#random ahh

[grawkenn]

[doodleyan]

[aerikx]

I dont remember drawing this but apparently i did at like 1 am at some point last week(??) random ahh crossover

so uhh i was half asleep and everything is inconsistent and stupid my apologies

[mcwav3]

hey guyz hey look i drew the

the him

th ,,

hehehe

[the-unnamed-artist-noname]

Tgs ending gunna be something like this isnt it?

Idk man i was bored and when i heard this sound all i can think of was the glass scientists? Sorry i am weak to a power like this

*what was it?

The glass scientists

*what?

This is Just goofy random cute thing, sorry the triger word was London, every time i hear London i goes "London?" i am weak and tgs flood my brain, like a patisite teehee

[cctypical]

hello. your heart is so cute. G I G G L E

(continue the chain. FOR FUNSIES)

[flowersfromunderground]

[tailmail]

ꜱɴᴏᴡ ᴅᴀʏ stiles stilinski x fem!reader

Part 1:

warnings: 18+ NOT PROOF READ! Smut farther into this series its gon be a long one.

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I almost didn't hear the creaky entrance of my cat Cerce,  slipping through the crack in my ajar door, her feet pitter-pattering on the hard wood floor. She made an effort to climb onto my bed, her claws sinking into my favorite red crochet blanket, a sad stretching noise came from the fabric of it as she finally meandered like a clumsy rock climber. 

She made her way casually like she meant to do the scramble on purpose, no shame-like you would expect from a cat. She sat on my stomach and stared down at me like I was her pupil. 

I peeked over my book and then with a sigh set it down and pushed it away. “Do you always have to interrupt?” I said with an Indignant look on my face.  

She barrel rolled over me and stretched out beside me on my bed, if cats would smile, she would have a shit eating grin plastered along her face. 

I scooped her into my arms and held her close and gave her a tight squeeze where she made a squeaking noise like a stuffed animal and then promptly escaped from my arms and bounded away the floor boards squeaking as her haunches moved down the wooden hallway. 

I rolled over in bed and stared out my frosted window. It was the dead of winter in Minnesota and my windows were practically as cold as the ice covering my driveway. I slid out of bed and waddled over to my dresser to pull out an old navy blue Carelton college sweater from my years studying there. Shrugging it on then easing into my beat up slippers that had been in my corner since freshman year-ratty but comfortable, they snuggly came with me down the hall. 

I made my way into the small, almost dorm-like kitchen and retrieved the coffee pot from my refrigerator, setting it on the counter with a clink. Pulling out a mug from my dishwasher that said “World's best grandpa,” in bolded letters, I poured in the coffee and slid it into a microwave for two minutes on high heat so I could have it as a hand warmer first and fuel second.

I took a tentative sip and winced when I tasted the almost sludge-like coffee imitation. I had my mug in hand when I peered into my refrigerator and seized the small milk carton and poured half of it into my concoction. Taking a sip and deciding it was good enough, I slipped out of the kitchen and turned right to the stairs and walked down into the small library store I was the owner of. 

The open sign switched over to the closed side, Cerce perched on the window sill with her paws pressed against the cold glass. She leaned up to look over the small layer of snow falling and boxing us into our home. 

I set my cup down on the cashier desk and walked over to the store sign and flipped it over and peered out the window, examining all of the boot tracks outside the store. I walked behind the register and sat down in my stool and turned on my playlist, a bit cliche for the snowy day but it was fun to imagine me being a character in a cozy romance book. Like the ones my best friend, Monique, is always trying to coax me into reading. 

I had a small section of the store dedicated to romance, a small corner that dwindled with books and looked scarcer than my bank account during off seasons for reading. I looked over and made a childish sneer at the books and turned up my music as if the romance books were trying to talk to me, capitalizing on the dismissal attempt via music. I almost didn't hear when the small bell jingled as the door to the library opened. 

A tall, dark and broad shoulder man walked in, a scarf looped around his neck, his shaggy hair hanging down his forehead and freckles looked like a paint splatter on his face. His most- distinguishing features were his nose and eyes, his nose slightly upturned almost like a button and his eyes as dark as coffee beans. 

He turned, my eyes following him unconsciously before snapping back to my botany book that I conspicuously was avoiding to read.

 He walked quietly, scanning the books and landing on Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand and that immediately retracted my attention. 

Pretentious book guy then approached me, book in hand and set in calmly on the counter, my eyes darting up to get a closer look at him, politely turning my music down, 

“Hi,” he started, a gentle smile resting on his face. 

“Good morning,” she said back a little cold, taking his book and scanning it, typing on her computer to find and insert the price. 

“I'm sure you're thinking, ‘well look at this pretentious douche bag,’ but I swear it's my friend not me.” He said with a charming grin that made him look like a male tampon ad. 

“If you're calling your friend a pretentious douche bag, then are they really your friend?” She said with a light hearted scoff, bagging the book and handing it across the counter. 

“Humans are multifaceted.” He said in a pointed tone, his eyes scanning over my very cat mom appearance like he was wondering what other traits I possessed.

He was analyzing me, staring down at me and really trying to notice,  it felt like being under a microscope. 

I smiled awkwardly and slid his bag forward a little but he just blinked and then smiled at me, looking down at my name tag with my scribbled chicken scratch handwriting.

“Harriet.” He repeated softly to himself. 

I pretend to look at his invisible nametag to return the absurd amount of examining me like I was a piece of furniture he was gonna accept into his pawn store. 

He definitely looked like he would own a pawn store in the next couple of years, the quiet intensity radiating off of him like an after thought and his eyes flecked with tiny bits of gold.

“Harriet.” I repeated after he said it, a small chuckle escaping my lips as he seemed to knock himself out of his thoughts. 

“And you are?” I asked, inquired. 

“Stiles Stilinski,” he said with a grin, holding out his hand. 

I gently accepted it and realized how big his hands were, almost the size of my face. A little bewildered, I let go gently and smiled up at him. I turned around in my spinny stool and got up, rummaging through my drawers and finding a sticky note pad, scribbling his name in a messy pen and attaching one of the notes to his chest, feeling his heartbeat for just a flash. 

“Just in case you wander into any more libraries today examining nametags.” She said with a small grin. 

“You're too kind,” he said with a laugh, taking the sticky note off of his chest and looking at the handwriting. “I don’t think anyone would be able to read this.” He added, plastering it onto his thick winter jacket anyways with an unbothered look in his eye. 

"Guess you'll just have to awkwardly let them stare at it and try to figure it out then." She said with a chuckle.

"Touche Harriet." He said with grin.