sometimes i blog about french musketeers, and sometimes i cry over idiot dwarf kings. sometimes i even write.
mostly, though, i like to stare at richard armitage's face and pretend i dont have a problem
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also im back from my nap yoooo
Soooo, I’ve been gone for a ridiculously long time, but here is proof that AF3 isn’t abandoned? Don’t hate me <3333 Also, sorry, but this part is kind of boring :O It takes place right after chapter 2, and it’s from Derek’s POV.
“So, you decide on the central air and heat?” Alcide asks, his back to Derek as he looks over the blueprints. They’re both shirtless and sweaty, having spent the day churning cement for the storage unit in the back, but Derek feels better than he has in weeks. Exercise always helps, he thinks ruefully.
“I’m really sorry for interrupting your lunch,” Jon says, still so apologetically sincere despite it being the fifth time today he’s told her that.
“And I’m still really ok with it, Jon.” She smiles at him, though, a brief flash of crooked teeth to let him know that she’s not irritated by him in the least.
After all, despite following her around for the last couple of hours, Jon has been more than useful. He’s helping her organize files at the moment, and Brienne can’t help but notice that he’s better than most secretaries.
So I lied, because I forgot I had to add this small scene at the end. NEXT PART = ALL THE DRAMA :D (i feel like Im ramping you all up for something huge, and now i HAVE to deliver haha)
“How can detention be fun?” Jaime asks, nose scrunched up in utter confusion.
Stiles shrugs. They’re in the back of the library, hidden behind stacks of books with their feet on the table in front of them, sitting side by side on small wooden chairs. Stiles hasn’t stopped smiling since he showed up- he can still feel the way Jaime had squeezed him tight, his brown hair tickling Stiles’ cheeks as he burrowed his head Stiles’ neck, his expression so open and honest as he welcomed Stiles.
Stiles has never been looked at like that before, like he’s hung the moon or some crazy thing like that, and he can’t. Stop. Smiling.
“Professor” Armitage strikes again!
werewolfparade replied to your post: werewolfparade replied your post making pasta and…
naaaah youre cooking must be delicious!! <3 love you too!
i literally told my housemate the other day that i was going to cook cereal
that is the extent of my cooking prowess
it doesn’t take fili long to figure out bilbo’s feelings for thorin.
it should bother him, how easily the dwarf has learned to read him. but bilbo understands how shared misery can bond people, and he knows that with fili’s heartache, he’s needed to focus on something other than his brother.
so when fili comes up behind him and pokes him gently in the side one day, whispering “don’t look now, but you’ve been capturing my uncle’s stare for a while. quite flattering, eh?”, bilbo only snorts and replies acidly, “you best focus on gathering wood, dear prince, and not on gossiping. it wouldn’t do you any good to capture your uncle’s stare for not following orders, now would it?”
after a chuckle and a quick bump of shoulders, fili heads off.
"my nephew seems to have grown quite fond of you, halfling." bilbo almost drops his pipe in surprise, looking up to a smiling thorin standing ever so handsomely in front of him.
bilbo feels himself flush slightly, still not quite used to being in favor with the king. “he’s quite nice to talk to, for all his troublesome ways,” he replies, eyes focusing on his pipe.
thorin laughs softly, a small rumble from deep within his chest, and settles down beside the hobbit. “he’s a good lad. not quick to trust, too. i suppose that speaks quite well of your character, given how close you and he have become.”
bilbo only smiles, entirely sure that his ears were as bright as his cheeks. thorin returns his smile, inching just a bit closer to the hobbit, just enough for their knees to brush. bilbo can feel thorin’s hand on his outer thigh, palm facedown on the ground but pressed in-between their bodies.
he’s quite sure he’s not imagining those same fingers caressing his leg, however soft the touch may be.
so bilbo, impulsively as can be, places his own down as well, mere inches from thorin’s. it is an invitation, as much of one as a handwritten note is, and he can’t help the renewed flush that comes to his face.
it is all worth it, however, for the way thorin’s fingers trace his own mere moments later, calloused digits outlining the infinitely smaller hand with a care and gentleness bilbo had not known dwarves possessed.
the smile he carries for the rest of the night, fili tells him later, is practically obscene.