Mount Ararat from Armenia
Cosmic Funnies
trying on a metaphor

Xuebing Du

tannertan36
styofa doing anything
Cosimo Galluzzi
we're not kids anymore.

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

Misplaced Lens Cap

@theartofmadeline
Sweet Seals For You, Always

★
NASA
Jules of Nature
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Stranger Things

seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Türkiye

seen from Japan

seen from United Kingdom

seen from Colombia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Türkiye

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@bonner-khardt
Mount Ararat from Armenia

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
They all knew and understood it would end this way. Who, if not them—the probability witches—could hear the dry crack of breaking historical branches? She herself had screamed about it in the classified meetings, pounding her fist on the table, jabbing a finger at graphs where the curves had long and inexorably slipped beyond the red lines of the permissible. The numbers, cold and merciless, added up to a single verdict: the country was living out its final days. They had calculated the agony down to the date, measured the decay in percentages.
But knowledge is not a shield. No formulas could prepare them for the day when a worn-out "gazik" pulled up to the doorstep of their institution, and a frightened, pale officer jumped out. His orders were abrupt and insane: disperse, destroy everything possible, and the uniforms… "Hide the uniforms, cut them up, burn them," he whispered, glancing around. "They anger people. The new people." People intoxicated by a strange, furious freedom that smelled of smoke and broken glass.
For the first year, she couldn't sleep without vodka. Two glasses in the evening—a ritual to numb her mind. But every night she woke at three o'clock: drenched in a cold sweat, sober to the point of horror, and gripped by an animal, silent fear. And the torment would begin again: running through alternatives, the endless "what if?" What had she missed? Which variable had she failed to account for? What magical coefficient could have propped up the collapsed reality? It was a theoretician's nightmare, trapped in the ruins of her own prophecy.
After a year, the money ran out. And paradoxically, it became easier. The acute, physical task of "survive today, find food tomorrow" burned away the agonizing introspection. Hunger is an excellent cure for existential dread.
And so she devised a masquerade. A fortune-teller. A prostitute of statistics. Her thin lips twisted in disgust at the thought. But the new world, the world of young "businessmen" (if we're honest—just frightened, brutal boys with money and guns), turned out to be superstitious to the point of trembling. They, who played with death every minute, desperately wanted even a glimpse of its blueprint. The rumor of the "old woman who finds things with pinpoint accuracy" spread quickly. And they began to pay.
She looked at these guys, at their brazen but empty eyes, and soon stopped peering into their probability fields further than a month ahead. The picture was monotonous and horrifying: a bloody fog, a short flash of pain, and—a cut-off. Death, death, death… She learned to give them what they wanted: coordinates, names, enemies' weak points. And she tried not to see the ones whose threads she effectively severed with her calculations.
And only in rare, cursed moments of idleness, when a thick, dusty silence hung in the apartment, would the true horror wash over her. What kind of "peacetime" was this that they had all been so eager to enter? A time where boys die not on battlefields, but in back alleys over a wad of cash? Who would grow out of this bloody mess? And would anyone grow up at all?
From these thoughts, a chill would spread inside, and her hand would reach for salvation on its own—for a cigarette to fill the void with smoke, and for a glass to drown this new, monstrous world in vodka for a while. A world her talent for forecasting had proven so terrifyingly accurate about.
It was all that fool Marina's fault. Scared out of her wits, she'd blurted out: "Go see this old woman, she does this kind of fortune-telling..." And Artem—he was already at such rock bottom that he clutched at this straw. Desperation, and the bottle of vodka he'd drunk for courage, did the rest. The amount stolen was no joke—it wouldn't end well for him, for Marina, or even for her nasty little mutt. They'd bury them all like puppies.
And here he stood, huge and clumsy, in the middle of this labyrinth of strange clutter. It smelled of dust, old paper, and something bitter, like wormwood. His leather jacket creaked in the silence, the briefcase with its meaningless papers hung like a dead weight, and on his shaved head he felt the chill of a draft. He was a stranger here, superfluous, a bulldozer that had crashed into an antiquity shop.
"Did you bring it?" The voice from the semi-darkness wasn't raspy or old, but low, thick.
"Ah, yeah..." he fumbled nervously in his briefcase and held out the color-printed photographs. "I think it's this asshole who stole it," Artem blurted out and immediately fell silent, as if he'd bitten his tongue. Her gaze, which he finally saw in the light of the candle she was lighting, wasn't just severe. It was all-seeing.
"'He thinks,'" the voice chuckled. The shadow from the dancing flame twitched on the wall. "Well, see, you know it all yourself. Why come to me, then?"
And then Artem looked closer. And was stunned. Why had he thought she was an "old woman"? Her face in the flickering light—not wrinkled, but etched with soft shadows. Her eyes—not cloudy, senile ponds, but black as coal, sharp and penetrating. The hand that took the paper—with smooth, even skin. She... she wasn't much older than him.
"This one," the witch-woman set aside a scrap of paper scrawled with numbers and unfamiliar symbols. "With a probability of... ah, never mind. He took what's yours. And most likely..." With a deft movement, she pulled from the pile of folios a worn, ordinary, cheap-looking map of Moscow from Soviet times, on thin, tissue-like paper. Her fingers, long and confident, picked up an old wooden ruler. "Here, they're somewhere around here." The tip of the ruler rested on a tangle of streets in the center. She measured distances not from the edge of the map, but from some invisible points marked in the margins. The silence in the room grew thick as honey, and Artyom held his breath, feeling goosebumps run down his spine.
---
When the latest "bull," reeking of hangover and fear, had clattered down the creaky staircase, Yekaterina Petrovna exhaled sharply. The sound was dry and weary, like the rustle of old parchment. With annoyance, almost with vehemence, she swept a pile of heavy folios off the table. They thudded dully onto the carpet, raising a cloud of dust that glinted gold in the slanting beam of the streetlamp. Those books were useless for today's work, but they were a crucial part of the set dressing, playing their role in the performance she was forced to put on every evening.
That's how it goes. First—you're a respected scholar, a brilliant theorist, one of the strongest probability-witches of your generation. You make the most delicate calculations, where the slightest percentage probability decides the fates of divisions and political currents. You work for the good of the country, charting its future like a complex graph on the coordinates of historical probabilities. And then... Then there's no job, nor that very homeland in whose name you broke your head over matrices of possibility. Now your lot is to help young blockheads and panic-mongers. Either to find who stole from them, or—more shamefully—to figure out how they can steal. Or "artistically improve" the situation of their offender. It's the same work with probabilities, only the scale, damn it all, has shrunk to the size of someone else's wallet or personal vengeance.
She reached for the cup of long-cold tea. On the wall, like a ghost of the past, fell the sharp shadow of the compass lying on the map of Moscow. Once, this instrument had drawn charts of different influences. Now—it was tracing the lair of a petty thief in the labyrinth of the city's sleeping districts. Yekaterina Petrovna brushed a strand of gray hair from her forehead—hair that had once been chestnut. The bitterness on her tongue wasn't just from the tea.
Iga choosing which player she'd want to be stuck on a deserted island with
and Sabalenka's response
what if you were women's #1 and #2 in tennis and you choose your main rival to be stuck in a deserted island with because she will hunt for food and she says she'll do everything to keep you safe and to survive but if there isn't any food she'll eat you. what then. 😳
Dragon Age: The Veilguard - Morrigan Reveal

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
The abandoned city of Pripyat, Ukraine.
Oh to see this place ((
are you sure
Rude
KATIE MCGRATH AND RUBY ROSE IN THE SAME ROOM?!?!?!!? Rue when was this
@bonner-khardt 👀
There is no ME in the room. So..
Pedro Pascal on Saturday Night Live. 02.04.23 // 10.21.23
Tarja Turunen ➤ Dark Christmas Trailer
Nice

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I feel as pretty as her, so I'm sorry for posting myself in this cosplay alot lol, I'm not sure what my next cosplay will be💋🖤
She got the vibe i am telling you
Shida looking amazing tonight as Ada Wong from Resident Evil
Ada giving a ride to her boy.
Ps: and he is all like: are we serious🥺🥺
some of my resident evil 4 actor au (more parts to come!!)

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
If I had a nickel for every time a Servant/Malewife adopted and brought home a Blonde Normal Girl for them to raise with their Mistress/Wife, I'd have two nickels, but it's funny that it happened twice.
my dark twisted secret is i always use my turn signals whenever possible because i believe they were included in vehicles for a reason. i’m a bit of a freak this way. a weirdo
many funny and true things going on in the notes. but also
what the hell is going on up there.
Bmw drivers would never