12. kiss on the nose (femslash if you feel like it??) <333333

my friend, I always feel like femslash 😀 

This Allison is
quieter.

Lydia crushes the thought with a ruthlessness that surprises
herself.

Sure, everyone was suspicious when the ‘disoriented hiker’
brought in by the Beacon Hills forestry service turned out to be Allison
Argent. But Stiles sent out a mass email – since he was spending time in Poland
and didn’t have an international phone plan – explaining that some pagan god
owed him a favor. Apparently, that favor extended to raising the dead.

Although Allison confirmed that she had no memory of the
three years that passed between her death and being found wandering in the
Preserve, Lydia was still unconvinced. In her experience, good things didn’t
happen in this cursed town. It took Derek Hale of all people to get her to even
speak to her former best friend.

Which Lydia did, if only to get the kicked puppy look off of
Derek’s face. She told herself it was only because she promised Stiles she’d
keep an eye on him while he was away. It had nothing to do with the fact that,
somewhere along the line, she started liking Derek and listening to his advice.

So they met up at the cafĂŠ in town and Lydia spent the entire
time on edge. She sized the other woman up, watching her every move from how
she made her coffee to the way she tossed her hair over her shoulder. She could
imagine Stiles laughing at her, shouting constant
vigilance
.

But Allison still drank her coffee black with two sugars and
still smelled like her familiar mango shampoo. Lydia didn’t know what to do
with that.

After fifteen minutes of painful small talk, Allison set
down her mug.

“Did you and Stiles ever figure it out?” she asked.

Lydia almost choked on her latte. “Yeah. We’re much better
off as friends.”

“He got over that crush?” Allison sounded dubious.

“Yes, thank god.” Lydia watched the steam curling out of her
mug. “It helps that he found his own epic love story.”

Watching the smile break over Allison’s face was like
watching the sun rise. Three years hadn’t been long enough to kill the
butterflies in Lydia’s stomach.

“So Stiles and Derek figured it out.” It was a statement, no
hint of surprise.

Lydia smiled back, like an automatic reflex. “They did.”

This time, the silence that hung between them was
comfortable. Allison kept grinning down at her coffee, clearly filing away that
new bit of information. And Lydia watched Allison, trying to snip off the
feeling of hope blooming in her chest.

“You should talk to him,” she said.

“Stiles?”

“He took it really hard.” Lydia closed her eyes, trying to quell
the memories of Stiles, hollowed out and lifeless. Consumed by guilt. “After.”

“I will.” She reached out, threading her fingers through
Lydia’s. Keeping her grounded.

It took a moment to find herself again. Allison waited
patiently, her expression free of pity or judgement.

And for Lydia that was the spill point. “Could we do this
again?” she asked, words tumbling out without her prompting.

“Of course.” Allison squeezed her hand, the warmth in her
eyes making Lydia’s heart skip. It felt like a beginning. The start of
something amazing.

This Allison is
quieter.

No. This Allison is still her Allison, just grown up and a little battered. Maybe she gets
lost in her head more easily, maybe she doesn’t laugh as often. But life hasn’t
been kind to Lydia either. She knows she’s not the same person as she was three
years ago, so why would Allison be any different?

It took them a long time to get here, but Lydia is so glad
they made it. Especially when Allison leans over her, soft hair cascading over
her face and brushing over Lydia’s bare skin in a way that makes her shiver.
Lydia can’t help but lean up to kiss the tip of her nose, reveling in the glow
of Allison’s blinding smile.

And maybe, just maybe, Lydia’s found her own epic love
story.

(accepting sterek and femslash prompts from HERE!!)

thealphasspark:

Of Political Arrangements & Romantic Gifts

Explicit
25589 words
Sterek
By @areiton / Areiton

The wedding of Governor Derek Hale to the beloved Prince Stiles Stilinski of Beacon is the first of its kind, after the war. The first Alpha werewolf to marry one of the recently deposed aristocracy.

It’s for the good of their people. It’s an arrangement, one Stiles loathes. But as Stiles learns more about werewolves and his grumpy husband. As Derek watches his proud, clumsy prince– Maybe an arrangement isn’t all it can be.

Maybe what’s good for the people can be exactly what both of them need.

“Governor Hale,” he says, tilting his head just a little, not quite baring his neck for the werewolf, but a gesture of respect nonetheless.

“Highness,” Derek murmurs and–shockingly–does the same.

Stiles blinks, and Derek nods at the chairs. His valet has settled near the door, and Scott is alert, but not stirring, not coming near. Stiles seats himself in his favorite chair and the governor halts redirects to the couch that Stiles knows is uncomfortable and stiff.

“Have you considered my proposal?” he asks, and Stiles is struck by the startlingly soft voice, higher than it should be, almost shy.

He wants to drag conversation from this man, just to hear every nuance of his musical voice, and–Stiles blinks. He hates him. He’s hated Derek since they received word he would be inhabiting the Palace as governor and the king and his court were expected to vacate and renounce their titles.

This man took everything from his father, from his family and he hates him.

“I suppose I’d need to hear it before I dismiss it,” Stiles says, and Derek’s gaze snaps up to him, startled. “The King is not a messenger boy, Governor. If you have something to ask me–ask.”

Derek blinks and his mouth opens, distractingly wet and pink. There is a flush in his cheeks and in the tips of is ears. “I–I proposed an alliance between the royal family and myself.”

Stiles goes still. Scott is still murmuring to Liam, hasn’t quite filtered those words down to what they mean. But Stiles–who has known since he was old enough to declare his love for Lady Lydia what an arranged marriage was and that he was destined for one–Stiles knows what that means. And he thought he was long past this, that the war and the Alpha Council and his meaningless fucking title had made this a long distant worry that would never be his reality.

And yet.

Derek looks uncomfortable and anxious and Society dictates he should redirect the conversation until the discomfort has passed.

But Stiles has always been an especially bad prince with very little regard for the rules of Society, and he blurts out, shocked and disbelieving, “You want to marry me?”

Read the rest here  : )

halffizzbin:

adisusedshed said: Sterek in a hipster tea shop duh.

mad-madam-m said: I’m gonna throw another vote in for Stiles and Derek at the hipster tea shop. Just imagine Stiles with a violin. 😀 (Obviously in-tune.)

“I fucking hate open mic night,” Derek sighs, trying to focus on perfectly arranging a cheese plate while their regular Wednesday night entertainment charms the whole tea shop. Ugh, Stiles. With his ridiculous blue violin, and his messy hair, and his pushed-up sleeves, and his blatantly sexual song titles, and—

“That’s the hottest glissando I’ve ever heard, wow,” Erica enthuses.

“Jesus. Restock the sugar crystals. Hey.” Derek snaps his fingers in front of her face. “Erica.”

“Look at his hands, though.”

“I’ve seen them,” Derek says, sighing heavily.

“Yeah, I bet you have.”

Derek chugs an entire half-mug of Silver Needle to avoid looking her in the eye.

::

“So I know you’re busy,” Stiles says later, sliding up to the front counter where Derek is slicing lemons. “But, I thought I’d check in with you. See if you liked your song today.”

Stiles has his fingers curved around the edge of the counter, and they’re flexing and curling in a slow rhythm. Derek swallows. “My song?”

“Yeah, I mean, I was gonna wait for you to bring it up on your own? Like, back when I played Hey Pretty Eyebrows… but you’ve never noticed, so I think that approach might have been a little… low-key? For you. You’re very, uh, focused on your job…” Stiles trails off while Derek bends over to dig through the tea tins on the bottom shelf. “Um.”

"Notice what?” Derek straightens, and notices a lone cupcake that hasn’t managed to sell. “Here,” he says, thrusting it a little too aggressively at Stiles. “You like chocolate, right? We’re closing in ten minutes. So.”

Stiles takes it, and a weird, helpless look passes over his face. “You fucker. You’re so cute, god.”

Derek blinks. “I…”

“I wrote you sexy violin solos!” Stiles blurts, waving the cupcake around. “This is by far the least subtle way I’ve ever hit on somebody! Put me out of my misery, please, because if you don’t just turn me down outright in the next ten seconds I’m probably going to write you an entire symphony because —”

"I made you a tea blend,” Derek interrupts, flushing. “I named it Brown Eyes and I’ve been drinking it alone for weeks.”

"Oh my god,” Stiles breathes.

“It has way too much clove in it, though,” Derek admits, and Stiles puts the cupcake down, actually hops the counter and kisses him, hauling him close by his apron pockets.

“Hey. Hey.” Erica shoves Derek’s shoulder. “Yo. Your virtuoso just bent my favorite infuser. With his foot.”

"You can have all the tips in the jar if you close up for me,” Derek says, and starts firmly guiding Stiles toward the back room.