out of the pits

None of you can convince me that while they were all packed into that little car, Bucky didn’t at some point ask them “so what’s the deal with the cat guy? Is there a story there or does he just really love cats?” and Sam just throws his arms up like FUCKING THANK YOU

love.

If Jesus lived today, he would smell like smoke.

Whether it be from pot or from cigarettes or whatever else can be smoked, Jesus would smell like it. Not because he would partake in it himself, but because he would go out of his way to go to where the smokers were. He would go to them and be with them, get to know them and show them that they are worthy of love and that they can be saved from whatever they’re running from.

Jesus would know the sensation of stale beer drying on his shirt because somebody forgot to put their drink down before they hugged him. He’d never get drunk but he might have one beer, maybe two, socializing as he got to know the regulars at the bar. The ones who found their way there day after day, hearts too heavy to do anything but numb the pain. He’d go there and listen to their stories and help carry their burdens, lift them off their shoulders. He would be the person that everybody knew—knew was safe, knew was loving, knew would listen. The bartender would call him the ‘unofficial shrink’, and Jesus would smile and order another glass of water, ready to drive home whoever would need it that night.

He’d know the feel of gauze beneath his fingers as he wrapped it around a friend’s bleeding wrist. He wouldn’t ask, wouldn’t pry, just patiently clean and treat it with careful, calming touches. The story would eventually come tumbling out in the bathroom and Jesus would draw them close, hugging tightly, and do whatever he could to find the best help available when asked, when needed.

He would know the drained, yet relieved, morning after feel the day after (of?) a three a.m. phone call from a person who was desperate, because they didn’t know who else they could turn to. He would know the days when one cup of coffee isn’t enough to wake him up, where two cups of coffee almost doesn’t do it either, but the lethargy and the headache and the bags under his eyes are worth it because the person he was talking to is okay. He would do it again in a heartbeat, too.

He would always have somebody staying in his spare bedroom—if he wasn’t staying in somebody else’s spare bedroom himself. He knows what it is to be without a roof over his head, without a blanket to pull over his cold body, and he would do whatever he could to make sure others didn’t need to experience it—even just for a night. He’d keep an eye out for help wanted ads and help his friends on the street with their resumes and pay for their haircut and nice clothing for the interview, and he’d buy them dinner after whether they got the job or not.

He would know the need to go and grab another box of kleenex as the person at his kitchen table can’t help but cry at the feeling of not being enough, of needing to change themselves before people would love them, before they would be accepted. He would know the heave of their shoulders beneath his hand as he comforted them, reassured them that they are enough, that they are wonderful and beautiful and amazing and loved. So, so loved.

He would know the feeling of a tight bank account, not because he doesn’t know how to manage his finances, but because there are other people who need it more. Who need food for their families and clothing for their children and money for their rent. He would give of himself and build relationships with these people, connections with them, encouraging them to keep going. To keep striving. That life isn’t out to get them, and that they can succeed.

He would know the pain of a harsh word, thrown at him by a hurting soul, and he would stand tall and take it because sometimes a broken heart just needs to shout.

If Jesus lived today, he would smell like smoke. Not because he approves or because he doesn’t care, but because he knows that to love isn’t just being pleasant to other people and giving them a smile, it’s crawling into the trenches with them.

Happy Motivational Monday everyone! Sorry I missed last monday, but I figured  Arin would be a good one next for yall, and as a bonus, as per the grump, heres the rest of his tweet aahaha

  • Lesbians calling out biphobia: ❤💖❤💖❤💖❤💖❤💖💖❤
  • Bi girls calling out lesbophobia: 💙💖💜💙💖💜💙💖💜💙💖💜
  • People trying to pit both groups against each other whether it be pushing the idea of monosexual privilege or straight passing privilege: 😠😠😠😠😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😠😡😠😡😠😡😠😡😠😡😡😠😡😠😡😠😡😠😡😠😡😠😡😠😡

so the us might get nuked by korea any day now, food prices are skyrocketing, everything’s prices are skyrocketing

and i just got told by the landladies that there is a very real chance both they and i (their renter) have a high chance of being eminent domained off the property we all live on

it’s like life looked at me and said ‘you clearly don’t have enough reasons to be terrified right now, lemme fix that’

i have no idea what i’m going to do if it happens

i have no paying job, i take care of my elderly mother full time so she doesn’t have to go to a shitty nursing home that’ll kill her in two days by not following her strict diet or mixing up her meds (experience talking here nursing homes are dickensian bullshit in my state unless you can afford a private one and even those aren’t that great)

we pay way less than one would normally pay for rent bc i do other things for the landladies like watch their dog and stuff there’s no way we can afford to live anywhere else in this shitty fucking state

we have no family to turn to anymore no friends that have any way to help 

we don’t even have a damn car to live in anymore

i just wanna scream and never fucking stop right now

the reason i call adhd breakdowns weird is, well, ‘cause they just are. one second, you’re at the bottom, in the pits of despair, bawling your eyes out and unable to see clearly. everything annoys and frustrates you. it’s all just too much …. and the next, you’re back on your bullshit as if nothing ever happened. or asleep…. that happens. frustration napping is totally a thing with this

Captain Steve Rogers, Lovecraftian Horror

Title: The Miskatonic Project
Rating: PG-13 for horror themes, death
Summary: Abraham Erskine may have invented something new with the Serum – or maybe he re-created something very old. Something…Elder.
Notes: I should be working on like three other fanfics but I had a TERRIBLE DREAM this afternoon and anyway this only took about half an hour to write.

***

Steve came out of the Vita-Ray machine…different. 

Of course he looked different – taller, thickly muscled, skin gleaming. But it wasn’t the change in his appearance so much as the…sensation people felt around him. Howard claimed not to feel it, and Erskine died before he could weigh in. Peggy felt it, but not in the way others did. To her, he seemed otherworldly, but like an angel or a religious vision – comforting under a layer of unreality. She even liked the strange black pupils he’d developed, so big and dark you could hardly see the whites of his eyes at all. 

Others, however…. 

She didn’t see him pull the Hydra agent out of the submarine after Erskine’s assassination. Only three people did – a cab driver, a little boy, and the boy’s mother. The cab driver wouldn’t say a word, and the boy’s mother stuttered and stammered so badly they finally gave up. The little boy just said, “Well, he got him,” and looked admiringly at Steve. 

Steve wasn’t wet, but the submarine lay on the deck of the pier, and the man next to it was dead, a rictus of horror on his face. 

(There is a readmore below! Read more!)

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