I haven’t read the books (yet) or seen the movies, so I’m completely clueless to the canonical relationships and I’ve been thinking really hard on what exactly Hannibal’s interest in Will and Abigail is, and it may just be my shipper goggles strapped on too tightly, but this is all I’m gettin’.
(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ manipulation
(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ mindgames
(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ murder
(via catnipsoup)
yes ur allowed to have other friends u just have to love me more
(Source: nicolasflamel, via merlinmaccheese)
(Source: softywolf, via chadleymacguff)
in games with character creation do you ever just sit back and admire your work like wow i really made a hot piece of ass well done me
(via hedlunds)
(Source: adrasteas, via catnipsoup)
(Source: nocoffeeplease, via chadleymacguff)
I could be locked in a room with no tv, phone, or internet access and id probably still not do my homework
probablydefinitely
(via jokerchenisdifferent)
"It was like the Folgers incest commercial but with more blood and less coffee"
Becca, on Hansel & Gretel (via jeremy-ruiner)
I CANNOT WAIT FOR THIS MOVIE AND THEN ALL THE PORN
(via saucefactory)
(via saucefactory)
Wolf Trainer! Sterek /sobs
I saw this when I woke up and immediately thought omg trainer stiles PERF what is wrong with me
Also
ASDFLSDFJSALKJD THIS NEEDS TO BE A STORY SOMEONE MAKE THIS A STORY PLEASE
it’s the colors you have (no need to be sad)
“You—what is that color?”
Even when all else has gone to hell, Derek can count on Stiles to be displeased.
“No, really,” Stiles continues, equal parts suspicious and accusatory. “What is that—burgundy? What the hell are you doing wearing burgundy? Since when do you own burgundy?”
Derek looks down at his shirt and picks at some of the lint there, trying to ignore the way he feels his ears heating up at the bizarre amount of attention being given to his simple, solid-colored v-neck.
Which, yeah, is burgundy.
(It had been on sale and the fabric had felt nice under his fingers, and so few things felt nice anymore that he’d thought ‘Okay, then.’)
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear—” Stiles inflates like he’s ready to jump into some serious teasing or arguing— both equally likely, with him—when Scott elbows him in the ribs and coughs. “Oh, right.”
Deaton, when Derek finally chances a look up, looks amused, his lips curled upward and his eyebrows high on his forehead. The bastard.
“So, um,” Scott starts.
“It looks like we’re all here,” Deaton says, pushing open the half-door leading to the operating room of the animal clinic. “Shall we?”
When Stiles brushes past Derek to get through, his eyes linger on Derek’s shirt. There’s a flush to his cheeks and a sharp, spiced scent hits Derek like a load of bricks. Arousal.
Derek holds his breath and waits it out.
