starter   call,   _{my   dudes .}

^{i’ve   been   through   it   all,   baby.   i’m}      MOTHER   COURAGE.     //   _{previously hcwtovogue.}

columbointeriors:

Red Wine: Any Old Port in a Storm, 1973

(via timcurrry)

* rcsetinted.

                    _{Columbia  took  MEEK,    SMALL  steps  behind  Liz,    arms  outstretched  with  the  intention  to  catch  her  if  she  lost  her  footing    (  which  would  be  NO  SURPRISE  as  she  stumbled  around  so  ).    Small  frame  was  SLOWLY  LOWERED  into  a  kneel  onto  the  dirtied  carpet,    hands  resting  upon  the  older  woman’s  thigh.    Eyes  were  QUICK  TO  WIDEN  once  the  truth  that  Liz  blamed  herself  was  vocalized.    Her  palms  quickly  moved  to  grasp  either  of  Liz’s  forearms.    ❝    NO,    it  isn’t,    ❞    she  said  in  a  firm  voice.    ❝    You  saw  the  best  in  her,    it  isn’t  YOUR  FAULT  that  she  isn’t  what  you  thought,    ❞    Anger  directed  towards  the  woman  who  had  WRONGED  her  friend  so  severely  flared  within  her  chest.    ❝    This  is  not  your  fault,    ❞    she  said  again.    ❝    SHE  did  this,    and  she’ll  get  what’s  comin’,    ❞    Columbia’s  voice  grew  quieter  with  each  word  as  a  LUMP  formed  in  her  throat.    It  was  just  so  wrong.    What  kind  of  universe  would  allow  such  an  INJUSTICE  OCCUR    ???    Columbia  took  a  deep  breath  and  wiped  at  the  corners  of  her  eyes  to  catch  the  tears  which  had  BEGUN  TO  BUD  yet  again.    Why  couldn’t  she  just  keep  herself  together  for  Liz    ???}

                                 ^{ATTEMPT   after   fruitless   attempt   to   stop   the   tears   rolling   down   splotchy   cheeks,    she’s   given   up   :    hopeless   endeavors   to   gather   herself,   to   square   her   shoulders   &   pretend   to   be   okay,   ceasing.   the   previous   desire   to   keep   up   the   act   of   normalcy   for   columbia’s   sake   is    gone,   a   broken,    aching    heart    now   ruling   where   a   once   wise,   world - weary   mind   had   resided.   a   feeble   protest   to   the   younger’s   resolute   statements   is   expressed   through   the   shaking   of   her   head,   hands   parting   from   their   light   hold.          ❛          i   should’ve   never   even     –––          ❜          stopping,   unable   to  continue,   the    bitter   tang   of   regret   pooling   ‘pon   her   tongue,   ridden   with   denial   &   blame.   tristan’s   blood   is   on   her   hands   :   an   irrefutable   fact   set   out   to   plague   her   bleeding   heart.   a   heavy   shudder   of   a   sigh   harrows   a   frail   chest,   an   effort   to   catch   her   breath,   &   without   fully   realizing   the   weight   of   her   actions,   she   rests   stained   palms   on   top   of   columbia’s.   at   long   last,   she   manages   to   make   some   semblance   of   eye   contact   with   the   younger    ––     fleeting,   but   there     ––     makeup  in   ruins,   with   words   still   but   a   meager   whisper,              ❛          i’m   sorry      ––      i   don’t   mean   to  .  .  .  burden   you   like   this.         ❜}

(Source: rcsetinted-a-blog, via rcsetinted-a-blog)

She traced his jawline as he slept, her heart fluttering as a small smile graced his lips. She felt as if she could live in that moment forever; the moment between her finger brushing his skin and the smile appearing. It was soft, and simple, but it felt like everything. In that moment, she felt beautiful. Not because she actually was, but because even while he was asleep her touch could cause a smile, and that was more than enough for her.

(via sunshcned-blog)

* brokenragdoll.

_{Sally could hear her, yelling shit about split mattresses and how much it costed them to replace each and every one of them — turn the hotel into a decent place for tourists to crash into. But would she interrupt her morbid needlework and look up to actually pay attention to what Liz had to say? Cleopatra of all people should have known her better by now, goodness knew they all did. Inch after inch the mattress was being sewn back together, her hands working with delicate skill as she handled both needle and thread —— the passed out man ( halfway trapped inside and still coasting off an almost lethal dose of China White ), Sally’s personal marionette she would keep until death and time did what they knew best. “You don’t like it? There’s the fucking door.”}

                             ^{exasperation   laces   expression,   scalding   tongue   brought   to   a   shocked   halt.   she   should   expect   nothing   less   from   their   resident   junkie,   but   the   hope   for   letting   sensible   heads   prevail   clouded   a   narrow   focus.   headway   had   hardly   been   made   on   the   renovation   of   this   century - old   hotel,   &   already,   roadblocks   began   to   pop   out   every   way   they   turned     ––      sally,  being   a   prime   example.   palms   come    to   rest   on   shifted   hips,   brows   lifting   in   evident   disbelief.    slow   is   her   approach   to   the   bed,   hoping   to   somehow   appeal   to   the   girl.          ❛            sally,   please.   be   reasonable.   stuffing   people   into   mattresses   isn’t   the   best   way   to   go   about   companionship.           ❜}

(via brokenragdoll)

(Source: cosmicgurl, via )

The wounded recognized the wounded.

(Source: wordsnquotes.com, via )

* fullcfrage.

                          ^{any   other   time   he   decided   to   be   there,   perched   upon   the   cushions,   feet   were   kicked   up   onto   something   nearby   –   this   time,   they   remained   flat   on   the   floor.   for   once   taking   in   the   atmosphere   of   the   cortez,   there   wasn’t   anything   that   could   numb   that   uncomfortable   experience   prior   to   his   arrival.}

                          ^{power had   been   one   of   the   more   attractive   components   with   agreeing   to   harbor   the   virus.   being   the   countess’   sex   slave   to   further   her   personal   gain   however,   held   no   interest   to   him.   but   tristan   wanted   to   keep   his   head…   specifically   for   the   woman   stepping   into   the   lobby.   too   late   to   let   the   uncomfortable   knot   in   his   brow   go,   callused   fingers   mussed   through   stained   locks.   glancing   to   her,   his   mouth   felt   dry.         ❛           –   shit   happened.   that’s   it.           ❜}

                  ^{previously   halted,  stilettoed   feet   begin   to   tread   carefully   upon   worn   geometric   carpet.   she   strides   to   perch   next   to   tristan   on   the   couch,   palm   coming   to   rest   ‘pon   his   thigh   :   a   gesture   of   comfort   void   of   ill - intentions.   the   lobby   is   empty,   spare   the   pair,   &   the   risk   they   run   of   being   caught   red - handed   is   pushed   aside   as    concern    blossoms.}

                  ^{silently   &   with   a   keen   eye,   her   gaze   is   cast   to   meet   his,   nearly   hidden   beneath   a   furrowed   brow.   never   before   has   she   seen   the    other    this    upset,   &   for   that   reason,   she   continues   with   a   certain   amount   of   heed.        ❛         ––    okay.  .  .         ❜        she   leads   in,   tone  soft,   but  inquiring,   nonetheless.   words   lack   the   familiar   patronizing   notes   often    found   within   her   speech   when   consoling   anyone   else.        ❛         would   you   care   to   elaborate ?         ❜}

(via fullcfrage)

(Source: mina-roses, via timcurrry)