Little Secrets

A place where I don't have to hide. A place where I can be free.

http://jackfrost.co.vu/post/82957214533/i-know-the-number-of-kudos-or-notes-or-bookmarks

jaclcfrost:

i know the number of kudos or notes or bookmarks or reviews or any kind of feedback doesn’t determine the value of something but it’s just like

when you really love something

and you work so hard on it

and put so much effort into it

and are so proud of yourself for it

you kind of just…

posted: 3 hours ago
gyzym:

LET’S ALL PRETEND THAT THIS IS HOW IT IS, that steve and bucky are just regular people, hipsters, kids that grew up in each other’s pockets and never got sent over the edge of the train, or down with the ship, or into the cryo chamber, or to war. that they made it to the 21st century the same way everyone else did and neither one of them has ever woken up disoriented in a borrowed future. that somewhere deep down in the bowels of the city there is a train running with their initials carved painstakingly into the underside of the plastic seats, each of them using the other’s housekey to carve their bit on the ride home from school, and it’s as close as either one of them has ever come to being memorialized. 
let’s pretend that the only time steve’s ever thought bucky was dead was for those six terrible hours last summer, when bucky sprained his wrist at work and there was a mixup at the hospital, a message on steve’s machine that was meant for someone else. that bucky finally took a cab home alone after waiting fucking hours for steve to show up, only to let himself into their apartment and find steve plastered to him a second later, gasping these wet, strangled-sounding breaths against the side of bucky’s neck. that bucky didn’t know what had happened but guessed enough to let his own anger drain away, to close his eyes and wrap his arms around steve’s waist in apology.
let’s pretend that bucky’s never been anyone but himself except on painkillers, a couple of times, so zoned out after getting his wisdom teeth pulled that he couldn’t remember his name; that steve laughed, and brought him ice cream, told him he could be anyone he wanted to. that their hurts are easily catalogued and explained. that underneath bucky’s t-shirt there is a patchwork of freckles and musculature but few scars, nothing that would make anyone gasp and wonder, that if there’s blood on his hands its only his own, or steve’s, maybe, picked up patching him up, trying to hold them both together. that his sleeping dogs are left to lie and even awake, they’re not so terrible, little trespasses, mistakes, nothing that would make anyone bat an eyelash. 
let’s just pretend that this is it, the two of them, steve in a sweatshirt and plastic-rimmed glasses and bucky like this, black pants, black t-shirt, his v-neck stretched out from all the times steve’s grabbed him by it and drawn him in for a kiss. let’s pretend that this is just one of a hundred thousand moments before they go somewhere, anywhere — a party or a ballgame, dinner with their friends, the grocery store, even work. let’s pretend that this is the part of their day where steve checks again that he locked the door as bucky leans against the railing on the stairs, eyes fond, mouth parted around whatever conversation is coming easy between them today, and says, “c’mon, rogers, c’mon.” 

gyzym:

LET’S ALL PRETEND THAT THIS IS HOW IT IS, that steve and bucky are just regular people, hipsters, kids that grew up in each other’s pockets and never got sent over the edge of the train, or down with the ship, or into the cryo chamber, or to war. that they made it to the 21st century the same way everyone else did and neither one of them has ever woken up disoriented in a borrowed future. that somewhere deep down in the bowels of the city there is a train running with their initials carved painstakingly into the underside of the plastic seats, each of them using the other’s housekey to carve their bit on the ride home from school, and it’s as close as either one of them has ever come to being memorialized. 

let’s pretend that the only time steve’s ever thought bucky was dead was for those six terrible hours last summer, when bucky sprained his wrist at work and there was a mixup at the hospital, a message on steve’s machine that was meant for someone else. that bucky finally took a cab home alone after waiting fucking hours for steve to show up, only to let himself into their apartment and find steve plastered to him a second later, gasping these wet, strangled-sounding breaths against the side of bucky’s neck. that bucky didn’t know what had happened but guessed enough to let his own anger drain away, to close his eyes and wrap his arms around steve’s waist in apology.

let’s pretend that bucky’s never been anyone but himself except on painkillers, a couple of times, so zoned out after getting his wisdom teeth pulled that he couldn’t remember his name; that steve laughed, and brought him ice cream, told him he could be anyone he wanted to. that their hurts are easily catalogued and explained. that underneath bucky’s t-shirt there is a patchwork of freckles and musculature but few scars, nothing that would make anyone gasp and wonder, that if there’s blood on his hands its only his own, or steve’s, maybe, picked up patching him up, trying to hold them both together. that his sleeping dogs are left to lie and even awake, they’re not so terrible, little trespasses, mistakes, nothing that would make anyone bat an eyelash. 

let’s just pretend that this is it, the two of them, steve in a sweatshirt and plastic-rimmed glasses and bucky like this, black pants, black t-shirt, his v-neck stretched out from all the times steve’s grabbed him by it and drawn him in for a kiss. let’s pretend that this is just one of a hundred thousand moments before they go somewhere, anywhere — a party or a ballgame, dinner with their friends, the grocery store, even work. let’s pretend that this is the part of their day where steve checks again that he locked the door as bucky leans against the railing on the stairs, eyes fond, mouth parted around whatever conversation is coming easy between them today, and says, “c’mon, rogers, c’mon.” 

(Source: winterfel)

posted: 3 hours ago

alzix:

I live in constant fear of being shit on by a bird

posted: 3 hours ago

theshinyslaking:

theres a gay joke here somewhere 

(Source: frolic-chronis)

posted: 3 hours ago

wytchprincess:

daughter. Get off the blue website. you have not left your room all day it is time for dinner. i’ve got some “feels” for you: they’re called pork chops and your mother made them with love

(Source: vayena)

posted: 3 hours ago
escapefrommetalgear:

kaz-miller:


I SA W THUSI GIF ON MY DASH AND IC ANT STOP LAUGIHNGH

THE WAY HE SITS WHILE UNDER A BOX IS SO CUTE THO

oh Snake

escapefrommetalgear:

kaz-miller:

I SA W THUSI GIF ON MY DASH AND IC ANT STOP LAUGIHNGH

THE WAY HE SITS WHILE UNDER A BOX IS SO CUTE THO

oh Snake

posted: 3 hours ago
akapost:

WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST DRAW  ???!!!!!
—————-
A-KA

akapost:

WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST DRAW  ???!!!!!

—————-

A-KA

posted: 3 hours ago

dudewheresmycat:

justplainsomething:

capsicle107:

#everyone is all over hiddleston for this scene but can we appreciate how great evans was at imitating his mannerisms?

Evans was so good that we forgot it wasn’t Hiddleston playing Loki pretending to be Steve.

The entire scene is magnificent

(Source: tonysassy)

posted: 3 hours ago

fannyfangirl3000:

t’hy’la - brother, friend, and lover

posted: 3 hours ago

cookiedoujin:

boys are the stupidest creatures 

posted: 3 hours ago