Monterey Bay Aquarium

ellievsbear

roma★
occasionally subtle
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
🪼

tannertan36
tumblr dot com
we're not kids anymore.
Claire Keane
ojovivo
Jules of Nature
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
taylor price
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

Origami Around
hello vonnie
Misplaced Lens Cap

seen from United States
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@awkeye

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like for a lil’l sumthing sumthing
current mood
I think the exact same way.

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★ / / bold what your muse can do.
repost / don’t reblog.
bake a cake from scratch. ride a horse. drive a submarine. speak a second language. dance. catch a fish. play an instrument. throw a punch. build a deck. ice skate. unclog a drain. program a computer. change a flat tire. fire a gun. sew. juggle. play poker. paint. fly a kite. sculpt. write poetry. change a diaper. sing. shoot a bow & arrow. ride a bike. swim. sail a boat. do a back flip. play chess. give cpr. pitch a tent. flirt. stitch a wound. read palms. use chopsticks. write in cursive / calligraphy. use an electric drill. braid hair. make a campfire. make a mixed drink. do sudoku puzzles. wrap a gift. give a good massage. jump start a car. roll their tongue. magic tricks. do yoga. tie a tie. skip a rock. shuffle a deck of cards. read morse code. pick a lock.
tagged by : @resnero who’s perfect who’s beautiful who looks like LINDA EVANGELISTA who’s a MODEL everything about them is perfect did they stone those tights tagging : @mortemiisms , @uneaser , @tzedakahs , @ileviathan , @futubur , @helpthegifted , @shattersearth , @wirtt
also to add on from the last post’s tags: when you create something in a real life concept / person / event’s ilk and use it within an art medium ( whether it be a film, book, etc. ), you are usually using it to criticize said ideology. the fact that there is a metaphor for n.azism within the s.tar w.ars movies means that it is placed in there to criticize the real life equivalent of this group, and if the movies have done what they were supposed to, you’re supposed to see that they’re irredeemable scum. there’s no “ it’s just fiction ! uwu ”, because fiction and reality work side-by-side in an eternal feedback loop. reality affects fiction, and fiction affects reality, you cannot have one without the other, especially in this multi/mass media world that we’ve created. neither is there any validity in the argument of “ the fiction isn’t as bad as the real life stuff !! ” because you are literally practicing appeasement, and complacency / appeasement apropos to destructive ideologies such as n.azism, or a stand-in for n.azism as is in this case, leads to the people belonging in said groups assuming that they can walk all over you — and guess what ? that’s what ends up happening, and people will LET it happen, so long as they continue to spout that “ i’m a humanitarian !!! uwuwuwu ” bullshit. you cannot humanize any form of f.ascism, whether fictional or real, because these things coexist, and humanization → appeasement → romanticization → the allowance of these people to strip away the rights of those in minorities. why do you think WWII started in the first place?? because the UN relented and allowed n.azi germany to take land, under the guise of “ appeasement ” i.e. the belief that if you humanize this oppressive group, they’ll stop oppressing. but that DOESN’T happen — it NEVER has. they’ll KEEP taking, and people will CONTINUE to let it happen, because they’re too caught up romanticizing the notion of humanizing literal demons. you CAN’T defend them, no matter the argument you’re posing, IT’S LITERALLY IMPOSSIBLE TO DO SO WITHOUT ALSO ALLOWING THEM TO TAKE MORE FROM THE PEOPLE THEY’RE OPPRESSING.
a moment of silence 😢😢 for all the white ocs that blocked us today 🥀🥀
❤ its always more polite to softblock ❤
Then soft block me ??? I wasn’t aware you even followed me lol.
well you clearly could’ve done this privately and we wouldn’t even be doing this but here we go .
hi liz , clearly we got different views on kylo rens and ‘ space na.zis ’ but i’m getting the distinct vibe that one of us is white . anyways , if i followed you back then it was probably outta pity , if i followed you first then it was probably cause i was drunk cause we gays like to do that sometimes . i couldn’t give less of a rats ass about your existence till you tried to pull a jade jolie on me , but take this as a life lesson sister , you gotta step . it . down , debbie two shoes .
your character is named ELIZABETH ELLISON . you’re using some teen wolf fc , no psds or nothing . i never paid attention to you or your mary sue except i do remember you like getting elizabeth into some freaky nsfw shit with that kilgrave played by that fella who lied outta their ass about cherokee . your character is the definition of a basic tumblr white oc .
now instead of trying to start shit in the middle of the day , how about you try the get a fucking job challenge . do that challenge .

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TINKERBELL
HE REAPPEARS FROM BEHIND HIM -— Hands on hips, he looks mildly disappointed in the other, “ wow, you sure put up a helluva fight, bro, ” lips curve into a smirk, “sooooo …. Y’caught me ! So whaddya want to talk about ? ”
hands in his pockets , his voice shrinks to his ribcage ; guys like delsin make him feel twice his age . breath condenses in the air . “ WORD ON THE STREET is , you aren’ from around here . ” not that clint is , either , but who’s counting ?
BOBBI
hands over her knees, she leans forward to get a better look. wants to help, doesn’t necessarily know how. she doesn’t like that. “ only five guys. ”
disbelief, heavy in her tone. if they were ten years younger, he woulda caught an EARFUL from her. now, she’s just tired. she reaches out, slow and tender as ever, brushes her thumb underneath a blooming bruise. “ you concussed ? anything broken ? ”
“ not YET . ” the way he says it , the certainty hangs , hooks into the trademark pessimism of a plaster - mold heart . a dry smirk , chuckle bare to his jawbone , all as if to say , ‘ part’ve the job , isn’t it ? ’ .
clint’s spine to the wall , the men’s voices boil down to a murmur , but the thunder of their footsteps reverberates down into the floor : they’re definitely punching outside their WEIGHT CLASS . “ got any ideas ? ”
💋 + surprise me lol
kiss kiss fall in death / accepting / @awkeye.
i chose jawline and lips for this
‘ hold still. ‘
logan is no shoddy medic. a life time of war has forced knowledge into him – healing factor consumes inflicted wounds, but humans, friends, team mates? there is no recovery without attendance. he does not coddle, holding clint’s arm in place with one hand, the other judging the wound and the bar of metal holding it in place. a claw protrudes , middle, left; he hacks one side of the metal, just above clint’s skin, turns the limb and repeats the process. the claw hooks the edge of the metal and slips through with ease, tip pressing against the other side; he slides it out, precise and slow. it clatters when it falls, and the claw retracts.
the wound is tied hard with a clean towel, logan gestures. ‘ hold this to yer arm. ‘ his torso swivels as he retrieves his lighter and the flat knife he’d nabbed from clint’s utensil drawer, lighter flame flooding across the metal. he holds it there, murmurs. ‘ s’gonna hurt like hell. you got no anesthetics. sewin’ would hurt more, so … little pains. ‘ the metal comes away, and logan unravels the towel, places clint’s hand on his shoulder blade, which gives him easier access to the bridge of his arm – and gives clint the option to squeeze into his tendon and muscle, if the pain overwhelms.
knife taps grotesque flesh, only for a second, and again, further, this time; the underside follows, a feathery touch, despite the inherent pain of the instrument. logan sets it aside when he is sure the blood has stopped, and retrieves the towel, gingerly dabbing away what remains on tightened flesh. this is the third wound tended to by the wolverine in the last ten minutes – logan works with fast, deft hands, and no hesitance. ‘ ointment an’ gauze. mupirocin. ‘ he balls the towel in his hand and simply sets it aside.
then he sits with barton, after retrieving the six pack from his fridge. he’d debated on making commentary on the notable lack of content – but it’s reflective of what his own used to look like, and the hypocrisy would eat him away. so he doesn’t, electing instead to set the pack between his feet, and put his teeth to the edge of a cap, popping it off on the sharp aperture. this one, he offers to clint, and sees his dull stare (a not-all-there, pain-glaze) turn into something else, somewhere between what logan interprets as a pinch of fear and curiosity. the other is for him, teeth to metal, and logan relishes the little burn as the alcohol finds his tongue.
ten minutes of silence, before clint speaks. his unmaimed arm hooks around the back of his wooden chair; logan hears the creak it makes, but clint does not, enhanced senses tuned to even subtle disruptions. he hears a pulsing in the archer’s throat, and finds himself shifting in his seat, placing his emptied bottle in the space in the carton. you jus’ gonna sit here for the rest of the night? clint asks, then he moves, and logan almost laughs at the suddenness that overtakes his fellow avenger. not that i’m really complainin’.
logan lifts his shoulders, drops them. ‘ considerin’ i just fixed up ‘bout three of yer wounds, yeah, you’d be an asshole ta tell me ta go. actually – ‘ he leans forward, arms pressed into his knees. ‘ i was gonna get ya th’ shit you need ta keep em from gettin’ infected, drop it off an’ go. i got ta prepare my lecture fer tomorrow, still. ‘ logan isn’t able to read clint, after that, who is still possessed by his usual – lethargy that isn’t because he’s just tired, deep melancholy that he wades through because dying means other people will die. yeah, logan gets it. he’s just better at hiding it. (shockingly.)
alright, barton says, and logan wonders if it’s just resignation – he’s too stubborn and too hard to argue with, teeth and tongue, snarls, fingers balled in the back of the neck like a mother with her kitten’s nape. i’m, i’ll come. logan’s mouth worries into a line that says he’d wanted otherwise, but he doesn’t argue, instead allowing clint to lead him to his car, and claiming the drivers before he can say he’s good enough to drive.
logan says nothing on the drive, lets the radio talk, lets clint fuss with it – his car, anyhow, he would listen to whatever was put on (with only mild complaint.) he makes clint wait in the car when he pulls into a quiet parking lot and maneuvers out, disappearing into the pharmacy. his return is a mere five minutes later, carrying a small, plastic bag. logan prompts it to clint (or, drops it into his lap) when he is back in the car – gauze, paper tape, the aforementioned and suggested ointment, otc amoxicillin, a cheap pair of kid’s scissors (for the tape–logan didn’t bother to ask if he had any lying around at home). ‘ no painkillers. ‘ he’d assumed clint wouldn’t want to bother with weak acetaminophen, as the effects would be too minuscule to nurse pains from combat wounds.
and he doesn’t have oxycodone. the last doctor logan willingly saw was in 1973.
the drive back as quiet as the drive there, until clint talks, and he sounds like he’s coughing up blood, struggling on conversation. logan only catches half of it – uh, thanks, i – do you wanna – hey, look – logan.
logan stops the car, shifting the gear into park and turning the key. the illuminated gas and speed counter fades out, the headlights abruptly shutting off. they’re in front of clint’s apartment, and it looks like it takes clint a moment to figure it out. logan is suddenly on the other side of the passengers door, offering his hand so his friend doesnt have to limp his sorry ass to the door, and clint takes it; logan feels his fingers slide up his wrist rather than his hand, which strikes him as odd.
hey, uh, wait – that’s all logan catches, the rip of passing cars and the thrum of barton’s heart too loud in his ears, why does he hear that?
clint’s teeth knock clumsy into the edge of logan’s neck, where his jaw meets, and the wolverine freezes, does nothing to remove or reciprocate the anticipated gesture. his lips finally catch skin, smile line, and logan softens, considerably; clint’s hand is wrapped up in the plastic handle of the pharmacy bag, and it catches logan’s shirt, above his navel, below the arc of his ribcage. like he’s trying not to fall, but he isn’t even close.
logan looks down, lips parting. he anticipates when clint moves against him, sees the archers back bend to accommodate height differential; tastes the beer when clint kisses him. but one beer isn’t enough to get him drunk (logan cant remember if hawkeye is a light weight, but he does know it’s not a sensitivity that’s that weak.) the little plastic bag bumps logan’s front; it’s a long kiss that isn’t soft, but is far from crushing.
there is a lingering moments when clint pulls away that logan takes to breathe in, soundless; his foot shifts back into some snow. he doesn’t know what clint wants – some people want sex, some want friendship. some want love and security. others don’t know. logan’s always wanted honesty, and anything that didn’t make him feel like a beast – but not to a superficial point, soft cooing and you aren’t evil, logan, like he didn’t know he wasn’t the wolf.
clint would never do that, there’s no question. logan only breaks out of his thought when he realizes he’s been standing, mostly still, for a good minute or two, coming to to the vague sound of barton’s chagrined and shying voice.
‘ you don’t gotta ask me if kissin’ me is okay, clint. i’m a hundred years old, not twenty. but i still gotta prepare my lecture, no matter what ya mean by it. get ta sleep an’ — i’ll call you after the kids get out of class. ‘

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when the avengers radio in ‘ hawkeye ’ and kate and clint both show up
NAMOR
“ HOW ARE YOU so talkative? ” it’s not a malicious question, meant to just shut him up, but one oddly sincere. namor recalls the times he was the only one able to take bullets out of others’ sides, shrapnel from their legs, or whatever from wherever else; whether he was QUALIFIED to or not. it always made him panic a bit, if only on the inside.
apparently, head wounds really do make him nicer ——– if only temporarily until he remembers he’s got a reputation to think of. the needle stings as it passes through the torn skin of his forehead and temple, and even touching a bit on his cheekbone. it’s an ugly thing, but it needs stitching before it heals the wrong way. “ assassination attempt. ” comes his brief answer, as though it was embarrassing for some overpaid idiots to wound him this much.
“ helped myself to some smirnoff when you weren’ looking . ” it’d be funny to anyone else but him ; but his kind of humor is a low gate , a certain GRAVITY toward sleep – deprived puns and drunken rabble .
white floss twirls round , round an index finger , red clotted needle navigating the gap . narrower , narrower , the cracking knuckles parlay over crumpled t – shirts ( outta gauze ) and empty flasks ( outta disinfectant ) , and you’d get the distinct vibe that he’s done the same song ‘n dance before , regality notwithstanding . some fuckin’ night nurse .
he winces to that , crinkly eyes and a parting glance that reads like sympathetic . “ man , it looks pretty messy for an assassin . ”