© HELLMOUTHS
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buckyxbarnes:

mcu meme - 3/7 relationships;  clint barton and natasha romanoff.

Why am I back? How’d you get him out?

Cognitive recalibration. I hit you really hard in the head.

Thanks.

Make me choose | Delphine or Felix


scott as the nogitsune [x]

you really have to learn not to trust a fox

scott as the nogitsune [x]

you really have to learn not to trust a fox

Sandy, knock him out.


I don’t consider myself an attractive guy, and someone who should be playing that, you know. I think there’s a lot more to me that meets the eye.

I don’t consider myself an attractive guy, and someone who should be playing that, you know. I think there’s a lot more to me that meets the eye.

wantstobelieve:

captain adorable

#what a joke

Chris Evans photographed by Danielle Levitt in Los Angeles for Variety.

shadowstiles:

I know, I know you get lonely sometimes
I know, I know you get lonely at night

werefoxstiles prompted: sterek + warm colours

theopteryx:

notthequiettype:

theopteryx:

bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt

Stiles is ticklish, so ticklish, and he tells Derek every time he does this because Derek gets so frustrated with him shifting around on the counter and almost jerking his head out of Derek’s hands. “I can’t help it. I’m sorry. My skin is crawling.”
Derek always huffs or sometimes growls if it’s gone on too long, face twisted in irritation. “Why do you ask me to do it then?”
Stiles tugs at Derek’s tank top. “I cut myself whenever I try to do it. Scott’s not around hardly ever anymore. You are.”
They do the same song and dance every time, Stiles wriggling and laughing and turning pink with the effort of holding still long enough for Derek to make a single pass against his skin. He gets a break between each one, Derek standing patiently — or at least as patiently as Derek is capable of — almost in the vee of Stiles’ legs, so close.
When the last chunk of hair is gone, Derek presses his fingertips to Stiles’ scalp, tilts his head at all angles so he can make sure it’s even, that there aren’t any patches at the nape of his neck. When he’s satisfied, he closes his hands on Stiles’ scalp and rubs. It’s the part Stiles waits for, would beg for if he had to. Derek’s fingers working over the fuzz, into Stiles’ scalp, deep and diligent and gentle, massaging until Stiles’ feels liquid, hot and red all over, hands fisting in Derek’s shirt, stretching it, pulling him closer until Stiles can press his face against Derek’s sternum, breathe him in.
He can hear Derek’s heart and the rush of air in his lungs and he’s overwhelmed by the smell of him, warm and musky and familiar, Derek’s fingers still pressing at Stiles’ scalp, gentling at the back of his neck, down his back to the hem of his shirt where he settles his fingers against Stiles’ bare skin.
Stiles’ heart races, every time, like it’s brand new even though there’s nothing that feels more right to him, more familiar. Derek tips Stiles’ chin up, two fingers against his jaw, effortless and soft and warm.
Stiles grins. Derek’s eyes are dark, pupils blown, mouth pink and open, waiting. “Thanks.”
Derek just palms Stiles’ neck and jaw and leans in to kiss him, devouring his mouth, fast and wet and hungry. Stiles’ hands slide to Derek’s waist, fingers grazing below the waistband of his jeans to find hot skin.
Derek never says, “You’re welcome,” but Stiles thinks manners are overrated anyway.

UHMMMMMM. UHMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMUHMUHM. <3_________<3

theopteryx:

notthequiettype:

theopteryx:

bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt

Stiles is ticklish, so ticklish, and he tells Derek every time he does this because Derek gets so frustrated with him shifting around on the counter and almost jerking his head out of Derek’s hands. “I can’t help it. I’m sorry. My skin is crawling.”

Derek always huffs or sometimes growls if it’s gone on too long, face twisted in irritation. “Why do you ask me to do it then?”

Stiles tugs at Derek’s tank top. “I cut myself whenever I try to do it. Scott’s not around hardly ever anymore. You are.”

They do the same song and dance every time, Stiles wriggling and laughing and turning pink with the effort of holding still long enough for Derek to make a single pass against his skin. He gets a break between each one, Derek standing patiently — or at least as patiently as Derek is capable of — almost in the vee of Stiles’ legs, so close.

When the last chunk of hair is gone, Derek presses his fingertips to Stiles’ scalp, tilts his head at all angles so he can make sure it’s even, that there aren’t any patches at the nape of his neck. When he’s satisfied, he closes his hands on Stiles’ scalp and rubs. It’s the part Stiles waits for, would beg for if he had to. Derek’s fingers working over the fuzz, into Stiles’ scalp, deep and diligent and gentle, massaging until Stiles’ feels liquid, hot and red all over, hands fisting in Derek’s shirt, stretching it, pulling him closer until Stiles can press his face against Derek’s sternum, breathe him in.

He can hear Derek’s heart and the rush of air in his lungs and he’s overwhelmed by the smell of him, warm and musky and familiar, Derek’s fingers still pressing at Stiles’ scalp, gentling at the back of his neck, down his back to the hem of his shirt where he settles his fingers against Stiles’ bare skin.

Stiles’ heart races, every time, like it’s brand new even though there’s nothing that feels more right to him, more familiar. Derek tips Stiles’ chin up, two fingers against his jaw, effortless and soft and warm.

Stiles grins. Derek’s eyes are dark, pupils blown, mouth pink and open, waiting. “Thanks.”

Derek just palms Stiles’ neck and jaw and leans in to kiss him, devouring his mouth, fast and wet and hungry. Stiles’ hands slide to Derek’s waist, fingers grazing below the waistband of his jeans to find hot skin.

Derek never says, “You’re welcome,” but Stiles thinks manners are overrated anyway.

UHMMMMMM. UHMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMUHMUHM. <3_________<3