Sometimes, I'm like "why do I still follow hatteress? They're cool, but we're not in the same fandoms." And then I read a post like the reply you provided to the panicking Anon and was like, "oh, yeah. THAT'S why." You're awesome. Keep being you.
Oh my god, BLESS you for staying with me through my fandom spam
Thank you. I feel too ashamed of myself to come off anon but thank you. Most days I'm okay but sometimes it just hits harder because I guess I've pushed it down so often. Sometimes I still wish I didn't feel like this when my body isn't my enemy like a lot of people's are but it still hurts to feel shackled to something that I can't ever get away from. Anyways, thank you.
You can absolutely stay on anon for as long as you want (or forever, forever is okay too) - THE POWER IS YOURS
I think one of the most important things you can do when you’re struggling with this stuff is listen to yourself. Gauge your moods. A lot of times you’ll be able to gauge how much (or how little) you’re capable of at any one time. Listen to what your brain is trying to tell you. Don’t place unreasonable expectations on yourself, even if your definition of unreasonable isn’t matching up with what society has told us it is.
A big thing for me is socialising. If I’m not feeling up to it, but I push myself anyway because I have social commitments or expectations, those moments of “sucking it up and dealing” are often followed by pretty horrific fall outs.
The key is avoiding those fallouts if you can and, if you can’t, manage them so you don’t do yourself damage.
Part of that management can be communication. Absolutely utilise it if you have to.
I know it can be hard feeling like your own issues are legitimate when there are others out there who are dealing with seemingly “worse” but that whole line of thinking is the worst trap. No one’s problems are any better or worse than anyone else’s.
These sorts of issues are very personal battles and one of their asshole tricks is trying to make you feel worse for being affected by them. Don’t let them win on that front. They’re lying.
You’re absolutely welcome. I’m here any time. Also, if you want further replies screen-capped and put under read mores, just let me know.
STILES AND DEREK COME ACROSS THIS WHEN THEY’RE VISITING BOYD AND ERICA IN QUEENSLAND. STILES BUYS A WHOLE BOX AND THEN GETS STUCK IN CUSTOMS FOR FOUR HOURS TRYING TO GET IT BACK INTO THE STATES.
THE FLAVOUR OPTIONS INCLUDE
BLUEBERRIES AND CREAM
and a glow in the dark version
srsly this is teen wolf ficcage waiting to happen
i just couldn’t stop laughing (especially when you factor in Stiles and Derek)
I TOLD YOU IT WAS A HONEY BOTTLE!
Oh JFC, could you imagine accidentally getting the bottles mixed up?
"Wow," Stiles says, "This honey flavour is kinda spot on."
"It’s supposed to be-" Derek looks over at the list. The list Stiles had compiled and printed that dictated which flavours of lube were to be tried on which days. Derek would ask why they were still dating at this point but…well, Stiles had all of October scheduled. It’d be rude to mess up the system. Derek scowls at Wednesday. "It’s supposed to be Smores today."
Down at crotch level, Stiles freezes. “Um.”
Oh god. “Please don’t tell me you just covered my dick in honey.”
"In my defence, the bottles are REALLY similar."
Stiles laps at the tip of Derek’s cock and Derek finds himself wondering helplessly what honey and pre-come would even taste like. Nothing bad if Stiles’ pleased hum is anything to go by. “Huh,” Stiles says, smacking his lips. “This also explains why my toast tasted so strange this morning.”
Never be sorry for unloading on me. I’m seriously always good for it, even if it does take me a bit to get to the message (for that, I’M sorry).
And concerning the second message you sent, don’t ever feel like it’s your responsibility to “suck it up and deal”. No matter what’s pulling you down—outside circumstances or douchebag brain chemistry—it can help a LOT just connecting with someone else.
Taking that step though, actually reaching out, is probably one of the hardest things you can do. Even when you have people you trust. Even when you KNOW they’re one million percent there for you. It’s so fucking hard. Because if we do it, that just means we’ve failed even more. And worse, now someone KNOWS about it.
But the thing of it is: that failure? That voice in the back of your head telling you that talking about all this just makes you weaker? Is all a crock of absolute shit.
We’ve grown up in a society that tells us that feeling depressed, panicked, out of control - all of that is on us. It’s our failure and our weakness. We’re told we need to harden up and get on with life.
It’s one of the biggest lying lies to ever have lied.
There is nothing weak about struggling against shitful circumstances or shitful illness. Neither are your fault and both deserve support. And the fact that you’ve reached out and asked for that help despite all the odds that are against you? That is fucking amazing.
I’m so sorry you’re struggling with all of this, dude. You deserve every good thing that comes your way. If you need to talk more, even if it’s just to rant - my ask is always open. If you wanted to message off anon as well, we can have private chats.
In the meantime, all the virtual hugs your way. You’re not alone. Not by a long shot.
No writer is as fond of messing with canon as Brad Buckner & Eugenie Ross-Leming. In Taxi Driver they changed the entire mythology for Purgatory and Hell, and invented the Rogue Reapers, unbalancing much of the storylines that came before it. In I’m No Angel they made reapers body snatchers like demons and angels.
In Holy Terror we find out angel graces do not come with a name tag attached to them. They aren’t like human souls, which have a one to one relationship with their owners. Instead they are like those five hour energy shots. Any angel could slice through another angel’s skin and steal his or her grace, thus making it his own, as Castiel did in this episode. A grace is just the battery fluid on which the angel engines run.
Except that causes a whole lot of canon problems. Like why Castiel didn’t do the same thing with Hael, or the angel he killed on the bus in 9.03. Also if a grace is so generic why did Metatron collect Castiel’s grace in a bottle? Why did Anna search for hers for so long when she could have just ripped one out of the red shirt angels that came after her? Why, when he was losing his powers at the end of season 5, didn’t Castiel absorb a grace from one of the many angels he killed?
a fairytale were a young girl is kidnapped and forced to marry a demon king and instead of being like no! never! shes like fine as long as i get to help you destroy and hes like lol cool but soon shes doing a bit too much and her husband king is like okay enough power and shes like bye see you in the dungeon and hes like what and hes dragged away cause now everyone is more loyal to her and she reigns over the underworld and the surface world with a cold iron fist
“Changing the way we talk is not political correctness run amok. It reflects an admirable willingness to acknowledge others who once were barely visible to the dominant culture, and to recognize that something that may seem innocent to you may be painful to others.”—
I have this joy to look forward to soon. I haven’t been in therapy since I was a kid and got yelled at for drawing a rainbow instead of my “family”.
Long story. It was recommended to my mother that she put me into therapy for some shit that went down when I was a kid. This would have been helpful if every psychologist and their dog hadn’t tried pinning every single issue I had on my parents divorce.
(I was three when they split - it wasn’t actually the devastating experience everyone seemed to want to paint it as)
Mum pulled me out after one shrink gave me paper and crayons, told me to draw whatever I wanted and then yelled at me when I immediately started drawing a rainbow. Because OBVIOUSLY I should have known to draw my family which would have somehow proven her wildly inaccurate theories.
To say I’ve had trust issues concerning mental health professionals ever since would be a mild understatement.
I've seen a lot of female characters in fiction being sorted into two camps: the "weak" emotional, sensitive females and the "strong" cold-hearted, kickass females. I'm always scared that when I write that my female characters fall in either those categories or are left behind in a tag-on love-interest way. Or become Mary Sues. How do you find a balance?
DANGER, WILL ROBINSON. THIS QUESTION IS A TRAP.
I mean, look, it’s not your fault that it’s a trap; don’t feel bad. You didn’t build the trap. You may not even know you’re in there — god knows I didn’t, in the years I spent asking myself and others this question and questions like it. It’s a good trap. It’s tricky. It gets almost everyone, at some point or another. There are a lot of people who never actually find their way out.
But, hey, don’t take my word for it. A trap is easiest to identify in action, after all. Let me show you how it works.
You should write strong women — but not too strong, because then you’re saying that only strong women are valuable, and that’s wrong, and you’re writing women wrong. So you should write weak women — but not too weak, because then you’re saying that all women are weak, and that’s wrong, and you’re writing women wrong. So you should write women who are both strong and weak — but only in the right ways, of course, because if you write women who show strength and weakness in the wrong ways then you’re only enforcing the idea that women can’t handle themselves, which is wrong, and you’re writing women wrong. Make sure you write women with flaws, because that’s how you develop interesting characters — but not too many flaws, and definitely not the wrong ones, because then you’re saying that all women are inherently flawed, and that’s wrong, and you’re writing women wrong. But don’t write them without flaws, because then they’re too perfect, and that makes them a Mary Sue, and that’s wrong, and you’re writing women wrong. HOW DARE YOU WRITE WOMEN WRONG. Don’t you think it would be better not to write women at all?
See? It’s a trap. And it’s not even a trap in the way you think, either, because the issue here isn’t that you can nitpick out in any direction and then yell HERE IS AN ARBITRARY REASON YOU ARE DOING WOMEN WRONG — that’s a problem, don’t get me wrong, and its own trap to boot, but it’s not what we’re talking about right now. Like, it definitely sucks, but that happens all the time about all kinds of things (Women shouldn’t sleep with too many people, BUT ALSO NOT TOO FEW; women shouldn’t compromise themselves for their spouses, BUT HOW DARE THEY NOT DO THAT; I could go on but, like, why), and it doesn’t have shit to do with how you tell a story unless you let it.
Naw, friend, the trap here is the idea that you are writing women. You’re not. You’re writing a woman. One person. Every time you write a female character, that’s what you’re writing — just that one. She’s not an archetype, she’s not a statement on All Women Ever, she’s just a person. Singular. Solo. The same way (I hope?) you don’t think, “What is this male character saying about every single dude who has ever walked this earth?” whenever you write guys, so you should avoid thinking that when you write ladies. They’re just people. They don’t have to Be Everything — the idea that women have to Be Everything is enough of a drag in day to day life, you know? It doesn’t need to be given any room to strut around in your writing.
Build her, and not who you think she’s supposed to be: that’s how I do it. What’s she afraid of? What does she believe in? What’s the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to her? The best meal she’s ever had? How would she describe herself if she had only five words to do it? What makes her laugh? What makes her cry? What does she think people want her to be, and what does she want to be, and is there a space between those things, and how does she fill it, if there is?
Nadia, one of the main characters in my novel — she’s a chef, because she likes the simplicity of food, the fact that it’s incredibly difficult to disappoint it, that its nuance is in physical construction as opposed to conceptual tone. She’s spent so much of her life desperately trying and cataclysmically failing to be the person her parents want her to be that she projects a certain amount of hostility towards everyone else, almost daring them to demand anything of her at all. She is hesitant to trust, because she has regretted trusting in the past, and she’s the sort of person who takes regret as a sign that she, herself, has done something wrong, something she should resist repeating in the future. She sneers because she’s used to being sneered at. She smiles when she feels someone has earned it, because that’s more or less the only way she’s ever received that reaction herself. And the thing is, for all I know this now? When I first thought about her, all I knew was her name and her profession. But I built her out out from that, thinking about how she, personally, came to be where she was, as opposed to how women, in general, might come to be in that place. It’s a much more effective strategy, in my experience. Less anxiety-producing, too.
Whoever your female character is, the more you know about her as a person — the more real she feels to you — the less you will feel like that other shit, the what-if-I’m-writing-women-wrong-shit, matters. Because it doesn’t; the truth is the trick, the really important thing to remember in writing women, is to write them one at a time. To write them into individuals, as opposed to into boxes. I hope that helps <3
It takes five weeks, three pep talks from Scott and a near-dangerous amount of caffeine for Stiles to finally initiate a conversation with Hot Laundromat Guy Who Actually Irons His Suits Oh My God.
"Nice pleats," he says, casually leaning against the machine next to ironing board. "I mean, that’s not a euphemism, or anything. I was just."
The guy’s lips curve up, his eyes still focused on his suit pants, and Stiles swears that nobody’s ever looked so beautiful under greenish florescent lights. “I didn’t think it was a euphemism. What would that even be a euphemism for?”
"Use your imagination," Stiles says boldly, wiggling his eyebrows. Hot Laundromat Guy slips and burns the tip of his finger. "Oh my god, are you okay?"
"Ugh, stop, I’m fine." The guy is glaring at the iron like it just betrayed him. "Maybe I should just… finish up at home."
Stiles panics. “My name is Stiles!” (It’s a non sequitur, admittedly, but anything to keep the guy from walking out and taking his amazing forearms with him.)
"Derek," says the guy, looking at him curiously from under his ludicrous mascara-commercial eyelashes. "I’ve seen you before. I’m always here on Sundays, too."
"I know, dude. You’re hard to miss," Stiles says, grinning when Derek squirms and bites his lip. Aww. "When you finish up with the pressing and the pleating and all that impressively fancy laundry stuff you do, can I buy you a burger? If you eat burgers. You look kind of like you subsist on kale and gravel."
"I like burgers," Derek says, rolling his eyes as he digs through his laundry basket. "I’m ambivalent on gravel, though."
"Ha, ha," Stiles says, completely delighted. "So I know this great place… oh."
Derek has just placed a pair of gorgeous, expensive-looking pink silk panties on the board. He’s handling them carefully, lovingly, and Stiles’ heart plummets.
"Those are nice," he says, trying to smile like a normal person. "It’s nice of you to take care of those. For your… wife?"
Derek frowns, smoothing out the wrinkles with one of his huge hands. “I’m not married.”
"Girlfriend, then?" Stiles doesn’t know why he keeps going. His throat is burning a little bit with the effort of not showing how suddenly crushed he feels.
"No, I’m not—they’re mine," Derek says. Matter-of-fact, easy, like he didn’t just restore all of Stiles’ hopes and blow his freaking mind in a single sentence.
"Oh," he breathes, and Derek sighs, looking up at him
"If you want to reconsider that burger—"
"Careful!" Stiles yelps, and moves the iron away from where it’s resting on the corner of the panties’ lace trim. "Oh, good. They’re not burnt."
"Thanks," Derek says, his hand sliding into a fist against the ironing board.
"You can thank me once I’ve bought you the best burger you’ve ever had," Stiles says, and slides his fingers gently over Derek’s wrist. "Finish up first, though. Silk wrinkles like crazy."
"I’ve got it under control," Derek says, sighing grumpily even as he flips his hand over and brushes their palms together.
grimmmmm <333 prompt: derek comes back to bh to find that stiles has been missing for a while (weeks maybe?). you're free to come up with why he's missing. derek starts searching for him with the others. maybe have a night where he's teaming up with the sheriff and scott? they find him ofc, because I'm a sucker for happy endings :p
A month and three days after Derek left Beacon Hills, he came back. He’d meant to come back sooner, to be honest; all he’d wanted was some time to be alone, reset his mind. He’d thought about going to British Columbia and spending a week or two in the temperate rainforests. They’d gone as a family once, when he was a kid. Derek didn’t have a passport, which wasn’t really a problem, but he’d forgotten to factor in Cora, who finally admitted that she’d spent her missing years living on a remote ranch in Texas and wanted to go back.
Texas was fine too, Derek decided, and he could still go to Canada if he really wanted to, so he pointed the Toyota to the southeast and they headed for Texas. One week, he told himself firmly as they drove up a dusty dirt road fifty miles from the Mexican border. One week and then he needed to get back to Beacon Hills. He didn’t feel especially great about the way he’d left things in town. He hadn’t seen Peter since before the eclipse, for one, and that worried him.
One week, though, turned into two, then three, then a month. As it turned out, the ranch was owned and ran by a large pack - nearly a hundred werewolves and humans known together as the Alvarado pack - and he was slightly bewildered to find himself welcomed with open arms. It’d been a long, long time since he’d spent so much time around so many wolves - not ones he wasn’t fighting, anyway - and away from Beacon Hills, he felt whole again. Cora was different too; she lost her cold distance, laughing as she showed him around the ranch, guided him through the stables. She made him pet the warm noses of horses and bumped her shoulder against his while they shucked corn for dinner.
He dragged his feet over leaving, though it helped when the alpha of the Alvarado pack, a tiny old woman with dark skin and steel-colored hair, patted him on the arm and told him he was always welcome. Derek didn’t need Beacon Hills any longer, he decided. He’d go back, make sure everything was settled, and then he’d leave for good. That had been the plan the last time, when it was just him and Laura, but the city had a new alpha in Scott and he’d earned it, unlike Derek, who’d just taken it.
The drive took two days and Derek took the coastal route because he could, driving due west from Texas until he reached the coast, then driving north until he headed inland toward Redding. It was dark when he got into town, almost eleven, and he got a room in a motel at the edge of town. He could have gone to the loft, but the dark, ruined expanse of it didn’t appeal to him. He couldn’t keep sleeping where people had died. The motel room smelled like mold and ancient cigarette smoke, but the sheets were clean and it wasn’t an abandoned railway depot or burnt shell of a house, so he couldn’t complain. Also, the motel got HBO so he really couldn’t complain; he and Cora had spent two weeks watching Game of Thrones every evening.
In the morning, Derek showered and went to a diner for breakfast. He watched the people around him talk and eat. Everything felt normal, which was a relief. There was no foreboding sense of things about to go horribly, terribly wrong, which he was one hundred percent okay with. Derek could do with no more blood on his hands.
After he ate, he stood in line at the register waiting to pay for his meal, hands in his pockets as he gazed absently at the community board behind the cashier’s head. It was covered in flyers announcing church potlucks, intramural softball leagues, lost cats, and salsa dance lessons at the local senior center. The cashier bent to grab a roll of coins from under the counter and Derek’s eyes fell to a poster previously hidden behind her head.
MISSING! it yelled in bold red text, and underneath it was a picture of Stiles Stilinski.
FOR REAL YOU GUYS DON’T GET HOW ECSTATIC I AM TO RECEIVE FEEDBACK ON THIS. The realisation of this asshole of a project has dragged me through hell and back, and I’m seriously this close to climbing onto my desk and doing victory arms because PEOPLE LIKE THE THING!
Scott doesn’t approve of Derek’s anything but particularly the part where he’s been turning angsty teens into werewolves. Allison has broken up with Scott because bb needs some me time to sort her staggering amount of familial issues. And Beacon Hills’ newest residents are a pack of Alpha werewolves that are particularly good at surrounding helpless Betas, growling menacingly and making Peter be dramatic. A+ Alpha pack. We all knew you had it in you.
We’re treated to fuzzy-o-vision as Isaac is dragged through a dank alley by a Mysterious Woman™. He’s all about the bleeding everywhere and having his heart stop which proves that Jeff Davis wasn’t kidding about that whole PEOPLE WILL DIE schtick. Luckily Mystery Woman™ is hella handy with jumper cables.
That shit has to hurt.
Isaac complains about his neck and Mystery Woman™ is helpful enough to inform us that the Alpha pack is able to steal peoples’ memories as well as plant them by way of that extreme-acupuncture-to-the-back-of-the-neck trick Peter modelled for us last season. Thanks Mystery Woman™! She follows this wonderful news up by dragging Isaac, still half passing out onto a motor cycle.
I can see this going really well.
Smash cut to Lydia and her mother, driving home along a deserted stretch of road.
Lydia looks about ten thousand shades of done with whatever situation has put them in the car together and her mother looks ten thousand shades of not having a goddamn clue how to handle it. We learn that her mother took Lydia out to the same restaurant where he parents told her they were getting a divorce (BRILLIANT planning there, Mrs Martin) in an effort to get her daughter to talk to her about the crazy train her life has become.
The conversation is as comfortable as nails on a chalkboard until Lydia’s mom mentions Jackson leaving, and…well.
We learn that Jackson’s dad dragged him the hell out’a dodge after the fuckery of last season and Lydia’s pissed because he didn’t put up much of a resistance. We also learn what Lydia’s mom’s car sounds like when it hits a motorcycle doing 50. Because Isaac and Mystery Woman™ have careened out of a side-street straight into their path. CALAMITY.