Lavish Living
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Showing posts tagged teen wolf
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Teen Wolf Season 3 Trailer
IF YOU STRIKE US DOWN, WE SHALL WRITE MORE COFFEE SHOP AUs, MORE IT WAS ALL A DYSTOPIC HALLUCINATION STORIES, MORE HERE’S-LITERALLY-1500 WORDS-OF-DEREK-HALE-WEARING-A-SOFT-T-SHIRT-AND-SMILING-TOO-MUCH-STORIES, MORE-25-CHAPTER-WIPS-WHERE-DEREK-IS-LIKE-PLEASE-FOR-THE-LOVE-OF-GOD-JUST-GO-ALONG-WITH-THIS-I’LL-EXPLAIN-LATER-AND-LEANS-IN-AND-BRUSHES-HIS-MOUTH-ACROSS-STILES’, MORE FIXITS, MORE AUS, MORE GROUNDHOG DAY STORIES, MORE BACK-TO-THE-FUTURE-STORIES WITH BATTLE-SCARRED STILES, GRIM, HEAVILY MUSCLED, VISIBLY KEEPING HIMSELF FROM TOUCHING DEREK IN THE WRONG WAY, MORE COLLEGE STORIES, THAT CUM DUMPSTER 4 U STORY I FOUND ONE PARAGRAPH OF THAT I WROTE WHEN I WAS DRUNK AND FORGOT ABOUT, MORE WOLF BROTHERS 5EVER STORIES WHERE STILES GOES AWAY AND COMES BACK AND DEREK IS ROLLING AROUND IN THE BACK YARD WITH SCOTT’S KIDS, THAN YOU COULD EVER BEGIN TO IMAGINE.
THIS IS OUR BATTLE CRY! THIS MIGHT HURT? MORE LIKE THIS MIGHT tenderly ghost down his collarbone, making him shiver in the moonlight as his [WINGS/TENTACLES/MATING BITE/SQUIRREL EARS] can’t help but respond, MOTHERFUCKER.
COME AT US, WOLFBROS.
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“Just so you know,” Stiles tells Derek mildly, voice hoarse and breathy, “we’re dating now.” He leisurely sucks Derek’s come off his skin, one finger at a time. Derek watches, transfixed. Nods. “This can count as our first date.”
Derek snaps out of his trance and scowls up at him. “I’m not telling people our first date was a two-year-overdue fuck on my kitchen floor.”
“You could take me out to dinner,” offers Stiles hopefully. “I mean, once this is over.” He twitches his hips to illustrate his point, and they both keen at the shift of the knot inside him. Derek grabs his waist instinctively. After a moment, Stiles puts his hands over Derek’s. “Message received,” Stiles says eventually to his own crotch. “Movement is discouraged.”
Or encouraged, Derek thinks. He slides his thumb in a light semicircle, soothing; with a quiet, contented hum, Stiles shuts his eyes. Tilts his head to his right to flop idly against the cabinets.
“Two years is an underestimation,” he says softly. “We should have been doing this since we met.”
Derek grimaces. “You were sixteen when we met.”
“It’s legal in the UK!” Stiles exclaims, offended.
“Fine, fine,” returns Derek, rolling his eyes. “Then it’s four years overdue.”
“The way I feel about you now aside,” Stiles says, lips quirking into a nervous grin, fingers skittering across Derek’s skin, “you’ve always been empirically hot. I didn’t like you at all, but sixteen-year-old me would’ve had sex with you in a second.”
It’s that delightful concoction of embarrassment, flattery, and shock that has Derek’s face heating up, the tips of his ears flushing neon red. His instinct is to squirm, but he can’t when he’s locked in Stiles this way. “I think it’s starting to go down,” he says, and his ears go even hotter when he realises how husky his voice sounds.
“Yeah?” Stiles squirms again, and Derek tightens the grip he has on Stiles’ hips.
“Not down enough for me to pull out yet,” he snaps, and Stiles’ eyebrow twitches upward at his tone.
Probably just to punish Derek, he rolls his hips with purpose, and they both gasp. “Oh,” Stiles says faintly. “Oh, this—probably a bad idea.”
“Really bad idea,” Derek agrees, moving up into him. “S-someone could—”
“Oh, you’re worried about that now, are you?” Stiles giggles guiltily, eyes shut, striking up a rhythm. “Doesn’t it sort of—oh my god—make it all the more—”
“No, it makes it dangerous,” Derek says through grit teeth, but his dick seems to agree with Stiles.
“You can hear if someone’s coming—”
“Not with—not when you’re—”
“God, Derek.” Stiles’ hand, hot and damp and shaky, closes on Derek’s, drags it between his legs. “Touch me.” Derek does, and Stiles’ face splits in a huge grin. “We, we can tell people it was dinner. This is, this is so much better than dinner. You’re so—aha—” With a breathless sort of cackle, he comes again, spills searing across Derek’s chest. “Shit—”
“Stiles, I—” Derek shuts his eyes tight and comes again, stripped of everything in him, until he collapses, wrung out and desperate and ruined. He doesn’t know how long it is before he opens his eyes, breathing heavily. Stiles is sweating, rosy-cheeked, panting, hair clinging in locks to his forehead. He’s blinding.
“Does it just start over now? This physiological process makes no sense,” Stiles tells him, gravelly. “I’m gonna talk to the cat. C’mere, cat.” Derek hears a distant, quizzical noise from the cat. “Yeah, me. You have to talk to me, I’m Derek’s boyfriend now.”
That he is. He is that thing. Derek sighs happily.
The cat licks Derek’s chin.
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NEVER LET YOU GO
Forget This Might Hurt, I am completely fucking obsessed with how the Alpha Pack is apparently there to lure Derek into their pack, with, I don’t know, I assume beautiful ladies who are into murder (Derek’s canonical sexual orientation) all Deucalion leaning an elbow against the bar in a way that his shirt pulls across his chest, all heavy-lidded stare and half smile (DON’T GET ME STARTED ON DEUCALION, EVERYONE, MY CANONICAL SEXUAL ORIENTATION HAS BECOME: GROSS SMIRKY TRASHBALL JERKWADS, UGH, I’m going to be so turned off if Deucalion turns out to be a handsome reasonable person who would never inappropriately touch someone but LET’S BE REAL, WHAT ARE THE CHANCES OF THAT?) Anyhow, Deucalion is all, just give into your destiny, Derek, and clearly there are tons of weird coercive you-know-you’re-just-a-SLUT-you-know-you-want-it-why-do-you-dress-like-that-then-slut-whore-bitch undertones and people touching Derek and Derek trying hard not to flinch while Deucalion tells him all about how he can’t escape it, just accept that all you are is a super hot Alpha with cool stubble we’re all just going to hang out for HOURS squinting sexily and being beautiful people and wearing tight t-shirts and leather and seducing high school students and I have to assume the conflict is that Derek has learned that there’s more to life than being really, really, ridiculously good-looking and that seducing high school students may seem like a great fucking plan but it only ends in heartbreak, MY POINT IS:
It’s not like Scott isn’t allowed to have other friends; Stiles isn’t a jealous weirdo, they hashed out the whole Isaac thing months ago, so it’s fucking bullshit that Scott still feels like he has to lie to him, a weirdly specific obviously planned lie, because Scott had said he was meeting up with Derek to have some ultra boring, awkward information exchange but is instead is sliding into a booth at Patsy’s Pizza across from a guy in a sweatshirt with a hole in the elbow just like the one Stiles lost at Scott’s house six months ago, and HEY—and that’s the moment that the guy looks up from the menu and shoves the hood back off his head and it’s Derek.
Up close, it’s worse. The sweatshirt was always huge on Stiles; he’d picked it out of the station Lost-and-Found one night when it had started to rain, shoved the too-long sleeves up and never given it back. It’s big on Derek too, drooping sloppily off his shoulders. He’s wearing a crumpled up grandpa-checked button-down under it and a couple t-shirts underneath that, collars overlapping. The hems of his jeans are chewed up, grimy, and he’s wearing untied sneakers, mud-stained old Nikes.
“I don’t even know where to start,” Stiles says, shoving in next to Scott.
“Stiles,” Derek says, resigned.
“Yup,” Stiles says.
They’re halfway through an extra large mushroom and sausage pizza before Derek finally comes out with it.
“That is grossly insulting,” Stiles says. Derek is munching stolidly on a slice of pizza, staring down at the table. “And moreover—yeah, moreover, deal with it—it will never work—“
“They think I’m a—a certain way,” Derek says. There’s a smudge of grease on his lower lip. His hair is flattened on one side of his head, like he pulled the strings of the sweatshirt tight and fell asleep like that. “And I’m not, so—“
“Oh my fucking god,” Stiles says. “Wearing like seven layers of clothing is not going to stop people from noticing that you have a super hot body and a beautiful face—“
“Works for you,” Derek says, matter-of-factly. He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of the sweatshirt, which should be disgusting, and, annoyingly, isn’t.
“What?” Stiles says. Derek meets his eyes.
“Nothing,” he says.
“Are you gonna eat that?” Scott says, pointing to the last slice, like Derek’s not acting like he’s lost his mind. Derek shrugs, and pushes the pan towards him.
“I’m gonna go on the record and say that this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, a dumb plan that’s going to end in disaster,” Stiles announces.
It doesn’t.
ALSO:
“The seer, she—” Stiles stopped, swallowing.
“What,” Derek said. The edge of Stiles’ face was gilded in the warm glow of the lamp; there were blue-black smudges under his eyes. “She warned us that you’d do something crazy,” he said, voice low.
“Then she also said you wouldn’t be able to stop me,” Derek said.
“Yeah,” Stiles said, voice breaking. “But you don’t have to be alone.”
“Oh,” Derek said, a soft, punched-out noise in the back of his throat. Their eyes met, electric in the contact. They didn’t touch. Finally Derek turned away and picked up the long, gleaming blade. He drew in a breath, head bowed; made the first cut in silence.
*
“We could have had everything,” Deucalion shouted. He threw a brutal punch into Derek’s chest and Derek staggered, dropped to his knees in the pitted, muddy road. Deucalion kept coming, slapping his clawed-hand across Derek’s face, leaving livid trails of blood from his temple to the corner of his mouth.
“I’ll never give them up,” Derek said, his voice hollowed-out, weak, triumphant.
“I would have been your brother,” Deucalion said, chest heaving, his face a mask of rage and pain. “But you—“
“Jorts,” Derek whispered, taunting. Deucalion’s roar of anger broke open the skies.
Costume Design: T. Hoechlin. Wardrobe Supervisor: T. Hoechlin. Wardrobe Consultant: T. Hoechlin. Costume Buyer: T. Hoechlin. Jorts: T. Hoechlin by T. Hoechlin.
JORTS
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there was a lot of bullshit going on in this scene but washing half a windshield as some sort of ~threatening gesture~ is the weirdest fucking thing Chris Argent has ever done
and he’s done a lot of weird things
Well I mean Derek Hale once asserted his dominance by popping a basketball, and Peter Hale threatened Scott by helping his girlfriend pick out a prom dress. This show is kind of built on weird intimidation gestures.
hey now let’s not forget the angry cake grabbing
This is all better if I assume Teen Wolf is a badly edited comedy show.
(Source: herzdieb)
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Five years later and I still haven’t told him.
avalanche of emotion
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So! I ficced to this! But it kept growing until it was 9,500 words so if you want to read it you can find it on AO3. (It was only a matter of time before I succumbed to Neckz ‘n Throats, and we all knew it.)
Title: Love Runs Wild
Author: Devil Doll
Summary: “You’ve got a hickey on the back of your neck!” A Neckz ‘n Throats story.
Relationship: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: Explicit
Words: ~9,500
Tags: Marking. Neckz ‘n Throats. Porn AU. Possessiveness.
(Source: neptunepirate)
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THE HALE IDENTITY
WHAT ABOUT a Teen Wolf Bourne Identity fusion, where Derek is found floating face-down in the ocean and can’t remember who he is and mysteriously heals up and sleeps on a park bench in the snow and nearly flips out and kills some cops who wake him up and he can DO ALL THESE THINGS INSTINCTIVELY, he can tell you the license plate numbers of all six cars outside, that the waitress is left-handed and the guy sitting at the counter weighs 215 and knows how to handle himself, that the best place to look for a gun is the cab or the grey truck outside, who can run flat out for half a mile before his hands start shaking, but can’t tell you why he knows that, doesn’t even know his name, and Stiles is doing his junior year abroad in Europe and touring around a little in a borrowed car and badly, badly needs cash because he told his dad he’d found some under-the-table job when he really hadn’t found a job at all, and he looks at Derek’s pale eyes and the vulnerable secret twist of his mouth and ignores everything his father ever told him, takes his money, and then they’re driving together north and north and Derek is closed-mouthed but not frightening, just—quiet. confused.
And let me just point out that Stiles has shaggy grown-out hair and a beard, obviously, and god, it’s been a while since I saw the Bourne Identity and this could really probably be fleshed out with tons more WEREWOLF-BRAINWASHING-OFF-BOOKS-COVERT BLACK OPS POLITICAL INTRIGUE, but all I’m really here for is the part where Derek, wearing a tank top, gives Stiles a buzzcut in the bathroom of the grungy little pensione where they’re holed up, hiding, Stiles kneeling with his head over the tub so they can clean up the hair, and Derek behind him, face serious, his hands gently sweeping the hair off Stiles’ shoulders and neck and the way Stiles stares at himself in the mirror, after, runs a self-conscious hand across the top of his head and turns around into Derek’s space, too close, close enough to kiss, the way they kiss, the way Derek drops the plastic bag he’s swept all the hair into and leans in against Stiles, one hand on the sink behind him, the way his hands falter against Stiles’ skin, he doesn’t—remember—doing this, he says, when they’re in bed, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, sorry, sorry, the things Stiles tells him how to do.
I mean, OBVIOUSLY they kill a bunch of assassins and strike back against secret government programs to control werewolves and use them as a military asset and there are car chases with Derek complaining about the clutch on Stiles’ car and Stiles yelling and holding onto the dashboard and saying it’s not even his car, also please don’t go down the—oh my god! and there’s a part where people are trying to kill both of them and Stiles gets tossed aside like a ragdoll and left for dead and Derek’s in the basement being beaten with a rusty metal pipe when Stiles shows up and saves him, face shocky but resolute behind the gun, says, never mind, never mind that when Derek asked where he learned to shoot a gun like that, says they need to leave right now, let’s go, and Stiles’ dad is CIA, all high-level take-no-bullshit Pamela Landy-style, and spends a lot of time uncovering corruption but also rubbing a hand down his careworn face and wondering what his kid has gotten himself into, all that stuff, OBVIOUSLY, but mostly the haircutting parts, and how scared Derek is the first time he shifts into a werewolf, how he tells Stiles to stay away from him, look at him, he’s a—monster, he’s dangerous—how he tries to get Stiles to take the gun, to promise to use it if he needs to, and how Stiles says no, he won’t, how Stiles isn’t scared of him at all.
HELENISH!!!!!!!!!!!! THE ONLY PART I REMEMBER OF THE BOURNE IDENTITY AND THE MOST IMPORTANT PART OF THE BOURNE IDENTITY AND THE MOST IMPORTANT PART OF ANY MOVIE, EVER, IS WHEN MATT DAMON GIVES FRANKA POTENTE AN EROTIC HAIRCUT IN THE BATHROOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I FEEL SO CLOSE TO EVERYONE RIGHT NOW!!!!!! MAY WE ALL LAY DOWN IN FRONT OF HELENISH’S FRONT DOOR SO SHE CAN USE AS AS A RUG FOREVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WIPE YOUR FEET ON ME, HELENISH!!!!!!!!!!
COOL FANART
Likes
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if you don’t like this song
well
if i like you already i will prolly...
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ahahahahahahahhaaaaaaa
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