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@lilamerlino: yes I just went in the snow in a bathing suit and no it wasn’t cold

Lila merlino
Lila merlino
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Region: US
Thursday 17 December 2020 16:38:17 GMT
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capeeeeeee
Mark :
Nice - what beach you going too ?
2020-12-17 17:44:58
2
ryananders0n
Ryan Anderson :
The Yankees suck
2020-12-17 16:59:05
2
kellypastelly
Kelly pastelli :
My fav TikTok Queen 👸🏻 All Time! ❤️💕
2020-12-17 19:16:03
1
jimmydeancampbell
JimmyDeanCampbell :
🥺
2020-12-17 17:09:21
1
lilbertoo
Bertoo :
come to SoCal so we can go for a picnic at the beach 🏖
2020-12-17 17:08:52
1
ericouimet
Eric Ouimet :
🥰🥰🥰
2020-12-17 17:08:30
1
To see more videos from user @lilamerlino, please go to the Tikwm homepage.

Other Videos

There’s no sound yet. Just wind that seems to pause mid-breath, as though nature itself doesn’t want to interrupt what’s about to happen. He’s standing still. But something in your instincts screams that stillness is a lie. He doesn’t approach. He doesn’t have to. The air closes in on itself in deference to his presence. His frame looms upward—tall, shirtless, sculpted in the style of a rumor passed down by lightning strikes. His ribs move just slightly, like a countdown, like a tide trying not to wake the shore. The sky above him? Wrong. Too dark for this time of day. Too dramatic for a reality that once had rules. He’s not covered in armor. He doesn’t need armor. His torso is bare, but you get the sense it could slice you open if you even brushed past it. He’s wrapped in something below the waist, but the cloth doesn’t sway. It hangs obedient, like it knows it serves something holy—or something horrible. Or both. What he carries could be mistaken for a weapon. But that would be an insult. It’s not a sword, exactly. It’s an answer. Held sideways. Its edges whisper. The cross-shaped hilt is wrong, like a relic misremembered by time. And there—just at the base—horns curl like the word “no” said politely but with finality. That object hums. Not with sound, but with pressure. Like it’s asking the air if it would kindly move aside. You want to run. You want to kneel. You want to rewind your life. But none of those things are options anymore. His expression is unreadable. Not emotionless—just too evolved for human interpretation. He sees everything. And judges none of it. He doesn’t need to. Judgment already happened. You’re simply living in its echo. And then he moves. Or perhaps the world moves around him. The grass under his feet leans away. Clouds fracture above. Shadows stretch toward him like long-lost regrets. The very idea of standing seems unwise now. You are suddenly aware of your own anatomy in a way that feels… temporary. There is no speech. No declaration. No dramatic pose. Only the slight lift of the horned cross-blade. Only the sound that follows—not a slice, but a redefinition. You don’t fall. You unfold. You become several. Not shattered, but separated—cleanly, elegantly, as if your body was merely a suggestion that had run its course. You’re aware of everything in that moment: the curve of your form mid-split, the strange serenity of being divided, the surreal calm of watching the world tilt around your former center. He’s already still again. The blade rests. It’s quiet now. He doesn’t linger. Doesn’t gloat. He may not even remember you. After all, the blade is not wielded for anger, or cruelty, or ceremony. It’s used only for balance. Only for what must be done. And once it’s done— the grass straightens. the sky exhales. the world shrugs, and continues. Somewhere, the wind starts moving again. And you are no longer part of the story. Just the example. The warning. The echo in someone else’s footsteps.
There’s no sound yet. Just wind that seems to pause mid-breath, as though nature itself doesn’t want to interrupt what’s about to happen. He’s standing still. But something in your instincts screams that stillness is a lie. He doesn’t approach. He doesn’t have to. The air closes in on itself in deference to his presence. His frame looms upward—tall, shirtless, sculpted in the style of a rumor passed down by lightning strikes. His ribs move just slightly, like a countdown, like a tide trying not to wake the shore. The sky above him? Wrong. Too dark for this time of day. Too dramatic for a reality that once had rules. He’s not covered in armor. He doesn’t need armor. His torso is bare, but you get the sense it could slice you open if you even brushed past it. He’s wrapped in something below the waist, but the cloth doesn’t sway. It hangs obedient, like it knows it serves something holy—or something horrible. Or both. What he carries could be mistaken for a weapon. But that would be an insult. It’s not a sword, exactly. It’s an answer. Held sideways. Its edges whisper. The cross-shaped hilt is wrong, like a relic misremembered by time. And there—just at the base—horns curl like the word “no” said politely but with finality. That object hums. Not with sound, but with pressure. Like it’s asking the air if it would kindly move aside. You want to run. You want to kneel. You want to rewind your life. But none of those things are options anymore. His expression is unreadable. Not emotionless—just too evolved for human interpretation. He sees everything. And judges none of it. He doesn’t need to. Judgment already happened. You’re simply living in its echo. And then he moves. Or perhaps the world moves around him. The grass under his feet leans away. Clouds fracture above. Shadows stretch toward him like long-lost regrets. The very idea of standing seems unwise now. You are suddenly aware of your own anatomy in a way that feels… temporary. There is no speech. No declaration. No dramatic pose. Only the slight lift of the horned cross-blade. Only the sound that follows—not a slice, but a redefinition. You don’t fall. You unfold. You become several. Not shattered, but separated—cleanly, elegantly, as if your body was merely a suggestion that had run its course. You’re aware of everything in that moment: the curve of your form mid-split, the strange serenity of being divided, the surreal calm of watching the world tilt around your former center. He’s already still again. The blade rests. It’s quiet now. He doesn’t linger. Doesn’t gloat. He may not even remember you. After all, the blade is not wielded for anger, or cruelty, or ceremony. It’s used only for balance. Only for what must be done. And once it’s done— the grass straightens. the sky exhales. the world shrugs, and continues. Somewhere, the wind starts moving again. And you are no longer part of the story. Just the example. The warning. The echo in someone else’s footsteps.


#كلار #كةلارةكةم❤️ #سليماني #هەولێر #كركوك #خانقين #سليمانيه_كردستان_العراق_هولير_كةركوك #هەولێر_سلێمانی_دەهۆک_ڕانیه_کەرکوک #CapCut
#كلار #كةلارةكةم❤️ #سليماني #هەولێر #كركوك #خانقين #سليمانيه_كردستان_العراق_هولير_كةركوك #هەولێر_سلێمانی_دەهۆک_ڕانیه_کەرکوک #CapCut
久しぶりの #三姉妹 👯‍♀️✨
久しぶりの #三姉妹 👯‍♀️✨
حنّا #الحرس ذخر الوطن للمهمّات أهل المواقف والسيوف الشطيره #وزارة_الحرس_الوطني #الحج #السعودية
حنّا #الحرس ذخر الوطن للمهمّات أهل المواقف والسيوف الشطيره #وزارة_الحرس_الوطني #الحج #السعودية
#stitch with @Sammy ☻ #fypシ゚viral
#stitch with @Sammy ☻ #fypシ゚viral

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