Captain America: Civil War (2016) dir. Anthony and Joe Russo The Marvels (2023) dir. Nia DaCosta

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if the 118 had twitter

The age of Miracles... Once Again.

Demon: Hello horsemen. Why are you here? For revenge?

Strife: I Don’t like to call it ”revenge”. „Returning the favour” sound much nicer.

back at it again with my peggy and nat bullshit 

This

gotta be the equivalent to this

Same energy

Lmao

Screaminggggg

The day I don’t reblog this is the day I die

literally one of the greatest threads on this app

Faster, ladies! Come on! My grandmother has more life in her, God rest her soul.

The guy in the sleeping bag wiggling around

I’m weeping

The two people in the front wearing one shirt.

Are we really not going to talk about the guy in the back who is attached to another guy’s back while spinning?

WHAT ABOUT THE GUY THAT FALLS OUT OF THE WINDOW

WHY IS IT BACK

no you guys don’t understand, not only is this the first harlem shake out there… these guys aren’t normal military. This is “Telemarkbataljonen”. They’re pretty much the Norwegian equivalent of the fucking black ops. My brother knows a guy in this battalion, and when asked what they do there, he looked my brother dead in the eye and said “That is strictly confidential”. These guys are hard as shit, which makes this even more hilarious

Don’t bring this meme back

BRING THIS MEME BACK.

Do the Harlem Shake 

oh my god

ah fuck

Do The Harlem SHAKE

Oh…look on, children, and weep as you are faced with memes from when I was your age…

fossil meme

Revive the Harlem Shake

21st of January 2020.

It’s back

The Return of the King

I collected a bunch of "haha I don't have 2020 vision" "oh God not like that" posts

I wouldn’t mind a sequel to this post 🤣

I have kept coming back to this post to see the reblogs, so I can give you the ones other people collected all in one place:

This one I actually found myself!

And I don’t think that this counts, but it still has the beautiful “Ah, fuck” vibes the rest of the post does:

And let’s not forget the cursed “Supernatural GIF Perfectly Describes 2020″ one:

@ferrousferrule:  You said you were looking for more and going through the reblogs, right? In which case this isn’t going to be of much use to you, but still. Just in case it is. :)

I just knew having a tag for these would come in handy

That performance from Evans, the longing on his face. Without a single line of dialogue, you understand how important she [Peggy] is to him and how much he misses her. - Joe Russo, Co-Director of Avengers: Endgame

Have literally none of you considered that Steve Rogers is looking at Peggy Carter’s photo seeking guidance, thinking to himself “what would Peggy do?” Do you people have your heads stuck so far up your ships to even ponder that his feelings toward someone might be more than romantic?

I have, in fact, determined that in addition to being in love with her, his question IS “what would Peggy do” because he respects her, and knows she’s better at this than him and he would do well to follow her.  My head is so far up my ship that I can see two wonderful characters who are incredible individuals, that also love each other and lean on each other.  In this case Steve leans on Peggy, fantastic well rounded, 3 dimensional human that she is; again, in addition to being love with her, BECAUSE HE NEEDS HER GUIDANCE BECAUSE SHE’S BETTER AT THIS THAN HIM AND HE KNOWS IT!

tl:dr: Why not both?

marvel ladies + subverting gendered tropes

my religion

They all walk so tall and straight and Valkyrie just swags the fuck up like it’s another day at the office.

this is never going to not be funny 

Rob Lowe says “that is fucking hilarious” with the straightest face ever

Bless you, Chris Pratt

This is the hardest I’ve laughed in so long

♫♫That’s not something that props can fix…that’s gonna be a little harder to fix.♫♫

It’s bACK.

I’ve seen this a thousand times and I just realized he knocks the fucking Mac of of the counter too

I love this.

So this is a totally useless rant, but as a skinny girl, I’m getting extra, extra tired of fat-shaming.

I work for a corsetier at a Renaissance Faire. We sell corsets. Not flimsy bullshit costume corsets; like real, durable, waist-training corsets. Today a woman came in with her boyfriend, so I helped her pick out a corset and try it on. While her boyfriend—who was decidedly enthused about the whole corset thing—sat watching me lace her in, he told me, grinning, “Of all the good jobs at the Renaissance Faire, I think you have the best.”

I shrugged in agreement. “I touch butts and reach down cleavage all day; I mean…” Because we like to be a bit rakish at the Faire, and, y’know, it’s true. Tying people into corsets pretty much invariably requires getting handsy.

The couple laughed at that, and the boyfriend said, “That’s the job I would want!” But then he chuckled again and said, offhand, “Or maybe not; while we were looking at the racks, there were some pretty big sizes on there!”

Our sizes are all done in inches, and the biggest we make is a 46. And you’d better believe our large sizes sell. For a second I wasn’t sure what to say to the guy’s comment, but I answered him casually. “We get a lot of beautiful big ladies in here.” Because we do. “We make corsets for real women, not Barbie dolls,” I added. Wasn’t trying to be smart, just kind of tossed it out there because that’s the line we like to use when people ask about larger sizes, and because, again, we do.

The boyfriend went quiet at that; I didn’t think anything of it, I just kept on lacing. A moment later, he said, a little awkwardly (but sincerely enough), “Didn’t mean to be offensive.”

I quickly smiled and brushed it off, said he wasn’t, said I was just saying. (Don’t want to make the customers uncomfortable, you know?) And that was the end of it. His comment had rubbed me the wrong way, but it wasn’t a big deal. Now, I wear a 20-inch corset. I’m a few cup sizes short of being one of the Barbie dolls. Like his girlfriend, I’m one of the “hot chicks”; he doesn’t have to worry about offending me by implying that I wouldn’t be fun to poke and pull at.

Honestly though, of all the people I fit sexy technically-undergarments to in a day, fat girls are maybe my favorite people to lace up. Because they are just so damn happy that we have stuff that fits them. They are so damn happy that the corsets we make in their sizes are all the same pretty, shiny colors and cool flower/dragon/skull/etc. prints that the smaller corsets are, not ugly beige and boring “granny” colors. They are so goddamn happy that at least one (of several on the grounds) corset shop carries things that they can wear, that they actually want to wear, and that they look fucking awesome in. This is only my second season working, and we’ve fit 60+ inch waists and double-K busts. The only people we’ve ever had to tell sorry, we don’t have anything that fits them, are twelve-year-old kids.

It’s half-wonderful, half-heartbreaking how excited those women get. Women who say with sad smiles, when we ask if they want to get fitted, “Oh, no, you don’t have anything that fits me,” and then are stunned when we’re 300% confident that yes we do, and we have options. Women who can’t stop smiling and looking at themselves in the mirror after we’ve got them laced in.

I had a lady last week whose waist I measured (cinching the tape tight, as per procedure) at 41 inches—honestly not all that big. So she picked out a 41-inch corset to try on. I could tell halfway through getting her laced that it was going to be a bit big for her, so I mentioned it and said she might do better to try a smaller size. She started crying on the spot. She was so overwhelmed; she couldn’t believe someone had just told her that a 41 was too big. She told me about how hard clothes shopping was for her, how her mother would tell her she needed an XXXL instead of an XXL, how she had recently lost weight but still couldn’t wear certain colors because they didn’t fit or she wasn’t confident enough.

She did end up getting her corset, and after I checked her out she asked if she could give me a hug, so we ended up standing there hugging each other for a minute. While we did, I told her, “Do not ever let anyone tell you any bullshit. You are gorgeous.” She said, “I have a new boyfriend and he keeps telling me that.” I told her he was right, and to just keep telling herself she’s gorgeous; it was okay if she didn’t always believe it, but to keep telling herself anyway. (That’s how I talked myself through shit when I had bad anxiety.)

We all know fat-shaming is bad. The stupidity, fatphobia, and misogyny of it has pissed me off since I first became aware of it. But working with clothing, especially as figure-hugging and precise as corsets, has given me a new perspective on it—how much it affects people and just how shitty it is. Like, what does it say that I had a grown, only average-big woman crying into my shoulder because she was so overjoyed not to be the uppermost extremity of what a manufacturer can clothe?

My job rocks and it’s really rewarding, but sometimes it highlights some of the ugliest shit about society. I’m so glad I work at a shop that’s not bullshit about body types and operates with more people in mind than just scrawny white chicks like me. The fat women I work with are a ton of fun to lace up, and they’re so much more than their size—they’re cool, they’re smart, they’re funny, they’re sweet, they’re great to talk to, and yes, they’re hot. I’m so damn done with them getting short-changed and shamed by petty fucks who refuse to make them nice clothes, who refuse to even try to work for them, who refuse to consider them pretty. This whole rant was useless and won’t get read, but I had to vent because it’s been driving me nuts.

So actually, screw you, random dude. Fat girls are the highlight of my job.

This made my eyes water

writing-prompt-s:

Oh my god, this is beautiful.

A small child enters Valhalla. The battle they lost was “hiding from an alcoholic father.” Odin sees the flinch when he slams the cup and refrains from doing it again. He hears the child’s pain; no glorious battle this, but one of fear and wretched survival.

He invites the child to sit with him, offers the choicest mead and instructs his men to bring a sword and shield, a bow and arrow, of the very best materials and appropriate size. “Here,” he says, “you will find no man who dares to harm you. But so you will know your own strength, and be happy all your days in Valhalla, I will teach you to use these weapons.”

The sad day comes when another child enters the hall. Odin does not slam his cup; he simply beams with pride as the first child approaches the newcomer, and holds out her bow and quiver, and says “nobody here will hurt you. Everyone will be so proud you did your best, and I’ll teach you to use these, so you always know how strong you are.”

————

A young man enters the hall. He hesitates when Odin asks his story, but at long last, it ekes out: skinheads after the Pride parade. His partner got into a building and called for help. The police took a little longer than perhaps they really needed to, and two of those selfsame skinheads are in the hospital now with broken bones that need setting, but six against one is no fair match. The fear in his face is obvious: here, among men large enough to break him in two, will he face an eternity of torment for the man he left behind?

Odin rumbles with anger. Curses the low worms who brought this man to his table, and regales him with tales of Loki so to show him his own welcome. “A day will come, my friend, when you seek to be reunited, and so you shall,” Odin tells him. “To request the aid of your comrades in battle is no shameful thing.”

———-

A woman in pink sits near the head of the table. She’s very nearly skin and bones, and has no hair. This will not last; health returns in Valhalla, and joy, and light, and merrymaking. But now her soul remembers the battle of her life, and it must heal.

Odin asks.

And asks again.

And the words pour out like poisoned water, things she couldn’t tell her husband or children. The pain of chemotherapy. The agony of a mastectomy, the pain still deeper of “we found a tumor in your lymph nodes. I’m so sorry.” And at last, the tortured question: what is left of her?

Odin raises his flagon high. “What is left of you, fair warrior queen, is a spirit bright as fire; a will as strong as any forged iron; a life as great as any sea. Your battle was hard-fought, and lost in the glory only such furor can bring, and now the pain and fight are behind you.“

In the months to come, she becomes a scop of the hall–no demotion, but simple choice. She tells the stories of the great healers, Agnes and Tanya, who fought alongside her and thousands of others, who turn from no battle in the belief that one day, one day, the war may be won; the warriors Jessie and Mabel and Jeri and Monique, still battling on; the queens and soldiers and great women of yore.

The day comes when she calls a familiar name, and another small, scarred woman, eyes sunken and dark, limbs frail, curly black hair shaved close to her head, looks up and sees her across the hall. Odin descends from his throne, a tall and foaming goblet in his hands, and stuns the hall entire into silence as he kneels before the newcomer and holds up the goblet between her small dark hands and bids her to drink.

“All-Father!” the feasting multitudes cry. “What brings great Odin, Spear-Shaker, Ancient One, Wand-Bearer, Teacher of Gods, to his knees for this lone waif?”

He waves them off with a hand.

“This woman, LaTeesha, Destroyer of Cancer, from whom the great tumors fly in fear, has fought that greatest battle,” he says, his voice rolling across the hall. “She has fought not another body, but her own; traded blows not with other limbs but with her own flesh; has allowed herself to be pierced with needles and scored with knives, taken poison into her very veins to defeat this enemy, and at long last it is time for her to put her weapons down. Do you think for a moment this fight is less glorious for being in silence, her deeds the less for having been aided by others who provided her weapons? She has a place in this great hall; indeed, the highest place.”

And the children perform feats of archery for the entertainment of all, and the women sing as the young man who still awaits his beloved plays a lute–which, after all, is not so different from the guitar he once used to break a man’s face in that great final fight.

Valhalla is a place of joy, of glory, of great feasting and merrymaking.

And it is a place for the soul and mind to heal.

I’M NOT CRYING YOU’RE CRYING

THIS IS GLORIOUS

Beautiful.

My Dashboard likes starting my morning with HYSTERICAL SOBBING.

I will always reblog this. Even if it makes me cry at my desk.

SO YOU’RE TRYNA TELL ME

That Peggy Carter

THE PEGGY CARTER

fell in love with a fUCKIN NAZI?

Margaret Elizabeth Carter. Fell in love. With a secret Nazi.

And not just fell in love, but carried a torch for the rest of her goddamn life, continuing to fight the good fight he inspired her to? 

You’re tryna tell me that Peggy Carter, THE FOUNDER OF FUCKING S.H.I.E.L.D., who spent her ENTIRE career fighting Hydra, would have had no idea that the great love of her life was Hydra’s #1 guy? That would have just slipped by Agent Margaret Carter. Really? Really. Even if you say that mayyyyyyybe the war was distracting and she and Steve didn’t have that long together blah blah blah, again, the woman spent the WHOLE of her life and career trying to destroy Hydra and honor Steve’s memory.  

No. 

Absolutely not. 

Your argument is nonsense and you are a idiot piece of shit. 

I’ll say it before and I’ll say it again:

You cannot challenge racism, on this level, by being nice to and reaching out to white supremacists.  Their entire ideology revolves around dehumanizing us.  It just does. not. work.  

You cannot fight fascism by prioritizing the feelings of fascists and letting them think they’re safe around you.  You don’t “get them on your side”.  Because treating them kindly and respecting them, gives them your silent approval and access to those of you who are way more vulnerable than you are and who cannot afford to feel safe enough to “debate” with these monsters. 

Our humanity is not a question or a debate topic, and by giving these people a platform you legitimize their views and help spread them to a larger audience. 

Then… How did it work for this guy?

They shot him in the fucking head.

Say that shit again!

They shot him in the fucking head.

They shot him in the fucking head.

They shot him in the fucking head.

They shot him in the fucking head.

The idea that MLK was ‘nice’ to white supremacists is also just historical revisionism @kuurihaunt.

He was sent death threats. The FBI considered him dangerous. People assaulted and murdered many of his followers. White America thought he was too confrontational and not appeasing enough to the sensibilities of whites. He was considered disruptive and an “outside agitator.” He was not a beloved man. He was hated and despised.

His protests came with the risk of being brutalized or killed by police or vigilantes. He decried the white moderate for caring more about order than justice. He refused to condemn riots, ‘the language of the unheard,’ because of how violent America was to Black people. Despite their differences, Malcolm X offered him protection and self-defense. Even though he was committed to nonviolent resistance, which meant breaking the law, disrupting traffic and yes - willingly opening yourself to being brutalized, he was more complicated than you give him credit.

The United States hated him and for his troubles he was killed.

He was not the caricature of nonviolence you think he was. Read a fucking book. 

I’m going to need to bring this back up again in February when during peak “re-write black history” time

#they always pull MLKjr outta their ass like he died peacefully in his sleep of old age   #white people LOVE the ‘forgiveness narrative’ and ‘redemption arcs’ because those tropes help avoid accountability for evil things like racism   #always tryna whitewash history