Many of the actors in this film are well versed in the art of improvisation and would sometimes do up to 20 different versions of reaction lines trying out the first thing that popped into their heads.

(Source: filmtrivia)

my skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.

(Source: tw-hiddlestons)

I’ve got a cluster of shrapnel, trying every second to crawl its way into my heart.

This stops it. This little circle of light. It’s part of me now, not just armor. It’s a… terrible privilege.

derekstilinski:

a Teen Wolf AU in which Stiles is insane and Derek is his delusion.

…or is he?

He’d pace for hours, wondering who this guy was, this wonderful man that appeared in his thoughts, in his dreams. He’s rough around the edges, but Stiles never cares. He looks like he’s been hurt by something, someone maybe. Stiles wants to make him feel better. The doctors say no, there is no man. It’s all in his head, just that he’s crazy. He’s been through trauma and it made him go insane, completely postal. It makes him feel like a criminal with the way they look at him as he tells stories of the man in the burnt house.

He doesn’t know how the man stays warm, says he doesn’t when the doctors ask. They say it’s not logical. They tell him he’s not real. Stiles sometimes daydreams about the man coming to see him. He sits on his bed and talks with him, and Stiles tells jokes that the man doesn’t want to laugh to because they’re so stupid. But Stiles sees the small smiles, hears the cut off laughs. He always pats Stiles’ knee before he goes again.

Today is no different… only, it is. The doctors have left his room and the door is cracked for the nurses convenience, and Stiles is wondering why the man’s eyes are glowing and sparking in a brilliant, supernatural blue. Maybe it’s just his imagination. He quite likes the man’s regular blue-green eyes, and this is just something special his mind is giving him. Stiles doesn’t feel crazy. He knows imagining the man won’t bring him here, knows that he’s not actually there when he looks to the corner of the room and he’s sitting in the chair fiddling with a lighter.

Sometimes it gets to him, though. How familiar this man is, yet he can’t even remember his name. It’s like when you swear you know something, it feels so close to your heart and you just come up blank with the when and where. Does that mean it’s not real? That it wasn’t real once? Stiles thinks he’s real… just not here.

He stares at the window on the door of his room, fingers idling as they move across the scratchy fabric of his white bedsheets. He doesn’t have to sleep on these ones, because his Dad visits when he can and has given him blankets and things from home. The doctors don’t approve of pictures or shoes or headphones or even cameras. One of the nurses said they tried that once with another patient and then it wasn’t allowed. He’d been taking pictures of other patients and dead birds. She bitterly said that she’d have to check every picture he took if it were allowed. He’d take pictures of his dick just because he doesn’t like her.

He’s pulled from his thoughts by the squeak of a leather jacket. He can sometimes hear, very distantly at night, that exact same sound. Like a memory. It makes him feel good, at ease. It makes him think of the bed dipping with another person’s weight as they settle in next to him. Scott does that sometimes when he visits, when Stiles is on new medicine and upset about everything and nothing. Scott doesn’t talk much, though. Stiles has a feeling he used to.

There are soft, barely there footsteps and it’s odd because no one is quiet on the floors. Stiles can try it, but he’s clumsy so it doesn’t really work. The squeak of leather is closer now and Stiles’ imagination is cruel with the help of medicine.

Except it’s never happened in the daytime. And it’s never been this loud, this real.

Stiles thinks his heart stops when he sees a person in the window. He thinks he’s actually, really, horribly crazy. There’s something closing up his chest and making it difficult to breathe. His heart races. There’s a man in the window, his back to Stiles but Stiles can see dark hair in a mess of bedhead and the popped up collar of a black leather jacket. Just like the man in his mind. His head moves from side to side, he’s checking the hallway.

Somehow, Stiles utters a small cry, broken and desperate and he can’t even think. The man’s head turns abruptly at the noise and Stiles sees his face. He knows his name now, “Derek.”

A barely there smile graces his lips and he pushes his way into the room, not even pausing before taking Stiles protectively in his arms. It’s real. Stiles knows it. “Derek.” He grips at his shoulders hard, “Derek.”

The nurses have already spotted him and security saw him scale the building. The wolf inside is festering at being so close to his boy again and there’s so much guilt rotting in his gut for what happened to put Stiles here but he smiles and rubs a hand up and down his back. He gets close and inhales the scent that gets his heart pumping, makes every fiber of his being sing. The kid’s shaking. “Hey, Stiles.”

(Source: sourwolfs)