Sometimes I try to feel sorry for the haters. Really, I do.

I have to imagine that some of them, especially Gator, have personal lives that leave them wanting. I honestly can’t imagine someone who is truly happy in their personal life is going to spend precious hours sitting in front of a computer calling complete strangers names, spewing misogynistic nonsense, attacking an innocent baby, and doing their damnedest (including casting spells in Aeltri’s case) to break apart a celebrity’s marriage. All because he had the temerity to marry someone other than them.

Maybe they’re feeling valueless and empty. Maybe, God forbid, they’re in loveless and/or abusive relationships. Maybe they’re depressed. Maybe they have low self-esteem. Maybe they were bullied as kids. Maybe they feel so low about themselves that the only way to make themselves feel better is to tear down someone else. Maybe they’ve got some kind of psychological disorder. Maybe this is their only escape. 


Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But here’s the thing. Even if being on the internet is their only escape, acting like they are is one totally fucked up method of escape. Even if their lives are totally messed up/sad/depressing/disappointing/whatever, it doesn’t even come close to justifying their behavior.

I’ll be honest, I don’t have much to complain about when it comes to my upbringing. Both of my parents, especially my father, were successful in their careers and brought home enough money to keep the family comfortable. We were by no means wealthy, but we basically didn’t want for anything. But my relatively idyllic childhood doesn’t mean I’ve had a perfect life. There are a lot of things that have happened that have left me feeling unhappy. Empty. Sad. Unfulfilled. Regretful. You get the picture. I’ve also been diagnosed with clinical depression. The last 3-4 years in particular have been a huge struggle, leaving me feeling so overwhelmed and hopeless that I sometimes wanted to go to bed and just not wake up the next day. I’ve spent my share of time crying, seeing my dreams dashed, being bullied, feeling worthless, just wanting to die.

And you know what? I never once went on the internet and said slanderous, hateful things about someone I didn’t know, let alone about people I DID know.

That’s where I start having trouble feeling sorry for the haters. Even if your life sucks balls beyond imagination, it still doesn’t excuse you or make it okay that you’re acting like an ass in public and making a total spectacle of yourself.

I try to feel sorry for them, but in the end, it’s really difficult. They need to find a much more constructive and positive way to deal with whatever demons are bedeviling them.

They need to leave Benedict, Sophie, and Christopher alone.

They just need to find a way to function positively in the real world, because it will be better for everyone in their lives.



“The one in black is so handsome though…”

“Hot haha 😍😭”

“Who’s that”

“Luh [no literal translation; it’s an abbreviation of hala meaning "oh no”] how ugly sorry hahaha"

“So that’s the app…”

“That’s so long ago wtf :((”

Okay then, random classmate, do me and yourself a favour, and don’t ever say that to my face ever again. I would like to refrain myself from punching you, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to do that if you keep on sharing your opinion on “Dan and phill” (which I don’t agree with with a fiery passion) in such an ignorant manner. I do appreciate that you apologised after saying that Phil’s outer appearance does not suit your taste.

“If you hate on Phil that doesn’t make you a Dangirl, that makes you a twat.”


When it’s the first day of school and the teacher asks you to “tell us a few things about yourself”

arsebuttock asked:

If you wanna do that drabble thingy you should do sterek and number 15. But it's totally cool if you don't want to. :)

15. “So, I found this waterfall…”

Derek waits a beat, but Stiles doesn’t expand. Derek’s immediately suspicious and endlessly weary. “And?” he says irritably.

“And I’m gonna take you to it.”

What lurks there? What has Stiles been dabbling in? Has Stiles discovered the fae? Has he found a sacrificial mound of some kind that Derek will be required to identify? Will there be a set of runic symbols cast into a stone there that, when read aloud, by Derek, will curse the reader, which will be Derek? What has Stiles found that Derek has to be the guinea pig for? “Why.”

“Because I’m gonna abandon you in the wilderness, Derek,” says Stiles, rolling his eyes. “I’m hazing you. You got me. Get in the car, freshman.”

The waterfall in question is small and rather tranquil, if a little boggy. Derek doesn’t trust it; nothing is ever as it seems, in Beacon Hills or anywhere. The echoes of the rushing water seem strange, wrong, until Derek realizes the space between the water and the rock isn’t just an eroded cavern; it’s a cave, deep and dark.

“C'mon,” Stiles says, walking precariously on the stone along the edge of the stream. He jabs a finger up and towards the waterfall. “Behind.”

“Behind,” Derek repeats edgily. The guy can’t even bother with complete sentences right before Derek’s doom. Nonetheless, he follows. Better him than Scott.

Stiles slips behind the waterfall and leads Derek, misty and overheated, through the cave. After a sharp turn, there’s light. It’s more than a cave. It’s a tunnel. And on the other side, the air is thick and warm; the treetops are so thick and close together that the light itself is in hues of jade. Somewhere above his head, Derek can hear the coursing trickle of the water, muted beneath the eponymous score of cicadas. He peers curiously at Stiles, who’s stopped and is standing, head tilted back. “Wanna climb a tree?” he asks Derek perfunctorily.


“A tree,” Stiles repeats, glancing at him. “The big, tall things with the green stuff.”

Derek puts a hand on Stiles’ biceps, and then shoves him so hard he stumbles. Stiles looks like he enjoyed it; Derek should have pushed harder. “Why did you bring me here,” he asks flatly.

Stiles’ eyes narrow—not angrily, but with some degree of confrontational perplexion. “So that’s a no to the tree climbing?” Derek feels like his eyes might shatter with the effort not to roll them. Stiles pauses, watching him, and then tells Derek, “Because I wanted to show you.”

“Show me what.”

Stiles makes a violent look at this gesture at the view before them. “This, I wanted to show you this. Look. There’s ivy everywhere.” There are indeed cascades of ivy wound around most of the trees and spilling across the ground. Pouring from branches like discarded clothing tossed over a banister. “And over there, check it. You could, like, sit there with a book or something.” Derek looks where Stiles has thrown his arm out, and there’s an oddly bent tree trunk. Derek doesn’t take his books outside, but it’s the perfect place to sit and breathe for a while. “I know you like peace and quiet. This is peaceful, and it’d be quiet if I wasn’t here.”

“Quiet’s overrated,” says Derek without thinking. Then he freezes, folds his arms, looks away from the reading tree. Scowls at Stiles, who is looking at him, soft and happy. “You wanted to show me this.”

“It’s nice, okay?”

“Yeah. It is.”

“And it’s kind of—I dunno, neat that it’s behind a waterfall. It’s like—what is this, a fairytale?”

“You’d be surprised how many fairytales are based in truth,” muses Derek. The shapes of chartreuse light filtering through the trees move on Stiles’ face with the breeze. Cast in bronzy sunlight, Stiles’ eyelashes look longer than Derek ever thought to notice. “Rumpelstiltskin, for one—”

“Bullshit,” says Stiles.

“Why me.”

“Is—what is that, is that a lamentation? Oh, Stiles is a scourge upon the earth—”

“No. Why not Lydia? Or Scott? Why did you pick me to bring here.”

“What makes you think I haven’t already taken everyone else up here? Every guy thinks he’s the first. Get over yourself.” Derek tries to convey how little he believes that, concentrated in his eyes. Stiles folds his arms, unfolds them, and then puts his hands on his hips. “They wouldn't—they wouldn’t appreciate it,” says Stiles a little awkwardly, prim. “I mean, they would, but not—not the way—not the way you would.” He drops his eyes, kicks idly at a dandelion.

Oh. That’s new. Is it new? Derek feels like you do when you get absorbed in a book and then you realize someone’s standing in the room with you. You don’t know how long. They could have just shown up; they could have been standing there for an hour. You have no idea. “Are you courting me?” Derek asks, a mocking little lilt in his voice. Stiles goes viciously red. “Is this a seduction tactic?”

“What?” snaps Stiles, unmoving while Derek drifts closer. “No. What’re you—that’s crazy. I’m not, and you. You’re a dick. Why would I? I don’t like dick. Dicks. People who are dickheads. Stop—” He gets a little whiny. “Stop laughing at me. It’s not—” Derek stands close enough that he can see exactly how close they are in height; Stiles always looked tall, but he’s not as tall as he looks. He’s not quite Derek’s height. The hot, red blotches on his cheeks look just as endearing this close. “It’s not,” Stiles mumbles a little helplessly, “it’s not funny.”

“It’s not funny,” Derek agrees. “It’s kind of cute, actually.”



“M'not cute. M'not, okay.”

He sort of sighs, relaxes when Derek kisses him. Deflates, almost, settles more and more the more Derek touches him: his jaw, his wrists, his hips. By the time Derek’s sliding his hands up Stiles’ back, squeezing him closer by his shoulderblades, Stiles is well and truly melting. And he seems solid under Derek’s palms, firm in breadth. Tangible, the way nothing else really is anymore. Stiles is reality, and Derek is learning to appreciate it. Stiles hums a little towards the end of this kiss. When Derek pulls back to look at him, admire the arch of his asymmetrical eyebrows, his eyes stay shut for a long moment. Lashes haphazard and pretty, like he is.

“Um,” Stiles says a little softly. “Wow.” Derek thinks about ridding him of this awful, ugly plaid thing he’s wearing. Or maybe kissing him again. “Gotcha, freshman,” Stiles says, eyes still closed. “This is more hazing.”

“Oh, okay,” says Derek.

“You fell for it.”

“I did, yeah.”

“I bet, um, I bet I could make you do it again.” He opens his eyes now, drowsy, looking slightly drugged. “Against a tree. For a lot longer.”

“You’ve convinced me to go to second base,” Derek deadpans, walking him backwards against a tree trunk.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes. “At least—” He thumps against the tree, and his gaze drops to Derek’s chest hair. “Get your—put your hands on me.”

Both new and not new, definitely.

anonymous asked:

I went through your Stiles tag and found this post/110797465957/insanity-and-vanity-polina-vinogradova-ray-of And now I really need a fic where Stiles has to dress in drag and go to a club for reasons.

oh my god anon. I’m pretty sure that’s not what I meant when I tagged it like that, but I can roll with this. Let’s do it.

It would be his idea, is the thing, and everyone would exchange uncomfortable glances and be like, “Th…at’s okay, Stiles. We can… we can figure something else out.”

No. Stiles has made up his mind. He is going to wear a dress. He is going to get eyeshadow tips from Erica. He is going to purchase cute shoes. He is going to smell like perfume. It is going to be great.

“You know, you could just wear dresses for your own purposes,” someone assures him gently, “you don’t need to use this club situation as a crutch to–” but they are missing the point. The point is this is a mission. And Stiles is going to fucking crush it.

So of course it’s a total disaster and Stiles is surly and soaking wet when he gets home; what makes it worse is he has to knock, because he lost his keys. When Derek opens the door, he stares for a second, expressionless. Then he asks, “Can I help you, ma'am?”

“We gotta change the locks,” Stiles tells him, tripping over the doormat that says Don’t Trod On Me.

“Because I just let a strange woman into the apartment?”

Stiles ignores him, starts peeling his flats off. They’re too small, so it takes more effort than he’s ever paid attention to shoes. “Preferably within the next couple days. Are we out of—” He sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose. “Are we out of bubble bath.” Derek’s lips twitch, and Stiles holds up his hands. “I’ve had a long freakin’ night, Derek. If the next words out of your mouth aren’t gonna be ‘yes’ or 'no,’ I would suggest you rethink your strategy.”

“I just bought some,” Derek tells him.

And Stiles squints, unsure whether Derek’s asking for it. “You remember those trick tests they give to middle schoolers,” he asks instead, “that are like, Read all the directions before you begin. Write your name in the top left corner. Draw a snowman at the bottom of the page. Fold the page in half. Fill in all the O’s in your name. Don’t follow any of the previous directions.”

Derek makes an impatient gesture.

“You must have failed those things every goddamn time, I swear to god. I specifically told you—”

“Wait, so does that include the first direction? Is that why it’s a tri—?”

“Because you’re really bad at following directions! That’s the joke!”

Derek blinks at Stiles, a little doe-eyed. “I like your handbag,” he tells him. Stiles whings it at his face; unsurprisingly, he catches it with ease.

“I twisted the hell out of my ankle, so unless you’re gonna help me, go sit in a corner and brood.”

While Stiles stumbles down the hallway, wrestling with the fastenings on his dress, Derek strolls pointedly to the hooks by the door and hangs the purse there. Then he somehow meets him halfway down the hall, grabbing him from behind.

Holy shit—”

“You said something about helping you,” Derek mutters, pressing against him.

“I was mocking you. It wasn’t, that’s not what I—”

“You look…” Derek pauses to firmly feel Stiles’ ass through the dress. “…good. Like this.”

Stiles’ face goes hot. He lets Derek turn him around, back him ineptly down the hall, Derek following. “I’m,” he says awkwardly, “I’m pretty sure I look like a dude wearing a dress—”

“And it’s hot.”

Has Derek ever told Stiles he was hot? Has he ever described Stiles as attractive in any way? Has he ever used the word hot? Stiles has to blink hard a few times to return to reality. “Sorry,” he says, “I think I’ve gone delirious. What?”

Derek hums, low, gathering Stiles closer. This is weird. Stiles knows it’s weird. So why does he feel like swooning and/or falling to his knees? This is strictly illogical. “Like, okay,” he says, getting his bearings, but he freezes when Derek reaches behind him and unzips the dress. “Hah… I mean, you could do that—” He gulps. “And I could pass out—”

“Don’t do that,” disagrees Derek. “I had plans.”

“You, um, plans?”

“I did. I just made them. Wanna know what I was gonna do first?”

“Go bowling?” Stiles guesses. “Do… laundry? Make—” He thumps backwards into the bathroom door frame, and Derek crowds close. “—make—ham, hamburger helper—”

“Bowling,” Derek says. “That was it. Thanks for reminding me.”

“You’re,” Stiles says. Derek’s smoldering; he’s hard against Stiles’ hip; he’s a guy with kinks that sort of miss the mark. “Um, welcome.” His stocking snags on the metal strip that separates the hallway carpet from the bathroom linoleum, and he tumbles sideways; Derek catches him. “To—wow, okay. To do sex to me. That's…”

“You have such a gift for expression,” Derek tells him, and hefts him up onto the counter by his thighs; Stiles feels like a receptionist in a porno. Then Derek pauses, looks at Stiles’ legs with curiosity.

“What?” Stiles is dizzy. “What? Wha’d I do?”

“You…” He pushes the skirt up one leg. “…wore garters?”

“None of the pantyhose things were long enough, okay?” Stiles snaps. “They said tall but they weren’t! They were small! That’s the opposite, and I wasn’t gonna shave my legs for one, um… for one—ummm…” His mouth goes dry when he realizes Derek—wasn’t mocking him. “You, um. You like 'em.”

Derek pushes a thumb under the strap holding the stocking up. “Apparently,” he says. He seems surprised by this himself, like he’s never considered it before. That in itself is probably the most attractive thing he does: he never sees sex coming. If Stiles emailed him and asked him for a list of his kinks, he wouldn’t be able to comply. He’d come up emptyhanded, with nothing more than vague concepts and memories to share, and no words with which to share them. He’d probably send back an attached Word file with just “sex” on it.

“I, uh…” Stiles squirms, hoping to coax Derek’s hands further up the dress. “I had to w—Erica made me buy this, um, this thing that made me have, like—?” He gestures at his waist, which is a little more trim than usual. “Hips? A waist? Sort of? And, um, that’s what these are attached to—”

Derek tugs the dress off one shoulder to look at the thing. Stiles feels his cheeks burn red, shuts his eyes and holds his breath for two or three agonizing seconds, before Derek shakes his head. “I guess, hm,” he mumbles, hooking his fingers absently behind Stiles’ knees, “I guess you learn something new every day…”

Stiles nods. “Yeah. I learned that I have the expendable income to buy random corsets, and you learned…”

“That I…”

“Yeah. You—”


Stiles watches him take this in. He’s pretty confused, since he saw himself before he got caught in some sprinklers and—well, all freshly dolled up and yet unmarred he was of the opinion he looked like a poky, drunken clown. Now he’s dripping and the hat is gone, but Derek’s dick seems to disagree with his assessment. There it is, voicing its dissent through Derek’s stupid slacks.

To return to the agenda, Stiles clears his throat. Breaks Derek out of his reverie. “If you want,” he says, “you could fuck me and call me Delilah.” He bats his eyes winningly; the lashes’re coated in mascara and it’s weird that he can see them.

Derek yanks him flush by his knees. “I’m not calling you Delilah,” he says roughly, and it’s all Stiles can do not to come just from the sound of his voice.

“Ooh, Mister Hale,” he says, pretending to faint. “Give it to me good—”

And Derek does. Everyone thinks Derek would hate Stiles wearing cologne or whatever, but the truth is it just enhances Stiles’ natural Stilesnicity. He smells like Stiles, if Stiles was wearing perfume and so horny he was writhing with it. And if it smells like a duck, quacks like a duck, clings to Derek’s biceps like a duck, then Derek feels like he can make an educated guess at its species. So he screws the hell out of Stiles and doesn’t call him Delilah and then they take a bath and soak in the bubbles and stare off into space, a little bit impressed with themselves and a little bit embarrassed. 

Then they look at each other. “Um, we could—” Stiles clears his throat. “Maybe, I mean not tonight, obviously, but—again, sometime, we could—”

Derek just nods, staring at Stiles’ collarbone, where he’s peppered with bruises and stubborn glitter.

Stiles had been intending to return every item in that getup, but the dress is soaked and it caught on Derek’s claws a couple times. And the thing, the stupid laceup thing—that’s proven a worthy investment. He’ll have to remember to send Erica a card.

Stiles and Derek both find glitter on their bodies for weeks.

There are so many confessions that are like “I hate (character) because of (reason)” and it doesn’t make sense. The majority of the reasons are petty and things the character has grown up and moved on from. Yes, these people made mistakes and it’s important to recognize flaws in characters, but hating them is ridiculous. You’re really going to loathe a character for something they did when they were an immature 14 year old? If you want perfect, boring, Mary Sue characters then HP is not for you.

It’s funny to see i was trending worldwide, man. haters got SO MUCH to say. I was only on stage 30 seconds! It shows I’m very relevant in their lives still. I’m flattered. Wait till my new shit drops, it’s 4 mins long! hahaha!
—  Iggy Azalea talks about the haters on Twitter.