Inside Notre Dame atm
“In a world where people don’t see in color until they find their true mate”
OH MY GOD
SO MANY FIC POSSIBILITIES AND I WANT TO READ ALL OF THEM
what if when you meet your soul mate you gradually start seeing in color and the first color you see is something of theirs
talk to me about how the first color derek sees is stiles’s whiskey eyes or don’t talk to me at all
also what if when your soul mate dies you lose the ability to see color. the color literally gets stripped from your world when they die.
imagine the sheriff trying to describe the color of claudia’s hair to stiles years after she died, when stiles starts seeing color.
OH MY GOD. Fine.
The first time they meet, it is by accident. The young man all but crashes a grocery cart into Derek’s, and beside him, Laura loses it laughing at the face he makes. They can both smell the bloom of embarrassment around the teen, but that is not what draws Derek’s attention. It isn’t the many stuttered, half-finished apologies, or the way the boy’s long, slender fingers right the things which toppled in their cart.
It is the bright dart of his eyes as their gazes meet.
It is the catch of the boy’s breath in his throat, and the sudden silence that chases it.
It is the strange and unfamiliar sensation of color in a world full of black and white, and the visceral craving to see it again that burrows under his skin.
It is the warm feel of Laura’s hand on his shoulder the moment the boy disappears around the corner, and the way she says quietly, “Well, that’s unfortunate.”
He doesn’t pay attention to what else goes into his cart. His father will probably have something to say about the wheat crackers and the wrong kind of peanut butter and spaghetti instead of angel hair pasta, but he can hardly think beyond the strangling need to leave. To get away from the unfairly attractive stranger he had nearly annihilated in his shopping enthusiasm.
Though he can hardly stand to be, he is careful putting the groceries into the backseat of his Wrangler. He is less careful driving home, or taking them out, and his father comes to see him pushing bags around the kitchen floor and talking to himself.
“Traumatic shopping trip?” his father asks with a wry smile.
The look Stiles turns to him is wild, the sort a cornered animal gives, and the harsh breath he draws is audible in the sudden absence of rustling plastic bags. For a split second, Stiles considers lying to his father, but he has never been a very good liar, and subtle is his personal antonym.
“Do we still have that color chart?” he rasps out past the constriction of his throat. “The- the one mom made.”
His father’s eyes narrow, brow scrunching, but he doesn’t demand an explanation. He just disappears, and Stiles returns to putting away the groceries. By the time he is finished, his father has reappeared, a framed piece of artwork in his hands. He passes it to Stiles, who feels his stomach swoop dangerously as his eyes fall on the word blue. Most of it is the same almost monochrome shade of grey, but at the very tip—
—the same blue as the stranger’s eyes.
“I am in so much trouble,” Stiles says, raising his gaze to his father’s.
“We should talk,” his father says.
Derek combs the entire house when they return, pulling things out of cupboards and off shelves and out of the closet, a tornado of anxiety and need. Laura trails behind him, putting things back in order and watching him desperately seek something he has no name for, something he has never had an opportunity to gauge for himself.
He finds it, at the back of the liquor cabinet. It is a bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon whiskey, and he grasps it as though it is the most precious item in creation. “This is it,” he proclaims, passing it to Laura.
“Golden-brown,” she says. She has met her soulmate several times, and already sees in full color. She catches his gaze, and he loathes the pity he sees there, moreso because he knows it is valid, that she shares in this with him. “He’s human,” she adds, like either of them need to be reminded.
“So was dad,” Derek counters, but he can feel the sick, clinging sensation that accompanies dread.
“That was different,” Laura says. Of course it was. Their father had known about wolves before he ever met their mother. The rules that keep their pack safe from humans and hunters alike hadn’t applied to them.
They apply to Laura, and they apply here.
That night, he places the whiskey bottle on his dresser, and watches color bleed onto the label, and thinks fiercely that he’ll do whatever he has to do.
“Auburn,” his father tells him at the dinner table, a week after the blue shade of striking eyes has faded into the mural of colors he can now see. They have become devastatingly addictive to categorize, to stare at until he loses himself in the green of their couches or the yellow and blue and tan of the upstairs bathroom. He cannot see all of them, not by far, but he can see a lot of colors.
Auburn is not one of them, not yet. It is the color of his mother’s hair, though all he sees in photographs is a wealth of grey and black. They do not have many pictures of her; she died when Stiles was young and they still believed they had more time.
“It was beautiful,” his father says softly, reverent. The hole she left when she died has never healed, and sometimes Stiles thinks he can see it there in the dark hollow of his father’s eyes. “She was beautiful.”
“I can’t see auburn yet,” Stiles admits, running a thumb over the glass of the picture.
“It’s sort of… brown and red, together,” his father explains, making motions with his hands as if to mix the ideas in Stiles’ view. “It shines with red in the sun, and looks brown in the shade. When she curled her hair, it was both.”
“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, though it is inadequate for what he means because his mother is gone, and she took all of the color of his father’s world with her when she left. His father remembers her, remembers the color of her hair and the shade of her eyes and the blush of her skin, but he will never see the world in colorful hues again without her. There are no words to make up for that loss.
“I can help you find him again,” his father offers. Sometimes, Stiles thinks, there are advantages to being the sheriff’s son.
Derek closes the door to the house so softly there is no click, no telltale sign that he is sneaking out in the middle of the night to chase the scent of the boy from the supermarket with whiskey colored eyes and a heartbeat that has haunted Derek’s dreams for two weeks now. He has become an itch under Derek’s skin, the other half of every breath he takes, the ringing in his ears that won’t leave him be. He is the blue of the sky and the green of the forest and the gentle gold of morning sunlight shafting through Derek’s bedroom window to spill upon his empty bed.
He needs this.
There is color in his world now, and he needs the one responsible for it.
James Buchanan Barnes // Captain America: The Winter Soldier.
buckyderp’s 10,000th post.
Ok I love this. As a mother people seriously DO NOT understand HOW hard it is. There are NO breaks, NO pay, and your bosses scream in your face, and puke & poo on you constantly. & that bitch laughing at the end… Don’t fucking laugh.. it’s the truth.
How do you know she isn’t a mother? Or is it totes cool to casually call her a bitch because you feel entitled for having shot something out of your vagina. Congratulations to you.
Ancient moon priestesses were called virgins. ‘Virgin’ meant not married, not belonging to a man - a woman who was ‘one-in-herself’. The very word derives from a Latin root meaning strength, force, skill; and was later applied to men: virile. Ishtar, Diana, Astarte, Isis were all called virgin, which did not refer to sexual chastity, but sexual independence. And all great culture heroes of the past, mythic or historic, were said to be born of virgin mothers: Marduk, Gilgamesh, Buddha, Osiris, Dionysus, Genghis Khan, Jesus - they were all affirmed as sons of the Great Mother, of the Original One, their worldly power deriving from her. When the Hebrews used the word, and in the original Aramaic, it meant ‘maiden’ or ‘young woman’, with no connotations to sexual chastity. But later Christian translators could not conceive of the ‘Virgin Mary’ as a woman of independent sexuality, needless to say; they distorted the meaning into sexually pure, chaste, never touched.
Monica Sjoo, The Great Cosmic Mother: Rediscovering the Religion of the Earth
Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky. I couldn’t have made it without him.
You know all those wonderful Conservative parents who proceed to abandon, kick out, or cut off their children for any reason (including, but not limited to a child’s sexuality)?
Well here we go:
“But if anyone does not provide for his own, and especially for those of his household, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever.”
1 Timothy 5:8 (NKJV)
IM FUCKING SCREAMING
IM IN FUCKING STITCHES
the only thing funnier than this video are the comments on it
Oh my gosh
hahahahahaha goo goo ga ga babies
#men are basically worthless