For the fall prompt thingy!! Sterek and apple picking please omg i need it Amber 😭😭😭😭
SO IT’S BEEN MONTHS AND NOW IT’S SUMMER BUT I FINISHED IT (also on ao3!)
Stiles never would have thought apple picking, of all things, was romantic. Then again, he never would have thought Derek ‘Angry Eyebrows’ Hale was romantic, either. And on both counts he was wrong.
Ever since they’d started dating–having gotten together the summer before senior year after Stiles had come dangerously close to dying from the aftereffects of having been possessed by the Nogitsune, Derek not wanting to risk never being able to love Stiles the way he wanted to, open for the world to see–Derek had absolutely blown him away with how affectionate and downright romantic he could be. Not a day went by without Derek performing some sort of grand romantic gesture.
On their first date, Derek had surprised him with a bouquet of deep red roses, despite the fact that they were only going to dinner at the local diner that served Stiles’ favorite curly fries. They held hands throughout their meal, Stiles somehow managing to eat a greasy, bacon loaded double cheeseburger one-handed, playing footsie under the table like the dorks they both unabashedly were.
It had started raining by the time they finished dessert, sharing a milkshake like it was the nineteen fifties, Stiles teasing Derek about looking the part of the bad boy greaser in his leather jacket. As they fled to the Camaro, hoping for a reprieve from the heavy rain, Derek used his jacket as a makeshift umbrella, holding it above their heads to shield them from getting pelted by the cold rain.
Once they’d climbed into the Camaro, Derek draping his jacket over Stiles as he unlocked the doors and jogged around the front of the car to climb into the driver’s seat, they’d luxuriated in the Camaro’s heated seats as they laughed about their luck and poor timing, going on their first date the only time it rained that month. Stiles had made a comment about rain on a first date being a sign of good luck, Derek arguing that it was only wedding days that were lucky if rained on, sparking an intriguing conversation about various good luck signs as Derek drove Stiles home.
Stiles had kissed him on the front porch after Derek walked him to the door until his dad started flicking the porch light on and off. Stiles had smiled like an idiot when Derek insisted he hold on to his leather jacket for a little while, laying a kiss on Derek’s cheek for the sweet gesture. He’d put the roses in a vase and set them on his nightstand after Derek left, stealing glances at the beautiful bouquet for the next two weeks, breaking into a blinding grin whenever he did.
On their second date, a double feature at the local movie theater across town, Stiles had attempted to return Derek’s jacket, slipping it off his shoulders when Derek pulled up in front of his house, only for Derek to insist that he keep it, at least for just a little bit longer. Stiles had proudly strut over to the Camaro, chin held high as slid into the passenger seat still wearing the leather jacket despite the midday heat, slipping his hand into Derek’s as they pulled onto the road.
They’d sat in the back of the darkened theater, Derek leading Stiles to their seats, his werewolf night vision guiding him through the crowded theater, the location of the seats prompting many innuendos and eyebrow waggles from a jokingly scandalized Stiles. He’d only stopped teasing Derek about his choice of seating when Derek had grabbed the front of his Star Wars t-shirt and pulled him into a deep kiss as the opening credits rolled.
They’d spent the rest of the double feature holding hands as they shared a tub of popcorn and a box of Reeses Pieces, occasionally feeding each other the peanut butter candies before leaning in to kiss the butter from the popcorn off each other’s lips afterwards. They both blissfully ignored the appalled, genuinely scandalized looks they received, mostly from the elderly couples in attendance, due to their blatant public displays of affection, Derek assuring Stiles that he had no reason to be embarrassed or shy, casually throwing his arm around Stiles’ shoulders and kissing his temple.
A few hours later they left the theater with Derek’s arm still around Stiles’ shoulders, smiles proudly plastered on both their faces.
Their third date consisted of a nice dinner in at loft, giving Derek an opportunity to flex his culinary muscles, thoroughly impressing Stiles with a three course meal — an appetizer of potato skins followed by an entree of filet mignon before a dessert of various fruits dipped in chocolate and caramel sauces. They ate on the couch, the informal seating belying the sophistication of the meal, cuddling as they took Boyd’s suggestion to heart and watched Luke Cage on Netflix.
They watched Mike Colter kick ass on screen, Stiles making an offhand comment about how hot he was, Derek huffing and crossing his arms over his chest in faux jealousy until Stiles peppered kisses over his cheeks. Whenever there was a lull in action on the TV screen they took advantage of the opportunity to lick the sticky sweetness of chocolate and caramel off each other’s lips, hands tenderly stroking each other’s faces, fingers brushing through each other’s hair.
On Stiles’ eighteenth birthday they had sex for the first time.
Derek made love to him so gently and so sweetly, holding him and touching him and kissing him like he was something to be cherished, something to be treasured and protected and loved, that Stiles had buried his face in the crook of Derek’s neck and cried. Derek had held him for the rest of the night, rolling over so Stiles lay on his chest, running his hand up and down the smooth, mole dotted planes of his back, whispering hushed words of love into his sweaty hair as Stiles sobbed softly.
In the morning, Derek made him breakfast in bed and scattered kisses over the marks he’d left on his neck the night before, combing his fingers through Stiles’ disheveled bed head as Stiles munched on the perfectly crispy bacon and wonderfully fluffy pancakes Derek had made, trying not to be too embarrassed by the previous night’s waterworks.
After breakfast, Derek had literally carried him to the bathroom where they’d taken a hot shower together, Derek, unable to help himself, nipping and sucking at Stiles’ neck as he massaged body wash into Stiles’ smooth, pale skin. Soon enough, Derek’s amorous kisses and less than innocent touches led to what was both Stiles’ first time having shower sex and his first time having sex standing up–all in only his second time having sex at all.
Between moans he thanked the heavens above for Derek’s foresight to have a bottle of oil based lube on hand in the bathroom, smirking to himself as he idly wondered about how long Derek had wanted to fuck him in the shower.
After their steamy shared shower, Derek had carried Stiles back to bed after drying him off, Stiles too boneless with pleasure to even lift his head off Derek’s shoulder. They spent the rest of the day lounging in bed, not bothering to put a shred of clothing on, Stiles lazily pressing kisses over Derek’s neck and shoulders and collarbone as Derek gently stroked his hand up and down Stiles’ naked back, tracing the play of moles across the breadth of his shoulders.
And the romance hadn’t stopped there. If anything, it had intensified.
Derek made a point of continuing to be as romantic as humanly–werewolfily?–possible, constantly one upping himself with every gesture.
A few days after he gave Stiles another bouquet of red roses for their three month anniversary, he one upped himself by scattering rose petals and candles around the entire loft leading to the bed upstairs where he made love to Stiles for hours. Only a few hours after he’d absentmindedly began singing to Stiles on the couch, Stiles’ head in his lap as he re-read one of his favorite books, he pressed kisses to Stiles’ shoulders and back as he mumbled poetry into his skin in fluent Spanish as they laid in bed together.
So, naturally, he was intrigued when, while he and Derek were driving along a country road on the outskirts of Beacon Hills, Derek had pointed out a sign in front of a local farm, advertising for people to pick their own apples, and insisted he pull over. He’d cocked an eyebrow at his boyfriend but parked and climbed out of the Jeep nonetheless, eager to see what Derek had in mind.
Derek slipped his hand into Stiles’ and led him over to a display of produce for sale where an elderly man was restocking a wooden shelf of cartons of cranberries. The man turned to greet them with a warm, toothy smile, wiping his hands with a handkerchief. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“Hi,” Derek greeted, holding his hand out to shake the man’s hand. “How much to pick our own apples?”
“Five dollars a head,” the man replied, returning Derek’s firm handshake. He visibly blanched when Derek handed him a twenty dollar bill, shaking his head as he stammered, “Oh, no. This-This is too much.”
Derek simply shrugged and slipped his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, hugging him tightly against his side. Looking back at the man who was still gawking at the twenty dollar bill, he explained, “It’s a special occasion.”
After blurting out a few thank you’s, the man directed them over to the apple orchard, handing them each a hand woven basket to collect their apples in. They had eagerly hurried to the orchard where Derek set to work explaining which apples were the best to pick.
Stiles waited until they were both immersed in picking apples, steadily filling their baskets, to ask the question that had been burning in the back of his mind since they parked. Glancing over his shoulder at Derek who was reaching up to pluck a juicy red apple, he inquired, “So… Apple picking?”
“Yeah,” Derek answered simply, a smile audible in his voice. “My mom used to bring us every year. All of us — me and my sisters — would spend the whole day picking apples with her.”
Stiles smiled himself, biting his bottom lip. He loved hearing about Derek’s family though he always ached at the fact that he would never meet any of them.
“My mom would always bake an apple pie that same night. With streusel on top, not pie crust,” Derek continued on, luring Stiles away from his downright depressing thoughts. A soft, nostalgic smile accompanied his words as he recalled, “She’d use the rest of the apples to make her own apple sauce. And apple cake and cider and muffins, even cheesecake.”
Derek raised his head to smile over at Stiles who beckoned him over with a wave of his hand. He set his basket down and meandered over to Stiles with a sly grin, backing him against a nearby tree. “Yeah?”
“I love you,” Stiles announced, raising his hands to fist them in the front of Derek’s shirt to reel him in for a sweet kiss. The funny thing was it almost tasted like apples.
Warnings: angst feat. a pinch of fluff (but mostly angst)
Author’s Note: This month’s song (or technically last month… it’s for March) is Dirty Laundry by All Time Low. I’m so sorry this took a bit longer than planned, but I hope yall enjoy! The song is kinda about lying… (*coughs* Y/n? *coughs again*)so yeah, expect an argument about that :)
Summary: In which the girl who’s always in for flowers at 8:30 sharp in the morning is late, and Dean senses that something is up.
Word count: 2732
Warnings: Drinking, some profanity as always, but it’s assholes, mostly. Beware of assholes. I mean the people kind. You knew what I meant, you sly dog.
a/n: A hearty dose of secure-in-his-masculinity Dean who really likes flowers and a sprinkle of fake dating, because we all need it. This is my first fic after a long hiatus, so I’m rusty, I know. It’s also for @thing-you-do-with-that-thing‘s SPN hiatus challenge, and I used the prompt, ““It’s 8:30, I have a hangover and you’re annoying me.” Unbetaed, all mistakes are mine. Also, I apologize to every cool dude named Trent in the world. I see you, man, and this is just a story.
She comes into the flower shop at ten forty-three on a Saturday.
The nineteen fifties were in full swing at Grimme U. Rumor had it there was a new student transfer to the small college and rumors were rarely ever wrong…half the time. Rumor also had it, he was a square.
‘Just what this town needs,’ thought Grell, ‘another goody two shoes’.“ Grell Sutcliffe sat on the hood of her boyfriend’s roadster, applying a fresh coat of lipstick as the rest of the students milled about, heading to their respective classes. She wore a red skirt that had been shortened to reach just below her knees and flared out. Her white blouse was tight fitting and knotted under her breasts instead of being buttoned like normal, exposing quite a bit of her breasts and as always, she wore a red jacket. Her chainsaw shaped earrings dangled from her ears.
Her boyfriend, Sebastian, his hair greased back as usual, was discussing what she deemed ‘guy stuff’ with Slingby and Faustus, two other greasers. Allana and Sascha sat on the hood with her, also fixing their makeup. From the mirror in her compact, she spied someone she had never seen before.
He was tall with dark hair, very kempt, but not greased back like her Bassy’s. He wore glasses and carried a book with him. He wore a white shirt with a black sweater and wore a blue tie. His pants were khaki. “Well, well, well, ladies,” she purred as she closed her compact and turned around to look at the newcomer. “Looks like our square has arrived.” The other girls turned to look as the young man drew closer.
As he drew nearer, Grell saw just how handsome this “square” was and had to hide a blush. She turned back around and called for her boyfriend. “Bassy, yoohoo, Bassy, darling!”
Sebastian shot her a glare for interrupting his conversation and then continued talking, ignoring his girlfriend.
It wasn’t long, however, when Sebastian noticed the newcomer encroaching on what he deemed ‘his territory’. He moved to stand in front of him and stopped him by shoving his palm against the other’s chest. “Watch where you are going, square,” he said threaningly. “This is ‘Demon’ territory.”
“I apologize,” answered the man, stepping back to adjust his sweater and glasses. “I was not aware this section of the parking lot belonged to you.” He reached into his pocket and produced a cars with his name on it. “My name is William T. Spears, I am a new student here. And you are?”
The gang laughed and the girls giggled. Grell watched the scene intently, her knickers growing wet at the smooth sound of William’s voice. “Sebastian Michaelis!” said an exuberant youth with multicolored hair, who popped up suddenly, carrying a grocery sack. “Leader of the Demons!” he introduced and showed off his leather jacket all the members of the group wore. The word “Demon” was scrawled across the back in red letters.
“And you had best remember it, 'square’,” the Scotsman, Eric Slingby slurred the name at William.“
“Then I shall be on my way,” said William.
“Just a moment,” said Faustus, grabbing William’s sweater. “Michaelis didn’t say you could leave yet.”
Grell slid off the hood of the car and ran over to the pair, taking pity on the poor man. This situation needed diffusing fast. She took hold of Claude’s arm and looked him in the eyes. “Let go of him Claude. The last thing you need is to go before the dean again.” She zipped over to Sebastian and sewed her feminine charms on him. “What do you say, Bassy-darling?” She wrapped her arms around his neck, her breasts pressing up against his body. “Let him go? He didn’t mean any harm.” She stood on her tip toes and whispered something naughty into his ear.
“Claude,” Sebastian called the other demon off who seemed a little disappointed. William was released and he proceeded to make tracks. Sebastian looked down at his girlfriend, his hands trailing down her back to grab her ass. “Next time I won’t be so forgiving.”
“Nor do I excpect you to,” said Grell. “He just looked so pathetic, and it is his first day. His lost expression reminded me of our little dog, Ciel.”
Another young woman in a red jacket came running up to the group holding her books looking winded. “That isn’t very ladylike behavior, Ms. Grell, no it isn’t,” she puffed. “And in public too!”
“There’s my red lady,” said the one who had introduced Sebastian and wrapped an arm around his girlfriend. His name was Ronald Knox.
Tags: female reader, dauntless, violence, fears/phobias, fluff, angst with a happy ending, guns
You’re a bold, ex-Amity girl who can’t manage much in life but to prove everyone wrong. When it comes to becoming Dauntless, there’s one obstacle between you and being a part of the black-wearing warrior clan: Eric.
I’m just warning you that in here is a fear sequence like the movie, and in that, there’s a moment where it may be trigger-y for readers who are sensitive to falling, spiders, dark deep water, small boxes, cats and a gun on the forehead. It’s only a small part, only twenty words or so, but I don’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable.
There has been an incident in Manchester, United Kingdom, that is being treated as a terrorist attack that left at least nineteen confirmed deaths and fifty suffering injuries. Please stay at home, be vigilant, and report any suspicious activity to the local authorities. My thoughts are with you all.
Summary: Being a
mutant with abilities is difficult enough, without having all this soulmate
business to deal with in addition. Y/N meets hers in the least expectant place,
but isn’t necessarily as thrilled as he’d hoped. However, a drastic turn of
events require them to go to desperate measures to preserve what little they
your time getting back to me,” you retorted, although your drowsiness was causing
you to sound less sarcastic than you intended. “Forget how to pick up a phone?”
am I supposed to do when you switch phones every month?” he chuckled, walking
over to you and sitting down on a crate beside you.
your head softly and let out a breathy chuckle. There was a small silence, and
you felt yourself becoming even more drowsy. Glancing over, you saw Sam lying
unconscious on the floor beside you.
for the au thing if u still want to do it: fuffy as vampires would be super cool!!
she kisses like this: rough and demanding and desperate— like this is her salvation. like this is the only time there lips will ever met. like she’ll forget this moment once it’s gone and she wants to hold onto it forever—
~In the beginning~ ~Back in nineteen fifty five~ ~Man didn't know 'bout a rock 'n' roll show~ ~And all that jive~ ~The white man had the schmaltz~ ~The black man had the blues~ ~No one knew what they was gonna do~ ~But Tchaikovsky had the news~ ~He said let there be sound~ (you mean the good music? Hell yeah)
F u c k
Y e S
Okay, how about Alabama? Or Led Zeppelin?? Lynyrd Skynyrd???
Because when I was a kid and going to punk rock shows, there weren’t any girls on stage playing instruments that weren’t there as a pretty prop. Girls that weren’t afraid to get their make-up smeared and look sweaty, to be fearless and make the stage their own. It’s what gets me out of bed in the morning. To suddenly have that all taken away from me, and become ‘the wife of’, is without a doubt the most disappointing and fucking heartbreaking thing that could ever happen, because it’s exactly the opposite of what I stand for. It’s not only detrimental to me as a person, but the message that this fucking conveys to the girls that come and see us play is, ‘You can work your ass off for ten years and you can be amazing, but at the end of the day you will simply be who you’re married to.’ Is this nineteen-fucking-fifty-three?
Sit down, bag boy. Shut up and listen. I will fight you if I
have to. I cannot believe that you are a real person. How do you survive? Does
your neck hurt from bending backwards to keep your head that far up your ass?
Do you see yourself? Your face is shaped like an egg. You literally have an egg
face. The only way you could not look like an egg is if someone boiled you and then
dropped you from the top of a building. To be fair, you would still look like
an egg, but at least then you would have some color in your life.
There is a way to treat people. A kind decent, respectful
way. You chose the other option. Feelings are not negotiable. There are no
terms and conditions when it comes to love. You cannot bribe someone for the
emotions that you are looking for. I hope that car goes Christine on your ass and kills you like Keith Gordon. You are a
pile of garbage for thinking a girl owes you anything just because you love
her. You are week old garbage— the wet, grunge kind that seeps through a
dumpster and leaves stains. You know when you are about to eat a sandwich and
then realize at the last second that the bread is green and fuzzy? That the
cheese smells worse than feet and the turkey is wet and sticky? That is what
your affection feels like. I do not have the ability to see into your mind, to
know what you think about this, but I hope you know that your feelings are the equivalent
of milk that has been sitting in the sun for three days. I have not touched
you, but I can imagine that your hands feel like sandpaper dipped in honey. You
probably smell like ranch dressing. Watching you is like watching a dog chase
its own tail even though it does not have one. Do you know what you look like
to me? Who am I kidding? You are so stupid that you thought Jurassic Park used actual dinosaurs. How
could I think you would know when someone does not like you?
You are a sniveling, snotty, piss baby. I cannot believe that people look at you and
see the perfect boyfriend. You know what you are, right? If fuck boy was in the
dictionary, a picture of you would sit right next to it. Girls are glistening
goddesses next to you— why any of them find you appealing is a mystery to me.
If your giant toddler body could fit into a canoe, I would poke a hole in your
boat and then push you off to sea. Let the sharks eat you. I bet they would
spit you out, too. They would probably think that you are too fucking bitter. For
a goddam sea creature. They could
probably taste the hate that lives inside your organs and do not want to
accidentally catch anything from you. Sharks would rather die from starvation
than feed off of your crusty ass.
Your shrill whine is the kind that only dogs can hear. I am
sorry, but no one understand you. Do you think that you are so tall that no one
can hear you? Please, you do not have to yell. I cannot take you seriously when
all that comes out of your mouth is “wah wah wah wah.” A quick question: what
do you think that you are saying? I sure hope that you know the bullshit that
comes out of your mouth is stinking up the room. You are a walking fart. Why
don’t you crawl back inside the hemorrhoid on Satan’s asshole that you crawled
out of? You are like a yellow marker that tried to write over something dark
and has now become a distressing yellow-brown color that no one wants to use
anymore. You are the Times New Roman of people. I cannot look at you without
seeing one of those pressed pennies from the History Museum.
Did you think that Night
at the Museum was a documentary? Those people do not actually come to life.
If they did, we could find the section from the nineteen fifties and place you inside
that glass box where you belong. Cavemen have better manners than you. Even
fucking cavemen know that they do not own their significant others. You cannot
tell your girlfriend to stop being friends with someone and then get mad when
your wife tells you the same thing. Your infidelity makes you nothing more than
a soggy floor coupon. Somewhere there is a tree creating oxygen so that you can
live. I believe that you owe that tree an apology. You are a literal piece of
shit, sitting atop an otherwise perfect piece of cake. If someone asks me what
the one thing is that would ruin cake, it would be you. They say that ignorance
is bliss, but you must know the kind of crap you leave behind. Tell me, how
does it feel to be the human version of a pit stain? Do you like being the
sweaty, smelly reminders of exercise and pain? Do you like that you remind
people about the nastiest hobby? I bet you do. I bet that you like knowing
people cringe when they see your face. I know that I do.
Do me a favor and staple all of your fingers together. I hope you accidentally drink piss instead of
apple juice. Please swallow your tongue whole and choke on it. I want you to
feel a thousand tiny paper cuts in every finger crack that you have. I wish you
to step on a Lego everyday of your life until you die. I want you to feel what knowing you is like.
The bell rings and you suddenly notice what you’ve been doodling, closing your notebook before Eric can see. You get up and look back as he quietly says, “Have a good night.” “You too,” you murmur, leaving the room with a sigh. You know you should still be angry with him, and you are, but those old feelings stir up every time you see him. You go out to your car and drive home, finishing some homework before you have to go to work. Eric and Dylan are hanging out behind Blackjack’s and Eric looks at him, “You want to grab some chips and stuff? Go watch a movie?” Dylan looks over at him knowingly. Eric’s been trying to run into you since the day after you broke up. Both of the boys know you’re working this afternoon. “Sure,” he nods, driving to the grocery store with Eric.
The two of them walk inside and Eric subtly glances over at the checkout, feeling a slight pang in his chest when he sees you. They walk down the junk food aisle and start grabbing things. Eric picks up a bag of chips only you like and tucks it under his arm. They get the rest of their things and Dylan walks towards an empty register. Eric pauses, walking over to your line as he pretends to be looking for some gum. “Reb,” Dylan says as he puts his stuff down at the empty register. You look up and Eric ignores him, looking though the packs of gum intently. Dylan shakes his head and starts paying for his things. You finally finish with your customer and bite your lip, “Hey.” “Hey,” he puts his things down and you start to scan them. You pick up the bag of chips that you like with an eyebrow raised, “You want these?” “Yeah,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes on you. You’re avoiding his gaze, knowing you’ll give away too much if you make eye contact. “You look nice,” he says softly. You bite your lip hard to hide a smile and look at the screen, “It’s nineteen fifty-seven.” Eric hands you a twenty and gently caresses your hand a moment before pulling back. Your eyes flicker up to him and he gives you a warm smile. “Hey, y/n,” Dylan says as he walks over with his bag of food. You tear your eyes away from Eric, “Hey, Dyl.” “Bye,” Eric murmurs, walking out of the store. It’s only a few minutes after they’ve gone that you notice the chips you like are still sitting there.
“She’s going to think you’re stalking her,” Dylan says. The two of them are sitting on the hood of Eric’s car, eating some of the food they bought earlier. “Who?” Eric asks. Dylan rolls his eyes, motioning towards the store, “Why are we here?” “Hanging out,” he mumbles, shoving some chips in his mouth. Dylan takes a drag of his cigarette, “I get it. You guys were always together.” Eric sighs, “It was a stupid fight, though. I don’t even know what started it, but… I lost it and I fucked it up. I’m not done trying, man.” Dylan nods, both of them looking up when the store light shuts off.
You open the door a few minutes later and see the boys sitting there. Eric gets off the car when he sees you walking over. “What are you doing here?” you ask quietly. “Hanging out,” Dylan mumbles, his mouth full of food. Eric smiles when he sees you holding the bag of chips and you follow his gaze, “Thanks.” He nods, smiling when you pull a couple Slim Jims out of the bag and hand them over, “Wow, thanks.” You nod, looking between them, “See you at school.” You reach over and fist bump Dylan with a smile, then look at Eric. You both hesitate for a moment, moving in for a gentle hug. Eric can’t help but pull you closer, breathing you in for the first time in a long time. You close your eyes and smile against his shoulder, forcing yourself to pull back as you whisper, “Goodnight.” He nods, “Night.” He watches until you’re safely in your car and out of the parking lot before sitting on the hood again. I love her so much, he thinks, his heart feeling heavy. You’re thinking the exact same thing about him.