“Derek,” Cora growls from halfway across the Quidditch pitch, her bat paused mid-air like she’d been about to go for a swing. “What the holy hell is your weirdo Gryffindor boyfriend doing?”
Two very different people fall in love with a boy called death. Finding each other is chance. Falling for each other isn’t. This is their story. (Or in which Nico is Death with a capital D, Annabeth is a serial killer, and Percy is the poor schmuck who falls for both of them.)
He’s Dave motherfuckin’ Strider. He saved two—no, three, kind of—universes and has made out with aliens, okay? He has made time his bitch, died for his cause time and time again, and had an ultimate rap off with an Insane Clown Posse wannabe while the fucker was on a murder spree. He doesn’t give two shits what other people think of him.
The things that Annabeth knows about Nico di Angelo could be used to fill a book. A very large book, like the hulking dictionary she has back home. That wasn't always the case.
"Are you sure this is okay with you," she whispers quietly, peering down at Jason.
“I need you to show me how to put on make-up,” he goes, all at once, and she blinks at the seahorse patterned shower curtain. There’s no way she heard that right. She finishes buttoning up her shirt and steps out of the shower carefully, wet feet sliding a little on the tile. “Make-up,” she repeats, looking at him as she winds an elastic band around her hair. “Yeah,” he murmurs, embarrassment burning in his eyes. “She uh, wants me to go as Belle.”
Derek smirks at her, eyes hooded as he leans closer still, until his lips are brushing her ear. His breath fans hotly over the curve of her neck and Stiles shudders, knuckles going white as she clasps them together between her legs. “Touch yourself,” he whispers, the curve of his lips a shade too wicked.
Derek scrolls to the next picture. Stops. Blinks. For a moment, they just freeze. He can see Stiles’ hand hesitating just next to his out of the corner of his eye, stopped mid-air, like he was reaching to take the phone back. Stiles’ heart is loud — so fucking loud — in the quiet of the loft, drowning out Derek’s own heartbeat and the many varied sounds coming in through the cracked window. “So,” Stiles says, voice wobbly and pitched high in what’s probably mortification. “That’s my penis.”
“Stop freaking out,” Malia whispers, rubbing herself against him. It’s not really in an intentionally hot way, more like the way that dogs and cats rub themselves against you because they want pets, but she’s naked, and Stiles is a perfectly functional teenage boy sandwiched between two very hot people. Who are in his bed. “I’m not freaking out,” he whispers back furiously, voice too high to be steady. “Are you freaking out? And oh yeah, important question. Why is Derek Hale in my bed?”
Roy growing up with Madame Christmas means he grew up in a brothel. Explains a lot.
The one where the Talia Hale is the sister of Morticia Addams and the Hales are a little kookier than they were in the show. Also, you know. Alive. This is Derek's story.
