of your destruction

Day 29:  You and your weapon of destruction (not necessarily to enemies).

Is posted in day 1, Brenda has no super powers or magical features. She is just ONE HELL OF A STRONG GIRL! She fights barehanded, as her body is pretty resistant because of her strength.

(Based on One Punch Man to illustrate her punches, of course)

Día 29: Tú y tu arma de destrucción (no necesariamente para los enemigos).

Como lo dije en el día 1, Brenda no tiene superpoderes ni rasgos mágicos. Ella es simplemente SUPER FUERTE. Pelea a puño limpio, pues su cuerpo es bastante resistente fruto de su fuerza.

(Me basé en One Punch Man para ilustrar sus golpes)

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Never blame your fans

I know many of you artists - whether you draw, write, or compose - are frustrated that your original work, especially your dream projects, aren’t getting the responses you were hoping for.

I feel the same way.

But some of you express your frustrations completely destructively and blame the world for not giving you the spotlight.

When you do that, you’re blaming your problems for existing rather than adjusting and compromising to solve them. You’re making excuses for your mistakes. You’re demanding the world to change but you are not willing to change with it.

This is the perfect mindset to NEVER succeed in anything, ever.

You need to accept some basic truths of art before you can go any further:

  • Your art should teach you as much as or more than it teaches others: If you claim your art opens horizons and widens minds, yours should be the first priority. You cannot speak without listening. You are not a righteous prophet enlightening the heathens with the true word. You are one humble person and your art is one humble person’s story.
  • There are no new stories, but there are always new storytellers. That amazing idea you have that nobody’s ever thought of before? Someone has. But nobody has told the story your way, or drawn the character your way, or sung the song your way. Art is not about being new. It is about being you.
  • Popular art is all about the beholder. All these shows and games with so much fan art? They got to that level because they command a personal investment from and serve the viewer - they have worlds their fans want to be part of, and your canon will be swept aside along the way. You the artist are not a god or a wise sage. You are a guide and a footman. To be an artist is to be humanity’s servant, not its lord - and there’s no shame in that.
  • Most of your fans are not artists or art critics. While there will be a good number of them in your fanbase, the vast majority are not going to be super-open-minded creative thinkers who value every single opinion, outlook, and story just because it’s done technically well. They will be ordinary people with ordinary, selfish interests, and they will care about your content more than your talent. You have to balance what you want to draw with what everyone wants to see.

But the most important part of being an artist or really a person at all is to understand this:

Nobody owes you success.

Nobody is under any obligation to pay anything you produce a second glance or support or promote it in any way.

Nobody is spiting or robbing you by not giving you a like or a reblog or a follow.

Every single gesture of appreciation you receive from someone is a courtesy - a gift that you earn, not a right you’re entitled to.

It is not the job of your audience to love your work. It is your job to make it lovable. And just because you are working really hard does not mean you are working in the right direction.

I know that thousands upon thousands of artists put hours or months or years into a project and feel like they get nothing in return. Sometimes it is not how hard you’re working but what you’re working for that is the problem. 

Sometimes you need to slow down and think, “Do I have to have this just so? What would the kind of person interested in my work be looking for, and where can I address it? Am I maybe taking myself and my work a little too seriously?” 

And a lot of artists don’t realize that as an amateur, you are the sole proprietor - you are your art. Whether people like you determines whether they like your art.

And that’s why when you blame everybody else and post ungrateful, catty garbage like this:

… you don’t subsequently become the next Toby Fox.

The simple fact is that people will pay you attention if they think your offering + your hassle are worth their attention.

You need to create a world that someone other than you will have fun in and you need to be a good host to everyone who visits

You need a world that will welcome your fans with open arms.

You need to build a world people can live & play in.

And you and your world need to appreciate your fans just for showing up.

Because this is exactly what the big fish do.


because they spread your work around to more people without shanking you on credit and who gets the likes


because they make your work show up sooner & more often on searches and are simply a nice gesture


because they take time out and pay good money to listen to your story and make you from a pauper into a prince


because if you appreciate no one, no one will appreciate you, nor should they

melodrama (track by track)

green light: the haunting revelation of being free after the break up. but you don’t know what to do with that freedom. it’s frightening and beautiful and inspiring and it makes you lonely and excited all at once. you want to dance with friends and scream out the car window but you hit every red light just at the mere thought of ever moving on.

sober: depression and anxiety is wasting away your youth. you live for the weekend to come. you live for any kind of buzz. you sleep until the bright orange afternoon creeps into your window. but the night is always there for you. the parties, the confetti and the blue lights that rain down, is all worth it in the moment. until you realize you’re all alone.

homemade dynamite: all your decisions and all your actions are self destructive. every bottle of liquor you finish and every house you destroy, you know it’s a form of self hate. but it’s how you cope through all the bullshit.

the louvre: a evening drive through the city with your lover. the day is warm and the tar on the road is hot. the window is down and the air feels liberating. you want to love them forever. but it’s a sunday and your stomach sinks and nothing lasts forever. and now your at a house party months later and everyone is high and the music is booming and you see your ex across the room and you feel like you know no one there and you want to hide away so you leave and no one notices anyways.

liability: you blame the break up on all your insecurities. you blame it all on the way you’d call them every night crying. you think that maybe your sadness is contagious. you should’ve known to sterilize yourself from the start.

hard feelings/loveless: you pack up everything that belonged to them and put it into a box. you practice not having their name on your tongue. you attempt to forget the taste of them. you consider holding on and staying friends, but that anger overrules and you throw that box off the highway bridge. you’re over the aching and now you moved onto the hard feelings. you want to blame them for everything. summer nights are too long. mornings are empty without their texts of “good morning” and you taste this endless nostalgia for the rest of your life. but you don’t let them see this side of you. you let them see the anger. you let them think you’re indestructible.

sober II: growing up with drama stuffed inside of you like all the drugs and alcohol you consume, is tiring. you go through the motions and you nod to their questions and laugh at their jokes. but you know that this misery and that this young love is timeless. so you continue to go through the expected motions.

writer in the dark: that hollow ache in your chest when you realize that the break up is permanent, that this feeling of loss is forever. that nervous ache as you stalk their snapchat and Instagram and any other social media outlet, trying to see if they found someone else. that obsessive need to know if they still miss you, if they still love you and need you. that sickening feeling that makes you numb as you send them text after text but they never reply.

supercut: all the memories are blurry footage winding through your head. the time you ran down the hill, drunk. the time you said “I love you.” the time you looked at them on the roof of the car while you thought “I’m gonna be with you forever..” all the memories are fast forwarding and rewinding and pausing in your head and it is perfect and it is never going to happen again.

liability (reprise): you warned them from the very start. but did you ever listen when they warned you?

perfect places: everyone has a perfect place that is their getaway. but the reason for getting away isn’t perfect. it’s ugly and damaging and it’s cold nights like this that make you realize that nothing will ever be perfect. only for the moment will it seem like a person or a place can be your sanctuary. but the feeling never goes away. remember that.

Another Man’s Treasure

A/N: This is a completed five-part mini-series because @alrightpetal and I have this thing about making Harry super vulnerable and flawed. So here you go.

// Another Man’s Treasure // Mind on a Mission // Take the Lead // Worth the Pain // Wings of Butterflies


…I’m gonna show you tonight! I’m alright! I’m just fine! And you’re a tool so, so what?

You belted your heart out up on stage, pumping your fist in the air to empower your words even further. It was a good thing you knew all the words, too, because your mates had bought you so many drinks your vision was crossed and blurred you couldn’t have read the lyrics to an unfamiliar song. Then you would have just been a blubbering fool butchering a karaoke performance. And that would have been embarrassing.

Singing yourself blue in the face—and drinking yourself into oblivion—served as the perfect outlet for your aching heart. Hours earlier, you’d been dumped. Or more accurately, replaced.

It’d been a week since you’d heard from your long-term boyfriend, and while you knew he was on holiday with his mates—a holiday you hadn’t been invited on—it was still odd that you hadn’t heard from him at all. Not even a text to let you know that he’d made it to Amsterdam. You didn’t expect too much communication; you trusted him to treat you right, but, silly you, you thought your boyfriend might actually miss you and want to say hi.

Last night after seven and a half days of nothing, you completely lost it and called him forty-seven times in a row. And not a single one was answered. So you rang your closest friends and they came over, laptops and tablets in hand, and intense cyber-stalking commenced.

It only took thirty-four minutes for your good mate Lindsey to unearth a damning post on Insta that your boyfriend was tagged in by a girl you kind of knew. The picture itself wasn’t awful; honestly you couldn’t make out much besides silhouettes and drinks. Even the caption wasn’t much; all it said was, “this guy” with a random slew of emojis. But the funny thing was, when you tried to search for it yourself, nothing came up. Meaning you were blocked. You weren’t meant to see this picture.

Twenty-two minutes of super-sleuthing was enough time for your oldest friend Ashley to find every social media account the girl had, and then eventually uncover her phone number.

In thirteen minutes you had a text drafted to her that was so long it was broken into five different parts when you hit send.

And one minute and fifty-four seconds is all the time your boyfriend—well ex-boyfriend—allowed you to speak to him today before he told you he was coming back tomorrow and there’d be no need for you to come see him. Tomorrow or ever again.

So your mates did what they knew best. They took you out, got you absolutely smashed, and then got you up on stage to pour your heart out. Somewhere in between I Will Survive and Total Eclipse of the Heart, you got a bit weepy and ended up calling your brother from the toilet. It took you awhile to realize you weren’t actually sobbing to him but his voicemail, and as soon as you did you pulled yourself back together and headed out for another drink and a rousing rendition of Since U Been Gone.

The few other patrons in the pub were hardly paying attention to your drunken warbling on stage, only breaking from their conversations when your mates would cheer at the end of each song, some of them even offering half-hearted claps. If they were annoyed, they certainly didn’t let on. Most likely, they pitied you; for Christ sake, you pitied you.

When your song ended, you finished the rest of your drink and began flipping through the songbook. Liberation was surging through you and you wanted a song to match your mood; something to serve as a proper fuck you to the twat you’d wasted the last few years of your young life on.

The book closed on your fingers, and you stumbled back in surprise. Were books automated now too?! You still weren’t over the automated tills at Tesco, would you now have to get used to robotic books closing on you when they’d had enough?!

“[Y/N].”

You looked up, your blurred vision slowly coming into focus as you swayed on the spot. A robotic book didn’t close itself on you, a person had closed it. Which was rather rude of them.

[Y/N],” he repeated. Finally he came into view and you cocked your head in confusion.

“Hazza?” you slurred, taking a step closer to get a better look. You nearly toppled off the stage, but Harry was quick to grab you by the waist and steady you before easing you down.

Keep reading

I have to hand it to you. I never thought Jace and Clary would be topped by anyone else in terms of insane, self-destructive decisions, but you all are giving them a run for their money.
—  Magnus (Lord of Shadows; Cassandra Clare)
How to have a more peaceful life

1. Recognise how much your thoughts affect your feelings – and work on changing your self-destructive thinking.

2. Stop trying to be someone you’re not meant to be.

3. Stop trying hard to please other people all the time.

4. Expect to meet hurdles and to experience disappointments.

5. Enjoy experimenting with your creativity.

6. See life as an adventure, full of possibilities.

7. Be grateful for the small things that brighten up your day.

Leather Jackets - Bucky Barnes AU

Request: “Can you make a Bucky imagine in which he’s like the bad boy who is really cool and falls for y/n and is super sweet around her?” // I did it as a Greaser AU because I was listening to the Grease soundtrack while writing lol

Word Count: 1167 // My requests are still open!!


The Greasers didn’t like to be messed with. If you’re not at their level, you can’t speak to them. You go near them, you’re dead.

Pacing quickly down the sidewalk, you avoided the glare of the boys in the red Chevrolet parked across the street. A message alert on your phone made you stop, pulling your phone out of your pocket.

Steve: Just overheard that the Greasers are gonna be at the coffee shop. Be careful.

Mentally groaning in fear of anyone hearing you, you slipped into the door of the cafe, walking with your head down.

“Hi, uh, Miss? What would you like?” The barista grinned at you, as you looked up from your phone. “Sorry, can I just have a juice please?”

“What’s your name?” She asked, holding your cup in one hand and a sharpie in the other. “Y/N.” You pronounced, smiling back.

Soon enough, your name was called and you took your drink, walking out of the store.

You looked around before pushing the door open, seeing the Chevrolet had moved. Breathing a sigh of relief, you pushed the door open and began your walk home.

Going to grab your phone from your back pocket, you bumped into someone.

Feeling a hand on your back, you looked up, making direct eye contact with one of the leaders of the greaser gang, Bucky Barnes.

“I am so sorry, I really wasn’t concentrating. I should look where I’m going, sorr-” You mumbled, rambling away, “Hey, don’t worry about it. Y/N, is it?” He smiled warmly at you, “Uh, yeah, that’s me.”

“We have English together, right?” He asked, trying to making eye contact as you looked everywhere but his into his eyes.

“That we do,” you laughed nervously, “See you Monday, I guess.”

“See you Monday, Y/N.” He smiled, brushing past you as you walked back home, texting Steve about your ‘incident’.

Soon enough, Monday rolled around.

School always dragged along on a Monday. Whether it be the non existent enthusiasm from the students, or the bore of lessons from teachers paid less than they’re owed.

Grabbing your bag and heading out of the classroom, you avoided the glare of the same boys from the coffee shop stood outside your classroom.

You felt their eyes leave as you trailed outside to try and find your friends, Steve and Peggy.

Walking past the bleachers, you felt all eyes on you as hands gripped your shoulders.

“If it isn’t Little Miss Y/N.” You span around to be met with the eyes of one of Bucky’s gang, another member of the Greasers.

“H-hi?” You questioned, looking away from where he stared deeply at you, backed by two more Greasers; the rest sat on the bleachers.

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N. May I ask why this pretty little mouth of yours was talking to Barnes outside the coffee shop last night?” You looked up, horrified that anyone had seen yours and Bucky’s conversation.

“I-I didn’t mean anything by it! I bumped into hi-” He pressed a finger over your lips, his minions trailing behind you, as he whistled for more of them to come over.

You were surrounded. You’d seen this happen before, and you prayed every night that they would never do it to you.

Grabbing your bag roughly off your shoulders, you gasped as they pulled your books out one by one, until they reached your sketchbook.

“Well what do we have here? A sketchbook! Let’s have a looky here shall we?” He smirked, picking up the black book from your feet.

Flipping through your doodles and practices, you prayed they wouldn’t find your illustration of the picture Bucky had posted recently.

But they did. Just your luck.

“And it gets better! How 'bout we show this to Buck when he gets here, hey? Is that what you want, Y/N? Attention? Well, sweetheart, that’s what you’re gonna get.”

Tears began to spill down your cheeks as he cascaded the sketchbook to the ground once again, the pencil drawing looking like a watercolour.

“Now, Y/N. How 'bouts we deal with you.” He spat, getting closer to your face. Grinning, he grabbed your hair and pulled your face up to meet his eyes.

Taking a harsh slap to the face, you looked into his eyes as he laughed, “Fuck. You.” you spat.

“What was that, Y/N? Say that again.” He looked shocked, but hid it. “I said fuck you.” He looked at you again, “You’re gonna regret that Y/N.”

Taking another hit, you saw the blood hit the concrete on the other side of the book.

“Hey!” A loud voice echoed from outside their circle, as the rest of the group scattered, you sank to the floor.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?” Bucky asked the boy stood opposite you, as you let more tears flow. “You know what, I don’t wanna hear it. Back off.”

Bucky kneeled in front of you, smiling softly. “Y/N?”

“Y-yeah?” You held your nose in fear of it bleeding further.

“I’m so sorry the did that to you, I promise I would never have let them if I would’ve known. Are you alright?”

“Apart from nursing a headache and this nose bleed, I’ll be okay.” You smiled back up at him, his eyes glistening as he looked at you. “Shit, you need to get to the nurse.” He looked around you at the destruction of your bag, trying to pick up your scattered books.

“Did you draw this?” He asked, awe taking over his features. “Um, yes, I did. I’m sorry, it’s lame. I just saw the picture on my feed and I needed prac-”

“Y/N, babe, this is incredible.” He grinned from ear to ear, holding the book so delicately. “T-thank you, Bucky. It means a lot.” He slung your bag over his shoulder, offering you a hand as he led you to the nurses office.

“I’m still so sorry, Y/N. Can I please take you for coffee or something to make up for it?” He asked, brushing your hair behind your ear as you held tissue to your nose.

“I don’t drink coffee, but I’m definitely always down for pizza.” You laughed, Bucky joining you. “Well, pizza it is. Are you free tonight?”

- 6 months later -

Finishing the final sentence of your last-minute homework, you shoved the books into your bag as a knock at the door snapped you out of the world of your science work.

Opening the door with a smile, you saw Bucky, donned in his leather jacket and all black outfit.

“Mornin’ baby.” He smiled, pressing a kiss to your lips as you grinned into it. “Good morning, Bucky.”

“Did you sleep okay?” He asked, interlocking his fingers with yours. “I’d sleep better if my boyfriend wouldn’t keep messaging me every five minutes!”

“Well forgive me for caring about you!” He laughed, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“You know I love you really.” You nudged him slightly as he grinned. “I love you too, doll.”

{PART 24} I Won’t Stop You // Jeon Jungkook, Vampire!AU

Originally posted by jengkook

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Vampire!AU, Fantasy, Angst, Smut

Summary; Despite everything that has gone wrong for you; you feel like life might start to have a better outlook as Jungkook takes all measures to keep you safe. However, a storm is coming; one that grips and pulls at the strongest winter coat…before you find yourself making the biggest mistake of your life to date.

“The lull, or the calm before the storm took it’s place in the atmosphere, in both of their hearts and their minds. ‘Tread carefully’ he warned her, but she slipped from his grasp the moment he blinked”

Not rated M, but be warned there are some scenes of a suggestive sexual nature.

I update this series every Tuesday evening, 9pm-10pm (UK Time) 

{Part 1} // {Part 23} {Part 24} {Part 25}

Keep reading

You were a forest fire when I met you. Reckless and unaware of your pent up wrath. You were a natural hazard. A blizzard, a hurricane. Destruction was your middle name as you tore through people like plastic fences and through drugs like dry leaves. Your father was two parts angry and one part stern, trying to steer your aimless wanderings but you told him that no gusts of rage could turn you into him. And you yelled, god you yelled. Every day was as unwanted as the last, and life was no longer a gift but a burden you wanted to give back. You engulfed the coast with your tribulation, shouting to heaven, and then damnation and in your bursts of raw frustration even the winds on mars could feel your sorrow. Your voice shook the ground and your anger engulfed trees and even though I loved you, I was scared to have you near me. I was your home for a time. And then you moved onto another place, as catastrophes often do. You cant blame an earthquake for making you fall and break yourself; and you cant criticize a flood for moving on. They have had their way with you and there are simply more interesting houses to watch crumble. But fires are short lived. Blizzards go away. Volcanoes burn out. Hurricanes decay. Tsunamis are nothing. Sinkholes turn to laughter. I may have been a broken house but you were the disaster.
—  hal3ynicole, An Ode To Moving