“But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven; certainly and emphatically there is no God; we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.”—Virginia Woolf, Moments of Being (via ofsupernovas)
fic where steve is having his morning run but sam is nowhere in sight so he just has to run on his own with no one to tease about how slow they are but then suddenly nyoooom “ON YOUR RIGHT” sam screams as he passes flying by and puSHES STEVE INTO THE FOUNTAIN
“We could…we could be something, couldn’t we?” Stiles murmurs, eyes slipping shut. Derek looks at the IV line in his arm, the bandages covering his chest, his leg. His hand, pale against the hospital sheets, palm up. Derek waits until he’s sure Stiles is asleep before he responds.
It takes Stiles eight years to ask the question again. It’s okay. Derek can wait.”—Summary of Lodestone by llassah. This fic made me cry so you should read it and cry with me. (via heathyr)
In the small claw-foot bathtub, we drank cold chai and whiskey and sat entwined like a car accident or the way newborns instinctively cling to anything. There were candles and the last light from the day’s final drag home and the water, so warm, I could not tell where you ended and it began. This must be real love I said in the more poetic draft of my life. In reality, we sat tangled until our asses numbed and our joints cried uncle and we argued about money and the dog and how you never tell me I’m sexy until after you pull out. But this must be real love though, right? Because we stayed in that porcelain coffin until the sun clocked out. Until our toes and fingers sulked in on themselves. Because even after the water cooled and emptied back into the ocean, we still stayed— holding each other, arguing, crumpled together in that tub not meant for two or even someone your size—until the candles burned out, until we were dry.