Put Your Clothes Back On Were Going To Talk About How Musicals Are The Best Media To Adapt Books In Cause

"BRADY SUCKS!"

brock nelson just took a stick to the nose... safe to say he's seeing stars... i'm funny right?

LANDESKOG OH MY GOD I THIKK I JUST BLACKED OUT FROM JOY. IM NAMING MY FUTURE CHILDREN, CATS, EVERYTHING AFTER THIS MAN.

i just drove by a huge zoo and it hurts to see.

zoos are institutions that cage living, breathing, intelligent beings—many of whom are capable of complex thought, emotion, and social behavior— strictly for human entertainment. the idea of placing animals in cages or enclosures for observation and amusement is something we've inherited from earlier centuries, a time when little was understood about animal cognition or emotional capacity. but today, we know better. we know that elephants mourn their dead, that primates form lifelong bonds, that big cats are meant to roam miles each day, and that even the most "lowly" animals have instincts and needs we still don’t fully understand. yet we continue to imprison them for no reason other than our own curiosity and profit. in zoos animals are stripped of everything that makes their lives natural and fulfilling. they lose their freedom to roam, their opportunity to hunt or forage, their privacy, and often their families. animals that would travel dozens or even hundreds of miles in the wild are confined to enclosures so small they can walk end to end in seconds. imagine the mental toll this takes. it’s no shocker that animals in zoos often develop abnormal behaviors. pacing, head bobbing, excessive grooming, rocking back and forth, behaviors not found in the wild. these are signs of psychological distress, not quirks to be laughed at by passing visitors. one of the biggest myths used to defend zoos is that they help with conservation. but if you really look into it, that argument doesn't hold much weight. the vast majority of animals in zoos are not endangered. many are there simply because they’re popular or exotic. when endangered species are bred in captivity, they are rarely released into the wild. instead, they spend their lives on display, far from the ecosystems they’re supposedly being saved for. conservation in its truest form means protecting wild habitats, funding anti poaching initiatives, and preserving biodiversity in nature. NOT creating artificial environments that barely mimic the real world. education is another claim zoos love to make. and yes, you can learn the names and appearances of animals by walking through a zoo. but what kind of education is that, really? what are we teaching children when we show them wild animals in unnatural, confined settings? are we teaching them to respect wildlife, or to view animals as things that exist for our entertainment? there’s a huge difference between truly understanding an animal’s life and merely staring at one from the other side of a glass wall. and then there’s the matter of profit. for many zoos, especially those in large cities, animals are essentially attractions. flashy exhibits, animal shows, petting zoos, photo ops, these are all designed to increase revenue. the animals themselves become tools in a marketing strategy. they don’t get to choose whether they’re on display. they don’t get a day off. they don’t get to say no. even in zoos with the best intentions, the underlying business model still treats animals as commodities. of course there are people who work in zoos who genuinely care about animals. there are veterinarians, caretakers, and staff members who do their best to give the animals a decent life. but individual compassion doesn’t erase systemic harm. it’s possible to care deeply and still be working within a broken system. the problem isn’t the people, it’s the structure that makes it acceptable to cage living beings for life. there are better alternatives. true sanctuaries focus on rescuing animals from abusive situations and giving them a life that’s as close to natural as possible. they don’t breed animals for profit or allow petting for selfies. they prioritize animal needs over public entertainment. likewise, supporting wildlife conservation efforts in the field, like protecting forests, oceans, grasslands, helps animals live where they truly belong: in the wild, not in glass boxes or concrete pits.

animals are not here for us. they are not exhibits or props. they are individuals with their own lives to live, not behind bars, not in enclosures, but in the vast, complex, wild world where they belong. it’s time WE stop supporting systems that tell us otherwise.

I WANT HIM 🚩

Alex Brundle weighs in on the Lando Norris Post-Race Smell Debate (a string of words I never thought I'd type out):

oh have the turns have tabled.. we have lando folding in half this time because of oscar

oscar: “sei matto (you’re crazy)!” lando: folds in half oscar: “andrea is gonna be so proud of us!” lando: folds in half again

THROUGH THE SMOKE

WARNING: this fic contains, blood, guns, and wound fucking. if you're uncomfortable with any of these things listed. SCROLL.

NSFW CONTENT BELOW

｡⋆𖦹.✧˚──

the first time you crossed paths, it was raining bullets and blood. you’d been sent to intercept intel, same as him. you didn’t know his name then. only the cold mask and the colder eyes behind it. all you knew was he moved like a shadow, silent and lethal. your knife caught his jacket. his metal hand wrapped around your throat. neither of you spoke. neither of you had to. you escaped with a bruised jaw, a cracked rib, and the first scar he ever gave you. the second time wasn’t much different. an abandoned soviet outpost. he came through the window. you were already there. the fight was faster this time, like you’d both memorized each other’s rhythm. you knew how he’d strike, and he knew how you’d counter. it was less battle, more dance. when he pinned you to the wall, his hand curled around your throat. you still stabbed him in the side.

but god, something about him.... about the silence he wore like armor, made your blood burn hotter than the knives you kept strapped to your thighs. weeks passed. a third mission. a fourth. it became routine. find the mark. find him already there. fight until someone bled. you started to expect him. worse, you started to hope for him. him as the winter soldier. you started thinking of him as yours. not in any sweet way. no. in the way a scar is yours. in the way a loaded gun is.

once, in a forest outside warsaw, you ended up back to back, both surrounded, both out of ammo. you didn’t speak. didn’t trust. but your body moved with his like you’d trained together for years. after the last body fell, you turned on him, breath ragged, gun aimed. he looked at you like he didn’t care if you pulled the trigger. but you didn’t. not that time. but the next time, you swore you would.

and then it happens.

a mission in prague. intel said he was there. you volunteered before they finished the briefing. they didn’t ask why. you find him in a crumbling cathedral lit by dying light. stained glass windows shattered, casting fractured color over dust and ruin. he stands near the altar like a ghost in combat boots. you aimed first and he didn't flinch.

“you gonna shoot me this time?” he asks, his voice was rough, unfamiliar. it’s the first time he’s spoken to you.

“maybe,” you reply, finger on the trigger. “depends how fast you draw.”

“not very,” he admits, and drops his gun to the floor with a metallic clatter. you hesitate.

“why?”

“getting tired of this.” he steps closer. you hold your ground.

you press the barrel to his chest. he presses his hand to yours.

“then shoot me,” he says and your heart pounds like war drums.

“you first,” you whisper.

he moves quickly, metal hand knocking your gun wide, your finger squeezing the trigger, a shot ringing out into the rafters. he’s faster than you remembered. stronger. more desperate. you’re slammed into the altar. your knife is in your hand, when did that happen? and his is at your throat. you slice upward. he dodges, barely. his mask is gone now. you don’t remember tearing it off, but his face is all you see. sweat on his brow. blood at his lip. steel in his eyes.

then somehow, you’re on top. knees on his chest, gun drawn again. finger trembling. he doesn’t fight. doesn’t move. just looks at you like he’s already dead. your hand shakes. the metal is cold in your grip. his chest rises under your knees. he doesn’t break your gaze.

slowly, so slowly, he moves. not to attack. but to press your hand, the one holding the gun, up. to his forehead. your breath catches.

“pull it,” he says. “if you mean it.” your finger curls tighter and your lips part.

you don’t know if it’s hate or love or something so much worse, but you don’t pull the trigger. you lean down instead, gun still trembling in your hand, and let it slowly trail from his temple down across the sharp angle of his cheekbone, dragging the barrel along the stubble of his jaw. he doesn’t move. nor breathe. and then god you hit the corner of his mouth. he parts his lips just slightly. just enough for the cold muzzle to kiss the edge of his bottom lip. his tongue flats over metal. his lips curl around the barrel not to take it, not fully, but enough that your stomach twists. and his eyes never leave yours.

you’ve played with death before, but never like this. never so intimate. never so quiet. he looks like he’s daring you to pull the trigger now. and a part of you wants to. but then— his knee slams up. fast. hard. brutal. your body lifts off him with the force of it, air ripped from your lungs as you crash backward. the gun slips from your grip mid-fall, skittering across the cathedral floor. you hit the stone like a dropped doll, bones jolting.

he’s on you. bucky barnes. the winter soldier. knees on either side of your hips, hand pinning both wrists above your head with terrifying ease.

you twist, snarl, spit blood at him. he doesn’t flinch. his metal hand grips the gun now. cold barrel pressed low to your stomach just beneath your ribs. both your chest heave. you can feel the war between you like it’s alive. like it’s its own living, breathing thing. he presses the gun harder against you right below your bellybutton. right where it would hurt the most.

you laugh. bloody. bitter.

"i want you to remember what it felt like. right here." he taps the barrel against your stomach. "how close you came." then he pulled the trigger. the sound cracked through your body. your spine arched. a sob got caught in your throat. fire bloomed through your gut. your vision blurred at the edges. the ceiling twisted above you like it was turning away.

blood poured out of you, warm and fast, you could feel it—feel yourself— leaking into the cold stone beneath you. he leaned in, eyes on your face. he watched your eyes lose focus. your blood was soaking his gun and gloves. your head turned sluggishly. you could feel yourself fading. your gaze met his, your lips moved but only a thin hiss of breath came out. his eyes were hard to read in the shadows. he presses the gun firmly into your wound. the pain snapped you back. your body jerked with a strangled screech. your hands flailed, grabbing for the gun. he just watched, his body like a block of steel above you, eyes on your face.

he leaned in until you could see the sweat on his face. the tendons in his clenched jaw. he was bleeding a bit. you hadn't even noticed. you spit a mouthful of blood onto his cheek. his gaze fell to your wound. your shirt was sticky with blood, your eyes were starting to glaze. you barely notice that the gun hasn't moved. it's still there. pressed to the same spot slick with your blood. then he slowly pushes the barrel deeper. it sinks into the wound with a wet, sucking resistance. your breath stutters. blood smears up the barrel, warm and dark.

your fingers twitch at your side. your eyes shined with pain. pain so deep it goes quiet in your bones. "feels different when it's slow, doesn't it?"

he twists the gun, just a little. and your body jolts beneath him. mouth open in a silent cry. he pulls the barrel free, blood and ruin clinging to it. you lay there, gasping for breath. his hand tightened on the gun, dragging it up your body from your stomach to your chest, between your breasts, resting finally at your throat. then— he was gone. just like that. leaving you alone in the ruins. heart pounding. body aching. you were still breathing. but you hadn’t survived him.

pussy so wet.

credits to the editor ‼️