Can you draw some schmoopy/fluffy first date sterek? It’s like my favorite thing ever and you’re like my favorite artist ever
It was love to me...
I think I just pulled something.
So apparently, Misha has referred to Castiel’s storyline this season as that of “The Manchurian Candidate”, a cold war novel made into a film (remake in 2004)
and
fuck
so there’s this brainwashed guy, saved from a battlefield by the communists, who’s turned into an assassin…
Anonymous asked you:Can you draw some schmoopy/fluffy first date sterek? It’s like my favorite thing ever and you’re like my favorite artist everI just…this was not very schmoopy I’m sorry.Derek’s dating technique? 0/10 would not recommend.
❖ Fics in GIF: The Dating Game by lielabell
“Alpha two here, Stiles,” the curly-haired one says. “My ideal for our first date would be you and me and the first season of Buffy. I’m thinking pizza, beer and an all night marathon. What do you say to that?”
Stiles lets out a delighted laugh. “Well, I’m more of a season five guy myself, but hey. I’ve still got love for season one. And you can never go wrong with pizza and beer. So, yeah. Great date, Alpha two. What about you, Alpha one?”
Alpha one rest his arms on the back of the white couch they are sitting on, head tilting back thoughtfully. “I’d take you to the boardwalk at Santa Monica. We’d do the rides and games thing until the sun set, then we would walk down the beach to this little Mexican joint I know that is overlooking the ocean. After that, I’d take you back to my place for some desert.”
“Oh I bet you would,” Stiles says, his voice wry. “Let me guess, you’d have something sweet for me to lick?”
Alpha one laughs at that. “How’d you know?”
“I’m just clever like that,” Stiles shoots back. “Anyway. Moving on now. Alpha number three?”
Derek lets himself smile, because he’s got this one in the bag. “Comic-Con.”
Teen Wolf Poetry → I Trust You
three words, nine letters
you thought you outgrew
in simplest terms
i drown if you do
John cant remember when it happened, when he started looking at Melissa in any other way than friendship, companionship, a temporary cure to the bone deep loneliness that set in on long nights with Stiles out doing whatever the hell it was that Stiles did.
He’s not sure when it turned from commiseration drinks after Parent Teacher conferences to ‘have a drink with me…please’.
Melissa has always been there, befriending his wife, Ela, when they first moved here, her belly swelling slightly and Mellisa’s already full. She had been kind, generous with her time and John and Ela had both been there when Melissa’s husband walked out, Scott tiny in her arms and Stiles big in Ela’s belly.
He remembers that, her face, the way it had hardened and set, determined to make a life for her and Scott by herself. John had never been more proud of her. Back then she had been just a friend, someone who helped Ela, someone who was single minded in their determination.
She had been there after Ela died, had pulled him close once, the first time they had touched more than a friendly kiss to the cheek to say hello and goodbye, and held him, long enough that John cant remember her leaving.
When she’d first come round for dinner, it had been because Stiles had made far too much lasagne, temporarily forgetting that he was trying to kill him by making him eat healthy and John had bumped into her at the grocery store. ”Come round for dinner,” he’d said, “I have wine and too much food,” she had smiled and turned up a few hours later with a smile that John hadn’t realised was shy for the first time he’d known her.
He hadn’t wanted her to leave, he’d laughed for the first time in ages and had a warm buzz running through his skin for the first time. She had left though, but it had only been the beginning of the dinner dates.
When she kissed him (of course it was her to make the first move, she had always been braver than John) it was gentle and her small had cupped his cheek.
“She wouldn’t want you to be alone forever.”
She was right, Ela wouldn’t have wanted that but the punch in the gut when Melissa mentioned her had made John pull away for a while, until she turned up with a bottle of whiskey and demanded he tell her what the hell was going on.
That had been the first night she stayed over. But it was nothing other than her holding him, twisting his ring around her finger as he talked for the first time since Ela died. He doesn’t remember her leaving that time either, but that’s because she didn’t.
And even now, she’s still there.
There should be fic where someone texts and there’s a hilarious typo confusing knitting/knotting that leads to Shenanigans. Because once Stiles starts thinking about it, hehas to know.
Does DerekHale knit or knot?
Seriously. Knitting fic with knotting. Best of both worlds.
THIS IS WHAT I AM SAYING. WHY NOT?! SOMEONE WRITE ME THIS
…WHY ARE YOU TEMPTING ME?
“Because it’s kind of a big fucking deal is why,” Stiles snaps, the one time Derek gets up the nerve to ask.
“Okay,” Derek says.
“I just—I need some time,” Stiles says.
“Fine,” Derek says, even though Stiles already made Scott a scarf, he’d seen it, and last summer he’d made Erica a halter top out of some black shimmery yarn he produced from somewhere.
“It’s not that I don’t—want to, someday, maybe,” Stiles says. “I just need a little warm-up, I just—”
“I said it’s fine,” Derek says. “Let’s—” he jerks his head at the backseat of the car, where he’s starting to get tired of screwing around with Stiles. It’s cramped and it was more exciting when Derek thought it was just the first of all the places they’d be making out, instead of the only place Stiles will let him put his hands on him.
“Okay,” Stiles says softly, and has the nerve to look kind of disappointed when Derek blows him and then drops him off home early. It’s late fall, it’ll frost tonight; Derek has been cold since September, waiting for Stiles to finish the sweater he’d mentioned once, when they were making out, early on. He’d seemed pretty hot on it, that one time, muttering incoherently while Derek kissed his neck, so Derek had waited, patiently, and then not so patiently, and now Stiles is angry at him.
“It was your idea in the first place,” Derek says, but he mutters it to himself after Stiles slams the door shut. He drives to Macy’s and buys a sweater. He waits for Stiles to dump him.
*reaches for handkerchiefs*
Derek stares at the display forlornly. The multitude of yarn spanning the store front’s window. A lump forming in his throat as his eyes shutter before exhaling.
“You look like someone dumped you,” says a girl in a brightly knitted scarf and dark glasses, her face pink from the chilly October air.
Derek just scowls at the glass harder and hopes the girl will walk away like the rest of the pedestrians who are now giving both of them a wide berth on the sidewalk.
“Or going to,” she amends.
“He doesn’t want to knit me a sweater,” Derek says and the girl perks up at the opening of conversation, leaning in.
“Then you could knit him one,” she says. “And I am not just saying that because I work here,” she says, jutting her shoulder to the shop, Knitting Hills, and to the glaring 50 year old woman looking at them and making not so subtle gestures at her watch. “Oh my God, Auntie Margret! You can leave for yoga, stop Carebear staring me from the window! You’re scaring away customers!” she yells and the old lady scowls before going to the back of the store.
Derek looks down at the petite girl with a frown. “So about this sweater,” she continues and takes his elbow and herds him to the shop entrance.
“I don’t think-” Derek starts but he sees Stiles exiting the coffee shop with Scott down the street and ducks into the store quickly. He can’t face Stiles with knowing that it could be the last time he can be with him. He’s not ready. And if anything, Derek knows he’s good at avoiding the issue.
“Any color in mind?” asks the girl, pulling off her jacket and tossing it behind the counter. “Hey, hello? Oh my God, are you hiding?”
Derek’s crouched behind a pattern display as Stiles walks past the store. He only gets up with a scowl when Stiles and Scott are out of sight and smell.
“So is it the cutie with the uneven jaw or the one hit with the cutie mark stick?” asks the girl. “You might as well tell me, you’re self-respect hit rock bottom as soon as you hid behind the dress patterns.”
Derek glares but the shop girl merely crosses her arms. She could give Erica a run for her money.
“The one in the red hoodie,” he answers.
“Well, how about a blue scarf-“
“I can’t knit.”
“Yet, you can’t knit yet,” she says with a grin. “Don’t worry, if all else fails, my aunt makes cupcakes that have sealed the deal on five different engagements.”
She waggles her eyebrows. Derek picks up a ball of black yarn.
“He likes Batman,” he says gruffly.
The shop girl’s eye light up. “Then what are we waiting for! Let’s get your man!”
Beka, or Knitting Hills’ employee of the month but really it’s just a picture she took of herself next to a note stating she’s far from being a stellar employee, is helping him knit.
Or well, she helped him figure out that he’s more of a loom person.
“Because you loom,” Beka says laughing. Derek has already established that she should never meet Stiles. Ever. Just to prevent the puns.
It takes less that a week to finish the black with yellow trim scarf. And Derek can feel his chest constricting that whole week as Stiles pulls back and frowns more offend during pack meetings and even when Derek picks him up from school and turning down offers to grab dinner or just hang out.
“It’s going to be fine, Derek,” says Beka. “Auntie made cupcakes for you. She never makes them for me.”
“Maybe it’s because you’re always late,” says Derek.
“Hey, I’m employee of the month,” says Beka, gesturing to the wall and the bedazzled picture. The tape on the right side gives way and the picture hangs precariously crooked on the wall. “Gotta remember to bring duct tape,” she mumbles before perking up at Derek. “Now, get going! And woo your man. And remember to come by with details after. Or all key your Camaro with my good knitting needles,” she threatens before shooing him out of the store with the box of cupcakes and finished scarf.
She’s still waving encouragements as he pulls away from the curb in his car.
“I can do this,” he mumbles to himself, looking at the scarf.
