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(Source: connorwalhs, via halfhardtorock)


The One Where Matthew & Matt Do A Awkward Hug Over A Lame Cool Guy Handshake

(via rebakitt3n)

It’s strange. I felt less lonely when I didn’t know you.

Jean-Paul Sartre, from The Flies, in No Exit and the Flies (Alfred A. Knopf, 1947)

(Source: wordsthat-speak, via sassy-sasori)


Casual reminder that in one of Leonardo da Vinci’s many notebooks containing innumerable artistic and scientific sketches and notes of incomprehensible importance, there is a sketch of two penises with legs and tails walking towards a crudely drawn anus.

The sketch was most likely done by Leonardo’s apprentice Salai, who was not only very likely one of Leonardo’s lovers, but who was also infamously mischievous. Better yet, the anus is literally labeled “Salai.”

So either Salai drew these while Leonardo wasn’t looking just to annoy his boyfriend, or Leonardo himself put actual time and energy into drawing these. Either way, the human race is truly blessed to have made such a discovery.

There are dick drawings like the ones you see on desks in school in Leonardo da Vinci’s notebooks. Please cherish this information.

(Source: j-uuzous, via rebakitt3n)


cat: places paw tentatively on boob
me: please–
cat: presses paw down on boob
me: don’t–
cat: slowly, agonizingly walks across boobs

(Source: majesdanes, via earthtojuli)


au where there was two nogitsunes and they were in love

(via lozenger8)





Remember when the amazing trelkez did this amazing writing challenge? Well, since I’m kind of stuck on my regency AU and it sounds like a lot of fun, I’ll be doing it, too (but only today/tomorrow). So:

Reblog this post with a romance novel cover and I’ll write a paragraph or two of it as Sterek. Front and back cover works best, but I’ll settle for front cover and publisher’s book description. 

friendly reminder that you can still do this today

The League of Second Sons: A secret society of younger sons, sworn to aid and abet each other, no matter the scandal or cost…Their fathers and brothers may rule the world, but they run it, and when it comes to passion, they refuse to accept second best.

After the scandalous demise of her marriage, Lady Olivia Carlow knows the rakes of the ton will think her fair game. So when a letter arrives bearing an indecent offer from the incorrigible Roland Devere, she seizes the opportunity. Turning the tables on the notorious rogue, she blackmails him into playing her betrothed for the season. But no matter how broad his shoulders or chiseled his features, she will never fall prey to his suave charm.

When Roland boasted he’d be the first into Lady Olivia’s bed, he couldn’t have imagined that behind those brilliant blue eyes lurked a vixen with a scheme of her own. Still, Roland is not about to abandon his original wager. If anything, learning that the lovely Olivia is as bold as she is beautiful makes him more determined to seduce her into never saying “never” again.

The letter is both utterly shocking and exactly what Stiles expected. He’s not an idiot, after all, and he would have had to be one - or utterly blind and deaf - not to notice the gossip when he was reintroduced into society the night before. Everyone had been whispering, gossiping about Stiles’ return after the scandalous end of his marriage. Their whispering hadn’t been subtle by any means;  even those who believed that no blame was to be placed on Stiles, that he had fallen not because of his own indiscretion but because he was foolish enough to trust and marry  someone who had turned out to already be betrothed but fallen nonetheless, and was therefore unworthy of being in their company, had made little effort to hide their sneers of distaste, or their pity.

 But none had expressed their stance more openly than the notorious brothers of The League of the Second Sons. They hadn’t bothered to keep their voices down, to try and keep their indecent remarks among themselves. Stiles had heard them quite clearly; the insults, the boasting, the salacious remarks, speculations about his willingness to bed any of them. The bet who would be the first he’d part his legs for.

They had been drunk, of course, not that that had made it any better. Scott had looked just about ready to throw them all into a cell, or beat them to a bloody pulp. He might have, had Stiles not held him back. He doesn’t need anyone to defend his honour. He’s just glad his father had not been there to witness it; he’d experienced enough shame with Stiles’ marriage failing. His being soiled in an unlawful marriage has tarnished his repute, and his father’s with him. He’s lucky he did not lose his position. Stiles will not allow any more shade to fall on him, will not allow himself to be wrapped up in more questionable affairs, even if it means enduring the whispers, the leers. He still has his pride, at least. And he’d been prepared.


He hadn’t quite been prepared to receive a letter the day after being brought out into society again. Definitely not one from notorious flirt and seducer Derek Hale describing in great detail every which way he would like to spread Stiles out on his bed to worship and ravish him. The indecency and lewdness of the letter leaves Stiles’ cheeks burning with embarrassment and, as he is ashamed to admit, quite a bit of desire. The letter is expertly crafted, making Derek sound reverent and longing… but Stiles supposes he has had a lot of practice with all the other men and women he has wooed and lured into his bed.

If Stiles didn’t know better, he might fall for it, too. In the past, when he was still more naive, he surely would have. Even now, it is hard to resist the temptation of the simple notion of someone loving him, coveting him, touching him like he deserves it.

He nearly rips the letter to pieces; just wanting to believe Derek’s words even for a second is dangerous.

Stiles folds up the letter and jams it into the bottom drawer of his nightstand when the doorbell rings. His father his out, meaning the visitor most likely wishes to see him, so he makes his way downstairs, trying to regain his composure. He thinks he’s doing quite a good job of appearing completely aloof - until he sees who is visitor is, that is.

Seeing Derek Hale standing in his parlour, looking slightly ruffled and worse for wear, an expression of sheepish contrition on his pale face, is even more unexpected than the letter.

“Mister Hale,” Stiles says, straightening up and raising his eyebrows. “What a…pleasant surprise.”

“Mister Stilinski.” He clears his throat, very obviously uncomfortable.

When he makes no attempt at continuing the conversation, Stiles prompts, “Is there something I can help you with, Mister Hale?”

“Ah.” Derek flushes, colour rushing to his cheeks and even to the tips of his ears. It’s quite adorable, or would be, did Stiles not know that the man has very little shame. “I was wondering - I mean I wanted -” He breaks off, raking a hand through his hair, making it even more unruly than it was before.

“You meant to ask me whether I received your letter?” Stiles deduces, and Derek Hale turns an even darker shade of red.

“I am so sorry,” he splutters. “I didn’t mean - I - I… My deepest apologies. I never meant to disrespect you. I never meant for you to see it. I fear I was quite drunk when I sent it and… it made me very stupid.”

“Indeed,” Stiles says coolly.

“Will you accept my sincerest apologies?”

Stiles hesitates. He could  - Derek is very obviously sincere in his apology, and they could both walk away and never mention it again. But Stiles remembers the humiliation of the previous night, and well, he has never been the forgiving kind. “I don’t think so,” he says. “This letter marks, after all, not the first time you have disrespected me.”

Derek swallows heavily, understanding the implication perfectly. “Last night,” he rasps out. “You heard us.”

“You made it rather impossible for me to not overhear your discussion,” Stiles replies. “For me and, I fear, every other person in the room.”

Derek lowers his eyes to the ground in shame. Who would’ve thought the infamous Casanova of Beacon Hills even had a sense of shame?

“What was it that you said, exactly? Something about being the first I would invite into my bed for sure? I don’t recall the exact words.” He does, actually, but it had been far too vulgar for him to spell out in front of Derek. His tone, he thinks, conveys quite unambiguously that he does, in fact, remember.

“I should never have said that.”

“You are right, you shouldn’t have,” Stiles says coolly. “And I am disinclined to allow you to blame it on the influence of alcohol.”

Hale draws in a heavy breath. “Please believe me when I assure you that I am not usually so crude.”

“Oh, no, not at all. You are quite silver-tongued when you want to be, as your letter proves. Not that the subject matter was any more appropriate.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” He looks a little lost. “All I can do is ask your forgiveness and promise you it will never happen again.”

“I do not accept your apology,” Stiles tells him bluntly. “Words are not enough for the humiliation you and your brothers put me through, I believe.”

“What would you have me do?” Hale asks levelly.

Stiles doesn’t have to think about this for long. His heart is beating faster as he realises this might be a singular opportunity. Derek Hale might have a certain reputation, but he is also still considered an esteemed gentleman. He is exactly the kind of tool Stiles needs to restore his honour and his good name, to make him seem desirable again. “You will help me regain my good reputation,” he says, “by pretending to be my betrothed for the season.”

Derek freezes. “I cannot do that.”

“Very well,” Stiles says sweetly. “Then I am to believe you would not care if the world were to see your letter? If I disclosed to all your friends and business partners and family what words you deem appropriate to send another man without even being formally introduced, without that man making any advances? If I disclosed that you would seem it fit to talk to me in a way that not even engaged couples are allowed to use, one that is reserved, perhaps, for spouses, maybe, at a stretch, for common whores?”

“You wouldn’t,” Derek says, blanching.

“Oh, I would,” Stiles promises darkly.

“This is your revenge, then.”

“Not at all. I am not so ordinary as to take pleasure in such petty things. This is a simple business transaction. Your reputation for mine.” Stiles fixes him with a look. “Do we have an agreement?”

Derek Hale stares at him for a long time. Eventually, he nods. “We do.”

(via greenbergsays)



charles and camilla sharing clothes (◠‿◠)

charles’s shirts hanging over camilla’s delicate hands so she has to roll the sleeves up (◡‿◡)

camilla’s cardigans fitting just right around charles’s delicate hips (◕‿◕)

charles and camilla not being able to tell which shirt belongs to who when they’re spread on the floor after a night of ripping clothes off of one another (ノ◕ヮ◕)ノ*:・゚✧

#I swear I thought this was about Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall I am crying

(via rebakitt3n)

(Source: hoechuspocus, via sterek)



(via bisexualilanawexler)

(Source: thejogging, via ruinedchildhood)

(Source: hoechloin, via trelkez)

after braving universal’s halloween horror nights i can say with absolute certainty that i would never survive any kind of horror movie situation. 



(Source: jessiepinkman, via sleeperbucky)

Dylan O’Brien + that eye squint thing he does

(Source: zangela, via aeveenien)