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Sterek Week 2015: #3 THE HUNTER’S MOON 

Today’s photoset is dedicated to the amazing @foreverblue-navy who makes the most amazing photosets ever. I love your work, Beth!!! <3 (Sorry the fic got kinda angsty; I was having too many feels)

Werewolves have an autumn full moon festival for lost souls. It comes around on the first full moon in autumn and werewolves from all over America travel to the small lake in a forest near Beacon Hills to light floating lights and set them on the water to represent the souls of all the wolves they’ve lost to the Hunters.

Derek never went to any because he would have had fourteen candles to light and he knew he couldn’t do it on his own. 

That is, until Stiles comes home with a dusty old tome and tells Derek about the festival he already knew about. At first Derek doesn’t say anything but then he reaches for Stiles’ hand, intertwines their fingers and swallows. “I never could have lit fourteen candles by myself. But if you’re willing to come with me, I think I can do it,” he says in a small voice, not meeting Stiles’ eyes. 

“Oh, Derek,” Stiles whispers, squeezing his hand tightly and leaning in to hold him close, “Of course, I’ll come with you. Of course, I will.” Derek smiles against his shoulder and leans in to breathe in Stiles’ scent deeply. He may never admit it but it calms him down like nothing else can. 

So they take a road trip to the site of the festival. They trek through the forest, Stiles in his hiking boots, Derek in his wolf form. They reach the lake by twilight and Stiles stands at the edge of the water, fascinated by all the wolves and their friends and families, while Derek goes to buy the candles. 

When he returns with fifteen instead of fourteen, Stiles stares and is just about to ask why when Derek hands one to him. 

“For your mom,” he whispers in the fading light of day as Stiles looks at the red wax candle in his hands, “Loss is easier shared,” Derek explains simply, giving Stiles a small, sad smile. 

Stiles turns the candle over in his hand and notices that Derek has had her name engraved on it too. He swallows as his fingers trace over the familiar string of letters and then he looks up, his eyes shining with unshed tears and throws both arms around Derek’s neck and buries his face in his neck. 

“I love you,” he mumbles into his skin and feels the rumble of the words in Derek’s throat before he hears them. 

“I love you too.”

sterek au: woodworker!derek, future - Derek’s gone from Beacon Hills for awhile, and Stiles finds him holed up in a workshop, building things out of wood. Stiles just can’t seem to stay away, and Derek doesn’t seem to mind.

happy birthday to the wonderful foreverblue-navy.


Derek smells him waiting in the driveway. He’s still driving the same piece of shit Jeep; Derek heard the popand squeak as soon as he’d turned onto the property. He doesn’t think too hard about what it means that he knows it’s Stiles from the sound of his tires and axles. It’s easier to blame it on the Jeep than to analyze it any closer.

Derek marks the measurements on the piece of wood lying on his workbench as he listens to the nervous pounding of Stiles’ heartbeat. He can smell the acrid scent of Stiles’ anxiety, a scent he remembers so vividly from before. He never could quite understand how Scott had trouble finding it; it was subtle, but used to consume Derek’s senses anytime Stiles was around. It was hard to imagine Stiles without it.

Derek’s own heartbeat spikes when the Jeep’s door opens, the hinges in dire need of oiling. He takes a deep breath and begins to measure the angle on one end of the wood. Stiles pauses just outside the door, and Derek knows that Stiles knows that he can hear him now.  After a few moments, Stiles opens the door and steps inside.

“Hey,” he says.


Derek carefully sets the pencil down and straightens. He’s not quite sure what to expect when he looks at Stiles. Regret, longing, relief – Derek’s not sure. He’d avoided the McCall Pack ever since he came back to Beacon Hills, mostly because he didn’t want to find out how it’d feel to see them again.

Derek’s unable to describe what he’s feeling right now. He’s never been good with words, and he’s pretty sure this defies words anyway.

“Gotta tell you,” Stiles starts, nervously walking further into the room. His heart is jackrabbiting in his chest, and his fingers are fidgeting, touching everything they pass. He doesn’t look at Derek, but glances around the workshop instead. “I didn’t quite believe Scott when he told me you were back.”

Derek tracks Stiles’ movements. He’s like overly excitable prey, and his wolf wants to pounce. He crosses his arms over his chest as Stiles picks up a chisel and examines it. He sets it back on the table and finally looks at Derek. “I’m not really surprised you holed yourself up here in the mountains all alone. The woodworker thing, though, that’s new.” Stiles comes closer and rakes his eyes over Derek’s clothes. “But really, it’s the plaid that’s kinda freaking me out.”

Derek huffs out a laugh as he glances down at his Buffalo plaid shirt. “Leave it up to you to run head first into danger, but be freaked out by plaid.”

Stiles smiles, and Derek stares for too long.

“So,” Stiles finally says, drawing out the O as he scratches his chin awkwardly. He pokes around the shelves in Derek’s workshop, so Derek picks the pencil and protractor back up. He draws another angle as he listens to the sound of Stiles’ breathing.

“Where have you been?” Stiles finally asks.

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