Repetto Rose Mary Janes

Ngl college application season is dawning on me, I’m both incredibly nervous and excited

tumblr is my scrapbook, i find something pretty i want to look at later and i glue it to a page . like yesssss you are my little memory forever to look at lovingly

ig: pink.n.z

Michael Kirkham (British, 1971) - Untitled (2015)

Merry Christmas ❄️

Transcendence (Reader & Ghost / Simon Riley)

AFAB, HEAVY Catholic and Religious Themes, she/her pronouns

divider by @iluvpooks

Simon's life had never left room for faith or spirituality. A practical man, he found no evidence of divine mercy in his struggles. Yet tonight's assignment was simple - observe London's old Catholic cathedral and report any suspicious activity, any possible routes that can be used by snipers, entrances and exits.

As an outsider, the worshipers' devoted prayers seemed strange. But one figure caught his eye - a woman, her face radiating calm acceptance. Her gentle smile seemed to offer the mercy Simon had never known. When their eyes met, he found no judgment in her gaze, only compassion. 

His eyes were drawn to her across the room. A radiant beauty, she had a timeless quality about her. Her features were delicate yet striking, reminiscent of renditions of the Virgin Mary he had seen in great works of art. There was an ethereal grace to her presence, a calmness in her expression that hinted at inner strength and kindness. She seemed a vision, perfectly composed in a way that stirred his admiration.

Her beauty stirs a feeling inside him that's unknown, and even unwelcome, in a battle-hardened mercenary. He can't make sense of it. His heart is hardened from his own trials, and his work is devoid of kindness. He is a soldier with no room for sentimentality. But he finds himself unable to break her gaze, a connection that shouldn't exist. Simon watches from across the street, hidden from her sight. The gentle sway of her hips, the way her dress shimmers... It all strikes a chord inside him, filling him with a familiar unease. He's never felt this way before. He's not supposed to.

Vulnerability had always been a foreign concept to him. From a young age, he was conditioned to eliminate all signs of weakness—emotion, attachment, humanity. He was forged into a weapon, with his every action laser-focused on efficiency and results. Intimacy was an impossible luxury, one not afforded to those whose primary purpose was ending life, not nurturing it. And yet, even for someone stripped so bare of tenderness and connection, there remained an unfillable hollow within. Deep down he wondered, what might it be like to know the gentle warmth of another's touch, if only for a moment, before having to slip back into the numbing role of programmed protector he had long since taken as his sole identity.

He was trained not to care about others. Caring always leads to pain. Yet the sight of her makes him weak. She stands with her hands clasped together, her body swaying ever so faintly in time with the music of worship being sung inside. The light of the stained glass windows falls in a mosaic that dazzlingly reflects from her soft cheeks.

Months had passed since that fateful night, and slowly, steadily, she had chipped away at the impenetrable walls around his guarded heart. Now, as sunlight filtered gently through the window and washed over her sleeping form, he felt only stillness and calm within. For the first time that he could remember, there was no restlessness stirring him to flee, no instinct pulling him back into solitary introspection. All there was, was her—the rise and fall of her bare skin in the soft morning light, a reminder that he was no longer alone.

Simon held no belief in God or faith. Confronted with his duty to end lives, he pondered: What is the purpose of embracing salvation?

Does he even deserve salvation? Forgiveness? Repentance? 

He lacked belief in any form of higher power or destiny. His conviction remained steadfast: relying on unproven truths was both irresponsible and irrational.

All the lofty concepts of divinity and spirituality that had meant so little before seemed but pale imitations in the radiant light of her. When she breathed his name with such tender reverence, it was prayer made flesh - her voice an angelic hymn transporting him to paradise. The way her fingers traced delicate devotion across his skin transcended any ritual, for truly her caress was the only salvation he had ever known. In the hallowed dark behind closed eyes, the kindling of each candlewick touch bestowed a communion more sacred than any sermon. She was sanctuary and salvation writ as one miraculous being, come not to deliver judgment but sweet mercy, embracing his unworthiness without demand yet granting redemption's full bounty just the same. In her alone was encompassed all mysteries of faith he once deemed empty air - here in living, breathing form was divinity that needed no doctrine to be proved divine. 

What is god compared to her?

boxing fight announcer slowly revealing more and more how much in love he is with one of the boxers

This mere chaotic peace between wanting to be the greatest and wanting to rot in the room all alone for the rest of eternity.

what's a little ritualistic bleeding between friends