Remus/Sirius, one of them works the 4th meal shift at the Taco Bell drive in


i’m so glad about this holy shit it made me laugh so hard at work, im going over the three sentencel imit, idc.

sirius squints at the driver in the car through the drive thru window and frowns; he is holding a bag with three tacos, a nacho bellgrande, two caramel apple empanadas, and a crunchwrap supreme, so he asks, unabashedly, “all of this is yours?”

"um," the driver says. his hair is curly and messy and when the wind blows, suddenly, sirius can smell the leftovers of the joint that was just finished, and understands, so the driver merely continues, "can i get, uh, fire sauce - like as much as you can give me - like so much that - just, a lot."

"oh my god," sirius says, laughing. "i - yes, okay. a lot." he turns away, and finds that when he’s gathered what by his definition is ‘a lot’ of sauce, the guy in the car is still staring at him. "so uh - are you okay?"

"how long is your hair?" is the abrupt reply, causing sirius to instinctively reach up and make sure his hat it on straight and his bun hasn’t fallen.

"oh - i don’t know? long?" this is the most bizarre conversation. the headset is still beeping in his ear and he ignores it.

"i like it."

"i’m wearing a hat," sirius says with a snort. "here is your food - " sirius hands him one bag, which the other guy takes " - and your sauce."

"wait!" the driver says, loud enough that sirius is startled, and puts a hand on his wrist still in the process of trying to give this poor stoned child his  sauce. "i really like it. my name is remus. like - it looks good, in the bun."

sirius’s lips curl into a half smile, and he leans a little further out the window. remus’s hand on his wrist is warm and his fingers are calloused. “are you trying to hit on me in a drive through, remus?”

"i - yes, probably."

"well, you’re doing a piss poor job of it," sirius replies, cheerfully. "take your sauce and come back round in an hour and try again, hm?"

and so remus does.

((why is this happenign to me, why did i do this))

REBLOG | Posted 8 hours ago With 250 notes + Ori. Via
tags: #fic rec


Just a ficlet inspired by that “tiny animal ghosts follow Danny around” headcanon that’s been going around tumblr. (And this ridiculously adorable little fanart by innerfangirluna.)

(Written while half-asleep. It shows.)

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REBLOG | Posted 5 days ago With 5 notes + Ori. Via
tags: #fic rec







sorry, the quality is terrible, but I wanted to gif Stiles’s trail (✿◡‿◡)

um, also, can we just talk about how much strength it would take to BREAK A FUCKING BAT, EVEN ON A WEREWOLF? LIKE. GODDAMN, STILES. GODDAMN.

Yeah, I don’t think that’s actually something you can do.

My headcanon is that his spark gives him random superpowers when he’s stressed or in danger. He can’t consciously control it. At least that’s how he defends himself when his dad walks in on him and Derek in bed and Stiles suddenly becomes invisible.

Please tell me he turns Derek invisible too. Or does the Sheriff just walk in and see Derek lying naked in his son’s bed?

Stiles would not be getting laid anytime soon after that, just saying.

I was thinking about this. My 2c is that it was two things: the bat had a hairline fracture (from being used for years by Melissa for banging stuck taps around the house, whacking balls for stress relief, etc.), and Stiles is actually bloody strong, but has a totally warped body image because he compares himself to those with werewolf powers.

He still thinks he’s a weedy weakling, because everyone around him is like x10 human, but he actually pretty much keeps up with them and doesn’t even notice. All he sees is were he doesn’t match up. Against regular humans who aren’t in the Werewolf Training Regimen (ie. people who aren’t Hunters, human wolf-pack members, or pack-adjacent Supernatural beings), he’d now actually rank close to an elite athlete. There’s just no regular human to compare himself with, so he doesn’t even know.

There’s some circumstantial evidence for this. Two hours holding someone else’s weight in a swimming pool? That’s amazing; I doubt I could have done that when I was in training and I was a bloody strong swimmer. And Stiles is even fitter now than he was then. Training in a Lacrosse team made up of werewolves? That would do a lot for speed and strength training, and agility as well (and Stiles was already agile enough to climb roofs and things), but of course the werewolves would also be getting better due to the training, so Stiles wouldn’t see how much he’s improving.

In short, Stiles is really, really fit, but thinks he’s all brains and no brawn. I kinda want stories in which he suddenly realises how awesome his fitness is, when he accidentally outclasses athletes, and they’re like, “Man, what’s your training method? Where do you get your juice?” And Stiles laughs so hard he hurts himself.

I like the spark idea too, btw, I just don’t think it’s the explanation in this particular situation. I think his spark is closely mapped to his intuition and problem-solving skills. He believes he can do something due to skill, and the spark bends the odds more in his favour, so he actually pulls it off without realising he’s done something impossible.

Really, I enjoy the meta here, ya’ll raise good points, and I can see both the spark and ‘physically stronger than he thinks’ theories. But my brain is still focused on happy trail.





Tony is forty-three, tired, in a business meeting and bored out of his mind when a voice vertebrates through his head, panic and shock griefgriefgrief bleeding through: I had a date.

Tony jerks in his chair, making nearly all the businessmen stop talking and look over at him. 

I- hello? hello, the voice continues, sounding even more panicked now, which probably isn’t helped by Tony’s constant stream of ohshitohshitfuckfuckfuck.

"I have a thing, sorry," Tony says, getting up and accidentally catching his hip on the edge of the table. He assumes he looks godawful, since Pepper actually stays when he says not to follow him.

Walking through the hall on shaky legs, Tony tries to calm his breathing. Seriously, what the fuck.

No offence, but where the hell have you been for the past 43 years, Tony sends, trying to get a hang on how this works, trying not to let any stray thoughts seep through the link, because he guesses blind panic isn’t what this guy needs right now.

What he gets back is grief, an overwhelming flood of it that makes Tony have to stop and lean against the elevator wall. Grief and shock and disbelief and the beginnings of anger, all mingling and getting shot through the link at Tony.

I’ve been, the voice says in Tony’s head. I. I’ve been away, I guess.

For how long, Tony sends. And you sound younger than me but you’re definitely not a baby, what with the talking thing, I thought this got activated when your soulmate is born, none of this is making sense, today is awful.

Whatever kind of day you’re having, believe me, I’m having a worse one, the voice sends back darkly. 

I do, Tony sends. Believe you. He’s still reeling from his borrowed grief, sagging against the elevator wall. What happened?

Another flood, unstoppable, and Tony’s head aches with it. Okay, okay, how about you explain it to me in person? Wherever you are, I can get a jet there.

You can get a jet, the voice says, dubious. I’m, uh, I’m in Brooklyn right now, but I’m being transported.

I’m in Manhattan, Tony sends, excitement brimming in him despite himself. Wherever you’re being transported to, I can get there. Do you know?

Back to SHIELD HQ, the voice sends, and Tony pauses as the elevator doors swish open. 

Would’ve pegged you for a soldier, the way you think, Tony sends, and he gets a laugh, quite bitter, in return.

I am. Or, I was. 

SHIELD doesn’t have soldiers.

That’s news to me, the voice sends, and Tony nods at Happy as he gets in the car, says, “SHIELD Headquarters,” and ignores the funny look Happy gives him.

What’s your name, Tony sends, and there’s a pause before the voice says, Steve.


It’s not until he sees him, until Fury introduces them with a deadpan voice and Tony realizes why the voice in his head, his soulmate, sounded so familiar, and how someone younger than him could have been away for 43 years-

"Oh," Tony says, staring at Captain America, who stares back at him with wide eyes and the beginnings of a smile that can’t quite make it yet.

In Tony’s head, Steve says, Tony… Stark. Huh. Not a coincidence, then.

Tony bristles, inwardly and outwardly, and Steve’s smile dies completely. 

Right, Steve says in his head, and Tony doesn’t know what he just broadcast to him through his mind or otherwise, but he assumes that Steve now knows Howard was never Father of the Year.

"Well, it’s nice to meet you," Steve says, standing and holding out his hand, and Tony startles a little at hearing his voice aloud.

It takes a second for Tony to remember to hold out his own hand, and they don’t really get to shake hands, they pretty much just stand there holding hands as the bond solidifies and Tony can pretty much feel most of Steve’s mind, which isn’t a very good place to be at the moment.

"Sorry," Steve says, trying to smile and failing, dropping Tony’s hand after he squeezes it. "I know I’m not-"

"Hey, you’re sort of entitled to be a complete fucking mess right now," Tony points out, and beside them, Fury swears loudly.

They both look at him, and Fury glares back. “If you just did what I think you did-“

"Sorry not sorry," Tony says, and Fury swears again.

omg i feel like this is a jerk thing to do, THIS FIC IS DELIGHTFUL OK, but i just—i read this prompt differently and I COULDN’T HELP IT??

Tony’s internal voice doesn’t sound like him.

His voice is all edges and sharpness, hard-hit consonants. His enunciation is very precise. He knows because he spent the first decade of his life being taught how to speak clearly and confidently.

The voice in his head is different. Deeper. It’s easy, almost drawling—which Tony has tried his damndest to fix, it is insanely difficult to learn proper diction when the voice in your head refuses to match it—and has this hint of a Brooklyn accent that Tony finds mystifying.

It’s not until he’s fifteen that he learns it’s not normal for one’s inner voice to sound different from one’s outer voice.

He’s fifteen when he learns that the voice in his head is the voice of his soulmate.


Twenty comes and goes and Tony figures he’s still got time for that soulmate to show up, he’s young, and there are plenty of other pretty people to keep him occupied in the mean time.

He’s less optimistic when his thirtieth birthday rolls by and there’s still no sign of his supposed soulmate. He’s still enjoying spreading himself around and seeing what’s out there, but there’s a part of him he tries to shunt to the back of his mind that aches at the sound of his own thoughts.

By forty, Tony’s given up entirely. He’s read everything there is to read about soulmates and apparently it’s possible to go through life without ever meeting yours. Some people hear a voice in their heads that never comes to fruition because the person kicks it as a kid or whatever. That voice in that person’s head is all that remains of them. Tony had been skeptical about those anecdotes, because how the hell do you know your soulmate’s dead if you never meet them? But there have been a couple cases where somebody heard a recording and recognized the voice instantly only to discover the horrible truth. It doesn’t take much when you’ve heard something your entire life.

So Tony guesses his soulmate died somewhere along the way. That’s fine. He’s done pretty well for himself, considering, if you discount a few major missteps along the way. No one has to know about the way his chest burns when he sees other ‘mated couples.

He’s got a reputation to uphold anyhow.


When he’s forty-two, Tony gets a call from Agent, and the only thing he says is: “We’ve got someone we’d like you to show around.

Tony bitches and moans and shows up twenty minutes late, but he shows up, because Agent is good people.

He tips his sunglasses down so he can look over the rims at him, one hand fiddling with the nuts and bolts he’s got in his pocket—he’s not sure how they got there in the first place. “So?” he says. “Who’s the special gal or guy S.H.I.E.L.D. is going to pay my very, very pricey hourly consultant fee to escort around? Does this mean you’re dabbling in prostitution? I’ve never been a prostitute, this could be fun.”

“You are not under any circumstances to do anything that might be considered prostitution,” Agent says sternly and Tony grins at him. He beckons Tony forward with a crooked finger and leads him through a door in to a drab gray lounge. Everything at S.H.I.E.L.D. is drab and gray. “Captain Rogers?” he calls.

A tall blond man with eyes the color of the California sky and broad, broad shoulders, Mary mother of God, steps through a doorway in the opposite wall and Tony says, without meaning to, “Hel-lo.”

The man’s features widen and slacken in a boyish expression of shock. He touches his temple and takes half a step forward. “You—that’s what it sounds like.”

Tony processes the words first and replies, “That’s what what sounds like?” and then hears it and his jaw drops. “Oh my god.”

“What’s happening?” Agent says, wary.

“You’re my soulmate,” Tony blurts.

“Oh no,” Agent says.

“I thought you were dead.

Rogers blinks, something like wonder on his face. “I kind of was.” He tilts his head forward just a hair and smiles crookedly, shyly. “Soulmates; is that what they’re calling it now?”

“Now,” Tony repeats and then everything comes together all at once. Captain Rogers, tall, blond, and broad, S.H.I.E.L.D., now, holy shit, his soulmate is Captain Goddamn America. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

“I’ve got to report this to Fury,” Agent sighs. Tony’s barely aware of him exiting the room.

Forty years he had to wait, because his soulmate is CAPTAIN FRICKING AMERICA and he was frozen in some godforsaken iceberg in Antarctica. Although, he supposes it’s good the guy wasn’t defrosted when he was like, a toddler or something, when his half-crazed dad had been hoofing it around every summer looking for him, because that would be weird, and gross, and weird, and Jesus, he’s somehow simultaneously cradle robber and cradle robee in this scenario.

“Um,” Rogers says, and scratches at his forehead, a little crease forming between his eyebrows. “No?” His shoulders start to hunch like he’s trying to make himself smaller and it’s adorable and Tony wants it to stop.

“You sure took your sweet time. Any longer and this,” he gestures between them, “would be way creepy.”

Rogers looks at him with wide eyes for a second and then starts to smile and it’s the sweetest thing Tony’s ever seen. “I’m sorry for making you wait,” he says sincerely. “This isn’t where I expected to find you.”

Tony lets out a burst of surprised laughter. “Not in your wildest dreams.”

He shakes his head. “Not even.”

Rogers closes the distance between them then and Tony feels the prickle of excitement along every nerve. He can’t believe how much better the voice sounds in reality, how perfect every intonation is. He can’t believe he’d given up. “Hi,” Rogers says, face schooled into a serious expression, and holds out a hand. “Steve Rogers. It’s nice to meet you.”

Tony can’t help the stupid grin that spreads across his face as he reaches out and takes it. “Tony Stark. It’s a pleasure.”

“It sure is,” Steve murmurs and squeezes his hand.


omg this is adorable

Sabriel- Gabriel reveals he's alive and lives with the boys in the bunker, Sam and Gabriel decide to adopt a dog and go to the pound to pick one out.


"So, what, you’ve just been globe trotting while Metatron took over heaven and decided to screw everyone over?!" Dean yelled.

"Dean-" Sam sighed.

"And you’re dating the globe trotting traitor!" Dean yelled at Sam. He slumped down into his chair. "How has my life sunk so low?"

"Well, I need a place to stay, you need an archangel to survive, so what do you say, Dean-o?"

Dean shot a look at Cas who had a mouthful of Chunky Monkey ice. Dean sighed. “Yeah, Gabe. Whatever.” 

Gabe clapped his hands together and began tugging Sam to the stairs that led up to the door. “Come on.” 

"Where are we going?" Sam asked, letting Gabe tug him along. 

"I’ve got something for you, outside." 

Gabe opened the door outside and ran around to the side. Sam couldn’t help but contain his smile. A being of infinite justice and older than time and he was such a child sometimes. 

Gabe came back around the corner, two golden retriever puppies in his arms. They licked at his face and when they caught sight of Sam started yelping. “Oh god.” Sam said. One had a green collar and the other one had a blue plaid. Gabe handed Sam the one with the blue plaid one.

"All yours." Gabe said with a grin.

"Oh." Sam said. He buried his face in the puppies neck, all warmth and sweetness. "Oh."

Gabe headed around Sam and back in the bunker. He skipped down the stairs to Dean in the library, Sam right behind him. Gabe crept behind Dean silently and put the puppy down on the table in front of him.

Sam watched Dean’s face scrunch up and he sighed when the puppy licked his cheek. Dean grabbed him and pulled him close. He turned to Gabe and glared. “Bribery.” And stomped off to his room, puppy held reverently in his hands.

1.) Give me a pairing.
2.) Give me an AU setting.
3.) I will write you a three-sentence fic.

Actually, I’ll make it as long as I want to. Or as short. 


Imagine highschool Gabriel.

Normal Angels only have a set of wings, but Gabriel has three sets. Since he was young he’s always hidden two sets thanks to his brothers advice.

Ever the trickster though he doesn’t hide his bottom two sets like suggested, but hides the top two sets, causing his smaller set to drag along the floor, unable to fold against his back correctly.

It makes his classmates pick on him, call him names and think of him as weak. But he doesn’t care, no-one tries to hurt him physically and that’s just fine.

Until they pick on little Sammy Winchester.

Transfer student, wings too big for his lanky body, but a sign that his size would quickly change. He’s tripped and pushed, and Gabriel can’t stand it any longer.

"Hey!" He bellows, stalking over to the bullies with his third set of wings flared out in an aggressive display. "Pick on someone your own size!"

And they take that to mean Gabriel, with his droopy wings and bad temper. What they don’t expect is Gabriel to easily out manoeuvre them, twisting and turning with a Grace they’d never seen, until they’re all in a heap on the floor, groaning in pain.

Gabriel walks over to Sam, and holds out his hand. “You okay there kiddo?”

Sam looks a little breathless. “For… For a moment there it looked like you had three sets of wings.”

This takes Gabriel by surprise, but he quickly grins. “And if I did only my true mate would be able to see them. So kiddo, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?”





 (via mklutz)


I have been filthily discussing this porn shoot with drunktuesdaze and eeames and I think it’s a masterpiece with this shoot order:

1) peter (I’m so weak to this)
2) twins (at the same time)
3) danny (change of pace)
4) parrish AND CHRIS ARGENT at the same time???
5) boyd (dedicated; ginormous cock)

Also in my head this is werewolves are known but not everyone who fucks stiles is a werewolf, obvi, so some shoots have knotting and some don’t. It’s a very diverse porn.

omg omg omg do the twins do Stiles in the megazord form
i mean. megazord dick.
like maybe they start off doing your standard spit-roast thing, one in the ass one in the mouth
then your normal dp
(and possibly after the shoot the gay one [i can’t tell the twins apart sue me] slips stiles his number and he’s like ‘my bro’s gay for pay but i’m the real thing, call me, i’ll put gentle music on? :D?’)

YES.  YES.  EXACTLY. No one ever wanted to fully be on my level about all the weird sex stuff that could go down with twinsformers sex.  I’m so into it.  SO INTO IT.

So INTO mklutz LIST.  

CHAPTER 1: PETER - Humiliation, probably.  Slutshaming dirtytalk, making Stiles gag a little, maybe leans back and tells Stiles to ride him, remains cool and collected while Stiles gasps and pants.  

CHAPTER 2: TWINSFORMERS - super weird sex stuff.  I will DIE on the theory that they can feel each other’s pleasure as well as pain, so do me on weird conversation like “Aidan, he’s so tight” “I know, I feel it too” kind of nonsense, CULMINATING in dp, going easy easy in, Stiles a gasping writhing mess between them when they look at each other, smirking, and GAME OVER, IT’S TWINSFORMERS TIME, somehow Stiles goes from being pressed between them to being astride this monster, being stretched out over its crazy double penis girl BYEE.

CHAPTER 3: MOOD MUSIC, SOFT LIGHTING, BIG BED.  Some vague plot, but eventually it’s just the two of them, smiling at each other, kissing messy and touching everywhere.  For some reason, this is the hardest one for Derek to film, because when Stiles is fucked out of his gourd, he can pretend it’s anyone.  He can pretend it’s just another guy, another job, nothing special.  But he can’t pretend away Stiles shoving Danny’s knees apart, grinning up at him saying, “have you been eating your pineapples, danny boy?” and danny brushes the head of his cock over stiles’s lips saying, “better find out,” and it’s burned on the back of derek’s eyelids what stiles sounds like when he’s laughing with a cock in his mouth, how he can smile when he’s getting fingered, the pretty way he can stretch out, spread his legs, ask for it.  

CHAPTER 4: DEPUTY DO ME.  Plot heavy as hell.  The camera starts on Deputy Parrish as he does his normal patrol, ending as it always does, on Makeout Point.  Gossshhhh, Parrish sure does hate clearing all the teens outta there.  BUT WHAT’S THIS?  Why, rolling around on this picnic blanket isn’t teens at all!  Why it’s Daddy Grief Beard and the Sheriff’s son! 

"I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you for some ID," Deputy Bambi Eyes says. 

"Oh sure," Chris "I’ve Seen Some Shit and My Facial Hair Reflects That" Argent says.  "It’s in my back pocket, if you’d like to grab it for me."


CHAPTER 5: BAIT BUS.  Erica lures Boyd into the van with sweet promises and sweeter kisses.  She gets him to let her blindfold him, and then sinks to her knees, unzips him and then carefully gives Stiles her place.  HOW WILL BOYD REACT TO THE REVEAL?  No reaction, as it turns out.  Boyd rolls his eyes, and motions for Erica to stop laughing and get over there too.  He fucks them both, jizzes on both their beaming faces, and gets Erica’s number.  Best Baitbus result ever. 

BONUS CHAPTER: EXIT INTERVIEW.   “So,” Derek says, clearing his throat.  ”Five Dickings in Five Days is over.  How do you feel?”

"Honestly," Stiles says, "I thought I was going to be wrecked.  Sore throat, bruised up, sleeping for a week straight in order to recover.  But there was something I wasn’t expecting."

"What’s that?" Derek asks, quiet.  He fidgets with the camera settings, rather than look at Stiles directly.

"There was this camera guy all through it that took care of me.  He made me warm tea, and took me to the showers, and I think he called for new positions a few times just because he could tell I was uncomfortable."

"That’s just called taking care of the talent," Derek says, the tips of his ears turning red.

"Yeah," Stiles says.  "Maybe.  But maybe I’m hoping he’ll let me show him some of my other talents."




by zosofi

If someone had told Stiles back in high school that he would be an Oscar winning actor by the time he turned 25, he would’ve probably told Scott to punch them. The thing is, though…they would’ve been right.

Which makes returning to Beacon Hills, center of all that is supernatural and better left avoided, all the more awkward.

REBLOG | Posted 3 weeks ago With 11 notes + Ori. Via
tags: #fic rec


prompts by a pair of awesome anons: can you make a soulmate!AU? // can you write a ficlet where dean/cas can’t see in color until they meet the other person?

read it here on AO3 (recommended if you’re on mobile)

It was raining heavily in the darkest hours of the night. Dean Winchester turned up his coat collar against the downpour and sent a quick glance up and down the wide, deserted street, before ducking into a smaller and grimier alley.

People were loitering in doorways, wearing coloured sashes over their clothes. Their whispers as Dean passed by seemed to mimic the steady patter of the rain on the cracked cement pavement. Dean hesitated, then approached a tall, auburn-haired woman glaring at him from her perch on a rickety wooden chair.

“You see red?” she snapped at him, irate, as he ducked under the cover of her porch. Above where the woman was sitting, there was a metal sign which said Naomi’s Place in rusting red letters. Beneath that was a dimly lit oil painting of a forest, mud-splattered and cracked.

“Lower spectrum, up to yellow,” Dean confirmed. He looked the woman over; her skin was smooth, her clothing neat and formal. Her eyes looked grey to Dean; he wondered if they were green, as he’d been told his own were. He looked down at the woman’s sash, which was also washed clean of colour to Dean’s eyes.

“You see blue?” he asked hopefully. The woman, Naomi, shook her head.

“Green,” she said. Dean shrugged. Blues were pretty rare; he hadn’t really expected to find one working here.

“I’ve only got thirty dollars,” he said, twisting the bills in his gloved hands.

Naomi pursed her lips.

“That will only be good for thirty seconds. One fingertip only,” she cautioned, and Dean nodded, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat. He hated this, hated it utterly, but could not keep away. He handed over his payment, and slid his white glove off his left hand. Naomi reached out one finger, and Dean paused before touching the tip of his index finger to hers. He closed his eyes, allowed the shudder of unfamiliar contact to pass. When he opened them, he looked straight at the oil painting behind Naomi.

As he watched, the grey of the trees in the scene started to change. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, light strands of green started to bleed into the leaves; as Dean watched rapturously, they became more and more vibrant, until the whole forest was glowing like an emerald held up to the setting sun – a little dark, but green, definitely green, and so completely beautiful that it took Dean’s breath away –

“That’s all you get,” Naomi said, pulling back. Dean lifted his hand up to his eyes, ostensibly to rub away the slight afterglow that sharing colours often left. If Naomi noticed that his fingers came away wet, she didn’t comment on it.

“Thank you,” Dean said, pulling his glove back on. Naomi nodded curtly, and Dean turned away, disappeared into the rainwashed night.

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REBLOG | Posted 1 month ago With 2,624 notes + Ori. Via
tags: #fic rec





My friend Dev (she’s not in the tw fandom) found this fucking coke






where derek gets a coke and is like, contemplating how he can share it and like stiles is like


and tries to steal it or buy it off derek

who misconstrues and thinks stiles is soliciting him for sex

and like





Derek should be offended. He really really should, but he can’t help feel a little bit smug for…


"How much? Seriously, if it’s reasonable, I’ll pay it," the cute guy repeats and he just looks at Derek excitedly.

He knows it’s not the guy’s fault. Derek was turning on a corner, coming back from the grocery shopping, and ended up bumping into someone - his things ended up everywhere. And then the guy - cute moles, whiskey eyes even under the bad light, messy blowjob hair, lean muscles - grabs one of Derek’s just bought cokes and snaps his head up just looking at Derek with want, saying “how much?”

Derek gets it. He does. He was in a corner and he’s only wearing skinny jeans and a tight black shirt with a lot of holes on it and it’s freaking midnight. He probably does look like a hooker who stopped for a dinner break, considering that his groceries most included sodas and snacks. (And not to be cocky or anything, Derek works out. He knows what he looks like, alright. He might be shy, but he doesn’t lack on self-confidence.)

"Uh," Derek is able to form, when his brain starts working again, because cute guy wants to bone him "I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t be able to do that for money.”

Derek decides to ignore his blush. He is not blushing. And he’s most definitely not thinking that the guy’s frown is cute. Nop.

"Couldn’t you just give it to me, then?" Cute guy says teasing, but he sounds so hopeful and Derek wants to yell hell yeah, I would love to give it to you right here right now, but that would probably go bad; the guy is picking up hookers at a Wednesday night - Derek gets attached and cute guy  just wants to fuck around.

"I think you’re really cute, but I can’t. Sorry."

"Why not?" Oh man, cute guy has a really nice confused face. "You have no idea how long I’ve been looking for this, dude!" He even shakes Derek’s coke for emphasis "It has been months and I tried emailing an order for one, ya know, but apparently the minimum is a hundred of them at once and I’m thirsty for it, but not that thirsty! I mean, I thought about throwing a party and just sharing them all, but I thought it might be awkward later? Like, I’ve drank your…”

"I got it!" Derek hurries to interrupt and he’s blushing and ohmygod, he doesn’t know if he’s grossed out or turned on (since when Derek finds orgies hot? This guy is doing things to him!),because apparently cute guy almost paid for a thousand hookers and now is just begging for Derek. “I… I’m flattered that you’re asking it for me, really, but I…”

"I’ll give you a hundred bucks!" Cute guys just cuts him, like he wasn’t even listening. "Just, please…

Suddenly, Derek doesn’t feel so flattered anymore, because—-

"Only a hundred bucks? Seriously?

"I think that’s way more than fair!"

Excuse me?

"If it was the opposite, how much you think I’d charge you?"

"I don’t know!" Derek yells, "I already said I find you cute! I wouldn’t… But if I would, you’re worth at least a thousand!"

Cute opens his mouth, but abruptly shuts it.  ”Did you just say I’m worth a thousand?”

"Not you," he sighs, because he’s already completely red again, "a night with you, like… you know what I mean."

"Uh," cute guy is looking at him like Derek’s completely insane "I don’t think I do. Sooo, let’s make this clear: I was trying to buy your coke, because it has my name on it and you have no idea how hard it is to find a can that says Przemyslaw.”

Derek looks at the coke on cute guy’s - Przemyslaw - hands and…


Oh holy fuckin—-This is awkward.

"Now, please enlighten me with your version of the facts," he continues, because apparently he’s putting things together and enjoying Derek’s embarrassment.

"I… I thought you thought I was a hooker." Przemyslaw just burst out laughing and Derek wants to die. He does. Please bury him. Now. He doesn’t need to go through this shit, he… "Have the can. I’ll just…" kill myself somewhere else.

"Oh no. I get why you thought that… Now that I am replying our conversation, I can see my mistake. How much. Geez, I’m sorry to harass you. Not that it was my intention.”

"It’s fine. I was the one who got everything wrong." Because of course cute guy doesn’t want to sleep with him. Derek has no luck with his love life. "Look, Przemyslaw, I…"



"My name. Stiles. Well, everyone I know call me Stiles. Actually, only three people even know my real name. Well, four now.” Prz… Stiles said smiling. Derek only nodded. “And I know you just said I could have it, but wouldn’t you want to share a coke with me, like it says right here?”

"I thought you were offering me a hundred bucks for sex." Derek blurts out.

"And that’s hilarious. You’re the only person I ever heard saying my name properly. I can’t let you go now." Derek huffs, feeling himself blush again. "Besides, word is on the streets you find me cute."

"I thought you weren’t paying attention to what I was saying."

"Pfff, please. You think I’m worth at least a thousand bucks. I’m keeping you."

Derek rolls his eyes. “Don’t get too excited. Let’s share that coke first, shall we?”

They share the coke. And, in the end, Stiles does keep him.










TRUE STORY the reason I know what a mycologist is is that I accidentally wandered into a mycology convention once in San Diego and that is the first time I ever saw this book cover




I hope you weren’t kidding about that terrible Photoshop:




(I can’t even blame alcohol for this; I’ve only had half a beer.)


Stiles stared at the book, blinked a few times, and rubbed his eyes. Nope, it was still there, so it probably wasn’t a hallucination. He counted his fingers (ten, so not a dream). He poked the book, then picked it up. It certainly felt real.

Thus, according to Occam’s Razor, it was real.

"Scott," he hissed. "Scott. Scott.

Scott popped up from the other aisle. “What?”

"You have to see this."

Scott ambled over and poked his head over Stiles’s shoulder. “Uh,” he said. “Stiles?”


"Is that a picture of Derek on the cover of the book?"


"Is he wearing a tuxedo while carrying a trombone and a giant mushroom?"

"Two for two."

Scott stepped back and rubbed his head, opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I think my brain just broke.”

Without another thought, Stiles added the mushroom guide to the stack of books he balanced precariously in his arms.

Scott eyed him warily. “Are you actually buying that?”


Why?” Scott gaped at him. “What if Derek finds out you have it?”

Stiles grinned. “Oh, he will. I’m gonna get him to autograph it.”




REBLOG | Posted 1 month ago With 454 notes + Ori. Via
tags: #fic rec





“Don’t worry I can get this out in not time!” Stiles says while taking some napkins and starting to dab at the guys crotch. 

‘Great way to start the first day Stiles. Yeah piss off one of the big suits with a position above you and get yourself fired before you even- OH SHIT Stiles suddenly is pulled out of his thoughts as he falls back away from the guy barely keeping what left in his cup. ‘Wait, did his eyes just flash red?’

“Isaac tell Erica our meeting will have to be rescheduled while I deal with this,” he says while some guy with curly, can hair actually be that way?, runs behind the counter and picks up the phone.

“I’m so sorry, I was just just coming in for the interview. I’ll let myself out,” Stiles says backing up and getting ready to run from security He really needed this job okay.

“Get up, you know how to fax right?”

“What?!” Stiles said getting up and 

“Fax, facsimile. Issac will teach you. Don’t make me question Laura’s judgement. Get that stack right there and have them sent before lunch.

“That’s in half an hour!”

“Then you’d better get to it then,” the guy smirks before turning around and going though the heavy door into his corner office.

“I’ll help you in a second, don’t worry it’s a piece of cake but I’ve been busy with Derek’s schedule to do it. Don’t call him Derek, it’s a privilege. You’ll call him Mr. Hale or he’ll hunt down with his eyes and make you believe you could be dead from him staring at you,” the guy, Isaac as Stiles recalls is, says while transferring a call. 

Stiles runs to get these done barely making it with time to spare.

On his way back he may or may not think about how his first day consisted of pissing off his boss by spilling coffee on his suit, touching his crotch accidentally, or catching as he changed into the sleeveless shirt under his suit that was probably ruined now.

He didn’t go to the restroom and rub one out, he has self control. He just files those thoughts and images away for a later time when he’s alone. As he was about to ask what was next a buzz was heard.

“Isaac send him in here, we need to have a little talk,” coming though loud and clear as Stiles imagined the ground taking pity on him and swallowing him whole.

Isaac gave a look of sympathy mixed with annoyance if that was possible as Stiles started walking.

“Pull another stunt like that again and you’re fired,” Derek, no Mr. Hale said while typing away at his computer and glancing up. “You finished didn’t you?”


“We’ll there’s more right here, these aren’t as urgent but they still need to get done,” Mr. Hale said while going back to typing whatever it was.

“Alright, Mr. Hale,”

“What’s your name again? Stilinski right?” Derek, NO MR. HALE, don’t wanna get fired, said while looking up towards him again back at the door.

Mr. Hale’s arms were stretched out yet slightly bent, still showing off the definition of a weekly gym membership while he waited for a reply.

“Something wrong?” He asked looking down to see if some coffee had soaked though to his white undershirt before he had a chance to take it off.

“No, just. Uh, nice watch,” ‘Yeah, smooth move Stiles,’ “And my last name’s pretty long so people usually just call me Stiles,” he said feeling a paper cut or nose bleed coming.

“It was a gift, Isaac will tell you what’s next after that… Stiles,” he said a moment later as Stiles had to quickly put a foot back in the door to keep it from shutting. His arms not wanting to move as fast with all these papers.

“Yes, sir,”

“You don’t need to call me ‘Sir’, Mr. Hale is fine. Don’t be late again, we don’t want to have another slip up like today do we?” he said while going back to typing away.

Stiles hissed, “Yeah, won’t happen again Mr. Hale,” before leaving to get these done. 

He didn’t notice Derek staring at the way his khaki’s fit just right. (Tight) How he’d just out his neck while waiting for a reply during a conversation. 

‘This kid is just a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen,’ Derek though as he cursed Laura talking him into this intern thing.

Peter was probably laughing at his golf club. Why had he decided to go into the family business, Derek asked himself as he called Boyd and said they were drinking tonight, even if Erica might object, which she wouldn’t. She probably already heard what happened. 

What was he getting himself into. It felt more like being back into a corner than anything and Derek hated that.

wow!!!!thank you for the fic!!!!!!LOL stiles just got the point(the right part)

boss!derek is very charming kjlhkjlhjk

REBLOG | Posted 1 month ago With 718 notes + Ori. Via
tags: #fic rec


your tags again omg i couldn’t help myself

Derek enters the loft, wiping a smudge of engine grease lazily off his fingers and onto the white tank top he’s wearing. It’s a pretty good day, and he misses the Camaro, but that isn’t an excuse to keep his car up to shape.

Derek stops in surprise when he sees the pack gathered round in the living room, all wearing somber expressions on their faces, except Stiles, who is bearing his trademark “I am so annoyed right now but I can’t tell you why” face.

"What’s going on, guys?" Derek asks cautiously. If it was a supernatural emergency surely someone would have jumped in on the news and panic already. Instead, Allison nudges Scott, who coughs nervously and stands up.

"Derek, as your Alpha, I just want you to know that you are a respected and integral part of the pack," Scott says slowly in a rehearsed voice.

Derek crosses his arms as Scott pulls out flashcards and starts to shuffle through them.

Lydia smacks Scott on the arm, causing the flashcards to spill out over the floor. “Derek, you need to get some new clothes,” she says primly.

"What’s wrong with my clothes?" Derek asks, looking down and picking at his tank top and worn jeans.

"Derek, we’re a well-known pack in the Greater North Pacific territories," Scott says earnestly. "You’re a high-ranking beta and you can’t look like…"

The pack derails into a discussion about Derek’s too-tight t-shirts, his leather jacket, his tank tops, and how any combination of the three are not professional at all, especially when other packs roll through town. When Derek grudgingly accepts that his “look” is important to the well-being of the pack and agrees to change, Lydia claps her hands delightedly.

"Alright, upstairs, you. Here are some boxes. We’re going to need you to donate everything in your closet and then we’re going to get you some new clothes."

Derek takes the boxes reluctantly, noticing Stiles scowling in the corner. That was a bit strange, considering Stiles usually jumped at the chance to make fun of Derek whenever he got.

Upstairs, Derek starts pulling items from his closet, grabbing piles of clothing and shoving them into the boxes. He hears someone thundering up the stars and figures its probably someone from the pack to make sure he’s actually doing what they asked, and is slightly surprised when Stiles bursts in through the door with a determined face and slams a piece of paper on the nearby dresser.

Derek stares at Stiles, who doesn’t say anything, just flushes with color and then leaves rapidly. He picks up the paper and it reads in Stiles’ hurried scrawl, OFFICIAL PETITION TO SAVE DEREK’S TANK TOPS. Underneath the large banner is “STILES STILINSKI,” underlined three times.

Derek blinks for a bit and then laughs, folding the paper and putting it in his pocket. He unpacks the one box and shoves all of it back in his closet.

At the next pack meeting, Derek deliberately wears his tightest, rattiest tank top, the one that is practically ripped across the chest and worn so thin its nearly transparent. He endures the groans from the rest of the pack and the lecture Scott gives him and focuses on the dazed look on Stiles’ face, the erratic beat of his heart, and the wafting scent of arousal drifting from him.

Later, Stiles learns, that he likes Derek’s tank tops a lot, but he sure as hell likes him out of them as well.

REBLOG | Posted 1 month ago With 1,708 notes + Ori. Via
tags: #fic rec
You know those videos of animals that have been kept in captivity all their lives being released and finally getting to run around/swim/fly? I want a Teen Wolf fic like that. Stiles frees Derek from a lifetime in a cage, and for the first time Derek gets to shift at will, or speak, or integrate into a proper pack.




Derek frolicking in the grass like a puppy? HELL YES.


IMAGINE IF YOU WILL a Derek Hale who was captured by the hunters who burned his family, who was sold to a weird strain of emissaries, looking to test new strains of wolfsbane.  He’s been kept underground for years in a sunless, windowless cell, where he’s been held down and hurt by impersonal, sterile hands.  

When Peter bites Scott, maybe he and Stiles figure most of it out on their own, maybe they follow the tracks and they find Derek, because maybe they think Derek’s their best chance to go up against Peter.  

But they don’t expect what they find, a Derek who hasn’t seen the sun, who has to be tugged out into the sunshine, who walks carefully, like he doesn’t trust the ground underneath them.  Maybe Stiles takes as a personal challenge, after Peter is dealt with and the world goes back to normal, to help integrate Derek, to show him the good things in life like sunshine and curly fries.

The Jeep rolls to a stop; they’re in a secluded clearing in the preserve, dappled sunlight flickering into the green grass swaying in the wind. “Why isn’t he getting out of the car?” Scott hisses to Stiles.

The passenger door is open, and Derek is eyeing them and the surroundings hesitantly. 

"Just give him a minute," Stiles whispers. 

Stiles tugs Scott into a sitting position on the grass, and they sit quietly, trying to pretend they aren’t extremely invested in what’s happening a few feet away from them. 

It takes an age, but finally when it looks like Scott and Stiles aren’t looking, Derek steps out of the Jeep. He’s still barefoot; they haven’t had time to find shoes since the rescue. His foot hovers over the grass for a second, and then Derek sets his feet down, one at a time.

His eyes close, and the wind stirs his hair a little, inhaling deeply the scent of the forest, arms spreading out to feel the sunlight on his skin.

A wave of contentment surges through Stiles as he watches Derek drop to the ground, rubbing his cheek against the grass, a delighted smile breaking onto his face for the first time since they’ve met him.

It’s difficult to reconcile the snarling werewolf they first encountered in that cage with the man now currently rolling around happily in the grass.

It’s nice, Stiles thinks. Happy is a good look for him.  



a weak and tortured bucky making sure steve gets to safety first

It’s because Bucky has a habit of letting Steve go first.


1) Always let Steve go first up the stairs, so that you can keep an eye on him.  It’s easier to count Steve’s breaths and notice when Steve’s heart does that thing that makes him stop and shake.  Much easier to stop and pretend to tie your shoes while you wait, worried, than to realize 2 flights too late that Steve’s no longer with you. 

Later: Your limbs are sore and numb from being strapped to a table for 2 days and you’re pretty sure you haven’t eaten and the entire base might be exploding, but when Steve says “let’s go up,” you tell him to go first.


2) Steve’s walk was mostly normal, though he swung his hips in a certain way to compensate for his scoliosis, and that put a special cadence to his stride that you unconsciously match. Even without Steve around you would twist your hip back before swinging your leg forward.  Twist, swing, twist, swing.

Later: Steve is leading the way through the forest, and you’re finally used to his height and broad shoulders and that dumb shield, but something still feels wrong.  Somehow your pace doesn’t quite match, and you can’t figure out why.


3) Colors don’t work the same with Steve, so always describe unfamiliar objects by their shape and relative location, like that square window past the third door on the left, or the man wearing that unseasonably long coat standing in the corner by the garbage can.

Later: The boys are singing in the other room and you’re at the bar with Steve, trying very hard to get drunk because of course you’ll follow Steve into whatever but that doesn’t mean you have to do it sober.  “Steve,” you whisper, “Check out that lady by the door, next to that short thin guy who has his shirt open.”  Steve looks over.  “The one in the red dress?  That’s Miss Carter.”  You decide you need another drink.


4) When walking down a narrow dark alleyway always stay on the right, because Steve’s bad ear makes the right side feel blind to him (though damn if Steve’d ever admit that).  On broad open streets, switch to Steve’s left side, so that Steve could hear you better through the noise.

Later: Dum-Dum gives you a weird look as you line up to charge into a Hydra base.  “Why won’t you take the left flank for a change?”  You start explaining Steve’s bad ear before you remember that he’s not that Steve any more, and that Captain America doesn’t have a bad ear.


5) Stuff in your left pockets are for Steve: the asthma cigarettes that Steve could never afford, a dime for that popcorn that Steve likes, tickets for whatever shindig you’re trying to drag Steve along to. Sometimes you put things there for Steve and totally forget about it, like extra paper and a spare pencil in case Steve wants to doodle.  The left side always belongs to Steve.

Later: Steve is awfully quiet by the campfire.  You sit down by his good ear and reach into your left pocket.  “Hey,” you say, pulling out a news clipping about the war front that featured a lovely photo of Miss Carter.  “You read this yet?  They think Morita’s a Japanese defector, but the section on Dernier is priceless.”


Still later:

Report on the Winter Soldier reset procedures

After the latest test run, only the following anomalies remain:

A) The asset tends to hug the right walls and not the left, and hesitates for 30 microseconds before climbing stairs.  However, he does not hesitate when scaling walls or ladders.

B) When walking unopposed the asset has a characteristic and identifiable stride, which is dropped when he is making a covered approach.  

C) The asset communicates via relative locations, often omitting crucial color information.  However, he can be commanded to describe the colors of any object in impressive detail.

D) When dressing himself, the asset keeps his knives exclusively on his right side, and his left pockets are underutilized.  This may be an effect of continued unfamiliarity with the new left arm.

After extensive field testing, we have determined that these anomalies do not impede the asset from completing his missions, and declare the reset process complete.


[basically the textual partner to the colorblindness comic]

[The rest of my Captain America stuff]