(Source: bckysteve)

(Reblogged from scarlettjo)


tbh no matter how many other bands i end up a fan of my heart will always belong to pop punk bands whose peak of mainstream popularity was in 2006

(Reblogged from punkderek)



The guy is leaning against the door frame, looking a little winded, though he has the pizza bag balanced gently enough on his hand.

His eyes widen as Derek opens the door and his lips part in a soft ‘o’ before a flush spreads over his cheeks and a crinkled grin splits his face.

"Extra large pepperoni and mushrooms."

"You’re late," Derek says, though there’s not much bite to it. Just the usual hungry grouchiness that accompanies the anticipation of pizza.

"Sorry. There was… we weren’t sure which one of us was going to come. I had to arm-wrestle Scott for the tie-breaker." He seems smug about that for some reason as he slides the pizza out of the case and hands it over to Derek. "I’m Stiles, by the way."

Derek arches an eyebrow and says, “Derek,” since it’s only polite. He sets the pizza box aside.and takes the little mini clipboard to sign for the charge to his card.

Stiles plucks off the customer copy to hand to Derek and slides the clipboard into the bag, but he seems to be lingering a little, so Derek looks back at him, brows raised.

"So, uh. What do you think?" Stiles asks, eyelashes sweeping down flirtatiously as he leans against the door frame.


"You know," Stiles replies, cheeks going hot.

Derek doesn’t know. But the variety of innuendos and possibilities that start spinning through his head are enough to distract him from the pizza and make him really look at the young man lingering in his doorway. His short hair is ruffled, strands going every which way like he runs his fingers through it on a regular basis. Bright eyes, a positively sinful mouth that’s quirked speculatively, and an appealing lanky form with just enough muscle in all the right places.

"Dude. About the special…" his face starts to pale and he straightens from his casual pose. "You have no idea what I’m talking about."

Derek shakes his head in confirmation, though he wishes now that he did know.

"Oh my god. Oh my god if Boyd did this as a - sorry. Sorry! Nevermind. Wow. Just."

He turns, face gone blank as he adds as almost an afterthought, “Excuse me. I have some murder to go commit. Uh, enjoy your pizza.”

And then he’s gone, disappearing down the apartment building hallway. Derek frowns after him, oddly disappointed at his departure and thoroughly confused.

Until he glances at the receipt in his hands.

The receipt that clearly says “special instructions: send your cutest delivery boy

Derek leans his forehead against the door with a thump as he bellows, “CORA!”

His only response is hysterical laughter from behind the stairs.

It’s just an anomaly to be forgotten about, another thing to add to the list of “strange pizza delivery-boy shenanigans” that come with a job like this. And if he’s a little disappointed that Derek hadn’t actually sent for him (though Boyd had never actually admitted it, asking Stiles archly if he was calling Boyd a liar was the same as an admission, probably) it’s just another in a long string of missed opportunities and rejections.

So it takes a second for it to register two weeks later when Erica says with a mischievous smile as she snatches the box away from Scott’s waiting bag, “Not Scott. Stiles.”

"Huh? No. It’s Scott’s turn."

"537 Beacon Hill apartments, number 32 ring a bell?" she asks, eyebrows going up significantly.

He just continues to look at her like she’s crazy. Because she kindof is, as much as he loves her.

"Derek Hale," she says like she’s talking to a child, rolling her eyes as she shoves the box into his hands. "Hurry up. Don’t want to keep the man waiting," she adds with a wink.

Stiles glares as Isaac bursts into rude laughter, elbow deep in a batch of dough. Stiles just turns his glare back on Erica. “Not this again. Tell your boyfriend it wasn’t funny last time.”

She throws her hands up and makes a face that’s the picture of innocence. “Honest to god, it’s what the computer printed out from the customer!”

"Oh my god," Stiles says with a groan, taking the box and loading up the receipt tray into his bag. The printout clearly says "Send Stiles" in the little box for special instructions. He tries to quash the burble of hope that wells up in his chest at the thought that it might actually be intentional on Derek’s part. He doesn’t really want to get his pride crushed again. Then again, standing around looking at the others’ smirking faces doesn’t hold any appeal either so he quickly gathers his gear and heads out the door to load into his jeep.

The laughter he leaves in his wake has him vowing revenge of some sort on all of them. Like freezing Isaac’s keys in a block of ice. Or switching all of Erica’s work shirts for extra-extra-larges. Scott saves himself from the fate of having his cell-phone saran-wrapped by following him out, a worried frown replacing the glee on his face.

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(Reblogged from agentotter)
  • me: I'm pretty sure I would marry every single Avenger.
  • obnoxious friend: Black Widow is an Avenger.
  • me: Did I fucking stutter?
(Reblogged from neenya)



(Reblogged from astudyofscarlett)


Stiles slumps low in the booth and lets his eyes drift slowly closed. “C’mon,” Scott says, soft, somewhere hovering above him. “Don’t punk out on me before you’ve at least had one drink, baby. We’re celebrating! Stiles! Seriously.”

"We’re celebrating you,” Kira says, much closer and much more petulant. “Wake up, asshole.”

“‘m awake.” Stiles props his eyes open and struggles into something that more closely resembles a seated position. “Sorry. It was a long first day.”

"But good, right?" Scott nudges a beer across the table and slides into the booth next to Kira, slinging an arm around her shoulders. 

"Yeah," Stiles says. "It was good."

"You look good, anyway." Isaac smirks across the table at him. Stiles tugs self-consciously at the knot of his tie. He’s come to like it, actually, almost, the heavy weight of the silk slick and solid, always just at hand. He’s still not wild about being apprenticed to the only emissary in the state of California who insists on business casual in the office— this morning, wriggling into stiff raw denim pants and buttoning the cuffs on each shirtsleeve he appreciated Deaton’s ripped jeans and constant, fine dusting of cat hair more than he ever thought possible. But it’s livable. Isaac is really excited to have someone he can educate about the finer points of menswear. It’s almost cute enough to make the clothes themselves bearable.

"You do, um," someone says over Isaac’s shoulder. Derek is hovering there, uncertain, empty-handed and shy. "You look nice." 

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(Reblogged from scoutsxhonor)
(Reblogged from claudiastilinsk)


Oh yeah! Forgot to post it, but this was the art I did for the Executive Staff badges at Bite Con!

(Reblogged from ucanhavemysoup)


Racially based dating preferences are not made in a vacuum and I’m really tired of hearing that excuse

Because I have yet to hear an explanation about why someone doesn’t date a poc group that didn’t involve an extremely racist ass stereotype embedded in white supremacy and fetishism

Dating preferences are influenced by the white supremacist society we live in. When you are exposed to light, bright and white all your damn life, that shit is internalized.

(Reblogged from fucknofetishization)


Kill the idea that naivety is an unforgivable flaw but cynicism is just wisdom, murder it, chop it up and serve it for dinner, I don’t care, just end this bullshit idea that it’s better to hate than to love and better to rot in miserable bitter resignation than to hope for the best.

(Reblogged from ucanhavemysoup)