#*inserts the i'm fine meme*

[lenzimanot]

SEMI HIATUS NOTE. You might've noticed that i'm even more mia than usual, so I just wanted to say that this will probably continue for now. december is generally a busy month (for everyone, I know) & also my birthday month. this year i'm gonna spend it on a trip to Vienna with my sisters & we're still planning everything for that. apart from that some health related things are causing me anxiety atm & makes me feel even more stressed & not in a writing mood. so long story short: tumblr is simply not a priority rn & I will only write when I'm really in the headspace. Sending you all lots of love <3

[sisterdivinium]

Warrior Nun truly is the most fucked up fucking show in the whole fucking world isn't it

Thecla (Ancient Greek: Θέκλα, Thékla; Greek: Θέκλα; Turkish: Tekla) was a saint of the early Christian Church, and a reported follower of Paul the Apostle. The earliest record of her life comes from the ancient apocryphal Acts of Paul and Thecla.

In one scene, female beasts, particularly lionesses, protected her against her male aggressors.

It is also said that Thecla spent the rest of her life in Maaloula, a village in Syria. There, she became a healer and performed many miracles...

...but remained constantly persecuted.

In one instance, as her persecutors were about to get to her, she called out to God, a new passage was opened in the cave she was in, and the stones closed behind her.

Around AD 280, Thecla features as one of the characters in Methodius of Olympus' Symposium, in which she displays considerable knowledge of profane philosophy, various branches of literature, and eloquent yet modest discourse. Methodius states that she received her instruction in divine and evangelical knowledge from Paul, and was eminent for her skill in sacred science ("Logos 8").

According to some scholars, Thecla's story inspired many later stories of women saints who dressed as men

All of these women were empowered by Thecla, a woman who did things that not many women would ever dare to do

In Spanish-speaking countries, she is also facetiously counted as the patron saint of computers and Internet, from the homophony with the Spanish and Catalan word tecla ("key").[citation needed]

(text on Thecla of Iconium taken from Wikipedia)

[christine-ye]

Saw a few people dump their Kamen Rider tier lists on here so I thought "why not jump on the bandwagon?"

Also included a tier list for Heisei-Reiwa main civilians (with only the seasons I've watched/seen a decent amount of to properly rank minus Gavv) for funsies

[crowfromfoggyforest]

Did almost none of the fun stuff i could have done all evening because i had a Task to do. Naturally, i didn't do the Task either.

[druizard]

I am living for all of the thirsty tags you guys add when you reblog my shit. Absolutely unhinged. Never change, friends.

[wobiwan]

i don't even go here but tell me this song isn't tomgreg + tom wambsgans's POV

[stairset]

What if I told you guys I am drawing the characters from the Starset books. What then.

[mischievouslittlecreature]

Do I get an award or something for somehow managing to get hate from BOTH Grace and Lizzie fans? I feel like a lot of people seem to fall into one of those two camps and I've somehow managed to piss off both of them 😂

[moe-broey]

HOLY SHIIIIITTTTT

[emotinalsupportturtle]

I'm like a psycopath, sitting here and dispassionately diagnosing myself with signs of depression

[justplaggin]

Your thoughts on the new episode ??

[normaltothemax]

“Hey! Hey! Stay awake, okay? Stay awake.” / for jake!

“Fuck off,” a hand swats lethargically in Constantine’s general direction, hitting nothing but air. “M’awake, I’m awake.” But he’s so fucking tired. All he wants to do is close his eyes and rest for five fucking minutes. That’s all. Jake really doesn’t think it’s that big of an ask.

Deep down he knows he can’t. Knows sleeping is the last thing he should be doing, for some reason. He just can’t remember what that reason is.

It’s hard to focus, hard to remember to stay awake when the darkness is calling to him. Dragging him down, his body heavy, mind sluggish. He’s cold. Why is he cold? When did he wind up on the ground? It’s hard and uncomfortable beneath him, but that thought disappears just like the rest of them have, gone before it even has the chance to really form.

He can’t hear Marc or Steven. Can’t feel them nearby and it scares him. He doesn’t know if they’re okay, they have to be okay. A part of him is glad they’re not here with him, though. They shouldn’t have to see this. Shouldn’t have to feel what he’s feeling.

He can still protect them from that.

Face screwing up in concentration, he puts up a wall in his mind, blocking them out, wherever they are. He’ll protect them from this.

The suit. “…suit…” Where’s the suit? He should be summoning the suit, he’s sure of it. Why can’t he summon the suit? Something’s wrong, something’s very, very wrong, and he doesn’t know what it is, but it’s wrong and he knows he needs the suit but it’s not coming.

“John…” He’s tired. He’s just so fucking tired. Five minutes, that’s all he needs. Just five…

@talentforlying (x)

[anotherhumanpet]

It started as a simple, innocent desire that blossomed into an idea.

Dennis was bored; full of energy he couldn't get out and feeling antsy about it. So, he got on his bike and hit the road.

Then the road became a dirt trail, and that eventually led to a large hill. And Dennis, full of piss and vinegar in his youth, decided to coast down that hill and pick up speed, because why not? It'd be fun and probably be the fastest he's ever gone on his bike, which would just be even more fun because speed equals fun.

Then, he hit a bump in the road and the bike lurched forward, sending Dennis flying over the handle bars and toppling down the hill until he eventually crash-landed into ditch just off the side of the road.

He's fine, but fuck that hurt.

[measuredoutinyears]

hello there! if you’re still open for requests, could you possibly write something about touch-starved ringo with hurt/comfort? no worries if not!! love your fics :)

hi anon! it took me a while, but here's a little something under the cut! It's up on my ao3 as well. I hope what I wrote is what you wanted. as you hadn't specified a pairing, I kept it platonic and wrote some paul & ringo friendship. I hope you like it!

Ringo liked it better when they all used to share rooms. This era of the band's night accommodations suited him much better. Sharing a bed with any of the other three wasn’t so bad either (Ringo secretly relished it). Nor weren’t the few times when they collectively had to pile up in order to try and keep some warmth. Admittedly, none of them got much sleep on nights like these, but. Tonight it isn’t half as cold, and Ringo still isn't likely to fall asleep anytime soon.

Which, if he were to ask his bandmates' opinion, would be deemed stupid. There’s no way they could see what the problem with this hotel room is, like Ringo does.

It is a good hotel room.

There's a good bed right in the middle of it, for starters. John said earlier that the mattress in his own room was divine, that he couldn't wait to pass out on it. Even better, this room isn't cold in the least; on the contrary, the air is pleasantly warm. Ringo only has a short-sleeved t-shirt and pyjama pants on, and no chill forcing him to add another layer. Past him would have been thrilled by this – an actually good hotel. What else could he possibly wish for?

And it’s a hotel he doesn’t have to pay himself – not directly at least – and which is a five-minutes ride away from the concert venue.

A hotel that's littered with soft carpets and which was, indeed, booked just for them.

Ringo tries to feel grateful for what life's giving him.

But he's sad and tired, and he’s feeling – oh, the point is, he's feeling weird tonight.

Weird like when he’d give anything (a nice hotel room) to get a hug. Even a short, barely there one. Just something that’d reassure him enough until morning comes, something that'd allow him to fall asleep with as little intrusive thoughts as possible, lest he's shaken awake by a nightmare within the next few hours.

It seems, though, that a couple nightmares is where he's headed at. That, or no sleep at all.

If Ringo could, he'd leave this forlorn and desolate but warm room, he'd venture across cold corridors, and he'd knock on one of his bandmates' doors.

But that's not what a grown man should do, right? This isn't even nowhere close to what a grown man should be thinking about in the first place. Ringo shrugs, tries no to add guilt on top of the feelings he's going through. He needs to push away these misconstructions. They're wrong, he got told that

Ringo takes a deep breath. That's when he notices how weirdly he's standing. It's simple: he's been holding his own hand for god knows how long.

It's just him with himself. Holding hands – but it’s no use, it’s no making him feel better in the least. His hands are desperately warm, not even cold.

He doesn’t need the cuddle pile anymore. Exit the Beatle sandwich and his friends’ groans of annoyance amidst gentle snoring.

Ringo doesn't need anything, because this well-furnished hotel room has everything he should need.

Yet it’s not enough. Without thinking, Ringo takes a step forward before stilling with one foot mid-air. What is he doing? He can't go beg for a hug.

His knuckles are white, the blood gone because of how tight his grip on his own hands is.

Somewhere, in the back of his throat, Ringo feels like crying. He won't, but he could – it would be so easy to give in. Everyone feels like crying sometimes, he reasons himself. So, sometimes he cries, sometimes he doesn't. The possibility is right there.

Except that, once more, there's no reason for crying. The travel went well. The show was as good as can be when your bloody fans love you too much to listen to your music. There was no argument between him and any of his bandmates, nothing to mention from the crew around them.

And this hell of a hotel room is beyond reproach.

There's a knock on his door. It's so unexpected that Ringo just gapes at it for a second, until he gathers himself and answers.

“Come in! It's open.”

“You shouldn't leave your door open like this, you know?” Paul says he gets in.

Ringo shrugs.

As someone who's aching for a hug, he isn't going to lock the door. Nope. He’s not going to tell Paul that either.

“The hotel's empty anyway,” he mumbles, but Paul isn't interested in his answer anymore.

“What are you doing?”

Ringo blinks. Not only does he look like he's trying to demonstrate what shaking hands is, but he's also standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“How long have you been standing there?” Paul asks, perceptive and unrelenting. “You look like you've been caught.”

“Guess I just zoned out,” Ringo shrugs again.

Paul, bless him, lets it slide.

“Can I stay with you for a while? I tried John on my way here, but I think he's asleep. And George cursed at me when I knocked on his door. I think he's writing a song.”

Ringo considers his words. Anyone else would conclude that he was only Paul’s third choice. But Ringo noticed the apologetic tone that sometimes makes Paul's voice feel softer. Especially in the middle of the night. Paul is assuming he's disturbing Ringo's plans, whatever they were.

“You’re fine, you can stay,” Ringo says with a small smile that doesn't really hide the relief on his face.

It must be blatant really, as Paul picks up on it right away. Ringo sees the way his shoulders relax.

“Alright,” Paul is grinning now, teasing him, “am I supposed to stand in the middle of the room with you?”

“Let’s just–” Ringo looks around them. There's nothing to sit on but a chair that doesn't look quite comfortable (finally, this room does have a flaw) “ –let's just sit on the bed, yeah?”

“Fine with me,” Paul says.

Without more ceremony, his bandmate drops onto the mattress. It squeaks, disturbing the peaceful atmosphere. All it does is make Paul giggle.

“Ritch, come on,” he calls him as he sits up and rests his back against the wooden headboard. “You’re not rooted in that spot, are you?”

But he kind of is, Ringo reflects. He really must have been standing there for longer than he thought. And there's another thing – he doesn't know what he'll be like when he finally moves.

It could be anything, from breaking down in front of Paul to snapping angrily at him out of frustration. Because he really needs a hug, and when he dares move … who knows what will become of him.

Carefully, he joins Paul on the bed. Nothing happens. Ringo wraps his hands around his sides as he sits next to him.

“Everything alright?” Paul raises an eyebrow.

He's eyeing Ringo from the other side of the obvious, too big distance Ringo left between them.

“I told you,” Ringo says patiently. “Yeah.”

He's fine, or at least he's feeling better since Paul came in. There's someone with him. A friend. Sure, Ringo would commit fraud to get a hug, but Paul’s mere presence is already soothing. It quells his worried thoughts.

“Okay,” Paul says, with a look of disbelief, and then he's asking about tomorrow’s program, and what Ringo thought of this and that, little bits from their day which Ringo sometimes remembers and sometimes doesn't.

This is one thing he can say about Paul. Paul knows how to distract Ringo from his thoughts. Whether he's helping consciously or not, it works.

The room isn't too big anymore. It’s decently suited now, with Paul talking quietly, sprawled on the bed now as he sometimes moves his hands above his head for added emphasis.

They've turned off the big lamp and only kept the smaller one on Paul’s side of the bed. After some time, tiredness combined to the soft lighting causes Ringo to yawn.

“Oh, so you think I’m boring now?” Paul asks, interrupting himself in the middle of a very long rant about the true meaning behind these song lyrics that he hasn't even written yet. The cheek of this man.

“’m just sleepy.”

“Would you tell me why you were so weird earlier?”

“Mm? Oh, yeah. I was ... feeling off. It's gone now, though,” Ringo says.

His eyes are closing by themselves.

“Thanks to me?” Paul clarifies.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Ringo retorts, failing to stifle the yawn that makes his words barely understandable.

“I’ll let you sleep, I think we both need it,” Paul chuckles, “but I’ll stay here with you. Just to make sure you don't feel off again.”

Ringo isn't sure whether he manages to mutter a thank you before passing out. Finally, he's fallen asleep.

What he's certain of, however, is how he feels upon waking up.

Warm, comforted. The opposite from yesterday, thanks to Paul’s late night talk and also to the weight of Paul’s arm across his stomach. They must have shifted in their sleep, Ringo thinks dazedly.

Because, you know. When you sleep on top of the comforter instead of using it ... even in fancy, warm hotel rooms, cuddling your friends is required.

[alittlefrenchtree]

for people who know me I feel like i have to precise that it does not scares me because it's particularly angsty but because i need to find a realistic-ish way to fix global racism and queerphobia (among other things) in order to make the plot works and it turns out it's not really easy. i know who would have thought.

writing unnecessary fluff: ✍️✍️✍️✍️✍️

writing the main plot that scares me: ...................

[moth-basement]

𝗹𝗶𝗹' 𝘀𝗾𝘂𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗱𝘂𝗱𝗲 🧽

An ask meme with a bunch of lines from my favorite Spongebob episodes. This isn't meant to be too serious, I just really love spongebob and haven't seen an ask meme for it.

"I wumbo, you wumbo, he, she, wumbo."

"Wumbology! the study of wumbo!"

"AND THEN THERE'S A GIANT FIST!!"

"Remember, licking doorknobs is illegal on other planets."

"He was number one!"

"Well, it may be stupid, but it's also dumb."

"I know of a place where you never get harmed. A magical place with magical charms. Indoors! Indoors! Indoors!"

"Oh boy! Holographic meatloaf! My favorite!"

"And what's better than serving up smiles!?"

"Being dead, or anything else."

"See, no one says 'cool' anymore. That's such an old-person thing. Now we say 'coral', as in 'That nose job is so coral.'"

"Long, tan, *licks teeth* Handsome"

"Are they laughing at us? No, they are laughing next to us."

"Excuse me sir I hope my horrible ugliness doesn't distract you from the movie."

"I'm ugly and I'm proud!"

"Oh these aren't homemade. They were made in a factory.... a bomb factory."

"the boy made you a sweater of his own tears, and you kill him."

"goodbye everyone, I'll remember you all in therapy!"

"I order the food, you cook the food, the customer eats the food. We do that for forty years, and then we die."

"you're good, you're good, you're good, aaaaand stop."

"Don't worry captain we'll buff those scratches out."

"All those wrong notes you played made it sound more original."

"We're not cavemen! We have technology" *smashes the computer*

"Hey pal, you just blow in from stupid town?"

"You used me....for LAND DEVELOPMENT! That wasnt very nice!"

“This isn’t your average every day darkness. This is....ADVANCED darkness”

“Assertive, not insertive, ya twit!”

*sticks finger in pocket* "beep beep"

"He's just standing there..... MENACINGLY!"

"don't you have to be stupid somewhere else?"

"What is today but yesterday's tomorrow?"

“I will dismantle this oppressive establishment BOARD BY BOARD!”

"Well maybe we would sound better if some people didn't play with BIG MEATY CLAWS"

"Oh good luck out there. I hope the audience brings lots of ibuprofen."

"You won't catch me when I shift into maximum overdrive!!"

"It's not just a boulder! It's a rock!"

"shut your mouth you mediocre clarinet player."

 “You don’t pay me. We don’t even exist! We’re just a clever visual metaphor used to personify the abstract concept of thought.”

"I only know fine dining and breathing."

"oh you mean like a weenie? MaY I TaKe YoUr hAt Sir?"

"the best time to wear a striped sweater is all the time."

"Can I be excused for the rest of my life?"

"You mean you've never heard the story of the... hash-slinging slasher?"

"The sash wringing... the trash thinging... mash flinging... the flash springing, bringing the the crash thinging the..."

"And then the walls will ooze green slime!? Oh wait they always do that."

"You know, if I were to die right now in some sort of fiery explosion due to the carelessness of a friend well, that would just be okay."

“C’mon you lazy Mary, start rubbing me with that chocolate!”

"East? I thought you said weast?"

“We’ve been smeckledorfed!”

"Whatever doesn't kill you, usually succeeds in the second attempt."