12 Works by fuchs
Listing Works
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Aw hell.
“Aw hell,” Stiles moans. “I’m going to be one of those people. One of those people who can’t hold their peace when the priest says ‘speak now or forever hold your peace’ and it’s going to ruin their wedding day and his family will hate me forever and oh shit. I’m going to be a home wrecker, Scott, I am going to wreck a home.”
~
In which Stiles crashes a wedding and falls head-over-heels in love. Shenanigans ensue.
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"He’s reaching his hand slowly towards the handle when all of a sudden there comes a garbled cry and something bursts out of the wardrobe, slamming into Derek’s chest. He topples over with the force of impact and ends up flat on his back on the scuffed lino of his local IKEA, his arms wrapped around a complete stranger."
aka I combined Sterek and crack and Swedish furniture and ended up with this drabble
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Stiles swiped open his phone with determination. It was just his goddamn rotten luck that he got trapped inside the boys locker room, during summer, with the one person who was possibly maybe potentially responsible for kicking off Stiles’ not-major and yet also not-insignificant sexuality crisis in the first place. Jesus.
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Ratios, Decimals, and Percentages by fuchs for Daydreamingworldsunknown
Fandoms: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
03 Jun 2016
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In which Steve takes an internet quiz and slowly loses his mind. Danny's okay with it.
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An idea is starting to form in his mind, one of those ideas, the type that either turn out brilliantly or almost get someone gutted. And in this case, the party losing their intestines would be Stiles.
‘Do you– Well. I mean… I could give you a massage?’ Stiles offers tentatively.
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There’s a clatter and Stiles looks over the girl’s shoulder to find a guy standing behind her. He’s wearing an apron, dark to match the rest of the shop, darker still all down the middle where there’s a coffee stain spreading rapidly. He's staring at Stiles with wide blue-green eyes, and when Stiles meets his gaze he opens his mouth, closes his mouth, and then turns tail and disappears into what Stiles assumes is the kitchen.
Which is a little weird.
It’s not exactly the first time anyone has purposefully avoided him, but Stiles usually knows those people and they usually have a good excuse. This guy? Stiles doesn’t recognise this guy from Adam. Although he certainly wouldn’t mind roleplaying Steve.
A self-indulgent coffeeshop au turned into Laura/Stiles bromance turned into prom fic.
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Stiles stumbled to a stop and stood there gaping at the asshole. And he knew this guy was an asshole because he had one of those extra wide, woven hammocks with the fringing and the inbuilt pillow. And aviator sunglasses. And his hands tucked behind his head in that ‘I don’t give a shit’ way, which made the fabric of his white fucking V-neck t-shirt strain against his bic–
He was smirking. Asshole was smirking, with his face tilted toward the sun, swinging lazily in his asshole hammock.
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Just a collection of drabbles and ficlets originally posted on my tumblr. Fluff and crack with a sprinkling of dragons.
Each chapter is its own ficlet. Pairings and trigger warnings can be found in the chapter summary.
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“Oi rack off!”
Everyone seemed to pause in unison and Derek and Erica shot Stiles matching sets of condescending eyebrows.
“Oi rack off?” Erica drawled with obvious amusement. “Who are you, Crocodile Dundee?”
Scott, who was still trying to wriggle his hands under Stiles’ shirts to assess the damage, smothered a hysterical giggle into Stiles’ collar bone.
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“I’m fine, son,” his dad assures him. “I got a call from Mrs Hudson next door, though.” Stiles can hear the scratch of his dad’s palm against the skin of his jaw, even over the phone. “Apparently there’s a man standing in our front yard?”
Stiles jerks upwards, forgetting that he’s underneath a pretty solid piece of furniture and smacking his head against a desk leg.
“Kid?”
Stiles ignores his dad, and the large black spots floating through his vision, and scuttles over to the window, keeping low. He stops for a second to catch his breath and brace himself, then pops his head over the sill.
He exhales on a curse.
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Out of everything wrong with the world, out of everything horrible that has happened to Stiles, out of kanimas and werewolves and sociopathic hunters and batshit insane high school students, Stiles had thought that his eventual and inevitable demise would be slightly more dramatic than this.
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Stiles is dead. Dead meat. Dead man walking. Deadmau5. Stiles is so far gone that he’s practically beyond dead. He’s a zombie, or a vampire, or a draugr, or some other such creature of the night. Stiles is… Stiles is fast losing track of this analogy to be quite honest. The crux of the matter is that Stiles is screwed. Stiles is fucked. And not in the way that he would like to be fucked because, yep, he’s still a virgin. And he’s about to die a virgin because he just punched Derek Hale in the face.