episode nineteen and a half: castiel’s newfound followers are bored with moving from motel to motel and working on locating metatron and also with watching castiel write and delete text messages to dean winchester without sending them. “we want to do something,” they tell him. he says he realizes they wish to fight, but that the situation is complicated. “no,” they explain. “we want to go bowling.” apparently this motel’s welcome packet had a brochure for the recreational facility across the street. castiel takes seventeen angels in adult bodies to the Lucky Strike Lanes And Batting Cages and purchases a Family Fun Pack. he watches his new garrison throw bowling balls into the gutters with abandon and make up rude names for themselves on the computerized scoreboard. “it’s difficult to be a leader,” castiel tells his waitress. she doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.
… The Winter Soldier killed Howard and Maria Stark…
Bucky killed Howard and Maria Stark.
BUCKY FUCKING BARNES KILLED HOWARD AND MARIA STARK.
Make the goddamn connection. ‘Accident’ my ass…
I know it wasn’t the real Bucky. He was buried underneath a shit ton of Hydra brainwashing and memory loss. But just the idea of him murdering Tony’s parents without even knowing is unimaginable and it hurts my heart. Fuck you Marvel and all your damn feels.
Not just murdering Tony’s parents, but murdering a man Bucky no doubt knew personally and might have considered a friend, murdering someone who helped Steve rescue him from the HYDRA base and who we can be 99.99999% sure Bucky himself would not have wanted to kill.
I didn’t catch this and now everything hurts.
when i said “The MCU is beautiful and nothing hurts” what I meant was “everything hurts forever goodbye”
I love it. Because with the popular “Tony hacked SHIELD and all that info is waiting for him” post going around, imagine when Tony digs it up and finds out the guy who Steve’s chasing around killed his dad. Imagine him cobbling together a slapdash suit without Pepper noticing and jetting to where Bucky is, and being ready to blow him up without him even realizing Tony’s there, only to stop.
Because the man down there doesn’t look like a remorseless trained killer. He’s dirty and he’s thin and he’s sleeping on a park bench. The cybernetic arm he’s got doesn’t work right. The fingers are awkwardly curled where the servomotors have run down. The knuckles on his flesh and blood hand are bruised and scraped from where he had to fight off a couple of drug addicts wanting to roll a homeless guy for spare change.
And Tony would lower the repulsors and pick up his phone and call Steve. And leave before he got there.
Pepper would find him in the morning with a smashed up set of armor and a bottle of scotch and an old album. Drunk and crying.
Tony thinks long and hard before he puts on the suit again.
HATEPIG WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS
I FUCKING IMAGINED THAT LAST PARAGRAPH AND I CRIED I REALLY CRIED AND I HAVE FINALS IN TWO WEEKS I DONT HAVE TIME FOR THAT SAD SHIT AND HOMELESS BUCKY FUCK EVERYTHING
Rating: all audiences except klainers
Summary: It’s time Kurt lets a few things Blaine said and did to him sink in.
At first Kurt thinks it’s supposed to be a joke. A cruel, tasteless joke to be sure, to poke fun at the cuts and bruises on his face- he thought word had gotten around about the attack but maybe not? He spends his way to the subway trying to figure out who could have done it. He doesn’t get far. The lockers had all been taken by the time he arrived for class so he had to leave his bag in the dressing room. Anyone could have slipped it in. He stuffs it back into his bag and makes his mind up to throw it away the first chance he gets. Just because everyone else in New York litters doesn’t mean he has to.
But when his subway breaks down in between two stops and Kurt gets tired of stoically staring into the darkness of the tunnel pretending not to see the couple on the seats next to him making out while the technicians try to fix the signals, he remembers the flyer and takes it out of his bag.
How to tell if You are a Victim of Domestic Abuse
He idly starts reading. There’s a checklist, and he knows it doesn’t mean anything, but then he begins to tick off bullet points. Not just one. The more he thinks about it, the more bullet points fit. Suddenly he’s remembering fights he’s had with Blaine that he had made himself forget. Words, digs, reasoning that never seemed to make sense do so now. Kurt closes the flyer angrily and takes in the picture on the front. A sad-looking woman, a dark male silhouette in the background. He scoffs. Was this the real joke of whoever planted that flyer? To point out, once again, that he was the girl in their relationship? Stupid jerks. Stupid, non-inclusive flyer. Stupid, stupid nagging voice in the back of his head telling him things he doesn’t want to hear.
He read your private messages.
He blames you for everything that goes wrong.
He accuses you of things he is guilty of.
He never apologises.
He is uncomfortable with your success.
He talks about you to your friends behind your back and encourages them to stay away from you.
He mocks and tries to undermine your health regimen because he is unhappy with himself.
He admits he likes you best when you are weak and needy.
The picture on the page blurs, and as the subway stutters into motion again and a draft from the opened air vent comes in, Kurt notices that his cheeks are wet. With shaking hands, he opens the flyer again and sees a toll-free hotline and an address in the city. It’s only three subway stops from the loft.
He can’t. Not now. Not without talking about this with someone first- but who? Rachel is never around, Mercedes is too busy with Sam…and everyone loves Blaine. Who’d believe him, anyway? They all cheered as he accepted his proposal. They all want them together- it’s just that much easier to believe that love conquers all than it is to make a mature decision to avoid further pain.
He flips the flyer over in his hands, not sure what to do, and then he sees it. A hand-written note on the back.
Come and see me after class if you read this.
Kurt freezes for a moment, then looks up, and sees the subway has come to a halt. He hurries out of the door and crosses the platform to board the other line. Back to NYADA.
treading water by tsukinofaerii | art by me (ordinaryink)
don’t mind me and my extraordinarily late polybigbang art for pissy’s fic. WHICH IS AMAZING BTW. MOST WONDERFUL ALLISON/DEREK/STILES POLY FIC WITH A LAUNDRY LIST OF MY FAVORITE KINKS. I mean. It’s really great and wonderful and perfect tbh. *U*
Okay, so: magic Stiles, right. Stiles training to become Scott’s emissary. The crux here is that Scott got bitten but Derek never showed up in Beacon Hills— I’m not exactly sure about the details, WHATEVER, the point is, Deaton is currently teaching Stiles about diversion spells. Y’know, projecting visual illusions, altering someone’s perception of reality, that sort of thing. It’s all pretty bad-ass in theory but there’s a lot of sketchy powder involved and the main component is belief, something Stiles still rolls his eyes at because he personally prefers things to be a little more sciencey, but whatever. He practiced all afternoon and Deaton seemed pleased, told him he seems to really have a knack for these types of spells.
When Stiles gets home he’s still covered in sketchy powder and there’s pressure building behind his eyes, so he figures he’s earned himself a nice long shower and a good jerk-off session. His head’s still aching so instead of putting on porn he conjures up his favorite jerk-off fantasy. He comes hard enough to make his toes curl and sleeps like a log afterward.
The next day is a Saturday, so he goes to the clinic for his morning Herbology class with Deaton and walks straight into a fucking wall because—
“Stiles,” Deaton says. “This is Derek.”
His jerk-off fantasy is standing in the room.
It’s him. It’s definitely him. It’s 100% for sure definitely him, down to the dark hair and the bright eyes and the leather jacket and the perfect stubble and the muscled arms that could hold you up for hours as he pounded into you, rock hard, grunting, sweat pouring down his chiseled body—
Stiles’ jerk-off fantasy is standing in the room.
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."
"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.
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.
Fic: Wait for Something More
Beta: Thanks as always to loveinisolation
Summary: When one of the stars of Rachel and Santana’s favorite TV show walks in to the Spotlight Diner, they are completely star struck. Kurt definitely isn’t.
Notes: Basically this is an AU where Kurt and Blaine aren’t together, Sebastian and Kurt never met in high school, and Sebastian is famous. And everything else is the same. (And the summary is bad.) Thanks to Marauder-in-Warblerland for the prompt!
Wait For Something More
Kurt was re-stuffing napkin holders during the late shift at the Spotlight Diner when Rachel grabbed his wrist tightly enough to bruise and said, “Oh my god, Kurt! It’s Sebastian Smythe!”
Sure enough, the hostess was currently seating the man in question in Kurt’s section. Kurt’s reaction to Sebastian Smythe’s appearance was decidedly different than Rachel’s. For one thing, Kurt didn’t actually watch Multiple Choice, the high school-based fantasy TV show in which Sebastian starred. When he’d first met Sebastian two months ago, Kurt hadn’t even recognized him. And that was the other reason that Kurt’s reaction was different than Rachel’s: he knew why Sebastian was there.
I kind of feel like Scott and Stiles are those kind of bros who would make out with each other without it implicating anything, like perhaps it doesn’t feel as weird as it should; but it changes nothing in their relationship.
The first time Isaac walked in on Scott and Stiles kissing, he froze in the doorway unsure. Should he back up? Should he go in? Should he come back in and make noise to alert them? Should he just go up to his room and pretend it never happened?
The decision is taken out of his hands when they draw away slowly, savoring the last pull of lips. The soft sound of separation accompanying their eyes opening and finding focus again. They turn as one, casual as you please and greet him like they hadn’t just been tongue deep in one another’s faces. Scott grins and beckons him over and Stiles greets him with a cheery word or two and shuffles over to make room on the couch.
The second time, they’re in the kitchen, and Scott has Stiles pressed up against the cabinets, seated on the countertop. Like the first time, it’s unhurried, lazy, indulgent and lingering. Stiles hands are in Scott’s hair, and Scott’s arms are around his hips.
“Water’s burning,” Scott mumbles against Stiles’ lips.
“That’s because you can’t cook,” Stiles replies.
By the third time, it can’t possibly be coincidental. They’re in the locker room and Stiles is lain out over a bench, head in Scott’s lap. They pull away a little more quickly this time, more alert at school, but relax when they recognize him.
"Hey, man, nice moves today," says Stiles. He flicks a finger against the underside - uneven portion - of Scott’s jaw. Without pause, Scott shoves him unceremoniously off the bench.
"Are you two dating?" Isaac asks, still unsure.
The faces they give him are priceless, and even more confusing.
"Um, Isaac, I don’t know where you’re getting your facts but, Scott’s my best friend."
"This is the third time I’ve caught you making out,” Isaac defends. “Do you just fool around then?”
Scott clears his throat, bringing Isaac’s eyes to him. He can’t tell if it’s a reprimand or a response. Scott doesn’t make anything more clear by the way he looks at him.
"We prefer the term, Advanced Emotional Support," Stiles corrects him.
Isaac’s brows come together. “Is it a wolf thing?”
"It is now," Stiles replies, hopping to his feet. He stretches, long and full bodied and shakes himself out. "I’ve got to get to detention. This school system, guys…getting so you can’t even point out the obvious anymore." He leans down to grab his bag and pecks Scott on the lips in full view of the Beta. "Wait for me."
"Yeah," Scott agrees. "Don’t take too long."
"I can’t help it if no one appreciates the value of information any more!" he calls in farewell, waving over his shoulder and heading out.
Isaac shifts, not quite sure what to do now.
Scott exhales and reaches for his bag, standing and shrugging it over one shoulder. “Wanna grab something to eat?”
"Sure," Isaac replies, still somewhat confused. But, that’s par for the course with Scott and Stiles and one day, he’s sure, he’ll be allowed a glance at the playbook of their relationship. He only hopes when that day comes that it’ll be legible.
Reading this fic gave me the same feels staring at this picture did:
#is it me or do they look like evil murder twins there #w lydia advising Stiles on something (via wolfbad)
LYDIA TELLING STILES HOW SHE WANTS HIM TO KILL PLS AND THANK
"Go for the throat," she says, breath hot on his jaw and her hand a ground against the high of it, the fear and the lust and the electric hum of adrenaline coursing through his trembling limbs.
But Lydia’s hand is steady, her touch light despite its profound presence. It’s not a comfort. Comfort isn’t something they give lightly, not even to each other. Comfort is a luxury that can only be earned. Taken. Stolen, even, in the quiet hours before dawn, but never given.
Peter taught them well. Nothing is free.
Instead, that touch serves as a reminder — of his training, of their struggle, of what it will mean if he can finally do this. What they could become.
We could be free, he thinks, so softly because even to think it feels like a jinx. Even to give it an inner voice could be too much.
If Peter ever guessed… if he even dreamed of the possibility…
Stiles rolls his shoulders, pushes away the fear until his mind was as empty as the clearing, as cold and pure as the snow.
"No," he answers. "Up and under the ribs."
Straight for the heart.
A university club decided to have a short group trip. One of the members brought his video camera, and he took many videos of the group having fun over the weekend.
When the group returned, and the cameraman started reviewing the videos, something odd caught his attention.
The footage was filmed at around midnight in front of a tunnel. It was pitch black except for the faint light given off by a street lamp down the road.
From within the tunnel, a girl from his group came into view. She was waving at the camera as she walked closer. Behind her to the right was a boy that looked to be about seven or eight years old.
Was there a boy there? the cameraman wondered.
The girl, now almost right in front of the camera, was dimly lit, but somehow the little boy appeared crystal clear. He wore shorts and was facing away from the group.
There weren’t any houses near the tunnel, and it seemed strange for a little boy to be alone at that time of night anyway.
Still, the boy continued staring at something behind him without moving.
When the cameraman told the other club members about what appeared on the film, everyone thought the boy must be a ghost. Several of them asked to borrow the tape to see it for themselves. They all felt a little proud about what they had caught on camera and began loaning the tape out to their friends.
However, after a few days, one person who saw the film said something strange when he spoke with the cameraman.
“The scariest thing is that it seems like you should be able to see the profile of his face… But you can’t, you know? It’s like nothing’s there!”
Profile? the cameraman was confused. He was facing the other direction; of course you shouldn’t be able to see his profile.
Another person also said something that worried him.
“You know when he starts to turn towards you, and you can see his right eye? Ugh, that was so creepy!”
What is she talking about? What is going on with this tape?
The filmmaker gathered everyone who had seen the footage together so they could watch the tape at the same time.
First, the girl came out of the tunnel, just like before.
The boy stood behind her facing the other direction. He slowly began turning towards the camera until his right eye, which seemed to glare at the viewers through the television, was visible.
The group suddenly became very nervous. The boy seemed to be turning more, little by little, each time the tape played. If they kept passing the tape around, he would eventually face the camera, and whoever was watching the video.
The hair on their arms stood on end, and they agreed to dispose of the tape immediately.
there is a zine to go with this!
tbh the best marvel headcanon i’ve ever imagined is steve and bucky being giant disney nerds back in the day when there were like 4 disney movies in existence and so then when they’re reunited steve’s like guess what happened when i was in an iceberg and you were a super assassin a frickton of disney movies that’s what and they have a massive disney marathon in the screening room of stark tower that goes on for like a week and they end up singing everything at the top of their lungs and completely out of key and the rest of the avengers are just like i s2g if those two ancient losers start belting out at last i see the light one more time i will lose my fucking mind
I find this just disgustingly plausible because Steve was an artist so he would probably be super into animation and Disney was kind of a huge fucking deal and he would drag Bucky along to the theater with him so he could use Bucky’s little sister as cover for going to see a kid’s movie and Bucky got into it kind of because he had no choice and I just can’t with how adorable this all is.
I can totally picture Steve’s favorite being Fantasia because wow gorgeous animation coupled with orchestral music and it’s not really Bucky’s thing but he grew fond of it because Steve and they watch it over and over and Bucky is firmly pro-“Night on Bald Mountain” while Steve can’t decide between “Rite of Spring” (because DINOSAURS!) and “The Pastoral Symphony” because he has this thing for Greek mythos and it’s amazing and then everything goes to shit with the war and they get iced.
Then they’re both awake in the here and now and Steve is like “Oh my God” and Bucky is like “What?” and Steve’s like “…There’s a Fantasia… 2000…” and he just creams himself over the “Firebird Suite” and Bucky thinks this is the best thing ever to see Steve so happy and excited again, bless amazing Disney sequels
AND RHAPSODY IN BLUE REMINDS THEM BOTH OF HOME IN A NEW YORK BEFORE THE WAR IN SO IT’S THEIR SPECIAL FAVORITE!.
Brian was being nice to you, and this was weird, and weird was bad. Everyone was nice to you today. You woke up, bleary eyed and grumpy as always, but there were pancakes. Actual pancakes. Your parents haven’t made breakfast since summer, much less fucking pancakes. You asked your dad why there were fucking pancakes readily made this morning, and he just said, “Well, I just kinda felt like pancakes today, you know? I was up early anyway, and I thought it would just be a nice thing to do for you and your Mother.”
This was not a good explanation. This was not a good explanation at all. God knows you’ve heard him complain enough about making coffee for her in the morning, much less a full course meal with ingredients we were supposed to be rationing and— is that apple juice? You looked at him again, and he just kind of smiled and sipped his coffee at the dinner table. The smile was the most off-putting thing, and something in it told you that you were less a person and more a thing to be pitied. Then your eyes flicked to the number above his head, steadily counting down.
Thirty-three years, eighty-seven days, ten hours, eighteen minutes, and fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven…. That was how long until he kicked the can, or, in laymans terms, died. He would die at that exact moment in the far future, and everyone who saw him knew about it. Of course, nobody was a big enough prick to tell him. Nobody was a big enough prick to tell anybody, because it was the exact same for everyone else. For your mother it was twenty-eight something years, and for almost everyone in your school it was sixty or seventy, with one fucker up to eighty. The only one whom you didn’t know the date of death for was yourself, and that kind of made you pretty paranoid.
Especially when this kind of stuff happened. When your mom woke up, she hugged you and kissed you on the forehead and called you sweetie like it was the first day of school, and when she drove you to school she let you choose the radio station. When you got there, someone you didn’t know opened the door for you. A boy. A cute boy. You looked at him awkwardly, but he just smiled and said something sort of like a greeting. You said something sort of like a greeting to him too. You walked past him and into the school and looked back, and he was looking at you. You looked around, and other people were looking at you, but they looked away when you looked at them. Something inside your chest felt like it was trying to break out, and the hallways suddenly seemed a million degrees hotter with dozens of pairs of eyes burning into you, so you decided to get to homeroom.
Homeroom was hell, your teacher was a bitch, but she was smiling. She complimented your outfit for the day (a hoodie and some blue jeans) and asked how you were feeling. You said alright. She said good. You silently wondered why she would give a single solitary fuck about any of that, and sat down with a little voice in the back of your head screaming out an answer you hoped was incorrect. As a girl who’d told you to slit your wrists in seventh grade came over to talk to you, that little voice grew louder. You really wished people would stop fucking smiling at you.
“What’s up Noam the Gnome, anything been happening lately?” she asked semi-enthusiastically, like someone who’s parents are making her talk to the kid with no friends. You wished she wouldn’t say your name like that, its enough of a joke as is, even if you hadn’t turned out to be barely five feet tall. You shrugged and put one headphone in. “Cool, cool,” she said, continuing, “a couple of girls and I were wondering if you wanted to hang out after school today, seeing as we share a couple classes but don’t really know you too terribly well.”
“You didn’t care before. Why do you care now?” you said, looking past her head at her clock. Sixty more years. Damn.
She said “no reason” a bit too quickly for your liking, but at least she left you alone after that. You didn’t have anything against her personally, you were just in a bad mood today, even more than usual, and you knew she wasn’t being genuine but you didn’t know why. People didn’t just randomly start being nice, that’s not how things worked.
The bell rang, you went to your first class, and everyone continued to stare. You hadn’t done the homework for last night, but the teacher didn’t take it up anyway so at least that was good. When you raised your hand to ask if you could get a drink of water, your teacher smiled sweetly and said of course, but when you peeked through the door there wasn’t a face in sight not sporting a grim visage. The little voice was booming now. You re-entered the room, and everyone went back to smiling.
Second, and third blocks were the same, but in fourth block there happened to be this guy named Brian. Brian was like the boy who had held the door open for you in that he was cute, the main difference being his constant sweetness and the fact that if given the chance you’d ride him like a fucking carousel. He was a boy with black hair and green eyes and a jawline set in stone and arms that looked quite nice in that well fitted shirt he was wearing. The best thing about him was the look on his face he got when he talked about things he was passionate about, like penguins. He’d once told you that when he was little he wanted to grow up to be a penguin and live in the Antarctic and give all the other penguins blankets and ear muffs, and you almost slammed him on the desk right then and there.
That day, he sat close to you and talked to you. Not just idle chit chat either, like actual talking. It made your insides feel strange, but in a good way. He asked if you wanted to hang out after school, and you said sure. You asked your parents if it was alright, and they said sure. You almost forgot about being paranoid in that hour and a half, but then you glanced up at his and saw eighty years, and couldn’t help but think it would be eighty years spent without you.
Whatever. You half convinced yourself you didn’t care as you walked home with him. He skipped along like a massive dork, and smiled genuinely, and you couldn’t help but smile too. His house wasn’t that far away, but he took a long and winding path through a steel jungle near the school, climbing on the various scrap heaps and balancing on the muzzle of an old tank. You told him to get down, but he just recited one of the various bullshitty speeches from your history books that some old fucker or another had said about never surrendering. He saluted, a silly look on his face, and you both laughed as he hopped down. You ended up laying together on the roof of a rusted auto, his hand kind of close to yours, and you joked about various things and such.
You don’t really remember how, but he ended up on top of you, a weird sort of half smile on his face and what looked sort of like admiration in his eyes. It might’ve been admiration, but you only had a few seconds to look before his face became very, very close to yours.
And thats how it went for about an hour before you actually bothered to close the difference between his house and you to none, but of course by then you were quite flustered. You met his parents, and they were nice. You played video games and beat him badly, but you’re fairly sure he let you win. You both went for another walk, and it ended up about like the first one, on the roof of an auto with lips going places and hands going others.
When he said goodbye, it sounded final, and you tried not to break down crying. You failed, but at least it was when he wasn’t there. You sat on a bench and looked at the stars, and wondered what their numbers were. You didn’t bother for too long, you knew that you couldn’t even begin to comprehend the amount of time even if you could see it. But you couldn’t, and for that single moment the sky seemed like a mirror. It was only a moment though, for the next an out of control auto swerved off the road and flipped onto you, crushing every single bone in your body and killing you almost instantly. In your last moment, you didn’t think about anything poetic like the feel of his lips on yours or the frailty of life or anything like that, but the brief though of fuck, I was right, did cross your mind.
So this thought occurred to me earlier and I decided to actually write it. Feedback is appreciated.
This is the best thing i have ever read.
I don’t know why but I really like the idea of Derek who for reasons he doesn’t understand can still transform into a full wolf (not that he ever could in canon but let’s assume it’s an alpha thing that he could do and that he can still do as a beta/omega/whatever he is now)
And he changes into a wolf and goes into town and people sort of just pet him, feed him scraps, call him a good boy, and he needs that so much and that’s the only way he gets it. No one touches him when he’s a person. No one tells him he’s good or praises anything he does. People love dogs unconditionally and immediately but they don’t do that to other people.
And then one day he comes across Stiles, and Stiles does like everyone else, pets him, praises him, gives him some food and water, and for some reason getting that attention from someone he knows is something he needs more than from strangers. He ignores the fact that Stiles doesn’t know it’s him and would never say those things to him if he knew, not if he were in his human form.
He “runs into” Stiles several times a week for about a month and it’s great. He eats up the attention. Basks in the praise and the gentle way Stiles coos at him, “You’re so good. Such a good boy.” Pants happily as Stiles scratches behind his ears and strokes the thick fur between his shoulders.
Then one night, after a movie and pizza with everyone at Stiles’ place, Stiles is washing the glasses and Derek is drying them and Stiles turns to Derek with the water running, and says quietly enough that supernatural ears in the next room can’t hear, “You are good, you know.”
And Derek stills, panics, can’t breathe, can’t look at Stiles because holy shit how long has he known? He’s so embarassed.
Stiles continues talking though. “You’re a good person. You do good things. You’re good.”
And maybe Derek looks at Stiles, then, because he didn’t hear a lie in those words, he can tell Stiles is being sincere even though he doubts his own senses. Stiles is looking him in the eye and saying, again, “You’re good, Derek. You don’t need to look like a dog to hear it from me.”
And Derek’s face crumples a bit, because he thought it was great hearing it from Stiles before, but now Stiles is saying it to his face, saying his name, placing his open palm (wet, maybe soapy, but that’s okay) to Derek’s face and moving his thumb over Derek’s cheekbone and Derek huffs, remembers to breathe, and Stiles pulls him into a hug.
idk this is just a thing I think about a lot.