Cosmic Funnies

JVL
AnasAbdin

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

Kiana Khansmith
NASA

Janaina Medeiros
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Today's Document
ojovivo
will byers stan first human second

Discoholic 🪩

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Claire Keane

titsay
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

Origami Around
Game of Thrones Daily

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@zackhunt3r
what ao3 would look like with ads. no, you do not want this. support ao3 because it’s one of the last few places on the internet that is not tainted by capitalism bullshit. support ao3 because it’s one of the last few places on the internet that is genuinely about the connection between audiences, artists, their works and the love/passion artists have for what they do
source
something about how censorship and capitalism are so closely intertwined. that the slow push of right-wing conservative ideals are closely mirrored by corporate rebranding. how fast fashion restyles "femininity" into ever-more-modest aesthetics. how sydney sweeney can say my jeans are blue in a re-formatting of an advertisement that originally featured a child; but meanwhile corporations are halting DEI initiatives in their tracks.
but okay. i can't say fuck in my instagram poetry, that's fine. it always bothers me when a content creator changes their closed captions to a different word - HOH/deaf communities aren't composed of infants, and can read a swear word without fainting. but you have to censor if you don't want to get shadowbanned.
can't make a video about a person who is being violent, abusive. but the president of the united states can literally say whatever he wants, forever. you can't even really say that you think the president is a pedophile - pedophile is a word that the AI will flag.
marx wrote about how capitalism alienates us from ourselves and from others. social media continues to enhance that alienation, and now there is another layer happening - one where The Corporation gets to decide how we talk/think/interact. (don't even fucking get me started on how tumblr loves to see trans people as a threat.)
books are getting published that include the "word" unalive. this gives you a strange disassociation for a moment; feeling like 1984 exists in the real life. is this for maximum profit? but also - who could possibly be seeking out a book where violence takes place but is also the type of person who does not want to name the violence? is that even a significant portion of society - someone who wants to read the hunger games but, like, without all the child killing and anti-capitalist critique. or maybe, who knows. that fucking post about how disco elysium should be about a witch.
you watch as the late night show gets cancelled because god forbid anyone critique The Corporation. in the past year, you've watched media slowly back down from "making a stand" into bland everybody-wins gruel. you've watched plenty of corporations switch from saying (in rainbow font) "we'll always protect our FAMILY" to saying, "we value differences, but you're not a right fit for our team". in job interviews, HR is forced to talk around their policy, not wanting to specifically say identity. it's eerie.
one of the first rules of resisting fascism is "do not obey in advance."
and what is the next step anyway? will ticketmaster stop selling tickets for concerts that use swear words? will mastercard no longer cover art sales for any form of nudity, regardless of the context? god forbid there be violence in your violent video games. god forbid a person interacts with anything, ever, that might make them uncomfortable in any small way.
it reminds me of how the rest of life has also become less colorful (literally). how you need to keep your car pristine and undamaged with no bumper stickers, what if you resell it. how you'll never afford a house, so your apartment is a palatable resell-value grey. how you don't even own the tv you enjoy.
it's just - it's not enough that capitalism controls what i eat and where i go and what i do. these days, the terrible white & bloated body of capitalism is shoving his hands down my throat and holding my tongue. i need to be a brand, somehow. i, as a person existing on this site, need to reflect the brand ideals of this site.
they need to make a buck off of me, somehow.
sure he wanted you dead and would have celebrated your death with fervor and lightning. sure, he would have mocked your sexual assault and he would have implied you love playing victim, he would have made any instances of abuse into fragments. sure, he was terrible and horrific to you for the crime of existing - sure! he thought that your personhood was some kind of semantic debate. and yes, oh yes. he did definitely turn others into nazis.
oh yes, of course - if you did die this way - he would have tried to debate your weeping parents, to defame your family and friends. he would have smeared your memory until you were just a conversation topic, not a person.
but now that the motherfucker is dead; you need to be so milquetoast and careful about your words. you need to condemn whoever shot him. you need to give him hour-long speeches about how he's just a person. you need to talk about him with a gentleness and kindness he has never shown you, that he would not ever have shown in your death. the way you talk about this vile white man who has a legacy of radicalism and violent rhetoric - you need to picture him with angel wings. a sad day for the country!
(if it was you - shit. he would have said you were asking for it.)
you need to privately beg god that it is someone from the rightwing, because no matter the identity of the shooter - it's going to be your fault in the end. it is going to get people hurt or killed; which is ironically probably what he would have wanted. and you don't want to rile the rightwing; because this isn't about just political debate anymore. they genuinely and truly seem to want an all-out war.
they are a weapon of god! they have been taught to stand up and say i'm christian when the shooter comes in; this is that moment for them. despite years of telling any minority "don't make victimhood your personality" - they truly believe they are being hunted. their rights infringed upon because, you know, someone on the train has a rainbow wig on. you aren't imagining it - things these days really are more unsafe. and this man fucking helped make it that way.
and you watch as this fucking country - and the actual president - repaint this man as being a fucking saint. that it is implied to be a crime just to speak badly of a man who left behind a legacy of dishonest debate. they mocked george floyd relentlessly; "just questioned the reality" of the sandy hook shooting; ignored the death of melissa hortman entirely.
it's just - it feels like fucking gaslighting. because it doesn't matter how gently and sweetly you condemn the violence - and isn't gun control is literally part of what separates the right and the left - you're still somehow calling for it. and even though he hated you and wanted you dead; you need to show that man some respect. even though he was a fucker that often hurt others and encouraged radicalization - you need to salute this man like he was an actual veteran instead of just, like, really annoying.
that man is not a hero. to have the kind personality where the first assumption at your end is - because of who he was, it was probably someone looking for revenge.
it’s not about that i know how to do laundry. it’s that when i was four i knew how to fold clothes; small hands working alongside my mother, while my older brother sat and played with his toys. it’s that i know what kind of detergent works but my father guesses. it’s that in my freshman year of college i had a line of boys who needed me to show them how to use the machine. it’s that the first door they knocked on belonged to me. it’s that they expected me to know.
it’s not that i know how to cook. it’s that the biggest christmas present i got was a little plastic kitchenette i never used except to climb on. it’s that my brother used it more, his hands ghosting over pink buttons and yellow dials. it’s that when my work needs cake for a birthday, they turn to me. i get it from costco. i don’t even like cooking. a boy burns popcorn in the dorm microwave and laughs. a week later, i do the same thing, and he snorts at me, “just crossed you off my wife list.” it’s that i had heard something like this so many times before that i laughed, too.
it’s not that i don’t love being feminine. it’s that i came home with bruises from trying to be a trick rider on my bike and heard the word “tomboy,” felt my little mouth say, “but i’m not a boy, i’m a girl”. it’s that they laughed. it’s that until i was sitting in my pretty dress and smiling with a big pretty smile and blinking my big pretty eyes, i wasn’t given back the title “girl”. it’s that until i wore makeup and styled my hair i was bullied; it’s that when i don’t wear makeup i’m a slob, that my mental health diagnosis hangs on the hook of being dressed up. it’s that my therapist sees me returning to bright red lipstick and tells me i am looking happier and i have to explain that i am more sad than i have ever been. it’s that i dress myself in as many layers as i can every time i ride a train because it’s better to be laughed at than harassed.
it’s not that i know how to clean, it’s that my brother’s chores were outside where i wanted to be, and mine were inside. it’s that i would have weeded the garden better than he did if they had just let me. it’s that i am put in charge of fixing other’s messes, expected to comply without complaint.
it’s not that i can’t open the jar. it’s that you ask my brother first every time. it’s that i am pushed into docile positions, trained to believe that my body when it’s strong and healthy is ugly, trained into being less, weaker. it’s that the jar is also science, is also engineering, is also every job, every opportunity. it’s that you laugh faster when he tells a joke, that you take him seriously but wave off me, that when he raises his voice he’s assertive but when i do i’m hysterical. the jar is getting into a car with a stranger as a driver and wondering if this is our last ride. the jar is knowing that if something happens to us, it’s our fault.
it’s that i’m weak and i don’t know if it’s because i just am or i was trained to be. it’s that we need to sit pretty with our pretty smiles and our pretty words trapped pretty and silent in our throats, our hands restless but pretty when idle, our bodies vessels for nothing but a future white dress. it’s that we are taught someone else needs to open the jar for us.
here’s the secret: run metal lids under hot water, they’ll expand faster than the glass they’re around. here’s the secret: when you keep us under hot water, we do more than boil. we expand over our edges. and we learn how to open our mouths, our claws, our screams hanging in kites over cities. just give me a chance. give me a chance when i am four when i am seven when i am twenty-three. i promise i can be amazing. give me the jar. i’ll show you something.
Exactly how i feel but in reverse, stop trying to force me to be some type of pinnacle of masculinity. I don't enjoy working with my hands. I'm not physically strong and likely I never will be, so why do you turn to me and not my sister who is stronger than I am (and worked hard to be that way) when it comes time to open the jar?
when i was younger and stupid and in the (glass) closet i was dating the son of a pharmacologist. this man had made millions developing medications. he was fond of me and privately told me i was too funny and smart to be dating boys.
he also said that it was incredibly unlikely that sexism will ever be resolved in the medical field. that the majority of medications i will ever take - even some of which are "for women" - will not be clinically tested on my body.
the problem, he said, was in getting any human clinical trial approved. to test on a body with a uterus - any body, even elderly patients or those who have been sterilized - was often nigh-impossible, because the concern was that the test patient may, at any point, become pregnant. once/if the patient became pregnant, the study would not be about "the effects of New Medication on the body." instead, the trial would fail - the results would be "the effects of New Medication on a developing fetus/pregnant patient."
it was massively easier, he said, to just test without accounting for a uterus. that's how he phrased it - accounting for a uterus.
at the time, i remember him talking about the ethical implications of testing on a developing fetus; how such testing could theoretically bankrupt a company if a lawsuit was filed. he talked about informed consent and about how long it took for any legislation to be passed about this - that in 1993; the year i was born, it finally became illegal to outright exclude women and minorities from clinical trials.
i remember him shrugging. "that's not to say it doesn't happen," he said. my ears were ringing.
i was thinking about how every time i have been rushed to the ER, the first thing they have asked me is if i am pregnant. when i broke my wrist at 16 years old - despite never having had sex - they made me wait three hours for the test to come back negative before they gave me pain meds. the possibility of a child haunts my health.
how many people have died on the table because they were waiting for the pregnancy test before treatment. how many people have died on the table because they were pregnant, and the only thing we care about is the fetus.
it is hard to explain to other people, but it feels like some kind of strange ghost. our entire lives, we are supposed to "save" our bodies for our future partners. but really we are just saving the body for the future child, aren't we? that hovering future-almost that cartwheels around in a miasma. you can't get your tubes tied, what if you change your mind? think of the child you must have, eventually.
who cares about you and your actual safety. think about what you could be carrying.
this was so wild
Someone explain
The first sentence says 32 and 13 implying that the speaker is 32 years old and their girlfriend is 13 years old, which is both highly inappropriate and illegal. The next sentence reveals the speaker was talking about their game levels, not their ages, which is perfectly okay.
In their reply to the audience they then say they are picking her up from middle school, again implying that their girlfriend is underage, but quickly state she’s grading papers letting us know she’s a teacher, definitely an adult, and there no reason to be upset.
The rollercoaster gif portrays how switching from upset and worried to relieved in such a short period of time feels emotionally.
The next meme shows the guy panicking from misunderstanding, then feeling relieved and calm realizing the truth, only to panic over the next misunderstanding and then calm again when hearing the end.
the above explanation is followed by a picture of data from star trek with a speech bubble's tail coming out of him, implying he's the one saying all of that, which is humerous because the above text is written in a style similar to his speech patterns, and with a subject matter he would enjoy
This is the worst website ever and I love it.
why are you calling him green shrek?? shrek is already green??
No one is regular, everyone is extraordinary
Fixed
This post is a train wreck.
Why do you need to put ordinary? Shouldn’t it just be the words without the adjective?
there's something stupid going inside my head
wee snaw
wee snaw
wee snaw
wee snaw
wee snaw
wee snaw
wee snaw
wee snaw
snaw wee
you fool. you absolute buffoon. you think you can challenge me in my own realm? you think you can rebel against my authority? you dare come into my house and upturn my dining chairs and spill coffee grounds in my Keurig? you thought you were safe in your chain mail armor behind that screen of yours. I will take these laminate wood floor boards and destroy you. I didn’t want war. but i didn’t start it.
why is your cat green?
She’s built different 😌
Look i tried to laugh it off, but I haven’t stopped thinking about this message because… my cat literally isn’t green
like where is the green
Oh Christ
This is the color your cat is
colors i eyedropped directly from op's cat
I drew a tree using only colours eyedropped from OP's cat.
every time i see this post all i see is some green alien kitty with antennae so i had to draw it
I originally thought those were supposed to be mushrooms, implying that this cat is moldy
Moldy forest cat
i'm happy y'all made fan art of my cat. i tried to show her and she just rubbed her face on my phone
Pet your cat OP, 50% shot it helps.
the first time I reblogged this, like a few weeks ago, it had like 4,000 notes. why do people keep insisting tumblr is dead
i had a DREAM about the green cat last night. not sure what she was up to but. nice to meet her :)
GREEN CAT IS BACK ON MY DAAAAAASH
We Love Green Cat
do you guys think jesus, the son of a carpenter, smelt the wood of the cross & temporarily thought of home
when i was 12 i babysat this girl for a few years and she would come to me and show me her art, drag me by my wrists and point at the pieces she’d made during the week. and she’d be like “do the voice” and i’d put on a sports-announcer olympics-style voice and be like “such form! this level of coloring! why i haven’t seen such perfection in crayola in a long time. and what is this? why jeff, now this is a true risk… it seems she’s made … a monochrome pink canvas…. i haven’t seen this attempted since winter 1932… and i gotta say, jeff, it’s absolutely splendid” and she’d fall back giggling. at the end of every night she’d check with me: “did you really like it?” and i’d say yes and talk about something i noticed and tucked her in.
she was just accepted into 3 major art schools. she wrote me a letter. inside was a picture from when she was younger. monochrome pink.
“thank you,” it said, “to somebody who saw the best in me.”
me holding a gun to a mushroom: tell me the name of god you fungal piece of shit
mushroom: can you feel your heart burning? can you feel the struggle within? the fear within me is beyond anything your soul can make. you cannot kill me in a way that matters
me cocking the gun, tears streaming down my face: I’M NOT FUCKING SCARED OF YOU
Hey OP? What the FUCK does this mean?
decay exists as an extant form of life
That’s a terrifying answer, have a nice day
not to be insensitive but some of the salem witch trials were so funny bitches like “i saw her at the devils sacrament!!!” girl... what were YOU doing at the devils sacrament 👀
which one of u was going to tell me that tea tastes different if u put it in hot water?
y- you were putting it in cold water?????
Radish. Answer the question radish.
yeah??? i thought for like. 5 years that ppl just put it in hot water 2 speed up the tea-ification process didn’t realize there was an actual reason
You dont have the patience to microwave water for 3 minutes???
[ID: Tags reading “u think i have the patience to boil water wtf ?????” /End ID]
why are you. putting it in the microwave to boil it
Do you think I have the patience to boil water on the stove
Its takes less than a minute
Bestie is ur stovetop powered by the fucking sun
How long does it take you to boil a cup of water on the stove
Like seven minutes
Just stick the mug on top of the stove on medium heat n it boils in like two minutes… less than that is u use a saucepan…
Crying you’re putting the whole mug on the stove ???? On medium heat???? Ur stove is enchanted
Every single person in this post is a fucking lunatic
do none of you own a fucking kettle
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.
This is amazing!