badass mermaid gangs who demand a stop to ocean pollution and warn ships about imminent storms
faeries of the forest jamming out to heavy metal in the dead of night and sighing because there are literally no band shirts in their size
wizards that travel with play groups and do the special effects
friendly people reading ghosts’ favorite books aloud to them since they can’t always affect the living world when they want to
dragons that allow little children ride on their backs and roast marshmallows for them if they ask politely
immortal elves obsessed with medical science because human lives are already too short
having anxiety and depression is like being scared and tired at the same time. it’s the fear of failure but no urge to be productive, and it’s wanting friends while hating socializing. it’s like running a marathon with the willpower of a corpse because you want to get to the end but you also want to sleep and evaporate into the soil and become compost for snails and flowers because then at least you’re useful
my best friend just realized 30 minutes before her curfew that she’s an hour away from home in the most dangerous part of the city alone with the buses no longer running so she calls the police to take her home i cant stop laughing
update the cop that came to pick her up is a hot 20 year old guy thats flirting with her and now im not laughing anymore
SHE FUCKING HOOKED UP WITH THE COP
Stiles’ dad was going to kill him. Literally, string him up and make an example of him.
He wasn’t supposed to have even left Scott’s place, but somehow he’d ended up in the industrial district at one of the gay bars and now it was twenty five minutes past twelve and he had to be home by one.
It takes an hour to get home from Jungle, and that’s if he kisses the speed limit all the way.
Panic rises like bile until he remembers what his father told him about breaking curfew - “If you are in danger and can’t leave somewhere to get home in time, call the department and I’ll send someone to get you.”
For the first time since he was fourteen, Stiles actively takes his fathers’ advice and calls the station, then huddles by the Jeep, having disconnected one of the battery terminals and jiggled the wire out of place far enough that Roscoe won’t start, and on a Saturday night calling for a tow is just stupid, they trucks are all too busy responding to actual accidents to deal with breakdowns.
Then the cruiser pulls up and it’s someone new and Stiles panics because oh shit the Deputies are not supposed to be that hot.
And of course the guy is picking him up from outside a gay bar.
Derek gets it. He’s the new guy. He’s gonna cop the shit runs for a few weeks until he settles in. But where he’d braced himself for talking down little old ladies who’ve lost their cats, he’d been in no way prepared for…this.
"Uh…hi," the kid says.
Only he’s not a kid at all, really. The shoulders on him can attest to that. Not that Derek’s noticing his boss’ kid’s shoulders. At all. Shit.
"You Stiles?" Derek says, like there’s gonna be any other plaid-wearing teens slouched against blue jeeps in the area.
Stiles nods, long-fingers pinching at his bottom lip in a way that makes Derek’s hands clench. “Yeah, um - you’re new.”
"Derek," Derek says, remembering a second too late that he probably shouldn’t be giving out his first name while in uniform. Particularly not to wayward sheriff’s sons outside…oh god, they’re outside a gay bar.