I ship it.
#youve been a bad BAD BOY STYLES #NOW GET ON YOUR FUCKING KNEES RIGHT NOW
Never ever getting over the fact that every time we see him get on his knees (which is A LOT of times btw) he just goes. right. down.
(Source: loutomlinsns)
OH CHILD
(Source: harrygetbent)
I want every single one of these dresses. So pretty.
(Source: kempersperfectlygroomedmustache)
What Jon said. STFU and GTFO, JJ.
WHAT GIVES YOU THE RIGHT, JJ
WHAT GIVES YOU THE RIGht
tbh I am neither surprised nor disappointed since he’s been dead to me ever since he blew up Vulcan. DEAD. TO. ME.
(Source: catbushandludicrous)
Zach and Zoe on The Jonathan Ross Show (x)
Biggest boyband in the world onstage or the beginnings of some kind of kinky gangbang porn shoot? WHO CAN TELL WITH THESE BOYS I MEAN REALLY.
(Source: gigglinggwen)
Brian Cox pointing at a pamphlet whilst driving.
This pic is absolute perfection in context. Brian Cox is reading the safety guide to Paranal Observatory in Chile, which is at an altitude of 8,600 ft, and he’s giggling delightedly because one of the recommendations is: “if you see stars at the Paranal Observatory consult a paramedic immediately.” MOST PERFECT HUMAN FULL STOP.
How I learned to stop hating and love GOOP.
If the experts at People magazine are to be trusted, then Gwyneth Paltrow is currently the most beautiful woman in the world. Happily, this means that beauty now comes with a comprehensive instruction manual. Thanks to her lifestyle newsletter, GOOP, it’s possible for us mere mortals to follow Gwyneth’s own advice on how to be exactly like her — that is, perfect.
According to its website, GOOP (cheerily named after Paltrow’s initials) is “a digital media and e-commerce company.” Its free weekly newsletter includes style tips, recipes, vacation recommendations, and miscellaneous words of wisdom from Paltrow’s rich and famous friends. The writing style is particularly intriguing—primarily first-person Paltrow, with occasional additions from a mysterious editorial “we” whenever Gwyneth wants to interview herself.
GOOP may not sound like it has much of a market aside from people who really, really like to read about quinoa and $350 yoga pants, but it’s mesmerizingly readable—mostly because of its Marie Antoinette–esque detachment from reality. It’s a glimpse into a magical alternate universe where money is limitless and the most important things in life are selecting the most authentic Corsican spa for a weekend getaway and teaching one’s children to enjoy buckwheat grains. But if you truly feel like you have what it takes to live up to the once and future GOOP, we’ve put together a few basic tips that Gwyneth has deemed applicable to everyday life… [READ MORE]
Idk what I did with my life before GOOP.
A fic where Zayn, the super high-priced rentboy, accidentally picks up backalley whore Harry, am I right?
Zayn’s Friday regular always pays for the whole night, then cuts out shortly after midnight with a phone pressed to her ear and a hundred pound note pressed into Zayn’s mouth. She pays for the entire weekend at the hotel and lets Zayn stay as long as he wants, charging up the room service and rolling around on the slick sheets, long limbs taking up as much room as he likes.
He’s always grateful for the break, for the chance to sleep as late as he wants and bathe alone in the tub the size of a swimming pool without anyone to take into account. There are no special preferences about what he should or shouldn’t shave, what sort of soap he ought to use, whether he ought to be stretched and slick or tight and impossible. It’s good. But tonight he’s restless; summer is slipping away and the evenings are shading into autumn and Zayn is restless. He dresses in his slacks and waistcoat, phones his handler, then slips the keycard into his pocket and goes for a walk.
The city is quiet, winding down for the night. Zayn ambles along with his hands in his pockets, not looking at anything in particular, just enjoying the warmth that lingers on his skin, the way the smell of sex and perfume are still lingering on his hands. His guard is down for once, and that’s why he’s so surprised when the boy slides up to him, hair a riot around his pretty face, and slips one hand into the waistband of Zayn’s slacks.
“Twenty quid for a handjob,” he says, tilting his chin up. “Come on, pretty boy.”
Zayn would normally give him the eye and get gone, but there’s something about this kid. Or—more likely it’s nothing about him, and something about Zayn, that he’s got the luxury life today. He’s been here, though, hoping to haggle out to fifteen quid for a blow so he can stay at a hostel instead of the shelter.
“That’s awful technique, mate,” Zayn says, and pulls the hand out of his trousers. “Good way to get arrested, for one.”
The kid looks around, wide-eyed and suddenly tense. “Are you police, then?” he asks, and Zayn laughs.
“There’s a place over the high street does a good hearty soup for cheap,” Zayn tells him. “Come with me, I’ll get you one. It’ll be better business in an hour anyway.”
“How would you know that?” The kid looks him up and down, but it’s not the way customers do. He’s looking at Zayn’s clothes, his hair, his necklaces.
“Tell you about it over dinner,” Zayn says, and walks off without checking to see if he’s following.
