Back at it with that Kingdom Hearts AU today and I also drew Violet’s outfit (also my first time drawing her by the way).
Back at it with that Kingdom Hearts AU today and I also drew Violet’s outfit (also my first time drawing her by the way).
quint: *drinking water*
jack in the corner: bardel use to drink water...
june: for the last FU**ING TIME-
dirk: its 8 in the morning-
Dave: i have been stricken ill by the horny™
Dave: quick say something fuckin uhh
Dave: whats the word
Dave: unhot i guess
June: dave strider?
Dave: accurate but hey fuck you
Wall family gathering (Wall twins & their families + a baby daddy (aden))
oh well now ik
Osblaine Week, Day 3: poetry/romance tropes-soulmates
2nd in my short anthology of original Nick & June inspired poems:
Laws of Attraction
Physics and experience tell us
that two poles of a magnet
(north and south)
the destruction and
Creation in their path,
no less inevitable
than the stars in the sky
the gods placed there
to teach us how to dream.
GIF by splitscreen
“Ask her again,” June prompts him, shifting Holly on her lap so she’s sitting more upright. Nick arches his eyebrows in confusion, not understanding. “To come see you,” June clarifies.
Nick stills for a moment, before exhaling his held breath with a single nod of his head. He extends his hands to Holly, palms up and welcoming, a small hopeful smile on his face. “Do you wanna come say hi now?”
Holly’s eyes shift from his hands up to his face, and June feels hopeful this time she’ll lean forward into his arms and he can hold her. But to her disappointment and Nick’s, she doesn’t budge. She leans back into June, blinking her eyes curiously at her father.
June watches as Nick’s face falls slightly at their daughter’s hesitance to come to him. She knows how hard it is, being a stranger to your own child. It’s a thought that’s too difficult to bear, and so she stubbornly decides she won’t let this be how they leave him. It can’t be how they leave him.
“I have an idea,” she says, bouncing Holly on her knee, grabbing her attention. She smiles at her warmly. “Can you wave hi?”
a missing scene from 4x09, for day 3 of osblaine week 2021. find it here on ao3.
red, white and royal blue characters’ hogwart houses:
[it’s just my opinion]
alex claremont diaz - gryffindor
prince henry - hufflepuff with a lot of raveclaw vibes
june claremont diaz - hufflepuff
nora holleran - slytherin
percy „pez” okonjo - gryffindor
princess beatrice „bea” - slytherin
I have cold (on holidays!) so yeah i’m bored like hell
Manipur’s Chandel Tops List of Aspirational Districts in June: Niti Aayog
Chandel district in Manipur has topped the list of aspirational districts ranked by government think tank Niti Aayog FOR for the month of June. Sahibganj (Jharkhand) and Firozpur (Punjab) have been ranked at the second and third positions, respectively, Niti Aayog said in a tweet on Tuesday. Dhubri (Assam) and Kiphire (Nagaland) are at the fourth and fifth places, respectively. The delta rankings…
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tbh i miss posting on here. any other matt doyle livejournal fans out there
All's Well is a dark, trippy, Shakespearean satire. Truly one of a kind. I'm temped to classify it as a full-on mind tunnel because of the many labyrinthine fun-house-mirror levels to it. The main character, Miranda, is a college theater director who suffers from unrelenting back and hip pain from an injury she acquired back when she was still a promising young actress. (She fell off a stage.) That injury cost her everything: her marriage, her career, and her health, among other things. With sympathy from loved ones, medical professionals, coworkers, and friends either running low or having expired because they don't listen, because they don't take her pain seriously any longer, she feels isolated. Surrounding her is a choppy sea full of judgment and scorn and disbelief. She's trapped in a chronic bubble alone where nobody can hear her screams. Everybody writes her off as a burden or a headcase, minimizing her suffering, or worse, trivializing it. She's also adrift, hopeless, resentful, and desperate for any relief at all. That only intensifies when she decides to put on Shakespeare's most controversial play, All's Well That Ends Well, at the school where she works, which no one wants to see the students perform but her. She meets resistance and grief at every turn. No one will pay her any mind, and she's beaten down about it, almost too sick and exhausted to be fed up. However, things start to change before long. They grow foggier and stranger and better after she encounters three male strangers at a bar. They know her name. They seem to comprehend her pain. They claim to how to make it go away. As it happens, they turn out to be theater patrons who not only want to fund her play but want to watch her put it on for the public...or do they? Who are these mysterious men, anyway? Why is it Miranda can't seem to register their faces? How come her back/hip symptoms not only dissipate but seem to afflict others in her place after she meets them? What is happening? Who is to blame? Is there witchcraft afoot or can this all be chalked up to her bitter imaginings, bath herbs, and drugs which to help numb her constant discomfort? These are the sorts of questions readers are left asking. And the answers, if there are any, are fuzzy and deformed, which results in a lack of "what does it all mean" clarity that I suppose most would expect to be frustrating but I think is disarming in a good way because it's unique. It's singular. Like spinning out, it causes the sort of rush that leaves you momentarily unable to tell up from down. The story itself is a wild, fascinating, disturbing plummet through the center of a pain-hazed, drug-induced, golden remedy imbued, under-the-theater lights rabbit hole. It sucks readers right in. It grabs ahold of them as they tumble, twist, plunge, and pitch inside Miranda's mind--blowing them about so they topple into the real blinding hurt and dismissal people (women especially) face when they are victims of invisible but debilitating health conditions. It seems to ask: is there anyone out there who will listen? Care? Try? How come people only seem to understand when it's their turn, when they're the ones who are suddenly hunched over, broken and screaming and aching, so endlessly miserable they want to die? Not only is this book a bizarre blend of horror and hallucination, of fantasy and reality, of twisted literary allusion and suffering, but there's also an undefinable quality to it that toes readers along the edge of a rim to unbalance everything. Something about it distorts, disfigures--warping the lives, emotions, and experiences of all the characters within so you're left wondering what's real and what isn't by the end. Is there a way to tell the difference? Is there, you wonder? Having already read it myself, I don't know. Many days later and I still haven't been able to reach a consensus. Thanks to NetGalley and Simon and Schuster for the ARC in exchange for my review.
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Snow covering Railway Square in Junee, New South Wales, Australia.
Ignore the terrible lighting and look at these old tarot card esque wof doodles! From left to right it's Albatross, Clearsight, and Darkstalker (ew).
i genuinely don’t know any astrological signs i love my life
WHEN: Friday, 25 June, 1980; after the Graduation Ceremony WHERE: Somewhere among the hallways, Hogwarts
“Will you come for dinner?”
Sturgis’s eyes focussed once more as he turned to face his mother. It was only the second time he had spoken to either of his parents in months, but they asked to attend his graduation and Sturgis could not bring himself to care either way. A cruel statement, maybe. He didn’t verbalize the thought. The truth was, he could not bring himself to care about anything except leaving for Egypt tomorrow morning.
“I…” He cleared his throat. “I have to finish packing my things.” He winced. His mother was particularly gifted at seeing through his lies—not that he put forth much of an effort anyway. “But I could come over tomorrow for breakfast before my portkey leaves.” This brightened Lavinia, which, in turn, appeased his father.
“Yes, breakfast,” she reinforced, as if worried the offer would vanish into nothingness. “Well, I’m sure you have parties and friends tonight…” Parties that Sturgis had no intention of attending. Friends who surely grew exhausted of the perpetual darkness that loomed around him, a voice in his head lamented.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Seven o’clock.” He nodded, looking between the two, forcing his best attempt at a smile.
Without another word, Sturgis left. No hug, no handshake, just slinking back into the castle to hide in the shadows, to avoid the glow of this bright day. Perhaps he didn’t feel seething anger for them anymore, but he wasn’t ready for more than coffee and eggs with his parents—and that wasn’t even considering how grueling this day was, from the very moment he woke up.
There wasn’t anything to celebrate. Sturgis was not certain he even deserved this degree, given the only effort put forth was carting himself to classes. Maybe his professors pitied him. A grim conclusion of the school year to pair with an abysmal commencement. But that didn’t cover the root of his hatred for today, the anger churning inside him like bile.
Danny deserved to be here, graduating, laughing among his friends, eyes wide with the promise of tomorrow. Months passed since the morning everything changed. Winter faded into spring and now summer demanded attention; life went on—and still, no answers regarding the disappearance. Only a grave sense that Sturgis would never lay eyes again on the person he loved more than anything in the world. Not in this life, at least. It was the sick feeling of finality in his gut that gave Sturgis clearance to come to terms with the fact that Danny’s disappearance would always frustrate him. He found no hope in the promise of his return. There was nothing palatable, nothing digestible, only the desperate longing for answers that were not meant for him to uncover.
His mind drifted to images of the sea, of Danny, of their place that never was. It wasn’t real. They weren’t memories, and yet he longed so desperately for this reality that his brain stitched together the visuals. God, it hurt. The kind of pain that left him doubled over, weakened by a life too heavy to carry. Sturgis reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a flask, taking a more than generous swig. He wasn’t drunk—not yet—but the stiffness of the gin seemed to be the only thing getting him from one moment to the next. He feared the day gin would not be enough, when his body craved something more destructive, but he did not let his mind wander that far. That was a problem for another time. He drank again. It was dangerous to rely on alcohol to do all this. Abusive, really. Sturgis could know this and, simultaneously, drink anyway. Drink and drink and drink until his mind numbed.
He slid down to the stone floor upon reaching his destination. Where else to say goodbye except the very place it all began? Officially, that is. The dance last year, a stolen kiss right in this very spot, and then a promise this year, a vow to stay together. Sturgis saw every last detail play out in his mind. He pulled his knees into his chest as a ball in the back of his throat formed. His hand laid onto the ground, palm facing upward, waiting to be grabbed. To be held. Nothing reached for him but cold air despite the June breeze blowing through the castle.
It was time. He knew this from the moment he awoke this morning. Today, with the promise of Egypt tomorrow, had to be the end. The farewell he never got to give. A dreaded, painstaking goodbye.
Sturgis pulled out his journal, the mysterious beast that taunted him for months, and summoned it awake. Its pages filled, ink bleeding with secrets, and he flipped to a blank page. He inhaled sharply, readying his body for the ache that the alcohol fought tirelessly to numb. Ink danced onto pages as Sturgis cracked into his soul and let the contents spill.
I suppose I should feel thankful that you will never read this because it will certainly be embarrassingly, foolishly, upsettingly tender. But this letter isn’t for you; it’s for me.
For me to say goodbye to you, because there’s this feeling that’s taken root in me. It’s sunken deep, into my bones. This is the end; there is no more you and me, not in this universe. We reached the end, my love, and I cannot go with you—although I desperately wish you would have taken me with you.
Why didn’t you take me? I suppose I’ll always wonder.
I wish we had more time. One last night together, filled with my terrible records and you kicking my arse at every game on the Atari. We’ll go to bed, tangled in one another. I’ll press my face into your chest, smell the remnants of your joint. A kiss, one last kiss, the kind where time melts away. The kind that when you finally come back to consciousness, there are fireworks going off in Giza and you paid them no mind. And then I drift to sleep, after squeezing every fraction of time from these moments.
But life isn’t that kind, is it? Or maybe it is, but only for a finite amount of time. Good burns warm, fast, and bright. Then, it’s gone. I think we were like that. We were good, and then we weren’t; then we were great, and now we’re nothing.
You’re still everywhere though. You’re gone, but you haunt me. You’re in these hallways, you’re in my head, you’re in the very air I breathe. You envelope me—and I let you, because it’s all I have left of you. These memories, this pain, it’s all I have of you, Danny. It’s the only part of you I can still hold onto. But to hold onto you, to live in this grief… It’s killing me. It’s eating me from the inside out. And if I don’t free myself of this, then there won’t be anymore of me left. Anymore of the Sturgis you loved.
I have to leave you here. I have to leave you behind. I have to go somewhere where I don’t see our memories lining spaces like the stones that form this castle. I need new places, new chances. I need to be free of you. Release me. Please.
If this universe is hellbent to part us and to leave me here, then I must try to soldier on. Maybe one day I will be able to look upon our short time together and not experience debilitating pain. Perhaps one day I will laugh and smile like I did once. I’ll tell our stories. I’ll tell everyone of the boy who taught me how to love. But that time isn’t now. And I don’t know when it will come, but that’s a concern for tomorrows ahead.
I leave for Egypt tomorrow, and I’m terrified. But it calls for me, and I suppose I must go. On to explore new places, to forge a life. Without you. Funny, how I once did not see a future without you in it.
Forgive me for abandoning you here. Please. Know that I love you, and even in death that won’t cease. I don’t believe in destiny, but you and I… We were meant for each other, I think. Meant to find one another. To learn and grow from one another, to share a small portion of time together in the vastness of life. I believe that, I do, because I believe in us and the love we shared. It was real.
I suppose I should end this letter. I’m rambling, and I’m crying in a hallway. You would hate it. But this is my goodbye, Danny. My farewell to you and our time together. It was a good time, wasn’t it? We were really happy, you and me.
I love you, I love you, I love you. Wherever you are—I hope you found peace.
Yours always, Sturgis
Brown eyes glanced at the words a final time, some ink tear-stained and smudged. He ripped it from the journal, then pointed his wand at the parchment and transfigured it into a bird feather, a vibrant shade of murky blue. Sturgis stood from the ground, hand curling around the feather, and moved to the window. He gazed upon the view, the rolling green brushed by warm breezes. He breathed in the air. Tomorrow started a new chapter.
When he exhaled, his palm opened and the feather fluttered away—kissing the sky and the earth far, far away. One day, when life left his own body and his magic undid itself, perhaps someone would stumble upon this letter and let their imagination answer their curiosities. It left him with hope, that maybe once he, too, met his end that the world would not forget about them. About Sturgis and Danny, and their story.
Sturgis smiled weakly, eyes following the feather until it faded into oblivion. He turned back to face the spot where he sat moments before—their spot. The memories danced in his head once more as a few more tears spilt down his cheeks. He nodded; once, then twice, before rubbing his eyes. This was the end.
Thinking abt being june @canolatie scrolling through qwer dash seeing a shit ton of blocked nsfwish posts only to find out the next morning that it was fucking veggietales sex discourse. How did it cope.