WAIT I’M NOT DONE! I’M NOT DONE! What’s absolutely destroying me about that picture is the look of delighted disbelief on Hoechlin’s face. Like, holy shit you guys! Are you seeing this? Look at this thing! Look at its little fingers! This can’t be real! What a cosmic joke! CHRIST.
And it makes me want that fic sooooo baaddd. At one point, I was like, vaguely plotting out a story where Derek and Stiles bust up a werewolfbaby selling ring and now I’m like, bored of writing plot or whatever but it’d be worth it just for scenes where like,
Derek is standing there, just holding the kid. Baby. Infant. Whatever. He has no idea how you tell how old a baby is, but the thing is small. ”What?” he says absently, and then registers what Stiles said. ”No, I know, I’m not keeping him. I’ll find—” and then the baby sneezes. His whole body jerks in Derek’s arm, and his fingers curl a little bit, and Derek’s mouth drops open. “What was that?” he says, in a voice he’s never used before. He’s heard other people use it, moms and people with poodles, but it comes out of his mouth without his permission. ”You got something else to add?”
Stiles is staring at him like he’s never seen Derek before, and Derek has no interest in suffering under that gaze, so he turns and grabs a napkin from the table, and wipes away the drool and snot that was collecting. Kiddo shakes his head to avoid Derek, gurgles happily and waves his fists around. His hands are like, the size of Derek’s thumb and Derek’s struck all over again at the improbability of babies, of smallness, of tiny nails and tiny claws and the uncomplicated smellgood of cubs. Someone made this, Derek thinks, and the next thought, of course, is “someone tried to sell this.”
“I’ll bring him to Deaton’s in the morning,” Derek says out loud. "Meet me there at nine, we’ll figure it out.“ He lopes off, tucking Kiddo firmly against his chest, with one hand under a diapered butt and the other holding tight against Kiddo’s soft, delicate head.
excuse you
but Derek discovering that the only thing to calm him down when he’s fussy is singing the wheels on the bus over and over again, and Stiles walking in on it.
(I was listening to the EVA version of Fly me to the Moon while making this )
its really weird to see all these articles about how people who have ADHD have sleeping problems but the issue I have is that if you look at it as a matter of your circadian rythym being out of sync? of COURSE you’re not going to be able to sleep. we don’t say people who can’t fall asleep at 4 pm and sleep 8 hours have insomnia, because that’s not a normally agreed upon time to sleep and its not your bodies time to sleep. if you tell someone to go to bed at 10 and they can’t sleep till 3 am sometimes in just not insomnia. people with ADHD are often wired to sleep from 4 am to 12 pm ish because of the delayed onset of melatonin but if you let us go to bed at the time we need? most of us actually sleep pretty well and consistently.
wAIT THIS IS AN ACTUAL THING THAT EXISTS
“For most adults the onset of melatonin is around 9.30 pm; in ADHD children compared to controls this occurs at least 45 minutes later, and in adults with ADHD even 90 minutes (van der Heijden ea, 2005; van Veen ea 2010). After melatonin onset, it normally takes 2 hours to fall asleep, but in adults with ADHD it takes at least 3 hours (Bijlenga et al, 2013).”
Look at me awake at 1:47 am and reblogging this post.
So I’m actually trained in therapy for addressing insomnia and one of the things we learned is that a good chunk of sleep problems are societal disorders – as in they WOULDN’T EXIST as problems if society didn’t assume everyone was on the same circadian rhythm and that being up and working 9-5 was mandatory/normal. Blew my mind and made so much sense. You are not the problem, society is literally the problem.
“I
wanted to show that women are empowered and strong, and don’t have to
be saved by some male hero, but they can take care of themselves using
their intelligence and their power.”
Rain was pattering gently against the window, the gentle whistle of wind easing in around the window frame that he meant to get around to replacing any time, now.
The bed was some kinda iron-framed rickety monstrosity that he’d found out in the barn, ‘cos Clint had burned his parents’ bed just as soon as he’d been able to hold an axe again. The patchwork quilt, though, had been one Gammy Francis had made, and he’d choked the washing machine to death on it.
Clint stretched, the springs of the bed clanking out a song that was almost familiar, dragged a little off-key by the additional weight on the poorly-stuffed mattress.
“So what are your thoughts on taking the day?” Clint asked, awkwardly casual but still uncertain enough to ask the ceiling instead of turning to look at his face. “We could ignore the whole responsibilities bullshit, stay in bed, maybe order some crappy pizza from the only place that’ll deliver here…”
There was silence. Silence but for the gentle pitched whistle, the soft patter, the creak of springs as Clint nervously shifted his weight.
“Or not,” he said, forcing his voice into a grin that his face didn’t have to bother with, since apparently no one was interested in looking. “Or we could just pretend that none of this ha- erk!”
A cool metal arm had snaked around his waist and yanked him back from where he’d been edging closer to the edge of the bed, tugging him back under the heavy, faded quilt and rolling him onto his back. Bucky braced himself over him, hair forming a curtain between them and the peeling wallpaper, and the lines between his brows were only formed of barely-awake confusion. They were undermined entirely by the tiny smile on his face.
“Counter-offer,” he said, his voice hoarse and warm in a way that Clint wanted to get familiar with. “We go downstairs, I cook you some eggs, and we curl up on the couch under this blanket while we wait for the functioning goddamn bed you’re gonna order. I keep sleeping on this fuckin’ thing, even my back’s gonna give out.”
“You’re staying, then?” Clint asked, hesitant, and Bucky rolled his eyes and collapsed onto him, burying his face in Clint’s neck and crushing him into the goddamn uncomfortable springs.
theproblemwithstardust 