twilight tone

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Twilight Zone - Twilight Tone - The Manhattan Transfer ‎(Extensions, 1979)

Albarrán Cabrera :: The Mouth of Krishna n. 520. Toned gelatin silver print.
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“In the presence of eternity, the mountains are as transient as the clouds.” Robert Green

source: Instagram / more [+] by these photographers in this blog

more [+] by these photographers in pairing blog (in color)

  • Discord: I miss Fluttershy.
  • Twilight Sparkle: Well, you still have me.
  • Discord: It's not the same, Twilight. I can talk to Fluttershy about things that I can't talk about with you.
  • Twilight: Okay, well like what?
  • Discord: Well, for instance, the annoying things you do.
  • Twilight: [angry tone] Discord.
  • Discord: [points at her] See, I can't talk to you.
Lookin’ for a Date?

A/N: HAPPY EARLY BIRTHDAY, KAITLYN!!! @spartanguard
Double J Productions (aka myself and Julie, @cocohook38) wanted to do something special for you, so we collabed on your birthday gift, which includes a smutty ficlet and accompanying art. I just needed to see Deputy Jones with the badge, and this idea came to mind. I hope you love it just as much as we love you! And also thanks to our Mulan, @shipsxahoy, for betaing as well. WE LOVE YOU KAIT!!! 


Deputy Killian Jones turned the corner onto Main Street in his vintage black Firebird just as the sun was setting over the horizon. It had been a few years since he had taken up the position and he was taking to it like the Jolly Roger in smooth waters. He never imagined working with his best mate (and father-in-law) would be easy—after all, Killian did murder David’s father in cold blood. But, David understood that Killian was no longer that man anymore, and forgave him, much to Killian’s surprise.

Killian was cruising down the street, listening to Christina Perri over the radio, when a flash of gold blinded him momentarily. When his eyesight adjusted, Killian looked towards the source of the light, which was right in front of Grann’s. He soon realized that the setting sun’s rays were reflecting off of a necklace, and the jewelry was being worn by the most captivating woman he had ever seen in his over 300 year existence.

Her flaxen hair was piled high on her head, with tiny tendrils falling from her temple, framing her face. Her hair being up exposed her long, graceful neck. She wore minimal makeup, but she didn’t need it, her face one of classic beauty. He could see her emerald-green eyes from down the street; they were like two jewels gleaming in twilight. Her toned arms and sculpted legs were on full display in a tiny red sheath dress that looked as if it had been painted on her. And the red peek-a-boo sandal heels on her feet gave her backside extra perkiness.

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Remember Henri Le Sidaner
Henri Le Sidaner (1862-1939) was a French post-impressionist painter. He developed his own peculiar style after his discovery of the symbolist movement. His work henceforth was characterized by light-dark contrasts, twilight tones, a certain intimacy and a soft melancholy.

Henri Le Sidaner died on July 16, 1939 in Paris.

- Le quai (The Quay), 1898. Oil on canvas, 69 x 100 cm; Groeningemuseum, Bruges, Belgium
- L’évêché, Chartres (The Steps at Chartres), 1903. Oil on canvas, 66 x 97 cm. Private collection
- Maison au bord du fleuve en plein lune (House by the River in full Moon), 1920

Bughead Drabble 5?

Hey, I’ve got a little something for you. You all know me by now, you know I’m trash for angst. I wouldn’t be me if not a little angsty. Hope you’re running low on your angst levels because this drabble is angsty and lame.


It’s hot-sweat in the middle of summer kind of heat. It was sweat dripping from the tip of my nose and Veronica and I had been ice-cream-sweet all day. She smacked her lips and looked up from shy eyes when she spoke about Archie, lips smacking together with pleasure when she described all the things he does to her now that the heat is up and they don’t hide under covers. She kept warm in the memories of last night and he kept warm from deep in her. I blush when I think about it, my face creeps up red-hot from thinking about what was happening in the room right across from mine. She knows that I know, because last night her eyes met mine when she closed the curtains.

It’s hot-sweat in the middle of summer kind of heat but Jughead was muted-twilight-tones with the sun setting on his skin. It was sticky tar pavements and sticky fingers against my iPhone screen from summer sun when I message mom to tell her I’ll be late home but through the heat, Jughead still wore red Docs with long socks and sweat-sticky leather against his back. We stand outside his trailer with the overused door handle and the worn out paint that spoke volumes to me, old, muted. Worn. Sticky-summer-sun is setting on the worn out paint and made it seem a little colder than cold around here.

Jughead stands on a cigarette butt to put it out and nods at me. “Tell me a lie,” he says. “Come on, Betty.”

“I hate it when you’re quiet.”

He laughs quietly and reaches out to my shorts, hooking his lazy-long fingers in the belt hoop of my denim shorts, pulling me closer. My hips bump his hips, my breath hitches in my throat as I feel him but his breath is breathing on my skin. His mouth meets my neck, his tongue dances on sweat-sticky, soft-aching skin. He kisses me. “Let’s not be quiet then.”

His words echo. His smile, though I can’t see it, is larger than ever. I can feel it, I feel his smile on my neck; on my skin. His hands? I don’t see them, I feel them, edging on the start of denim, popping my button, my second button, my third button, and the rest after that. I give in with my eyes curious-kind-of-wide and my voice on my tongue. “Where have you been?” I ask him.

Gone,” he groans against my skin.

I groan back and pull away, I don’t let his fingers slide into lace. I look him in the eye. His blue is deeper in the absence of twilight. “Gone where?”

He keeps running his fingers on denim, I’m reaching down and doing denim up, never looking away from his leather jacket. But his fingers stop pulling and he steps back, running a hand over his face. “Betty…” he murmurs.

Jughead,” I say strongly back. Weakly in my heart. Loud in my mind.

He smirks to himself and shrugs his shoulders; exhaling loudly as he reads my irritated mind and knows that my face doesn’t match. “Tell me you’re not mad at me…”

“But then I would be lying,” I say putting my hands on my hips.

He pulls me by the hips again, bumping me to him again, making me weak all over again. “Tell me a lie.”

“Where have you been?” I ask him. Summer was supposed to be about us, he was supposed to match my ice-cream-sticky fingers and dive into never ending pools of water with us. He was supposed to laugh with Ronnie and I, skip Riverdale with us and Archie. He was supposed to be so much more than secret-whispers and smug-cocky smirks.

Southside,” he says biting his lower lip and shoving his hands pocket deep.

I nod because that’s all I can do when I already know answers to the questions I ask.

His eyes flicker down to the dirt he’s standing on and his lips purse but I can read them and the words he’s trying to speak but I am quicker and I rush to speak first. “Stop going Southside,” I beg. My hands finding his and pulling them up to my lips. “Just be here with me.”

Jughead sighs and his hands tighten in mine. He pulls my hands to his lips this time, kissing them over and over. “I’m here,” he mumbles. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” he repeats his prayer, on my knuckles, smoothing out my fingers, running over my nails.

I feel them building in my chest first then it runs up into my mind; half-prayers and mumbled promises. “I can give you more than they can,” I promise him. “I just want you to be here with me.”

He chuckles again and lets go of me, pulling at my hoops again. “You give me more than anything in the world, Sunlight.”

“Then tell me why you’re never here,” I hiss through my teeth.

“I’m always here,” he answers. “Always.”

I shake my head. “You’re not here.”

He was here but he’s not here. He was in my space but he wasn’t really here with me.

“Tell me a lie,” he murmurs sugar-sweet on me. “Tell me a lie, tell me a lie,” he murmurs as he pulls me in, my shoulders easing, my anger still running electric through me. “Tell me you don’t hate the Serpents, tell me you’re ok… Tell me another lie.”

I push at his chest, I shove him away. Weak-handed, pissed-off-strong. “I hate that you don’t tell me everything.”

He sniggers at me. It’s all cocky-truths and rolled eyes. “That’s not a lie, Betts,” he says running his tongue over minty-fresh teeth. “That’s the worst kind of truth.”

I’m lost in the taste of his tongue and his hands between my thighs.

A: I think we’ve all been there! It sucks that it became so universally hated just because of the hype that surrounded it and because it was loved by teenage girls (and of course anything that’s loved by millions of teenage girls must always be trashed). I was kind of an open twihard during high school, like literally everyone knew I was the girl that loved twilight, but I definitely toned it down a lot over time for fear of the eye rolls and judgement that came with saying you loved the series so I can totally relate. It’s so sad because I got so much joy from the series and now you’re kind of meant to be ashamed of that.

lifeisapinkiepieparty  asked:

"Okay!" The bubbly mare complied and let go of her grip on the alicorn, "Soooo, what's with the costume?" Pinkie mumbled to the other, rather curious as to what was going on, "I've got my costume already! Wanna see it?"

Once Pinkie allowed Twilight to breathe again, she smiled at the pony as she held out a hoof, showing the scarf that tied her ensemble together. “This is my Nightmare Night costume, Pinkie. I’ve decided to take part in a little roleplay with the rest of town. From now until Nightmare Night, I’m the evil Empress of Magic.” Twilight’s tone was just brimming with pride, like live action role playing was the coolest thing since sliced bread. “I got the idea from Shining Armor. But sure, Pinkie, I’d love to.”

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Stevie Wonder X Common X Dilla  #GrammyAfterParty