or even knows what a comb is for

  • Sock: Honey?
  • Jonathan: What?
  • Sock: Where's my knife?
  • Jonathan: What?
  • Sock: WHERE IS MY KNIFE?
  • Jonathan: I, uh - put it away!
  • Sock: WHERE?
  • Jonathan: WHY DO YOU NEED TO KNOW?
  • Sock: I NEED IT.
  • Jonathan: Uh-uh! Don't you think about running away to do some killing-do! We've been planning this dinner for two months!
  • Sock: The public is in danger!
  • Jonathan: MY EVENING'S IN DANGER
  • Sock: YOU TELL ME WHERE MY KNIFE IS, JON, WE ARE TALKING ABOUT THE GREATER GOOD.
  • Jonathan: GREATER GOOD? I AM YOUR HUSBAND. I AM THE 'GREATEST GOOD' YOU ARE EVER GONNA GET!
Friday Five

1.  Can’t decide if I’m getting sick or not.  I don’t feel terrible, but I sound like hell.  Voice is going.  But that may not be a bad thing.

2.  This Trump presidency is going to take its toll on everyone, even his supporters.  This is like being in one of those foreign language soap operas where you don’t really know what’s happening, but you know things are really fucked up.  Four years of that.  Yay democracy!

3.  Daughter had an EPIC knot in her hair last night.  I think she was combing her hair and reading  a book at the same time. It was epic and required some olive oil to loosen.  It wasn’t a pretty sight.

4.  It’s supposed to be in the upper 70s here this weekend.  I guess we’re probably not going to get any snow this year.

5.  Hopefully my son forgets that the Monster Trucks are in town this weekend.  I have no desire to spend money on that.  Would just be easier for everyone if he forgets.

monlover48  asked:

♤♧ COMBO FOR BETA KOMAHINA

  • ♤: Taking a bath together
  • ♧: One character playing with the other’s hair

“For the last- Ow! You’re not washing a dog Hinata-kun, would it kill you not to tug at my hair every twelve seconds?!”

“Sorry! Sorry! You know, if you actually combed it sometimes-”

Splash.

Hinata didn’t even get to finish his sentence before he got a mouthful of lavender scented bubbles. They might have smelled fantastic, but their taste left much to desire. Spluttering in an attempt to get the bathwater out of his mouth, all Hinata heard in the background were the chuckles of his boyfriend. 

Ah, yes. What were they doing right now anyway?

Taking a bath together. Because why not. Perfect couple bonding activity for Saturday night, right? Right! Absolutely!

Keep reading

tag game

i was tagged by @newts-fantastic-case, thank u!!

Rules: Answer each question with the first letter of your name and then tag 10 people! Real answers only, if the person who tagged you has the same initial you must use different answers & you can’t use the same word twice!

1. Name: kamilla

2. A four letter word: kink

3. A boy’s name: kristian

4. An occupation: kitchenhand (i cheated and googled this bc i was curious if there actually were any and this was literally the only one and i dont even know what it is)

5. Something you can wear: kimono 

6. A food: kiwi

7. Something you can find in a bathroom: kam (comb) :)))) i’m giving up english 

8. A place: kenya

9. A reason for being late: killing someone 

10. Something you shout: kill me :)

11. A movie title: kill bill vol. 1

12. Something you drink: kakao aka hot chocolate aka my reason to live 

13. An animal: kangaroo 

14. A type of car: kia

15. Song title: kiss me thru the phone by soulja boy lmao

i tag: @potthr, @mvlfxy@narcissablaq, @lumos-et-nox@lunalocegood

Romione still works

People still insist on inaccurately quoting that Sunday Times interview with Rowling to say that Ron and Hermione don’t work and shouldn’t have happened.

To be clear, the character-driven reason was that Rowling believes theirs is a “young relationship”: that while they would have been attracted to each other while they were young, they would not have lasted long-term because they constantly argue.

I think that Dumbledore would have had something to say about that: “age is foolish and forgetful when it underestimates youth.”

Sure, teenagers are hot-headed and passionate. They fight a lot because they are young, proud, stubborn, and think they know themselves even though they are still growing. Combative teenagers often mellow as they grow older.

And what would be left behind in Romione’s case? How about a woman seeing a man who has remained loyal in the face of envy and fear, swallowed his pride for a greater cause, loved his family and his friends, and always known how to make her laugh? And he? He would see a woman who is intelligent, passionate, and strong. One whose strength inspires rather than intimidates him. They bring different qualities to the table. Sometimes, those qualities clash. All relationships have an element of “combativeness,” as all couples fight and disagree sometimes. It doesn’t mean they don’t love each other.

But to be frank, I don’t think Romione needs any justification. I don’t believe Rowling actually hates them or her now canon ending (after all, she had every chance to change it and didn’t). 

I think it’s more about her than about them. Rowling describes writing Romione as “clinging to the plot as she first imagined it” and that her motive for sticking to it was “wish fulfillment…reasons very little to do with literature.” 

Her doubts aren’t about her characters at all. They are reflections of her insecurities as an artist. She fears, having spent so much time so close to this work, that she has chosen wrong. She sees other paths she could have taken, and doubts herself. Worse, at the moment she said these things, she worshipped techniques of Literature as superior to the storytelling and strong characterizations that made her works so beloved.

Of course it’s ‘wish fulfilment.’ Everything in Harry Potter is. And the ending as written for Ron and Hermione is great on so many levels: because it reflects how far they came from hating each other to appreciating each other, because instead of the predictable arc of the Leading Lady falling for The Hero she fell for the normally ignored Sidekick, because it completes Ron’s emotional arc of wanting to be noticed/appreciated/loved by everyone by having him be beloved by a special person who loves him as he is and brings out the best in him, because he helped Hermione grow too by teaching her to question and challenge authority.

Ron and Hermione are plenty believable as a couple, especially when you allow for maturation and absorption of all they have been through over the course of 19 intervening years. Instead of getting hung up on regrets that Romione is insufficiently ‘Literary,’ Rowling should be proud that she wrote something unconventional, beautiful, and, yes, believable.

lionbots said: what was that perosn even coming at u for ive never once seen u criticize art or throw around vagues about artists like…..talk about baseless accusations lmao. anon is reaching so far they could be a bridge across the grand canyon

Oh come now kylar. you and i both know i spend every waking hour of my life combing the internet for slightly pale pictures of lance (even oddly lit canon screenshots) and doxing poor unsuspecting artists who just don’t own the right shades of brown ):

peasant-girl  asked:

Okay so reader is a ravenclaw and she likes Perch and she's very uptight and stuff in hopes to be like Percy and so that Percy would notice her and Fred likes her and he chases after her like James chases after Lily and she's like "why dont you be like percy for a change?" and he goes a whole day trying to be as uptight as percy--even combing his hair a little.

Pairing: Fred x Reader, Percy x Reader (unrequited) 

Word Count: 1,201

Warnings: All clear, I don’t think anyone even swears (odd for me, I know) 

Keep reading

2

“What is this for?” Sam asked curiously, looking down at the plain brown paper of the wrapped package.

You shrugged and stifled a wide smile. “Ah, for nothing. Just something I picked up that I thought you might like,” you said, sinking casually into the nearest chair.

Sam gave you a questioning look and tore off the wrapping. “Oh my God. Y/N. how did you–where did you–?” He stared down at the old cover and a wide grin grew on his face. “Thank you! So much!”

Your cheeks burned a little red as you looked at the way his face was brightened. “No problem,” you said, trying to wave it off and pretend like you hadn’t spent hours combing antique booksellers for that particular volume. “Just came across it and thought you would appreciate it.”

“I don’t even know what to say!” He suddenly grabbed you into a tight hug and you laughed as he squeezed you.

When the Shower is Your Enemy

You stink. You know you stink. You know you’ve gone past the point where a change of clothes and some deodorant will tide you over. You got up this morning and you shuffled to the bathroom, washed your hands and face, brushed your teeth, and didn’t bother running a comb through the greasy strands on your head but just reached for a hat. 

Tonight. You promise yourself that you’ll get in the shower tonight no matter what. No matter how exhausted or in pain you are. You’ll wash your hair even though it likely means you’ll go to bed with it wet because you won’t have the energy to dry it after the shower. 

The thing is, you -want- that shower. There is no part of you that wants to be day(s) old funky. You don’t want to smell yourself in the escalating levels of BO that happen. You don’t want to reach that level of funk where others can smell you. And you didn’t want to wear the fucking hat today because your hair has gone too far over and your scalp itches and the hat just makes it worse.

What you would like people to know is that you’re not depressed. Okay, maybe you are, but you’re not avoiding the shower because of it. 

The thing is, some chronic illnesses leave you so exhausted that you literally have to choose between showering and going to the bank. Showering or taking the kids to the park which you’ve been promising to do now for the last month. Showering or having enough energy to make it to the specialist’s appointment it took you six months to get your GP to send you to and another two months to get the insurance company to agree to cover at least the initial visit.

Some chronic illnesses make it so that showering feels like you’ve been shoved under a device that is shooting thousands of icy hot needles into your skin. There is no right temperature. There is no wash cloth soft enough. There is no soap that doesn’t burn or itch or seem to leave a film or strip your body of all the oils in it and make you feel like you’re going to flake away. The pressure of the water on the top of your head can trigger a migraine and sometimes even when you’re feeling the best you have in months it does just that.

You know about all of the aids. Hand rails and shower chairs and special shower heads that can be raised or lowered if it’s a standing or sitting kind of shower day. You’ve stopped snapping at people who suggest a bath because you don’t want to explain how hard it is to get out of the bath once you’re down and you really don’t want to flash back to that time you thought you could have a bath and you couldn’t get yourself out and you were there a couple of hours until your mother/husband/sister/roommate/carer found you sobbing and shivering and effected a rescue.

You’ve pondered buying dry shampoo and wonder if someone makes no rinse bath wipes that don’t smell like baby or nursing home. But you’re not there yet. Because you’re stubborn. And strong. Stronger than the shower. Tonight. You’ll save a spoon. No matter what it takes. You’ll collapse into bed afterwards, clean. Hair damp against the pillow. But clean.

one of my absolute favorite things is the way alec turns away from lydia and takes a look at the crowd in front of him,recognizing this is it, it’s either now or never and he makes a decision. He chooses himself; he chooses Magnus. And then Alec looks at him and Magnus is staring.  So he walks down the stairs, slowly, not even once averting his eyes from Magnus (contrary to what used to happen everytime Magnus made eye contact with him).

Alec’s expression is determined, he has made a decision and he’s not backing down from it, neither he wants to and Magnus’ eyes flicker. Could Alec really be…choosing him? 

And then Alec walks torwards Magnus and not even God himself could stop him in that moment, because Alec knows what he wants.

So he stands up for himself and dismisses Maryse with one simple word, grabs Magnus by the lapels and kisses him. Right in front of everyone, not caring about what anyone else will think. And Magnus melts into the kiss, chases it when Alec breaks their lips apart but respects Alec needs a break. And then Alec looks at Magnus in a daze, dives in again and kisses him. It’s passionate, it’s tender.

And it’s absolutely breathtakingly beautiful.

Two summers ago, when Nathan Tasker was 13, his mom drove him from Melrose, Mass., to Maine, where he would attend his first session at a transgender camp. Nathan remembers feeling happy for the first time in years.

“I finally, finally finally was not alone,” says Nathan, a young man with dark, sparkling eyes and a wise smile.

But even at this camp, Nathan expected to be different. He’s transgender — and adopted.

“I thought I was just a packaged deal, like, this only happens to one kid in every place in the world,” he says. But then, as fellow campers told their stories, Nathan realized he was not all that different. “I was like, ‘You know what? There are a lot of adopted kids who are trans.’ And that’s pretty amazing.”

Doctors at Boston Children’s Hospital’s Gender Management Service clinic, where Nathan is a patient, began making the same connection a few years ago. They combed through patient records and found that 8.2 percent of the 184 young people seen in the clinic between 2007 and 2015 were raised in adoptive families. Overall, only 2.3 percent of children living in Massachusetts were adopted.

Trans And Adopted: Exploring Teen Identity

Photo: Jesse Costa/WBUR
Caption: Nathan Tasker is transgender and adopted. He was surprised and delighted to meet other adopted transgender children at his camp in Maine.

Dear mirror,
I know what you’re thinking and yes
I am going to leave the house like this
I will not be combing down my cowlick
Or changing my clothes
I am glorifying my insecurities
Dear bed sheets,
The next girl who shares you
Will already know them all
So you can feel free to tell all of my secrets
I am no longer scared
Of what my bedroom has to say about me
Dear scars,
I am showing you off
Welcome to the light
I am proud
of every decision I have ever made
even if they weren’t the right ones
So
dear past,
consider yourself embraced
dear future,
it’s true
I have no idea what you have in store for me
but I’m not fucking scared of you anymore
Dear lungs,
Be prepared to work over time
I realize
how it feels to be grateful for every bit of life
you can fit in your chest
so I am breathing deep
Dear smile,
I am no longer treating you like a bad habit
Dear heart,
forgive me
I have abused your innocence
placed you
into any hands that seemed big enough to hold you
but please
keep beating
my sleeve
would be empty without you
Dear hands,
I know it’s going to be hard
but you’re going to have to learn how to let go
I promise
Someday soon
someone will come along to fill in your empty spaces
until then
you’re gonna have to make due
with the feeling of a pen
Dear mirror,
I know what you’re thinking
and yes
I am going to leave the house
just like this
—  Breathing Deeply, by Jordan Hamilton

anonymous asked:

Hiya :) I know you did a Derek prompt with 'you look hot in my clothes' but would it be possible to get a Stiles version? Xx

Originally posted by silly-luv

“Whoa…” You shifted to look your shoulder away from the bathroom mirror where you’d been combing your hair. Staying at Stiles’ was a new thing, but it felt normal, even wearing his clothes felt normal. 

“What? Is something wrong?” You asked, furrowing your brow at the boy who had his mouth slightly agape staring at you silently. 

“No…just…” He stopped himself apparently Stiles was rethinking his words, it prompted you to put the brush down and turn to him fully, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“Just what?” 

“You look…you look incredibly hot in my clothes.” You blushed, unable to look him in the eyes looking down at the floor smiling at it bashfully. That you could get used to. Those sorts of compliments were more than welcome…

Jonathan and Sock on a date

Sock: So I was thinkin…have you ever kissed a demon before?
Jon: What kind of question is that?
Sock: Ooooh y'know. A good one.
Jon: Uhm..no. I’ve never even kissed anyone actually.
Sock: Well my good sir! You’re about to get one from little ol’ me.
*they both lean in*
Mephistopheles: Hey boys just checkin’ in!
*Jon and Sock pull away and stare at Meph.*
Mephistopheles: ….Well well well. This is one HELL of a date. Amiright? HEHEHEE
Point of this story is, don’t bring your human bf around your boss.

anonymous asked:

GoM catching their crush singing to "You Belong with Me" and dancing like that in the music video (with a comb as the microphone, the sketch pad with an 'I love you' for the GoM, etc.) :D

THIS IS ADORABLE UGH (let’s pretend they’re somehow their crush’s neighbours.)

Kuroko: a slight blush would appear on his cheeks as he stares at his crush cheekily smiling at him and singing the lyrics. He thinks it’s utterly adorable and would probably take a hundred photos of his crush without them really noticing it.

Aomine: doesn’t really know what to do other than stare open-mouthed at them. He doesn’t even realize his intense staring - or the blush that covers his cheeks - until his crush finishes the songs and points it out to him. Then he denies it and blushes some more.

Kise: he’d probably squeal and die internally as he fumbles with his phone. He doesn’t know whether to pay attention, to record it, or to take photos, so he ends up doing a mix of the three while screaming ’____cchi you’re so cute mARRY ME’

Midorima: he stands frozen watching them, not even flinching as his glasses break. His crush stops the song midway, worried, and he blushes all the way to his neck while stuttering and blushing.

Murasakibara: he just stares blankly at them, not even eating the snack on his hand. His staring is so intense that his crush pauses in their singing, which makes him frown and pout. “Why did you stop, ____chin?”

Akashi: he’d stare at their little show with half-lidded eyes and a soft smile on his face, simply enjoying. When they finish the song, he’d ask them to repeat it so he can record it, although he’d have already recorded it the first time.

all of my favorite writers explain this moment where they realized the book their souls needed didn’t exist and how that moment inspired them to write that book. i want to share with y’all why this idea is so important to me.

1. before they could realize that the book their souls needed hadn’t been written, they had to dive deeply and wholeheartedly into the ocean of texts that HAD been written. they didn’t just wake up one day and decide that what they needed to read wasn’t out there. they were actively searching for what their spirit was looking for. and the search itself steadily refined their spiritual purpose until it manifested itself in their own work. 

lesson: you have to put in work before you can even begin creating. putting in that work will direct and bless your creative energy. without it, your creative energy won’t reach it’s potential and you may struggle to create a watered down version of something left behind by an ancestor to illuminate your path. (imagine trying to write about internalized white supremacy without reading fanon). you have to read before you can write, you have to plant your own seeds and raise your own plants before you can teach somebody to do the same. 

i close my eyes and i am home

Happy birthday, @pale-silver-comb, you gorgeous sweetheart! I hope you have a lovely, LOVELY, day full of wonderful things <3 Here’s a little sterek fic to show you how much I appreciate your friendly presence in my life *hug* 

A million thanks to the wonderful @matildajones for beta-ing and reading it over and for being so helpful when it came to my writer’s block <3

Also on A03

Derek hadn’t wanted to come but Lydia simply would not take no for an answer.

“You designed this building, Hale! Of course you have to be there when we open it to the public!” She had exclaimed, narrowing her eyes at him.

Derek had had no choice but to gulp and surrender because Lydia could be really intimidating. But now that he’s here, at the launch, nursing his second glass of champagne at the bar in the corner of the room, he realizes again why he hadn’t wanted to come in the first place.

It’s boring. He barely knows most of the people and the people he does know have nothing but praise for him. He feels like he’s being smothered in their excessive compliments and it makes him feel uncomfortable and awkward. He’s never been a people person and often huge crowds give him mild anxiety attacks. In any case, this building wasn’t his finest work. He hadn’t admitted it to anyone but he was actually pretty displeased with how it had turned out. Argent Constructions hadn’t followed his blueprints exactly and in the end, his input hadn’t amounted to anything when they’d decided to add an extra wing, as per Kate’s suggestion.

Derek sips at his champagne and looks around warily. He had just managed to escape his uncle’s clutches. Peter had been talking even bigger deals than this project and Derek knew that if he stayed he’d be roped in too and he was thinking of taking a small break, maybe. Just until he got his shit back together. His life was too fast, too much; he felt like a hurricane hurtling towards disaster.

“Jesus, fuck, you’re hot,” a guy next to him exclaims loudly.

Derek looks up from his glass and stares at the pretty man with the honey coloured eyes and the moles dotting his cheeks and neck. The man licks his lips and widens his eyes even more, now that Derek is giving him access to look at his entire face instead of just his profile.

“Let me get you a drink,” the guy breathes, slipping into the seat next to him. He smells like alcohol and oranges and a deep, dark, musky scent that Derek cannot place.

“I kinda already have one,” Derek says flatly, raising his glass and an eyebrow. The man stares at him, mesmerized for a minute before coming to.

“Then let me get you the next one!” he laughs, reaching out for his own flute of champagne and grasping it with long, thin fingers. Derek swallows and shakes his head. He can’t help but feel insanely attracted to the man but his blunt appreciation of Derek’s looks is making him feel a little embarrassed.

“Aw, come on,” the guy wheedles, squirming in his seat and giggling. He’s like a live-wire and Derek is fascinated by his constant movement and energy. “You look like you need to get drunk,” he grins wickedly and Derek is completely gone.  

“I’m Stiles,” the man says, offering a hand. Derek shakes it and it’s warm and big and oh so soft. Great, he thinks. Of course he’d have soft hands and long fingers. He pulls away rather quickly and then wonders if that had seemed rude.

“Derek,” he says gruffly, taking a long swig and looking away before he does something stupid like grab him and kiss him. The thin gold band is a heavy weight in his pocket.

“So, Derek,” Stiles starts, stretching out the syllables of his name long and slow, making a shiver run up Derek’s spine as he imagines the same word said in a different context. “What do you do?”

“I’m an architect,” Derek replies, reaching for the peanuts on the bar counter and cracking one open.

“Ooooh,” Stiles grins. “I think my bedroom’s ceiling is kinda leaking – maybe you could come poke around?” he says in a low voice, leaning so close his words fall on the shell of Derek’s ear. They feel deliciously wrong and thrilling.

“I’m an architect, not a plumber,” Derek says, his tone brusque. Stiles makes a face and downs his glass, simultaneously plucking another from a passing waitress’s tray.

“Are you here with someone?” Derek asks, slightly anxious about the amount of alcohol the guy is consuming. Stiles grins delightedly.

“Oh, like a date? Nope, I’m totally available,” he winks and moves his fingers to the edge of his mouth, wiping at his lip. Derek takes a sip of his own champagne to stop himself from staring.

“No, I mean, like a friend or someone who can take you home, because you’re kind of really drunk right now,” he clarifies. Stiles looks confused for a moment and gazes around the bar.

“Well, I did come here with Scotty but he’s probably gone home with Allison,” Stiles sighs, playing with his empty glass and the coaster. “But you can take me home if you like,” he brightens, giving Derek another wink.

“Stiles,” Derek says, marveling at the way the name fit so well in his mouth, “I’m married.”

Stiles stills in shock and then his gaze flits to Derek’s hands which are quite free of any ring. He looks back up, eyes slightly narrowed. Derek blushes red under his scruff and reaches for the band in his pocket. Pulling it out, he replaces it on his finger and clears his throat.

“I, uh, was just trying to see what it felt like without it,” he mutters, not looking at Stiles.

Stiles whistles low. “Trouble?” he asks.

“Yeah, we’re getting a divorce,” Derek admits, twisting the ring around his finger for a while before taking it off again and putting it back in his pocket. It didn’t feel right anymore.

“That bad?” Stiles tilts his head into his hand and looks at him with big hazel eyes. Derek looks away as he nods, not replying because the divorce papers haven’t been signed yet and Kate hasn’t come home in two days and he’s not sure what’s happening. Even Chris doesn’t know where she is.

“So we’re both fucked up then,” Stiles says after a while. The hand not holding his glass has been methodically running itself through his hair and it’s sticking up in all directions now. Derek wonders what it would feel like between his fingers and if Stiles would moan if he tugged at it. It would be so easy.

“Why are you fucked up?” Derek asks, staring at Stiles’ upturned mouth.

“My dad,” Stiles is slurring now. “He’s in the hospital. He had a heart attack.”

Derek stops staring at Stiles’ hair and mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he mumbles but Stiles just grins. There’s something behind that grin though, something small and sad and angry. Derek thinks maybe if he kisses Stiles, he can pull it out and fix it. He shakes his head to clear it.

“It’s nothing really. He had one last year too and I told him to eat better and stay away from red meat but he still sneaks in burgers and curly fries whenever I’m not there,” Stiles stares at the marble counter of the bar and twists the stem of his flute in his hands. Derek doesn’t know what to say to that so he keeps quiet. The room is starting to empty of people; it’s getting late.

“I’m sorry,” Derek finally says after a while. “I hope he recovers soon.”

Stiles shrugs and downs the last of his champagne, places the glass on the counter and doesn’t ask for another one. He doesn’t look at Derek, just cradles his head in his hands and drums his fingers almost angrily against the sides of his head.

Derek clears his throat very quietly and hesitates before reaching out to put a hand over his arm. It’s just a light brush, Derek’s palm hardly skimming the fabric of Stiles’ shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles raises his head and coughs, scrubbing his face and squinting. “I must be keeping you. You have to go home, right?”

“It’s okay,” Derek says almost automatically. “How will you get home?”

“I guess I’ll catch a cab,” Stiles slurs a little, his syllables slipping and sliding in his mouth.

“I could, um, I could drop you home,” Derek offers, not thinking twice. Stiles looks at him a little curiously; Derek drops his gaze.

“Are you sure?” Stiles asks. Derek nods, getting off his barstool and grabbing his coat. He shrugs it on and puts both hands in his pockets before turning to Stiles.  

“Okay, then. Thanks,” Stiles gives him a small smile.

Derek leads the way, his heart pounding. He doesn’t know if it’s a good idea or not but Lydia’s always telling him to be spontaneous, damnit! And well, if dropping a stranger home because he’s quite drunk isn’t spontaneous, he doesn’t know what is. Stiles doesn’t feel like a stranger though, Derek realizes as he unlocks the car and opens the door for him. He feels like someone Derek knew a long long time ago but then forgot about. He feels familiar.

He feels like – home.

Home. Derek snorts to himself. He hasn’t had a home in ages. After the fire, he’d never settled down. In a way, becoming an architect was like redemption: he built houses and structures to make up for what he had lost. But even so, nothing he had ever built felt like home. That was when he realized a home wasn’t a building, it was a person.

He hadn’t found a home in Kate, only bad memories, abuse and manipulation. He’d never felt more alone in his life than he had with Kate. He didn’t even remember now why he’d married her. The gold band in his pocket was nothing to him.

He grips the steering wheel hard enough for his knuckles to turn white and he turns to Stiles.

“Um, where do you live?” he asks. Stiles looks at him, confused for a minute, as if he doesn’t remember where he is.

“Oh, uh,” Stiles hesitates, fiddling with the strap of his seat belt. “Do you think we could just drive for a while?” he asks, his voice small. “I don’t want to go home and be alone.”

Derek swallows as he nods. The quiet despair of sitting down for dinner with only one plate on the table, the empty bed and the cold sheets: he knew the feeling all too well. So he drives on and they sit in silence, Stiles staring at the cars and shops whizzing by, Derek staring straight ahead.

They drive until they reach the end of the city. They drive until the stars turn brighter and the trees denser. Derek slows down near the edge of the cliff that overlooks the next town and parks the car next to a grand old oak. He can’t ever remember coming here before. Or at least, not since he was very young.

“I love this place,” Stiles breathes quietly, opening his door and slipping out into the night. Derek pauses only a second before following him. It’s chilly outside.

“I used to come here with Scott all the time when I was a kid,” Stiles smiles, looking at Derek over his shoulder. “We used to come here at night and sometimes we’d fall asleep and then our parents would get really mad at us,” he holds out his hands on either side of his body, spins a little and tips his face towards the sky.

“Come on,” he calls out to Derek who’s fallen a little behind. “Come look at the stars!”

Derek stares as Stiles sinks down into the long grass and lies down on his back, folding his hands over his chest. He feels his breath catch a little as Stiles sighs and gazes at the sky. The intimacy of the simple act of lying down next to him feels overwhelming. He can’t remember Kate and him sharing anything like this.

“Come on, slow poke!” Stiles calls out again, sticking an arm straight up in the air and waving him over. Derek swallows as he walks over to him and lies down without a word. Stiles turns his head and grins at him before looking back at the sky.

The last time Derek saw stars this bright was probably nearly half his lifetime ago. There’s something about their calm winking that makes him feel strangely at peace. Just a mere two hours ago, he was in a room full of people who worked 9 to 5 jobs and could only ever talk about their husbands, wives or children, and now he was lying quietly next to a man he’d just met, their chests rising and falling in rhythm.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” Stiles breathes, holding up a hand and tracing the stars with his fingers.

“Yeah,” Derek replies, slipping one hand underneath his head to elevate it a little.

Stiles drops his hand to the grass, dangerously close to Derek’s. Derek can feel the back of Stiles’ knuckles against the skin of his wrist. He swallows.

Stiles starts to point out the constellations. He knows almost all of them. Derek doesn’t even know the difference between a meteor and an asteroid.

“Sometimes I wonder if there’s even any point to life,” Stiles says quietly after a while. “I go to work, I come home, I feed the cat. On weekends, I call my dad and scold him because he’s been eating unhealthy again. I go to bars, I shoot pool, I drink and I try and get someone to come home with me but end up alone more often than not,” his voice is edged with a dull ache Derek can feel in the base of his throat. Stiles’ knuckles are firm against Derek’s wrist.

“It’s all so predictable, so monotonous,” Stiles turns his head to look at Derek, brows furrowed.

“I feel the same way,” Derek tells him. Their fingers are brushing now. Stiles is looking at him with an expression Derek can’t name.

“I want,” Stiles pauses, licks his lips. “I want an adventure.” His fingers wrap lightly around Derek’s and he waits.

Derek freezes at the contact and the ring in his pocket burns. He clears his throat but doesn’t pull away as Stiles slowly links their hands and squeezes. Looking carefully at him, Stiles rolls over and pushes himself up on one elbow, smiling quietly at him.

“There’s something about you,” Stiles whispers, so low Derek can barely hear. “Something, I can’t quite place,” he sounds frustrated.

“Stiles,” Derek finally finds his voice. It’s hoarse and he can’t quite get the words out. “I’m married.” Stiles stills, but doesn’t move away. “I can’t,” Derek pauses to search for the right words. “I can’t be your adventure.”

Stiles smiles then. A small, sad one. It makes Derek’s heart ache.

“It’s okay,” Stiles says, pulling his hand back and pushing himself up to his feet. He holds out a hand for Derek to take and pulls him up too. “I knew it,” his voice is slow and quiet. “I just, I mean I guess I –”

“I know,” Derek interupts, “Me too,” he adds after a minute.

Stiles nods and ducks his head, scuffing his shoe in the grass. “So, um, I should go home now. I mean, I’d like it if you could drop me home. Or I could call a cab. Either works,” he babbles, the words skidding over each other.

“No, it’s okay,” Derek brushes the grass off his pants and takes out his keys as they start the walk back to the car. “I can drop you off.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says, following him.

The ride to Stiles’ apartment is quiet. They don’t speak. They don’t need to. The car is full of ‘what if’s already.

“There,” Stiles says as Derek pulls up next to the building. “We’re here.”

“Yes,” Derek says, not looking at Stiles. He thinks of the divorce papers on his desk and of how just that morning he’d been about to sign them but at the last minute, found that he couldn’t.

“I, uh, I’ll get going now,” Stiles says, clearing his throat. Derek nods once but Stiles doesn’t open the car door, doesn’t leave. He stares at Derek for a long minute before reaching inside his jacket for a pen and an old receipt. He turns a little red as he scribbles down a string of numbers before handing the paper to Derek.

“Just in case,” he mumbles as Derek takes the scrap and pockets it. “Okay then, uh, thanks for the ride,” Stiles says, rubbing the back of his head and unlocking the door.

“No problem,” Derek says as Stiles slips out. He doesn’t look back.

*

Back in his penthouse apartment, Derek flings his coat on the rack and uncorks a bottle of whiskey, drinking straight from the bottle. The papers are on his desk. His pen lies next to them. He sinks into his chair and flips the documents open to the first page he has to sign and stares.

It’s Kate’s signature.

He flips the page and there’s her signature again. She’s signed the whole document.

Derek puts the whiskey on his desk and gets up and walks into their bedroom. The cupboard doors are open, the shelves are empty. He scrubs his face with his hand and goes into the kitchen. There’s a note on the fridge, held up by a garish fruit basket magnet he’s always hated.

Signed the papers. You’re free. I wish I could say I wish it had worked out between us.

It’s short and it should hurt but it doesn’t. It makes Derek want to laugh. He scrunches up the note, tosses it in the trash and walks back to his office, picking up his pen. He signs off three years of his life. Three years of a loveless marriage, of dreading coming home. Three years, wasted.

He sticks the papers in his drawer and leans back in his chair, downing some more whiskey, feeling it burn at the back of his throat. He could call Stiles. He could do it without feeling guilty now.

He takes the paper out of his pocket and traces the ink with his fingers. In minutes, he has it memorized.

He could call Stiles. He could tell him I want you to kiss me until I don’t feel empty anymore. He could tell him I’ll kiss you until it stops hurting. It could all be so easy, so simple.

He scrunches up the paper in his hand, closes his eyes and sees a sky bright with stars.

*

“Hi,” Stiles’ voice is sleepy. Derek is surprised for half a second before he glances at his watch and realizes it’s 2 am.

“It’s me,” Derek says, not knowing if that’s enough but wishing it is.

“Oh, Derek, hi,” there’s a smile in his words. Derek feels hope blossom beneath his ribs. “It’s very late,” Stiles’ voice is warm and heavy like syrup.

“I know, I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” Derek asks anxiously.

“No, no, it’s fine, what’s up?”

“I, uh, I got divorced. It’s final,” Derek says quietly, his heart hammering in his chest. “I signed the papers a week ago but I worked for her company and I waited until my agent cancelled that contract too.”

“I’m happy for you,” Stiles replies.

“Oh, um, yeah,” Derek feels a little disappointed. He waits but there’s silence on the line. “Um, okay then, I guess I’ll –”

“Guess you’ll what?” Stiles interrupts. Derek pauses.

“Um, nothing.”

“Oh.”

Derek shuffles his feet and looks at the floor buttons on the elevator. He swallows.

“How’s your dad?” he asks.

“Better,” Stiles replies.

They fall silent again. Derek rests his head against the cool metal of the elevator wall.

“I’m in your building,” he admits quietly.

“You are?” Stiles sounds pleased and surprised. “Where are you?”

“Standing in the elevator, wondering which floor you live on,” Derek smiles.

Stiles laughs. “Fourth floor,” he tells him. “Apartment 4-B.”

“Be there in two minutes,” Derek says, hanging up and pressing the button for the fourth floor.

*

Stiles opens the door in his pyjamas and a thin t-shirt. His hair is all mussed up and his eyes are soft with sleep. Derek steps forward, wraps one arm around his waist and kisses him. It’s slow at first, Derek’s lips catching Stiles and pressing against them, dry and chaste. Stiles pulls back with a smile and tugs him inside the apartment, kicking the door shut behind him.

“Hi,” he whispers as he presses Derek up against the door and leans in for another kiss. Derek grins and Stiles takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his hands firm on Derek’s waist.

“I’m glad to see you,” Stiles pulls back again, resting his forehead on Derek’s and breathing in slowly. Derek closes his eyes and drops his head into the crook of Stiles’ neck.

“’M glad to see you too,” he mumbles into Stiles’ warm skin, feeling at home for the first time in nearly fifteen years.

Okay but can you guys imagine Francis and Arthur adopting Alfred and Matthew as babies?

Francis would be so excited and probably squealing because they’re going to have babies. And he’d drag Arthur to baby departments in stores and pick out dozens of clothes for the new babies.

“Oh look at this! It’s GREEN, mon amour!”

“Yeah, looks great.” But Arthur wouldn’t really know what to say at first because they’re just clothes, what of it?

But then, when they bring the babies home, Arthur is the excited one and he starts dressing the babies and combing their hair and playing with them and being sweet.

And Francis just stands in front of him and smiles so smugly at Arthur because it was a miracle to hear Arthur coo and even babble at two small things in his arms.

And when they each take a twin, Francis sits next to Arthur and brings up baby Matthew to Arthur’s cheek so he could kiss him, even if Matthew doesn’t even know what’s going on. And Arthur looks at Francis once Matthew is back seated on Francis’ lap, and Francis kisses Arthur, even if Arthur doesn’t really know what for; Francis always gave him random kisses. And they aren’t aware that the babies are looking up at them and giggling.

This all sounds so jumbled, but please imagine it.

so i had a dream last night that Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin were meeting on some super secret business, but they had to bring their families along for security reasons. in the dream, they each had an 8 year old son that looked kind of like mini versions of themselves, except tiny Putin had a mohawk. i don’t know why. also little Trump looked like the human equivalent of a pug with a scraggly comb-over.

anyways, while the families are walking past me into some secret room, little Putin sticks out his foot and trips little Trump while he’s distracted. and he just eats shit. it was the funniest fucking thing i’ve ever seen in my life.

later on in the dream the CIA showed up at my house and made me swear that I’d never tell anyone what I saw, but their jurisdiction doesn’t extend to real life so i thought i’d tell you guys anyways. take that, dream CIA.

Afire Love

So, here’s something to keep you all afloat until the scenarios start rolling in. (My first written piece on the blog, yay!) It’s not my best, but consider it a sample of my work. And let me know what you think!

- Admin I

Part 1/ Part 2

You smooth down your skirt and fix your bangs for the umpteenth time, letting out a shaky breath.

This is it, the night you’ve been preparing for. Don’t mess this up, you tell yourself.

You ring the doorbell, pushing on the button a little too hard. The door opens and you unwittingly smile at a beaming Luhan. Your chest clenches at the sight of him. His hair is combed back and he looks breathtakingly handsome in his all-black ensemble, even with a dirty apron worn over it.

“Y/N! You’re here.”

He pulls you into his arms and presses you tightly against his chest.

“I missed you,” he mumbles into your shoulder.

You pull back and raise a brow at him.

“We went to the movies two days ago.”

“I know!” he says, widening his eyes. “A whole two days, Y/N! That’s like…”

“Forty-eight hours?” you say, laughing.

“Exactly!” Luhan laughs too, his eyes turning to crescent moons. “I was beginning to experience withdrawal symptoms.”

Your stomach folds in on itself and you feel your face heat up. Deep breaths Y/N.

You step inside, tugging off your heels and slipping into the carpet slippers Luhan laid out for you.

Luhan grabs your hand, and you follow him into the kitchen, breathing in all the delicious smells.

“Y/N, try this,” he says, shoving a small piece of bread covered with tomatoes into your mouth. “What do you think?”

“Mm, it’s really good. What is it?”

“Bruschetta,” Luhan says, grinning at the compliment.

“Mmm,” you hum, grabbing another from the platter. “What’s in the oven?”

“Lasagna,” he says, getting back to his cooking.

You didn’t care much for Italian food, but it was Luhan’s specialty, and he really wanted to make tonight’s dinner by himself. You can’t help but smile at his dedication.

You take a seat on one of the stools lined up against the counter. He stands on the other side, cutting up carrots on a wooden cutting board. You reach out and grab a slice.

“Yah! Don’t eat that, it’s for the salad.”

You frown at him, faking a pout. He sighs, shaking his head and going back to cutting. You grab another one, grinning when he glares at you. He raises his knife threateningly and you widen your eyes. He chuckles.

You go in pretending to take another one and Luhan moves to stop you, his knife nicking your thumb in the process. You gasp dramatically.

“Shit!” Luhan says.

“Luhan! How could you!?” you say, laughing at his alarmed expression.

“Shit, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

Luhan grabs your hand and puts your thumb between his lips, sucking on the wound. Your mouth falls open in surprise, but he doesn’t notice, turning around and searching for a bandaid in the cupboards. You suck in deep breaths.

No, I’m not okay. Damn it Luhan.

It takes you several minutes to calm down after that. You get up again and walk around, trying to distract yourself.

“What’s for dessert?” you say, looking through the fridge.

“Chocolate cake,” he says, looking at you cautiously. “Why? Is it too plain? I thought girls liked chocolate. You like chocolate right?

"Luhan, calm down. Chocolate cake is fine. Everything’s gonna be great.”

Luhan smiles gratefully.

“I’m just glad you’re here. I’m so nervous, I’ve already sweat through two suits.”

“Ew!” you giggle, getting comfortable again. “Well relax. You look so good, it’d be a shame if you ruined this one, too.”

Luhan smirks, and you blush as you realize what you just said.

Oh well. It’s the truth.

“I do look good, don’t I? Real manly, right?”

He winks at you, and you roll your eyes playfully.

“Yes, princess, you look very pretty tonight.”

“Yah!” Luhan narrows his eyes.

He dips his finger into the bowl in front of him, and smears icing on to your cheek, laughing at your shocked expression.

“Hey! It took me a long time to do my makeup,” you whine, grabbing a napkin and wiping your face. “We’re not all as perfect as you.”

You bite your tongue. You didn’t mean to sound so bitter. When you look back up, Luhan is staring at you, his head tilted to one side. You look away, trying to escape the scrutiny of his gaze.

“Hey, I forgot to tell you something,” he says.

“What?”

He comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“You look really beautiful tonight.”

The room becomes silent, and the sound of your erratic heartbeat echoes in your ears. You wonder if Luhan can hear it, too. A turn of the head is all it would take to meet his lips, but you’re not that brave.

Instead, you open your mouth to make a snappy comment, but just then the doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it!” Luhan says, springing away from you.

He pulls his apron over his head, throwing it onto the counter and taking a quick glimpse at his reflection in the dark glass of the microwave. Then he races to the door.

You can hear their voices in the hallway, Luhan’s and the stranger’s.

“Come on, she’s in the kitchen,” Luhan says.

You take another deep breath, blinking back tears, and bracing yourself for the inevitable.

You can do this, you tell yourself. You have to do this. For Luhan.

Luhan comes back into the kitchen, smiling so wide you think his face may crack. He has his hands linked with someone else’s.

“Y/N, this is who I was telling you about. This is my girlfriend.”