I would much rather be the ‘obnoxious feminist girl’ than be complicit in my own dehumanization.

Kathleen Hanna (via camewiththeframe)

frenchfrycoolguy:

exchanging grammatically correct emails with adults is the most uncomfortable form of human interaction in existence

8 hours ago · 49,097 notes · Reblog

(Source: attackoneyebrows)

Ben Whishaw cast as lead in new BBC gay spy drama

giddytf2:

Would you look at that, a gay actor playing a gay character who’s the lead of the show that’s a BBC gay spy drama.

There, it’s decided. I’ll use the midseason break (I curse whoever came up with these, curse them all to hell) to read the first book.

10 hours ago · 1 note · Reblog
#outlander 

maisiewilliams:

(Source: hearttohart)

sassybraavosi:

No,I’ve not turned into a porn blog. My otp banged last night!

a novel by the outlander fandom 

me: that scene was so painful
me: that scene made me actually physically cry
me: that scene was emotionally scarring
me:
me:
me: better rewatch it 800 times
11 hours ago · 125,330 notes · Reblog

I knew the sex was not going to be gratuitous and vulgar the second I saw it was written and directed by women

Game of Thrones should take note.

hobbies: accidentally joining fandoms

high resolution →

"Outlander," justifies all that critical love with the wedding of Claire and Jamie. This — the show’s seventh episode — is one of the sexiest hours ever presented on television and quite the payoff after the first six hours. The series is based on Diana Gabaldon’s best-selling books, and rarely has an author been so well served by television.

Orlando-Sentinel TV Review. “Outlander”, episode 1.07 “The Wedding” (via truelovepirate)


If it must be sometime, it may as well be now, I thought, and deliberately ran my hands up the length of his thighs, hard and lean under his kilt. Though by this time I knew perfectly well what most Scotsmen wore beneath their kilts—nothing—it was still something of a shock to find only Jamie.
He lifted me to my feet then, and bent his head to kiss me. It went on a long while, and his hands roamed downward, finding the fastening of my petticoat. It fell to the floor in a billow of starched flounces, leaving me in my chemise. 
“Where did you learn to kiss like that?” I said, a little breathless. He grinned and pulled me close again.
“I said I was a virgin, not a monk,” he said, kissing me again. “If I find I need guidance, I’ll ask.” He pressed me firmly to him, and I could feel that he was more than ready to get on with the business at hand. With some surprise, I realized that I was ready too. In fact, whether it was the result of the late hour, the wine, his own attractiveness, or simple deprivation, I wanted him quite badly.
I pulled his shirt loose at the waist and ran my hands up over his chest, circling his nipples with my thumbs. They grew hard in a second, and he crushed me suddenly against his chest.
“Oof!” I said, struggling for breath. He let go, apologizing.
“No, don’t worry; kiss me again.” He did, this time slipping the straps of the chemise down over my shoulders. He drew back slightly, cupping my breasts and rubbing my nipples as I had done his. I fumbled with the buckle that held his kilt; his fingers guided mine and the clasp sprang free.
Suddenly he lifted me in his arms and sat down on the bed, holding me on his lap. He spoke a little hoarsely. “Tell me if I’m too rough, or tell me to stop altogether, if ye wish. Anytime until we are joined; I dinna think I can stop after that.”
In answer, I put my hands behind his neck and pulled him down on top of me. I guided him to the slippery cleft between my legs. “Holy God,” said James Fraser, who never took the name of his Lord in vain.
“Don’t stop now,” I said.

If it must be sometime, it may as well be now, I thought, and deliberately ran my hands up the length of his thighs, hard and lean under his kilt. Though by this time I knew perfectly well what most Scotsmen wore beneath their kilts—nothing—it was still something of a shock to find only Jamie.

He lifted me to my feet then, and bent his head to kiss me. It went on a long while, and his hands roamed downward, finding the fastening of my petticoat. It fell to the floor in a billow of starched flounces, leaving me in my chemise. 

“Where did you learn to kiss like that?” I said, a little breathless. He grinned and pulled me close again.

“I said I was a virgin, not a monk,” he said, kissing me again. “If I find I need guidance, I’ll ask.” He pressed me firmly to him, and I could feel that he was more than ready to get on with the business at hand. With some surprise, I realized that I was ready too. In fact, whether it was the result of the late hour, the wine, his own attractiveness, or simple deprivation, I wanted him quite badly.

I pulled his shirt loose at the waist and ran my hands up over his chest, circling his nipples with my thumbs. They grew hard in a second, and he crushed me suddenly against his chest.

“Oof!” I said, struggling for breath. He let go, apologizing.

“No, don’t worry; kiss me again.” He did, this time slipping the straps of the chemise down over my shoulders. He drew back slightly, cupping my breasts and rubbing my nipples as I had done his. I fumbled with the buckle that held his kilt; his fingers guided mine and the clasp sprang free.

Suddenly he lifted me in his arms and sat down on the bed, holding me on his lap. He spoke a little hoarsely. “Tell me if I’m too rough, or tell me to stop altogether, if ye wish. Anytime until we are joined; I dinna think I can stop after that.”

In answer, I put my hands behind his neck and pulled him down on top of me. I guided him to the slippery cleft between my legs. “Holy God,” said James Fraser, who never took the name of his Lord in vain.

“Don’t stop now,” I said.