August 2012
July 2012
o-brosey replied to your post: physically ill from jackson feels (and yeah feels…
no don’t leave me asshole NOT IN THIS FRAGILE STATE
DON’T WORRY I ENDED UP STAYING AS I MADE A LOOSE CONNECTION TO DRACO AND THEN SPOUTED HP FEELS
LET’S JUST HAVE ALL THE FUCKING FEELS WHILE WE’RE AT IT
physically ill from jackson feels (and yeah feels for everyone else too but mostly jackson). okay i guess i’ll just crawl into bed and die now
something i really love about teen wolf is that it shows you so many of the characters’ motivations, like you know why they act the way they do and why they do the things they do, it’s never a simple “because he’s evil” or anything like that, there’s always more than meets the eye with all of them and that’s really awesome and you end up caring about characters and relationships you never thought you’d care about
Weighed Down With Anchors (Scott/Stiles)
Title: Weighed Down With Anchors
Pairing: Stiles/Scott
Rating: M
Word Count: 6,560
Summary: Failure, weakness, and a lack of faith in himself, Stiles has cast his own anchors. And while werewolves need anchors to keep themselves human, humans are far more likely to sink.
Warnings: Language, sexual situations, probably a good amount of sappy best bro moments, and spoilers up to 2x09. These events are meant to take place between where 2x09 leaves off and 2x10 begins.
PETER HALE IS LIKE OMG I WANT A KANIMA
“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.”
—Sylvia Plath (via odious)
“Poetry is thoughts that breathe and words that burn.”
—Thomas Grey
“You die a thousand deaths in a private secret life, for no one knows what you do, what you love, and of course others are doing it, as with song, and you always hear this and die some more. And you usually wind up converting the private life into some other form, a form which will allow the secret life to remain a secret, yet will still feed the new form. With me it was writing. The cost of the conversion was immense—it is twenty-five years later and I am only beginning to realize the cost, even as I write here, to it, for the first time. For the conversion calls for still another layer of identity which often (although, I agree, not always) obscures the real even more. It is layer upon layer. Identity to one’s self, others, identity to one’s hat—my hat the writing hat, my arm the arm of memory—now I prefigure a drawing of a man whose arm is abstract, but active—and who has a hat for a head! And where is the heart? A secret mark, breathing still, what a miracle!”
—Michael Burkard, from My Secret Boat: A Notebook of Prose and Poems (W.W. Norton & Co., 1990)
