Oct 29, 2025
Fandoms when Sparkbird releases a new song:
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Spain
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from Taiwan
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
Fandoms when Sparkbird releases a new song:
can also be found ON AO3 HERE
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“Why did you ask me that?”
“Huh? What's that, big guy?” Stiles mumbles, answering the query with one of his own without looking away from Derek's laptop screen. The laptop Derek kind of bought for Stiles for when Stiles is at the loft.
Whatever.
There's a ballpoint pen shoved in the kid's mouth—God, that mouth—and another slid behind an ear, the latter ready and waiting for Stiles to click to death in the In Between Typing Times.
The others dispersed a few minutes ago. Apart from Derek and Stiles, only Lydia and Deaton now remain at the loft. They're deep in conversation about the preliminary theory of who or what is killing the humans of Beacon Hills this week, and are standing at the opposite side of the open-plan space, making more coffee. Scott and Malia left to rally the other ʼwolves (not answering their phones as they're at a cinema screening), plus find and talk to Argent to arrange a pack meeting proper about the situation so they can all get to devising a workable plan.
In other words, there is no one who can viably eavesdrop on Derek and Stiles's (albeit stilted) conversation.
Granted, there is Peter to consider. He must be lurking somewhere, what with lurking being one of his favourite pastimes, and he can obviously hear any and all conversations that are, or could be, going on inside of the building. Although—not for the lack of trying and much to Derek's dismay—Derek has never been able to hide much of anything from his uncle anyway, so he supposes it's kind of a moot point.
He thinks about elaborating on the question he asked Stiles to remind Stiles what he'd said, but can't.
He tries not to stare at Stiles and all of his pretty, and fails.
Stiles is squinting at the screen with intent, looking like he's forgotten that Derek said anything at all. Or that Derek is still hovering close by. Or that Derek, you know, exists.
Derek is just standing there, all difficult and awkward in his own fucking home and his own fucking body, looming over Stiles like a creeper as Stiles taps away furiously at the keyboard, violently zig-zagging a fingertip across the mousepad like an actual lunatic.
Derek almost laughs at that.
The Boy Who Runs With Wolves.
“Why wouldn't I?” Stiles now asks, still mumbling around the chewed ballpoint pen that Derek is trying not to be jealous of.
“I—what?” Derek's caught off guard; always and only by Stiles.
Stiles doesn't skip a beat (unlike Derek's heart). “Why wouldn't I ask?” he adds.
Oh, right.
Of course Stiles knows what Derek meant. Of course he does.
“I, um, I don't... ” Derek trails off pathetically, swallowing any confidence he'd previously mustered.
He looks away, even though those big, brown devastating eyes aren't even aimed at Derek in this moment. They are, predictably, still zoomed-in on whichever web page is currently yielding the most information.
Dusk is quickly closing in and all around them, and the light filtering through the loft's huge window beginning to dim somewhat. The glow of the computer screen is now filling Stiles's eyes with bright, dancing sparks and arrhythmic shapes as his pupils flicker like lightning from one tab to another, then another.
As mesmerising as it is to watch Stiles through this lense, looking as though he is brimming with magic, the sight becomes too much for Derek. It's too lush for his beastly gaze, and looking away becomes his only option.
That doesn't last.
Just as Derek's eyes find their way back to his own personal little red riding hoodie, Stiles' long, large-knuckled fingers still their rapid movement.
Derek watches the kid as if he's being pulled in by him, like a lifeline.
An anchor.
Dirty sneaker-toes slowly spin the swivel chair around, so that Stiles is facing Derek where he stands with his arms crossed reactively over his chest (his heart).
“I asked if you were alright because I wanted to know if you were okay, man," Stiles divulges, as if that's nothing at all. As if it's something Derek hears often. He tilts his head to catch Derek's eye—which works, of course. It always works, no matter the nature of the moment they're caught up in. "Like, I was concerned, y'know?”
Derek feels guilty just for looking. Not only because he wants to touch, but because he wants to let Stiles care.
“I care, dude,” Stiles says on cue.
Derek tries to self-implode while Stiles just waits, probably for Derek to look at him and say don't call me dude while hoping not to have his head bitten off or his throat ripped out.
Derek does look again, only not for very long. Offers the kid barely a glance. He can't afford himself too much Stiles when Stiles is looking directly back at him. It's safer that way, self-preservation and all.
“You do know that, right?” Stiles tries again. “That I care.”
Derek wants to ask Stiles if they can talk, if he can tell Stiles things. He wants to ask if Stiles will stay and let Derek spill his all secrets, tell Stiles everything, like Derek never does with anyone these days. Derek wants to ask if Stiles will hold his hand when Derek cries about it, the way Derek never allows himself to anymore. He wants to ask Stiles if Stiles will let Derek touch him and hold him and if Stiles would hold him back, if Stiles would ever want that, if Stiles could ever be his.
Derek wants and he wants and he wants.
“Don't call me dude,” is what he actually says, because he can't not.
Then he steals himself—head full of staticky white noise and heart thumping against his ribcage—and after what is probably too-long of a pause (but he's trying his best to be as fuck it about this as he can) he dares himself to add, “And yeah, maybe I do.”
Then they just... look at each other. Just look. And they look, and they look, and they look.
Derek looks at Stiles and Stiles looks at Derek, and they keep looking at each other for what feels like a really, really long time. Definitely too long for two people supposedly not much more than acquaintances. Allies, maybe. Comrades at tenuous best.
Then they look for longer. Look for more. Look until it starts to feel as if they are the only two people in the room, in the building, in the world.
Whatever happened to self-preservation?
Something is happening right now, something that might change things, and Derek's pretty sure it's not just happening to him.
He finds he is equally as stunned as he is thrilled as he is completely fucking terrified by that.
Eventually, Stiles breaks the spell by saying, “Derek, we're friends.” Then he's licking his lips and looking Derek up and down, shameless, adding with a nonchalant shrug of one shoulder, “Till we're not.”
The latter part is spoken like a dark secret, but it's one without the slightest hint of malice; that's not how the kid means it. It's more promise than threat, if Derek is remembering correctly what genuine affirmations sound like.
The sparks from Stiles' eyes are then matching the flashing blue in Derek's, and Derek could swear he feels every last neuron firing inside of him, all at once, as each of his mutated cells flare into overdrive.
Nail beds and gums tingling, the short hairs on the back of his neck and his forearms and hands all stand up on end like they're waiting for something (or someone).
He feels utterly alive.
It's a struggle not to whine and pant like a damn pup, and Derek's truly never been more happy of the fact that Stiles is unable to scent chemo-signals because, honestly, Derek would be so fucking fucked right now.
He has a reply for Stiles, but it keeps getting caught in his throat, the sentence forming and solidifying fast as a quick-drying glue, before dissipating and forming all over again in a pitiful, silent cycle.
Stiles is fidgeting, elegant fingers twitching and front teeth gnawing on gorgeously plump lips.
Derek wants to lick him all over.
Not that he could move right now. He's just—standing there. Motionless, stock-still, statuesque (or maybe more like clothes store dummy), alternating between trying to swallow his words and attempting to speak them, like a first class dip-shit who's doing nothing but staring blankly.
To be fair, though, Stiles is still just point-blank staring at Derek, too.
In an entirely mortifying turn of events, it's actually the sound of Peter's low and mocking chuckle from some tucked-away shadowy place in the loft which is the thing that manages to force Derek unstuck. It genuinely takes all the restraint in the world for Derek not to roll his eyes to the back of his skull and growl out I'm going to kill you again now, uncle.
Which would be bullshit, actually, because If werewoves could die of embarrassment, Derek is the one who'd be a goner.
Mentally shaking himself from a doom spiral, Derek takes a breath. Un-clenching his fists, he tries for a smile—or at least a hint of one. He doesn't want to freak Stiles out.
Stiles' eyes go wide as the ocean.
Derek then repeats the kid's words back to him, in an affirmative tone somewhere just above a whisper.
“Till we're not.”
In a paradox only Stiles Stilinski could create, the human's devastating lips then form shapes to make healing words that ask, “Can I stay for the evening? You can talk to me while I research. I always work better with noise and your voice is like, really soothing or some whatever,” like he's ordering pizza instead of answering all of Derek's prayers.
Derek kind of forgets how to breathe.
He notes how the kid's often erratic eye-contact is weirdly as unwavering as his often erratic heartbeat, which is now weirdly as steady as a metronome.
That's a lot of weird, even for Stiles.
Derek fights the sudden urge to bite into his lip with his fangs. He wants to draw blood, and to taste it.
Fuck.
Embarrassingly, he feels his eye twitch and his breath hitch when he has to dare himself to do this.
He then splutters his question as if he's only just learned how to speak. “What do you want me to talk about?”
Slowly, Stiles swivels back around towards the light of the laptop. His already ethereal milky skin and dark moles bloom with luminous magic again in its white-blue glow—at the very same time the night's first moonshine peeks through clouds and seeps through the loft's huge skylight, like heavy cream swirling through black coffee.
Derek is memorised.
Stiles starts clicking away annoyingly at the Clicking Pen as he shoves the other back between those pouty lips of his, mumbling around the chewed end once more and speaking his answer as if it's the most obvious thing in the universe.
“Everything, Der.”
.
for @poebin, for asking <3
To keep
My dear friend,
hey!
I’ll throw them your way,
these gazes and smiles, as
this tamed crocodile has only
wishes for teeth.
My dear friend
look!
Can you see, overtook by
the moon’s lullaby that
they swoop through the sky
where you stand, underneath? …
I send them out on a whim,
with the wistful tears cried,
in the hope that, my friend, you
might be out there to seek
what is borne on the air
from the lustre of my stare
to breach your atmosphere so
you may catch them
to keep
First sentence: "Isaac, I love you, will you spend the rest of your life with me?" Stiles asked, heart in his throat.
"Wha- What?" Isaac stutters.
"I love you. I want to wake up with you every morning and go to sleep with you every night and I want you to be the one to hold me when I have nightmares and I want to be the one to hold you when you do. I want to be by your side whenever some dumbass monster comes knocking and I want to cook you dinner and watch stupid shows with you and make fun of your scarves. I love you, Isaac. I have Dad's and Derek's blessing. Marry me?"
Isaac grins, warm and bright, that slow, soft, small happy smile that Stiles doesn't see enough but vows to bring to his face as much as he can.
"Okay."
"Okay? Don't get too enthusiastic on me, baby."
"YES, you idiot. Let's get married. Oh my God. We're gonna get married?!?"
Stiles stands, taking in Isaac's far off look and sees it for what it is. Wonder, not fear. He wraps him in his arms and holds him tight, feeling like his happiness might burst out of his chest. When the lights flicker and his books start to shake, Isaac huffs into his neck.
"Babe."
"Shit. Sorry...I just. I'm happy. Are you happy?"
Isaac drags his nose up Stiles' neck. "I am," he rumbles. "I love you. Love all of you, don't be sorry."
He pulls back and smiles, looking dopey and sated.
"I smell good, huh?"
"Even better now," and dives in for a kiss.
One Pilot To Another
Rey knew that she was powerful with the force now, everything she had done to this point showed her that. While Master Skywalker had shown her some things that she wouldn't have learned on her own, but moving all of the rocks to uncover a passage for the remaining rebels to escape through was the highlight of what she had been able to do thus far. She was helping to attend to the new passengers on the falcon when she ran into a relatively handsome man, “Hi, its nice to meet you. Umm I’m Rey.” she said with a smile as she looked up into his face.
@bleedingrebels
to tell me now (tell me now) 'n' show me how (show me how) to understand (understand) what makes a good man?
priv. & sel. star wars multi muse ft. poe dameron written by kat | since dec. 2015
in my time zone its my canon birthday funk yeah