hello, you can call me Hallie.
i like Teen wolf
and many more, but i think that is what i post/reblog most :D
basically i reblog what i like.
how do you expect me to do a homework assignment that requires a computer
do you know what happens when i get near a computer
Whenever you’re feeling down, just remember that Mulan was a real person.
Hua Mulan went to war at 15 years old and eventually led the army for almost a decade, leading countless attacks and winning victories for China. Decorated with honors, she returned home to her happy, living parents. When her army friends visited her, they found out that she was a woman and accepted it.
Next excuse for limiting women’s rights, please.
The difference between learning a modern language and an ancient language is that in first year French you learn “Where is the bathroom?” and “How do I get to the train station?” and in first year Attic Greek or Latin you learn “I have judged you worthy of death” and “The tyrant had everyone in the city killed.”
That’s pretty much it, too. Like “okay how much interaction do I need here before they start boning? Should I do the classic cabin in the frozen wilderness trope and make one of them have to warm the other one up? How can I plausibly get them naked in the most expedient fashion?” And then I think about writing all that porn and I’m not sure I can even do it. BUT what I have written of the next part I think is really good. I just have reached a point where I’m not entirely sure what to have them do next.
Here, how about I give you guys what I have of the next part and you can like… send me your suggestions or what you’d like to see happen or something? I won’t be able to work on this for awhile because my laptop fan is all fucked up and just having my computer running gives me a headache, but if you’ve got requests send them to my askbox and I’ll get to them when I can.
It’s entirely possible that Stiles is going to die.
His dad’s given him somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred talks about stranger danger over the years, but most of those hypothetical psycho killer scenarios centered around basic garden-variety creepers, inappropriate behavior from authority figures, and sketchy people in sketchy vans (that was one time, and there had in fact been actual puppies, but his dad just refused to let it go). They never even got around to discussing Misery and Deliverance-type situations, and Stiles certainly doesn’t remember his dad ever giving him advice about what to do if he should be taken in during an early-season blizzard by a strange mountain man who communes with wolves.
It probably doesn’t matter, because Stiles doesn’t make a habit of taking his dad’s advice, anyway, and his dad isn’t here. Nobody is here, except for Derek, and Stiles’ only other option is a rented cabin that even Stiles could see was woefully inadequate. So it’s somehow become the most attractive option to be tromping through the woods behind a complete stranger, headed to god knows where and into god knows what kind of situation.
He’s definitely not calling it the “most attractive” option because what he can see of Derek’s face is also the most attractive face. Possibly ever.
"So, you lived up here long?" Stiles says, twenty minutes into the walk, when he realizes they’re going to be completely silent the entire way unless he does something about it.
Derek shrugs, a barely-detectable twitch of his shoulder beneath his coat. “Awhile,” he says, which isn’t any kind of answer at all, could mean ten months or ten years.
"Yeah, I bet," Stiles says. "I mean, you’ve got the whole mountain man thing working for you, with the beard and the hat and everything. You’ve got that sort of attractive stubble, with the whole Brawny Man look and the— uh, right, so what brought you up here in the first place? I mean, were you born around here? Or like, abandoned in the den of a mother wolf, to be raised in the wild, killing deer with your teeth, that kind of thing?"
The noise Derek makes is both amused and bewildered, which is basically how everybody reacts to Stiles.
"No, I was raised in a house, in a city. I came up here to do field research for my dissertation. I came back and bought a property after I finished my doctorate."
"Wow, seriously? You should have a reality TV show or something. Doctor Derek, Mountain Man PhD."
"I’m considering leaving you here to die," Derek says, but he doesn’t sound like he means it. Much.
"I’d watch it, I’m just saying." He would. He’d set up a DVR subscription and buy the DVDs and hope and pray for a skinny-dipping scene in a pristine mountain lake. "So what were you up here studying, then? For your field research?"
"The survival capabilities of city-dwelling hominids," Derek says. "Turns out they’re extremely prone to early deaths from exposure and suffer from high mortality rates due to aggravating those outside their social circles."
"Oh, ouch, that was an epic science put-down," Stiles says, and he feels that burn all over, but mostly in his pants. "You don’t want to talk shop, that’s cool. I can totally respect boundaries, no matter what my friends might say."
Derek snorts. “Good, because we’re going to be in close quarters for awhile; my cabin’s not very big.”
Stiles doesn’t say anything after that, partly because he’s still not used to the elevation and the hike’s making him winded, but mostly because he’s imagining variations on the theme of close quarters. Like maybe they’ll have to share a shower, for the sake of conserving precious water resources, and there’s really likely to only be one bed, and it’ll probably get cold, right, so they’ll have to share. It’s only a little embarrassing when he trips over a root and nearly faceplants because he’s wondering which one of them will be the little spoon.
He puts all of his focus on watching where he puts his feet, after that, so he doesn’t even realize they’re done walking until Derek wraps a hand around his elbow and says, “We’re here.”
Oh, god. He’s definitely going to die.
He’s seen cabins exactly like this one before: rough-hewn out of dark wood, weathered by age and elements. The windows are dark, like nobody lives there at all, and there are strange and terrifying things hanging from the walls and the overhead beams of the porch: a long, well-rusted saw blade, a few random lengths of chain, a coil of rope, a looped mass of barbed wire. There’s a windchime that appears to be made out of knife blades. There are also wolves lurking around the side of the building, staring at him balefully, like he’s late for supper and also he is supper.
He’s seen cabins like this in horror movies. It’s a murder cabin.
"Uh," he says, but Derek’s already walking away, toward the cabin, and also the wind is picking up, the sun is almost down, and there’s snow starting to fall from the sky.
He doesn’t really have much in the way of choices. He could try to make it back to his own rental, but he’ll probably end up dying of exposure on the way. Also, Derek will know where he’s gone, so if Derek’s plan is to skin him and throw him to the actual literal wolves, he won’t even be making it very hard for the guy.
"Are you coming?" Derek calls, and when Stiles looks up, Derek’s standing in the cabin’s open doorway, darkness beyond him, thick eyebrows raised far enough that they’re almost disappearing inside his hat. The wolves all slip through the open door, one at a time, like they’re getting away with something, but Derek doesn’t pay them any attention.
"Yeah," Stiles says, and wonders whether they’ll cover his murder on one of those true-crime shows that his dad always watches. They’d better get somebody young and insanely attractive to play him, at least. For verisimilitude.
"Shut the door, and stay right there," Derek says, when Stiles finally steps inside. Stiles does what he’s told, and wonders whether Derek shows more mercy to his compliant victims.
There are a few long moments of darkness, and ominous sounds: a metallic slide, the click of wolf nails on the floor, and Stiles only just manages not to scream when a cold nose brushes against his hand in the gloom. But then a match flares not far away, throws warm light and flickering shadows across Derek’s face, and within moments there’s a fire flaring to life inside an old-fashioned wood stove.
Derek walks around the room lighting candles and lamps, and in short order the whole place is illuminated in warm orange, and while the outside of the cabin looks like every college-kids-killed-at-a-campsite movie ever made, the inside looks… cozy. Sure, it’s set up more for function than form, what with everything being one big room and the bed being kind of in the middle of everything, so it’s close to the heat of the stove, but there’s a threadbare couch with an inexpertly-knitted afghan thrown over the back, and a tiny kitchenette that’s completely lacking in appliances, and all the other comforts of home, if “home” is a small cabin in an isolated wilderness.
The wolves are all settling on the floor in front of the stove — there are five of them, so there’s hardly any floor left anymore — splayed out like a bunch of extremely satisfied starfish, and Derek is—
Derek is taking off his clothes. It’s not exactly a strip tease, and it’s definitely not for Stiles’ benefit, but that doesn’t mean it’s unsexy, because it’s actually the most sexy thing. Derek’s walking toward him, tugging off clothes as he goes, and Stiles is really helpless to do anything but watch, wide-eyed and probably obvious. Derek doesn’t seem to notice, at least; he’s too busy peeling off his coat in an entirely business-like fashion, unwinding the scarf from around his neck, toeing off his boots and piling them next to the door.
Under all those layers, when he gets down to just his pants and a thin henley and thick socks, the guy is absolutely ripped. And also gorgeous.