Sometimes, Stiles remembers what it’s like to have a mother. He remembers her smile, her hair, and the way her feet sound as she walks up the stairs during the middle of the night. Usually, Stiles tries to ignore the memories and pretends that everything is okay. Once in a while, when his father is gone on some late night shift, when the house is empty and the sound of Stiles’ footsteps echo ominously through it, he sits on the floor next to the couch and just lets his walls down.
When he does, the tears stream noiselessly down his face and his nose drips unattractively. The only time he allows himself to cry is when he’s alone.
It’s not that he’s sad over his mother’s passing, far from it, but it’s a hole in his chest that never stops aching. He’s angry with himself for not being there when it happened. He’s angry at the hospital staff and his father for not telling him it was her last day. He’s angry at his school for not calling him into the office when it happened, instead of waiting until he was done with classes for the day.
When Stiles finally swallows and clears away all of his mucous and tears, he always seems to look up and find Derek fucking Hale standing about ten feet away, watching him with sad eyes that speak everything Stiles never heard. Derek doesn’t talk or touch him, but the mere presence is enough for Stiles. Their unspoken agreement to keep it a secret is enough for Stiles to be able to get up and continue with his day.
It’s enough to wish for something better.
Stiles didn’t think much of it when he first noticed the new addition to the Hale House ruins. The red just seemed out of place, and though his curiosity was piqued, he never really thought it was an option to ask Derek what it was. It was framing a particularly crushed window, almost the exact shade of ruby of Stiles’ lacrosse jacket. Derek never mentioned it, so Stiles didn’t either.
It wasn’t until the red slowly grew, almost like it was ingesting the house itself, that Stiles realized that it wasn’t just a coat of pain on the decaying wood. As the blotches of red slowly took form of the house, Derek’s eyes grew less distant and focused more on Stiles.
Derek never sits still. His body aches for exercise and the pull of muscles against his bones. His hands itch to grip his ax and swing, over and over. It’s because of this that he rarely gets his hair cut. He barely has the patience to shave; the fact that Stiles doesn’t mind stubble burn is a blessing.
So when Stiles finally complains enough about Derek’s getting too long, Derek begrudgingly lets Stiles trim it.
Their eyes meet in the bathroom mirror every now and then, but mostly, Stiles focuses on the task at hand. Long chunks of dark hair fall into the sink as the snip of scissors echo. Grooming, Derek thinks, is common in forest animals. Why not them, as well?
submitted by almostoutofminutes
Stiles’ breath catches as a dark form tumbles through his window, spreading leaves, rain, and blood across his floor. Derek Hale is on his floor. Derek Hale is on his floor. Stiles swears and sits up from his bed, turning on the light to check on the werewolf.
“Dude, what the hell?” he cries, falling off his bed and landing on his knees a foot from Derek’s body. His knees burn and throb at the impact.
Derek opens his mouth to speak, but falls unconscious before anything makes it out of his lips. Stiles curses again.
As if he could ever get a lame Friday night by himself watching porn, jerking off, and indulging on junk food while everyone else his age went to parties and got plastered.
Stiles drags Derek’s muddy and bleeding body to the bathroom, hefting him into the bathtub and panting from exertion. “Jesus,” he huffs to Derek’s unresponsive form. “You need to lose some weight, man.”
He tugs Derek’s shirt off to assess the damage. Thick gashes mar his chest, five long lacerations across his abs and pecs. Maybe it was one of the betas losing control? Regardless, Stiles had to get the vomit in his throat out of his body.
After retching into the toilet, he wipes his mouth on his arm, finally gathering a spare towel that’d seen better days to press into Derek’s chest to stop the bleeding. The edges of the gouges look closer together, so Stiles thanks whatever god will listen that the alpha is healing. He adds pressure, ignoring how the blood soaks into the fabric and wets it before making his own hands red.
Somewhere along the line of nearly gagging again, Derek’s eyes snap open, an instinctive snarl ripping out of his throat. Stiles recoils, bloody hands leaving Derek’s chest and going up in surrender.
“Dude, chill out!” he hisses, looking away. “I’m just trying to help!”
Derek’s lip curls. “I don’t need help.”
“Clearly,” Stiles mumbles under his breath, trying to ignore the sticky feeling of drying blood on his palms. “Just - I need you to tell me you’ll be okay.”
Derek grunts, lifting the soaked towel to look at himself. “Already healed. You look like you’re gonna faint.”
Stiles shakes his head, sitting back to rest against the wall of the bathroom. “‘M fine,” he mutters. “Just seriously rethinking my life choices.”
Derek loves the feel of smoke filling his lungs. It’s bittersweet, the only thing that truly calms him when so much shit falls apart around him. The smell reminds him of the acrid scent of his home and his family, wrapping around his brain lazily and making his heart slow in its familiarity. It’s one thing he’ll allow himself to indulge in, because buying a pack of cigarettes is so much easier than sneaking around the woods in his predatory state, stalking prey like he was born to do.
Bucky wakes from his dream with a gasp, a cold dew sitting on his skin, suffocating his pores. He runs a hand over his eyes, digging his palm into his swollen sockets and swearing in a whisper.
Stiles is kicking absently at rocks near his feet when a noise alerts him to another’s presence.
Tony smiles in his signature way, moving to rest his fingers lightly at the small of Bucky’s back. The starched fabric of his tuxedo slightly resists the movement. Bucky doesn’t seem to notice, but Tony knows him well enough to see the light pink covering his ears. “This is my better half,” he says to the business people in front of him. “Sergeant James Barnes.”
Imagine Coulson sneaking a nest camera up in there.
And then Clint using it to fuck around with Coulson once he discovered it.
The first time Clint notices the discreet camera in his nest, he ignores it. He knows that Coulson was watching him and waiting for a reaction of some kind. Sure, he was a bit ticked off. It was his nest, which basically means he doesn’t want anyone to bother him there. Even Coulson.
While he loved the guy, sometimes he needed a place to let himself have solitude.
I’ll just casually leave this here for all you Coulson/Clint shippers.
(Source: circumlocutionist)
This wasn’t something Wally had anticipated learning when he was recruited to be a part of the Young Justice team. He’d expected fighting, responsibility, and maybe even a few life lessons. But this? No, never. This wasn’t something you anticipate dealing with until it actually happens.Maybe not even then.
Look. I wrote YJ BirdFlash porn for Shanna.
