forehead~~~

captblackrock asked:

Can you list the Vision's power set from the Age of Ultron?

  • Density Manipulation: The Vision is capable of altering his own density making him able to phase through solid objects.
  • Mind Stone: Activated and embeded in Vision forehead.
  • Enhanced Strength: Vision can increase his physical strength, by raising his own density. The strength is based on those who’s pure heart and worth enough to wield Mjolnir like Thor.
  • Levitation: Vision is capable of hovering in the air, by lowering his own density below the density of the atmosphere.
  • Intangibility: Vision is capable of intangibility, by lowering his own density below the density of the object he is phasing through.
  • Energy Beams: Vision is able to project intense energy beams through the use of the Mind Stone.

Via Marvel-Movies

I might end just just writing a bio of all the new characters in Age Of Ultron. Would you guys like that? :)

anonymous asked:

the book he's holding is a different book to the one shown in the picture/ review?! his book is called the psychopaths test? x

Anonymous said: that’s not the right book, the writing is on the forehead

Anonymous said: The book he is carrying is actually Jon Ronson - The Psychopath Test not So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed…

The Psychopath Test: A Journey Through the Madness Industry

“He considers the book a cautionary tale against diagnosing someone without really knowing them, and about the need to avoid confirmation bias.”

Even still. We all need to take lessons from Louis Tomlinson at the School of Shade.

10

GAME OF THRONES: SEASON 5, EPISODE 4

Winter is coming. All men must die. And Game of Thrones is back! Stay tuned each week as we unpack Sunday’s episodes through masterpieces. 

A queen empowers the militant faithful, identified by star-branded foreheads, part of a ritualistic scarification. Impurities of all sorts are cleansed in public spaces, and restraint privileged. A fiery priestess seduces a young leader, while elsewhere quiet conversations in a crypt echo key backstory. Sand snakes whip themselves up in preparation for vengeance, while on a nearby beach knights on foot go at it with soldiers on horseback. A bloodbath between eunuchs and masked men rounds out a good-but-not-so-feel-good episode. 

This week’s wildcard image comes from the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston.

Dive deeper with featurettes connecting life in the Middle Ages to fantasy TV.

Luke would treasure you, if he was your boyfriend. He would literally treat you like such a princess all the time and it would be with cute little gestures. He’d walk up to you and just quickly kiss your nose and smile and wrap his arms around you so tight and kiss your forehead and rest his cheek on top of your head and whisper a little “You’re so cute, I love you so much” for no reason, except that he’s just so happy that you decided to be his girlfriend. He’d notice all the small things about you like when you did your eyebrows or painted your nails and he’d make sure he told you how much he loved it. He’d compliment you so much and he’d always follow it up with a huuuuge hug and a soft kiss somewhere on your skin and he’d linger on for a few seconds and giggle and go “I’m so lucky to be yours, babe” and he’d just always be so heart eyes about you ohmygod

Moving Trains

It happens as you sit with your forehead pressed against the glass of a window on a moving train; you realize that a distance has grown between you and everything else. Someone has built a Plexiglas wall, five feet thick and indestructible, around the shape of your body. You can see fine, you can hear fine; you can taste, touch, smell, think, move, but you cannot do it all at once. For some reason, your mind no longer processes these things simultaneously; your five senses are disconnected and now more like foreign countries rather than neighboring towns.

You think of how everything and everyone is fake, just manmade forms like your Plexiglas wall, like your old silver car, like your kitchen sink, like all the bad music you pretended to like in high school so that you could have something “in common” with other people. You think of the books you’ve read and the movies you’ve watched and the food you’ve eaten; you think of the lies you tell your parents when they call you every Monday night, you think of the way your body shudders like an old house when you cry alone in a dark bathroom, you think of the word “estranged”.

Almost everything confuses you nowadays. Almost nothing makes sense. And you are just now realizing how dazed you’ve been, how little of the world you’ve been absorbing. You’re only just now acknowledging your blind spot, you’ve only just now become strong enough to carry the burden that is giving up blissful ignorance.

You eat a deformed-looking Swedish Fish. Your molars and canine teeth pulverize a red monstrosity. You taste pain, you taste blood, you taste snowstorms in April. You taste crimson. Sweetness means nothing to your taste buds anymore; your tongue only understands memory. Your tongue no longer speaks the language you want it to.

The train moves faster.  Music swells in your ears, in the plastic nubs stuck inside those two holes in the sides of your head. Everything is orchestrated, everything is written by someone just as bored as you, someone just looking to kill time. Someone just looking to play God.

Have you lost the ability to love? Have you lost the ability to sleep? Do you feel human, still, after all these days walking like a ghost through walls and through people?

When did you let cold indifference get the better of you?

You are chewing up the dead bodies of a dozen old versions of yourself; you are chewing up something dry and chalky, chewing up a bitter multivitamin, chewing up the last remnants of your sanity. You are swallowing depersonalization. Swallow an empty promise, swallow a white lie, swallow your medicine. Everything is tinted the color of virtual reality, everything is backlit the same way your cell phone screen is backlit. Everything is technological, robotic. Everything is dehumanized.

The world slows to the molasses pace of your blood coursing, slows to the pace of your heart beating, gets so slow you think maybe it isn’t moving anymore; maybe your heart isn’t pumping blood to your fingertips anymore.

You can feel it even in your hair and in your nails, this sense of detachment. You’re reminded of that experiment you did in elementary school; the one where you stuck a white carnation in a cup of water and food coloring and the carnation sucked up all that blue liquid and it was no longer a white carnation but instead some sort of strange midnight-colored organism that you couldn’t put a name to. You are the carnation and your increasing lack of self-awareness is a cup of water and blood-red food coloring. You drink in the darkness, void of all taste and texture. Your edges turn red. The whites of your eyes go from white carnation-white to red food coloring-red. You’re not what you used to be. And you wonder if these are your true colors. Were you always this way?

You watch everything outside pass by in a blur, so fast that none of it makes sense, none of it is trees or sidewalks or people or lakes or oceans or mountains, none of it is anything at all. It’s all faded away into the crackling, boiling gray of the static of a broken television set. You don’t speak this language anymore, your eyes don’t read these visual cues, your eyes don’t read letters as formulas for creating words that create sentences; you see only strange shapes and fallen branches. You don’t speak this language. You don’t speak, not anymore.

You sit with your forehead pressed against the glass of a window on a train that is no longer moving, and you gather your things and exit through the rear door of the car. As you make one sweeping stride over the gap between the train and the platform, you wonder about what worlds might be hiding down there in the dark, what worlds might have slipped between the cracks and fallen into oblivion. Perhaps your world is down there, perhaps you are not the problem, perhaps none of this is your fault and you simply belong somewhere else.

Perhaps. It isn’t likely, though, and probably you’re just insane.

You go to work for the day and you don’t tell anybody these things you think about.

i can totally see calum and you (his girlfriend) going to like one of the highest points in the arena where there’s seating and you’re just sit in two seats and you guys just chill and talk and make out a bit and he’s all still in awe that they sold out a place like this and its not just one place but like tons and he still can’t wrap his head around it and he just goes “i can’t believe it babe, i really can’t” and you run your hands through his hair and be like “I’m so proud of you” and he DOES THIS THING WHERE HE TUCKS SOME HAIR AWAY FROM YOUR FACE AND HE GOES “IM GLAD YOU’RE HERE TO SHARE IT WITH ME TOO BABE” AND KISSES YOUR FOREHEAD

2

“Tomorrow’s going..” Cupid yawned as Stitch pulled his blanket over him “..It’s going to be perfect Pops. Don’t worry”

“I’ll do my best not to. You snug?”

“As a bug in a rug”

“That does sound pretty snug!” Stitch smiled down fondly at Cupid before kissing his forehead “Sleep tight Cupid. We’ll make tomorrow the best Love Day ever, just for Papa”

Just can’t help myself

Request: amy u should write one where its late at night and its super cold and ur naked bc u had sex with luke literally not even 5 hours ago so u put on his leather jacket and he wakes up and makes you ride him and he wants to eat u out and gODDDDDD

Summary: Luke just can’t help himself when it comes to you and his leather jacket

Words: 800

Keep reading

Because he leaves himself out of the list of people she has to live for and says “I hope”

——

It’s later, after her parents have left with smiles on their faces, that Emma finds herself in Killian’s arms again. He’d offered her the Jolly Roger as a place to take a breath without a second worth of thought, and she accepted nearly as quickly. 

He presses kisses to her forehead and rubs small circles into her back, easing away the stress for just a moment. She nestles herself between his legs for the second time that day as he sits on his bed, holds her ear against his beating heart.

It’s all a welcome relief. 

“I’m proud of you,” he whispers into the quiet air around them, and she smiles, glancing up at him through her lashes. 

“It’s what I needed to do,” she tells him, lowering her eyes and toying with one of the buttons on his coat. “Now just to figure out the rest of this mess without me losing my head.” 

“Well, I’d like to think I offer at least a bit of solace in that matter.” He punctuates his statement with the press of his lips to her nose. She’d tease him, make a jab or smirk at his comment, but she’s stuck on something suddenly and can’t find the joking spirit.

“Why do you say stuff like that?” Before he can question what she means, she continues. “Like ‘I hope I protect your heart’ or ‘I’d like to think I offer solace’. That stuff.” 

Keep reading

2

Turning the corner into the hallway, Stitch saw Monroe’s face fallen into a shy and concerned look, his eyes falling to the floor the moment they met Stitch’s.

“I haven’t woken up without you for a long time..” Monroe spoke in a gentle and breaking voice. He’d sounded not the have had the best dreams either that night.

“Come here” Stitch cooed, softly pulling Monroe into his arms and kissing his forehead tenderly “It’s nothing to do with whatever tiff we had yesterday okay?”

Monroe nodded and grasped Stitch’s shirt in his fists as he nuzzled deeper into his embrace.

my body temperature is going up and my mind is going blank, maybe now the thoughts of you will stop keeping me awake. my forehead is sweating and my feet are numb and I guess the alcohol is where this is coming from. my hands are steady but my body feels heavy. I hate that I still feel this way for you but drinking it away is all I know how to do. and maybe just maybe one day I will feel more understood and maybe just maybe one day I will forget what I should. I should have forgotten about you a long time ago but it’s been almost a year and I can’t seem to let go. maybe there’s something wrong with me, maybe I should get help. but the only thing this vodka is telling me is to leave it on my shelf.
—  more drunken poetry