those who live in glass houses

New work in progress! :D I just moved to a new live-work loft with double ceiling windows. All the glass and light made me dream of a house of glass. (I used a sketchup 3D Warehouse model of Escher’s designs)
And for those who missed my last announcement, I’ll be at AOD this weekend in the artist alley table A04. Hope to see you there! :D

cosmic-files-87  asked:

2/11/15 MSR for the angsty list....I know....I am an ass.... (but really!!!!! Please write that!!!!)

2 - I don’t need you. I don’t need any of you.

11 - You can’t keep hurting me and then demand I apologize instead.

15 - You betrayed me.

Author’s Notes: Okay, this one hurts. Like a kick to the groin kind of hurt. I almost feel bad. It is high angst & will probably piss some of you off. If you proceed – you were warned. Post IWTB.

Two Weeks, Too Cold

It’s been two full weeks since she’s seen him.

She can’t remember the last time she went more than a day without hearing his voice – What’s up, Doc? – watching him as he watched her, or felt his broad chest against her back as he spooned her to sleep.

I won’t be coming home, she had said. Don’t do this, he had begged.

Scully keeps telling herself that she made a mistake by letting him kiss her as she stood in their front yard with tears rolling down her face, by entertaining the notion that they could ever hide from the darkness. It was cruel, she thinks, because even then she knew that she wouldn’t be coming back home.

Which isn’t exactly true, because she did come home, briefly, to gather a bag or two of her belongings. Her chest aches at the memory – of the desperate tears and of his voice breaking on each  I’m sorry and please don’t leave me.

That was two weeks ago. Two weeks that have been filled with work, because if she can’t help the man she loves then at least she can help a child breathe. Two weeks filled with too much coffee, because her fingers feel ice cold without his own interlaced with them. Too little sleep, because her skin trembles and aches without his hands there to gentle away the nightmares.

Two weeks, she has decided, is long enough.

I just want to see him, she tells herself as she guides her car onto the long gravel drive that leads to their shared home. The house is modest, but cozy. Most of all, it’s theirs. The few tangible things they’ve shared in the past have been wrenched away from them – but not their home. No blood to scrub out of the carpet, no taped X in the window to summon life-threatening information. It’s just home, and it’s theirs.

She steps out of her car into the crisp air of early morning to pull open the gate, and she smiles to herself. The ritual of it is comforting. Countless mornings and evenings have began and ended with opening this gate, letting herself back into the beautiful, private world she shares with Mulder.

Pulling into her spot in front of the house, she sees a strange car. She frowns curiously. Did he go out and buy a car after I left? She wouldn’t put it past him, except that it would require his actually leaving the house (and nothing short of a psychic priest has convinced him to do so thus far).

On her walk to the front door, her heart begins to hammer against her ribs at the thought of seeing him again.  It’s only been two weeks, she chides herself. Still, she expects that he may be angry. When he’s hurt, he tends to deflect – in his case, that means petulant withdrawal and an abundance of sarcasm.

She draws in a deep breath and unlocks the door. He may still be asleep, she realizes as she steps into quiet darkness. It’s just after five o’clock in the morning. Just because she hasn’t been able to rest doesn’t mean he can’t.

But oh, she’s finally home. She closes her eyes, relishing the smell of Mulder’s aftershave mingled with the scent of the roses he had delivered to her office just a week before those goddamned agents showed up at the hospital. She remembers bringing them home, carefully tucking them into a vase of water. They’re beautiful, she had told him. Not as beautiful as you, he had replied, his hand tucked against the small of her back.

“Who are you?”

Scully starts at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, opening her eyes to see a woman standing at the threshold where kitchen becomes living room.

A woman.

Tall. Brunette. Holding a glass of water. Wearing only a t-shirt and a confused expression.

“This is my house,” Scully says, the words scraping past a throat that has gone as dry as desert sand. “Who are you?”

The woman stares back, tugging at the hem of her t-shirt uncomfortably.

No, not her t-shirt. Mulder’s t-shirt. Scully’s favorite shirt that Mulder owns, because it’s soft and worn and somehow still smells like the cologne he wore the first time she slept in his arms, even after all these years.

I’m going to be sick, this is not happening, oh Mulder what is going on…

The woman finally speaks, clearing her throat. “He – he said he lived alone.”

I’ve wandered into the wrong house, Scully thinks numbly. That’s the only explanation that makes sense.

But no. That’s Mulder’s shirt, and that’s the drinking glass my mother gave to me when we moved here. That’s the couch where Mulder and I made love less than a month ago.

“Scully.”

This can’t be the wrong house, because that’s Mulder. He’s standing in front of her, and he’s not wearing my favorite shirt, he’s not wearing a shirt at all, and he looks terrified, and oh God I’m going to be sick…

“Mulder?” Her voice sounds tiny. Her hands are still freezing, but now her palms are sweating as her stomach churns. Please explain this, Mulder, she begs silently. Please please please please.

“Who is she?” When the other woman speaks again, Scully wants to scream at her. She has no right to ask that. Scully is the one who should be demanding an explanation. She’s the one who deserves an answer. Not this stranger, with her morning-after hair and her long smooth legs brushing the hem of Mulder’s shirt.

I’m going to be sick.

“Mulder?” This time, her voice is louder, sharper, less please tell me this isn’t what it looks like and more how fucking could you.

He doesn’t acknowledge the other woman’s inquiry, instead stepping toward Scully with his hand outstretched. “Scully,” he begins, and her name on his lips tells her all she needs to know. She’s heard him speak her names countless times – calling to her for help, playfully teasing her, comforting her in times of distress, moaning in ecstasy as she coaxes him to climax, even shouting in anger during a particularly intense argument.

Never – never – has he said her name with this desperate, helpless tone threaded through it.

The woman has disappeared, and Scully can hear her in the bedroom – our bedroom  – gathering her things, probably eager to get away from this house – our house – and whatever is about to happen between them.

Mulder moves forward, and she sees panic etched into the lines of his face.

She squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head as the full realization of what’s happening settles over her. “No,” she chokes, swallowing against a throatful of stomach acid. “No, no, no.”

“I’m sorry, Scully, please let me explain.”

Her eyes fly open, and she wraps her arms around herself. “Explain?” Her voice catches on a sob. “What is there to explain?” She stares at his face, his beautiful face, and it’s more than she can take, his eyes full of regret. She backs away, grappling for the doorknob.

“Scully, don’t leave. Please.”

Two weeks, Mulder!” Her stomach aches, her head pounds, and I need to get out of here, this is not happening. “I was gone two fucking weeks!”

She is hot and cold at the same time, her clammy palms sliding against the doorknob as her fingers shake uncontrollably. She feels the heat of his body behind her, and oh God, she wants to lean into him, just to warm her hands, but nonononono, she has to leave, she cannot stay another minute in this house.

When he places a hand against her shoulder, her entire body recoils. “Get the hell away from me,” she gasps, her breaths coming in shorter spurts now, her lungs burning.

The doorknob finally relents, and she shoves against the door, stumbling outside where it’s still so cold, it’s not home, and she can’t breathe, and fuck you Mulder how dare you how fucking dare you.

He follows her across the yard. “Scully, please.”

She doesn’t break stride or respond. She’s almost to her car when she feels his hand catch the arm of her coat. She jerks free, but his grasp is lighter than she expected, and the heel of her boot slides against a leftover patch of ice. 

Under any other circumstance, she would have caught herself. The reflexes instilled in her all those years ago in FBI field training never failed her before, but she can’t even catch her breath so how is supposed to support her full weight?

Maybe she doesn’t even want to.

Her knee meets the ground with a sharp crunch, and she hisses in pain.

Immediately, Mulder is at her side. “Oh God,” he says, and reaches for her again. She slaps his hand away, and finally the tears she’s been fighting break through, streaming hot against her chilled face.

“In our bed, Mulder,” she says bitterly, leaning back against the tire of her car. “I was gone two weeks, and you fucked someone in my bed.” She tries to suck in a lungful of air, but is met with resistance when the breath halts on a sob. So this is what suffocation feels like.

“I was drunk,” he whispers miserably.

“When are you not?”

He flinches, but continues. “I don’t know what happened. Scully, I don’t even know her.”

“Where did you meet her, Mulder?” She glares through her tears. “All this time, while I’ve been working, have you just been out meeting women to bring back to our home? Our bed?”

“Of course not,” he breathes, staring at her in horror. “Never. You know me better than that.”

“I thought I did,” she whispers brokenly. “I never believed you would do this. Not in a million years, Mulder.”

“Neither did I.“ His voice is pitiful and sincere.

She swallows thickly. “You betrayed me.”

He sinks all the way down beside her. “I know,” he says quietly. “I know, and I’m so sorry.” There is a heavy silence between them for a moment before he adds, “Scully, you left me.”

Scully shifts to face him, and grits her teeth against the pain that the motion sends shooting through her knee. “You’re unbelievable,” she spits venomously. “You screw another woman in my bed, on the sheets you bought for me on my last birthday, and you’re making this my fault?” She fumbles with the top of the tire, trying to pull herself to her feet.

“Scully, stop,” Mulder pleads. “You’re hurt – your leg.”

“You’re damn right I’m hurt,” she snaps. “And it has nothing to do with my leg.”

She gives up on standing for the moment. “You never answered my question,” she tells him, her eyes burning hot into his.

“What question?”

“Where did you meet her? I’ve never known you to socialize, but clearly, there are a few parts of your character I somehow missed in all our years together.”

He stares at his hands for a moment before meeting her gaze. “I went on a walk and ended up at a bar. It’s a couple miles down the road. I had more than I planned, and she – she offered to drive me home.”

Scully folds her arms tightly around her midsection. The tire is wreaking havoc on her back, but she barely notices.

“Classy, Mulder.” She closes her eyes again, but the tears fall anyway.

He sighs. “You left, Scully. You just left, and you wouldn’t return my calls. I didn’t know if you were ever coming back.”

Scully tenses as another wave of nausea washes over her. “I left because you wouldn’t leave the house unless it was to spiral back into your fucking paranoid obsessions!” 

She covers her face with both hands. “You can’t keep doing this,” she sobs. “You can’t keep hurting me, and then demand that I apologize instead.”

“When have I done that?” His voice is laced with disbelief. “When have I ever done that, Scully?”

Fuck you Mulder fuck you fuck you fuck you –

“Fuck you,” she cries, gripping the edge of the tire again and heaving herself to her feet. “I don’t need you.” 

She ignores the throbbing in her knee when she puts weight on it. “I don’t need anyone,” she says, her voice breaking. “I think we both know I’ve survived greater losses.” She wrestles with her purse, digging for her keys. “But it’s fine. I don’t need any of you.”

Mulder touches her shoulder, and she shrugs him away again. “Don’t touch me.” She yanks her car door open. “I told you to get away from me.”

“Scully, I’m sorry,” he says weakly. “You may not need me, but I need you. I always have.”

“You didn’t need me last night,” she tosses back viciously as she forces key into ignition. “I can’t take care of you anymore, Mulder. Figure it out.”

He positions his body so that she is blocked from closing the door. “Scully,” he tries again, his voice echoing with despair. “I’m begging you. Please. You came back for a reason. Please don’t leave again.”

Her chin trembles as she answers him in a voice as brittle as dry ice. “I left for a reason, too.”

She grasps the door handle in her hand despite the remaining tremors. “Move.”

He slowly backs away, and at last she sees tears shining in his eyes. It’s too late, it’s too much this time, I can’t.

The sound of her slamming door causes him to jump. The pressure she places on her gas pedal makes her moan with pain as her knee protests the movement.

When she glances in her rearview mirror, she sees a tear-blurred image of her entire world, standing with his arms hanging helplessly at his sides.

He’s still not wearing a shirt, she realizes.

Go back inside, Mulder. It’s too cold out here.

I would know.

END.

Before you ask, yes, there will almost certainly be a follow-up.

Dad’s New House

Anon Submitted:

When I was about five or six years old, my parents finalized their divorce and moved into new houses. My mom, who had custody of me, stayed close to where we had lived before, but my dad moved almost an hour away to Camano Island off the coast of Northwest Washington. I visited him every other weekend.
At first, I was really excited to be moving to an island, because I thought I would get to see whales and dolphins on the beach, and when I first visited my dad’s new house, it seemed great because it was in the middle of a big forest with lots of room to play. That first day I was there, most of the stuff was unpacked from the move already, but the bedroom my dad had picked for me was still empty, so I had to sleep on the couch.
Nothing had felt especially weird that day, but anyone who has slept in a house in a forest can tell you that it gets really, really dark. It was pitch black outside when my dad finally went to bed. There were no curtains up yet, and there were two big windows on one side of the living room and a double door to a balcony/porch on the other side, and those doors were mostly made of glass, so no matter which way I lied down on the couch, I could see the dark outside. On top of that, the living room opened up on the third side, from which you could basically see the rest of the house in the day time or with lights on, but in the dark it was like a cave. It was really creepy, and I was really afraid of the dark at that age. Needless to say, I started to hate going to my dad’s house, because it meant sleeping in that scary living room. Nothing ever felt safe or welcoming there, and it was always cold. Even in the summer when it was warm outside, the house would be freezing.
One night, I must have had a hard time sleeping (more than usual) because I remember sleeping in my dad’s room, which he didn’t normally let me do. His room wasn’t much less creepy than the rest of the house– it had big glass doors to another porch too, and windows all along one wall. I remember falling asleep, and then being sort of half awake when I saw something in corner of the room next to the side of the bed I was sleeping on. It was gray and fuzzy looking, like it was hairy, about the size of a basketball. It turned around on its own, really sharply. It was an old man’s head, grinning at me. It had sparkly black eyes and a big mouth, and it would have looked totally human if it hadn’t been disembodied, sitting in the corner of my dad’s bedroom. It started to open its mouth and move towards me, and then I remember a feeling like being jolted awake, even though I hadn’t felt like I was asleep or dreaming. I was crying, but my dad would have been mad if I woke him up, so I just sat in bed with a pillow over my head until morning.

Fuck Yeah Nightmares Mod James: 8/10 Okay that head really caught me off guard.  Nice.

Godspeed You! Black Emperor Prep New LP, ‘Luciferian Towers’

Godspeed You! Black Emperor will release their sixth studio album, Luciferian Towers, on September 22nd via Constellation Records. The Canadian post-rock collective will promote the LP with a North American and European tour launching September 3rd at Montreal’s Mile Ex End Musique Montréal Festival and concluding November 7th at Paris’ Elysée Montmartre, Pitchfork reports.

According to the Constellation Records one sheet about the album, Luciferian Towers was made “in the midst of communal mess, raising dogs and children. Eyes up and filled with dreadful joy – we aimed for wrong notes that explode, a quiet muttering amplified heavenward. We recorded it all in a burning motorboat.” A list of “grand demands” also accompanied the information about the album, including:

  1. an end to foreign invasion
  2. an end to borders
  3. the total dismantling of the prison-industrial complex
  4. healthcare, housing, food and water acknowledged as an inalienable human right
  5. the expert fuckers who broke this world never get to speak again

The group also released statements about each of the four tracks.

1. UNDOING A LUCIFERIAN TOWERS — look at that fucking skyline! big lazy money writ in dull marble obelisks! imagine all those buildings much later on, hollowed out and stripped bare of wires and glass, listen- the wind is whistling through all 3,000 of its burning window-holes!

2. BOSSES HANG labor, alienated from the wealth it creates, so that holy cow, most of us live precariously! kicking at it, but barely hanging on! also – the proud illuminations of our shortened lives! also – more of us than them! also – what we need now is shovels, wells, and barricades!

3. FAM / FAMINE how they kill us = absentee landlord, burning high-rise. the loud panics of child-policemen and their exploding trigger-hands. with the dull edge of an arbitrary meritocracy. neglect, cancer maps, drone strike, famine. the forest is burning and soon they’ll hunt us like wolves.

4. ANTHEM FOR NO STATE kanada, emptied of its minerals and dirty oil. emptied of its trees and water. a crippled thing, drowning in a puddle, covered in ants. the ocean doesn’t give a shit because it knows it’s dying too.

Y'all remember when people tried to pin the Planned Parenthood shooting on the entirety of the pro-life movement? If you were one of those people then maybe you should think twice before complaining that people are pinning today’s Capitol shooting on democrats. To be clear: I absolutely don’t hold the entire DNC responsible for the actions of the Capitol shooter, but I think those of us who live in glass houses should be careful when we throw stones. Fact is both sides are incredibly guilty of idiotic and polarizing rhetoric that treats the other side like a complete villain all the time.

We’re Home, You’re Drunk (M)

Originally posted by cutemins

» taehyung x jungkook (vkook)
» 5.1k
» Exhibitionist ficguy ends up yanking him onto the sofa andfucking him raw into it
» warning: smut 

Bitter sweetness was all that ran through Taehyung’s mind.

Why was he officially the biggest idiot to exist? He’d let Jungkook leave again without saying anything about this crush that was growing.

Yes – very unfortunately – Taehyung had the biggest crush on his younger and instead of being normal about it, he kept quiet and left Jungkook to be completely oblivious. Wait – no. Taehyung did make it kind of obvious he liked Jungkook because he’d stood outside the bathroom door one day when he was sure that Jungkook was doing more than showering and multiple times had Taehyung imagined what Jungkook’s hand would feel like stroking him.

Obvious indeed, but only to himself. Taehyung wasn’t even sure right now if he wanted Jungkook or wanted Jungkook.

The tall boy looked like he’d be great to cuddle up to at night but that wasn’t the thing that Taehyung creamed his pants over. Oh, it was something completely different that starred in Tae’s wettest and most dirty dreams.

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Translation: Potato April 2017 – Hey Say BEST crosstalk

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don’t throw stones in glass houses? Well, we’re all living in glass houses,
glass cities
ugly glass metropolises.

transparent nations, standing for nothing but see-through smiles and selfish aspirations.
we’re crammed between glass walls, refusing to look down
jeering at those who see
the bedrock crumbling

we’re too busy decorating the glass rooms, celebrating finger-pointing politics to notice the fissures crawling beneath our feet
fissures with jagged grins,
Pleased we see a little dust as cruelest sin—
even as our cities shatter
making us hunt one another
—and we’re just as content to comply
so what’s the point in saying it?

anonymous asked:

More trans!Mercy?

If you like.  Have 2,000 words worth of two of the most important moments of Angela’s life, centered around conversations about her choosing a name for herself, and set in the same universe as this.

Feat. young Angela and Jesse as pals, and, 20 years later, Pharmercy, with some Jewish Angela, to boot.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Have you had a chance to read Carol's GENERATIONS one-shot? Definitely feels like there's some material for you in there...

My god.

The story was nothing special, and Mar-vell was acceptable by the most part, but goddammit, Stohl’s dialogues are just fucking horrendous.

Also, let’s ignore the obvious joke “Carol is drawn different”, how the hell does Mar-vell not recognize who she is? She got a haircut, that’s all. Does her hair work the same way as Clark Kent’s glasses? Is there some obscure bit of continuity I’m missing? Did he have amnesia? I don’t think so, he talks about his past adventures.

Off-model implies there is a model, while in superhero comics, most characters live in a fluxing “general idea” area, with every single artist interpreting it the way they want it. The introduction and development of a house style standardized most of those ideas, but in these recent years where experimentation, for better or worse, took most of that away.

Like I said, I highly doubt Marvel editors have guidelines saying “Carol Danvers must look like this now” that they enforce across the whole line, but they do attach her to artists (guys like Anka for example) who find that this current version of the character appeals better to what they thing she should be. If the Captain Marvel book was handed over to Leinil Yu, or Frank Cho, they wouldn’t draw it this way for sure.

Speaking of Frank Cho, he’s a clear example of what I’m saying: regardless of age, powers, background, every single one of his women is extremely voluptuous, with big breast and wide hips, and also very clearly muscular, whatever he’s drawing She-Hulk or Susan Storm. Meanwhile, a guy like Olivier Chapel draws those same women, and Carol too, in his own way, which means they’re all very lean, tall, and have a more athletic, less bulky structure.

She’s an inhuman being you absolute racist, she can take that pose it she wants.

Ok, now to answer these questions seriously, here’s how things go: most of my pages are heavily edited, I oftentimes compress two ro more actual pages of story together, trimming, cutting, shrinking, so that the pace keeps going, and writing jokes becomes easier. In the original story, the climax is about every single character rushing towards Carol to prevent her from blasting Tony, only to be late, and getting blasted away by her. I cut out all the reaction shots of people rushing to the scene.

Now I ask you, would you have preferred seeing that, or seeing Petyr x Prime, and remind yourself that Teenage Dirtbag is a song that actually exists?

Dude is his middle name, his full name is Dude Dude Dude.

So far he hasn’t reappeared, but there’s always the possibility he will. I guess it’s easier to write stories like these, because they require no effort.

Spider-Woman by Dennis Hopeless.

Things I’ve heard people in the neighborhood call our house: 
- The Gay house
- That one with the criminals
- I swore I saw those people on one of those lists, you know? Those lists
- PUPPY 
- Isn’t that the place where that young man lives who helped me fix my stereo system? Shame about his… roommate
- They’re pardoned mom. Meaning you can’t call the cops on the house? Also I’m pretty sure the one in the glasses can hear you?? We were learning about them in criminal history today– 

Well now I absolutely have to stand outside watering the lawn in a chicken mask and speedo at 6am. 
It’s like, required.

anonymous asked:

Can you please discuss the controversy about being Christian/Catholic and being a member of the Divine Nine. I'm interested in pledging but I'm worried that my faith will be contradicted.

Sure…. This is going to be long…Apologize for the error if there are any.

We regard religion as part of each member’s well being and recognize that each member ascribes to the religion that they most identify with. As a result we are able to have members of practically every religion capable of coming together for a common cause. Something Christian oriented organizations can rarely do. What binds BGLOs together is a commonality that stems from our pledge process, the ideals we ascribe to, our members, and traditions we have.  Churches cannot control BGLOs as they can other organizations. We don’t prevent our members from worshiping whichever God or Gods they want. Our freedom of religion is so ingrained in the individuality of each member to the point where we have members who don’t participate in certain activities simply because of their religious convictions (drinking, going out on the Sabbath etc). We don’t judge them for doing that nor does it affect their membership negatively. Several Chapters of our orgs have things like meditation time, Bible study, prayer Circles etc. and we are open to members creating their own. The massacre in South Carolina took the lives of Five members of BGLO organizations. Bro. Rev. Clementa C. Pinckney Alpha Phi Alpha Fraternity Inc. , Soror Sharonda Coleman-Singleton Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority Inc., Soror Cynthia Graham-Hurd Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority Inc, Soror Myra Thompson Delta Sigma Theta Sorority Inc, Bro.  Daniel L. Simmons Phi Beta Sigma Fraternity Inc. All were at Bible study very very well versed in the Bible. Faith Family Frat is the Alpha way

To touch on a few points of controversy…..

Secrecy- Our organizations function on secrecy. Not because we have nefarious motives but simply due to the fact that not everyone wants us to succeed. If we reveal publicly how or why we do things we will have more people against our cause than for it. You’d be surprised how many Churches currently work against several of our initiatives.

Churches also function on the basis of secrecy however for them it seems to be okay because they are Christian.

Symbols- Our organizations have and use symbols mainly remind our members of our purpose. Christians look at those things as Idol worship.  Some see it as demonic symbols thus demonic worship. Then again, Sankofa symbols have also been called the same things.

Churches ignore their own Idol worship and it’s ironic, some of the symbols we use come from the Church. If you ever get a chance to go to the Vatican, several Cathedrals etc. have the same Symbols and others all over the place. There are certain places where you question if the buildings are sanctioned by the Holy See. If you are not Catholic, look at your own Churches and ask about some of the symbols that are used. Look at how certain things and people are idolized to the point where certain peoples transgressions are overlooked (rapes, thefts, etc). The Cross for example is a symbol of salvation for some and persecution for others.

Rituals- Our organizations have Rituals we use for different things. Their meaning varies per organization however they have a purpose not only to those participating in them but to those watching. Everything from how we sing, to how we step, to even how we dress have meaning which are secular and not religious.

Churches have rituals they perform that go against the Bible teachings. You should read Pagan Christianity, authors Frank Viola and George Barna.

Oaths: Our organizations have oaths which are no different than any other oath you will and have taken. Every job you will ever have requires you to take at least an Oath, in some cases several. They just call them contracts. One is verbal the other is written. This year, I have taken 85 difference pledges of allegiance, and secret most of which are blind oaths. If I want to earn a living ( and the bible says something to that effect about working and eating), I have no choice.

Many Churches make their members take oath to the constitution of their respective denominations. Some of those oaths contradict teaching in the Bible.

History: The Black community is waking up to the realization that Churches aren’t as civic minded as they used to be or ever were. BGLO have the track record and continue to prove that we are about our community and the development of our people even when they don’t want it.

For example, in the early year of what became the Civil rights movement, more than a few Black Churches actively worked to derail the movement. It is no secret that of the times Bro. King and others were arrested their only support were BGLO members and not Churches. This hasn’t stopped some of those Churches from forgetting those times.  Even today, we still have Preachers calling racism Gods will and our President the Anti-Christ.

Money: We as orgs are able to raise funds for certain things. How we use those funds are at the discretion of our leadership and our members. With internal audits etc. those who misappropriate those funds or objectives that are not met are dealt with. We can get more people to donate to our cause than Churches can to theirs. Something several Churches can’t say.

Of the over $500 Billion collected by Black Churches since the 1980’s, most of those funds have gone to individuals or to the Churches and not used to help those downtrodden as the Bible teaches us.

I could go into other things but I think you get the gist. Certain Christians are throwing stones when they live in glass houses built on sand.

Being a Christian is an individual endeavor. Very very very very few people can tell you what God’s plans are for you. Maybe joining one of our Orgs is a lesson He wants you to learn or an example for what he expects of your service to him. Maybe you will see what the tenants of Christianity should be in practice.

If you are worried about contradicting our faith are you absolutely sure you are not doing things now that contradict it. 

Pray about it, ask to speak with members of your denomination who are also Greek and see what happens.

There are also Christian Fraternities and Sororities you can join instead. 

-UniBomber

Keep Tossing Rocks at Your Window

Happy Valentines Day, @cupcakesandtv!

Summary: Clarke has only been living in her new apartment for one month and she’s already involved in a passive-aggressive note war with her neighbor.


One month after moving into her new apartment, Clarke knows the following things about the person in #3:

  1. They have not bothered putting a name plate up on their door or mailbox.
  2. They have a very active sex life.
  3. They’re at least pretty quiet about it, and their partner(s) tends to be too. No screaming orgasms or anything.
  4. Their bed has the creakiest springs Clarke has ever heard in her life. She thinks if she went onto the street when #3 was having sex, she’d still be able to hear those damn bed springs.
  5. The person in apartment #3 is not aware they are living in a glass house with regards to noisiness and is convinced Clarke is the loud, inconsiderate neighbor, just because she has a cat who is sometimes a little bit annoying when she’s hungry. 

All of which adds up to this: Clarke has been living in her new apartment for one month, and she’s already involved in a passive-aggressive note war with her neighbor.

The first one arrived after two weeks, and it was probably meant to be helpful.

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I Can’t Go Part 3

Summary: Anonymous Request- What about a fic where the reader had hunted with the boys for a few years, then left because of her boyfriend forcing her too, because he was abusive, and one day they are in a restraint and the boys see her there with him and he’s being all fake and nice in front of his friends and then he brings the reader outside and beats them up but the Winchesters stop the boyfriend and reader is crying because they lived with the boyfriend and now have no place to go back to and they get to live with Sam

Characters: Sam x Reader, Dean Winchester

Warnings: Abuse, Violence, Swearing

Content: Angst moving towards better times 

Word Count: 718

Part 1 Part 2

A/N: Sorry this isn’t longer. I am swamped with homework. 

Originally posted by themegalosaurus

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Don't hate me buuuuut

IMAGINE! Feyre explores the Spring Court library. She moves a bookshelf and hears a banging. She keeps looking keeps moving book shelves and BOOM. there is it. A glass case with two beautiful black wings fluttering inside. At first she is confused. Then the RAGE hits.

She grabs the trophy case off the wall sobbing with blind rage. Down the bond, Rhys is like “WTF. What’s wrong?!” And she can’t even, so she locks him out. She remembers all the things Cassian said about Rhys’s mom, that she taught Azriel to fly, that she lived in the House of Wind safe away from her mate but never any less loving to those who needed it. She thinks about Mor and how she was the mother Mor never had. Image after image floods her. She doesn’t remember her own mother and she wishes she’d had the chance to meet Rhys’s. She sets the library on fire (ON ACCIDENT!) just as Tamlin runs in all concerned until he sees what she’s holding and the huge Illyrian wings now protruding from Feyre’s back. She sets the trophy case/wings down and lunges at Tamlin.

Her cover is blown, but she doesn’t care. She will kill him and she will enjoy every second. But then Tamlin doesn’t put up a fight. He takes each blow and Feyre realizes that he is crying. She steps back and he’s on the floor in the fetal position ugly crying, unable to breath, and over and over and over again he just repeats “I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you.”

She wants to hit him but he just looks so pathetic she can’t. Lucien runs in. Sees tam. Hears the things he’s saying and sees the wings. He starts to cry and removes the wings from sight. Then he moves to his friend. Feyre’s like “WTF is wrong with him? I can’t kill him like this?!” And Lucien is like “you broke him. They broke him.” And she’s so confused and Tamlin is still muttering to himself, lost in his own memories.

Lucien turns to Feyre and says something like, “they went to kill Rhys as punishment for Tamlin’s disobedience. When he wasn’t there, they made Tamlin cut off Rhys’s mom’s wings. He was crying and sobbing and they said they’d kill Rhys’s sister if he didn’t do it. She told him to do it. To save both her daughter and Tamlin. She liked him. She was nice to him. The last thing she said to him was ‘I forgive you.’ She died from blood loss and they killed Rhys’s sister anyway.”

@elidexlorcan

pretty much how I feel about wanting a tamlin redemption arc.
Sussi Cran

She was the beauty in my life. But it was a secret, forbidden love. We used to joke, calling ourselves the modern day “Juliet and Juliet.”

Our first meeting was in the bathroom. Fleeting glimpses throughout the day; brief glances, winks, but never a touch. We got bolder and bolder as time went on: once, we even met at the same table in a diner, shyly avoiding eye contact when eating.

When we met outside a house, a couple kids threw stones– they hit my love. It shattered her. I told her my family would be supportive, but..

They think I’m crazy. They threw me out when they saw us kiss. But she stood with me through it all. We smiled together, cried together: shared our joy, shared our sorrow.

And now we live together. Far away from my family, who will never understand. No longer must our meetings be confined, locked up in dressing and bath rooms.

The rule is that people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones… my love hopes it applies to those who live in homes of mirrors.

Neighbours AU

With thanks to mybrainproblems.

So Eren rents half a converted house and the last tenants who lived there got busted for dealing heroin in what was a frankly traumatic evening full of cops and shouting and Eren couldn’t sleep for a week.

And now there’s a new neighbour but Eren’s a little gun shy and he does not look respectable with all those tattoos and he keeps weird hours and surely ONE MAN does not need so many cleaning products unless he’s maintaining a spotless meth lab and his friends are fucking weird (and the individual with glasses seems to be on something at least eighty percent of the time) and Eren is determined to investigate and if he is dealing drugs he is going to report his criminal arse to the police! (if he could tear his eyes away from it long enough.)

“Kid, why are you always spying on me?”

If you saw Beyonce in the middle of overturned houses ‘wading in the water’ and your reaction was - oh my god, how could she capitalize on this tragedy – how tasteless - but you know nothing about how black folk have learned how to sing songs, kiss babies, yell for joy, make love, recite poems, all while holding a mouth full of our dead - which probably means you never had a moment where you threw a Toni Morrison book across a room when you realized she wrote us a world where this Black woman’s dead baby showed up on her porch in a grown ass woman’s body and she just took her on in the house.

If you don’t and shouldn’t be using be using the word Negro/ If you had to urban dictionary ‘Bama’/If you got confused when she said baby hair twice in a sentence because you didn’t understand the difference

If within 45 seconds of this video you didn’t think about that Ntozake Shange line when Indigo laughs out loud cuz her mama chastises her for having “too much South in her.”

If you and your friends don’t quote Paris is Burning biweekly/ if in the last 3 parties you’ve been to, somebody didn’t start voguing/ if this is your first time hearing the word slay in a sentence that ain’t got shit to do with the type of dragons you’re probably thinking about/ if you only know the word bitch to have a singular and monolithic meaning

If you didn’t watch this video and find yourself rubbing the back of your thighs cuz something about it had you thinking bout sticky summers on your grandma’s plastic covered couch and then started thinking about the stickiness of your mama’s knees on your cheek when she greases your scalp.

If after the first time she says ‘if he fuck me good I’m a take him to red lobster,” you didn’t drop out of your seat because it immediately cut to that woman’s epic Black older aunty side eye, and then you couldn’t get up off the floor, cuz then she just says the line again and you were all too familiar about that same shade scenario that happens at Black family functions every day.

If you didn’t find yourself clapping in public when you saw that man using a bulletproof bodega glass as a backdrop for his stage

If you didn’t watch this video over and over and think about shit like look at all them water references, now look at that mermaid colored hair on the girls in the weave shop.

If the line in the song where she asks about what happened to New Orleans, and you didn’t think about that flood of people who moved down there and bought up all those houses when the people who have been living there for generations couldn’t afford to fix their houses.

If your womb didn’t stretch out of your body for that little brown baby in front of them line of cops in fear then joy then fear then joy…. Until your marrow couldn’t separate one feeling from the other

If these aren’t your experiences or references or reactions that is ok.
If this video didn’t give you life…. That is ok.

But…. if these aren’t your experiences or references or reactions and you’re out here saying any variation of this video “makes no sense/is dumb/kinda scary”, “she’s not even singing”, “Beyonce fans are stupid,” “what’s she even saying?” or any thing that has anything to do with a politics of respectability. Please stop.

No, Beyonce isn’t our Black Feminist Hero – there are way too many activists and folk who are out there fighting/supporting/and holding together Black families/communities for us to be under that illusion. And I look forward to all the juicy critique – cuz nothing is blacker than reading and being read. But this video isn’t even about her to me (or her constant conflation of capitalistic success with feminist liberation). It transcends some beyhive fanaticism. It transcends her.

It’s about all the art/ists that managed to boil and stew down all this Blackness in to a 5 minute pot.

So please don’t be out here casually dismissing the video just cuz you ain’t got in-formation.

- Tiffany Lee