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vivianvivisection:

straight boys think girls can’t take compliments, and that’s ridiculous cause i’ve seen so many girls compliment each other, i’ve seen conversations & friendships blossom from girls complimenting each other in line, on the street, at school waiting for the bys, pretty much anywhere.

the problem is straight boys think sexual harassment & assault are compliments.

rapunzelie:

urukohai:

punk-roque:

tbh i think straight girls appreciate girls more than straight boys do

we’re the ones that have sex with them so i think that’s unlikely

1. Straight men are not the only people having sex with women
2. I got some fascinating news to tell you about the disappointing nature of most straight men in bed
3. Fucking women doesn’t mean you appreciate them as people, not in the slightest

Just because I’m a public figure, just because I’m an actress, does not mean that I asked for this. It does not mean that it comes with the territory. It’s my body, and it should be my choice, and the fact that it is not my choice is absolutely disgusting. I can’t believe that we even live in that kind of world.

[I tried to write a statement but] every single thing that I tried to write made me cry or get angry. I started to write an apology, but I don’t have anything to say I’m sorry for.

It is not a scandal. It is a sex crime. It is a sexual violation. It’s disgusting.

Anybody who looked at those pictures, you’re perpetuating a sexual offence. You should cower with shame. Even people who I know and love say, ‘Oh, yeah, I looked at the pictures.’ I don’t want to get mad, but at the same time I’m thinking, I didn’t tell you that you could look at my naked body.

Jennifer Lawrence in this month’s Vanity Fair (via rhyse)
Date someone who begs to go down on you.
very important (via danalaurenn)
I am hopelessly in love with a memory. An echo from another time, another place.
Michael Faudet  
McCoy. Leonard McCoy.
McCoy. Leonard McCoy.
And the only thing people regret is that they didn’t live boldly enough, that they didn’t invest enough heart, didn’t love enough. Nothing else really counts at all.
Ted Hughes (via wordsnquotes)

boldlymckirking1701:

"You like him? I’ll give him to you if you want him. But you’ve got to promise me to look after him because, he means a lot to me." 

"I promise."

The thing about an anxiety disorder is that you know it is stupid. You know with all your heart that it wasn’t a big deal and that it should roll off of you. But that is where the disorder kicks in; Suddenly the small thing is very big and it keeps growing in your head, flooding your chest, and trying to escape from under your skin. You know with all of your heart that you’re being ridiculous and you hate every minute of it. The fact that many people don’t recognize or have patience for your illness only makes everything worse.

Ten years of experience (via punkasspoet)

I once had a therapist tell me that having an anxiety disorder is like having a faulty alarm system wired up in your brain — instead of going off just when there’s danger (like it would for somebody without an anxiety disorder), it goes off all the time, over little things that don’t actually warrant an anxious response at all. It’s like one of those asshole smoke detectors that everyone’s dealt with at some point or another, the ones that go off whenever you turn on the oven or try to cook something on the stove — you can yell “OH MY GOD, I’M JUST BOILING WATER” all you want, but the stupid thing is going to blare on undeterred. That’s what having an anxiety disorder is like: it’s the smoke detector, and you’re the person on the ground yelling “SHUT UP, SHUT UP, THERE ISN’T ANY FUCKING FIRE.”

Under normal circumstances I don’t talk about my mental health stuff on the internet much — out of anxiety, actually, more than anything else — but I wanted to chime in here because I think this is something people really don’t understand about anxiety disorders. Friends: we know it’s irrational. We know we need to calm down, that things aren’t as bad as we think they are, that our reactions are making things worse than they need to be, that it’s all in our heads. We know. It’s what makes it all so incredibly infuriating, because in life you can just — you know, smack the smoke detector with a broom or take the batteries out or something. An anxiety disorder doesn’t work like that, though god, I wish it did; it requires years of work and active effort and (for some of us) medication to dial down our reactions, even when we know, right down to our bones, that our reactions are wrong.

If you’ve ever read that when someone is having an anxiety attack, it’s not helpful to say “Calm down” or “Stop panicking” or shit like that: this is why. We are saying that crap in our heads already, only we are saying it louder than you, and with more frustration and self-loathing, because we have been trying without success to calm down and stop panicking for the balance of our lives. 

I know it can be exasperating to deal with someone with anxiety — boy, do I. I deal with an anxious personality every waking minute of every single day, and let me tell you there are times I want to smack myself with a broom, take out my batteries, and let my whole fucking house burn down. But the thing is, if you have someone in your life with anxiety and their shit is bugging the hell out of you, you have an option at your disposal that they don’t: you can walk away. And if you’re someone who gets frustrated by other people’s anxiety, who can’t be patient, whose very nature compels them to point out that it’s not a big deal and we need to calm down and we’re making it more than it is — that’s okay, everyone has shit they can’t deal with, but use that option. Walk away. Tune it out. Don’t pile on, because that’s actually so counterproductive to the goal of getting the calm, rational person you know out from beneath their anxiety. The more you say the things we’re already thinking (this is stupid, just shut up already, calm down, this isn’t a big deal, why can’t you calm down), the more we become convinced everything in our heads is true, and the longer it takes us to shut it down. 

As always, the best way to be helpful to someone with any kind of mental illness is to ask them, ideally during a time when they are calm and in control: what can I do, what do you need, what should I avoid doing, is there anything that helps. But short of that, I can’t tell you how helpful it is to have people in my life that I know aren’t going to echo back at me the shit I’m already yelling at myself. So: try not to do that to people. That’s all we’re asking. Try not to. 

(via gyzym)

I bolded some parts. I hope that’s okay. The quote and the commentary are all so great, though. Everyone should read all of this.

(via euclase2)

Someone give me childhood friends playing in the dirt and mud turning into college fuck buddies slipping out of dorm rooms at the crack of dawn turning into late twenties roommates who don’t talk about how much they hate their roommate’s romantic partners turning into early thirties marriage proposals in the pouring rain after an argument while they’re driving to a wedding and the car broke down on the side of the interstate turning into the best goddamn years of their lives.

philcoulson:

is there anything you would not do for your family?

omg babe, i just this post about how someone apparently baked their phone in a cake?? and i immediately thought about how that's such a jim kirk to do, so if you're taking prompts; can you write one where jim is making a cake for bones at the academy, and it's only when someone tries to get in contact with him that they realise what's happened and him and bones just stares at the cake in horror <3

theladyprinceofthegalaxy:

I’m editing a horrible thing right now and you know what, I wanna write this because it’s FUCKING ADORABLE.

Don’t touch me.

Leonard come back to the dorm to smell…

Cake?

Well that was new.

Honestly, the fact that it didn’t smell like just had sex that he wasn’t a part of was the greatest thing in the world. After having sex with Jim, of course. But cake. Pineapple-upside down cake, even. What the hell?

Leonard cut across the dorm, red uniform still on, and peered into the small kitchenette tucked behind the bedroom that doubled as a living and dining room. Jim was leaned on the counter, PADD in hand, blue eyes focused and scanning over words Leonard couldn’t make out from that angle.

"Jim?" Blue, wide eyes jerked towards him, body tensed, mouth flapping like an uncoordinated infant trying to speak.

"Bones! You’re early!"

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I… um…" Jim’s eyes jerked away. He frowned at the counter. Then there was a ding. He turned and opened the small oven tucked under the counter. His hands reached for hand towels set haphazardly on the counter. After a second, metal scraped on metal, and the cake Leonard was sure he smelled when he walked in materialized before his eyes as it was flipped from the cake tin to a large, white plate.

Pineapple-upside down cake. Spongy, warm, steaming - looked delicious.

"… happy birthday." Leonard’s hazel eyes flicked to Jim, mouth slacked. Jim smiled at him, his stunned, surprised, caught stare drained away. Leonard’s dripped off in return as he reached forward and kissed the blond, hands slipping around Jim’s hips. The other chuckled, easing forward.

Then a communicator chirped. Jim groaned in irritation. Leonard broke the kiss and glared at the counter, towards the source. His glare fell…

To the cake?

Leonard stared at it for a moment. Then his hazel eyes flicked towards Jim. The blond’s eyes were wide again, skin paling steadily. The doctor peered down at the cake again.

"Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"Did… did you bake your comm. into the cake?"

"… yeah…"

Leonard peered over at Jim again. Blue eyes weren’t staring at the cake anymore, but at the ground, fingers tightening at Leonard’s jacket hem as his lips pressed tightly together. Red started pooling under where the white had been. He looked so small, so embarrassed, so… defeated. Leonard gave him a soft smile before looking back at the cake.

"There’s only one way to fix this." He peered back at Jim. Blue eyes connected, frustrated tears pooled in them. "We’ll have to eat the whole damn cake tonight, after it’s cooled. Until then…" Leonard pulled Jim closer to him, staring down at the blond’s pink lips. "I think we can find something to do."

Jim smiled like the damn sun before pushing a fierce kiss on his lips.

Hours later, they finally did start eating that cake. Turns out comm. laced pinapple-upside down cake tastes like heaven.

you caught my eye, as you walked on by;

ofjimkirk:

the blame for this falls onto karlbourbon for the tag; picture this; photographer!bones /with artist!jim/,  on my photographer!bones minipiece - for which the blame falls on darlinjim

"What are you even doing?" Jim laughs, looking away from his paint strewn easel to glance over at Leonard, who is staring at him with the utmost reverence, Leica held carefully in his hands.

"Admiring you," Leonard says honestly, the only clothing protecting him from the dying sun his heavy duty jeans; they were splattered with paint. 

Jim just laughs, tongue between his teeth for a moment as he streaks the red paint on the brush onto the portrait, seeing the swirl of galaxies and nebulae strewn like crystals across the painted sky. Just looking at it takes Leonard’s breath away.

"There’s not a lot to admire, Bones," Jim says, glancing at Leonard for as long as he dared before turning back to his painting. He has to push back the unrolled sleeves of the too-large button up he’d filched from Leonard, paint strewn across the white fabric before feeling the solid wood of a brush beneath his curled fingers.

He hears the quiet shutter-snap of Leonard’s Leica, and he can feel the slight blush creeping up his cheeks as he watches Leonard grin at the Leica screen from the corner of his eye.

"You look beautiful," Leonard says quietly, and Jim bites his lip as he brushes his long fringe from his eyes, pulling a face as he feels the cool slick of paint across his cheekbone.

"Whatever you say, Bones," He says vaguely to Leonard, who only scoffs as he slowly lowers the Leica, staring at Jim who only averts his gaze back onto his easel, the Leica leather strap swinging just slightly as the dying amber sun glistens through the large glass windows.

Leonard just watches as Jim hmms for a moment, tucking his water wet paint brush behind his ear, before grasping the paint-wet easel delicately by the sides and resting it against one of the large white walls of the apartment. 

But it’s only when Jim bends for a moment, kneeling in front of an already finished painting that Leonard raises his Leica again, seeing the light of the sun brighten Jim’s ruffled hair as he brushes his fingers over the straight lines of the London Bridge.

The shutter-snap is uncommonly loud in the quiet silence, and Leonard can feel the soft leather swing lightly to arch against his forearm. He lowers the Leica, seeing how Jim has stepped over to the large windows where they can see the San Fran skyline in all it’s pride.

"Jim," He whispers,

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thereal1990s:

Pulp Fiction (1994)

thereal1990s:

Pulp Fiction (1994)