#morning in LA

[picspammer]

Love Like Blood by Killing Joke directed by Peter Care Morning In LA by White Lies directed by Chris Hugall

[the-architect-of-ferrari]

I am now the captain of this ship. What should we call them? Paulos?

[toodle3316]

Not them looking at each other and laughing 😭

Cr:@technorodrigo on twitter

[waverlyyhaught]

Favorite Marta and Fina Moments - Part 86 Sueños de Libertad, Ep. 171

[subzeroparade]

every evening, the Choir gives each pearl slug and augur a little kiss goodnight ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆✧˖°.

[meep-meep-richie]

Crumbs

[ohshinytrinketsmine]

My Ex-Morning (Trailer)

[oswinsdolma]

something about how merlin and arthur both died the moment they became a story. how in becoming a legend, they sacrificed the versions of themselves that were real for the infinite potentiality of the versions that could have been. "the story that we have been a part of will live long in the minds of men" but at the cost of the lovers who wrote it, fragmented across space and time by a thousand new imaginations that keep them alive in all that they never were. when we read their story, they are broken and reborn anew, so does that make us murderers or gods? or maybe the whole point is that there never really was much of a difference between the two.

[emaadsidiki]

At the Crack of Dawn

The morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness.

~ William Shakespeare

[garygoldenbignaturals]

when i found out bloodlines' anniversary is two days before my birthday i knew i had to do something for it. my gift to u all

[boschintegral-photo]

Fort De La Conchée Saint-Malo, France

[mangomaduro7]

[To the tune of “🎶Troy and Abed in the morning 🎶”]

[snakeguy999]

My beiatiful princess

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode nationale, no. 385, 9 septembre 1893, Paris. No. 7. — Chemise de nuit en batiste. No. 8. — Grand col, en mousseline brodée. No. 9. — Matinée en batiste. No. 12. — Dessus de corsage en dentelle. Bibliothèque nationale de France

No. 7. — Chemise de nuit en batiste, à petits plis sur le devant, ornée par un grand col garni par une haute dentelle; manches également garnies de dentelle.

No. 7. — Nightdress in batiste, with small pleats on the front, decorated with a large collar trimmed with high lace; sleeves also trimmed with lace.

—

No. 8. — Grand col, en mousseline brodée, à trois rangs, attaché autour par un nœud de ruban à longs pans.

No. 8. — Large collar, in embroidered muslin, with three rows, tied around with a long-tailed ribbon knot.

—

No. 9. — Matinée en batiste, ornée devant par une dentelle faisant pointe jusqu'à la ceinture; grand col marin entouré de dentelle sur manches semblables, garnies par un volant. Nœud de ruban à l'encolure et à la ceinture.

No. 9. — Cambric morning gown, decorated in front with lace reaching to the waistband; large sailor collar surrounded by lace on similar sleeves, trimmed with a flounce. Ribbon bow at the neckline and waistband.

—

No. 12. — Dessus de corsage en dentelle de Venise blanche. Devant uni, à col montant, garni sur les épaules par de hauts jockeys semblables.

No. 12. — White Venetian lace bodice top. Plain front, with high collar, trimmed on the shoulders with similar high jockeys.

[ghostbeam]

charcoal artist!dabi x reader, first meeting, takes place before the other drabbles, he is a bit of a creep, his feelings sort of boarder on obsession, dabi is taller than you, suggestive language at the very end but it’s barely anything

He’s staring at you.

Eye’s flickering in between you and the spiral sketchbook in his lap. Concentrated, eyebrows furrowed, hand flying furiously across the page. You aren’t sure how you hadn’t noticed him before with his dark hair sticking in all different directions, black boots heavy on the grass, sapphire eyes piercing, lost in you, in the page. No one’s ever looked at you like this, you think. 

You’re trying to be discreet, looking back down at your book when you see his eyes rise from the page. You’re not retaining a single bit of information as you’re suddenly focused on what he might think of you, how much of you he’s noticed, if you’re sitting weird, if your face looks wrong while reading. You think he’s cute, pretty, almost delicate, all eyelashes. 

You turn the page, not having read the previous one, and then look back up at him. Except this time, your eyes meet. Your breath hitches. It’s a little bit electrifying, paralyzed by his stare like you’re the one who got caught instead of the other way around.

Dabi feels his jaw fall open slightly at the sight of you, staring straight at him. Had you seen him? Did you know? He watches you close your book, not even checking to mark your place. You stand up, still looking at him. Dabi feels his heart drop to his stomach. You’ll call him a creep. You’ll run away. 

“Can I see?” He doesn’t know how he hadn’t noticed you getting closer. You’re all he can focus on, but you’ve surprised him. Can I see? Dabi thinks about the first time he saw you, right under that same tree, some text book bigger than his body sat in your lap. He felt the breath knocked out of him like some lovesick sap, not like himself. He didn’t even know you, but god, he wished for you. He did, like some idiot standing in the middle of the walkway closing his eyes and wishing on nothing, wishing on, well, you. 

Standing in front of him now, he sees now more than he ever has before that you’re every piece of art he’s ever loved all wrapped up in one. One portrait of you would be enough to satisfy him for a life time.

Only that’s not true, because he hasn’t been able to stop drawing you. It’s not enough, to sit across from you and capture your likeness in strokes of black charcoal. Over and over and over again, your cheeks, and your hair, and your lips in a pout, and your eyebrows all pinched. He can’t get enough. It’s almost miserable, except it’s heaven. 

And now here you are, standing over him and looking at him expectantly. Part of him wants to hide it away, keep it for himself, but that’s not fair because it’s you. It really belongs to you, should be yours, but Dabi is nothing if not a little possessive. 

Standing this close to him, you can see all of him, the pink puckered skin that spreads over him in various spots, the bit of black around his fingertips, the sun shining in his eyes. God, his eyes are blue. Could that color ever be mixed, replicated, brushed onto a canvas and still make you feel the way looking into his eyes right now does? You don’t think it could, and you don’t see the point in asking the man who works with charcoal before you. 

“It’s me, right? You’ve been, um, looking over there, so I thought…” You speak, suddenly afraid that it wasn’t you he was focused on. The thought of him being lost in the scenery on the campus behind you suddenly makes more sense than him paying so much attention to you, but there’s no mistaking that his eyes were on you the last time you looked up. 

“It’s you.” He manages to speak, suddenly very conscious of the rasp in his own voice. “You—I’ve seen you sitting there. Couldn’t help myself I guess.”

It’s one way to explain it, definitely less creepy than the fact that he saw you and felt like he might die unless he could put you to paper. 

You hold your hand out, a little impatient, more out of excitement and a little nervousness than anything else. He stands up, and your struck with the fact that he’s much taller than you. He places the sketchpad in your hand, and you force yourself to look away from his face.

You fill the page, almost every blank space filled with your face in different expressions and your body sat in different positions. He had to have been sitting there for much longer than you though to have been able to draw all of these. It’s all you, but it’s him, this piece of him that he’s allowing you to look at, take a peak inside. You want to see more. You want all of him. You want to take and take and take, and not because he has you trapped in his pages, but because it’s not enough to know him through just these strokes and smudges. Even if he lets you keep this, you’ll look at it every day, this piece of his soul, and wish it was the real thing.

It’s the same way he’s felt about you for the past couple of days. 

“Do you have more?” You ask him, a little breathless. 

“Of you?” He asks, but he thinks that it was probably stupid of him to say. He feels exposed, but by his own words and the way you look at both the page and him like your seeing him in a way no one ever has before. 

“Anything.” You shake your head. “All of it. I want to see it all, you—you’re very talented.”

You clear your throat awkwardly, the excitement, the desperation beginning to feel embarrassing. The stunned look on his face makes you feel self conscious, and maybe you should just walk away or leave him alone. 

But he wants to show you everything. 

He writes his address across your palm with a pen he’s pulled from his back pocket. He has classes during the day on Mondays and Wednesdays, but he tells you that you can come by any other time. It’s strange, you think, for him to give you his address instead of his number. It feels fast, and stupid, to meet him at his place without knowing anything but his name. (Dabi. A name that feels like it was meant to fall from your lips, and he would agree). 

But he’s ripped out the page, placed it in your palms, and told you he’ll see you later, like he’s always known you. It’s not enough, to look at your face made from his hands in lines across a page. You want to feel them on you, over your skin, grabbing and taking, your want and his. With a piece of his heart in your hands, you decide that no matter how stupid, or fast, or intense it might be, you’ll go to him.

[skyloftian-nutcase]

Wild looked up, bewildered, when music started to gently serenade him. He glanced at Twilight, who clearly had turned it on with his phone, as his friend stared intently at the screen.

“What are you doing?” Wild asked.

“I gotta learn the lyrics to this song,” Twilight said seriously.

Wild scrunched his nose as he listened to the lyrics. “That’s Zoran. You can hardly speak Hylian with your accent sometimes.”

Twilight threw him an exasperated look. “It can’t be that hard. Since when did you know Zoran?”

“Since I just heard it,” Wild huffed with a smirk, though hearing the language brought a twinge of pain to his heart. Whatever memories were locked away… they…

“Oh, is that Life in Pink?” Malon called from upstairs as she came into the living room, a smile on her face. “Ah, I remember hearing this in my honeymoon.”

“Twi wants to sing it,” Wild said, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Got yourself a date?” Malon asked with a smirk, hands in her hips.

Twilight rolled his eyes. “No. It’s for a patient. She’s a Zora girl, she’s far from home, and she said it’s her favorite song.”

“Aw honey,” Malon said gently, putting a hand to her heart. “That’s so sweet of you.”

“Twi… you can’t sing,” Wild noted, staring at his friend with his eyebrows scrunched together.

“I know that song,” Time hummed as he entered from the kitchen.

“Yes, it’s from our honeymoon!” Malon confirmed cheerily. “Twi’s learning it for a patient.”

Time blinked a few times, mouth moving as if he were about to speak, and then he thought better of it.

“He was gonna say it too!” Wild noted, pointing at him.

“I can sing just fine!” Twilight grumbled.

“I’m trying to figure out if you’re gonna make her laugh or cry,” Wild cackled.

Twilight crossed his arms, growing steadily grumpier. “Ilia’s gonna be singing with me. She’s learning it too.”

“Oh good,” Wild sighed in relief. “That’ll make it better.”

“You’ve never even met Ilia!”

“Her singing has to be better than yours.”

Twilight huffed, turning to ask for Time and Malon’s input, when he caught sight of the couple slow dancing in the background. Wild paused and turned, and the two men smiled at the pair, who were lost in each other’s eyes and living in a time past as the music floated in the air.