jenn sticking around beacon hills after everything’s all cleared up, taking all of the angry remarks from the packs of beacon hills with a smile on her face and giving back as good as she gets

telling derek she didn’t fake it with him, not even once, and when he falls asleep that night he dreams of her, her steady heartbeat softly ringing truthful in the background

jenn laying low around beacon hills cause even if they can’t charge her for anything, can’t prove she was the one who did it, she’s not stupid and knows she’s a target, knows she’s watched wherever she goes by bright amber eyes, knows her footfalls are shadowed by another set of heels all their own

coming across the packs one night when they’re fighting something else, something new, something different, something truly evil, and she saves them and says nothing when they do not thank her, bites her lip when they actively recoil from her, watches as derek looks at her with fear and fury and longing until the packs flee to lick their wounds, temporarily beaten

jenn tracking down whatever attacked the packs and ruthlessly slaughtering it for them, and leaving its head in a pretty box on derek’s doorsteps, a note that says “to: derek” and instead of having a from, it has a line from a book


touch (i remember touch) [isaac meta-fic?]

wanderers, 6k nc-17 mads mikkelsen fallout au for devan (ʘ‿ʘ✿)

You’re not very good with staying in one spot. It makes you itch, being stationary. Being in the same spot, doing the same things, forming a routine, being predictable—just the thought makes bile rise in your throat, makes your skin ripple and perspire in alarm. You feel exposed, like there’s something out there waiting to get the drop on you, be it one of those fucking junkie fiends or a deathclaw or even a fucking pack of giant mantises—fuck, you hate those overgrown little shits—and that’s not fucking happening. Not to you, child of the Mojave. You were fucking raised to thrive in this desolate hellhole, to spit in the eye of radiation and war and God, to take, to survive. If your mother ever caught wind of you letting your guard down in favor of putting down roots somewhere, that old bat would probably climb her God damn self out of Hell and the grave you dug her, and promptly whoop your ass.

You’re a nomad by birth, and you cannot remember a time when you weren’t moving. It’s kind of a universal constant. The Earth orbits the sun. Man needs oxygen to survive. Too much exposure to radiation will turn you into a Ghoul. Caesar’s Legion fucking sucks. You keep moving. The soles of your shoes are always coated in fresh dirt and grime, your muscles always ache, and your skin is always flaking and blistering from sunburn. It’s just how it is.

(Some people called sunburns and suntans being “kissed by the sun”, and that always threw your mother for a loop. She’d clear her throat and hock out some of her dip, then crow, “Sun kissed? What fucked up shit is that? Do these blisters look like the sun fuckin’ kissed me? I oughta load up my sawed-off ‘cause that shit ain’t no kissin’ I’ve ever heard of!”)

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mads mikkelsen gangster au (◡‿◡✿)

It’s below freezing when you first meet him, and you’re shivering and drenched and pissed off. Your cheeks smart from the cold, your hair is a wind-whipped, dripping mess, and you’re seriously about to kill everyone. If you clenched the keys in your fist any harder, you’d be dripping blood along with the sludge already dribbling off you in dirty runs. You figure it couldn’t hurt your image anymore, you look like Hell defrosted.

He’s leaning against the brick wall of a small, hole in the wall café, standing beneath the overhang of the sign boasting its name, the Black Cup. He’s handsome in an obviously European way, with tightly pulled skin the color of tea stained parchment, sharp, cut yourself just looking at them cheekbones, and deep set eyes that make you think of blood soaked dirt. Those eyes lock on you and you stumble to a stop, and unwillingly you hold your breath. The expression in them reminds you of a large bird of prey, calculating, assessing, alight with power and purpose. You don’t doubt that he’s full of them both and much, much more. Masculine elegance radiates from his long, lean limbs, his broad shoulders and muscle corded arms, his narrow waist. You shiver imagining his sizable hands, capable and blisteringly warm, caressing your skin, and you desperately hope he believes it to be born of the chill, and not the heat curling in your gut.

There’s a half smoked, hand-rolled cigarette between his lips, and he takes a drag from it as he considers you. Holds it in front of his person, the smoke rising from the burning cherry a few shades lighter than his well-tailored gray suit, and raises a thin eyebrow. There are snowflakes on his eyelashes and in his sandy hair, and it should make him personable, less an untouchable, exotic Adonis, and more just a dangerously handsome businessperson. It doesn’t.

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your friend's hot older brother tyler posey

you’re over at your friend’s house studying for this god forsaken physics midterm when you meet him the first time. consciously you know your friend has siblings, several of them actually, but most of them are off living their adult lives by now. you’ve seen a staged christmas picture of them all, looking cute as shit and awkward as hell at the same time. you think their dad looks constipated.

tyler’s the third oldest of the four of your friend’s siblings, but he’s also several years older than you both. your friend’s parents had only planned on having three children, after all. your friend looks nothing like tyler, favors their father while tyler favors their mother. side by side you wouldn’t guess that they were related.

tyler’s a few years older and a sophomore in college. he’s home for winter break and has a fucking beard, something he did not have in the christmas photo. a santa hat? yeah. even a pipe, which his mother frowns and looks at disapprovingly from the corner of her eye. but a beard.

you grip your led pencil tighter and try your best not to look at him, though he crowds in close to your friend and kisses their cheek to gross them out. they don’t look alike but apparently they’re the closest of the four. your friend skypes and texts him all the time, so you know of him, but you don’t know him.

“aren’t you gonna introduce me to your friend? huh? huh?” he tickles your friend and you smile despite yourself. the smile he rewards you with in response warms your whole body. “ignore this little shit. i’m tyler.”

you’re going to fail that physics midterm, but oh well.

boy prince of hell [piles]

whY AM I WRITING THIS SOEMONE EHLP ahahaha someone take this peter/stiles pyromania fic away from me before i kms

But with Peter he had aimed to kill, and that sent a sick, shameful thrill straight to Stiles’ dick.

Seeing Peter on fire like that seemed to fan the flames of that desire back to a full, deafening roar. He was back to snatching lighters off his neighbor’s back porch despite being able to purchase them himself, because it reminded him of simpler times. Before the smell of burning flesh had filled his lungs, filled his dick with blood, and dreams of Peter Hale, sometimes burnt, sometimes not, sometimes still burning, plagued his sleep.

Stiles had dreamed about Peter long before he set him on fire. Dreamt of Peter in the dark, his eyes burning red, like too hot coals, his hands clawed and beckoning him close, his human teeth traded for sharper, animal prospects. Peter’s hand down Stiles’ shorts, or around his neck, or dragging too-sharp nails across the soft flesh of his belly, thin streams of blood dribbling down the budding impressions of Stiles’ abdominal muscles. Peter’s teeth in his neck, his wrist, on the inside of his thigh, birthing an entirely different type of fire, a flame that roared and howled unlike any other Stiles had ever come across.

hot dad ian bohen wearing glasses and reading the newspaper

hot dad ian bohen flipping pancakes

hot dad ian bohen sipping on a glass of fine scotch

hot dad ian bohen driving to your house when his daughter’s sick so he can get the work she missed, and fucking you stupid on the table where you eat dinner with your parents, because no one else is home and he didn’t give you much warning so you’re in an old, cut-up t-shirt that hangs off your shoulders and a pair of old boxers, and when he sees you after he knocks on the door he swallows hard and his adam’s apple bobs.

hot dad ian bohen inviting you to his family’s christmas eve party and spiking the egg nog, who picked out several presents for you with his daughter, including a pair of vibrating panties that he gives you early christmas morning when he’s fucking you on the floor beneath the mistletoe, your nails in his back and teeth in his shoulder to keep quiet.

hot dad ian bohen offering to teach you how to drive stick and fucking you in the backseat near the parkway.




i want ian to be the single father of the new girl at your school. i want him to drive his child to class on the first day and fret over her having a good day and adjusting and kissing her on the cheek and wishing her happiness. i want him to decide to drive her in every day, just cause he can, because they’re all they’ve got right now and he wants to start her day off with him. i want him to wave at you when you become friends with his child, smile that megawatt smile and ask his daughter if she wants her pretty new friend to come over. i want him to get along with his coworkers and neighbors and have cook-outs and invite you.

i want him to offer to rub down your back before you go swimming at that cook-out, and i want his hands to be soft but strong as he kneads the sunscreen into your skin, his hands lingering a little more than necessary. i want him to watch you with a small smile as he sips a beer, grills and chats to the neighbors, and you’ve got a chill even though the water is rather warm. i want him to convince you to stay the night, even though your parents wanted you home by a certain hour, and he’d take the phone and charm the pants off of them, and nearly yourself.

i want him to be in the kitchen when you can’t sleep because you’re aware of him, and he fixes you something sweet.

then i want him to sit you on the island and tongue fuck you with his hand up your shirt, the other low on your back.



ok someone write me a tw au that has the pack go on a ~*~bonding excursion~*~ and it’s the werewolves and their humans and everything is great until they stumble upon a witch/wizard with a vendetta against werewolves or something ANYWAY they turn the werewolves into ACTUAL wolves and the wolves for the most part know who they are in human terms but when they get to really playing they forget they’re not ACTUAL wolves and the humans of the pack have to bring them back before a certain amount of time and it’s stressful and they dodge calls from their parents WHICH MAKES THEM COME OUT TO TRACK THEM DOWN and the parents don’t believe the wolves are actually THEIR KIDS and it’s a whole big thing and scott almost dies protecting the allison and derek’s got a bullet in his haunch from protecting stiles and one of the parents accidentally shoots one of the humans while they’re shielding a wolf I DUNNO OK


waaaah ok so i kind of wrote a ficlet in almost? response to this ficlet madison submitted to me. pretty much the moral of this ficlet right here is that stiles and scott are best friends forever (best friends forever, ding) and stiles/oreos/scott is basically the best friendship ship around \m/

Between the Alpha Pack moving in on their shit and Isaac becoming the friendship equivalent of a cockblock, the fight had been a long time coming. The tension mounted up like sand in an hourglass whenever Scott would ask for a raincheck on their weekly movie night, or timidly ask if Isaac could tag along to whatever thing they were planning on doing.

And it mounted, and it mounted, until they were choking on it. Spitting grains of sand out of their teeth whenever they passed, backs pulled taut and hackles up, missing each other like a severed limb but unable to be the one to buckle first. Unable to be the one who bit the bullet and accepted the change in their routine, the one that had remained untainted, unchanged since they met in the third grade, Stiles the loud Sheriff’s son that everyone tolerated for that fact alone, and Scott the quiet new kid with big brown eyes and a mother that worked too many hours to get them by.

Lycanthropy hadn’t throw a wrench in practically anything, but this? Attempting to make their dynamic duo into a trio? That shit shut down the entire machine.

Stiles had nothing against Isaac. Honestly. Except for, y’know, maybe threatening to kill Lydia and the Lock, Shock and Barrel impersonation he, Erica and Boyd sometimes did, terrorizing Beacon Hills with their claws, leather jackets and after school special issues.

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