i think there for i am

anonymous asked:

Dreamsorvisions was right your writing is shit, redundant, and it's trash. Everything is the same it's just the names that are changed. You realize that Mary Sue inserts and OCs are at the bottom of the totem pole? Remember ff7? People tried doing that and they got shamed for it. Stop plaguing the ffxv tags and cross tagging I don't want to see your shit.

Oh okay!! Well I guess since you said so it must be true!! Guess I’ll just stop writing since you and tumblr user dreamsorvisions, a quality person who spends their free time hating themselves and everyone else in the fandom said so… my God, what was I doing all this time? I can’t believe I was out here embarrassing myself like that before you, in your infinite wisdom came along to stop me!!! Bless you friend, bless you!!!! Godspeed you and your miserable friend’s quest to clean this fandom up, you absolute angel. 

youtube

Binging with Babish: The Fitz Sandwich from Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Agent Fitz’s favorite sandwich on Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. is a classic - prosciutto, mozzarella, and pesto aioli.  Like any great sandwich or fictional superhero organization, it comes together to make something greater than the sum of its parts.  That is until Ward so callously tosses it into the darkness for comic effect.

A/N: Guess who’s feeling a bit angsty today? I just challenged myself to write a quick one to get rid of my writer’s block, and this is what I came up with! Tell me if you guys think of it! xx

Some say it was the right place at the wrong time, some say it was the other way around, but with Luna, it was just not meant to be. Plain and simple.

It started out quite nicely, seeing a boy across the room. Their eyes met, and she saw him smile, raising the glass he’s holding as he talked to the people around him. Not long after, he’s plucked up the courage to walk up to her and introduce himself.

From strangers to friends, and from friends to best friends where people would already assume they were together. Harry and Luna had made it a game whenever people would mistake them as a couple. They’d play along. Maybe a bit of hand holding here and there, his arm over her shoulder, and hugs given out until the moment they would laugh and couldn’t take it anymore. They’ll eventually tell the people they are with that they’re nothing more than just friends.

But friends wasn’t what Harry wanted. He wanted more. He did enjoy pretending to be her boyfriend, even just for a few minutes. He wanted to be the real deal. He did love holding her and how she felt against him. So he did ask her, and she said yes. It was no surprise to anyone that they did end up together. It was no surprise that it felt like it was meant to be, and that they were in it for the long haul. People loved seeing them together, hoping that they would end up married with children in the next years to come, but it wasn’t what happened.

He said goodbye. Not in the cruelest way possible, no. It was the most peaceful conversation they’ve ever had. They saw it coming long before it was even brought up, but no one had the guts to say it. Or maybe they were hoping things would turn out differently, but it didn’t. That was it, they had to separate. With tears in their eyes, they parted ways. There was so much left to be said, but they didn’t have the courage to voice everything out. They tried their best to save it, but it’s just not working.

No matter how much people said they were perfect, and no matter how much people hope they’d be back together, she knew deep in herself that it’ll never happen. The people that they were are completely different from who they are now, or at least who she is. She doesn’t even know who she is anymore, and that scared her. Too many things had changed, good or bad, it changed her completely. And she knows she’s not the person he fell in love with anymore, and he’s never coming back.

With a swig of the alcohol that has been keeping her company the whole night, there she lived in her fantasies, her what ifs and what could have beens.

Some say it was at the right place at the wrong time, some say it was the other way around, but with her, it was a dream that will haunt her forever.

“it’s TWAUMATIZING to see su hate in the main tag”

“gem harvest wasn’t a racist episode tho, little (white) kids don’t care about politics!! there’s no such thing as immigrant children who could be traumatized by this weeheehee 🙃”

I am so fucking tired of the constant comments on my appearance!!!!!! If I left the house looking like this clearly I felt comfortable enough in whatever I look like to fucking step out into the world so don’t fucking ruin it!!!! If my shirt is low cut or I wear black every single day of my life or I wear my hair up or I prefer leggings or all my clothes are loose-fitting or I lost some weight or I wear a lot of makeup hoW ABOUT YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP

ABSOLUTELY NO ONE ASKED FOR YOUR INPUT KIRSTEN SO HOW ABOUT YOU STUFF IT TO THE BOTTOM OF YOUR LEAN CUISINE WHILE YOU JERK YOURSELF OFF TO THE NEW SOULCYCLE CLASS YOURE TAKING

bottom bunk

I’m sr but if this song ain’t about gay sex then i dont know what the hell anymore! helppp!!! i’m so???????!?!?!?!!!!!?!?!?

Threw my glasses in the dirt, tell you ‘man that really hurt’
So I’m lying in the bottom bunk
Then he slammed me in the door, got me feeling pretty sore
So I’m lying in the bottom bunk

Now we’ve gone too far astray
I do believe you’ve had your way with me
Not much of a holiday
I do believe you’ve had your way with me, your way with me

Very pretty and you’re tanned but I rather sleep with my right hand
So I’m lying in the bottom bunk
'Cause baby things just get too rough when we get together in above
So I’m lying in the bottom bunk

Now we’ve gone too far astray
I do believe you’ve had your way with me
Not much of a holiday
I do believe you’ve had your way with me, your way with me

Now we’ve gone too far astray
I do believe you’ve had your way with me
Not much of a holiday
I do believe you’ve had your way with me, your way with me

It is precisely when man manages to make himself into God by his skills and industry that God pulls him up short in order to show him that he may only raise himself to the level of divinity through the spirit or through love.
—  Gerard de Nerval, Diorama (Richard Sieburth translator)

anonymous asked:

for the love of all (un)holy things, stop tagging posts the full house of wincest and start writing fic, i beg of you

Dad’s finally home, and he’s drunk. Or–well, maybe more like halfway there. Dean doesn’t see him all the way wasted, hardly ever. Not anymore.

“C’mere,” Dad says. He’s slouched back on the little creaky loveseat shoved into the corner of the room, under the window. Sammy’s sound asleep on the farther bed, making those little snuffly sounds that count as snoring for him.

“Dean,” Dad says, and it’s no louder, it’s not even close to an order, but Dean stands right up anyway. He leaves the knife he’d been honing on the table and takes the half-dozen quiet steps and, when he’s close enough, Dad reaches out his free hand and reels him in, two fingers hooked into a belt loop, tugging, so that Dean climbs right onto the couch, settles his knees on either side of Dad’s hips and settles down easy. He sets his hands flat on Dad’s chest, and sighs. It’s been a while.

“You been good?” Dad says. He keeps his fingers hooked at Dean’s waist.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, of course,” he says, quiet. They’re always quiet, late at night like this. He settles his weight more comfortably into Dad’s lap. “Sammy’s all mad because the reading list for fifth grade here is the same as it was for fourth grade back in Poughkeepsie.”

“It’ll leave him more time for PT.” Dad tugs harder at Dean’s belt loop, just a little rough, and Dean sits up straighter. “Didn’t ask about Sam, kiddo.”

Dean looks down. Dad’s shirt is old, but soft, and he spreads his hands out on it, pretends like he’s looking at the faded USMC logo. “Got in a fight last week,” he says, finally. No sense in lying. Dad always sees right through it, anyway. “Kid was bein’ a jerk, messing with these girls.”

There’s a clink, Dad setting his glass on the side table, and then his palm’s on the side of Dean’s face, his thumb pulling at where Dean didn’t realize he’d been biting his lower lip. He closes his eyes and lets it go, and Dad’s thumb runs soft over where he’d dented it. His face gets turned, a little more toward the lamplight, and he knows Dad can see, now, where he’s got the last traces of the shiner fading down to yellow-green around his eye, the scrape on his jaw where he’d hit the ground hard before he came up and let Scott really have it.

“You win?” Dad says, after a minute, and Dean scoffs and opens his eyes, and finds that Dad’s smiling, just a little bit, just enough that Dean bets only he could really tell, and something in the bottom of his belly goes all pleased, squirming pleasantly.

“You win?” Dean says, because Dad was gone for over two weeks this time, and he doesn’t look bruised up or hurt at all, really, but. Dad nods, his eyes dark and still on Dean’s face, and that’s probably all Dean’s going to get, at least for now. He’ll have to see how Dad writes the hunt up, later.

Dad’s thumb traces over Dean’s cheek, rough familiar callus moving soft over his skin, and he finally unhooks his fingers from Dean’s belt, slides his hand big and warm and steady around to the small of Dean’s back and lets it rest there, heavy. Dean blinks at him, takes a deep breath. Dad smells a little bit like booze, ‘cause he always does when they’re like this, but also like smoke, and a little like sweat, and also just—like Dad. Dean doesn’t know how to describe it any better than that. Dad frowns, just for a minute, and for a second he looks like he’s going to say something, his expression going all distant and tight, and—Dean shuffles in closer, slides his hands up to Dad’s shoulders, and then he’s—he’s sitting right on top of where—and, yeah, the hand on his back hitches him even closer, and Dad’s eyelids flutter, and then he’s focused right back on Dean, right here in the motel room where he’s meant to be. Dean takes in a shaky breath and Dad’s thumb moves over his lip again, harder this time.

“Okay, kiddo?” Dad says, only he’s not really asking. Dean nods anyway, immediately, and licks his lips, and watches Dad’s eyes drop to them. Maybe—maybe tonight—and then Dad tugs him forward and Dean curls right down and then he’s being kissed, steady and good, Dad’s beard scratching pleasantly over his lips and chin and where his cheeks are still soft. He stretches out over the broad plane of Dad’s chest and Dad’s arm curls steadily around his waist, and he’s still awkward, doesn’t really know what to do with his tongue, but Dad doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t know if they’ll finally do anything, either, but maybe this is enough, anyway. Dad’s softer, like this, and it’s nice—the gentle warmth of their mouths, the whiskey taste of Dad. Dean likes it better from his mouth than he does from the bottle. Even better, when Dean pulls back for a second to breathe, the way Dad’s hand curls over the back of his neck and the way his face is soft, relaxed, and the way when his eyes open they immediately find Dean’s and Dean can tell he’s thinking of nothing but this, nothing but him, and Dean smiles, can’t help it, and leans down to keep Dad’s attention right here.

You ever make a long ass rant about something or someone then delete it afterwards? Once I’ve typed it all out, I feel like the weight has been lifted from my shoulders and it sort of strangely helps in a way even though no one reads it except for yourself.