cigarette filters

tag yourself — tumblr pop
  • Halsey: reckless nights, driving around the illuminated city of L.A. / sneaking into old, abandoned motels with your friends that you’re probably never going to talk to again after high school, but you still say the term BFF all night / cigarette filters in tiny liquor bottles, stained with lipstick / chopping off your hair in a bathroom that isn't yours and not cleaning up afterwards / young love and genuinely believing it’s the end of the world when it ends after a week, finally believing the people who warned you / burning an american flag and throwing your more-than-half-full bottle of jack daniels into the flames
  • Melanie Martinez: alphabet blocks spelling ‘go fuck yourself’ / your stuffed animals showing up in places you don’t remember placing them / pastel nail polish that messily gets all over your fingers and hands / old photos of babydolls with a lazy eye and bashed-in faces / finally realizing the grim, origin-meanings of the nursery rhymes your parents read you as a kid / watching tom and jerry on drugs / knee-high socks with lacy tops and rip all along the fabric / getting the big-kid swing all to yourself because no one wanted to go to the park with you / tearing the heads off of your animal crackers and gummy bears
  • The Neighbourhood: standing at the beach at 5 pm, shallow waves crashing onto your feet / burning money you know you need and using it to roll blunts because you want that rich-illusion / driving through california in a white convertible, with palm trees all around you and a girl you just met sitting next to you, while holding her shawl over her head before letting it fly off into the wind / hawaiian shirts and faded, ripped jeans / leaving a small party early and coming home to your expensive suburban condo, falling asleep alone / the ghost of nicotine on your tongue after brushing your teeth
  • Twenty One Pilots: colder weather and leaves fallen off every tree / painting vent-quotes on your walls with black and red paint when you can’t sleep / sitting in the school cafeteria with your childhood best friend, jamming on a ukelele / dark thoughts at night that you turn into poetry / secret handshakes that only you and your soulmate know / scribbling out your monsters with a black pen on a three-hole-punch notebook
  • Lorde: demolishing stereotypes, the popular girls kissing the nerd girls, jocks showing up at theatre class / games of spin the bottle and 7 minutes in heaven / throwing on your drugstore lipstick and fishnets and catching a bus to a sketchy, glow-blog-material club that doesn't require ID / sinking under chlourine-plagued water with your best friend and yelling something, floating up and trying to guess what the other said / going to a house party on a saturday while sticking to white wine and your friend that dragged you there, but ending up actually having a really good time / not giving a shit about sports but going to a highschool football game to get out of the house
  • Lana Del Rey: marilyn-liner and fake lashes / oldies movies playing in the background / emotionlessly breaking expensive jewelry that your ex bought you / loitering at liquor stores until you're asked to leave / getting into a stranger's car solely because they're cute / getting drunk off moonshine and dancing on the pole in the center of the T even though you have no experience
  • Marina And The Diamonds: purposely popping your bubblegum as hard as you can when someone asks you to stop chewing so loud / poisoning a milkshake at a 50's style diner / the sound of pouring a handful of diamonds against a mahogany floor / pastel pink leather jackets with a number of feminism pins all over it / a beautiful bouquet of flowers from all the lovers you met with, 1-5 for each day of the week.
3

chapter one — neil josten let his cigarette burn to the filter without taking a drag. he didn’t want the nicotine; he wanted the acrid smoke that reminded him of his mother. if he inhaled slowly enough, he could almost taste the ghost of gasoline and fire. it was at once revolting and comforting, and it sent a sick shudder down his spine.

8

Neil Josten let his cigarette burn to the filter without taking a drag. He didn’t want the nicotine; he wanted the acrid smoke that reminded him of his mother. If he inhaled slowly enough, he could almost taste the ghost of gasoline and fire.

My aesthetic are femme fatales from noir films, diamond rings, dark lipstick stains on a cigarette filter, 1920′s bob, passionate kisses from old hollywood movies, elegant cafes, lacy black lingerie, palace halls, love letters, pink champagne, white pearls, corsets, grace, mystery, perfume bottles and vintage.

And the next day I love carousel horses, porcelain dolls, pressed flowers, white lace, innocence and delicacy, angel figures, scented candles, pastel skirts, moths, ribbons, victorian tea sets, flower crowns, loose hair, a schoolgirl look, carnival, pink glitter and all that is fragile.

La Belle et la Bête

(if this is your fault you know who you are, i’m using previously established au rules @megan-mayhem and i came up with and no one is allowed to judge me)


Wayne Manor was even more empty than usual, and the emptiness made it feel haunted. Diana found it horribly unsettling.

“Bruce?” she called, and it echoed through the empty halls. She opened the curtains in the front parlor to let the sunshine in. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here, I was in Italy.” She’d come as quickly as she could once she’d gotten his message, but he’d sent it in the dead of night.

Something’s happened. It’s not life-threatening, but I’m not myself. I sent everyone away to minimize the incident, but I think you’re the only one who can help. Come alone if you come at all.

“Bruce?” she called again. Perhaps he was downstairs. She listened carefully. There was the distant muffled clicking of a mechanical keyboard, intermittent and slow. She didn’t think she’d ever heard anyone in this house ever type so slow. Not even Alfred.

Her phone chimed. She checked it. A message from Bruce. In my office. She looked toward the stairs. The clicking had stopped.

Her walk up the stairs was cautious. What could possibly have happened to him?

In the hall, one of the side tables had tipped sideways. Its former contents had been neatly arranged into a stack beside it on the floor.

“… Bruce…?” She peered into his office.

She shrieked, then put her hands over her mouth to try to muffle her shrieking. It lessened to a high-pitched squeal.

“Tiny baby!”

“I am a grown man, Diana.”

He was a black Pomeranian of less than five pounds, standing on his computer desk.

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