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stan the most unproblematic cast ever 😌✨

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So, okay, fun fact. When I was a freshman in high school… let me preface by saying my dad sent me to a private school and, like a bad organ transplant, it didn’t take. I was miserable, the student body hated me, I hated them, it was awful.

Okay, so, freshman year, I’m deep in my “everything sucks and I’m stuck with these assholes” mentality. My English teacher was a notorious hard-ass, let’s call him Mr. Hargrove. He was the guy every student prayed they didn’t get. And, on top of ALL OF THE SHIT I WAS ALREADY DEALING WITH, I had him for English.

One of the laborious assignments he gave us was to keep a daily journal. Daily! Not monthly or weekly. Fucking daily. Handwritten. And we had to turn it in every quarter and he fucking graded us. He graded us on a fucking journal.

All of my classmates wrote shit like what they did that day or whatever. But, I did not. No, sir. I decided to give the ol’ middle finger to the assignment and do my own shit.

So, for my daily journal entries, over the course of an entire year, I wrote a serialized story about a horde of man-eating slugs that invaded a small mining town. It was graphic, it was ridiculous, it was an epic feat of rebellion.

And Mr. Hargrove loved it.

It wasn’t just the journal. Every assignment he gave us, I tried to shit all over it. Every reading assignment, everyone gushed about how good it was, but I always had a negative take. Every writing assignment, people wrote boring prose, but I wrote cheesy limericks or pulp horror stories.

Then, one day, he read one of my essays to the class as an example of good writing. When a fellow student asked who wrote it, he said, “Some pipsqueak.”

And that’s when I had a revelation. He wanted to fight. And since all the other students were trying to kiss his ass, I was his only challenger.

Mr. Hargrove and I went head-to-head on every assignment, every conversation, every fucking thing. And he ate it up. And so did I.

One day, he read us a column from the Washington Post and asked the class what was wrong with it. Everyone chimed in with their dumbass takes, but I was the one who landed on Mr. Hargrove’s complaint: The reporter had BRAZENLY added the suffix “ize” to a verb.

That night I wrote a jokey letter to the reporter calling him out on the offense in which I added “ize” to every single verb. I gave it to Mr. Hargrove, who by then had become a friendly adversary, for a chuckle and he SENT IT TO THE REPORTER.

And, people… The reporter wrote back. And he said I was an exceptional student. Mr. Hargrove and I had a giggle about that because we both knew I was just being an asshole, but he and the reporter acknowledged I had a point.

And that was it. That was the moment. Not THAT EXACT moment, but that year with Mr. Hargrove taught me I had a knack for writing. And that knack was based in saying “fuck you” to authority. (The irony that someone in a position of authority helped me realize that is not lost on me.)

So, I can say without qualification that Mr. Hargrove is the reason I am now a professional writer. Yes, I do it for a living. And most of my stuff takes authorities of one kind or another to task.

Mr. Hargrove showed me my dissent was valid, my rebellion was righteous, and that killer slugs could bring a city to its knees. Someone just needs to write it.

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“Masculine and feminine roles are not biologically fixed but socially constructed.” .. (Judith Butler)

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Something else about Peter Lukas I think is hilarious is that he makes a point of saying he didn’t read as a kid and never had time for “the escapes and artificial friendships of fiction.”

It’s like Jonny Sims knew when he was describing his backstory there’d be a significant percentage of the audience that might think “you know, I spent a lot of time alone as a kid too, I kind of get it.” And his response was “no, no, do not relate to this man. I bet you read a lot when you were a kid, right? Well this fucker hates books.”

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Things abled people don’t understand:

Your test results coming back negative isn’t necessarily a good thing. Sometimes it just means that you’re back to step one in trying to figure out what’s wrong with you.

Conversely, a diagnosis can be a huge relief.

Wheelchairs mean freedom.

Things that most people would consider non-activities, such as taking a shower, putting on clothes or commuting, can take a huge amount of energy if you have a chronic illness.

This includes things you do for fun, such as socialising, playing games, reading, and even watching TV.

Exercise is going to make my condition worse, not better.

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Actually, they shared one brain cell. Saw this and it popped into my head so I had to xD Thank you @buckyusuallytopstony for all those amazing winteriron post :D

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Stop adverting your fanom oz thing nobody wants to buy your stupid art

Damn yo, this is for a charity auction.

Get some sunshine, eat a grape, live a little. Goddamn 😂

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in conclusion, the OG6 should have tinders

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i kind of feeling like deleting my account and restarting but i'm lazy

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Advice to live by

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Title: In My Dreams I Turn You On - Chapter 1 Collaborator Name: ceealaina Card Number: 3088 Link: AO3 Square Filled: K4 - Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier Ship: WinterIron Rating: Explicit Major Tags: Alternate Universe - No Powers Summary: Tony’s crushing hard on his new massage therapist, but doesn’t want to be a sleazy businessman. Bucky’s crushing hard on his latest client, but doesn’t want to take advantage of him in a vulnerable position. So they handle it like any sane adults - pretend it’s not happening and refuse to discuss it. At least they both have terrible friends to help them through it. Word Count: 4259 Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

Tony groaned as he headed into the penthouse, Pepper close behind him. He’d spent the morning tinkering over a design, which had been followed by three meetings in a row in uncomfortable chair after uncomfortable chair. His shoulder blades were tight and aching, and he arched his back, stretching it out as he collapsed onto his extremely comfortable sofa. His back cracked with a series of loud pops, and he groaned again in relief, closing his eyes and rolling his neck, wincing a little at the sick crunching sound his muscles made at the movement. 

When he looked up again, Pepper was staring at him in horror. “Tony, was that your back ?” 

“Um. No?” He offered, doing his best to look innocent. When she didn’t look any more impressed, he offered a faint smile. “It was also my neck?”

Pepper rolled her eyes at him. “JARVIS, please book Tony an appointment with the in-house massage therapist,” she requested pleasantly, before fixing Tony with a dirty look. “This is exactly why we have a therapist on call. Use it.” 

“I did!” Tony insisted. “I mean, I do! I just… got busy.” Pepper wasn’t budging, and he sighed heavily. “Fine. J – go ahead and book that appointment. I think I can put off that phone update and clear some time tomorrow afternoon.” 

It wasn’t that Tony minded getting massages; quite the opposite actually. He was pretty good about booking his appointment every six weeks (doctor’s orders) and Louise, the staff therapist, was an absolute sweetheart with the uncanny ability to know when he wanted to lie in silence and let himself drift, and when he wanted to be regaled with stories about how she’d spent her weekend with her wife and their three dogs. He’d just been so busy that it had kind of fallen to the very bottom of his todo list. Still, the creaks his body was making were a little concerning, and it would be good to be able to relax for ninety minutes. 

By the next afternoon, Tony was actually really looking forward to the appointment. He’d had a ridiculous morning, and his neck and lower back were killing him, the beginning of a tension headache beginning to crawl up the base of his skull. 

But all those thoughts flew right out of his brain when he walked into the therapy room to be met with a pert ass in perfectly fitting soft, grey pants, bent over the office desk. 

“Um.” Tony blinked, eyes trailing up over a broad back, muscles clearly defined beneath a black, long-sleeved t-shirt. “You’re not Louise.” 

The man bent over the table jumped a little, straightening and turning to face him, and Tony felt his heart skip a beat in the face of bright blue eyes and a wide smile, and long brown hair pulled back in a mostly-professional bun. 

“Hey!” Tall, dark and sexy beamed at him, moving across the room. “You must be Mr. Stark.” 

If he squinted, Tony could hear the slightest trace of a Brooklyn accent in his voice, reminiscent of Steve when he was drunk, or got all worked up about the state of America, or both. Tony couldn’t help feeling endeared at the sound, the low voice rolling over him. “Tony, please,” he managed to get out, toes curling in his dress shoes as his hand was gripped in a warm, firm handshake. 

“Tony,” the therapist repeated dutifully. “Louise is on vacation for the next couple of weeks. My name is James. I just started today, but I’m fully trained and certified, promise.” He gave Tony a broad grin, the kind that looked like it would be accompanied by a wink, if that wouldn’t come off as unprofessional. “I’ll be your therapist for today, if that works for you?” 

“Oh yeah, that definitely works for me,” Tony assured him before wincing a little, because wow Stark, creepy much? Way to keep it classy. 

Fortunately James didn’t seem bothered, huffing out a soft laugh with a twinkle in his eyes. “Glad to hear it,” he said, and it may have been Tony’s imagination, but it seemed like the handshake lasted just a second too long before he released his grip and took a step back. “Uh, right. So we’ll just go over any problem spots you want me to work on, and then I’ll leave you to get as undressed as you’re comfortable with and we can get started.”

Tony was nodding along as James spoke, somehow managing to keep from shivering when he talked about getting undressed. “Sounds good to me.” 

“Uh, one more thing,” James added, doing an adorable little scrunch of his face before lifting his left hand and rolling it awkwardly, and-

“Holy shit!” Tony reached out to catch his wrist, stopping himself just in time. “Is that one of mine? Of course it’s one of mine,” he added before James could answer. “You wouldn’t work here and not get an SI prosthetic. That’s one of the most recent models though, right? How’s it working out for you? Any problems with neural connections? Any pain at the connection sight? How’s the response time?”

“Mr. Stark - Tony.” James interrupted him, laughing again. “We’re here for you, not me. But, uh, off the record?” He did another little twist of his wrist that Tony had a hard time pulling his eyes away from. “The arm works like a dream. Thank you. But I just wanted to let you know that the hand might give you some different sensations than you’re used to. Just let me know if anything doesn’t feel right, and I can always put a glove on if you’d prefer.” 

“Oh no,” Tony assured him quickly. “I’m sure it won’t be an issue.”

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sometimes i think about gay people who lived centuries ago who thought they were all alone who imagined a world where they could live openly as themselves who met in secret spoke in code defied everything and everyone just to exist and i’m like..i gotta sit down. whew i gotta sit down