#smiling when i die

[hinamie]

growth // decay

[soulful-lines]

Don't wanna look back Thinking I could've done this Or I could've tried that Don't wanna look back 'Cause it's going by fast

smiling when i die (2019), Sasha Alex Sloan

[aratribow]

I can't believe this bitch took me WEEKS but here we are /sigh

Um yuri casphaidei for the win 🏆

[a-compass-without-a-needle]

This is what happened after 3.1 isn't it?

[dailygihun]

Gi-hun and Jung-bae hanging out pls?

day 19 || I NEED TO DRAW JUNG-BAE MORE IM LOWKEY PISSED AT MYSELF FOR NEGLECTING HIM

[a-flickering-soul]

this is flirting to them

[burningcheese-merchant]

I think more ppl need to see this

Yeah for real lol. That's exactly what it is with him. Not to toot my own horn too much but I believe this post I made ages ago hits the nail on the head haha

"I'm bored" is... technically true. In a sense. Personally, I think it's a very simple and vague allusion to the real problem. That thin sheet of snow coating a massive, freezing cold iceberg. Just barely obscuring it from proper view.

imo it's been a bit disappointing seeing people take to extremes with Burning Spice's character. I've seen people either woobify him, downplay or excuse his actions by saying "he's not evil! He's hurting! He's depressed! He doesn't hate people, he's lashing out because he can't internalize his pain anymore!", or just demand he be put to death immediately on sight without trial. You can like a morally repulsive character and sympathize with their issues while also acknowledging that they're repulsive and need to face justice for their crimes. Burning Spice is one of my favorite characters, I love everything about him, he's sexy as fuck, I understand why he's the way he is, I'm still happy to see his ass beat because he's a piece of shit and he deserves it lol.

Not to throw shade at "simpler" villains ofc. I love me some assholes that are assholes just because they can be. Like Jack Horner in Puss in Boots 2. But Burning Spice isn't Jack Horner and he honestly shouldn't be. The deeper, sadder, more complex reasons governing his actions suit him better than just "I'm bored fuck this shit" and nothing else ykwim

and of course, he's still wrong. Burning Spice's view of the world is wrong. Does a book begin just to end? Does a song play just to finish in a few minutes' time? No. They begin so that we may read, listen, and enjoy. So that they may make us laugh, or have us shake our heads in disappointment, or tell us some hidden truth. Make our days and lives a little more interesting than they were before. Life is beautiful BECAUSE it is fleeting. Born, grow, wither, born, grow, wither. Yes, that's how it goes. But there's so much more to those things than just what we can gather from those three words. Every day is different. Though the sun rises every morning without fail, it's never quite the same color, is it? Always a bit of a different shade of yellow, orange, red, bleeding into the sky a little differently each time. There are so many things to see and do, games to play, people to meet and love and cherish. Maybe some of those things and those people won't be here someday but that doesn't mean their existence never meant anything. We are not born to die, we are born to live. We must die for those who are to live, and live for those who have died. Regardless, we must never lose sight of the intrinsic value of all that surrounds us. Burning Spice very much did. Underneath his bitterness and anger and (not unfounded, to be fair) lamentation for the unstoppable cycle of life and death is a deep-rooted selfishness and fundamental lack of understanding and appreciation for life and other people. In the face of despair, he gave in and chose evil. He was and is wrong for doing so, regardless of why he did it. He could've stepped down. He could've just admitted he didn't have what it took to be the Herald of Change. Hell, if he really hates being alive so much, he would've committed suicide a LONG time ago. But he never did any of that; instead he chose to inflict an equal or greater suffering on everything and everyone else, even the undeserving. And for that he MUST pay. And Golden Cheese, with her personality and her experiences and the wisdom she came to attain when faced with the exact same despair as Burning Spice, is exactly the right person to make him do that

[otakuwithapen]

MASSIVE GORE WARNING!

Sooo ya know how Ollie is like “There used to be 8 of them, but now it’s just CatNap”

And DogDay is like “I’m the last of the Smiling Critters”

I was thinking “Well, what the hell happened to the others?” I decided that “CatNap killed them all” was Too Boring, so I made up my own explanations!

You can find all the gory details in my A03 fic ‘No More Smiles’, but in the mean time enjoy my drawings!

[nerdyspies]

thank you starkid for telling jon matteson to tone down his pleas and sobs in the cast recording of npmd cuz if i had to hear richie's voice cracking and shaking as he begs max to spare him everytime i wanted to listen to that song id kill myself

[introspectivememories]

thinking bout 14yr finnick winning the games and thinking about the victors+effie looking at this child and going "fuuuuck!!! guess we're co-parenting now"

[wildsaltair]

Sunrise Smiles

Pairing: Maximus Decimus Meridius x reader

Rating: T (fluff, with a few tiny hints of spice)

Word Count: 2.5k

Tag List: @enjisbf, @nasatshirts, @empressenchanted, @streets-in-paradise, @xiscamoony, @yourloverslost, @russtybird, @saltwaterburns, @dovellici, @ay0nha, @bat-gwuck, @melintowriting, @nananyang, @enhydralutris-t, @aelondrias

Author’s Note: I'm back with more obsessive tenderness and passion for my beloved husband Maximus :) I've been looking forward to sharing this one — it's short but really sweet. This one takes place sort of after "Tender Fires," in which Maximus escapes the execution attempt and ends up at reader's farm, where they fall in love and after much mutual pining finally become lovers. This is another favorite of mine, and I hope y'all enjoy <3

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

You have been lovers for exactly one week now, and still you are shy waking up with him in the mornings.

The first rays of dawn wake you both at the same time, cascading over the bed and illuminating Maximus' fine features as if he were a god. You are still amazed at the feeling of waking to find this man beside you, his arms wrapped around you and his skin wonderfully warm against yours.

This morning, you wake with your back pressed against his front, one of his arms thrown across your waist and his face buried in your hair. You can tell he is awake by the way he shifts you to fit against him more easily, but he seems content to lie still for a few moments while you wake up.

This entire arrangement is so new, so foreign to you. During the day when you go about your chores, you can’t help blushing when your mind returns to the night before, remembering the passionate way he makes love to you. Even now, enveloped in the warmth of your bed, the idea that this is real life almost seems impossible.

Once he has shifted you where he wants you, he inclines his head to one side, just far enough that he can kiss the side of your neck tenderly. You can feel him smiling against your skin, pulling you infinitesimally closer to his body.

And this is the most unfamiliar aspect of it all: this next-morning affection. There is no embarrassed separation after you are finished, no leaving in the middle of the night to escape awkwardness. For this man, lovemaking is only one part of the way he demonstrates his affection for you.

Slowly, almost lazily, he continues to press soft kisses against the curve of your neck, following a trail down your shoulder. Your skin tingles at the sensation, and you can’t resist a smile that you try to hide in the pillow.

He must catch your amusement, because you can feel his own smile widening as he kisses the back of your shoulder. His short beard prickles against your bare skin, eliciting a giggle from you that prompts him to tighten his arms around you and bury his face in the crook of your neck, laughing with you.

Neither of you is laughing at anything in particular — just giddy at being able to demonstrate your love for each other — and he lifts his head enough so he can pull you onto your back. You link both arms around his neck, dragging him back down to your level, and he kisses your lips in a way that is somehow both stirring and soothing.

In the next few moments, he takes the time to kiss a trail down your neck, your collarbone, and lower. The same early-morning shyness strikes you, even in its irrationality. There is nothing he can see or do that he has not already seen or done in the last week, but the sheer intimacy of him seeing you this way, with the first rays of the sun dancing through your bedroom, makes you bashful.

Once he is satisfied that he has covered you in kisses, he props himself up on one arm to gaze into your eyes and stroke his fingertips through your hair. You can see nothing but absolute fondness in the way he looks at you.

“As lovely as you are at night,” he says in the deep, raspy morning voice that sends an instant shiver down your spine, “I think you are even lovelier in the morning.”

You can only smile at his words, still a bit overwhelmed by the entire situation. You would have thought that after a week of being lovers, you would be a bit more confident and articulate the morning after, but this man still knocks you speechless with the passion in his eyes. Especially when your body is remembering the way the night before was spent.

He tilts his head to one side as he looks at you curiously, eyes darting across your face. With a mischievous smile, he traces the back of his knuckles down your cheek. “Is that a blush?” he asks softly, fingertips trailing over your face.

You can only grin and look away in response, feeling your cheeks burning. You can’t explain why you are so overcome with shyness, but he just smiles wider at your reaction.

“Why do you blush?” he whispers, leaning forward to kiss you again between sentences. “What do you think I will see that I have not already admired?”

Your blush only deepens at his question, and both of you are smiling into the next kiss. You reach up both hands to cradle the back of his head, fingers tangling in his dark hair and earning a soft sound from him in response. He lowers himself down onto his elbows over you and deepens the kiss, his tongue stealing past your lips.

This is yet another thing that thrills and dazes you: the way he pours every bit of his intense focus onto you, exploring your mouth as if he is kissing you for the last time and trying to commit each detail to memory.

In the brief moment when he pulls away to take a breath, you reply to the question that he has probably forgotten. “If I blush,” you tell him coyly, “it is only because the memory of last night is still so fresh.”

“Is it?” he asks, clearly pleased with that answer. “Would you be interested in refreshing that memory again?”

You shiver again at the delicious promise in his words, and he wraps you snugly in his arms again, his warmth washing over your skin. He tilts his head to resume his kissing on the side of your neck, right behind your ear in the spot that he knows makes you writhe.

A moment later, when you can form a coherent thought, both hands gripping his broad shoulders, you whisper in his ear, “The day will not wait for us to have our fill of each other, my love.” He smiles against your neck, and you add, “Though I will be counting the moments until night falls and we can refresh the memory more than once.”

Still cradling you in his arms, he lifts his head and gazes into your eyes tenderly. “Would that there were enough hours in the night that I could get my fill of you.”

“I would be heartbroken if I ever thought you had enough of me,” you reply softly, fingers threading through his hair.

He sighs, the heat and sincerity in his eyes transfixing you. “A thousand nights with you would never be enough,” he murmurs, fingers flexing against your waist. He kisses you again, more gently this time.

“Then I should have nothing to worry about tonight,” you tease him between kisses. “It is only the eighth night.”

Another sound from the back of his throat, one that almost sounds like a growl when paired with his intense gaze. “Worry only that I will not let you go in the morning,” he quips, eyes locked on your kiss-swollen lips.

The heat of his skin, the warmth of his embrace, and the growing knot of desire in your stomach combine to make you yearn to take him up on his offer of refreshing your memory right here and now. “This may be the first time I have ever loathed my farm,” you admit, arching your back in a stretch and tightening your hold around his neck.

He grins in response, kissing the corner of your mouth gently. “Do not loathe your farm,” he replies. “It needs you almost as much as I do.” One last kiss, one that conveys his deep affection for you, and he finally pushes himself into a sitting position, tugging you up with him by the hands.

“Come,” he instructs you softly, climbing off the bed and pulling you alongside him. Again, you feel the blush rising to your cheeks when you stand, the covers falling away to reveal your skin, but he just gives you a smile of reassurance.

At first, you aren’t sure what he plans to do, but he reaches for your tunic, which was folded on your corner chair, and lifts his eyebrows to indicate for you to hold out your arms. You do so, and he wraps the tunic around you as deftly as if he has done it a hundred times. He certainly has seen you do it enough times.

He fiddles with your belt for a moment, tying it backwards, then correctly while you watch. Occasionally, he lets his eyes flit up to yours, the corners of his lips turned up in a subtle smile.

The sheer tenderness of his action melts your heart, especially since you know he is not purposely seducing you in this moment. He is simply enjoying your presence, engaging in your normal morning routine of putting your clothes back on after a night spent otherwise.

When he finishes tugging the knot in your belt, you almost shiver remembering the way he untied it last night — carefully, methodically, but with the utmost intensity and purpose.

Now that he has finished with you, you decide to follow his lead, picking up his tunic from where he had draped it across the corner of your bedside table. He grins when he sees that you are reciprocating his actions, and he helps you shrug the tunic over his head, thoroughly tousling his hair in the process.

His tunic a simple one, the kind that is soft and comfortable and laces up at the neck. Naturally, the strings hang loose thanks to your quick untying work last night, leaving his neck exposed. With a short coy smile, one that belies the color in your cheeks, you lean forward and press a kiss to his collarbone, which is something you have quickly discovered that he likes.

Before you have even lifted your head, both his hands are on the sides of your waist, gripping you with the restrained strength that makes your blood race. You can see his chest rising and falling more rapidly, feel his fingers flexing into your ribs, but he doesn’t lose his self-control, just allows you to continue.

Carefully, you lace up the cross-ties on his tunic, your fingers brushing his chest occasionally. You are consistently amazed at how warm his skin always seems to be, no matter the temperature. And if his skin is not warm enough, then the heat in his gaze certainly is.

When you finish lacing his tunic, you again copy his actions and reach for his belt. His is more complicated than yours, with several sets of straps and buckles, but you make short work of it, standing closer than necessary just because you enjoy the way his breath catches each time you brush against him.

His hands are still pressing into your waist, and you slowly slide your own hands up his chest, eyes wandering over him ardently. He almost seems to be straining to keep from performing his usual activities in this room — sweeping you into his arms, undressing you, and setting your skin aflame with his mouth and hands — but as always, he masters his desire and lets you move your hands over him without resistance.

Sliding your hands over his skin, even through his tunic, is a continual reminder of the scars that cover his body, a constellation of marks that you have committed to memory by now.

Your hands continue their path upwards, smoothing across his broad shoulders, which tense under your touch. His dark eyes are locked on your lips now, his eyelashes a lovely contrast to the color of his skin. He swallows thickly, as if to suppress his thoughts, when your hands glide up to rest on both sides of his neck.

You can’t resist a giggle when your gaze falls on his hair, still thoroughly ruffled from the night before. He snaps out of his trance and smiles with you, not understanding what you are laughing at.

Without a word, you comb your right hand through his hair, marveling at how soft and silken it feels against your fingers. He actually closes his eyes at your touch, the softest breath escaping his lips. You can practically see the tension in his muscles relaxing, the hardened edges of his face softening.

How easy it is to forget that this man is still a stranger to a gentle touch, a tender embrace. His own touch is so light sometimes that you can almost forget his strength, that his hands are powerful enough to rip flesh from bone.

Seeing the look of utter calm on his face, you comb your fingers through his hair very slowly, dragging along his scalp in the way you know he enjoys. You thread your fingers over his temples, behind his ears, down the base of his neck, transfixed by the way he melts into your touch.

When you pause your stroking for a moment, he does not open his eyes, but rather leans forward a few inches, hands still gripping your waist. He touches his forehead softly against yours, as if he is simply breathing in your essence in this quiet moment.

“You are the first peace I have ever known,” he whispers to you in a voice that you know is reserved only for you.

And this, this, is what is most wonderful and unfamiliar of all — to have this man’s heart so completely surrendered to yours. He is not merely your lover or your bedfellow: he shares your heart, your home, your entire soul. Every night when he makes love to you, he whispers over and over that you are his saving grace, that he has waited his entire life to feel your heart beating in time with his.

This moment, feeling him quiet and still in your arms, his face touching yours, his soul laid bare before you, brings the familiar welling of tears to your eyes. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you draw him as close to you as you can and whisper the only words that come to your mind in this moment: “My love.”

His strong arms wrap around your waist a moment later, lifting you onto your toes and pressing you against his body. The morning sunlight filters through your window, sending soft beams of light to frame the two of you in your embrace. His lips touch your temple in the gentlest kiss, and you hear every unspoken word in the rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest.

The sun continues its usual climb into the sky, but neither of you takes a bit of notice. You are holding your entire world within the circle of your arms, and you are completely assured that the man you love is delighting in the same feeling.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

More of my fanfiction if you're so inclined :)

[skunkes]

continuing my thread of posting my favorite Silly scenes... these two (stitched together) might just be the hottest he ever looks.

[remuslupinlovebot]

pandora watching everyone treat her daughter like a weirdo loser until harry potter comes in and shows her nothing but kindness and respect and suddenly she’s 12 again and james potter is helping her in class when no one else wanted to even sit next to her

[sheetzking]

heres a big compilation of a3 stuff ive been doing, some of it is a few weeks old and i just messily coloured in alot of it 👍

i actually had some more stuff in my WIP folder but im not sure when ill be finishing all that stuff off since i have something in mind for pride month!! anyways!!! huzzah!!

[hotchology]

[chompe-diem]

hey. don't cry. audible smile in brian murphy's voice when he says "...but it's good when your friends look out for you" ok?