I’ve been here a long time. Out of Cuba. A lot of black folks are Cuban. You wouldn’t know from being here now. I was a wild little shortie, man. Just like you. Running around with no shoes on, the moon was out. This one time, I run by this old… this old lady. I was running, howling. Kinda of a fool, boy. This old lady, she stopped me. She said…
“Running around, catching a lot of light”. “In moonlight, black boys look blue”. “You’re blue”. “That’s what I’m gonna call you: ‘Blue’.”
I was a wild little shorty, man. Just like you. Running around with no shoes on when the moon was out. This one time, I run by this old lady. I was running, hollering… This old lady, she stopped me. She said, “Running around, catching up all the light. In moonlight, black boys look blue. You’re blue.”
Post-Wedding: Eric’s a little famous, but he’s not used to taking advantage of that status. Good thing he’s surrounded himself with people who don’t have the same hang-ups.
Beyoncé’s new tour dates are announced and not only is she playing Starbucks Arena, she’s playing in Seattle during a lull between a stretch of home games.
“I didn’t realize you were so into Beyoncé, Bittle. Isn’t that a little bit stereotypical?”
Eric doesn’t have time for Boomer’s casual homophobia, pre-sale tickets go on sale in three minutes and for once this miserable season, he’d like to get something he actually wants.
“I don’t know if anyone has told you, Booms, but I’m pretty fucking gay. And you know what else is a stereotype: sucking big, thick, hard –”
Boomer raises his hands and backs away from Eric’s table. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.”
Eric waves the d-man off while Carter slides out the chair beside Eric and drops his take-out box on the table, careful not to jostle the laptop.
“He’s getting better.”
“He’s getting his stall plastered with hardcore vintage porn is what he’s getting,” Eric mutters. “Swear to the Lord, you’d think I was a walking identity crisis –”
Two minutes. His card info is pre-loaded. Carter is chomping away on something that smells like curry. Eric’s blood is vibrating under his skin like he’s in overtime. He’s ready.
“Wait, why are you buying them yourself? I’m sure JoAnn can get some from the front office for us.”
Eric stares at the screen. 1:27. He doesn’t want to bother the team’s publicist over something like this. He’s an adult. He needed help with Hamilton tickets, he doesn’t need help for Beyoncé. He knows Beyoncé.
Maybe not literally, but still.
“Dude, let me call her. Just in case.”
“Leave her alone. She’s done enough for us this season.”
“Maybe we should –”
The waiting room clicks over and he’s in. Easy as pie. He selects his seats, nabs the VIP package, gets to the checkout screen, and…
“What the hell…?”
An error message pops up.
“No, no, no, no,” Eric clicks the screen, and when the page refreshes there’s nothing there. No seats. No VIP meet and greet. Nothing. A happy little banner pops up that reads ‘Thank you for participating in Citi Bank’s Presale –’
Eric’s stomach drops. “Are you kidding me!? It’s been thirty seconds!”
“It’s bots, man,” Bay shouts from across the room. “Those ticket resellers program these computers to –”
“I don’t give a good god damn if it’s a robot! I was right there! They were mine!” He drops his head to the table and whines. “I can afford them on the secondary market, it’s just the principle of the matter.”
“I’m so sorry, man,” Carter runs a sympathetic hand over his back. “Can I call JoAnn now?”
Eric shakes his head, content to wallow in his own sadness. “Everything I touch turns to death,” he moans.
“That sounds like a yes.”
Eric’s phone starts vibrating beside his head – the tap-tap-tap pulse he’s set for Jack – but before he can answer Carter’s tapped the call button for him.
“Hey, Zimmermann. You’re on speaker phone, your husband’s in a state.”
“Carter, um, thanks? Bits, you okay? Did you get your tickets?”
“…no,” Eric sighs, lifting his head to stare blearily at his phone. “The bots ruined me, Jack. I’m dead.”
“Your man is too proud to use his contacts, Zimms,” Carter snickers and elbows Eric in the side.
“That’s unfortunate,” Jack consoles, but Eric can hear something else in his voice. Something distinctly amused.
“Jack, I swear to god if you make me wait any longer –”
“I have two VIP passes sitting on my desk at home right now. I talked to my agent about it weeks ago. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
Eric’s mouth goes dry and Carter shakes his shoulders roughly in excitement. He can’t make his voice work.
Carter leans in close, whispering, “Bittle, you crying?”
“Bits? Bud? You there?”
“No,” Eric breathes, composing himself, “I’m just, really happy I married my husband, and I get to meet Beyoncé.”
There’s silence across the line, then, “Bits, I know those things aren’t in order, and that’s okay. I love you, too.”
Context: My character is a druid dragonborn whose call to Druidism was seeing the majesty of a dragon. She has a tendency to panic-transform into random creatures she has seen. She also only has 9 hp in base form.
DM: you encounter some quite terrifying and strong orcs.
Chao-evil Bard: I use the druid as a shield.
DM: roll initiative to struggle.
DM: you use her as a shield.
Me: can I roll to transform out of panic?
Me: I’ve seen a crow, a parrot, a kitten, and a dragon. Can I roll to panic-transform?
DM: wh- sure, go ahead. Roll for fear.
Paladin: critical transformation!
DM: *is done with my bs* roll to confirm a critical.
Me: *Nat20 true critical, the DM looks so angry*
DM: …fine. In a somehow critical transformation, the druid you were using as a shield transforms into a half-sized dragon in front of you. Roll strength to hold on.
Bard: *giving me the most angry look, rolls a 3* fuck.
Me: *shit eating grin* i intimidate the orcs into running away.
DM: just fucking roll, man.
*the paladin is cackling*
Me: *rolls a 17*
DM: *sighs* the orcs flee, two of them piss themselves, and they drop some of their gold and equipment on the way out.
I commissioned a modern Tarzan and Jane from the incredibly talented @punziella and here’s the final result!! I couldn’t be happier with it, it’s absolutely perfect and I just love it so so much I can’t stop staring at it, thank you so much Pauline!!
The fact that in Blackout Sunny was left alone and the only person who came to find him and who helped him was Pete and not his cousin or anybody else but Pete just really upsets me because then Usnavi turns around and plans on leaving him alone again but this time forever and I just feel so many emotions about Sonny de la Vega and I just want him safe and loved and Pete has always been there
"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 onEgyptian 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.)Themoment 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 phonein 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.
Summary: A University AU. You have been studying in the library all weekend, although the sexy librarian has been distracting you. Turns out you’ve been a bit of distraction for him also. Warnings: Explicit (+18) smut, public sex, no condom & oral. Also swearing
University was hard and stressful but you loved every second of it. You had made friends with all the History majors, your dorm roommate was hilarious and the campus coffee pop-up stand was a lifesaver, literally. University was everything you expected to be and more, you did think it would be more partying at 4 am but you did go to the occasional one or two at the weekend.
Except for this weekend. This weekend is spent in the library on campus, researching medicine in the 18th century. You had been arriving as soon as the doors opened and staying to just before closing time.
Also, you couldn’t lie the man running the library this weekend was hot. When you walked in on Saturday morning, he was perched behind the oak desk with a book, glasses perched on his nose and long hair tied back into a bun. White button up shirt tucked into blue denim jeans. He was intimidatingly handsome, rugged with the unshaven face but adorable in the sense his mouth moved as he read; muttering the words to himself.
You had, admittedly, been slightly creepy with the staring when reading about history became boring. He was just so intriguing to you. You hadn’t seen him work here through the week, you hadn’t seen him around campus either, he was an enigma to you. You wanted to know more but yet, you didn’t want to go up and just talk to him. So, you kept to sneakily peeking over the mountain of books at him.
When you walked in on Sunday morning it was dead. Everyone had gone out partying Saturday night, leaving the library to be empty on Sunday as they all nursed their hangovers. He was there, sat silently behind the desk, till he glanced up at the door opening and smiled at you. Pride and Prejudice perched in his right hand.