like derek keeps trying to one up this fictional guy that he keeps hearing stiles talking about

measure (in love)

this is for feelavalanche, who wanted a/b/o with omegas as a minority, ridiculous mating rituals and alphas doing peacocky things to prove themselves to omegas 

~

Derek stares at the measuring spoons in horror and looks back at the recipe, did he mix up a tablespoon with teaspoon? What if there’s too much vanilla extract? He wipes the sweat from his brow nervously, there’s no turning back now, it’s too late to run to the store and get enough ingredients to make another souffle. Derek almost doesn’t want to check through the oven window to see if it’s rising properly, but he has to–

It is. It’s perfect. 

The oven timer dings and Derek opens it cautiously, pulling out the souffle with trepidation. It smells good, and isn’t falling apart like the first two Derek attempted this morning. 

Derek still has a chance. 

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his face says secret plan but his ass says take me

[Happy Birthday to the incredible literaryoblivion! This fic is based around this gif and my tags there. This is an AU where werewolves are the dominant class and humans are kept as slaves.]

Derek doesn’t need a human. Laura and the pack has enough slaves, he doesn’t need one of his own. She elbows him though as they pass through the compound, trying to point some out that might interest him. 

“I’m fine, Laura,” Derek says, walking past a few hopeful humans who eye him. One man is making lewd gestures with his tongue, presumably to advertise his sexual prowess. 

Derek is disgusted. 

The humans crowd the bars when he and Laura walk past, some of them babbling about their various skills and abilities, others flexing or trying to show off their physical attributes.

“That woman said she was a good cook, or you know that guy in the first cell looks like he would be a good help you with building the walls around our territory,” Laura muses.

“Ugh,” Derek manages. 

“You have to buy someone,” Laura insists.

“Are you saying that as my sister, or my Alpha?” Derek retorts. 

Laura purses her lips at him. “As your Alpha I’m telling you it’s for the betterment of the pack. We have to set a good example. You’re the only wolf who doesn’t have a slave,” she says, and then her face softens a little. “And as your sister, I just want you to have a companion, you know. Humans can make good friends. Or more,” she says, eyes twinkling. 

Derek shakes his head. He isn’t interested in relationships, not anymore. 

“We need to buy at least one today,” Laura insists. “I’m too busy looking after my own.” She shudders. “I think Renner said he can’t keep them all, he’s going to have to put them all down. Can’t have risk them running off and joining the Rebellion." 

It’s then that Derek notices; there’s a young man leaning against the far corner of the cell, completely disinterested, staring out the small window, a sliver of sunlight gleaming on his face. He’s pale and a little bruised, a badly healed cut on the side of his face, but other than that he’s actually… quite beautiful. 

"Oh! See someone you like?” Laura asks brightly.

“No,” Derek says, looking away, but it’s too late. 

This is how Derek becomes owner of Human #871107, Category C, and Laura signs off on the paperwork with Renner and they’re leading him out the door. 

They get to Derek’s small apartment in their pack territory and Laura just grins and says “Have fun!” with a wicked smile and leaves him alone. With his new human slave, with that pretty pink mouth and the wide amber eyes. 

They stare at each other silently until finally the human blurts out, “You gonna give me a name or what? Tell me what you want me to do?” his voice carrying a challenging lilt. 

Derek raises an eyebrow. “What’s your name?" 

Those long-set lashes blink in surprise. "You don’t have something you want to call me?" 

Derek shrugs. He knows certain wolves like to have pet names for their humans, but he doesn’t care. 

"Stiles,” the guy says, after a beat.

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anonymous asked:

OMG! I know, cause of what you said, that it would hurt to write the tmr/tw crossover?? Like whenever you can, I am so excited for this

[My original summary idea. Have a teaser of what I’ve got so far ^_^] 

The woods are usually silent; Derek knows this, knows he and his pack are safe, have been safe as the rest of the world slowly fell apart. They’re a mix of werewolves and the few humans that they managed to smuggle out, when they first realized it was happening. 

Derek knew it was when the letters stopped coming that WICKED, or whatever pseudo-pharmaceutical company they were claiming to be, weren’t planning on giving Stiles back. The letters at first have been hopeful, bright, littered with jokes, Stiles describing about his work with this new disease or whatever, and how they were close to finding a cure. Then the letters got cryptic, dark, peppered with phrases that Derek didn’t understand at the time but spoke of a huge project, something monumental and groundbreaking, but what it really felt like was goodbye. 

That was a long time ago. Sometimes the memory of Stiles will creep up into Derek’s head out of nowhere, like the gentle breeze ruffling his hair right now will remind him of Stiles laughing, carding his fingers through his hair and then pressing a happy kiss to his forehead.

It won’t do any good to think of these things, Derek thinks bitterly, casting the memory aside. It’s been years. Stiles is gone.

Derek continues on the path where Isaac told him the strange noises were coming from; he sees Scott already at the top of the grassy knoll, a pair of binoculars to his face.

Today the woods have not been silent; strange rustles, voices not coming from their own encampment, carried by the wind, barely discernible with werewolf hearing.

“Is it Cranks?” Derek asks. If they were here, if they’d made it to this refuge, the last piece of wilderness that Derek thought they’d be safe in… 

Scott sets the binoculars down, confusion written all over his face. “No, I don’t smell the disease on any of them, and they all look pretty healthy—” 

Derek frowns when he hears them. Who are these people? Where did they come from? How did they get to this secluded place? 

Scott hands Derek the binoculars, and Derek takes a look and is equally confused. There’s a flat, gray blur on the other end of the valley, and a bunch of people— young, teenagers maybe— clambering out of it. They’re huddled, talking quietly among themselves. Derek can’t make out any faces but there seem to be a number of them. 

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