6 hours ago   •   8,629 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 day ago   •   768 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

1 week ago   •   423,216 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

1 week ago   •   998 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

1 week ago   •   5,121 notes   •   VIA haletostilinski   •   SOURCE derekhaie

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.
1 week ago   •   3,742 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.

2 weeks ago   •   1,186 notes   •   VIA halffizzbin   •   SOURCE zambonirider

amber’s “why the heck do these have so few kudos!?!!” sterek fic recs for to fill your hiatus fun times

zambonirider:

So, on AO3 I have bookmarks and then I have bookmarks, which are fics that are so awesome, they deserve to be considered RECS!

I re-read these fics frequently, and I’ve often marveled that so many of them have so few kudos. Thus, this rec list.

Basically, these are Sterek fics (mostly in order of when I bookmarked them) from my rec list that have less than 1,000 kudos. Please pay attention to the warnings, ratings, tags, pairings, etc. listed by the author on the story. [When I say Gen, I mean general audience.] 

Please read ‘em and add to the kudos totals!!

And here…..we…..gooooo! 

BONUS - THREESOMES

3 weeks ago   •   12,445 notes   •   VIA lycantrophies   •   SOURCE ianthebobo
helenish:

helenish:

ianthebobo:

Thought I’d try Officer Stilinski since I did Officer Hale last time…

oh god I really think Stiles should arrest Derek while he’s peacefully protesting for werewolf civil rights and be incredibly gentle when closing the handcuffs around Derek’s wrists, even though the crowd is against him, shouting, roaring, spitting in his face, and the cop’s face is impassive, but he cups his hand protectively over Derek’s head as he folds him into the back of the squad car, and when he catches his eye in the rearview mirror, he grins, and says,
"Well, I think they liked me."
Derek looks out the window; he knows all about this part. Cops pretend to be your friend so you’ll admit to something incriminating, and they’re all really fucking assholes underneath.
Derek was trespassing, it’s true, he violated his probation (probably for graffiti-ing a giant wolf paw on a highway barrier when he was sixteen, he got of with six months of community service and probation). The cop doesn’t say anything else, but at the station he books Derek through quickly, points him down the hall to the phone while he’s signing the paperwork with a ballpoint pen. Derek shrugs. He doesn’t have anyone to call. 
"You—then you’ll have to spend the weekend here," the cop says, mouth tucking down into a frown. Derek shrugs again. Officer—Stilinski, he can see now, on the nametag, clicks the pen a few times, and then says, "Okay," and puts him in a cell.
The public defender shows up at 4:53, a young guy in a dark suit who smiles at him on the police station steps and tucks a card into his hand—a card for the most expensive law firm in town.
"I can’t, um, afford," Derek says, and the guy—McCall—waves it off. 
"Pro bono," he says. "Favor for a friend."
Derek hesitates; that sounds like there are strings attached. The sun is setting, crimson and purple, and McCall’s eyes glint, reflect, flash red. 
"I have a—vested interest, you could say," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, ruining the line of his suit.

Sorry, wait, I had something more to say about this, which is that they’re sort of almost friends by the time Scott gets the charges dropped, files a countersuit, wins that, gets Derek’s juvenile record actually really sealed and the person who released that information fired—
“You don’t have to—I would have just paid the fine, I was—I know I broke the law—” Derek says, sitting uncomfortably on the leather chair opposite Scott’s desk, and Scott says,
“it’s a stupid fucking law,” and invites Derek to a barbecue. Derek goes because he owes Scott, but expects it to be terrible, to be a curiosity for Scott’s snooty law school friends and his packed-up werewolf bros alike, and is surprised to find that it’s quiet and low key, burgers on the grill and beers in a cooler, a bunch of mismatched folding chairs on a back porch on a balmy summer evening and a tall, soft-spoken guy in a pair of ragged khaki shorts so old that the seams are worn white, birkenstocks, a thin blue shirt smiling down at him in the kitchen, reaching past him to pull open a drawer when Derek asks for a bottle opener.
His wrist brushes Derek’s hip and the guy’s cheeks heat up a little, bashful.
The guy’s name is Stiles and he has a low scratchy laugh and he makes Derek two burgers charred around the edges just like he likes and he’s a great listener, peeling at the label on his beer, eyes thoughtful, when they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder on the back steps watching the moon rise.
“Is Stiles, um,” Derek says, not sure how to finish the sentence, when he’s in the kitchen with Scott, pulling out the ice cream sandwiches.
“He’s been my best friend since we were five,” Scott says. “He’s the best.”
That’s why—when Stiles asks, too casually, if Derek wants to, uh, come back to his apartment. Just to talk, he says, just to—he isn’t, uh—
Stiles’ mouth tastes like vanilla ice cream and his breath hitches when Derek presses in against him, they kiss for long minutes in the hallway outside Stiles’ place, and Stiles drops his keys twice trying to get his door open.
“I meant it,” he says, when Derek’s underneath him on the couch and he’s working a line of kisses down his neck, nuzzling at his collarbone until Derek’s shivering,  Derek didn’t exactly say anything about Kate or, or Jennifer, but Stiles must have read it in the shape of his silences, says, “you don’t have to do anything, that’s not why—“ and the soft weight of his breath feels so good against Derek’s throat that he arches his back and his eyes widen a little and that’s when he sees it, the navy shirt and shoulder holster slung over the back of the kitchen chair, the disassembled gun on a towel on the table,  the heavy belt and glint of gold he’d seen in the key basket as they came through the door, hadn’t paid any attention because Stiles was laughing, holding his hand,
“You’re a—fucking cop,” Derek says, pushing at Stiles’ shoulders, scrambling out from under him, “you’re—“
“Yeah—“ Stiles says. He’s back on the other end of the couch, blinking, his mouth flushed, a bright smudge of beard rash on his chin, “Yeah, I thought—you don’t remember me?”
“We’ve met?” Derek says.
“Yeah, I, uh, arrested you that time,” Stiles says. “I thought—sorry, I recognized you right away, so—“
“You all look the fucking same to me,” Derek says, because he fucking—jesus, he’s so fucking stupid, of course this is just some fucked up power trip for this lying asshole, who actually has the nerve to look hurt.
“Okay,” Stiles says. “Sorry.”
“Yeah,” Derek says, fumbling his sneakers back on. “am I free to go?”
“Of course,” Stiles says, jaw tensing.
*
“So you and Stiles,” Scott says, grinning, the next time they meet.
“No,” Derek says, cutting him off. Scott’s smile fades.
“You know, he’s the one who called me about you,” he says.
“So what,” Derek says. “So I owe him a blowjob now because I’m so grateful—“
“That’s not fair,” Scott says. Derek stares at the floor, hands shoved in his pockets. Stiles didn’t make him do anything, but that doesn’t take away the visceral jolt of panic he’d felt when he’d figured it out. Cops carried tasers, mistletoe spray, wolfsbane bullets. If Stiles had wanted to keep him there, it would have been easy for him. Derek’s never been much of a fighter anyhow.
“Look,” Scott says, sighing. “Some bad stuff happened to Stiles in high school and it’s hard for—anyhow, he doesn’t really—date much. He thought you were cute—“
“He said that.”
“No, he called me at four-fucking-thirty on a Friday after I’d already worked an eighty hour week and said to start calling judges and kissing ass and then casually asked about your case a half a dozen times, so—“
“What a hero,” Derek says dryly, and Scott says,
“He is, actually.” And then makes Derek sign a bunch of papers and kicks him out of his office.
*
The thing is, Derek has to go down to the police station to apply for his resident parking permit, and of course, of all the bad luck, Stiles is coming into the lobby as he’s coming out, and it’s big—vaulted ceilings, marble floors and Stiles is fifty feet away but Derek is immediately conscious of him, and Stiles’ eyes snap to his and then self-consciously away, shoulders hunching like he’s the one who doesn’t belong.
*
Derek brings a box of doughnuts when he goes over to Stiles’ apartment. He’s maybe just going to leave it with a post-it note that says ‘sorry’ or whatever, he hadn’t thought it through that well, just found himself saying he’d take the rest of those powdered doughnuts and a jelly, whatever was left when he was at the bakery picking up some bagels for breakfast, and it’s Friday night, Stiles probably isn’t even home, except he opens the door, this time in an undershirt and uniform pants and sock feet. He looks tired.
“hi,” Derek says.
“hi,” Stiles says warily.
“Sorry I said—Scott says you’re a hero, so,” Derek says, putting the box of doughnuts in Stiles’ hands.
“Scott’s full of shit,” Stiles says.
“I didn’t recognize you,” Derek says.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, a ghost of a smile on his face. “I figured that out.”
“I shouldn’t have implied, um—“
“You’ve had bad experiences,” Stiles says. “I get it. You don’t have to explain yourself.” 
“Maybe I want to,” Derek says. “Can I come in?”
Stiles says yes.

helenish:

helenish:

ianthebobo:

Thought I’d try Officer Stilinski since I did Officer Hale last time…

oh god I really think Stiles should arrest Derek while he’s peacefully protesting for werewolf civil rights and be incredibly gentle when closing the handcuffs around Derek’s wrists, even though the crowd is against him, shouting, roaring, spitting in his face, and the cop’s face is impassive, but he cups his hand protectively over Derek’s head as he folds him into the back of the squad car, and when he catches his eye in the rearview mirror, he grins, and says,

"Well, I think they liked me."

Derek looks out the window; he knows all about this part. Cops pretend to be your friend so you’ll admit to something incriminating, and they’re all really fucking assholes underneath.

Derek was trespassing, it’s true, he violated his probation (probably for graffiti-ing a giant wolf paw on a highway barrier when he was sixteen, he got of with six months of community service and probation). The cop doesn’t say anything else, but at the station he books Derek through quickly, points him down the hall to the phone while he’s signing the paperwork with a ballpoint pen. Derek shrugs. He doesn’t have anyone to call. 

"You—then you’ll have to spend the weekend here," the cop says, mouth tucking down into a frown. Derek shrugs again. Officer—Stilinski, he can see now, on the nametag, clicks the pen a few times, and then says, "Okay," and puts him in a cell.

The public defender shows up at 4:53, a young guy in a dark suit who smiles at him on the police station steps and tucks a card into his hand—a card for the most expensive law firm in town.

"I can’t, um, afford," Derek says, and the guy—McCall—waves it off. 

"Pro bono," he says. "Favor for a friend."

Derek hesitates; that sounds like there are strings attached. The sun is setting, crimson and purple, and McCall’s eyes glint, reflect, flash red. 

"I have a—vested interest, you could say," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, ruining the line of his suit.

Sorry, wait, I had something more to say about this, which is that they’re sort of almost friends by the time Scott gets the charges dropped, files a countersuit, wins that, gets Derek’s juvenile record actually really sealed and the person who released that information fired—

“You don’t have to—I would have just paid the fine, I was—I know I broke the law—” Derek says, sitting uncomfortably on the leather chair opposite Scott’s desk, and Scott says,

“it’s a stupid fucking law,” and invites Derek to a barbecue. Derek goes because he owes Scott, but expects it to be terrible, to be a curiosity for Scott’s snooty law school friends and his packed-up werewolf bros alike, and is surprised to find that it’s quiet and low key, burgers on the grill and beers in a cooler, a bunch of mismatched folding chairs on a back porch on a balmy summer evening and a tall, soft-spoken guy in a pair of ragged khaki shorts so old that the seams are worn white, birkenstocks, a thin blue shirt smiling down at him in the kitchen, reaching past him to pull open a drawer when Derek asks for a bottle opener.

His wrist brushes Derek’s hip and the guy’s cheeks heat up a little, bashful.

The guy’s name is Stiles and he has a low scratchy laugh and he makes Derek two burgers charred around the edges just like he likes and he’s a great listener, peeling at the label on his beer, eyes thoughtful, when they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder on the back steps watching the moon rise.

“Is Stiles, um,” Derek says, not sure how to finish the sentence, when he’s in the kitchen with Scott, pulling out the ice cream sandwiches.

“He’s been my best friend since we were five,” Scott says. “He’s the best.”

That’s why—when Stiles asks, too casually, if Derek wants to, uh, come back to his apartment. Just to talk, he says, just to—he isn’t, uh—

Stiles’ mouth tastes like vanilla ice cream and his breath hitches when Derek presses in against him, they kiss for long minutes in the hallway outside Stiles’ place, and Stiles drops his keys twice trying to get his door open.

“I meant it,” he says, when Derek’s underneath him on the couch and he’s working a line of kisses down his neck, nuzzling at his collarbone until Derek’s shivering,  Derek didn’t exactly say anything about Kate or, or Jennifer, but Stiles must have read it in the shape of his silences, says, “you don’t have to do anything, that’s not why—“ and the soft weight of his breath feels so good against Derek’s throat that he arches his back and his eyes widen a little and that’s when he sees it, the navy shirt and shoulder holster slung over the back of the kitchen chair, the disassembled gun on a towel on the table,  the heavy belt and glint of gold he’d seen in the key basket as they came through the door, hadn’t paid any attention because Stiles was laughing, holding his hand,

“You’re a—fucking cop,” Derek says, pushing at Stiles’ shoulders, scrambling out from under him, “you’re—“

“Yeah—“ Stiles says. He’s back on the other end of the couch, blinking, his mouth flushed, a bright smudge of beard rash on his chin, “Yeah, I thought—you don’t remember me?”

“We’ve met?” Derek says.

“Yeah, I, uh, arrested you that time,” Stiles says. “I thought—sorry, I recognized you right away, so—“

“You all look the fucking same to me,” Derek says, because he fucking—jesus, he’s so fucking stupid, of course this is just some fucked up power trip for this lying asshole, who actually has the nerve to look hurt.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Sorry.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, fumbling his sneakers back on. “am I free to go?”

“Of course,” Stiles says, jaw tensing.

*

“So you and Stiles,” Scott says, grinning, the next time they meet.

“No,” Derek says, cutting him off. Scott’s smile fades.

“You know, he’s the one who called me about you,” he says.

“So what,” Derek says. “So I owe him a blowjob now because I’m so grateful—“

“That’s not fair,” Scott says. Derek stares at the floor, hands shoved in his pockets. Stiles didn’t make him do anything, but that doesn’t take away the visceral jolt of panic he’d felt when he’d figured it out. Cops carried tasers, mistletoe spray, wolfsbane bullets. If Stiles had wanted to keep him there, it would have been easy for him. Derek’s never been much of a fighter anyhow.

“Look,” Scott says, sighing. “Some bad stuff happened to Stiles in high school and it’s hard for—anyhow, he doesn’t really—date much. He thought you were cute—“

“He said that.”

“No, he called me at four-fucking-thirty on a Friday after I’d already worked an eighty hour week and said to start calling judges and kissing ass and then casually asked about your case a half a dozen times, so—“

“What a hero,” Derek says dryly, and Scott says,

“He is, actually.” And then makes Derek sign a bunch of papers and kicks him out of his office.

*

The thing is, Derek has to go down to the police station to apply for his resident parking permit, and of course, of all the bad luck, Stiles is coming into the lobby as he’s coming out, and it’s big—vaulted ceilings, marble floors and Stiles is fifty feet away but Derek is immediately conscious of him, and Stiles’ eyes snap to his and then self-consciously away, shoulders hunching like he’s the one who doesn’t belong.

*

Derek brings a box of doughnuts when he goes over to Stiles’ apartment. He’s maybe just going to leave it with a post-it note that says ‘sorry’ or whatever, he hadn’t thought it through that well, just found himself saying he’d take the rest of those powdered doughnuts and a jelly, whatever was left when he was at the bakery picking up some bagels for breakfast, and it’s Friday night, Stiles probably isn’t even home, except he opens the door, this time in an undershirt and uniform pants and sock feet. He looks tired.

“hi,” Derek says.

“hi,” Stiles says warily.

“Sorry I said—Scott says you’re a hero, so,” Derek says, putting the box of doughnuts in Stiles’ hands.

“Scott’s full of shit,” Stiles says.

“I didn’t recognize you,” Derek says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, a ghost of a smile on his face. “I figured that out.”

“I shouldn’t have implied, um—“

“You’ve had bad experiences,” Stiles says. “I get it. You don’t have to explain yourself.” 

“Maybe I want to,” Derek says. “Can I come in?”

Stiles says yes.

1 month ago   •   989 notes   •   VIA coffeeinallcaps   •   SOURCE coffeeinallcaps

coffeeinallcaps:

EARLIER I WAS SCROLLING DOWN MY DASH AND I WAS HIT BY THE SUDDEN NEED FOR SOMETHING ALONG THE LINES OF—

Stiles announces that he’s dating Derek over lunch break.

Kira says, “Oh my God, I’m so happy for you guys!”

Allison says, “Give me a few seconds to process this information.”

Isaac says, “Holy shit, you go, Stilinski. Get that dick. Fuck, this is crazy.”

Lydia shakes out her hair and says, “Well, well, well.” And then, “It was about time you got over me, I suppose.” And, “Of course you understand I’m going to need to hear details.”

Scott says, quietly, in private, “I just don’t want you to get hurt, okay?”

(There’s a loud again hovering in the pause between the ‘t’ and the ‘o’.

Stiles says, “I know, buddy. I appreciate it.”

“I mean,” Scott says. He’s frowning so hard that the spiral symbol is emerging in the creases of his forehead. It doesn’t mean anything, probably, but Stiles has to bite down on his thumb to keep from reaching out and rubbing it away. “I mean, it’s not that I…”

“I know what you mean,” Stiles says. Scott means darkness, demons, loss of self. Scott means well. He always does. “It’s fine, though. It’s good. It feels good. Right.”

“I just really don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I know, Scotty. I know what I’m doing.” The spiral is still there, so Stiles adds, “C’mon, buddy, please trust me on this.”)

Later in class, Stiles overhears Isaac say to Lydia, “It’s probably a sex thing. It’s got to be a sex thing, right?”

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