StraightEdge Styles

tempest-caller:

Reminder to unfollow/block me if:

1) you hate people calling themselves queer or hate people who use “queer community” to talk about people who identify as queer.

2) you think asexual people are not real or are not LGBTQIA+

3) you think aromantic people are not real or are not LGBTQIA+

3) you think nonbinary people are not real or are not LGBTQIA+

4) you think pansexual people are not real or are not LGBTQIA+

5) you think polysexual people are not real or are not LGBTQIA+

6) you think bi, pan, and polysexual people are all the same thing or all fit under the B in LGBTQIA+

7) you think anyone mentioned in 2-6 are straight even when they don’t identify as straight (or worse, think they are cishets)

8) you have a problem with people having too few or too many identifying labels

9) you think nonbinary people should fall under the T of LGBTQIA+ even if we don’t identify as trans

10) you think you have to be attracted to people of the same gender as you in order to be LGBTQIA+, think that people who like every gender but their own are straight, think all people have a “same” gender to be attracted to, or call people SGA (same gender attracted) without their consent

11) you are a truscum, transmed, TERF, SWERF, or otherwise exclusionary

(Feel free to add on to the list, but only things relevant to the topic at hand please!)

Reblogged from: mad-dyspunktional

hundondestiny:

I really hate how “your partner shouldn’t be a psychic” has evolved into “you cannot expect your partner to be intuitive to your needs or wants at all” because that’s… quite frankly ugly and a really good way to make your relationship feel like a chore. 

I pay attention to the things my partners like and Store That™ in my little brainspace until it becomes useful. My bf likes tea. We were cleaning out an office full of stuff yesterday and they had some tea leftover they would’ve thrown out, so I took it home to him. Wow! He didn’t tell me he needed or wanted that, but he appreciated it because it’s something he likes.

Not everything has to be some grand gesture to show your s/o that you’re into them and you’re paying attention to them. I recall someone saying they wrote down things about their S/O and their interests so they could look back and remind themselves since their memory sucked. Things like that matter.

And I think it’s really cruel to tell people, and especially women who this type of shit is always put towards, that they aren’t allowed to want romance or spontaneity because it’s an “unreasonable” expectation. It really isn’t. Healthy communication does not inherently mean constant hand-holding. 

Reblogged from: icouldexperienceyourbrightness

geekandmisandry:

catchymemes:

artist: https://www.deviantart.com/pavlover/gallery/64251477/Disney-Pokemon-trainer

Wtf I love this so much.

Reblogged from: geekandmisandry

prismatic-bell:

thesassyblacknerd:

bumbleshark:

bumbleshark:

we still rebloggin sixpenceee in this day and age??

i dont give a goddamn how neat that pic or gifset was!! dont feed that snake!!

Originally posted by yorkshirewench

Yo and like a sucker I saw some dope street art and reblogged it before I looked up and saw the source 😑😑.

Literally a minute ago. This post @ me too hard when I was already mad at myself.

Since I’ll reblog this and get asks going “wait, what did she do?”, here’s a short list in no particular order:

–Has been caught plagiarizing DOZENS if not hundreds of posts, ripping material wholesale uncredited off Reddit and from other Tumblr blogs

–Bragged about her family having a slave, but it being okay because they’re not white and it’s normal in their part of the world (I’M SERIOUS) and saying she’d “raise awareness” about it

–offered “life advice” to the tune of something like $30 a pop, but never actually followed through, after collecting only G-d knows how much money

–has sold stolen art

And finally:

https://sixpenceeeharms.tumblr.com

Sources. LOTS of them. This person designed this blog so other people wouldn’t have to. Take a dig, then block the shit out of her.

Reblogged from: punkpugs

fozzie:

fozzie:

hey i see a lot of ppl sharing that “correction” to the service dog psa so let me make it clear that different SDs are trained differently, tailored to the handler’s needs!

NOT all SDs are trained to stand by their handler and bark to signal for help, and for some handlers, if the SD did bark it would worsen their situation (autistic handlers, handlers with PTSD, handlers having a migraine, etc).

just be aware of a service dog calling attention to itself in any way, because even if you’ve wasted time by following it and its handler is fine and just lost control of it or something, you’ve still made sure that someone is safe.

don’t share that correction without some kind of comment like this on it, because its total dismissal of another dog’s training could endanger people.

ps the guy who wrote the “correction” has a mobility service dog which is trained VERY differently than a chronic illness or psychiatric service dog (what the OP of the original PSA has).

not only that but he made up parts of the story to discredit the OP (like claiming the dog ran down 2 blocks when they were inside a grocery store and he only walked a few aisles, and that the dog wasn’t on a leash when he was, or that he was pawing and jumping on people when he was actually appropriately signaling with his nose).

don’t share that shitty correction, it will endanger people.

Reblogged from: maekki

claw-animalae:

feynites:

lady-sirin:

hufflepuffkat:

the-modern-typewriter:

“Shh, it’s alright,” the villain said. “You’re doing beautifully and I’m so proud of you. But that’s enough now. It was cruel of them to make you fight me - you could never have won. It’s not your fault.”

The ancient and powerful villain may have had a calm and gentle face as he spoke, but he was furious, not at the hero, but the gods for continually sending kids and teenagers to fight their battles.

Tears fell from the heroes eyes, staining their cheeks. “I don’t g-get it… You’re not supposed to be kind!” The words left the hero’s mouth breathless, strained, and disbelieving. The gods had said the cause was righteous, that they were destined for this; so why, then, had they failed? Why, then, was the villain looking so kindly at them? And why, then, were they so relieved to hear those words from his mouth?

The villain knelt. Gods, so far as the hero knew, did not kneel. They towered and gleamed and spoke in booming voices that seemed to shake the sky itself. They were beautiful, and powerful, and above the ken of mortals. They said their brother had fallen - but the hero’s thoughts could only blank, as they saw him not stumble, nor falter, but bring himself to their level of his own accord.

“What am I supposed to be?” he asked.

The hero swallowed. Was this a test? The gods had warned that the Trickster could be beguiling.

“You… you want to bring about the end,” they accused. Reminding themselves as much as anything.

The villain nodded.

“Yes,” he agreed. Admitted; confessed. The hero waited for him to gloat. They were so tired. The weapons that they had been given had been so heavy. The magic in their veins had burned. They had fought so hard to reach this lair, the Throne of the Fallen God… but now they cannot even see a throne. Just a place that looks like a prison, too-long lived in.

Seal him back in.

“I can’t…” they say. Can’t let you do that, is what they know they should be saying. But somehow it stops there. Everyone is counting on them. Counting on them to save the day, to stop the end of the world.

The villain reaches over, and rests a steadying hand on their shoulder.

“Shh,” he repeats. “I know. A dozen mortal years and a thousand divine gifts are not enough to thwart a hatred that has been building for centuries in the heart of a god. You were a good champion. Better than they deserve. But if I let another one of you win, it will only mean a different child is sent, in another hundred years. It is not fair. I should not have let this go on for so long. I am sorry, little one.”

The hero trembles in exhaustion. The corners of their eyes itch, as they meet the villain’s gaze. It must be a trick. It must be. But they do not have the strength to fight it. Hot tears track down their cheeks, as they slump in defeat.

The villain squeezes their shoulder.

“You did well,” he assures them. They should not take comfort in it. And yet, he sounds so convinced that they cannot help it. Weak, they think. To come so far and fall for all the tricks at the end, to falter in the last moment. They scrub at their cheeks. But they do not resist, as the villain scoops them up, and holds them with one arm. Like a parent carrying a child. Tall enough for the hero to remember being even smaller. He pats their back, and brings them with him to the dread altar in the center of the chamber.

“It is time for the end,” he says. “You do not have to watch.”

They should, they think. It would be brave to.

They close their eyes, and turn their face towards the villain’s shoulder instead. His voice rumbles as he finishes the incantation. Through closed eyelids they see something flash; but when they blink their eyes reflexively open, they find that a hand has moved to shield their gaze for them. The ground shakes. The air turns hot, and then cold. The strange objects arrayed around the villain’s layer tremble and clatter, like an earthquake.

This is it.

Sorry, Mama. Sorry, Papa.

I wasn’t strong enough.

They brace themselves as it all comes to an end.

Ha! You wish! Watch as I turn this serious and angsty thread into a bittersweet sugar fest! Muse, let’s hit it!

The ground shakes and trembles. A cry rips through the air itself, cracks of thunder, gales of wind; the voices of hundreds of ancient beings grasping desperately at the last straws that may keep them alive. That may keep them here. That may keep them immortal.

Trembling, the hero curls in on themselves, hoping against hope that it won’t hurt. That it will be swift and painless, just like people said it was for their Mama and Papa when the lightning struck them down. Never mind their screams, never mind that they still twitched and convulsed before the ax man finished them off.

The cries reach their crescendo, each note seemingly trying to tear the very fabric of existence apart. This is it. They curl up just a little bit tighter and…

Keep reading

Reblogged from: tumblunni

books-n-quotes:

“To tell someone not to be emotional is to tell them to be dead.”

— Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?

Reblogged from: swirl-like-a-cloud-deactivated2

neurodivergent-crow:

birobotic:

greyhairedgeekgirl:

missveryvery:

pitcherplant:

vulgarweed:

rosalarian:

beatrice-otter:

gettzi:

killerchickadee:

mswyrr:

monanotlisa:

river-b:

officialqueer:

uphillbothways:

officialqueer:

kgirlskillen74:

kgirlskillen74:

27teacups:

lanewilliam:

robotbisexual:

jormunganndr:

robotbisexual:

violet-lesbian:

robotbisexual:

violet-lesbian:

officialqueer:

Honestly “queer” is so useful for people like me w/ a “complicated orientation” b/c instead of having to say I’m “asexual panromantic” and explain what that means, I can just say “I’m queer” and it tells you all you need to know (that I’m not straight).

yeah sure good for you but don’t ever ever use that word for someone who doesn’t identify as it themselves, it’s not an umbrella term for everyone. also “pan/ace” would definitely work, even if you don’t want to use it, other people could. i use ace lesbian and definitely not the q slur.

Wow its almost like they were just talking about using it on themselves for individual reasons and you butted in to be an ass and be condescending because you think you’re superior for not using queer, then you called their identity a slur right to them. But that can’t possibly be what you were trying to do, right?

Anyone is allowed to use it for themselves, I never said no one should do that if that’s what they want. Queer is a slur though. I just want people to be aware of that, I have no idea if OP is aware of that or not but some people using that word aren’t. I’m tired of people including me and other people who don’t want to be included in that word, and before anyone asks, I never meant that OP did that, because I literally have no idea if they do.

Queer is a slur as much as any other LGBT+ word, I just want you to be aware of that.

“Gay” is used as an insult. It is used to be demeaning. Its used to discriminate. And yet its used as the all mighty umbrella - gay rights, gay marriage, gay community - when discussing the entire community.

Gay gets used as a slur. Queer gets used as a slur. But I don’t walk up to gay people and say “your identity is a slur, you know that right” or get pissed when they say “the gay community” when they mean the whole community.

Personal identity and preference in terms, even harmful words that get used as slurs, are not questioned; except for the word Queer.

Queer gets shut down. Queer people get others in their faces saying “your identity is a slur!” Queer people don’t have the freedom to identify in a community, but are forced under other terms against their will due to hypocrisy and double standards.

So if you’re not going to come onto gay people’s posts for the same behavior, maybe critically analyze why exactly you feel the need to be so condescending to Queer people, specifically on posts that ONLY have to do with personal identity. Why you feel the need to insist to Queer people that their identities are slurs, to directly slap away the power of reclaiming a word from them by demanding it remain in the hands of the Straights as a perpetual slur.

I think an important difference between gay and queer is however, that queer started out as a slur used against members of the community and continues to be used as a slur in many places. Whereas gay began as a word the community chose itself to describe itself and was then later used by homophobes and heterosexuals in general in a negative way, meaning however, that gay doesn’t hold the same negative connotations as queer for many people simply because it was our word that they took, and not a word that they forced on us to make us “strange” or “other” like queer means.

That’s…. Not true. People think so because the history before gay was reclaimed is way older (older than any love community member’s lifetimes, probably,) but gay had the exact same origins.

It was meant to denote sexually perverse people, most frequently sex workers and those who hired them. Anyone who participated in anything but married, vanilla, straight sex might have been referred to as “gay,” including any suspected LGBT person.

The word (already being one frequently used on the community,) was reclaimed as a community identifier when the community wanted to disconnect from the clinical and diagnostic implications of “homosexual.”

There is record of queer being reclaimed and used as a personal identifier literally before the popularization of gay. Both words are reclaimed slurs with negative histories, and BOTH are used as slurs against the community still to this day.

The more recent history of the mid to late 20th century more prevalently favored queer as a slur, as is represented in our media. However its clearly undeniable that the switch back to gay as the popular community slur (along with the ever present f slur,) happened in the 2000s. Which is trying to be denied and rewritten by the anti queer crowd, who completely ignore the words popularity with community members who actually lived through when it was a popular slur.

Yes to all of this. When it comes to words for “not straight” there are hardly any choices that didn’t originate as ways to stigmatize or pathologize us. We are all using reclaimed slurs to describe ourselves. 

Also, queer is reclaimed in a particularly empowering way. It doesn’t just mean “same-sex attraction” but encompasses a whole spectrum of attractions and gender orientations. It’s a word that says to asexuals, pansexuals, bisexuals, trans folks, genderfluid and genderqueer and genderless folks and people who are still figuring themselves out, “hey, you’ve got a home here. We don’t need to categorize you to love you.” 

This is important because there are a lot of divisions within the LGBTQ+ world, and in particular cis gay men and cis lesbians often overlook or exclude trans, bi and asexual people. Queer is the only word that not only demands equal acceptance for everyone, but leaves the door open for words and descriptors that haven’t even been invented yet. 

Somebody else pointed this out earlier to me, and of course I’ve lost the post, but it’s really suspicious that of all the reclaimed slurs, the one that gets the most pushback is the one that is most radically accepting of all identities

“hey, you’ve got a home here. We don’t need to categorize you to love you.”

Lmao yeah! the pushback against this idea is overt and disgusting and I don’t trust anybody who perpetuates it. 

Queer is an ideology and an identity, historically and now. It is an umbrella for that ideology and an umbrella for those identities, historically and now. They can’t be conflated (with LGBT) and it’s super fucking disingenuous to pretend one is just the tarnished besmirched dirty slur version of the other. They’re different. In my particular work for example, Queer bioethics is different from LGBT bioethics and conflating the two will muddle any discussion you try to have about them because they lead to literally opposite conclusions in some cases. 

Yeah I freaking love pancakes

Wait wrong post

By far the best addition to this post

This is one of those things where I feel like an old.

Like, *the* slogan I associate with pride is, “We’re here, we’re queer – get used to it!”

There was a TV show called “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” that was total mainstream pap. (Not that the show wasn’t riddles problematic elements from the concept out, but ‘queer’ in the title was clearly meant as a positive.)

I just have a hard time processing queer as anything but reclaimed.

They actually shot “Queer As Folk” in my city!

TERFs and radical gender/sexuality bianarists are flooding social media and blogging sites with propaganda smearing the word queer in the hopes of silencing all of us who don’t identify with their hate politics. I fought hard to reclaim the word queer in the late 80s and early 90s, and it’s the one word that doesn’t worship exclusion. Which is why these people are trying to convince you not to use it. fuck that noise. there is literally no word i could use to identify my sexuality that hasn’t been thrown at me in hatred, fear, and violence. No way am I giving up the one of those that allows me to talk about all of my community without trying to put people in boxes they don’t fit in.

I will never not reblog this post. Queer, queer, queer here. 

“Queer” has been claimed by queer people as a self-descriptor since at least 1910. It’s an insult to those historical people (and all the generations of queer historical people who have identified as queer since then) to pretend that the people using it as a slur owned it more than the queer people who used it as a self-descriptor.

Source: George Chauncey, “Gay New York,” page 101

They don’t want us to use queer because they don’t want to be lumped in with anyone who’s not cis gay or cis lesbian. So fine. You don’t like the word queer? You don’t want to be in the “queer” community? Get the fuck out, then. Y'all don’t welcome us in your community anyway, so we’ll just have our own.

And it’ll be queer as fuck.

I fucking love the word queer ❤

Or, to put it another way, using a great old slogan of the community: I’m not gay as in happy, I’m queer as in fuck you.

Yes yes yes yes yes! These younglings today don’t know their queer history but feel so free to comment on it. Trying so desperately to assimilate into straight culture by turning your nose up at queer, and all the people who take refuge under its umbrella. Queer accepted me when nobody else would, not even the LGBT groups. 

Queer is full of the types of people who don’t make good poster children for the middle class assimilationist cis gay couple just looking to get married and have some kids. Queer forces us to realize the fight didn’t end with gay marriage, and cis gays are gonna have to step out of the spotlight sometimes, and realize cis gays have privilege, and fight for someone with less. Trans people, nonbinary people, people in nontraditional relationship structures, aromantics, asexuals, sex workers. Heck more and more bisexual people these days are switching over to queer because the amount of biphobia in the so-called lgBt community is so alienating, and also because so many of us feel the term bisexual reinforces a false gender dichotomy and we’re too tired of jokes about kitchenware to use pansexual.

Part of what I love about the term queer is that it does make people uncomfortable. It makes them aware of their privilege, exposes certain biases, even within the LGBT community. What’s so wrong with a movement that strives to fight for everybody, huh? Huh?

Proudly bi, proudly queer, and being part of this movement when I was young was an honor.

From the Queer Nation manifesto

Text of a manifesto originally passed out by people marching with the ACT UP contingent in the New York Gay Pride Day parade, 1990. -

An Army of Lovers Cannot Lose

Being queer is not about a right to privacy; it is about the freedom to be public, to just be who we are. It means everyday fighting oppression; homophobia, racism, misogyny, the bigotry of religious hypocrites and our own self-hatred. (We have been carefully taught to hate ourselves.) And now of course it means fighting a virus as well, and all those homo-haters who are using AIDS to wipe us off the face of the earth.

Being queer means leading a different sort of life. It’s not about the mainstream, profit-margins, patriotism, patriarchy or being assimilated. It’s not about executive directors, privilege and elitism. It’s about being on the margins, defining ourselves; it’s about gender-f— and secrets, what’s beneath the belt and deep inside the heart; it’s about the night. Being queer is “grass roots” because we know that everyone of us, every body, every c—, every heart and a– and d— is a world of pleasure waiting to be explored. Everyone of us is a world of infinite possibility.

We are an army because we have to be. We are an army because we are so powerful. (We have so much to fight for; we are the most precious of endangered species.) And we are an army of lovers because it is we who know what love is. Desire and lust, too. We invented them. We come out of the closet, face the rejection of society, face firing squads, just to love each other! Every time we f—, we win.

We must fight for ourselves (no else is going to do it) and if in that process we bring greater freedom to the world at large then great. (We’ve given so much to that world: democracy, all the arts, the concepts of love, philosophy and the soul, to name just a few of the gifts from our ancient Greek Dykes, Fags.) Let’s make every space a Lesbian and Gay space. Every street a part of our sexual geography. A city of yearning and then total satisfaction. A city and a country where we can be safe and free and more. We must look at our lives and see what’s best in them, see what is queer and what is straight and let that straight chaff fall away! Remember there is so, so little time. And I want to be a lover of each and every one of you. Next year, we march naked.

guys. if you go to college and want to study our history and current political climate etc? do you know what that  department is called? “Queer Studies”. So could you fucking stop, you little babies.

I am officially Old as Fuck ™ compared to most Tumblrites.  

I came of age after they discovered HIV and before they discovered how to treat it.   THAT is how old I am.

I worked and marched with friends and loved ones and the banner that brought everyone together was “Queer.”   The word doesn’t need to be reclaimed.  It has been reclaimed.  Before a lot of y’all were ever born. 

Trying to school your elders about shit of which you know nothing doesn’t build community.  It’s part of a rejection of the idea that the LGBTQ community is multigenerational.   It’s a rejection of the idea that there is gay, lesbian, QUEER life after 30.  Its refusing to consider that those who went before did an awful damn lot to make where you are now possible.

Can I have this framed

the Queer masterpost

Reblogged from: mad-dyspunktional

writing-prompt-s:

threefeline:

corancoranthemagicalman:

stu-pot:

ciiriianan:

sadoeuphemist:

writing-prompt-s:

Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.

Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.

Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”

Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”

I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.

This is amazing!

Reblogged from: lady-feral

concussed-to-pieces:

Fandom: WWE

Pairing: Werewolf!Roman Reigns/Female Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: THIRST. PARTY. SATURDAY. OOOOOOOUUUUAAAAAAH! This is a fix-it of sorts for Messlemania 34, it’s long as hell and it’s that sweet, filthy werewolf Reigns you know and love. Tagging our fine cadre, the illustrious @oraclegazes, the elusive @toxiicpop and the ever-bombastic @hardcorewwetrash. Enjoy!

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Keep reading

Reblogged from: concussed-to-pieces

brocialistpoe:

“anti-anti” or in laymen’s terms someone against feminist criticism : fiction isn’t reality 
bell hooks : “It’s scary to me now, because, particularly in issues around erotica and sexual violence, people want to deny the direct link between representations and how we live our lives. I think that it’s possible to embrace the knowledge that there’s a direct link between representations and choices we make in our lives that does not make that link absolute, that does not say, “oh, if I look at a movie in which a woman is fucked to death,” than I will go out and think I should let myself be fucked to death by any man who wants to fuck me. I think that’s an absurd sense of a direct link, but that is not to say, that if I watched enough of those images I might not come away thinking that certain forms of unacceptable male violence in coercion in relationship to my female body are acceptable. It’s frightening to me now when people want to behave as though certain images don’t mean anything.”

Reblogged from: claidheamh-mor

shadowbanish:

yellowpearl-yelling:

byakurenbreak:

piefanart:

cerise-the-traveling-artist:

jupiterscent:

jupiterscent:

jupiterscent:

Whether you have heard of this blog or not, there is a blog going around called badartbukakke that reposts peoples art to make fun of it. This specific blog reposts art to make fun of it because it represents minorities (gay people, people of colour, etc.) and just mocks bad art that beginners make. Whether you think the art posted on the blog is good or bad, what they are doing is wrong.

First of all, the fact that they are reposting art and tagging it as rude of spiteful things like “tumblr style” or “representashun”(??). The fact that theyre reposting things that represent minorities and making fun of it is fucking shitty as hell, because the world isn’t filled with Caucasian, straight and cis people. People are different, people can be of colour or trans or fucking gay and making fun of people for headcanoning characters as such or making their ocs such is really fucking shitty.

Here are some examples of posts they’ve posted

(credit to heckolve)

Second of all, although they do give critiques sometimes! More than half of the time they just post the art without giving actual critiques, unless being requested. This doesn’t give the artist a chance to improve their art, instead just making them feel bad about it and not knowing what to do. They could always improve their methods by, instead of insulting the art, critiquing it.

As well as all of tat above, they repost it without credit, which is disgusting and rude and as someone who has had their art reposted many times, it drains an artist.

Please, dont give this blog attention. Please report them. What they doing is wrong and disgusting and they need to stop.

Just a small addition, they refuse to change the pronouns for someone when they got it wrong

heres something else shitty

People like this make my stomach turn ever so much. How insecure do you have to be to do this shit?

Uck this is terrible

@lydiaistired @ff2-da-derp @byakurenbreak u guys might wanna block them too, they enjoy making fun of artists with you guy’s style

Wait, what??? I haven’t heard of this!

Edit: since they’ve decided to hide the blog from search, here’s a link!

https://badartbukakke.tumblr.com

Reblogging this again, as I forgot to mention the first time.  You can also report this blog as harm to minors, due to the fact that it posts both NSFW content alongside art by under 18′s.  So while kids are finding their art on this blog, they’re also being exposed to sexual content.

Reblogged from: claidheamh-mor

anti-pedo-magical-girl:

All NOMAPs (>^ω^<)

💖If you stalk minors in public or in social media,without giving a damn that you scare the sh*t out of them,you are not non offending.💖

🎀If you look at minors sexually without caring about they discomfort you are not non offending.🎀

✨If you touch minors for any reason and in any way, even when the “Leave me the f*ck alone!” is clear by their body language or the way they speak to you ,you are not non offending.✨

🎠If you enjoy thoughts of raping minors you are not non offending.🎠

💞If you refuse therapy you are not non offending.💞

💟If you look for excuses to say that your therapist’s advises about healthy coping mechanisms are “bullsh*t uwu” you are not non offending.💟

😻If you consume any kind of child porn, or watch series in which the creators heavily sexualize minor characters, you are not non offending.😻

👗If you try to say to minors that “There’s nothing wrong with pedophilia”,or anything similar, you are not non offending.👗

🌸If your first thought when you see anti pedophile blogs is start typing “Actually…” in the posts followed by lies and fake “facts” you are not non offending. 🌸

🍭If you disregard CSA survivors’ feelings you are not non offending.🍭

🍓If you ignore dni requests you are not non offending. 🍓

😍I you harass people when they tell you to leave them alone, or that the way you think is wrong you are not non offending.😍

💝If you proudly speak anywhere about your pedophilic thoughts you are not non offending.💝

The only way for all of you to really be a non offending pedophile is to stop doing all of the things above and seek professional help,or listen to your therapist’s advises.

Reblogged from: claidheamh-mor