littlespyder  asked:

No. Write more Morgwaine. Go. Go now. Don't ask questions. Just go. Trust me on this. Go. Just go.

Two hours.

That was how long Morgana had been waiting for her flight to switch out of the red condemning delayed status, and she was about two paper airplanes short of blowing a fuse.

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Anonymous asked you:

I need punk!sterek so bad scout so bad!!!! You would make my horrible day so much better.

Derek recognizes that feeling weird about his body is ridiculous. It is the kind of body that most dudes would kill for: tall, broad, chiseled, whatever. It’s just not the kind that he wants. Or not the kind that the men he’s interested in seem to want, especially when he goes to shows and watches a million lithe, beautiful scene boys eyeing him warily, wondering what kind of meathead asshole he’s going to turn out to be.

He almost skips the Firestarters’ show; he’s had a long, shitty week and he doesn’t feel like getting eyed up one way or the other. It’s only the call of the pit, the idea of slamming into a bunch of bodies for a few hours and walking out wrecked and exhausted, sweaty and lightheaded and numbed, deafened, buzz-headed and calm that tempts him through The Den’s front doors. 

They’ve just started playing when he arrives. Derek makes his way through the swaying outer layers of the crowd and his breath catches in his throat: their lead singer is some skinny punk wet dream, shirtless and ivory-pale where he isn’t covered in tattoos, sharp knees bare through the rips in his skintight jeans, dark mowhawk already plastered with sweat. His voice is one long, rough, low yowl, and Derek feels it in his bones. 

He does feel better by the time it’s over, so sidles up to the bar for a drink. “Told you,” Laura yells cheerfully, talking without breaking the smooth rhythm of her work. 

“Told me what,” Derek shoots back, settling in on a stool that’s magically opened up in front of him. Sometimes looking like an intimidating jackass works to his advantage. 

“That Stiles was your type,” Erica says. She swoops in to take Laura’s place, sliding him a sloshing shotglass of cheap whiskey.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Derek says primly. He takes the shot in one long, burning swallow.

“Me,” someone says, way too near his ear, and when he brings his chin down he finds the Firestarters’ singer has crowded up into his space; he, apparently, isn’t afraid to get his hands on Derek, palms resting warm and intent on his thighs.“Tell me they were right,” he goes on, an endearingly awkward smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Or this is about to get really embarrassing for me.”

“They– weren’t wrong,” Derek says, leaning back to signal for more drinks. Erica’s got him; two more shots are sitting at his elbow. He hands one to Stiles, takes the second for himself.

“Laura told me to keep an eye out for you,” Stiles says. “She said you would be hard to miss but– Jesus, I couldn’t keep my fucking eyes off of you, you’re–” Derek flushes, ducks to try to hide it. If Stiles wants him to be some big, burly dude he can do that, he can definitely do that, he just needs to not– “fuck that’s adorable,” he hears Stiles mutter, and that’s about as far as they get, conversationally, before Stiles’ whiskey soaked mouth is on his own, Derek’s shot abandoned on the bar, his fingers scrabbling against denim and leather and miles of smooth, soft skin.


Merthur Mod!AU Christmas Fluff

The living room smelled like sugar cookies and pine, and the TV played old Christmas carols on a channel that only showed a burning digital fireplace. The floor was littered in wrapping paper from the festivities earlier, when the room had been filled to the brim with friends and family and Merlin had insisted no one help clean because he was the host and he would do it later. But now, in the quiet aftermath, Merlin was nodding off on the couch with one hand clutching tightly to a glass of wine. The world faded in and out gently as he tried to fight sleep, so when the sound of footsteps crunching over the wrapping paper reached his ears, he wasn’t quite sure if he was hallucinating or not.

He wasn’t.

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thewitchway asked you:

Are you still taking request? I want Isaac to go to Derek and be all like “WHATS UP YOU + STILES??” and Derek’s all like “DUDE HE WAS A VIRGIN HESA GONNA DIE” and Isaac’s all like “IMA VIRGIN TOO WAH.” And then Derek HAS to take care of Isaac cause it’s an alpha thing.

So it turns out that fuck-or-die is a trope that– like any kind of actual predestined matesfic– I am totally happy to read but completely unable to write. Instead, here’s this, which is set just after 3.03 when Isaac still would have had reason to believe that virgins were the target, and was still speaking to Derek:

Stiles is stumbling his way out of the loft when Isaac gets home, and he has the brief, surreal desire to ask him where he thinks he’s going, young man. Technically they’ve both been out all night, and they’re both in bigger trouble than that and it’s not– Isaac is so not anybody’s father. It’s just– Stiles looks worn out and he smells exhausted, frayed, like old cloth rubbed too thin. “You okay?” he asks instead.

“Sure,” Stiles says automatically. He pauses, though, sweeps a hand through the thicket of his dark hair. “Isaac you’re– fuck, I’m sorry, you’re not a virgin, right?”

“Um,” Isaac says. “No. No. Why?" 

"Doesn’t matter,” Stiles says. “If you aren’t, anyway. Okay. I gotta go. Dad’s gonna be up in a few hours.” His pace is slow and even down the hallway, tread heavy. Isaac frowns at his retreating back, trying to figure out how to take back the lie. He pushes into the loft, finds Derek sitting on the couch, looking– oddly bereft, hands open, empty at his sides. The lingering tang of arousal hangs, fading in the air. Stilinski’s crush on Derek never gets less desperate or obvious, which is comforting, almost, an eternal baseline of pathetic for Isaac to measure the rest of his messy life against. 


He’s taken to spending the nights out, running. He used to love to run, the way it would work his body into euphoria and then exhaustion, quieting his mind for hours at a time. Now it’s automatic and his body could go on forever but he hasn’t lost the habit. It’s easier to keep doing it than to admit that he can’t sleep.

So it isn’t until too late that Isaac realizes that Derek thinks he isn’t home when Stiles comes over, presses him up against the loft’s doors, says “we don’t have to, okay, I want to, please,” and Derek says, “I want to, fuck, I–” and kisses Stiles, twisting his hands into Stiles’ hair, hauling him in so close that even Stiles has the good sense to look a little afraid.

They make out against the door; at some point Stiles gets his hand down Derek’s pants, and Isaac has the uncomfortable realization that he’s been watching for– way too long, now, beyond any kind of normal prurient interest and into full-on creeper territory. The history project he stayed in to work on sits abandoned at his side as he peers down the stairs, watching them work against one another, listening to the noise they make, pants and little choked-off moans, they way they keep whispering each others’ names like a litany, an incantation, like a prayer. 


Isaac can’t stop thinking about it, after: Stiles dropping to his knees, pulling Derek’s dick out, sucking it ‘til everything was shiny and slick with his spit. Derek with his back to a wall and his neck arching up, hips thrusting forward, vulnerable and lost, kissing Stiles’ come-covered mouth, dragging him into the bedroom, the sounds they both made. How eventually he gave in and got his own dick out, jerked off listening to it. It’s not the most fucked up thing he’s ever done. 


When he asks Derek he’s expecting the no. What he isn’t expecting is Derek’s eyes getting wide and worried, saying “you’re– Stiles said you weren’t– he said he asked.”

“I lied,” Isaac admits, trying to sound bold and careless. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It does,” Derek says. “It– you could die, Isaac.”

“So fuck me.” Isaac puts a hand on Derek’s knee and feels him flinch at the contract. He draws back and twists his fingers together in his lap.

“I can’t,” Derek says.

“You did it for Stiles.”

“That wasn’t– it wasn’t like that.”

“He wasn’t a virgin?”

“It wasn’t because of that.”

“So what, he’s your– boyfriend now, is that it, you can’t cheat on Stiles?”

“I don’t want to,” Derek says. “You’re my beta, I’m responsible for you, I can’t– I just can’t, okay, please don’t ask me.”

“This is taking care of me,” Isaac argues. “This is– the best way, how can you not see that?”

“I can’t,” Derek says again. For a minute Isaac hates him, his stupid, useless attempts to be noble now, when he’s always been such a grade-A shoot now ask questions later fuckup. 

“Fine,” Isaac tells him. “Fine, then, maybe I’ll find an alpha who will.”


Scott isn’t technically an alpha but he’s a very soft touch, and Isaac knows how to play this game. “I feel weird asking,” he says. “It’s just– I’m so scared, Scott and Derek says he won’t, and I can’t– I don’t know who else to ask.”

They’re sitting on the edge of Scott’s bed, Isaac giving him just enough distance, a kind of friendly-but-intimate amount of space. “What would this entail,” Scott asks slowly. “Because I’m, uh, there are some things–”

“I don’t think we’d have to– you know,” Isaac says, letting himself shift and blush, wondering whether he should let on that he’d do this anyway, that since he turned he’s been pretty much permanently semi-hard and that he’s always wanted to see what Scott McCall, golden hero, looks like when he’s needy and desperate.

“There aren’t rules or anything?”

“I don’t know,” Isaac says, the corner of his mouth curling up into a smile. “But I figure it’s better than nothing. Whatever– whatever you’ll give me.”

That seems to do the trick; Scott leans in and puts a hand on Isaac’s cheek, glances up to meet his gaze. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I’ll take care of you,” and Isaac doesn’t have to fake the shiver that runs up his spine at the words, the helpless, startled sound he makes when Scott’s mouth, soft and wet and gentle, finds his.

feelavalanche  asked:

Prompt! Stiles and Derek in Vegas.

“It seems very unlikely to me,” Stiles tries to say over the din. “That you are going to be able to werewolf effectively in this mess.”


"I said–” Stiles starts, and stops again. Derek should be able to hear him. Derek can always hear him. It’s irritating, that he catches every mumbled aside and errant heartbeat and twitching half-considered movement. Stiles has a lot of private mumbled asides that are best unshared with the world at large. And right now, Derek has glitter in his eyebrows and a dopey smile on his dumb, handsome face. “What did you drink?”

“What do I think? I don’t know, man! This music is so loud!” Derek throws up an illustrative arm and smacks some poor guy in the face. The guy appears too overwhelmed by Derek’s muscles to take any kind of real offense. 

“Oh my god.” The crowd drifts and sways like a singular mass, a snake swallowing them whole. Stiles is pressed up against Derek without meaning to be but it’s better, obviously, not to be losing him in the fray. “Jesus Christ, Derek.”

“Jesus Christ,” Derek agrees happily. He sways his hips to the beat. Stiles’ hips go along for the ride, which is like– dancing, which is just impossible, Derek’s shining eyes and sparkling brows, his arm wrapping loosely over Stiles’ shoulders, down his back, one warm palm curving against the bend of his ribs. “Someone bought me a drink,” he confides. His breath is hot against Stiles’ neck, mouth too mobile, too near. “Said I needed to relax.”

“You do,” Stiles agrees. He tries to find a shelter for them– a wall, a table, but it’s just seething bodies as far as the eye can see. They passed a bathroom on the way in, but it’s probably the better part of wisdom to get Derek the fuck out, at this point. Either they’ve been made and the incubus-trafficking ring they’ve been investigating is about to disappear from underneath them again, or Derek’s just gone and attracted his usual villain-grade admirers. Either way. “Let’s relax in the room, then, maybe?”

“Oh, yeah,” Derek says. He rests his forehead against Stiles’ shoulder and he thinks that the brush of his mouth must be unintentional, just Derek not keeping track of his limbs, drunk and drugged, until he hears what Derek is mumbling, now, which is “fuck, okay, if you want– I didn’t think you wanted– fuck Stiles, take me home.”

janelleieio  asked:

Derek goes on an eat pray love trip after he leaves and finds himself! He mourns his family! He grieves! He learns to make pasta! He evolves as a person!

[it has taken me so long to get to this prompt that it is actually itself jossed, so I’m taking a liberty or two.]

Derek goes to Italy because Deaton suggests there might be lore for him there. Most cultures have a werewolf myth somewhere in their annals, but Derek doesn’t press the point: he and Deaton have come to an understanding, over the years, which is to say that he no longer bothers asking questions he won’t get answers to.

He stays in Rome near the city center and is surprised to find that the rhythm of the days suits him: espresso for breakfast, long quiet hours in the library, leisurely dinners in restaurants where the waiters don’t bother too much with a single tourist. He eats pasta and drinks red wine, stains his mouth; he goes for runs at first light each morning and watches the city’s old stones turn golden and then gray again. He fills notebooks with pages and pages of longhand, notes in black ink scrawled neat and tight.

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racketstory replied to your post:THIS REMINDS ME, the other day it occurred to me…


careful Lea they send you to reform school for threats like that

and you definitely don’t want to end up like Stiles, who had a crush on Derek before he realized what a psycho he was, and then has a different kind of crush when he realizes that Derek is only psycho because he’s driving himself crazy with blame and guilt. Which. He did a terrible thing. But a bad person would keep doing bad things, right?

Anyway Stiles kind of manages to disassociate the soft weight of Derek’s sleeping body next to his from anything. Um. Sexual. He wakes up hard all the time but that’s just life with a dick; he trains himself to sleep facing away from Derek so that it’s never an issue.

Because Derek is straight. He has to be. He talks a little bit about fucking Kate sometimes and his voice still goes quiet and reverent, one hand tracing the slope of her breasts, ribs and hips in the air. He gets hard from it, enough that Stiles notices, and he almost says something, some awful cheeseball line about helping you out with that because straight dudes will totally let you jerk them off, sometimes– exhibit A: Jackson Whittemore last year– and he’s so desperate to get his hands on Derek that he’s willing to be foolish. But. Then he thinks about it, what it would be like to still want someone who’d fucked you over so badly, someone who lied about you in court, called you pathetic, a puppy dog, a dangerous idiot who’d do anything to impress even when his affections weren’t wanted– Stiles read the court transcripts, okay, he knows his way around a police station. 

(What Stiles doesn’t know is that that boner was completely because Derek was talking about sex in front of Stiles, trying desperately to sound like he knew what he was doing, like it hadn’t been a handful of times in the backs of cars or against the dusty walls of abandoned buildings, because he wanted Stiles to think about him and sex in the same sentence together, even just the once.)

The One Where Merlin Twerks

[Note: This is a deleted scene from a fic I was writing. It’s ModernAU where magic is legal but not liked, and Merlin and Arthur like each other, but Arthur is being a stubborn prick because of his father’s values blah blah and GO]

The music was loud in the club, but the bass was louder. The DJ was playing one of those ‘sexy’ songs that made Merlin cringe a little when he heard the lyrics, as if he’d walked in on someone who wasn’t decent.

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anonymous asked:

Stiles in bed in his underwear hot as balls drinking a beer after a horrible day?

Stiles peers down the length of his naked body, mystified. From here it’s just so many planes and angles: the curve of his ribcage and the flat of his belly, twin peaked hipbones, the string beany length of his legs. He reaches down to palm at his dick a little bit, just to acknowledge the weight of it, the softness of the skin against his too-warm hands. It’s a measure of how tired he is that the contact and pressure don’t even stir him, or maybe it’s age: in high school, when he lived here, touching his dick long enough to tuck it properly into his jeans felt like an unfair provocation more than half the time.

The beer, at least, is cold and bitter and correct, a familiar holdover from college, from when things made sense. He shifts up onto his elbows and takes a series of long, cold swallows. He doesn’t reach for his phone, which has been blessedly silent since he got home a few hours ago, in the earliest light of day: after a night spent fighting off Beacon Hills’ latest supernatural mishap, and after Derek drove him home and kissed him, tender, fierce, desperate, like Stiles was something he had only recently discovered was delicate, like he was scared of doing it and scared not to. His whole body aches. His brain aches. Sleep seems very far away. 

He finishes the bottle and uses it as an excuse to text Derek “why me, man?" 

No answer comes for a while. Stiles drifts off into tidal kind of nap, mind ebbing and eddying back and forth between dream and consciousness. He almost doesn’t trust it when he sees the shadow of a figure perched on his windowsill, like he used to, like he belongs there. "Do you really want to know?” Derek asks.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, in the dream, in life. “Of course I do.”

dizzzylu  asked:

derek and stiles dealing with a heat wave. or a cold snap. that would probably make you feel better, thinking about the cold.

[it has been so hot for so long that I don’t even believe that coldness exists anymore; last night I was watching The L Word and I legitimately got mad about how much clothing various characters were wearing, because looking at them made me itchy. I have… all kinds of problems.]

“It’s not heated,” Derek says. 

“Great.” Stiles tugs his shirt over his head, shameless. A few years ago he would have hesitated, maybe leapt in fully clothed and pretended he was too hot to wait, but he’s mostly over comparing himself to his wolf-built packmates. He’s pale and skinny and splattered with moles, and it’s been ninety degrees in the shade for a week now, and he is done caring about everything except sweet, cold relief. 

“You might not–” Derek says, but the rest of his sentence is lost as Stiles plunges headfirst into the water, heedless and thrilled. It is cold, chilly enough that his lungs tighten instinctively at the suddenness of it, his skin tight and goosebumped all over. He surfaces gasping, grinning, throwing his head back to feel air move against his skin, no longer stifling and still. 

“This is amazing,” he says. 

“You’ll get cold in a minute.”

“Great. Fantastic. Sounds like a dream.”

Derek is sitting on the ledge near the shallow end, dangling his legs so that the water comes midway up his calves. He’s still fully clothed and somehow not sweating, which seems improbable, for a werewolf in this heat.

“You’re not gonna join me?” Stiles does feel a little bit self-conscious, now, rude or gluttonous. The chill of the water has shocked him back into his senses. He treads water and watches his distorted fingers, all five, as they move. “Or. Are you busy.”

“I’m not.” Derek kicks a little spray of water up, the shimmer of it catching and refracting the fading western light. “Busy.”


Derek frowns and sighs. He looks for a moment like he did when Stiles first knew him: private, guarded, grumpy. Stiles swims over and gets his feet under him. He doesn’t realize until he’s too close that he’s standing between Derek’s knees, bare-chested, dripping, that he’s imagined a lot of moments that start something like this. He hopes that chlorine will cover him as he reaches up and offers his hand. “C'mon,” he says.

Derek reaches back, tentative, and his skin is so hot it’s unbearable. Stiles feels blood rushing in him, to the surface, making him prickly with want. He tugs with all of his strength and can’t help thinking that still Derek must have wanted to come with him, his body sliding forward helplessly, the clear high peal of his laughter drowned in the splash he makes when he falls all the way in. 

rosengris replied to your post:two of this week’s after-work obligations were…

sterek bodyguard and rock star AU where Derek is all weak kneed at Stiles’ razor sharp competence. but of course everything comes out as verbal pigtail pulling? BASICALLY JUST WRITE ANYTHING

Derek gave up as much of it as he possibly could: the drivers and private planes and stadium shows, the expectation of success and adoration or even recognition for the work he puts in. He can’t be certain of his talent– not anymore, not ever again, but he knows that he’s trying: seeking songwriters to collaborate with, playing tiny venues and taking feedback from every viable source. Kate made him famous so she could seduce and betray him; if he ever gets anywhere ever again, it’s going to be because he fought for it, because he deserved it, whatever that means.

Right now what it means is a tour bus he pays for the gas on himself, playing shows in medium-sized clubs in grimy cities where they’ll take a washed-out hack has-been on a Thursday night, and Stiles. Kate’s particular brand of crazy has attracted him a troublesome kind of following, women who don’t believe her story and need to tell him so in person, and men who do, and think he was right to do it. Stiles is the last relic of his bigshot past, a professional-grade bodyguard who looks too lithe for the kind of efficient violence Derek has seen him perform, who’s sticking around for a meager fucking paycheck for reasons Derek has never been able to make quite clear.

They roll into Tulsa a full four hours before the shows starts; they’ve been on the road so long that Derek said fuck it and booked hotel rooms for the lot of them, still trying to burn through omnipresent row of zeroes somehow trailing his bank account. Stiles makes him stay on the bus while they check in, and walks at his side on the way up to the room. Derek made the mistake of posting tour dates on his site, so there are locals hanging around the lobby snapping pictures, because with the advent of iPhones who even needs the fucking paps. 

He gets it, when he sees them, later, why everyone thinks he and Stiles are dating: Stiles doesn’t look like muscle, is the thing, always in black, hovering over Derek’s shoulder, slim and sharp and lovely, his mouth a wide, dangerous line. What Derek can see that no one else can is that Stiles’ eyes are always focused elsewhere, scanning the room and the crowd, on the watch for threats, doing his job.

“’M gonna go get some dinner,” he says around seven. Soundcheck starts at eight thirty, and he doesn’t go on for hours. Plenty of time.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Where?”

“You don’t have to–”

“I do. Have to.” Stiles is already lacing up the boots he kicked off when they got into the room. They don’t have to share, but he says he likes it, keeping an eye, and Derek– can’t say that he minds. “Bodyguard? Tasked with your personal health and safety?”

“I don’t want to make you–”

“Then stop paying me,” Stiles says. He regards himself in the mirror and runs a tired hand through his hair, laughs at his reflection. It occurs to Derek that he isn’t looking anywhere else, just now: just at himself and his own tired, hollowed-out face. Derek may be a client, but at least he isn’t a threat.

“You choose the restaurant, at least,” Derek says. Their same-old compromise. 

“Whatever you want, boss.”