#for poe

[teencopandthesourwolf]

“Why did you ask me that?”

“Huh? What's that, big guy?” Stiles mumbles, answering the query with one of his own without looking away from Derek's laptop screen. The laptop Derek kind of bought for Stiles for when Stiles is at the loft.

Whatever. 

There's a ballpoint pen shoved in the kid's mouth—God, that mouth—and another slid behind an ear, the latter ready and waiting for Stiles to click to death in the In Between Typing Times.

The others dispersed a couple of minutes ago. Apart from Derek and Stiles, only Lydia and Deaton now remain at the loft and they're deep in conversation about the preliminary theory of who or what is killing the humans of Beacon Hills this week and are standing at the opposite side of the open-plan space, making more coffee. Scott and Malia left to rally the other ʼwolves (not answering their phones as they're at a cinema screening) plus find and talk to Argent to arrange a pack meeting proper about the situation, so they can all work on devising a plan. Granted, there is Peter to consider—who's probably still lurking somewhere, what with lurking being one of his favourite pastimes—who can obviously hear any and all conversations that are, or could be happening inside of the building. Sadly, though, Derek has never been able to hide much of anything from his uncle.

So. 

He thinks about elaborating on the question he asked Stiles, but can't.

He tries not to stare at Stiles, and fails.

Stiles is squinting at the screen with intent and looking like he has forgotten Derek said anything at all. Or that Derek is still hovering close by. Or that Derek, you know, exists.

Derek is just standing there, all difficult and awkward in his own fucking home and his own fucking body, looming over Stiles like a creeper as Stiles taps away furiously at the keyboard and violently zig-zags a fingertip across the mousepad like an actual lunatic.

Derek almost laughs at that.

The Boy Who Runs With Wolves.

“Why wouldn't I?” Stiles now asks, still mumbling around the chewed ballpoint Derek is trying not to be jealous of. 

“I—what?” Caught off guard, always and only by Stiles. 

Stiles doesn't skip a beat, unlike Derek's heart. “Why wouldn't I ask?” he adds.

Oh, right.

“I, uh, I don't... ” Derek trails off pathetically, swallowing any confidence he had previously mustered and looking away from Stiles, even though those big, brown devastating eyes aren't actually looking at Derek because they are, of course, still zoomed-in on whichever web page is currently yielding the most information.

Dusk is quickly closing in and all around them and the light filtering through the loft's huge window has begun to dim somewhat, so that the glow of the computer screen is now filling Stiles' eyes with bright, dancing sparks and arrhythmic shapes as they flicker like lightning from one tab to another, then another, then another. And as mesmerising as it is to watch—Stiles looks as though he is brimming with magic—the sight becomes too much for Derek, and looking away feels like his only option.

It doesn't last.

Stiles' long, large-knuckled fingers still their rapid movement just as Derek's eyes find their way back.

Derek watches the kid some more, like a lifeline.

An anchor.

Then, Stiles is taking the pen from those perfect lips as sneaker-toes slowly spin the swivel chair around so that Stiles is now facing Derek where he stands with arms crossed reactively over his chest.

His heart.

“I asked because I wanted to know if you were okay, man," Stiles divulges, as if that's nothing at all. As if it's something Derek hears often. He tilts his head to catch Derek's eye. Which works, of course—because it always works, no matter the nature of the moment they're caught up in. "Like, I was concerned, y`know?” 

Derek feels guilty just for looking. And not only because he wants to touch but because he wants to let Stiles care.

“I care, dude,” Stiles says on cue and Derek tries to self-implode while Stiles waits, probably for Derek to look at him and say don't call me dude and maybe hoping not to have his head bitten off or his throat ripped out. 

Derek does look again, just not for long. Barely a glance. He can't afford himself too much Stiles, not when Stiles is looking directly back at him. It's safer that way; self-preservation and all.

“You do know that, right?” Stiles tries again. “That I care.” 

Derek wants to ask Stiles if they can talk, if Derek can tell Stiles things. Derek wants to ask Stiles if he'll stay and if he'll let Derek spill his secrets, tell Stiles everything, like Derek never does with anyone these days, and if Stiles will hold Derek's hand when Derek cries about it, like Derek doesn’t allow himself to anymore. Derek wants to ask Stiles if Derek can touch him and hold him and if Stiles would hold him back, if Stiles would ever want that, if Stiles could ever be his.

“Don't call me dude,” is what he actually says because he can't not. But then he steals himself, head staticky and heart thumping as he dares himself to add (after what is undeniably too-long a pause), “And yeah. Maybe I do.” 

Then they look at each other. They just—look.

Look and look and look.

And they each keep looking at the other for a very long time. Definitely too long for two people supposedly not much more than acquaintances. Allies, maybe. Comrades at tenuous best.

Then they look for longer. Look for more. Look until it starts to feel as if they are the only two people in the room, in the building, in the world.

Whatever happened to self-preservation?

Something is happening and Derek is pretty sure it's not just happening to him, and he finds he is equally stunned as he is thrilled as he is completely fucking terrified about that. 

Eventually, Stiles says, “Derek, we're friends.” Then he's licking his lips and looking Derek up and down, shameless, and adding with a shrug of one shoulder, “Till we're not.”

The latter part is spoken like a dark secret, but one without the slightest hint of malice—that's not how he means it. It's more of a promise than a threat, if Derek is remembering correctly what genuine affirmations sound like (it's been a while).

The sparks from Stiles' eyes are then flashing blue in Derek's, and Derek could swear he hears every one of his neurons firing inside of himself, all at once as each of his mutated cells flare into overdrive, nail beds and gums tingling, the short hairs on the back of his neck and arms and hands standing up on end.

He feels utterly alive.

It's honestly a struggle not to whine like a pup and Derek has truly never been more happy of the fact that Stiles is unable to scent chemo-signals because, oh, Derek would be so fucked right now.

He has a reply for Stiles but it's caught in his throat, the sentence forming then solidifying, fast as a quick-drying glue.

Derek is just—standing there. Statuesque. Alternating between trying to swallow his words down and attempting to speak them, like a first class dipshit, and just looking and looking and looking at Stiles.

In an entirely mortifying turn of events, it is actually the sound of Peter's low, mocking chuckle from some tucked-away shadowy place in the loft that is the thing that forces Derek unstuck, and it takes all Derek has to not roll his eyes to the back of his skull and growl out I'm going to kill you again now, Uncle. 

He takes a breath, un-clenches his fists and tries for a smile—or at least a hint of one. He doesn't want to freak the kid out.

Derek then manages to repeat Stiles's words back at him, no more than a whisper. “Till we're not.”

Stiles is just looking and looking and looking at Derek before he's asking, “Can I stay for the evening? You can talk to me while I research. I always work better with noise. It'll be soothing,” like he's ordering pizza instead of answering all of Derek's prayers.

Derek notes how the kid's usually erratic eye-contact is weirdly as unwavering as his usually erratic heartbeat, which is now weirdly steady as a metronome.

That's a lot of weird. 

Derek fights the urge to bite into his lip with his fangs. He wants to draw blood, and to taste it.

He embarrassingly feels his eye twitch and his breath hitch as he dares himself to do this. 

He sputters, “What do you want me to talk about?”

Stiles slowly swivels back towards the light of the laptop—ethereal milky skin and dark moles once again luminous in its white-blue glow—at the very same time as the evening's first moonshine peeks through clouds and seeps in through the loft's huge skylight.

Derek is memorised. 

Stiles starts annoyingly clicking away at the Clicking Pen, while shoving the other back between those beautiful lips of his, now mumbling his words around the thing once more and speaking them as if they are the most obvious thing in the universe. 

“Everything, Der.”

.

for @poebin for asking <3 (unedited, soz)

[kirnet]

LOVE when a video game protag is called a title. The Warden, the Watcher, the Exile…. Yessss be defined by a concept greater than yourself that will ultimately overtake your life

[aphrcdites]

the bond between a girl and their favorite fictional man is both an unstoppable force and an immovable object

[l0caltiredgirl]

when i want fluff/angst fics and all i’m getting is smut

the struggle is real

[jk-bees]

Telltale Heart valentine

[ID: Animated gif of a pop up card. A man sits at a table with his head in his hand, glaring down at the floorboards. As the card's pull tab is pulled the floorboards open and close reveling a heart underneath. Text above the scene reads "Thinking of You"]

[yuumei-art]

The Raven The Black Cat

[weirdundead]

The Raven and the Red Death [cmmission]

[definetelynotavampire]

Ranpo's ultra deduction ft. Nikolai and Poe

meanwhile Poe:

[dum-spiro-spero99]

THEY WOULD BE SO SO PROUD OF YOU

thanks to @pineapplecrispy for the suggestion + italian bonus, Owen WIlson bonus and historically inaccurated emo boys bonus

Other request (dm/comments)

[muichizai159]

Bsd cats!! ♡

Look how adorable it is for them!! :>

[xxrrisxx]

Sometimes I'm terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it stops and starts.

Edgar Allan Poe

[desorden-en-letras]

Elena Poe

[aphrcdites]

“not all men”

you’re right, my favorite fictional character would never.

[l0caltiredgirl]

me @ y/n when they do something i’d never do:

like babe this isn’t us ?? get it together

[flightlessangelwings]

Being inclusive with your reader insert fic is a kindness. It tells people of color (poc) that you are considering someone who does not look like you in your fic. It shows love and dedication to our craft. It tells poc that they belong here too and they can see themselves in your story.

Poc aren’t look for activism in fic, we know fandom isn’t that serious, but we should be able to have that same level of escapism when we turn to fic and fandom. We belong here too. This space is for everyone, not just one group of people.

Just to give a few examples of how simple it can be: say “skin warmed” instead of blushed, say “cradled your head” instead of running fingers through hair, say “angles yourself to kiss” instead of standing on tiptoes, use italics to indicate Spanish to take out a throwaway line of “you didn’t understand Spanish” things like that. Small changes that do not impact the fic at all but make a world of difference in inclusivity!

And for anything you can’t/don’t want to change, simply add warning in the beginning. Things like hair descriptors, anything reader might wear, some backstory for reader (especially involving family or where the story is set), readers job, things like that. A lot of times just having that heads up before the fic makes a world of difference!

And one example of kindness we as writers always worked to change: until recently (just a couple years ago) it wasn’t common to label the gender of the reader. But those who aren’t female asked writers to label it so they know which to read and which to avoid, and now it’s common to label the gender/pronouns of the reader. So it is possible! It just takes effort! And I’m a writer myself so I know it can be done!

We can pretend to be a bartender or a bounty hunter or an actress or anything else. But we shouldn’t have to imagine we’re a white one.