A swole heart
a swolesome post
Tag i love this
I feel like Derek’s the type of teacher to give his students pop quizzes and Stiles is the type of teacher to smile fondly when Derek’s students complain to him about said pop quizzes
I LIKE THIS SO MUCH, but I also feel like a case could be made – hear me out! – that it’s Stiles who’s the pop quiz guy, like Stiles respects knowledge and dedication and cares passionately about what he teaches and is kind of a dick. It’s not his job, he tells kids, to provide an easy ride, but to make sure they develop some level of critical thinking ability which will enable them to succeed in life. Anyone–yes, anyone, Greenburg, jr.–who’s been paying a modicum of attention will have no difficulty with any of Stiles’ pop quizzes. This room is–what, now? “A temple of learning,” the class choruses, perhaps a little wearily, but by god they know the material.
MEANWHILE, Mr. Hale provides a syllabus at the beginning of the semester with every homework assignment, quiz, and test clearly noted. No surprises, he says, pushing his glasses up his nose, his voice soft. He sends out e-mails over the weekend that say the test is postponed because there was some confusion over Friday’s homework so they’ll review concepts on Monday instead.
Mr. Stilinski makes everyone participate, calls on people who don’t have their hands up, but Mr. Hale has them break into groups and then have one person from each group give an answer, or has them write the answer on whiteboards and hold them up. He’s really interested in exploring portfolio-based assessment for kids with test anxiety, he tells Mr. Stilinski in the teachers’ lounge.
When Derek does peer shadowing in Stiles’ classroom he’s always envious of how hard the kids are working, how agile they are when answering questions, the connections Stiles helps them make. The time goes by quickly. They laugh a lot. There’s not–he’s not really funny, he thinks. He just really wants them to get it and he teaches it methodically, the only way he knows how.
Ask Stiles, and he’ll tell anyone who’ll listen that Mr. Hale is the best teacher in the school, hands down.
The Hale pack and their Spark Emissary 🌙
@missleeismyname replied to your post “This four month old infant blog just hit 200 followers and I’m flying…”
Anything with cordia, legit whatever comes to mind first. And CONGRATS!!!!
(THANK YOU!!)
“It’s so cliché, though. We’re better than that.”
“It’s not cliché if it’s gay.”
“It’s still cliché,” Lydia insisted.
Cora pulled her girlfriend backwards into her arms, not having to reach out very far in the small dressing room.
“It might be a cliché if I were the football captain, but I’m not. I’m the lacrosse captain, taking her incredible girlfriend who happens to be head cheerleader, as well as president of the mathletes, to prom. That’s not a cliché.”
Lydia frowned at her reflection, critically looking at the ruching on dress number 4 of the try-on line up.
“I just don’t want people to think I’m performing,” she eventually said, softy. “That was my entire life for so long- but I’m past that now. I just don’t want people to look at us, and see what Jackson and I used to be.”
Cora hooked her chin over Lydia’s shoulder. “Anyone who knew you before and after can see the difference, babe. It’s clear how much more comfortable you are now that you’ve come out.”
Lydia sighed and nodded, lightly rubbing her cheek against Cora’s.
“Besides,” Cora added, “how could anyone look at me and see Jackson? My boobs are so much better than his.”
Lydia snorted out an inelegant giggle.
“I don’t like this dress either,” she abruptly announced, pulling away from Cora gently. “All of these dresses are hideous, we need to go somewhere else.”
“Okay baby,” Cora said, helping her out of her dress (and possibly copping a feel or three.) “Where else do you want to go?”
The determined sparkle in Lydia’s eye as she answered was still there 3 weeks later when they arrived at the dance.
The two girls in matching fitted tuxes danced together all night, untouchable in their bubble of love and confidence.
I wish you would write a fic where Stiles gives Derek a good, fast, and rough d***ing in an abandoned building (pardon my French) Then sprinkle plenty of angst, a bit of humor, and of course some fluff 😉
You mean decking? I’m pretty sure you mean decking.
“You punched me.” Derek looked shocked about this development from the dirty concrete floor. He wiped at his jaw and looked at his hand like he was expecting blood, but it’d only been a punch, and a human punch at that. Then the confusion turned to indignation. “You punched me?”
The surprise and outrage were almost more offensive than the original offense.
“What, never been punched by a human?” Stiles asked shittily, mockingly, shaking out his right hand. “First time for everything, you absolute douche.”
Derek rolled his eyes–rolled his eyes. “Punched, yes, suckerpunched, no.” He dabbed at his jaw again for some reason. “Have you been taking classes?”
That was probably rhetorical, but Stiles was feeling smug about decking an alpha werewolf, so he leaned into it.
“Yes, actually. With Lydia. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and the instructor thinks I’m an absolute delight.” At least someone did in this stupid town of hellhounds and werewolves. Douchebag werewolves. Who said insulting things to humans in a misguided attempt to get them to storm away from dangerous situations, and leave said douchebag werewolves to deal with danger and impending death alone. “Did you really think that would work?”
Derek dabbed at the inside of his lip with his thumb and it came away bloody, but the open wound had probably already healed before he hit the floor.
“Honestly? I was hoping it would.” He stood and brushed off his palms. “Self-defense classes don’t give you supernatural healing.”
He really wasn’t helping himself out much.
“It’s MMA,” Stiles corrected flatly. “And supernatural healing only gets you so far.” He’d personally see all kinds of horrific shit beat out supernatural healing, only to be fixed by good old human ingenuity, so Derek could take that old excuse and shove it up his human-rescued-at-least-fifteen-times ass. And that was all before they’d started doing whatever the fuck they were doing, so it was honestly ridiculous that he thought that old shtick would work now that Stiles had real skin in the game.
Derek sighed, tired. “Stiles–”
“No,” Stiles interrupted immediately, because he knew where that tone of voice was going and it only pissed him off even more. “If you think you can trick me into leaving you here to fight off two-headed vampires on your own, then you are actually even stupider than I thought, and I say that remembering that you didn’t know what Neosporin was.”
Cheap shot because he knew that Derek had never needed to use a first aid kit in his entire life, but he punched his kind-of-sort-of-not-really-boyfriend in the face not minutes ago, he was playing dirty. “I am not going to walk away while you march into assisted suicide in some stupid throwback to your brooding martyr days, okay, you have a house now–you have plants!”
So I saw this picture of this fox and all I could see was this picture of Dylan O’Brien and I put them side by side and now I’m dead.
In the middle of the night when the wolves come out
They head straight for your heart
Like a bullet in the dark
Is this a trick? A dream?
i’m always saying there’s not enough fanart of these two… so i sketched something! will hopefully color it when i have time 🙂
send me berica art pls
twitter canceled
It becomes a pattern in the aftermath.
Bruce has set up a makeshift lab in Wakanda, while the world takes stock of their dead and Wakanda mourns for their king. Bruce isn’t doing anything important, but he needs to do something, so he studies Wakanda’s vibranium supply and attempts to keep Shuri busy.
Otherwise, the grief might just be too much for the both of them to bear.
Bruce also tries very hard not to think about Tony and what form of matter Tony may or may not be at this very moment. He’s only moderately successful.
It’s on the third day of the second week after half of the world has turned to ash that Thor brings Bruce a little green snake. Bruce is baffled, but he tried to be polite about it. Bruce is heartsick, though, so that makes everything a little harder.
Then Thor asks for Bruce to see if the snake is Loki, and it takes every bit of willpower Bruce Banner poses to not burst into tears. Thor is so strong and so keen to smile, he makes it so easy for everyone to forget that he has lost nearly everything.
Bruce pokes at the snake without any further complaints. When nothing happens, the grief on Thor’s face is unimaginable.
Bruce begins spending time with both Thor and Shuri, in a desperate attempt to combat his own grief by combatting theirs.
All the while, every second or third day, Thor brings Bruce a small green animal and asks Bruce to see if it his lost brother. Bruce checks every time, with care and precision, but the result is always negative. It’s awful for both of them, but Thor can’t seem to stop and Bruce doesn’t know how to make him.
This pattern holds for a few weeks, until Thor brings Bruce a beaten and battered lizard. It’d been burned somehow and it looked like one of its limbs had been badly broken. When Thor presents it to him, Bruce honestly isn’t sure if Thor had just brought the little thing to Bruce to see if it could be saved.
“Could you check?” Thor asks, the question quiet and hurt after so many weeks of negative results from Bruce’s prodding and poking.
“Of course,” Bruce says softly, adding his portion of the call and response.
He gingerly picks up the lizard, as the poor also looks like he’d been through the wringer, and gives him a quick once over. Bruce’d been right about the broken leg and the burns were pretty –
The lizard fucking turns into Loki. A damaged, burnt Loki who scuttles backward on a broken leg while spitting blood.
Thor bursts into tears. Bruce bursts out laughing. Everyone has their own way of processing grief and shock and grief turned into shock, apparently.
It’s later, when they’ve gotten Loki a little patched up, convinced Okoye not to kill Loki (”He tried to destroy the world!” she says – “He’s gotten better,” Bruce says), and Thor’s eyes were mostly dry, that Loki finally says through clenched, bloodied teeth:
“They’re in a pocket dimension.”
“Who?” Bruce whispers, stunned.
“Everyone. I told him he’d never be a god. He was just a warlord playing at being something powerful. He should’ve fucking listened.”
@scoutdoesstuff How dare you?
theproblemwithstardust 