xamyachok:

original

pamelabeesly:

uno is a great card game it’s just filled with smiles and laughter and numbers and colors and everything is right in the world until someone skips you because then it gets real fuckin personal real fuckin fast

(via n0lz)

Plot Twist

evilsupplyco:

spookymeon:

The villain has the hero at gunpoint. Everything seems lost. Then the hero has an amazing idea: Make them talk. So the hero says “Now since I am as good as dead, tell me: Why are you doing this?”
The villain smiles and shoots him.

Sobs happily, applauds, and awards the appropriate merit badge (#005).

(Source: fuchsimeon, via n0lz)

luxememoria:

Dumb boyfriends.

And Levi secretly listens to BigBang in his spare time.

(via shingekinokitty)

awesomelifechoices:

helenish:

Look at these two stayin’ alive motherfuckers, completely 100% believable and realistic as high school juniors, not as a couple of guys recruited straight out of college into undercover police work, walking back from the gym, Stiles saying,

"Hale’s involved, I know he has to be—I just need to figure out how to get close enough to figure it out—" and Scott’s going to worry about him, that maybe he’s getting in too deep, and he’ll be right, because Stiles has already brought Derek lunch, just coming by to see him at his studio, where Derek makes meticulous models of half-burnt houses, cuts up musty books he buys at library sales into wolves, spreading oak trees, creepy art work Stiles doesn’t really get, but he knows what it means when Derek looks up at him, puts down his x-acto knife. 

He kisses Derek—has to, to get close enough to be invited to meet Derek’s friends, get a look at the inside of his apartment—but he doesn’t fuck him. That’s crossing a line. He thinks about it, what it would be like to take Derek to bed, but he doesn’t do it. He tells Derek he wants to take it slow, if that’s okay. Derek smiles at his feet and says yeah, sure, okay, if that’s—yeah, of course.

Derek finds out the worst possible way, of course, probably when he gets kidnapped and it’s Stiles who shows up and gets him, wearing jeans and an agency windbreaker, grim and angry and cutting the ropes on Derek’s wrists, and then the part where Stiles shoves him down hard behind a table and shoots someone—

"I thought—" Derek says, numbly, sitting numbly on some concrete steps where someone else in a uniform told them to wait, "I thought you were a social worker."

"Yeah, I’m—not," Stiles says. He’s all banged up. There’s a cut on the bridge of his nose and his knuckles are scraped raw. 

"You didn’t want me to know?" Derek says, and then he sees Stiles’ face and he knows, he knows what it looks like, his family, the connections to the Argents, all the deaths, he knows. "Oh," he says.

"It wasn’t like that," Stiles says.

"You were using me to get closer to—or. You thought I had something to do with it," Derek says, his voice wavering, breaking.

"Derek, I’m sorry," Stiles says.

"That’s why you wouldn’t—" Derek draws in a short, hurt breath. "I believed you, that stupid fucking story about how badly you’d been hurt," he says. "But you just didn’t want to fuck me because it would have screwed up your case."

"Derek—"

"Fuck you," Derek says. Stiles watches him walk away. Two weeks later there’s a box on his desk at work: a sweater he left at Derek’s once when the weather turned unseasonably warm, the whisk Stiles bought for him at a stoop sale when they were out one Saturday, just walking around. It was 75 cents. That’s it, that’s everything. Stiles never stayed over, never had a toothbrush, never left any other clothes. 

He keeps the whisk—something like a reminder to be less of an asshole. He clips the newspaper articles about Derek’s gallery shows, keeps them in a neat little stack tucked into a book.

He thinks about what it was like, kissing Derek, the way Derek would sigh and shift towards him and open his mouth, how badly he wanted to fuck him, how he’s a lying sack of crap. 

A year after that Kate Argent breaks out of prison. Stiles is working a 36 hour turnaround in New Orleans and doesn’t even hear about it until he gets back, and by then Derek’s been gone for 12 hours, the back door of his studio hanging open, cut paper littering the floor, fluttering out into the alleyway behind the studio in the late afternoon dark gold sunlight, where they used to sit on crates and drink beers, where—
They find him, of course they find him, three awful days and a hundred bad leads later, Stiles running on fumes and the nap Scott forced him to take on the lumpy break room couch. Derek is slumped on the floor of the warehouse when they find him, eyes closed, and it takes an age for Stiles to slide down on his knees next to Derek, to put his hand on his shoulder and turn him over, expecting—when Derek opens his eyes, Stiles can’t hold it back, the audible sound of relief.
"Did he say it?" Scott wants to know at the debriefing. They let Derek take a shower in the locker room and now he’s wearing agency sweats and a t-shirt he’s pretty sure belongs to Scott, eating takeout from the italian place around the corner.
"Say what?"
Scott sighs. “He was supposed to say “We have to stop meeting like this.”“
"Why?" Derek says.
"You know what, fine," Scott says, aggrieved. "I give up."
*
They let him go and he goes straight to the studio, even though it’s nearly nine at night. Stiles is there, straightens guiltily. The floor is clean, the broken pieces of a few of Derek’s works stacked neatly on a table in the corner.
"I thought you’d be a few more hours," Stiles says, his hand tight on a the broom handle. "I wasn’t—I didn’t want you to come back to it—"
"We should stop meeting like this," Derek says.
"Okay," Stiles says. "Sorry, I’ll just—I’ll go."
"Wait," Derek. "I meant—"
"Oh," Stiles says. "Oh, were you doing Scott’s shitty line?"
"Yeah," Derek says. There’s a long, weird, silence.
"I dunno," Stiles says finally. "I think maybe that line only works if then the credits roll, like, immediately after."
"Probably so," Derek says. He gets the dustpan out of the closet, and they sweep up the last of the paper together, move the table back against the wall, tape up the broken window pane, working in companionable silence.
"Thanks for finding me," Derek says, quietly, smoothing down the last piece of masking tape on the window, glancing up at Stiles to find him leaning against the wall, smiling a little.
"Anytime," Stiles says.
ROLL CREDITS.

WAIT REWIND NOW PLAY THE PART WHERE THEY RESOLVE THEIR SHIT AND HAVE HEARTWARMING CONVERSATIONS AND FEELS AND HUGS AND WE ALL CRY

THEN ROLL CREDITS

(Source: alphalewolf)

sadellite:

THIS IS STILL THE FUNNIEST THING

sadellite:

THIS IS STILL THE FUNNIEST THING

(Source: kurtbraunohler, via n0lz)

ya-boy-levi:

That awkward moment when you can’t draw a good face to match your eyes.

ya-boy-levi:

That awkward moment when you can’t draw a good face to match your eyes.

(via n0lz)

"The idea that sex is something a woman gives a man, and she loses something when she does that, which again for me is nonsense. I want us to raise girls differently where boys and girls start to see sexuality as something that they own, rather than something that a boy takes from a girl."

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (NPR)

(Source: try-so-to-live, via kisu-no-hi)

jessidork:

handsome-squidward:

gameandwatch:

natsugay:

For all of you that believe that vulgarity in music is only from contemporary times then just remember that mozart wrote a song called lick my ass

Proof for those of us that are unaware

I’m crying listen to it

(Source: natsume-ayatakashi, via chainsandshipsexciteme)

221books:

fuckyourwritinghabits:

cornflakepizza:

winchesterbr0s:

hesmybrother-hesadopted:

czarnoksieznik:

beesmygod:

“chuffed doesnt mean what you think it means”

image

it means exactly what i think it means its just some stupid word that literally has two definitions that mean the opposite thing

what in the shit pissing fuck

This makes me really chuffed.

This post is quite egregious

image

Well I’m nonplussed by this whole post.

image

goddamnit.

image

(via alynnsia)

(Source: robemmy, via alynnsia)


セクハラされた go rate 10 stars!
Translation: StarkStrider

セクハラされた go rate 10 stars!

Translation: StarkStrider

(Source: starkstrider)

  • baby: *gurgles*
  • woman: you know, baby, i really like your style...i mean, i don't know how you landed a reservation at the hottest spot in town...
  • baby: *slaps table* *slaps table with both hands* *laughs*

like-vanilla:

slightly-bovverd:

thedapper-dyke:

If by ‘fuck the police’ you mean fuck the corrupt, prejudiced, racist system then yes, fuck the police, but if you mean fuck the police for stopping you from smoking weed and getting away with illegal behaviour then no, fuck you.

But what if I mean “I wish to have intercourse with that man in uniform”

then fuck the police

(Source: stayproud-littleowl, via dutchster)

krystal-cage:

why?…

(via jaegersmith)