The Kraken and the Maid
Hey there! About a year ago you made a post about what if Cora has a triskelion tattoo, and it came around my dash again and I was bored, so if you are still interested in seeing it, I made this: mithborien[.]tumblr[.]com/post/97974242651/marguerite26-what-if-cora-has-a-triskelion

OH MY GOSH YOU ARE THE BEST!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I love it soooooo much!

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thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou

mithborien:

marguerite26:

what if cora has a triskelion tattoo? i need this like air.

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HEY HEY look at that. Everything I needed in my life. Yes, okay. This is canon and refuse to believe otherwise. Like she got it done and it healed over like Scott’s then when she found Derek again she’s like WHY BRO??? and he’s like… let me get you a cup of tea and my blowtorch and they bonded.

Fics that do not include this need to be marked as AU. thx.


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My dash is a battlefield of pictures of Dylan O’Brien. On one side there is the impossible perfection of the Teen Vogue photoshoot, nearly unsafe for the human eye to look at directly. And the other is a constant stream of unwashed scruff and hair gel abuse.

True balance has been established through these opposing forces. One cannot exist without the other or there would be chaos.

rustypolished:

Life is confusing and strange sometimes. 

helenish:

saucefactory:

#ACTUAL BESEECHING EYES FROM AN ACTUAL MEDIEVAL COURTSHIP

AND WHEN THEY GET MARRIED THERE WILL BE A CROWN OF FLOWERS AND THEY WILL PLEDGE THEIR TROTH TO ONE ANOTHER UNDER A WILLOW TREE

THEY CALLED HIM ‘THE WOLF’ ON THE BATTLEFIELD; Stiles had never seen him bend knee, even in the training ring, but he was surprisingly slight out of his armor, bending to press his lips to the heavy signet ring on Stiles’ hand.

"It is a long ride you have had," Stiles heard himself say, distantly.

"Yes, my lord," Derek said, still holding Stiles’ hand in his palm, thumb closed softly over Stiles’ knuckles, his breath warm on Stiles’ fingers. There was a hot flush starting up the back of Stiles’ neck, courtiers watching them, amused, waiting for the King’s son to refuse another marriage offer.

The Hale fiefdom was strategically useful, but small, little more than a vast forest of scrub pines crawling up a rocky mountainside, the land too steep and rocky to farm. Argent had been quietly suggesting for years that it was time to fold the Hale land into his fiefdom, a strong border for the long, rolling green pastureland, especially now that the Hale family found themselves without—well, he’d said, smiling, at the last council meeting, if Kate’s betrothal to Derek hadn’t been broken, they wouldn’t be having this discussion, he said. Derek’s face, in the gallery, had been expressionless; he had no speaking rights in the council. 

There was a low snicker rolling along the edge of the room, Derek had been kneeling on the cold stone of the throne room for over long. Stiles had refused princes in their own right, turned down the queen of the neighboring kingdom who could have extended their land rights to the western ocean. Derek had little; one horse, one battered, well-kept set of armor. He slept in the barracks, only had a squire because he was the only one who’d agreed to take on the Lahey whelp when his father died. 

Derek’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t move, waiting.

"You—" Stiles swallowed. "You have a token for me?" 

Derek’s head jerked up, shocked pale eyes in a shadowed face. “I—what?” he said.

"I’ll compete in the tourney this afternoon," Stiles said. "It’s traditional to offer a token—"

Derek dropped his hand. “I had not believed you to be cruel,” he muttered, so quietly that no one else might hear. “If my offer so offends you then—”

"No matter," Stiles said. He was wearing a red undertunic, thin and old, and the hem gave easily under his fingers. He tied it around Derek’s arm, high up, a bright slash of color against black, Derek still under his hands. "There," he said. "For luck."

"I’ll, um, win," Derek said. The snickers had turned into a roaring mumbling chatter, but Derek was staring up at Stiles’ face as though he couldn’t look away.

"You always win," Stiles reminded him, and Derek’s tired face cracked into a ghost of a grin.

"For you," he said. "My victory today will belong to you."

alphasbehavingbadly:

wolftraps:

kitkitbobitbananafanafofit:

athenadark:

Or maybe it’s her mom

oh my god

ordering off the menu

bleep0bleep:

[taylor requested that i write a fic for this text post]

Stiles takes his job very seriously as a food critic; he knows his opinions can make or break a new restaurant, and any article he writes he’s careful to comment solely on the food (although atmosphere sometimes makes his way into his reviews). With his thousands of followers on his Tumblr and Twitter constantly asking for selfies and questions about what he looks like, Stiles is very careful to keep an anonymous profile in all his writings. It helps, nobody knowing what he looks like so restaurants can’t modify their food when they know he’s there judging them. 

Okay, but this is the first time Stiles has ever wanted to comment— oh man, does he want to comment— on the waiter currently serving the food in his section. He’s got broad shoulders and the most ridiculously chiseled face and the perfect stubble that Stiles wants to rub his face all over. The waiter keeps scowling at everyone, it’s such a hilarious step back from the over-eager-sycophant attitude that Stiles expects in this five star kind of places. He responded to the Trademark Stilinski Flirtatious Grin (and Eyebrow Waggle) with a huff and a roll of his eyes, but Stiles swears he got checked out. Just a little. Maybe. 

Stiles has been livetweeting his dining experience at Hale’s the past half-hour, waxing poetic about their fluffy bread and their soup du jour so far, currently waiting for his chicken parmesan to arrive. It’s a busy lunch hour, and he’s not the only one eating alone, so Stiles has no qualms about tweeting directly to the restaurant. He snickers every time the hot waiter reappears from the kitchen, looking around furiously a few minutes every time Stiles fires off another tweet. It’s hilarious. Someone must be telling him about the reviewer in their midst, but Stiles is pretty sure he’s not going to get caught. 

Stiles switches over to his personal Twitter, biting his lip in admiration as he checks out that ass. Having a cute waiter like get me the chicken with a side of that dick please, he types out and sends with a grin. Scott will probably get a kick out of that. 

A few seconds later his phone starts pinging with notifications, and Stiles frowns, puzzled— how in the— he only has like, twelve people following his private account, why would there be so many retweets and favorites already— 

Oh no. 

Stiles stares in horror at the very public tweet now on his professional account. He moves to delete it, but the damage is probably already done. 

Stiles looks up from his phone where the hot waiter has returned. He’s holding Stiles’ order out and sets it on the table, giving Stiles a bemused look. “Your chicken,” he says, a smirk dancing on the corner of his lips. “And if you want the side dish let me know.” 

cackling…

(via derekandstilesdotcom)

verifascinating:

trekkieslut:

AND THAT’S HOW SLASH WAS BORN

Amok Time aired Sept 15th, 1967.


Thank you, Uncle Theo

verifascinating:

trekkieslut:

AND THAT’S HOW SLASH WAS BORN

Amok Time aired Sept 15th, 1967.

Thank you, Uncle Theo