Blogger who is terrible at writing descriptions. Ship Sterek fiercely. Canadian.

(This theme is a work in progess and I apologize for weirdness while I continue to work on it.)

 

i-like-it-in-the-slash:

someotherchick:

enexcelsis:

Something’s happening, isn’t it? Something more than a lacrosse game?

#this is where scott gets it #right here #i’m always really put out by how male superhero narratives over-prioritise father-son relationships #to the exclusion and even erasure of the impact mothers have on shaping and sculpting who their sons turn out to be. #so i like that teen wolf is actually not confused at all on that front #you can see it in everything scott does just how much melissa’s shaped the man he’s becoming #melissa’s a nurse; when you’re a health professional you don’t get to choose WHO to help #you just DO - there’s no one beyond your purview bc all life is precious #and it’s your JOB to do everything in your power to preserve/help/save. #so you can see melissa’s imprint even in how scott frames his actions? #’i don’t want you to get hurt’ ‘i have to make sure people don’t get hurt’ ‘there are too many people who need me’ #scott doesn’t frame his actions as ‘heroic’ bc never in her life would melissa call what she does #in getting up every day at the crack of dawn; marching through those wards and literally saving lives heroic. #it’s no mistake that she’s NURSE - possibly one of the most thankless medical professions#even if nurses are the unsung heroes of any hospital. they do the day-to-day slogging of keeping people alive and raising their spirits w… #with little recognition or reward #and i love that it’s so clear (and it has been from s1) that this is scott’s template. #not the father who abused then abandoned him. #it’s this woman; this fucking hero who taught him his first words #that’s taught him what it means to be a human being; a person and now a creature with superpowers #IF YOU CAN DO SOMETHING TO HELP; THEN YOU DO IT. (via magalimoon)




The Caretakers - “If you can do something to help, you do it. You have to.”
So .. the McCalls. It’s been said before, but it’s interesting to see how Melissa has clearly raised her son wiht the mentality of help whoever you can whenever possible because that’s her life and her job. She’s a caretaker and it’s something Scott has imbibed enough to take up a part time job at a vet (also because they need the money and this is more of that care-taking). And you can see it in the way he handles the animals that he really cares, and it’s somewhat fitting, isn’t it, that becoming a werewolf would give him the ability to not only bond on a higher level with some of the animals but also be able to take away some of their pain. Is it even surprising to hear him say that he cried the first time he found out he could do that? When one has been taught to have high sense of compassion, is it so hard to believe that being given the power of being able to ‘maim and kill’, to be put in a position where HE could be maimed and killed would cause him so much anguish (esp we see how easily the new betas accept the tasks of killing Lydia)? Is it so hard to believe that for him murder is the ultimate last resort?
For all they do though, this is a family that’s constantly in need, who have to do a little extra to stay afloat. Who have to constantly make sacrifices.. and sometimes it’s not enough. The judgment Melissa has to endure from people like Harris and Chris Argent who look down at her parenting, (and the worry that maybe they’re all right), the public humiliation Scott quietly takes because his new condition means he’s flunking school, and the way he berates himself when fails at helping someone. 
You can say what you want about Scott and his relationships, but he has never seen someone in need and walked away. No matter how awful they are. Scott only writes off people that harm and even then he won’t let you die (except Peter, for obvious reason). This is why I feel he gets so angry at Derek because he feels Derek should know better but he’s always being cagey, always -unwittingly - putting people around him, including himself in precarious positions. Two out of the three fights he’s had with Derek have been because he felt Derek was putting people in danger. This is why he rejected Peter as his Alpha, and why he rejects Derek (that and some self-loathing and an innate refusal to accept what he has become.) Personally, I think that as a family unit, these two are sorely under-explored, even more in season 2. Where the show dropped th ball on Melissa being presented with the knowledge that her son is something and she can’t even wrap her head around it. Regardless, she puts away her confusion and fear BECAUSE PEOPLE ARE IN DANGER and what would that make her… them if they walked away because they were scared?

The Caretakers - “If you can do something to help, you do it. You have to.”

So .. the McCalls. It’s been said before, but it’s interesting to see how Melissa has clearly raised her son wiht the mentality of help whoever you can whenever possible because that’s her life and her job. She’s a caretaker and it’s something Scott has imbibed enough to take up a part time job at a vet (also because they need the money and this is more of that care-taking). And you can see it in the way he handles the animals that he really cares, and it’s somewhat fitting, isn’t it, that becoming a werewolf would give him the ability to not only bond on a higher level with some of the animals but also be able to take away some of their pain. Is it even surprising to hear him say that he cried the first time he found out he could do that? When one has been taught to have high sense of compassion, is it so hard to believe that being given the power of being able to ‘maim and kill’, to be put in a position where HE could be maimed and killed would cause him so much anguish (esp we see how easily the new betas accept the tasks of killing Lydia)? Is it so hard to believe that for him murder is the ultimate last resort?

For all they do though, this is a family that’s constantly in need, who have to do a little extra to stay afloat. Who have to constantly make sacrifices.. and sometimes it’s not enough. The judgment Melissa has to endure from people like Harris and Chris Argent who look down at her parenting, (and the worry that maybe they’re all right), the public humiliation Scott quietly takes because his new condition means he’s flunking school, and the way he berates himself when fails at helping someone. 

You can say what you want about Scott and his relationships, but he has never seen someone in need and walked away. No matter how awful they are. Scott only writes off people that harm and even then he won’t let you die (except Peter, for obvious reason). This is why I feel he gets so angry at Derek because he feels Derek should know better but he’s always being cagey, always -unwittingly - putting people around him, including himself in precarious positions. Two out of the three fights he’s had with Derek have been because he felt Derek was putting people in danger. This is why he rejected Peter as his Alpha, and why he rejects Derek (that and some self-loathing and an innate refusal to accept what he has become.) Personally, I think that as a family unit, these two are sorely under-explored, even more in season 2. Where the show dropped th ball on Melissa being presented with the knowledge that her son is something and she can’t even wrap her head around it. Regardless, she puts away her confusion and fear BECAUSE PEOPLE ARE IN DANGER and what would that make her… them if they walked away because they were scared?

(Source: thedisorderly)

halffizzbin:

imageshakebadguyshake replied to your post: Somebody just told me it made Derek sound like a…

Now I sort of want to see a scene where the Sheriff sits Derek down and explains this to him

"Dad, no, low-sodium or not at all, do you have any idea how—Derek?!”

"Oh," says Derek, wheeling around almost guiltily with a package of Oreos in one hand. "Stiles. Sheriff." 

"Derek," John says, nodding. Stiles is still staring, leaning heavily on the shopping cart with his mouth wide open, like he’s seeing something so shocking that he can’t control his muscles. "Staying out of trouble?"

Stiles recovers at that, snorting indelicately. “Please, Dad. That’s like telling a guppy to stay out of water.”

"Hey," Derek says, his eyebrows scrunching together, and if John didn’t know better he’d say Derek was offended.

"And of course you only eat regular Oreos," Stiles continues, waving his hand at the cookies Derek is holding. "I mean, don’t get me wrong, the fact that your profoundly creepy self actually eats cookies at all is revelatory, but seriously, dude, what—Double Stuf too luxurious for your Spartan werewolf pantry?"

"Yes, by all means, say ‘werewolf’ out loud in a crowded supermarket," Derek says, rolling his eyes, and Stiles’ grins and rolls his own eyes back, his whole face lighting up like getting Derek to be sarcastic at him is more exciting than every Christmas present he’s ever received.

(As the person who worked quite a few double shifts to afford Stiles’ new iPod, John is a little miffed.)

"Stiles," he says, pulling him away from Derek by the back of his jacket, "wanna go get the ground beef from the butcher? 80% lean."

"95% lean, got it," Stiles says as he trots off down the aisle. "Catch you later, Derek!"

"Yeah," Derek says, watching him go. Then he puts the Oreos back on the shelf and picks up another package: Double Stuf, chocolate cream. 

"Don’t take it personally," John says, trying not to smile. "Stiles teases everyone. It’s how he shows affection. He’s been making fun of my taste in sweaters since he was seven.”

"I’m not creepy,” Derek insists, his jaw tense. “I’m just a guy. Sometimes I eat snacks and watch football. He doesn’t have to have a heart attack every time he catches me buying Fritos.”

"Son." John clasps his shoulder solidly. "I’ve had to issue you official warnings for loitering on high school property."

"The betas need to be looked after!"

Twelve times,” John says, and Derek winces. “Look, I know you’re a decent guy. I’m not about to forget that you pulled Stiles out of a car wreck and ran him all the way to the hospital that night—and Stiles isn’t about to forget that either, by the way.”

"He does a pretty good job of acting like he has," Derek mutters down at his sneakers, and John wants to ruffle his hair.

"I’m just saying. With the hovering, and the appearing suddenly out of the shadows, and the shiny black car? From the outside, it all looks a bit…"

"Creepy," Derek sighs, clutching at his Oreos in defeat. "Damnit. I’m just trying to… my sister used to be so good at this. She had this aura, you know? Fierce. Even other alphas were afraid of her.”

"Stiles used to be afraid of you," John says, consolingly. "No, really, he did! When I pulled him out of that squad car you were in the back of, two years ago? White as a sheet. I thought he was going to faint right there." 

"Stiles is a much better liar than you are," Derek tells him, his mouth twitching up at the corners. "Thanks, though."

"No problem. Stiles likes chocolate chip cookies better than Oreos. Just so you know." 

Derek shrugs, looking away. “What does that matter. It’s not like he’s ever at the house.”

"Just letting you know," John repeats, giving his shoulder another pat before heading off to find Stiles at the butcher counter. "Take it easy, Hale."

John sneaks a look back when he reaches the end of the aisle, just in time to watch Derek throw a package of Chips Ahoy into his cart. 

rainglazed:

saucefactory:

affectingly:

I want to lick all the way up his spine and then bite the back of his neck.

OH MY GOD
LOOK AT THAT BODY
IT IS ART
AND MAKES FOR AN EXCELLENT REFERENCE FOR ARTISTS, I WOULD IMAGINE
SO, UM
CAN WE JUST HAVE AN AU
IN WHICH DEREK IS A NUDE ART MODEL
AND STILES IS AN ART STUDENT
AND STUFF
PLEASE
OKAY WAIDDAMINUTE HERE IT IS:

“Um,” says Stiles, when he walks in to find the model already on the platform, and half the class already drawing.
“Late as usual, Mr. Stilinski,” Harris sneers, but Stiles can’t even be bothered snarking at him.
“Uh, yeah,” Stiles says, and sits down before he falls down.
“You okay?” Scott whispers, from the easel next to him.
“Oh, nothing, just having a sexual identity crisis brought on by the most perfect pectorals in the world,” Stiles whispers back. “You?”
Scott snorts. “You can’t have a crisis if you already know you’re bi, Stiles.”
“Fine, maybe not an identity crisis, but - I can have a moral crisis! A creative crisis! The guy’s a model! I’m an artist! To bone or not to bone? That is the question.”
“The answer,” Harris drawls, as he walks past them, “is to draw. And you’d better get to it, Mr. Stilinski, unless you prefer to fail.” He pauses. “Again.”
“Fuck,” Stiles mutters, under his breath, and gets to work.
For a moment, it seems as though the model’s eyes flick to him, but he couldn’t have heard Stiles waxing lyrical about his pecs from all the way over there, could he? Unless he’s a werewolf, like Scott. Ha! Yeah, right.
Stiles can see why the school hired this model, though; that musculature stands out in sharp relief in the spotlights, making for an excellent anatomical reference. Every line of muscle, every ligament, is taut and lovely and filled with a strangely violent stillness, a prickling electricity, as though the figure isn’t simply caught in repose but coiled, like a snake or a rope on the verge of snapping, and -
And before Stiles knows it, time’s up.
He stares at his canvas, jaw hanging open, because he’s never drawn that fast, before. He usually finds his attention pulled in a gazillion directions at once, which means he always sucks at these long sessions with still-lifes and nudes, which is also why Harris, the evil, reptilian professor of all things still-life, hates Stiles with the fire of a thousand suns.
This is the first time Stiles hasn’t gotten distracted. And what he’s produced is - well, it’s pretty damn amazing, even if he says so, himself. The same electricity he’d felt is in what he’s created, in shadows that refuse to be soft, but instead gather in sharp, feral triangles around the man’s muscles, like black fangs.
He wants to show the model his work, which is just - that’s bizarre - and anyway, the model’s already standing up and slipping on a robe, and leaving the classroom, just like that.
“Um,” repeats Stiles, because that’s apparently the only sound he can produce when looking directly at the guy. It’s like the oral equivalent of being blinded by the sun. What’s it called, again? Oh, yeah. Tongue-tied. He’s being tongue-tied.
“C’mon,” says Scott, compassionately. “He’ll be here for another couple weeks, until we’re done with male nudes. You’ll get to see him again.”
“Yeah,” Stiles replies, vaguely, fingers itching with the urge to draw, again. “Sure.”
Scott just shakes his head.

And now, Derek’s motivation for taking up art modeling:

It had started off as a favor for one of Laura’s friends, at art school - but now, Derek models because he needs the experience, not to mention the money. He’s still way behind on his student loans, and his modeling career hasn’t quite taken off. Yet. It will, though, and his already-formidable reputation as one of the best nude art models in the business can only help him, when it comes to that.
There’s also the added benefit of learning how to focus. It had seemed almost impossible, at first, for the wolf in him to put up with restraining his movements for that long, and he’d been right. But now, Derek can simply breathe, calm himself and stay still, refusing to react to the miasma of scents (cheap perfume; lust; charcoal; parchment) that invariably surrounds him.
It’s like being the eye of the storm, the stillness at the center of a storm of stimuli. Isaac had been right, about this, when he’d started modeling, too.
Posing is just like meditating. It trains the body and the mind into stillness, into discipline, into self-control.
One heck of an advantage, for a werewolf.
Derek wonders, sometimes, just how many werewolf models there are.

OH MY GOD WHAT AM I DOING. STAHP MEH. STAAAAHHHHP.

NO SAUCERY PLEASE CONTINUE
I ACTUALLY REALLY LOVE THIS IDEA TBH

rainglazed:

saucefactory:

affectingly:

I want to lick all the way up his spine and then bite the back of his neck.

OH MY GOD

LOOK AT THAT BODY

IT IS ART

AND MAKES FOR AN EXCELLENT REFERENCE FOR ARTISTS, I WOULD IMAGINE

SO, UM

CAN WE JUST HAVE AN AU

IN WHICH DEREK IS A NUDE ART MODEL

AND STILES IS AN ART STUDENT

AND STUFF

PLEASE

OKAY WAIDDAMINUTE HERE IT IS:

“Um,” says Stiles, when he walks in to find the model already on the platform, and half the class already drawing.

“Late as usual, Mr. Stilinski,” Harris sneers, but Stiles can’t even be bothered snarking at him.

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles says, and sits down before he falls down.

“You okay?” Scott whispers, from the easel next to him.

“Oh, nothing, just having a sexual identity crisis brought on by the most perfect pectorals in the world,” Stiles whispers back. “You?”

Scott snorts. “You can’t have a crisis if you already know you’re bi, Stiles.”

“Fine, maybe not an identity crisis, but - I can have a moral crisis! A creative crisis! The guy’s a model! I’m an artist! To bone or not to bone? That is the question.”

“The answer,” Harris drawls, as he walks past them, “is to draw. And you’d better get to it, Mr. Stilinski, unless you prefer to fail.” He pauses. “Again.”

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters, under his breath, and gets to work.

For a moment, it seems as though the model’s eyes flick to him, but he couldn’t have heard Stiles waxing lyrical about his pecs from all the way over there, could he? Unless he’s a werewolf, like Scott. Ha! Yeah, right.

Stiles can see why the school hired this model, though; that musculature stands out in sharp relief in the spotlights, making for an excellent anatomical reference. Every line of muscle, every ligament, is taut and lovely and filled with a strangely violent stillness, a prickling electricity, as though the figure isn’t simply caught in repose but coiled, like a snake or a rope on the verge of snapping, and -

And before Stiles knows it, time’s up.

He stares at his canvas, jaw hanging open, because he’s never drawn that fast, before. He usually finds his attention pulled in a gazillion directions at once, which means he always sucks at these long sessions with still-lifes and nudes, which is also why Harris, the evil, reptilian professor of all things still-life, hates Stiles with the fire of a thousand suns.

This is the first time Stiles hasn’t gotten distracted. And what he’s produced is - well, it’s pretty damn amazing, even if he says so, himself. The same electricity he’d felt is in what he’s created, in shadows that refuse to be soft, but instead gather in sharp, feral triangles around the man’s muscles, like black fangs.

He wants to show the model his work, which is just - that’s bizarre - and anyway, the model’s already standing up and slipping on a robe, and leaving the classroom, just like that.

“Um,” repeats Stiles, because that’s apparently the only sound he can produce when looking directly at the guy. It’s like the oral equivalent of being blinded by the sun. What’s it called, again? Oh, yeah. Tongue-tied. He’s being tongue-tied.

“C’mon,” says Scott, compassionately. “He’ll be here for another couple weeks, until we’re done with male nudes. You’ll get to see him again.”

“Yeah,” Stiles replies, vaguely, fingers itching with the urge to draw, again. “Sure.”

Scott just shakes his head.

And now, Derek’s motivation for taking up art modeling:

It had started off as a favor for one of Laura’s friends, at art school - but now, Derek models because he needs the experience, not to mention the money. He’s still way behind on his student loans, and his modeling career hasn’t quite taken off. Yet. It will, though, and his already-formidable reputation as one of the best nude art models in the business can only help him, when it comes to that.

There’s also the added benefit of learning how to focus. It had seemed almost impossible, at first, for the wolf in him to put up with restraining his movements for that long, and he’d been right. But now, Derek can simply breathe, calm himself and stay still, refusing to react to the miasma of scents (cheap perfume; lust; charcoal; parchment) that invariably surrounds him.

It’s like being the eye of the storm, the stillness at the center of a storm of stimuli. Isaac had been right, about this, when he’d started modeling, too.

Posing is just like meditating. It trains the body and the mind into stillness, into discipline, into self-control.

One heck of an advantage, for a werewolf.

Derek wonders, sometimes, just how many werewolf models there are.

OH MY GOD WHAT AM I DOING. STAHP MEH. STAAAAHHHHP.

NO SAUCERY PLEASE CONTINUE

I ACTUALLY REALLY LOVE THIS IDEA TBH

(Source: allseriescaps)

helenish:

theragnarokd:


swingsetindecember:



saucefactory:



swingsetindecember:



saucefactory:



SIR, YOU ARE FORBIDDEN FROM BEING SO ADORABLE WHILST ALSO SPORTING FANGS LARGE ENOUGH TO RIP THE THROAT OUT OF A SMALL JUNGLE-DEER. OR STILES.



OMG DEREK AT A DANCE CLUB
STILES: ARE YOU HIGH?
DEREK: HIGH ON YOU BABY
STILES: OMG THIS DRINK HAS FLOWERS IN IT. DEREK. WE NEED TO GET YOU OUT OF HERE
DEREK: YOUR PLACE OR MINE?
STILES: I AM SO GOING TO SPECIAL HELL FOR THIS



DEREK NO
*GIGGLES HELPLESSLY* 



STILES: JUST ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER. COME ON, SOURWOLF
DEREK: I LOVE IT WHEN YOU CALL ME THAT
STILES: NOW I REALLY KNOW YOU’RE HIGH
DEREK: AND YOU SMELL SO GOOD
STILES: …
DEREK: I COULD JUST EAT YOU UP
STILES: YOU’RE GOING TO RIP MY THROAT OUT WHEN THIS WEARS OFF
DEREK: I’D RATHER GET YOU OUT OF THOSE PANTS
STILES: MEEP



he takes off his shirt and dances on the bar in the five minutes Stiles goes to the bathroom. Stiles gives Isaac his most accusing look. “You were supposed to watch over him!”
Isaac shrugs and waves a fistful of notes. “He’s making a killing in tips. We need to pay the utilities bill somehow.”


“A lot of guys gave me their numbers,” Derek confided, when Stiles had finally gotten him strapped into the Jeep. 
“Yeah, I saw,” Stiles said, pulling out of the parking lot. Derek was staring down at the fistful of bar napkins; the high was starting wear off and he looked like himself, except with a smudge of glitter across one cheekbone. He crumpled up the napkins, frowning at his knees. “They just wanted—they thought I’d be slutty in bed,” he said. “That’s why.”
So—not really wearing off, then, Stiles thought, and said, neutrally, “you don’t, um, know—”
“Everyone always thinks,” Derek said, cutting him off. “And they’re always—” he swallowed, a hard jog of his throat, “disappointed, so—”
“Derek,” Stiles said, almost sharply. “You’re just having a bad trip, that doesn’t mean—anything, once Scott and I did shrooms and we thought a garden hose was trying to murder us, so you should just—”
“Yeah, but, you like sluts, right?” Derek demanded.
“Uh, well—I mean, what’s not to like?” Stiles said, automatically, and then, “No, um, look, I think if—I think you should just sleep with fewer jerks. There’s—” but he was on firmer ground with this one, three semesters of living in a coed dorm next to the co-chair of Take Back the Night, “there’s nothing wrong with you, with what—you, uh, like.”
“You think so?” Derek said, neck lolling back against the headrest. Stiles stopped at a red light, risked a look at him. Derek’s eyelid were heavy, pupils blown, his shirt still open at the throat, hair a deranged haystack listing sideways on his head; he was still high as a fucking kite.
“Yeah, I know so,” Stiles said. 
“That’s really nice,” Derek said softly. “You’re so nice,” he said, after a minute. The light had turned green, but the street was deserted, dark; Stiles didn’t move, caught by the tilt of Derek’s mouth, the fragile connection between them. “I really like—” Derek said hesitantly. “I’ve been wanting to say—” Stiles felt his pulse pounding red in his throat, “I like the numbers in your hair,” Derek said.
“Okay,” Stiles said.
“Also popcorn bubbles,” Derek said confidently. “It’s in the tree stump.”
“Yeah, let’s go ahead and get you home,” Stiles said, putting it back in gear.
“Buttons,” Derek said, nodding.

helenish:

theragnarokd:

swingsetindecember:

saucefactory:

swingsetindecember:

saucefactory:

SIR, YOU ARE FORBIDDEN FROM BEING SO ADORABLE WHILST ALSO SPORTING FANGS LARGE ENOUGH TO RIP THE THROAT OUT OF A SMALL JUNGLE-DEER. OR STILES.

OMG DEREK AT A DANCE CLUB

STILES: ARE YOU HIGH?

DEREK: HIGH ON YOU BABY

STILES: OMG THIS DRINK HAS FLOWERS IN IT. DEREK. WE NEED TO GET YOU OUT OF HERE

DEREK: YOUR PLACE OR MINE?

STILES: I AM SO GOING TO SPECIAL HELL FOR THIS

DEREK NO

*GIGGLES HELPLESSLY* 

STILES: JUST ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER. COME ON, SOURWOLF

DEREK: I LOVE IT WHEN YOU CALL ME THAT

STILES: NOW I REALLY KNOW YOU’RE HIGH

DEREK: AND YOU SMELL SO GOOD

STILES:

DEREK: I COULD JUST EAT YOU UP

STILES: YOU’RE GOING TO RIP MY THROAT OUT WHEN THIS WEARS OFF

DEREK: I’D RATHER GET YOU OUT OF THOSE PANTS

STILES: MEEP

he takes off his shirt and dances on the bar in the five minutes Stiles goes to the bathroom. Stiles gives Isaac his most accusing look. “You were supposed to watch over him!”

Isaac shrugs and waves a fistful of notes. “He’s making a killing in tips. We need to pay the utilities bill somehow.”

“A lot of guys gave me their numbers,” Derek confided, when Stiles had finally gotten him strapped into the Jeep. 

“Yeah, I saw,” Stiles said, pulling out of the parking lot. Derek was staring down at the fistful of bar napkins; the high was starting wear off and he looked like himself, except with a smudge of glitter across one cheekbone. He crumpled up the napkins, frowning at his knees. “They just wanted—they thought I’d be slutty in bed,” he said. “That’s why.”

So—not really wearing off, then, Stiles thought, and said, neutrally, “you don’t, um, know—”

“Everyone always thinks,” Derek said, cutting him off. “And they’re always—” he swallowed, a hard jog of his throat, “disappointed, so—”

“Derek,” Stiles said, almost sharply. “You’re just having a bad trip, that doesn’t mean—anything, once Scott and I did shrooms and we thought a garden hose was trying to murder us, so you should just—”

“Yeah, but, you like sluts, right?” Derek demanded.

“Uh, well—I mean, what’s not to like?” Stiles said, automatically, and then, “No, um, look, I think if—I think you should just sleep with fewer jerks. There’s—” but he was on firmer ground with this one, three semesters of living in a coed dorm next to the co-chair of Take Back the Night, “there’s nothing wrong with you, with what—you, uh, like.”

“You think so?” Derek said, neck lolling back against the headrest. Stiles stopped at a red light, risked a look at him. Derek’s eyelid were heavy, pupils blown, his shirt still open at the throat, hair a deranged haystack listing sideways on his head; he was still high as a fucking kite.

“Yeah, I know so,” Stiles said. 

“That’s really nice,” Derek said softly. “You’re so nice,” he said, after a minute. The light had turned green, but the street was deserted, dark; Stiles didn’t move, caught by the tilt of Derek’s mouth, the fragile connection between them. “I really like—” Derek said hesitantly. “I’ve been wanting to say—” Stiles felt his pulse pounding red in his throat, “I like the numbers in your hair,” Derek said.

“Okay,” Stiles said.

“Also popcorn bubbles,” Derek said confidently. “It’s in the tree stump.”

“Yeah, let’s go ahead and get you home,” Stiles said, putting it back in gear.

“Buttons,” Derek said, nodding.

ellemarchpane replied to your post: “ellemarchpane replied to your post:ellemarchpane replied to your…”:
Hey, it’s YOUR system for YOUR books. It doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else. ;0)

I was trying to explain it but I was way too tired to get into it XD