Estan aqui porque son lo mejor de lo mejor

because there are things you need to say without words

6 371 notas

howlnatural:

"It’s made of wax."
Scott makes a face like someone just told him the truth about Santa Claus - Stiles would know, since he accidentally stole that piece of Scott’s childhood and has had to endure the heartbreaking, wistful sighs every Christmas Eve since. How had anyone made it to age thirteen in Beacon Hills, Nemeton Weirdness Central, without finding out that Jolly Old St Nick was actually a frost demon who fed on the souls of children by luring them in with toys before his permanent imprisonment centuries back? Stiles’ attic was haunted by a sea captain thanks to the re-used beams in the roof, and they’d literally had to evict a vengeful family of tree sprites out of their old hangout spot last month. Come on.
But this? This tourist trap for the gullible? Stiles is calling bullshit. Shit-to-the-bull.
"Dude, they’ve done tests and everything," Scott insists, holding out his palms. "I thought you of all people would appreciate a real-live fairytale!"
"I would if it was real,” Stiles retorts, turning to look at the display once again. He does Instagram a photo, because, well. It’s the bro-trip. The Pre-College Countdown. He’s going to document everything he can, even Scott’s naivety. Plus, the wax-dude’s pretty easy on the eyes; well-built and delicately featured with a fan of inky-dark lashes caressing his cheekbones, but a strong, angular jaw and a dusting of stubble. If Stiles met him in a bar, he’d totally be down.
The Sleeping Beau of La Iglesia has all the markings of a tourist scam, though. With literally nothing around the town save for some old architecture and sand and maybe some unmarked cartel graves and more sand, there had to be something to draw the crowds here in droves, since the history buffs wouldn’t be paying the bills on their own. A hot fake-dude taking a nap in the ruins of an old church connected to a gift shop was reason enough.
He’s not saying there’s nothing to it.. just. Alright, maybe after the earthquake there actually had been a guy forgotten and undiscovered amidst the rubble for a full two weeks, And maybe he’d miraculously survived the heat and lack of oxygen and food and water. Hell, maybe he was some kind of magical creature, just like Lydia - but to believe this is him? Nope.
Stiles suspects the real Beau is, at best, a coma victim in one of the nearby hospitals. The media buzz surrounding the discovery was enough fuel to encourage the scam. Some shady people cashed in on his likeness after a photo showed up online. Bam. Instant revenue.
Stiles zooms in on the picture. The ‘guy’ is behind a fence and lit by dim construction-lights, so he can’t get as good a look as he would maybe want to, but there has to be something in the image to give away the fraud. 
"If it’s real, and alive, why is he still here?" he asks, noticing for the first time, the plaque fixed to the wall beside the exhibit. "Shouldn’t they have, I don’t know, tried to get him some medical attention? It’s been five years.”
Scott folds his arms. “Because of the forcefield,” he says, like it’s obvious.
"The forcefield," Stiles parrots flatly. "Of course."
"Dude, it says it all on the little info-thing," he says, pointing to the plaque.
"Yes, but it’s all in Spanish? Which I… didn’t take?"
Scott sighs, still clearly bitchfacing about Stiles calling bullshit on his awesome outing. “It says: 'Here rests The Sleeping Beau of La Iglesia. He was discovered some weeks after the Great Quake of 09, which leveled the town and exposed the late Aztec architecture which had been concealed by modernization. 
The Beau’s identity is unknown, but medical tests show him to be alive and in  - apparent - good health. It is unclear why he sleeps, but a legend surrounds this place; that time is relative, and those who are lost can find peace, until it is their hour to be found again. Ancient runes surround his resting place, keeping him safe from interference until his time for slumber has passed.
What will the Beau wake for? Destiny? An end to suffering? True Love? The secret is his own.”
Scott ends the reading with a mystical look in his eye. Stiles raises a brow.
"The mystical forcefield is glass. I’m pretty sure there’s a smudge on it."
"Dude, where’s your sense of wonder?"
"Back home in BH where actual supernatural shit happens on the regular," he says, squinting. "Seriously. This is crap. They don’t even get many tourists out here because everyone knows it." Scott looks scandalised, and skeptical. "Seriously, I’ll prove it to you."
He throws a leg over the fence after a cursory glance around, and Scott rushes forward. “Stiles!” he hisses. “What the hell!?”
"It’s fine -the guard out front looked more bored than I am," he throws back, picking his way across the dirt floor. It’s weird, but up close, he can’t see any glass - just this odd, ripple effect; like the sun on asphalt in Summer. Whatever. He’s come this far.
"Alright, Ken Doll," he tells the Beau, "How’d they make you look so real?" Seriously - Stiles has a photo of three-year-old him posing with a waxwork of Arnold Schwarzenegger in which he’s screaming in abject terror. They are never this lifelike.
He steps forward, cocking his head, and hesitates at the sharp intake of breath from behind. “Dude, chill.”
"Stiles - the runes—"
He realises what Scott’s talking about as soon as he’s said it. There’s a spiral of nonsense-looking runes leading into the part of the stone removed to display the Beau - and they’re glowing, a vibrant, azure blue.
"Whoa," Stiles breathes. He’s got to hand it to these guys - they don’t half-ass their scam. Of course Stiles isn’t the first skeptic to decide on a closer look. “What is this, a hidden trigger in the floor?”
"Stiles, I don’t think you should be messing with this—"
He tunes Scott out, furrowing his brow. It’s strange, like the moment the runes were ‘activated’, he’s been overcome by this… compulsion.
"Seriously, man, don’t—"
Touch him. Touch him so he’s real, a voice seems to say - and Stiles blinks, shaking his head. No - he’s fake. Stiles is touching this thing to prove to Scott that this whole thing is—
Have to touch.
"I.. Scott? It’s weird, it’s like I… I just have to…”
He’s reaching out as he speaks; reaching into the heat-ripple, warmth travelling up his arm, over his shoulder, settling behind his ribs. Stiles takes a breath - dust and dirt and, oddly, something familiar; homely - like an old comforter or the scent of his mom’s perfume - but… not.
He lets out the breath and reaches past the coil of beautiful, purple blooms for skin - warm skin. He can feel the heat radiating off that skin, feel the gentle ghost of the hair at his fingertips.
Scott is moving, he’s telling him something, insisting, but all Stiles can focus on is this - this man, this person behind the wall, and he has to touch him, will die if he doesn’t, can’t form a coherent thought about anything except—
There’s a crack as Stiles’ hand makes contact. A crack, a gasp a glow, and then green.
Green eyes.
Green eyes open.
Green eyes looking at Stiles.
No, not green - blue-hazel-teal… looking.
The Beau is looking at Stiles. He’s awake and his mouth is opening and his eyes are wide with awe, and Stiles feels that warmth again, that bloom in his chest, but it’s coming right from those eyes, boring into him, peering right at his very soul and offering his own in return.
It’s terrifying.
But it isn’t.
Everything is silent, save for the fall of rock, as the wall encasing the man breaks away, piece by piece, and Scott’s laboured breathing, three feet back, because he can’t pass the forcefield.
Because he isn’t meant to. Stiles was meant to.
In his heart, looking at this man, he knows it. Only Stiles was meant to.
Because—
"You found me," the Beau says, and promptly collapses, boneless, into Stiles’ arms.

howlnatural:

"It’s made of wax."

Scott makes a face like someone just told him the truth about Santa Claus - Stiles would know, since he accidentally stole that piece of Scott’s childhood and has had to endure the heartbreaking, wistful sighs every Christmas Eve since. How had anyone made it to age thirteen in Beacon Hills, Nemeton Weirdness Central, without finding out that Jolly Old St Nick was actually a frost demon who fed on the souls of children by luring them in with toys before his permanent imprisonment centuries back? Stiles’ attic was haunted by a sea captain thanks to the re-used beams in the roof, and they’d literally had to evict a vengeful family of tree sprites out of their old hangout spot last month. Come on.

But this? This tourist trap for the gullible? Stiles is calling bullshit. Shit-to-the-bull.

"Dude, they’ve done tests and everything," Scott insists, holding out his palms. "I thought you of all people would appreciate a real-live fairytale!"

"I would if it was real,” Stiles retorts, turning to look at the display once again. He does Instagram a photo, because, well. It’s the bro-trip. The Pre-College Countdown. He’s going to document everything he can, even Scott’s naivety. Plus, the wax-dude’s pretty easy on the eyes; well-built and delicately featured with a fan of inky-dark lashes caressing his cheekbones, but a strong, angular jaw and a dusting of stubble. If Stiles met him in a bar, he’d totally be down.

The Sleeping Beau of La Iglesia has all the markings of a tourist scam, though. With literally nothing around the town save for some old architecture and sand and maybe some unmarked cartel graves and more sand, there had to be something to draw the crowds here in droves, since the history buffs wouldn’t be paying the bills on their own. A hot fake-dude taking a nap in the ruins of an old church connected to a gift shop was reason enough.

He’s not saying there’s nothing to it.. just. Alright, maybe after the earthquake there actually had been a guy forgotten and undiscovered amidst the rubble for a full two weeks, And maybe he’d miraculously survived the heat and lack of oxygen and food and water. Hell, maybe he was some kind of magical creature, just like Lydia - but to believe this is him? Nope.

Stiles suspects the real Beau is, at best, a coma victim in one of the nearby hospitals. The media buzz surrounding the discovery was enough fuel to encourage the scam. Some shady people cashed in on his likeness after a photo showed up online. Bam. Instant revenue.

Stiles zooms in on the picture. The ‘guy’ is behind a fence and lit by dim construction-lights, so he can’t get as good a look as he would maybe want to, but there has to be something in the image to give away the fraud. 

"If it’s real, and alive, why is he still here?" he asks, noticing for the first time, the plaque fixed to the wall beside the exhibit. "Shouldn’t they have, I don’t know, tried to get him some medical attention? It’s been five years.”

Scott folds his arms. “Because of the forcefield,” he says, like it’s obvious.

"The forcefield," Stiles parrots flatly. "Of course."

"Dude, it says it all on the little info-thing," he says, pointing to the plaque.

"Yes, but it’s all in Spanish? Which I… didn’t take?"

Scott sighs, still clearly bitchfacing about Stiles calling bullshit on his awesome outing. “It says: 'Here rests The Sleeping Beau of La Iglesia. He was discovered some weeks after the Great Quake of 09, which leveled the town and exposed the late Aztec architecture which had been concealed by modernization.

The Beau’s identity is unknown, but medical tests show him to be alive and in  - apparent - good health. It is unclear why he sleeps, but a legend surrounds this place; that time is relative, and those who are lost can find peace, until it is their hour to be found again. Ancient runes surround his resting place, keeping him safe from interference until his time for slumber has passed.

What will the Beau wake for? Destiny? An end to suffering? True Love? The secret is his own.

Scott ends the reading with a mystical look in his eye. Stiles raises a brow.

"The mystical forcefield is glass. I’m pretty sure there’s a smudge on it."

"Dude, where’s your sense of wonder?"

"Back home in BH where actual supernatural shit happens on the regular," he says, squinting. "Seriously. This is crap. They don’t even get many tourists out here because everyone knows it." Scott looks scandalised, and skeptical. "Seriously, I’ll prove it to you."

He throws a leg over the fence after a cursory glance around, and Scott rushes forward. “Stiles!” he hisses. “What the hell!?”

"It’s fine -the guard out front looked more bored than I am," he throws back, picking his way across the dirt floor. It’s weird, but up close, he can’t see any glass - just this odd, ripple effect; like the sun on asphalt in Summer. Whatever. He’s come this far.

"Alright, Ken Doll," he tells the Beau, "How’d they make you look so real?" Seriously - Stiles has a photo of three-year-old him posing with a waxwork of Arnold Schwarzenegger in which he’s screaming in abject terror. They are never this lifelike.

He steps forward, cocking his head, and hesitates at the sharp intake of breath from behind. “Dude, chill.

"Stiles - the runes—"

He realises what Scott’s talking about as soon as he’s said it. There’s a spiral of nonsense-looking runes leading into the part of the stone removed to display the Beau - and they’re glowing, a vibrant, azure blue.

"Whoa," Stiles breathes. He’s got to hand it to these guys - they don’t half-ass their scam. Of course Stiles isn’t the first skeptic to decide on a closer look. “What is this, a hidden trigger in the floor?”

"Stiles, I don’t think you should be messing with this—"

He tunes Scott out, furrowing his brow. It’s strange, like the moment the runes were ‘activated’, he’s been overcome by this… compulsion.

"Seriously, man, don’t—"

Touch him. Touch him so he’s real, a voice seems to say - and Stiles blinks, shaking his head. No - he’s fake. Stiles is touching this thing to prove to Scott that this whole thing is—

Have to touch.

"I.. Scott? It’s weird, it’s like I… I just have to…”

He’s reaching out as he speaks; reaching into the heat-ripple, warmth travelling up his arm, over his shoulder, settling behind his ribs. Stiles takes a breath - dust and dirt and, oddly, something familiar; homely - like an old comforter or the scent of his mom’s perfume - but… not.

He lets out the breath and reaches past the coil of beautiful, purple blooms for skin - warm skin. He can feel the heat radiating off that skin, feel the gentle ghost of the hair at his fingertips.

Scott is moving, he’s telling him something, insisting, but all Stiles can focus on is this - this man, this person behind the wall, and he has to touch him, will die if he doesn’t, can’t form a coherent thought about anything except—

There’s a crack as Stiles’ hand makes contact. A crack, a gasp a glow, and then green.

Green eyes.

Green eyes open.

Green eyes looking at Stiles.

No, not green - blue-hazel-teal… looking.

The Beau is looking at Stiles. He’s awake and his mouth is opening and his eyes are wide with awe, and Stiles feels that warmth again, that bloom in his chest, but it’s coming right from those eyes, boring into him, peering right at his very soul and offering his own in return.

It’s terrifying.

But it isn’t.

Everything is silent, save for the fall of rock, as the wall encasing the man breaks away, piece by piece, and Scott’s laboured breathing, three feet back, because he can’t pass the forcefield.

Because he isn’t meant to. Stiles was meant to.

In his heart, looking at this man, he knows it. Only Stiles was meant to.

Because—

"You found me," the Beau says, and promptly collapses, boneless, into Stiles’ arms.

(Fuente: wolfspirals, vía hatteress)

545 348 notas

thecatantichristishere:

rabbitrecycle:

donaldkaneda:

owo:

punkmonksteven:

lalatula:

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*does the anime character with glasses thing*

Does that really work though?

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What…?

that’s so cool i wanna do it too!!!!!!

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ok here goes

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NO

Okay, there’s no way that works.

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Let me try this out.

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I’m kinda skeptical about this? Can it really make you anime.

imageGuss i’ll give it a shot

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ABORT ABORT

yeah right, like that really happens

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hmmm….

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maybe I should try-

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HOLY SHIT

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WHAT THE FU 

(Fuente: abosl, vía lovegame18)