1 day ago   •   870 notes   •   VIA myotparmada   •   SOURCE team-lionheart
team-lionheart:

Sons (1,111)
—
The bag boy takes his sweet time bagging the groceries up, distracted by the sight of the store manager glaring at Scott and Stiles, who are gesturing wildly, while Derek frowns at them as hard as he can. Were John not equally distracted, he’d urge the teenager to hurry up. But as it is, he’s content to stand, wait and watch the bushy haired store manager talk to the trio.
When he watches Derek lightly cuff Stiles and Scott around the head before clearly apologizing to the store manager, John feels a warm ache in his chest. It spreads and grows when the boys give the manager a repentant look under Derek’s watchful eye.
And suddenly he’s transported back in time.
He’s watching a game on the TV, Claudia’s feet in his lap, attention on her because she’s just said, “I want at least three.” 
He looks at her, at the sandwich in her hand before hesitantly asking, “Sandwiches?”
Read More

team-lionheart:

Sons (1,111)

The bag boy takes his sweet time bagging the groceries up, distracted by the sight of the store manager glaring at Scott and Stiles, who are gesturing wildly, while Derek frowns at them as hard as he can. Were John not equally distracted, he’d urge the teenager to hurry up. But as it is, he’s content to stand, wait and watch the bushy haired store manager talk to the trio.

When he watches Derek lightly cuff Stiles and Scott around the head before clearly apologizing to the store manager, John feels a warm ache in his chest. It spreads and grows when the boys give the manager a repentant look under Derek’s watchful eye.

And suddenly he’s transported back in time.

He’s watching a game on the TV, Claudia’s feet in his lap, attention on her because she’s just said, “I want at least three.” 

He looks at her, at the sandwich in her hand before hesitantly asking, “Sandwiches?”

Read More

3 days ago   •   2,519 notes   •   VIA relenafanel   •   SOURCE kwanghale

helenish:

drunktuesdaze:

devildoll:

i’ll be curled up in the corner

counting down to helenish beating off to merciless, smirking King Stiles watching the dirty captured werewolf be dragged up to the throne.

LEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA, GOD DAMN IT!

"What?" Stiles said, irritably, turning when the tent door was pulled open again, having again forgotten the long fresh wound in his side, hastily bandaged after the final battle, the sharp ache of his knee where he’d taken a direct blow with a shield, fighting to get to the king. 

"We found something," Scott said, his face grim.

The history books his tutors were so keen on had never mentioned this part, the clean-up afterwards. His father had remained on the battlefield to formally accept surrender, but Stiles had been dispatched to the castle with a small detail of loyal knights to manage the surrender, such as it was. 
They’d been expecting at least a token resistance, even if the Argents themselves were well-contained, dead on the battlefield, imprisoned, or long since fled. The courtyard had been empty, the outbuildings unkempt, in need of rethatching, the children’s cheeks thin, their parents’ eyes dead of hope. There had been no resistance.
They’d put up the tent in the courtyard because the castle halls smelled of charnel, twisted magic, anger and fear. 
"What the hell is that?" Stiles said, getting a better look. It was a dog, a big one, paws like saucers, his black coat dull and bare in patches. His ribs were visible, one of his ears swollen with mange. Scott’s mouth twisted apologetically. He’d always had a soft spot for animals.
"I think—"
Stiles sighed. “Just—take him down and see if cook has some scraps left in the stew pot.”
"He was locked in the dungeon," Scott said, "and—" he gestured helplessly at the dog. There was a triskele burnt into the tender skin of his side, scabbed and weeping, raw. 
"It’s a dog," Stiles said harshly. 
"You don’t know that," Scott said.
"The Hale heir is dead these ten years," Stiles said. They’d been children when it happened. Stiles’ father had set an extra guard at his door for months. 
"It could mean something," Scott said stubbornly. Anyone else, Stiles would have dismissed him, told him the fight had addled his wits and to sleep it off before he bothered him again, but it was Scott, and Stiles owed him more than that, so he said,
"It means someone likes to cut holes in the side of dogs, mystery solved," but crouched down next to the dog to take a better look. He saw it then, the thin leather strap looped twice around his muzzle, secured to his collar, hidden in his fur.
It took them the better part of ten minutes to work it free enough to cut it, their fingers slipping on the straps, which were treated with a thick oil that stung their fingers, made them clumsy. 
"If this thing bites my arm off, you are definitely getting beheaded for treason," Stiles told Scott, but only to break the silence, to avoid the dog’s patient, vacant stare, the rattling heave of his lungs.
The dog opened his mouth when the muzzle came free, revealed two long rows of savagely sharp fangs, eyes red and rabid above them, and Stiles had just enough time to scramble backwards to his swordbelt, flung aside on the table, dragging Scott with him, before the dog—
Before the dog shivered, let out an anguished, sobbing growl—
Before the dog turned into a sallow, half-starved naked man with a bleeding triskele carved into his chest. He took a single uncertain step back, green eyes widening in shock, and then his legs went out from under him and he collapsed in an unconscious heap on the rug the servants had thrown down to cover the cobblestones.
Scott opened his mouth and then, wisely, closed it. Stiles dragged off his cloak and draped it over the man, who, up close, had a ring of purpled bruises around his throat and the longest eyelashes Stiles had ever seen.
"You’d best let my father know we found—that he ought to come here to see for himself," Stiles said, and Scott nodded and left the tent. Stiles drew in a breath and put his fingers cautiously to the man’s throat, felt the steady beat of his pulse.
"Is it too late to be stolen away at birth and raised by simple but virtous peasants?" Stiles asked him. The man didn’t stir. "Thought not," Stiles said.
3 days ago   •   5,149 notes   •   VIA thorwaslokid   •   SOURCE minhod

ohlouve:

I told you once, “Get out my life.
I don’t need ya, I’ll be alright.”
But some things are better left unsaid.

So tell the truth and hit me hard
A broken heart is all I have now

for ambereyed

 (via fucklinski)

6 days ago   •   9,581 notes   •   VIA fuckyeahstilesderek   •   SOURCE alphalewolf

helenish:

Look at these two stayin’ alive motherfuckers, completely 100% believable and realistic as high school juniors, not as a couple of guys recruited straight out of college into undercover police work, walking back from the gym, Stiles saying,

"Hale’s involved, I know he has to be—I just need to figure out how to get close enough to figure it out—" and Scott’s going to worry about him, that maybe he’s getting in too deep, and he’ll be right, because Stiles has already brought Derek lunch, just coming by to see him at his studio, where Derek makes meticulous models of half-burnt houses, cuts up musty books he buys at library sales into wolves, spreading oak trees, creepy art work Stiles doesn’t really get, but he knows what it means when Derek looks up at him, puts down his x-acto knife. 

He kisses Derek—has to, to get close enough to be invited to meet Derek’s friends, get a look at the inside of his apartment—but he doesn’t fuck him. That’s crossing a line. He thinks about it, what it would be like to take Derek to bed, but he doesn’t do it. He tells Derek he wants to take it slow, if that’s okay. Derek smiles at his feet and says yeah, sure, okay, if that’s—yeah, of course.

Derek finds out the worst possible way, of course, probably when he gets kidnapped and it’s Stiles who shows up and gets him, wearing jeans and an agency windbreaker, grim and angry and cutting the ropes on Derek’s wrists, and then the part where Stiles shoves him down hard behind a table and shoots someone—

"I thought—" Derek says, numbly, sitting numbly on some concrete steps where someone else in a uniform told them to wait, "I thought you were a social worker."

"Yeah, I’m—not," Stiles says. He’s all banged up. There’s a cut on the bridge of his nose and his knuckles are scraped raw. 

"You didn’t want me to know?" Derek says, and then he sees Stiles’ face and he knows, he knows what it looks like, his family, the connections to the Argents, all the deaths, he knows. "Oh," he says.

"It wasn’t like that," Stiles says.

"You were using me to get closer to—or. You thought I had something to do with it," Derek says, his voice wavering, breaking.

"Derek, I’m sorry," Stiles says.

"That’s why you wouldn’t—" Derek draws in a short, hurt breath. "I believed you, that stupid fucking story about how badly you’d been hurt," he says. "But you just didn’t want to fuck me because it would have screwed up your case."

"Derek—"

"Fuck you," Derek says. Stiles watches him walk away. Two weeks later there’s a box on his desk at work: a sweater he left at Derek’s once when the weather turned unseasonably warm, the whisk Stiles bought for him at a stoop sale when they were out one Saturday, just walking around. It was 75 cents. That’s it, that’s everything. Stiles never stayed over, never had a toothbrush, never left any other clothes. 

He keeps the whisk—something like a reminder to be less of an asshole. He clips the newspaper articles about Derek’s gallery shows, keeps them in a neat little stack tucked into a book.

He thinks about what it was like, kissing Derek, the way Derek would sigh and shift towards him and open his mouth, how badly he wanted to fuck him, how he’s a lying sack of crap. 

A year after that Kate Argent breaks out of prison. Stiles is working a 36 hour turnaround in New Orleans and doesn’t even hear about it until he gets back, and by then Derek’s been gone for 12 hours, the back door of his studio hanging open, cut paper littering the floor, fluttering out into the alleyway behind the studio in the late afternoon dark gold sunlight, where they used to sit on crates and drink beers, where—
They find him, of course they find him, three awful days and a hundred bad leads later, Stiles running on fumes and the nap Scott forced him to take on the lumpy break room couch. Derek is slumped on the floor of the warehouse when they find him, eyes closed, and it takes an age for Stiles to slide down on his knees next to Derek, to put his hand on his shoulder and turn him over, expecting—when Derek opens his eyes, Stiles can’t hold it back, the audible sound of relief.
"Did he say it?" Scott wants to know at the debriefing. They let Derek take a shower in the locker room and now he’s wearing agency sweats and a t-shirt he’s pretty sure belongs to Scott, eating takeout from the italian place around the corner.
"Say what?"
Scott sighs. “He was supposed to say “We have to stop meeting like this.”“
"Why?" Derek says.
"You know what, fine," Scott says, aggrieved. "I give up."
*
They let him go and he goes straight to the studio, even though it’s nearly nine at night. Stiles is there, straightens guiltily. The floor is clean, the broken pieces of a few of Derek’s works stacked neatly on a table in the corner.
"I thought you’d be a few more hours," Stiles says, his hand tight on a the broom handle. "I wasn’t—I didn’t want you to come back to it—"
"We should stop meeting like this," Derek says.
"Okay," Stiles says. "Sorry, I’ll just—I’ll go."
"Wait," Derek. "I meant—"
"Oh," Stiles says. "Oh, were you doing Scott’s shitty line?"
"Yeah," Derek says. There’s a long, weird, silence.
"I dunno," Stiles says finally. "I think maybe that line only works if then the credits roll, like, immediately after."
"Probably so," Derek says. He gets the dustpan out of the closet, and they sweep up the last of the paper together, move the table back against the wall, tape up the broken window pane, working in companionable silence.
"Thanks for finding me," Derek says, quietly, smoothing down the last piece of masking tape on the window, glancing up at Stiles to find him leaning against the wall, smiling a little.
"Anytime," Stiles says.
ROLL CREDITS.
1 week ago   •   797 notes   •   VIA tumblweedblr   •   SOURCE tumblweedblr

Lose some, Win some

tumblweedblr:

Today my coworker told me a story about how she lost her wallet, and a guy returned it to her with his business card in it. So of course my brain went, STEREK, and here ya go:

Derek is having a bad day. He hops onto the subway, exhausted after a long day at work. Luckily, he finds one open seat and slides into it appreciatively. Until he sees an elderly woman pull herself onto the train.

With a sigh, he gets up and offers his seat to her. It’s the right thing to do, and despite his bad day, he knows she needs it more than he does. He’s got a half hour ride back to his apartment ahead of him, so he grabs a pole and settles in for the ride.

Thirty minutes later, the previously crowded subway car is empty, other than him. It pulls up to his stop, and he walks over to the doors before they open, ready to get home. As he’s about to step off, he spots something black underneath one of the seats. He leans down to pick it up, and discovers that it’s a wallet. He looks around, but seeing no else in the car, he pockets it as he walks off of the subway car.

He forgets about the wallet entirely until he gets home. When he goes into his room to change out of his heavy work clothes into a t-shirt and sweatpants, he takes off his slacks. They fall to the floor with a louder thunk than usual, reminding him about the wallet inside of them.  He tugs on his sweatpants, extracts the wallet, and sits down on his bed to take a look through it.

He checks the cash pocket first, finding $24 dollars inside. Derek doesn’t even consider taking any of it, he has enough money as it is. He fumbles through the rest of the wallet, pulling out random items as he goes. A few of them are standard items; a credit card, a library card, and a driver’s license.

He starts pulling out items on the other side of the wallet that are a bit more interesting; a frequent customer card at a coffee shop that Derek’s actually been to a few times, a comic strip, and a faded photo of a soft-eyed woman holding a child.

He takes the driver’s license out and looks at it more closely. The name on the license is something he can’t even begin to try to pronounce. Maybe the guy is foreign? He checks the birth date and sees that the guy is only a couple years younger than Derek is.

Derek brings the license closer to his eyes and studies the picture closely. The owner is pretty good looking; he has brown hair, light brown eyes, and a very charming smirk that shows off an angular set of cheekbones.

Read More

2 weeks ago   •   425,830 notes   •   VIA myotparmada   •   SOURCE cosmicsyzygy
dualscar:

captainexposition:

shermansgallifreyan:

oxboxer:

feferipixies:

the-fandoms-are-cool:

everythingis19:

cosmicsyzygy:

Look, I made a gif of this most awesome wizard at the Leaky Cauldron!

DUDE IS READING ‘A BRIEF HISTORY OF TIME’ BY STEPHEN HAWKING
I NEVER REALIZED

are you serious
I always assumed wizards just ignored science, because the fact that “magic” exists, can explain anything. But there are MuggleBorn wizards, ones who, until they were eleven, lived in the real world and learned science and things. Did they all just abandon that normal, muggle knowledge, like Harry did? It’s always been there, itching in the back of my mind.
FOUR FOR YOU SCIENCE WIZARD
YOU GO SCIENCE WIZARD

can we point out that he’s doing wandless magic too
like voldemort couldnt even do that
molly weasley couldnt do that
who are you

Quick, somebody write a book series about the adventures of Magic Prodigy Science Wizard!!!
PLEASE SOMEONE JUST DO IT

Alan Baker had no use for wands, of course. If one were to Prior Incantato his outdated, duct-taped rod of walnut wood and dragon heartstring, its most recent use would have been the enchantment of the long-lived neurons in Alan’s own mind. This enchantment, possible only for those who were capable of seeing themselves as a complex amalgamation of neural impulses, allowed him to bypass both wands and words. Alan did this, not for show, not for power, but because wandwork distracted him from his reading.
Unfortunately, there was no legal spell to get rid of barflies.
“Hey- hey mate, you gotta- gotta minute to-“
Sobrius, Alan thought, placing one hand on his neighbor’s forehead without looking up. He pondered whether or not to cast a silencing barrier, even in violation of the Leaky Cauldron’s safety code.
“Thanks,” said the now-sober man, “Readin’ more of that Muggle trash, I see.”
Alan closed his eyes and counted to three, but when he opened them, the man was still there. Alan lowered his “muggle trash” in defeat, meeting the baggy, bloodshot eyes of the wizard sitting across from him.
Alan leaned forward, placing his hands steeple-like on the table. “Mr. Fletcher, do you know why time turners don’t send you into space?”
“The sky, y’mean? Cause they’re fer time turnin’, not apparation.”
Alan had to take a deep breath. “No,” he replied, “If time turners weren’t anchored to anything, the Earth’s rotation alone would be enough to ensure a time traveler’s demise. But someone at the ministry was clever enough to anchor them to a carefully guarded object that never moves relative to the Earth.”
“Fascinat’n,” slurred Mundungus, whose eyes had glazed over once it became clear that Alan didn’t actually have a time turner on him.
“But time turners are still very limited,” continued Alan, more to himself than to Mundungus, “They can’t go more than seven hours back, and not forward at all, and only in increments of one hour, and they only work on Earth… no, they’re very clumsy, if one truly pauses to think about it.”
“What’s yer point?”
“My point is that while wizards are slowly stagnating in their backwards remnant of the Dark Ages, Muggles are making progress, ever reaching for the light. Do you know that they don’t need magic to craft a hand of living silver?”
“Bah,” was Mundungus’s only reply, “You’d be best mates with that Weasley nutcase at the ministry, you would.”
Alan stood up, silently casting an infantes gelata to check for paradoxes. “I don’t know why I bother with you,” he sighed, “you’ve just wasted another two minutes of my time. Perhaps I bother because I have time to waste.”
And he twisted, as if to apparate, but instead faded out of existence with a distinct vworp. The air swirled in the wake of his departure, blowing back Mundungus’s straggly ginger hair.
“Muggleborns,” the short wizard muttered, then turned back to his drink.
••••••••
Thirty minutes earlier, Alan lounged contentedly within his quieting barrier, stirring his cup of tea absently and rereading one of his favourite Muggle books. He wondered, vaguely, which planet held the nearest sapient life, and what their magic would look like…

This rereading, however, would be slightly shorter than the last. Even within the barrier, the presence of another at the table tickled at Alan’s consciousness. He set down his book (rather forcefully, he had to admit,) and looked up. The bloodshot eyes of Mundungus Fletcher didn’t meet him when his own rose.
“Hello,” mouthed the man. Finite Incantatum, thought Alan.
“Hello,” he answered, “Can I help you?”
“No, not really. Well, maybe. Well, probably. Have you seen anything strange lately? Disappearing cats, people moving backwards, variances in the time vortex causing precise and intentional reversal of the course of events?”
Alan couldn’t help but stare. “Er…now that you mention it, I was just…” he trailed off as he glanced out the window and did a double take. There was a 1960s-style Muggle police telephone box in the middle of Diagon Alley. “…Is…is that a telephone box?”
“No. Yes. Recreation. Mock-up. Don’t worry, nobody will notice,” the man said, waving his hand dismissively even as he pulled on a pair of what appeared to be cheap 3-D glasses. “What I want to know,” he murmured conspiratorially, “is what’s giving you that floaty, aurary, bizarrey stuff all over you, because that should not be happening to a human. Person. I said person”
Alan’s eyebrows furrowed. “First of all, this is Diagon Alley. Most people out there wouldn’t know a police box from a pillbox, especially given it’s bright blue. Second of all, those glasses shouldn’t give you the ability to see what you’re seeing. And thirdly, Expelliarmus.”
“Expelliwhat?” the man squawked, just as a long, chunky metallic object with a blue tip shot out of his jacket pocket and into Alan’s hand. A quick Identification spell told him all he needed to know.
“Fuzzy logic neural interface configured for ease of use, limited nonverbal manipulation of mechanical and electronic objects…Interesting. And leaps and bounds beyond anything wizards or Muggles can conjure up. What are you?”
The man stared at him for a few minutes before breaking out in a wide smile. “Hello. I’m the Doctor. Let me tell you a little bit about the universe…”

IT GOT BETTER

dualscar:

captainexposition:

shermansgallifreyan:

oxboxer:

feferipixies:

the-fandoms-are-cool:

everythingis19:

cosmicsyzygy:

Look, I made a gif of this most awesome wizard at the Leaky Cauldron!

DUDE IS READING ‘A BRIEF HISTORY OF TIME’ BY STEPHEN HAWKING

I NEVER REALIZED

are you serious

I always assumed wizards just ignored science, because the fact that “magic” exists, can explain anything. But there are MuggleBorn wizards, ones who, until they were eleven, lived in the real world and learned science and things. Did they all just abandon that normal, muggle knowledge, like Harry did? It’s always been there, itching in the back of my mind.

FOUR FOR YOU SCIENCE WIZARD

YOU GO SCIENCE WIZARD

can we point out that he’s doing wandless magic too

like voldemort couldnt even do that

molly weasley couldnt do that

who are you

Quick, somebody write a book series about the adventures of Magic Prodigy Science Wizard!!!

PLEASE SOMEONE JUST DO IT

Alan Baker had no use for wands, of course. If one were to Prior Incantato his outdated, duct-taped rod of walnut wood and dragon heartstring, its most recent use would have been the enchantment of the long-lived neurons in Alan’s own mind. This enchantment, possible only for those who were capable of seeing themselves as a complex amalgamation of neural impulses, allowed him to bypass both wands and words. Alan did this, not for show, not for power, but because wandwork distracted him from his reading.

Unfortunately, there was no legal spell to get rid of barflies.

“Hey- hey mate, you gotta- gotta minute to-“

Sobrius, Alan thought, placing one hand on his neighbor’s forehead without looking up. He pondered whether or not to cast a silencing barrier, even in violation of the Leaky Cauldron’s safety code.

“Thanks,” said the now-sober man, “Readin’ more of that Muggle trash, I see.”

Alan closed his eyes and counted to three, but when he opened them, the man was still there. Alan lowered his “muggle trash” in defeat, meeting the baggy, bloodshot eyes of the wizard sitting across from him.

Alan leaned forward, placing his hands steeple-like on the table. “Mr. Fletcher, do you know why time turners don’t send you into space?”

“The sky, y’mean? Cause they’re fer time turnin’, not apparation.”

Alan had to take a deep breath. “No,” he replied, “If time turners weren’t anchored to anything, the Earth’s rotation alone would be enough to ensure a time traveler’s demise. But someone at the ministry was clever enough to anchor them to a carefully guarded object that never moves relative to the Earth.”

“Fascinat’n,” slurred Mundungus, whose eyes had glazed over once it became clear that Alan didn’t actually have a time turner on him.

“But time turners are still very limited,” continued Alan, more to himself than to Mundungus, “They can’t go more than seven hours back, and not forward at all, and only in increments of one hour, and they only work on Earth… no, they’re very clumsy, if one truly pauses to think about it.”

“What’s yer point?”

“My point is that while wizards are slowly stagnating in their backwards remnant of the Dark Ages, Muggles are making progress, ever reaching for the light. Do you know that they don’t need magic to craft a hand of living silver?”

“Bah,” was Mundungus’s only reply, “You’d be best mates with that Weasley nutcase at the ministry, you would.”

Alan stood up, silently casting an infantes gelata to check for paradoxes. “I don’t know why I bother with you,” he sighed, “you’ve just wasted another two minutes of my time. Perhaps I bother because I have time to waste.”

And he twisted, as if to apparate, but instead faded out of existence with a distinct vworp. The air swirled in the wake of his departure, blowing back Mundungus’s straggly ginger hair.

“Muggleborns,” the short wizard muttered, then turned back to his drink.

••••••••

Thirty minutes earlier, Alan lounged contentedly within his quieting barrier, stirring his cup of tea absently and rereading one of his favourite Muggle books. He wondered, vaguely, which planet held the nearest sapient life, and what their magic would look like…

This rereading, however, would be slightly shorter than the last. Even within the barrier, the presence of another at the table tickled at Alan’s consciousness. He set down his book (rather forcefully, he had to admit,) and looked up. The bloodshot eyes of Mundungus Fletcher didn’t meet him when his own rose.

“Hello,” mouthed the man. Finite Incantatum, thought Alan.

“Hello,” he answered, “Can I help you?”

“No, not really. Well, maybe. Well, probably. Have you seen anything strange lately? Disappearing cats, people moving backwards, variances in the time vortex causing precise and intentional reversal of the course of events?”

Alan couldn’t help but stare. “Er…now that you mention it, I was just…” he trailed off as he glanced out the window and did a double take. There was a 1960s-style Muggle police telephone box in the middle of Diagon Alley. “…Is…is that a telephone box?”

“No. Yes. Recreation. Mock-up. Don’t worry, nobody will notice,” the man said, waving his hand dismissively even as he pulled on a pair of what appeared to be cheap 3-D glasses. “What I want to know,” he murmured conspiratorially, “is what’s giving you that floaty, aurary, bizarrey stuff all over you, because that should not be happening to a human. Person. I said person”

Alan’s eyebrows furrowed. “First of all, this is Diagon Alley. Most people out there wouldn’t know a police box from a pillbox, especially given it’s bright blue. Second of all, those glasses shouldn’t give you the ability to see what you’re seeing. And thirdly, Expelliarmus.

“Expelliwhat?” the man squawked, just as a long, chunky metallic object with a blue tip shot out of his jacket pocket and into Alan’s hand. A quick Identification spell told him all he needed to know.

“Fuzzy logic neural interface configured for ease of use, limited nonverbal manipulation of mechanical and electronic objects…Interesting. And leaps and bounds beyond anything wizards or Muggles can conjure up. What are you?”

The man stared at him for a few minutes before breaking out in a wide smile. “Hello. I’m the Doctor. Let me tell you a little bit about the universe…”

IT GOT BETTER

2 weeks ago   •   1,126 notes   •   VIA agentotter   •   SOURCE ashesandhalefire

ashesandhalefire:

like 99% of fic is the many ways that the things stiles and derek say or don’t say manage to keep them apart even when they want to be together more than anything, and i want to see what happens when they give in to the impulses, when they don’t stop to talk it out and analyze it to death. just once, i want to see what happens when they just do it and let the words—inevitably—come later.

like, they’re snarking back and forth and then suddenly it’s just like—oh, because they’re standing close and breathing heavily and stiles’ gaze is drifting just a little too low for eye contact and derek’s hand isn’t so much gripping stiles’ arm as it is cradling his elbow and that’s it. it’s done it’s over and they’re going for it.

stiles gets his hands on the sides of derek’s neck and derek gets his arms around stiles like he’s never going to let go and they kiss like they think they’ve been meaning to for a while now, and there’s this moment of oh all over again

because it’s not just fireworks or bells and whistles or sweaty palms and minty breath that make it perfect, and they’ve been looking for all the wrong things. it’s that swooping in their stomachs and the way their hearts feel like they’re about to burst right out of their rib cages and the painful click of teeth that sometimes happens and that bizarre feeling of knowing that someone else wants to put their tongue in your mouth and the absolute horror of trying to figure out how to make someone else’s nose fit next to yours, and, god, they’re gonna stand there and figure it all out if it takes all night and every drop of energy they’ve got.

Read More

2 weeks ago   •   5,366 notes   •   VIA haletostilinski   •   SOURCE arden-cho

derekhaie:

no homo by remainnameless

Stiles’ sophomore year starts something like this:
3 FourLokos + 1 peer-pressuring cat - 1 best bro to end all best bros
= 1 Craigslist ad headline that reads “str8 dude - m4m - strictly platonic”.
Derek is the fool who replies.
2 weeks ago   •   3,739 notes   •   VIA akissforabite   •   SOURCE stileslovesderek

stileslovesderek:

Bubbles’s endless Fic rec list (1/∞) Fake/pretend relationship

Before you start: Remember that we love our writers and don’t want them to stop, so even if you read the fic before make sure you left kudus/comment.. or both.. both is good.

 You Found Another Way To Tell The Truth (3393 words/Teen) by RemainNameless
The one where the Sheriff finds Derek in Stiles’s room in a compromising position and Derek maybe makes it worse. (Or better.)

 Easy Alpha (4602 words/Teen) by interropunct
Easy A/Teen Wolf AU. Wherein, Derek Hale is the high school slut, Jackson and Scott really need to learn to use their inside voices. And, contrary to pouplar belief, everyone is still a virgin.

 pretty in tents (7657 words/Mature) by kellifer_fic
Even though he’s making fun of it, Stiles thinks the whole thing sounds awesome and, like most stuff these days, the experience is going to be totally wasted on Scott.

 The Hour of the Wolf (54045 words/Mature) by Suaine
Stiles never wanted to be a werewolf, but the choice is taken out of his hands by a series of unfortunate events. When he wakes up his life has become infinitely more complicated.

 Can’t be hateful, gotta be grateful (6260 words/Mature) by HalfFizzbin
“Be cool, Dad, we’ve decided to con Grandma.”(Or, the one where the Stilinski men drag Derek to Thanksgiving dinner at Grandma’s and she gets the right wrong idea.)

 Be True To Who You Are (3096 words/Explicit) by dedougal
Five times Derek and Stiles were pretend boyfriends and one time they were less pretend.

 Everything’s Fine (5166 words/Mature) by TamrynEradani
The one where Stiles’s dad is okay with Derek and Stiles dating until Derek and Stiles are actually dating and then he’s not okay with it at all.

 Don’t Worry Baby (20276 words/Explicit) by kalpurna
“You know you’re allowed to ask for vanilla sex, right?” he says, afterwards. “We can do whatever you want. That’s kind of the point.” Derek doesn’t respond.

 The Road to Self-Actualization Is Littered with F-Bombs (24811 words/Mature) by blue_fjords
It’s Stiles’s final Spring Break of his college career, and he’s got plans to do a whole lot of nothing. But Derek has other plans for him, and before he knows it, Stiles is joining Derek to go undercover at a couples’ retreat in a bid to catch a ring of thieves. It’s the world’s most perfect plan! Nothing could possibly go wrong!

 Honey eyed hero (1800 words/Teen) by hello_there_darling
After running into his ex at a bar Derek needs someone to rescue him from what could only be a disastrous night. Stiles could be an unexpected hero.

 Gravity’s Got Nothing on You (83980 words/Explicit) by zosofi
"I’ll pay you,” Derek says, and that… that has Stiles interested. Alf’s Antique’s may be a great job, but it’s not a high-paying job, and half of Stiles’s tuition is coming from financial aid, so… “How much,” Stiles asks, “are we talking here? Because I know your family, dude. And it’ll be kind of awkward after.“ “My family thinks you’re some sort of fucking gift to the world,” Derek seethes, like he’s jealous, “they’ll probably be pissed at me when we break it off, so don’t worry about that. Five hundred bucks.” “A thousand,” Stiles says, because screw ethics. Also, the Hale family is loaded. Derek can deal.

 According to Plans (72744 words/Explicit) by eldee
Five times Stiles and Derek pretend to be boyfriends, and the one time they didn’t have to pretend at all. (Or: in which Stiles’ plan for senior year is completely ruined by a supernatural creature stalking him.)

 The Sweetest of Words (Have the Bitterest Taste) (9902 words/Explict) by Omni
“Ah, yeah, Desiree, I told you I was meeting someone. Well, that someone is Derek. My boyfriend. We’re totally in love.” His heart was racing and Derek was holding him so tight it was difficult to turn enough to face the young woman. What he did see of her had his breath catching on fishhooks in his throat. She was normally a relatively pretty girl, with cute round cheeks and large dark eyes, but in that moment she looked…terrifying. Her cheeks seemed gaunt, her eyes glowing like they were little windows peeking into a deep pit of raging flame.
(Or: Five or so years after the show. Stiles is in college, and finds himself getting stalked by a succubus. Derek’s determined that the best way to thwart her is to prove that he and Stiles are madly in love. It’s not really as much of an act as either seems to think.)

 Not Your Disney Romance (42065 words) by tylerfucklin
After a long-forgotten agreement of an arranged marriage between Derek and the daughter of another pack’s alpha resurfaces, Stiles takes it upon himself to become the most amazing fake fiancé that a clueless, desperate alpha werewolf could wish for.

 Electricity In the Contact (27067 words) by ladyblahblah
In which Derek has been invited to the Greater Pacific Northwest Alpha Symposium (that’s not what it’s called, Stiles, stop saying that), and showing up unattached would mean an arranged marriage. When the rest of the pack objects, he agrees to let Stiles come along to pose as his mate. Derek is reasonably sure that he’s not going to make it out of this weekend alive.

 Miner For Truth and Delusion (20978 words) by blacktofade
Stiles stumbles across what he thinks is a cult in the preserve and ends up cursed so that everyone wants to get with him. It makes it harder for him to get things back to normal, but luckily there’s one person who’s unaffected.