I love how they recreated the picture

THEM 😩🥵

Heath Ledger - A Knight's Tale (2001) promo shoot

look at them go!

David Castañeda in the trailer of “La Petite Mort” (Short film directed by Matt Law)

DAVID CASTAÑEDA 

4.14 | Sex and Violence

OH MY GODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

CALLOUT POST FOR FUCKING EURIPIDES

did classical athens do something problematic

I so desperately wish I could physically stop you fucking people from using the internet.

That said, has the answer to the question “did classical Athens do something problematic” ever, in all its history and all subsequent discussion, been “no?”

Not to me. Not if it’s classical Athens.

#2 things are excellent about this scene:  #1. Evie’s amazing long coat of light cotton in that coppery check (adventuress chic)  #and 2. the way rick is transparently and devotedly in love with his wife  #he’s trying to be chill about it to avoid agreeing to immediately going travelling again  #but he’s LOST  #FATHOMS DEEP  #that third gif when she comes back around and he’s just PINING for his OWN WIFE  #oh children

god it’s just so swoony

Dean gets early-onset Alzheimer’s when he’s 49. That’s the doctors’ best guess, at least, and Sam makes sure they get three, four, five opinions, under the names they’ve got the best insurance coverage for. It progresses fast, which is maybe a mercy. Sam doesn’t know anymore. He hopes, he thinks it’s one for Dean, puts an end to the months he knows exactly what’s coming and has to wait for it. Helpless. 

They don’t just sit. Dean won’t let Sam take him hunting, not when he can’t trust the fibrous nets of nerve between his temples, but they go back to a couple of places where Dean feels like being, go fishing, look over the edge of the Hoover Dam. They stop for a night at Lost Creek, wander out to the edge of the woods and kick weeds along the highway. Dean wants to eat a bullet there, but he isn’t gonna do it without telling Sam and Sam won’t let him, clocks him in the side of the head and holds him down in the gravel beside the Impala till he promises. 

‘There might be a cure,’ Sam says, hours later, back on the highway, when they’re both bruised and aching and cried out. Dean just sets his jaw and brushes his knuckles across Sam’s forearm. 

Once things get bad Sam can’t calm him down anymore. He’ll find Dean in the library running his hands over the tables, over their corners and legs, agitated, angry, getting splinters in fingers that are growing soft and uncalloused. Some nights he startles awake in the cot next to Dean’s bed and hears him breathing harsh and fluttery like a hunted animal, back forced up against the headboard, fingers wound in the sheets. Sam’s hands on him help, and that’s OK, Sam’s OK with that. But it’s not, it’s maybe, he wonders just how long that’ll be enough. 

One night in the pitchy predawn when Dean’s hair is silver gossamer in the moonlight Sam goes, finally, to the box under his bed and pulls out the amulet, not the one from the show but the real one. So this is how it ends up happening, he thinks, and grips it so hard the horns of the little god dig into his palm. He’s imagined giving it back to Dean a hundred times, a thousand, but it’s never seemed quite right, not quite. But any of them were better than this. 

The teeth in his chest soften their gnawing, a little, when he sees it against Dean’s chest, the burnished metal heavy against the grey of Dean’s chest hair. Sam lets his fingers linger a little, drag over Dean’s tattoo. 

Dean looks down. 

‘Samuel!’ he says, gruff, himself, blinking surprise. 

Sam cries. 

(explicit, m/m, 4296 wds)

Guys, I don’t even know what to say about this except: read it. Except that you’ll hardly even read it so much as feel it. It felt like someone put their fist in my chest and wrenched, in the best way possible. And the ending! I’m in love. 

thank you for including my old old links! it makes me happy to think people are still enjoying them <3 

He has a kiss stuck in his mouth.

It wasn’t like he was thinking about back then–it wasn’t on purpose, he wasn’t mooning around like some chick in a music video, wanting her man back. He’d just been in a diner, killing time while he waited for Dad to call, his lunch long-over and a Coke condensating all over the linoleum, and he’d been kinda watching-not watching the TV up above the counter, and there’d been this ad that showed–kissing. He doesn’t know what it was for. By the time he paid attention it was practically over, and he just had that image right there, behind his eyes, and it was–he looked away, out the window at the late-afternoon light on the crappy sedans and the sidewalk and the mailman going by, and he couldn’t get it out of his head. Lips moving, stubble, a glimpse of tongue. What the hell were they selling on daytime TV, he wondered, and it slipped down from behind his eyes without his say-so right into his mouth, and there it’s stayed, and he can’t get rid of it.

Lips, and stubble. That weird-slick shocky glance of tongues together, and no matter how many chicks he’s bagged it somehow is a surprise, a little bit, every time, but none so much as it was then. The dragging edge of teeth. The slick silk of the inside of a cheek, and breath on his top lip, and a big big hand at the back of his head, holding him there. It’s stuck, playing on loop. Like having a song stuck in his head, except he can’t sing along to this one, no matter how much Metallica he belts out in the car to try to get it out.

At the club he finds a guy, and he’s maybe an inch taller, a little skinnier, and his hair’s red instead of brown but, hey, they can’t all be winners. The dude kisses the back of his ear–his ear, what the hell–and breathes heavy against his neck, and his hands (not as big) clutch at hip and belt and ass and dick, and yeah, yeah, that’ll work, that’s working–and then there’s the bathroom, and two dudes mouthfucking on the sink–not that–the stall, better, and he gets crowded up against the back wall with his knees on either side of the toilet bowl, and he shoves down his jeans and hands a condom over his shoulder and takes the half-disbelieving laugh, the nervous you sure?, because fuck, of course he’s fucking sure, he’s bare-assed in a skanky club toilet in fuckin Duluth of all places, he’s sure–and the music’s not loud enough in here to cover the sound he makes when the guy pushes in (been too long–gonna feel that later), and a hand closes over his hip, his shoulder, and he takes himself in hand and braces the other hand on the nasty sharpied-up tile and tips his hips and takes it gladly, rocked against steady and solid, he sure can pick ‘em–and he keeps his eyes on the bobbing view of the toilet and the graffiti and knows he’ll be all lip-bitten sore when he comes out, and that kiss holds itself firm and unforgettable and solid in his mouth, slick and full, overwhelming, everything. Can’t get away from it. He presses his tongue against the back of his teeth and falls backwards, time rushing in his ears, and he can almost hear–almost, over the sound of the other two dudes starting to really fuck and the shitty pop song and the panting at the back of his neck and the slap of hips against his ass–he can almost hear the smile in his voice, and the soft sound of their lips separating, and the man, Dean, I just–don’t know what I’d do without you. Almost.