#it is GORGEOUS

[tiniest-hands-in-all-the-land]

Played the Silent Hill 2 remake. Got the bad ending. Loved it (the game not the ending 😭😭😭)

[nick-cassidy]

📸: porschepenskemotorsports on instagram

[thegreenleavesofspring]

So for the past... fifteen-ish years (I'm not precisely sure) the only hair restraint I have used, with very very rare exceptions, is the Flexi clip from Lilla Rose. In no small part because it's the only restraint that actually WORKS on my hair.

Anyway over the past... however long I've been using them, I've had two. (They're quite reasonably sturdy.)

Unfortunately my 'current' one broke last night. My own stupid fault, I shouldn't have worn it in the pool, the metal didn't like the chlorine and it stressed it and then I tried to destress it but only ended up stressing it the wrong way and... anyway. Snap.

Now this thing is not technically a necessity, in that I won't die without it, but it's also not a necessity the way diapers and toilet paper aren't exactly necessities. Theoretically they're not practically speaking they are.

I agonized for a stupidly long time last night and a friend was very patient and helpful in helping me make a decision but anyway...

Y'all look at the one I finally chose!! (I got size L)

*vibrating with excitement*

[robotvsheroinbattleofvietnam]

[russenoire]

i would like to remind the people squabbling in the notes on this post that pronouns do not necessarily equal gender identity (and that gluck was identified with 'she/her' pronouns in her lifetime, as the author of the rather thoughtful article above points out).

it is considered polite these days to default to they/them pronouns when there is uncertainty about what a person being referred to would prefer for themselves. all pronouns are assumptions; in the absence of other readily-understood pronouns in english, i would rather journalists do this than make more explicitly-gendered assumptions. (for gluck herself, there is some existing precedent, as she doesn't seem to have objected to being called 'she' in print.)

also gluck's art is amazing. i would rather focus on that myself. that self-portrait above is defiant and fierce and bleeds personality.

Gluck (b. Hannah Gluckstein, British,1895 - 1978), Gluck, 1942, oil on canvas; National Portrait Gallery, London.

"The artist Gluck consistently broke gender norms. They wore masculine clothes, cut their hair short and smoked a pipe and, in 1918, in their early 20s, adopted the genderless name Gluck ('no prefix, suffix or quotes'"

[lastoneout]

This website is too mobile focused these days. Reblog and tell me what your desktop/laptop background is.

[luvrofbeauty]

[fairytaleprincessart]

[ionomycin]

Grief

ref photo by @jawsstone

[turbulentic]

(I genuinely don’t know what this is but it’s what I thought of when I saw this delightful, beautiful image so here goes nothin’ I ‘spose. (also I hope it’s okay to the og creator that I wrote this :)))

CW: mentions of blood.

Now on ao3 longer and more polished

There is a fist gripping tight and undeniably right and sure around the (for once) languid, steady beating of his heart that he does not dare think about trying to detach himself from. Does not care to do so in any sense of the meaning. At all.

To want. To have. To keep. It’s all the same.

This grip that cradles his heart muscle. This grip with skin of palm and finger mixing with the bite of sinking nails into internal flesh that still, somehow manages to read as comfort even through the sting.

A heart that is distinctly and impossibly alive against the ephemeral nature of such a thing.

Against the impossible past occurrence of once having not been.

This man and his arm that sinks, hand, wrist, and forearm deep into and seeking for home inside his chest, working along with the wrought strength of his sternum and the cage of his aching, breathless ribs to keep him safe, —however loosely they use that word nowadays, it still has its meaning close by—. And his skin, his skin that peels back in layers of derma and fascia in a silent and open welcome, a beckoning of stay here. With me.

How this man's flesh and his own motley together in a garish, ugly display of aching, sensual and formidable connection. A miscellany of vein and muscle and too cracked, too old bone that interweaves a tapestry of ever present and ever connected, sewn together nerve endings that are almost always, —perpetually, even—, transmitting some form or feeling of pain.

Because in a world like this one, where the only real thing to them is bleeding, feeling alive without such a thing becomes… difficult, to say understatedly.

This man, who has gifted him the familiarity of his own existence extending out between them from old minds, and even older bodies, (defiant of what there carbon dates might say,) and that whole-existence comfort that only comes with such a nightmare of a life, adapted to by human people moulded by hurt. Their own and other’s,

—and that way, way deep inside, against unimaginable, spirit-splintering things endured and notwithstanding, and in the benefit of only spite and fight-of-will, maybe—,

That; they have and can somehow manage to whether it all and claw their way out of the rubble each and every time and find themselves young of soul at the end of a sort (that always begins again, hurtling towards another already collapsing finish line as quick as the next, if can ever really be called such a thing if—,) that meets them there. (‘End’ and all its meaning is used very sparingly and entirely too loosely of its original clause in this phase they’re in.)

This man who’s here. Here now. In a way so few people have been, couldn’t or could and decided not be. Close. Inside him in a visceral but distinctly non-physical way, despite how corporal the feeling may be described.

This man who is close. But not close enough.

Not for himself. Not for his need, nor want; But his innate desperation.

This man and his grip that prompts a thought.

A thought so terrifying, excruciating and soul-shattering, —and the thought goes like this; that him, the owner if that hand would ever let go, pulling away, slipping from the settled space made from him, from them, for him, and leaving it hollow. Open. A gaping orifice of lonesomeness (a home without its inhabitants is just a house after all), —A distinctly harrowing, insecure speculation that sinks into him a heavyweight-dread he cannot hold nor shake or lighten.

Only try, with the inevitability of failure looming high and low, saturnine and eerie in their surroundings, to bear it. Harbour the weight, just as much as he claws for the hope of feather-lightness. To be buoyant again.

However,

There is lead in his stomach, lead in his bones and deadened muscles that are keeping him from such a peace. And a cloying, not-abating fear on his tongue that makes his mouth gummy and sticky to the point that he himself is surprised he can get the words out.

“Hold me,” he tells him.

And he does.

Without question, hesitation, or displeasure.

And he does. He holds him. Tight and right and just as sure as his rib deep grip has been, and, he thinks, will continue to be.

He holds him. Tight and right and just as sure as his rib deep grip has been, and, he thinks, will continue to be.

He holds him. Tight and right and just as sure as his rib deep grip has been, and he thinks, will continue to be.

Without question, nor hesitation, or displeasure.

He does.

Without question, nor hesitation, or displeasure.

Progress wip.

Apocalyptic au.

[rearobservatories]

This angle proved to be extremely effective. It has drastically changed how we view selfies at the observatory. :P

[catchymemes]

[fairytaleprincessart]