You're my land ahoy

Sterek goodness, and cherik from time to time. NSFW and last time I checked I was wearing gay goggles. I am not ashamed.

Anonymous asked: boy was last night's episode shit, it's becoming embarassing... it pisses me off so much how vastely they fucked up and how they wasted so much potential... fuck me, absolutely horrid

colethewolf:

Was it as bad as usual?

Anonymous asked: are we doing another blackout nextweek? i didn't find out until today, and i know alot of people who want to be part of a blackout because the cast refused to sign their artwork they've spent hours making. pleaaaaase tell me we are

colethewolf:

I thought the blackout lasted for the rest of the season.

Anonymous asked: How can you like Korra and not Teen Wolf?? Korra is worse than everything you claim Teen Wolf to be yet you praise it far too highly. I don't understand.

colethewolf:

Korra actually makes sense. It’s interesting. The story flows. The writers actually listen to the fans for certain things. It’s fucking amazing. Teen Wolf could never.

Anonymous asked: I watched the ep today and while I'm a positive person who just don't bash, yesterdays episode was really bad. The previous ones kept my attention even if only a little, but 4x06 was SUPER weak, I had to skip most of it. I didn't think I would ever say it but yes, TW is getting worse and worse, I can't see hope for better, not with how things operate lately with Jeff and the promoting team. It would need a serious change or someone else in charge who knows what they're doing

colethewolf:

It gets worse and worse. Not surprising.


@anselelgort: Chillin rn w Dylan O’ Brien at the young Hollywood awards

@anselelgort: Chillin rn w Dylan O’ Brien at the young Hollywood awards

(Source: hotterthanhale, via yessterek)

helenish:


Tyler Hoechlin at the San Diego Comic Con 2013

I keep this picture around because this is an arranged-marriage picture, and what you need to know is that Derek Hale has been coached from BIRTH to be brave, generous, respectful, to never allow personal matters to interfere with his duties to the state, so as he waves to the joyous populace from the balcony of the castle on the morning after his nuptials, you would never know that his HEART HAS BEEN CRUELLY SHATTERED BY PRINCE STILES’ BRUSQUE INDIFFERENCE, why the way he smiles as he throws armfuls of flower petals and little cellophane wrapped candies in every color of the rainbow to the scrambling delight of the children below, the way he glances over his shoulder and smiles when the Prince arrives, finally, and clasps his hand, I had no idea it was a love match, one of grandmothers says to a vendor, buying a ring of sugar-dough for one of her grandchildren, bright petals in her silver hair, a woman who knows much of love, a husband who’s loved her these sixty years, and she doesn’t see it, no one does, because Derek is proud, and has had more than enough practice at closing up his grief in a box and putting it away.
The Prince can’t stay, of course—pressing affairs of state—but Derek waves and waves, and then eventually comes down to the square to give out honeycakes, to admire the handcrafts set up in a tent on the edge of the square for the midwinter competition and provide a fatter purse for the winner from his own pocket, to crouch to accept a bite of a wheel of sugar dough, shyly proffered by a little girl, which leaves a smudge of sugar at the corner of his mouth. 
The people love him—more than the Prince deserves, they say, for Prince Stiles is—fair and just in his treatment of the people, brave in battle, but after his mother died, he restricted his public appearances and while he is known to be as clever with words as he is with a sword, his wit has the knife-edge of mockery to it. At the end of the afternoon, a courtier says that Prince will be awaiting his return to the castle, and Derek’s smile deepens even as he makes gracious farewells. It’s not just the grandmother who’s talking about a love match over dinner that evening.
Derek was never intended to wed Prince Stiles, until the fire destroyed the line of succession and made him considerably more desirable; he had been fifteenth or sixteen in the line of succession, expected to make a good marriage to a minor noble, and then—and then. The Hale holdings are strategically important; the offer had arrived immediately after the appropriate mourning period had elapsed. There were other offers, but Derek chose Stiles.
He thought—well. Stiles was kind. Polite. Insisted on a generous settlement for Derek in the prenuptial negotiations, stipulated that Derek and his descendants would retain control over the plot of land where the—the house had been. Derek had believed there was an understanding between them. After what it felt like to have his hand clasped in Stiles’ long-fingered grasp, the gentle brush of lips against his jaw, Derek had almost allowed forgotten himself, had hoped for Stiles to become forward enough to steal a real kiss in their few unchaperoned moments. He didn’t.
Derek waited and waited on their wedding night, trembling first with anticipation and then with nerves, with the slow-growing cold stone of fear in his chest, until he knocked on the door adjoining their room and Stiles answered it wearing an old, worn pair of trousers and his shirtsleeves, and laughed in startled shock when Derek forced himself to ask if Stiles would be coming to bed.
"That’s very—sporting of you," Stiles said, eyes taking in Derek’s neat pajamas and dressing gown. "But it’s really not necessary."
"But it’s—expected that—" Derek said, and Stiles actually stepped back out of his reach.
"I don’t expect it of you," Stiles said, shrugging, face blank. 
"I understand," Derek said. It was work to keep his voice steady, but he did it.
"Good night, then," Stiles said, already turning back to his desk.
"Good night," Derek murmured, turning back into his lonely room, his cold bed. He wakes up the next morning and does his duty, smiles and smiles and tries to forget that he’s unwanted.
*
MEANWHILE SOME MONTHS AGO, Stiles said to his father, 
"You can’t expect me to do this, it’s—grotesque, he lost his entire family and I’m expected to prey on his grief and loneliness?"
"I expect you to do your duty to this kingdom, no more," the King said, and Stiles determined that he would not ask anything of Derek Hale, that he would provide safe harbor for him. He didn’t expect to find it so difficult to keep from wanting him, from turning a courtly press of lips into something deeper, from going into the quiet, moonlit chamber Stiles arranged for him, climbing into his bed, and putting his hands on him, taking what Derek’s offered because he—thinks he has no choice, Stiles reminds himself, and this last is enough to keep him from Derek’s door, from his bed. 
Derek has had a quick smile for him these past weeks, leaned into him, answered his jokes warmly, has thanked him for his generosity and kindness until Stiles is sick with it, because the last thing he wants is Derek offering his body in gratitude, in quiet duty, Derek lying acquiescent beneath him, turning his face away until Stiles is finished.
Better to make Derek understand that it’s not a condition of their marriage. Better to work until the letters start to swim on the page, to oversleep and come late to the balcony, to clasp Derek’s hand and answer his smile and know he slept, safely and well.

helenish:

Tyler Hoechlin at the San Diego Comic Con 2013

I keep this picture around because this is an arranged-marriage picture, and what you need to know is that Derek Hale has been coached from BIRTH to be brave, generous, respectful, to never allow personal matters to interfere with his duties to the state, so as he waves to the joyous populace from the balcony of the castle on the morning after his nuptials, you would never know that his HEART HAS BEEN CRUELLY SHATTERED BY PRINCE STILES’ BRUSQUE INDIFFERENCE, why the way he smiles as he throws armfuls of flower petals and little cellophane wrapped candies in every color of the rainbow to the scrambling delight of the children below, the way he glances over his shoulder and smiles when the Prince arrives, finally, and clasps his hand, I had no idea it was a love match, one of grandmothers says to a vendor, buying a ring of sugar-dough for one of her grandchildren, bright petals in her silver hair, a woman who knows much of love, a husband who’s loved her these sixty years, and she doesn’t see it, no one does, because Derek is proud, and has had more than enough practice at closing up his grief in a box and putting it away.

The Prince can’t stay, of course—pressing affairs of state—but Derek waves and waves, and then eventually comes down to the square to give out honeycakes, to admire the handcrafts set up in a tent on the edge of the square for the midwinter competition and provide a fatter purse for the winner from his own pocket, to crouch to accept a bite of a wheel of sugar dough, shyly proffered by a little girl, which leaves a smudge of sugar at the corner of his mouth.

The people love him—more than the Prince deserves, they say, for Prince Stiles is—fair and just in his treatment of the people, brave in battle, but after his mother died, he restricted his public appearances and while he is known to be as clever with words as he is with a sword, his wit has the knife-edge of mockery to it. At the end of the afternoon, a courtier says that Prince will be awaiting his return to the castle, and Derek’s smile deepens even as he makes gracious farewells. It’s not just the grandmother who’s talking about a love match over dinner that evening.

Derek was never intended to wed Prince Stiles, until the fire destroyed the line of succession and made him considerably more desirable; he had been fifteenth or sixteen in the line of succession, expected to make a good marriage to a minor noble, and then—and then. The Hale holdings are strategically important; the offer had arrived immediately after the appropriate mourning period had elapsed. There were other offers, but Derek chose Stiles.

He thought—well. Stiles was kind. Polite. Insisted on a generous settlement for Derek in the prenuptial negotiations, stipulated that Derek and his descendants would retain control over the plot of land where the—the house had been. Derek had believed there was an understanding between them. After what it felt like to have his hand clasped in Stiles’ long-fingered grasp, the gentle brush of lips against his jaw, Derek had almost allowed forgotten himself, had hoped for Stiles to become forward enough to steal a real kiss in their few unchaperoned moments. He didn’t.

Derek waited and waited on their wedding night, trembling first with anticipation and then with nerves, with the slow-growing cold stone of fear in his chest, until he knocked on the door adjoining their room and Stiles answered it wearing an old, worn pair of trousers and his shirtsleeves, and laughed in startled shock when Derek forced himself to ask if Stiles would be coming to bed.

"That’s very—sporting of you," Stiles said, eyes taking in Derek’s neat pajamas and dressing gown. "But it’s really not necessary."

"But it’s—expected that—" Derek said, and Stiles actually stepped back out of his reach.

"I don’t expect it of you," Stiles said, shrugging, face blank. 

"I understand," Derek said. It was work to keep his voice steady, but he did it.

"Good night, then," Stiles said, already turning back to his desk.

"Good night," Derek murmured, turning back into his lonely room, his cold bed. He wakes up the next morning and does his duty, smiles and smiles and tries to forget that he’s unwanted.

*

MEANWHILE SOME MONTHS AGO, Stiles said to his father, 

"You can’t expect me to do this, it’s—grotesque, he lost his entire family and I’m expected to prey on his grief and loneliness?"

"I expect you to do your duty to this kingdom, no more," the King said, and Stiles determined that he would not ask anything of Derek Hale, that he would provide safe harbor for him. He didn’t expect to find it so difficult to keep from wanting him, from turning a courtly press of lips into something deeper, from going into the quiet, moonlit chamber Stiles arranged for him, climbing into his bed, and putting his hands on him, taking what Derek’s offered because he—thinks he has no choice, Stiles reminds himself, and this last is enough to keep him from Derek’s door, from his bed. 

Derek has had a quick smile for him these past weeks, leaned into him, answered his jokes warmly, has thanked him for his generosity and kindness until Stiles is sick with it, because the last thing he wants is Derek offering his body in gratitude, in quiet duty, Derek lying acquiescent beneath him, turning his face away until Stiles is finished.

Better to make Derek understand that it’s not a condition of their marriage. Better to work until the letters start to swim on the page, to oversleep and come late to the balcony, to clasp Derek’s hand and answer his smile and know he slept, safely and well.

(Source: hoechlins, via grumpiestwolf)