remington-zero:

drags hands down face

zarryfooksquad:

fileformat:

who even uses celsius… like how extra

ajmoonstar:

I CANT BELIEVE THIS

ghostlywatcher:

Hermitage Museum. St. Petersburg, Russia.

theothersideofthefarside:

leath–hedger:

mad-magyar:

diarrheaworldstarhiphop:

hoyl fuck my sides

I can’t tell whats funnier:

-The way they yell “Russia!”

-The fact that they’re having a party in a shed with tires and other miscellaneous garbage on the roof

-The vodka induced singing and dancing

-The fact that it’s Russian pop

-The one obviously drunk guy in the bottom left corner who looks like he’s challenging the cameraman to a fight

-The other drunk guy who comes and tries to tell his agressive friend that it’s not worth it

bless their hearts

The life of a slav is one I wish to experience

mr-finnyeh:

god I really like it when ford does the thing with his chest

g781:

my minuteman playthrough somehow turned into my preston garvey playthrough. but anyway

gashkarth:

do you ever just feel like you’re just completely worthless and unattractive on a physical and emotional level and you’re just never good enough because there’s always someone else that overpowers you with their pretty face and personality and you just instantly back down because you feel you have literally nothing to fight against with

lavellanpls:

da:i + locations // pt.3 

blushinglaurent:

*sees long haired Laurent* wow what a beautiful Laurent this is it this is how i imagine him 

*sees short haired Laurent* wow what a beautiful Laurent this is it this is how i imagine him 

*sees mid length haired Laurent* wow what a beautiful Laurent this is it this is how i-

eikyrona:

I haven’t coloured properly in ages.

tsoadaily:

I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me. If I had had words to speak such a thing, I would have. But there were none that seemed big enough for it, to hold that swelling truth.
As if he had heard me, he reached for my hand. I did not need to look; his fingers were etched into my memory, slender and petal-veined, strong and quick and never wrong.
“Patroclus,” he said. He was always better with words than I.