they don't need words

anonymous asked:

Hey Syd! I'm really sorry you had to deal with that salty anon today, especially with what you've been going through recently. I hope the rest of your day is going good and that you're feeling better! </3

thanks, sweetheart ;u; and it’s all right! im doing okay right now, and i hope you’re having a great day/night. ♥︎

Fanfiction Work-In-Progress Guessing Game

Send me a word, if it’s in my wip document I’ll answer your ask with the sentence that it appears in

Things will work out when they work out. If they don’t work out the way you intend, don’t fret. It is probably a reminder that something needs change or attention. It’s another experience under your belt. It’s another lesson learned. Even the best fall down sometimes…don’t be so hard on yourself. Please don’t be so hard on yourself.

How the Winter Soldier shot Nick Fury

I’ve been wanting to make a post about this for a while, even though I might be the only person invested in this, but anyway, here we go.

I’ve seen mentioned several times, in posts about the movie and in fics that the Winter Soldier shot Nick Fury through the window of Steve’s apartment, and every time it makes me groan in frustration because no.

The Winter Soldier didn’t shoot Fury through a window, he shot him through a wall, and I don’t know about you, but it seems like a pretty big difference to me.

(bullet hole in the wall!!)

When I saw the scene the first time, I remember thinking holy shit??? that’s crazy, and for me that’s when the Winter Soldier really became a real, terrifyingly good assassin, that’s when his image as a serious threat solidified.

Read about the blogger getting carried away under the read more.

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It's okay to be a man who...
  • Is emotionally sensitive
  • Is honest about having feelings
  • Is open about having flaws
  • Likes cute and pretty things
  • Likes dressing in cute and pretty things
  • Is delicate
  • Is elegant
  • Is unsure whether it’s okay to be those things
  • Dances and sings with enthusiasm and heart
  • Empathizes with the feelings and experiences of others
  • Admits being wrong
  • Cries

And it’s understandable that you’re afraid to show all of that to a world that seems determined to erase it from you.

No matter what they say, you are who you are.

  • Listen

So it’s come to my attention that there has been far too much hate towards SHINee lately. It’s funny how people are assuming SHINee have become less popular or they think shawols have decreased in size. Sorry to disappoint anyone but that will never happen. This is an audio clip of the audience during SHINee’s perf at SMA. Notice how the fans never stopped cheering? That’s because we shawols will never stop supporting SHINee. So, please, stop assuming shit and stop these fanwars. 

One of the four postcard designs I’m doing for shatterdomeseattle! (An additional four to be done by geniusbee.) The postcards were available through the Indiegogo that was run last year, and I imagine they’ll also be available at the con itself on May 3rd. So go to the shatterdomeseattle page and get up to Seattle. :3

I had to make one of them coffee related, and given that I usually always draw Newt, I decided to go with Mako instead.

“Soul sickness. I’m guessing that’s not just a fancy way of saying I’ll be depressed for a while.”

Stiles is standing in Deaton’s office, already looking a little weak on his feet as he leans against Scott’s arm for support. It’s totally just to make Scott feel useful, ‘cause the guy’s looked like he’s on the verge of a breakdown ever since he hadn’t quite managed to knock Stiles out of the way of that spell in time.

It’s not that Stiles is feeling woozy, feeling like his legs might just decide to go on strike at any second.

And if it is, that’s only because Deaton’s frowning at him in a way that actually makes him look nervous. Deaton. Nervous.

That’s never even remotely good.

“I’m afraid soul sickness is exactly what it says on the tin,” the man replies. “Your soul is literally weakening, beginning to wither. And if it dies off completely… well, that’s a fate—“

“If you say ‘a fate worse than death’ I’m gonna slap somebody.”

The older man sighs, brows going up as if to say ‘fine, I won’t say it then.”

Scott’s grip tightens on his arm, voice going too low, wavering.

“But you can fix it, right?”

“This is a battle the soul must fight on its own, I’m afraid.” And then, after waiting just long enough for both boys to start well and truly panicking: “There is one thing that might help bolster you, help your soul fight off this unnatural disease. But…”

“But what?” Scott cuts in as he falters. “Whatever it is, do it.”


So, apparently, soulmates are a thing.


Who knew?

“It’s not as dramatic as romantics would have you believe. Most people don’t end up in a relationship with their soulmates. Many don’t even encounter them.”

“But if you did, you’d know, right?” Scott, of course, is enthralled by the idea. Deaton’s head bobs noncommittally, and his bright expression falters.

“Your souls would recognize each other. Most certainly, they would leave an impression. But to the untrained mind it would be hard to discriminate from any normal emotional response – attraction, nervousness, anger even, depending on the situation.”

Stiles glances to his friend, a smirk touching his lips.

“Why Scotty, you think you and—“ he was going to say Kira, he really was, but when he thinks about sparks of instant infatuation, he finds his mind jumping to Allison. Scott’s seems to as well, his eyes going shuttered.

Stiles lets the moment pass, looking back to Deaton.

“Ok, so you said ritual? Then let’s find me my soulmate.”


Keep reading

i. it’s the morning after, and in the elevator, you almost tell a stranger the whole thing. 

ii. her eyes turn colors in the sunlight and leave inksplot thumbprints somewhere inside your solar plexus.

iii. mostly, you wrote poetry about meeting somebody like her, about what she would taste like, how her hands would feel against your face, how her hips would rock and how that little pink mouth would let out a little pink moan that would linger in the air like a perfume.

iv. sometimes, you wrote poetry about death.

v. sometimes, you wrote poetry about meeting death, about what he would taste like, how his fingers would feel against his face, how your mother never cared anyway, how boys like you with their red raw mouths never let the sadness out but rather champ it in a silver bit in the rusty back of your throat.

vi. in summer thirst, your words dry up around her. you have never been able to hold her. you want to ask her about the universe, about the new pictures of pluto, about her family, about whether she prefers coffee or tea. you want to spill out your river secrets into her sea.

vii. her eyes, man. her eyes, and how they glow. her eyes, man, and how you’ll never get this trainwreck body to come up close. 

viii. last night, after four shots, and with shaking hands, you finally convinced yourself to unpeel flowerpetal limbs from the far wall and walk over and confess it all

ix. last night, before you got far, she kissed someone better than you, who writes poems about roses and stardust and ribcages and veins and reads Bukowski on saturdays. last night, you walked away.

x. it’s the morning after, and in the elevator, you almost tell a stranger everything. you watch your reflection in the doors as they open. you tear in two and bite down and say nothing.

—  boy howdy that hurt // r.i.d