maisisat
love-untiltheresnoloveleft:

in which I am castiel forever and always amen

love-untiltheresnoloveleft:

in which I am castiel forever and always amen

naative:

Religious people came to my friends door and gave her this pamphlet but they got the texts wrong so apparently jesus has no time for you

naative:

Religious people came to my friends door and gave her this pamphlet but they got the texts wrong so apparently jesus has no time for you

helenish:

Look at these two stayin’ alive motherfuckers, completely 100% believable and realistic as high school juniors, not as a couple of guys recruited straight out of college into undercover police work, walking back from the gym, Stiles saying,

"Hale’s involved, I know he has to be—I just need to figure out how to get close enough to figure it out—" and Scott’s going to worry about him, that maybe he’s getting in too deep, and he’ll be right, because Stiles has already brought Derek lunch, just coming by to see him at his studio, where Derek makes meticulous models of half-burnt houses, cuts up musty books he buys at library sales into wolves, spreading oak trees, creepy art work Stiles doesn’t really get, but he knows what it means when Derek looks up at him, puts down his x-acto knife. 

He kisses Derek—has to, to get close enough to be invited to meet Derek’s friends, get a look at the inside of his apartment—but he doesn’t fuck him. That’s crossing a line. He thinks about it, what it would be like to take Derek to bed, but he doesn’t do it. He tells Derek he wants to take it slow, if that’s okay. Derek smiles at his feet and says yeah, sure, okay, if that’s—yeah, of course.

Derek finds out the worst possible way, of course, probably when he gets kidnapped and it’s Stiles who shows up and gets him, wearing jeans and an agency windbreaker, grim and angry and cutting the ropes on Derek’s wrists, and then the part where Stiles shoves him down hard behind a table and shoots someone—

"I thought—" Derek says, numbly, sitting numbly on some concrete steps where someone else in a uniform told them to wait, "I thought you were a social worker."

"Yeah, I’m—not," Stiles says. He’s all banged up. There’s a cut on the bridge of his nose and his knuckles are scraped raw. 

"You didn’t want me to know?" Derek says, and then he sees Stiles’ face and he knows, he knows what it looks like, his family, the connections to the Argents, all the deaths, he knows. "Oh," he says.

"It wasn’t like that," Stiles says.

"You were using me to get closer to—or. You thought I had something to do with it," Derek says, his voice wavering, breaking.

"Derek, I’m sorry," Stiles says.

"That’s why you wouldn’t—" Derek draws in a short, hurt breath. "I believed you, that stupid fucking story about how badly you’d been hurt," he says. "But you just didn’t want to fuck me because it would have screwed up your case."

"Derek—"

"Fuck you," Derek says. Stiles watches him walk away. Two weeks later there’s a box on his desk at work: a sweater he left at Derek’s once when the weather turned unseasonably warm, the whisk Stiles bought for him at a stoop sale when they were out one Saturday, just walking around. It was 75 cents. That’s it, that’s everything. Stiles never stayed over, never had a toothbrush, never left any other clothes. 

He keeps the whisk—something like a reminder to be less of an asshole. He clips the newspaper articles about Derek’s gallery shows, keeps them in a neat little stack tucked into a book.

He thinks about what it was like, kissing Derek, the way Derek would sigh and shift towards him and open his mouth, how badly he wanted to fuck him, how he’s a lying sack of crap. 

A year after that Kate Argent breaks out of prison. Stiles is working a 36 hour turnaround in New Orleans and doesn’t even hear about it until he gets back, and by then Derek’s been gone for 12 hours, the back door of his studio hanging open, cut paper littering the floor, fluttering out into the alleyway behind the studio in the late afternoon dark gold sunlight, where they used to sit on crates and drink beers, where—
They find him, of course they find him, three awful days and a hundred bad leads later, Stiles running on fumes and the nap Scott forced him to take on the lumpy break room couch. Derek is slumped on the floor of the warehouse when they find him, eyes closed, and it takes an age for Stiles to slide down on his knees next to Derek, to put his hand on his shoulder and turn him over, expecting—when Derek opens his eyes, Stiles can’t hold it back, the audible sound of relief.
"Did he say it?" Scott wants to know at the debriefing. They let Derek take a shower in the locker room and now he’s wearing agency sweats and a t-shirt he’s pretty sure belongs to Scott, eating takeout from the italian place around the corner.
"Say what?"
Scott sighs. “He was supposed to say “We have to stop meeting like this.”“
"Why?" Derek says.
"You know what, fine," Scott says, aggrieved. "I give up."
*
They let him go and he goes straight to the studio, even though it’s nearly nine at night. Stiles is there, straightens guiltily. The floor is clean, the broken pieces of a few of Derek’s works stacked neatly on a table in the corner.
"I thought you’d be a few more hours," Stiles says, his hand tight on a the broom handle. "I wasn’t—I didn’t want you to come back to it—"
"We should stop meeting like this," Derek says.
"Okay," Stiles says. "Sorry, I’ll just—I’ll go."
"Wait," Derek. "I meant—"
"Oh," Stiles says. "Oh, were you doing Scott’s shitty line?"
"Yeah," Derek says. There’s a long, weird, silence.
"I dunno," Stiles says finally. "I think maybe that line only works if then the credits roll, like, immediately after."
"Probably so," Derek says. He gets the dustpan out of the closet, and they sweep up the last of the paper together, move the table back against the wall, tape up the broken window pane, working in companionable silence.
"Thanks for finding me," Derek says, quietly, smoothing down the last piece of masking tape on the window, glancing up at Stiles to find him leaning against the wall, smiling a little.
"Anytime," Stiles says.
ROLL CREDITS.
They say every atom in our bodies was once a part of a star. Maybe I’m not leaving, maybe I’m going home.
- Vincent Freeman, “Gattaca” (via modernise)

npr:

theweekmagazine:

The complete guide to cooking eggs every which way

You’ve had scrambled eggs. You’ve had poached eggs. But have you had poached-scrambled eggs?

Poached-scrambled eggs? Tell me more… — Lauren 

#food #q 

You asked about the Avengers. Y’wanna know the best part about being an Avenger? Having Captain America around all the time. He just— the guy just brings out the absolute best in people. You want to be good when he’s around. You really do. Ivan, look around you real quick. Because right now? Captain America ain’t here.

You asked about the Avengers. Y’wanna know the best part about being an Avenger? Having Captain America around all the time. He just— the guy just brings out the absolute best in people. You want to be good when he’s around. You really do. Ivan, look around you real quick. Because right now? Captain America ain’t here.

#hawkeye #comics #art #q 
steammmpunk:


Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger leurs-même

for ally a. i miss you. special thanks to daunt, sinyhale, and all the other people who encouraged me when i posted a wip of this on twitter, pretty sure without it this wouldn’t have been finished

steammmpunk:

Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger leurs-même

for ally a. i miss you. special thanks to dauntsinyhale, and all the other people who encouraged me when i posted a wip of this on twitter, pretty sure without it this wouldn’t have been finished

But cities that are magical and sentient tho

echrai:

harmonyinkpress:

shaddy24:

petrichorlore:

toomanystarstocount:

  • Cities shutting down the subway and refusing to lower bridges when potholes get too bad and nothing is done about them because hey that hurts and someone needs to fix it.
  • Cities opening old abandoned subway stations and venting hot air above ground during the winter for the homeless population.
  • Sidewalk blocks standing up to protect protesters from the police.
  • Everyone feels safe running in the park at night because everyone knows one story about a guy who tried to mug/rape/attack someone and was dragged off by tree roots
  • Subway stairs rolling themselves up and refusing to let anyone into the tunnels so that management is forced to listen striking train drivers.
  • One weekend every summer the entire city is covered in chalk drawings the residents create as a thank you to the city that protects and cares for them so well. For weeks afterwards the sidewalks are covered in faint chalk marks until the next rain washes it all away.
  • Each spring the city does it’s own spring cleaning, rain storms and strong winds sweeping the garbage out of alley ways and into piles for the garbage workers to come and collect.
  • CITIES THAT ARE SELF AWARE FRIENDS

cities that smooth stairs down for wheelchairs and walkers

cities that make their pavement go around trees and protect conservation areas from hunters and litterers and construction companies

cities that chuck litter back at litterers (but not too hard)

cities that make new roads for ambulances to beat the traffic

cities that divert two or more vehicles from crashing 

I like that tag.

Ohhh. Yes. That would make a fantastic setting for a book.

It totally fits in with the idea people have about cities having personalities. If your personality fits with a city it feels great, like home and happiness and like you belong. If it doesn’t you’re just miserable and grumpy because the energy/magic of the city isn’t good for you.

#art 
#ahs 

schmergo:

schmergo:

I want a movie about a guy who runs for president and wins but then suddenly realizes that he doesn’t want to be president, so he just starts doing ridiculous things all the time trying to get impeached, but it NEVER WORKS because they always miraculously end up being the right thing to do. Like, he declares war on Canada? Next day it turns out that Canada had secret plans to nuke Washington. he bans Doritos? Turns out theyr’e the number one cause of cancer and natural disasters. He sends his vice president to jail? Turns out the VP was a terrorist in disguise. He has 100% approval rating, most popular president ever.

I’ve decided that I want him to be played by Jeff Goldblum. 

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