#way to go out with a bang

[tuliptiger]

So. I'm not looking at anyone else's loz:totk posts because I don't want spoilers but I'm pretty damn conflicted that the price is 70 dollars right out of the gate with no season pass or dlc or anything attached to it. It's literally just 70 dollars. I actually actively hate and despise that.

I feel like this is going to set a really, really bad precedents and they're able to do this because it's a popular eagerly awaited game in a popular series. 60 dollars has always been and still is an incredibly high price to pay for a game. I'm 100% going to get my money's worth because i spent over 600 hours in both and still go back to play it but the ACTUAL story and gameplay quests take less than 10 hours. Without really trying either.

But still they're like breaking the 60 dollar roof and i just feel like other companies are going to start doing this now too. There isn't any reason why it needs to be 70 dollars, botw practically sold the switch when it came on out they KNOW its going to sell well. So hey why not grab a couple million more dollars from people because they'll pay for it and we know we can get it right? Fuck.

[symphonyofsilence]

Let the poor man rest.

[slavhew]

charmed, i'm sure

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

In the world of heavy metals, love is denser than hate!

[caffienatedtree]

“Have you ever thought of,” Clark cocks his head and tries to find the right words, “well, after?”

“After what?” Bruce responds, ten pages deep into the thick stack of files he somehow acquired on the new alien species that just showed up.

“After Batman.”

Bruce answers immediately, “no.”

“Because I was thinking you know,” Bruce snorts but Clark just keeps going as if he didn’t hear, “maybe we could find a nice house, a dog, and-“

“The good old American dream? That’s unexpectedly cliche of you Boy Scout,” Bruce’s lips twitch up just the slightest bit. Nobody else would’ve seen it, but Clark did. Because Clark has super vision, super everything really, but he also spends way too much of his time staring at that stupidly handsome face.

“But doesn’t it sound nice? Someone else will keep the peace and we could just relax for once,” he lets out a wistful sigh. Clark envies his Ma and Pa, most Sundays if he has time to spare he’ll fly back over to Kansas for lunch or brunch with his parents and enjoy a break from the city. He loves metropolis, he truly does, yet he sometimes feels like he’s swimming through mud. Just barely trudging through life. His days are a cycle of writing articles, fighting crimes, getting an hour or two of sleep, and back at it again. Rarely does he get to sit down and talk to Bruce like this without being interrupted by some crisis or another.

“Keep reading,” comes Bruce’s sharp rebuke.

“Yeah, yeah, just think about it though.”

- - -

​Clark doesnt think about this conversation again until a week later when he finds a key on his coffee table. He checks the doors, the windows, the security camera, and doesn’t find anything, but he knows it’s Bruce’s doing somehow. Under the key is a the address to a house in Smallville, Kansas, and a short note scrawled onto paper. “It sounds nice.”

[novelconcepts]

There’s a line from American Gods I keep coming back to in relation to Yellowjackets, an observation made early on by Shadow in prison: “The kind of behavior that works in a specialized environment, such as prison, can fail to work and in fact become harmful when used outside such an environment.” I keep rotating it in my head in thinking about the six survivors, the roles they occupy in the wilderness, and the way the show depicts them as adults in society.

Because in the wilderness, as in prison, they’re trapped—they’re suffering, they’re traumatized, they’re terrified—but they’re also able to construct very specific boxes to live in. And, in a way, that might make it easier. Cut away the fat, narrow the story down to its base arc. You are no longer the complex young woman who weighs a moral compass before acting. You no longer have the luxury of asking questions. You are a survivor. You have only to get to the next day.

Shauna: the scribe. Lottie: the prophet. Van: the acolyte. Taissa: the skeptic. Misty: the knight. Natalie: the queen. Neat, orderly, the bricks of a new kind of society. And it works in the woods; we know this because these six survive. (Add Travis: the hunter, while you’re at it, because he does make it to adulthood).

But then they’re rescued. And it’s not just lost purpose and PTSD they’re dealing with now, but a loss of that intrinsic identity each built in the woods. How do you go home again? How do you rejoin a so-called civilized world, where all the violence is restricted to a soccer field, to an argument, to your own nightmares?

How does the scribe, the one who wrote it all out in black and white to make sense of the horrors, cope with a world that would actively reject her story? She locks that story away. But she can’t stop turning it over in her head. She can’t forget the details. They’re waiting around every corner. In the husband beside her in bed. In the child she can’t connect with across the table. In the best friend whose parents draw her in, make her the object of their grief, the friend who lives on in every corner of their hometown. She can’t forget, so she tries so hard to write a different kind of story instead, to fool everyone into seeing the soft maternal mask and not the butcher beneath, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the prophet come back from the religion a desperate group made of her, a group that took her tortured visions, her slipping mental health, and built a hungry need around the very things whittling her down? She builds over the bones. She creates a place out of all that well-intended damage, and she tells herself she’s helping, she’s saving them, she has to save them, because the world is greedy and needs a leader, needs a martyr, needs someone to stand up tall and reassure everyone at the end of the day that they know what’s best. The world, any world, needs someone who will take those blows so the innocent don’t have to. She’s haunted by everyone she didn’t save, by the godhood assigned to her out of misplaced damage, and when the darkness comes knocking again, there is nothing else to do but repeat old rhymes until there is blood on her hands just the same.

How does the acolyte return to a world that cares nothing for the faith of the desperate, the faith that did nothing to save most of her friends, that indeed pushed her to destroy? She runs from it. She dives into things that are safe to believe in, things that rescue lonely girls from rough home lives, things that show a young queer kid there’s still sunshine out there somewhere. She delves into fiction, makes a home inside old stories to which she already knows the endings, coaxes herself away from the belief that damned her and into a cinemascope safety net where the real stuff never has to get in. She teaches herself surface-level interests, she avoids anything she might believe in too deeply, and still she’s dragged back to the place where blood winds up on her hands just the same.

How does the skeptic make peace with the things she knows happened, the things that she did even without meaning to, without realizing? She buries them. She leans hard into a refusal to believe those skeletons could ever crawl back out of the graves she stuffed them into, because belief is in some ways the opposite of control. She doesn’t talk to her wife. She doesn’t talk to anyone. It’s not about what’s underneath the surface, because that’s just a mess, so instead she actively discounts the girl she became in the woods. She makes something new, something rational and orderly, someone who can’t fail. She polishes the picture to a shine, and she stands up straight, the model achievement. She goes about her original plan like it was always going to be that way, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the knight exist in a world with no one to serve, no one to protect, no reason propelling the devastating choices she had grown comfortable making? She rechannels it. She convinces herself she’s the smartest person in the room, the most capable, the most observant. She convinces herself other people’s mysteries are hers to solve, that she is helping in every single action she takes. She makes a career out of assisting the most fragile, the most helpless souls she can find, and she makes a hobby out of patrolling for crimes to solve, and when a chance comes to strap her armor back on and ride into battle, she rejoices in the return to normalcy. She craves that station as someone needed, someone to rely upon in the darkest of hours, and she winds up with blood on her hands because, in a way, she never left the wilderness at all.

How does the queen keep going without a queendom, without a pack, without people to lead past the horrors of tomorrow? She doesn’t. She simply does not know how. She scrounges for something, anything, that will make her feel connected to the world the way that team did. She moves in and out of a world that rejects trauma, punishes the traumatized, heckles the grieving as a spectacle. She finds comfort in the cohesive ritual of rehabilitation, this place where she gets so close to finding herself again, only to stumble when she opens her eyes and sees she’s alone. All those months feeding and guiding and gripping fast to the fight of making it to another day, and she no longer knows how to rest. How to let go without falling. She no longer wears a crown, and she never wanted it in the first place, so how on earth does she survive a world that doesn’t understand the guilt and shame of being made the centerpiece of a specialized environment you can never explain to anyone else? How, how, how do you survive without winding up with blood on your hands just the same?

All six of these girls found, for better or worse, a place in the woods. All six of them found, for better or worse, a reason to get up the next day. For each other. And then they go home, and even if they all stayed close, stayed friends, it’d still be like stepping out of chains for the first time in years. Where do you go? How do you make small choices when every decision for months was life or death? How do you keep the part of yourself stitched so innately into your survival in a world that would scream to see it? How do you do away with the survivor and still keep going?

They brought it back with them. Of course they did. It was the only way.

[copia]

THIRTY-ONE DAYS OF GHOST ⛧ DAY FOUR

favourite song from Infestissumam — Year Zero

Hell—an archaic Swedish translation of hail. Archangelo, the Italian name for an Archangel, for whom we will bow in praise; hail Satan, and welcome, with the birth of the Antichrist, an age with which humanity's calendar will begin again.

[cloudkemi]

I always knew Foolish and Vegetta were endgame. From the start Foolish was a loyal lover, I mean he didn't give under the pressure from all the cheating allegations and was determined to stick by Vegetta.

While Vegetta wasn't on the server whenever he did catch a glimpse of Foolish he was always following with a compliment or kind words.

But actually seeing the believing pay off was so satisfying like UGH they were in love your honour. It was nice to see just how solid their bond was in the end, and I like to think the reason Vegetta died there was because he had been protecting Foolish from one of the monsters when he got a nasty wound. I like to think he died in Foolish's arms believing he was going to visit their daughter, filled with love. :)

""If I don't see u tomorrow I will see you tomorrow, tomorrow. [...] Remember me in your other lives"

[antidotetogo]

Art by @wendersfive

“Louis, what do you have to say about how last week ended?” the reporter asks. There’s a moment of silence. Harry is looking at the reporter, but eventually gives in and looks down the table at Louis. He’s looking straight ahead, as if Harry isn’t even in the room. “If you can’t take the heat, then get out of the kitchen.” Harry leans forwards, placing his arms on the table and leaning onto them to get as close to his microphone as he can while looking at Louis. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Louis turns to him, his icy blue eyes meeting Harry's. “Driving is your fuckin’ job, act like it.”

In its near eighty years of existence, Formula 1 has never had an out gay driver. In 2017, Harry Styles signs a contract with Scuderia AlphaTauri alongside his childhood friend and competitor, Louis Tomlinson. The next decade of their careers is some of the most tumultuous press--on and off the track--Formula 1 has ever seen. _______________________________

aka the one where Louis and Harry are childhood friends to enemies to lovers over the course of 15 ish years.

Coming soon as a part of @onedirectionbigbang

[doostyaudi]

I CANT LET HIM WIN

[alfairy]

Since Sonic 3 is presumably the last time we’re gonna be seeing Robotnik in the movieverse (this is jim carreys last acting role since he’s retiring) I think they should just go all out and let Robotnik and Stone be openly in love. Have them make out on screen for a solid minute or two.

[bajaja-blast]

finally finished this fucking book

it took me almost a year because it’s so hard to get through oh my GODS

[pikasetism]

mod colors a drawing for the first time since the blogs creation

[lazycranberrydoodles]

woe mundane monopoly headcanons be upon ye

follow for more of modern au hua cheng’s outfits

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

In the world of heavy metals, love is denser than hate!

[voulezloux]

All Louis’ life, he’s known he’s been different. There’s always been something at odds about how he felt. As the eldest daughter of seven kids, he knew something was wrong with his body. Something was off, he just couldn’t quite put his finger on it. His mum dressed him in dresses and tights, plaits in his hair as he wandered around with the local neighborhood boys. They called him a girl, called him she and Rosemary when his name is Louis. He had told the boys as such, but they would tell him Louis is a boy’s name, not a girl’s. Louis is a boy. He knows he is.

the one where louis is trans and afraid, harry is cis and brave, and being 100% yourself is easier said than done.

don't be afraid to love (and love again) (83.2k)

written as apart of round 7 of @onedirectionbigbang

art by @wendersfive

listen to songs that inspired the fic here