batmanisagatewaydrug:

madameatomicbomb:

kaleyed:

Everyone should watch Sky High for the sheer fact that there is a character whose mother is a superhero and father is a super villain and the kid’s name is Warren Peace. 

Warren Peace, man. 

He also looks like this, if that helps at all

image

This movie is ridiculously underrated and the fact that they didn’t get to make it a four-part series like they had planned is a tragedy 

THEY WERE PLANING A FOUR PAR SERIES! WHAT!WHY DIDNT THIS HAPPEN

GOSH DIDDLY DAMNIT

(via 50shadesofwinchester)

appendingfic:

ironcheflancaster:

wedonotpromoteviolence:

heirofspacecore:

sleek-black-wings:

thederpywingedone:

batmansymbol:

by the way did I ever tell y’all about the time I got a blank message from nobody, sent on new year’s eve in 1969, when the internet didn’t exist?
because that happened

What the fuck

Time travel.

Or maybe its from 2069, when we’ve developed the technology to send data to the past. You sent yourself a blank message as a test but as the email address you used to send it doesnt exist yet, it came up as no sender

I… what?

OKAY KIDS, LET’S LEARN ABOUT THE UNIX EPOCH
So back in the early days of computers, when we were trying to build clocks to keep all our computers in sync, we tried a bunch of different ways to synchronize them in ways that both normal people could use and programmers could utilize.
We just tried saying “The current time is THIS date” and just storing that date as some text, but while that was easy for humans, it was a bunch of different numbers that worked together in funny ways and computers don’t play nice with a bunch of random, arbitrary rules.
Not much worked, until we realized that we needed a BASELINE to compare against, and a way to represent the current time that covers everybody. So we came up with Unix time, because Unix was the style at the time. Essentially, Unix time represents any given time by saying “How many seconds ago was 12:00 AM on January 1, 1970 in Iceland somewhere?”. Recent enough to keep the numbers relatively small, far enough that nothing computer-y would fall before it, and consistent enough that there’d be no discrepancy based on where you are.
So what happens when you see the date “December 31, 1969” on a buggy message like this is that the computer received a bunch of zeroes by mistake and went “Oh, this must be a message!” Then when it tried to interpret it, it got to the date, found a zero, and said “Zero seconds since the Unix Epoch? I’ll round down - this was sent at the last second of New Year’s Eve, 1969! They’ll be so happy to finally get their blank message.”
And then the computer traipsed off on its merry way, because computers are fucking ridiculous.

This is frankly more hilarious than the 1969 time traveler theory

appendingfic:

ironcheflancaster:

wedonotpromoteviolence:

heirofspacecore:

sleek-black-wings:

thederpywingedone:

batmansymbol:

by the way did I ever tell y’all about the time I got a blank message from nobody, sent on new year’s eve in 1969, when the internet didn’t exist?

because that happened

What the fuck

Time travel.

Or maybe its from 2069, when we’ve developed the technology to send data to the past. You sent yourself a blank message as a test but as the email address you used to send it doesnt exist yet, it came up as no sender

I… what?

OKAY KIDS, LET’S LEARN ABOUT THE UNIX EPOCH

So back in the early days of computers, when we were trying to build clocks to keep all our computers in sync, we tried a bunch of different ways to synchronize them in ways that both normal people could use and programmers could utilize.

We just tried saying “The current time is THIS date” and just storing that date as some text, but while that was easy for humans, it was a bunch of different numbers that worked together in funny ways and computers don’t play nice with a bunch of random, arbitrary rules.

Not much worked, until we realized that we needed a BASELINE to compare against, and a way to represent the current time that covers everybody. So we came up with Unix time, because Unix was the style at the time. Essentially, Unix time represents any given time by saying “How many seconds ago was 12:00 AM on January 1, 1970 in Iceland somewhere?”. Recent enough to keep the numbers relatively small, far enough that nothing computer-y would fall before it, and consistent enough that there’d be no discrepancy based on where you are.

So what happens when you see the date “December 31, 1969” on a buggy message like this is that the computer received a bunch of zeroes by mistake and went “Oh, this must be a message!” Then when it tried to interpret it, it got to the date, found a zero, and said “Zero seconds since the Unix Epoch? I’ll round down - this was sent at the last second of New Year’s Eve, 1969! They’ll be so happy to finally get their blank message.”

And then the computer traipsed off on its merry way, because computers are fucking ridiculous.

This is frankly more hilarious than the 1969 time traveler theory

(via slowdancingangels)

This week's episodes

  • Free! Eternal Summer: Haru fights with Mako; Mako is going to a Uni in Tokyo.
  • Zankyou no Terror: Lisa has a bomb strapped on to her; Twelve betrays Nine.
  • Tokyo Ghoul: Kaneki is brutally tortured.
  • Me: ... At least Barakamon can cheer me up!
  • Barakamon: Sensei leaves without saying goodbye.
  • Me:
  • Me:
  • Me: I came out here to have a good time and I'm honestly feeling SO attacked right now
  • +Haikyuu: Karasuno loses.
  • Me: DID ALL THE DIRECTORS LIKE MEET UP SOMEWHERE ONE DAY AND THOUGHT, OH HEY WE SHOULD MAKE THIS WEEK THE MOST DEPRESSING ONE EVER?!

troyes-rifle-in-the-front-seat:

theisleoflindentrees:

kellyeden:

sixpenceee:

As a paranormal/horror blogger I can assure you these child abuse ads are the most scariest and saddest thing I’ve ever seen. Probably because things like that are happening RIGHT NOW at this very INSTANT. 

And it’s horrifying but hopefully these ads bring more attention towards it. 

I got these from this buzzfeed article. You can view more ads and the sources for these ads there as well. 

powerful

so important.

The girl in the hands dress just completely fucked me up..

(via ajb66613)

misandry-mermaid:

bonequeer:

radicalrebellion:

feministcaptainmorgan:

baronsledjoys:

firecannotkillafitblr:

This drives me mad. I used to work in a bookstore, and was talking to my coworker and he just yelled out “stop flirting with me!” at this ridiculous volume and it was humiliating because 
1. I wasn’t
2. I got in trouble for acting unprofessional 
3. He embarrassed me in front of a line of people
4. And he only stopped insisting that I was flirting when my boyfriend (who is now my husband) said, “dude, trust me, she’s not flirting with you” to him

That asshole respected my BOYFRIEND saying I wasn’t flirting more than he respected me saying it and I was the one who was talking! The whole scene got me in trouble at work. And the most ridiculous part is we were talking about a fucking book. In a bookstore.

One time, my ex boyfriend had a crush on some girl, and said that he thought he might have “a chance” with her.

When I asked him what made him think that, he said “Well, she talks to me.”

And this is why it is so difficult to be a girl and be friends with men who are attracted to women.

Can we also add that this is why a lot of women do the resting bitch face when out in public. Cause dudes swear a glance or a smile is flirting.

So yesterday something that perfectly illustrates this happened. I work at a fast food place and this guy comes in at 7am on a Sunday, still probably drunk from the night before, and when I smiled and said goodmorning he said “Did you just say that because you’re being paid to say that?” 

I repressed my urge to sarcastically answer, and said “Nope, I just enjoy saying hi to everyone!” To which he responded, “Oh, so you weren’t flirting with me then.”

Dude, I’m not flirting with your gross 7am-on-a-Sunday-ass, trust me.

My defense mechanism when I’m uncomfortable at work is to smile, so I did that and said “Is there anything I can get you this morning?” to which he responded,

"There, you just smiled! What does that mean?"

At this point I was fed up, so I said, 

"I smile at everyone sir, its just what I do. What can I get you, coffee, a bagel?"

And he said “I’m gonna be watching to see if you smile at everyone. I don’t like it when girls lie to me” and then ordered a coffee and a muffin like he hadn’t just said something at 11 on the “Is this guy a serial rapist” scale (where 0 is ‘no’ and 10 is ‘Yes, run away as fast as you can right now.”).

Then he sat there for another hour and a half, staring at me from his table. When he got up and left he came back to the counter, and said “You do smile at everyone. That’s fucked up.” and walked out.

I can’t even be innocuously polite and pleasant to people at my job (where customer service is the number one thing we are supposed to be focusing on) for fear of this shit happening. What happens if he had decided to wait until my shift was over? 

New Rule: If she’s at work, SHE’S NOT FLIRTING WITH YOU.

Oh my god, that last story though.
"You smile at people indiscriminately at your customer service job!! You’re practically telling me to my face that I’m not special!"
JFC the male entitlement is palpable.

(via not-feeling-the--aster)

cannedviennasausage:

suchanadorer:

hurryupmerlin:

purdaldoo:

THIS SONG IS NOT ALLOWED TO BE PRETTY NO

Okay srsly, WHAT SONG IS THAT

Caramelldansen apparently.

are you fucking kidding me

(via borikenia)

different-cultures-and-justice:

fuckingradfems:

ianbaerwolf:

donitaruga:

glassbottledemon:

Male rape victim talks about why he finds male rape funny at the Atomic Vaudeville Cabaret in June of 2012.

Full Video: [x]

GIFs made by /u/inadreamscape

This always makes me cry.

God damn it makes me sad

This makes me so sad every time it crosses my dash. Forever reblog.

i legitimately almost teared up because nobody should go through that

(via sourwolf-loki-destiel-221b)

gayisthenewokay:

happylittlebastille:

long-island-comedium:

SO YOU KNOW THAT POST ABOUT THE RED VARSITY JACKETS WITH LEATHER SLEEVES BEING THE LESBIAN UNIFORM???

WELL I WAS LOOKING AT THIS JACKET ONLINE:

image

AND THEN I FOUND THIS REVIEW:

image

AND I AM ABSOLUTELY LOSING IT

LOOK AT THE “BEST USES”

it looks even better out of the closet

OH MY GOD IT’S THIS POST IF ANY OF YOU ARE WONDERING WHY I’M LAUGHING MY ASS OFFimage

(via nightwings-ass)

demon-deans-meatstick:

theoncomingmoose:

jaredpaderlecki:

#if this isn’t a metaphor for tumblr i don’t know what is

look at sam’s face though

THIS IS LIKE THE FREAKING FANDOM’S MOTTO OR SOMETHIN 

(via avengersincamphalfbloodstardis)

luninosity:

stuffimgoingtohellfor:

checkthemargins:

It is my headcanon that there is a gun on the table in this scene because The Winter Soldier has been trained to arm any of his handlers who are not already armed while in his presence so that, if they so choose, they can put him down at any time.Later, it takes Steve months to figure out why Bucky gives him a knife every time they’re in the same room.

#when i think I cannot have sadder thoughts about Bucky Barnes#something like this comes along [via feanorinleatherpants]

Here you go…
It takes Steve months—well, one month and three weeks and two days, one-three-two, numerical evidence of his failure—to realize why Bucky keeps handing him knives.
At first he’d thought the gesture meant tangible evidence of surrender. Or trust. Or, hell, a lack of confidence in Steve’s own abilities, which might’ve been insulting except that Steve’s so damned relieved that Bucky’s back that there’s no room for any insult.
He’d been accepting all the knives. Sometimes even guns. The weapons come in all different shapes and sizes. A slim straight stiletto, infiltration in a blade. A jagged-edged brutal thing that looks like the death of Viking warriors. A tiny derringer; a sleek black silenced professional bullet-deliverer. He doesn’t ask where Bucky’s getting them, though he does wonder, especially the time Bucky stares at him, makes an expression that would’ve been a sigh if the Winter Soldier went in for extraneous expressions, and shoves what looks suspiciously like a spear into Steve’s hand.
Steve, juggling groceries and unanticipated weaponry, had said, “Um, Buck? Planning on gladiatorial combat?” Bucky’d glared, muttered something undecipherable in Russian, vanished into his own room, and not come out for two days.
He’d been eating. Steve’d left trays. They’d been sitting empty outside the door every time he’d checked.
The pile of assorted death-dealing implements in Steve’s room grows day by day. Every time Bucky looks at him with exasperation and silently holds out another sharp edge. Every time they’re in a room together.
He asks Tony once, venturing into the bowels of that personal lab-slash-engineering explosion-slash-space where Tony can feel safe enough, whether Bucky’d ever given him a knife, when they were alone together. Tony snorts at him from behind what might be either a new element synthesizer or an extremely complicated still, and says, “Right, ’cause I so like being handed things by people with homicidal tendencies, and anyway, Spangles, have you noticed he’s never alone in a room with anyone else, he only hangs out with us when you’re there, what do you think that means, move those blueberries closer, they’re integral for the success of this test, thanks.”
Steve moves the blueberries. And tries not to hate the fact that Tony Stark’s noticed this fact about Bucky before he has.
He’s always had Bucky. He’s always been used to having Bucky, except when he hasn’t, and that’s a colder stretch of time than he wants to remember. Numb and chilly. Ice.
He’s so used to having Bucky that it feels natural. Bucky goes places with him, that’s right, that’s how it is. Bucky saved him because that’s what Bucky does, Bucky always saves him, Bucky saved him in fights on a million Brooklyn streets and again when the desperate shuddering need to find Bucky made Steve into Captain America in a way no tights and dancing girls ever did, Bucky saved him by giving him a reason and an anchor, Bucky saved him in the debris-field green-water deathtrap of the Potomac and saves him now with every evanescent memory-sketch of a smile.
Bucky doesn’t go places without Steve. Not now. 
Bucky used to go dancing. Bucky used to find odd jobs, butcher’s-boy errands and dockworker’s wages and a few others that Steve wasn’t supposed to know about, the kind of jobs that involved squiring elderly ladies and sometimes elderly men on late-night excursions and looking pretty. Bucky always had been pretty, had been charming, had been good companionship.
Steve would’ve thrown his sketchbook at the wall, those nights, if he could’ve. Too busy coughing up every bit of his lungs. Dying inside. 
Bucky these days is beautiful in the way obsidian is beautiful. Fantastical, unbelievable, and tempered by volcanic forces that’d make you shudder if you thought about them. Deadly and honed to an arrow-point.
Steve walks into the kitchen on that day, one month three weeks two days, just looking for some orange juice because he’s thirsty post-run, and it’s not any day in particular, just a day, just another day with sunlight and clouds chasing each other beyond the window and casting fluttery shadows over the countertops and his heart as Bucky whirls away from the refrigerator, juice in hand.
So damn beautiful. Steve’s heart skips a beat. Always has, always will. Everything else in the world can crumble and fade and get reborn and change, but not that. When it’s him and Bucky, it’s him and Bucky, and his heart’s well aware that they’re both a hell of a way from Brooklyn and it doesn’t think that the distance matters. So: beats, skipped. Forever.
Bucky holds out the orange juice. Of course. Steve generally wants orange juice upon coming home.
He takes it and says “Thanks” and all at once there’s a knife in Bucky’s other hand, flipped around so it’s hilt-first, plainly not a menace. It’s one of their kitchen knives.
“You know,” Steve says, eyeing the blade, eyeing Bucky’s face, “most people don’t need to cut the orange juice open, Buck.”
Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, grumbles something that sounds like “all the stupid” under his breath. “Take it.”
“If you’re worried you’re gonna hurt me, well, I’m not.”
“You’re not getting it,” Bucky says, now sounding frustrated. “What more do I have to do to—”
“To what?” Steve’s starting to feel ridiculous, post-run sweaty and holding orange juice, so he solves the latter problem by setting the carton down. “What’re we doing, here, again?”
“You’re not armed.” Bucky’s not exactly meeting his gaze. “We’re too evenly matched. You need an advantage. And you never keep them when I give them to you.”
“Where do you keep finding—no, never mind, tell me later. Why do I need an advantage, Bucky?” Name repetition. Not the Winter Soldier. Not the Asset. Bucky.
Who looks a bit helplessly, insofar as he’s ever helpless, at the kitchen knife. “If it’s already yours, will you keep this one?”
“It’s ours,” Steve says, no longer totally at sea and beginning to feel nauseated by the first little ripples of intuition about why. “Everything in these rooms is ours. Tony said. As long as we want. You think I’m gonna have to fight you.”
“I—” Bucky wobbles over the word think. Opts for, “You need to be able to. To handle me.”
“When you’re a threat? You’re not—”
“I am. And—no. Whenever you decide it’s the best option.”
That answer’s too fast, too easy, to be anything but painfully learned. Steve, afraid he is about to be sick, hating the tang of oranges on his tongue, gulps out, “How about never…”
Bucky seems nonplussed by this response. Steve tries again. “I’m not gonna just decide to stick a knife in you, Bucky!”
“I have to…” Bucky hesitates. The sunshine, beyond the window, cowers behind a cloud. “They told me…every handler has to be armed, they can’t take any risk…”
“I’m not your handler!”
“Aren’t you?”
“What the hell—no!”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Bucky, in a rare indication of genuine emotion, tosses the knife into the wall and runs his human hand through his hair. Bucky has emotions. Steve knows he does. He just holds them close to his chest, like cards he’s not entirely sure how to play but that can’t be revealed in case the revelations’re used against him. “I meant—I trust you.”
“Do you even know what that means,” Steve says, standing brokenhearted next to the fridge with sweat drying clammy down his back. “I’m not—them, Bucky. Don’t trust me like you’d trust them.”
“I don’t,” Bucky says, “I trust you like I’d trust the only person who ever tried to save me, I remember that, I got broken pieces but I got a lot of ’em, and the good ones have your face, Steve, so yeah, I trust you, so take the damn knife already,” and then they end up looking at each other for a while.
The sunbeam wanders through the room again, and chooses to curl up on the table by the orange juice and watch. A golden audience. Morning painted in fruit and flavor. The knife, stuck in plaster, quivers happily.
Steve, very cautiously, hoping it’s the right step, hoping Bucky’ll comprehend the tone, hoping, says, “I don’t need a knife, I’m pretty sure I’d, y’know, win…”
Bucky’s expression displays a complicated rocket-swift series of reactions: startlement, rejection, consideration. Amusement. Grim and brittle and unaccustomed to existence, but clear. “Says you, punk.”
“Yeah,” Steve agrees, “says me,” and Bucky doesn’t laugh but the laugh’s painfully brilliantly present in his eyes. “Might always be a habit. Handing you something.”
“I can live with that.” When Steve takes a step forward, Bucky does too. They’re looking at each other now. “Dish towel could be a weapon. If you feel like helping out around here.”
“I did your laundry yesterday when Sam called and you forgot to start the load,” Bucky says. “I wanted to. A pen, maybe. Pencil. Could try handing you a pencil. Could still kill me with a pencil. Theoretically. If I let you.”
“You wouldn’t.” He’s close enough to brush that stray strand of hair out of Bucky’s eyes. If Bucky’d let him do that. His fingers tingle with the need. “I noticed you did the laundry. Why’d you leave it on the couch?” It’d been folded. Military-neat. Even his underwear. He’d stared at that for a good ten minutes. Bucky, folding his underwear.
Bucky shrugs. “Wasn’t sure I was welcome in your room.”
“You’re always welcome in my room,” Steve says, which is maybe a very stupid thing to say, but his mouth and heart are busy making decisions without him. There’s still a pile of collected weaponry in his room, too. He wonders dizzily what Bucky’d’ve done, encountering the heap. “Anywhere. Whenever, Buck, wherever.”
“If I handed you a pencil,” Bucky says, and then stops, eyes suddenly very far away—Steve holds his breath—and abruptly back again. “You used to draw.”
“You…remember that…”
“I remember I loved every time you drew me,” Bucky says meditatively, and Steve chokes on his next inhale, like having asthma all over, this can’t be real, too breathless and giddy, “I remember thinking I could sit still all day if you asked, ’cause it was you asking. Anything, if you asked. Steve Rogers.”
“So,” Steve says, feeling like the earth’s dropped away, feeling like nothing’s real except him and Bucky and this strange bubbling-up effervescent sensation in his chest, scampering down his spine, billowing out to his fingertips, “so…if I asked…not an order, not here to give you orders, Bucky, but if I asked…you loved it, you said…anything, you said…”
“Start leaving pencils around,” Bucky offers, “and give me back some of my knives, if you’re not planning to use ’em,” and Steve whispers, “Can I draw you?” and lifts his hand, slow as a dream, not a threat, and when Bucky breathes back, “Yeah,” they both know it’s a yes to everything, to old and new habits and mingled breaths and Steve’s fingers finally brushing through Bucky’s wayward hair.
 

luninosity:

stuffimgoingtohellfor:

checkthemargins:

It is my headcanon that there is a gun on the table in this scene because The Winter Soldier has been trained to arm any of his handlers who are not already armed while in his presence so that, if they so choose, they can put him down at any time.

Later, it takes Steve months to figure out why Bucky gives him a knife every time they’re in the same room.

 [via feanorinleatherpants]

Here you go…

It takes Steve months—well, one month and three weeks and two days, one-three-two, numerical evidence of his failure—to realize why Bucky keeps handing him knives.

At first he’d thought the gesture meant tangible evidence of surrender. Or trust. Or, hell, a lack of confidence in Steve’s own abilities, which might’ve been insulting except that Steve’s so damned relieved that Bucky’s back that there’s no room for any insult.

He’d been accepting all the knives. Sometimes even guns. The weapons come in all different shapes and sizes. A slim straight stiletto, infiltration in a blade. A jagged-edged brutal thing that looks like the death of Viking warriors. A tiny derringer; a sleek black silenced professional bullet-deliverer. He doesn’t ask where Bucky’s getting them, though he does wonder, especially the time Bucky stares at him, makes an expression that would’ve been a sigh if the Winter Soldier went in for extraneous expressions, and shoves what looks suspiciously like a spear into Steve’s hand.

Steve, juggling groceries and unanticipated weaponry, had said, “Um, Buck? Planning on gladiatorial combat?” Bucky’d glared, muttered something undecipherable in Russian, vanished into his own room, and not come out for two days.

He’d been eating. Steve’d left trays. They’d been sitting empty outside the door every time he’d checked.

The pile of assorted death-dealing implements in Steve’s room grows day by day. Every time Bucky looks at him with exasperation and silently holds out another sharp edge. Every time they’re in a room together.

He asks Tony once, venturing into the bowels of that personal lab-slash-engineering explosion-slash-space where Tony can feel safe enough, whether Bucky’d ever given him a knife, when they were alone together. Tony snorts at him from behind what might be either a new element synthesizer or an extremely complicated still, and says, “Right, ’cause I so like being handed things by people with homicidal tendencies, and anyway, Spangles, have you noticed he’s never alone in a room with anyone else, he only hangs out with us when you’re there, what do you think that means, move those blueberries closer, they’re integral for the success of this test, thanks.”

Steve moves the blueberries. And tries not to hate the fact that Tony Stark’s noticed this fact about Bucky before he has.

He’s always had Bucky. He’s always been used to having Bucky, except when he hasn’t, and that’s a colder stretch of time than he wants to remember. Numb and chilly. Ice.

He’s so used to having Bucky that it feels natural. Bucky goes places with him, that’s right, that’s how it is. Bucky saved him because that’s what Bucky does, Bucky always saves him, Bucky saved him in fights on a million Brooklyn streets and again when the desperate shuddering need to find Bucky made Steve into Captain America in a way no tights and dancing girls ever did, Bucky saved him by giving him a reason and an anchor, Bucky saved him in the debris-field green-water deathtrap of the Potomac and saves him now with every evanescent memory-sketch of a smile.

Bucky doesn’t go places without Steve. Not now.

Bucky used to go dancing. Bucky used to find odd jobs, butcher’s-boy errands and dockworker’s wages and a few others that Steve wasn’t supposed to know about, the kind of jobs that involved squiring elderly ladies and sometimes elderly men on late-night excursions and looking pretty. Bucky always had been pretty, had been charming, had been good companionship.

Steve would’ve thrown his sketchbook at the wall, those nights, if he could’ve. Too busy coughing up every bit of his lungs. Dying inside.

Bucky these days is beautiful in the way obsidian is beautiful. Fantastical, unbelievable, and tempered by volcanic forces that’d make you shudder if you thought about them. Deadly and honed to an arrow-point.

Steve walks into the kitchen on that day, one month three weeks two days, just looking for some orange juice because he’s thirsty post-run, and it’s not any day in particular, just a day, just another day with sunlight and clouds chasing each other beyond the window and casting fluttery shadows over the countertops and his heart as Bucky whirls away from the refrigerator, juice in hand.

So damn beautiful. Steve’s heart skips a beat. Always has, always will. Everything else in the world can crumble and fade and get reborn and change, but not that. When it’s him and Bucky, it’s him and Bucky, and his heart’s well aware that they’re both a hell of a way from Brooklyn and it doesn’t think that the distance matters. So: beats, skipped. Forever.

Bucky holds out the orange juice. Of course. Steve generally wants orange juice upon coming home.

He takes it and says “Thanks” and all at once there’s a knife in Bucky’s other hand, flipped around so it’s hilt-first, plainly not a menace. It’s one of their kitchen knives.

“You know,” Steve says, eyeing the blade, eyeing Bucky’s face, “most people don’t need to cut the orange juice open, Buck.”

Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, grumbles something that sounds like “all the stupid” under his breath. “Take it.”

“If you’re worried you’re gonna hurt me, well, I’m not.”

“You’re not getting it,” Bucky says, now sounding frustrated. “What more do I have to do to—”

“To what?” Steve’s starting to feel ridiculous, post-run sweaty and holding orange juice, so he solves the latter problem by setting the carton down. “What’re we doing, here, again?”

“You’re not armed.” Bucky’s not exactly meeting his gaze. “We’re too evenly matched. You need an advantage. And you never keep them when I give them to you.”

“Where do you keep finding—no, never mind, tell me later. Why do I need an advantage, Bucky?” Name repetition. Not the Winter Soldier. Not the Asset. Bucky.

Who looks a bit helplessly, insofar as he’s ever helpless, at the kitchen knife. “If it’s already yours, will you keep this one?”

“It’s ours,” Steve says, no longer totally at sea and beginning to feel nauseated by the first little ripples of intuition about why. “Everything in these rooms is ours. Tony said. As long as we want. You think I’m gonna have to fight you.”

“I—” Bucky wobbles over the word think. Opts for, “You need to be able to. To handle me.”

“When you’re a threat? You’re not—”

“I am. And—no. Whenever you decide it’s the best option.”

That answer’s too fast, too easy, to be anything but painfully learned. Steve, afraid he is about to be sick, hating the tang of oranges on his tongue, gulps out, “How about never…”

Bucky seems nonplussed by this response. Steve tries again. “I’m not gonna just decide to stick a knife in you, Bucky!”

“I have to…” Bucky hesitates. The sunshine, beyond the window, cowers behind a cloud. “They told me…every handler has to be armed, they can’t take any risk…”

“I’m not your handler!”

“Aren’t you?”

“What the hell—no!”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Bucky, in a rare indication of genuine emotion, tosses the knife into the wall and runs his human hand through his hair. Bucky has emotions. Steve knows he does. He just holds them close to his chest, like cards he’s not entirely sure how to play but that can’t be revealed in case the revelations’re used against him. “I meant—I trust you.”

“Do you even know what that means,” Steve says, standing brokenhearted next to the fridge with sweat drying clammy down his back. “I’m not—them, Bucky. Don’t trust me like you’d trust them.”

“I don’t,” Bucky says, “I trust you like I’d trust the only person who ever tried to save me, I remember that, I got broken pieces but I got a lot of ’em, and the good ones have your face, Steve, so yeah, I trust you, so take the damn knife already,” and then they end up looking at each other for a while.

The sunbeam wanders through the room again, and chooses to curl up on the table by the orange juice and watch. A golden audience. Morning painted in fruit and flavor. The knife, stuck in plaster, quivers happily.

Steve, very cautiously, hoping it’s the right step, hoping Bucky’ll comprehend the tone, hoping, says, “I don’t need a knife, I’m pretty sure I’d, y’know, win…”

Bucky’s expression displays a complicated rocket-swift series of reactions: startlement, rejection, consideration. Amusement. Grim and brittle and unaccustomed to existence, but clear. “Says you, punk.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, “says me,” and Bucky doesn’t laugh but the laugh’s painfully brilliantly present in his eyes. “Might always be a habit. Handing you something.”

“I can live with that.” When Steve takes a step forward, Bucky does too. They’re looking at each other now. “Dish towel could be a weapon. If you feel like helping out around here.”

“I did your laundry yesterday when Sam called and you forgot to start the load,” Bucky says. “I wanted to. A pen, maybe. Pencil. Could try handing you a pencil. Could still kill me with a pencil. Theoretically. If I let you.”

“You wouldn’t.” He’s close enough to brush that stray strand of hair out of Bucky’s eyes. If Bucky’d let him do that. His fingers tingle with the need. “I noticed you did the laundry. Why’d you leave it on the couch?” It’d been folded. Military-neat. Even his underwear. He’d stared at that for a good ten minutes. Bucky, folding his underwear.

Bucky shrugs. “Wasn’t sure I was welcome in your room.”

“You’re always welcome in my room,” Steve says, which is maybe a very stupid thing to say, but his mouth and heart are busy making decisions without him. There’s still a pile of collected weaponry in his room, too. He wonders dizzily what Bucky’d’ve done, encountering the heap. “Anywhere. Whenever, Buck, wherever.”

“If I handed you a pencil,” Bucky says, and then stops, eyes suddenly very far away—Steve holds his breath—and abruptly back again. “You used to draw.”

“You…remember that…”

“I remember I loved every time you drew me,” Bucky says meditatively, and Steve chokes on his next inhale, like having asthma all over, this can’t be real, too breathless and giddy, “I remember thinking I could sit still all day if you asked, ’cause it was you asking. Anything, if you asked. Steve Rogers.”

“So,” Steve says, feeling like the earth’s dropped away, feeling like nothing’s real except him and Bucky and this strange bubbling-up effervescent sensation in his chest, scampering down his spine, billowing out to his fingertips, “so…if I asked…not an order, not here to give you orders, Bucky, but if I asked…you loved it, you said…anything, you said…”

“Start leaving pencils around,” Bucky offers, “and give me back some of my knives, if you’re not planning to use ’em,” and Steve whispers, “Can I draw you?” and lifts his hand, slow as a dream, not a threat, and when Bucky breathes back, “Yeah,” they both know it’s a yes to everything, to old and new habits and mingled breaths and Steve’s fingers finally brushing through Bucky’s wayward hair.

 

(via iwritefanficnot-tragedies)

fieldbears:

britneyjustin:


britsanity:






Witnesses say they asked Britney why she shaved her head and her response was, “I’m tired of plugging things into it. I’m tired of people touching me.”



i can never not reblog this



T-Pain: “That was the most beautiful thing in the world. Do you know why she was shaving her head? Because it was so important to other people. She is like, “Listen. Don’t touch my hair anymore. Stop touching my hair.” People were like, “We’ve got to make your hair before you go outside. You can’t leave.” She went … “Now I don’t have hair. What you going to do?”


The older I get the more her breakdown seems less ‘unbalanced’ and more ‘completely understandable’

fieldbears:

britneyjustin:

britsanity:

Witnesses say they asked Britney why she shaved her head and her response was, “I’m tired of plugging things into it. I’m tired of people touching me.”

i can never not reblog this

T-Pain: “That was the most beautiful thing in the world. Do you know why she was shaving her head? Because it was so important to other people. She is like, “Listen. Don’t touch my hair anymore. Stop touching my hair.” People were like, “We’ve got to make your hair before you go outside. You can’t leave.” She went … “Now I don’t have hair. What you going to do?”

The older I get the more her breakdown seems less ‘unbalanced’ and more ‘completely understandable’

(via thefangirlsarecomeing)

wordswilltellyouall:

fullmetaldokis:

softgrass:

when i was in elementary school i was told by my teacher to stop using exclamation marks for every sentence and that they should only be used for exciting things and i remember feeling confused because i thought everything was exciting 

this is the saddest thing I’ve ever read

What makes it even sadder is the fact that there is not even one exclamation mark in there

(via ultimateumbreon)

falconcloaked:

Tiny dragons with colourful scales living in trees and feeding on fruits and flowers’ nectar 

Bioluminescent aquatic dragons roaming in the abyss and scaring the hell out of sailors

Fluffy dream dragons capable of feeling when children are having nightmares and materializing into their room to cuddle with them

Giant, old as the universe dragons exploring space, needing nothing but starlight to survive

DRAGONS

(via shipeveryonewithsomeone)

kateordie:

sassy-gay-justice:

"You’d struggle to pour water out of a boot with the instructions on the heel"

God DAMN thats some Shakespearean shit right there

The fact that that comment comes from sassy-gay-justice makes this whole thing, for me

(via holmes-sweet-holmes)