Derek considers himself a pretty stoic person. He’s rolled with the punches that life’s given him, and has only tried to curl up and die a few times, which, considering everything, is pretty damn impressive, if you ask him.
But there’s a special place in hell for trickster spirits, and Derek is going to do his best to ensure that the trickster spirit gets set there as soon as fucking possible.
Because no one can be expected to just deal with the fact they’ve suddenly got telepathy.
"Erm," Scott says, "How strong is it, exactly?"
Derek glares. “Strong.” He’s trying to respect personal boundaries here, but he has no idea how to stop the constant influx of thoughts. “How do any of you ever defeat evil in between all the sex fantasies you’re constantly having?”
Scott briefly covers his face with his hand, Kira turns pink, Allison grits her jaw, Isaac smirks a little, and Lydia cocks her head to the side. “Wait, do you hear thoughts or see them? This is a pretty unique opportunity to compare thought patterns…”
Derek shuts his eyes and breathes in deeply. It doesn’t help; the constant barrage of thoughts just intensifies when he’s not distracted by sight. “Can we just find the creature and…”
"What, punch it til it cries uncle and gives you your sanity back?" Isaac interrupts. "I don’t think your usual methods are going to work this time."
Derek would be offended, but mostly he’s trying his best to ignore the ode to Allison’s short skirts that Isaac seems to be composing in his head.
"I’m willing to entertain any plan that means I don’t have to hear anyone else’s thoughts," Derek says. "So ideas. On the table. Now."
It was admittedly a poor choice of words, though he will give them all credit for including the table in their gutter-thoughts. Derek is really going to have to find acquaintances that aren’t horny teenagers, because this is mortifying on several levels.
Apparently none of them are currently getting laid, and yeah. The hormones are working overtime.
Derek sympathizes, he really does, but mostly what he wants is to not have front-row tickets to five different fantasy sequences. None of which, he might add, involve him in any way, though Scott is surprisingly popular.
Not that he’s cranky about not starring in people’s fantasies. That would be immature and also ridiculous, and Derek isn’t one to get upset about being left out.
"You know you just pink-elephanted sex, right?" Lydia stage whispers to him when no one provides any viable suggestions for intimidating or cajoling trickster spirits.
"Really? I hadn’t noticed," Derek says grumpily.
I am a proud Demisexual! And I always have a hard time explaining it to other people, let alone myself some times? But this makes it really easy ^^ please reblog and share this.
This is neat; I like it.
FINALLY AN EDUCATIONAL GRAPHIC THAT USES THE DEFINITION OF BISEXUAL THAT I ACTUALLY IDENTIFY WITH
This is the greatest charted chart in all of chartdom.
It is. I can also pretty much say with certainty that I’m both homoromantic and homosexual.
Labels have their use, even though I prefer to live without any, I know it can still be handy to clarify your sexual/romantic preferences.
It’s also always nice to remind people that heterosexuality is just one out of many many labels.
Teen Wolf Cast birthdays and ages
WHAT THE FUCK
this messed me up
Look at all the ladies being flawless and nearly thirty.
This! This is why I love the BBC!!
That’s bloody brilliant, that is!
I SAW THAT AS WELL
WHY THE HECK WAS THIS ON A BILLBOARD.
BECAUSE SHE IGNORED HIS TEXTS
I have finally done the thing since people have asked for it many many times: a better look at my Powerpuff Girls designs! I had a chance to put more thought into their them this time around and I’m quite satisfied with it all.
This was done mainly for those who wanted to cosplay the girls, in which I say, feel free to take any liberties beyond what I’ve done and I hope you all enjoy my take on the PPGs!
OK, but I look so much like Buttercup you guys
My friend Hannah came up with this comic
Everything you wanted to know about transgender people but were afraid to ask.
The gods know what you’ve done.
this is the funniest shit i’ve seen for like 3 years
"Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies," from Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite, played using only water glasses.
well done. And quite ethereal.
this is so beautiful and worth listening to even if you think you’ve heard this song a thousand times—ESPECIALLY if you think you’ve heard it a thousand times.
This gave me goosebumps of the good kind
Thought I’d try Officer Stilinski since I did Officer Hale last time…
oh god I really think Stiles should arrest Derek while he’s peacefully protesting for werewolf civil rights and be incredibly gentle when closing the handcuffs around Derek’s wrists, even though the crowd is against him, shouting, roaring, spitting in his face, and the cop’s face is impassive, but he cups his hand protectively over Derek’s head as he folds him into the back of the squad car, and when he catches his eye in the rearview mirror, he grins, and says,
"Well, I think they liked me."
Derek looks out the window; he knows all about this part. Cops pretend to be your friend so you’ll admit to something incriminating, and they’re all really fucking assholes underneath.
Derek was trespassing, it’s true, he violated his probation (probably for graffiti-ing a giant wolf paw on a highway barrier when he was sixteen, he got of with six months of community service and probation). The cop doesn’t say anything else, but at the station he books Derek through quickly, points him down the hall to the phone while he’s signing the paperwork with a ballpoint pen. Derek shrugs. He doesn’t have anyone to call.
"You—then you’ll have to spend the weekend here," the cop says, mouth tucking down into a frown. Derek shrugs again. Officer—Stilinski, he can see now, on the nametag, clicks the pen a few times, and then says, "Okay," and puts him in a cell.
The public defender shows up at 4:53, a young guy in a dark suit who smiles at him on the police station steps and tucks a card into his hand—a card for the most expensive law firm in town.
"I can’t, um, afford," Derek says, and the guy—McCall—waves it off.
"Pro bono," he says. "Favor for a friend."
Derek hesitates; that sounds like there are strings attached. The sun is setting, crimson and purple, and McCall’s eyes glint, reflect, flash red.
"I have a—vested interest, you could say," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, ruining the line of his suit.
Sorry, wait, I had something more to say about this, which is that they’re sort of almost friends by the time Scott gets the charges dropped, files a countersuit, wins that, gets Derek’s juvenile record actually really sealed and the person who released that information fired—
“You don’t have to—I would have just paid the fine, I was—I know I broke the law—” Derek says, sitting uncomfortably on the leather chair opposite Scott’s desk, and Scott says,
“it’s a stupid fucking law,” and invites Derek to a barbecue. Derek goes because he owes Scott, but expects it to be terrible, to be a curiosity for Scott’s snooty law school friends and his packed-up werewolf bros alike, and is surprised to find that it’s quiet and low key, burgers on the grill and beers in a cooler, a bunch of mismatched folding chairs on a back porch on a balmy summer evening and a tall, soft-spoken guy in a pair of ragged khaki shorts so old that the seams are worn white, birkenstocks, a thin blue shirt smiling down at him in the kitchen, reaching past him to pull open a drawer when Derek asks for a bottle opener.
His wrist brushes Derek’s hip and the guy’s cheeks heat up a little, bashful.
The guy’s name is Stiles and he has a low scratchy laugh and he makes Derek two burgers charred around the edges just like he likes and he’s a great listener, peeling at the label on his beer, eyes thoughtful, when they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder on the back steps watching the moon rise.
“Is Stiles, um,” Derek says, not sure how to finish the sentence, when he’s in the kitchen with Scott, pulling out the ice cream sandwiches.
“He’s been my best friend since we were five,” Scott says. “He’s the best.”
That’s why—when Stiles asks, too casually, if Derek wants to, uh, come back to his apartment. Just to talk, he says, just to—he isn’t, uh—
Stiles’ mouth tastes like vanilla ice cream and his breath hitches when Derek presses in against him, they kiss for long minutes in the hallway outside Stiles’ place, and Stiles drops his keys twice trying to get his door open.
“I meant it,” he says, when Derek’s underneath him on the couch and he’s working a line of kisses down his neck, nuzzling at his collarbone until Derek’s shivering, Derek didn’t exactly say anything about Kate or, or Jennifer, but Stiles must have read it in the shape of his silences, says, “you don’t have to do anything, that’s not why—“ and the soft weight of his breath feels so good against Derek’s throat that he arches his back and his eyes widen a little and that’s when he sees it, the navy shirt and shoulder holster slung over the back of the kitchen chair, the disassembled gun on a towel on the table, the heavy belt and glint of gold he’d seen in the key basket as they came through the door, hadn’t paid any attention because Stiles was laughing, holding his hand,
“You’re a—fucking cop,” Derek says, pushing at Stiles’ shoulders, scrambling out from under him, “you’re—“
“Yeah—“ Stiles says. He’s back on the other end of the couch, blinking, his mouth flushed, a bright smudge of beard rash on his chin, “Yeah, I thought—you don’t remember me?”
“We’ve met?” Derek says.
“Yeah, I, uh, arrested you that time,” Stiles says. “I thought—sorry, I recognized you right away, so—“
“You all look the fucking same to me,” Derek says, because he fucking—jesus, he’s so fucking stupid, of course this is just some fucked up power trip for this lying asshole, who actually has the nerve to look hurt.
“Okay,” Stiles says. “Sorry.”
“Yeah,” Derek says, fumbling his sneakers back on. “am I free to go?”
“Of course,” Stiles says, jaw tensing.
“So you and Stiles,” Scott says, grinning, the next time they meet.
“No,” Derek says, cutting him off. Scott’s smile fades.
“You know, he’s the one who called me about you,” he says.
“So what,” Derek says. “So I owe him a blowjob now because I’m so grateful—“
“That’s not fair,” Scott says. Derek stares at the floor, hands shoved in his pockets. Stiles didn’t make him do anything, but that doesn’t take away the visceral jolt of panic he’d felt when he’d figured it out. Cops carried tasers, mistletoe spray, wolfsbane bullets. If Stiles had wanted to keep him there, it would have been easy for him. Derek’s never been much of a fighter anyhow.
“Look,” Scott says, sighing. “Some bad stuff happened to Stiles in high school and it’s hard for—anyhow, he doesn’t really—date much. He thought you were cute—“
“He said that.”
“No, he called me at four-fucking-thirty on a Friday after I’d already worked an eighty hour week and said to start calling judges and kissing ass and then casually asked about your case a half a dozen times, so—“
“What a hero,” Derek says dryly, and Scott says,
“He is, actually.” And then makes Derek sign a bunch of papers and kicks him out of his office.
The thing is, Derek has to go down to the police station to apply for his resident parking permit, and of course, of all the bad luck, Stiles is coming into the lobby as he’s coming out, and it’s big—vaulted ceilings, marble floors and Stiles is fifty feet away but Derek is immediately conscious of him, and Stiles’ eyes snap to his and then self-consciously away, shoulders hunching like he’s the one who doesn’t belong.
Derek brings a box of doughnuts when he goes over to Stiles’ apartment. He’s maybe just going to leave it with a post-it note that says ‘sorry’ or whatever, he hadn’t thought it through that well, just found himself saying he’d take the rest of those powdered doughnuts and a jelly, whatever was left when he was at the bakery picking up some bagels for breakfast, and it’s Friday night, Stiles probably isn’t even home, except he opens the door, this time in an undershirt and uniform pants and sock feet. He looks tired.
“hi,” Derek says.
“hi,” Stiles says warily.
“Sorry I said—Scott says you’re a hero, so,” Derek says, putting the box of doughnuts in Stiles’ hands.
“Scott’s full of shit,” Stiles says.
“I didn’t recognize you,” Derek says.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, a ghost of a smile on his face. “I figured that out.”
“I shouldn’t have implied, um—“
“You’ve had bad experiences,” Stiles says. “I get it. You don’t have to explain yourself.”
“Maybe I want to,” Derek says. “Can I come in?”
Stiles says yes.