Louis Garrel by Mario Sorrenti
cherry valley forever

çĽćĽ / Permanent Vacation
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
wallacepolsom

romaâ

Kiana Khansmith
Not today Justin
Sweet Seals For You, Always
đŞź
RMH
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Claire Keane
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

blake kathryn
Monterey Bay Aquarium

if i look back, i am lost
Keni
ojovivo
hello vonnie

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@misskittyriley
Louis Garrel by Mario Sorrenti

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Louis Garrel por Yann Rabanier para o Le Monde.
I wanted to be on your side
Ugh goddess

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3/13 - Deleted Scenes from the Sherlock Chronicles - From âThe Reichenbach Fallâ - (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13)
Sherlock âI want Moriarty!â
Lestrade âWell. Itâs mutual.â
Eeeep!
Richard Brook and Kitty Riley, Â Â f l a t m a t e s
I love newspapers, fairytales.Â
this time i won't
He found his place on the page again, as quickly as heâd lost it. She was here again, because heâd summoned her, and they were doing the thing they always did, acting like theyâd only ever been friends and avoiding the issue. Come over for a drink. Weâll order a pizza. Good wine, good company, some top-shelf romantic/sexual/emotional tension. Make a night of it. It was an old game for them, but it was like theyâd forgotten the rules. Since Sherlock, since everything. He was fucked up, she was overworked. God, she worked too much. It was stupid.
He drew back from where he was leaning on the arm of the sofa.Â
"Hungry now? I could wait a bit."
Kitty shrugged, looking down again. It hurt to look at him sometimes. Thinking of him, when she was on her own, just in her head, that was fine. He was static and still and steady. But here he was all full of a life she didn't quite belong in and she didn't want to think about why it hurt, it just did. But then looking away made it look like she was uncomfortable, and there was nothing to be uncomfortable about, was there. He was good drunk and she was fine. She smiled up at him determinedly.
"Order in a bit, it'll take a while to get here anyway."

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this time i won't
One of the many things that made Langdale Pike so brilliant at his job (and there were many things, that was why he was rich and pseudo-successful and sort of famous) was his ability to read people. Read their emotions. Assess their motivations. Predict their responses. It was how you got them to tell you things, or do what you wanted them to do. It wasnât a skill that was compromised by alcohol intake, and Kitty had certainly never been immune to it. He could usually figure her out alright, at least when she was right there, in person. On sleepless nights, when nothing from a bottle or a pill could shut his brain off or slow it down and the world was dark and cold and terrifying, Kitty Riley was one of lifeâs cruelest mysteries.
His eyes narrowed.
It was like he'd lost his place on the page. Had to trace back to re-read a sentence, but couldn't find where he was.
Ah, well.
He tilted his glass again, determined to catch her eye.
With a half-grin:Â "To unapologies."
Kitty couldn't help glancing up at him again, and then couldn't help smiling back at him. Why did he have to look at her like that? She couldn't describe it, but it made her stomach drop with the significance of it. Or leap. She took a large mouthful of wine and smoothed out her blouse where it had folded itself into a sitting position with her.
And then she couldn't help looking up at Langdale again, trying to catch his profile when he wasn't looking at her. She was trying to think of some way to ask about the texts that had brought her here without actually asking about them, but all she could think was that he looked tired. His eyes were bright and he kept smiling at her, but he looked tired.
this time i won't
"My hair," the blogger announced theatrically, bouncing, childlike, to retrieve a new bottle of red and open it with a flourish, "is a work of art and a protest against the unrealistic expectations of a society obsessed with appearances and superficiality. It is untamed and unapologetic."
He set two wine glasses on the bench, filled them expertly. It was all high energy and pomp, distraction from that gnawing heâd felt in the pit of his stomach at the sound of her knock.
"Your hair," he added, kneeling beside her, elbow on the arm of the sofa, "is flawless."
He offered her a glass and extended his own.
What were they celebrating?
"Your hair is not a metaphor," Kitty said, unable to hold back a smile despite herself. "It's a mess."
This was good drunk. It would be okay. She'd smile at him and humour him and wouldn't have to muster up the courage to lecture him about how the drinking was a problem, because it didn't seem like a problem, not tonight. He was being charming and she knew how to play off of that role with one of her own and it would be okay.
"And my hair is the very realistic result of a society determined to keep me locked up in an office twelve hours a day, seven days a week, for not enough pay to get a decent haircut. It is as equally untamed and unapologetic - although I suspect I have better excuses for it than you do for yours."Â She took her glass with a pointed look at him and clinked the lip lightly against Langdale's, but didn't drink from it. She held it in her lap instead, as something to look into during sudden silences. "To unapologies, hmm?"
She didn't mean to keep making snide comments at him, they just kept falling out, because it felt like even if it would be okay, she might not be. He just kept bouncing along, one drink after the next, everything working out anyway, and, sure, he'd wake up with one hell of a hangover tomorrow, but who would make sure there was aspirin in the medicine cabinet before she left tonight? Beside, it wasn't like their relationship wasn't built on snide comments and sideways looks. They were forgiveable.
this time i won't
"When was the last time youâŚ" Heavy-lidded eyes squinting slightly as he looked her up and down, his voice trailed off. Gave up quickly. "Shut up. Come in. I was thinking pizza. Though I hear itâs quite the multicultural urban jungle out there. We could go crazy. Wine?"
She stared at him in silence for a long moment, trying to work out just why she'd thought this time would be different.
She couldn't find an answer quickly enough, so she let her arms fall to her sides and shrugged her coat off, already slipping into the old routine, her usual spot on the sofa.
"Pizza sounds good," she said. "Wine sounds..." If she said terrible, he'd keep drinking anyway, wouldn't he? "Wine sounds even better. Not too much, or I'll be asleep in ten minutes. What have you been up to? Aside from not brushing your hair."
this time i won't
gutter-press:
Why does she keep coming back?
He wasnât complaining. He was desperately grateful, but he wasnât sure she knew that. Or maybe she did. Maybe that was part of knowing him. So few people knew Langdale Pike â actually knew him, as a human being â and they were all sensible enough to keep a safe distance and most of them fucked off eventually. It was standard procedure. Kitty was different and he didnât know why. She had read so far past the headlines, she should have crumpled him up and tossed him out years ago. Yet, here she was, still turning pages, still answering when he called. Still not sick of it. It was mad, really. How long did he think he think it could last?
The blogger cursed himself with every breath as he hauled himself out of bed, pulled on some jeans, changed his t-shirt for a clean one. Cursed himself for always getting it wrong, for never knowing exactly what it was he was trying to achieve with her. Why did he test the limits like this? Throwing it out there that he was drunk, as though he were excusing himself for inviting her over. To justify a request that wasnât really a request. (No pleasantries. No thought to what sort of day she might have had or if she had plans. He might as well have texted, iâm a selfish prick, come over.)
What sort of drunk did she expect tonight? What sort of drunk was he? He didnât even know. He was drinking wine.
When Lang was a little kid heâd had a plastic pirate action figure whose sword-arm had snapped off. His gran had super-glued it back on, told him not to touch it while the glue was drying, but curious little fingers had pried it apart when her back was turned. He had wanted to observe the process. As a result, the glue had done the basic job of reuniting man with limb, but if you tugged at it, it would still come away, attached to the torso by threads of sticky, gluey sinew.
Pike poured himself another glass and knocked it back in seconds. It was alright. They could order pizza. Watch a movie. It didnât matter. He just needed her here. He flopped down on the sofa, picked up the remote, pointed it mindlessly at the telly. Didnât take in anything of the sounds and lights filling the room.
Kitty knew the fine-print. She had seen the rough drafts. She was close enough to smell the ink, and she could tell it was toxic, surely. Still, she ran to his doorstep again and again, and he didnât understand. Couldnât understand why she let him use her like this. As an escape, a distraction, a pastime, a crossword puzzle he never finished.
There came the familiar knock at the door and Pikeâs stomach gnawed at itself.
Sober, day-to-day, he liked to think (or feel, at least, foolishly) that he could keep her⌠compartmentalised, somehow. She was another column; separate from the rest of it, from the scraps of daily life that made up his total existence. But in truth, Kitty Riley was anything but separate.
If anything, she was the glue.
Pike ran a hand through his dark curls and opened the door to his realest friend.
He was terrified of her.
If he'd been sober, he'd have been able to tell how exhausted she was. She worked longer and harder hours than anyone else at that tiny local paper because she had everything to make up for and prove. Her social life was rushed phone calls to the odd old friend who hadn't followed the Brook story too closely and a long-scheduled lunch with her mum whenever she was in town. And Langdale Pike, the one constant.
Langdale Pike, who made her sigh on sight to disguise the way just seeing him standing there like that knocked the breath out of her.
Langdale Pike, who wouldn't notice that she suddenly felt a lot like crying, or who would notice and would pretend anyway that everything was fine, just like every other night, TV and pizza and gossip that was becoming less and less heartfelt because it was pushing them further and further away from what was at the heart of it all.
Lang, who was ruining everything this time, for himself and for her. And them. Was there a them? She wanted to cry.
She smiled.
"You look like shit," she said matter-of-factly, pushing him gently aside with a firm palm on his chest so she could finally, finally, finally kick those heels off and leave them beside the door. She turned back to face him, hands on her hips, pursing her lips with eyebrows raised. "When was the last time you brushed your hair?"

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this time i won't
i'm drunk, come over
And she hated herself for dropping everything - the late night working, the impending deadline, the microwave meal still waiting on the kitchen counter, the promise of a solid six hours of sleep before work - to grab her bag, still unpacked from work, and head out the door again. She turned back only to discard the suit jacket in favour of a more casual coat, and hated herself for still caring what he thought of her appearance, but she only ever wanted to be Kitty around him, never Kitty Riley. The pencil skirt and heels threw off that image, but he wanted her there, so she went, because she could still remember with piercingly painful clarity how it felt when he didn't want her, not there, not anywhere.
How many nights like this had there been now? She'd lost count. Maybe she was numb to the sight of him like this now, sprawled out across the sofa laughing at his own jokes on good nights, whimpering over the toilet bowl on worse ones, but that didn't stop her heart from hurting as her feet followed the familiar route to the underground and then to his front door. And then back to the casual daytime texts, the afternoon phone calls, hushed and conspiratorial because she was at work, the promises she made to herself that this would change, that he would get over this, that she only had to be there for him, be his friend, for something to give.
you'll do.
But how many nights like this would there be from now? How many until she could no longer deny that she was, in fact, one of those women she kept swearing she'd never be again. She didn't want to keep hanging on. She loved him - Christ, she adored the stupid bastard - but she didn't know how much longer she could stand it being like this.
And she was furious. She kept everything calm and caring when she was around him, but she was furious that, after everything, this was still what was happening. At what point did his crimes become worse than hers, so she was allowed to discard the gentle hints, the subtle sympathies, and tell him to get his act together before he lost everything? She kept telling him that she wouldn't leave him alone, that she'd always be there for him, that they'd be okay, even as she kept telling herself that every night like this would be the last.
And yet, night after night, she found herself here, buzzing herself in and knocking on his door, hoping that this would be one of the good nights.