it is the worst sweater i have ever seen

summersaltturn  asked:

"Have anyone told you you have the most intimidating nostrils I've ever seen?"

“Yeah, I won an award, junior year,” Derek answers, frowning at his new IKEA (bought and built, all in a soft Henley sweater; Stiles knows, he supervised) book-shelf, like he hasn’t just finished a seven hundred page tome on Egyptian artefacts. A seven hundred page tome on Egyptian artefacts alone.

Derek Hale: epic nerd and assembler of easy-to-build IKEA products. Of course, Stiles thinks, cursing his stupid Professor and DIY kinks. Why not? The worst part is, he doesn’t even think those kinks are sexual. It’s just….a thing. That he has. A Derek thing. The Butterflies That Live In His Stomach were trying so desperately to move on with their lives, too. They’d shopped around. Hired a real-estate agent. They were ready, goddammit!  

Derek settles on a book - Stiles is pretty sure it also has the word ‘artefacts’ in the title - and sighs, all feigned nostalgia, and glances over his shoulder. “It was a golden nose, too. Across the bottom it said,” he pauses, grinning, “Stiles Stilinski needs to get a life.”

Stiles opens his mouth, clutches his chest, because rude much? Is it his fault Derek’s nostrils belong in some kind of anatomy museum? Is it his fault his Saturday nights are spent playing video games in his underwear, when his week days are spent chasing down monsters and researching things like how Scott and Erica managed to contract chicken pox when stabbing them does, like, nothing? (Except get Erica excited because she’s a beautiful, terrifying weirdo.) The moment he tries to tell Derek this, however, a copy of - is that Pride and Prejudice? - is thrown at his head. 

Stiles doesn’t know if he’s more offended when Derek rolls his eyes when it misses him, or the concerned look that crosses his face when the book sails past him and lands in an empty pizza box, like Derek is worried if it’s okay or not. 

And to think, Stiles was going to screw up his courage and finally invite Derek to see a movie this weekend. In an actual theatre. Where people go to be normal. Well, the laugh is on Derek because Stiles is going to buy the big popcorn and he’s going to enjoy it all on his own. 

Yeah, that’ll show him. 


“Has anyone ever told you your eyebrows could star in a disturbing kid’s movie about caterpillars?” 

Stiles is drunk. No, he’s wasted. Hammered. Loaded. Completely and utterly shit faced. Which is probably why instead of ending up on his ass on the floor, Derek just pinches the bridge of his nose, tips his head against the back of the couch and says, “what.” Not even a hint of inflection.

This dude, Stiles thinks, and then laughs because, ohmygod, Derek is this dude now. Not that dude or whoa, what are you doing crawling through my window, dude? but this dude. And that’s kind of beautifully heart warming, in its own way. 

Really, Stiles should write into Hallmark. It could be a trilogy. A Gay Trilogy ™. Bisexuals on ice. Except, without the ice because Stiles doesn’t know how to skate. Can Derek skate? Stiles totally bets Derek can skate.   

Speaking of Derek, he’s got this little crinkle on his forehead now, right between his eyebrows, and man, they really are very nice eyebrows. Animated but nice. A little dramatic but nice. Murderous but nice.

“What,” Derek says again, looking more confused than annoyed by the second. Stiles really wants to kiss him.

Instead, he stares. Stares and stares and stares.


Slapping a hand over his mouth, he begins laughing uncontrollably and before he knows it, he’s clutching his sides and has his face pressed against Derek’s chest, because the hilarity is killing him. 

Because this is them now. Drinking peach-snaps at Derek’s loft, on a couch filled with throw pillows. Throw pillows. One is even soft and pink and frilly and another has a picture of the pack on it. Granted, no one is looking at the camera but Derek, Boyd and Kira and Derek is not so much looking at the camera as yelling at Stiles (holding the camera) for eating his secret stash of cookies, but it’s nice. It’s a nice picture. There is a plain black pillow too, of course. Somewhere. Stiles might be sitting on it, actually. He figures one can only expect so much when it comes to sour-wolves but Erica glued little cat ears on it last week and Derek said nothing. Fuck, he’d even smiled.

It says a lot about what a secret softie Derek is when it comes to vulnerable, drunk-ass people, because he doesn’t push Stiles away; just lets him laugh and laugh until he passes out, drooling on his chest. 

When Stiles wakes up, Derek’s sweater is pretty soaked through but he hasn’t moved an inch. He does, however, tell Stiles he snores like a deranged goose and that he owes him a pastry later.

He doesn’t even ask for a specific kind, Stiles chastises in his head, falling back to sleep. He’s in love with a pastry idiot. 


“Do you know when you smile, you brighten up the whole damn room?”

The question clearly catches Derek off guard because he falls head first…into a duck pond. 

Stiles’ first reaction is to jump in after him - he hates to admit it, but he gets a little nervous around water when Derek is with him; there have been several incidents where he’s unconsciously grabbed Derek’s hand in order to drag him away from pools and, one time, a very large puddle - but when Derek emerges, wearing his someone is about to die face, Stiles can’t be held accountable for the way he falls to the ground because, yup, that’s a tiny, outraged duckling perched on top of Derek’s head.   

“Oh my god,” he yells, rolling onto his back and kicking his legs in the air. He feels like a kid, grabbing his stomach, water practically pouring from his eyes. This was, quite possibly, the best day of his life.

Normally, Derek would be yelling threats - several, in fact, some in Spanish because he’s a show off - but he just stands there….in the middle of a fucking pond. The duckling is still sitting on his head, like he or she plans to set up home there and it’s so adorable Stiles thinks he actually coos out loud.

Still, Derek still doesn’t say anything. Not even when Stiles coos again, very, very deliberately. (And Scott said his middle name could never be Danger, pffft.) Stiles can’t actually guess what Derek is going to do but he doesn’t care. He looks a strange cross between wanting to murder someone - namely, Stiles - and a little kid who was told they couldn’t get a puppy only to get one on Christmas day anyway. 

Mostly, he just looks lost. And wet. Very, very wet. Somewhere out there, someone is playing It’s Raining Men and Stiles wants nothing more than to share this glorious moment with them. He’s just in the process of taking out his phone to at least snap a photo to send to the pack when - 

“Did you mean it?” Derek asks, and man, those water droplets just keep on running, don’t they. 

Stiles grins. “Did I mean for you to fall into a pond and adopt a new feathered friend? No but I think we can all agree-” 


Derek growls and it would be effective - at least in getting Stiles to help him out of the pond - if it wasn’t for the fact his ears were turning a little pink. A lot pink, actually and - 


Sitting up, Stiles drags his butt over to the edge of the pond.

“Yeah,” he says. “I meant it. I mean, smiles can’t literally light up rooms, I know that, but when you smile it’s like…” He sighs and flaps his arms, suddenly nervous, hitting Derek in the process. The duckling practically glares at him and Stiles briefly wonders if he has competition here. 

Right. Better make this good then. He clears his throat. 

“It’s like, everything just makes sense for a little bit, you know? I look at you and it’s not that smiling is rare for you, at least not anymore, but it’s still pretty thrilling to see it and when you do I’m like, that’s some quality shit right there but then I get confused because it’s like, do I wanna punch it? Kiss it? Pet it? Who knows. Usually it depends on what you’re wearing.” 

Derek blinks and Stiles groans because, yeah, he just said that out loud. In real time. To Mr McGrumpy himself. Who is currently not reacting.


“Uh, I mean,” he attempts to correct himself but it’s too late. Derek is already slowly pulling him in and pressing his lips to his in what is the single most innocent, chaste kiss of Stiles’ life - because, you know, duckling and head movements - but somehow, it still manages to be perfect. 

“Nice,” Stiles whispers, after, waggling his eyebrows.

Derek snorts and kisses him again.


“Turn it off,” Derek whines, nuzzling further into Stiles’ neck. “This is why I leave my phone in the kitchen. Like we discussed.

Stiles tries to swat him, ends up kissing his temple. Sue him, he’s tired. “Says the person who can afford to leave their phone in the kitchen. We don’t all have supernatural hearing, asshole.”

Derek whines again. “You also have the worst taste in ringtones.”

Stiles gasps, suddenly sitting up. Well, he tries to. When your boyfriend is made of muscle and is half lying on top of you, it makes moving a lot more difficult. Not that Stiles is really complaining. Much. “I’ll have you know Bushes of Love is a Star Wars parody classic.”    

Derek rolls his eyes, Stiles can feel it, says, “just answer it, sweetums.” 

“Ugh,” Stiles grimaces, “I already told you I’m sorry for the pet-name thing. It was an accident!”

“Calling me your ‘slutty buddy’ in front of your dad was meant as a pet name?”

“It sounded better in my head!”  

Derek groans and wraps an “exasperated” arm around Stiles’ waist. Oh. So. Exasperated. Stiles grins. “Answer. Your. Phone.” 

Stiles finds his phone on the fifth try.

He has fifteen missed calls, all from Erica. Texts too. Every single one is a link to some article online, followed by a string of heart and eggplant emojis.   

Young Love and the Ugly Duckling’,” Stiles reads, clicking on the link. “Uhhh, Derek?” He prods him. 


There’s a picture of us in the online Beacon Gazette,” looking into each other’s eyes, like a pair of love sick fools, Stiles wants to add because, wow, is he really that obvious when he looks at Derek? To be fair though, Derek isn’t much better and he is the one with an angry bird on his head.

He prods Derek again and again until he finally gives in, makes him look at the phone. 

“Huh,” he says, blinking at it. “Fred looks pretty pissed that I’m kissing you.” His face breaks out in a smug grin and Stiles rolls his eyes. Hard. 

“You are aware Fred is a duckling, right?” 

“Yes.” Derek grins harder, showing all his teeth, although his cheeks do colour slightly when he catches Stiles’ eye. 

Stiles sighs, totally not fond. “They couldn’t have come up with a better title, though?” he asks, brandishing his phone. “The Ugly Ducking, really?” 

Yeah,” Derek says, frowning. “I mean, I wouldn’t go as far as to call you ugly.” He laughs and Stiles smacks him across the chest with a loud, “hey!”

They both turn back to look at the picture. 

“We look so stupid,” Stiles whispers, shaking his head and biting his thumb. We fit, he thinks. We look like we fit. 

Leaning in, Derek smiles at him. “We do,” he agrees, burying his face back into the warmth of Stiles’ neck, muttering something about home and content and stupid Star Wars parodies.

Stiles snaps a selfie, captions it goals, and sends it to Erica. 

anonymous asked:

Love me Hongice?


“No- oh God no. Please… Please tell me you’re not seriously going to get that.”
Iceland huffed and threw the sweater at Hong Kong.
“Shut up! There’s nothing wrong with it!”
The Asian country gave the Nordic a sceptical look, before examining the sweater again.
“Ok, Emil, darling, babe, you know I totally love you and everything and these look, like, really cute on you… But this is the worst colour scheme I’ve ever seen.”
“I think it looks fine,” Iceland snapped, the tips of his ears burning from embarrassment at the nicknames. “I like it…”
Leon bit on his lower lip and then held it up to his boyfriend. “Hm… Well… I suppose the pale yellow does match your hair and the flecks in the other colours matches your eyes… Ok, it doesn’t look that bad.”
Iceland gave him a triumphant grin before putting the sweater in the basket. “Great. Now let’s go find some socks.”
Leon followed him, shaking his head slightly. He’d have to dispose of that jumper as soon as possible- Iceland would be a laughing stock. And- as far as Hong Kong was concerned- the only person who could laugh at him was Hong Kong.
The Asian let out a sigh as Iceland picked up a pair of God awful patterned socks. He really needed to teach Iceland colour schemes and fashion senses…


“How on Earth do you, like, put up with the cold?” Hong Kong asked with a frown, wrapping his hands around the cup of hot chocolate.
“I’ve gotten used to it,” Iceland responded around his own styrofoam cup. “It doesn’t bother me anymore.”
Hong Kong shrugged at that and reached up to pull his beanie down further and tug at his scarf so it hung a little better on his shoulders. “It’s like me with the heat, I guess.”
“Kind of,” Iceland responded, settling down on the bench. The streets of Reykjavik were admittedly pretty in Hong Kong’s opinion, though the cold was a huge issue. He was much more used to the hot climate and it always took him ages to adjust when he stayed in Iceland- or any cold country for that matter. Even England could be warmer than Iceland.
Iceland shifted a little closer to Hong Kong and rested his head on the others broad shoulder. Hong Kong sighed in response and finished his cup of hot chocolate, before patting Iceland’s arm. Public affection had never been a favoured thing between either party, but it was dark and there weren’t many people about, which made Iceland feel safe to do so.
However, even though it was dark, a group of young girls felt it was safe to approach them. Or more specifically Hong Kong, as they completely disregarded Iceland and his patterned sweater.
“Hi,” one of the girls started in Icelandic, to which Hong Kong immediately replied in Chinese that he didn’t speak Icelandic.
The girl looked at him weirdly, before trying English. “You speak English?”
“No,” Leon responded in easy Chinese, inwardly rolling his eyes.
“Uh…” The girl looked back at her friends before one stepped forward and said she knew a little Mandarin much to Hong Kong’s dismay.
“My friend wants to ask you out,” she said.
Leon inhaled deeply, before giving both girls a wide grin and replying in English this time; “Nice offer, but I’m trying to enjoy a quiet evening with my boyfriend who you’ve so rudely ignored.”
The fact that they had ignored Emil irked Leon and it made Iceland blush. Iceland was secretly pleased though- he was glad Hong Kong stuck up for him. Even if that was a boyfriend’s job.
The girls frowned and- looking disappointed- walked off. After they had gone, Hong Kong huffed.
“I hate it when people do that.”
“Do what?”
“Like… Ignore you. Pretend you’re not there when they want me. It really pisses me off.”
“It’s ok,” Iceland replied.
“It’s not ok,” Hong Kong hissed, obviously annoyed. Iceland stared at him for a few seconds, before glancing around and gently pulling Leon into a gentle kiss. It was probably the fastest kiss they’d ever exchanged, but it was a kiss nonetheless.
That of course shut Leon up immediately, and he gave Emil a smirk before draping an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. “Ah, the totally great benefits of being gay.”
“That makes no sense,”
“In context it does.”
“… What context?”
“No idea.”
Iceland let out a short laugh at that and rested his head on Leon’s shoulder again. “You’re weird.”
“Thanks. So are you.”


Kurt, 11 years old, is off to Hogwarts. The first hurdle? Sorting.

my thoughts on which house Kurt belongs in - I won’t give away which one it is right now, though! Includes other characters and lots of Kurt/Blaine. ao3

It wasn’t necessarily a surprise when Kurt received his Hogwarts letter; if it was a surprise at all, it was because he’s the first in his family to accept one, his mother having gone to Beauxbatons and his father being a Muggle with a fierce belief in non-magical solutions to things such as fixing cars. Kurt agrees with that principle in many cases, but magic is too alluring, too much a part of him to ignore even in the wake of his mom’s death three years ago - an accident, she had always enjoyed experimenting with enchantments but now Kurt wishes she had found some other hobby so she could have helped him during the trip to Diagon Alley (and so she could be his loving parent again).

Still, he has made it this far; he’s on the Hogwarts Express, whizzing away from the platform even as he watches the crowd of waving relatives fade into the distance. 

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