reblog ish

yeshua is not your honey haired savior
with snow white hands and a penchant for handguns.
he does not wave a confederate flag.
he does not blame his children for their love.

yeshua was - yeshua is - a man with brown, calloused hands
and dark, gentle eyes.
(did you really think he looked at his disciples with sky blue eyes?)

yeshua is love. he is messiah and man
and he is god and good,
but before that he is love.
he is all love.

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Bonus:

@ my fellow trans masc people … i feel like we as a group tend to … co-opt the struggles of trans feminine people ? like … when people talk about trans people as being violent/predators/etc, they’re almost definitely talking about trans girls, yk ? yes, we struggle too, but acting like we deserve to have the most important voice in these topics isn’t good. acknowledge transmisogyny, understand what cis people are actually talking about

(Sometimes all the time, I remember that Bill took French classes and probably knows a lot of it by the time he’s out of high school and honestly?????

Bill trying to teach Stan some French??? Stan being too enamored and kinda turned on by Bill both teaching him something and speaking French to focus???
“Stan, are you okay?”
and Stan literally loses his voice, so he just pulls Bill into a really deep kiss????????????)

A little something something in honour of Jared-in-tight-Tshirts day

“Jesus, Sammy,” says Dean, “did that shrink in the wash?” It wouldn’t be the first time. Laundromats are always a slightly unstable quantity. Dean’s lost all kinds of beloved clothing over the years. (The Stanford T-shirt Sam mailed him during his first semester at college. A vintage Iron Maiden tour T-shirt he’d picked up for cents at a Goodwill in Philly. Shreds of pink satin, six months after Rhonda Hurley, pulled and pocketed surreptitious from a malfunctioning machine outside Cleveland.) 

Sam looks down at his chest, at the logo straining tight across the taut-pulled fabric. “No-oo?” he says. Dean raises an eyebrow. 

Two patches of pink blossom rosy over Sam’s cheekbones. “I went shopping,” he says, “the other weekend. In Kansas City. When I went to see that film.” 

“Yeah,” says Dean, carefully neutral. 

“Well,” says Sam. “The sales assistant. Uh. I did think it was a little tight but.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. The movement tugs the T-shirt even tighter, emphasising the curved lines of Sam’s pecs, the rounded swell of his bicep. “Threw it in half-price,” he mumbles. “Said it would be a shame.” 

Dean’s amused, mostly. Sammy’s taste in clothes is… idiosyncratic. He can’t imagine his brother in the kind of boutique that might sell him something like this. He tries to picture her, the salesgirl, heart-eyed over this big scruffy scarecrow. She was probably tiny, tiny and glamorous and young. 

“Lady-killer,” he says. 

Sam turns pinker, looks up to meet Dean’s eye. Aw, Sammy, Dean wants to say. He doesn’t quite understand how Sam can still be so clueless around women, so surprised every time he gets hit on. And it doesn’t sound like this chick was trying too hard to be subtle. Half-price. 

Then, “Who says it was a lady?” Sam says, and Dean’s world tilts a little bit sideways. The tiny blonde saleswoman in his head dissolves, resolving into a hard-bodied, chisel-chinned dude, a guy looking Sam up and down as he twists in the mirror. This isn’t. Dean doesn’t.

He blinks at his brother, open-mouthed, but Sam’s already shrugging, looking away. “Yeah, I don’t know. You’re right, it’s… I’ll go take it off.”

“Hey, no,” Dean says without thinking, his own cheeks heated now, tingling-flush with an indefinable anxiety. “Leave it, Sam. It looks good.” 

Sam wrinkles his nose. 

“Really,” Dean says. His eyes skitter again over Sam’s chest, the breadth of his shoulders, the veins that twist down his arms. “You look good,” he says.

Verge Angst

Can i write? No I can’t


It’s darker than he thought.
Wandering in the night gets easier as the night goes on. The shadows grow and shrink as he walks but he isn’t scared.
“I wonder if they are worried about me.” He ponders, “Patton’s probably scared, Logan probably has his nose stuck in a book, and Roman… he’s an a*****e anyway.” Continues walking down the road losing himself and his thoughts and only snaps back to reality when his name being yelled.
“ Virgil! Virgil! Where could he be, Logan?” Virgil! Virgil!” Patton sounds close to tears.
“Pat, look at me… Look at me. He will be OK. We will find him. Now say it" nothing is heard so Logan says it again, but with more force. “Say it.”
“We… Will find him” Patton answers shakily.
“Now let’s go find Thomas and Roman hopefully they have had more luck” the two boys footsteps slowly grow faint.
Virgil of steps out of the bush he was hiding in, “They care?” He thinks, “they actually care, they’ve never cared about me before” These words keep running through his mind as he runs in the direction he heard the voices.
“ Patton! Logan! I’m right here,” his voice breaks “I’m right here.” The boys turn around at the sound of their names. Relief is so clearly shown on Patton’s face as he runs towards Virgil.
“I’m so sorry. “ Virgil starts to cry his words become incoherent, “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what I was thinking. I –” his sobs grow louder as Patton and squeezes him tighter.
“ Stop that kiddo, you should not be apologizing. I should’ve never done that. I should be apologizing.” Patton says rubbing his hand on Virgil’s back. Virgil feels another set of hands joining their hug.
“ Patton is correct, we should be the ones apologizing.” Logan starts, “I cannot imagine why I would think it was a logical idea. Will you accept our apology?”
“Of course,” Virgil says wiping away tears, “Join in the hug circle, Logan.” At that notion the logical side grimaced, but obliged his request.


Is it good? (its not done yet)

(Things I can’t stop thinking about:

- Stan Uris’s guilty pleasure song is Hungry Like The Wolf. He kinda really likes Duran Duran.

- Richie is not ashamed about loving that song. He and Stan secretly bond over Duran Duran. 

- Stan /loves/ to sing Rio, and sang it to Bev once when the Losers got high. 

- Everyone begged him to sing more often after that instance. Stan was thoroughly embarrassed, so they backed off, but he did find it a little encouraging. Whenever he does sing, everyone drops what they’re doing to listen. They consider themselves blessed. 

- Bill called him a ‘songbird’ one time. Stan flushed deeply red and sputtered at him, “Don’t ever say that again.” His reaction was similar to that of Eddie’s when anyone calls Eddie a ‘pretty boy.’

- Stan and Eddie have definitely become almost inseparable over the years. They taunt each other, but it’s always so dry and sarcastic, nobody can tell if they’re joking. (except the Losers, of course.) 

- They seem to balance each other out a lot, and their chemistry is seamless.

- They’re definitely pastel boys,

- and Bill, Mike, and Richie are utterly smitten with this.

- Richie thinks he’s hardcore, but he’s never going to be as hardcore as the two of these short, clean, put together, soft looking guys when they’re feeling a little catty. 

I don’t know, I have more, feel free to inbox me and ask for them, but be specific, because I have. tons of headcanons about all of my losers.)