butts butts butts

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werefoxstiles:

sterek au: stiles and derek’s first time together does not turn out as planned.

superhappygenki:

hoechleberry:

sourwolves:

“Scott, wait, not here…”

This is so exemplary of everything about Stiles’ place in the pack. He is quick to evaluate situations. Very quick. So while everyone else is on board with the “let’s not get eaten by the thing chasing us” plan, Stiles is a step ahead to “you do all realize there’s more than one way into this room, right?”. And though he tries to get their attention multiple times, they’re not listening to him. The number of times this happens in canon is ridiculous, but there are definitely people for whom being overlooked like this is life. Stiles is almost always “right”, but because he’s not charismatic and overtly friendly and morally good, he is often ignored in favor of people with more desirable traits.

thepondsaregone:

thorinoakenbutt:

castielandpie:

poryqon:

it bothers me that Kansas and Arkansas are not pronounced the same

I’m from the UK and I have been pronouncing Arkansas as Ar-Kansas my whole life

For all my non-american friends, Arkansas is pronounced ark-an-saw

WHAT

perks-of-being-sian:

this is the best thing since sliced bread I’m not kidding

(Source: karisikcerez)

(Source: lesliepoehler)

perbast:

Rin: imconfused, whats he doing? is he flying is he sliding?
Rin: taking baby tap dance steps

so i made this and its all rin’s fault

watCHA! CHA! HA! *tappa tappa*

ok i’m almost sorry about making this but also not

what's the story behind the stebears? they're super adorable

Anonymous

suaine:

There is, somewhat surprisingly, a bit of a story here.

I got a coupon for Build A Bear for my birthday, my brother was feeling our age a bit, I guess, and went all out on the nostalgia. And you can never go wrong with bears.

I found Derek bear in one of the bins, the last of his kind, after I tried and failed to get a wolf or anything of that sort. And Derek bear, man, it was obvious I needed him and him alone.

I gave him a heart like Derek did for me and then I whispered a wish into his ear.

Then I bought him a Jedi outfit because in my mind Derek is a secret nerd.

I got him the leather jacket from ebay because they don’t sell them here with the vague idea that Tyler could sign it (which he did) and Derek bear looks absolutely perfect and adorable in it.

But a wolf needs a mate, right? So when we were in London a couple of crazy people (Sab, Zain, Ty and Jess) decided there needed to be a Stiles bear and they found the perfect little partner for Derek, plaid and all.

Stiles has a heartbeat that we called the Spark and carries another wish, quite possibly the same one - I didn’t ask and Zain didn’t tell, because there is a little bit of magic in the secret.

And now they’re very happy together.

edens-blog:

imnotbatmanbutyoureclose:

cxbar:

edens-blog:

If you’re blue and you dont know where to go to why dont you go to Wallmart
(im an idiot)

this is the most important video on the tumblr

My favorite part is the lady in the background NOT NOTICING ANYTHING

that lady is my mother and 1000% used to my bullshit.


nympheline:
This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.
I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.
The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.
"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"
Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.
Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.
I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.
But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.
"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.
"No, I’m good," I said.
"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.
Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—
“Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.
Reader, I bought them all.

nympheline:

This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.

I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.

The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.

"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"

Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.

Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.

I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.

But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.

"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.

"No, I’m good," I said.

"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.

Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—

Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.

Reader, I bought them all.

(Source: do4do)