#so I sit down tonight

[expelliarmus]

[alfazoings]

little doodles i drew after listening to the new ep to keep myself from biting into cement and then flopping around the floor like a fish

[sims2veronaville]

tanker truck

[king-krisu]

I'd like to thank Jere once AGAIN for going on the most visible stage in the whole country with glammy glittery makeup and a cunty outfit almost mirroring the one BESS had. Thank you Jere for being so gnc in front of the masses, I owe you my life

[baeshijima]

also i finally found the time to watch the apothecary diaries bc i havent had the chance to (glares at uni) but the manga is literally one of my favs and i love maomao and jinshi sm and !!

hes so silly and im SO glad they finally have an anime adaptation, along with my happy marriage 😩 ngl this season with the trio of my happy marriage, the apothecary diaries and sugar apple fairy tale is godly im so well fed rn 🥹

[fucktheroyals]

I’m watching One Piece, I’m on Sabody (the arc after Thriller Bark) [SPOILERS if ur not to there, nothing major but still]

ANYWAY Kid being like “I’ll help you on the way out I guess” (by beating up marines) to Luffy (I can’t tell if he was actually trying to get Laws attention or not) was a major flirtation.

[columboscreens]

[ah-bright-wings]

Sound - A Triduum Story

Malchus can feel the heavy gazes of the others. He ignores them. His own eyes are pinned to the door they guard, listening to the drip of water condensing and dropping onto the floor. There is no rain, but the air is damp, as if the heavens are drawing out the wet stores of the earth in preparation for a storm. 

Customarily, the chill would make him wish for his bed. He’d grumble with his fellows about the weather, about the work, peppering complaints with a few stout curses. But there is no discussion tonight. Malchus sits hunched forward, forearms braced on his thighs, and he waits.

What are they waiting for?

Cold fingers touch the lobe of his left ear. He turns to see Jesse, who’d touched him, withdrawing, fingers curling into his palm. The apology is gruff. “Just wanted to see.”

That’s a lie, thinks Malchus, turning back to the door. They’ve already seen tonight. What’s left is to believe.

Malchus doesn’t ask permission before he rises, taking the flask which hangs on a wall hook, and the keys there beside it. The eyes of the others follow. He unlocks the door and slips in, shutting it behind, and then pauses, palm flat on the wood. He takes a breath. 

Drip.

Drip.

The Nazarene’s hands are chained so that he must stand. His head bows, forehead resting against the bruised back of his right hand. He lifts himself when Malchus enters. His lips, which had been moving silently, still.

Malchus holds out the flask. Then, as an embarrassing afterthought—the man is in chains—he uncorks it. 

“It’s just water,” he assures when the man doesn’t move to drink. He tips the flask close enough to meet the cracked lips. The Nazarene swallows twice and then pulls back, chains jingling. His face is wet. Tears, Malchus thinks, until he hears the drip of water dropping onto the man’s head. It slides down his temple and dirty cheek, carving a clean track through the crust. Malchus re-corks the flask.

It’s not quite fear that he feels. He had felt fear on his knees in Gethsemane, blood down his neck and a howl on his tongue. The world was silent, then, and shrieking, dizzy with pain and the terror of new loss. When strong hands cupped his face, he clung to them. He grabbed hold of words he could not hear but lips he could see moving, breath he could feel on his face, brown eyes he could see.

And then, he could hear. 

It was as if he’d never before heard sound, not true sound, but only echos, half-formed, half-heard, until that very moment when he heard truly. Each noise was crisp and new. Around him were the night birds stirring in the trees, the puffed breath of the disciples, the crackle of licking flame, the creak of leather belts. He heard them all, and he hasn’t stopped hearing since. Creation is vibrating, uncountable voices overlapping in the same tremulous song. Even the breeze seems to have a voice, and the water running on stone. Even his own heartbeat. They cry out when the rest of the world is silent.

“What did you do to me?” Malchus asks, voice barely above a whisper, for everything is new and he cannot make sense of it. 

The Nazarene’s smile isn’t mocking. It’s as quiet as his voice, and it crinkles the corner of his good eye. “I know how long you’ve waited to hear.”

They’ve never met, of course. Of course not. This man doesn’t know him. How could he? Malchus has taken great pains to hide his gradual loss of sound. Each year, the muffle covers his ears a little more, stealing his senses, deadening the world to him. If he misses a call, he plays it off. If he cannot hear his wife calling, he feigns captivation by his task. He does it well, he thinks, well enough. Perhaps his wife suspects. But only he knows, only he and his God. And this backwater Nazarene with an accent pulled from Galilee’s fishing waters—because Malchus can hear the accent now—cannot know Malchus. How could he? No, he does not.

But he knows. 

Malchus is sure, standing before this man who made him more than whole, that he is known. Known, and known truly. And here stands Malchus, his jailer. His enemy.

“How could you know?” he asks, eyes searching the Nazarene’s. The water drips, drips. A rat scritches at a bit of stone. “I can’t do anything for your case. They’re bringing you to Pilate.” His grip tightens on the flask—his only offering—and the stale water it holds. The words pour out of him. “I’m a guard. They told us to go, so we went. I had no stake in it, see? See, we were told to go. I was told to go. I never intended—”

“Malchus,” the man says softly, almost fondly, as if he is interrupting a brother and not one walking him to his death. “Will you pray with me?”

The request startles Malchus out of his own thoughts. He pauses, wary of some trick. Without meaning to, his hand rises to touch the warm outer shell of his ear, tracing the connecting point between the cartilage and his skull. There’s not even a seam to show where it had been severed.

Mouth dry, Malchus finally nods, and the Nazarene closes his good eye. The water slides again down his temples. His words fill the damp space, and Malchus recognizes them at once, joining the recitation:

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb,

and naked shall I return.

The Lord gave—”

The man breathes in, and Malchus breathes with him.

“—and the Lord has taken away;”

Their breath stirs the stale air of the room. All has finally gone quiet. The Nazarene opens his eye and tips his head to look up, past the stone roof, past the courtyard and the trembling earth, to the heavens, spread out over them like a tent. The water no longer falls. The rat is silent. 

“Blessed be the name of the Lord,” he says.

[coulsonlives]

"How can someone write a Marvel character but hate the MCU lol, it doesn't make sense?!"

"You're not a real Marvel fan if you don't like the MCU!"

"Get out of this fandom MCU hater!"

Can I just say:

"The MCU" isn't synonymous with "Marvel". Stop using it interchangeably.

And no, you don't need to like the MCU to be a "real Marvel fan".

You know why? Because the MCU is written by a bunch of specific writers, led by producers with a specific vision, and it has a specific mainstream style, and not everyone is gonna like that. Nobody's freaking out if you hate certain comic book runs due to the writers, whether because the writing is too silly or dark or inconsistent, so why freak out if someone hates the MCU? It's basically the same as a long comic book run.

It's so dumb that someone can read years of comics and love the characters, but feel lukewarm or negative about the MCU's take on that character, then get fingers pointed at them because apparently they're "not a real fan" just because of that.

TLDR, stop being ignorant gatekeepers just because you wanna feel like you're part of an exclusive in-group.

[angelmush]

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

me: sits down to write feeling full of inspiration

chronic pain: no 🙃

[buglaur]

nollaig shona daoibh a chairde 🫶

[soulmvtes]

i stay at my grandmas for a week every month + it's just so insane to me whenever i'm back to just think about how life was a month ago and how much/how little things have changed in that time

[becca-e-barnes]

I got a massage bar at the start of the week and honestly, I didn't expect it to fill my head with thoughts of using it on a really submissive dad's best friend Bucky 🙈

Because I imagine he doesn't really relax very often. His life gets busy, things are overwhelming sometimes and he rarely takes the chance to let himself decompress. There would be some small self-care wins though and the day he does his first face mask with you probably stands out in his head as one of his favourite days ever.

But I love to imagine him fresh out of the shower with his hair still slightly damp while his body is dry. He's laid on his front on the bed, wearing just his underwear, scrolling on his phone and you know it's been a long week for him.

He seems content now though, not that you can really see his face. The gentle arch of his back is so inviting, your brain reminding you of how it feels to trail kisses down his spine while he lies like this.

He's been so tense all week, you hardly know where to start. Breaking off a little piece of the massage bar and letting the fragment soften in your hands gives you some time to decide a course of action. Do you begin with those broad, tense shoulders and work from there down or do you want to start on the small of his back and work your way towards his neck?

As the solid butters melt with your body heat, filling the room with the scent of patchouli and vanilla, you decide to work from his shoulders down. You know you've made the right decision when you hear his content sigh at the gentle kisses you litter across the bare skin of the back of his neck.

"What are you doing?" The hint of a smile on his face carries in his voice while you settle on top of him.

"Nothing. Relax." The shea and cocoa butters in the bar have melted into a much slicker consistency, allowing your hands to glide over the broad expanse of his strong shoulders with very little resistance. You touch him gently to begin with, spreading the oils over the top half of his back before pressing heavier to work them into his skin.

His shoulders are as tense as you expected them to be but it doesn't take much to relax them. Your fingertips sink in to the soft flesh where his neck curves into his shoulders, rubbing in small, concentrated circles.

"That's nice." He hums, sounding truly relaxed. There's no rush with this. It can take as long as he likes. You've got all night to appreciate the man in front of you and you could happily spend every second just touching him.

It's fun to play around with the pressure of your touch. With one palm planted on each side of his spine, your firm, languid strokes up the length of his back drag soft gasps from his parted lips. Your fingertips moving in gentle circles however, draw a contented hum from his throat. The kind of hum that makes you want to cradle his head to your chest. He thrives off affection like no one else and it only makes you want to give him every ounce you can muster.

The most delightful sounds he makes come when your fingernails dig in while you trail the length of his back. He's always enjoyed the soothing feeling of a gentle back scratch but with each scratch, you notice how he subtly grinds against the mattress with a quiet moan.

He's forgotten all about his bad week at work, that much is clear.

"Baby, please." It's barely more than a whisper but you couldn't have missed it. He's done with the back rub and that's more than fine. You take take the spot on the bed beside him while he turns to lie on his back, noticeably hard beneath the underwear that you quickly discard.

Precum leaks from his tip and he appreciates that your hands are still slick more than you could ever know. One firm pump of your hand, rolling your palm over the tip is enough to make him gasp. He's neglected his own need for far too long.

"F-fuck." He groans, beginning to thrust in time with your hand movements, fucking himself into your fist. It's erratic and needy and the light blush to his cheeks gives away that he's embarrassed about his lack of self-restraint. Not embarrassed enough to stop though.

"God, you're pathetic." You tease, lost in the way the degradation makes him tense up. He gets off on this and so do you. "I bet you couldn't last if you were inside me right now."

His breath catches in his throat because he knows you're right. Hell, he's struggling to last right now. There's no expectation for him to last forever this time around though. You know he'll be able to offer you a whole lot more once he gets this out of his system.

"N-no. I couldn't. I couldn't last." He's so beautiful and he doesn't even know it. You notice that he's even more beautiful with streams of his cum rolling down over your fingers, desperate sobs tumbling from his lips and his over pleasured groans hanging in the humid bedroom air.

Afterwards, the man seems boneless. He's content, melting into the bed and once you've had a chance to clean up, he pulls you in for the softest kisses.

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

Keep thinking about the coping mechanisms references in the betty speeches last spring and summer and the discussion on the dash today about the ways in which the pandemic/relationship breakdown was affecting Taylor and maybe even in ways that didn't feel like it until she was out of it and just the, you know, context clues, and the insinuations we're picking up about behaviours and actions that may be difficult to process on the new album, and just a little sad/uneasy/ thinking about what some of those coping mechanisms and behaviours probably were 😵‍💫