Thinking About Her (three Sword Style Nami That Oda Drew For One Piece Magazine Vol. 13)

Young Wolves, part 5! on AO3 here!

i’ve been waiting to get to this one for quite some time, so here it is! again, @asparrowsfall is working her beta magic <3

fic and additional warnings under the cut, as usual

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this horrible screaming thing, this being alive for right-now, flooded over your lines, poured out all over the floor and through the cannisters. they love you when you are smaller than this, and controlled, and perfect, unspeaking and gentle in their pools and with your clothes off and with their hands around your throat. they love you when you dance pretty and suck their fingers and say yes and sit up straight and get the grade.

but you became needy again, didn't you, little bug. swatting at the ripcords around you. swinging your arms and watching the city fall. the path behind you is all smoke and ash and overturned cars. you were supposed to be good, good! good, after all. after the heat and the noise of it. you were supposed to be less, to want nothing, to hold all of your desires in a shoe box, to burn them in the summer of your 16th year, to bury yourself in chintz at the foot of their rosebush and come out without the smell of blood.

but you burned-sugar aberration. howling all that sorrow out from your bellybutton up into the green sky, yearning. they don't need you to feel better, they need you to shut up. they don't need you to heal, they need you to stop hurting so loudly. they don't need you to feel good, they need you to kneel down and accept the suffering. you don't get to do this. other people in your life get to lash out and be cruel, but you? you were good, and now when you are sobbing yourself raw on the floor of your bedroom, the first thing they tell you is this isn't like you. as if there is anything like you. you don't even know what you are, because you have wounded your desires and killed off your future so you are just a hungry animal, loping alone in the dark.

come on now, monster. turn your head around. you know better than to leak like this, when they need you. they need you. they need you, so shut up and take it.

From the Wikipedia page on loons

France: I take very good care of myself. I treat my body like a temple.

Romano: Yeah, open to everyone, day or night.

i like you

b4 pride month ends i want to say hi to the naorises of the world

(pls use he/him for naoto !)

words by kait rokowski

Mountains, mountains, mountains

Hope (in 8 select parts)

1. Faint Music, Robert Hass

Maybe you need to write a poem about grace. When everything broken is broken, and everything dead is dead, and the hero has looked into the mirror with complete contempt, and the heroine has studied her face and its defects remorselessly, and the pain they thought might, as a token of their earnestness, release them from themselves has lost its novelty and not released them, and they have begun to think, kindly and distantly, watching the others go about their days— likes and dislikes, reasons, habits, fears— that self-love is the one weedy stalk of every human blossoming, and understood, therefore, why they had been, all their lives, in such a fury to defend it, and that no one— except some almost inconceivable saint in his pool of poverty and silence—can escape this violent, automatic life’s companion ever, maybe then, ordinary light, faint music under things, a hovering like grace appears. As in the story a friend told once about the time he tried to kill himself. His girl had left him. Bees in the heart, then scorpions, maggots, and then ash. He climbed onto the jumping girder of the bridge, the bay side, a blue, lucid afternoon. And in the salt air he thought about the word “seafood,” that there was something faintly ridiculous about it. No one said “landfood.” He thought it was degrading to the rainbow perch he’d reeled in gleaming from the cliffs, the black rockbass, scales like polished carbon, in beds of kelp along the coast—and he realized that the reason for the word was crabs, or mussels, clams. Otherwise the restaurants could just put “fish” up on their signs, and when he woke—he’d slept for hours, curled up on the girder like a child—the sun was going down and he felt a little better, and afraid. He put on the jacket he’d used for a pillow, climbed over the railing carefully, and drove home to an empty house. There was a pair of her lemon yellow panties hanging on a doorknob. He studied them. Much-washed. A faint russet in the crotch that made him sick with rage and grief. He knew more or less where she was. A flat somewhere on Russian Hill. They’d have just finished making love. She’d have tears in her eyes and touch his jawbone gratefully. “God,” she’d say, “you are so good for me.” Winking lights, a foggy view downhill toward the harbor and the bay. “You’re sad,” he’d say. “Yes.” “Thinking about Nick?” “Yes,” she’d say and cry. “I tried so hard,” sobbing now, “I really tried so hard.” And then he’d hold her for a while— Guatemalan weavings from his fieldwork on the wall— and then they’d fuck again, and she would cry some more, and go to sleep. And he, he would play that scene once only, once and a half, and tell himself that he was going to carry it for a very long time and that there was nothing he could do but carry it. He went out onto the porch, and listened to the forest in the summer dark, madrone bark cracking and curling as the cold came up. It’s not the story though, not the friend leaning toward you, saying “And then I realized—,” which is the part of stories one never quite believes. I had the idea that the world’s so full of pain it must sometimes make a kind of singing. And that the sequence helps, as much as order helps— First an ego, and then pain, and then the singing.

2. No Choir, Florence + The Machine

3. from The Naomi Letters, Rachel Mennies

4. from On Jellyfish, Nina Li Coomes

5. When We Were Orphans, Kazuo Ishiguro

…oh, I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve wasted all these years looking for something, a sort of trophy I’d get only if I really, really did enough to deserve it. But I don’t want it any more, I want something else now, something warm and sheltering, something I can turn to, regardless of what I do, regardless of who I become. Something that will just be there, always, like tomorrow’s sky.

6. To the young who want to die, Gwendolyn Brooks

7. In Blackwater Woods, Mary Oliver

Look, the trees are turning their own bodies into pillars of light, are giving off the rich fragrance of cinnamon and fulfillment, the long tapers of cattails are bursting and floating away over the blue shoulders of the ponds, and every pond, no matter what its name is, is nameless now. Every year everything I have ever learned in my lifetime leads back to this: the fires and the black river of loss whose other side is salvation, whose meaning none of us will ever know. To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.

8. Untitled Project 01 - ISSAC LAM

AAAAAAAHHHH ITS SO AMAZING SEND HELP IM DYING

Hey, idk if you still draw this ship, but I’ve just stumbled in to karumana and your art is AMAZING. So, can I request some more gender bent karumana? I just love how you’ve made them!!💕

HEYY thanks for liking my stuffs!!! It’s been a looong while since I last drew them so it might be slightly different from what they used to look like in my drawings lol but here you go!! Hopefully you like them! Sorry this took a while because rl stuffs hahahaha

and yes I still love them with all my heart by the way