @chillres @mgicunleashed @iiskarlata @dicyde @laevetain and uhh if we’ve ever interacted before consider yourself tagged!! make sure to @ me so i can see it :d

[guidingkey]

character study   ——   traits & characteristics   *//  mal bertha classic novelist aesthetics.   ( bold for definitely ;   italicized for partially )

Repost, don’t reblog!

JOHN KEATS.     the lavender in sunsets,   flowers in the rain,   sunlight slipping through clouds,   lazy summer afternoons,   the heavy scent of musk,   flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books,   fireflies on a cool summer night,   being wrapped in fresh bed sheets,   the ache of wanting what you can never have,   dripping sunlight like gold,  loving someone so exquisite,   soft lips and soft whispers,   fingers through hair,  names of lovers carved in trees,   broken glass,   the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.     crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,   mahogany wood,  the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog,   empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room,   bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,   cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,   a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered,   the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment,   your favorite sweater,   parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing,   the contrast of blood against snow,   a purple split lip oozing blood,   black eyes fading to blue to pale skin,  the butterflies of falling in love for the first time,   the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries,   the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.   the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future,   decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there,   the way not even light can escape a black hole,   the rich smell of old books,   delicate veins in the wrist,   ghosts filling lungs,   shattered bones,  raindrops on the tongue,   rusting metal,   nostalgia that aches,   the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT.  the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,   pouring rain and mud,   a child’s fear of the dark,   thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean,   the silence of three a.m.,   ouija boards and urban legends.

JACK KEROUAC.     the brisk pine air of being on a mountain,   travels without a destination,  those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,   screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive,   coffee shops late at night,   car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark,   naps spent in the sun,   novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins,   the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders,   ignoring flaws and loving life,   wind through hair,   depression as fog in the brain,  impossible ideals,   a quiet sunrise,   walks alone,   when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe,   dazzling people,   open lands stretching out into infinity,   falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.     the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog,   hollow bones,   a preserved heart held in hands,   twinkling stars above an old graveyard,   the way everything turns to dust,   silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom,   self-inflicted flames,   perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,   death as bricks in the heart,   lips barely brushing against each other,   glassy glazed eyes,   biting into a lemon,   heart-shaped bruises,   rotting flowers on a grave,   dried blood and spilled liquor,   the hush of dusk when it begins raining,   the intimacy of a secret.

TAGGED BY: @dawntides TY AURENE ILU MWAH ♥♥♥ TAGGING: @ukubi / @katsubi / @fortevoce / @rxcusant / @gamenu / @prettyguard / @avaliantqueen / @dawnroads / @flamereign / @coronabane / @corvulpes / @ursaced / & anyone else who wants to do this!!! ♥

[venofire-moved]

character study   ——   traits & characteristics   *//  mal bertha classic novelist aesthetics.   ( bold for definitely ;   italicized for partially )

Repost, don’t reblog!

***For Tya.

JOHN KEATS.     the lavender in sunsets,   flowers in the rain,   sunlight slipping through clouds,   lazy summer afternoons,   the heavy scent of musk,   flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books,   fireflies on a cool summer night,   being wrapped in fresh bed sheets,   the ache of wanting what you can never have,   dripping sunlight like gold,   loving someone so exquisite,   soft lips and soft whispers,   fingers through hair,  names of lovers carved in trees,   broken glass,   the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.     crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,   mahogany wood,  the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog,   empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room,   bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,   cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,   a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered,   the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment,   your favorite sweater,   parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing,   the contrast of blood against snow,   a purple split lip oozing blood,   black eyes fading to blue to pale skin,  the butterflies of falling in love for the first time,   the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries,   the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.   the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future,   decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there,   the way not even light can escape a black hole,   the rich smell of old books,   delicate veins in the wrist,   ghosts filling lungs,   shattered bones,  raindrops on the tongue,   rusting metal,   nostalgia that aches,   the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT.   the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,   pouring rain and mud,   a child’s fear of the dark,   thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean,   the silence of three a.m.,   ouija boards and urban legends.

JACK KEROUAC.     the brisk pine air of being on a mountain,   travels without a destination,  those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,   screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive,   coffee shops late at night,   car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark,   naps spent in the sun,   novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins,   the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders,   ignoring flaws and loving life,   wind through hair,   depression as fog in the brain, impossible ideals,   a quiet sunrise,   walks alone,   when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe,   dazzling people,   open lands stretching out into infinity,   falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.     the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog,   hollow bones,   a preserved heart held in hands,   twinkling stars above an old graveyard,   the way everything turns to dust,   silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom,   self-inflicted flames,   perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,   death as bricks in the heart,   lips barely brushing against each other,   glassy glazed eyes,   biting into a lemon,   heart-shaped bruises,   rotting flowers on a grave,   dried blood and spilled liquor,   the hush of dusk when it begins raining,   the intimacy of a secret.

TAGGED BY: @howlingstorminside <3<3<3 TAGGING:@thesasstasticsoldier @infeliicis @kxllingjoke @mxskedboy @dawnkeyed @ofnewmoon @dionsblood @hyaciiintho @silentkniight @kcfxra @ifemerel

[pxzzlepieces-blog]

character study   ——   traits & characteristics   *//  mal bertha classic novelist aesthetics.   ( bold for definitely ;   italicized for partially )

Repost, don’t reblog!

JOHN KEATS.    the lavender in sunsets,   flowers in the rain,   sunlight slipping through clouds,   lazy summer afternoons,   the heavy scent of musk,   flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books,   fireflies on a cool summer night,   being wrapped in fresh bed sheets,   the ache of wanting what you can never have,   dripping sunlight like gold,   loving someone so exquisite,   soft lips and soft whispers,   fingers through hair,  names of lovers carved in trees,   broken glass,   the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.    crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,   mahogany wood,  the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog,   empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room,   bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,   cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,   a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered,   the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment,   your favorite sweater,   parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing,   the contrast of blood against snow,   a purple split lip oozing blood,   black eyes fading to blue to pale skin,  the butterflies of falling in love for the first time,   the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries,   the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.   the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future,   decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there,   the way not even light can escape a black hole,   the rich smell of old books,   delicate veins in the wrist,   ghosts filling lungs,   shattered bones,  raindrops on the tongue,   rusting metal,   nostalgia that aches,   the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT. the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,   pouring rain and mud,   a child’s fear of the dark,   thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean,   the silence of three a.m.,   ouija boards and urban legends.

JACK KEROUAC.     the brisk pine air of being on a mountain,   travels without a destination,  those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,   screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive,   coffee shops late at night,   car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark,   naps spent in the sun,   novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins,   the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders,   ignoring flaws and loving life,   wind through hair,   depression as fog in the brain, impossible ideals,   a quiet sunrise,   walks alone,   when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe,   dazzling people,   open lands stretching out into infinity,   falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.     the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog,   hollow bones,   a preserved heart held in hands,   twinkling stars above an old graveyard,   the way everything turns to dust,   silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom,   self-inflicted flames,   perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,   death as bricks in the heart,   lips barely brushing against each other,   glassy glazed eyes,   biting into a lemon,   heart-shaped bruises,   rotting flowers on a grave,   dried blood and spilled liquor,   the hush of dusk when it begins raining,   the intimacy of a secret.

TAGGED BY: @hyaciiintho (thank you, bby!) TAGGING: @condomglitter, @blackincantation, @adonaiis, @eebon, @silentmagician

[drylic]

character study   ——   traits & characteristics   *//  mal bertha classic novelist aesthetics.   ( bold for definitely ;   italicized for partially )

Repost, don’t reblog!

JOHN KEATS. the lavender in sunsets,   flowers in the rain,   sunlight slipping through clouds,   lazy summer afternoons,   the heavy scent of musk,   flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books,   fireflies on a cool summer night,   being wrapped in fresh bed sheets,   the ache of wanting what you can never have,  dripping sunlight like gold,  loving someone so exquisite,   soft lips and soft whispers,   fingers through hair,  names of lovers carved in trees,   broken glass,   the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD. crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,   mahogany wood,  the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog,   empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room,   bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,   cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,   a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered,   the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment,  your favorite sweater,   parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing,   the contrast of blood against snow,   a purple split lip oozing blood,   black eyes fading to blue to pale skin,   the butterflies of falling in love for the first time,   the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries,  the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.   the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future,   decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there,   the way not even light can escape a black hole,   the rich smell of old books,   delicate veins in the wrist,  ghosts filling lungs,   shattered bones,  raindrops on the tongue,   rusting metal,   nostalgia that aches,   the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT.   the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,   pouring rain and mud,   a child’s fear of the dark, thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean,   the silence of three a.m.,  ouija boards and urban legends.

JACK KEROUAC.     the brisk pine air of being on a mountain,   travels without a destination,  those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,  screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive,   coffee shops late at night,   car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark,   naps spent in the sun,   novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins,  the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders,   ignoring flaws and loving life,   wind through hair,   depression as fog in the brain,   impossible ideals,   a quiet sunrise,   walks alone,  when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe,   dazzling people,   open lands stretching out into infinity,  falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.     the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog,   hollow bones,   a preserved heart held in hands,   twinkling stars above an old graveyard,   the way everything turns to dust,   silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom,   self-inflicted flames,   perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,   death as bricks in the heart,   lips barely brushing against each other,   glassy glazed eyes,   biting into a lemon,   heart-shaped bruises,   rotting flowers on a grave,   dried blood and spilled liquor,   the hush of dusk when it begins raining, the intimacy of a secret.

TAGGED BY: no one TAGGING: it yers bros

[sunheld]

character study   ——   traits & characteristics   *//  mal bertha classic novelist aesthetics.   ( bold for definitely ;   italicized for partially )

Repost, don’t reblog!

JOHN KEATS.   the lavender in sunsets,   flowers in the rain,   sunlight slipping through clouds,   lazy summer afternoons,   the heavy scent of musk,   flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books,   fireflies on a cool summer night,  being wrapped in fresh bed sheets,   the ache of wanting what you can never have,  dripping sunlight like gold,  loving someone so exquisite, soft lips and soft whispers,   fingers through hair,  names of lovers carved in trees,   broken glass,   the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.   crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,   mahogany wood,  the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog,   empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room,   bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,   cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,   a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered,   the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment,  your favorite sweater,   parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing,   the contrast of blood against snow,   a purple split lip oozing blood,   black eyes fading to blue to pale skin, the butterflies of falling in love for the first time,   the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries,  the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.   the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future,   decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there,   the way not even light can escape a black hole,   the rich smell of old books,   delicate veins in the wrist,  ghosts filling lungs,   shattered bones,  raindrops on the tongue,   rusting metal,   nostalgia that aches,   the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT. the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,   pouring rain and mud,   a child’s fear of the dark,  thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean,   the silence of three a.m.,  ouija boards and urban legends.

JACK KEROUAC.     the brisk pine air of being on a mountain,   travels without a destination,  those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,  screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive,   coffee shops late at night,   car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark,   naps spent in the sun,   novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins,  the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders,   ignoring flaws and loving life,   wind through hair,   depression as fog in the brain,  impossible ideals,   a quiet sunrise, walks alone,  when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe,   dazzling people,   open lands stretching out into infinity,  falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.     the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog,   hollow bones,   a preserved heart held in hands,   twinkling stars above an old graveyard,   the way everything turns to dust,   silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom,   self-inflicted flames,   perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,   death as bricks in the heart,   lips barely brushing against each other,   glassy glazed eyes,   biting into a lemon,   heart-shaped bruises,   rotting flowers on a grave,   dried blood and spilled liquor,   the hush of dusk when it begins raining, the intimacy of a secret.

TAGGED BY: @laslow ty for my life darlin  !! TAGGING:  you ,  beautiful soul reading this  !

[howlingstorminside]

character study   ——   traits & characteristics   *//  mal bertha classic novelist aesthetics.   ( bold for definitely ;   italicized for partially )

Repost, don’t reblog! 

JOHN KEATS.     the lavender in sunsets,   flowers in the rain,   sunlight slipping through clouds,   lazy summer afternoons,   the heavy scent of musk,   flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books,   fireflies on a cool summer night,   being wrapped in fresh bed sheets,   the ache of wanting what you can never have,   dripping sunlight like gold,   loving someone so exquisite,   soft lips and soft whispers,   fingers through hair,  names of lovers carved in trees,   broken glass,   the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.     crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,   mahogany wood,   the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog,   empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room,   bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,   cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,   a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered,   the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment,   your favorite sweater,   parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing,   the contrast of blood against snow,   a purple split lip oozing blood,   black eyes fading to blue to pale skin,  the butterflies of falling in love for the first time,   the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries,   the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.    the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future,   decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there,   the way not even light can escape a black hole,   the rich smell of old books,   delicate veins in the wrist,   ghosts filling lungs,   shattered bones,  raindrops on the tongue,   rusting metal,   nostalgia that aches,   the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT.    the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,   pouring rain and mud,   a child’s fear of the dark,   thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean,   the silence of three a.m.,   ouija boards and urban legends.

JACK KEROUAC.     the brisk pine air of being on a mountain,   travels without a destination,  those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,   screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive,   coffee shops late at night,   car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark,   naps spent in the sun,   novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins,   the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders,   ignoring flaws and loving life,   wind through hair,   depression as fog in the brain,  impossible ideals,   a quiet sunrise,   walks alone,   when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe,   dazzling people,   open lands stretching out into infinity,   falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.     the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog,   hollow bones,   a preserved heart held in hands,   twinkling stars above an old graveyard,   the way everything turns to dust,   silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom,   self-inflicted flames,   perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,   death as bricks in the heart,   lips barely brushing against each other,   glassy glazed eyes,   biting into a lemon,   heart-shaped bruises,   rotting flowers on a grave,   dried blood and spilled liquor,   the hush of dusk when it begins raining,   the intimacy of a secret.

TAGGED BY: @immortalxdreamers ((thanks for tagging me, darling! ^^)) TAGGING: @arcanawise @venofire @starfirechan @siximpossiblethoughts @intothewildsea and anyone else who wants to do this!

[silentmagician]

character study   ——   traits & characteristics   *//  mal bertha classic novelist aesthetics.   ( bold for definitely ;   italicized for partially )

Repost, don’t reblog!

JOHN KEATS.    the lavender in sunsets,   flowers in the rain,   sunlight slipping through clouds,   lazy summer afternoons,   the heavy scent of musk,   flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books,   fireflies on a cool summer night,   being wrapped in fresh bed sheets,   the ache of wanting what you can never have,   dripping sunlight like gold,   loving someone so exquisite,   soft lips and soft whispers,   fingers through hair,  names of lovers carved in trees,   broken glass,   the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.    crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,   mahogany wood,  the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog,   empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room,   bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,   cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,   a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered,   the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment,   your favorite sweater,   parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing,   the contrast of blood against snow,   a purple split lip oozing blood,   black eyes fading to blue to pale skin,  the butterflies of falling in love for the first time,   the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries,   the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.   the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future,   decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there,   the way not even light can escape a black hole,   the rich smell of old books,   delicate veins in the wrist,   ghosts filling lungs,   shattered bones,  raindrops on the tongue,   rusting metal,   nostalgia that aches,   the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT.      the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,   pouring rain and mud,   a child’s fear of the dark,   thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean,   the silence of three a.m.,   ouija boards and urban legends.

JACK KEROUAC.     the brisk pine air of being on a mountain,   travels without a destination,  those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,   screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive,   coffee shops late at night,   car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark,   naps spent in the sun,   novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins,   the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders,   ignoring flaws and loving life,   wind through hair,   depression as fog in the brain, impossible ideals,   a quiet sunrise,   walks alone,   when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe,   dazzling people,   open lands stretching out into infinity,   falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.     the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog,   hollow bones,   a preserved heart held in hands,   twinkling stars above an old graveyard,   the way everything turns to dust,   silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom,   self-inflicted flames,   perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,   death as bricks in the heart,   lips barely brushing against each other,   glassy glazed eyes,   biting into a lemon,   heart-shaped bruises,   rotting flowers on a grave,   dried blood and spilled liquor,   the hush of dusk when it begins raining,   the intimacy of a secret.

Tagged by: @pxzzlepieces Tagging: @healerveined, @cxb3r, @mahoushojoumonster, @luciidflow, @adonaiis, @sennenpharaoh, @game-weaver

[verumking]

character study   ——   traits & characteristics   *//  mal bertha classic novelist aesthetics.   ( bold for definitely ;   italicized for partially )

Repost, don’t reblog!

JOHN KEATS.     the lavender in sunsets,   flowers in the rain,   sunlight slipping through clouds,   lazy summer afternoons,   the heavy scent of musk,   flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books,   fireflies on a cool summer night,   being wrapped in fresh bed sheets,   the ache of wanting what you can never have,   dripping sunlight like gold,   loving someone so exquisite,   soft lips and soft whispers,   fingers through hair,  names of lovers carved in trees,   broken glass,   the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.     crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,   mahogany wood,  the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog,   empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room,   bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,   cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,   a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered,   the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment,   your favorite sweater,   parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing,   the contrast of blood against snow,   a purple split lip oozing blood,   black eyes fading to blue to pale skin,  the butterflies of falling in love for the first time,   the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries,   the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.   the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future,   decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there,   the way not even light can escape a black hole,   the rich smell of old books,   delicate veins in the wrist,   ghosts filling lungs,   shattered bones,  raindrops on the tongue,   rusting metal,   nostalgia that aches,   the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT.   the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,  pouring rain and mud, a child’s fear of the dark,   thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean,   the silence of three a.m.,   ouija boards and urban legends.

JACK KEROUAC.     the brisk pine air of being on a mountain,   travels without a destination,  those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,   screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive,   coffee shops late at night,   car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark,   naps spent in the sun,   novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins,   the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders,   ignoring flaws and loving life,   wind through hair,   depression as fog in the brain, impossible ideals,   a quiet sunrise,   walks alone,   when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe,   dazzling people,   open lands stretching out into infinity,   falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.     the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog,   hollow bones,   a preserved heart held in hands,   twinkling stars above an old graveyard,   the way everything turns to dust,   silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom,   self-inflicted flames,   perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,   death as bricks in the heart,   lips barely brushing against each other,   glassy glazed eyes,   biting into a lemon,   heart-shaped bruises,   rotting flowers on a grave,   dried blood and spilled liquor,   the hush of dusk when it begins raining,   the intimacy of a secret.

TAGGED BY:  @azaleatides (thanks bb! uwu) TAGGING: @hamadaxfighter, @thelastkingoflight, @dragonaea, @stellaux, @foudrai, @verglasregnant & anyone that wants to!

[luciidflow]

character study   ——   traits & characteristics   *//  mal bertha classic novelist aesthetics.   ( bold for definitely ;   italicized for partially )

Repost, don’t reblog!

JOHN KEATS.  the lavender in sunsets,   flowers in the rain,   sunlight slipping through clouds,   lazy summer afternoons,   the heavy scent of musk,   flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books,   fireflies on a cool summer night,  being wrapped in fresh bed sheets,  the ache of wanting what you can never have,  dripping sunlight like gold,   loving someone so exquisite,   soft lips and soft whispers,   fingers through hair,  names of lovers carved in trees,  broken glass,   the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.  crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,   mahogany wood, the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog, empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room, bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,  cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,   a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered,   the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment,   your favorite sweater,   parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing,   the contrast of blood against snow,   a purple split lip oozing blood,   black eyes fading to blue to pale skin,  the butterflies of falling in love for the first time,   the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries,   the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.   the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future,   decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there,   the way not even light can escape a black hole,   the rich smell of old books,  delicate veins in the wrist,   ghosts filling lungs,   shattered bones,  raindrops on the tongue,   rusting metal,   nostalgia that aches,   the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT.  the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,  pouring rain and mud,   a child’s fear of the dark,   thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean,   the silence of three a.m.,   ouija boards and urban legends.

JACK KEROUAC.  the brisk pine air of being on a mountain,   travels without a destination, those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,  screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive,   coffee shops late at night,   car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark,   naps spent in the sun,   novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins,  the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders,  ignoring flaws and loving life,   wind through hair,   depression as fog in the brain,impossible ideals,   a quiet sunrise,   walks alone,   when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe,   dazzling people,   open lands stretching out into infinity,   falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.     the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog,   hollow bones,   a preserved heart held in hands,  twinkling stars above an old graveyard,   the way everything turns to dust,   silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom,   self-inflicted flames,   perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,   death as bricks in the heart,   lips barely brushing against each other,   glassy glazed eyes,   biting into a lemon,   heart-shaped bruises,   rotting flowers on a grave,   dried blood and spilled liquor,   the hush of dusk when it begins raining,   the intimacy of a secret.

Tagged by: @blackincantation Tagging: Yall did it already

[jasperlion]

character study   ——   traits & characteristics   *//  mal bertha classic novelist aesthetics.   ( bold for definitely ;   italicized for partially )

Repost, don’t reblog!

JOHN KEATS. the lavender in sunsets,   flowers in the rain,   sunlight slipping through clouds,   lazy summer afternoons,   the heavy scent of musk,   flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books,   fireflies on a cool summer night,   being wrapped in fresh bed sheets,   the ache of wanting what you can never have,  dripping sunlight like gold,  loving someone so exquisite,   soft lips and soft whispers,   fingers through hair,  names of lovers carved in trees,   broken glass,   the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD. crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,   mahogany wood,  the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog,   empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room,   bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,   cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,   a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered,   the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment,  your favorite sweater,   parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing,   the contrast of blood against snow,   a purple split lip oozing blood,   black eyes fading to blue to pale skin,   the butterflies of falling in love for the first time,   the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries,  the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.   the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future,   decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there,   the way not even light can escape a black hole,   the rich smell of old books,   delicate veins in the wrist,  ghosts filling lungs,   shattered bones,  raindrops on the tongue,   rusting metal,   nostalgia that aches,   the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT.   the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,   pouring rain and mud,   a child’s fear of the dark, thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean,   the silence of three a.m.,  ouija boards and urban legends.

JACK KEROUAC.     the brisk pine air of being on a mountain,   travels without a destination,  those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,  screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive,   coffee shops late at night,   car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark,   naps spent in the sun,   novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins,  the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders,   ignoring flaws and loving life,   wind through hair,   depression as fog in the brain,   impossible ideals,   a quiet sunrise,   walks alone,  when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe,   dazzling people,   open lands stretching out into infinity,  falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.     the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog,   hollow bones,   a preserved heart held in hands,   twinkling stars above an old graveyard,   the way everything turns to dust,   silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom,   self-inflicted flames,   perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,   death as bricks in the heart,   lips barely brushing against each other,   glassy glazed eyes,   biting into a lemon,   heart-shaped bruises,   rotting flowers on a grave,   dried blood and spilled liquor,   the hush of dusk when it begins raining, the intimacy of a secret.

TAGGED BY: i took it from @laevetain because I wanted to TAGGING: you, too, can take it if you wish

[inigmati]

character study   ——   traits & characteristics   *//  mal bertha classic novelist aesthetics.   ( bold for definitely ;   italicized for partially )

Repost, don’t reblog!

JOHN KEATS.   the lavender in sunsets,   flowers in the rain,   sunlight slipping through clouds,   lazy summer afternoons,   the heavy scent of musk,   flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books,   fireflies on a cool summer night,  being wrapped in fresh bed sheets,   the ache of wanting what you can never have,  dripping sunlight like gold,  loving someone so exquisite, soft lips and soft whispers,   fingers through hair,  names of lovers carved in trees,   broken glass,   the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.   crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,   mahogany wood,  the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog,   empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room,   bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,   cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,   a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered,   the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment,  your favorite sweater,   parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing,   the contrast of blood against snow,   a purple split lip oozing blood,   black eyes fading to blue to pale skin, the butterflies of falling in love for the first time,   the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries,  the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.   the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future,   decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there,   the way not even light can escape a black hole,   the rich smell of old books,   delicate veins in the wrist,  ghosts filling lungs,   shattered bones,  raindrops on the tongue,   rusting metal,   nostalgia that aches,   the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT.   the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,   pouring rain and mud,   a child’s fear of the dark,  thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean,   the silence of three a.m.,  ouija boards and urban legends.

JACK KEROUAC.     the brisk pine air of being on a mountain,   travels without a destination,  those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,  screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive,   coffee shops late at night,   car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark,   naps spent in the sun,   novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins,  the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders,   ignoring flaws and loving life,   wind through hair,   depression as fog in the brain,   impossible ideals,   a quiet sunrise,   walks alone,   when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe,   dazzling people,   open lands stretching out into infinity,  falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.     the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog,   hollow bones,   a preserved heart held in hands,   twinkling stars above an old graveyard,   the way everything turns to dust,   silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom,   self-inflicted flames,   perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,   death as bricks in the heart,   lips barely brushing against each other,   glassy glazed eyes,   biting into a lemon,   heart-shaped bruises,   rotting flowers on a grave,   dried blood and spilled liquor,   the hush of dusk when it begins raining, the intimacy of a secret.

tagged by: @laslow ;* tagging: umm @fxlldia, @felltician, @sireneia, @latrocinari, @trickedmask, and ... anyone else who wants to !!!!