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nba24highlights · 1 year

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JIMMY BUTLER AND1 LAYUP & THE FOUL! 2023 NBA FINALS GAME 4!🔥😤👀#jimmybutler #jimmybulter22 #and1 #and1freethrow #andonefreethrow #layup #foul #freethrow #freethrows #butler #butler22 #miamiheat #heatvsnuggets #nuggetsvsheat #game4 #jimmybuckets #jimmyjordan #jb22 #jbutler #jbutler22 #nba #nba24highlights #nbahighlights #viral #fyp #fup #fupシ #foryou #foryoupage

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ccfever · 18 days

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practice your free throws kids 🫠

#all these misses.#layups. freethrows.#what are we doing

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cato-of-blamesociety · 10 months

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Realization/Life Lesson:

One of my favorite perks about working in a school, is the access to basketball court. Trust me, not all of them are made equally either, but thats besides the point.

After not touching a court for about a month, I warmed up and was knocking down my normal shots (mid range, gotta stay sharp). I usually run drills on myself, shooting from the blocks, free throws, lay ups, dribbling and etc. I only had 15min so I didnt want to get crazy. My free throw goal is to hit 3 or 5 in a row. If I miss, I have to do 5 push ups or run a down and back. Today, i hit my 5 free throws too easy.

Here's where the lesson came in:

I stopped, and did 10 push ups. Nothing major, but I had a feeling I wasnt going to hit them with ease any more....and I didnt. I missed two then hit one. Having to do more push ups of course added more tension. Finally, I hit 5 more in a row...like super clean too.

At that point I realized,

1. Things too easy? challenge yourself

2. Things get hard, we push through/practice/train and we adjust or grow

3. Seeing someone "miss shots" doesn't mean they're not a good shooter, maybe "they did push ups" and had to adjust/balance

These realizations all resonate woth my spirit in different aspects of life rn.

youtube

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recoftheday · 1 year

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Free Throw • Those Days Are Gone • 2014 Count Your Lucky Stars Records • 6th press realeased in 2023 by Wax Bodega on Eco-Mix Vinyl • Limited to 500 copies. . . . . . #freethrow #thosedaysaregone #countyourluckystars #waxbodega #manyhatsendeavors #manyhatsdistribution #Vinyl #Vinylcollector #vinylcollection #Vinyladdict #vinyllovers #vinylmaniac #recordoftheday #albumoftheday #instavinyl #vinyligclub #vinyljunkie #vinyloftheday #vinylporn #vinylrecords #recordscollection #vinylcollective #vinylcollectionpost #vinylcommunity #vinylphotography #vinylgram #vinyllove #coloredvinylclub #coloredvinylart #theartofcoloredvinyl

#freethrow thosedaysaregone countyourluckystars waxbodega manyhatsendeavors manyhatsdistribution Vinyl Vinylcollector vinylcollection

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trendydressingroom1 · 1 year

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Basketball Tshirt, Basketball Who is Next Tshirt, Baskteball Lovers Tshirt, Gift for Friend, Basketball Players Tshirt, Basketball Unisex T This Tshirt could be a nice gift to your friend who loves Basketball, your dad or maybe anyone you care about 👌 COPY AND PASTE Link: shorturl.at/eyK39 #basketball #basketballplayer #tshirtprinting #tshirtdesign #nba #dunk #freethrow #layups #explore #fyp https://www.instagram.com/p/CnKntpov8M8/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#basketball #basketballplayer #tshirtprinting #tshirtdesign #nba #dunk #freethrow #layups #explore #fyp

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kvotheunkvothe · 2 years

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they spent 20 YEARS, and surprise, it also still looks like a fucking gym, with a roof about to rust through

like, look at the interior of this shithole

what the fuck were they doing for 20 years??

is that a goddamn drop ceiling? who the hell wants to live in a house with a drop ceiling? so you can throw pencils up when you're bored, like you're perpetually stuck in hell high school?

gonna start dunking turkeys at the freethrow line? I bet that kitchen smells like feet

I didn't think the plain, stanky old wood court could be topped until I saw this sad carpet. I bet it's just plain carpet directly over concrete. no insulation. all cold in winter.

why the fuck are you tired, you barely did anything

ick, it looks like it's definitely rotting

you don't say

#gym #ffs #I can't think of many smells I hate more than #gross

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delicatekingenthusiast-blog · 2 years

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Knock Down Free Throws #hardworkpaysoffs #freethrow #kaisbeverly #basketball #nba #ncaabasketball #blessed #kaispriestbeverly (at Ladera Heights, California) https://www.instagram.com/p/Ck3rMpCvJbx/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#hardworkpaysoffs #freethrow #kaisbeverly #basketball #nba #ncaabasketball #blessed #kaispriestbeverly

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portlandfire2000 · 2 years

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Watching the Fever/Sun game on delay and the Fever announcers just talked about Alyssa Thomas' free throw shot without saying the words "torn labrum." Don't they know about the drinking game?

#alyssa thomas #connecticut sun #but in all seriousness #does it NEED to be mentioned every broadcast #we KNOW she has an unusual freethrow shot #but it seems to work for her

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lestappenforever · 5 months

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I just saw a TikTok that said “imagine Charles playing basketball, points at you and says this is for you and completely misses 20 times in a row” and now I can’t stop imagining max awkwardly standing there while this happens.

I cackled at this mental image for fifteen minutes, so I couldn't help myself. I'm sorry, anon.

---

Max Verstappen understands that people are different. He also understands that people have different definitions of fun. And it just so happens that Max Verstappen's idea of fun on a Saturday afternoon is not to be in a clammy gym that kind of smells like years and years of old sweat, with the loud, insufferable sound of sneakers squeaking against hardwood floor every few seconds while a group of not-even-a-little talented men run around, trying to get a basketball through the hoops.

It is, however, Charles Leclerc's idea of fun, apparently. And Max has long since learned that dating Charles Leclerc means that he will be spending some of his off-season days doing things he wouldn't usually subject himself to.

Such as watching his idiot boyfriend and his entourage of idiot friends trying to play basketball. Emphasis on trying.

Andrea isn't half-bad, but not being half-bad isn't very helpful when the other seven people on the field are absolutely useless. Max has long since lost track of how many times Joris has failed at his attempt to receive a pass, and Riccardo has been spending more time on the floor of the gym than on his feet. But worst of them all, is Charles.

Beautiful, wonderful Charles, who can navigate an F1 car through the smallets of corners at incredibly high speeds without issue, but who can't seem to get a basketball through a hoop to save his fucking life.

He hasn't managed to score a single point, and they've been playing for close to forty-five minutes already. It's nearing to the point of being painful to keep watching, but Max can't seem to tear his eyes away. It's like watching a car crash, and Max is captivated.

Another ten minutes pass before Joris demands a break, claiming to be on the verge of death, and the group makes their way towards the stands. Andrea holds his fist out for Max to bump once he's within reach, and Max obliges.

"How do you put up with them?" Max asks, watching as Andrea chugs half a bottle of water in one go.

"I ask myself the same question almost daily," Andrea responds with a sigh, which earns him an offended huff from Joris. Andrea rolls his eyes and pointedly doesn't acknowledge it further.

Max huffs a laugh and gets to his feet, making his way down onto the court and turning right, walking in the direction of the bathrooms.

Upon finishing his business and returning to the court, Charles is the only person who has returned to the court, and he's standing at the freethrow line in front the hoop closest to the bathrooms.

"Hey, Max!" the Monégasque shouts as Max passes him, and when Max looks over at him, the other man is grinning widely at him.

"Yeah?" Max calls back.

"This is for you," Charles shouts, pointing at Max and giving him one of his signature attempts at a wink — his worst attempt yet, Max finds himself fondly thinking — before throwing the ball in the direction of the hoop.

It goes flying over the entire thing, and Charles scrambles to retrieve it once it returns to the floor.

"Kidding," Charles tries and fails to sound nonchalant as he returns to the freethrow line. "This is for you!"

This time, Charles throws the ball so hard it slams against the board behind the hoop and immediately returns to the Monégasque's hands.

Max stares, unimpressed. Somewhere behind him, Andrea stifles a laugh — Joris flat-out cackles. From where he's standing, Max can see Charles' cheeks pinking slightly, and as the Monégasque glances at him, Max recognizes that look in his eyes.

Determination. Not unlike the determination he has seen in Charles' eyes so many times before a race.

"Ah, fuck," the Dutchman groans, as Charles makes a third attempt to make the shot. He fails, yet again, and immediately runs to retrieve the ball.

And so it begins: Charles trying and failing to get the ball into the hoop, from several angles and distances, and Max awkwardly standing at the sidelines, watching him the entire time.

He misses a grand total of twenty times before Andrea loses his patience and intercepts the ball before Charles can retrieve it for a twenty-first attempt, and announces that the game will resume, putting Max out of his misery.

Charles argues with Andrea in Italian and Max leaves them to it, returning to his previous seat to keep watching what is arguably the least impressive game of basketball he has ever seen.

Another half hour passes before the group decides to call it a day, and start packing up their things to go home. Charles, however, remains on the court even as his friends start departing one by one, barely even acknowledging them with a dismissive wave of his hand as they bid him farewell. Shortly after, Max and Charles are alone in the gym.

With a sigh, Max gets to his feet and walks onto the court, where Charles has once again tried and failed to get the ball into the hoop from the freethrow line.

"Wanna go home?" Max asks him once he comes to a halt a couple of steps from the Monégasque.

"Nope," Charles answers immediately, without looking at Max. His laser focus is trained on the hoop as he shoots — and misses.

"Are we going to stay here until you make that shot?"

"Yep."

Max rubs a hand over his face. "Do I have a say in the matter?"

"Nope."

"Lovely," the Dutchman concedes, and walks back over to the stands to take a seat.

It takes Charles thirty-three new attempts to finally get the ball in the hoop, bringing his total attempts up to fifty-three. Max watches every single one.

But it's all worth it in the end when the ball finally goes in, and Charles erupts into a wild celebration — falling to his knees and pumping his fists in the air as if he has just won his first World Championship. And Max realizes he would gladly sit there until the morning if he had to when he sees the look of pure, unadulterated joy on the Monégasque's face as he beams at Max.

Not that he'd ever tell Charles that, though. Because the man is insane enough to actually make him do it, too, if he knew. So Max applauds Charles' achievement and returns the grin Charles sends him with a matching one of his own, before he gets to his feet.

"Well done, babe," the Dutchman says. "Now can we go home?"

And Charles leaps to his feet and bounds over to Max like an excited puppy, throwing himself into the other man's arms and wrapping his own around the back of Max's neck.

"Now we can go home," Charles confirms, pressing a firm kiss to Max's lips that the Dutchman can't help but smile into.

It's a smile that fades quickly, though, when Charles pulls back with wide, excited eyes.

"I'm just going to try to make a shot from the half court line first," the Monégasque says, as he turns to look for the ball.

Before he can start moving towards it, however, Max grabs the back of his shirt and pulls him back firmly. "Absolutely fucking not," he huffs, using his hold on Charles' shirt to turn the other man around and shove him towards his things.

"But —,"

"Home."

Charles pouts the whole way there. Max pretends not to notice, because now it's Charles' turn to take part in Max's idea of fun: which doesn't involve leaving the apartment. Or the bedroom.

Being in a relationship means making compromises, after all. And, well, Charles kind of likes compromises.

#Asks #Anon asks #Lestappen asks #Lestappen drabble #My writing #I'm not taking prompts btw #I just couldn't not write this #Lestappen

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nba24highlights · 1 year

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robthegoodfellow · 8 months

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Let's Hear It for the Boy

Praise Kink for Day 3 of @harringrovekinktober

(roommates, kink experimentation, billy is a good boy, nsfw)

Steve felt like a real asshole when Robin asked out of the blue one day, maybe a month after he and Billy became roommates, if Billy was paying part of his rent in labor. Shave some off if he agreed to be your housekeeper? And, at Steve’s incredulous bafflement, had clarified: Every time I’m over he’s cooking or doing laundry or—cleaning shit! To his horror, a highlight reel started up in his mind, a montage of Billy doing all those chores and more, and worse, Steve realized he’d contributed approximately nothing to the daily maintenance of their shared living space. Steve! Robin had scolded, correctly interpreting his guilty grimace.

So he’d promised to talk to Billy about it—assure him that keeping the place sparkling was in no way required or expected or—or if that was just how he preferred to live, then he’d promise to do his fair share from now on. Only, bringing it up over pizza and beer, a basketball game on TV, had produced an unexpected reaction. Billy… kinda… froze? Went bug-eyed, like Steve had caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. He looked embarrassed.

“Man, it’s fine,” Steve said, tripping over himself to explain—put him at ease. “I really don’t care either way. I just wanted to check and make sure you knew I wasn’t gonna, like—kick you out if you let up on the Cinderella routine.”

Billy flushed more, beet red, and Steve resisted smacking himself in the face. He was fucking this up so bad.

“I mean—”

“I don’t mind,” Billy mumbled, avoiding Steve’s eye as he reached for his beer. “I like it.”

“Okay,” Steve said, over the top encouraging. “Great. Well, I’ll at least pitch in more—”

“You don’t have to do that.” Billy’s throat worked, gulping, plush lips pursed on the can. Steve blinked, shook his head, tuned back in to catch the muttered aside, blue gaze locked on the Michelob commercial. “It’s all good. Nothing has to change.”

Why the hell was he being so weird about this? Did he think Steve couldn’t chip in? Pull his own weight?

“Just because I grew up with a nanny doesn’t mean I don’t know how to do stuff. Vacuum and dishes and—”

Billy grunted, annoyed, throwing his shoulders back to wedge himself into the couch, a mulish slouch. “Just drop it, will ya? I like things how they are, so what’s the fucking problem?”

“All right, jeez,” Steve cried, holding up his hands. “Touchy.”

They were quiet, both ticked, but the kind that would drain away by halftime. Except—he felt shitty just leaving it like this, having semi-acknowledged that Billy was acting like his maid.

“Is there anything I can do?” Steve asked, his tone deliberately mild, not looking away from the freethrow swishing on screen. “That you don’t like?”

No explosion—good sign. After a long, loaded pause, Billy sighed. “Take out the trash.”

“Got it,” Steve said. And let it go.

But from then on, he kept watch, determined to figure out the source of the weirdness. Almost positive it wasn’t a control freak thing or a neat freak thing—it wasn’t like the apartment was pristine. It was more that… everyday, Billy had done something obvious enough that Steve commented on it—always had. Nothing major, just Oh, hey—you got that stain out of the carpet or Holy shit, it smells so good—what is that? or How’d you unclog that drain? Wasn’t like he thanked Billy, though he probably should have been—although maybe Billy didn’t want him to make a big deal out of it?—but he’d always notice and say something admiring because Billy was good at stuff. Good at so much stuff.

He started taking out the trash, and Billy never let on that he noticed, but Steve thought he did. And he kept up the compliments whenever Billy did something nice, since that hadn’t been explicitly forbidden. But since he was paying more attention now, he—noticed some things. Only when he was pretending to look elsewhere, monitoring Billy in his periphery or in the reflection of the window or decorative mirrors his mom had foisted on him. He noticed that, those times, Billy sort of… ducked his head, hiding a grin that bordered on… bashful? And his shoulders bowed a bit, like he was—curling in on himself. Like—in delight?

Like—he secretly really liked it? When Steve noticed he’d done something nice? When Steve said something nice about it?

So… he decided to test it. Nothing too overbearing or obvious, just—instead of merely noticing, he was sure to compliment. Because why not, if Billy liked it and still wouldn’t let Steve lift a finger except on garbage day?

Good became his go-to. This tastes so good. That looks so good. Good, good, good.

Which is when it clicked for him—that Billy didn’t do chores and stuff because he liked the chores. But because… he liked Steve’s reaction?

And—that would explain his weirdness. Why he didn’t want to talk about it. Like maybe he was worried Steve would think Billy liked being his bitch or something—Steve winced, anticipating the whack from the Robin who lived in his head—not that Steve thought of him that way.

…Though if he didn’t mind Steve thinking of him that way—or even liked it, then…

Well, Steve didn’t—dislike that. Like the general concept. Held a certain—

Anyway, in the interest of further—ah, testing, Steve mentioned, casually, on his way to work one morning, “I’ve been craving that pasta salad you made.”

Billy cut him a glance over his coffee where he was hunched at the kitchen table. Grunted, and Steve quirked a grin, tossed him a salute goodbye. It wasn’t even a lie—the pasta thing—he’d been salivating at the memory. This version with Italian dressing instead of mayo, with olives and stuff.

Lo, late that afternoon, when he got back, there was a big Tupperware of it in the fridge. Billy wandered in halfway through his second helping. They paused, wide-eyed at the sudden charge buzzing in the air, and Steve’s stomach clenched.

“It’s—good,” he managed, hands suddenly clammy around his fork and bowl. Billy was staring at Steve’s hands, held awkwardly aloft where he leaned on the counter. The stare was strangely heavy—hooded lids. Steve cleared his throat. “You—did good.”

Billy’s cheeks were as flushed as that day on the couch, watching basketball, insisting he liked—

Abruptly aware his boner was starting to tent his shorts, Steve turned to face the counter, ducking to shovel more pasta in his idiot mouth. Heard Billy go to the cabinet, fetch a glass. Fill it. Walk back out.

Heaving an unwinding breath, Steve set down the bowl, let his elbows bear the weight of this latest sexual awakening.

So that was a thing, apparently—and for Billy, too, potentially. Probably. Because, without quite meaning to, they fell into this little routine where, before Steve left for work, he’d pause, and Billy would look up from his coffee, and Steve would mention something—a rental movie he wanted to see, or a sale at the liquor store, or if Billy would mind throwing Steve’s whites in with his so he’d have a shirt to wear to this meeting later in the week…

And the VHS would be waiting on the counter. And a six-pack would be waiting in the fridge. And his shirt would be washed and ironed and waiting in his closet. And everytime Billy would be lingering nearby, not quite meeting his eyes, and Steve’s pulse would pound even though technically there was nothing sexy about an ironed shirt, and Steve would say Good. You did good.

Billy would sometimes clench his fist, when Steve said it. Or squirm in his seat a bit. Or swallow, throat bobbing. Color rising. And the sight hit Steve like a load of bricks. A load of bricks to the head.

It was the weirdest game of gay chicken—scrambling to find mundane tasks for Billy to complete for the prize of a pat on the back, when all Steve wanted, and he bet Billy felt similarly, was to order Billy to his knees.

He thought about it whenever they were on the couch watching TV, whenever they were eating in the kitchen or drinking on the balcony or passing each other outside the bathroom in the morning.

So he tested further. Came home and went to see if Billy had done it—and there he was, standing by Steve’s bed. The neatly made bed.

Steve’s heart was rabbiting out of his chest, too on the fritz to form words, and his feet weren’t much better, charting a crooked, clumsy course until they were toe to toe, Billy’s gaze downcast, his lips parted, breaths shallow.

He didn’t know whether it’d sound stupid if he said it out loud, what he’d been wanting to say for days—whether Billy wanted to hear, or would consider it a step too far.

They’d come this far, though. Steve wet his lips, took a calming breath, and Billy seemed to brace for it. “Good,” Steve said, and it came out breathy. “Good boy.”

Billy curled—did that thing where he ducked, hunching around something invisible—and the sound punched out of him, this pained gasp. Steve’s hands moved on their own, reaching to cradle Billy’s head, step close to whisper in his ear, his brow at Steve’s shoulder: “Good? Is this good?” Felt more than saw him nodding. “You want to be good for me?”

“Fuck,” Billy whispered—bit wheezing. Wet. “Fuck.”

“What do you want?” Steve asked, fumbling at his heated neck. “What do you—?”

“Be good.” It was mumbled, cringing. “Wanna be good.” A shaky inhale. “Make you feel good.”

Steve’s blood was roaring everywhere but his brain—would’ve fallen over if he weren’t clutching Billy. “Want that, too.”

He heard a thready laugh, and Billy straightened, leaning back into his hold, face tipped, lidded gaze on Steve’s chin. “So?”

So what’ll it be?

Buying himself time to gather his wits, some composure lest he combust, Steve tilted his head, assessing. Adjusting his hold, ran a thumb across Billy’s lower lip, firm enough to pull at the skin. “Want this.” Another swipe, exposing teeth, his curving tongue. “Make me feel good with this.”

A tug at his belt, and Billy was nodding, making short work of the button and zip—movements quick and precise. He sank, kneeling at Steve’s feet, tugging the pants to hang at midthigh, and finally looked up.

Steve swept blond curls off his forehead. “Like you like this.”

Billy stared, eyes gleaming. Seemed to be—waiting.

“So good like this,” Steve corrected. “Now show me how good.”

Swaying, Billy buried his face in Steve’s briefs, nosing him through straining cotton, and huffed hot air at the crown. Steve compulsively gripped fistfuls of hair, still using Billy’s ears as handlebars, and resolved not to let go—to let Billy show him.

And, boy, did he. Laved at his dick until the fabric was soaked, the white gone translucent—white gone flushed pink, twitching under kitten licks—and Steve was on the verge of begging when a pull at his waistband freed his cock, bobbing only a sec before swallowed in Billy’s grip, fed into his greedy mouth.

Steve’s entire vocabulary had been reduced to one word, babbled at the ceiling behind closed lids: good, good, good, only sometimes it came out guh, guh, guh. One hand cupped the back of Billy’s head, and it was when his hips were on a steady grinding roll that he realized he’d caged Billy against him, locked the gulping heat around his cock as he plugged toward the peak.

Billy wasn’t struggling, though—his fingers biting into the meat of Steve’s ass, moaning so deep in his chest that Steve felt it more than heard it.

Steve grappled for a new word—close, close—but Billy didn’t stop, didn’t let up a second, and when Steve grunted his release, the throat worked around him still.

The moment Billy pulled off, lungs heaving, face ruby red and shining, Steve flopped to his knees, blindly reached for Billy, draping loose arms around his neck, his ribs, waiting for his own breaths to slow.

“Was it,” Billy asked, tight. “Was it—?”

“Good,” Steve said, huffing a laugh, coasting hands across the bellows of his back. “So good—you’re so good. Always so good for me.”

Billy burrowed his face into Steve’s throat, his collarbone, looping him in an uncertain hug. He was hard, pressed against where Steve’s clothes gaped open. Working a hand between them, Steve rubbed his palm along rigid heat.

“What do you want?” he asked, nuzzling the nest of blond. “Since you been so good?”

A shudder ran up the sloping spine. Steve smoothed his free hand down to Billy’s waist and back up, waiting.

“I—cleaned the shower,” Billy said, halting. “I could—show you, and—?”

Steve kissed his temple, quick, so helplessly fond. Overwhelmed.

“Good boy wants a wash?” Steve suggested, and tightened his arms when Billy tried to do his pillbug thing. “Be my good boy,” he said, hushed, nosing Billy’s flushed ear. “You want to?”

And Billy curled again, only this time around him. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”

Now with added sequel: Let's Give the Boy a Hand

#harringrove #harringrovekinktober2k23 #roommates in love #roommates in ill-defined dom subby dynamic #billy wants the praise #and the dick #steve gives it

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vodrae · 8 months

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DC Universe headcanon and i'm right on this :

Jason never allowed Roy and Artemis together on The Outlaws, not because they will fight ! Far from this ! They'd make great friends !

And not because they'd provoke him the biggest bi panic on Earth. No, Jay is perfectly happy with Artemis, but the homie is hella fine.

Their children love each other, Lian and Bizarro are besties.

Their mutual groups merged...They merged ! The first gen Titans, the Arrow family, the Bats and Birds, and Jason's interesting friends all related to the underworld.

No, if he doesn't want them to approach is because they are the WORST sportguys ever, Roy and Artemis both have a lot of merch, yell at their TV, sulk when their team loses.

When Artemis is stressed she has the habit to squeeze Jason's tights, chest and she crushes his hands during freethrow or puntkick.

So when Roy arrived unannouced with Lian, Dick and Kori, and The Outlaws are here too, and it's playoff season.

Jason doesn't fear anything.

But that, that : Gateway City versus StarCity, game 7.

He's shaking.

Kori and Lian are so excited by every action in the game that their joy contamined the group and nobody is disappointed.

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recoftheday · 1 year

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Free Throw • Those Days Are Gone • 2014 Count Your Lucky Stars Records • 5th press released in 2022 by Wax Bodega on Dark Blue Vinyl • Limited to 300 copies. . . . . . #freethrow #thosedaysaregone #countyourluckystars #waxbodega #manyhatsendeavors #manyhatsdistribution #Vinyl #Vinylcollector #vinylcollection #Vinyladdict #vinyllovers #vinylmaniac #recordoftheday #albumoftheday #instavinyl #vinyligclub #vinyljunkie #vinyloftheday #vinylporn #vinylrecords #recordscollection #vinylcollective #vinylcollectionpost #vinylcommunity #vinylphotography #vinylgram #vinyllove #coloredvinylclub #coloredvinylart #theartofcoloredvinyl . . . . . @freethrowemo @waxbodega @manyhatsendeavors @corystylez @steakandeggs_ @justin_b_castro @hachzall @lawrence_warner @dmcnelly (presso Milan, Italy) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cp26rr6MLB5/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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oliviawebsite · 7 months

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being goth is all about playing basketball and getting really good at freethrows. being punk is all about playing ice hockey and developing a really strong slapshot.

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