#thee isolators

[musickickztoo]

CONTRA2022 - 16 NEVER STOP (all new)

TRACKLIST:

01. The Guy Hamper Trio (+ James Taylor) - Fire 02. The Men - God Bless The USA 03. Man...or Astro-Man? - Distant Pulsar 04. Les Big Byrd - I Used To Be Lost But Now I'm Just Gone 05. Sparklehorse - It Will Never Stop 06. Free Refills - Support Hours 07. Parent Teacher - evEryThiNG's NoRMaL 08. Smirk - Hopeless 09. Bass Drum of Death - Say Your Prayers 10. Baaba Maal - Yerimayo Celebration 11. Thee Headcoats Sect - The Baker Street Irregulars 12. Thee Isolators - Crying Eyes 13. The Violet Mindfield - Tell Me 14. Beautiful Señoritas - Change My World 15. traumahelikopter - Please Don't 16. Connections - In Space 17. Alien Nosejob - Mouldy Dough 18. New Buck Biloxi - My Hole

The 16th playlist of the year!

Listen: https://www.mixcloud.com/Contraflow/contra2022-16-never-stop-all-new/

[mlobsters]

supernatural s11e20 don't call me shurley (w. robbie thompson) be still my beating heart part 3 of ∞

[steakout-05]

random thought but i love the idea of Herobrine being less of an explicitly evil character and more of a weird cryptid thing that exists by accident and can only be perceived at long FOV distances by humans, forever being sort of isolated from the rest of them to only be seen partially obscured by the fog. he physically exists, but can only be perceived as though he were a ghost. he's very curious about other humans, watching over them as they traverse the world, but he means no harm. this can often look like stalking behaviour which can freak other humans out and make him seem menacing or off putting. scrambled throughout the world are legends and scriptures written about this mysterious being that make him out to be terrifying and threatening. warnings, spells and summoning rituals are seen scratched across the walls of ancient catacombs and ruined civilisations. locked inside dusty chests are torn and withered parchments scribbled with illustrations that depict him to be some sort of monstrous eldritch creature, perhaps mistaking something more terrifying for the legends of the strange man all should beware that have persisted for centuries. others depict him more as a silent, stalking shadowed figure, lurking behind trees and mountains with unknown intentions.

the only reason he exists is because of a strange bug that causes a duplicate of the main player to generate along with the world, and no matter how many times the developers of Minecraft try to remove him, he always quietly comes back somehow, implying that the rules of the game they created has developed into its own ecosystem that is slowly developing its own independence separate from the game, and that Herobrine is an integral part of it. he might possibly be a remnant of an ancient experiment or society that has long since disappeared, but for whatever reason, Herobrine still persists.

[muirmarie]

having one of those weeks where I'm having to aggressively remind myself that my friends wouldn't be friends with me if they secretly hated me, and that I need to reach out to ppl and make plans and text and etc to feel better, and that Wallowing in nobody-likes-me-everybody-hates-me-guess-I'll-go-eat-worms is literally the worst possible thing I can do for my mental health, even tho it sounds so nice and easy to fall into it lmaooooooo

[dullahandyke]

Films good movies good banshees of inisherin was good

[graysongraysoff]

i finished mating in captivity today on my forever commute btw and i wish i had written it down before returning the audiobook but perel said something that really resonated with me about how everyone wants to feel like there's someone out there to whom they are irreplaceable and hahahaha aaaaaaaaaaa

[lem-argentum]

uri is soso so so so so SO pretty in the cinematics like ooouou hi i want to cup your face endearingly in my hands and watch your ears get red /platonic

[august--and-everything-after]

This one guy I made friends with on the trip is genuinely so funny and good-natured and energetic and you'd have absolutely no idea from his instragram cause it's all black and white photos with edgy captions and song lyrics. Tbh relateable.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

though i eventually got to read some, in earlier years goosebumps books would be the kind of series where i'd just ponder the cover art, and i always liked the drama of the monster blood illustration (the lighting/colors....sure nothing's happening in it but i felt it evoked the drama of "what if you're downstairs and something's upstairs" much like "what if you're upstairs and something's downstairs") like well too bad i guess i never got around to reading i at the time. but as of a recap yesterday i'm surprised to now be at least 90% sure i read part if not all of it, and thinking i hadn't may be due to how kind of nothing happens in it

[cleversteel]

him. just him. (arena 2022 winter)

He blinks once more.

For as still as Colm was, his heart was still racing from the force of waking up. There was no blinking through the darkness, and there were no new enemies to be fought. His eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and he realizes it: he’s awake. (Actually awake!)

He expects to be injured, although he feels stupid afterwards for checking. You’re awake now, the boy thinks, and that meant the dream couldn’t hurt him. He wasn’t scarred or sore or bloody– heck, he wasn’t even bruised. He was him.

Just him. Just Colm.

The shock wears off and the boy finally gets out of bed. Immediately, he thinks of the others. (Were they okay too? Had they won the battle even after he’d died?)

You let yourself die. Twice.

That was two times more than he’d expected yesterday, and it was more than enough dying for his lifetime. This wasn’t just death and the others move on. It was death and then you come back and then they feel that pain again. He hadn’t wanted them to worry, but he– he–

Shoot, he felt like crying. It was a sensation he’d witnessed second-hand all the time. It was the way your eyes start stinging and your nose already starts clogging, and suddenly your eyes get wet and at a certain point, you just can’t control yourself–

He knocks his head three times. Quit your crying already, won’t you? If you want to make things right, first figure out if there are things to fix at all.

It’d be pretty stupid if he felt bad over a dream only he had. (Although, he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t funny too.)

He wipes off his face with his bare arm, half-expecting to meet cloth or armor and then being shocked by reality again. Even as he stood and felt the ground as solid, that feeling just wouldn’t vanish. Any moment now, he’d shift, and another monster would be there for him to fight.

A hero wouldn’t cower though. He’d get up and fight for his friends.

A deep inhale follows, and then the hero prepares for adventure, donning armor and sheathing his daggers. He wasn’t sure about Serra and Hilda, but Seliph and Veronica were Black Eagles too! That meant, without a doubt, that they’d be in Rusalka with him. With his incredible eyes, he could easily find them, and then, he’d know the truth of that dream.

And, if he was right and they remembered him, he’d apologize. For the dying. Thief’s code of honor.

[yououghtaknow]

biting and killing and biting and killing

[annabelle--cane]

attitudes on this site are so weird. Making Art is essential, holy, almost mandatory to earn your place in humanity, but Consuming Media is the mind killer, base and passive and numbing to the soul. storytelling is literally thee most important thing in the world but if you really like reading / watching / listening to stories as your main hobby then you are sooo fucked in the head. everyone go sit quietly and write a trunk novel in complete isolation and then burn it so no one's mind gets polluted with saccharine fictions.

[izzysarchivedblogs]

Whether Tony actually doubted him or not was not knowledge he had, but he did just assume that he had to prove he could cook. He might have issues, chunks of time where his apartment was a mess and so was his life and he got stuck like that. Isolated, made really bad decisions, had multiple breakdowns but he was fine.

Sure, he wasn't on the Avengers right now and he wasn't doing anything major, but he was still Hawkeye and he was fine. He had to prove that and sleeping with Tony Stark wasn't anything weird or major to be concerned about. Did he want it to happen again? Kind of, did he expect it? No, would he try to forget about this? Depends how much time passes, was he going to tell any about this. No, and he's pretty sure that Tony wasn't going to either.

They could be normal about this and still be friends. He'd rather cute off his arm than permanently lose anyone in his life.

When Tony asks what are you gonna do today, Clint sighs at the finger spelling. ❝ Stark. ❞ He says, than raises his hands up. Both hands form Ys and he bounces them up and down. ❝ Today. ❞ He repeats the gesture.

He's never seriously thought about how to teach others, when Kate started signing to him that had came as a surprise he never expected. She was a lot better at it today, and had been committed to refining her knowledge on it. Natasha had already know, some job she had once, though she confessed she wasn't as familiar with american sign as opposed to another sign language.

❝ Do what. ❞The next thing part of the question, his fingers change to a pinching motioning with his index and thumb pointed up. Than his hands transition to open wide, palms up and shaking the hands lightly. It end with his dominant hand pointing to today. ❝ You. ❞

Put it all today and it makes the question he asks, although Clint had put in his aids and turned them on. Finger spelling was good in a pinch or for one words and short words. ❝ They are on, by the way, and what I am going to do today is work out. Exercise. ❞ His hands make fists, and he lightly moves them up and down with his arms raised slightly, as if he was holding a weight. It's a sign that jut made sense.

❝ World's greatest archer doesn't stay world's greatest without it. ❞

Tony laughs and shakes his head, but he lets Clint have it. He can feel smug about proving Tony wrong even though Tony never doubted him in the first place. The breakfast was good enough to allow for that.

He glanced out the window. He wondered if anyone was wondering where he got to. He supposed he had a tendency to just disappear so chances were he was just going to be yelled at for up and leaving without warning by someone with red hair when he got back in.

He looked back at Clint and tapped his foot. "What are you gonna do today?" he asked. He pointed at Clint and finger spelled out do and today, in the hopes that helped get the question across.

Tony was not good with silence with other people. Or at all really, but especially not when other people were here. And even though he knew there was a good reason that Clint wasn't really able to have a conversation right now, it still seemed to trigger some kind of trauma response in Tony. It niggled at the back of his head that he was in trouble for something. Or that something was expected of him. Plus, he was genuinely curious. Clint had been so keen to get Tony to stay when he'd shown up, Tony was worried he might be isolating - a problem he too was guilty of regularly.

[nereidprinc3ss]

in the dead of night

in which spencer wakes up in the middle of the night with an overwhelming desire to feel you

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: fem!reader, soft dom!spence (certified nereidprinc3ss classic), sub reader, fingering, piv sex, praise, overstimulation, cr**mp*e (god pls we need a new term) a/n: this is probably THEE most self-indulgent thing i've ever written. but.... lowkey favorite smut i've posted thus far..... i'm such a sucker for disgustingly sleepy needy sex. just.... read it and u will see.... and as usual i love you!!! PLEASE tell me what you think!! MWAH

When Spencer got home around one in the morning, he’d been too dead on his feet to do anything more than get undressed, fall into bed, pull you close, and pass out. Now he’s slightly disoriented as he stirs, pinned between sleep and wakefulness as he realizes how you’ve curled into his side—your face is buried in his shoulder to the point where he’s concerned about your access to air—but each warm puff against his neck assures him you’re breathing alright. One arm is slung haphazardly over his shoulder and your top leg is wound around his. Without thinking, his hand cups the back of your thigh, stroking the bare skin where it presses against his hip. You’re never so soft as you are in sleep; plush, easy, gentle. Spencer realizes with some degree of frustration that he has to fuck you. That’s why he’s awake, and he condemned himself to the fate of it as soon as he touched you. 

Sometimes the impracticality of sex becomes so apparent he resents his own mammalian, biological drive to reproduce. It was never like this before he met you. You reduce him to nothing more than a primate doomed to follow its basest instincts. You make him feel stupid. 

God, he loves you. 

It’s with this in mind he drops his head to kiss your shoulder—a gentle sort of wake up call, as his hand snakes further around to your inner thigh and he presses his lips to your ear. 

“Baby?�� he murmurs, kneading the smooth warmth of your leg. It doesn’t take much to wake you up. He thought after you’d been staying at his apartment on a semi-regular basis you’d begin to sleep through him getting up and coming home at odd hours, but if anything, you became more sensitive to the floor creaking or the mattress dipping. 

“Hm?” 

His fingers brush the fabric of your underwear. Your hips twitch. 

“Is this okay?”

You inhale deeply, readjusting your arms around him and nodding into his chest. 

“I need yes or no, angel.”

“Yes, please.”

The words aren’t desperate. They’re sleepy, mumbled, maybe even a little annoyed that he’s making you jump through hoops. The corner of his mouth twists in amusement at your perfunctory politeness and the way it poorly disguises your habitual impatience. 

“Thank you,” he says, rewarding you with his fingers pushing between your folds through the fabric. You say nothing more as he unhurriedly rubs your clothed clit, but he feels the way your breath catches for a moment—before pouring out in one deep tide. He presses slightly harder, transitioning from passes to slow, tight circles that elicit the tiniest, sleepiest moans. This goes on for a while until your hips begin grinding in isolated circles, chasing his hand. 

“Touch it,” you beg quietly. He can feel how damp you are through the fabric and realizes he was probably torturing you for several minutes, but sometimes he just gets so lost in touching you it becomes almost meditative. He pulls his hand away and snakes it between your bodies, sliding beneath your underwear and dragging his fingers over your puffy clit. You whimper but he quickly gets distracted when he realizes just how wet you actually are. Spencer sinks his fingers into you and moans lowly at the sound, rubbing at a spot deep inside you and rutting his palm against your clit rather than pumping his fingers. 

“Breathe,” he reminds you when he realizes how still and silent you’ve gone. A small amount of air escapes in a tremulous little cry as your hips roll gently against his hand—whether to escape the sensation or get closer is unclear. “You’re all wet, baby. Were you touching yourself before I got home?”

“Mhm,” you hum weakly against him. “Couldn’t come.”

Spencer feels like he could finish at the thought alone—the nightly phone calls while he’s away occasionally devolve into desperate phone sex and he’s gotten off to the image of you playing with yourself in his bed on more than one occasion. 

“We’ll make you come,” he promises, dragging his fingers from your soaked heat with bated breath. 

He pushes your underwear down first, until you can kick it off your feet (you’ll have to search for it between tangled sheets tomorrow) and then his own, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth as his cock brushes your tummy. Spencer hoists your bent leg further up his body, exposing your cunt a little more and reaching underneath your thigh until he can guide himself between them. 

The head of his cock pushes between your folds momentarily before he’s teasing your swollen clit, slipping the underside of his tip over it in lazy, noisy circles until you whine. 

“Stop it,” you beg, voice still strained with sleep, “need it inside.”

“You’re right, baby, I’m sorry,” he croons, pressing his lips to your hair as he notches his cock at your dripping entrance and slowly begins to push in. “You’re being very patient—”

He cuts himself off as the two of you moan in filthy harmony. You’re so worked up for him, so defenseless in your half-unconscious state that he slips in with far less resistance than usual. 

“Fuck, me,” he groans under his breath, hissing and bucking his hips when you tighten around him and cry out. He shuts his eyes and thinks of the Goncharov conjecture in an attempt to control himself; the i-th cohomology of the complex is isomorphic to the motivic cohomology group—and then he’s fine. He’s at least learned to stop rattling off mathematical paradoxes out loud during sex. “You okay?”

The only answer you have for him is an indecipherable whine that makes his chest ache. He rubs your thigh in sweet, soothing passes. 

“I know, I’m sorry.” A thought occurs—he chuckles breathily, seeing stars as you throb around him. “You never let me in that easily.”

“Mm,” you squeak, gripping his shoulder hard enough that it aches and he truly couldn’t care less, “you feel good.”

He exhales shakily, pulling out slightly before grinding his hips even deeper into yours. 

“Yeah? So do you, sweet girl.”

“Fuck,” you whimper, and he takes it as a sign that you’re ready to be fucked. Spencer’s not thinking about a whole lot as he withdraws all the way and you clench around him desperately—but somewhere in the back of his mind he’s realizing how much he loves your dirty mouth. When he was younger and dumber, he thought he’d prefer a girl who was soft-spoken and rarely (if ever) cursed. Now that he’s had you, he realizes how compelling and endearing the contrast of your soft voice is when you’re swearing like a marine. 

“God, I missed you,” he breathes into your hair as he leisurely finds the right pace and you melt against him. “I missed how soft and wet you get for me,” Spencer admits gently, eyes screwed shut as he rambles from a place of profound affection and not at all thinking clearly, “and I missed how you cry when you need it so bad it hurts, and I missed how sweet you are when you let me fuck you right after I get home and you’re so tired, just like this. You’re always so good, honey, I don’t know what I did to deserve you—” You whine and clench so hard around him it becomes an effort to push back in, and he groans as he realizes you’re already coming. “Good girl, baby. Holy fuck.”

That last part is more so whispered to himself, but he can’t help it as he feels you painting his cock with your release. You’ve never come this quickly before, and he slips his arm beneath the crook of your knee, pulling up and granting himself more access to fuck you harder and faster. You moan brokenly, sinking your nails into his back. 

“‘m sorry. That was—I didn’t mean to.”

“No,” he quickly assures you, breathing hard, “that was so good, baby. It was perfect. Don’t apologize.”

It seems the brief window between climax and over-stimulation has passed, and a gasp falls from your dropped jaw, arching into him as your body unconsciously tries to find relief from the sensation. 

“Oh, god, Spencer, I—”

“You can take it, we’re getting close,” he promises. Not a demand, but meant as encouragement. “Do you think you can come for me one more time?”

“I don’t know,” you slur, the words rising to squeak. 

“I think you can. Come on, show me how you were touching yourself earlier.”

You whimper, but slide your hand from his shoulder and push it between your bodies. A gasp accompanies the jolt of your muscles as you make contact with your clit, probably demanding too much of it. Soon, however, the conflicted mewls melt into a rhythmic string of delicate, short moans, so pretty it’s like a practiced song. Spencer’s brain, usually overflowing with words, is nothing but a void of swirling fog—each of your perfect sounds, a little burst of light. Soon he’s making noises of his own, which you obviously adore if the way you tense around him is any clue. Usually he sublimates them into words, but he’s too tired, and you feel too good. Your combined moans, along with the sound of him fucking you and the sheets moving over skin make for a truly dirty soundscape. 

“Will you come inside me?” you beg breathlessly, and he can feel the movement of your hand speeding up as you get desperate. He sucks in a breath through his teeth at your plaintive request—the words bring him that much closer to finishing. 

“Yeah, baby. I’m—fuck, I’m not going to last.”

“Spencer—” and somehow, when you say his name like that, he knows exactly what you want. He bows his head and finds your lips, mostly blind in the dark, kissing you messily until that split second where his grip on reality becomes tenuous before the building pressure finally bursts. Multicolored fireworks explode behind his eyes as he moans against your lips and continues fucking you through his orgasm in strong thrusts for as long as he can. Thankfully you finish again just as he’s running out of steam. He rubs the spasming muscles of your thigh deeply as you writhe against him in your typical push-pull style—you don’t know what you want and it’s his job to hold you still and make you take it. After a moment you quiet down, stilling in his arms except for the continued expansion and contraction of your lungs. “Oh my god,” you breathe. “I can’t believe I did that. That’s so embarrassing.” Spencer chuckles breathily—kisses your forehead with his eyes still shut and slips a hand under your shirt to rub your back. 

“Why is it embarrassing? I liked it.”

“I have never—it’s never been so fast! It’s not supposed to be!”

“Why not?”

You huff.

“You’re the man. Men come too quickly. Not me.”

“I’m sorry you had to have two orgasms instead of one. Next time we’ll make sure you don’t come so we can even it out.”

You bury your face in his shoulder once more, immediately softening. 

“No! I take it back.”

“I thought you might.” His hand slides down your back, squeezing your ass affectionately. “Let's rally. We need to clean you up, angel.”

The pillow muffles your voice as you say, “I can’t. I’m asleep.”

“Can I record you saying that for playback in the morning when you ask me why I let you go to sleep with my come inside of you?”

“Spencer, I am seriously not moving. You woke me up. This is not a me problem.”

That makes him laugh, and he presses his lips to yours softly. After a long moment of his mouth moving slowly against yours, a needy little whine rushes from your nose, and it becomes evident he’s successfully kissed the attitude from you.

“You were so good, honey,” he murmurs against your lips. Another (shorter) kiss. “Did so well. I’m proud of you, baby.”

A second soft whimper from you as you chase his lips and he gives in once, briefly—knowing he can’t make you get up after this. How could he do that to such a sweet girl when she’s obviously completely exhausted? Jesus, you have him whipped. He recognizes that. And he made peace with it a long time ago. 

“Go back to sleep. I’ll clean you up.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, already slipping back into unconsciousness like you knew you’d get your way. Knowing your boyfriend, you probably did. “I love you.”

“I love you. Even though you’re a princess.”

You laugh. 

Ten-ish minutes later, once he’s done the best he can cleaning you up and is throwing the covers back over both of you, you startle him slightly by speaking. He thought you’d been asleep. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you sigh dreamily, snaking your arms around him once more. Spencer’s cheeks heat up at the memory of the praise he’d shamelessly lavished upon you not long ago. He’s glad you’re barely awake, because he’s too flustered to think of a response. 

He loves it when you do that. 

[asterdeer]

ohhhhhhhh i actually want to like. die lmao

[carrotpiss]

Hm