anonymous said:

Would you be able to make a sterek rec list for college AUs? I have read a few in the past, but feel like I may have missed some! Thank you in advance! You have great rec lists!

50 Sterek College AU recs

  • The Chemistry Between Us by coffeeinallcaps (E, 26k) Meeting Derek Hale wasn’t special, or frightening, or any of the other things everyone had made it out to be. It was, actually, pretty much the opposite. Stiles didn’t even realize the guy was Derek Hale until the moment had passed. Derek: the most infamous student at Beacon Hills University. Stiles: the freshman who falls for him anyway. Awkward encounters, concerned friends, and lots of not-so-casual sex ensue. (A ‘fuckbuddies to lovers’ college AU.)
  • The Noble Tie That Binds by minusoneday (E, 50k)  So far, college has taught Stiles three things: 1) Eight am classes are cruel and unusual and should be avoided at all costs, even if it means having to enroll in something truly hideous instead, like Econ 101. 2) Dorm security is just as tight as Stiles’ orientation leader had promised it would be, and the dude guarding Scott’s dorm in particular does not respond well to bribes. 3) Mrs. McCall clearly had no clue what she was talking about when she’d insisted that Scott and Stiles needed to branch out and room with strangers, so it’s all her fault that Scott ended up with a total dick of a roommate and Stiles got stuck all the way across campus with some guy who has a girlfriend two towns over and is thus never around. Or, the one where pledge brothers Stiles and Scott start a prank war with Derek Hale’s fraternity.
  • No Homo by RemainNameless (E, 84k) Stiles’ sophomore year starts something like this: 3 FourLokos + 1 peer-pressuring cat - 1 best bro to end all best bros= 1 Craigslist ad headline that reads “str8 dude - m4m - strictly platonic”. Derek is the fool who replies.
  • Reach Out by weathervaanes (E, 20k) Stiles sees the flyer on his very last day at Beacon Hills High School. It’s hanging, unassuming, in the hall near the front entrance along with bulletins and other flyers, advertisements, posters for free student concerts, but the fact that the word “sex” is written in a font two times larger than the rest of the page catches his attention. It’s an advice hotline for a whole range of things, from teenage angst to how to deal with your parents telling you you’re adopted and a whole mess in the middle. Stiles thinks it’s funny, though, that they offer advice on sexuality and sex education. It makes sense on the one hand, since high school sex ed does jack shit for actual learning, but anyone who really wants to know stuff has an infinite source of knowledge right on their phone—the internet. So it starts off as a joke.
  • Linski’s Late Night Antidote to Lame by WhoNatural (T, 14k) Where Stiles has his own college radio show, and the mysterious, faceless Derek is his number one fan. Also there’s this really hot guy he keeps meeting in the library who totally hates his guts.
  • Fireman Derek’s Crazy Pie (Cheeseburger Baby) by owlpostagain (T, 18k) “He can’t blame me for the fact that I live in a building full of people united in the singular effort to ogle Hot Fireman as often as humanly possible.” Laura laughs, loud and echoing in the empty restaurant. ”Hot firemen can make a girl do crazy things,” she agrees, nodding towards her brother’s name on the menu. “Derek won’t let me date anyone from his company, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the eye candy.” ”Send them my way,” Stiles suggests, finally loading up a forkful of pie. “Apparently I’m incompetent enough that I need to be babysat at all times, because it would be cheaper than dispatching a truck every time I try to use a kitchen appliance.”
  • Field Season by MsCee (E, 7k) Derek Hale is content with his life as full-time academic and official department hermit, and he’s not going to let the likes of Stiles Stilinski change that. Hell, he’s not even going to think about Stiles Stilinski, because that way madness lie. Well, madness is an inevitable outcome of thinking about Stiles, but the madness of trying to not murder him is less traumatic than that of acknowledging that half of his infuriation stems from the quirk of Stiles’s bowed lips and the distraction of his long fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his notebook. Woah now, he’s firmly stuck in madness territory. Pull it together, Hale.

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Dean is seated at the dining room table, surrounded by his family and a Thanksgiving spread that would make the Pilgrims green with envy. Sam sits on his right and beside him is Jessica, their fingers interlaced beneath the table. She’s smiling just as big as he is—blond hair cascading over her shoulders and swollen belly— and though her laughter is muted from the outside looking in, it apparently doesn’t lack in contagion. 

John and Mary, albeit a few years older than remembered, sit across from them. Mary is beaming with happiness and adoration, watching on as John and Dean hunch over the table and lock hands for an apparent arm wrestling contest. There’s some silenced name calling among the clapping and laughing but they remain evenly matched for the most part. The two don’t separate until Castiel emerges from the kitchen, balancing a large tray with both hands and playfully rolling his eyes at the domestic display of threatened masculinity. 

Cas places a rather impressive looking turkey in the center of the table and wipes his his hands off against his apron, turning with the intent of going back into the kitchen to retrieve the stuffing but halting once Dean catches his wrist. Dean gives him a little tug and leans up to peck his lips affectionately, smiling into his mouth and probably murmuring something along the lines of, “it looks great, babe,” or some cheesy line about kissing the cook.

"We need to keep moving," Dean says after a long silence, catching a glimpse of another one of Zacariah’s searchlights off in the distance. 

"But Dean—" 

"Let’s go, Sammy," Dean interjects, reluctantly peeling his eyes away from the window just as Castiel tosses his apron over the back of his chair and joins the rest of the family at the table, sitting in the previously vacant seat beside the projected Dean.

After a few more moments of lingering, the two of them head back the way they came. However, it isn’t until they are back in the Impala that Sam speaks up again. 

"What was that?" The younger Winchester asks, peering over at his brother from the passenger’s seat. 

"Heaven," Dean states stoically, green eyes focused on the dark, winding road ahead, "it’s uh…my Heaven." 

“I love you.”

Kurt lifts his head from Blaine’s shoulder, brows raised in mild surprise. “I love you, too.” He smiles, a warm fluttery sensation spreading in his chest. “Is there a particular reason you just said that?”

Blaine returns his smile, nuzzling their noses together. “Do I need to have a reason to tell you I love you?” He gently squeezes Kurt’s side where he has his arm draped around him.

“Of course not,” Kurt replies in a soft voice, placing a small kiss onto Blaine’s lips. “I was just surprised.” He looks into Blaine’s warm eyes. “I hope…,” he pauses, swallowing. “I just hope you’ll never stop doing that.”

Blaine seems to be a bit taken aback by that comment, his thick brows furrowing together. “Why would I ever stop telling you that I love you? What kind of twisted alternate universe are you picturing right now?”

That immediately brings a big smile back to Kurt’s lips. “So, you promise? You’ll never stop telling me that you love me?”

Blaine pulls him even closer against his side, pressing his lips against Kurt’s forehead. “Never. As long as I’m breathing, I’ll always tell you that I love you. I promise.”

the boy with the moon eyes

pairings: killua/gon

words: 1743

notes1: inspired by nageesuh's amazing tag for killua, boy with the moon eyes. 

notes2: au. reincarnation. the whole shebang. i’m sorry. ;A;

notes3: the poem i used in the story is from the ancient japanese hundred poems! not by me lol! & this fic is also on ao3!



The boy with the moon eyes looks sad more often than not.

Gon notices this—notices him—all by accident. It happens during classtime, one day, somewhere between Math and Poetry. The teachers are switching rooms and Gon isn’t paying much attention; he’s never been good with math but he’s never really liked poems, either. They’re just as bad as equations, with words and feelings he cannot know or place.

So he lingers on what he does know; his gaze drifts to the window at the side of the room, to the green and blue beyond the glass. He hears the teacher upfront shuffling papers, reciting a line of poetry: Long last we meet, only for me to leave hurriedly—

A chill traces down Gon’s back, as if a ghost or wind has parted through him. He blinks, once, then twice, and then turns back to the window.

for I could not recognize you, like the moon hidden behind the clouds.

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Blaine takes a dare while tipsy. What could go terribly wrong suddenly goes wonderfully right.

took some silly liberties with “kissed them as a distraction while stealing their wallet au” from this post 

Blaine Devon Anderson is a good, upstanding citizen. He pays his bills on time, he holds doors open for people behind him, and he even saved a cat stuck in a tree once. Unfortunately, even after just one drink, his internal decision-maker starts to go slightly haywire.

Usually, it’s not a problem. He doesn’t drink often, and when he does, he’s with friends who keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. Like that one time he saw a guy subtly terrorizing some young women who were obviously not from the city and decided to solve the problem by punching him in the face. Sure, his intentions had been good, but he ended up getting knocked out in retaliation and was lucky not to be charged with anything. At least the girls were able to get out of that bar and, presumably, return to their hotel safely.

"Hey man, are you coming?"

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AU: Animals hold all the jobs that people normally have.

Milo the orange kitty loves his friend Boomer.  And he loves all the animals he works with at Maddie’s Fund.  But he had to admit the daily grind was starting to wear him down.

What he really needed to bring some color back into his life was a person of his very own.  People were the best, because they came with laps to sit in and hands to pet him.

He’d be sad if he had to leave Maddie’s Fund, but it would be worth it for a person!

Can you get Milo a new job?  A lap of his own? Then contact Sheila at 774-219-4763 or!

You're Mine

Dean imagine requested by anon. This imagine has been edited for reposting, just to add description to my beginner’s writing. Hope you like it.

WARNING: Implied smut

You strode into the bar, tailing Dean as he paved his way through the sparse crowd of drunken strangers, the sound of an Irish drinking song bouncing off the walls, the air vibrating with the fervor of the patrons. As was so common in the bars your type visit (‘your type’ here meaning men and women with low life expectancies and even lower standards), the lighting was seedy, a murky yellow hue cast onto the furniture, wood gleaming dully, the whole place smelling strongly of cheap liquor and generic multipurpose cleaner, citrus, bleach, and prayers. The wood floor was scuffed and splintering beneath your feet, shards of pine stabbing into the soles of your boots, a precarious, danger-riddled dance floor, open-toed shoes unwelcome. Dean’s hand snaked around your waist as you moved forward to the counter, his shoulder leaning into yours, his body acting as a human shield to ward away any unruly customers, your eyes shifting to the end of the bar, where your subject was sitting. Her skin-tight black bandage dress and slender stiletto heels made your combat boots, skinny jeans and bomber jacket look oh so lower class in comparison. Her hair, spilling from an elegant updo in curly tendrils, was a feat your uncooperative locks could never dream of accomplishing. You beat back insecurities with the likelihood of your poor informant earning her keep as a prostitute, your confidence swelling like an injured bird, sporadic bursts of envy nipping at your heartstrings. Dean waltzed to her side, tapping her shoulder to assure her attention was on him before flashed his faux fed badge. She turned expectantly to you, brown eyes squinting and perfectly plucked eyebrows raised, she pursed her lips, ruby lipstick gleaming, the yellow sheen of the residence playing on the colour like light on water, an infuriatingly charming effect you deemed hostile. You sighed, struggling to remain professional, presenting your empty palms to the seductress before you, fighting your frown to keep your face neutral, pleasant even.

“I’m in the internship program. I don’t have a badge yet.” You explained, speaking through your teeth, cracking an admittedly pathetic version of a smile to keep up your officer-of-the-law charade. Dean’s badge went back inside his jacket, his hands fidgeting within for a moment too long, practiced as he was in retrieving or replacing his fabricated plastic identity. The woman’s eyes darted within his jacket, devouring his muscled chest beneath the tidy white button-down, her eyes glimmer hungrily, gaze lingering too long for your liking. Dean buttoned his jacket, emerald eyes fixated on hers, never breaking eye contact.

“We’re here to talk to you about the attack you witnessed. Is there anything you remember? Details, faces, the, uh, sex of the offender?” Dean asked, stumbling over his examples, his voice dipping deeper, his tone suaver than usual, your eyes locking on his profile, face heating. The woman licked her berry-stained lips, leaning herself against the counter of the bar, picking up on your boyfriend’s subtle flirtation, as you had.

“I don’t know, but a drink might help.” She had the nerve to sleaze, her fingers fiddling with the hem of Dean’s jacket, tugging him closer. To your shock, Dean inched closer to her. You may have growled, or huffed in disgust at the least, because the woman refocused her attention, her face displaying her irritation like war paint, her lips parting with her distatse. “I’m sorry, who are you again?” She asked.

“I’m an intern, as I said before, the only time you spoke to me, but more importantly, I’m his gir-” you started, your tone building in harshness, working your way to a verbal smack-down, but you were cut off by Dean, who gave you a telling look of… disapproval, it appeared.

“Sister. She’s my sister. Why don’t you go wait in the car while I talk to this beautiful young woman over a glass of wine?” He suggested, smiling at the woman, her fingernails fidgeting with the glossy buttons of his jacket, staring at you with victory floating about in the slimy gleam of her eye. You couldn’t believe your ears. You scoffed in disbelief, turning from the happy couple, storming out of bar, shoving your way through the crowd, your exit accompanied by a chorus of disgruntled, slurred insults at your hasty departure. After an hour of waiting, Dean climbed into the car, apologizing the second he opened his door.

“Y/n, before you tear me a new one, I was just doing my job. I was just doing it for the information.” He said, turning the key in the ignition. You struggled to maintain a nonviolent demeanor.

“Did you get it?” You snarled, steam whistling in your head. Dean nodded, holding up a slip of paper. You snatched the note, unfolding it to find details of a supposed mugging jotted down in hasty, sloppy scribbles. Surely, you were looking at a vetala. You flipped the paper over to its opposite side, ten digits greeting you beside a berry-lipstick kiss. You clenched your jaw, hands trembling in rage.

“Oh, come on, Y/n! Its not like I’m going to call her! Y/n, she’s a skank. You aren’t… jealous, are you?” He asked, revving the engine. You laid a hand on his, prepared to prohibit him from driving, but he quickly explained that he hadn’t actually had anything to drink. He ppulled the car out of the parking lot, engine roaring as Baby’s tires raced along the highway.

“Of course not,” you mumbled. You driven for ten minutes, tops, when you thought the time was right. “Pull over.” You commanded, voice flat as abandoned soda, your face locked on the road ahead. Dean glanced at you, checking you over, eyes flickering to the expanse of asphalt every second or two, his expression crumpled with his concern.

“What? Why? You’re not gonna puke, are you?” He asked. “You feeling alright?” You kept your face blank, turning your head to face him.

“Pull. Over.” You repeated, the hunter edging toward the outermost lane of the highway. He drove the Impala off the shoulder, wheels sinking into the cushioned grass ribbon between the road and the forest. He looked at you expectantly, awaiting an explanation. You simply removed your seat belt, pealed your jacket from your shoulders and climbed into the back seat, grabbing Dean by the hand and forcing him to follow you. He very happily obliged. Once he was on top of you in the backseat, you moved your lips to his, teeth dragging his lips closer when he parted for breath, his chest pressing against your own. He held himself above you, his arms flexed beside your shoulders, his hips dipping between yours, his dress pants wrinkling, cramped as you were in the cabin of the classic Chevy. You unbuttoned the first few buttons on his dress shirt, reaching within, pulling him closer by the necklace you found beneath the cotton, hands tugging his suit jacket sleeves. He shimmied out of both jacket and shirt, garments falling to the floor of the vehicle, your hands roaming the planes of his scarred, yet perfectly muscled chest. Your palm fit over the handprint scar left behind from his trip to Hell, ridges of inflamed skin warming your flesh where they touched. Your fingers threaded themselves into the hair on the back of his head, pulling him away. He winced, then grinned, a breathy chuckle filtering through his excited panting. You were both already sweating, his forehead glistening with the beginnings of dew.

“Not jealous, huh? Not at all?” He whispered, his voice husky, eyes bearing down on your form. You kissed him again, moving until you were laying on his chest, pinning him down with both hands on his chest.

“You’re mine, got it?” You whispered, bending yourself forward atop him, pressing your words against his lips. His breathing was heavy, agitated. You snickered, fingers tracing down his abdomen as you worked your way away from him. His eyes rolled back in his sockets, lips parted in frustration.

“Oh, screw it.” He growled, quickly flipping your bodies over, his hand securing you to his chest, until he had you pinned, his hands holding yours above your head as he kissed his way down your neck, across your collarbone, stopping where they meet in the hollow of your neck. You tried to hold in a strangled whimper, the shift of power unanticipated, but lovely nonetheless. Dean smiled mischievously, planting a wet kiss by the collar of your shirt, smiling into your skin.

“I think she might be the jealous one.” You breathed, pulse hammering in your head. Dean laughed into your skin and kissed you again, his heart pounding against yours as your bodies began to move.

we skip the light, run flaming through the night

(part 1/?)

It happens over the damnest things.

Like, they’re in a wallmart, and Dean is just pushing the cart back to where he left Cas to critically inspect the three dozen different kinds of cereal that probably all taste the same (but Cas hasn’t been human for long, can’t fault the guy for wanting to try stuff even if it’s horrible).

Half the cart is already stashed with salt, bandages, whiskey, and a small armada of freaking joghurts for Sam, and Dean would rather get the hell away from everyone’s suspiscious and disapproving stares as quickly as fucking possible, but he rounds the corner and just stops.

Because there, right were he left him, is Cas, in the jeans they got him and his jet black coat, a package of something that promises to be tasty delicious in his hands, and he’s frowning at it, his eyes all squinty and his face scrunched up, and he’s laying his Laser Stare of Annihilation on the stuff, like he’s interrogating the very fucking molecules of it, like it could be lying to him about the tasty thing and actually be scarringly awful if he buys it, so he’s already considering unyielding his still terrifying wrath on it’s sugary little crunchy bits.

And it’s – it’s such a Cas thing to do, this, all of it, any of it, and Dean’s breath catches, his chest is suddenly too tight and he has to bite his lip to keep from smiling so hard he might break something.

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