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I think Gaylor is ridiculous, but at the same time, I do kinda feel like Travis Kelce is the exact dude to have a lavender marriage with as he does not seem astute enough to notice that he's married to a whole ass lesbian. This is less of a "Taylor is gay and I can prove it" thing and more of an "I cannot imagine being in a long-term relationship with Travis Kelce for legitimate reasons" thing, though.

The legitimate reasons to be married to Travis Kelce are actually extremely simple - it's cause he's big and buff and dumber than a sack of rocks. Don't you remember how much the man-likers on here talked about wanting a himbo? Is the natural extension of that not dating a man who's an all time great at his NFL position but doesn't know how to spell squirrel?

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Warm summer afternoon for @songxiaoseptember Week 1

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AUGUST IS OVER??????

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Moving Blogs

For a bunch of reasons that aren't relevent right now, I'm moving! You can find me in @acid-sunrise for now on.

I'll still keep this blog, at least for thee time being, but i'm reposting all me recent art in the new blog and will only post my future art there (as well as all my stuff that isnt art, i don't do art blogs, or specific fandom blogs) but the goal is to move fully there! The name is a work in progress (i've had this one for so long…) but oh well. I wanted to move blogs for a while now but i was lazy. No time like the present. See you there, if you feel so inclined.

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Moving Blogs

For a bunch of reasons that aren't relevent right now, I'm moving! You can find me in @acid-sunrise for now on.

I'll still keep this blog, at least for thee time being, but i'm reposting all me recent art in the new blog and will only post my future art there (as well as all my stuff that isnt art, i don't do art blogs, or specific fandom blogs) but the goal is to move fully there! The name is a work in progress (i've had this one for so long…) but oh well. I wanted to move blogs for a while now but i was lazy. No time like the present. See you there, if you feel so inclined.

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The weight of the cross presses into my flesh, the rough wood splintering against my torn back. My breath comes in shallow gasps, each one a battle against the nails pinning my hands and feet. The sky above Golgotha is a bruised purple, the air thick with the jeers of the crowd and the weeping of those I love. I am Jesus, the Nazarene, and I hang here, suspended between earth and heaven, my body a bridge of suffering.

The pain is a living thing, clawing at my mind, but something else stirs—visions, spirits, flickering at the edge of my sight. Are they real? Or is this the delirium of a dying man? I cannot tell, but they come, relentless, pulling me into their grasp.

First, I see him—John, my cousin, the Baptist, his wild hair matted with river water, his eyes burning with the fire of prophecy. He stands before me, not as a man beheaded, but whole, radiant, as if the Jordan still clings to his skin.

“Jesus,” he says, his voice like thunder over the desert. “Look.”

He waves a hand, and the air shimmers. I see Ramah, sweet Ramah, her laughter like a bell, her eyes bright with love for Thomas. I see her fall, pierced by a Roman blade, her blood staining the earth. My heart twists.

“You can change it,” John urges, his voice urgent. “You are the Son of God. Rewrite time. Save her.”

I shake my head, the motion sending fresh waves of pain through my body. “John, you know it cannot be. To alter the past creates paradoxes—threads of time unraveling, destinies undone. Ramah’s death, her sacrifice, it weaves into the tapestry of what must be.”

John’s face hardens, his eyes narrowing. “You let her die, then. For what? Your grand plan?”

I close my eyes, the vision fading, but his words linger, sharp as the nails in my wrists.

Next comes Ramah herself, not as a spirit of the past, but of the present, her form translucent, her face etched with sorrow. She kneels at the foot of the cross, her hands clasped as if in prayer.

“Jesus,” she whispers, “look now.”

The air shifts again, and I see Judas, my friend, my betrayer. He stands beneath a gnarled tree, a rope in his trembling hands, his face a mask of despair. The noose is already knotted.

“Save him,” Ramah pleads. “You can perform a miracle, even now. Stop him, Jesus.”

My heart aches, but I shake my head. “Ramah, his path is his own. His choice, his betrayal, his end—it must be this way. It is written in the Father’s will.”

Her eyes flash with anger. “Even sinners, seeing this, would act. You let him fall to despair, to death. What kind of love is that?”

Her words cut deeper than the thorns, but before I can answer, she dissolves into the haze of pain.

Then comes Judas himself, or some shadow of him, his eyes hollow, his voice a low hiss. He stands not as the man I knew, but as a harbinger of futures yet to come.

“Look, Jesus,” he says, and the air ripples once more.

I see Peter, my rock, stumbling in sin, his pride clashing with Paul’s rebuke. I see the church, my bride, twisted through time—its halls echoing with the cries of the oppressed. I see men like John Calvin, Oliver Cromwell, their zeal turning to cruelty. I see Adolf Hitler, a monster cloaked in twisted ideology, and others—Barack Obama, Joe Biden—names that flicker in a haze of division, their actions debated by millions, some calling them good, others evil. I see ideologies, progressive and conservative, warring like beasts, tearing at the fabric of truth. I see people, prideful, rejecting my apostles, clinging only to my words in red, as if the rest of my Spirit’s work is unworthy. I see the world embracing darkness—pornography, abortion, greed, all flourishing like weeds.

Judas leans close, his breath cold against my ear. “You see? Your church becomes an agent of evil, not good. You chose Peter, a weak man, to lead it. You made a mistake, Jesus. And you don’t need to die for everyone. Why suffer for those who will never accept you? Die only for the elect, and spare yourself this agony.”

His words are a poison, and doubt creeps into my heart. Are these visions true? Or are they the work of the enemy? I feel a darkness coiling within me, a presence that is not my own. Satan. I know his voice, his lies.

My strength wanes, the visions draining me. The nails bite deeper, and I cry out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

The darkness surges, and I feel him—Satan—slithering into my soul, a cold weight that threatens to drown me. My body trembles, and I hear my own voice, twisted, mocking, as I look to the heavens and shout, “You… you’ve lost, old man!”

Satan’s voice echoes within me: “So weak! So vulnerable!”

The atonement, the resurrection—they hang in the balance. If I die with this darkness in me, all is lost. The world will fall to shadow.

But then, a voice—clear, steady, infinite. The Father.

“Jesus,” He says, “it isn’t how you and Satan are alike. It’s how you are not.”

I look down, my vision clearing. There, at the foot of the cross, stand John, my beloved disciple, Mother Mary, her face lined with grief, and Mary Magdalene, her eyes fierce with love. Memories flood me—laughter with John by the Sea of Galilee, Judas’ smile as we broke bread together, Mary Magdalene’s tears of gratitude when I cast out her demons. Love. Friendship. These are the threads Satan cannot touch.

I turn inward, facing the darkness. “You’re the weak one,” I say to Satan. “And you’ll never know love, or friendship. And I feel sorry for you.”

The darkness writhes, a scream tearing through my soul as Satan is forced out, his presence ripped away like a storm breaking. His voice lingers, fading: “You’re a fool, Jesus of Nazareth, and you will lose… everything.”

But I am not alone. The Father’s presence fills me, warm and unshakable. The visions were a test, a lie woven by the enemy to break me. I am the Son, and my death is not for a few, but for all—for the world, for every soul, even those who reject me.

I lift my eyes to the sky, my voice steady despite the pain. “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.”

The cross holds me, but it cannot hold my purpose. The atonement will stand. The resurrection will come. And love—love will triumph.

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I love it how Claudia takes ater Lestat ❤️

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MinShan will always protect LianFang-Zun.<3

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i don't get these many texts on my birthday

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big fan of being able to go back in a reblog chain and rb a version of a post without the additional comments you don't find funny. but it also feels like lowkey snubbing the person who put it on your dash. like sorry boss im trimming the fat here. your tastes are not quite good enough. die.

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can't believe my tumblr dot com mutual taylor swift is getting married

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i'm collecting every instance where the narration calls wen ning handsome, and so far it has happened FIVE TIMES, two of them while wei wuxian thinks he's an ENEMY WEN who has SLAUGHTERED HIS SECT, and another two when he is already A CORPSE. man lost everything except his face card apparently

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I still don't know my purpose on this planet but I do love reading fanfiction.