#this is... yeah

[cowboyshit]

hi i love you but also

HOLY FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[a-mellowtea]

'cause when Atlas shrugs whose back is breaking? and I know how it feels to thе hands; heavy as the Heavens, a weight that could fold you to keep holding.

- Glowing, The Oh Hellos

One-hundred and forty two.

There were one-hundred and forty two steps between the top-most floor of Atlas Academy and the small mortuary wing of the medical ward. James had taken to counting the third time he’d been called to make the torturous walk, shoulders weighed down by the circumstance of another life ended. The softly-lit halls always seemed to stretch longer, the walls closing in; leaning on the verge, waiting to crumble. His men, his Specialists -- Brothers forbid, his students: it never got easier. 

It was usually to Grimm, and grim was the resolve that those losses brought about, because they wouldn’t stop. Not until she could be stopped. Even then, some days the doubt crept in that that wouldn’t end the bloodshed entirely. He could feel it, on those rare occasions: the blood of the good and the brave and those who should have known peace, seeping through his gloves, staining flesh and metal. And with it, ultimately, the question: wasn’t it as much his fault, for sending them out to face her?

Wasn’t this as much his fault?

Today, it was a meagre fifty seven steps. Each took every ounce of his willpower. Each tightened the knot of dread in his stomach with sickening jolts. And still, he counted each that it took to walk from the recovery room to where they waited.

Today, the walls were still, and the distance was as it was meant to be. Somehow, that made it harder to keep moving. It allowed his thoughts to wander, his feet to trail and stumble, where there otherwise should have been naught but focus and steady resolve.

Today, it hadn’t been the Grimm.

James could remember with horrible clarity the first time it had been a child. Lost in a white-out, Scroll signal non-existent, unable to call for help. She’d drowned in the snow; in the crystal and bitter winds, left to sit until her Aura had withered away, and hypothermia had claimed her. An accident, but one that had been entirely avoidable. He’d stood silently in a painfully white room, watching a man weep over the waxy black-and-blue body of his daughter, and sworn to do better. Nothing could justify it: not duty, not necessity, not Ozpin -- though the latter refused to agree. Whether his students or his soldiers; if they were going out there to fight, then he was going to do everything in his power to see to it they all made it back.

It had never been enough.

He had never been enough.

And today, that was all too clear.

When he finally made it, he found Operative Ederne in the hallway. Her arms were crossed, gaze fixed on the tiled floor, expression split in a restrained echo of the grief he remembered so well. Of the team, Elm and Clover had had the closest thing resembling proper, amicable friendship. What felt like a lifetime ago, he’d been concerned that any breakdown of that sort of personal relationship would affect their ability to act professionally; now, he only hoped that it would give her some degree of comfort amidst the pain. 

Glassy eyes were turned his way, and there was a moment of hesitation. He could think of nothing; no condolence, no reassurance, no determination. Elm straightened -- a nod, a tight “Sir”, and she disappeared into the room marked M-019. He caught a glimpse of the rest of the Ace Ops, as the door slid shut; of solemn silence and faux-firm stances and a body on a cot.

James took a shuddering breath. He turned aside -- they deserved more time to mourn without intrusion, as little of that time as they had -- and faced the opposite room instead. M-020. He had to see her. He had to know.

It took conscious effort to force himself through the doorway.

She looked like she was sleeping, the faintest linger of strain and anguish caught on her still features. She was pale; a waif of a woman, nothing left of the strength and adamantine he remembered. He reached for her, and laid a hand on the wrist that had been draped over her stomach. He couldn’t feel it, but his mind unkindly filled in the absence of warmth anyways. His eyes burned, and he swallowed past the bile in his throat, and wished to-- whichever sort of deity that may have chosen to keep watch over them, that she’d stir. That she’d wake, with familiar blue eyes and a tired but gentle smile, and tell him about the tea she’d had that morning or her latest painting.

Her paintings...

James tore his gaze up and scanned the room, half a moment of desperation seizing him. There hadn’t been much he’d been able to give Fria to make her comfortable in her last days, but she had loved art well before her mind had begun to fray. It had seemed the least he could do. The thought of them being lost as well bent something in him; twisted, unrelentingly. It was ridiculous, but that hardly registered. Things had finally crumbled: he just wanted there to be something left.

His search ended on a stack of canvas, leaned beneath the window. He stepped away from her body and rounded to where they sat. On closer inspection, it appeared as though some of them had been charred, the fabric dotted with burns from sparks. A result of Cinder’s initial attack, no doubt. Carefully, ever so carefully, he turned one to face the light. 

The landscape that stared back up at him was one he didn’t know, but it was Solitas: a snowy mountain river, caught in the morning light. Something between a laugh and a sob caught in his throat. Her power may have moved on, and it may have taken a piece of her with it, but these... these were Fria’s soul. The beauty she had continued to see despite her worsening condition, and no matter her state of mind.

A beauty that was about to be destroyed.

Teetering, shoulders shaking on shallow, uneven breaths, he lifted his head to look out through the window. The Ace Ops had barely moved, and hid most of the body behind them, but he could see enough. The torn uniform. The blood. The eyes, closed by a doctor’s hand.

And the report said that Qrow had--...

James pressed a hand over his mouth. Brothers, he felt sick. He felt lost, and alone and, underneath, so impossibly afraid, and worse was that he didn’t know what to do with it. With this.

He thought he’d turned it all to steel long ago. Pushed it aside to stop her, and save Remnant.

Things might’ve been easier were that the truth.

[halomisthios]

me: this oneshot will be 10k

me, finishing up the 3rd total scene/2nd body scene at just above 8k: you thought bitch!

[kingonafiftymetreroad]

last line challenge

@kingsofeverything tagged me in this, thank you! Lauren you got me at the perfect time 👀

His skin is so soft, and even surrounded by the biting chill outside, Louis’ body is flush with heat as he sneaks little nips and licks in over the expanse of Harry’s neck, leaving a shiny trail behind.

I can’t tag 38 people but here’s a few: @solvetheminourdreams @justalarryblog @thedevilinmybrain @disgruntledkittenface @halosboat. If you’ve already done it please feel free to ignore this. Also if anybody else wants to please say I tagged you.

[sister-says-go]

Tumblr why

[effervescentdragon]

Not one of the prompts you reblogged but one I’ve had in my notes for months that I think you could do something amazing and awful with!

“We’re never going to have a happy ending, remember that.” - whatever pairing sparks joy angst.

i love you. how about,, uh, all of them?

1994

"Ayrton, I don't know what you want from me," he says, head in his hand, the one that isn't holding the receiver. "I'm not coming back, I'm not your punching back, there is nothing -"

Ayrton interrupts him. He's never learned not to take what he wants. He's never learned not to stomp over everything he feels may be in the way.

'Do you think you can be happy, not racing me? I don't think you can.' He laughs, and Alain despises that laugh. It's derisive and it grates on his ears through the phone. He should hang up. 'I can't be happy racing without you. You can't be happy without me either, Alain, I am right about this.'

He says it like a declaration; there is no question to be found anywhere. Ayrton doesn't ask. He states, and he takes, and Alain shouldn't pick up the phone anymore.

"There will never be a happy ending for us, Ayrton." He presses the palm of his hand into his eye until he sees stars. "We made sure of it."

Ayrton says nothing. Alain tries to breathe.

Neither of them hang up for a long, long time after.

2001

"I won't stay," Mika says.

Michael scoffs. "I don't want you to stay."

There is nothing to do after such a blatant, shitty, petulant lie except to laugh. So Mika laughs and doesn't let himself hear the anger underneath it.

"You're full of shit, Michael," he says.

"And you're a coward who's leaving, Mika," Michael replies, his smile as sharp as a knife. "Can't take serious competition?"

Mika could say so many things then. He could say I hate you and Fuck you, you bastard and You were never competition to me and I don't care about this anymore and You were never important to me.

He's too tired to lie. His body hurts, and his head is pounding, and his heart... his heart is doing something too. Something he doesn't want to think about too much.

"This isn't a movie, Michael," he says in the end. "There is no 'happily ever after' in racing." He chuckles, rubs his fist over his sternum. "We either lose or die in the end." Sometimes both, he doesn't say. There's no need. He sees in Michael's face that he knows.

"Well," he says with that big, boyish smile Mika has loved since he first saw it a decade ago, and which he still loves as much as he loves being in the car on track, "I am going to live forever."

Mika shakes his head. "You will." He smiles; not a lie. "Of course you will."

Michael grins, and pushes at Mika's knee with his own, and they stay silent. There's no need to speak anymore.

There was rarely need for them to speak anyway. Some things, they just understood.

2016

Nico pushes Lewis away. "Just - fucking move," he says, because he feels like he could either kiss Lewis or break his fucking nose if he stays too close. "I decided, and it's over, Lewis, it's done." He swallows. "I'm done."

Lewis is furious. He's not even trying to hide it and that pissess Nico off majorly. He's been hiding his fucking heartbreak for ages. He's been smiling for the cameras and holding his hands in his pockets or in his lap so nobody wohld see them shake, and he's been meditating on what he would say so he doesn't come.off too broken and too tired and too defeated - and he won, he fucking won - and Lewis can't even do him the courtesy of pretending for a little bit? He can't even allow Nico the common cordiality after - after everything; no, of course not. He has to come in here with all his usually tightly hidden emotions on display and put them all on Nico, throw them all into Nico's face, like a reprimand, like a punishment. You won, now deal with this.

Fuck you, Lewis, he thinks, and says "Did you think I was going to stay?" He scoffs. "Did you think I'll come back to have you try and take away this from me through another year like this one has been?"

He watches Lewis' eyes widen in guilt. I know you, Nico thinks viciously. I know you better than anyone. Fuck you. Fuck you for fucking all of this up for me and for both of us.

"There will be no happy ending, victorious narrative where you 'regain your crown' or whatever the fuck next year." He smiles, and Lewis' nosteils flare. "You lose."

Lewis says nothing for a moment. When he laughs, it's the most awful sound Nico has ever heard in his life; metal scraping into a wall and head hitting concrete and suffocation of a too-tight cockpit when you can't get out because your belt is stuck, all together screaming in cacophony.

"You lose too," he says finally. "You lose. Coward."

Nico tries to smile but everything is too distorted and he doesn't know if he manages. "Yes, but I lose by default, and not to you. And you won't win against me."

Lewis breathes in sharply. Nico watches him tap his fingers on his thigh. One, two, three, he counts, like he knows Lewis does in his head, a long-ago learned technique that they both use.

"Fuck you, Nico," Lewis grits through his teeth, and when he moves, Nico is there to meet him halfway and shut him up with a kiss.

[lapassionbeatrice]

In short, the opposition law-spirit for Paul and Luther becomes the opposition religion-faith for twentieth-century thinkers like Bonhoeffer and Bultmann. The Word of God is no longer invoked to explain away history but to liberate a space of shared life and communication. Thus after the demise of the “God” of power—rightly exposed by Nietzsche and his atheist peers—we find a reacknowledgment of God in all his weakness on the cross. The Word becomes that which transforms the defeat of the cross in human life into renewed life. Life in spite of death.

Anatheism: Returning to God After God - Richard Kearney