#he gets to live not just survive

[corner-collects-rocks]

i keep thinking about neil josten and “You’re Gonna Go Far” by Noah Kahan.

Like there is not a more Neil song and every time I think about the two of em i tear up a little because Neil deserves to live sm its actually a little crazy.

like…

AND

i’m sure someone else has said it but i keep thinking about it and it just makes me ☹️ every time. this song x neil josten is actually so special to me please tell me you guys get it.

[chloesimaginationthings]

Poppy playtime should have more Harley Sawyer ngl

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Your beats make me sick

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[fascinationstreetmp3]

found and read this interview again... he just gets it

[assiraphales]

bro I’m sick bc ace dying in his arms was luffy’s biggest nightmare but dying in the arms of the person that he loved most / loved him most was probably the kindest Fate (under the circumstances) that he could have been given. luffy, the person he sacrificed himself for and would again and again and again and a million times over if he’d been given the chance bc there was no world he wanted to live in without his little brother alive and breathing, there with him at the end.

[artgletic]

case study of the self-identified god

[paperzest]

ORIGAMI NORIAKI KAKYOIN, designed+folded by me. One uncut square of roughly 60 cm home-prepared double tissue. Natural color changes (green for one side of the paper, peach on the other). Long post incoming!!

This project began a bit over a week ago, when the inspiration struck me, and I simply had to create him. My starting paper was super wrinkly! It got warped when I left it to dry overnight!! So it was very uneven. But! I took inspiration from a post I once saw about a tissue foil Ryujin that said “See this post as a reason to create something stupid, because it might actually turn out great.” So despite the flaws, I decided “I am going to fold this paper anyway”. And I’m glad I did. Shaping the face especially took a lot of trusting in the process. While I believe there is still room for future improvement, I also think it’s the best origamiyoin I’ve created so far. 

Much of this folding process was spent shaping him. I spent an evening impulsively drafting the structure in Box Pleating Studio and then getting paper prepared. Precreasing and collapse was spread out over 2 days, and everything else was shaping. 

Including image with side by side comparison of the first Kakyoin vs the latest below. While the old fold absolutely does not meet my standard now, it was an important part of this journey as well. Other miscellaneous process images included. (I do not claim the crease pattern to be perfect)

[pricetagged]

raft of the leucothea

A little Kyle piece for the Gaz lovers 💖 to tide you over while I work on the Nikolai and the Price stuff.

Shipwrecked. Washed ashore, injured and sick, and thankfully not alone. A man called Kyle Garrick has washed ashore with you.

No big warnings, just some ever-so-slight dubcon naked cuddling (for survival!).

----------

The harsh, salty spray stung your cracked cheeks. Like clay left to bake in the sun, you felt the cracking and peeling of stinging flesh. But you felt it, that was the important thing. 

Sunshine seared through your eyelids, a high noon wake-up call. Glowing ember-red, turning the sands to hot coal beneath you. You only had a second to process it before you rolled over, cramping muscles seizing in a paroxysm of a crawl as you hacked and coughed briny, burning seawater.

Alive then. 

You were scared to open your eyes. You could pretend that they were crusted shut, sand and grit and god only knows what flaking over. Irritating, painful. A conjunctivitis of caustic circumstance. If you opened your eyes, it was real.

No, it was better as you were. A temporary balm to a blistering scald. Eyes-wide-shut, blind to the horrible damp marl and putrid air burning through your smarting nostrils. Sea life and smoke; pungent enough to turn your stomach once more.

You moaned as you collapsed on the shore, skin-fever hot and itching. Grit and shell-shards dug in, piercing your sensitive flesh. Clinging, burrowing. Discomfiting. Like the discordant memories swimming to the surface, all driftwood and screams and kicking, aching feet.  

There was no more screaming.

The waves lapped at the shore, a gentle balmy breeze carrying the soft sloshing of surf. Hazy popping and crackling accompanied it, a paradisiac white noise that scrambled your sluggish thoughts. Your eyes fluttered open. Temporarily blind from solar glare, you blinked moisture back. Tried to, at least. You were parched, eyes-dry and throat drier. 

Perhaps you expected to see devastation. Destruction. Flotsam and jetsam and bodies strewn along the beach. There was a fire, yes, but it was not from the casket of the ship. Debris visible, but neat. Collected and organized into tidy little piles by a great smoking fire. Through the heat-haze of the flames, you spotted a flash of green: fresh leaves. Gaseous white billowed up; perfect for maximum visibility. 

"Ah, you're awake." A shadow fell over you, gentle hands supporting your back until you were somewhat upright. "Here, you'll need this."

You grimaced as your cracked lips crinkled around the fruit, harsh little fibres stabbing in. But the relief–

Light, nutty, refreshing. You guzzled it down, big greedy slurps as your hands raised to cup it closer, throat constricting as you lost your breath–

"Hey, hey, slow down," the stranger spoke, easily plucking the coconut from your shaky fingers. "You'll make yourself sick. Again."

"Thanks." You could at least croak out your gratitude, squinting to get a better look at him. "The others–?"

He was gorgeous, dark eyes and eyebrows slanted into the perfect expression of concern. He looked surprisingly normal, given the circumstances. Only a slight split on his full lips, a smear of sand crusted into his curls, marred his handsome face. You watched as his mouth twisted, as he rolled his neck glanced away. A grimace, more telling than words. 

"Just you, me, the sand and the coconuts. Paradise cruise, eh?" He finally spoke, nose scrunching as the joke came out a little flat. 

It wasn't a shock, but it was jarring all the same. Though you swallowed, your voice came out thick. "At least you're here. Wouldn't have gotten this open by myself."

It was feeble, words half swallowed as survivor's guilt and gallows humour met and warred. A dysfunctional marriage of relief and self-reproach curdled the coconut water in your stomach. A third player entered; unease. Anxiety, sending your heart rate spiralling high as your breaths grew shallow. Something stung your eyes, and you couldn't entirely blame the smoking fire–

"Hey, hey, look at me," You couldn't look away, not from his steady, unwavering gaze. Beautiful. Like sunlight filtered through whiskey, warm and soothing. "Breathe as I breathe– in, out, in– hold it– okay, out. That's right, that's perfect–"

He talked you through it, brought your trembling, clumsy fingers to his chest as he breathed in counts of eight. Kept his palm over your hand, cupped it against the rise and fall of his ribs. You could feel the firmness of his muscles beneath, feel the way his heart beat a steady rhythm just below your fingertips, and slowly, you relaxed into it. 

Your cheeks were wet. You realised that around the same time you realised his other hand was rubbing ataractic circles on your back. A shameful emollient, setting you at ease but lowering your gaze. Here, in the arms of this stranger, who were you? Troublesome castaway, retching on the beach as he built a signal fire. Slurping down the fruit that he offered, then crying in his arms–

"Stop that," His hand paused between your should blades, chin tucked as he leaned down to catch your gaze. "You're doing so well, love. Bit of a fucked up situation we're in here."

"How are you so calm? How are you so organised? I feel like I'm going to drift away like–like–"

The hand at your back pushed you forward, pressing until you were draped across his lap. He rocked you, stubble against your temples as he shushed and soothed. Analgesic whispers that slackened your tight limbs, sent eyelids fluttering until you slipped into slumber. Mind numb, docked in restful harbours. 

-----------------

When you woke up, you were hot. Shivering, teeth-chattering, but hot. You could no longer smell the fire, but you could feel it against your bare skin. Toasty, crackling embers smouldering and making you sweat. 

The fever slowed your mind, too. Thoughts turned to sluggish, sticky mulch as you nuzzled into the strong bicep supporting your neck. His skin was smooth, slightly tacky where it met yours, and you whined a little as you tried to pull away. 

But moving sent your head spinning, aching muscles seizing until all you could do was cry. 

"You're alright, just sleep. Don't move–"

"My clothes," you slurred the words, heavy and sticky on your tongue. Crystallising like spoiled honey, you tried to spit them out faster, but they just dripped. Molasses-slow, and murky. Confused. "I'm not– my clothes are– what–?"

"I took them off you–shh, shh– They were tattered anyway, we'll need to dig through the piles and see what we can repair." You felt his arm flex below you, rolling your head until it was resting on the pillow of his chest. You tried to open your eyes, but the image was hazy. Like looking through seaglass. "It's cold here at night, freezing. The fire's good, but body heat's best."

"'m too hot– feel too–" 

"Yeah, noticed you weren't just cold when you wouldn't stop shivering," his forearm banded around your squirming body, pinning you to his. "I know, baby, I know. It's not nice. Gonna try to sweat it out of you. Don't exactly have the luxury of good food and medicine." 

His voice was pitched low, sweet. It made you want to cry, mind adrift and body at his mercy. Holiday turned tragedy, swallowed up by the sea and spat up on the beach like refuse. Control slipped through your fingers, finer and more fickle than the sands below and all you could do was cry. 

You felt his fingers, whisper-soft, stroking through the ends of your salty, parched hair. Your tears dripped down, soaking into your flushed cheeks and the sparse, scratchy hairs on his chest. He paused for a beat, fingers swiping over your damp forehead. Whisps pushed away until you felt a butterfly kiss against your clammy forehead. Quick and gentle and fleeting. 

Small waves kissed the beach, too. Susurrus, splashing caresses that almost sent you drifting off again. The rumble of his voice tickled your cheek, made you blink slowly until you could make out his face through bleary eyes.  

"It's just you and me and this island," He spoke it softly, sting mollified by surety. Bittersweet ointment for a distressing prognosis. "I've got you; I'll take care of you. I promise."

Your answer was faint. "What if no-one comes for us?"

His arms curled tighter around you, twisted until you were splayed atop him. In another time, another place, you'd be flustered by the open splay of your legs, bare against his lean waist. Here, shame withered away, fizzled out. Ephemeral as seafoam. 

"I told you, I'll take care of you. Rescue or not, it's you and me now."

Later, you'd blame delirium, fever dream-fugue, for how the words echoed in your mind. 'Just you and me.'

You and him, and the island.

-----------

[angermango]

i try to warm up and/or fight off burnout by making dumb memes/joke edits for anything (with middling success). this is the PL edition of the latest abominations i concoted in my lab

originals: [1] | [2] | [3 (blank)]

[kinnsporsche]

it's always i love you and never "leave." "huh?" "i'll tell everyone that you died in the woods. so you can go back to your brother and get to open a bar just like you've always dreamed of." "why?" "i don't know. maybe because you'd sacrifice a hand for me. or maybe because i've crossed your line. or because i... i like it when you're happy. just leave. go now before i change my mind. just go! that's an order!"

[ruporas]

wolfwood redraws (ID in alt text)

[harpuiaa]

(person that has never seen saw but has read yugioh voice) yeah? so he traps people in evil puzzle rooms? sounds a lot like a guy i know

[cruelplatonic]

my personal headcanon is the vees were unremarkable nobodies when they were alive. i just love it as a thematic throughline for them. they love to let the public of hell speculate on them being famed and acclaimed since before death, but the the truth is they were a d-list failed influencer that got by on cheap controversey and scamming, a broke junkie who burned every shaky bridge he ever had, and a worn-out broadcast production assistant with more rejected auditions and tossed out script pitches than he could count. nobody missed them when they were gone, nobody cared who they were until they were dead.

[teyrnacousland]

Thinking about post game Illario again and the mental state he must be in. He's literally lost everything.

Things will never be the same between him and Lucanis. Even if they do get better someday, they can never be the same.

He is never going to be First Talon now. He's actually gone down the ladder, which I don't think he even considered as a possibility, since he figured it was a success or death kind of deal. The man who loves being admired and adored now has to face a future full of disdain and hatred.

He has to watch Lucanis become First Talon. Something he wanted (needed). And worse, something he knows Lucanis doesn't want. He has to watch Lucanis continue to be suffocated under Caterina's grasp and the weight of her expectations until it kills him. He's back to having to watch and wait for Lucanis to die. He was able to justify killing Lucanis in part to prevent this exact fate and now he has even less power to stop it than he did before.

Where do you even go from there?

[deadpoetsandlivinglegends]

Feel like Neil couldn’t have been any other kind of actor than one in theatre. If he was a movie actor or on social media or whatnot, it would not be the same. Theatre by nature is fleeting. Recorded mediums can be rewatched over and over, creating a time loop of sorts. We the audience can keep going back to a time when Neil is still alive. Theatre however is live and once the play is over, there is no going back except in our memories. It is much like life. We are forced to live in the moment in a theater lest we miss it altogether. It’s not that the poets choose to live in a world where Neil is dead, it’s that they must because the only other option is to die themselves. I feel like Keatings teachings could only be reflected in stage theatre because that’s the only way there can be no time loop of grief. I think dead poets society itself isn’t about overcoming the authority in your life to do what you want but rather about grief, about allowing oneself to feel grief and all one’s emotions without letting it consume you and to keep living after, to live every day in the moment lest you fall into grief and regret that will destroy you or force you into a miserable life

[dangerclaw]

This dude (Polites) really went through a ten year war and:

1. decided that life isn’t a battlefield

2. deliberately chose peace, then

3. died during a round of deadly whack-a-mole

The gods didn’t like his hope for a world of peace and harmony ig