Habitual Insanity

saucefactory:

spikesandskirts said: A cat hides in the hale house

It’s Erica that finds the kitten, after Boyd keeps complaining of the quiet scratching sounds coming from the attic, and that ‘goddamned feline smell’. They’d all known it would be a cat, of course, but none of them had counted on it being so small.

Derek stares at it.

It stares back. Its eyes are very, very large. In its very, very tiny head.

It mews.

“Get that thing away from here,” Derek says, on reflex, because the kitten is having a strange effect on him and he has long learned to be wary of anything that effects him in ways he doesn’t expect. “We can’t have another animal in our territory.”

Erica gapes at him. “That’s ridiculous! It’s just a kitten!”

“Get. Rid. Of it.”

So, naturally, Erica gives it to Stiles.

Which shouldn’t be a problem - Stiles doesn’t live here, for one thing - but Stiles does show up disturbingly often, a fact Derek hadn’t noticed until the kitten started accompanying Stiles on those trips, often slung across Stiles’s shoulder or trotting along in his wake.

Stiles is busy putting up a hex-driven security system around the Hale house, scrawling arcane symbols across doorways and windows and hanging hand-made charms from the ceilings, and the kitten seems to love the charms with feathers on them, because it keeps batting at them until Stiles gently pushes it away and hangs them up.

“What’s that doing here?” Derek asks, finally, deeply perturbed by the vision of Stiles cross-legged on the new lounge-room carpet, weaving a charm, with the kitten asleep in his lap. The kitten’s asleep on its back, for some reason, its small paws pointing upward like someone in the middle of a hold-up. It looks absurd.

“What’s what doing here?”

“The cat.”

Stiles blinks at him. “You gave it to me.”

“I didn’t - ”

“Okay, whatever, Erica gave it to me. It’s mine; I take it wherever I want to.”

“Well, stop bringing it here.”

And Stiles is blinking at him again. “Why?”

“Because this is my territory, that’s why. Nothing I don’t want here should be here.”

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whiskyandoldspice:

The trial is starting today, fucking finally, no thanks to the prosecutor’s office.  They’ve managed to stall, sweet-talking the judge into granting about a thousand motions to continue so they can have more time to dig up evidence or interview witnesses or go out for coffee or whatever other stupid excuse they can think of to make Sam’s life miserable.  There was one instance where the lead prosecutor asked to continue the trial for two months so he could go on detail to Washington D.C., the self-important little prick.

And Sam doesn’t have the same kind of resources as they do, either in time or money, so pushing the trial back for so long is placing too much pressure on him.  He’s got about ten other cases pending,  because as always the local public defender’s office is full up with drug offenders and petty thieves and sex offenders.  He hears the same stories day in and day out, tired of the excuses but he keeps going because if he quit now he’d be giving up on everything he’d always thought he wanted.

The loans are a bitch to pay back on his salary, and he knows he could be making more at a firm.  He can count the number of times that a client has thanked him on one hand.  He’s so tired, all the time, suits wrinkled because he lives alone and he can’t be fucked to iron them in the morning when he drags himself into the courtroom or the jailhouse.

And this morning he’s slotted for jury selection in front of the judge at ass o’clock on the docket.  He stayed up late, no reason behind it, drinking warm whiskey out of a dirty glass.  He’s paying for it now.  He’d be worried except he knows that he’s fucking awesome at voir dire, he’s one of the best and every prosecutor in this city knows it too, and he’ll run circles around whoever they throw at him, hungover or not.

Except when he walks into the courtroom he knows the figure at the plaintiff’s table.  He knows the stiff line of that back, the sweet stubborn curve of those shoulders, knows what that smooth pale skin feels like beneath his fingers.

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hungrylikethewolfie:

It was, Stiles thinks, probably the weirdest recruiting pitch he’d ever heard, even if he discounted the fact that the gig was a photoshoot for a softcore werewolf skin mag.  It’s the only time in his life he ever has been, or likely ever will be grateful for humiliating romantic rejection in a public forum.  But his bank account is certainly thanking him now, already flush with the advance Ms. Hale had promised him, and really what are the odds of anyone even seeingthis?  Anyone he knows, that is.  Sure, some lonely werewolves might be out there somewhere, using his picture as spank bank fodder, but if it means he can make his next student loan payment Stiles is so very, very far from giving a shit.

“First time?”

“Uh.”  Stiles pauses in pulling his shirt off to stare slack-jawed at the guy in front of him.  Beyond being almost preternaturally gorgeous, Stiles has the nagging feeling he’s seen him before.  “First …?”

“Doing a pair shoot.  They usually put me with the newbies, and you’ve definitely got the look.” 

The guy shrugs out of his robe, and oh … fuck, Stiles would recognize those shoulders anywhere.  Okay, yeah, he might’ve gotten his hands on a few back issues of the magazine when Ms. Hale had first made him the offer, because research and due diligence is important, thank you very much.  And he might not exactly be the target audience, he certainly didn’t have any complaints about the models.  Especially not—

“Derek Hale.”  He holds out his hand.  “I guess I’ll be mauling you on camera today.”

“Stiles Stilinski.”  He finishes stripping out of his shirt and takes the offered handshake.  “What do you mean, ‘the look’?”

The smile that spreads across Derek’s face is slow, and every bit as wolfish as Stiles might’ve expected.

“Like a little lamb that’s lost his way.”  He moves closer, into Stiles’s space, the heat of his body like a furnace.  “One who’s only just now realizing there are wolves all around him.”

“That’s kind of … kind of a cheesy line, don’t you think?”

“Maybe.  Maybe I should just skip straight to telling you that half the people in this room are thinking of getting their teeth in you, and the other half are just thinking about getting into your pants.”

“Uh.”  Stiles’s heart is racing; Derek’s hand is still around his, fingers brushing over his wrist and the pulse that’s hammering there.  Close enough now to lean in and lick a line up his neck, and the sudden snap of a camera shutter nearly has Stiles falling over.  “They told you to make me blush, didn’t they?”

“I do love my job.”

“Right.”  The camera’s going full steam now, and Stiles can picture it: picture himself looking vulnerable and uncertain, standing in front of a smirking werewolf who looks ready to eat him up.  “I’ve seen some of your work, and I really, really believe that.”

“Have you?” 

Derek sounds as collected as ever, but Stiles feels the shudder that he can’t quite hide, and his instincts for weakness are as good at any wolf’s.

“Oh yeah.  The shoot in the pool, especially.  You weren’t wearing a swimsuit in that, were you?  I mean, you were in the water the whole time, but I’m pretty sure I caught a glimpse of something while I was jerking off to it.”

They get a featured spread in that month’s issue.  Stiles frames the cover photo for his wall, Derek’s face buried in his shoulder and the tip of one red-flushed ear caught between Stiles’s teeth.

It’s the phone number, scrawled across the bottom, however, that’s Stiles’s favorite part.

detectivebuttcop:

“Hello, my darling,” Stiles slurs, and then he starts to tip forward like a cut tree. Derek catches him easily. “My love, I am drunk,” he announces into Derek’s chest.

Derek lays a flat, unamused look on Scott, who lifts his hands. “I dunno what you wanted, what you would have want for me to do,” Scott tells Derek defensively. “It’s a party. There’s a drink—there is drinking. Everwhere.”

“Uh huh,” says Derek.

“I missed you,” Stiles confesses warmly. He slides his hands down Derek’s back, and Derek jumps when his hands squeeze on his ass. “I missed you sooo much.”

“It’s true,” corroborates Scott. He leans casually against the doorframe. “He kept talking about you.”

 “Yeah?” Derek sets about readjusting Stiles’ clothes, righting him on his feet. Stiles is swaying like a sapling in the wind, humming happily, eyes on Derek’s face. His glasses are askew. “Wha’d he say.” As soon as he asks, he knows it was a bad idea.

“Your butt,” Scott says like he has no idea why Stiles would mention that. Stiles gives a peal of laughter. “Your eyes, gross stuff. Stuff no one cares about.”

“Everyone cares,” Stiles retorts. “I care. You care.” He points skyward and declares, “We all care!”

“Okay,” Derek says mildly. “Anyone else need a ride home, Scott?”

“Not from you!” Scott yells. He and Isaac both start laughing uncontrollably.

Stiles doesn’t seem to notice. “Jus’ me,” he says cooperatively. “Don’ ride anyone else, Der. I love you so much, more than… Where’s my ring.”

His left ring finger is bare. Stiles looks abruptly sober, nakedly terrified. Then he sighs. “Pocket. S’in my pocket.” He addresses Derek. “Found it. We’re engaged, to be married. We’re gonna have all these babies: bup-bup-bup, tons of them.”

“I got a college degree so I could do this,” Derek sighs, and then he leads Stiles to the car.

(via mcsciles)

continued from here.

Teen Wolf AU in which Derek is Stiles’ teacher and tries to end things before they seriously spin out of control and fails due to Stiles’ persistence and surprisingly intricate seduction techniques.

Derek Hale is going to hell.

He doesn’t appreciate the pun, although Laura surely would. Even she wouldn’t be impressed by the things he’s done recently, though. You know things are truly bad when Laura disapproves, because she’s quite possibly the most unconventional person he’s ever met.

He’s kind of sickened by himself, but God help him, he can’t forget the warmth and smoothness of Stiles’ skin under his fingertips, the way the shape of his mouth fit against Derek’s perfectly, the curious pattern of dark spots on pale skin, his long, nimble fingers working their way into Derek’s jeans, and then the wet heat of an eager mouth on him, the moans and whispers and the sound of skin sliding against skin, the thrill of the forbidden.

He groans and buries his head in his hands. Wishes he could turn back time and do things differently.

But who is he kidding, there is no scenario in which he’d have had the strength to resist the temptation. For someone so young, Stiles certainly knows what he wants – and how to get it.

If he was a menace before – unsubtly checking Derek out, making innuendos, making sure to end up alone with him as often as possible – then he is absolutely unbearable now.

Derek thinks he should’ve known it wound end like this when he told Stiles it could never happen again (as if that made anything better, as if that would save either of them) and saw his eyes turn hard, resolved. Calculating his next move, trying to find a way to get Derek to crack.

He wishes it wasn’t as easy. That he wasn’t as easy. But really, all Stiles had to do was try everything to end up the sexual tension tenfold. It turns out, he’s very good at that without overly exerting himself.

Stiles is everywhere. Demanding his attention. Stretching in the most provocative way possible, making sure his shirts ride up just so, exposing a stretch of skin that makes Derek want to throw a possessive arm around his waist. Lounging on his seat in a manner that borders on obscene. Licking his lips, twisting his tongue in a way that makes Derek remember and yearn for how it felt against his cock. Winking suggestively and looking so damn smug whenever he sees how much Derek struggles to keep a straight face, to not just leap straight over the row of tables and take him right then and there.

Eventually, sooner than he’d hoped, he cracks. “Stilinski, see me after class,” he snaps. He doesn’t miss the victory arms. Such a teenage thing to do, reminding him again just how fucking young Stiles is. It makes his stomach twist.

The remaining twenty minutes until the bell signals the end of class are pure torture. He watches the steady trickle of students leave the room and tries to brace himself.

Stiles waits until the door has fallen closed behind Scott, who was, predictably, the last student to leave and then gets up to saunter up to Derek. “Last period on a Friday,” he says. “Neat. No one’s gonna barge in.”

“Stop,” Derek grits out. “I didn’t ask you to stay for….this.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t you,” he says, voice flat.

“You need to stop.”

“Stop what?” Stiles challenges.

“Just…this.” Derek gestures around emphatically in an all-compassing fashion. He’s usually more eloquent than this, but no one has the ability to melt his brain like Stiles does.

“You might need to be a bit more specific.”

That little shit. “With the tongue and lip licking and the stretching and the -” Derek gives up, frustrated.

“I don’t know, you seemed to like my tongue and flexibility just fine the last time we spoke.”

“Christ, Stiles!”

“I could think of a better situation in which you could be screaming those words,” Stiles says, smirking.

“Stiles, this isn’t a joke,” Derek snaps. “I – we can’t. Don’t you get what’s on the line for me? For both of us? I’ll go to jail for this if anyone finds out and you –“

“You think I haven’t thought about that?” Stiles snorts. “Derek, I know all of that. It would kill my Dad if he found out. Doesn’t mean I don’t want it anyway. Doesn’t mean you don’t still want this.” He takes another step into Derek’s personal space, and whoa, this resembles their last encounter way too much. “And I know you want this. You think I don’t see the way your eyes follow me? I can see how much you want me, and it’s driving me crazy.”

Derek huffs out a laugh. It sounds desperate even to his ears. “I’m driving you crazy?”

“All the time,” Stiles affirms. “Your muscles are very distracting. Also your eyes. And your hands, God, your hands. And your lips. And your hair. Did I mention the hands?”

“You did,” Derek says, amused despite himself. “Several times. And just for the record, this sounds a lot like victim blaming.”

“Says you. You don’t have to watch your obnoxiously perfect self the entire day without being allowed to touch.” Stiles’ hands run over the seam of his shirt. Slide under it. Derek shivers. “Knowing what it feels like, knowing what you look like when you come, knowing that I can make you fall apart and not being able to do anything about it,” he murmurs against Derek’s skin. “Do you know how frustrating that is?”

“Better than anyone,” Derek says and finds that his hands have found their way into Stiles’ hair on their own accord. He doesn’t remember putting them there, telling them to pull Stiles closer, but then, he’s shown extremely poor impulse control whenever Stiles is concerned. “Stiles, you need to stop tempting me,” he continues even as his lips brush against Stiles cheek, along the sharp line of his jaw, down his neck.

“Why, because you won’t be able to resist much longer?”

He’s falling. He’s falling and there is no way he can stop. “Yes.”

“Good,” Stiles says, yanks at Derek’s hair and closes the distance between them.

(via mcsciles)

mindmychaos:

#the first time stiles spends the night at the loft derek is insanely restless #the sheriff is out of town for the weekend so nobody’s missing him #but derek has heard stiles complain about being caught skipping last period to wait on line for some new video game #so the sheriff has spies around town and derek knows it #and stiles drives THE MOST easily identifiable car in beacon hills #and it is PARKED RIGHT OUTSIDE NEXT TO THE CAMARO AND OH GOD SOMEBODY KNOWS #IT’S A DEPUTY OR A RECEPTIONIST OR A WELL-MEANING NEIGHBOR #SOMEBODY KNOWS #AND IF SOMEBODY KNOWS THAT MEANS AS SOON AS THE SHERIFF GETS BACK HE’S GOING TO FIND OUT #and he’s going to kill someone oh god derek is going to die #he’s actually delving into the depths of paranoia while stiles just //sleeps// like derek’s life isn’t on the fucking line #and he finally goes to the window and he looks outside #because WAS THAT A SIREN HE HEARD? #DID SOMEONE JUST DEMAND HE COME OUT WITH HIS HANDS UP? #but the parking lot is empty and silent #and when he looks outside it’s just his camaro and stiles’ jeep #the two cars are just sitting there completely undisturbed #and something just hits derek in the chest like he’s been punched and he’s suddenly weirdly calm #because it looks right #it looks good #like it’s totally natural #and god fucking dammit he is so gone on stiles that he’s actually fantasizing about two-car garages at three in the morning #so he goes back to the bed and waits until stiles rolls over and throws an arm over his waist and kisses the back of his neck #’you done freaking out now?’ #’yup’ (via ashesandhalefire)

(Source: halesfire, via hungrylikethewolfie)

hatteress:

maichan808:

prompt: best birthday ever
Stopping myself from cleaning up my line art was challenging.
Quick sketches are totally not my forte.

Derek yanks the door open so fast he almost rips it off it’s hinges. “Are you brain damaged?!” he says, pulling Stiles in by his arm.

Stiles laughs, loud and delighted. Not even the sign clocking him in the face as he spins in Derek’s grip is enough to dampen his enthusiasm. “Nope,” he says. “I haven’t had a head injury in months.”

Derek remembers. He’s still getting the harpy blood out of his jacket. “Stiles-“

“You wanted to wait,” Stiles says. He’s done that thing where he’s all up in Derek’s space between one blink and the next. Fuck. ”We waited.”

The door rattles at Derek’s back only for as long as it takes Stiles to press him back against it. It’s heady having him this close, after months of keeping him at arms length. Months of chaste kisses and careful embraces.

Months.

Okay, yeah, screw it. Derek flips them, ducking in to nose up Stiles’ neck and feeling Stiles’ groan hit him hot and low.

“Oh god yes,” Stiles says, dropping the sign to thread his hands into Derek’s hair. Derek crushes it underfoot when he hikes Stiles up the wall.

(via mcsciles)

halesparkles:

this is totally, officially a verse thing, where they have kids, ok. oops.

~*~

When they bring Jamie home from the hospital they end up sleeping on the floor of the nursery for three days. Derek’s deeply grateful Lydia insisted on the expensive, soft carpet. Somehow, he becomes a mattress for Stiles, and the tiny ball of fluff on his chest. 

Jamie cries, a lot. To start with he worries that it’s them. The Sheriff laughs when Stiles voices a similar concern and they both glare at him. 

He holds Jamie out in front of him, smiling dotingly. “Welcome to parenthood, kids.”

“Words of wisdom,” Stiles drawls. “Thanks, dad.”

Derek steals a hand up the back of his t-shirt, strokes his lower back soothingly. 

“He likes you just fine,” the Sheriff says, rolling his eyes and carrying Jamie out of the room. “But he’ll like me more because I’ll never make him do homework, or wash the dishes.”

“That is… immensely unfair,” Stiles huffs.

“Grandparent’s right,” the Sheriff declares. 

“Well,” Stiles says soberly, looking down at his three day old shirt and then up at Derek’s scruff. “Here we go.”

*

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weatherers:

Dean Winchester is a junior in the physics department, a handsome young man with a messenger bag always hanging over his shoulder and a pair of worn-down hiking boots always on his feet. He dresses like an 80’s nomad, surrounds himself with friends of all walks of life, tutors freshman on Monday nights, and complains about how nasty the campus coffee is at least three times a day.

In other words, he’s the bane of Castiel’s existence.

He just… traipses into their East Asian religions class day in and day out, hardly speaks for the majority of the day, then raises his hand at the very last five minutes to say something horrifically and unexpectedly poignant about the nature of the Dao or whatnot. It drives Castiel insane because Dean doesn’t even try. He’s clever, well liked, easy like Sunday morning— and Castiel is way too strung out on his double major and his three different off-campus jobs to be down for that kind of amicable shit, thank you very much.  

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wordsinhaled:

sam and dean are somewhere up north on a case, squatting in this clapboard house not far from the shore. the house is bare inside and doesn’t have any electricity, so they have to use flashlights and those battery-operated lanterns for light; it’s only just turning spring so…