#sh.writesonmain

[thebigoblin]

dumb & dumber

tags: Established Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Failwolf Derek Hale, Failhuman Stiles Stilinski, is that a tag? it should be actually, Implied Sexual Content, Possessive Derek Hale, Attempt at Humor, Failwolf Betas, they're all just dumb tbh

"You know, you're kind of the worst," he says this with a pout on his face, the television in front of him blinking back his own face at him. He sorta looks cute with a pout. Huh.

Beside him, the couch dips with the weight of his boyfriend. An arm snakes up along the back of the couch, and he moves forward before that arm and his shoulders can make contact. The huff he gets at his pettiness has him scoffing right back.

"You're being petty."

"And you're an asshole. What's new?"

Another huff. A sigh. He stares forward, resolute.

"Stiles, please." Nope. He is not giving in. He deserves to be upset! "Baby," and oh no.

Stiles turns towards his left, and sees the forlorn look on Derek's face. His eyes are searching Stiles', likely trying to impart how unhappy he is, and how much he wants Stiles' forgiveness.

Stiles might have turned around to actually have a conversation, but hey, he's still got the upper hand here. When Derek reaches out to hold his hand, Stiles takes his wayward limbs towards himself and crosses his arms. Derek isn't happy, his nostrils flaring, but hey, Stiles isn't happy, either.

"Why are you so angry at me?"

Stiles instantly points a finger at his dumb boyfriend, wagging it at that dumb gorgeous face to punctuate his point, "Oh ho ho, don't you play the dumb boyfriend card with me! I wish I could tell Lydia she's right and that all men, no matter the age, suck at being a good boyfriend. But welp! I can't, can I? Because even now, after months of us having been together, I cannot tell people I have a boyfriend! Nobody in the fucking pack knows who you are to me, and you know what Erica has been planning, huh? Huh?"

Derek blinks his dumb, gorgeous eyes at him. He has been staring at these eyes for counting on four months now, but he still can't pinpoint what colors they are. Are they blue? Green? Hazel with gold flecks in them?

Fuck. He is getting distracted. He once again wags his finger at Derek's face, who, this time around, wraps his big, rough arms around it and pulls Stiles forward until Stiles stumbles right onto Derek's lap, and really, why is the universe so unfair? Why is Derek in a barely there wife-beater and grey sweats?

"You know what I am to you, Stiles."

Stiles resolutely stares at Derek's chest. His hands are gripped tight in Derek's, but Derek lets one of his hands go free to grab at his chin, forcing him to look up at the eyes that reflect the early morning sun in a deep, beautiful forest.

"Baby, I am yours."

"But not to the world. To them, you're a single, hot, in much need of a date Alpha werewolf. You're not mine in their eyes, Der."

His heart doesn't waver at the truth, but his chemosignals must change because Derek leans down to rub their noses together, dragging his down to Stiles' neck, scenting him.

Claiming him, in a way.

"If Erica is planning a date for me, she's not competent as a wolf. I might not have told them we are dating, but you smelling much more like us should be a clue."

Stiles noses his way down from Derek's nose to his neck, bites at the junction between it and shoulders just to be a little shit. Derek arches under him, and it has Derek's dick, from under the damned grey sweats, rubbing a delicious friction against Stiles' ass.

"We smell good, huh, Alpha?" He could say more, but Derek is already panting like he cannot take it any more, and hey, that is lips on his own and he can't really speak now, can he?

Derek kisses him with passion, pushes him down back on the couch so he is on top of Stiles.

"Erica needs to learn how to use her fucking nose. You smell like mine," Derek's growl has Stiles instantly wanting to take off his clothes and present to him, down on all fours and ready to blackout in bliss for hours, but.

Stiles pushes at Derek's chest so there's space between them, and asks, a bit breathless, "Why haven't we just told them?"

"You're a fucking tease. I'm going to ruin you once this conversation is over, understand?"

Stiles stares back, wide-eyed, pupils evidently dark. Licks his lips. Nods.

Derek grabs his hair and wrenches him in for a deep kiss before letting go, putting space between them.

They don't speak for a few minutes, trying to get back to some semblance of control. Once they are, Derek speaks.

"I haven't told anyone... because I forgot."

If this weren't Derek, and he wasn't Stiles, he would have been offended. Because what the fuck? But he is Stiles, and this is Derek, so.

"You figured everyone would use their super-sniffers?" Derek nods. "Except you also forgot not everyone is a werewolf, and that even those with super-sniffers are idiots. They would first figure out how to stop a bus with failing brakes from crashing by jumping in front of it rather than using their wolf strength to well, pull the bus Superman style."

"Yes, I'm aware my pack is brave but stupid. Especially because their leader is here with me."

"Hey!"

"Then why didn't you tell them?"

Stiles opens his mouth. Closes it. Scratches his head, his hair. Eyes fixed on the TV again, he mumbles, "I thought you didn't want to."

Derek takes his hand and points it at himself with a raised eyebrow. "Me? The one who has been scenting you extensively and making you wear butt-plugs? Me?"

His cheeks color with embarrassment. "Alright! We are both idiots. Got it."

"Truly made for each other." Derek again uses Stiles' hand to pull him forward, right until Stiles stis on Derek's lap. Again. Except this time Derek is already working to make Stiles' jeans dissappear. "Now, tell me about this date Erica has planned for me while you warm my cock with your pretty hole, okay, baby?"

"Yes, Alpha." Oh, coming to the Loft in a fit of anger/sadness was the best course of action today.

And Stiles is definitely going to pilfer that fancy-pants restaurant Erica has reserved for Derek's blind date with one of her college friends for a date for them.

And then he's going to be fucking annoying about calling Derek his, just like he is sure Derek is going to be insufferable about making it clear that Stiles is his in return.

#sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #teen wolf #sterek fics #sh.writesonmain #wrote this on monday and cleaned this up today #fun fact: did this while waiting for my turn during the recording of group presentations hehe #this week is so hectic #so glad this is the 2nd last week of sem!!!

[thebigoblin]

as the sun rises

i've been working on this on & off for a couple weeks, and it's now complete! posting this here first, and will post it on ao3 this week!

He's just about to kiss Derek when he's pulled out of his sleep, his traitorous phone vibrating on his nightstand with a text message.

Who could be texting him? It's too early for socializing, and his brain is tired! But since he's not just a college student but also a human who runs with a wolf pack and is liable to delay rescue missions if he's not on his feet all the time — he's literally one-half of a two people operation in this pack who hold strategic braincells — he groans and opens his eyes.

His room is dark, but the curtains are blowing against a soft breeze, and slants of sunlight fall into place across his room. It's morning, then. Too early to really call it morning, but morning nonetheless.

Who would even text him right now? His pack cannot get in trouble this early in the day, can they?

Actually, they can, and they have in the past — he grabs his phone and opens it up to the text messages.

It's a message from Derek.

That says just one thing: Morning.

Stiles blinks at it. Tries to figure out if it is a secret code message or something. Scrolls back up further in their text thread, realizes Derek had an early night yesterday so of course he'd be awake early today, at 6 in the morning, and like all the mornings this past week he's sent Stiles a message.

Morning.

Normally, he does it at reasonable hours, like 8. Which is Derek's usual wake-up time, given his usually scheduled afternoon shifts at the BHPD. Like it's the very first thing he does, eyes still blurry from sleep.

It's a sweet, delusional thought borne of Stiles' own desperate greed for Derek's attention, and it chokes him as much as it pleases him.

And there goes his sleep, running away like a headless chicken, at his predicament of being in love with someone he can not have.

Derek Hale is a legend from the myths, a werewolf amongst humans; he's honor and pride intertwined with a gut of trust he's sharpened over the years, the mistakes of his youth lending him a jaded perspective on his once easily-given faith. He is a man turned ashen with tragedy, turned once again into technicolor as years have climbed up.

Stiles was there, at the intolerable stage of it. When Derek was barely a man, a kid alone in the world, hurting and grieving, persistently angry, and with no vision. And he's been there since, once a spectator turned into pages in Derek's book. He's seen him become the man he is now, their relationship blooming under the throes of violence, of almost-dead-but-not-yet celebrations, of the pack letting Derek down and Derek learning to be better for it, instead of sulking and lashing out.

He has watched Derek become who he is now, and he has fallen in love with a man who is one of the strongest people he knows, and it's devastating because why would someone like that love Stiles? There's so much that Derek deserves, so much of which Stiles can not give. He deserves all the good things, and Stiles isn't something like that, is he?

The morning goes on like this: him in the bed, under the covers, the wind blowing inside his room a gentle contrast to his harsh thoughts. He is a year into college now, he's dated a few guys and girls, felt attraction but no connection to them before he realized what's wrong with him — he couldn't connect with anyone because he's already given his heart away, and he knows this is it for him. He's gone and done for, the kind of once-in-a-lifetime love they try to sell in movies and shows and books his claim now, except for the part where he gets the guy and the life of his dreams.

Maybe, just maybe, in a couple of years, he would have moved on. But today, all he can hear in his room is the sound of his heart breaking, his breath hitching, all because of a simple text and his sadist brain.

He hurts in a way he never has. He knows grief — he's lost his mom and that hurt, too, and still does. There's a piece missing in him, a part of him forever buried with his mom, and he's learned to live without it. And this hurts too, the clarity of never having Derek, in a way that is different but somehow similar. He's grieving for something he never had, a future he dreams of but knows can never be his reality.

He allows himself to fall apart today.

*

It's the Christmas break, the weather outside slowly getting more chilly than it was when he woke up. He burrows under the covers, the wind pecking his skin, his limbs too heavy from exhaustion of having cried his hours away to get up and close the window.

He should have closed the window, really.

He's fully under the covers, tear-streaks dried on his cheeks, sticky and a tangible reminder of his woes. Still, he hears it when there's a sudden thump, of a familiar pair of boots landing on his floorboards, and a decisive click of his window being shut close.

"You'll catch a cold."

Of course he's here. Stiles doesn't want him here, not right now, not when —

"Stiles... are you okay? The room smells like you just cried."

If it was any other day, any other reason, he would have appreciated it. They have a no-bullshit relationship. It's honest and grueling, but ultimately, it works for them. Stiles knows Derek trusts him, and that is more than he ever expected to receive from him, of all people.

But he has Derek's trust, and he knows he can not have more. So, he can not lose this, too.

"G'way," he mumbles, "Please."

Time stretches, his request hanging in the air. Then, the bed near his legs dips down, Derek's warm hand finding Stiles' hand, the one outside the covers, and holding it gently. Derek's fingers wrap around his wrist, and the chill melts away.

"I was worried about you," Derek confesses, voice soft. "It's nearly nine, and you hadn't texted me back, and now you're like this. What's wrong?"

Not even a year ago, Derek would have left long as soon as something like this happened, too raw for conversations like this, too naive to navigate a healthy dialogue between friends.

That's what they are, right?

Stiles pulls his covers down until his face is visible to Derek, something which prompts Derek's hand to move to his face, give a soft caress. He truly is worried, eyebrows furrowed and everything.

"Just a bad morning, I guess," he says, and it's almost the truth.

Except. Except, Derek knows Stiles' truth and lies, and not just by his heartbeat.

"If I can help, whatever it is, I will. Just tell me." He's so earnest too, for fuck's sake.

He's a great friend, truly.

Stiles smiles, small and ironic. "You can, and you can't." Derek gives him a confused look. Stiles shrugs, the best he can while lying down on the bed. "Trust me."

"I do, Stiles. Don't you?"

Stiles is angry now. It comes as a surprise to him — a hot, white flash of anger, zipping through him like lightning.

He sits up on the bed so abruptly everything falls — the covers, his phone, him. Derek stops him from falling on his ass, though, arms around his waist.

Even before he's in no danger of hurting himself he's saying heatedly, "Don't fucking pull that card on me. You know I trust you, so much it's impossible to put into words. If you asked me to drive a dagger in my heart I would, I would trust you to keep me safe. So don't even, Derek Hale!"

"I'd rather take the dagger in my heart, Stiles." Derek's eyes are hard, alpha red creeping into them. "Tell me what's wrong." His jaw works, as if he's finding the right words, and Stiles' anger goes away as fast as it came — he slumps in Derek's arm, his weight on the man beside him. Finally, Derek says, "Is this... If Andrew did something, I'll slash his tires."

He isn't expecting this. The hell?

Andrew was the last person he went on a date with, almost two months ago. It didn't work out between them, it never does between Stiles and people, and this was more of the same. But the thing is, he didn't tell Derek about Andrew. It was their first and last date, and the only one he had told about it was...

Lydia.

Derek continues, oblivious to Stiles' confusion. "Ever since you came back to town you've been distant, and if it's because of something your boyfriend did —"

"Woah, what the fuck?" Stiles' voice rises, this time the heat replaced with a level of perplexed he hasn't felt since ages. "He's not my boyfriend, he's not my anything. We went on one date, like weeks ago. What's Lydia been telling you?"

A warmth blooms inside his chest at Derek being so protective of and vindictive for him, but he forces himself to not be affected by it right now. He can loathe Derek's instincts as an alpha when he's alone again.

Derek, for his part, parts his mouth in surpise. "Have I been stupid this entire time?" he says, more to himself than Stiles. "Then what's wrong with you?"

And now they're back at the problem asking for the problem.

Stiles sighs. "Listen. I'm happy you're such a good friend, but some things just aren't meant to be shared, okay?"

"You tell me everything." Stiles scoffs. "Stiles."

They both look out the window, where birds are flying, free from the complex human emotions. The sun is high in the sky, real morning now beginning.

"Why do you keep texting me anyways?"

Derek's eyebrows are raised when Stiles turns to look at him. They're seated with barely an inch between their bodies, and the turn of his neck has them almost sharing the same breath.

Stiles licks his lips, and he must imagine Derek's eyes tracking the movement.

"I can't ask you what's bothering you, and now I can't text you either?"

"Not what I— the morning texts, I meant. Of course you can text me, but the morning texts are new and I'm just... asking. And why can't you text me good morning? Why is it just a morning?"

Derek stares at him. Stiles knows he's thinking something, debating whether to share whatever is going through his head, or not.

"You don't have a boyfriend?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "No, Derek. I do not."

Derek takes a deep breath, as if he's bracing himself for something huge, something he has high hopes for, something he can not bear to lose but he has no idea if he gets to keep it.

Stiles suddenly has a feeling, and if that is true, he's going to murder himself just to relive the pain one last time, because if what he's thinking is true, then he's stupid as fuck and he deserves it.

"I text you morning and not a good morning because the mornings aren't good."

"Okay... why aren't they? Good, I mean."

Derek is looking into his eyes, a vulnerability in them that Stiles has seen before, but still it feels like he's seeing it for the first time. Like this is a part of Derek he hasn't seen previously, a part that has been kept hidden purposefully finally brought to light.

Derek moves, and the miniscule distance between them is gone, eaten up by the anticipation building in the room.

Derek's hands come up to caress Stiles' face, thumb rubbing circles at the dried tear-tracks, the motion comforting. He says, "Every morning, I wake up in my bed, alone, and it's such a shitty way to start my day. Every morning is just another day, and all I can think is, the mornings would be good, really good, if you were in my bed with me, too."

Stiles swallows hard against the lump forming in his throat. "You're joking."

"Never, not with us. Not about this."

Stiles' breath hitches. Derek comes closer, rests their forehead together. Stiles closes his eyes against the closeness, the dread that this is a dream.

"You're too important to me for me to make a joke out of this, Stiles."

He's crying again. "But I don't deserve you."

Suddenly, the warmth of Derek is gone.

When Stiles opens his eyes, Derek is pacing, a glower on his face.

"Isaac can't be right, can he?" Stiles makes a confused noise. Derek rounds on him, then decides sitting down on his knees is a better option. Stiles' morning is so confusing, he starts counting Derek's fingers as well as his own when Derek holds both his hands, rests their limbs on Stiles' thighs.

There's twenty fingers. Ten his, ten of Derek's.

"Stiles. Why don't you deserve me?"

He does his best to not cry. "You're... amazing, Derek. I. I'm just me, you know?"

It seems silly to say it. It's one thing to believe it, another to put it into words.

Derek squeezss his hands. "I've loved you for a long time, longer than I have realized it."

"What?"

"And I felt the same. You're you, and I'm just me. You deserve better."

"You are the best thing that can happen to anyone!"

Derek chuckles at Stiles' vehemence, squeezes his hands once again. "Pot's calling the kettle black. I felt the same, you know," he repeats. "That you deserve better. So I never told you. And you started dating others. But then..."

"Isaac. What has he told you?" He doesn't know what he could have told Derek. It's not like Stiles and Isaac are close, but there are things their pack does, like meddle in each other's affairs, that has him realizing how troublesome their pack is.

It's not like Stiles has even a single subtle bone in his body.

Derek smiles. "He told me that he's got a bet going for us to get together before the New Year." Stiles isn't surprised, not really. He smiles back. "Yeah, the pups have a bet going, and Lydia and Isaac seem to be on the same page."

"Jesus. Her too? What did you say?"

"The whole pack is in on it. I was surprised they would do such a thing. They can't force two people together when one of them isn't into the other one." He moves forward, until their foreheads are touching once again, and this time, Stiles takes one of his hands and presses it to Derek's head, cards his fingers through the soft hair.

"Then what happened?" He prompts.

"Isaac laughed in my face when I told him I was disappointed because I didn't think he and others would stoop so low. And then he told me I might be an alpha but that I'm stupid if I haven't been able to figure out that you like me back."

Stiles laughs, rather nervously. "I always worried you'd figure it out and we'd not be close anymore."

"I did figure it out, actually."

"WHAT?" He shouts it in Derek's ear, who winces and pulls back. "Sorry, but why the fuck didn't you say anything?"

Derek stays on his knees, but he inches a bit backwards, creating a safe distance between Stiles' mouth and his ears. "I didn't want to lose you."

"How could you lose me when you liked me and realized that I liked you back? That doesn't even make sense." Derek gives him a look. Stiles rolls his eyes. "See, I didn't say anything because I've always believed you deserve nice things, and I've mutually never believed I'm a nice thing. But if you told me you liked me... I would have been selfish."

Derek's expression turns soft. "You're the best thing to happen to me, even as just friends." Stiles' cheeks heat at the proclamation, and he ducks his head. When he looks back up, Derek is smiling back at him. "I've wanted you to be mine for a long time. And when I say mine, I mean it. For life. Building a future together and all the good and bad that follows. But all I could figure out... at least what I thought I figured out... was that you liked me casually."

Stiles gets up from the end of the bed and pulls Derek up by offering him a hand, which he takes with a full-tilt smile, bunny teeth and all. "No part of me is casual for you. I never believed I could feel like this, but if anything, everything I feel for you is cosmic."

Derek's smile grows until it's a full-on grin, and Stiles feels the width of it, the rush of Derek's blood, the pure joy of their stupidity taking second place to communication in the kiss Derek pulls him into — Derek's arms wrap around his waist, his own around Derek's shoulders, sliding up and down, on his stubble, his cheeks, his hair. The kiss itself is sweet and hot, their mutual joy imprinting itself in the endless journey of time with their noises of appreciation.

They kiss and kiss, tongues touching and lips bitten raw, until the necessity of oxygen forces them apart. As soon as they break apart Derek moves on to his neck, the press of his lips electric, and Stiles is the happiest man on Earth.

Well. Except for Derek, of course.

"Good morning, Derek."

Derek growls and bites down, intent on marking. "The best morning," he agrees, and Stiles can only moan, feel the pain of being claimed, and revel in the moment.

He still has thoughts of being unworthy in the back of his mind, but what he told Derek was true: if Derek wants him, he'll be his. He'll be selfish.

He'll love Derek Hale as long as he breathes.

Once the hickey is painted on Stiles' neck, Derek tips his jaw, their eyes locking onto each other. He says, "I love you so fucking much, baby."

Stiles smiles. Derek seems to be on the same page as him, and it's starting to feel like Stiles will be a part of Derek's book for a long, long time.

Maybe, just maybe, till even the last page of the book.

It truly is a good morning.

#sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #sterek fics #sh.writesonmain #inspired by a post i saw on insta

[thebigoblin]

play stupid games

tags: Established Relationship, Alpha Derek Hale, Attempt at Humor, Cheesy, Fluff, Derek Hale is a Softie, Implied Sexual Content

a/n: inspired by a reel on instagram. and the title is from Taylor's song "Miss Americana and The Heartbreak Prince."

read on ao3

The tabs opened on his chrome browser make no sense. Not one bit. But he supposes that's just a representation of his own mind, and his morbid curiosity, and whose fault is that, really? No one's. Perhaps his mom's — but no more than it's his dad's to have given him his obsession with everything non-sensical. His dad just has to find patterns, and really, maybe his entire problem is that he is the combination of two very weirdly specific people.

What was he working on, again?

He squints at the tabs. There's too many of them, the edges stuck together so close it's like one long continuous tab instead, but he can see the lines between them, even if deciphering which tab is what is proving difficult. He could have used separate windows, but oh no, all sane ideas come to him after things are said and done.

Seriously, what was he working on?

"What are you working on?"

"What the fuck!"

The sound of another person in the room, so close to his ear, hot breath on the left side of his neck, has him jumping and flailing on his desk chair.

Rough and familiar hands grab him so that he doesn't brain himself against the floor by falling right off the chair, and he curses, because this is his life.

Once he's sitting straight, he glares up at the smirking asshole beside him. "Fuck you," he says, with feeling. "I'm giving you a bell for Christmas!"

Derek's lips tick upwards, like ha ha, that's funny. Funny that Stiles thinks he could get away with that. "My birthday gift has to be something good, then."

"I'll show a good gift!"

"That's what I am saying, Stiles."

"Ugh, you're fucking annoying." He's still glaring up at Derek, the angle not kind to his neck, so he looks back down at the screen. Derek just moves closer, a line of heat against his side that has Stiles' anger nearly melting off, but no! He'll persist.

Distraction. Yes. That is what he needs, so he clicks his mouse rather aggressively and moves the arrow to one of the tabs randomly. The title of it hovers over the tab as he does so, and Stiles wonders what could have prompted him to look at a YouTube video of making a DIY skirt from old clothes.

"You would look good in a short red skirt." Derek says this right into his left ear, his lips moving along his skin, from the top of his ear to the bottom of it, and because he's obnoxious, Derek bites his earlobe, too.

"Go away!" He slaps at Derek's chest, but his boyfriend only laughs at his half-hearted attempts. "Nuh uh, you're distracting me and I- I have work!"

"What work?"

Stiles doesn't really remember.

"You forgot, didn't you?" Derek just laughs some more, his hands wrapping around Stiles' shoulders, and Stiles pouts. "Search something for me."

"You have your own smartphone and internet, Distractingwolf!"

"But I also have you," Derek states this, a smile in his voice, and hey, it's true.

Stiles rolls his eyes and mutters, "Sap," before asking, "What?"

"I want to check something, but there's a condition."

Stiles cocks his eyebrow, just like Derek does. He's been spending too much time with Derek, and it's because of shit like this: Derek likes to climb the side of the Sheriff's house, get inside the Sheriff's barely-legal son's bedroom, and spend time either glaring at Stiles, pushing him onto surfaces like the door and walls and the bed and kissing him, or making him do random internet searches that 99% of the time happens to be information of a new supernatural creature they have to deal with.

Point is, Stiles has been spending too much time with Derek, and he loves it a fucking lot.

"Condition, huh? You getting kinky on me, Sourwolf?"

Derek moves around his chair so that his bulging biceps and sexy, veiny arms — that he knows are there below the leather jacket and the henley because he's seen his boyfriend shirtless, even if unfortunately they haven't wandered down to pantless situations — brackets him between the desk and the chair. The movement also pushes his chair further towards the desk, just a little, and Derek's chin rests on top of Stiles' hair.

"Maybe." Stiles' whole body shivers at the thought of it. They haven't had sex, but Stiles yaps about it, thinks about it often. Wants to take Derek in his mouth, wants Derek to have his way with him. He wants, and wishes, for Derek to be inside him — pound him so hard he forgets what life is, just for a moment or two or more. He's seen the alpha strength, and it's too much. Perfect. "Stiles."

"You can't blame a guy for wanting to have sex with his hot werewolf boyfriend," he retorts, huffing at the reprimand. "I can wait until you are ready, and I will, but I can think about it, can't I?"

Derek doesn't answer him, just puts his hand over Stiles' on the mouse and moves it the way he likes it. Stiles wants to be that, a ragdoll under Derek's ministrations, and nope, he can't pop a boner right now. He wants sex, but he respects Derek. But he's also a healthy ninetenn-year-old young man, and there goes his dick in his sweatpants, chubbing up like a balloon being filled with air.

Derek opens up a new window and goes to Google, his free hand coming to rest on Stiles' thigh. Stiles' breath hitches.

"Stiles," Derek's voice is low, his sex-voice. They've never done handjobs, or blowjobs, or any real dick-on-dick or hand-on-dick or mouth-on-dick action, but they have done phone sex, and about 50% of Stiles' brain, at this point, is filled with how Derek sounds when he's turned on, commanding. Close to coming, post-pleasure. Stiles knows this voice, too.

"You don't have to do anything you're not ready to," Stiles says, and he means it. Derek's head dips down and he kisses Stiles on the neck, a silent acknowledgement — Derek knows Stiles won't force him. It's okay.

"You always say 'hot werewolf boyfriend.' Not just 'hot boyfriend.' Why."

"Inflection, alpha, that's a thing." Derek pinches his thigh, and Stiles lets out a small sound at the sudden action, then grins. "You are a hot werewolf." He turns his head, pulls with his own free hand, his left hand, the one not trapped beneath Derek's on the mouse, and has Derek's head turn towards him. He kisses him, sure once, sure twice, and third time just because. Derek's eyes are intense on him as he pulls back. "I like all of you. I'd shout it out of the rooftops of all the buildings in the town if I was allowed to, Derek."

Derek smiles, and Stiles' heart beats triple time in his chest, which suddenly feels too small for everything Derek makes him feel.

They stare at one another for one more moment, and then they turn towards the screen, the cursor having moved on the screen, evidently because of their absent grip on the mouse. Derek takes his hand back and Stiles misses the warmth, but he dutifully leans forward to type in Derek's enquiry of the evening.

"Stiles, kiss me if I'm wrong, but Dinosaurs still exist, right?"

Stiles' hand spams on top of the keyboard.

He waits for the punchline to come.

When it doesn't, he gets up, turns, flails at his dork of a boyfriend, who is grinning at him, cocky and full of shit, and punches him in the chest.

"I take it back. I don't want anybody to know you belong to me. Fuck you, Derek Hale."

"Actually, I asked for a kiss, and only on the condition that I'm wrong."

"Oh, you're so, so wrong, you jerk, and you're gonna pay for it."

Stiles has now pulled the uno reverse card and boxed in Derek against his bed. Derek cocks his eyebrow at him. "Oh?"

"Yeah, oh. You're gonna kiss me, like, a 1000 times! That was the worst pick up line ever, what the fuck, who is teaching you these things?!"

Stiles pushes Derek onto his bed and starts peppering kisses on Derek's forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his chin, and of course, his lips. After a while, Derek flips them over, and they cuddle, and then they lazily make-out until their lips are swollen and red.

Derek is asleep after that, and thank god for his dad's out of town police conference, and Stiles falls asleep, too.

And that's how Stiles completely forgets about his presentation due on Monday, which is a day after.

(Derek helps him with it, and they spend the whole of Sunday making out, cuddling, and trying to out-do each other with worse and worse pick-up lines. Derek wins, because apparently he is the king of those, and Stiles just falls in deeper, his chest feels even smaller, and his feelings for Derek just seem like something he can't possibly have, too precious and important and so, so much).

#sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #sterek fics #sh.writesonmain #i loooove this one so much #wrote this in the very early am's lol #i miss writing daily but ms. muse is elusive #AND ALSO HELLO? WE ARE GETTING TS11? I'M HYPED AF #anyways #sh.rambles #gonna go post this on ao3 also #gimme a few mins

[thebigoblin]

On The Dance Floor

tags: Not Scott McCall Friendly, Inspired by a Song, Oneshot, Alpha Derek Hale, Derek Hale Loves Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Loves Derek Hale, Getting Together, The Hale Pack 2.0, Fluff, Minor Sheriff Stilinski/Melissa McCall

a/n: found this in my drafts tagged as "complete." figured i'll post this as a lil weekend treat <3 so cleaned it up a bit. i'll post this on ao3 tomorrow ig. also, real enemy is giving fics a fucking title.

now you can also read this fic on ao3.

White, marble tiles are eaten up by his black, formal shoes, his movements a little hurried as he veers off another corner of this event hall, almost braining himself against the wall. He stops just at the right moment, curses his clumsiness, and continues walking down the empty hallway to the dressing room. Everyone else is already in the main hall, sitting on the chairs, and Stiles Stilinski was there only moments before, so he knows they're waiting for the ceremony to begin.

Except, his dad is getting cold-feet, and despite Scott's attempts at being normal around his soon-to-be stepfather, and being a shoulder to lean on, the cold-feet is getting worse. At least, that's what Derek texted him, a short, concise depiction of whatever the hell must be happening in the dressing room.

And he trusts the Alpha, so he's quick in his steps and quicker with his breaths when he does open up the door and finds his dad pacing around the decently-sized room, his suit on, and complemented by a look of absolute panic on his face.

Scott is standing off to the side, like he always seems to be these days, and he's on the opposite side of Derek, far from him, like he always was and always will be. Some people don't change, and Stiles has learned that through experience he would rather not repeat.

"Dad," Stiles says, and that's all it takes for the dam to break. His dad gives a quick glance to Scott, his once-favorite son, and then pulls both Stiles and Derek towards him, his hands a little sweaty with dread. His dad knows being close and talking low wouldn't make a difference, but it's the principle of the thing, and for one split second he wonders what 16 year old him would have thought of this fact, of Derek being his dad's chosen son, and him himself being this close to his dad. And Scott not even being privy to the beauty of this relationship.

"What if she doesn't want me to? I love Melissa, I do, but Claudia- I don't know. I had a dream yesterday, Stiles, and she was just, she was just there! Just sitting on the beach, where I proposed to Melissa, right where Melissa was sitting. Was that, like, one of your supernatural dreams? Derek, you must know something about these sort of things. I don't think she wants me to—"

Derek cuts him off with a firm, "She wants nothing but happiness for you." He gives Stiles a quick look, asking silently if this is okay, because out of the four people in this room he's the only who didn't actually know her when she was alive. Stiles nods, and Derek continues, and his dad hangs onto every word out of Derek's mouth. "Today is a big day for you, and you're nervous, and it's okay, John. That dream was just a way for your subconscious to show up — this isn't the first time you've had this thought, have you?"

"No."

"That's it. Nothing more, nothing less. Just your nerves."

Stiles smiles softly at his dad. "Mom loves you," he moves forward to bring his dad in for a patented Stilinski hug. His voice is muffled when he insists, "She loved you when she was beside you, and she loves you now that she's watching over you. And she loves Melissa, too. I know she'll be the one smiling the biggest when you say 'I Do,' today."

His dad holds on for a little longer, and Stiles knows he's holding back tears when his dad says, "Okay," with a rough voice. He pulls back, takes a deep breath, pats Stiles on the shoulder twice, the way he always does, and gives a wobbly smile to Derek. He says, "Thanks, son," to both of them before looking at himself in the mirror.

"You look amazing."

"I'm so glad Lydia's mom was able to modify your original suit into this," Stiles adds to Derek's compliment, and Derek nods, repeats the sentiment of his dad looking amazing.

Scott chimes in, too, and his dad gives him a small smile. The relationship with him is strained, and if it was any other day Scott wouldn't even be in Beacon Hills, but it's his mom's wedding day, too. Stiles allows this one day, and if he didn't, he can't really stop Scott from being here. This is his hometown, too. They have their differences, yes, but they also have a past, together and also not, stemming from this same town.

Stiles has no right to where Scott does or does not go.

Derek, on the flip side, with his red eyes and ancestral blood running through his veins, roots sprouting from this town's soil, has no such qualms. Derek and Scott share a past, too, and it defines their present more than anything else could have.

Stiles' dad says he'll be out in just a minute, can they wait outside please, and all three of them step out. Once the door is closed, Derek turns to Scott.

"When are you leaving?"

Scott is instantly angry. He has always hated Derek, no matter the truth. Logic was always Stiles' friend first and Scott's second, and without Stiles, Scott is just a ball of emotions being hit by the bat of daddy and authoritative issues.

Derek has a right to know. It is his prerogative. This is his land, his territory, his packmate's wedding. Scott was banished — run off, really, and now he's back. Derek has a right to know when he'll leave, irrespective of Scott's hesitation to tell him.

But, the years have done Scott good. Instead of yelling, making a scene, he takes a breath in. Stiles wonders what or who his anchor is, and promptly decides it's not something he cares to know. He watches Scott get himself under control, enough that when he speaks his voice is almost emotionless.

All or nothing. That was what Scott was, and still is. He's changed, but not really.

"Mom leaves for her honeymoon tomorrow, and I need to take stuff from home."

Derek raises his right eyebrow. "That's not an answer."

Scott gives a tight smile. "It is if you just learn to stop when you should."

Before Derek can say anything, Stiles is taking the two steps to stand right beside his Alpha, disbelief coloring his face and words as he lets out, "Are you seriously threatening him?"

Scott just looks at him. The look is unreadable. It hurts, this distance between them, when Stiles remembers fantasizing about being not two feet apart on a porch in their late, late years, drinking to the years and cheers they must have had in their shared lives. Derek shakes him out of that thought with a gentle touch to his hand, their arms trapped between their bodies, and he relaxes.

Derek looks at Scott. His eyes turn red, brilliant red, and he orders, "Leave by Wednesday afternoon."

Today is Sunday.

And his dad's wedding day. His dad, who chooses this moment to come out, looking much better, and happier, and assured. He looks at the scene in front of him, the three of them, Scott on one side, alone. Him and Derek, side by side, on the opposite side of Scott.

He claps his hands.

"Who is ready to cry today?"

*

They all cry.

The ceremony is simple, but beautiful. The whole town is here, the wedding off their Sheriff, and the nurse who is so lovely, so kind. They are an inspiration, they all murmur, Derek tells him; second chances at love are rare, and this is beautiful, and who knew there exists beauty in the depths of tragedy?

His dad cries when he watches Melissa come down the aisle, Ms. Martin on one side and Scott on the other. Her best friend and her son, and for once, Stiles doesn't mind Scott's presence.

Melissa is smiling, eye to eye, her wedding gown fitting her perfectly.

She stands in front of his dad and says, "Oh, John," with such reverence, it's hard to not cry. Stiles has to put his hand in front of his mouth, but it's futile. Derek, the jerk, repeats those words, the ones he is hearing from every corner of the hall, and by the time Stiles has a dad and a stepmom officially, he's crying happy tears.

Lydia hugs him and tells him now it's his turn to find her mom somebody, too, and he agrees, only half-listening to her. He's staring at the big, gigantic grin on his dad's face, a matching one on Melissa.

Everyone congratulates him and the newlyweds, and then it's food and chatter and toasts, and everyone is surprised when Derek gives the first toast instead of Stiles, and Scott is supposedly not giving one at all.

Derek's toast is short, but no less lovely. He calls John a great man, one with utmost patience, and of course Derek would find a way to make a dig at Stiles; he says he has no clue how John and Claudia had strength enough to be patient with Stiles around, and that perhaps it is that tenacity, that will, that has brought about the proceedings of today. Of not giving up, even when the world is stacked against you. Of staying strong, in the face of everything falling apart. Of falling apart but coming back stronger, steadier. Of finding love after all of that. And coming from Derek, of all people, it means a whole lot, and Stiles' dad hugs Derek post-speech tightly.

When they pull apart, Derek says into the mic, but with eyes on Stiles' dad, "She's just as proud of you as Stiles is. As I am."

And then it's his turn to give a toast, and he's not sure how he can outdo Derek; as he stands up in front of the mic, he realizes he doesn't want to.

He gives a few funny anecdotes of his childhood, of how his dad taught him to always have hope, because good people get good things, even if it takes long. And how Melissa was always there, a second mom to him right from the start, and how much he loves her and is glad she's still in his life, despite the years, despite the circumstances. The crowd gets intrigued at that, aware of the distance between Scott and his mom, and Stiles too; all of Beacon Hills knows about the rift, but only a hand few know the cause of it as well. So, for him to mention the distance, to publicly acknowledge it, is a big thing.

He moves right the fuck on, makes jokes and smiles and cries, admits he'll always miss his mom, but that he'd always hoped, deep in his heart, that when the grief becomes tolerable he'd be the one to make the two of them marry each other.

"You got there first," he jokes, "Had the ring all picked out even before I could start trying to convince you to ask her out. Honestly, that might have been the second best decision you've ever made." None of them have to ask what the first was. It's obvious; Stiles knows his mom's wedding ring sits inside his dad's shirt, on a necklace, his own beside it.

Melissa gives a toast, too. She reminisces the first time she met Claudia, how they became friends, and how, at the time, it was impossible to imagine a life without her.

Before her little speech, to everyone this was her and John's day, but it's clear to them now that it's not just that. To the newlyweds it's a promise to Claudia; Melissa's once best friend and his dad's first love. To be happy. To live.

There's more hugs, more cheers, the champagne popping, and a quick, impromptu speech by Scott, who was fuming at being outdone like this by not just Stiles, but also Derek.

His speech is not bad, per se. Angry jerks of his chin, wild eyes and noticeable pauses. It's not bad. It just looks bad in comparison.

Stiles will definitely rot in hell for finding this funny, but at least he won't be the only one. The whole pack is trying not to laugh, and Stiles has to hide his own in the lapels of Derek's suit, who in turn hides his laughter in Stiles' hair.

Stiles feels bad, once or twice. But Scott made his bed and he's lying on it.

And then, after that, there's the first dance. There's the open dance floor and little kids asking Derek sweetly if he'll dance with them. He's their favorite, and it's adorable, and Stiles takes a thousand pictures.

Derek is in a sharp suit, and the juxtaposition of him dancing with young children, in princess dresses and printed suits — one kid had a yellow, minion-print suit, and honestly, that kid, Darren, pulled it off well — all colorful to his black shirt, black blazer, and black pants, is just so...

Good.

Derek's whole face is lit up, the golden glow of the lights all around them putting him in an ethereal spotlight, his eyes soft, mouth curved up, and nose adorably scrunched as he tries to decipher the babbling of a two-year-old.

The mom of the kid comes to get the boy, profusely apologizing, but Derek just smiles and says it's okay. It was no issue, it's okay, no need to apologize at all.

"Right," she says, eyes flicking between Derek and Stiles. "I'll let you get back to your partner then." And it's clear she means him.

Derek doesn't correct her, and neither does he. She leaves, and in this corner of the room, it's just them now. Most kids are tired, now, and most guests have left. It's mostly just the closest friends of Melissa and his dad, and the pack, of course, who are here.

Derek turns to him, his eyes still soft, which somehow get more soft when he looks at Stiles. It takes his breath away, and he lets out a squeaky, "Let's dance?" He's almost 25, the "adult" age according to the internet, and he still acts like a high school kid with a fucking crush.

Derek just makes him feel that way.

Derek, who is going to be 30 in less than a week, the big decade, the big, bad wolf. Derek, who blushes, his cheeks pinkish red behind his stubbled face, and puts out a hand.

Stiles takes the offered hand, his heart dancing inside his ribcage. And onto the stage they go, to the applause of the pack, and his dad's, "Finally!"

Stiles blushes, too. It's just their luck to get on the floor when it's a slow dance song.

Derek wastes no time, like he can't think or he'll explode, and puts his left hand on Stiles' waist, his right on Stiles' shoulder. Stiles puts both his hands around Derek's neck, and the alpha leans into the touch. This, the blatant trust, the welcomeness of it, is what bolsters Stiles.

They move to the slow beat, their eyes on each other's like white on rice, and everything else just doesn't exist. It's just them, and only them. No one else exists, not when they do, this close.

They move closer still, their hips touching, their foreheads against each other's. Noses touching close.

"Hey," he says, and grins when Derek does.

"Hey," Derek says back, so close that Stiles feels in his bones the word shape itself in Derek's mouth.

The music changes, then, and Stiles recognizes this one from the very first beat of it. Of course he does. It's Derek's favorite song ever.

"Did you bribe the DJ to play Apocalypse?"

Derek laughs, a quick, short one, and Stiles watches the movement of it, the beauty of Derek Hale laughing. "What if I did?"

Before Stiles can say anything, the line, "kisses on the forehead of lovers," comes on, and Derek takes a step back, only to kiss Stiles on the forehead.

Stiles' breath stops in his throat. Derek closes the gap between them again, and sways them to the beat. Stiles just follows his lead, his face having stuck itself on an astonished smile, and by the time the song is over he's just hugging Derek, tight, close, forever and ever and ever close.

Derek hums the song right in his ear, and it's perfect, Derek's breath on him, his grip, his eyes on him.

Stiles takes a step back and just looks into Derek's eyes.

"Hey," Derek says softly. They don't need words. Just this, a moment to themselves, where nothing but them exists.

Stiles doesn't even have a clue what song is playing. All he hears is Derek. His unspoken trust and devotion, his soul half of Stiles', Stiles' own soul half of Derek's. Their mingling breaths, because they're still close, just a hair apart from being one.

"Hey," he repeats, and they're both moving forward, Derek's hands on Stiles' waist, his own around Derek's neck, and they kiss.

It's gentle and slow, like time doesn't exist, could never take from them, this moment infinite, their love defying the laws of the universe and stopping time.

Because this is it. This is love, theirs and theirs only, part of its definition somewhere in the noises Stiles is making, part of it in the way Derek is touching him, moving his hands around Stiles' body, up and down, up and down, caressing him close and closer still.

Because isn't that what love is? Finding meaning in another?

After what feels like a lifetime, Derek pulls back. "Your lips, my lips, apocalypse," Derek hums against his lips, and they're so close, one breath two beings close, Stiles feels the movement of Derek's lips against his.

He lets out a small laugh. Derek swallows it down with another kiss, this one urgent, and time stills, again. Nothing exists, but this, and this moment only. Them. Arms around one another, devouring lips, tight grip, closed eyes, and peace.

They pull apart, foreheads resting against each other's, and Stiles opens his eyes to Derek's soft gaze. On him, through him, for him. He smiles, takes Derek's hand in his, dislodging it from its previous position on Stiles' waist, and brings it up to kiss the open palm of this man, who is radiant in this moment, glowing, almost, with happiness.

"Best day ever," Derek says, and he hums only the tune this time, and this time, Stiles sings the lyrics.

"Your lips, my lips, apocalypse."

"We did think it would take, like, a severe life or death situation for you two to get your shit together."

The sudden reality of a third person existing, and slowly, the reality of them being in the middle of a public dance floor in front of people has them flinching and moving apart.

"Kind of glad that didn't actually occur," Lydia continues, unperturbed.

"Definitely glad," his dad agrees.

"I do prefer you two getting together on my wedding day instead of my ER room, actually." Melissa adds.

Derek and Stiles both stare at their pack — Lydia, grinning eye to eye, a wine glass in her hand. John and Melissa beside her, their hands clasped, laughing at Derek and Stiles' wide-eyed gaze. Isaac clicking a hundred pictures of them, Erica with her full-red lips and a plate filled with food. Boyd beside his wife, hand on her shoulder, and Jackson leaning against Danny, smirking at the two of them. Cora is looking at them, that Hale look of absolute mischief. Kira and Malia have probably gone home — and nope, here they come, with a...

"Is that a banner?" Derek asks, aghast, and Stiles is right there with him. Because that fucking banner reads STEREK WINS.

"What the fuck?"

Peter comes out from the shadows, and Stiles tries to be happy about the fact that his appearance surprised everyone else present too, not just him and Derek.

"Thanks for making me win the bet. Really appreciate the $5."

"Bet?!"

His dad answers his unasked question. "We all figured you two would get together sometime during our wedding. Maybe during or after. It was just a matter of when." He points to where Malia and Kira are putting the banner up, right beside the one that says, JUST MARRIED!!! "Most of us figured the week following today, but Peter, Lydia, and Kira are the only ones who doubled down on the day being today itself."

"We're going to share our anniversary!" Melissa exclaims, happy.

Derek and Stiles just stare.

Derek turns towards him. He cocks an eyebrow up. Stiles nods with quick movements of his head.

"We, uh, are gonna go," Stiles says to the hall at large. "Have fun with your... bet, I guess. Dad, Melissa, love you guys, the rest of you, fuck off." Everyone laughs.

"We'll talk about anniversary plans later, Melissa," Derek says, and Stiles finger guns at her before realizing how stupid it looks.

Luckily, Derek picks him up, fireman carry style, and swoops him away.

Stiles groans against Derek's back. "Doofuses. Serious doofuses."

"Us or them?"

Stiles thinks. "All of us," he decides. "All of us, Derek. How the fuck were we so stupid to wait so long to get together?" They don't need to really discuss it — the kiss was just a precursor. "And why the fuck do they have to be so... ugh."

"They're still laughing," Derek says, as if that would help. "Doofuses," he agrees.

And then they're in the Jeep, Derek's camaro probably to be taken home by Isaac, and they're alone and when Derek drops him gently on the seat, Stiles lunges up to kiss.

"You make me fucking feral," Derek admits against his lips, and hey, Stiles loves where this is going. "I love you."

The words are nothing, really, but an arbitrary combination of English lexicon. But there is a meaning it — so many touches, so many moments shared between the two of them. Time spent in presence or in thoughts. All of it, leading up to this. These three words that make Stiles giddy.

"I love you too, and we really were doofuses."

"Wanna be doofuses on my bed?"

"Do you even have to ask?"

Stiles speeds it out of the parking lot of the event hall, and they do, in fact, act like doofuses on Derek's bed.

They make-out, they throw down their clothes, and they pour out their hearts with every touch, every caress, every moan; they kiss and laugh and confess, touch and worship and love.

They map out each other's bodies and lean in, snuggle, and sleep.

If all apocalypses could be so lovely, it would be great, really.

#sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #sterek fics #sheriff stilinski #melissa mccall #the hale pack 2.0 #ahhh spent like 15 mins trying to come up with a title and i give up #it's 3 am rn and i'm going to SLEEP #gotta wake up in like 5ish hours too aanxbsjshjs #bYE #sh.rambles #sh.writesonmain #hopefully y'all enjoy this weekend treat #i wrote this a good few weeks ago and so glad i found it in the piles of wip

[thebigoblin]

you could be the one that i love

as promised! sheriff finds out about sterek tag won the poll, so here is the fic! this was so fun to write, i might do this next weekend too <3

title from "Message In A Bottle" by Taylor Swift.

now posted on ao3!

He's thinking about last night, and how amazing and perfect it was, when he walks through the front door of his home. He's smiling, fond and breathless, because what he experienced last night? It was straight out of a fairytale. Once-in-a-lifetime, truly world changing, adorable.

He's so lost in thought, so completely gone on those strong hands and dazzling smiles, those perfect bunny teeth, that he doesn't hear his name being called. Doesn't even realize he's not alone in his home until he's being tapped on his head, a double-drum beat he's hated and loved, in equal measures, since he was four and went to the barber for his first ever hair cut that he remembers.

"Da-ad! Daddio! Didn't realize you were off shift," he says, flustered and panicked. What if he asks why he's smiling like this? Normally, when he's zoned out, he's usually also hyperfocused on a thing. This, though? This is highly unusual. And his dad's a cop — he's the goddamn Sheriff. He'll be suspicious.

His dad looks at him, eyes squinted, looks him up and down. "Don't look dressed to impress," he mutters, more to himself than to him, but Stiles makes a noise of protest. He's dressed decently! His dad seems to think otherwise though. "You look like you had a fight with a cat, Stiles. That t-shirt is older than you are, why do you insist on wearing it?"

"Because it's comfy! I'll have you know, I have slept in this even when I did not have my pillow, and you know I can't sleep without it."

His dad puts up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Then what were you smiling about? You clearly aren't coming back from a date."

"Hey! I could be," he isn't. Still, he has feelings and words hurt, okay?

"Dressed like that?" His dad snorts, and okay, actions hurt too! "Sure, kiddo."

"Well, my choice in a date clearly wouldn't be a snob like you, so it wouldn't matter to them if I'm dressed like this or in a suit." he shoots back, and realizes his mistake just as he's faced with his dad's full-tilt grin.

"Oh? A snob? Then I guess I imagined you having a crush on one Lydia Martin all these years."

Stiles has no out, and he knows this, his dad knows this, and they both know he's done lying at this point. Sure, there was a time when Stiles would have run circles with his words and confused his dad, but ever since the werewolf secret was revealed the Stilinski men have made a pact to always be honest with each other. Or, at least, not actively lie.

Omitting certain details though? That's fine.

So, Stiles confesses:

"Actually, dad, I did have a date."

"Bingo!"

"But it wasn't before me coming home." He scratches his neck, suddenly shy. He can feel his cheeks heating up, the memories of last night once again rushing through his mind.

"I take it was good, whenever it was. But wait, where were this afternoon then?"

"Oh, dad, don't ask. It was a terrible day, I tell you! Erica and Lydia wouldn't leave me alone until I told them every. Single. Detail."

His dad raises an eyebrow. His voice is stern as he speaks. "Young man, you're seventeen. I know you think having sex is the pinnacle of teenage—"

"No! No, no, no!" Now he's blushing for an entirely different reason. "No, definitely not! De- date and I definitely didn't have sex last night." Oh god, kill him now. "It was just a dinner and movie date and it was cliché but... Dad, it was so good."

His dad smiles. Asks him if he's had dinner yet, and when he says no, tells him to tell him everything over dinner.

"Not everything," he clarifies quickly, "Just parts you're comfortable sharing with me."

Stiles loves him so much. He hugs his dad, tells him so, and starts to do just as he was asked to — he heats his dinner up, his dad having already cooked and eaten, and then both of them settle on the dining table chairs.

Stiles tells him things.

How much he loved how his date came to pick him up from Lydia's, because she was the one who dressed him. His dad laughs at that part, and Stiles points his fork at him, trying to shut him up, but only succeeds in joining in on the laughter fest.

How much he loved the flowers he got, and how his date was a gentleman all night long. Opened all the doors for him, pulled out his chair at the restaurant, and even let him eat off of his plate. Didn't even tell him to shut up when he kept babbling at the cinema.

"I'm going to pause you here and ask — you're dating a guy?"

"Not dating dating, since this was our first date, but... yeah." His dad knows he's bisexual, has known for a while, but this is the first person Stiles is dating ever and it's a guy.

He waits for his dad's reaction.

"You want to go on a second date with him?"

Stiles blows out a breath. Toys with his food a bit. The only thing he doesn't want to do in this moment is grin like a lunatic.

But he fails.

His dad holds his gaze and tells him, "Any person who makes you this happy, they get my approval."

"Dad," Stiles says, overcome with emotions. "Thank you."

"Always, kiddo. Your happiness is what matters to me. That being said, you need to do your laundry, and I'm going to go sleep. Night."

"Oh, come on! We were having a moment, and you totally ruined it!" He yells at his dad's back, which is shaking with laughter.

He yells good night, then thinks of his dad's reaction when he learns his date was Derek.

*

"I want to tell my dad."

This is their fifth date.

They're in a coffee shop a few towns over, just looking at each other, talking about this and that. About what Stiles wants to do after he completes his senior year, what Derek's plans were and what he ended up doing. It's a quiet environment, not many patrons here besides them, and they are in their own little bubble here.

Which pops rather loudly as Derek looks at him with the widest eyes he's ever seen.

Stiles tries not to laugh. He really, really does.

He ends up laughing, the other patrons and the waitstaff looking over at them at the sound.

"Are you scared? Of my poor ol' dad?"

"Your dad who is the Sheriff!" Derek hisses, trying to not let more attention come over them. "And I'm dating his underage son. Stiles! This is not funny."

"I'm sorry," he isn't, "But the Alpha of Beacon Hills is scared of an old man? That is funny as hell, Der."

"Stiles!"

"Darling," he tries to calm himself down, and looking into Derek's eyes has that effect on him, "It's okay. We don't have to tell him yet. It's just an idea, okay? We can wait until you're ready."

Derek takes a moment to process and reply. "Didn't you say he approves of your boyfriend?"

"My boyfriend who he probably thinks is my age, or like, maybe two or three years older. Not six."

Derek takes one look at him, at the hickey he's marked on his neck, and shakes his head rather aggressively. "No."

Stiles laughs and keeps laughing, until Derek shuts him up with a kiss.

*

The police station is nearly empty when he enters. It makes sense; it's lunch time and recently there hasn't been anything big. Which is good, really good.

It means he gets to finish his last year in school in peace, and he doesn't have to worry about his dad working himself to death.

It's a good time in Beacon Hills.

Stiles thinks so, right until the moment he's on his fifth bite of burger and his dad's staring down his own.

"You know, son, one day you are gonna have to make your boyfriend meet me."

Stiles chokes on his burger.

"If you can't eat the rest of it, maybe I can—"

"It's not healthy for you!" He shouts when he's feeling okay, and then, "Also, I could have died right now. Were you not worried?"

"I've seen you trip on air and gracefully fight off a rogue werewolf, Stiles."

"And?"

His dad just rolls his eyes, picks up his own healthy burger, smells it, and puts it down. "Smells nasty,"

"Good for your health," he sing-songs. And then, "It's only been a month, dad, jeez! Let us live a little. Plus, he's scared of you-" Fuck. His dad is looking at him weird.

"He's scared of me?"

"I mean, you're the Sheriff, so." He shrugs. It's totally a valid reason to be scared.

"Hmm. And there is no other reason?"

"Nope, not at all!"

"Right."

Stiles stuffs the rest of his burger into his mouth to avoid further questioning. His dad sighs, clearly thinking he's raised an animal, and attempts to eat his own lunch.

By the time he's done, he's licking his fingers.

"Told you it tastes better than it smells."

His dad meticulously wipes his mouth, his fingers with napkins. Stiles is drinking his banana smoothie.

"And I told you I want to meet the boy who has got you so chipper."

Stiles ends up snorting the smoothie out his nose.

"Oh, lord."

His dad is clearly questioning Stiles' existence. At this point, Stiles is doing the same.

*

His dad doesn't leave the issue, and after continuous requests — orders, more like — Stiles breaks down in front of Derek.

Derek, the pure, innocent soul whose color leaves him the moment Stiles tells him of his dad's demands.

"I need to create a will." Is what Derek answers with.

Stiles agrees, and adds, "Erica will be a good Alpha, I think."

They both hold each other, then, fearing the worst.

*

Stiles tries to soften the blow by providing his dad with unhealthy food for three days straight.

Three is his limit.

"Derek, I'm sorry, but I can't do this any longer."

Derek accepts his fate rather bravely. Eyes steeled with determination, he walks into the Stilinski home, and Stiles follows, once again rehearsing the speech in his mind.

Dad, I know this isn't what you were expecting. But this is my boyfriend. Derek Hale. Yes, I know he's 23 and I'm 17, but dad. I like him so much. And he likes me that much back. We are good together. You know I have been happy, and dad, Derek has been too. You know because I know you have seen him around. Dad—

Turns out, he need not have prepared the speech.

Because his dad? Is kind of an asshole.

The very first thing he sees when he enters the living room is Derek's back, because he's frozen in the middle of the room, eyes locked on—

The banner.

That reads WELCOME DEREK HALE.

"You knew." He looks at his dad, who is smiling smugly.

"Yes."

"How?"

"I think you are forgetting, kiddo, but I'm a cop."

"But you- the steaks! Dad!"

His dad doesn't even have the decency to fake remorse.

"Come on, Der, we are leaving."

He tugs on Derek's hand, makes him move back out the door. Derek follows, but only after saying:

"Thank you for not killing me!"

"You're welcome, son!" His dad yells back.

The son sends a warmth through Stiles' entire being, the easy acceptance of Derek into their little unit of family a welcome gift. When Stiles looks at Derek, he sees his boyfriend reflecting the same emotions.

*

Later that same night, his dad calls to tell him this —

"Stiles, I love you, kiddo. And I want you to be happy. And I guess your happiness is with Derek. It was hard to digest at first, but then I saw you both at the bookstore." Stiles remembers that day — it was their second date. "I knew you were dating someone, a boy, and I connected that information with what I saw, and I came up with my son dating an older boy. It angered me, concerned me. But then I saw past that, because I saw how he was with you and you with him.

It was like watching the past. I won't call this young love, because clearly this is more than that. I'm not sure how you would feel about this years down the line, if it will even be true, but I have a conviction that a decade from now, maybe even sooner, I won't be calling my son and his boyfriend, but my sons. My son, and his husband."

Stiles has tears in his eyes, but it is okay, because Derek does too. And from the way his dad's voice cracks, so does he.

"I love you, Stiles."

"Love you, dad. So much."

His dad hangs up the call, and Stiles buries himself into Derek's chest.

"Your father is a good man," Derek tells him, and Stiles nods. "I won't let him down. I won't let you down."

"I know."

Stiles tilts his head, and Derek tilts his, and they kiss, a gentle, soft kiss that conveys the conviction of his dad's words, and their hope of its truth.

(It's true. His dad even recounts this tale at the wedding reception — how he knew and he played on Stiles' fear to eat unhealthy food for three days straight.

Everyone laughs, and then Stiles has to suffer as his husband — husband! — gangs up on him with his dad.

It's the best day of Stiles' life).

#sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #sheriff stilinski #whenwordsmakesense #*sterek fic recs #sh.writesonmain #if there is any mistake — know that this was written b/w 1 and 2am.

[thebigoblin]

Then, Now, Tomorrow

for @greyhavenisback. a mini-fic to celebrate your birthday! miss talking to you as we once used to but i'm forever glad that at least we got to know each other ❤️ real life might come in between, but it doesn't mean this reel life is forgotten! Right?!

Tags: Future Fic, as in somehow canon yet not related to that movie in any shape or form, Derek Hale Loves Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Loves Derek Hale, Fluff, Light Angst, in regards to Derek's Sad Past, Attempt at Humor, Let Derek Hale Be Happy 2023

"Oh, man, that was so fun!"

Derek catches him when he stumbles, his arms wrapped tight around Stiles' waist, and he laughs.

"You're so strong, dude," he says, admiring the way Derek's biceps flex under his sinfully tight shirt.

Derek puts him on the couch, but doesn't bother separating from him. Just says, "Thanks, Sparky," and gives him a look when he pouts.

Stiles rolls his eyes and mutters, "Dick."

"Big dick," Derek corrects, and it's so deadpan and so unexpected, Stiles nearly falls off of the couch, laughing so hard his stomach hurts and his eyes shut close. Soon, Derek joins him in laughing, and Stiles loves that sound, of Derek's happiness, his joy radiating in waves around them. Stiles wishes to sink down in it, to anchor himself to it, to stay here forever and ever, listening to Derek laugh, beautiful in his rawest emotions, finally free of shackles of misplaced guilt and justified grief.

"Be like this forever?" Stiles asks, admiring the curve of Derek's lips, the dip and rise of his chest, which comes to a breathy halt at his question. "Please?"

Derek's face morphs into confusion, frown replacing smile, and Stiles hates it. Wants to remove, change it back — take back his words, just to listen to that musical sound.

"No, no, no," he mutters to himself, "Stupid Stiles." He brings his hands up, waits until he's got Derek's puzzled acceptance of touching him on his cheeks, then stretches his lips until it's a smile.

"Smile? You want me to smile?"

"Nuh uh, I want you to be happy," he stresses the word, hopes the weight of his wish on it makes it true. "Happy Derek is good, so good, I want you to be happy Derek. No, ecas- no, ecstatic! Ecstatic Derek!"

Derek smiles, then, a real one, his bunny teeth showing and his eyes crinkling. Stiles' hands are still on his face, their legs a tangled mess on the couch, feet up and under each other's, the warmth of their closeness comfortable and welcome. Derek takes his hands, puts them down on a thigh — in his drunken state he can't really make out whose thigh it is — and comes close, so close, Stiles can count his eyelashes if he wants to.

He does.

He's on number thirteen when Derek huffs out a laughter, mutters a, "You're unbelievable," and presses their forehead together.

Stiles tries to fight him off. "No! Noooo, Der, I was counting your eyelashes!"

His hands don't try to push Derek off of him, because he doesn't want to be away from this embrace, but he still is bummed out and tries valiantly to not feel like he's in heaven when Derek giggles.

"You're so unbelievable," Derek says again, and Stiles, whose eyes had closed, opens them, just to see Derek staring at him. His eyes are the most gorgeous eyes he's ever seen; they have the green of the forest, the blue of the oceans, the golden of the sun, and the grey of the moon.

"You're so pretty," Stiles tells Derek sincerely, and moves so that his and Derek's foreheads separate, the distance between them just enough to witness Derek's cheeks and tip of ears burning a soft pink. "I want to kiss you so bad."

The soft pink turns a deeper red. "Stiles, we can't. Not when you're not in your right mind."

"All of my minds and my hearts would want you, ecstatic and pretty and you." Stiles tries to move his hand, and after a little delay — where are his hands?! — he does, and when he does, he puts one on Derek's cheeks again. Makes his open mouth close. "Is that a surprise for you, Big Guy? That I want you?"

Derek has no answer for it. But he insists, "We can't. Not now."

Stiles pushes Derek onto his back, and pliant under his ministrations, Derek goes. He won't say no — not to Stiles.

And Stiles hates it.

"We are going to cuddle," Stiles explains, once Derek is on his back, eyes locked onto Stiles', who is still sitting upright, his knees planted on the left side of Derek's hips. "I've always wanted to know if your chest can be a pillow. Like, it feels and looks so hard, but can it be a pillow too?" Derek doesn't say a word, just stares, and stares, and stares.

Stiles' heart breaks.

"Der," he whispers, and makes sure to keep all his limbs to himself, no part of him touching Derek's. He's cognizant enough to realize what's wrong here, and damn it if he's going to ruin Derek's great night out.

He heard Derek giggle today, no way is he going to ruin that.

"Derek, I want you to be happy. And if that means making me sad, then so be it. If your happiness lies in breaking my heart and breaking me apart, not doing what I want, then so be it. I want you to be happy. And know this: my happiness? It lies in you doing what you want."

Derek stares, and after a beat, he shakes his head, as if dislodging his previous, tumultuous thoughts. Then he says, "You somehow still make sense when you're drunk."

He sounds so sincerely puzzled, it makes Stiles laugh.

And it's that thought all over again when Derek starts laughing too: he wants to sink here, in this one moment alone, anchor himself to it until there's nothing but him and Derek on all his horizons.

Stiles wants so much, so little, too much: he wants himself to finally confess, he wants Derek to be himself, he wants Derek to be happy, whatever it takes.

And apparently what it takes is this — Stiles, almost asleep on Derek's soft yet hard chest, Derek's fingers in his hair, carding through it slowly, meticulously. Stiles' eyes closed, his breath on Derek's neck, Derek's on his hair, their bodies intertwined on the couch. Derek, voice the tiniest whisper, a wish, a hope:

"My happiness lies with you, Stiles. Having you by my side, this moment, tomorrow, hopefully forever. In whatever way you'll have me."

Stiles hears it, but sleep has him, so the only thing he does is smile against Derek's chest. Perhaps he feels it, because Derek's other hand squeezes his waist, a physical gesture of holding on to these words of today, tomorrow, and forever.

Stiles sinks into Derek's embrace, into that promise, into that night, and several years later he finds himself surprised still at the fact that it wasn't all a dream, but the first nights of many like that. Of them together, intertwined, each other's, happy and giggling and together.

Together then, now, tomorrow.

(now also on ao3)

#sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #sh.writesonmain #greyhavenisback #happy birthday hun! #how can i forget your birthday?! ;) #wishing you the best and hugging you tight ❤️✨️ #sh.rambles #this is a q #(for my 6am. guess that makes it a little past 12am your time i think?) #also. i will be posting this to ao3 for archiving purposes and also because i like my works at one single place #❤️❤️❤️

[thebigoblin]

Share a Snippet Saturday!

...no? okay, anyways, here is a snippet from a fic I started working on near the end of March in frustration of studying, and I have worked on/off on this since. I'm loving the 1st half of what I have written so far, so this is from near the beginning of the fic!

*

So, no. Dying is petty, so he wishes to never have existed. He knows he'll be missed. The better fate, for all, in conclusion can only be this then — tear off his skin from his body, his bones from its hollows, his feet from this earthly plane, and his existence from this universe.

The ultimate solution.

His skin itches with the power of his want. His blood is seething beneath his flesh, a live, angry thing, a counterpart to his melancholy. His fingers trace his skin, right hand on left hand's elbow and down, to the wrist. Then, frantic, a full body flail: he is his Tata's son, after all.

He itches all over, the sensation spreading like fallen gasoline. There's a throbbing pain at the base of his throat, a scream tearing out of his throat at the intensity of it. He had locked the door, privacy of space his to conquer in his state of being, his parents allowing him that space — but now, now they rush in, his dad's eyes red and lively, just like his blood felt a few seconds ago, his Tata's eyes liquid gold in the sunlight falling through the windows.

"Eli!" It's a roar, an Alpha roar. Fear and command, hand-in-hand. And then, a tearful, "No!"

#sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #eli stilinski-hale #share a snippet saturday! #lol that's what i'm calling it #i just want validation! *evil laugh* #sh.writesonmain #sh.snippets #also fun fact: this does not have a title yet. ugh.

[thebigoblin]

The Saturday Routine

@febuwhump Day 7: Made To Watch + @badthingshappenbingo Square Filled: Hiding An Injury (card attached at the end). Also, will post on ao3 later. EDIT: POSTED!

Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski & Eli Stilinski-Hale

Tags: Hurt Derek Hale, Hurt Eli Stilinski-Hale, Blood, BAMF!Stiles, POV Eli Stilinski-Hale, Sheriff Stilinski Makes An Appearance, Attempt at Humor, Spark Stiles Stilinski, True Alpha Derek Hale, Fluff & Angst, Happy Ending

The last thing he clearly remembers is watching his dad laugh.

They were in the locker room of the high school, after-hours, joking around as they normally do on Saturdays. His dad is a trusted man, the Sheriff's consultant, and an overall loved Beacon Hills citizen. Which means that the Principal of the school — Ms. Natalie Martin — has allowed them to use the school grounds for practicing, even if he isn't good at playing lacrosse (yet, says dad's voice in his head).

This is all routine. Waking up early on Saturdays, getting ready and having breakfast, going to the school, practicing lacrosse there for hours, and only leaving when it's time for lunch. What isn't is this huge gap of memory, his head pounding, and his ears ringing.

And, most importantly, these ropes.

"Wha-?"

He can't even speak. His throat is dry, he needs to drink, he needs to remove these ropes from his wrists and most importantly, he needs to know his dad is okay.

He coughs to clear his throat. Once, twice. "Dad-"

"Shh," he hears through the ringing in his ears, and thank fuck, that's his dad. He is fine.

"You are-"

"Eli, please shut up."

He shuts his mouth with a clack of teeth. He tastes blood, but it's okay. At least he knows now, his dad is here, and he sounds fine. Right? Right.

But where is he? Where are they?

This certainly isn't the diner they frequent for Saturday lunches.

He would just open his eyes and check, but as it turns out, he has blindfolds on, too.

He's 99% this is the work of hunters.

Wait... he hears chanting.

"Is that fucking chanting?!"

"Eli!" His dad hisses, somewhere from his front, but it's too late. A door opens with a loud creak, and it's creepy enough, but then the one who opened it has to speak, too.

"Aha! You wolves are awake. Good. Very good."

Cliché witch dialogues. His tata was right — these villains are very predictable.

As he's wondering about his tata and what he would do to escape — WWTD (what would tata do) — he's suddenly moved from his position. It's good, because he was starting to cramp.

"Eli!" His dad is shouting behind him, and he wants to tell him something, anything, just to reassure him, but then the witch slams over a duct tape on his face.

He knows the taste of it because of his many, many spent evenings working on his tata's jeep.

"Mmmph!"

"Quiet, baby wolf. You are required for your purity, not for your tongue. I will not hesitate to cut it."

"Mmmphh!" They really are after virgins! He really should invest some time in his love life at this point. Hell, it won't even be hard to convince his parents to let him date — he just needs to find someone who matches his energy.

He's shaken out of his thoughts when he realizes the chanting is growing louder.

There are more of them?

His dad must have realized this earlier, because he's cursing them and growling, his loud, Alpha roar not too far away. He knows because he's heard it loads of times, and it's always as mesmerizing as it is terrifying (his tata always smells disgustingly horny when it happens).

"Get the Alpha now. He's angry enough to fuel the spell."

Oh.

Oh.

He was just the bait.

*

His blindfolds are taken off the moment he's put into the cage, large and glinting silver under the sunlight coming from the open roof of the cave.

There are six witches, standing in a circle, wearing grey and blue robes. Their faces are hidden, but all have the same tattoo on their necks: pigs. Who the hell tattoos that?

His focus only stays on them for a minute, though, because just then his dad's being dragged through the only entrance by the seventh member. His dad is in chains and tattered clothes, and he's huffing in pain, growling at everyone until he sees him.

"Dad! What the hell did you do to him?!" He directs his question to the circle, who ignore him until his dad is in the centre of it, eyes locked on him.

It's like he doesn't even care about himself, as long as his kid is safe. Eli hates it.

He wants his dad to be okay!

"A wolf will fight tooth and nail for its cub," one of the witches says, and Eli snaps his eyes to her. She is smiling at him, a crooked, cruel smile. "And your father? He fought well. Like an Alpha should."

"He is poweful," another witch adds.

"And he will be useful to us." A third one intones, voice heavy with expectation.

"You will not hurt my dad—!"

His dad says at the same time, "I will help you, but on one condition."

The attention is shifted to his dad.

Eli knows exactly what his dad is going to say — he starts protesting, but no ears heed his words.

"Release Eli, and I will do as you ask. His safety, for whatever it is you want me to do."

The witches tsk, admire, appraise.

Eli waits for their answer.

"No."

He sighs in relief.

His dad tries to move, to attack, maybe, but he can't. He's on the ground before he can, and Eli has to crane his neck to see — it's a fucking taser. To the back.

"You said you wanted a virgin!" He shouts. And the attention is on him now, even his dad's, who is writhing with pain on the stone ground. "My dad is not one. Obviously. He's a gross adult who does those gross things with my tata, they always keep kissing, it's all very teenage horror. Don't ask." He waves his hands around as he keeps talking. "Me, on the other hand? I haven't been kissed." He's not proud of it, but he's only fifteen.

Sure, his tata met the love of his life at sixteen, but on the other hand? His dad met his one true love at the age of twenty-two, and even then it took them years to figure their shit out.

Eli has hope.

The witches cackle as one.

"Oh," one of them says, "how precious. Are they not, sisters?"

"They are." They all echo. Fucking creepy.

"They think we need only one of them. How optimistic of you."

No.

He is not just the bait.

He locks his gaze on his dad's. They're both panicking.

Eli can do nothing but watch as his dad is made to stand on shaky legs, their eyes still locked with each other's. The witches have once again formed a circle, and his dad is in the middle of it, and Eli can't take his eyes away.

Not even when they slice his dad's shirt, remove it completely. Not even when they put a knife on his chest and stomach, carve three lines vertically downwards. Not even when his dad cries out in pain, mouthing "Leave! Escape!" every second of it, his eyes as scarlet as the blood coming out of him.

All he can do is watch and cry, his wrists still tied, his wolf still sheltered.

*

His dad is unconscious, now, and he's too far for Eli to check up on. The only sign he's alive is his weak heartbeat — Eli can hear it, even if faintly. He wishes he was a better wolf, but unfortunately he is not.

That is what happens when you're a magical tree baby, half of both your parents, somehow. He's hardly a wolf and not at all a spark.

He's 100% useless.

He's crying, because that's the only thing he can do.

He doesn't even kick up a fuss when they come for him, next.

They don't tear off his t-shirt; they pull it up, just start cutting into him. One single slash across his abdomen, like they did his dad's: First in the middle; from the middle of his pecs to his belly button. Then the left side, below his pec till the belly button, and same on the right side.

The knife is on his left side, just about to slash into him, when the witches' robes suddenly starts flying like there's a huge gust of wind.

Eli's t-shirt falls into place right as the witches fall on the ground.

"Tata!"

It's him. Weilding his gun and anger.

"Nobody takes my boys," his tata growls, a very good impression of his dad's, and every single witch is done for now.

They go down like nasty flies his tata hates.

Eli doesn’t focus on the whole fight, though. He knee-walks towards his dad, checks his breathing just to be sure, and cringes when he sees the blood and injury on his stomach. Its healing, but slowly — they must have used wolfsbane on the knife.

"Take him out to the jeep!"

He does as his tata asked, puts his whole strength on saving his dad. He almost doesn't make it; his dad is too heavy, he can't, he can't pick him up, but his dad can die—

He's a fucking Stilinski-Hale and he can do this. He's the son of two of the strongest people and he believes he can save his dad.

On the fourth try, he's able to carry his dad bridal style. His tata is still fighting, three witches on him at once, the other four thrown against the cave's walls, but he knows he can handle himself.

He can.

Eli puts his dad on the backseat of the jeep, and he's just secured him when his tata comes out, quickly taking the driver's seat and telling him to sit as well so they can run to Lydia. There's no space left in the backseat, so he sits on the passenger seat.

"Are you hurt?"

"No." He lies. Dad is the priority, not him. "Tata, he's not healing,"

"Shh, baby, shh. Your daddy will be okay," his tata brings a hand to his face, the other on the steering wheel, and it comes away wet. He didn't even realize he was crying. "He'll be okay. Your dad is strong, and you know him, he never misses a game."

"Granpops and him have a watch party tomorrow," he reminds himself. They have never missed one. Ever.

"Yes. He'll never miss it. Okay, baby?"

He's hated being called baby ever since he was four. He loves it now.

"Okay." And then because he thinks this is the last he'll every say: "I love you both. Sooooo much."

*

When he wakes up, his head is pounding, and he hears screaming.

It's his tata. And he's not yelling as so much as... venting.

About him.

"That dumbass kid didn't even tell me he had an injury! And not just any injury, a frockin' slash! Through his abdomen!"

His granpop's laugh. The belly laugh.

"It's not frockin' funny! Dad!"

"You did it again!" What did tata do again?

"I— your grandchild could have died and you are focused on your son saying made-up bad words? Seriously?" Eli imagines his tata throwing his hands up, and the fond smile that graces his dad's face when he does. He and grandpops generally just leave them alone at that point, because after that it's just a toin coss away from a make-out session or full-on sex.

"Kid, I had you as a teen. This doesn't even phase me anymore. He'll be fine, he's a strong kid."

Pause. Then: "He is. He is totally Derek's kid."

"And yours, Stiles."

"Nope," it sounds like he's aggressively cleaning dishes, a plate grating under his harsh hands, "today he's just Derek's kid. How the fuck — yes, dad, be proud of me for using actual cuss words, why not — they got kidnapped off of the school grounds when he's an Alpha, a True Alpha, and now they're both pretending to not be awake to postpone my wrath." Oh, so his dad's fine now. "And they're both wondering if the other is okay or not. Der, your kid is alive, and Eli, your dad is fine."

"That tone means trouble," his grandpops says, unnecessarily.

"Thanks for stating the obvious!" Eli shouts, and he hears his dad saying the same, and then they're both groaning, probably due to the stitches being pulled. Though his dad groans louder.

"Wow. You really know them."

"I just know your favorite son-in-law. His kid's literally just the same."

"Hey, now, you know Eli is your carbon copy."

Eli lets the conversation wash over him, the familiar sounds lulling him into sleep, right until he hears his name and being a Spark in the same sentence.

"...saw his eyes, they were purple."

"This was when he picked up Derek?"

Oh.

Oh.

He believed.

"Yeah. It was so cool. His eyes then turned beta yellow."

His tata hums, and then it's silent.

Eli wants to know more.

He gets up from his bed, careful with his injury, and realizes with a start — this is his bedroom, on the second floor, and his tata and grandpops are clearly on the first floor, in the kitchen.

He's running at full speed right until he hits the landing of the stairs and bumps shoulders with his dad, who was doing the same.

They both groan as their stitches once again complain.

"Told you!" His tata shouts over them groaning in pain.

"How?" Eli mouths to his dad. He didn't hear anything.

"Notepad," his dad mouths back.

"Notepad!" His tata shouts from below at the same time.

"Okay, wow, you really do know us well."

"Kid, don't be so surprised," Grandpops says, and then, "Your tata is a Stilinski. And you are half Stilinski too. We do amazing things."

"Yeah," his dad says softly. Louder, "You three are amazing. Though, I have to say Stiles is something else entirely."

"No buttering me up will work! And no bribes either, house chores or... other means!"

Eli shudders. "Ew."

His dad gives him a look.

Grandpop calls out a greeting. "And that's my cue to leave. Stiles, leave Derek alive for tomorrow's game. We have never missed one and we won't be starting now. And don't be too hard on Eli, remember he's my favorite grandchild."

"I'm your only- okay, when will me shouting and groaning combo will end?"

"No promises, dad. And you two, don't you dare think of hiding out in your rooms."

The two of them walk downstairs, and even though he and his dad share a look of solidarity, they know they're no match against one Stiles Stilinski-Hale.

At least they're given smiley-pancakes after they have been thoroughly reamed (and hugged a million times).

* END *

my bad things happen bingo card —

#sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #eli stilinski-hale #sheriff stilinski #bad things happen bingo #febuwhump #febuwhump 23 #sh.writesonmain #this is a q

[thebigoblin]

🥰 #10 "I give you permission...." for Sterek please!!

Hey! Thank you so much @princecharmingwinks for the prompt ❤️ Sorry for having taken so long (and I promise to others that I'm working on your prompts too, it's just slow going progress!), but I hope you like this!!!

This is written for my 300 followers celebration thing, from this list I believe. (I saw the “I give you permission” and I ran with it... it wasn’t until I was finished that I realized that wasn’t the prompt at all! I’m going to write that one too tho, because the prompt is so sweet, just not sure when). 

This has also been posted on AO3 (for registered users) if that's more your style.

Relevant Tags: Angst With a Hopeful Ending, Pre-Slash, Self Love, (not the sexual kind), Flower Symbolisms, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Stiles Stilinski Is a Nice Thing

Achingly Infinite

Never let it be said that Stiles Stilinski is prone to giving up easily.

Derek has known Stiles for, fuck, nearly six years at this point, and still he is entranced by Stiles' entire being. Every time he sees the human — now with a magical prowess that matches Derek's own level of comfort in his wolf skin, and he's a born werewolf — there is something new to behold. Skill, idea, movements, tattoos, a new facet of his personality — Stiles.

He's so much, means too much, and Derek is scared of the day he'll lose him.

Derek knows he's not relationship material. Unless he's being exploited, he's not worthy of being loved, and he believes this so wholeheartedly that when he sees Stiles look at him with that look, the soft look with his eyelashes fanning over tawny eyes, lips stretching into a smile, face and scent lighting up with happiness... he bolts.

He only has enough time to register the beginning of the souring of Stiles' scent before he's far away from the diner he and Stiles were supposed to meet at for lunch. Only then does he relax, and unlike normal people who would be ecstatic at knowing their love is reciprocated, he tries to come up with ways he can make Stiles hate him.

It's either that, or him destroying Stiles' life. And given any circumstance, he'll always, always choose the former.

Even though it will hurt. Will make him want to claw and cry and curl up in his bed. But that's the kind of love he has for Stiles — protective, overbearing. So much and so achingly infinite that his pain barely feels like pain when it's Stiles he's saving. Caring for, even in his own backwards way.

Derek isn't stupid. He knows this isn't healthy, isn't okay for him, but this is for Stiles.

For Stiles.

*

Derek manages to avoid Stiles for exactly a week before he's being cornered at the Sheriff's station, John himself standing guard outside his office while Stiles makes Derek stay with a flick of his hands. It's like being in a mountain ash circle, except there's no grey powder, or a circle.

"I thought this was an emergency," Derek utters when it's clear he's lost, that he's going to have to face this song if he wants the chance to dance the way he's planned meticulously over the past seven days.

Stiles fixes his steely, purple eyes on him. "It is," he agrees, "My Alpha isn't talking to me. That's a cause for concern, isn't it?"

Derek tries his best to not give anything away. Before he met Stiles' observant eyes, he used to have a mask so absolute he could have won billions in a poker game, but with each second spent with Stiles, he's lost it. Or perhaps Stiles has just gotten good with reading Derek, just as Derek has gotten good at reading Stiles.

He hopes to anyone listening above that he manages to pull the words, "Maybe he got sick of you," out so convincingly that Stiles will be hurt, will start hating him again, like he did when they first met. But all Stiles does is laugh, a hysterical, unbelieving sort of laugh, and Derek is confused. But he doesn't let it show. He scoffs. Says with enough contempt, "This. I tell you something, anything, and all you do is mock me. Ever think that's not what I need? That I need someone who respects my decisions and does exactly what I say?"

Stiles stops laughing abruptly. His eyes are their usual color now, a bright golden in the streaming sunlight from the window, his hair a wild mess, like he's been stressing out, pulling on his hair all day long.

Stiles says, "That's not what you want," and Derek bares his teeth.

"You don't know what I want, Stiles." I want you. But I can't have you.

"You want me." Startled, Derek lets his half-shift fade away, cursing himself mentally for being stupid and saying it out loud. He's been so careful these past years but now—

"Relax, you didn't say it out loud. And no, I didn't read your mind. I can't do the Charles Xavier thing, and you know that, Derek."

Derek rolls his eyes, and before he can stop himself, says, "If you wanted to, you could." Stiles smiles at him, and it's the first one since Stiles captured him in his father's office. The realization makes Derek's gut churn with anxiety, of having given up on his master plan to make Stiles hate him so easily.

Whenever he's with Stiles, his walls turn to dust, but this is ridiculous even for his standards.

Stiles seems to catch each one of his thoughts, because his smile keeps growing until it's a legitimate grin, so beautiful and breathtaking that Derek has trouble moving his eyes away. He just stands there, near the windows, in his jogging clothes — yoga pants and a tank top — staring at Stiles.

"You want me," Stiles repeats, and moves closer. Derek is frozen in his spot, sweaty palms at his side, his own heartbeat a war cry in his ears. "You've wanted me for a long time, Derek Hale... perhaps as long as I have you. But you already knew that, didn't you?" Derek doesn't nod, doesn't do anything in response to the fact. Stiles has stopped just a little away from him, enough that he's not encroaching so much on Derek's space. He continues, "I respect you. I don't always respect your decisions, because frankly sometimes they're just too careless, but I respect you, so I didn't say anything for the longest time. I figured you would come to me when it was the right time for you, but... it's been so long, Der." Stiles' voice breaks at those words, and instinctively, Derek brings up his arms to hug Stiles close to himself. Stiles doesn't resist.

Derek thinks about how to reply to that. To the newfound knowledge that not only Stiles loves him back, but that he's known for who knows how long that Derek loves him back, too. And Stiles has been waiting for him to further their relationship into the romantic territory, because it's Stiles, the one person who knows Derek best, especially his relationship with boundaries in general. He thinks about it, replaying the words Stiles spoke just now over and over, and finally, comes to a reply that is satisfactory, at least to him.

Stiles pulls back just as Derek opens his mouth, his face expectant and a little embarrassed.

Derek says, "I think you just answered your question."

Stiles' scent had never truly lost the tinge of anger, and at his words it rises again, like a wave in the ocean, rising with the pull of the moon. "What?" Stiles shouts, mouth twisting. "What the fuck does that even mean? Here I am, pouring my heart out, and you're pulling a Deaton!"

The comparison makes Derek's lips quirk upwards, but he pushes the feeling down, instead letting his eyes wander down to the wooden flooring of the Sheriff's office. He can still hear John's heartbeat outside, as well as a few officers, and he wonders what excuse John has given his officers in regards to all the noise coming from this room.

"Don't you smirk, douchebag. Answer me! I didn't plan this ambush for nothing, and unless I get some—"

Taking in a deep breath, his eyes still downcast, he says, "You said, 'your plans are careless,' and that's true. And that's where your answer lies." He looks up, and finds Stiles' confused face just inches from his own, the spark having moved forward further in his anger. Licking his lips, he explains, "You know me better than anyone, Stiles."

Stiles' face goes through a lot of expressions as he parses the meaning of Derek's unsaid words; confusion, more confusion, thoughtful, sad, anger, more anger, then sad again, livid, and the most damning of all... heartbreak.

"Derek..." Stiles says, voice so low it's almost impossible to hear. They stare at each other for who knows how long, and when Stiles finally unfreezes enough to come forward further, Derek steps back. Stiles' magic isn't stopping him, so he moves as far away as possible, stands at the door to drive home the point that he's done with this conversation.

He stares at the blindingly bright sky visible through the window as he says, "I don't deserve good things, Stiles."

As he leaves, he's grateful Stiles doesn't follow him.

*

Let it be said again: Stiles does not give up easily.

The day after the ambush at the police station, which he isn't exactly sure how either of the Stilinski’s pulled off, Derek gets a bouquet of flowers delivered to the Hale house. At first he thinks it's for one of the betas, so he picks it up from the porch — the smell of the daffodils overpowers the scent of the human, and it's so strong that Derek sneezes twice — and puts it on the center of the dining table. It looks good on the mahogany table, and after searching it for any cards at all, which he doesn't find, he shrugs and heads for his daily jog.

It's the one thing that takes his mind off of things easily, so he doesn't dare miss it. As he leaves he calls out to Boyd and Erica, "There's a bouquet here for you!"

They call out in confusion, but Derek doesn't turn back around. He figures it must be for Isaac or Cora or Jackson.

He doesn't realize how wrong he is until he's picking up the fifth bouquet of daffodils off of his porch on the fifth consecutive day, the gifts devoid of any name of the person who is sending them. But by the fifth day, Derek has a pretty good guess who it might be.

He hasn't been to Stiles' house for days now, for good reason, but he's a wolf on a mission. So he swings inside Stiles' bedroom through his perpetually unlocked window, takes one whiff of the room, and flashes his eyes red at the spark sitting innocently on his desk chair, arranging the sixth bouquet.

"I told you—"

"You told me, and I quote, 'I don't deserve good things, Stiles.' And see, I can't just accept that. You should know, because as I've also told you, I love you." Derek looks away from Stiles' beautiful face, and Stiles tsks. "Oops. I said I wanted you, right? Eh, same thing. I want you, I love you. I love you, I want you. Anyways. What was I saying?"

Stiles says the words as easily as he's breathing air. Like loving Derek isn't a chore, isn't a part of a well executed plan that he needs to play perfectly for some ulterior motive. Like loving Derek is just... a thing that happens, one Stiles loves that it has happened.

It's too much, so much for him, and he just wants to leave. Wants to push Stiles away so that he doesn't end up making Stiles bleed with him. But he's transfixed, as he always is when he's watching Stiles; his fingers work quickly, deftly as he plucks away the extra leaves on the stems, the little blue bow adjusting nicely on the bunch as Stiles lowers it inside the little plastic, then the vase.

Derek takes said vase numbly when Stiles hands it to him. "Since you're already here," Stiles explains.

Derek wants to ask why Stiles loves him. How can he love him? Doesn't he see how Derek destroys everything he loves? But instead of all that he asks, "Why flowers? Daffodils, specifically?"

Stiles beams and excitedly tells him, "Daffodils symbolize new beginnings! And I wanted you to start a new journey. It seemed fitting. So." Stiles shrugs, like it makes perfect sense.

"Stiles," Derek says, pained. "I can't—" I can't ruin you, is what he wants to say. "I can't."

Stiles' beam turns into a small smile; a little sad, a little encouraging, and all Stiles. "I know," he says like he heard what Derek couldn't say, "I know. I had other plans for you, actually."

Stiles' heart stays steady, so Derek forces himself to ask, "What did you have in mind?"

Stiles' hands wrap around Derek's, both their hands wrapped around the vase. New beginnings, Derek hears in Stiles' voice, at the same time Stiles says, "The most important journey is the journey of loving one's own self. I want that for you, Derek. I want you to love yourself, so that one day—"

"I can love you and not be afraid of it?"

Stiles' smiles brightens as he admits, "I'd like that." Derek can't help but smile at thought: In a distant future, when he'll be Stiles' and Stiles will be his, and he won't feel bad about it. "But more than that, I want you to love yourself because I want you to see that you deserve good things. Things that you want."

They stare at each other for a moment, Derek's eyes following Stiles' tongue as it darts around to wet Stiles' lips. In that split second, Derek thinks about leaning forward, the vase being crushed between them as they kiss. He thinks of not waiting for who knows how long for the day he can call Stiles his, for going in right now and never resurfacing. But then he flicks his gaze back up and into Stiles' eyes, which are earnest and fond, bright and beseeching.

Stiles wants Derek, but he wants Derek to believe he deserves Stiles in the first place. Because if Derek is being honest, Stiles is the nicest thing he can have — if only Stiles will have him back in return.

And Derek wants whatever will make Stiles happy.

So he says, "Okay," and cradles the vase carefully in his arms.

"Is that you giving me permission to do whatever it takes to make you love yourself?"

Derek doesn't know what the future holds, but he does know that Stiles won't ever lead him astray, so he agrees readily. "I give you permission to do anything to make me love myself." He frowns. "But no Disney movies marathon. Last Christmas was more than enough."

Stiles' laughter follows Derek all the way home, the vase of Daffodils held gently against his arms.

#sterek #eternalsterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #sterek fics #*sterek fic recs #sh.writesonmain #answered ask #princecharmingwinks #<3<3<3 thank you buddy for the prompt! i hope you like this #sh.300 #sh.celebration #i have so many ongoing WIPs but so little to actually post #but i promise i'm working on them! i'm just slow lol #and uh these are not good times for me. writing helps me escape reality for a while tho and i like that #that is to say i'm really sorry about not being socially active/answering dms or pms whatever you call it #i'm here tho. just not active. #oh lol sorry from dropping this on y'all but i hope you understand #for* dropping #sh.rambles

[thebigoblin]

For @steverogersweek, July 7 prompt: Food/Traditions. 

Read a companion ficlet below or on AO3:

Something New

"Here's to another year," Bucky's declaration feels too loud in the cramped space of the fire exit stairs, and it's so familiar that for a second he thinks they're both back in their little alley, hiding from the world when it was so much simpler to deal with. He wonders what it would have been like to live like that, to have celebrated his thirtieth birthday on his thirtieth birthday and not on a hundred-something one.

Somedays, he thinks he should care, but for all that he was born in 1918, he's growing up in the twenty-first century.

Bucky breathes out the smoke from his cigarette, already lit and deep orange at the front, and he can't help but say, "You know these things are harmful for us now."

Bucky looks at him, grey smoke glowing against his stark white teeth. His eyes find Steve's and he replies, "For humans. Not us,"

It's a realization they've both been coming terms to in their own ways. Steve isn't human, and neither is Bucky, but what's more important is that they aren't alone. Not in this, not in life. There's a huge level of comfort in that fact, and for all that it weighs, right now, today of all days at least, Steve wants to not be bowed under it.

He tries to change the lane of conversation. "Can't believe I'm finally thirty. Feels like a dream to be this old."

Bucky lets out another wall of smoke, all while Steve's own remains unlit, and grins. "My dreams are coming true then," he says, and Steve blushes.

This is another thing they're coming to terms with. Being in love with each other. It's... not surprising, if Steve is being honest, but it's a huge deal. Men are supposed to love women, or so it was said in their times. But now it's all "love is love," and for all the reasons that it's valid, it's confusing, too.

But they're trying. Him and Bucky. They're trying. And that's all they can do.

"Why aren't you taking a drag?" Bucky asks, and Steve shrugs. He doesn't know why he's doing it, just knows that this tradition that started when they were barely teenagers, hiding in the cramped space between their houses, the little alley too big for them as children but too small for them as adults, should change. Update, if he wants to sound fancy like Tony or Bruce.

"I don't know," he answers, and doesn't protest when Bucky hands him his own lit cigarette, taking Steve's unlit one and putting it back in the box. Steve stares at the white cylindrical thing, unsure how to proceed, until Bucky takes it back and presses it into the metal fence, snuffing it out in an instant.

Before Steve can ask why, Bucky answers.

"This was us before. When we were simple, dumb kids who wanted to have some thrills," Bucky chuckles, "And now you jump on grenades."

"That was one time—!" His protests are swallowed back down when Bucky closes the practically non-existent space between them, firm and familiar lips on his.

When Bucky pulls back, Steve wants to protest, but then Bucky's saying, "I think I know of another thing we could start doing as tradition on your birthday, old man,"

"You're older—" Bucky, the punk, just kisses him again, and with the promise of more lingering metaphorically in front of him — and Bucky's clothed crotch against his thigh — Steve melts into it.

They've never done it before. Steve doesn't really know why, but at least having delayed so much means that they can do it tonight. As the United States of America celebrate their independence and former Captain America's birthday, Steve and Bucky will celebrate their love in a way they haven't before.

Steve can get behind this tradition.

"Fuck, baby," he moans when Bucky thrusts a little as their kisses get more steamy, the staircase creaking with their movements. Steve can feel Bucky through their clothes, and he only has one thing to say. "Bottom, bottom, please!"

Bucky chuckles, and promises, "Birthday boys get their birthday wishes."

#steverogersweek2022 #mcu #stucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #*stucky fic recs #i'm posting it a day early because... why not lol #it's finished and i'm impatient :P #also: the middle pic in the moodboard is the only one i can take 100% credit of. other pics were found on google #sh.writesonmain #sh.rambles

[thebigoblin]

The dull light from the laptop still makes his eyes shine

Kept Promises

[also on ao3]

The dull light from the laptop still makes his eyes shine and watery, something Derek had thought would stop once he got the prescribed glasses. He'd never thought he'd them, what with being a werewolf, but continuously looking at screens can apparently fail even mythical creatures.

A familiar warmth reaches his heart through the wooden chair and the white-shirt he'd wore for the meeting today, a pair of hands he knows better than his own wrapping around his neck, lips he loves to look at and bite at kissing him on his cheeks.

"Babe," Stiles starts, and he sounds sleepy, a mix of deep and soft that only happens when he's ready to go to bed. "Come to bed, it's getting late,"

Derek kisses the inside of his husband's wrist and promises he'll be with him in five minutes; ten minutes later they're both in bed, cuddled close to each other, sound asleep.

*

Okay so this might not be strictly five sentences, but whatever. It's cute imo.

#derek hale #stiles stilinski #sterek #answered ask #concussed-dragon #prompt games #ask games #thanks for the prompt! #sh.writesonmain

[thebigoblin]

i wish you’d write a fic where fbi agent Stiles receives his first (or maybe not first) mission and it’s to investigate the happenings in Beacon Hills (and Derek is in the middle of it all)

Firstly, thank you dear anon for the prompt. I'm having Ideas, but I'll probably only write a tid-bit and leave it at that. But never say never ;)

Second, Tags: Alternate Universe, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, Alternate Canon, Season 1 Rewrite, BAMF Stiles Stilinski, Alpha Derek Hale, Fluff and Angst

can be read on ao3.

A Case To Remember

The corridor is painted a blank white, and it makes him think of an existence that wasn't remembered; It's depressing, and as he winds through it and then through several archways that would confuse a man who doesn't know the dramatic ways of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, he remembers what his dad had told him when he'd left their hometown nearly six years ago.

People don't like the FBI, kid, they come in and demand and take, but I want you to be different. Got it?

It doesn't matter if the FBI thinks their agent's days are numbered, an existence so minute it's barely worth remembering, because Stiles Stilinski isn't here to be a puppet for them. He's here to help people, and god damn it, he's going to help.

He knocks on the door that he finds at the end of the corridor, a gray plaque nailed to the off-white door, the only two other colors he's seen in this building other than his own dark hair and black slacks; They even made him wear a white shirt. He tugs at the collars, tries to flatten them when a voice calls, "Come in!"

Officer Rafael McCall looks at him disdainfully as he enters. He thinks (hopes) it's less to do with how he presents himself and more about the rivalry between his dad and McCall. Stiles doesn't exactly know all the details, but ever since McCall heard his full name two weeks ago, he's been getting some serious side-eye from the man. And his dad had been less than helpful, too busy to talk to him amidst the chaos that Beacon Hills has apparently become in the past few months or so.

Murders. A serial killer on the loose. Why couldn't this have happened when he was still living there?

"Stilinski, are you even listening?" Stiles jumps at his name, and watches as a deep sigh comes out of McCall's mouth. He's probably wondering how someone like Stiles even graduated, and with good enough marks that he's here to be briefed on his first field mission.

Stiles wonders that, too.

He straightens his spine, takes the offered seat, and puts those doubts to rest as McCall shuffles the papers in front of him, the crinkling of them a background sound to his own breaths.

*

Derek Sebastian Hale. 24, used to live in New York, and worked as a bouncer for one of the best clubs in the city. But he's been fired from the job because he hasn't shown his face at work in over a month. Why? Because he's back in Beacon Hills.

Stiles remembers the Hales. They were a big family, and they could always be found around the town, milling about, talking to people, helping old ladies cross the road and rescuing cats stuck in the trees. At least, the one with the bunny teeth used to those things; Stiles never learnt the boys name, but he'd always wanted to. But they went to different schools, and even though in Stiles' Freshman year the boy had transferred to his school, Stiles never got a chance to know him.

And then the fire happened.

Stiles doesn't remember much; at that time he was still in the deep pit of grief that's made a home in his stomach forever, but he remembers being so sick at hearing about the news that he'd actually thrown up in Harris' class. (Harris was a dick, so it was fair).

Eleven people dead, the newspapers had proclaimed, and his dad had cried himself hoarse that night.

That pain still isn't enough to convince Stiles that Derek is responsible for all the murders, though.

The files McCall has given him make it seem like Derek is in the heart of it, the murders that are going on in Beacon Hills, or well, that were going on in Beacon Hills, because there hasn't been any new ones in the three days that he's been here.

At least his dad's happy to see him.

Still, Stiles has a job to do, so here he is, subtly following the very recognizable black Camaro around town. It's even more depressing than the white walls of the Bureau, because all Derek does is drive to and fro between the burnt out shell of the Hale House and the High School, where he meets two kids who seem lonely. Isaac Lahey and Scott McCall—now that had been an interesting find.

Today seems to be different, though.

The Camaro slides gracefully into one of the many free parking spots of the Walmart store just a bit out of the town, and Stiles just knows by the looks of it that shady negotiations must go on around here. Even if Derek's not the vicious killer McCall thinks him to be, at least he might lead to a drug ring, or something. It's a win in Stiles' book.

Stiles' nerves thrum in anticipation when Derek gets out of his car and takes a long look at his surroundings, looking left and right like he's afraid to be caught, and then strides into the forest surrounding the Walmart. Creepy; oooh Stiles likey.

He follows behind.

He's read the history books of his town, so he knows that technically this patch of forest is a part of the Preserve too, so that means it's Hale land, but who knows if Derek's sold it? As the sole heir of all the inheritance, he could have done anything.

The forest is suspiciously quiet, like the birds and the animals know something is about to happen and they want no part of it, and it makes Stiles feel like a hero in his own movie. There's no law that says he can't have fun while on the job, so he decides to take pleasure in the fresh air and the accomplished feeling that follows his every step, the mud quelching under his boots.

Today is definitely going to be a big day.

Just as he's thinking it, a blur of a man rushes at him, so fast that Stiles has barely any time to fall back on any of the techniques he's learned to defend himself (he should have brought his gun, he laments mentally), all the breath in his lungs knocked out with the weight that's now resting on his chest.

The face that greets him as he opens his eyes is one Stiles will never forget. A ridged forehead with no eyebrows, eyes shining a deep, deep red, a thick nose and cheeks covered in hair, and a mouth full of teeth—wait, are those fangs?— snarling at him.

"Who are you?" The—thing, asks, and Stiles tries to gulp in some air. It's difficult, what with the heavy hand resting right on his sternum, but he manages to get out one word.

"H-hand," he says, and the thing backs its hand off, just a little down, barely enough for Stiles to speak easily.

"Me? M-me?! Who are you!"

It snarls again, the red eyes somehow shining a deeper red. Stiles can see himself inside them; he looks so small, so scared. He's a prey. Is this what Derek has been hiding? This monster that lives on his family's lands? Before he can contemplate on it more, the thing is picking him up clean off the ground and throwing him against a nearby tree. It makes him laugh.

This is one of the first moves he mastered in his training, just because it looked so cool. He even made a superhero pose (and it definitely doesn't look like Natasha Romanoff's superhero pose).

(Okay, so maybe it does).

He lands on his left feet, the right one stretching on its side for balance, and his fingers have barely touched the ground before the monster is attacking him again. It is vicious, and the blows keep coming and coming, but they aren't polished, not like his are, and he manages to dodge them easily for a good ten minutes. The way he's been attacked makes him feel like the bad guy though, like he's being fought for its survival, and it makes him pause. The sudden change in their dynamic causes the monster to freeze up as well, and Stiles is glad.

"Fuck, I need some air, dude," and he gulps in large chunks of it, inhaling air like it is... well, oxygen.

It growls again. "Who. Are. You."

"If you know English why do you keep growling? Or do you have like, only two settings?" He imitates the growl, albeit badly, and then the phrase "Who are you," without the inflection. It stares at him, blinks once, twice. "Can you understand me?" Stiles asks, pronouncing every word slowly, eager to get this part of his day over with. He needs to be following Derek, not fighting this, whatever it is. Which... "Have you seen a man walk here?" He makes his fingers do the two-fingers-walk thing as he talks. "Black leather jacket, hot guy, but with a perpetual scowl? Oh wait, how would you know what hot means—"

A crow caws at this exact moment. Bad omens, his Babcia used to say, but his mom always called them the signals of new beginnings, Mischief.

It changes his face. Instead of the monster, there stands a man.

Derek fucking Hale.

And Stiles' first question to him isn't how or what the fuck or what the fuck am I going crazy?! But instead it is, "Where is your leather jacket?"

Derek stares at him like he can't believe what he's hearing. And seeing. He scowls, though. And his eyes are still red, albeit a lighter shade. It does things to Stiles' insides.

"I didn't want it to get dirty." Derek says, and dips his chin. Stiles follows the movement, and yeah, the henley is totally dirty. Stiles' own clothes must be, too. "I'm not going to ask this again, who—"

"Mieczysław Stilinski, FBI Agent, now shut up and tell me what are you. A werewolf? Because that's the most logical explanation I can think of and oh my god, am I really saying a werewolf is a logical explanation?! Wait, how many people have you killed?"

Derek doesn't say anything. Obviously, he doesn't want to confess to his crimes. So Stiles changes tactics, and even though Derek starts walking away, Stiles follows.

"How did you know I was following you? Do you have heightened vision? What about smell? Strength? Spee—"

"You drive a baby blue Jeep."

Stiles pauses in his tracks. "Oh. Yeah." He starts running after Derek; Werewolves definitely have enhanced speed.

*

A month later, Stiles is a part of a Werewolf Pack and he doesn't answer Rafael's calls.

There'll be hell to pay for that later, he knows, but for now:

"Puppy Pile Time!"

"Stiles, for fuck's sake, we're not puppies—"

"Oh, Alpha, my Alpha, just join us!"

Erica is definitely Stiles' favorite. But as Derek sighs deeply and walks over to the new couch in the new loft he's bought and snuggles right beside Stiles, he amends the thought.

Derek is definitely is his favorite, but Stiles will never let him know that, of course.

End Notes:

Okayyyy, so this got longer then expected 😂 But I can't write a fic without a bit of a backstory, so I should have expected it, really.

Anon, I hope you like this, even though I did feels more than the investigative part xD.

#sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #teen wolf #eternalsterek #answered ask #anon #ask games #thank you for the prompt! #sh.writesonmain #tumblr ficlet #should i also put this on ao3? idk guys i'm not sure #so i'll do what the majority says :) #this is unbeta'd (even by me. just finished this and i'm posting it) so!! be gentle please!!

[thebigoblin]

For @deepestbelieverstranger. 

Second moodboard for Vampire!Stiles. I noticed that the first one was loved by many, so here’s more! Enjoy ❤️

Blood drips from Jackson’s hand. Tempting. Alluring. 

Stiles goes in for another bite, licks his lips and nips at the soft, taut flesh of Jackson’s neck. Drinks the dying man in until his thirst is satisfied, until he can’t hear Jackson’s heartbeat anymore. 

He knows he’s fucked up the moment he comes back to himself, Jackson’s body falling limp on the ground and Lydia’s scream of rage assaulting his ears. 

“Monster,” Lydia calls him, and curses him. Stiles can’t figure out if they’re the expletives kind of curse or the witch type, his brain still processing the fact that he killed Jackson. The man Lydia has loved since she was old enough to know what love meant, the man Stiles himself had approved for her. 

He walks away from the scene and ends up in his castle, the solitude making him hate himself. And then. Then he comes. Derek Hale. 

Prince Derek Hale is a noble man, soft and shy and beautiful in ways nobody ever was and nobody ever will, Stiles’ entire heart in his palms like Stiles wouldn’t surrender to anybody else. 

Derek doesn’t know Stiles is a Vampire. A monster. But he sees Stiles fighting tears and comes to him, the moonlight coming from the windows giving Derek’s concerned gaze a glow that Stiles doesn’t deserve. 

Derek is a gift that Stiles has no idea how he got ahold of. 

“Stiles,” Derek asks, his arms around Stiles’ frame, a shield protecting him. But who would protect Derek from him? “Stiles, talk to me.”

Stiles pushes him away, pointedly doesn’t look at his face. “I’m a monster,” 

“No, you are not,” Derek tells him, so sure and confident it makes Stiles want to die. To die again and to not come back like he has once before. 

Stiles laughs and doesn’t say anything. Simply waits for Lydia to come into the ballroom—the very same room she was born in, nearly two decades ago—able to hear her footsteps from far, far away. 

Derek turns to her. He thinks she’s his sister. That they’d never harm each other or each other’s. “Lydia, do you know what happened?” She’s bloody. Covered from head to toe in Jackson’s blood, as if she cradled him against her body; her cheeks are strained with tears, a waterfall amongst carnage. “Lydia, you—Jackson. Where is he.” Derek’s voice turns somber with understanding, and Stiles feels the moment his eyes land on Stiles. 

Lydia’s voice is shaky as she says, “He killed him.” Stiles doesn’t look at her as she tells Derek about who he is, what he did. Doesn’t look at Derek as horror morphs his gorgeous features, turns his heart against Stiles’. Only looks at the moon and wonders why did he ever think that he could ever control his true nature. 

Then Lydia says, “You love him still, don’t you?” 

Stiles dares to look at Derek. Derek is looking back at him, and he—he still loves him. Despite knowing the truth. 

Stiles can’t help but let out a broken, “Derek...”

Lydia sobs, small and heart-wrenching, says, “Only a monster can love a monster!” Thunder sounds outside. Furniture shakes inside as if caught in an earthquake. 

And Stiles watches as Derek transforms into a veritable beast—a big, black wolf, with yellow eyes tinged with a blood-red hue. 

Lydia leaves. Stiles feels sick to his stomach. 

Something has pure as Love has led to Derek becoming a monster. Like him. Simply because Derek loves him.

Stiles falls down to his knees in despair, and wonders how someone like Derek can still love him when Derek trots over to him, huge paws trying to console him. 

#sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #eternalsterek #lydia martin #jackson whittemore #witch!lydia #vampire!stiles #human!derek #cursed!derek #prince!derek #sterek fic ideas #sh.edits #sh.writesonmain #(again: not my pics. cannot take credit from them. BUT. I did edit the pics so that they had a similar color scheme) #sh.snippets #<- new tag. will use when i post snippets #not necessarily from my WIPs but more like... just. i had the urge to write something #this is a q #tw blood #*moodboard

[thebigoblin]

STEREK! 🤕 Hurt/comfort; prompt 8 💖 Also, congrats!

8. “The nightmares are just an illusion. I’m really here.”

Another h/c!!! Lol I'm sensing a building theme here. Also, thank youu friend 💙

Bleeding Out For You (even if it's the last thing i'll ever do)

Rating: Teen & Up

Relationship(s): Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski

Tags: Canon Compliant, Married Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Nightmares, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Emotionally Hurt Derek Hale, Derek Hale Loves Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Loves Derek Hale

Word Count: 1.2k

Summary:

"You're bleeding because of me."

And there it is. Derek's guilt at hurting him plain to see, making Stiles want to scream because Kate is fucking dead but she still won't stop ruining them—ruining Derek.

All the progress Derek makes, all the genuine smiles he lets others see, all of it vanishes after one nightmare with her in it. Stiles knows healing isn't linear, knows it like the back of his hand, knows it personally, but he still hates this.

OR

Derek has a nightmare. This is the aftermath.

READ ON AO3 | I’m celebrating my 300+ followers <3 Come join in the celebration by prompting me!

#sterek #eternalsterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #teen wolf #sh.writesonmain #sh.300 #sh.celebration #thank you for the prompt!! #ohhalefire #answered ask #*sterek fic recs

[thebigoblin]

🤕 #3 "I'd come for you..." for berica please!!

3. "I'd come for you. No matter what, when you need me, I'll be there."

Thank you for the prompt ❤ and I hope you like what I managed to come up with!

Fall Apart In The Day (i'll make you whole in the night)

Rating: Teen & Up

Relationship(s): Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd & Cora Hale, Erica Reyes & Derek Hale

Tags: Minor Sterek, BAMF Erica Reyes, BAMF Boyd, The Alpha Pack, Action, AU - Canon Divergence, AU - Everybody Lives/Nobody Dies, Erica Reyes Lives, Vernon Boyd Lives, Implied Sexual Content, Time Skips, Pack Family, Pack Cuddles, Pack Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, One Shot

Word Count: 2.9k

Summary:

She traces the scar with her fingertips, feather-light touches that take her back to that night, when she was so sure she'd never see the morning of her sixteenth birthday. She smiles now, eyes watery as she looks at her own reflection in the mirror.

"You made it out, Erica," she tells herself, fingers moving from her neck to the junction between it and her left shoulder. Her Mating-Bite sits proudly there, marking up her in a way she had never thought possible for herself.

She closes her eyes and thinks of a different night.

Then she thinks of the moment it all began.

OR

Erica lives. But she is plagued by her own psychological demons.

READ ON AO3 | I’m Doing This Thing (prompts are closed)

#berica #vernon boyd #erica reyes #cora hale #teen wolf #sh.writesonmain #sh.celebration #sh.300 #princecharmingwinks #i hope you like the fic! #i'm not particularly good at action sequences but i did my best :D #answered ask #*berica fic recs

[thebigoblin]

There’s been no bags under his eyes, or shadows on his face for weeks now, so he must be doing something right

How Much Water Does The Ocean Hold?

[now on ao3]

There's been no bags under his eyes, or shadows on his face for weeks now, so he must be doing something right.

Stiles knows, hell, he even feels it inside himself, like a never-ending sky, the empty sensation that comes from being so far away from his boyfriend, but this is his job and he has to be away, putting away the most wanted on the FBI's list, the Interpol under his command. Worry carves into his stomach every second of every day, but all of it is for Derek, home alone in their apartment in New York, restless and fighting the ghosts of the life he has lived that haunt him relentlessly. Derek says having someone else to focus on helps; Stiles knows what he really means is to have someone else to love for, since he has lost so many.

So Stiles had done what he could, pulled all the strings, and gifted his boyfriend a little puppy ("Can I name him Mitch?" Derek had asked, eyes awed and glassy through the screens of their laptops, and Stiles had felt his heart dance in joy, loving that for Derek, he is a source of comfort, just like Derek is his) just two weeks ago. Now snuggled up with Mitch on the couch, laptop evidently perched on top of one of the bookshelves, Derek looks better than he ever used to when Stiles leaves; Stiles plays like he is jealous of the love he's going to have to share, but as he watches Derek's beautiful laugh, he knows that Derek has a lot of love to give, and Stiles feels at the top of the world knowing that he is one of the people Derek loves.

#derek hale #stiles stilinski #sterek #teen wolf #mitch the dog #answered ask #concussed-dragon #thank you for the prompt! #ask games #prompt games #hope this is fluffy??? #sh.writesonmain