That was the summer of 1963 - when everybody called me Stiles, and it didn’t occur to me to mind. That was before President Kennedy was shot, before the Beatles came, when I couldn’t wait to join the Peace Corps, and I thought I’d never find a guy as great as my dad. That was the summer we went to Kellerman’s.
“Everyone around me gets hurt.”
Siny and I decided to play this game where we ‘Sterek’ a scene and then compare creations. This is our first try.
#omg NEVER FORGET #THAT LOOK #OF TOTAL SURPRISE #SOMEONE IS CHOOSING ME OVER SOMETHING ELSE #I KNOW THEY’RE NOT HAPPY ABOUT IT #BUT THEY’RE DOING IT ANYWAY #SOMEONE IS ACCIDENTALLY ON PURPOSE LOOKING OUT FOR ME #SOMEONE GIVES A DAMN #AND DIDN’T SAY IT WOULD BE BETTER OFF IF I DIED #OR DITCHED ME OUT #OR TOLD THEIR DAD I WAS IN THEIR ROOM #EVEN THOUGH I WAS MEAN TO THEM #SOMEONE //CARES// #whatever ok i’m cool #this look is totally normal for Derek #KAJSGDFSKGJFAS I’M NOT FINE AT ALL #I’M CRYING (via: halesparkles)
You guys if Deucalion really is blind I would pay 5 million dollars for him to say, the first time he encounters Stiles, “And which one are you? You smell delicious.”
In front of Derek.
i need stiles to barge in the loft and ask what the hell is up with the alarm just so derek can tell him it alerts him whenever annoying people get close
Warning: Minor, offscreen character death (Erica)
Summary: When Boyd makes it back without Erica, Derek has to deal with the loss. And he gets Stiles’ help, whether he wants to or not.
I find it hard to tell you (I find it hard to take)
It’s cold out, and it seems fitting for a day like today but Stiles’ ‘decent’ jacket does nothing to protect him from the wind. He shivers and he’s sure Scott can tell because he looks at Stiles, tries to shoot him a reassuring smile, but fails horribly. Stiles tries one of his own, but aborts the mission even halfway when he can feel tears well up in his eyes. He goes back to staring at the picture in front of the coffin. Erica is beautiful as she smiles up at all of them, and Stiles takes a deep breath to steady himself.
Erica’s mother is sobbing heavily, as her father squeezes his wife’s hand and looks just as distraught, and Stiles thinks it’s odd to share the pain of these people that he never even knew. He’d been so caught up in the werewolf aspect of it all, in them being a pack, that he never even realized Erica had a family all of her own as well. There’s a lanky teenager, what he assumes might be a cousin, and a short grey-haired lady who might be a grandmother or a great-aunt, and there’s uncles and aunts and people that look distinctly like Erica and they’re all grieving and trying to deal with the pain and Stiles never even knew they existed. Erica never spoke of them. Or Stiles never asked.
There’s a priest talking about the tragic accident, feeding the cover-story of how she died, and Stiles avoids his father’s gaze because he doesn’t need to be a genius to know that the Sheriff has his doubts. He hasn’t asked Stiles about it though. Stiles is grateful.
Derek is standing at the back, his face expressionless. Boyd has tears running down his cheeks, and his shoulder is pressed up against Isaac’s in a silent support, and Stiles wonders if maybe this will bring the two of them closer together. Or tear them apart entirely.
Stiles can’t help but feel that it should’ve been the Betas carrying the coffin, even though he knows why they couldn’t. It still feels wrong.
Erica’s picture stares up at Stiles, and Stiles mumbles an apology under his breath. He can feel Scott’s hand on his elbow.
Derek leaves before the ceremony is over.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
This is the story of werewolf Derek Hale and human Stiles Stilinski: two people who grew up in the same town but completely different worlds, their realities split by the war between men and wolves.
Years later when Derek returns to Beacon Hills, he does it as Alpha of a military pack on a mission to capture those responsible for the region’s resistance. With his main objective, Sheriff Stilinski, out of sight, he settles for the next best thing: his son, Stiles.
Neither of them suspects they’ll need to trust each other if they want to make it out this alive.
Chapter 14 teaser:
Death is no longer an abstract idea, and for a werewolf with such power and control, this realization is life shattering. Suddenly, things that mattered all his life seem kind of pointless. Even silly. There’s no time for regrets or hopes. There’s just no time. That gives him the kind of freedom he’s been denying himself for a long time.
So while Isaac and Allison and Scott are busy with their love triangle or whatever and Lydia and Danny are busy with their respective alpha twin, that just leaves Stiles and Derek, alone, once again, to turn to each other, eventually, maybe, hopefully.
From your lips to Jeff Davis’ ears, pls.
in Teen Wolf, we don’t say “i love you”, we say “i’m gonna rip your throat out, with my teeth” and i think that’s beautiful.
i wonder if derek knows how to spell stiles’s name or if stiles is in derek’s phone as styles
and stiles has to use derek’s phone one day in a crisis situation and he’s angrily scrolling through the contacts and sees it and he just stares at it for like 45 seconds straight, perplexed
and he just says “derek i’ve been alive seventeen years and no one’s made this mistake before”
and derek’s like “HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW HOW TO SPELL STILES??? THE WAY YOU SPELL IT ISN’T EVEN A WORD!!!”
and stiles is like “IT COMES FROM MY LAST NAME YOU IDIOT???”
and derek stares at him, mouth open and eyes wide as realization dawns
First Sterek feels of the season
“Maybe we could get a dog.”
Derek hums without looking up, pen stuck in his mouth, Stiles’ sweater slightly stretched where it’s rolled up at his forearms.
“Or, like, a parrot. A parrot would be cool. We could teach it to say things like, Stiles is awesome. Oh, oh! Or, like, randomly hawk in the middle of dinner parties and freak everyone out.”
There’s a noise of agreement from Derek as he fills in another box. Stiles checks his progress.
Derek Rupert Hale. 27-11-86.
“All you’ve written is your name and your date of birth?! Dude, it took me like five minutes to do my bits. What the hell is taking you so long?”
Derek’s brow furrows and Stiles rubs a hand absentmindedly across it, feeling it smooth out under his fingers.
“I don’t want a cat, though,” he continues. “They sort of freak me out, like, you never know whether or not they wanna say hi or they’re just checking to see if you’re still breathing so they can eat you.”
He glances round their bedroom, decides that in the new place they’re getting a bed that fills the room. This one is comfy and all, but he’s ready for a mattress that doesn’t sag, and a headboard that can withstand a little more, uh, pressure.
“Can we paint our bedroom lime green?”
Derek nods, eyes still fixed on the form, oblivious to what Stiles is saying.
“And Scott can have his own room, right?” He drapes himself over Derek’s shoulders. “And a piano you can use to serenade me. And a sex swing, ooh oh! And one of those indoor Jacuzzis and invite Chris Argent to Sunday dinner and—oof,” his back hits the pillows with a thud, Derek hovering over him.
“I was listening to all of that and no parrots, we don’t know enough high society people to have dinner parties; they’re more like rabbles, and no rooms for Scott.”
Stiles beams up at him, runs a hand through his hair. “We’re gonna own a house together,” he says excitedly.
Derek smiles back, one of his slow, secret smiles that he does when he’s actually so fucking happy his heart is gonna burst. At least, that’s how Stiles would define it.
“Yeah, we are. If you’d let me finish filling the damn form in.”
“I’m impatient,” Stiles grouses, jiggling a leg underneath Derek’s.
Derek stills it with a hand to his thigh. “Good things come to those who wait.”
“Yeah? Well, I’d like to go apply to buy a house with you sometime this millennium Derek Rupert Hale.”
“Shut up,” Derek flushes. “It’s a family name.”
“’S’a good name.”
“Thank you,” Derek replies, turning back to his form with Stiles wrapped around him on the bed.
“So, was that a no on the sex swing, too?”
“Absolutely, you’d end up strangling yourself on it.”
“Aw, boo you do care.”