tastes like hate

  • Someone: but why wouldn't you like him?! He's so nice!!!
  • Me: gee I don't know Susan it's almost like people are more than just mean or nice and some personalities may appeal to me more than others and I don't owe guys my affection just bc they show basic human decency

when hoseoks mixtape drop i dont know what ill do, ive been dying to see what goes on in his head on a deeper level + what beats hes whipped up like… this been in the works since like 2014 its gonna be monumental

will you demons stop fucking mocking men for the way they look

Oh nice, my mom isn’t speaking to me. Is it because i, 1) bought something with my own money, 2) am bad at focusing on schoolwork, or 3) she’s angry at something else and taking it out on me via the silent treatment

anonymous asked:

I'm sorry if this isn't the type of prompt your looking for but I thought that idea of the black lion being able to take over her pilot in an emergency was interesting and I'd love to see Keith and pidge's reaction whether they see it first hand or hear about it from lance and hunk :))

I’m looking for all kinds of prompts!

For the curious, the fic in question is here.  Honestly, I’d forgotten all about it, so thank you for the reminder.


Of all the members of the team, Keith considered himself the most used to how strange Shiro could be when the mood struck.  No one else had seen Shiro go through phases of almost obsessive interest, no one else had heard him laugh over their potential deaths after wiping out in the desert, no one else had seen the way he’d carry on outrageously over anything but a perfect score on a test or essay.

That being said, this was still odd.

First of all, there was no reason Shiro should have been out of bed.  Allura had personally banished him to his room after their last battle, once he’d admitted he hadn’t slept that night, and not really the night before.  It had shown, which was proof enough how bad the situation had gotten.

Secondly, Shiro had taken over the kitchen, which was not at all his usual domain.  Thankfully he wasn’t trying to cook anything, but he had a line of bowls spanning the entire fifteen-foot length of the counter space.  Each one was filled with small amount of- well, of just about every kind of food they had, it seemed like.  They were all perfectly lined up two inches from the edge.  As they watched, Shiro put the last one down, then readjusted it until it matched the others.

So this was odd.  Even for Shiro.

(Read More Below)

Keep reading

I ship what I want to ship. I understand that not everyone is going to like it and I don’t care. I am not going to be forcing people to like my pairings. Instead of wasting my day away spreading hate I use my time to read fics, look at art, exchange headcanons and write my own stories and I find that is a better use of my time.

What Our Dead Teach (p1)

(Alpha!Derek, werefox!Stiles, canon violence, mild gore, spoopy stuff, some pack angst, some post nogitsune and other stuff angst, anchors.)

___________________



This shouldn’t have happened.

His nail breaks when he sinks his fingers into the earth like claws, and pulls himself forward as far as he can. There’s no point in holding in the loud hiss of pain that leaves him, or the long, drawn out groan as he drags himself across the ground at a snail’s pace. He’s been in the woods since nightfall, and by the look of the sky right now, Stiles would say it’s just about time to get up and go to school. For normal teenagers, anyway.

In times like this, he misses being one of those teens. To get up, eat a Pop-Tart, find that missing sock, run out the door with a quick hello-goodbye to his dad coming home, and off to school in his Jeep. Totally average high school student stuff sounds marginally better than crawling around in the dirt, bleeding, bruised, there’s definitely some snot and tear action going on here, maybe some broken bones, too.

Stiles drags himself forward another inch, and tries to remind himself that this isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to him. It’s not, there are worse things. He just can’t… think of any of them right now.

“Really fucking helpful, brain.”

His brain reminds him that talking to himself isn’t a good sign. It also comes up with a worse thing: Gerard. Murdered friends. Nogitsune.

“Good one,” he mutters to himself, reaching out with his now-bleeding hand and fastening his fingers around a tree root. It provides him with much better leverage than the stupid dirt, and Stiles manages to actually pull himself into a half-reclining position. It’s not ideal, but it will do.

It’s almost light enough to see the body he left behind in the clearing by the time he realizes he’s been leaning against a tree doing nothing for at least twenty minutes. Swearing under his breath, Stiles sticks his—Ow ripped off finger nail shit—hand into his pocket to pull out the small vial he shoved in there before leaving the house. Inside, the thick, ink-like substance seems to shudder and look at him as he swirls the stuff in front of his face. He grimaces at the smell when he pulls the top off, and tries not to think too hard about where it came from. This is not what he wanted, not the way things were supposed to go. No one’s supposed to do this, and for, like, twenty different really good reasons.

But, Stiles can see the body through the trees.

He can see a leg twitching.

Keep reading

Do you ever wonder what it tastes like

the Hate

that drips from their mouths

as they glare at the kids that tread

Hand in Hand

Upon the cracked ground, of a city that doesn’t love them

That doesn’t love anyone


Such a human expression, that fear

That contorts their faces - in absolute disgust -

They writhe in their loose skins- no longer comfortable in their yellow nails and oozing gums


The kids keep moving, keep watching

They Know

The old ones are not old

They’re just hungry

Eager

To tear into soft flesh


The kids are too new. Too full of love, and softness, and color

But their bare feet shake the parched concrete

Scorching a path behind them, for the next set of kids

That drip colors on the cold, dead ground

Long after we’ve been ripped apart by yellow nails

And blood wet bigoted lips

Our final laughs ringing between steel bones

We’ve won

archiveofourown.org
The Plague of Iscariot, Chapter 24
EVERYDAY_IM_PREACHING
By Organization for Transformative Works

This fic is rated M for Mature

This fic is set in a supposedly alternate universe where vampres exist

Being a vampire sucked.
And no, that wasn’t a fun pun or silly little joke. Being a vampire literally sucked; especially if you’re turned at a young age.
Turned in the year 1800, Dipper Pines has walked amongst mortals for over 200 years as an awkward sixteen year old. Alone and embittered, he found no reason to get involved in human affairs, preferring a solitary existence.
Until now.

steps on moving on :

1-He will leave you, and when he does, you will fight for him. Cry. Beg.

2-He will ignore. He will get annoyed. He will block you.

3-You will feel your insides clashing against each other. Hard. Loud. To make up for the silence that drips through your lips because this pain doesn’t deserve to be heard. It doesn’t deserve to scream.

4-You will act tough. Strong. Tell your friends you are okay, better than the last time this happened. You won’t stop moving. Not like last time. This time, you are stronger. So you run. You eat. You smile. You laugh. You exist.

5-weeks later, you will go to a party he is at, pretending you don’t know he will be there. When you see him, you will take a shot. When you see him with a girl, you will take two more. Your friends will point him out and you will laugh and say “who cares? I’m here with my friends to have fun.” When you see how happy he is, how happy she is, you will empty the vodka bottle in the jar of your belly, and you will sit there, as it overflows inside you, stinging the parts of you that are fighting to clash against each other. The parts that are fighting to scream. To break. The parts that are fighting.

6-you won’t notice when your belly overflows too much. It is now when your organs begin to drown .

7-You will make a fool out of yourself. You will cry in the car ride home. You will admit you are not okay. You are not happy.

8-You will get nightmares again. About the night he sexually harassed you. You will get nightmares about his hands around your neck and the way you can’t get loose from the fabric that handcuffs you together. You can’t escape. You are stuck. In this space that he filled up with his saliva that tastes like everything you hate about yourself. Your skin will hide under breaths that spell slut and whore and bitch. You hide, but you aren’t safe. You can’t move. You can’t wake up.

You wonder how it’s possible that he’s the one who hates you.

9-You start doing drugs. To sleep. To stop thinking so much. To go back to the part of all this when you were happy.

10-You stop seeing your friends. They don’t understand. You don’t blame them.  neither do you. You stopped understanding when no one continued to believe you. When you noticed how loved he is and how alone you are.

11-You start writing. You write a lot. You pretend this will heal you. You know it won’t. You write anyways.

12-Your mom tells you to fake it until you make it. You start smiling. You start talking to your friends again. You flush down the drugs. You leave the house. You laugh.

13-You go on a date. With a nice boy. You like him. But every time he smiles, you catch yourself pulling the corners of your mouth to plagiarize his. As he comes closer, you notice your fingers refusing to wrap around his, and for the first time you watch as your body refuses to be held. You watch as your body recognizes its weight, its scars. You notice how your body, for the first time, trusts to hold itself on its own. You like him. Just not enough. Just not yet.

14-you stop searching for a fill-me-up when you notice the jar in your belly is empty again. You realize you are worth more than an overflow of vodka and anonymous kisses.

15-you write. You write on the days you pretend you are strong. On days like this, you refuse to cry so the sky cries for you. You wonder what it means when you feel more alone in the company of your friends than moments like this. You wonder if you could ever carry people the way the sky carries you 

on days like this

you unpack your heart from the box under your bed

16-and you remember how heavy it is. You notice its size so you refuse to put it back in your body, afraid of being weighed down. you cut it in little pieces. you start placing each piece in different parts of this leftover body of yours. One in each eye. One in your upper lip. One on your left shoulder. Your knees. Your palms. Your belly.

17- you start doing things that make your pulse heard. You catch yourself smiling, without having to try. You aren’t happy . But your pulse is getting so loud that your insides stopped wanting to clash against each other.

18-We carry each other. We, writers, that’s what we do. We move through the things that don’t make sense and the parts of us we try so hard to make bearable, and when it all breaks down, we hope someone that loves the parts of us we couldn’t, could help us lift up and keep moving. We wonder, once the parts of us we are afraid of being lite up reveal themselves, if they will be admired. We, writers, we love in a way to help the rust and the ripped up and the scarred, to love themselves.

Tonight, you write. But not for yourself.

19-you tell yourself that you are trying to move on with grace. With a little bit of kindness. You admit to yourself that you miss him. God, you miss him. So much. But you long for the woman you are becoming. You long for her, like you’ve met her before. Like you know exactly who she is; you could pin-point her on a map. You long for her so much, you prioritize her safety. This is when you start protecting her over yourself: over the girl you grew to be up to this point.

20-they look at you. They notice you. The girl with so much heart. The girl with heart, in every part of her that the earthquake in him destroyed. In every part she stopped seeing beauty in; magic; faith. 

21-this is what is left. 21 years of soil. All over you. All in you. Now, the aches are still there; like earthquakes waiting to break through land and destruct everything down. This is what is left. You felt the biggest earthquake the planet of your body could experience. You broke. But this is what you hold onto: underneath it all, there is soil. And in the belly of this soil, there are tiny little seeds. growing. Evolving. Becoming. Waiting for a new home. What waits for you above the soil is beautiful. Magical. Entirely worthwhile. But you must move for it. You must climb. You must water your grounds. You must be patient.

This is a movement of faith. Of strength. Of dignity.  The last step that shows, that proves, how much you believe it is yours to have.

And I believe [in] you

.

I don’t quite understand people who hate Sora tbh. I mean dislike’s one thing, I get that certain characters ain’t everyone’s cuppa Joe. Especially his archetype. I’ve known quite a few folks who just ain’t up for that kinda peppy positivity 24/7, and that’s totally cool. But like, actual hate? And not even for ‘being annoying’ or ‘being too naive/optimistic’ or legit things that make sense–but for “killing” Xion and Roxas–of all reasons? 

how the hell

d’you hate

this adorable

cheeseball

for something he was absolutely unconscious for the entire process? 

anonymous asked:

playlist: Welcome to my life *i hope it doesn't sound stupid...

welcome to my life

nrrrd grrrl // mc chris

cry baby // melanie martinez

sarah smiles // panic! at the disco

kitchen sink // twenty one pilots

like a staring contest // future kings of nowhere

v. the stand (man or machine) // the protomen

headbangeeeeerrrrr!!!!!!! // babymetal

mz hyde // halestorm

- Mod Strawhat