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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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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