why do we call them “college aus” when we could be calling them “alternate universities”
It’s times like this Derek wishes he has facebook. This seems like the sort of shit that’s supposed to be socially networked.
“This ah- this isn’t what it looks like,” Stiles says.
Derek raises one eyebrow very, very deliberately.
“I mean, it is,” Stiles says, flailing an arm down at himself. “Obviously, I just- ah-“
Erica sighs, like the universe lives to torture her. The harsh yank she gives the laces in her hands speaks of a tendency to pay that particular sentiment forward. Stiles yelps and staggers a little.
“He’s helping me with my prom dress,” Erica says, rolling her eyes as Stiles grumbles and plucks at the edge of the bodice. Because that’s a thing. Derek can’t help the way his eyes trace over the edge of the material where it’s digging into Stiles’ chest.
“Exactly,” Stiles squeaks, hands flying down to grasp the back of the couch. Logically, Derek knows the stance is so Stiles can brace himself against Erica’s rough handling. It doesn’t stop him picturing Stiles bracing for another reason all together. Shit. “Helping. I’m helping.”
He’s also blushing, the soft flush of it spreading up over his naked shoulders and neck in a way that shouldn’t be nearly as distracting as it is.
Derek has to try twice to make his throat work. “Red isn’t really your colour.”
It’s a lie. A total lie. Because Stiles’ skin is pale and smooth and dotted haphazardly with moles that shouldn’t make Derek want to lick nearly as badly as he does, fuck. All that contrasted with the red sheen of the satin and dark, blood-coloured laces is making Derek’s pulse spike with something a little too primal to be shrugged off as simple aesthetic appreciation.
Derek doesn’t even realise Erica’s smirking at him until she yanks on the laces again, making Stiles jerk and swear.
Fuck. “Don’t break any ribs,” Derek says, heading for the stairs. Air. He needs all the air right now.
You’d think he was the one in the corset.
- - -
So my friend and I are doing the whole “college” thing and starting to sort of look at financial aid but she’s not a US citizen/permanent resident (even though she’s lived in this country since she was like six and her parents are doctors and she’s literally the single best person I know and savvy and intelligent and beautiful and why the fuck is the US not begging her to grace this country by becoming a citizen) which means that she won’t be considered for need-based financial aid by some colleges AND the summer internships for which she can apply are super-limited which won’t help college application prospects and I’m so pissed at the immigration related authorities so I wrote a drabble that has nothing to do with the situation to release my frustration.
“You have to be shitting me.” Erik said.
“I know!” Azazel hurled a handful of popcorn at the television. “That was a foul! Freaking hockey refs…”
“Not that.” Erik said. The fact that the referee of the hockey game in which Azazel was absorbed was clearly blind and deaf was rendered inconsequential by the piece of paper in his hands. “I’m being deported.”
BUT WHERE’S THE REST??
please stop touching your thigh i am an old lady i can’t take this
“I’ll blow you for fifty bucks,” Stiles said.
“I’m not paying you to blow me,” Derek said. “Get in the car.”
“Price just went up to a hundred, asshole,” Stiles said.
“Stiles,” Derek said. “I’m sorry you overheard me saying—some things—”
“That I had a mouth like a COCKSUCKER,” Stiles said loudly.
“Yes, okay, that is—what—I did say that,” Derek said, spreading his hands. “And I’m sorry that you heard it while eavesdropping on a conversation that was none of your business—”
“Cocksucker,” Stiles said threateningly.
“Which I had asked you repeatedly to stay the fuck away from because it’s dangerous for you,” Derek said. “Just get in the car.”
“Please get in the car,” Derek said. Stiles glared at him.
“Fine,” Derek said, pulling out his phone. “Because I’m going to call the Sheriff’s office and tell them there’s a teenage hustler down here in the alleyway behind the army surplus store acting like a dickbag who maybe didn’t hear the first part of the conversation.”
“What part of the conversation could I have heard,” Stiles said, standing up and moving towards the car, “that would somehow change the fact that you said I was a cocksucker.”
“Technically, I said that your mouth—you know what, he started it,” Derek said.
BUT WHERE’S THE MORE??
DUDE, I NEED CONTEXT!
WHO WAS DEREK TALKING TO? WHAT WAS THE FIRST HALF OF THE CONVERSATION? WHY WOULD HE VERBALIZE THAT PARTICULAR
COMPLETELY ACCURATE DESCRIPTION OF STILES’ MOUTH?
WHY DID STILES HAVE TO EAVESDROP? (okay, that question sort of answers itself, BUT MY POINT STANDS!)
“They’re kind of the same,” Isaac says, watching the way Derek is holding a flailing Stiles up by the back of his shirt while Scott is just quietly hugging his leg and chewing on his fist.
“Unhand me!” Stiles cries in a high, sweet voice. The weird thing about the curse/spell/whatever is that both Scott and Stiles are still themselves, just in four year old bodies and with more emotional volatility. They can be having a perfectly reasonable, if spooky because if their size, conversation one moment and be pulling each other’s hair the next.
*DIES FROM CUTE*
“Yeah, I read the contract, can we just get on with it?” Stiles said. “I have a twenty page paper due tomorrow, so—”
“I just want to make sure you understand the implications—”
“Of posing for a skin mag, I get it,” Stiles said. “Werewolves getting weird about me was basically my extracurricular in high school and I’m ready to give up my amateur status and go pro so I can at least get a little cash out of it, so can you just—take some pictures or whatever?”
She stared at him, turning the ballpoint pen over in her hands. Stiles shifted awkwardly in his seat, kept his hands tightly in his lap so he wouldn’t touch his neck or his jaw or his face, a nervous tic he’d never been able to shake, not even after Deucalion had leaned in and caught his hand that time, brought it down and put it flat on the table between them—sitting at a table in a diner not unlike this one. He’d talked his way out of that, he’d put Deucalion in the ground, but you couldn’t use magic and a rusty sledgehammer from the shed and a bunch of werewolves and desperation and luck to pay for college, so—. It was just a few pictures; it was nothing.
“We prefer erotica,” she said finally, putting his contract in a folder and tucking it into her bag.
“Huh?” Stiles said. “Oh. Okay, yeah,” he said, because he knew all about that, how pretending worked, that it could make things a little better for a long time, that you might never get found out, if you were good enough.
NECKZ ‘n THROATS might actually be my favorite thing to come out of this fandom.
Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response
on AO3 [pre-Slash Sterek, 1800 words]
“Dude, you need to relax. If you don’t wanna do it with me and Scott, then do it when we’re not here. Play some AC3, jerk off, get high. Whatever. Do whatever you gotta do, just deal with it, ‘cause, seriously, you’re wound up so tight, if I stuck a lump of —”
“If you finish that sentence, Stiles, I swear to God —”
I love it when fics teach me something new. I had no idea this ASMR thing existed but now I’ve looked it up and I’m totally surprised. I thought everyone got all loose and sleepy when they got their head/hair fondled. I mean, one of the main reasons I don’t let anyone (except for a select few) touch my hair is because when it happens, all my defenses drop and I’m left a gooey mess of slightly euphoric relaxation.
#Daddy… #I tried my best #I really did. #I saved those Winchesters for you #I even stood up to my brother for you #And I was just wondering… #Is there anyway you could bring me back? #At all? #…if you can’t… Maybe… Maybe just tell that Sammy Winchester that I miss him #And tell them to keep fighting… for me
ArE yOU FucKERS trYINg To Make ME crY
Yes. Yes they are. *sobbing*
is he wearing sam’s shirt?
yes. yes he is.
Purgatory is different for everyone. Warriors who thrive on the hunt see a forest full of their worst nightmares that they have to fight their way through. Others, though, those whose natures aren’t really for war and never have been, will see other things. For the archangel Gabriel, he is trapped in his Father’s house, perpetually alone.
He wonders sometimes if there are other angels here, or if his time as Loki changed him enough to secure him a place in Monsterland’s version of solitary all alone.
The first few decades, or what feel like decades to him, he rants about the Winchesters to the empty air, wonders whether or not they saved the world and figures they must’ve. Somehow, he grew a sense of faith again for those fuckers, and that’s something he’s not used to.
Then he starts to go quiet, the sound of his voice echoing too loud in this little white church. He stops yelling.
And then, one day, he prays. For the first time since Michael and Lucifer fought and Dad left the building, he prays. It’s been so long he feels like he’s forgotten how.
He tells his father what he’s done, all of it, every speck of sin he’s committed, every judgment he brought down on some dickhead mortal, every trick he played in every myth, and he ends off with his one moment of redemption, the one good thing he did in all those long years.
That’s when he cries, and when he begs to be brought back.
Purgatory is something different for everyone, but there’s one thing that’s the same about every single piece of it: being there, it’s about purging out everything that isn’t you, and coming to the realization of what you are and what you’ve done, be it sin or salvation.
The only way out is to know yourself, and in so doing, save yourself.
Well, that’s up to him.
He might just find, though, if he turns to those church doors, that he can push them open.
imagine one half of your otp manning a kissing booth and the other half keeps getting in line to kiss them over and over again
that’s something stiles would totally do if derek was behind the booth
imagine derek hale manning a kissing booth though
FANDOM, WHY ISN’T THERE FIC AND/OR ART YET??
bonus for an all-human AU where Stiles is waiting in line to kiss Lydia - who is of course manning the kissing booth at some sort of local charity event, looks good on the college apps - and when Stiles gets to the front, she switches out with Derek. Not even in a mean way, just like ‘later peasants!’ because she is Lydia and she is off to do something fabulous. Scott is all “aw man, that sucks, let’s go bother Allison at the game booth” and Stiles is like “… no that’s okay. Still got this twenty dollar bill, after all”
Cue Derek making a face but not being like, ‘no dudes’, or ‘no Stiles’, which is kind of a ringing endorsement, because with Stiles a good and pre-emptive offense is about your only defense
and then lots of kissing
bonus if the Sheriff sees it and is like “STILES. this is why you wanted an advance on your allowance?”
and Stiles is all red-faced and short of breath and quite possibly has a little bit of beard burn on his face, like, “it’s… for charity?”
And the Sheriff isn’t even mad because of course Stiles wanted an advance for this, he’s Stiles. He will, however, put all that would-be anger into the glare he levels at Derek because, hello, that’s the Sheriff’s precious underage baby Derek’s got his paws on.
Derek doesn’t flee in terror because he’s the alpha. Also nobody can prove that he wanted to flee in terror to begin with (shut up, Scott, his heartbeat did not accelerate).