Stiles has been on a plane for hours. He doesn’t even remember how many, he lost track between time changes and flight transfers, one in Las Vegas, another in Chicago. Fucking Las Vegas, it’s the worst. This is what he gets for deciding to go home for Thanksgiving last minute: Dad and Scott and Melissa on one end, airport hell and cramming for finals on the other. By the time his last flight touches down at La Guardia, Stiles feels like he’s been in transit forever, like there’s going to be five new iPhone models out by the time he gets to the curb to catch the M60 bus into the city.
Stiles doesn’t make it to the curb, though, because Derek Hale is waiting for him at the baggage claim.
sapphirecate asked: What is the most memorable meal you ever ate (note, it does not have to be the tastiest or most expensive, but those categories may overlap)?
OH MY GOD, THIS IS THE BEST QUESTION I HAVE EVER BEEN ASKED.
2003, NYC: Mijra & I are visiting rm (lettersfromtitan) at her apartment in Alphabet City. We have just walked all over the place and eaten various street food and had tea at Alice’s Tea Cup, but we are starving. rm makes us cheese tortellini with marinara sauce for dinner, which we eat while watching Velvet Goldmine, which neither Mijra nor I have seen before. At some point mid-movie, we break out the cupcakes we picked up at Magnolia Bakery earlier. It is the first time I have ever eaten a cupcake from Magnolia Bakery, and the frosting is the most delicious thing I have ever tasted. On screen, Ewan McGregor is coated in glitter.
2013, LA: Scout & I eat vegan Hawaiian pizza at Cruzer Pizza in Los Feliz. It has been months since I have been able to eat pizza and I have never wanted anything in my mouth more in my life. This pizza is fucking ambrosial, it is literally the nectar of the gods. I seriously want to cry. It is a beautiful moment and I am so happy for our friendship.
I guess I know what we’re doing when you visit in April then
Anonymous asked: this reform school au is killing me this reform school au is killing me i'm
That night Stiles is stiff and twitchy and stays turned away. When they wake in the morning, Derek leans over the line of his body and sees one hand clutched desperately against the sheets, his nails dug in like he’s hanging on.
When they get back to school, Stiles takes up with Peter.Read more
Derek goes home for spring break. He survived Christmas, he figures; all of the family togetherness and feelings and bullshit. What’s two more weeks. He makes it three days before he texts Stiles, just to say so borrrreddddddd, because he is. His family’s house is tucked away at the edge of a nature preserve, surrounded by silence and tall trees still damp and dripping with April rain. He’s restless and edgy in so much quiet, too big against the tightness of his skin.
Sooo dribk he gets back a few hours later, followed by a procession of unintelligible emoji. Stiles’ texts are usually concise, slim, sharp things. Derek frowns down at his phone as it spits up grinning cacti and breaking waves, beer, a martini glass, a hotdog. The last thing that arrives is a blurry picture of Stiles wearing oversize sunglasses, sitting on a stoop somewhere, face half-buried in the shadow of his sweatshirt hood.
You okay, man?
Fuck, Stiles sends back.
Derek doesn’t have the words to ask if he should— what he should do. When he crawled into Stiles’ bed the first night there was a recklessness about it, at the knife’s edge of violence, too exhausted to be careful. When he’s done it since it’s always been a gradual acquiescence, a gentle, tidal settling, their bodies coming close.
I’m coming, he sends, finally, and Stiles doesn’t tell him not to. San Francisco is a few hours south of Beacon Hills. He can always turn around if he changes his mind.
By the time Derek’s pulling off of the freeway Stiles has sent him an address, just numbers and a street name, no other response. He’s still sitting on the stoop he sent the picture from, shaking slightly in the night’s chill air.
"What are you doing here," he asks when he sees Derek. It’s a tone Derek hasn’t heard since their first days together, brittle and angry and sad.
"Missed your dumb face," Derek says. He slings himself down next to Stiles, close but not too close. He sets the plastic bag he’s been carrying down between them and nudges it towards Stiles with the toe of his sneaker. "I brought supplies."
Stiles slumps forward to investigate. This late, this drunk, he’s graceless, his looseness making him seem longer, somehow. The streetlight is a new one, casting sharp white light over the lines of him, his shoulder blades and the curl of his spine underneath his sweatshirt.
"Dude," Stiles says reverently. "This is amazing."
It’s just gas station stuff, candy bars and water. “I figured this would get you up and walking,” Derek says. “I skipped dinner. I thought we could get real food. After.”
"There’s a diner down the street."
"And you’ve been sitting here the whole time?"
"This is my house," Stiles says. His voice is very quiet. "I just—"
"Yeah," Derek says. He scoots in the last two inches and nudges his shoulder against Stiles’. "C’mon, dude, let’s get you a breakfast sandwich or something."
Stiles lopes and lolls his way there, uneven on his feet, and Derek resists the urge to steady him. Inside the diner he keeps his sunglasses on until they’re seated. His hands are jammed deeply into his hoodie pockets and he scuffs his feet against the floor when he walks. He looks young and frustrated and fragile in a way Derek doesn’t want to recognize.
They don’t talk much while they order and wait for their food. Stiles is halfway through wolfing down a bacon egg and cheese when he looks up abruptly. “You didn’t have to do this,” he says.
"Yeah," Derek says. Discomfort makes him want to fidget. "But. Um. I did."
Stiles flips the sunglasses to the top of his head; underneath them his eyes are bloodshot, the skin beneath them bruise-dark, angry with sleeplessness. “You didn’t—” he says again. “You shouldn’t have to.”
"I wanted to," Derek gets out, all at once.
"I can’t sleep," Stiles says. He picks up his sandwich again and regards it curiously. "I haven’t been able to sleep. I thought getting drunk would help. But then I couldn’t. Um. Make myself. Go back inside." Derek nods. "It’s not where we lived, when she was alive," Stiles says. "He sold that place. After. So."
"I told my parents I wasn’t coming home," Derek says. "Tonight." Stiles regards him steadily. "I can probably get a cheap hotel room or whatever. If that makes sense."
"Don’t tell me you still have that terrible fake," Stiles says. Derek gives him a pointed look. "Anyway." Stiles sets the sandwich down and starts shredding the edge of the English muffin. "You should— you came to see me." One corner of his mouth tips up into a soft, sly smile. "You should stay with us. Okay?"
They let themselves in the front door and it’s dark inside, and quiet. “Dad’s asleep,” Stiles mumbles as he kicks off his shoes. “Shhhh.” Derek’s own parents have long since given up on controlling his comings and goings; he knows all too well the bittersweet taste of that particular kind of freedom.
They go up the stairs and down a narrow hallway, pulling up short at the last door. “We don’t have a guest room,” Stiles whispers. “I guess—”
"It’s fine," Derek says. "And anyway. I thought it might, uh, help." Stiles turns towards him too quickly, startled. In the dimness Derek can’t read his expression.
"Sure," he says carefully. There’s a pause in which he seems to decide something. His spine is straight and his face is down when he reaches out and turns the knob, and opens the door.
Anonymous asked: i assumed the casablanca drop was supposed to be referring to noshiko talking about making out with rhys when they were on a time constraint to get to stiles. internment is such a delicate and traumatic subject that i'm guessing that's why they intensely fictionalised the camp and wrapped it into the history of beacon hills rather than trying to make it more genuine? i also assumed that making the nogitsune white and giving that role to rhys was to rebuff any potential "eeeeevil asian" criticism
See the thing is that when you’re writing a television show, and you’re considering a plotline and it involves something so “delicate and traumatic” that it can only be sugar-coated and romanticized into something basically unrecognizable from the actual, awful truth, then maybe— just maybe!— you need to JUST NOT.
Oh wait, scratch that: definitely fucking don’t.
I don’t know if aaaaanyone else has noticed this, but when we fictionalize history to make it more palatable, it pretty much always has the effect of making white people look better. (Maybe this is because white people have a significant history of invasion, violence, systematic degradation and destruction of existing cultures while pursuing colonialism? IDK, maybe, I guess.)
Which is to say: white folks don’t get to look at the unjust inprisonment of innocents and say yeah, well, but we want to tell stories about it, and we don’t want them to be SAD stories. So instead let’s tell a cute one? The 40’s were, like, suuuuper cute. Yeah, right. Probably all those ladies stealing food and aspirin off the back of trucks— the implication being that no one had enough to eat, that despite there being an infirmary prisoners weren’t allowed medicine for what presented as chronic migraines— found a way to get lipstick and bobby pins, to keep swords under their beds in case they accidentally started a riot by daring to speak up against the unbearable conditions of their captivity.
If it’s too hard to tell the honest truth about what really happened to other people— what you did to other people— you do not get to tell that story. You don’t get to appropriate other people’s history and reality like that.
Basically: any time you have to assume away an offensive plotline you’re doing racist work on yourself. Any time someone tells me they’re “just going with something” what I hear is: I’m giving this a pass because I want to, because I enjoy it more that way. Which, I don’t know, enjoying stuff is fine. But trying to justify the work based on your enjoyment— and to tell me that “not going with it” is in any way invalid— really just isn’t.
is it bad I would totally read that completely fucked up rando crossover? Rust meets Derek in a bar. Rust meets Kate Argent in a bar. Rust stumbles over a werewolf killing.
Marty tries to bang Allison, Lydia, Kira, and is brutally rebuffed by each in turn; they rough him up juuust a little bit, to teach him a lesson. Rust and Deaton exchange cryptic pseudo-philosophical koans. “Animal heads, spaghetti monsters, meth LSD biker gangs whatever,” Stiles says, world-weary, still and always shadowed under his eyes. “Wait until you hear about the time my boyfriend pissed off a really old tree.”