i always get tired halfway through

a little like writing or loving

for nursey week, day 2: “surprise or simplicity.”


“If that pen explodes in your mouth,” Dex says from the bathroom doorway, “I am not gonna feel bad for you.”

Derek startles–and does drop the pen out of his mouth–and looks up. “What?”

Dex cocks a brow at him, flicking off the bathroom light and flopping down on the hotel bed next to Derek’s. “You’ve had two pens explode in your mouth from chewing on them like that,” he says. His red hair is wet, tousled from where he must’ve run his hands through it after his shower, and he rolls onto his stomach, propping himself on his elbows to look at Derek. “What’re you glaring at, anyway?”

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Too Hot To Handle

Word Count: 4.3k 

Genre: smut  

Warnings: Grinding/frottage, rimming. 

Summary: Dan was sleeping on the couch and Phil comes in when he was having a wet dream. Later Phil finds out what the dream was about, and helps make it a reality for Dan.

Link for Ao3 ( x )

A/N: My first fanfic!? WOo! i hope you guys like it! (oh tell me if you find any grammar mistakes so i can fix them thank you!) Enjoy :)

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I Hate This

Prompt:Dan and Phil have a panel on playlist live or vidcon (or something similar) and Dan collapses in front of everyone on stage and Phil catches him. It can be fluffy and all that :3 I’m not sure if that’s a decent prompt or not… but there you go anyways! I love your phanfictions by the way <3”

A/N: Wrote as a part of the narcolepsy series.
Genre:
 Fluff, chronic illness, slight angst.
Warnings:

Words:
 2.449

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When I was a little girl, I loved sitting at my mother’s vanity. I would open the little drawers filled with lipsticks and perfumes and powders, testing them one after the other, drawing over my mouth crudely and filling my lids with bright blue shadow. I would put her mother’s gold-and-pearl earrings on my ears, one clip and then the other, feeling like one of the beautiful, big-haired women from the mid-90s soaps that played in the background while my mother sewed on the machine, and I played on the floor.

I would take a pair of her satin heels out of the closet and shuffle around in them, my tiny feet barely filling the toes of the shoe, my frilled socks pulled up to two different heights around my ankles. There was something intoxicating about all of it – the pomp and circumstance of being A Woman.

And to this day, so much of being A Woman feels deeply wrapped up in this somewhat vain, ultimately material idea. I think of A Woman as having an elegant nightstand, with a single, small drawer that you must never look in. It contains a few pieces of jewelry, a dog-eared romance novel, a delicate jar of loose powder that smells like perfume and makes you glow just a little bit pink. A Woman has a lamp next to her bed, so she can read books before she falls asleep, and she always has a few important novels and biographies lined up along the stand, so people can see that she is smart, and that she loves to learn.

When you open her closet, it’s filled with crisp white shirts and floral dresses that swish around her knees and a beige trench coat that she can wear in almost every kind of weather. She slips it on as she heads out the door to do her shopping, along with her conservative heels and her single strand of pearls. When she doesn’t have the time to style her hair, she clips it back with a tortoise shell barrette and lets a few strands fall around her face.

In the mirror by the door, she applies a quick coat of lipstick and presses her lips together three times to even it out.

Sometimes I feel that I will never be A Woman, because my nightstand is really a dresser, and it’s always overflowing with cheap clothes I buy on impulse and never wear. I get tired of books quickly and stop them halfway through, and then read the same ones I love already a dozen more times in their place. My closet is full of dresses that don’t fit quite right, and coats that are always too heavy or too light, and impractical heels I can only wear if I know I don’t have to do any walking. I’m lucky if I can remember to swipe on a bit of chap stick as I’m running out the door.

Whenever I go to A Woman’s house, I always look in her bathroom. I admire the creams and the powders and the impractical objects, and smell the delicate soaps, and think of the foresight it took to purchase the shampoo and conditioner in perfect little sets. I think of her taking her shower, of having a different soap for her face, and for her body, and for her hair. I think of her getting out and blotting herself off, rubbing a bit of lotion in between her hands and spreading it over her legs, and then her stomach, and then her shoulders. I think of her wrapping her hair in a towel, and her body in a robe, and inspecting her face in a magnified mirror, tweezers in hand.

And then I think of myself, as a little girl, staring in my mother’s mirror. I think of how small my face looked in the enormous expanse of her vanity, and how much I had to grow before I became A Woman, because then I would have all of these beautiful things my mother and her mother had for me to play with. And maybe I will always be buying another cream, another powder, another dress, to feel like I am finally one of them.