halesass asked you:

Can I request: Stiles pines for Derek. Derek thinks he needs to get over Stiles bc misunderstanding of feelings. Derek has a date, Stiles helps him dress and pep talks him and //it hurts// but he wants Derek to be happy so he does it. Derek drives off to pick up his date and Stiles goes home to eat ice cream… where he finds Derek sitting on his bed, saying “I don’t wanna date some girl…” and then CONFESSIONS AND MAKE OUTS AND STUFF

This is a very specific prompt! I’ve been trying to figure out how to fill it, so I consulted my braintrust, who helped come up with the premise. By which I mean: blame Verity, at least a little bit, and Ashe, for Tie the Knot. It takes place in a ‘verse much like Teen Wolf’s, except that everyone knows about werewolves.

Which means, obviously, that there are werewolf dating shows.


Stiles is lying on the bed under a pile of sweaters. Cashmere and cotton and wool, navy and garnet and hunter green; he sweeps out a hand experimentally and knocks a black v-neck onto the floor, which is covered in jeans and socks and tee shirts, from before they decided that tee shirts were too casual.

"I don’t know, I’m thinking about tee shirts again," he says, just to be contrary. "Your biceps, you know?"

Derek is standing bare-chested in the middle of the room, fists clenched, frowning. He makes a noise like he doesn’t appreciate Stiles’ eleventh hour levity.

"I understand that among alphas your biceps are considered pretty run of the mill," Stiles says. "But they’re not, like, awful to look at or anything. I think they could be an asset. If not with Bachelorette number one then with audience members, or the viewing public. You never know who could be falling in love with your biceps, Derek.”

Derek throws a soft handful of tee shirts at Stiles’ prone form. “You stopped being useful hours ago,” he says. 

"I stopped being useful when you stopped listening to my suggestions."

"Tee shirts, Stiles."

"Just pick a fucking color, Derek.”

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Merthur Mod!AU Christmas Fluff

The living room smelled like sugar cookies and pine, and the TV played old Christmas carols on a channel that only showed a burning digital fireplace. The floor was littered in wrapping paper from the festivities earlier, when the room had been filled to the brim with friends and family and Merlin had insisted no one help clean because he was the host and he would do it later. But now, in the quiet aftermath, Merlin was nodding off on the couch with one hand clutching tightly to a glass of wine. The world faded in and out gently as he tried to fight sleep, so when the sound of footsteps crunching over the wrapping paper reached his ears, he wasn’t quite sure if he was hallucinating or not.

He wasn’t.

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Ashe sent me & Verity this and Verity was like “this is what [redacted spoiler, which you can read in the tags if you want] fics are made of, guys,” and I wrote the first third of a thing before my life fell apart and I forgot how to words for a little while. I will probably finish it? But this piece works as a standalone, and SEASON PREMIERE TONIGHT, and I don’t know, here is a little thing for you, Teen Wolf internet. 

(this is only the first piece; you can read the completed fic here.)

Scott wakes up in bed with Stiles. They’re tangled up together, Stiles’ arm thrown over Scott’s ribs, his sleeping face mashed against the back of Scott’s shoulder, the kind of careless, complicated pretzeling that hasn’t happened much since they both got old enough for morning wood to be a thing. He feels slow and thick, the world fuzzy and not-quite-right around him; probably still healing, he figures, last night’s damage being minutely set to rights. He stretches a little bit, tries to wriggle his way to freedom, and feels Stiles shift with him, making soft noises of protest in the back of his throat. “Hey,” Scott says, “hey, c’mon, dude, I know I kind of almost died last night but I thought you’d be used to it by now. Lemme up.”

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Anonymous requested:

Stiles and Derek as teens at the community pool after dark

Derek is already naked by the time he realizes that Stiles isn’t. He’s standing shyly with his fly unbuttoned, unzipped, long fingers clutching tights at the waistband of his jeans where he’s started— but not yet finished—pulling them off of his skinny hips. “I thought— boxers,” he says, shrugging, a blush coloring the fair skin of his cheeks, his chest. 

“Oh,” Derek says, now shy, too, willing himself not to look at his own dick or at Stiles’, to follow Stiles’ gaze to see if he’s looking at Derek’s dick or his own. Derek grew up in an enormous tight-knit family of shapeshifters; he forgets, sometimes, about other people, about their bodies and their shame. “I can put mine back on.”

“No,” Stiles says, forcing a laugh, squaring his chest. “No, that’s fine, I can,” and he strips off with a single movement, boxers and jeans a puddle of cotton around his feet. Derek really can’t look at him, now, can’t look anywhere but at the pavement, at his own feet, because Jesus, Jesus, Stiles is beautiful. He’s just back from six weeks of lacrosse camp, so his narrow frame is more than usually well-defined, the beginnings of pecs and abs and biceps swelling out gently, but what fascinates Derek are his tan lines, the white vulnerable skin of his thighs, and the tangle of dark curly hair below his navel, leading down to the soft weight of his dick, where Derek is definitely, definitely not allowed to be looking. 

He throws himself into the pool without even really thinking about it. The water is cool and lovely all around him, the chemical scent of chlorine sharp enough to clear his head. Get it together, Hale, he tells himself, and he thinks he has until he surfaces to find Stiles treading water next to him, drops of water caught in the long fringe of his eyelashes, his dark hair matted down to his forehead. He looks almost like he did when they were kids, except that his mouth can’t possibly have been quite so generous, then, wide and inviting, lips always just parting in the worst possible kind of tease.

“Race you to the shallow end,” Derek says, begging his body to do anything, anything but continue with this line of thought. 

“You’re a werewolf,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “Absolutely not, dude, I don’t take losing bets.”

“I thought you said you got—and I quote!—totally jacked out in lax-land.”

“Totally jacked is nothing on superstrength, okay, I have learned this lesson the hard way.” Derek shakes his head and swims towards the shallow end anyway, unaccountably pleased when Stiles follows at a measured pace. 

“You haven’t told me,” he says when they’re both standing waist deep in the water. “How it was.”

“Fine,” Stiles says, with this thousand yard stare he’s been getting lately, like he’s looking straight past Derek and into the dark parts of the universe. “You know. A little lonely.”

“Lonely? Among a hand-picked selection of the greatest laxbros in the Pacific Northwestern region?” Stiles flicks pool water at Derek, grinning.

“They’re not really my people,” he says. 

“Your people.”

“You know.” Stiles flushes again, gestures at the space between them. “Like, you, and Scott, and um, yeah. People. I don’t know. They just wanted to talk about girls a lot. And their sticks. Which, man, you’d think fifty guys talking sticks and balls and stuff there would have been one gay guy but no,” he says mournfully, looking down at his hands as they trail across the surface of the water. “Not a single, solitary one.”

“Except you,” Derek ventures, because he isn’t sure how Stiles is defining himself, these days. 

“In that crowd, anyway,” Stiles mutters. “Not like there were any girls around anyway, ugh, it was just kind of a waste. Would rather have been here with you.”

Derek feels himself brighten up and tries to keep from smiling too widely. “You would have been bored to tears here, too,” he says, biting back a comment about his willingly gay self. “Dad just had me doing dumb wolf drills in the woods all summer. It was lame.”

“You look good, though,” Stiles says, reaching out to punch Derek in the arm. “Is that like, an actual six pack?” 

“Uhm,” Derek says, because Stiles’ eyes on him are almost enough, in the hot still air, the late, private hours of the night. 

“Are those even real,” Stiles goes on, brushing his fingers over Derek’s stomach, so close, so sudden that Derek doesn’t even have time to tense up. “Oh,” he says, blinking stupidly. “Yeah, I guess they are. Very. Um. Real.”

His hands have stopped moving, so that his long pale fingers are splayed over Derek’s stomach, both of them staring down, breathing heavily, avoiding each others’ gaze. 

“You,” Derek says, and can’t even begin to finish the sentence. 

“I,” Stiles agrees, shifting forward, water rocking up around Derek’s now-dry torso, cold and surprising. “I’m gonna kiss you in a minute, I think,” he says. “Unless you stop me.”

“Not gonna stop you,” Derek says, already reaching out, pulling Stiles’ slick body towards his own, a tangle of new muscles and soft skin, the sharp places of the sliding together perfect, perfect. Stiles’ mouth falls further open. Derek tilts his head up and finds his way inside. 

[okay whatever, I wrote more of this.]

Anonymous asked you:

I need punk!sterek so bad scout so bad!!!! You would make my horrible day so much better.

Derek recognizes that feeling weird about his body is ridiculous. It is the kind of body that most dudes would kill for: tall, broad, chiseled, whatever. It’s just not the kind that he wants. Or not the kind that the men he’s interested in seem to want, especially when he goes to shows and watches a million lithe, beautiful scene boys eyeing him warily, wondering what kind of meathead asshole he’s going to turn out to be.

He almost skips the Firestarters’ show; he’s had a long, shitty week and he doesn’t feel like getting eyed up one way or the other. It’s only the call of the pit, the idea of slamming into a bunch of bodies for a few hours and walking out wrecked and exhausted, sweaty and lightheaded and numbed, deafened, buzz-headed and calm that tempts him through The Den’s front doors. 

They’ve just started playing when he arrives. Derek makes his way through the swaying outer layers of the crowd and his breath catches in his throat: their lead singer is some skinny punk wet dream, shirtless and ivory-pale where he isn’t covered in tattoos, sharp knees bare through the rips in his skintight jeans, dark mowhawk already plastered with sweat. His voice is one long, rough, low yowl, and Derek feels it in his bones. 

He does feel better by the time it’s over, so sidles up to the bar for a drink. “Told you,” Laura yells cheerfully, talking without breaking the smooth rhythm of her work. 

"Told me what," Derek shoots back, settling in on a stool that’s magically opened up in front of him. Sometimes looking like an intimidating jackass works to his advantage. 

"That Stiles was your type," Erica says. She swoops in to take Laura’s place, sliding him a sloshing shotglass of cheap whiskey.

"I don’t know who you’re talking about," Derek says primly. He takes the shot in one long, burning swallow.

"Me," someone says, way too near his ear, and when he brings his chin down he finds the Firestarters’ singer has crowded up into his space; he, apparently, isn’t afraid to get his hands on Derek, palms resting warm and intent on his thighs."Tell me they were right," he goes on, an endearingly awkward smile curling at the corners of his mouth. "Or this is about to get really embarrassing for me."

"They— weren’t wrong," Derek says, leaning back to signal for more drinks. Erica’s got him; two more shots are sitting at his elbow. He hands one to Stiles, takes the second for himself.

"Laura told me to keep an eye out for you," Stiles says. "She said you would be hard to miss but— Jesus, I couldn’t keep my fucking eyes off of you, you’re—" Derek flushes, ducks to try to hide it. If Stiles wants him to be some big, burly dude he can do that, he can definitely do that, he just needs to not— "fuck that’s adorable," he hears Stiles mutter, and that’s about as far as they get, conversationally, before Stiles’ whiskey soaked mouth is on his own, Derek’s shot abandoned on the bar, his fingers scrabbling against denim and leather and miles of smooth, soft skin.


excelsior65 said: 

Derek worked as a waiter in NYC. No awards for interpersonal skills, but he was competent. He picked up a decent knowledge of wine from the sommelier and boosted tips with recommendations to the clientele. Now he & Stiles are trapped in a wine cellar.

"The thing is that Scott knows where we are, and he’s totally coming to get us," Stiles says breathily. "So there’s really no reason to panic."

"That’s why I’m not," Derek replies, pulling a bottle, turning it over in his hands. He looks at it for a long moment and then replaces it carefully, almost tenderly; Stiles has never before seen him handle anything with that much gentle regard. 

"I might be, a little."

"You don’t say."

Derek.” Stiles bites down hard on his lower lip and tries to keep his breathing even, very even. Don’t make me say it, he thinks, because speaking the words panic attack out loud will make it way too real. Scott does know where they are and he’s probably on his way to them but who the fuck knows, and for now all Stiles has got to go on is is four walls and a million racks of expensive wine, a house full of Alphas standing guard above them. “Mostly I want to know why you didn’t show up in Beacon Hills with a basement of fine boozes,” he says, trying to keep it light.

"It’s not that great a collection," Derek says dismissively. 

"Oh really." 

"Nah," Derek says. "Showy. Lots of expensive stuff but there’s no real depth to it— it’s all ripped from the pages of Wine Enthusiast. You can tell he doesn’t care about it, not personally."



"So he probably wouldn’t mind if we— sampled some." Derek turns to Stiles and gives him a long, contemplative look. 

"It’s probably high time to educate your palate," he says. "And while this isn’t worth as much as he’s spent on it, it’ll probably do for a beginner."

They pass an hour, maybe two, sipping and sampling, Derek talking about grapes and soils, vintages, vineyard, berries and rot and funk and fruit. Stiles is tipsy but Derek isn’t, when they start kissing: that’s how Scott finds them, surrounded by three-quarter full bottles, kissing frantically into each others’ wine-stained mouths. 


 sidekickinit said: 

Stiles’ shirts are rucked up underneath his back, an uncomfortable press of layered fabric, but he doesn’t want to move. If he moves, Derek might shift away, take his hand from where it’s splayed against Stiles’ hip. Stiles shifts, rolls a little closer and presses the tip of his ice-cold nose into Derek’s bicep, breathing in the scent of his laundry detergent, an oh-so faint spice of cologne. Derek’s fingers twitch against his skin, and Stiles shivers. “Cold?” Derek murmurs. “No,” says Stiles.

(I’m answering this publicly so that I don’t lose the record of this glorious conversation; please let me know if that isn’t okayyyy. For those just joining us: we’ve been adding bits and pieces to this ficlet from earlier this week. Derek and Stiles are watching movies in bed because it’s very cold in the dorms.)

"Actually," he says, sliding in closer so that his hip is—just touching Derek’s, just barely— “I’m a little—" pulling one of the sweatshirts over his head, letting it drop to the floor with a sigh of relief. The move pulls up all the rest of his shirts, though, so that they’re tangled around his midriff. 

"You’re a mess," Derek says, laughing, his fingers still somehow, miraculously, on Stiles’ waist. “Here," he says then, sliding the bunched fabric up, past his ribs. Stiles gets the message, raises his arms, lets Derek’s palms cup the curves of his shoulder blades as they rise and rise. There’s a bad moment getting the mess over his head but then he’s— shirtless. In bed. With Derek Hale.

"I was getting hot too," Derek says. “I thought—" and then he’s pulling his own shirt off, easy, graceful, and Stiles can see his whole collarbone, now, his chest and stomach, the trail of hair spreading down from his navel, nipples turning hard in the cold air of the room. 

"Under the covers," Stiles breathes, his body quickening when Derek reaches for him again, this time not stopping with a hand on side, pulling him in so that his arm is warm and heavy around the tops of his shoulders. 

The snow outside is still falling; the movie keeps playing, soft, in the background.

for Julie, because I am also miserable about dudes right now:

Derek has inured himself to the existence of the bakery’s seasonal employees. They come, they go. They are always eighteen and colt-legged, doe-eye, soft little animals with their sticky fingers in each others’ mouths, tangled up in their own hair. Madisons, Beccas, Jasons, Maxes by the handful. He survives one spring break and a long hot summer of them. He considers himself immune.

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attractedtosin replied to your post: I really love woke up married trope (not vegas) i’d like to see that in your writing for derek x stiles

holy fuck, would you consider making this rebloggable?

notenoughgatorade asked:

I really love woke up married trope (not vegas) i’d like to see that in your writing for derek x stiles

Derek learned the symbols when he was still a baby: Laura sat with him and guided his crayons over the page until he could do it fluently, and he did the same with Cora when it was her turn. Now it strikes him how silly it is, having the youngest child in the family in charge of any portion of a marriage rite, but werewolf culture predates Piaget and the Hales were very traditional and that was how it was done. Derek has sweet fuzzy memories of doing it for Peter: dipping his pointer finger in black ink and drawing the knot’s curves onto his uncle’s wrist, his bride’s proffered palm.

He was too young, then, to understand the thrill of power, the tight zip of two people being bound, so all he remembers now is that it felt like static electricity, a shock that ran through him and made him light up all over. It’s different when he traces the symbol absently against Stiles’ bare back, fingers moving in familiar patterns, a long slow drift.

They’re sleeping on the roof because it’s two weeks into a dense, endless heatwave and the moon is overfull and the wolves are all restless, whining and kicking in their sleep. Stiles is at Derek’s side, Scott next to him, Erica and Cora curled around one another in a corner, Isaac and Boyd sprawled loose a few feet away. It’s— no one knows, yet, about them. Derek doesn’t even know about them, really. He knows that it was frantic the first time, the first few times, that this morning Stiles showed up in the one cool hour just before dawn and kissed him wide-eyed and tender, pulled him close in the sheets and whispered please, that he fell asleep tonight just in the pool of Derek’s shadow.

He isn’t thinking when he does it but he feels it happen, just after: the air going dry and sudden and still, moonlight turning from bright to blinding, white to gold. He feels Stiles slot into place with him, thinks nonsensically of lightning finding ground and the teeth of keys touching lock pins before the world greys out, turns black, fades away from him entirely.


When he wakes up he and Stiles are tangled up together, raised white marks stark against the inside of each of their wrists. He stares at them in wonder, at the sun in the sky, yellow and innocent on the rise. He doesn’t remember how they got there. He feels it behind his own eyes, when Stiles starts to stir.

thewitchway asked you:

Are you still taking request? I want Isaac to go to Derek and be all like “WHATS UP YOU + STILES??” and Derek’s all like “DUDE HE WAS A VIRGIN HESA GONNA DIE” and Isaac’s all like “IMA VIRGIN TOO WAH.” And then Derek HAS to take care of Isaac cause it’s an alpha thing.

So it turns out that fuck-or-die is a trope that— like any kind of actual predestined matesfic— I am totally happy to read but completely unable to write. Instead, here’s this, which is set just after 3.03 when Isaac still would have had reason to believe that virgins were the target, and was still speaking to Derek:

Stiles is stumbling his way out of the loft when Isaac gets home, and he has the brief, surreal desire to ask him where he thinks he’s going, young man. Technically they’ve both been out all night, and they’re both in bigger trouble than that and it’s not— Isaac is so not anybody’s father. It’s just— Stiles looks worn out and he smells exhausted, frayed, like old cloth rubbed too thin. “You okay?” he asks instead.

"Sure," Stiles says automatically. He pauses, though, sweeps a hand through the thicket of his dark hair. "Isaac you’re— fuck, I’m sorry, you’re not a virgin, right?"

"Um," Isaac says. "No. No. Why?" 

"Doesn’t matter," Stiles says. "If you aren’t, anyway. Okay. I gotta go. Dad’s gonna be up in a few hours." His pace is slow and even down the hallway, tread heavy. Isaac frowns at his retreating back, trying to figure out how to take back the lie. He pushes into the loft, finds Derek sitting on the couch, looking— oddly bereft, hands open, empty at his sides. The lingering tang of arousal hangs, fading in the air. Stilinski’s crush on Derek never gets less desperate or obvious, which is comforting, almost, an eternal baseline of pathetic for Isaac to measure the rest of his messy life against. 


He’s taken to spending the nights out, running. He used to love to run, the way it would work his body into euphoria and then exhaustion, quieting his mind for hours at a time. Now it’s automatic and his body could go on forever but he hasn’t lost the habit. It’s easier to keep doing it than to admit that he can’t sleep.

So it isn’t until too late that Isaac realizes that Derek thinks he isn’t home when Stiles comes over, presses him up against the loft’s doors, says “we don’t have to, okay, I want to, please,” and Derek says, “I want to, fuck, I—” and kisses Stiles, twisting his hands into Stiles’ hair, hauling him in so close that even Stiles has the good sense to look a little afraid.

They make out against the door; at some point Stiles gets his hand down Derek’s pants, and Isaac has the uncomfortable realization that he’s been watching for— way too long, now, beyond any kind of normal prurient interest and into full-on creeper territory. The history project he stayed in to work on sits abandoned at his side as he peers down the stairs, watching them work against one another, listening to the noise they make, pants and little choked-off moans, they way they keep whispering each others’ names like a litany, an incantation, like a prayer. 


Isaac can’t stop thinking about it, after: Stiles dropping to his knees, pulling Derek’s dick out, sucking it ‘til everything was shiny and slick with his spit. Derek with his back to a wall and his neck arching up, hips thrusting forward, vulnerable and lost, kissing Stiles’ come-covered mouth, dragging him into the bedroom, the sounds they both made. How eventually he gave in and got his own dick out, jerked off listening to it. It’s not the most fucked up thing he’s ever done. 


When he asks Derek he’s expecting the no. What he isn’t expecting is Derek’s eyes getting wide and worried, saying “you’re— Stiles said you weren’t— he said he asked.”

"I lied," Isaac admits, trying to sound bold and careless. "I didn’t think it mattered."

"It does," Derek says. "It— you could die, Isaac."

"So fuck me." Isaac puts a hand on Derek’s knee and feels him flinch at the contract. He draws back and twists his fingers together in his lap.

"I can’t,” Derek says.

"You did it for Stiles."

"That wasn’t— it wasn’t like that."

"He wasn’t a virgin?"

"It wasn’t because of that."

"So what, he’s your— boyfriend now, is that it, you can’t cheat on Stiles?”

"I don’t want to," Derek says. "You’re my beta, I’m responsible for you, I can’t— I just can’t, okay, please don’t ask me."

"This is taking care of me,” Isaac argues. “This is— the best way, how can you not see that?”

"I can’t," Derek says again. For a minute Isaac hates him, his stupid, useless attempts to be noble now, when he’s always been such a grade-A shoot now ask questions later fuckup. 

"Fine," Isaac tells him. "Fine, then, maybe I’ll find an alpha who will."


Scott isn’t technically an alpha but he’s a very soft touch, and Isaac knows how to play this game. “I feel weird asking,” he says. “It’s just— I’m so scared, Scott and Derek says he won’t, and I can’t— I don’t know who else to ask.”

They’re sitting on the edge of Scott’s bed, Isaac giving him just enough distance, a kind of friendly-but-intimate amount of space. “What would this entail,” Scott asks slowly. “Because I’m, uh, there are some things—”

"I don’t think we’d have to— you know," Isaac says, letting himself shift and blush, wondering whether he should let on that he’d do this anyway, that since he turned he’s been pretty much permanently semi-hard and that he’s always wanted to see what Scott McCall, golden hero, looks like when he’s needy and desperate.

"There aren’t rules or anything?"

"I don’t know," Isaac says, the corner of his mouth curling up into a smile. "But I figure it’s better than nothing. Whatever— whatever you’ll give me."

That seems to do the trick; Scott leans in and puts a hand on Isaac’s cheek, glances up to meet his gaze. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I’ll take care of you,” and Isaac doesn’t have to fake the shiver that runs up his spine at the words, the helpless, startled sound he makes when Scott’s mouth, soft and wet and gentle, finds his.

sidekickinit asked:

Apocalypse! Boarding school! Blizzard! Any of the above! (Hahaha, all of the above - a world-ending blizzard while at boarding school!)

"It’s kind of exciting though, right," Scott says from the window. Stiles doesn’t know what he’s looking at; snow has been falling so thick and fast for the last few hours that there’s almost nothing to see, the world blanketed in undifferentiated white. "It’s like— we hunker down and ride it out together, you know? I hope the power goes out."

"You hope the power goes out so that the alarms don’t work and you can slip over to the girls’ dorms to see Allison," Stiles corrects him. 

"Plus we might miss a few days of classes," Scott says. "There are a lot of reasons to be in favor of this storm." Stiles comes and joins him on the window seat, pressing the tip of his nose against the cold glass, watching his breath form clouds, watching the clouds melt away again. It is nice, he thinks, to be warm and cozy inside while the world rages on, just on the other side of the pane. "I wouldn’t want you to get lonely though," Scott goes on, faux-innocent. "I’m sure if I let Derek know you were going to be all by yourself all night he would be happy to—"

Scott,” Stiles says, scandalized. “That’s not—he wouldn’t— Derek doesn’t—”

"I don’t what?" Derek is standing in the doorway wearing tight, faded jeans and a sweater that’s literally coming apart at the seams, a hole pulling at the collar so Stiles can see his clavicle, the hollow of his throat. 

"Like it when I break the rules," Scott supplies helpfully, jumping up and ushering Derek into his spot with suspicious alacrity. "Which, too bad, I’m sure it’s chaos out there right now so Imma go see about my girlfriend but you two have fun, okay, stay warm!"  

Stiles watches the snow for a little while longer before he says anything. “I can leave,” he tells Derek. “Boyd snuck Erica over and kicked me out of my room a while ago but they’re probably done by now, so, uh, yeah, sorry, I can get out of your hair.” 

Derek shrugs, shakes his head. “I stole a bunch of Swiss Miss from the dining hall yesterday,” he says. “And I think Allison left some vanilla vodka somewhere, last time she was over. We could— do that. If you wanted.”

"Sure," Stiles says, trying to sound casual. "Sure, yeah, I could— okay." Derek goes out to heat some water in the little dorm kitchen down the hall while Stiles hunts through Scott’s stuff for the booze. Sometimes he thinks about how angry he was when he heard that they’d be assigned to different rooms— something about branching out and making new friends, whateverto that, and what a complete and total fool he was. Scott doesn’t like Derek on principle— Derek’s creepshow of an uncle was the headmaster until recently— but Stiles has learned to see him on his, uh, own merits. For his own excellent qualities. Like his foresight and cleverness, in stealing hot chocolate, and his— abs, okay, his abs, ass, arms, eyes, mouth. Stiles finds the vodka next to Scott’s porn stash— gross— and takes a quick nasty swig just to keep himself in line.

Derek returns with two steaming mugs; they stir in the chocolate powder and the vodka and sit and sip together, feet almost touching, not quite. “This is nice,” Derek says shyly, looking down at his cup. “Thanks for, um. Sticking around.”

"Oh," Stiles says, because he thought they both knew Derek was the one doing him a favor. "Yeah, of course. Scott’s— kind of like, my only friend, and since I can’t power down when he’s with Allison I usually just like, I don’t know, annoy Boyd and Isaac or annoy someone else." Derek’s smile turns up at him, soft and strangely fond.

"I was really scared of storms when I was little," he says. "I grew up in a house near a forest, and sometimes the trees would get hit by heat lightning. I sort of grew out of it but one of them— caught, when I was sixteen. Took half the Preserve down, and the house with it."

"Jesus," Stiles says. "I’m— I didn’t know. I’m sorry."

"This is different," Derek says, gesturing out the window to the miles of snowdrifts, the frozen iced out world. "It’s not— I don’t know why I just told you that."

"Fire and ice," Stiles says. "One way or the other."

"Yeah," Derek agrees. "I guess."

"Anyway Erica might be here all night," Stiles ventures, cautious. "I can keep you company ‘til whenever. Whenever you want me to leave."

"I would like that," Derek says, shifting so that his ankle brushes Stiles’. He doesn’t move away from it. In fact he stills all over, takes a long moment before leaning into the contact. 

[making this rebloggable by request]

Anonymous asked: derek/ms blake: bonding over something they have in common

Derek drives Jen home, because it seems like the normal thing to do. The whole point of the Volvo was to have a car without bloodstains rubbed deep into its seats but he resigns himself without thinking about it too much, wishing he at least had a clean shirt in the back to change into.

She’s quiet most of the way, except to give directions. It’s only when they pull up outside of her building— modest-to-crappy but close to Beacon Hills’ downtown, such as it is— that she turns to him and opens her mouth.

“Werewolves,” she says. “Are we gonna talk about the werewolf thing or what?”

“Or what,” Derek says, startled. “I mean— what— you— werewolves—”

Get out of Oregon, they said,” she goes on, agitated, now. “California is quiet, no wolves for decades, weres don’t hang out there, don’t like the lack of cover, it will be quiet, Jen, move to Beacon Hills. This is such utter fucking bullshit. I refuse to get involved in another territory dispute, not even if the kids are— the kids aren’t involved, are they?”

Derek allows himself a moment to appreciate the righteous surety of her anger, the flush in her cheeks, the bright sharp focus in her eyes. 

“It’s not a territory dispute,” he says. “I’m not sure what it is.” 

“The birds,” she says. “That’s— I was hoping they were unrelated. Are you kidding me? Not just feuding werewolves but ominous, nonspecific supernatural portents? This is— man, this is bullshit.”

“You can leave,” Derek says. “I can ensure you safe passage, I can—”

“My contract’s not up ‘til the end of the year,” she says crisply. “I’m not going anywhere. And I’d say I’m not getting involved but—”

“You don’t have to.”

“I am involved,” she says. She catches his eye, holds his gaze, rubs a gentle thumb over the dried blood streaking his chin, jaw, neck. “Come inside,” she says at last. “We’ll get you cleaned up, and then you can tell me everything.”

fiveyearmission asked you:

OKAY i know i’m number 5 but TECHNICALLY I got in before everyone at TW night last week so: Derek-Hoechlin bodyswap plz forever plz plz plz I will get you a cronut or something

Tyler wakes up in Derek’s bed. He’s gotten into the habit of taking naps there sometimes when the rest of the cast and crew is breaking for lunch, so this isn’t that surprising. His awful rabbit food diet makes watching Posey and Dylan cram their faces full of whatever’s on offer from catering too painful, so he’ll stretch out here for the union thirty and try to really break it down for himself: how awful is would be, to have to actually, like, be Derek Hale. He’ll make up stories about Derek as a child and imagine what Derek does while Stiles and co. are at school and try to construct a Christian theology that allows for the existence of murderous shapeshifters.

He’d be happy to keep doing it now but it’s too dark and too quiet, almost eerie on the abandoned sound stage. Tyler rolls out of the bed and pads across the floor, still a little muzzy from his nap. It isn’t until he gets to the loft’s open door that he realizes there’s— an actual hallway on the other side of it. Come to think of it there’s no equipment, either, no lights set up, no mics, no— nothing. There’s a ceiling in the goddamn room. 

That’s when he notices the sounds: someone’s heart beating slow and steady— too slow, maybe, in the rooms above him, that same person breathing soft and even. He can hear his own heartbeat and, if he concentrates, the sound of tires on asphalt outside his window. He can hear crickets and cicadas and smell— people, coming and going, stale food scents, week-old Chinese food, Sriracha spilled on the counter, and wolves, he thinks which doesn’t— that doesn’t make sense.

The loft’s door shrieks as someone pushes it open and Tyler feels something unfamiliar happen to his body, his fingertips curving sharp and dangerous, browline wrinkling as he— turns into an actual motherfucking goddamn werewolf.

"Woah," Dylan says. "Woah, hey, dude, it’s just me, Derek, it’s just me."

This is— this is really weird, but Tyler has to keep his shit together. “Dylan?” He asks weakly.

"Ha ha, very funny," Dylan says. If it were anyone else Tyler might be less suspicious, but the odds that Dylan has constructed this elaborate a prank aren’t actually all that bad. "She sleeping okay?"

"Cora?" Tyler asks, deciding to play along. That must be who Dylan means, Adelaide sitting at the top of the stairs, waiting to laugh her head off at him for being like, way too into his craft. "I think so."

"I got the next dose from Deaton," Dylan says, drawing in close, resting his hand for a spare moment on Tyler’s forearm. He’s playing it very big-eyed tonight, Tyler thinks. They’ve kind of agreed to back off the Sterek dynamic as much as is possible, but apparently this prank involves that, too. Fantastic. Just really great. "I’ll see if I can get her to take it, okay?"

"Yeah," Tyler says. When Dylan touches him he feels— hot, something sparking in cells where they’re touching, like he knows Dylan, like he wants to— which he doesn’t, he definitely doesn’t, so he shoves that down hard. He paces while Dylan is up there, trying to figure out the game.

Of course there’s the— slim possibility, he figures, that he is Derek Hale, that he’s a werewolf after all. Maybe Tyler Hoechin’s life was all a dream? It certainly seems more likely than that Tyler the successful actor with a hot girlfriend would have thought up this fate up for himself. 

He decides that the best way to test this hypothesis is with backflips. 

He does ten effortless ones in a row before he decides he’s a werewolf after all. Tyler is giddy with the knowledge— not sure what to do with it, really, but backflips seem like a good start. There are lots of Derek stunts he’s eager to test out, moves to try, things he’s been—

"Hey," Dylan— Stiles? says, coming downstairs again. “What was all that racket? Cora was worried about you.”

"Nothing," Tyler says. He can’t stop laughing. Stiles eyes him suspiciously.

"You all right?" he asks. "You seem a little hysterical."

"I’m thinking about going for a run tonight," Tyler says, bouncing on the tips of his toes. He can probably run for hours, he thinks, he can do a million burpees and pushups and pullups, he could show up at the West Hollywood Crossfit and murder those wimps without breaking a sweat. 

"We talked about this," Stiles says, drawing in too close again. "It’s not safe right now, you know that, Derek. Please." He puts a hand back on Tyler’s arm, and another one— oh holy shit, around his waist. “I’m sure I can give you a solid workout, if that’s what you’re after,” he murmurs, before sealing his mouth over Tyler’s, smiling against the curve of his lips.

Tyler never tells anyone exactly how long it takes him before he pulls away.

On that note, a Tumblfic roundup:

Stiles has a good day

Lydia & Allison do yoga

Derek makes an appearance on Tie the Knot

Erica and Stiles make out

Derek and Stiles go skinny dipping

Stiles disdains Miller High Life


Derek has a good morning

Then the Sheriff finds out

Derek and Stiles wear tuxedos

Derek knows things about wine

Lydia watches the X-Files

Mighty Ducks AU

With a bonus sequel to one of the above to be posted later tonight. Because I love you and want you to be happy, and because there is not really any porn in any of these, and I felt bad about it.

(ETA: that sequel exists now too, if you’re interested.)

connaissais asked:

If you're still doing these, supermoon. (Is it a stimulant or a depressant? Do the wolves get the urge to sit outside and stare at Mother Moon? I need to know.)

Stiles has been strictly instructed to stay away from the loft tonight, which is probably the stupidest thing Derek has ever done. He feels the urge to be contrary in his marrow; on any other night he would have been more than happy to avoid full moon shenanigans but now he’s practically being forced to find out what’s got Derek so wound up this time. That’s what he tells himself, anyway, as he makes his way along the corridor that leads to the loft’s double doors. He’s not being rude, he’s being inquisitive, there’s a difference.

He gets the doors a third of the way open before Derek’s grim face appears between them, eyes wide, hair wild. “Stiles no,” he says, even as he’s reaching out to grab Stiles by the wrist and pull him into the loft. 

Whatever he was expecting it just— it so wasn’t this. Derek’s downstairs bed is covered by his betas, Cora and Erica semi-discreetly cuddling at the head while Erica strokes Boyd’s scalp with her fingertips. Boyd is side by side with Isaac, who’s curled around— Scott, which is maybe the most surprising thing of all. Scott’s been keeping his own counsel since he leveled himself up by killing Deucalion but Stiles is pretty sure that being an alpha means he’s not technically part of Derek’s pack.

"Fuck," Derek says, manhandling him towards the bed. "I specifically told you not to do this, Stiles, and now you’re—"

"You told him not to?” Scott asks. “I mean that was your first mistake, Derek, Stiles is like, the single most defiant person who has ever lived. You should have invited him over for dinner or like—”

"Just told me what the fuck was going on," Stiles cuts in. Derek has pulled them both so that they’re sprawled across the foot of the bed, and Stiles doesn’t have a lot—okay any experience, really, with cuddling, but he’s pretty sure that spooning isn’t supposed to be this aggressive.

"Supermoon," Cora says, Erica nodding sagely at her side. "The closer it gets the more it affects us."

"So shouldn’t you be like— howling around town in a mad rage?" Stiles asks, and then flinches because, uh. Cora and Boyd did exactly that not all that long ago.

"The rage thing happens when wolves aren’t well connected to their packs," Cora explains. "This is the alternative option."

"And I’m—"

"Pack, apparently," Derek mumbles against the back of his neck. He doesn’t sound thrilled about this development.

Stiles wiggles himself around so that he can face Derek; once he realizes that he’s not trying to escape, Derek lets him, his iron-tight grip easing up enough that Stiles can flip over and re-situate himself. “And Scott?” he asks first, trying to find a more neutral topic.

"Things are complicated for Scott," Derek allows. "With— Isaac. And me. We didn’t have a lot of time to sort things out. It’s okay for tonight."

"And me being here? Did you know you’d want me to—" Stiles gestures at the space between their curled bodies, which is almost surreally small. Derek’s face is maybe six inches from his own. 

"No," Derek says. Cora kicks him; he kicks her back. "Kind of," he says, then. "When the moon started rising I could— I could feel that you were missing."

"Oh." Stiles takes a minute to think about this. It’s fucking weird, even by the weird standards of his life these days, but not necessarily a bad kind of weird. If he’s going to have to be in the middle of supernatural messes for the next few years— and that just seems unavoidable, given the circumstances— he’ll take the parts where they all lie down together in the dark, in the quiet, giving and taking comfort. He’ll take knowing that Derek wants him around, against his will and his better judgement, that the pack feels his absence when he’s not there. He turns again, folds himself into Derek’s arms, curls his fingers through Derek’s where his hand is resting flat against Stiles’ belly.

They lie like that for a good long while, talking softly, the rest of the pack drifting to sleep by degrees, so that Stiles is never quite sure when he realizes that it’s just him and Derek awake in the loft. The moon is huge through the windows, bearing down on them with oceans of soft white light. He stirs himself, trying to get a better look at it, realizes that Derek is— hard, behind him, at half-mast in his jeans. 

"Shit," Derek says. "Um. Sorry."

"I get it," Stiles says, probably too quickly, unwilling to untangle himself. "It’s— the moon, it’s an alpha thing, it’s not—"

"It’s not the moon," Derek mutters, even though Cora isn’t awake to hear the lie.

"Oh," Stiles says again. He closes his eyes against the moonlight, presses his body back into Derek’s, feels it in his bones when the two of them start to move together, Derek’s fingers gripping tightly against the flesh of his shaking thighs. 

Where All the Veins Meet

Stiles sits with Derek’s body until Derek comes back into it. While he’s out he breathes slow and and even. His face is sharp and shadowed, stubble-dark. When the lines around his eyes and mouth tighten up, when his chest hitches and his fingers twitch, when he frowns and sighs and starts to struggle: that’s when Stiles knows he’s on the way. Derek sits up suddenly, blinks, tries to leap to his feet. His shoes slip and his knees don’t seem to work quite right, yet. “They’re gone,” Stiles says. His voice echoes all the way down the long hall.

Derek does stand up, then, too straight. "What are we doing here," he asks. 


Stiles gives him a ride home from the hospital. Or: he gives Derek a ride to his own dark house. Peter’s got Cora at Deaton’s; Allison, Isaac and Chris are with Lydia. They pass right by the loft, silent and black and abandoned and he doesn’t slow down when they do. Derek doesn’t tell him to stop. Why does it matter, where Derek goes home to? And who’s going to care about Stiles, with his father—.

Stiles doesn’t turn on the lights when they go inside. He can’t bear to look at his own familiar home: the domesticity of it, his sneakers kicked off just inside the door, his fathers’ papers still on the kitchen table. The very idea of it gives him a headache. And anyway, Derek can see in the dark. 


He wakes up in the middle of the night and the house is too quiet. It’s hard to say what he means by that: too quiet. The house has always been quieter than it was meant to be, but he can feel the— presence, maybe, of absence. He sneaks downstairs and remembers, halfway, that he doesn’t have to bother. He sneaks anyway and tell himself that he has to keep in practice.

Derek is smoking a cigarette on the back porch.

"That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen," Stiles says. Derek turns and raises an eyebrow and— yeah, okay, stupid might have been overstating it, just slightly. “Do you even get a buzz?”

"Leave me alone."

"Hey fuck you,” Stiles says, sitting down next to him, because— fuck him, that’s why.

"You want one?"

"Yeah," Stiles says. The first drag burns rough, awful, in the back of his throat. The quiet starts to crowd in around them. "There’s got to be a colorful story about where you picked this up."

Derek doesn’t say anything for a while, and Stiles kicks him instead of saying don’t make me beg.

"When I was working at bars in New York," Derek exhales eventually. "It’s a good excuse to take a break."

"And now you—"

"Listen, Stiles, I don’t know, okay."

Stiles can’t imagine what it would be like: instead of protecting the body day in and out to just— throw it out in front of you, over and over and over again. Derek’s shadow falls across him slantwise. The moon is a thin sliver of silver, already starting to fall to the western edge of the sky. The storm passed hours ago.

"Come back up," he says. "Come— come." They put out their cigarettes and Stiles gathers up the butts, tosses them in the trash on their way in. He knows the house well enough to navigate it in the dark. Derek tries to turn back to the guest bedroom but he’s— pliable, and Stiles pulls him into his own room, one hand on his shoulder.

"Stiles," Derek says, warning.

"I’m not," Stiles tells him. The house is too quiet; there’s no way either of them is going to be able to sleep. Their bare feet are damp and dirty from the porch, the yard. They’re both wearing jeans and tee shirts, rough cotton that snags, catches, tangles. It’s hideously uncomfortable. They turn away from one another and mash their faces deep into the pillows, snuffle and grunt until their breathing evens out again, soft, soft. Derek is still there when Stiles wakes the next morning. 

entertainme720 asked you:

Lord I want to ask for too many things, but: there was a trend a while ago where everyone was writing “Derek has a good day” fics. I’d love your version of what a great day would be for Stiles. (With some Sterek makeouts, perhaps? And domestic fluff/future fic/present fic is fine, I’ll take whatever!)

His bike is a beater, a salvaged wreck he pieced together with the help of one of the Berkeley collectives. It’s not nearly as nice as the sleek featherlight mountain bikes Isaac and Boyd keep hanging from hooks in their apartment’s lobby, or Allison’s sturdier all-terrain version but it’s Stiles’, something he made himself with his own two hands. He likes to pull it out on weekends to inspect and tune it, reacquaint himself with all of the little vulnerable moving pieces.

It’s been a rainy spring, too damp to ride except on paved paths, which are always choked with slow-moving families and meandering geriatrics. The first week in June it finally stays clear for six days running, and when the seventh, a Saturday, dawns bright and lovely, Stiles drags himself out of Derek’s warm bed to put his hard work to good use. 

"What," Derek mumbles, sleepy, reaching into the empty space Stiles leaves in the sheets. 

"Gonna go for a ride," Stiles says, sinking down long enough to press a quick, chaste kiss to the corner of Derek’s mouth. 

"Sure, sure." Derek’s grip tightens on Stiles’ wrist, tugging him closer.

"A bike ride, Derek.”

"Yeah but." They’ve been together long enough that Derek knows how to play this: he stretches and squirms, sits up so that the sheets slide down his torso. His hair is sleep-mussed and there are pillow lines on his cheek and he looks— soft, and vulnerable and familiar. "You could also stay here."

"You make a compelling argument. And yet."

To his credit, Derek only pouts a little bit. “Give me a minute to shower, I’ll come with you?”

"This must be that compromise thing people are always talking about," Stiles says, keeping his smirk to a minimum, in deference to Derek’s self-restraint. "I’ll put coffee on."

The bike ride is sublime, and the sweaty sex they have after is perfect, and Stiles has always preferred fucking after they’ve both brushed their teeth anyway, so it all works out, pretty much.

nanoochka asked you:

I’ve been toying with the idea of starting a future fic where Stiles cheats on Derek, maybe while he’s away at school or something. I know it’s lame to ask for something I might potentially attempt myself, but I feel like you would write the shit out of that. And probably, in the process, convince me there’s no longer any need for me to bother. ;)

I feel like I should clarify that this isn’t about an infidelity kink so much as I just really like to see stories that represent realistic relationships, especially those that involve distance and new experiences being had on one side and potentially poor communication as well. Perhaps more than Derek, I think I could see Stiles slipping up in a moment of weakness or drunkenness or whatever, getting carried away or forgetting himself and later regretting it immensely.


There’s a funny little balcony you can climb down onto from Lexi’s bedroom window; the drop isn’t so far, really, but Stiles is drunk enough that the rush of the fall runs through him sharply, so that he lands grinning. “C’mon,” Lexi says, kicking her feet against the stucco wall. “Help me out, or there will be no cigarettes for you.”

She’s short, Lexi, a little miniature pixie of a girl, with long hair and a nice smile, good laugh. Her dress is rucked up high on her legs; the material bunches under Stiles’ hands as she slides into them, his palms warm against the bare skin of her thighs. The weight of her surprises him: he can feel the sharp outline of her ribs, one pointy knee at his side, but she’s not so insubstantial, gathered up like this. He releases her gently to the ground, trying to keep his eyes from the soft fall of cotton uncrumpling at her hem.

It’s late spring in Vermont, just warm enough for clothes like that, nights like this: drinking cheap gin from the bottle and playing fifteen rounds of slap and shoot, so that Stiles’ cheeks are still stinging, sneaking out for cigarettes on rooftops. Co-llege, Stiles thinks muzzily. This is exactly how this is supposed to go. Lexi arranges herself with her back against the building, knees tented up in spiked peaks, and pulls a pack of Parliaments and a lighter from her bag. 

They have the whole thing to themselves but Stiles curls himself up at her side, the top of her shoulder a quarter centimeter from the bare skin of his upper arm. There’s always been a cheerful physical intimacy between them: he’s used to touching her, casual and easy, so that it almost feels weirder not to. He shouldn’t even have to think about it, he thinks, and then tells himself what he already knows: go home, you’re drunk.

Lexi lights her cigarette, the tip flaring orange with light. Her first drag is long and deep, ash forming at the end, soft and chalky gray. “I guess this is it for you and smoking for a while,” she breathes out on the exhale, the words carried by a cloud of warm, dry smoke.

“Dad doesn’t really approve, no,” Stiles agrees, inhaling his first lungful, the buzz of nicotine making him shaky and uneven even though he’s sitting still. 

“And isn’t your boyfriend like, super sensitive about that stuff? Smells or whatever?” Stiles bites back a too-harsh laugh. 

“You could say that.”

Derek came to visit in March, a late Valentine’s Day present; there was a late-season snowstorm a couple of days before he arrived so that campus was a slush-covered ice rink for most of his visit, hazardous and grey-brown all over. He hated it, hated everything: the way Stiles’ room smelled like other people, the fact that in order to have sex they had to announce to his roommate that they wanted to do it, the tiny town with no amusements, really, other than booze he couldn’t enjoy.

Stiles had thought they’d weathered enough together that awkwardness wasn’t an option, anymore, but he’d never encountered anything like the silences that started falling at the end of the trip, blank, blank things, dead air. It was a little better when he went home for spring break, good enough that they haven’t broken up but it’s a long summer ahead of them, another three years after that.

His friends at school don’t really get it, the Derek thing. He understands that. He doesn’t blame them. How could they? There’s a long history that he can’t exactly share, explanations he can’t really offer. It’s not cigarettes, he can’t say. It’s the way my pillow smelled like you, and my clothes and my hair, the insides of my books

“No,” Lexi says warningly, shoving Stiles in the side. “Absolutely not, you’re not getting contemplative on me. We just finished our freshman year of college and made a daring leap—”

“Four feet max,” Stiles protests.

“A daring leap so we could sit outside and smoke and enjoy our youth and freedom. Don’t make sad faces thinking about your dumb scowly boyfriend. I won’t allow it.” Lexi pulls a little bottle of vodka out of her purse and dangles it from two fingers. “Drink more if you have to.”

Stiles takes the bottle, takes an ill-advised swig, feel the alcohol burn through him, pure and clean. “I like spring,” he says, a little nonsensical, just to change the subject. “I like being outside again.” There’s a breeze stirring, cool and gentle; the air smells like living things, damp soil. 

“I like being out here with you,” Lexi agrees, taking the bottle, drinking deep. It’s so easy, sometimes: her mouth where his mouth just was, warm and soft and wet. 

“‘m gonna miss you this summer,” Stiles allows, the admission almost shy. His body feels electric, like he’s just made up of the weightless impulses flashing through him, helpless against the charge of lifting his hand to settle on her knee, her thigh, fiddling with the hem of her dress, pushing it back, back, so that he can see her. She’s got runners’ thighs, sleek quads, tight calves. Her skin is hairless and smooth, unfamiliar in the moonlight. 

“Yeah,” Lexi says, and he doesn’t think he’s imagining it, the catch in her breath. It’s such a bad idea. They’ve been drinking for hours, steady and slow, ever since they walked out of their last final at three. Stiles has lost track of himself a half-dozen times, since, and he can feel his hangover starting to gather itself, the first distant rumbling of a thundering headache. 

Lexi turns and presses her face to his shoulder, her body shifting around towards his so that they’re curving towards one another, starting to make space together. “This year would have been so different without you,” she says. “I can’t even imagine. If we hadn’t been friends.”

“Mmmm,” Stiles says, his free hand coming up to stroke gently through the soft fall of her hair. He’s never been this far from home before, certainly not for this long. It’s terrifying to think of all the things she knows about him, the things that don’t quite read to everyone back in Beacon Hills. He thinks about their first weeks together, sitting like this on damp lawns in hot August, when she taught him how to smoke and he taught her how to drink from the bottle. They would go to parties together and hang out until they got bored and then sneak off, laughing, wasting the rest of the night wandering around together, talking, talking. She’s warm and solid in his arms, here with him, now.

Lexi burrows in closer, her forehead against the slope of his neck. “I think—” Stiles starts. Whatever he was going to say is lost when she looks up to listen to him, her nose brushing against him, her mouth just grazing. He can’t help it, doesn’t want to: he keeps very still, still enough that she leans in, deliberately this time, and presses a single, soft kiss to the base of his throat.

The hand that’s tangled up in her hair tightens against the back of her skull, drags her up towards him, so that he can kiss her wild and frantic, can hold her against him and feel it, the flutter of her pulse in her neck and wrists, blood beating through her fast fast fast. He knows he’s wrecking things, but he knows it distantly. Who could care about anything, really, drunk on a warm spring night with your best friend laughing against your mouth, saying yes, Stiles, yes, yes, please. I’ve always wanted us like this, just like this.

notenoughgatorade asked:

I really love woke up married trope (not vegas) i'd like to see that in your writing for derek x stiles

Derek learned the symbols when he was still a baby: Laura sat with him and guided his crayons over the page until he could do it fluently, and he did the same with Cora when it was her turn. Now it strikes him how silly it is, having the youngest child in the family in charge of any portion of a marriage rite, but werewolf culture predates Piaget and the Hales were very traditional and that was how it was done. Derek has sweet fuzzy memories of doing it for Peter: dipping his pointer finger in black ink and drawing the knot’s curves onto his uncle’s wrist, his bride’s proffered palm.

He was too young, then, to understand the thrill of power, the tight zip of two people being bound, so all he remembers now is that it felt like static electricity, a shock that ran through him and made him light up all over. It’s different when he traces the symbol absently against Stiles’ bare back, fingers moving in familiar patterns, a long slow drift.

They’re sleeping on the roof because it’s two weeks into a dense, endless heatwave and the moon is overfull and the wolves are all restless, whining and kicking in their sleep. Stiles is at Derek’s side, Scott next to him, Erica and Cora curled around one another in a corner, Isaac and Boyd sprawled loose a few feet away. It’s— no one knows, yet, about them. Derek doesn’t even know about them, really. He knows that it was frantic the first time, the first few times, that this morning Stiles showed up in the one cool hour just before dawn and kissed him wide-eyed and tender, pulled him close in the sheets and whispered please, that he fell asleep tonight just in the pool of Derek’s shadow.

He isn’t thinking when he does it but he feels it happen, just after: the air going dry and sudden and still, moonlight turning from bright to blinding, white to gold. He feels Stiles slot into place with him, thinks nonsensically of lightning finding ground and the teeth of keys touching lock pins before the world greys out, turns black, fades away from him entirely.


When he wakes up he and Stiles are tangled up together, raised white marks stark against the inside of each of their wrists. He stares at them in wonder, at the sun in the sky, yellow and innocent on the rise. He doesn’t remember how they got there. He feels it behind his own eyes, when Stiles starts to stir.