i really like arranged marriages in fics because the characters just do everything BACKWARDS and that’s delightful for some reason.
consider an AU where derek and stiles are the TERRIBLE victims of such a marriage. it’s arranged by their parents or soMETHING idk, i don’t really care. and obviously at first they dislike each other very much because they’re both young and they had other plans other than getting freaking married so soon, and certainly not with someone they don’t even know. but it’s for the good of the KINGDOM or something, whatever, so they have to live in the same house.
and derek hates the way stiles loves to wake up after noon, and stiles hates the way derek’s stuff is all over the freaking place, for crying out loud, it’s like he’s shedding! from the get-go it’s really clear: they wish they’d never gotten married, they wish they were anywhere else but here, they wish they’d never met. and so they’re always bickering and snapping mean stuff at each other, even in public where they’re supposed to pretend they’re madly in love. in spite of everything it all becomes a comfortable routine.
so comfortable in fact that they learn to live with the other, get used to having the other in their space and they sort of miss each other a little when one of them is away. it’s just out of habit, ok? but still, derek feels a weird itchy feeling when stiles orders some pizza with derek’s favorite toppings on the days where he’s in a foul mood. “you’re just unbearable when you’re like that. take a bite of that pizza and shut the hell up,” stiles says by way of explanation to a wide eyed derek, whose foul mood fades away with each bite. and derek is quieter in the morning, trying not to wake stiles up even if it’s already 11 and he has things to do that do not involve walking on his tippy toes in the hallway where the floorboards creak. still. he tiptoes. “if you’re asleep, you’re not yapping about and bothering the ever loving shit out of me,” derek says, shrugging when stiles blinks at him sleepily at 3pm.
and you know, they kinda become reluctant friends and their own respective friends themselves also become friends, so it all becomes very friendly, and their parents are breathing a collective sigh of relief UNTIL THAT FATEFUL NIGHT WHEN derek crawls into stiles’s bed to watch a movie and they fall asleep together and SEXXXXXXXXXXXX. and they sort of freak out because it changes everything! the very foundations of what they built are crumbling, they can’t really label their relationship, is the other faking it? is the other doing it out of HABIT, just like everything else? so much confusion, much angst, much lust, MUCH LOVE which basically leads stiles and derek to very dramatically and very romantically UNPROPOSE.
"derek will you divorce me?" stiles whispers against derek’s lips, shaking with it
"YES," derek replies immediately and SEXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. they can finally have a fresh start, and get in a serious relationship on their own terms.
everyone is shocked and saddened to see their alliance doesn’t last, WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO THE KINGDOM? (or whatever) but THEN they’re even more confused when they realize derek smiles at stiles like he’s in love and stiles sort of blushes like he enjoys it, and they kiss and go on dates and the sheriff asks stiles what the fuck is going on and his son replies, “dad i’m getting a divorce, you can’t stop me, i’m in LOVE.”
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.
There needs to be at least 10k more of this fic
How long will I love you?
Glassware can get pretty expensive especially if you’re in college and always getting sht faced and breaking your glasses. Start just using your empty beer bottles and turning them into your new glasses. Look dope, easy to make and cheap! Follow these 5 easy steps.
Step 1 – Grab a beer bottle preferably with thick glass such as corona bottles. Tie a string just above the label on the empty bottle
Step 2 – Keep the string tied and soak it in lighter fluid.
Step 3 – Put the string back on the bottle and hold it horizontally. Light the sting rotating the bottle so the flame spreads. You should hear the bottle crack slightly in about 10 seconds.
Step 4 – After you hear the crack, pour cold water on the string and the top of the bottle will fall off.
Step 5 – Now grab sandpaper and sand the edges of the bottle till it is smooth.
Feminism is having a wardrobe malfunction.
Does your brand of feminism remove barriers for women, or simply move them around? Does is expand options for women, or does it just shift them? You don’t liberate women by forcing them to choose option B instead of option A. What is comfortable for you might not be comfortable for someone else, and it’s entirely possible that what you see as oppressive, other women find comfortable or even downright liberating.
Before you think the girl in the middle is a strawman, let me tell you I used to be her, back in my misguided youth. I considered myself the standard to which other people should adhere. But that was stupid. It’s not up to me to tell people how to dress, and it’s much nicer to let everyone choose for themselves.
Some women would feel naked without a veil. Some women would find it restrictive. Some women would feel restricted by a bra. Some women would feel naked without one. Some women would feel restricted by a tight corset. Others love them. Some wear lots of clothes with a corset. Some only wear the corset and nothing else. What makes any article of clothing oppressive is someone forcing you to wear it. And it’s just as oppressive to force someone not to wear something that they want to wear.
What if there are actually multiple souls in your body but you’re the most powerful one so you have control over your body and the voices you hear in your head are just the weaker souls talking to you.
and maybe people with schizophrenia don’t have an assertive soul so all of the souls are fighting to take over
both of you write a book together
Steve gets street cred because he has a first edition of the Hobbit but Tony does too. But then Steve whips out “Yeah well I actually BOUGHT it when it was released and read it before you were even born”
Steve and Christopher Lee actually hung out briefly during WWII when their paths crossed on the way to different missions. Christopher Lee promised to get Steve a signed copy from Tolkein sometime, since the two ran in some of the same circles.
When Tony sits Steve down to marathon the movies, Steve almost has a heart attack when he recognizes the nice young man with the foreboding stare he met seventy years ago. He makes contact again (before it’s too late), and finds out that Lee set aside a signed copy for him years ago and still has it.
And that’s the story of how Steve Rogers got a signed first-edition of the Hobbit. And The Lord of the Rings. Take that, Tony Stark.