idk how you have no self confidence and yet refuse to listen to anyone telling you that ur being disrespectful about their beliefs/ assuming youre right when they clearly have more authority on the matter as a person who actually follows these beliefs and doesnt collect runes bc theyre "cute"
bc i dont have any self confidence beyond my tiny realm of understanding. runes falls within my tiny realm of understanding because i researched them & i know what each of them means from a lingual and spiritual standpoint, as well as how to use them (like, i literally have a white rabbit fur pelt for them. cuz i know that’s proper, and cuz i also think it looks nice when im using them.) i dunno where u got the idea im collecting runes that r cute, i just said i think the practice & the runes themselves are cute and thats why i use them as opposed to doing it because im genuinely 100% devoted to followin the fuckin word of the aesir.
like i said, this is within my realm of understanding. i know what im talking about, i know abt pagan beliefs & rituals, just because i myself dont devote my faith to following the beliefs doesnt mean i don’t grasp them. i know where i stand & that theres fuckin literally nothin wrong about having runes and not committing to a pagan lifestyle lmao.
like, i could literally just say “okay then im pagan now” and your argument ends because its literally that easy. theres no bare minimum for considering yourself pagan. theres a winding list of pagan faiths to choose from. i could just say “i believe in lots of gods, they are very real to me & i use the runes to commune with them for guidance” and that’d be it. the only thing is that i don’t personally live like that. am i not allowed to use runes suddenly, because i personally attribute the ‘guidance’ to random chance & decide how much faith im going to put into the readings? lmfao. this is stuff i know about.
some kind & patient soul:
[writes a whole article abt the connection between slavery, the war of 1812 and the american national anthem]
[shares said article and links back to it twice]
some of y'all:
umm??? the national anthem was written abt the war of 1812???? could you be more specific abt what you mean when you say it celebrates the murder of african-americans?? even though you linked an article to it *twice on your blog* and one of those links WAS IN THE POST I WAS REFERRING TO?
tbh its really nice that keith does cry, and from what it seems like he does it a lot, because with the way he holds himself and how strong he is he seems to be the least likely person to cry a lot but he does and thats really cool
You are blissfully, painfully unaware of the repercussions when Jenna drunkenly beckons you over to her corner in Jake’s kitchen.
“Jeremy, I have something to tell you,” she slurs, giggling. The party’s loud and crowded around them, so you lean in to hear her clearly. “So don’t freak out.” Before you can even respond, she blurts, “Michael’s in love with you.”
“What?” You blink, processing that statement. “Michael Mell? My best friend Michael?”
“Duh,” she says.
Nothing about that information makes sense. “I think you’ve got this all wrong,” you start, but Jenna cuts you off by shoving her phone in your face. You can see the most recent string of texts from Michael, and they’re all about you. They’re about how he’s charmed by your smile, how he’s worried that you don’t sleep enough, how he’s thinking about finally asking you out after all.
“Seriously,” Jenna says, shaking her head at the look on your face. “How could you not know? He’s so obvious.”
You can’t help but ask, “Who else knows?”
“Everybody,” Jenna says, and your heart sinks. “You didn’t think it was weird that every time you came to sit with us, somebody’d move so you could sit next to him?”
You didn’t, but now that she’s pointed it out, you recognize the pattern. Now that you’re thinking about it, there’s been increasingly frequent occurrences of Michael sitting beside you while everybody else in your friend group shares sly smiles or significant looks. There’s always been Michael, smiling warmly, welcoming your complaints about homework, his hands inches from yours.
“You guys will be cute together,” Jenna says, and she’s too drunk too care when you leave to have a panic attack in the bathroom.
Jenna doesn’t remember your conversation the next day. You wish you didn’t.
This is how it goes: you don’t know how to keep the things you love.
And you love Michael, you do, but not the way he apparently loves you. He wants to ask you out, to take you out on dates, to kiss you, to do so many things that you have never considered doing with him.
You consider it now. You consider it for days. You love spending time with Michael already. You think you could hold hands with him. Maybe you could kiss him, too. Could you do more than that?
Sitting beside Michael in the cafeteria, laughing at his jokes, watching the twinkle in his eyes grow brighter at your laughter, you know all your considerations are for moot. You know you can’t say yes, if he asks.
But you don’t want to say no.
You don’t want to hurt him like that. You don’t love Michael the way he loves you, but you still love him too much to break his heart. You love him too much to lose him.
“Hey, game night at my place this Friday?” Michael asks, nudging your arm.
You deliberately keep yourself from leaning into his touch. You’ve been keeping your distance for a while. “Nah, man. Dad’s taking me to see some colleges this weekend, remember?”
“Right.” The sight of Michael’s shoulders slumping turns your insides a little colder. You’ve been living with ice in your veins ever since that one party, that one conversation. “Dude, I feel like we haven’t been hanging out a lot these days.”
“We’ll hang out when we’re less busy,” you promise, and you think your lies and truths all taste the same nowadays.
You don’t know how to keep the people you love. You don’t know if you’re making the worst choice. You don’t know anything. You wish you still didn’t know.
If you spend less time with Michael, he won’t have an opportunity to ask you out. It’s a flimsy plan but you think it works anyway. You miss him, but this is the only way to keep him. At least this way, you can’t reject Michael. Can’t break his heart.
Every day, you hope he falls out of love with you.
You avoid spending too much time alone with him, avoid too much physical contact with him, avoid looking him in the eye more and more.
Michael slowly stops asking to spend more time privately with you. You spend less time with him and your friends, because you’re scared that he’ll ask you in front of everybody, because you’re weary from the guilt eating you up inside-out, because you’re still scared of losing him once and for all.
You don’t know how to stop Michael’s eyes from shuttering with disappointment or how to love him or how to admit that you just might be making the wrong choice. You don’t know if it’d be better off to tell him that you know, if saying no would be better than saying nothing.
You don’t know if he’s already fallen out of love with you. If you’ve already broken his heart.
This is how it ends: you try so hard to keep Michael, and that’s how you lose him.
i take absolutely no responsibility for this near 3K disaster @arahir was the one who started this mess with the big mac at the space mall, @arahir was the one who asked me what the worst accessory keith owns is because of shiro taking them to claire’s. i was enabled entirely by jojo - i have the receipts to prove it.
Keith is hiding something, and rip he’s not so good at hiding things. There’s more to the Claire’s story than he’s letting on.
Not another word is uttered about the space mall trip. On the way back to castle, they’re met with Coran’s inquisitive moustache and raised eyebrow, and Allura’s curious clasping of hands which is joined by a pout because no still nothing sparkly. That’s it. And it stays that way. Everybody pointedly insists with silent agreement to keep it that way.
Lance throws his hands up in a shrug that’s far from casual, resigning himself to the surreal horrors of what he’d seen. That guy is his hero - was. Was? Maybe was now. How he can climb back up the pitiful pit he fell down is difficult to say. Hunk is muttering something under his breath, a hand pushing against his forehead as if that will somehow push the things he’s witnessed far, far away. Please just-… please.
Pidge is stroking her chin, as if contemplating some big equation of some sort. But as she mouths ‘Claire’s’ it becomes apparent that’s just not true.
Keith catches the word and clenches a fist. It’s better than flinching at them, at least. Not that the memories of that trip were bad exactly. No… more like- well. Why did he bring up Claire’s why did he do that why. The words had just spilled out. It had probably been the most he’d ever said in one go to all of them collectively. And he’d mentionedClaire’s, potentially dropped himself right into the firing line of eternal judgement from his teammates - if they found out. If.
Anyway. There’s Shiro, walking into the room. Notably no longer in his date-sona or whatever it is Lance called it. Interesting term - makes a lot of sense. Keith honestly wonders just how much truth there could be to Lance’s words. Might be worth further exploration.
Keith purses his lips, glancing around the group. It’s with a layer of uncertainty that if caught will definitely be questioned. It’s doubtful anyone will catch it, though. So that’s something. Whilst attempting to school his expressions, Keith’s aware at times he is an open book with a font too big and bold that it’s a mystery how it all stays squeezed in there.
Despite that, people just don’t bother ever reading. Or look close enough to realise. That’s way too philosophical for his liking right now. Metaphors aren’t welcome here, be gone.
Now more than ever he can feel it, against his shirt and pressing into his sides. Evidence. The worst kind. Irrefutable evidence of an unspeakable act. Nobody has to know. Nobody will ever know.
For reasons he cannot fathom the memory is prodding at his chest, crawling up his throat and being the terrible liar he is it’s a wonder he didn’t just blab the whole thing earlier. Clearing his throat, Keith folds his arms and tucks himself into the side of the room. It’s his safe retreat. He’ll fit nicely there and nobody will question it or call upon him to speak which is good and yeah. This will be fine. Nobody is suspicious, not remotely.
Shiro has lapped up all the shame and suspicion from the space mall like a pro. That’s good. Perfect. Keith can stay here, leaning against the wall in peace.
Hey everyone. Here’s the short story: I’m feeling overwhelmed.
There is a lot of stress at my job at the moment and decorating, recording, and editing for my Simblr and Youtube really feels like a burden at the moment. I’m so exhausted, I can’t keep up anymore. I already posted something similar last week, but I thought it would be best to make a “formal” post.
Prompt Request:: Vampire!Laurent turning Damen into a vampire.
It was freezing outside. Damen knew this. His body had been ice cold the night before, and he saw the temperature on his phone. Despite this, the chilly air felt nothing like a discomfort. If anything, Damen felt like he could finally breathe, his lungs open, his chest light.
Damen looked aside, once again feeling startled by the sight of Laurent. Laurent’s beauty had always been too intense to be real, but ever since Damen had woken up, he almost felt like he had to look away. His eyes seemed brighter, his skin lighter. Damen was starting to feel convinced that Laurent’s hair really was made of gold. Looking at him now, with every sensation heightened, it almost felt like looking at the sun, though that wasn’t much of a problem anymore.
“You’re beautiful,” Damen said.
Laurent smiled. “You’ve mentioned that once or twice before,” he said. “Tell me how you feel.”
They were standing in the woods behind Laurent’s house, the place where they had often come together. It was secluded and vast, and Laurent had always said it was comforting, knowing he had all the space he wanted to run, climb and jump. Looking around, Damen thought he might be starting to understand.
“Good?” Damen said, though it came out more like a question. “How should I feel?”
“Everyone is different,” Laurent said. “Tell me what’s going on in your head.”