stilesederek:

#no but #let’s talk about this for one minute okay #we wouldn’t be so interested in seeing these two characters hit it off if their fucking stares weren’t #always so GOD DAMN CHARGED #I mean it’s not slow motion doing this #it’s the DAMN FREAKING INTENSE LOOKS OKAY #I mean look #just look how everytime Stiles stares at Derek it’s like he’s looking more and more into his soul #Like he’s figuring the guy out piece by piece #every tragic, sensitive, unique detail that has made Derek who he is now #and Derek is helpless to watch himself unravel under Stiles amber eyes #there’s nothing NOTHING he can do to prevent being discovered #completely figured out by this amazingly earnest bravely honest sweetly loyal pale faced beautiful guy #HE CAN’T STOP IT #IT’S A TRAIN WRECK #GET OUT OF MY AWAY I NEED TA LEAAAAAAAVEEEEEEEEE #WHat Have I donEEEEEEEEEEE

debatchery:

SIBLINGS

xiaopa25:

happy birthday to my friend 盆盆 <3

The Vampire Diaries Meme | [2/4] Friendships

"You’re my brother. I’m not going to give up on you. I never will."

mysnarkyself:

Teen Wolf AU  - Sterek AU 

Derek has a crush on Stiles, the drummer of his favorite band. When he saw a contest to get to spend the day with him, he didn’t hesitate to participate. (requested by jessicacashaww)

make me choose →  asked: felicity smoak or helena bertinelli

richsgecko:

BATTLErichsgecko vs ohwolfed

round two: hales + palette

mydearsourwolf:

Sterek AU: The first night Derek sleeps over, it’s not about sex. 

Derek settles onto the bed beside Stiles, both so worn out and exhausted from hours of research on the latest happening that’s been lurking around Derek’s home. The mattress dips slightly, and Stiles tears his eyes away from the patches on the ceiling, turns on his side and tucks a hand beneath his cheek as he watches the way Derek shifts in close to fit in the small space.

"I should go." Derek says quietly, his gaze meeting Stiles’. He bends his legs at the knees, the fabric of his jeans pressing against Stiles’ own knees through the thin material of his sweatpants. "I should," he says, but doesn’t finish, face so near as they share the slightly lumpy and too flat pillow. Stiles has two others; they don’t need to share just one.

"Stay." Stiles catches Derek’s wrist, the one that’s lying by his face on the mattress between them. He curls his fingers loosely around the thick bone, just in case this is something that Derek doesn’t want, could pull away easily from the gentle cage of Stiles’ hand. ”It’s late,” Stiles says, eyes lowering. He doesn’t want to let go of Derek now. Not ever.

"You have school tomorrow."

Stiles lifts his gaze to Derek’s, hates the way Derek’s face is shuttered with guilt and Stiles thinks that he probably smells a little of sadness, if Stiles could do that, pick up Derek’s emotions through waves of scent. 

"Why does it matter that I’m seventeen?"

Derek swallows at that, the hard lines of his body going tense.

Stiles shakes his head, rubs soft little circles over the beating pulse at Derek’s wrist with his thumb.

"Never mind," he whispers. "Just stay. Please— you don’t need to drive back. It’s late.”

Stiles can feel Derek’s heartbeat beneath his fingers, the steady mantra of thud thud thud, until Stiles begins to wonder if that’s his own rhythm echoing in his chest.

Derek nods, finally, mouth a solemn line.

Stiles learns that Derek has thin spiky eyelashes, learns the way they cast dark smudges beneath Derek’s eyes when he sleeps, the way Derek’s mouth falls slack and how the line between his brow smoothens out. 

Stiles likes the soft pressure of Derek’s weight beside him, the warmth of Derek’s hand on his elbow.

It’s not morning when Stiles awakens. The room is cast in shades of blue, shadows settling in the corners, a long slant of Derek’s profile arching across the carpet from where Derek is sitting at the edge of the bed. The points of his elbows dig into his knees, his right hand drawn up in a loose fist by his chin as he frowns down at his shadow as if he could make it disappear by force of will. 

Stiles places a tentative hand on the bed, palm flat.

"I’m not any good, Stiles.” Derek’s voice like grit between his teeth, thick and hoarse in the quiet.

Stiles slowly pushes himself up, draws his knees in close.

"No," he murmurs.

Derek squeezes his eyes shut, those pretty eyelashes like dark spokes against his skin, washed out pale from the streetlight outside.

I’m not.” Stiles says, and Derek’s face snaps up to look at him, eyes open and wide and so painfully broken. “And yet, I still want any part of you that you’ll give me.”