i like to stare blankly at the wall for a few minutes when i wake up in the morning, sometimes i imagine there’s someone next to me who scoots closer and kisses my temple to gently bring me back to reality. kinda ironic, considering there’s actually no one there
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I will never stop grieving for my long-held wish for enduring love that does not reduce its major players to something less than they are. I am not sure I have often witnessed love that achieves all of those things, so perhaps this ideal is fated to be a phantom.
—Deborah Levy, The Cost of Living
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Воскресенье 🤍
Особенный день… он пахнет утром без будильника, долгим завтраком и тишиной, которую никто не должен нарушать.
Но часто мы проводим его в чем-то вечно «доделать, успеть, подготовиться к понедельнику». Как будто воскресенье не день отдыха, а последняя возможность что-то доказать уходящей неделе.
А давайте сегодня иначе? Позволим этому дню быть просто днём. Без планов. Без списков. Без «надо».
Поленимся немного 🤏 Можно замереть на диване с книгой и делать вид, что чай в кружке бесконечный. А может просто будем смотреть в окно и не думать о времени. Воскресенье не должно быть продуктивным. Оно должно быть нашим.
Пусть сегодня у вас будет ровно столько дел, сколько хочется, а лучше - чуть меньше.
Пусть вечер наступит медленно, а вы его даже не заметите, потому что были заняты самым важным - просто были собой.
Хорошего воскресенья, друзья 🌈
Оно у вас уже есть 🫶
Берите без очереди ☕️
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Yo pienso que la admiración puede venir de los dos. Puedes admirar a alguna persona des de la distancia con también de la cercanía. Lo que importa es la conexión que tienes con esa persona o personas.
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Somewhere between a beautiful @bibhumohapatra, a spontaneous street moment, and a lot of laughs behind the camera…these photos happened 🧡
Very lucky to have a team that made this shoot feel fun, effortless, and somehow even more beautiful than I imagined. Love you guys 🧡✨
@bharat_rawail
@simrankumar19
@meghnabutanihairandmakeup
@kimberlyychu
@theitembomb
@shareendeosthale
Jewlery @swarovski
Heels @tomford
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on Friday the 13th; the love of my life asked me to be his girlfriend; I’m in love, in love.🦇💓🦇
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Few moons ago for @varietyindia ✨
Wearing @rohitgandhirahulkhanna
Styled by @mohitrai with @chintan_shah08@tarangagarwalofficial
Glam @mehrasilky@humera_shaikh19
Pictures @rahul.bhatt._
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once before getting up
once before showering
once midday just for fun
once before into sleep collapsing
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her gün baska bahaneyle benzer isler, lovebombasi bjsise vururum bunu ama sanmiorumtm
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Throne Made of Glass and Gasoline
A Roman Reigns/Damian Priest love story
Chapter 24 - The Aftermath of a Name
The heavy velvet of the Gorilla curtains swung shut behind her, the muffled thud of the fabric sounding like the closing of a tomb. Monty managed exactly four steps into the dim, concrete throat of the arena hallway before the world began to liquefy.
The adrenaline—the white-hot, jagged fire that had allowed her to claw at a king and threaten a god—wasn’t just fading; it was evaporating, leaving behind a hollow, soul-deep exhaustion that made her bones feel like they were made of ash. Her lungs, which had been screaming insults moments ago, now felt too small for the air in the corridor.
Luis was there.
He hadn’t stayed in the truck. He was a silhouette of raw, vibrating tension at the end of the hall, his shadow stretching long and menacing under the flickering fluorescent lights. The moment he saw her—saw the way she was swaying, saw the split knuckles and the haunted, wide-eyed stare—the warrior in him died instantly, replaced by the man who loved her.
“Monty—”
The name had barely left his lips before her knees buckled. She didn’t hit the floor; she hit him.
Luis caught her with a low, guttural sound of a man finding his missing heart. He swept his arms around her, his massive frame absorbing the violent tremors wracking her body. She didn’t just lean on him; she collapsed into him, her fingers curling into his shirt, twisting the fabric as if it were the only thing keeping her from being swept away by a tide.
A jagged, broken sob tore out of her throat—the first real sound of the girl Joe had tried to bury. It was a sound of ten years of terror finally shattering. She buried her face in the hollow of Luis’s neck, her tears hot and frantic against his skin.
“I’ve got you,” Luis rasped, his voice a deep, grounding vibration that she felt more than heard. He pulled her flush against him, his large hands splaying across her back, shielding her from the very air of the building. “I’ve got you, Maverick. Breathe. Just breathe.”
But they weren’t alone in the shadows.
A few feet away, the curtain parted just a sliver. Joe stood in the darkness of the Gorilla position, the shadows masking the jagged red tracks Monty had carved into his cheek. He watched them. He watched the way Luis held her—not with the suffocating, possessive grip of a jailer, but with the steady, reverent strength of a man who was willing to be her floor, her walls, and her roof.
He watched Monty, the woman who had just promised to murder him, melt into his rival’s arms. The sight was more agonizing than the physical blow she’d dealt him. It was the absolute, visual confirmation that his leverage was gone. The “hostage” had found her sanctuary, and the sanctuary was a man Joe couldn’t intimidate with a title or a legacy.
Joe’s hand tightened on the curtain, his knuckles cracking in the silence. His ego was hemorrhaging, his pride a tattered flag dragged through the mud of Cincinnati. He wasn’t done—the Bloodline never forgot, and the Head of the Table didn’t lose—but as he watched Luis effortlessly scoop her up, lifting her off her feet as if she weighed nothing at all, Joe knew he had to retreat. For tonight, he was the ghost in their story.
He let the curtain fall, plunging himself back into the darkness.
“Enjoy the peace, Martinez,” Joe breathed into the empty room, his voice a promise of future fire. “Because when I come back for what’s mine, I’m not bringing a script. I’m bringing a casket.”
Outside, the cool rain began to wash the scent of the arena off them. Luis carried her toward the truck, his pace steady, his arms an unbreakable vault. Monty was silent now, her forehead resting against his shoulder, listening to the rhythmic, thundering heartbeat of the man she loved—the only sound that mattered in a world that had finally, mercifully, stopped screaming.
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Throne Made of Glass and Gasoline
A Roman Reigns/Damian Priest love story
Chapter 23 - The Death of a Hostage
The air in the Gorilla position was thick with the ozone smell of shattered electronics and the metallic tang of blood. Monty stood in the center of the wreckage, her chest heaving, her knuckles split and stinging from where she’d cracked them across Joe’s jaw. Across from her, Joe leaned against a distorted equipment rack, a slow trickle of crimson sliding down his cheek from the tracks her nails had left.
The silence wasn’t a truce; it was a ceasefire in a war that had lasted a decade.
“You’re pathetic,” Monty rasped, her voice sounding like it had been dragged over broken glass. She wiped a stray hair from her face with a shaking hand. “You think because you wear a piece of gold and have people call you ‘Chief’ that you get to dictate the terms of my life? You’re just a bully in a vest, Joe. A scared, lonely man who thinks possession is the same thing as power.”
Joe straightened up, his eyes flickering with a manic, dark intensity. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re high on the drama, Cassie. You’re confused. This… this mid-carder, this Martinez… he’s a phase. He’s the person you use to get back at me. But when the lights go out, you’re still the girl I built.”
“I am the girl you broke!” she screamed, the sound echoing off the concrete walls like a physical blow. She stepped toward him, her shadow stretching long and jagged under the flickering fluorescent lights. “And I am never going back to that cage. You want to know why you can’t win this? You want to know why your threats don’t work anymore?”
Joe’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. “Because you’ve lost your mind.”
“No,” she whispered, her voice suddenly dropping to a low, terrifyingly steady register. “Because I love him. I love Luis Martinez with a part of me you didn’t even know existed because you were too busy trying to crush the rest of it.”
The word love hit the room like a grenade. Joe flinched as if she’d struck him again, his face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated loathing.
“You don’t love him,” Joe hissed, stepping into her space, his bulk towering over her. “You love the idea of him protecting you. You love the safety. But love? Real love is what we had, Cassie. It’s the fire, it’s the fight, it’s the obsession.”
“That wasn’t love, Joe. That was a hostage situation,” Monty spat, her eyes burning into his. “Luis doesn’t own me. He doesn’t look at me like I’m a trophy he won or a secret he has to hide. He looks at me like I’m the sun. He loves me for the Maverick and he loves me for Cassie, and he doesn’t need to break me to keep me.”
She leaned in, her nose inches from his, her voice a lethal, jagged vow.
“I love him enough to kill for him. I love him enough to stand here and tell the most powerful man in this business that he is nothing compared to the man waiting for me in that truck. So go ahead, Joe. Call your cousins. Start your war. But understand this: Every drop of blood you take from him, I will take ten from you. Because a man who fights for a throne is no match for a woman who fights for the man she loves.”
Joe stared at her, his breathing heavy and ragged. For the first time in ten years, he looked at her and didn’t see a girl he could manipulate. He saw a stranger. He saw a woman who had finally found something worth more than her fear of him.
“Get out,” Joe whispered, his voice trembling with a suppressed, psychotic rage. “Get out before I forget I ever knew you.”
“Oh, you’ll never forget me, Joe,” Monty said, stepping back and straightening her leather jacket, her eyes cold and final. “Every time you look in the mirror and see that scar on your face, you’re going to remember that I chose him. And there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.”
She turned her back on him—the ultimate insult—and walked through the black curtains without looking back, leaving the Tribal Chief alone in the wreckage of his own kingdom.