#training rescue

[yooo-lets-go]

Elias Walker father of the year

[slushyseals]

How to do interior decorating

Seals go on counter, next to the bread

The bread loaf helps them feel at home

Seal can be placed on the floor from time to time just to spice things up

Be sure to charge seal's batteries regularly so they do not power down unexpectedly

To change seal use the release switch under the upper right flipper to expose the charging port

With proper maintenance and care you too can have a fine kitchen seal that brings great aesthetic and fun to your home

[badninken]

Law going through some kinda involuntary goldilocks situation where he can't remember whether he actually saved a bear by using ninja moves or not, because he's too fucked up on lead and multiple types of trauma, so he just has to trust the word of his brand new best friend and biggest fan for life: BEPO! Scene from Little Hearts

[megamindsupremacy]

So like, y'all know that popular Star Wars fic trope of Time Traveling Obi-Wan Kenobi where he dies and then wakes up in his 11ish year old body back in the Jedi Temple? You know how usually he wakes up, has a few minutes/hours of confusion, and then goes about trying to act like he was at age 11 while slowly fixing everything wrong with the Jedi Order? Personally I think he would not do that.

I think that Ben "Lived As A Wizard Hermit For Two Decades On Tattooine, Left, And Then Died Immediately" Kenobi would wake up as an eleven-year-old, have a panic attack, attack the nearest adult Jedi while accusing them of Doing Weird Sith Shit To His Brain, fucking flee, only then realize he has time traveled, steal someone's ship, go flying out of the temple to god knows where, continue panicking, crash into a random moon while distracted, nearly die, build a survival camp out of his broken ass ship and eat whatever bugs he can find, get kidnapped by pirates, overthrow said pirates, steal their ship, and then very calmly return to the Jedi temple like nothing happened.

Then and only then do I think he would start trying to act like a normal human person (while also dodging questions such as "what the fuck was that" and "where were you" and "is that a pirate's ship?"), except he'd be bad at it due to having lived as an Insane Wizard Desert Hermit for the past twenty years who has experienced enough trauma and time that he doesn't super well remember the details of his childhood, what with all of the wars and death and wars and such.

His acting convinces nobody, but nobody is sure what exactly to do about All Of That so he's for the most part left alone (after very vehemently refusing sptherapy), all the way up until he catches a glimpse of palpatine out of the corner of his eye and then its On Sight

[inc-immigrationnewscanada]

‘Full meal deal’: B.C. search-and-rescue training flight saves hypothermic men, dog

A military search-and-rescue trainee found himself getting the “full meal deal” when his helicopter was tasked to rescue two men and a dog from B.C.’s South Coast on Thursday. The rescue happened around 3 p.m., after an 87-year-old man and his son found themselves in frigid waters when their boat capsized around Quarry Bay near Texada Island. Read more: Military helicopter helps rescue badly…

[elshe]

✨“Can we keep them?!”✨

Except Hiccup and Astrid are the ones who would ask to keep them lol

Maybe just Hiccup actually.

idk these two kiddies are sooo cute. I love them.

[4gifs]

A crowd pushes a train to rescue a man

[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.

-----------

[f-angy77]

Happy New Year 2025

We are finally in the year of the live-action Httyd, here is a small timeline of the important events of these years in the format of the Furies protagonists (and some similar extras).

[vaguelyaperson]

One of my favorite tropes in bkdk plays into the fact that Izuku is, first and foremost, a goddamn otaku.

And this isn't focused on his nerding out over any and all Dynamight merchandise (though that is part of it), but that Izuku is a socially awkward clueless MESS who inwardly cheered the first time he spoke to a girl on the phone.

Izuku has no clue what he's doing when it comes to romance. He's gonna stutter and fumble over everything. He's going to miss so many cues. He's gonna be panicking at 2am to Kaminari and Kirishima, over whether or not Kacchan would appreciate a bouquet of flowers. He's going to end up giving Kacchan a lego bouquet instead. He's gonna feel like a perv anytime his thoughts turn anywhere slightly indecent towards Kacchan. He'll be even more enthralled by Kacchan than ever before. He's going to think a Matrix movie marathon counts as a date (to his luck, with Kacchan, it will.) He's going to inadvertently do the most heart-felt, romantic, suave things when he's not even trying.

Look. Basically he is just going to be like every graceless but well-intentioned nerdy boy in his first relationship. And to his saving grace, he'll be dating a boy just as socially awkward as him - but in a different flavor.

[cc1010fox]

Fox, whispering: Wolffe! Wolffe! Wolffe, turning to look worriedly: Fox? What is it? Fox, whispering: Come with me. Wolffe, after seeing the tiny arachnid on Fox's bunk: Stand back. This might get messy. Fox: Be careful... Wolffe, smacking the spider repeatedly with his datapad: NO ONE TRIES TO HURT MY VOD AND GETS AWAY WITH IT! Wolffe, smiling as he turns around: You're safe now, Fox. Fox, glowering because he's now surrounded by his amused vode: Thanks...

[theforgottengreatpoem]

"Find them Skullcrusher. Find them."

[b4kuch1n]

pre-marination doobles. dont ask me questions

[mossbed-roots]

Fuck you *warriorcats your submas*

[estebunny]

esteban ocon in the opening scene of his first ever youtube video 🎬

via MY FIRST YOUTUBE VIDEO 🤯 | Building My Dream Garage 00:30~

[halflifebutawesome]

I'm not articulate in the slightest but like. Something something the first and last time you ever canonically see Barney Calhoun is when you're departing on a train or tram.