September172014
cassbones:

"The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout…"
The soft-spoken words pierced through Kate’s subconscious as she slowly became aware of her surroundings.
"Down came the rain and washed the spider out…"
She caught sight of a mussed mop of brown hair down by her belly and felt a slight weight on her bare abdomen.
"Out came the sun and dried up all the rain…"
"Castle?" Kate mumbled. "What are you—"
His blue eyes peeked up at her and he held a finger to his lips, before looking back down at her bare belly.
"And the itsy-bitsy spider went up the spout again." When the song was over, he laid a sweet kiss over her belly button, which made Kate giggle.
"That tickles!" she laughed. He smiled up at her and crawled up the bed to lay a kiss on her lips.
"Good morning, Beautiful," he whispered against her lips.
She smiled. “Good morning,” she replied. “Why were you singing to my stomach at…” she looked at the clock on the bedside table and groaned, “five in the morning?”
"I was singing to our baby," he said, as if it were obvious. Kate narrowed her eyes at him.
"I’m not pregnant," she said, "unless…is this your way of telling me I’m getting fat?"
"What? No!" Castle exclaimed, backpedaling. "Of course not! You’re just as physically-fit as you’ve always been. It’s just…"
"What?" Kate asked, lifting one brow.
"Wouldn’t it be nice?" Castle said, smiling. "If you were pregnant? With my child? Wouldn’t it be nice if there were a little baby in there that came out  with my eyes and your beautiful smile and golden hair? And I would wake you every morning singing to that gorgeous little baby? Wouldn’t it?”
Kate smiled softly, leaning in to give her fiance another sweet kiss. “Yes,” she said against his lips, “it would be. But I’m on the pill, babe. I don’t think there’ll be any of that happening anytime soon…at least, not until after we’re married, okay?”
Castle nodded in understanding. “I can see why you would want to wait,” he said, “but, just so you know, Meredith was on the pill when Alexis was conceived.”
He scampered off the bed before she could grab his ear for bringing up one of his exes in bed—which was strictly against one of Kate’s imposed “rules”—and hurried out of the room, leaving Kate glaring at his glorious backside, which he’d forgotten to cover up after their little post-case ‘celebration’ last night.
Kate rolled her eyes and laid back on the bed, her hands resting over her flat stomach, just under her bellybutton.
"Baby," she said, "you’re daddy is a goof ball, but I’m sure you’ll love him." She smiled softly to herself, before standing, grabbing Castle’s shirt from the chair next to their bed, and sliding it on as she walked out of the room in search of her man-child.

cassbones:

"The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout…"

The soft-spoken words pierced through Kate’s subconscious as she slowly became aware of her surroundings.

"Down came the rain and washed the spider out…"

She caught sight of a mussed mop of brown hair down by her belly and felt a slight weight on her bare abdomen.

"Out came the sun and dried up all the rain…"

"Castle?" Kate mumbled. "What are you—"

His blue eyes peeked up at her and he held a finger to his lips, before looking back down at her bare belly.

"And the itsy-bitsy spider went up the spout again." When the song was over, he laid a sweet kiss over her belly button, which made Kate giggle.

"That tickles!" she laughed. He smiled up at her and crawled up the bed to lay a kiss on her lips.

"Good morning, Beautiful," he whispered against her lips.

She smiled. “Good morning,” she replied. “Why were you singing to my stomach at…” she looked at the clock on the bedside table and groaned, “five in the morning?”

"I was singing to our baby," he said, as if it were obvious. Kate narrowed her eyes at him.

"I’m not pregnant," she said, "unless…is this your way of telling me I’m getting fat?"

"What? No!" Castle exclaimed, backpedaling. "Of course not! You’re just as physically-fit as you’ve always been. It’s just…"

"What?" Kate asked, lifting one brow.

"Wouldn’t it be nice?" Castle said, smiling. "If you were pregnant? With my child? Wouldn’t it be nice if there were a little baby in there that came out  with my eyes and your beautiful smile and golden hair? And I would wake you every morning singing to that gorgeous little baby? Wouldn’t it?”

Kate smiled softly, leaning in to give her fiance another sweet kiss. “Yes,” she said against his lips, “it would be. But I’m on the pill, babe. I don’t think there’ll be any of that happening anytime soon…at least, not until after we’re married, okay?”

Castle nodded in understanding. “I can see why you would want to wait,” he said, “but, just so you know, Meredith was on the pill when Alexis was conceived.”

He scampered off the bed before she could grab his ear for bringing up one of his exes in bed—which was strictly against one of Kate’s imposed “rules”—and hurried out of the room, leaving Kate glaring at his glorious backside, which he’d forgotten to cover up after their little post-case ‘celebration’ last night.

Kate rolled her eyes and laid back on the bed, her hands resting over her flat stomach, just under her bellybutton.

"Baby," she said, "you’re daddy is a goof ball, but I’m sure you’ll love him." She smiled softly to herself, before standing, grabbing Castle’s shirt from the chair next to their bed, and sliding it on as she walked out of the room in search of her man-child.

(Source: textsfromthe12th, via castle-fan41319)

September162014

mbthecool:

"No one wears a dress like Stana Katic" - Andrew Marlowe

(via makingloveinthecastle)

5PM
faeri-lights:

flowuery:

l-uminux:

reteen:

bambi-ful:

daisifyed:

korraful:

Date a girl who writes.
Date a girl who may never wear completely clean clothes, because of coffee stains and ink spills. She’ll have many problems with her closet space, and her laptop is never boring because there are so many words, so many worlds that she’s cluttered amidst the space. Tabs open filled with obscure and popular music. Interesting factoids about Catherine the Great, and the immortality of jellyfish. Laugh it off when she tells you that she forgot to clean her room, that her clothes are lost among the binders so it’ll take her longer to get ready, that her shoes hidden under the mountain of broken Bic pens and the refurbished laptop that she’s saved for ever since she was twelve. 
Kiss her under the lamppost, when it’s raining. Tell her your definition of love. 
Find a girl who writes. You’ll know that she has a sense of humor, a sense of empathy and kindness, and that she will dream up worlds, universes for you. She’s the one with the faintest of shadows underneath her eyelids, the one who smells of coffee and Coca-cola and jasmine green tea. You see that girl hunched over a notebook. That’s the writer. With her fingers occasionally smudged with charcoal, with ink that will travel onto your hands when you interlock your fingers with her’s. She will never stop, churning out adventures, of traitors and heroes. Darkness and light. Fear and love. That’s the writer. She can never resist filling a blank page with words, whatever the color of the page is.
She’s the girl reading while waiting for her coffee and tea. She’s the quiet girl with her music turned up loud (or impossibly quiet), separating the two of you by an ocean of crescendos and decrescendos as she’s thinking of the perfect words. If you take a peek at her cup, the tea or coffee’s already cold. She’s already forgotten it.
Use a pick-up line with her if she doesn’t look to busy.
If she raises her head, offer to buy her another cup of coffee. Or of tea. She’ll repay you with stories. If she closes her laptop, give her your critique of Tolstoy, and your best theories of Hannibal and the Crossing. Tell her your characters, your dreams, and ask if she gotten through her first novel. 
It is hard to date a girl who writes. But be patient with her. Give her books for her birthday, pretty notebooks for Christmas and for anniversaries, moleskins and bookmarks and many, many books. Give her the gift of words, for writers are talkative people, and they are verbose in their thanks. Let her know that you’re behind her every step of the way, for the lines between fiction and reality are fluid.
She’ll give you a chance.
Don’t lie to her. She’ll understand the syntax behind your words. She’ll be disappointed by your lies, but a girl who writes will understand. She’ll understand that sometimes even the greatest heroes fail, and that happy endings take time, both in fiction and reality. She’s realistic. A girl who writes isn’t impatient; she will understand your flaws. She will cherish them, because a girl who writes will understand plot. She’ll understand that endings happen for better or for worst.
A girl who writes will not expect perfection from you. Her narratives are rich, her characters are multifaceted because of interesting flaws. She’ll understand that a good book does not have perfect characters; villains and tragic flaws are the salt of books. She’ll understand trouble, because it spices up her story. No author wants an invincible hero; the girl who writes will understand that you are only human.
Be her compatriot, be her darling, her love, her dream, her world.
If you find a girl who writes, keep her close. If you find her at two AM, typing furiously, the neon gaze of the light illuminating her furrowed forehead, place a blanket gently on her so that she does not catch a chill. Make her a pot of tea, and sit with her. You may lose her to her world for a few moments, but she will come back to you, brimming with treasure. You will believe in her every single time, the two of you illuminated only by the computer screen, but invincible in the darkness.
She is your Shahrazad. When you are afraid of the dark, she will guide you, her words turning into lanterns, turning into lights and stars and candles that will guide you through your darkest times. She’ll be the one to save you.
She’ll whisk you away on a hot air balloon, and you will be smitten with her. She’s mischievous, frisky, yet she’s quiet and when she has to kill off a lovely character, when she cries, hold her and tell her that it will be alright. 
You will propose to her. Maybe on a boat in the ocean, maybe in a little cottage in the Appalachian Mountains. Maybe in New York City. Maybe Chicago. Baltimore. Maybe outside her publisher’s office. Because she’s radiant, wherever she goes. Maybe even outside of a cinema where the two of you kiss in the rain. She’ll say that it is overused and clichéd, but the glint in her eyes will tell you that she appreciates it all the same.
You will smile hard as she talks a mile a second, and your heart will skip a beat when she holds your hand and she will write stories of your lives together. She’ll hold you close and whisper secrets into your ears. She’s lovely, remember that. She’s self made and she’s brilliant. Her names for the children might be terrible, but you’ll be okay with that. A girl who writes will tell your children fantastical stories.
Because that is the best part about a girl who writes. She has imagination and she has courage, and it will be enough. She’ll save you in the oceans of her dreams, and she’ll be your catharsis and your 11:11. She’ll be your firebird and she’ll be your knight, and she’ll become your world, in the curve of her smile, in the hazel of her eye the half-dimple on her face, the words that are pouring out of her, a torrent, a wave, a crescendo - so many sensations that you will be left breathless by a girl who writes.
Maybe she’s not the best at grammar, but that is okay.
Date a girl who writes because you deserve it. She’s witty, she’s empathetic, enigmatic at times and she’s lovely. She’s got the most colorful life. She may be living in NYC or she may be living in a small cottage. Date a girl who writes because a girl who writes reads. 
A girl who writes will understand reality. She’ll be infuriating at times, and maybe sometimes you will hate her. Sometimes she will hate you too. But a girl who writes understands human nature, and she will understand that you are weak. She will not leave on the Midnight Train the first moment that things go sour. She will understand that real life isn’t like a story, because while she works in stories, she lives in reality. 
Date a girl who writes. 
Because there is nothing better than a girl who writes.

i think i just teared up a little aw this is cute

well this is beautiful

this is so beautiful i cant 

this defines it all

this is perfect

love

faeri-lights:

flowuery:

l-uminux:

reteen:

bambi-ful:

daisifyed:

korraful:

Date a girl who writes.

Date a girl who may never wear completely clean clothes, because of coffee stains and ink spills. She’ll have many problems with her closet space, and her laptop is never boring because there are so many words, so many worlds that she’s cluttered amidst the space. Tabs open filled with obscure and popular music. Interesting factoids about Catherine the Great, and the immortality of jellyfish. Laugh it off when she tells you that she forgot to clean her room, that her clothes are lost among the binders so it’ll take her longer to get ready, that her shoes hidden under the mountain of broken Bic pens and the refurbished laptop that she’s saved for ever since she was twelve.

Kiss her under the lamppost, when it’s raining. Tell her your definition of love.

Find a girl who writes. You’ll know that she has a sense of humor, a sense of empathy and kindness, and that she will dream up worlds, universes for you. She’s the one with the faintest of shadows underneath her eyelids, the one who smells of coffee and Coca-cola and jasmine green tea. You see that girl hunched over a notebook. That’s the writer. With her fingers occasionally smudged with charcoal, with ink that will travel onto your hands when you interlock your fingers with her’s. She will never stop, churning out adventures, of traitors and heroes. Darkness and light. Fear and love. That’s the writer. She can never resist filling a blank page with words, whatever the color of the page is.

She’s the girl reading while waiting for her coffee and tea. She’s the quiet girl with her music turned up loud (or impossibly quiet), separating the two of you by an ocean of crescendos and decrescendos as she’s thinking of the perfect words. If you take a peek at her cup, the tea or coffee’s already cold. She’s already forgotten it.

Use a pick-up line with her if she doesn’t look to busy.

If she raises her head, offer to buy her another cup of coffee. Or of tea. She’ll repay you with stories. If she closes her laptop, give her your critique of Tolstoy, and your best theories of Hannibal and the Crossing. Tell her your characters, your dreams, and ask if she gotten through her first novel.

It is hard to date a girl who writes. But be patient with her. Give her books for her birthday, pretty notebooks for Christmas and for anniversaries, moleskins and bookmarks and many, many books. Give her the gift of words, for writers are talkative people, and they are verbose in their thanks. Let her know that you’re behind her every step of the way, for the lines between fiction and reality are fluid.

She’ll give you a chance.

Don’t lie to her. She’ll understand the syntax behind your words. She’ll be disappointed by your lies, but a girl who writes will understand. She’ll understand that sometimes even the greatest heroes fail, and that happy endings take time, both in fiction and reality. She’s realistic. A girl who writes isn’t impatient; she will understand your flaws. She will cherish them, because a girl who writes will understand plot. She’ll understand that endings happen for better or for worst.

A girl who writes will not expect perfection from you. Her narratives are rich, her characters are multifaceted because of interesting flaws. She’ll understand that a good book does not have perfect characters; villains and tragic flaws are the salt of books. She’ll understand trouble, because it spices up her story. No author wants an invincible hero; the girl who writes will understand that you are only human.

Be her compatriot, be her darling, her love, her dream, her world.

If you find a girl who writes, keep her close. If you find her at two AM, typing furiously, the neon gaze of the light illuminating her furrowed forehead, place a blanket gently on her so that she does not catch a chill. Make her a pot of tea, and sit with her. You may lose her to her world for a few moments, but she will come back to you, brimming with treasure. You will believe in her every single time, the two of you illuminated only by the computer screen, but invincible in the darkness.

She is your Shahrazad. When you are afraid of the dark, she will guide you, her words turning into lanterns, turning into lights and stars and candles that will guide you through your darkest times. She’ll be the one to save you.

She’ll whisk you away on a hot air balloon, and you will be smitten with her. She’s mischievous, frisky, yet she’s quiet and when she has to kill off a lovely character, when she cries, hold her and tell her that it will be alright.

You will propose to her. Maybe on a boat in the ocean, maybe in a little cottage in the Appalachian Mountains. Maybe in New York City. Maybe Chicago. Baltimore. Maybe outside her publisher’s office. Because she’s radiant, wherever she goes. Maybe even outside of a cinema where the two of you kiss in the rain. She’ll say that it is overused and clichéd, but the glint in her eyes will tell you that she appreciates it all the same.

You will smile hard as she talks a mile a second, and your heart will skip a beat when she holds your hand and she will write stories of your lives together. She’ll hold you close and whisper secrets into your ears. She’s lovely, remember that. She’s self made and she’s brilliant. Her names for the children might be terrible, but you’ll be okay with that. A girl who writes will tell your children fantastical stories.

Because that is the best part about a girl who writes. She has imagination and she has courage, and it will be enough. She’ll save you in the oceans of her dreams, and she’ll be your catharsis and your 11:11. She’ll be your firebird and she’ll be your knight, and she’ll become your world, in the curve of her smile, in the hazel of her eye the half-dimple on her face, the words that are pouring out of her, a torrent, a wave, a crescendo - so many sensations that you will be left breathless by a girl who writes.

Maybe she’s not the best at grammar, but that is okay.

Date a girl who writes because you deserve it. She’s witty, she’s empathetic, enigmatic at times and she’s lovely. She’s got the most colorful life. She may be living in NYC or she may be living in a small cottage. Date a girl who writes because a girl who writes reads.

A girl who writes will understand reality. She’ll be infuriating at times, and maybe sometimes you will hate her. Sometimes she will hate you too. But a girl who writes understands human nature, and she will understand that you are weak. She will not leave on the Midnight Train the first moment that things go sour. She will understand that real life isn’t like a story, because while she works in stories, she lives in reality.

Date a girl who writes.

Because there is nothing better than a girl who writes.

i think i just teared up a little aw this is cute

well this is beautiful

this is so beautiful i cant 

this defines it all

this is perfect

love

(Source: natalyaromanoff, via inner--ninja)

1PM

flitterling:

Waterfalls by Dave Morrow 

(click images for destinations)

(via ponderation)

10AM
mavilu:

Stana Katic with The Great Placido Domingo over the years.

mavilu:

Stana Katic with The Great Placido Domingo over the years.

(via makingloveinthecastle)

6AM
3AM
September152014
5PM

kinkstertime:

This whole bit is made all the funnier by knowing that all of the guards were just random extras who weren’t told what was going to happen only that they weren’t allowed laugh at any cost as they wouldn’t be payed if they did.

(Source: betterlucknext, via the-extra-celestial)

1PM
“People who have experienced PTSD, from whatever walk of life they come from, if they find a space of healing, then they are those avenues to offer healing for others and it’s really as simple as helping someone open up and helping them reconnect to society. The more a person pushes it away, the more difficult it becomes and the more prominent those symptoms become. It was probably one of my favorite scenes to shoot because it was so honest and it came from a place of deep understanding.” Stana Katic on PTSD and her Prism Award winning scene in “Kill Shot” (via stanacatic)

(via elephantstheyneverforget)

10AM

castleramblings:

a-lot-of-heart:

Kate smiling at Castle | 2.19 - 3.12 - 3.20 - 6.14
requested by  hallelujah10

Lovestruck.

(via luvcbalways)

6AM
3AM

(Source: writersmuse, via nic6879)

September142014

thefandomtolllbooth:

antoinetriplett:

jolivet:

spaceman-v-spiff:

nescientes:

novacayyn:

carry-on-my-otp:

If Stuntmen from the old movies don’t have your full respect then I just don’t know what to say to you

l tried really hard not to reblog this

Yeah, it is indeed really hard not to reblog a fucking thing.

Can we all agree that the man in the first gif is the manliest man in the world?

Are we just going to all silently acknowledge that the last guy is clearly dead and that we just saw him die. 

HOLD UP FOR A SECOND

ALL OF THESE GIFS ARE ONE MAN

THE SINGULAR BUSTER KEATON

WHILE FILMING THE GENERAL

HE SNAPPED HIS NECK ON THE RAILROAD TIES AND WENT HOME AND ICED HIS BODY

AND CAME BACK FOR WORK THE NEXT DAY

HE ONCE GOT HIS HIP RIPPED OUT OF ITS SOCKET BY A MALFUNCTIONING ELEVATOR AND WAS DISAPPOINTED WITH HIMSELF FOR BEING INJURED

HE ONCE HAD TO FALL 100 FEET DOWN A WATERFALL INTO A NET

A STUNTMAN TESTED IT AND BROKE BOTH LEGS AND DISLOCATED HIS SHOULDER

BUSTER DID THE STUNT ANYWAY AND LANDED WITHOUT A SCRATCH

IN ‘THE HIGH DIVE’

BUSTER DID A TRICK DIVE THROUGH A CARDBOARD DECK THAT WAS CAMOUFLAGED TO LOOK LIKE THE REAL DECK

ONLY HE COULDN’T TELL FROM 100 FEET UP WHERE THE CARDBOARD STOPPED AND THE REAL DECK STARTED AND THERE WAS ONLY LIKE A THREE FOOT MARGIN FOR ERROR

AND WHEN HE HESITATED A SUDDEN BREEZE LITERALLY KNOCKED HIM OFF THE DIVING BOARD AND HE HAD TO JUMP ANYWAY

AND HE MISSED THE REAL DECK BY LESS THAN A FOOT BUT HE MADE IT

IN THE SECOND GIF HE’S RECREATING SOMETHING THAT THE ACTUAL GENERAL PURSUERS HAD TO DO IN THE CIVIL WAR

IF HE MISSES THAT TIE

THE TRAIN WILL BE DERAILED AND HE WILL DIE IN THE EXPLOSION

IN THE THIRD GIF AN ENTIRE HOUSE IS FALLING HE HAS ONE TAKE AND IF HE HAS NOT DONE THE CALCULATIONS CORRECTLY HE WILL BE CRUSHED

HE HAS AN INCH-WIDE MARGIN ON EACH SIDE

AND THE HOUSE LITERALLY BRUSHES HIS LEFT SHOULDER ON THE WAY DOWN

YOU CAN SEE HIS LEFT ARM JUMP BECAUSE HE’S FLINCHING FROM THE PAIN

THAT LAST GIF

HE WAS SUPPOSED TO MAKE THAT JUMP

HE WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO FALL AND THEY HADNT PLANNED FOR IT

BUT HE SURVIVED

BUSTER KEATON SURVIVED 100% OF THINGS THAT WOULD HAVE KILLED LESSER MEN INCLUDING WWI, TORNADOS, HOUSEFIRES, ALCOHOLISM, BROKEN NETS, CRUSHING DEPRESSION, THE DEPRESSION ITSELF, THE MCCARTHY WITCHHUNTS, THE END OF SILENT CINEMA, AND ABOUT 900 MORE OF THE STUNTS YOU SEE ABOVE

BUSTER LIVED TO BE 70 YEARS OLD

FATHERED LIKE FOUR KIDS AND EIGHT GRANDKIDS

HE CAME OUT THE OTHER SIDE OF ALL THAT

THINKING THAT LIFE WAS GOOD AND PEOPLE WERE WONDERFUL

BUSTER KEATON IS NOT JUST A STUNTMAN

HE IS A GODDAMN SAINT

BUSTER KEATON’S PARENTS WERE PART OF A TRAVELING SHOW.

THEY WERE ACROBATS.

THEY TOOK BABY BUSTER UP HIGH IN THE AIR WITH THEM.

THEY DROPPED HIM.

LUCKILY SOMEONE WHO WAS STANDING UNDER THEM CAUGHT BABY BUSTER.

THAT MAN WAS HARRY HOUDINI. 

HARRY HOUDINI SAVED BUSTER KEATON’S LIFE.

if you don’t think that’s the coolest shit you can get right out.

(via the-extra-celestial)

5PM

(Source: bobe98, via talkoncornersinblue)

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