what the fuck kind of fantasy world does Sheen live in
B. Y. E
"Stiles, wait. Don’t leave. Just let me—Stiles, please don’t leave.”
"What, you want to explain?" Stiles laughs mirthlessly, grabbing the duffel bag and heading for the door. He isn’t even bothering with shoes, just wearing his underwear, on his way to angrily storming out of Derek’s life. "You don’t get to explain, okay, I get it. This wasn’t ever— anything, how could I have been so blind. The secretive phone calls, the late nights from work, you think I’m stupid, Derek?"
"No, no I don’t," Derek says helplessly. His world is crumbling down around him, and it’s like his mind isn’t even working right now, all he can see is Stiles walking over the threshold of their shitty apartment that they share together, betrayal and hurt written all over his face.
"A fucking second checking account, Derek, you asshole, with payments going out every month, no, I don’t think you can explain that away with ‘just trust me,’ anymore, can you, when we can’t even get our hot water fixed and you’re spending thousands and thousands on God-knows-what,” Stiles hisses vehemently. “And you can’t tell me what it is? I thought I was—” Stiles takes a deep breath, knuckles turning white from how hard he’s clutching the bag. “I thought I was everything to you,” he says in a small voice.
Derek can’t even say anything, it would ruin everything— but how does that matter now, when Stiles says bitterly, “I guess I thought wrong,” and slams the door, footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Derek jolts back to life somehow, darting to the bedroom, heaving the heavy frame aside. He feels along the cracks in the floor, popping the compartment open and grabbing the paperwork and the tiny blue velvet box, and rushes for the door.
Stiles is halfway down the street, a sad sight in his boxer briefs, holding his duffel bag defiantly and cursing at some laughing onlookers. Derek runs like his life depends on it, concrete cold beneath his bare feet. He catches up to Stiles just as a taxi cab pulls up, and he’s heaving, catching his breath.
Stiles turns around and gives him a cold look. “No, whatever you’re going to say—”
"Stiles, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, it was going to be a surprise,” Derek says lamely, shoving the deed into Stiles’ hands, the small box quivering as it slides down the stack of papers. “Please don’t leave me,” Derek says.
"What the fuck is this?" Stiles says, flipping through the papers— contracts, reports— the deed. His eyes go wide when he sees the picture of one of the progress reports from the contractor— the farmhouse standing tall, bright red paint contrasting the green glade behind it. His voice wobbles when he repeats, "What is this?" but gone is the angry tone, it’s just disbelief now. "Derek, this is the house—"
"The house you told me about years ago, the one you said on our third date would be your dream house, I— I bought it, and I’ve been fixing it up the way you always told me you wanted it," Derek stammers. Stiles’ fingers hesitate on the lid of the box. "I was going to—"
Stiles opens the box and there’s a gleaming ring inside. “Oh my God,” he says.
"You two gonna get in the cab or what?" the driver snaps.
"Go away, I’m trying to get proposed to here!" Stiles yells back at him, and the driver huffs and takes off.
"So is that a—" Derek starts.
"Yes, you idiot, yes!" Stiles flings his arms around Derek, hopping up in his excitement, legs wrapping around his waist and Derek swings him around a little giddily. "I can’t believe you let me think the worst of you," he says, kissing Derek soundly on the mouth.
"This wasn’t how the proposal was supposed to go," Derek says when they break for air.
Stiles laughs brightly. “Tell me all about it, you romantic sap. You can even do it again, if you like. I’ll pretend to be surprised.”
Derek grins. “Well, there were going to be rosepetals all over the floor of the new house…”
Umbridge: “Boys and girls are not permitted to be within 8 inches of each other.”
[gay wizard laughter]
What is a flotation tank?
500 kg of Epsom salts are added to 1000 litres of water, creating a 30 cm deep solution, which is heated to 35.5 degrees C (skin temperature).
The temperature of the water means that once you are settled in the tank, it is virtually impossible to distinguish between parts of the body that are in contact with the water, and those that aren’t, in effect “fooling” the brain into believing that the person is floating in mid-air.
The Lord of the Rings: Actual Book Dialogue