i just realized that in the canon timeline scott hasn’t heard roar by katy perry yet and that is such a shame tbh
GOD he’d just fuckin call stiles up and stiles is currently scrubbing a shirt with a stain remover pen but he answers anyway, wedges it between his cheek and his shoulder and says “you’ve reached stilinski’s pleasure palace”
and scott goes “so katy perry has this new song?”
and stiles goes “okay”
and scott goes “and it’s really, like, cool, so—”
and stiles goes “scotty mccally, are you gonna serenade me?”
and scott goes “yes. are you ready?”
"no. hang on." stiles puts his phone on speaker and sets it on the desk. "okay. i’m ready."
and scott just fuckin belts it and he’s sorta off key because he’s driving but he’s not bad, actually, and stiles is enjoying himself, and then scott forgets the words and sort of trails off and stiles goes,
"god, do you know how to make a girl feel special."
and scott goes, “d’you like it?”
and derek goes, “i liked it.”
and scott goes, “jesus, hi derek.”
and stiles goes, “dude, how do you get come out of a black shirt? ordinarily i’d just leave it and wear a jacket with it, but like, it’s right in this weird spot where nothing i could possibly wear would cover it and i really don’t want to walk around and have everyone know i let somebody come on my face. …hello? scott? are you—ask your mom for me. scott?”
this just kept getting better the farther down I read.
i just needed dispatcher!derek and stiles calling into the sheriff’s dept to talk to the dispatcher bc he was lonely, and subsequently, falling for derek’s voice.
“Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department,” an unfamiliar male voice answers. Stiles pulls the cell phone away from his ear and stares at it like he accidentally dialed the wrong number. “Hello?” The man’s voice is annoyed, and then the line goes dead.
Stiles hits redial immediately. “Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department,” the same voice says, more annoyed than before.
“You’re not Edna,” Stiles says. “Edna’s the evening dispatcher, where’s Edna?”
“Stiles Stilinski. The better question is, who are you?”
“My dad doesn’t work with a Derek Hale. I know everyone who works in that department, and I’d remember a Derek Hale.”
“You’re the sheriff’s son?” Derek asks.
Stiles grins, despite the fact that he’s on the phone. “So, you’ve heard of me?”
“I wouldn’t be proud of that fact.”
Stiles huffs and hangs up.
The next night, he calls again. The same Derek Hale answers the phone.
“Where is Edna?”
“She’s out of town for awhile.”
“So, you’re a temp?”
“I’m a deputy.”
Stiles frowns. “I don’t remember seeing you around.”
“I’m new. Is there anything I can actually help you with?” Derek’s irritation is evident through the line.
This time, Derek hangs up.
Stiles calls two nights later, and ignores the way his stomach flips when Derek’s voice comes over the line. “What are you doing?”
Derek sighs. “What do you want, Stiles?”
“Edna used to read me the word from her word of the day calendar.” Derek remains silent. “Well? What’s the word? Unless you rearranged her desk.”
There’s some shuffling on the other line. “Suidefenestration. It means – “
“To kill yourself by throwing yourself out of a window.”
Derek grunts. “How did you know that?”
“Uh, duh? I took Latin as an undergrad, four years. I learned a word or two. Did you not know what it meant?”
“I thought you were in high school.”
“Grad school, dude.” Stiles laughs, and hangs up.
The next time Stiles calls, he opens with, “Has my dad been eating donuts? Because either it’s that, he somehow got freaky with a chalkboard, or he’s becoming a coke addict. I’m not sure which is more disturbing.”
“I don’t spend my time monitoring the Sheriff’s diet.” Derek doesn’t bother to sound polite or nice. Stiles thinks that maybe he should complain and that the BHSD should hire a better dispatcher. But Stiles is too selfish for that.
“Go look in his office.”
“I’m not going to snoop in my superior’s office!”
“Please,” Stiles begs. “Derek, pleasepleaseplease.”
“How old are you again? Grad school, really?”
“You’re just sad that you’re not this awesome.”
But what if when Derek gave the kids candy on Halloween and then tried to scare them off by showing his fangs and growling, one little kid stayed behind?
What if the little guy looked up at him with the most dazzled look on his face, then flicked out little baby fangs and flashed his glowing yellow eyes and went “Grrrr!” as loud as he could
before running away giggling
apparently i hate everything
it all started from this tweet
(SORRY NOT SORRY)
"Stiles, what are you doing?”
"I’m trying, okay, keyword—trying. Or, well, I was trying."
"I was trying to set up a pillow fort. For Scott. You know, nothing cures teenaged heartbreak like alco—forts. Pillow forts."
Melissa McCall sighs, staring at the mess in front of her. There’s a broken lamp on the floor, sheets hanging from the walls, and feathers everywhere.
And Stiles is cross-legged amidst it, looking for all the world innocent. It’s almost concerning.
She’s a little worried about Scott—a lot worried about Scott, her baby just had his heart broken, and…
"Where is Scott?"
"He went for a run."
Which is clearly codenamed for something, probably werewolf related, but Melissa doesn’t push it.
"I’m going to make chicken cutlets and broccoli for dinner, can you pick up some broccoli for me?"
"I hate broccoli.”
"You’re not five anymore, Stiles. You can eat it. You’re not allergic. You’ve been tested.”
"That doesn’t mean it isn’t gross!"
Another sigh passes her lips, and Melissa folds her arms in front of her, looking a lot more authoritative than she’s been feeling lately. Stiles pouts but gets up off the floor.
"And you’re going to clean up this mess."
"But Scott hasn’t even seen it!"
She shoots him a look.
"Fine, fine. Jeez. I’m glad a baseball bat isn’t around." He mumbles, kicking aside a stray pillow that Melissa doesn’t even know where it’s from.
Stiles is getting ready, slipping his shoes on and grabbing his car keys, pulling on a sweatshirt.
"Broccoli, right?" He crinkles his nose, voice mournful.
"Yes. At least two or three bushels of it, please."
Neither of them realize it at first, because Stiles sounds so casual, voice nonchalant and normal. It wasn’t said jokingly; Stiles didn’t even realize. Until he stops dead in his tracks, eyes almost as wide as Melissa’s feel.
"I’m, I didn’t—"
"No, it’s okay Stiles, don’t—"
His face is blotchy and red, chest heaving like he’s about to have another panic attack, one that Melissa knows all too well from months of having to help him through it when Stiles’ dad wasn’t around.
"I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but you’re not, you’re—”
She gets it. Melissa gets it. She isn’t Claudia, doesn’t want to be Claudia to Stiles. Can’t, even if she did.
"Don’t, Stiles. Don’t be sorry. I know, I know. It’s okay, Stiles. Breathe, okay? You need to breathe."
They had more of a playful relationship than a serious one, but this was okay, too. Sometimes Stiles needed to drop that happy act he always had.
There are tears bunching at the corners of his eyes when Melissa rushes forward, trying to get him to focus on her voice and not his hyperventilation.
"I—I miss her so much," It was a quiet admission that tumbled out of his mouth like he didn’t mean for it to happen. Melissa pulls him in for a hug that Stiles accepts gratefully, burying his face in her shoulder like a little kid trying to hide away from the world.
"I know, I know. I miss her, too. We all do."
It seems like Stiles gives himself a few more moments of pain before he pulls away, face drawn, but calmer.
They’re both quiet for a few moments until Stiles wipes snot on his hoodie, and then there’s laughter, and the air’s a little easier. Just a little.
They end up ordering pizza when Scott comes back, and it’s okay. It’s good.
Stiles doesn’t call Melissa mom again, not until she gets a postcard in the mail of a beautiful college campus, with a picture of Scott and Stiles haphazardly taped the the back.
She smiles, and if it’s a little watery there’s no one around to see it, because Stiles’ dad isn’t home from work, yet. They don’t have dinner until 6.
Melissa smiles, fond and bittersweet, and hangs it up on the fridge, writing side up.
Don’t worry about Scott, I’m taking good care of him, I promise!
We love you, mom—
x-serenade asked: dearest amy roseee <333 i hope you're doing well, my love :) so my birthday is on wednesday! if you have time, do you think you could write me a schmoopy sterek ficlet? something with birthday cake, perhaps? :D it doesn't have to be long *glomp* tysm!!
Happy Birthday, bby i remembered your prompt from last year, and i put it together with this one, i hope that’s ok
“Greetings and salutations!”
Derek pauses at the entrance to the candy store, his niece and nephew cackling with uncontained glee as they rush off to examine the shelves bursting with sweets. He stops, only because there’s a guy dressed as Willy Wonka behind the till—of the Gene Wilder variety, and not the terrifying Johnny Depp variety, thank god—and he’s smiling brightly at Derek.
“How can I help you and your sweet tooth, today?” He shimmies, shimmies out from behind the counter, purple velvet coat swaying around him, and tips his hat at Derek. Close up, Derek can see big brown eyes, sweeping eyelashes and a pretty Cupid’s bow mouth. It’s an appealing combination, until he looks away from the entrancing face and takes in the bright red bowtie and yellow waistcoat.
“My niece and nephew,” he jerks an arm at them, “I promised they could get some candy before they go home.”
“Ha,” the guy laughs, claps his hands together, “Send them home high on sugar, your sister or brother will be calling you later with complaints.”
fic: Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You[Tube] (1/2)
Word count: ~7,100
Kurt and Blaine both have YouTube channels.
It starts when Blaine’s mum wants him to send a video of him performing to his grandmother, and when Blaine started to explain about file size she just sighed a little and told him to “figure it out”.
He knows when the Warblers did Teenage Dream in the Senior Commons a couple of guys had camera phones on them, filming the performance, so Blaine puts it up on Facebook requesting a copy. The footage isn’t bad quality, is taken from the front so you can definitely see him leading, but also highlights that they are a group. So Blaine creates a YouTube channel and uploads it. He sends his grandmother a courtesy email with the link, as well as sending it out to the rest of the Warblers in case they might want to show their families as well.
Blaine doesn’t think any more about it.
Headmistress McGonagall was nowhere near as controversial as her predecessor. She was given a thankless task, but rose to it with aplomb. Her work rebuilding the school was lauded even by the Prophet. And she never once had a salacious biography published about her early romance with some budding Dark Lord. Young wizards and witches mourned the loss of her presence when she gave up her post, cheered her retirement, and toasted to her good health. Their parents, however, raised some complaints. McGonagall had a habit of hiring young, untested staff. Longbottom for the Herbology position. Thomas to cover a year of transfiguration. Granger as a contentious visiting professor of Muggle Studies; she stuffed the children’s heads with anti-establishment notions, and proved to be difficult grader, besides. And, as if this was not bad enough, sometimes these young radicals did not merely visit or stay for a year. Longbottom was gifted Head of Gryffindor in short time and proved to be a fixture, patient and smiling and impossible to oust even at the efforts of school governors who swore up and down that his wartime actions were a fluke brought on by desperation. In truth, screamed parents and governors, he had very little magical power, quantitatively speaking, and ought to have been driving the Knight Bus, not handling magically powerful children.
But nothing could induce Professor McGonagall to fire him. And so too with his fellows, for Thomas and Granger came and went as they liked; and, worst of all, on the eve of the Headmistress’s retirement, flighty adjuncts Vane, Chang, and Brown were awarded tenure.
Awful! Vane was a bubble-headed creature, as arrogant as her name suggested, who was far too gossipy to be an effective librarian. True, she seemed to know instinctively which books which children desired, but often these were books on young love and skincare and fashion, not the proper thousand-page Instructional Tomes of yesteryear. And Chang was given to emotionality; everyone knew that. As flying instructor, people whispered that she let her adoration for a long-lost Hufflepuff override natural house pride. Accordingly, she was distressingly fair when it came to judging matters of Quidditch, putting down anyone from any house who looked to spice up the game with a little cheat here or there. And besides, she seemed more interested in teaching escape tactics and defensive flight from Dark wizards than manly feats of derring-do like the Wronski feint; blending flying and Defense in ridiculous new ways, entirely ignoring the Ministry-approved syllabus. As for her friend, that near-werewolf Brown? She used Divination not so much to foretell the future as to instruct the children on how to weed out charlatans and liars. She whispered that the point of teacups and tea leaves was fun, and also knowing when someone was having you on. She claimed that nine out of ten prophecies had no real point; they always came true, whether you knew about them or not. But knowing where to find the excitement in magic, where to let yourself enjoy it, even if it was wooly? She could teach them that.
Oh, these girlish beings were unbearable. Governors and parents could not abide them; it was not simply that they failed to care much about testing and studying, but that they were failures as witches. They did themselves up in Muggle fashions instead of pointy hats, flaunted boyfriends (and girlfriends) in Hogsmeade, and cheerfully gabbed to students about using Mugwort to make lipgloss, of all silly things! It was terrible of the Headmistress to lock them into their positions. The Headmistress! Formerly so sensible.
Of course, in the year leading up to the Headmistress’s retirement, she had considered gently sending them away. She did not dislike them, but they were not as clear-headed, as stiff-lipped as her favorite students. They had recommended that she hire Daphne Greengrass (of the very much still blood purist Greengrasses) for the Potions position, purely because they’d met and admired her hair at some mixer in Diagon. And they went to mixers in Diagon! They did not don long, professorly nightshirts and patrol the halls like the staff of yesteryear. They tossed on dangly earrings and danced the night away in these new nightclubs, and then quaffed hangover remedies and exhaustion-curing potions before their morning classes. True, they knew their subjects and taught them well. But this was still very cavalier behavior.
But then, over Christmas, Yasmina Yaxley went missing.
Yaxley was a silly little Slytherin. Her family was dreadful, her father imprisoned, and yet the daffy little creature seemed not to notice. She floated through the halls discussing Witch Weekly to anyone who would listen; she cared very little about politics or current affairs; and she had begun a strange kind of dungeon sorority that ran on networking and gossip. It occurred to the Headmistress that of course Yaxley would go missing for no reason; Yaxley was just the type to cause trouble like that, not at all a rational, sober, and shrewd child.
Protocol was followed by most teachers. Search parties dispatched to the forest. Owls sent home. Students send to their dormitories. Rote, sensible procedure, carried out with methodical accuracy.
But Vane, who’d had long, girlish talks with Yaxley and seen her check out books on the war alongside books on haircare, immediately conferred with Chang. And Chang had lent an ear to Yaxley when she’d seemed down, and helpfully flown her near certain still-cursed section of the grounds that Yaxley had seemed particularly interested in. So she suggested they take what they knew to Brown. And Brown confirmed it. Yaxley saw particularly morbid things in tea leaves; she had a kind of secret fixation she rarely revealed to her fellow students, but she would come out with it, if you happened to be her favorite professor.
So Vane seized up her owl to send for help should they need it, a sensible notion. And Chang grabbed her broomstick to get them to where they needed to go — also very clear-thinking. And Brown? Just to make sure, she cross-referenced school records, and also brought along a certain book by Horace Slughorn, a book not much noticed in these postwar days, for it discussed the role of Slytherins in the war, and the truth was: much of the Wizarding World longed to pretend the worst of the war had never happened.
Then, when they found Yaxley, they gave her the book, and also cocoa, and also they looked each other in the eye. They privately decided that, the student having been unhurt, despite straying into a place very badly affected by Dark Magic, and in fact no one having been hurt, perhaps they ought to take this cause up with the Headmistress. Perhaps, in this case, it would be fairer to leave off point-taking and detentions.
"She’s really not so very silly when you get to know her," said Vane to the Headmistress. "The truth is, the silliness is a bit of an escape."
"Speaking of," said Chang, "That’s just what her brother did. You know, in the war. Escaped. And then after that he was struck down here at the Hogwarts grounds, blown to pieces by some curse."
"Slughorn has the time and place of death recorded," said Brown, "And it appears to be right where Yasmina likes to go. Of course, she didn’t realized the full extent of the trapping hexes there, and she got herself caught by one."
"Well, that is foolish in the extreme!" said the Headmistress. She was horrified and angry, scarcely able to believe that some child in her care was obsessed with the resting grounds of a Death Eater. Silly little Yaxley had probably made an idol of him, as foolish little girls were wont to do. “An in-dungeon suspension should—”
"Deter her not at all," said Vane.
Chang gave a delicate cough. “Begging your pardon, but it didn’t deter her brother. After you sent him and his housemates back down to the dungeons, he came right back up. And fought. For us.”
All words dried up in McGonagall’s throat.
"Speaking as someone who was there, professor, you weren’t wrong," said Brown. "But you rather are now. See, sometimes I think we assume we know the measure of people, when really all we know are silly little details. Houses. Colors. What they read. Not who they are."
"So we recommend tutoring in hex defense,” said Vane.
"And therapy," said Chang.
"And perhaps a shoulder to lean on, a fellow Slytherin. It’s been so long since we had a Slytherin on the staff," said Brown. "Still longer since we had a nice one with nice hair."
In the end, McGonagall decided to keep these three girlish creatures on a more permanent basis. They were new thinkers, in their way. Good for the school. And Yaxley received her tutoring and therapy. And Greengrass, in short time, was hired.
Which was lovely, because she made an excellent hangover remedy.
We have ways of making you talk…
"Hiiiiiii," Derek said happily, when Isaac broke down the door, and he and Scott and Stiles burst into the room. "I’m chained up!"
Stiles looked at Scott, who looked at him, and then they both looked at Isaac, who was too taken aback to even blink, apparently. Derek was indeed chained up. Again.
That wasn’t the surprising part.
"I’m really glad to see you," Derek said, rolling his head against the fence. He was barefoot and dirty, and he was slurring his words just enough to be noticeable, but there was no blood anywhere Stiles could see. "Are you glad to see me?"
"We’re, um, yes?" Scott said, like he wasn’t entirely sure.
"We’re really, really glad to see you," Isaac said, in the tone of voice you’d use to talk to a little kid. "Aren’t we, guys?" He shot threatening looks at Stiles and Scott.
"Right, yes," Stiles said immediately as Scott said, "Absolutely! Super glad!"
"Are you all right?" Isaac asked Derek, taking a wary step closer. They were all off balance now, unsure of what they’d walked into.
"No," Derek said petulantly. "I want to hug you but I can’t." He frowned and tugged against the manacles on his wrists. "You’re my best friends in the whole world."
"We should—we don’t have much time," Stiles reminded everyone, but it still took a few more seconds for someone to move, all of them completely thrown by the way Derek was acting. They’d been prepared for gore, for carnage, maybe for a dead body. They hadn’t been prepared for this.
"I was hoping Stiles would come," Derek said dreamily, eyes fixed on him while Scott started on the manacles with a bolt cutter.
"And here I am," Stiles said unnecessarily, throwing his hands out in a little flourish before he awkwardly shoved them in his jacket pockets. Derek’s dirty, beaming face was freaking him out.
The last manacle came apart under the bolt cutters and hit the floor next to Derek’s bare toes with a loud clang. “I care about you guys so much,” Derek gushed, slumping over into Isaac’s arms.
"This is way worse than I imagined," Scott said under his breath, shaking his head.
"Guys, I’m serious. We gotta go," Stiles said. They’d already been here too long, and every little noise was making him jump.
"Stiles says we gotta go," Derek muttered. "Stiles is always bossing me around and I like it.”
"Oh my God," Stiles said faintly, into the shocked silence. Isaac looked like he was trying not to laugh. Scott was looking at Derek like he’d grown a second head.
"You are so stoned, man," Isaac said, shaking his head, and Derek promptly launched into another repetition of I’m so glad you guys are here. Isaac propped him up while Scott slipped his shirt over his head, both of them humming agreement to every single one of Derek’s declarations of love and happiness.
There were some syringes, most of them empty, one of them still full of a cloudy yellow liquid, scattered on the floor. Stiles grabbed the full one and carefully put it in his pocket while Scott and Isaac helped Derek into his shoes.
When they finally got him out to the Cruiser, it looked like Derek was going to get in willingly enough, until he saw Stiles head for the driver’s seat, at which point he balked, bracing his arms against the door frame like a cat trying to avoid the kitty carrier. “I want you to ride in the back with me, Stiles,” he said, refusing to budge. “I missed you.”
Stiles paused, hand on the door handle, and wondered how this shit kept happening to him. He wanted to bang his head against the Cruiser’s window, but that wouldn’t help anyone. “Please stop talking,” he begged Derek. “Just get in, okay?”
Derek glared at him, and for one reassuring second it was like the real Derek was back, until he said, “You’re hurting my feelings.”
"Jesus Christ," Scott said, with feeling.
"Fine!" Stiles hissed, because shouting was a bad idea when you were escaping with someone’s prisoner. He marched around to the back door and handed the keys to Scott.
Appeased, Derek caught the front of Stiles jacket in his grubby hand and held on as he got in, practically dragging Stiles with him. As soon as Stiles’ butt hit the seat, Derek was right there, pressed against his side, trying to burrow under his arm.
"You need to put your seat belt on," Stiles protested, shoving at him to no avail. "Safety first!"
Derek scoffed at the idea of a seatbelt as he wormed a little closer and put his head under Stiles’ chin. “I want to sit by you,” he said stubbornly. “You smell nice. I like you. I want to touch you. I think about you when I—”
"Okay!" Stiles yelled, slapping his hand down over Derek’s mouth before he could finish that horrifying sentence. "I think I get it."
Stiles fully expected to get bitten, but instead Derek gently took his hand and tugged it away. He didn’t let go, just rubbed his thumb over the knob of Stiles’ wrist as he lifted his head so he could stare into Stiles’ eyes. Isaac was right—Derek was completely stoned. His eyes were almost all pupil.
"Do you?" Derek asked Stiles earnestly. "Do you really get it?"
"I think he’s gonna get it,” Isaac snorted up front.
"You’re not helping," Scott gritted out as he started the engine. He didn’t look happy to suddenly be the getaway driver, but tough luck. Stiles was the one dealing with the real problem here.
Derek was still waiting for an answer, with wide eyes and a painfully open expression on his face. Stiles swallowed and said, “Can we—if I promise we’ll talk about this once we’re alone will you stop? Will you please stop?” Derek was twining their fingers together, Stiles realized, aghast. “Just wait until we’re alone, okay?”
"Okay," Derek said, and put his head back on Stiles’ shoulder and didn’t say another word until they got to his place.
He held Stiles’ hand the whole time.