bagmilk:

when you sing a song in your head and then it plays on the radio

image

Source: heteroh Via: dutchster
Via: imsirius

maliataete:

queerbriel:

welcome to womens clothing where the sizes are made up and the measurements don’t matter

photography-amused:

itscourtoon:

walkergirl95:

Wrong Door

THIS IS MY FAVORITE THING ON THE INTERNET 

whoever made this-you’re genious hahah 

photography-amused:

itscourtoon:

walkergirl95:

Wrong Door

THIS IS MY FAVORITE THING ON THE INTERNET 

whoever made this-you’re genious hahah 

Source: walkergirl95 Via: dutchster

capitolcouture:

Peeta Mellark: Spirit of Strength

Capitol Couture has been waiting eagerly for the next wave of incredible images of our cherished elite, and here they are! Fresh from the excitement of the most eventful Quarter Quell to date, we are thrilled and honored to present the new Capitol Citizen Living Portraits.

As our Quarter Quell victors, Peeta Mellark and Johanna Mason hold the distinct honor of being the first Capitol citizens featured within a Living Portrait.  Peeta stands tall and true in his Capitol Citizen Living Portrait, his matte leather Unconditional ensemble showcasing a stone-like texture and channeling the victor’s quiet strength, completed by shirt and shoes courtesy of Maison Martin Margiela. The paper collar piece, designed by David Mason, mirrors the sculptural elements in Johanna’s dress and gives a stern ambiance to the baker’s son. With an unprecedented two victories under his belt, Peeta is no longer the boy who bravely faced the 74th Hunger Games, but a true Capitol hero.   


Citizens can witness the artist’s hand-selected series of Living Portraits in person at SOCA this summer.

h0llo:

I don’t really forgive people I just pretend like its ok and wait for my opportunity to destroy them

Via: bastille

consummateclassicsconnoisseur:

swoonreads:

fuckyeahawesomehouses:

More Bookshelves Hiding Secret Rooms

Yessssss.

There is no doubt that I will have one of these in my house some day.

theawkwardterrier:

operationfailure:

randomredux:

thefingerfuckingfemalefury:

YOU BROUGHT THIS ON YOURSELF

This got even funnier when I realized that to shoot it, essentially someone had to hurl a massive rat puppet at Cary Elwes.

My favorite thing is that he doesn’t telegraph it at all. He never tenses up, never flinches, just waits for the giant rat puppet being hurled through the air to take him down. Great performance.

I don’t know if this is true of this scene, but most of the ROUS footage is not shot with puppets, it’s a person in a rat suit. (He was actually arrested for speeding and had to be bailed out of jail by filmmakers in order to shoot his footage [x])

sheerpoetry7:

The new Veronica Mars book now has a cover!
It’s release date is October 28!

sheerpoetry7:

The new Veronica Mars book now has a cover!

It’s release date is October 28!

Chris Pratt Interrupts Interview To French Braid Intern’s Hair

allthatandasideoftom:

annamariaesergren:

einarsdatter:

xrdj:

Tom Hiddleston’s advice on not wasting you life, by saying: 

Where we going? Fuck it! Who cares?

"People will look" "Fuck it! Come on!"……"But it’s raining""Fuck it! Come on!"……"But that is not what is expected from an adult""Fuck it! Come on!"

I’ll ALWAYS reblog this…This is my mantra

allthatandasideoftom:

annamariaesergren:

einarsdatter:

xrdj:

Tom Hiddleston’s advice on not wasting you life, by saying: 

Where we going? Fuck it! Who cares?

"People will look"
"Fuck it! Come on!"
……
"But it’s raining"
"Fuck it! Come on!"
……
"But that is not what is expected from an adult"
"Fuck it! Come on!"

I’ll ALWAYS reblog this…This is my mantra

butteredtopcorn:

officialsamwinchester:

do u ever put on a shirt and look in the mirror and go

"no. this does not represent the full potential of my boobs"

Yes. And sometimes “no.This is far too much potential. I don’t want my boobs to outshine me.”

intrepidprofessor:

Rain dropping into water is a fantastic sight. Just watching it “ker-plop” into the water and cause a shockwave that meets other shockwaves. I think it implies the same enjoyment people feel when they jump into a puddle of water, or dip their toes into a lake. 

intrepidprofessor:

Rain dropping into water is a fantastic sight. Just watching it “ker-plop” into the water and cause a shockwave that meets other shockwaves. I think it implies the same enjoyment people feel when they jump into a puddle of water, or dip their toes into a lake. 

Source: ryanella Via: rebeccacrane
ghostcat3000:

Logan/Veronica Appreciation Week | Day Seven | Favorite AU » 1946 Tripoli-set Espionage Romance Thriller EPIC
The Pliant Web
The Medina is just starting to pick up, the vendors bustling with new vigor, taking the time to reorganize their wares. They know that now is the time of the day when the expat crowd most like to make their appearances. Prices go up, and the stalls burst with silkily spoken English, along with French and Italian. Everyone with a smile in place. The colors are warm, the usual honeyed hues of a Mediterranean city, and the air has that famous, distinctive smell of orange blossoms. He’s gonna miss this place.
Logan rubs his fingers on the surface of the rug, the texture is rough against his skin, but he can see the quality. The weave is tight and the colors are perfectly differentiated. Nevertheless, one must bargain or the natives will lose all respect. He sighs. ”Il est orange, je n’aime pas l’orange.”
”Il est rouge, rouge, le soleil vous joue des tours.” The merchant is a something of a friend, young, with eyes that appear startled most of the time giving him a humorous aspect of incredulity.
”Mais je n’ai pas besoin d’un tapis.” Logan squints and looks to the side, as if he is considering moving to another stall.
The merchant’s voice hitches up, suddenly, his arms expansive, the billowing sleeves of his white gown making him appear larger than he really is. ”Les tapis ajoutent une touche de la magie à une chambre. C’est comme de l’art sur les murs. Ils aident à harmoniser un espace.”
Logan smirks. ”Mais ou avez-vous entendu ça, Cornélius?” He waves his hand at him dismissively. ”N’utilisez pas votre discours de suceur d’expatrier sur moi.”
“Quoi? I do not comprehend your meaning. I’m sorry, Mr. Logan but your French is criminal.”
Logan’s voice drops to a whisper. “So is your operation but you don’t hear me complaining.”
Cornelius laughs. “I’m starting to understand why the US Navy didn’t want you.”
“Yeah, well, Uncle Sam don’t have much use for cripples.” He smiles ruefully, tapping his cane on the ground for emphasis. “Besides where else can I practice my French, if not with you?”
The merchant smoothly hands Logan an envelope of cash hidden in a scarf the color of currants. Logan unwraps the scarf as if to examine it and deftly slips the envelope into his sleeve. Winnings from a gambling operation in an illegal casino across town. Not his, he’s just the pick-up man. He hands the scarf back with a shrug and Cornelius hangs it back with the others. The subterfuge, while ridiculous, is necessary. The war may be over but times are tough, and finding trustworthy types like Cornelius is rare. Logan transfers the envelope into a cleverly sewn pickpocket-proof interior pouch and as he turns he spots two acquaintances entering the market, unknowingly heading in his direction— Reuters Libyan correspondent, Stosh Piznarski and his chipper little camera-toting wife Veronica “Call me Ronnie” Piznarski.
“Do me a favor, Corny old sport. Lay it on real thick with these two when they come this way, I don’t want them to see me and trap me in a conversation about issues with the British Military Administration or,” he gives a delicate shiver. “Homer.”
“You are a strange man, Mr. Logan.”
Logan smiles and grabs a handful of almonds before Cornelius can slap his hand. “And yet you love me.”
He grins at him widely and slinks out of sight seconds before Piznarski and mate come bounding along. Logan doesn’t dislike the man exactly. If you overlook his longish hair and propensity for puns, he’s an alright guy. When cornered, Logan finds it best to guide him into a conversation about jazz, a topic they both seem to enjoy, and steer him clear of editorial-style ranting that never fails to make Logan want to hop on the nearest camel and head straight to the deserts of Fezzan.
Now his wife… She is interesting. Beautiful? Absolutely, if a little sharper than what he usually went for. Tiny and animated, with slender legs that went on far longer than they had a right to considering her stature. She is in many ways your typical expat wife, chatty, fair, with a sparkly peal of a laugh that announced her position in a room, always cooing over the customs. But there is something else to her, something he can’t quite place. Last week at the a dinner party for the British Consulate, he could’ve sworn he saw her roll her eyes at one of Lady Sinclair’s more asinine pronouncements, but when he leaned in to have a closer look, she was all nods and eager smiles, not a trace of discord in sight.
He watches them from the shadow of a doorway and laughs to himself as Corny enthusiastically shows them a variety of change purses. Piznarski buys one and hands it over to Ronnie with some fanfare, she rewards him with a chaste peck on the cheek. They walk hand in hand through the market, and Logan follows them impulsively, at a respectful distance. 
After ten minutes or so, Ronnie points to her watch and pouts prettily. Piznarski embraces her and she walks off, under the arches, in the direction of the Italian Quarter where most of the expats reside. Piznarski watches her go fondly, then stares at the wares on the table in front of him before settling on a Tuareg cross, which he purchases without haggling, thanking the man in Berber and bounding off like a puppy in the park.
Logan stands there for a moment, taking stock of the sweet, domestic scene he’s just witnessed. It’s adorable how innocent they are, those two. He can’t quite believe they’re real. It’s a like a war never happened, not in the world, not in their hearts, like no one ever died. He laughs. If that was a gift for her, she won’t like it, she favors smaller things. Even he knows that and he barely knows her.
A flash of yellow catches his eye and he sees Ronnie Piznarski entering back from where she came from. He slouches and hides himself behind a stall, hurriedly passing the merchant a few coins and putting his fingers up to his mouth in a shushing motion. She looks around cautiously, then her expression changes, shifts into something fascinatingly, intriguingly, hard-edged. She takes out a dark scarf from her purse and covers her blonde hair with it, quickly and efficiently as if she’s done this dozens of times, then walks the other way, deeper into the market, in a determined, fleet-footed rush.
Logan doesn’t even think about it. He throws his cane in the air gaily, catches it, and takes off after her. Far enough away as to remain undetected and close enough to keep her in his sights, moving seamlessly in the crowd, one lock of yellow hair escaping her headscarf, curled at the nape of her neck, a little damp and a lot bright.
(more of this story to be posted on AO3 later tonight)

__________________________

Special thanks to lilamadison11 for the gorgeous poster, machaswicket and disdainfullady for beta reading on the fly like champions, and fponthedl and adzimba for translating some French for me and making Logan sound ridiculous.
One big hug to everyone at loganandveronica for dreaming up this week, everyone who participated - you are all inspiring.
(Psst. bryrosea, there’s a joke in the French dialogue that’s just for you.)

ghostcat3000:

Logan/Veronica Appreciation Week | Day Seven | Favorite AU » 1946 Tripoli-set Espionage Romance Thriller EPIC

The Pliant Web

The Medina is just starting to pick up, the vendors bustling with new vigor, taking the time to reorganize their wares. They know that now is the time of the day when the expat crowd most like to make their appearances. Prices go up, and the stalls burst with silkily spoken English, along with French and Italian. Everyone with a smile in place. The colors are warm, the usual honeyed hues of a Mediterranean city, and the air has that famous, distinctive smell of orange blossoms. He’s gonna miss this place.

Logan rubs his fingers on the surface of the rug, the texture is rough against his skin, but he can see the quality. The weave is tight and the colors are perfectly differentiated. Nevertheless, one must bargain or the natives will lose all respect. He sighs. ”Il est orange, je n’aime pas l’orange.”

Il est rouge, rouge, le soleil vous joue des tours.” The merchant is a something of a friend, young, with eyes that appear startled most of the time giving him a humorous aspect of incredulity.

Mais je n’ai pas besoin d’un tapis.” Logan squints and looks to the side, as if he is considering moving to another stall.

The merchant’s voice hitches up, suddenly, his arms expansive, the billowing sleeves of his white gown making him appear larger than he really is. ”Les tapis ajoutent une touche de la magie à une chambre. C’est comme de l’art sur les murs. Ils aident à harmoniser un espace.

Logan smirks. ”Mais ou avez-vous entendu ça, Cornélius?” He waves his hand at him dismissively. ”N’utilisez pas votre discours de suceur d’expatrier sur moi.

“Quoi? I do not comprehend your meaning. I’m sorry, Mr. Logan but your French is criminal.”

Logan’s voice drops to a whisper. “So is your operation but you don’t hear me complaining.”

Cornelius laughs. “I’m starting to understand why the US Navy didn’t want you.”

“Yeah, well, Uncle Sam don’t have much use for cripples.” He smiles ruefully, tapping his cane on the ground for emphasis. “Besides where else can I practice my French, if not with you?”

The merchant smoothly hands Logan an envelope of cash hidden in a scarf the color of currants. Logan unwraps the scarf as if to examine it and deftly slips the envelope into his sleeve. Winnings from a gambling operation in an illegal casino across town. Not his, he’s just the pick-up man. He hands the scarf back with a shrug and Cornelius hangs it back with the others. The subterfuge, while ridiculous, is necessary. The war may be over but times are tough, and finding trustworthy types like Cornelius is rare. Logan transfers the envelope into a cleverly sewn pickpocket-proof interior pouch and as he turns he spots two acquaintances entering the market, unknowingly heading in his direction— Reuters Libyan correspondent, Stosh Piznarski and his chipper little camera-toting wife Veronica “Call me Ronnie” Piznarski.

“Do me a favor, Corny old sport. Lay it on real thick with these two when they come this way, I don’t want them to see me and trap me in a conversation about issues with the British Military Administration or,” he gives a delicate shiver. “Homer.”

“You are a strange man, Mr. Logan.”

Logan smiles and grabs a handful of almonds before Cornelius can slap his hand. “And yet you love me.”

He grins at him widely and slinks out of sight seconds before Piznarski and mate come bounding along. Logan doesn’t dislike the man exactly. If you overlook his longish hair and propensity for puns, he’s an alright guy. When cornered, Logan finds it best to guide him into a conversation about jazz, a topic they both seem to enjoy, and steer him clear of editorial-style ranting that never fails to make Logan want to hop on the nearest camel and head straight to the deserts of Fezzan.

Now his wife… She is interesting. Beautiful? Absolutely, if a little sharper than what he usually went for. Tiny and animated, with slender legs that went on far longer than they had a right to considering her stature. She is in many ways your typical expat wife, chatty, fair, with a sparkly peal of a laugh that announced her position in a room, always cooing over the customs. But there is something else to her, something he can’t quite place. Last week at the a dinner party for the British Consulate, he could’ve sworn he saw her roll her eyes at one of Lady Sinclair’s more asinine pronouncements, but when he leaned in to have a closer look, she was all nods and eager smiles, not a trace of discord in sight.

He watches them from the shadow of a doorway and laughs to himself as Corny enthusiastically shows them a variety of change purses. Piznarski buys one and hands it over to Ronnie with some fanfare, she rewards him with a chaste peck on the cheek. They walk hand in hand through the market, and Logan follows them impulsively, at a respectful distance. 

After ten minutes or so, Ronnie points to her watch and pouts prettily. Piznarski embraces her and she walks off, under the arches, in the direction of the Italian Quarter where most of the expats reside. Piznarski watches her go fondly, then stares at the wares on the table in front of him before settling on a Tuareg cross, which he purchases without haggling, thanking the man in Berber and bounding off like a puppy in the park.

Logan stands there for a moment, taking stock of the sweet, domestic scene he’s just witnessed. It’s adorable how innocent they are, those two. He can’t quite believe they’re real. It’s a like a war never happened, not in the world, not in their hearts, like no one ever died. He laughs. If that was a gift for her, she won’t like it, she favors smaller things. Even he knows that and he barely knows her.

A flash of yellow catches his eye and he sees Ronnie Piznarski entering back from where she came from. He slouches and hides himself behind a stall, hurriedly passing the merchant a few coins and putting his fingers up to his mouth in a shushing motion. She looks around cautiously, then her expression changes, shifts into something fascinatingly, intriguingly, hard-edged. She takes out a dark scarf from her purse and covers her blonde hair with it, quickly and efficiently as if she’s done this dozens of times, then walks the other way, deeper into the market, in a determined, fleet-footed rush.

Logan doesn’t even think about it. He throws his cane in the air gaily, catches it, and takes off after her. Far enough away as to remain undetected and close enough to keep her in his sights, moving seamlessly in the crowd, one lock of yellow hair escaping her headscarf, curled at the nape of her neck, a little damp and a lot bright.

(more of this story to be posted on AO3 later tonight)

__________________________


Special thanks to lilamadison11 for the gorgeous poster, machaswicket and disdainfullady for beta reading on the fly like champions, and fponthedl and adzimba for translating some French for me and making Logan sound ridiculous.

One big hug to everyone at loganandveronica for dreaming up this week, everyone who participated - you are all inspiring.

(Psst. bryrosea, there’s a joke in the French dialogue that’s just for you.)