me: i think i already reblogged this
me: did i already reblog this
me: i totally already reblogged this
me: ah who cares i'm reblogging it again

shanellanna:

your squad  :                                                                image                                                                                                                       my squad :                                                                                               image

(via namjoons1llestbitch)

sataninavneck:

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Howler Magazine; twelve pages of articles discussing ‘Bites & Scratches: The How-To’s and the How-To Avoids’, ‘Werewolf Hierarchy & Its Uses’ and ‘Alpha, Beta & Omega: Where do YOU Rank?’, as well as thirty six pages of glossy, not-for-children images, guaranteed to make a werewolf’s blood run hot. The magazine’s been in print since the early 1940’s, but it’s only recently, with a werewolf population nearing one billion—a full seventh of the planet’s total—sales have skyrocketed, and Peter Hale was taking full advantage.

He was originally hired as a partial-body model; feet, legs, hands, the occasional full-body shot when the higher paid models neglected to show. But it was only after his third year doing it, that Peter was noticed by the magazine’s newly-hired photographer. No longer was Peter going to show off only his muscled legs, his strong hands, or his trim torso. No, Peter was reclassified as a neck model.

The photographer could hardly contain himself—new to the pornographic werewolf magazine business and a newly-bitten werewolf himself—and Peter’s poses were provocative even before the camera was focused on him. The way he removed his clothes, or started a conversation, were positively obscene, and it was actually the photographer’s idea to let Peter be himself before the camera, rather than barking orders while Peter obeyed.

"The scene is a bedroom, Peter," the photographer started, giving clues as to how the shoot should go, but never demands. "You’re dressed in a Zara jacket and Varvatos jeans, but nothing else. Hell, I doubt you’ve even worn underwear a day in your life, am I right?”

Peter only chuckled and then dropped the smile, stepping under the spotlight and against the concrete wall of the studio. He didn’t even need the white canvas background or the comfortable living room set up to look like a brothel; the cold, slightly rough texture of the concrete was perfect. Just gritty enough. He stood in a wide stance and rocked himself a little to get comfortable, aware that he may be standing in the same pose for several minutes at a time, and then lifted both hands towards the zipper of the gorgeously-tailored jacket.

Zara jackets fit him like a second skin usually; the leather was soft and supple—kid leather, really—and the zipper pull was wide and solid in his large hands. He hooked the left-side of the jacket to draw it open as the zipper drew down and the photographer gasped as he snapped away, the shutter announcing every shot with a soft, mechanical click. It was the tilt of Peter’s head that had the photographer taken aback; Peter’s eyebrows drawn together as if he were conflicted about the exposure, his closed eyes, the powerful, defined square of his jawline.

Peter’s neck, so thick and muscled, poured down the front of him as the zipper finally halted, showing off collarbone, soft, groomed chest hair and the tantalizing swell of his left pectoral. It wasn’t enough that Peter was well-built and could make any outfit seem more refined than it was, but to reveal such strength beneath a simple leather jacket was incredible.

It was literally porn for werewolves, without the removal of the lower half of his outfit. No truly bare breasts, no naked asses, no genitals. The bared column of Peter’s neck was as obscene as it could get for Howler Magazine, and so long as Peter played nice with the photographer, there could be a centerfold shoot in every issue.

(via steterismylife)

Christmas Snowflake