Characters: Jason, Tim, references to a bunch of other characters.
Minor coarse language warning, and also vague discussions of dark stuff.
Summary: Did you hear this one? A vigilante walks into a warehouse and kills the Joker.
Warnings: Major character death. Dark discussions, etc.
For Hearts. Sorry it’s late <3 I hope to have part two up in a few days.
AU: Harry is The Prince of Wales and openly gay. Louis is a member of the famous British boy band, One Direction. They both have ridiculous crushes on each other.
Title: North Star
Snippet: “Super powers, Kon. You have them.” Tim shoots a pointed look at Kon’s feet which are a good two feet above the sky bridge.
Dean is in the bathroom too long. Always too long.
He used to do this as a kid; Dean thinks that his brother doesn’t remember, but the images are burned into his mind, like so many others. Dean was silent for a long, long time. Didn’t talk, didn’t even communicate; not with gesture, not with noise.
Now it seems like things are hardly different; he speaks, sure, but he’s not really saying anything; and he’s staying in the bathroom too long.
Sam slams his fist on the door. “Dean,” he says, and there is no response from inside.
what does captain kirk wear to bed?
i need a fic where derek is bad at carpentry. like he’s a failboat. and despite buying a fixer-uper, he just spends nights reading carpentry books and that hole in the wall is actually a carpentry fix-it gone wrong. so maybe stiles and his hands decide to help
It’s always been Derek’s dream to be a small town Sheriff’s deputy, buy a quaint fixer-upper, and live five miles down the road from his mother.
None of these things are true, but his previous job had started questioning his monthly absences, the local Alpha had been tolerant at best, and Derek’s last relationship had literally caught fire.
He hadn’t been home to Beacon Hills in ten years, but his mother made a few phone calls and got him an interview with Sheriff Stilinksi, a man who’d been serving and protecting Beacon Hills for nearly as long as Derek could remember and who—incidentally—knew all about the local werewolves and was pleased as punch to have one on his force.
Then there was the house. Thanks to Kate, his credit was shit. Derek would have loved a place clear across town from his family—maybe with a moat—but the small, historic homes near the downtown area were more in his price range. The houses could charitably have been called cottages if he squinted.
He wound up with a foreclosed fixer-upper on a quiet, older street.
And the street had potholes. Of course it did.
Derek discovered this the day he moved in and bit straight through his lower lip when his car drove over a pothole deep enough to lead to Hell.
The neighbors were thrilled to have a deputy in their midst, and his mother was thrilled that Derek was back home and only lived ten minutes away.
Derek was less than thrilled about the entire situation.
That wasn’t to say he was ungrateful, he just—he just wanted to bitch about it to a sympathetic ear.
He should have known better than to call his sister.
"Ha ha ha," Laura says over the phone. Derek can hear waves crashing in the background. “You are living the dream, little bro."
She’s in SoCal with her hippy werewolf surfer boyfriend and Mom and Dad don’t seem to have any expectations of her. It’s all ‘Laura needs time to sow her wild oats, she’s going to be Alpha some day’ and ‘We trust Laura can handle herself so far from home.’
Derek resents the implication that he isn’t just as capable.
"It’s not that, honey," his Mom says later that night, patting his hand. She leans over and spoons some casserole onto his plate. “It’s just that we know how you like to be comfortable."
Comfortable, Derek thinks with a grumpy snort, digging into his home cooked meal. Comfortable. He’s a grown werewolf, dammit, and his mother still thinks he’s five years old.
He chews angrily and swallows. The food gets stuck sideways and sends him into a coughing fit that has his mother jumping up to pat him on the back.
"Do you have any milk?" he wheezes, his eyes watering.
"Of course, baby," his Mom says, giving his hair a fond ruffle on her way to the kitchen. “It’s the whole milk kind that you like, too."
Title: Of Star Wars and Lightsabers
Pairing: Pack + sort of pre-slash Sterek
Notes: Remember me talking about that conversation with Kim about what if BH had a blackout and the pack was hanging out together and Derek brings out the emergency light sticks? Also, this video is responsible for this fic.
"This is so wrong." Stiles declared, staring at the red emergency light stick in his hands before looking over at Peter, who was sporting one in blue. “Why did I get the red? Does this make me Darth Maul?"
Peter ignored him, continuing to make quiet ‘vvooom vvoom’ noises under his breath as he waved the stick around, pretending that it was a lightsaber. Scott lowered his own blue stick, blocking an attack from Allison’s green stick. “Only if you got two of em.”
Summer Theories: What if Stiles and Derek really had spent the summer together? How much have the alphas taken?
The thing is, he doesn’t remember.
Which is confusing, because he does remember, too. He remembers school letting out for the summer, and practicing lacrosse with Scott on the field because he wanted to play on the team for real in the fall. He remembers how Scott’s mom pitched a fit and said he was still grounded for the summer and they didn’t get to see each other much after that. He remembers the few texts he did get were about how hard it was to leave Allison alone, and how many times he had rolled his eyes even though he missed Scott terribly.
Except he doesn’t miss Scott terribly.
He feels like someone told him he should miss Scott terribly and it’s dissonant and makes his skin crawl a little when he thinks too hard about it, and it’s all because he just doesn’t remember.
He doesn’t remember that the summer started with Isaac leading them to Derek’s apartment so that they could discuss the alpha pack that had descended on Beacon Hills. He doesn’t remember the way Peter scoffed and snarled at them, telling them it was useless to even bother trying to hunt these alphas. They would get what they wanted, regardless of anything this stupid, greenhorn pack does. Stiles may have wanted to argue with him, but Peter is still terrifying and Stiles likes having skin.
He doesn’t remember the long nights spent curled up on Derek’s couch, shoulder to shoulder with Scott or Derek or Isaac as they tried to figure out where Boyd and Erica were being kept. He doesn’t remember the smell of pancakes as Derek cooked breakfast in the small kitchen because they’d fallen asleep over maps and computer screens. He doesn’t remember the brush of Derek’s fingers over his as plates traded hands, or the way Derek’s eyes brightened when Stiles mumbled thank you in a voice full of sleep.
Tim Drake (or was it Wayne?) had landed in Gotham International at a quarter past midnight on the second Sunday of June. He hadn’t been in the city in over six months. He had no reason to come back. No more family to embrace him in their arms. No older brother to ruffle his hair, no girlfriend…