EasySarcasm

She/Her. Kinda always overwhelmed by everything.

[melioristicbeast]

Derek: 'I'm fine' Stiles: 🚨🚨🚨 (honestly this goes both ways for these two)

Birthday gift art for @sparassiss who requested Stiles holding Derek after a crappy day, and you know what - a good ol' Stilinski Hug would probably fix him a lil' bit ♡

Available on RedBubble 💚

[dragon-in-a-fez]

one of the funniest conversations I ever had with my ex was when they were still getting used to Celsius and asked me "what's 20 degrees?" and instead of converting it, I said "it's the highest your dad will ever let you set the thermostat and when you say you're cold he tells you to put on another sweater, we're not made of money" and they went "oh, 68"

the fact that this reference was that fucking precise was something they went on to tell people about for years.

[ai-drarry-fanfic]

Regency AU. Harry courts Draco and Draco accepts.

The first time Draco saw Harry Potter again, it was across a ballroom.

Candlelight spilled gold over everything—silk, jewels, polished floors—and the orchestra carried the soft rise and fall of a waltz through the air. Draco stood at his father’s side, posture perfect, expression carefully neutral, as befitted the heir to a Duke.

He was not expecting to forget how to breathe.

“Commander Potter,” someone whispered nearby.

Draco’s attention snapped toward the entrance.

And there he was.

Harry Potter—no longer the scrawny, sharp-faced boy Draco remembered from childhood summers and stiff, distant visits between their families. War had carved him into something else entirely.

Broader. Steadier.

Dangerous, in a way that had nothing to do with violence and everything to do with presence.

His dress uniform was dark, severe, cut to fit him perfectly, medals catching the light at his chest. But it wasn’t the uniform that held the room.

It was him.

Draco’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around his glass.

“Well,” Lucius Malfoy said beside him, voice cool, “it seems the hero returns.”

Draco didn’t answer.

Because Harry was looking at him.

Not glancing.

Looking.

And then—

Harry started walking toward him.

Draco’s pulse stuttered.

“This should be interesting,” Lucius murmured.

⸻

“Malfoy.”

Draco inclined his head just enough to be polite. “Potter.”

Up close, it was worse.

Harry had always had green eyes—but now they were sharper, steadier, like they had seen too much and come back anyway.

“You’ve—” Harry paused, like he was recalibrating. “—changed.”

Draco arched a brow. “So have you.”

A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crossed Harry’s face.

“Yes,” he said simply.

An awkward silence threatened.

Draco hated awkward silence.

“So,” he said, “I hear you’ve been playing soldier.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “Something like that.”

“Commander, isn’t it?”

“For now.”

Draco tilted his head. “Modest.”

“Realistic.”

Another pause.

Then Harry did something entirely unexpected.

“Dance with me.”

Draco blinked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Dance,” Harry repeated, gesturing toward the floor. “Unless you’ve forgotten how.”

Draco stared at him.

Around them, the room seemed to sharpen, attention quietly shifting.

Lucius’s presence at his side felt suddenly… very pointed.

“You’re serious,” Draco said.

“Yes.”

Draco exhaled slowly.

This was a terrible idea.

This was a very terrible idea.

“…fine,” he said.

⸻

Harry’s hand was warm.

Steady.

Entirely too sure of itself where it settled at Draco’s waist.

Draco forced himself not to react as they stepped into the rhythm of the music.

“You’re staring,” Draco said under his breath.

“So are you,” Harry replied.

Draco looked away first.

“This is highly inappropriate,” he muttered.

“Probably.”

“And yet here we are.”

Harry’s grip shifted slightly—subtle, guiding.

“Yes,” he said. “Here we are.”

Draco risked another glance.

Harry was watching him like the rest of the room didn’t exist.

It was… disconcerting.

“You’ve made quite an entrance,” Draco said, grasping for something safer.

“Wasn’t trying to.”

“No, I imagine it just happens naturally.”

Harry smiled—small, but real.

“Something like that.”

They turned.

The music swelled.

And for one brief, ridiculous moment—

Draco forgot that this was Harry Potter.

Forgot the war. The distance. The years.

There was just—

This.

Then the music ended.

Reality rushed back in.

Draco stepped away immediately.

“Thank you,” he said, cool and composed once more.

Harry inclined his head.

“My pleasure.”

Lucius’s gaze was waiting when Draco returned.

Sharp. Displeased.

“Explain,” he said quietly.

Draco lifted his chin. “He asked.”

“And you accepted.”

“Yes.”

Lucius’s expression darkened.

“Be careful,” he said.

Draco didn’t answer.

Because he already knew.

⸻

Harry did not leave him alone after that.

Not in the intrusive sense.

In the… persistent one.

Walks in the gardens.

Conversations that started polite and ended somewhere sharper, more interesting.

A letter.

Then another.

“He’s courting you,” Hermione said bluntly.

Draco frowned. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Am I?”

Draco hesitated.

Because—

“Yes,” he said finally.

Hermione just looked at him.

⸻

Ron Weasley was less subtle.

“This is a terrible idea,” he said, arms crossed.

Harry didn’t look up from where he was writing.

“Noted.”

“He’s a Malfoy.”

“I’m aware.”

“He’s trouble.”

Harry paused.

Then, calmly:

“So am I.”

Ron groaned. “That’s not reassuring!”

⸻

Lucius was worse.

“He is not suitable,” he said coldly.

Draco met his gaze. “According to whom?”

“According to sense.”

“He’s a decorated commander.”

“He’s new money,” Lucius snapped. “New power. Unstable.”

Draco’s lips twitched faintly.

“Sounds familiar.”

Lucius’s expression hardened.

“This is not a game.”

“I know.”

“Then act like it.”

Draco didn’t respond.

Because for once—

He didn’t want to.

⸻

The summons to court came unexpectedly.

Harry stood before the Queen, posture straight, expression unreadable as the chamber watched in hushed anticipation.

“For your service,” she said, voice clear and carrying, “and for your loyalty to crown and country, we bestow upon you lands and title.”

A pause.

“Rise, Duke.”

The word rippled through the room.

Harry inclined his head.

“Your Majesty.”

Draco, watching from the side, felt something shift.

Not surprise.

Not exactly.

Just—

Recognition.

Harry had always been meant for something like this.

⸻

“You didn’t tell me,” Draco said later.

Harry shrugged lightly. “Didn’t think it mattered.”

“It matters now.”

“Does it?”

Draco stepped closer.

“Yes.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“You outrank me.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “Is that what this is about?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Silence stretched.

Then Harry said:

“Marry me.”

Draco stared at him.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I am.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“It could be.”

Draco’s pulse quickened.

“This is—this is reckless.”

“Yes.”

“Inadvisable.”

“Probably.”

“A terrible idea.”

Harry stepped closer.

“Almost certainly.”

Draco swallowed.

“Then why?”

Harry met his gaze.

“Because I don’t want to stop.”

Silence.

Long.

Heavy.

Then Draco exhaled slowly.

“…you’re impossible.”

Harry smiled.

“I’ve been told.”

Another pause.

Then, softer:

“And you’re still here.”

Draco looked at him.

At the boy he’d known.

At the man he’d become.

At the future standing right in front of him, asking—not demanding, not taking—

Asking.

“…yes,” Draco said.

⸻

The wedding was not quiet.

It could never have been.

But it was theirs.

Ron looked resigned. Hermione looked pleased. Lucius looked like he was reconsidering several life choices.

Harry looked—

Happy.

Draco adjusted his gloves, glancing sideways.

“This is still a terrible idea,” he murmured.

Harry squeezed his hand.

“Definitely.”

A pause.

Then Draco allowed himself the smallest smile.

“Good,” he said.

And stepped forward anyway.

[dogpuppy]

[all-the-bones-ever-deactivated2]

this hit me like a truck

[stilinskistories]

“I need you.”

[redandbluesterek]

Not Lydia or Malia……DEREK! :)

You’re welcome! ;)

[melioristicbeast]

Better hope those groceries are all non-perishables because they are forgotten also Stiles saw a nappertunity and he took it

How many different ways can I draw the same two characters napping? Let's spend 2026 finding out 😌✨

btw I set up a ko-fi! I had some money set aside to buy a new ipad bc my current one is struggling with the larger file sizes, but I had some unforeseen expenses and have had to almost start over. So if any of you want to+have the means to support my art, that would be what the money would go towards <3 Absolutely no pressure - I know times are rough for many and this is absolutely a luxury item!

[leyw0lf]

Literally

[eaasysarcasm]

There you go

Found this on tiktok, courtesy of ai and I can't stop playing it 🥹🥹

[homemadesterekpie]

magically de-aged Stiles being obsessed with Derek and clinging to his legs and whining whenever Derek has to do something not involving baby Stiles.

The pack starts teasing Derek and play fighting with him because whenever they hit Derek, Stiles starts screeching and yelling at them to NO!!! NO HURT DEWEK NO!!! NO!!! and it’s the cutest, funniest thing ever.

after, Stiles pouts and folds his tiny arms across his chest with tears in his eyes and refuses to talk to the betas or even his own dad while Derek rubs a comforting hand up and down his little back awkwardly. Stiles is being ridiculous but well he IS a child at the moment. Derek is also stupidly terrified of him.

it’s a whole Thing when the sheriff lifts Stiles up into his arms and tries to leave the loft with him. Stiles assumes his Dewek is coming with them but then the sheriff says goodbye to Derek and falls back on his old daddy habits and says like “okay Stiles say bye bye to Derek.” and Stiles is like :O and immediately throws an giant tantrum.

There’s the stop breathing until he’s blue in the face and Derek panics but the sheriff is like “please son let me handle this okay” and the sheriff blows into Stiles’ open mouth and Stiles takes a big breath and starts wailing like someone is torturing him. he stretches his little arms to Derek while big fat tears fall from his eyes. Derek thinks he might be dying because nothing has ever hurt this much.

the sheriff is cool as a cucumber while Derek is like 😭😭😭 but at least the sheriff is nice enough to pass Stiles to Derek again who pulls him close and Stiles hugs his neck and hiccups dramatically like the world is ending.

it takes Derek walking him down the cruiser and saying bye bye 5 times and accepting 2 cheek kisses and making 3 pinky promises that he will be coming to see Stiles in the morning. but even then Stiles is teary eyed when his dad pulls out of the parking lot and Stiles waves a tiny hand to Derek all sad and forlorn and Derek thinks he might have to revise his plan of having several kids with Stiles because there’s no way he can handle it if they’re going to torment him like this.

the next morning Derek is at the Stilinski residence bright and early as he promised and when he knocks he hears the pitter patter of feet sprinting to the door and Derek frowns because thats not…

An again fully grown Stiles opens the door and beams at him.

“we are SO having kids!!!!!” Stiles exclaims while simultaneously giggling with exhilaration.

He practically jumps into Derek’s arms and holds him tight and Derek does the same, relief and fondness warming Derek’s chest.

“You’re gonna be a great dad. I can’t wait.” Stiles says into Derek’s ear as he plays with Derek’s hair at the back of his neck.

For some reason, tears springs to Derek’s eyes and a ball of emotion forms at the back of his throat. He tightens his arms around Stiles and thinks that maybe his original plan should stand.

[applejuice382-moved]

Derek pushes open the door to the small, casual bar.

At the bar top, Stiles is chatting animatedly with a girl that Derek thinks he recognizes.

She’s likely a close enough friend that Derek has seen her in passing, but not so close that he’s ever been properly introduced to her.

Or maybe he has, and he just hadn’t cared to remember her.

Stiles is dressed like he always is. Jeans, a flannel over a plain shirt, some vans. In a college bar like this, just off Berkeley’s campus, Stiles fits right in.

Stiles’ friend notices Derek’s approach, but Stiles doesn’t, his back turned to him and still talking rapidly. She opens her mouth to say something, but Derek puts a finger to his lips.

She deflates, but she looks hesitant. Stiles doesn’t even seem to notice, too wrapped up in whatever he’s talking about.

“—Sean even fucking blocked me on Instagram! Who the hell goes that far?! So color me surprised when the douchebag shows up to our meeting two days ago, which, I don’t even know how he knew we were meeting that day. I think Morgan told him. Have you noticed she has a thing for him? She always—”

Derek stops just short of touching Stiles’ back, bare inches between them.

He leans down, murmuring low near Stiles’ ear.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Stiles nearly swivels off the bar stool.

Derek immediately grabs Stiles’ arm and steadies him and the seat before they both go crashing to the floor. Derek isn’t paying attention to that, though. That’s just reflexes and instinct. All he can really focus on is the bright, glittering brown eyes and the beaming smile that lights up Stiles’ entire face.

The sheer elation over their mating bond warms Derek from the inside out and makes his head buzz in a way that alcohol never could.

He finds himself smiling a little in response without meaning to.

“But how— when did you— what are you doing here?” Stiles demands, but he’s grinning so wide his cheeks must hurt.

Derek grabs the bar stool next to his mate and pulls it closer, but not too close. When he settles, he leans in just close enough that his intention is clear, but just far enough that it’s not overly intimate. Anyone looking their way will likely see a stranger clearly trying to get lucky.

Derek gives Stiles the sort of smile that used to guarantee him a hookup with the prettiest face in the bar, back when he and Stiles weren’t mated.

“Just looking for some company tonight,” he says low and smooth, connotation obvious.

It’s clear he’s caught Stiles off-guard. His mate flushes a little, and his mouth opens to say something, but the bartender beats him to it.

She slides over, not even really looking at them as she busies himself with some glasses behind the counter. Derek already likes her.

“What can I help you with?” She asks, pleasant enough, but her mind clearly more focused on a million other tasks.

“Whiskey on the rocks for me. Rum and coke for him,” Derek says easily.

“Starting a tab?”

He hands the bartender his card that she takes without even looking at him. “Under Derek.”

“You got it.”

His gaze slides back over to Stiles, who’s rolling his eyes at Derek but can’t seem to suppress his smile. “You don’t need to drive three hours and sneak onto campus just to buy me a drink, dude. I do have my own money, you know.”

“I know,” Derek answers, because he’s learned a long time ago that any other answer will have Stiles insisting to pay for himself. “Just felt like surprising you.”

His eyes catch on the movement behind Stiles. The girl he was talking to is watching their exchange closely, but clearly seems unsure what to do.

She opens her mouth, hand lifting to touch Stiles to get his attention, but Derek lifts his eyebrow at her in a way that clearly conveys everything it needs to.

Get lost.

Wisely, she withdraws her hand. She quietly stands from her barstool and slips away into the small crowd, joining a group of people she clearly knows, but not without shooting Stiles a strange look. Derek mentally pats himself on the back for not bearing his teeth at her.

Stiles doesn’t even notice her leave, too busy smiling at Derek.

He tries not to feel too vindictively happy about that too, but he doesn’t really manage.

Two drinks slide their way, and Derek immediately picks up his by the rim. He lazily swirls the contents of the glass.

“So,” Derek says, mouth already lilting from the laugh he knows he’s about to pull out of Stiles. “You come here often?”

Stiles does laugh. He throws his head back as he reaches to take his own drink in hand, and the sound is utterly music to Derek’s ears.

“Has that ever actually worked?” Stiles asks incredulously.

“Depends,” Derek admits. “You have to get a feel if they’re into those sort of lines.”

“Wha— hey!” Stiles tries to sound indignant, but he’s still laughing. “What are you trying to say?”

Derek half-shrugs, but has to hide his smile behind the rim of his glass. “Some people are easier than others.”

Predictably, Stiles punches him in the arm, which finally pulls a laugh out of Derek. He watches his mate’s cheeks pink a little at the sound, flushed and happy and pleased. Everything a mate should be.

“I’m not easy!”

“No?” Derek hums, lifting a brow.

They both know that’s not true. All it takes is one look across a room for Stiles to immediately start looking for secluded locations to shove Derek into as soon as possible. It’s why Derek does it so often.

“Whatever, asshole,” Stiles rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling.

He turns away from Derek to face the bar, taking a sip of his drink as his eyes are drawn upwards to one of the many TVs. Derek studies the way the light dances across Stiles’ face, everything else fading into the background.

Derek can’t help but notice that Stiles still leans slightly towards him, like he just can’t help himself. Like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. It warms Derek’s chest in a way he can’t describe.

“Besides,” Stiles continues. “I don’t think anyone’s ‘easy’ enough to actually like stupid lines like that. It’s just your stupid face that they like.”

Derek can’t help but laugh again.

—

AU where Stiles is a college student at Berkeley and Derek surprises him with a visit 🫡

[secretzofdarkness]

A broken heart hurts more than a knife

The Stilinski family;

Ok but what if the reason why Stiles never takes off his many layers of clothes isn’t low self-esteem?

What if there’s another reason?

What if he has a huge scar crossing his back?

What if he has marks he doesn’t want anyone to see?

What if he can’t bear the idea of people staring?

What if he’s afraid of people asking?

What if they’re the most permanent memory his mother’s illness left for him?

What if they are the result of him ignoring his dad's words about “keeping distance from her” because he missed his mom’s hugs?

What if the huge scar was made during a hug between a mother and her son?

What if it happened during their last hug?

What if that was the last time Claudia Stilinski recognized her child?

What if two weeks later Stiles discovered that grief hurts more than a knife?

[daisybeats]

The first time Derek Hale realizes he’s utterly, irrevocably devoted to Stiles Stilinski, it’s not during a battle, or a kiss, or even one of the thousand reckless things Stiles does just to make a point.

It’s during breakfast.

There’s sunlight spilling across the kitchen table in thin ribbons, and Stiles is sitting cross legged on the counter, eating cereal straight from the box. His hair is sticking up like he wrestled a hurricane and lost, and there’s a line of milk on his upper lip that he hasn’t noticed yet. Derek, standing in front of the stove with a spatula in hand, should look away. He doesn’t.

The wolf won't let him.

Something about this moment, the domestic quiet, the way Stiles hums under his breath to a song playing from his phone, the smell of sugar and skin and home, hits Derek in the chest. His wolf presses forward, curling in Derek’s ribs like it’s trying to get closer.

Ours, it whispers, possessive and reverent.

And Derek can’t argue.

He doesn’t want to.

••••••

It’s not easy, loving Stiles.

It’s never been.

He’s chaos wrapped in sarcasm, wildfire in human form. He leaves coffee cups in every room and sings off key in the shower. He talks too fast, thinks too much, and feels everything all at once. He fills every space he enters like he’s afraid of silence, but Derek…Derek thrives in silence. Always has.

So when they move in together, it’s a strange kind of harmony: noise meeting stillness, logic tangling with instinct. Stiles jokes that they’re “cosmically cursed soulmates,” but Derek knows better. The bond isn’t cursed. It’s sacred.

It’s devotion written into bone.

Sometimes Derek catches himself watching Stiles move through the house - barefoot, muttering to himself, dressed in one of Derek’s hoodies. The wolf settles every time, like it’s satisfied with this proof: Stiles here, safe, breathing, alive.

Other times, when Stiles presses a hand to Derek’s chest and murmurs something soft like ‘hey, big guy, breathe’, Derek’s wolf practically melts under the sound of his voice.

There’s no command in it. No force. Just belief.

And the wolf believes, too.

••••••

“Derek Hale, are you even listening to me?”

Stiles is standing by the open fridge, waving a jar of pickles at him like it’s evidence in a court case. His voice is mock annoyed, but there’s a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Derek looks up from where he’s mending a chair leg. “I’m listening.”

“Uh huh. What did I just say?”

Derek pauses. “Something about pickles.”

Stiles narrows his eyes, pretending to scowl. “You’re lucky you’re hot, baby. Otherwise, I’d have to find someone who appreciates the fine nuances of my grocery commentary.”

Derek just tilts his head, a smirk ghosting over his mouth. “My wolf appreciates everything about you.”

The teasing dies on Stiles’ lips. For a second, he just stares. eyes softening, heartbeat skipping in a way Derek can feel even across the kitchen.

Then Stiles clears his throat. “You can’t just say stuff like that, dude. That’s not fair.”

“I wasn’t trying to be fair,” Derek says simply, and goes back to his chair.

Stiles lingers in the doorway for a long moment before whispering, “Yeah, I know.”

••••••

It’s the small things that undo Stiles.

The way Derek always walks on the street side when they’re out.

The way the wolf goes still if Stiles flinches in his sleep.

The way Derek listens to every word, every heartbeat, every breath like Stiles is speaking scripture instead of nonsense.

Sometimes Stiles jokes about it.

“God, your wolf’s got it bad,” he says one evening, tossing popcorn at Derek’s head. “You’re like one step away from fetching sticks for me.”

Derek catches a kernel midair, chews it, and shrugs. “If it makes you happy.”

“See?” Stiles points dramatically. “That right there. The devotion. It’s concerning. Like, I could ask you to fight a bear and you’d probably just grunt and go find one.”

Derek looks at him, completely serious. “If it threatened you? Yes.”

“Jesus, Derek.” Stiles blinks, thrown. “You can’t just say that like it’s normal.”

“It’s not normal,” Derek says quietly. “It’s you."

The wolf hums beneath his skin, content.

Stiles doesn’t laugh at that one. He just reaches out, touches Derek’s hand, and whispers, “Yeah. It’s me.”

••••••

When Stiles gets sick one winter, nothing major, just a fever that knocks him out for a few days, Derek hardly leaves the room. He sleeps sitting up beside the bed, hand resting against Stiles’ side, counting heartbeats like they’re currency he can’t afford to lose.

Stiles wakes once, bleary eyed and half delirious, and finds Derek watching him.

“You look like hell,” Stiles rasps.

Derek huffs a small laugh. “You’re one to talk.”

“Bet I still look better than you.”

“Always.”

The wolf presses forward then, wanting contact, wanting to comfort. Derek smooths a hand over Stiles’ hair, slow and steady, until Stiles relaxes back into the pillows.

“I don’t deserve this,” Stiles mumbles, almost asleep. “You being like this.”

“Yes, you do,” Derek whispers. “More than anyone.”

••••••

They don’t say I love you often. They don’t have to.

It’s in the quiet mornings when Derek ties Stiles’ tie for him because Stiles never learned.

It’s in the way Stiles puts his cold feet on Derek’s legs under the blanket just to hear him groan.

It’s in every unspoken promise: I’ve got you. I’m here. I’ll always be here.

Derek doesn’t crave ordinary love. He doesn’t even believe he’s capable of it. His love is something feral, something that howls in the dark and kneels in daylight only for Stiles.

And Stiles never mocks it. He might joke, might deflect with humor, but he never, ever takes it for granted. He treats Derek’s devotion with a kind of fragile reverence, as if he knows exactly how rare it is.

Sometimes, when Derek’s wolf is restless, Stiles will climb into his lap, hands on either side of Derek’s face, and murmur, “Hey. I’ve got you, okay? I always do.”

And the wolf, wild and loyal to no one but its mate, bows its head and goes quiet.

••••••

Late one night, Stiles whispers into Derek’s chest, voice thick with exhaustion and awe,

“You make everything feel like more than ordinary, you know that?”

Derek smiles against his hair. “You were never ordinary.”

Stiles laughs softly, the sound vibrating against Derek’s skin. “Neither were you.”

And in that small, golden moment - wrapped in the scent of rain and heartbeat and devotion - Derek knows he’d follow Stiles anywhere. Through every storm, every shadow, every lifetime.

Because love, when it’s real, when it’s bone deep and eternal, isn’t ordinary.

It’s them.

[e-seal-deactivated20210319]

Necromancer that doesn’t know they’re a necromancer and thinks they’re just a really good emt

[raimagnolia]

That is the funniest thing i have ever read

[ofgeography]

the thing was, she wasn’t going to be able to pass the recertification exam, and she couldn’t figure out why. annabelle studied. she practiced. she pulled out every trick and shortcut she’d learned during her two years as an EMT and none of it worked. she just – she didn’t get it. it made no sense.

“wake up,” she urged the dummy, pressing her hands to the pulse points on its wrists. “come on. what the fuck.”

“yeah, i don’t think that asking nicely is going to do the trick,” hank said, his eyebrows raised. his helmet, the special one they’d decorated for him with craft supplies from michael’s when he’d gotten promoted to firestation chief, sat askew on his head. “i can see now why they didn’t pass you.”

annabelle rolled her eyes. “it’s a psychological thing,” she said. “it’s like, you give the brain an instruction and it follows naturally. and the pulse-point thing always works. i don’t know why it’s not, like, in any of the books, but i swear to god it’s worked for me every time.”

it was true that annabelle had the best record on low body counts, which was good because she was the smallest person on the team not counting Georgie, who was a corgi. jake and lillian were always making fun of her for having been the shortest of their whole rookie class. but it hadn’t ever been a problem before; annabelle rarely had to carry anybody out, because she was good enough at getting them on their feet.

but none of that would matter if she couldn’t pass her stupid recertification exam, because they’d take her badge and she’d have to go be, like, a doctor or something.

hank blew out a long breath and sunk down to where she was kneeling on the station floor in full fire gear, giving CPR to the practice dummy, whom they called dierdre. there was a little light that went on when you’d saved its life. it had been a dull gray for an hour now.

“look, AB. i know you’re a good firefighter, and i know you know how to deliver CPR. just do it like you do it during an emergency. you’re overthinking it.”

“but this is what i do during an emergency!” annabelle cried, throwing her hands up. “i put my hands on their pulse points and i use psychological mumbo-jumbo and they just get up and walk!” 

hank blinked. “…really,” he said, voice flat. “people who’ve been inhaling smoke for half an hour just … get up and walk.”

“the brain is an incredibly powerful organ,” said annabelle, shrugging. “look man, i don’t know, okay? but it works. i haven’t had to actually do CPR in like a year and a half.”

he gave her a long, quiet look and said, “well….huh,” before pushing himself back up onto his feet and frowning off into the distance. “keep practicing,” he said after a minute, and left her there.

-

hank switched her team.

“what the fuck, man,” she said, sliding into the truck next to him as the sirens went on. “i can’t get CPR on one fucking dummy and suddenly you don’t trust me to do my job without supervision?”

carl and bethany very carefully did not meet her eyes in the rearview from the backseat. bethany pulled a magazine from beneath the seat and said loudly, “look, carl, jennifer aniston and brad pitt are getting back together.”

“thank christ,” said carl. “i’ve been really worried about jen.”

hank gave annabelle the flat look that had gotten him promoted to firestation chief in the first place, the one that said i’m your dad and you don’t want to disappoint me. as always, annabelle wilted underneath it, sliding down in her seat and crossing her arms over her chest. it was a difficult feat in full gear but she wanted him to know she was feeling sullen.

“i trust you completely,” hank told her, his voice a light scold. “i want to see you in action so i can help you figure out what’s going wrong with the dummies. sometimes it’s hard for the brain to accurately remember everything that happens during a crisis.”

annabelle rolled her eyes. “i told you,” she said. “it’s just – it’s the same thing every time, I’m not like, blacking out.”

“great, then i’m about to learn a cool new trick,” hank said serenely, and pulled the truck out of the lot. annabelle kept her gaze focused out of the window, watching the city pass as carl and bethany talked loudly about which celebrities were dating which other celebrities and who wore what better. she tried to swallow down the nerves that tightened her throat. maybe the dummy was right. maybe she was doing something else and didn’t remember it. maybe the last two years had been a fluke and she had no business being a firefighter. maybe she was about to get fired.

there wasn’t a fire, though the alarm was going off. instead they found a bag of smoking popcorn and the collapsed heap of a forty-five year old bachelor type, down to just his boxers and a pair of slippers with llamas on them. he had no pulse. 

hank held carl and bethany back, directing them to deal with the smoke from the popcorn; annabelle he pointed toward the resident with a jerk of his chin. 

she sighed, kneeling by his side. she pressed her hands flat to his heart and then dragged them across his chest and down each arm, to his wrists. with her thumbs on his pulse point, she hissed, “let’s go, man. up and at ’em. you’re not meant to die in your underwear while cooking popcorn, come on.”

she held her breath for a few moments, conscious of hank’s eyes on her, and let out a long sigh of relief when she felt his pulse jump beneath her, watched his eyes flicker. “what the fuck?” he asked, voice a croak. “what happened?”

“you gotta eat more vegetables, bud,” annabelle told him, and looped his arm over her shoulders to help him get to his feet. she was so relieved she could have wept, but instead met hank’s eyes with a challenging glare. see? she thought. i told you. “let’s get you to the ambulance.”

-

“the bad news is that you have a lot of practicing to do if you want to pass your recert,” hank said without preamble, showing up at her apartment. she didn’t think she’d ever seen him in jeans before. it was weird. “the good news is i understand your problem now.”

annabelle stepped aside, beckoning him in. “what problem?” she demanded. “it worked! you saw it work. that’s the opposite of a problem.”

hank shrugged. he handed her a trifold that he’d clearly printed off at home. it said so you think you’re a necromancer. annabelle blinked down at it, and then up at hank, and then down at the trifold again. “i … don’t understand what’s happening here,” she told him honestly. 

“i’m not in the community and they’re kind of cagey, so i can’t really tell you a lot,” hank told her, stilted and visibly uncomfortable. “but i have a cousin who is, and um, i just want you to know that this doesn’t change anything. you’re still who you’ve always been and you have my complete support. we’ll figure out how to get around the recert. maybe i’ll – i can put you on admin duty to give you time to study. we’ll say it’s because of an injury.”

“hank,” annabelle said, with some urgency. “hank, this flier says the word necromancer.”

“yes,” agreed hank, looking relieved. “oh, good, you’ve heard of it already. i thought i was going to have to have the whole your body is changing talk.”

annabelle shook her head. “no, i – hank. you know that … um, you know that necromancy isn’t real, right? people can’t bring other people back from the dead. that’s crazy.”

“annabelle, not four hours ago you instructed a dead man to stand up and he did.”

“okay, he wasn’t dead, obviously. he was almost dead, at best.”

“no. he was dead.”

“i felt his pulse! it was very faint!”

“you called his pulse. no one else would have felt it, because it wasn’t there except in response to you.”

“hank, what the fuck.”

he shrugged. “read the flier,” he instructed. “and bring dierdre home with you. you’re going to have to practice a lot if you want to get recertified, considering you haven’t one time had to use any of the skills you learned the first go around.”

he bussed her temple as he went by, letting himself out of her apartment with a friendly wave. annabelle looked down at the flier in her hand with a frown. when she unfolded it, the first page said, everyone’s necromancy journey is different, but most people discover their gift by accident. have you ever brought a pet back to life? touched an elderly relatives hand and seen some of the color flood back into their face? or perhaps, more subtly, been able to keep cut flowers alive long past their purchase date?

annabelle looked at her kitchen table. she’d had the same vase of tulips on it since she moved in, three years ago. it was true they periodically started to wilt, but she usually just changed their water and they were fine, popping back up one after the other as she slid them into the fresh vase. 

“well shit,” annabelle said, letting the flier fall from her hands.

[deepestangelcollective]

Tumblerians tumblrites and tumblers, all and alike make writing and art prompts out of things that weren’t meant to be and that is a beauty beyond compare. Thank you members of tumblr for the amazing stories and art and for sharing it with the small world that is this website.

[eaasysarcasm]

I read a Sterek fic just like this 👀

[insomniacirl]

So many thought about Stiles coming back to Beacon Hills after ten years of being FBI in New York.

He's rougher and tougher than everyone remembers, but despite the new exterior he's still that same clever, loud-mouth he always has been.

Everyone's a little older and wiser (no one's dead au), Scott and Allison have just had their first baby- a little boy the whole pack fawns over- Malia and Kira are.. sort of dating, Lydia and Danny run a fucking law firm together or something, Boyd and Erica are married, Isaac is training to become a doctor and everyone else is doing their own thing.

Even Derek's changed. His age shows a little in the longer salt and pepper hair on his head and in his beard, the reading glasses- which should definitely make him look more stupid and not more attractive- perch on his nose at all times and warm his face. He looks softer, his shoulders are lowered like maybe the weight of the world has slipped off them a bit, even if his body is still obnoxiously hard and toned and massive.

Anyway yap yap yap, everyone's a little too busy with their own shit to notice Stiles and Derek sizing each other up with new eyes. Still bickering like an old married couple, pushing and shoving with a little more strength than before, new fears and scars they're yet to tell each other about.

When sleep-deprived new mom Allison is absolutely terrified to fall asleep and not wake up fast enough to keep the baby safe, Stiles volunteers to sleep on their couch and help out. Laughs about a sniper position he once sat at with no sleep for three days, how it hardly bothered him, probably something to do with remnants of the Void. How it earned him a handshake from his boss and a bullet to the stomach from an angry adversary.

Everyone looks at him kind of funny when he brings stories like those up so calmly. Almost disbelieving at who their friend has become while he was away. The soldier he might've always been, without them noticing.

The next attack on the pack faces some very overprotective betas, an almost completely balanced alpha and his... new emissary, who is fucking deadly with any weapon in his hand- when they tie him up he talks himself out of it, when they tape his mouth shut his magic sparks and they know they're screwed.

So many thoughts...

[christophermilk-deactivated2015]

Sterek -

[melioristicbeast]

it's been *looks at bare wrist* hours since i last drew the boys napping so clearly we're long overdue

I imagine Stiles getting into bed with someone is a whole Thing, wedging his limbs everywhere and jostling the other person around until he's comfortable and then immediately passing out lol

[available on redbubble]