three times too many

types of marvel fans i have seen on my dash during my time as a marvel fan
  • type 1: really love loki to a disturbing degree. probably joined around the time the first avengers movie came out. are rare nowadays but you occasionally still see one and cringe a lil bit but u do u fam
  • type 2: think the winter soldier is one of the greatest films ever made. would literally take a bullet for bucky barnes
  • type 2a: people who enjoy steve rogers (just kidding, this is everyone)
  • type 3: people who are in love with our lord and savior peggy carter
  • type 3a: people who are in love with our other lord and savior sharon carter
  • type 4: the guardians of the galaxy-ers. i'm pretty sure they're high like at least 40% of the time when they're not making fantastic edits
  • type 5: the Tony Stans™
  • type 6: the deadpool fans. interestingly probably the most respectful of the bunch
  • type 7: the comic book fans. always good for a good movie/comic comparison thanks guys
  • type 7a: the fraction!hawkeye fans. would die for kate bishop and think clint barton is A Mess™ (he is)
  • type 8: the Netflix Fan™. the only people capable of being adults here
  • type 9: never in my five years on this site have a seen an exclusively thor blog. but they must be out there. they must
  • type 10: people who have seen uncle ben die like three times too many. stop making origin stories for spiderman
  • type 11: people who needed the black panther movie yesterday (just kidding, this is also everyone)
  • type 12: people who would let natasha romonov kick them in the face
  • type 13: people who do not enjoy brucenat (just kidding, also everyone)

Boi, can you believe it’s already been a whole year since Horikoshi saved my life

LOTR things that still haunt me after all these goddamn years

  • Frodo deliriously crying out for Gandalf after he’s wounded
  • Frodo intially trying to fight Boromir as he tries to run out to Gandalf, then clinging to Boromir for dear life mere moments later
  • “You can’t help me, Sam. Not this time.”
  • Frodo suffering a flashback, and “Mr. Frodo! It’s all right. I’m here” so soon after
  • Frodo begging Sam to help him as he starts to sink under the Ring’s weight
  • Frodo removing his helmet as he gasps for air and struggles to speak
  • watching Frodo crawl up Mount Doom when he is too weak to walk
  • the way it takes Frodo a couple of seconds to respond when Sam asks him what’s wrong and how he looks so deeply distressed when he mentions Weathertop

bonus book things

  • Frodo weeping in despair as he watches the Witch-King and his host leave Minas Morgul
  • when the hobbits are returning home and Frodo begs them to hasten as they approach Weathertop and he doesn’t fucking look at it as they ride past wHAT THE FU-
  • Frodo concealing his illness for Sam’s sake. nOBODY TOUCH ME.

          all of it there and then gone. he was drowning in the harbor. her limbs were a corpse’s limbs. her eyes were dead and staring disgust and longing roiled in his gut.
          he lurched backward, and pain shot through his bad leg. his mouth was on fire. the room swayed. he braced himself against the wall, trying to breathe. inej was on her feet, moving toward him, her face concerned. he held up a hand to stop her.  
↳ crooked kingdom by leigh bardugo, chapter 26


What would I do without you?
Crash and burn.

My thoughts are all over the place...

Idk guys but i think viktor actually falls in love with yuuri in chapter 4 back when they ran into each other in the bathroom:

“Viktor Nikiforov was standing in front of him, looking faintly shocked at the sudden appearance of a small Japanese boy who had just walked straight into him and proceeded to make a fool out of himself with his stuttering apologies. The Russian’s cheeks were a little flushed and there was a slight hitch to his breath as though he had been running just moments previously. If Yuuri had to guess he would assume Viktor had been running from the paparazzi that were still swarming the halls of the stadium. Since his senior debut, Viktor’s popularity had only grown and press and fans alike were clamouring to get a glimpse of the teenager at every event he attended.”

Now, idk if the blushing and the little hitch in his breathing was actually because of the paps or yuuri but its pretty similar to the banquet scene at the end of ep 10. And if i remember correctly, after that Viktor paid a little more attention to him like in chapter 6 when yuuri caught him staring… and two chapters later he asked yuuri to dance, all nervous like 🤔 ((why would he do that if he didnt have some sort of interest in him?)) ((maybe he did it because yuuri won and he wanted to make some sort of a peace offering?? Shit idk))

Or maybe he could’ve fell in love with yuuri after he first saw him skate which we now know was back in chapter 3. And we know how Vik felt after watching him skate so that could’ve stirred up something within him but idk–

Or maybe he could’ve fell for him much later–

I may be wrong 😂 bc we wont know until we get Vik’s POV but, its just my thoughts.

Your Theories?

Help me out here fam

kaitrionabalfe  asked:

I'm in dire need of a fluffy scene where Claire tries to read the lines on Jamie's palm and she ends up failing miserably.

Liv says: So this isn’t fluff, so to speak—but I hope it’s still fun! Set about 2-3 years before puir Frank the Mailman died in the Three Witches AU. No worries if you haven’t read it. This one stands alone! :)

Intersection: A Three Witches Story

Claire knew this was against coven rules. Like, totally outside the realm of acceptable witch behavior.

To dole out one’s magical talents—particularly at the county fair—was a bit manipulative (in regards to the customers), a bit sad (in regards to Claire). Still, she liked to think she was working for a kind of greater good. Ensuring the happiness of all mankind! And that was almost admirable, wasn’t it? Giving hopeful glimmers of adulthood to the stork-like teenagers, comforting the mopey singletons who trudged around, heads bent? She’d offered such assurances as:

“A new man will come into your life. A handsome one—with a huge prick! His name…I think his name begins with a ‘T’.” (This to the recent divorcee, clutching her naked ring finger like a burn. She hadn’t known what a “prick” was but was no less forthcoming with her money.)

Or this, to the bucktoothed 16-year old picking at his acne scars: “You’ll be the coolest person in college. Captain of the ultimate frisbee team!” He’d been disappointed at that one, enormous chompers clamping over his bottom lip. “Ho ho ho there, young man!” she’d said then. “Ultimate frisbee is cool where you’re going. The coolest cool.” And then he’d smiled, a patchwork of teeth and holes, which Claire hoped someone might find endearing. A nice and wholesome blind girl, maybe.

And then this, to the both of them: “For just $5 more, I can guarantee it! All you have to do is buy this magical rock and carry it with you wherever you go.” Nevermind that said magical rock was actually from Claire’s backyard. Nevermind that several of them were speckled in bird shit. Maybe some cicada guts.

But that was the thing about desperate Mortals. Metaphorically speaking, their whole lives were a succession of bird shit plops and smeared bug guts. So they didn’t even notice when it was covering their $5, not-magical rock.

“Yes please! I’ll take two!” the divorcee had cried, handing Claire a ten dollar bill. (Did she think this would bring two men into her life? Because that’s not how Claire’s bird shit rocks worked.)

“Um. Yeah. That’s sounds pretty sick,” said Beaver Bobby. “I’ll buy a rock.” He’d paid in all quarters but, hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

If her best friend Gillian were here, she would likely call this “an exploitative farce,” two terms she would’ve picked up from her beloved Word of the Day calendar.

Claire,” she would hiss, “this is such an exploitative (Wednesday’s word) farce (last Friday’s word).” And then she’d pull out her Moleskin, update her word count with a self-satisfied tick. Her record, she claimed, was sixty words in a single morning, and Claire imagined a horrible plague descending upon their town, zombifying everyone until they could only grunt “verisimilitude.” Gillian thought an expanded vocabulary made her smarter but, really, it just increased her smart-assedness to a barely tolerable level.

Luckily, Gillian wasn’t here to offer one of her impressive synonyms because she’d bailed on their plans. If Claire could place money on it—and she couldn’t, with only $7 to her name, the very reason for this “manipulative/sad/exploitative farce”—Gillian was protesting GMO’s one county over. Perhaps arguing for the rights of beluga whales. Or, and this was the most likely, she was loitering at the Creamy Whip, breasts thrust at a very specific angle so that customers’ cones would find their shirts and not their mouths.

Psh! Now if that wasn’t an “exploitative farce” then Claire didn’t know what was. Gillian had mosquito bite boobs and a push-up bra more magical than her own powers.

But here was the thing: Claire wasn’t completely faking it. She wasn’t, so to speak, wearing a bra with three inches of padding. She could read palms, see futures unfurl, weblike, across strangers’ skins. Forks, divots, complex branches—each had such a distinct voice, that Claire had no doubt as to whether or not, say, Mr. Duncan over there would choke on a hot dog and die very suddenly. Or whether young Malva—that girl with the cotton candy and ruffled socks—would pop out a kid by the time she was 17. Claire, being a witch, knew precisely what would befall her clients by simply looking at their hands.

But of course, teenage pregnancy and death by synthetic meat logs weren’t exactly good for customer satisfaction. And so Claire would read Mr. Duncan’s palm, and she would see Mr. Duncan’s red face, gasping on a particularly troublesome bit of hot dog, but say he’d live until he was 85. A little white lie for a happy client. And a happy client meant A) money, B) a potential second visit, and thus C) more money. The $5 rocks weren’t scams, just for-profit business cards.

So she was lying, but not, y’know, totally lying. She’d deal with the prevention of hot dog-induced deaths later, when it better benefitted her monthly budget. (Because just as she wasn’t a complete liar, she wasn’t a complete asshole either.)

The fair had died down to a trickling of stragglers: mostly drunks, a couple of junkies who’d staggered into Nayawenne County for cheap-rate smack. Sighing, Claire stood to begin packing up, turned off the moody sound effects, gathered Gillian’s stack of Tarot cards (all hand-painted variations of herself: man Gillian; tree Gillian; Gillian with bigger-than-mosquito-bite boobs).

In the five hours since Claire had arrived, she’d made $120. Not a terrible turnout if one compared it to last year’s fair, when an angry swarm of Bible-thumpers had tossed her earnings into the funnel cake fryer. Sally Bain—or, as Claire called her, Sally Bane-of-Her-Existence—had rallied her troop of Jesus warriors and thrust crucifixes into Claire’s face, chanting things like, “Begone Satan!” and “This is God’s land!”

Which was kind of funny when you thought about it. If God wanted to claim ownership of Nayawenne—out of every other place in the universe—then he was pretty damn stupid.

Fortunately, Claire had suffered no further Bible-thumping, crucifix-wielding disturbances. Sally Bane-of-Her-Existence had fled town once she’d discovered her husband had fucked the organ player up in the ass. And in the church rectory, no less. (Such irony! Claire’d had absolutely nothing to do with it. Ha.)

It had been a windy afternoon, and Claire’s crystal ball was now coated in a fine layer of dust. Though it was only for decorative purposes—for customer satisfaction!—Claire decided she ought to give it a nice shine, make it look at least halfway capable of revealing visions of tomorrow.

Witch Tip #1: Unbeknownst to Mortals, crystal balls were like kisses from a true love. Which was to say, not powerful in the slightest. The most a kiss could do was give you mouth herpes. And, at its highest power, a crystal ball would fly across a room, break a window and the pinky toe of an irritating significant other. Not that Claire had experience with either situation. Certainly not the mouth herpes.

Claire ripped off a paper towel and went to grab the Windex, only to realize she’d left the Windex at home. Had, by a stroke of poor planning, only brought the herbal tonic she sometimes had to spritz into her eyes when they got a bit cloudy.

Witch Tip #2: Seeing the future had its drawbacks. Your eyes would get all crusty if you did it too much. As if your body was punishing you with goopy morning blindness. Honestly, it was pretty gross.

Well shit, Claire thought. She spat on her hand and rubbed the ball, hoping the couple beside “Whack-A-Democrat” wouldn’t think she was, like, doing something sexual to an inanimate object.

But whatever the couple thought, they were watching her, whispering behind their hands and giving her darting glances. Oh God, Claire thought, Bible-thumper radar blaring. Did Sally Bain send them? Did she organize a sabotage via prayer? Was it possible to raise an army of vengeful Baptists an entire state away? (Claire wouldn’t be surprised. She’d heard of stranger things. Done some of them herself. See also: anally-fucked organ player before he was anally fucked.)  

But no, the couple wasn’t looking at Claire with the fury of God in their eyes—but fascination. The woman, a petite but sturdy thing, was shoving her partner in Claire’s direction. Making a not-so-obvious pointing gesture, like, Her. Her! that he seemed somewhat reluctant to obey. Still, he did, and soon he was striding towards Claire, long legs stomping up clouds of dirt dust, red hair matching the synthetic blood of a “whacked” Bill Clinton.

“Are you…” the man began, looking nervously over his shoulder. The woman pursed her lips, arched her brow like, Do it, you pussy. He shoved his hands in his pockets, defeated. “Are ye done for the day, lass?”

“I was just about to pack up, but I’ve time for another reading if you’re interested.”

“Aye…” he said, completely unconvincing. “Aye, I suppose I’m interested.”

“Well then, take a seat, Mr…?”

“Fraser. Jamie.”

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pretty odd

genre: the fluffiest of fluff

warnings: death mention, but d&p don’t die, dw.

words: 12k what

summary: Dan Howell, piano teacher and speedster, craves chocolate cakes at three in the morning. He meets a baker named Phil who owns the only store opened at three in the morning and who bakes the most delicious chocolate cake in the world. It’s a pretty odd love story.

a/n: this motherfucker. This fucking fic, man. It went through seven different phases I’m not even kidding. This is the Chosen One™. I had such a blast writing this. I loved working on it, and I hope you love it, too. Thank you for 1k, and I hope this shows my gratitude <33

also, quick facts: John Chambers is an actual fictional character! he’s a speedster who obtained his powers via the speedster formula. The more you know.

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one of my high school friends visited today! went trawling through all the cute thrift + stationery stores.

So I made it to the very beginning of my 2800 likes, back to ole 2015, and let me tell you, there are some classic posts in my queue that I haven’t seen in a long time. Get ready.

International Love: Yuri Plisetsky x Reader

Request:  May I request a Dutch reader x yurio? Like they once met at a competition and they’re both sassy af so it clicked? They message very day until a competition in the Netherlands and he kisses her the moment he sees her? She shows him Amsterdam and all?

A/N: This was really fun to write, especially since it’s my own country. Enjoy!

Yuri rolled his eyes as Yakov scolded him. His voice had been haunting him ever since he arrived at the building, and the thought of having to put up with him even longer was  terrifying. He wasn’t even doing anything, but apparently it still caused the old man to flip shit.

He sighed and pulled his hoodie over his eyes, hiding the earbuds he was actually wearing

This was a usual thing for him. He’d arrive at the rink, get scolded by his coach, warm up and practice and eventually performing. It seemed to repeat itself every other day and he was actually getting tired of it. Until one day, he noticed someone.

“I get it! Stop getting all up in my shit!”

Yuri’s eyes followed your appearance as you walked past him. He roamed his eyes up and down, inspecting every tiny detail. Your eyes were bright and had a hint of annoyance, which matched perfectly with the roll of your eyes. Your hands were stuffed inside the pockets of your bright orange hoodie, and the Dutch flag was displayed on your skates.

“Hey Blondie, eyes up here.” Yuri averted his eyes back to your face, landing on an amused smirk. He scoffed and looked the other way. You smirked and extended your hand to flick his forehead, grabbing his attention yet again.

“Hey, I’m talking to you, Punk.” Yuri groaned and smacked your hand away, looking back up at you from under his hoodie. You took in the details of his face. Strands of hair fell in front of his face, while his piercing greenish orbs were glaring back at you. He had a lean figure, with broad shoulders, and a very prominent jawline.

“Tsk. Not like I care.” He responded, but you noticed his lips tug upwards. You raised your eyebrows up at him and leaned down.
“At least look at me when I’m talking to you, kid.” You noticed a glint in his eyes when the words escaped your mouth. A deep chuckle came from his pink lips as he suddenly rose from his seat.

Your eyes widened as his tall figure towered over yours. You swallowed thickly as he leaned over you just slightly, a sly smirk on his attractive face.
“Kid? You barely reach my shoulders…” He taunted, poking his tongue out at you. You chuckled and punched his chest playfully, waving your hand up and down as you looked the other way.

“Okay, Okay, you’re a titan, I get it!” You told him with a casual smirk, to which he chuckled and sat back down. You looked down at him curiously and took the seat next to him. He turned to you and took out one earbud.

“Are you the ‘Russian Ice Tiger’ everyone keeps talking about?” You asked him, placing one of your feet on your knee to run your finger over the blade of your skate. Yuri sighed and nodded.
“I guess…”

“You’re more like a kitten though.”

“Shut up.”

From: Y/n
‘You totally failed your last jump though, so you have no excuse to miss practice.’

From: Yuri
‘You practically fail at everything in life, so you have no excuse to talk to me like this.’

From: Y/n
‘Okay, rude.’

From: Yuri
‘You love me.’

Yuri hesitantly send the message. Even though you made jokes about loving each other every day, it always caused his heart to skip a beat whenever you did.

You had given him your number, well… more like stole his phone and added yourself. Since that day you have been texting every day, excluding your skype calls every saturday. Yuri had grown very fond of you and eventually caught himself falling for you.

From: Y/n
‘Do I though???’

From: Y/n
‘Jk, you know I do.’

You hadn’t seen each other for more than 10 months when Yuri announced he had a competition in Amsterdam. You were stoked and began ranting about how you would take him to see the Rijksmuseum and make him eat stroopwafels. His response was a chuckle, and he let you ramble about where you would take him.

He loved the way you’d accidently slip some dutch words in your sentences, making them seem broken. But to him it was the cutest thing ever. He even recognised some words you had used before, most of them were curse words though.

“Yuri, klasbak, are you even listening at me?” You asked him, leaning into the camera of your laptop as you folded your arms over your chest. Yuri smiled and nodded, adjusting his position into something more comfortable. His head leaned onto his hand as he listened to you with a small smile.

He couldn’t wait to see you again.

He hadn’t expected this many people to wait for him. The whole entrance was blocked by ‘Yuri’s Angels’, holding up posters and shouting out his name in desperate need for his attention. He had no idea he even had fans from Holland, but there were three times that many than in any other country he had been too.

Like usual he just tried to blend in with the crowd as the exited the arrival hall. His tiger print suitcase was held by Yakov, who was actually scolding him for not carrying it on his own. But the words of his coach were muted, his mind only focused on finding a certain person.
You had promised to pick him up with a bright smile, so “You couldn’t be wasting any time and get right to the sight seeing part of his trip.”. You also told him you “Missed his ugly ass.”

So his eyes were taking in his surroundings in desperate need to find that one person. That one person he hadn’t seen in person for over ten months. The one person who he had grown feeling for and didn’t know what to do with them.

So when he did notice your appearance, looking back at him with a bright smile, his feet quickly made his way towards you. Eyes never leaving yours as he approached you, hands that were stuffed in his pockets now swaying by his side. You smiled and extended your hands as he was now close enough to touch you.

But instead of hugging you, his hands extended towards you to grab your face. He pulled you closer and suddenly you felt a pair of warm lips on yours. Your eyes widened as he kissed you, taken back by his actions. But after a few seconds you smiled against his lips and threw your arms around his neck, kissing him back with just as much love.

Once the both of you pulled back, you looked up at him with a toothy smile, and Yuri returned the gesture. He pecked your lips once more before you playfully punched his side. He groaned as your hand made contact just below his ribs and he hunched over in slight pain.

“We’re wasting time, idiot.”

“So what’s in this?”

“We call it stroop, it’s like caramel.”

Yuri nodded as he took another bite of the waffel. He hummed at the taste, extending his arm towards you so you could take a bite. You smirked and practically bit half of it off, making Yuri scoff. His fingers flicked your nose, making you whine.

You laughed and leaned your head back on his shoulder like you had previously done. It was a beautiful evening in august, and the sun was setting. An orange glow covered the building around the canals, as you silently floated over the water. Yuri’s arm around your shoulder, and your head against his.

After he finished the sweet treat, he turned towards you. You blinked up at him, thinking he was going to say something, when he yet again placed his lips on yours. You closed your eyes and melted into the kiss, cupping his cheek and sitting up slightly.

You parted your lips as you felt his tongue run over your lower lip. He smirked and you knew he was planning something. When he pushed his tongue against yours, you could still taste the sweetness of the waffel. You chuckled and pulled away.


“You loved it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Sleep Is For the Weak - 600 words, 13x04 coda

Demons, angels: they come here and they sleep. They live lives of light or darkness or fire or joy but then they die and it’s lights out, kids. Everything sleeps. Everything is quiet and still and endless and nothing ever wakes up.

Nothing ever has. There’s nothing that can wake up when there’s nothing to wake up to.  

Nothing’s ever woken up before, and nothing’s ever stomped around, leaving a slimy trail of icky feelings wherever it walks.

It just reeks of feelings. Confusion, fear, anger, wonder, hope. It’s revolting.

It’s an angel – or it was, before it was swallowed up by Earth and humanity and those nauseating feelings, and then spat back out here, where it was supposed to be sleeping.

But it’s not. Instead it’s marching around, demanding answers, making a sticky mess of everything.

“Winchesters,” it says, and there’s that hope again.

And this just won’t do.

The inside of an angel’s brain – it isn’t supposed to be this sickeningly emotional. This angel, it’s different.

It’s seen a lot.

Wars and blood and creation and life, like every other angel, every one of God’s teensy little foot soldiers that have come here to rest. Oh, and this angel, it put so many of them here, oh yes, and there’s the fear now. It fears their judgement.

It fears failure. It fears being useless. It fears death.

And this is interesting: this angel has died before. One, two, three four five times, too many times to count. It’s been here but then it’s left again (let’s chalk that up to God, shall we) without ever waking. Until now.

It knows things and it fears things but more, more than this; two faces float to the surface. Winchesters, it must be, and suddenly the angel’s head is just swimming in love. How very precious.

There are other faces, other memories, that drift past as well. A blonde girl with a backpack, walking by the side of a road; a woman lit by a single lamp, hunched over a worn, leather-bound notebook; a woman painting a wall, and the life that grows inside her; and then the two men again. And again, and again. And then just the one, over and over – drinking from a bottle, driving a car, singing to music, eating pizza at a table and smiling and laughing and then the name rises up, front and centre and too loud to be ignored Dean Dean DeanDeanDeanDean.

It’s so much.

It’s too much.

The angel gasps, groaning on the floor. It’s so loud. It needs to shut. Up.

It’s demanding freedom now; righteous, still.

So very annoying. Trying to be clever.

“Sam and Dean,” it says again.


A kitchen, a cemetery, an old laboratory, a lake, a white room, a dark shoreline – death after miserable death – but through it all there’s that face again. Here or there, it pops up; strange, how often that face is the last thing the angel sees before darkness falls.

It’s down again but it just won’t sleep. It’s not listening.

And it’s defiant, now.

“I’m already saved.”

It isn’t necessary to see into its head again. That face, that name, repeating again, projecting out without conscious though. DeanDeanDeanDeanDean.

The angel must not even realize just how deafening that sound is. But now it’s spitting and cursing and issuing threats and everything is getting so much louder.

Angels are supposed to be about falling in line. This… this will not do.

It’s more trouble than it’s worth, really.

Change || Harry Styles - Chapter Three: I’ve Been Played a Fool Four, Three, Too Many Times

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Originally posted by stylesinthewild

Harry S. (7:57) : Good morning :) i hope you have a fantastic day. leave the house if only for a few minutes. it’ll make you feel good i promise!

My phone lit up beside me. As I read the message, I couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, Harry.” I mumbled and stretched my arms. I sat up and slid out of bed, then went downstairs to the kitchen before I started composing my response.

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