44% of the audience of Guardians of the Galaxy is female and all the speculation states that women went to see it for Chris Pratt’s body. I don’t think that’s fair. Maybe (and this is crazy) they just like kickass movies with space shit and explosions. Maybe women can do things without men being their motivation. Maybe.
I WENT FOR THE TALKING RACCOON MOTHAFUCKAS
I went for Gamora AND the talking raccoon
Prude - a woman who won’t fuck you
Dyke - a woman who won’t fuck you because you have a penis
Slut - a woman who fucks other people and not you
Tease - a woman who won’t fuck you even though she smiled at you
Feminist - a woman who won’t fuck you because she has, like, thoughts and stuff
Bitch - a woman who treats you the same as you treat women
Republicans talking shit AGAIN. This @GOP tweet is the literal opposite of what they believe, campaign, and how they vote.
They know that no matter how outrageously they lie, their base will still believe them.
A/N: Idk what exactly this is, but I’m about 98% the-lady-swan inspired it (as she always does) LOL I think we’d talked about Emma’s magic going a little crazy the more she fell in love with Killian.
Rating: A mashup of angst, fluff and smut?
The first time it happens, Emma hardly notices. Killian’s got her pressed up against the door of her room at Granny’s, trapped beneath the hard, muscled lines of his body and his mouth is moving hungrily against hers, so no, she hardly notices when the lights in the hallway flicker.
He smiles against her lips when they come up for air, nose nudging against hers in an affectionate way and she curls into him just a bit more as their breaths mingle in the little space between them.
“Goodnight,” he murmurs, touching his forehead to hers.
He doesn’t press, doesn’t ask if he can come inside, simply holds her for a bit longer like he just needs a few more seconds with her to tide him over until their next stolen moment. Her heart squeezes sweetly in her chest, warmth sweeping through her veins golden and soft at that one simple truth.
“Outside of Granny’s tomorrow?” she wonders, voice a little shaky (Jesus, but the man could kiss). There’s a little clench in her stomach that it’s not even a question that she’d see him tomorrow but more of where she would.
He leans back to meet her gaze, hand reaching up to cradle her cheek (like she’s precious, always like she’s precious) as he strokes his thumb over the dent in her chin. “Aye,” he grins, as if he’s the happiest man in the world just being near her. “Unless you and the lad would like some breakfast before we escort him to school.”
She sighs when a little jolt zips down her spine at the prospect of kissing those honeyed lips (he can’t keep the syrup on his plate to save his life, bless him), at the way the word we sounds on his tongue, at the way they’ve been walking Henry to school every morning for the past two weeks.
“Okay,” she whispers back after a moment.
He stares at her seconds more, eyes trailing across her face while his expression goes infinitely soft and her heart continues to beat unsteadily in her chest.
“Goodnight, Swan,” he says again.
She doesn’t even hesitate when she curls her hand around the charms on his necklace and her free hand slides up his chest to anchor in his hair at the nape of his neck and she can pull him to her for another kiss. He sighs too, contentedly, and neither of them notices when the lights flicker again.