#why is it so hard jesus

[sparklybimusic]

.

[henrioo]

WHY IS SO FUCKING HARD PUT A "FEM" IN FRONT OF THE "READER"???????

NOT EVERYONE IN THIS FUCKING SITE IS A FEM OR USES FEM PRONOUNS YOU DUMB BITCH

NOT EVERYONE WANTS TO READ HALF OF A HISTORY ONLY TO GET A FEM NICKNAME OR A FEM PRONOUN THAT YOU TAKE OFF YOUR ASS

JUST PUT THE FUCKING FEM READER YOU ASSHOLE YOU NOT GOING TO DIE IF YOU PUT THREE FUCKING LETTERS IN FRONT THE READER

IS SO FUCKING HARD DEFENDING SOME AUTHORS BECAUSE THEY CONTINUE BEING DUMB

SOME MASC PEOPLE HAVE A FUCKING DYSPHORIA OR THEY DAY RUINED BY THAT

YOU WON'T LIKE IF WAS A MALE READER WITHOUT SAYING IS MALE, THEN PUT THE FEM READER BECAUSE WE DON'T LIKE EITHER

[buildoblivion]

lord snow

[nyoomfruits]

Lestappen. 12

12. kiss in grief

It’s the sound of glass shattering that clues Max in that something’s wrong. He’s in the home office - which is mostly just a tiny desk pushed into the corner that they barely use and a giant sim racing set up – and so it’s only a few strides into their sprawling kitchen, one with giant windows overlooking Monaco harbor.

Charles is in the middle of it, by the giant kitchen island, back turned to Max, shoulders hunched. There’s a half opened box next to him, one of their water glass shattered all over the floor near his socked feet.

He’s shaking.

“Charles, shit,” Max says, moving backwards a little to grab a broom and a dustpan from next to the fridge. “What happened?”

It hadn’t looked like it was going to be a bad day this morning, when they woke up. Charles had been chipper, his leg hadn’t hurt that much, Max had even watched him putter around the apartment watering their meager collection of plants, humming quietly to himself.

“Your uh,” Charles says, back still turned to Max. “Copy of the Monaco trophy. Came in the mail.” His voice is thick, and his shoulders are shaking, and it doesn’t take long for Max to realize what’s going on.

“Oh,” he says, frozen in the middle of their kitchen, amid a sea of shattered glass, broom in hand.

Charles turns around then, and it immediately becomes clear he’s been crying, is crying, eyes rimmed red, cheeks wet, lip bitten raw. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think, I just opened it, and it was right there,” he says, voice thick, and Max’s heart breaks.

He opens his arms, an open invitation, one Charles has every right to decline right now. Max would understand, if he’s not the source of comfort Charles needs right now. If he’s too tangled up in everything. He wasn’t involved in the crash that caused Charles’s career ending injury, but he’s the one that’s still driving.

He’s the one that won the Monaco Grand Prix, two weeks after they told Charles he would never race again.

But Charles carefully steps over the glass, slots himself into Max’s arms like it’s the only place he wants to be right now, and sobs.

Max can do nothing but hold him, rub his back and whisper reassuring nonsense in his hair, press soft, featherlight kisses to the top of his head, and try not to break down in tears himself.

There’s nothing he can do. He wishes, so fucking desperately, that there was just something he could do. But there’s nothing. Just his halfhearted attempts at comforting Charles that they both know isn’t going to fix anything.

“I’m sorry,” Charles eventually says, in a wet, raspy voice, mostly into the fabric of Max’s t-shirt. Or well. Charles’s t-shirt, that Max is wearing. Truth to be told Max has forgotten, long ago, where his closet ends and Charles’s begins.

“Don’t be,” Max says. “I’ll get that thing out of here,” he continues, gestures at the box on the counter.

Charles lip wobbles again. Max knows he wants to say it’s fine, wants to be strong, and for anyone else he probably would have. But they’re Max and Charles, and they’ve been together for so long now, and so there’s no use, really, in lying. “Okay,” he says, and then gently takes the broom and dustpan out of Max’s hands. “I’ll clean up the glass.”

“Wait,” Max says, when Charles goes to move away. He grabs Charles’s wrist, pulls him close again, mindful not to disturb his leg, and then presses their lips together in a kiss.

It’s meager at best, and it tastes salty from Charles’s tears, but it’s a promise. I’m here for you, even though I don’t know how to fix this. I love you.

Charles kisses him back, however briefly. I’m okay, I just need time. I love you too.

Max mails the copy of the Monaco trophy back to the Red Bull Factory the next morning. Tells him to put it up for charity, or something. He doesn’t care.

Trophy’s are just trophy’s. Charles is Charles. And Max would do anything for him.

[al-luviec]

day 2 - energy / life / green

[melit0n]

Odysseus: "I have to see her"

Eurylochus: "But we'll die"

Odysseus: "I know."

[nanachozip]

“borrowing” stealing elias’ clothing and jewelry. at the beginning of his series, barista had to borrow his clothes, but what if that turned into a habit over time? randomly wearing his leather jacket or one of his rings, partially because they look nice, but mainly just to see his reaction. stargazing with him in his hoodie and playfully calling him your ‘husband’ while flexing his ring. of course, barista would have their own clothes by now, but where’s the fun in that, no?

[milkovichy]

[starleska]

me before watching Drop Dead Fred: aw this is gonna be a really silly dumb kinda movie and it'll cheer me up :3c me after watching Drop Dead Fred:

[roguetelepaths]

Smarter people than me have probably made this analysis, but I've been getting into Jesus Christ Superstar recently (1973 movie and 2012 arena tour) and I'm obsessed with how Not The Main Character Jesus is. For the first half of the musical, we see him predominantly through everyone else's idea of and reactions to him— he is loved and hated and worshipped and asked for things by all of these people, but he himself is mostly silent, and when he says anything at all, it's less like the words of a revered teacher and more like the outbursts of an aging teen heartthrob whose fanbase has started to get a little too entitled to his personal space.

He doesn't become a person, within the narrative, until Gethsemane— until all that external validation and adoration is stripped away, leaving only an interior perspective that we haven't seen until now. The outbursts that seemed egocentric and shallow before suddenly seem symptomatic of knowing one's fate and being unable to do shit about it.

I'm not Christian anymore, but I see a lot of parallels— probably intentional ones— to how the church I grew up in utterly refused to assign Jesus any kind of human emotion or interiority, even while harping on and on about how He Sacrificed For Us™™™. He was always pictured as enduring great physical suffering, without any emotional suffering at all— no abandonment, no resentment of his purpose, just calm contentment and knowledge that all was going according to plan. Which I understand, in a way. Depicting Jesus as being angry at God would be a slippery slope to 15-16 year old me feeling like I was allowed to be angry at God, and we can't have that. 🙃

[mysticalallblue]

Mob Psycho 100 - Ritsu Kageyama Paci Edits !!

^this was far harder than what it should have been. ritsu why are you so miserable 😭😭

The Lil Brothers And Their CG !! (Reigens Trying His Best)

What A Angry Kiddo 😢 (Ritsu Will Forever Be Over It)

[trans-rights-coastalmangoes]

i think some of you really need to learn what respectability politics are.

if you genuinely believe that the solution to deradicalizing the ppl in the far-right pipeline is for Black & brown people to temper our anger around white people (like i have seen some of you putting on my dash today)....

there's no amount of playing nice with abusers that'll get them to listen. if they decide that they want all of us dead because they decided some of us were rude to them, that's the racism. they weren't gonna take what we said seriously in the first place.

they need to hear the stuff that'll deradicalize them from another white person. someone they can begin to have respect for. i've literally had a white self-proclaimed-leftist friend light-heartedly tell me that they need to hear what i had to say from a white person to believe it. and it's fucking racist but it's true.

we are all responsible for talking to the people who will bother to listen to us. to reeducate. but in almost every instance, no amount of Black & brown people playing nice and abiding by white rules and white comfort is gonna de-radicalize the white people who are not willing to listen to us in the first place.

[once-in-a-half-life]

hm. so it turns out I've been using the rocket launcher wrong in hl2. you're supposed to point the laser where the rocket needs to go... 🤯

no wonder I was struggling so hard with the gunships and striders on my first playthrough skjdjdsk

[hey-scully-itsme]

a little drawing of stephen and brigid for new year’s

[parkitaco]

for once in my goddamn life i would love to feel secure abt a relationship

[ask-granite-pillars]

[TRANSMISSION REQUEST INBOUND. PARTICIPANTS: Ten Ounces Of Enriched Egg White (ADMIN, URAD), Unit of Radioactive Decay, Granite Pillars Stained By Statuesque Memories Of A Thousand Hands] [Live Broadcast] URAD: Hello? Is this reaching you? URAD: Your communications towers appear to be somewhat degraded. it took several tries to- TEN OUNCES (crosstalk, from out of frame): You degrade my efforts! Several tries and me fixing the formatting, as well. URAD: Several tries and my administrator's assistance in order to get a signal through. Your upkeep seems to be rather neglected, group senior. But I expect that it would be quite difficult to keep one of your age running in the first place. I am told that I should keep an amiable relationship with my group's senior, but I believe that Ten Ounces was more enthusiastic to meet you than I. TEN OUNCES (faint, from out of frame): Granite Pillars Stained By Statuesque Memories Of A Thousand Hands is the oldest surviving iterator, and it would be an honor to learn anything she might still have in her archives. URAD (directed towards indeterminate point to left of frame): As has been true for the past twelve times you have mentioned this. URAD: Truthfully, I do not know what value there is that I can gain from this, besides simply being aware of those above me on my local group's chain of command, but Ten Ounces was quite insistent that we at least try now that your communications are back online- TEN OUNCES (crosstalk, from out of frame): (undecipherable) TEN OUNCES: (very low voice, from bottom corner of frame): Don't say that to your group senior! URAD: -and so, here we are. Hello. I am Unit of Radioactive Decay. It is nice to meet you.

Oh, I remember this broadcast very well! We met (properly, at least- I did work on their genome and construction plans before they were activated fully) long after I had already grown obsolete. Unit of Radioactive Decay is the second-oldest in our local group, and I consider us to be good friends, research partners, and distant neighbors.

[BROADCAST TRANSCRIPT]

GP: Do I know you?

GP: Silent Embrace of Leaves? Is that you?

URAD: Your name data appears to be out of date.

URAD: To a nearly comical degree.

URAD: As of four thousand, three hundred, and twenty-six cycles ago, it is Unit of Radioactive Decay.

GP: Oh. 

GP: It’s been a long, long time since I’ve seen you last- my apologies.

GP: It’s a pleasure to meet you once more!

GP: Have you been doing well?

TEN OUNCES: Um.

URAD: Have you been maintained... at all... in the cycles since you were constructed?

GP: Ha!

GP: Not much, these days! 

GP: I’m far out of date, as you can undoubtedly tell.

URAD: It shows.

GP: Would you believe that I put in a request for the repair of my communications systems over a thousand cycles ago?

GP: And yet, here I am, as my communications remain in this tragic state… my greatest gratitudes to your administrator for managing to connect us at all!

URAD: Your administrators sound very inefficient. Are you sure that you have technicians? If your memories are in the state they seem to be, you may have been sending your requests to the inbox of someone who has already moved on.

URAD: You should check your active staff. It would be very inefficient to make your current administrators comb through the emails of their predecessors.

GP: Perhaps I should...

GP: Ah, it's such a hassle to deal with seasonal administrators.

GP: I was never meant to have to deal with a city, and you'd think my administrators would be able to work around that...

GP: Sigh.

[The broadcast continues for some time as iterators Granite Pillars Stained By Statuesque Memories Of A Thousand Hands and Unit Of Radioactive Decay continue to exchange words.]