#i drowned peter

[gibbearish]

love when ppl defend the aggressive monetization of the internet with "what, do you just expect it to be free and them not make a profit???" like. yeah that would be really nice actually i would love that:)! thanks for asking

[tiercel]

Nothing worse than a reboot of a piece of media arguably being the most popular version yet also being one of the worst versions of it period

[satan-wishes-he-was-me]

hoffman upon seeing strahm for the first time: oh yea i gotta put his ass in the Cube

[siddoesstuffig]

the good place x hatcheyfield au because i do things like this now apparently

steph - eleanor

pete - chidi

zoey - tahani

ziggs - jason

snigglette - janet

blinky - michael

[stomachshredder]

Mark Hoffman & Peter Strahm + No Children - The Mountain Goats

[gargoyl3city]

feeling deranged about this one

[kennethbrangh]

Bernard Hill in Drowning by Numbers (1988) dir. Peter Greenaway

[samthechaotic]

i know I'll get a lot of hate for this but

Scarecrow>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Joker

DC stop with the over glorification and draining J, Scarescrow has much and more potential.

[unwantedarc]

If you fuckers can’t write good Spideypool fanfics I might have to do it myself.

[thompsborn]

14 years old, only like a month into being spider-man, peter takes down a mugger and the guy is cursing peter out and peter just calmly says "i'm fourteen" and watches this dude have a crisis

"no you're not"

"i literally am. did you not hear my voice cracking every two seconds? pretty sure i only started going through puberty last week"

"you're lying"

"believe what you want"

"why would you tell me that if it's true"

"because no one will believe you and i think that's funny. also i want you to know that you just lost to a freshman in high school. even if you don't believe me, you can't prove that i'm lying. this is never going to leave your brain. i won the physical fight and now i'm playing with psychological warfare. and i called the cops. anyways, bye!"

mugger gets arrested and is like "no seriously i swear to god he was in these like red and blue pajamas and had a mask and goggles and he said he was fourteen and psychological warfare and-"

[0rph1x]

look at them look at them look at them look at them look at th

[quecksilvereyes]

Forgive me, brother, for I cannot follow. The nave of this cathedral has long been robbed of its candles and the doors of the confessional have rotted off their hinges an age ago. The lattice has broken from the window, the curtain hangs no longer.

If I leant forwards on this weeping wooden bench, I could fit my palm to the slope of your jaw. I could lay my forehead against yours, I could taste the salt on your cheeks. The window is wide enough, brother.

Forgive me, brother, for I have drowned myself in spirits. My hems are wet and the world is spinning. My tongue tastes as though some sick, bloating thing has made itself at home within my mouth. I've stuck my own head below the surface, brother, and I screamed until my lungs burned and my nails broke where they clutched for purchase.

A question, brother. A thought. How long must I claw at divinity to drag it down to earth? Someone has fallen. Another must surely follow. Do you not think it lonely, in that box? The stone is crumbling, and the earth is shifting. How long does a god sit atop waning faith?

Your knuckles are raw. There is blood on your lips, and your back is hunched. A self-important prick. A blown-up brat. Too busy trying to get himself shot to watch where he's going. It is the four and twentieth day of the month and this is the twenty-fourth phone call mother has made, her mouth drawn tight.

This is a confessional, brother. Did his teeth crack under your fist? Did his blood run warm? Did he apologise for the way he looked at you, or the way he stood where you walked? Did you reach for a sword no-one can carry here? I know the way you dig your teeth into a duel, brother, but this was no duel.

This was just a boy.

Forgive me, brother, for I doubt you. Your hands are shaking, and in the dim sunlight that reaches through the dirty windows of this cathedral, your eyes are a sky dipped into a brilliant twilight. In the darkness of your mouth, your teeth shine like stars.

These are no earthly constellations. The vowels on your lips are not of a language we share with our parents. How many rosaries must I pray, brother, for these sins? Must I shed dress and negligee and girdle and skin, and bare to the yawning mouth of this cathedral my flayed flesh?

Will you dig your claws into me, will you rip muscle from me in ribbons until you find, nestled between my lungs and crushed by my spine, the pearl of my faith? Will you pry me open with golden, bruised hands, and take from me the only thing of worth I can still produce? So you may hold it up when you return, upon a pillow of silk - an offering. There is just a delay. Worry not, the faith is still there.

Forgive me, brother, for I will not board the train. I will not clutch the little ones to my breast, and I will not bury my face in your chest.

I watched you slay a beast-god when we were children. Its blood soaked you to the bone, ten-and-three and weeping sorrow, red from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. To the tip of your sword and the tip of your tongue, until the field was flooded and the skies groaned.

I took your face in my hands and kissed your slick cheek. At our feet, the last breaths of the one hundred year winter rattled from the witch's lungs, and the beast's claws wore themselves to dust. Our little brother lay dead in the sludge. Our little sister wailed until her voice gave out.

Eight. And ten.

Forgive me brother, but I am reaching through the window. My nails are broken, I know, and my hands are calloused. I am digging into your flesh, I know, but maybe, if you folded yourself right, you could fit through it. Maybe, if you bandaged your knuckles and closed your eyes, you could submerge yourself, full-bodied, and draw the blood from your every pore.

There is no holy water in the basin anymore, but the river by the mill might do. Perhaps we will find a hammer with which to smash the pillars of your shoulders. My brother, where will the skies rest then? Won't they slide from you, and aren't they already shattered?

You do not move. The twilight shines with salt. Your hands shake and your hair is golden. Come with me, you say. You go through a wardrobe and I follow, you drape yourself in hide and I follow, you are crowned and I follow. You walk from a train station and I follow, you duel the man who has sat himself upon your throne and I follow. My skies and horizons, my brother.

You will board the train. I will dip my face below the waterline. Forgive me.

The cathedral is ransacked, and I do not know how to make it fit for worship.

- High Queen Susan the Gentle gives her last confession to her brother, High King Peter the Magnificent, successor of the lion by right of blood.

[secondbeatsongs]

"In dreams I've built myself some kindlier home,

Warm in my heart, and in a golden calm

Where there'll be no more fear and no more storm.

And she will soon forget her schoolhouse ways,

Forget the labour of those weary days,

Wrapped round in kindness like September haze.

The learned at their books have no more store

Of wisdom than we'd close behind our door.

Compared with us, the rich man would be poor."

— From Act 2, Scene 2 of Peter Grimes, an opera by Benjamin Britten, with a libretto adapted by Montagu Slater from a poem by George Crabbe.

[bellshazes]

bdubs so clearly painstakingly setting up an option for gem to chew out the big eyes crew in s8 as a way to welcome her into the server and give her the option but not obligation to engage by hammily bringing up the issue of her cut of the profits from the big eye shops but they never even among themselves really resolve the payment mechanism and gem doesn't proactively go out of her way to do that storyline. but seems to appreciate the thought and plays along when they're both together.

and then in the hc/empires thing gem leans hard into "i'm basically secretly larping here" as a way to cope with being on both servers while bdubs joins and starts a religion to himself and goes on and on in character/out of character simultaneously about the skill of improv so they both react to the intersection of the two environments with drawing these insane distinctions between fantasy-pretend-improv-faith and real-material-performance but in a way that only highlights the ways they each do the improv-fantasy-pretend in the nominally more "real" (less fantastical, story-structured) world by their general mode of improv.

and then you're telling me it's etho that gem gets close to... good for themt hat's so fun she's so real for it but like......................... the THEORY. the craft. the craft the craft come back talk stories to me

[kaiandersonsdevotedwife]

This hotel stay is not going very James Patrick March

[just-a-twinge-of-cosmic-angst]

Warriors of the Deep