I don’t know how many of you have seen Alex’s interview on Ellen, but at one point a picture of Lion popped up, and he exclaimed, “that’s my baby!” He was so adorably delighted that I promptly fell to the floor, awash with feelings. That’s how this came to be - it’s just a silly simple little thing, where Steve and Danny have a son.
Danny’s coasting on a generally chipper mood. It’s been a quiet fortnight, not much in the way of explosions or maimings - and, really, the standards that he lives his life by these days, oy vey.
The quiet has come at a cost, mind you. Steve’s been away for the last thirteen days, training god-knows-who to do god-knows-what. It’s not a cost that Danny likes to pay, truth be told, and he’s rather looking forward to having three heartbeats back under the one roof.
For now, he tries to focus on the good, of which there is plenty: it’s quittin’ time on a Friday evening, there’s a gentle breeze rustling the paperwork, Steve’s due back soon, and Alika is currently scurrying between his feet, seeking sanctuary from Kono’s clutches.
OMG RO, do not tease me with Peter twincest and then not deliver. I NEED DETAILS OKAY.
OH IF YOU INSIST. Let’s say that the top twin is Adam (as that is the actual name of the character we’re looking at) and the bottom gif is Peter. They really have this whole Biblical thing going on with the names, don’t they?
Peter is as we expect him to be and as we’ve come to know him — fairly self interested but capable of pretending he isn’t — but Adam loves him anyway. Can hardly avoid it with the way Peter draws people in with his smooth charm. It’s an affect that Adam can take on too, when it suits him. It used to be a thing they did together — wooing, seducing, manipulating in tandem. Adam had only faltered when he realized where his affections truly were.
“Where are you going tonight?” Adam asks.
“As if you don’t know. There’s a banquet at Town Hall and the Hales need to make a showing,” Peter replies as he slides a pair of gel slicked fingers through his hair. “Naturally, I should be the one to go.”
Adam watches as Peter washes his hands — watches as Peter arranges his bow tie and tugs his jacket tighter around his waist. It’s been a while since Peter last wore this particular suit, and he’s grown since then. When Peter neatly slides the buttons into place, the jacket fits snugly but not too, folding easily around the firm muscle of his back. Peter straightens out the lapels as he turns to Adam, giving him a look that invites an opinion.
“You should shave,” Adam suggests. Peter’s facial hair is a thin shadow against his skin, sliding all the way down to the sharp cut of his collar.
“And look like a baby? That’s sure to draw in the ladies,” Peter drawls, rolling his eyes as he turns away. “You’ve lost your touch.”
Adam looks down and admits to himself that Peter is probably right about that. If he still had the same allure as he once did — if he’d continued right alongside his brother, maybe Peter wouldn’t be leaving at all tonight.
And it’s not as if Adam waits up for him or anything, he hasn’t slipped into that kind of well of self-pity.
But when Peter comes home looking a little looser at the edges, not drunk but obviously not entirely sober either, Adam gets sidetracked again. He watches Peter pull at his tie until it’s a thin cord draped over his neck, a few open buttons showing the dip between his collar bones and inches of smooth skin.
“How was it?” he asks, as much to jolt himself out of the dangerous staring he’s doing as it is out of real curiosity.
Peter shrugs are he pulls the jacket off and slips it over a chair. “The usual forced family togetherness mixed with lackluster conversation with strangers,” he says, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling his sleeves up. His hair’s a little less perfect than when he left, a few strands catching the light, a curl falling onto his forehead.
Adam tells himself it’s not relief that’s expanding like warm foam inside his chest. Just like it’s not lust that’s guiding his eyes across the tendons of Peter’s forearms. “Pity. Maybe next time there’ll be something to catch your eye.”
Peter cuts him a glance. “Talia asked after you. I explained you were busy brooding. She’s expecting both of us for lunch next week, if you can drag yourself out of your slump for a few hours.”
He drops himself with a careless kind of grace into the armchair across from Adam, and it’s a struggle to keep his gaze. Peter’s always had a dangerous kind of awareness, like a reflex held at bay by only the smallest twitch.
Adam wonders what he sees in the not-quite mirror of his face, all those subtle differences people are always so keen to point out, to latch onto and hold up like bricks in a dividing wall.
Not for anything like the first time, Adam wants to tear the wall and all the space around it down, just dust and tatters and trampled conformity before he finally, finally gets the one thing he genuinely wants.
Instead he sits, stews in the unfairness of it, and thinks how much longer.
“Why do you still go?” Adam asks, gesturing broadly. “To the parties and the banquets and the functions… You don’t think we’re too old for that now?”
“Is that why you stopped?” Peter parrots, sounding remarkably as if he’s been wondering at Adam’s reasons. “We haven’t even hit thirty yet. We’re in our prime! We should be going out together, enjoying ourselves. Drinking, eating, fucking, falling in—” Peter’s tirade abruptly halts as he grimace. “Okay maybe not that last one.”
“I could be okay with that last one,” Adam dares to say — a soft confession as he looks at Peter.
Peter sucks at his teeth and looks around him for the decanter of whiskey they keep near the lounge chairs. He pinches two glasses from the lower shelving, and after pouring two healthy servings, offers one to Adam.
“To drinking, eating, fucking, and falling in love, then,” Peter says, tilting his glass toward Adam for a toast. “Go out with me next time.”
Beware weird sentences and ridiculously goofy Steve. You’ll see. *jazz hands*
Steve wakes up to golden light, the feel of fingers poking between his ribs, and Danny’s big blue eyes flooding his field of vision. He blinks, dazed, a little blinded by so much floppy blond hair all up in his personal space.
“Um.” Smacking a hand to his face, he scrubs roughly over stubble before scruffing his hair this way and that.
Alright. It’s not his finest moment, but he’s six months deep into Operation: Stop Waking Up So Fucking Early, It’s A Sunday, You Complete Dickbag. Oh, how he’d argued for something with a cool acronym, but Danny had dug his heels in.
Whatever it’s called, it’s an op at heart. Spreadsheets, a laser pointer, talk of incremental objectives and realistic time-frames – all had been employed without mercy.
The point is, he’s just starting to get the hang of this ‘sleeping in’ thing. He feels lost, maybe even a little dopey, and all he wants is to roll over and catch a few more zees. Possibly turn on the puppy-dog eyes and earn himself a sleepy orgasm.
Alas, it is not to be.
“You need to feed me now.”
Steve can feel Danny’s chin move as he talks, pillowed on his chest as though he belongs there. Which, okay, he does, and Steve kind of loves that fact a whole hell of a lot - but it’s not the issue at hand.
So. Maybe he mewls a little, maybe he doesn’t. He’d never tell.
“Mmmmnoooo,” Steve mewls. Oh well.
“French toast, please,” Danny steam-rolls on, paying Steve’s protests no mind. The ‘please’ is the product of being a father, but it’s quite clear that there’s no room for argument.
Steve stops caring about how much he loves having Danny spread over his chest. He stops caring about the little thrill he gets from coming home with someone - coming home to someone. Screw Danny, he thinks with a mental shake of his fist. Danny is a horrible person who wakes people up when they’re sleeping, and fuck off, Hell Week was years ago.
When blunt fingers resume their poking, Steve surges up, rolling Danny under him and kissing whatever patches of skin he can find. “You’re a demanding shit,” he grumbles, trying not to laugh when Danny’s whole face lights up with happiness. “I didn’t realize when I started sleeping with you that I’d end up with a needy puppy.”
“Please,” Danny scoffs. “I can get away with it.” His pale nose, dusted with a faint blush of freckles, wrinkles adorably.
Steve feels himself cave in slow-motion, his belly swooping when Danny threads their finger together, guides their knuckles up for a kiss.
“Scrambled eggs,” he protests around the angle of his own thumb, clinging to his last shred of resistance. When Danny looks like he’s gearing up to argue, Steve maybe, accidentally, elbows him in the groin. “Scrambled eggs, and you’ll like them,” he says, even as Danny bitches beneath him, all why you gotta do that, asshole, don’t damage the goods, you’re the one who likes to randomly grab my dick in the kitchen.
Which is, of course, how Steve finds himself making French toast ten minutes later. But Danny’s perched on the bench, swinging his legs and looking at him like he hung the moon – only when he thinks Steve’s not watching, of course.
So in the end, it’s worth it.
Sometimes I pictures Derek coming to pick Stiles up from school, and Stiles just jumping in his arms, kissing him.
oh my heart
“So, too much?” Stiles said in the car, wiping the back of his hand across his nose, a quick, nervous gesture.
“Too much,” Derek said. The parking lot was small and he was backing out carefully, looking behind him, one hand on the passenger seat.
“Okay,” Stiles said meekly, ducking his head. He was silent for a moment and then blew out a breath and said, “It’s just, everyone was right there, but there were no teachers around, it was too good to pass up—”
“Fine,” Derek said.
“Well, no, it’s obviously not fine,” Stiles said, “so, sorry. I’ve never been in a fake relationship before except the time in second grade when, you know, never mind, it doesn’t really—”
“I just think it should be believable,” Derek muttered.
“I don’t—what?” Stiles said.
“You can’t go around just—jumping on me,” Derek said. “Like you’re—” he stopped talking.
“Yes?” Stiles said attentively.
“I got you all the stuff you needed for the spell,” Derek said. “Not the moss, though, they ran out—”
“Yeah, they never have it,” Stiles said. “It’s fine, I can use something else.”
“Good,” Derek said. “Let me know when you want to set it up.”
“Like I’m what?” Stiles said. Derek looked sideways and Stiles was smiling at him, bright and curious, inexorable. There was a hot little bloom of stubbleburn just below the curve of his lower lip, from where his mouth had come down a little too hard against Derek’s when he’d jumped up into his arms. Derek hadn’t seen it coming, had caught him half on instinct, dropping his keys to wrap his arms clumsily around his hips, staggering a little under the warm length of him, the way Stiles’ mouth opened softly over his.
“I don’t know,” Derek said, thinking about how Stiles had said, “fine, whatever,” about the whole thing, an afterthought. Derek had been furiously embarrassed about it, at having to ask, glad of how dark it was in the sewer tunnel, so Stiles wouldn’t see the blush he felt creeping up his face. Stiles had been holding a flashlight loosely in his hand, already turning to follow Scott up the ladder. “Yeah,” he’d said, “sounds good. Just pick me up from school a couple times next week or something.”
“Okay,” Derek said, and Stiles had started talking about some stuff he needed, some maps and books and whether Derek thought cauldron was literal or if he could just use the crock pot, clearly not giving it any more thought.
“Like I like you?” Stiles said.
“No,” Derek said quickly.
“Like I’m in love with you?” Stiles said. Derek didn’t look; he knew what Stiles’ face would look like anyhow, calm and kind, like he knew exactly how much of a fucking liar Derek was.
“No,” Derek said. Stiles didn’t say anything else, just leaned forward and flicked on the radio, hits of the 80s, 90s, and today, some upbeat pop song Derek remembered vaguely, reminded him of that first grey, shocked summer in New York, waiting for Laura to find out and kill him, hoping for it. “That’s what, um—you’re supposed to be,” Derek said.
“Yup,” Stiles said easily. “But let me know if it’s too much.”
“It’s—I don’t know,” Derek said.
“Well, when you figure it out,” Stiles said, settling back in his seat. It was a long drive out to the edge of Hale territory. After a little while, Stiles rolled down the window and the warm spring air rushed in, smelling new and green.
OMG YOU WROTE FIC TO MY DRAWING. I CAN’T EVEN. I’M DYING. IT’S PERFECT. I’M FLAILING AND STUFF. THANK YOU SO SO MUCH.
“DEREK CAN SLOW DANCE”
I’M SO DONE.
CALL LIFE ALERT.
I MEAN, HOW FREAKIN’ PERFECT JHSDLKFJSLJDKFLK;SD
-CRIES- HE CAN SLOW DANCE EJHLKSJDFL
bE STILL MY BEATING heaRT
I NEED FIC.
Just like… Stiles is panicking about prom. He has a date, it’s this girl from his british lit class. They really don’t know each other that well outside of bonding over their love/hate relationship with Bronte, but it was more of a ‘neither of us has a date to prom. let’s go as nerd friends’. The only problem is that it’s two hours to prom and Stiles realizes that he’s going to have to dance with her. Not just her, but probably Lydia and Danny at some point since it’s prom and everyone dances with everyone. He has no idea how to do anything other than boogie down to heavy bass and rock music.
He’s panicking for ten minutes in Derek’s living room before Derek sighs, grabs him, and then places Stiles’ hand on his hip, grabs his other hand, and pulls him into a slow dance.
Stiles dances along, stunned, and Derek just says ‘move to the rhythm, feel your partner’s movement with your hand on their hip. See how my hip shifts when I go to step? It will help you keep up with them.’
and they dance together slow and natural while Stiles just gapes at Derek through all of his instructions. He basically gets a ‘slow dancing for dummies’ lesson right before prom.
Hours later, after one of the greatest nights with all of his friends, Stiles flops back on his bed and can’t stop thinking about Derek. His mind is on an infinite loop remembering the way Derek’s palm fit perfectly on his hip, how their fingers slotted together and their bodies held a better rhythm than anyone else that Stiles danced with that whole night.
It’s not the first time Stiles has found out something new about Derek, something that made him hungry to learn more…and it won’t be the last.
KJSLDK;SDFDF JUST GO ON WITHOUT ME!
this is so AHAHJSD <3 BRING ON THE BEAUTIFUL FANFICTIONS AND JUST *u* YESYEhkajsd
McDanno AU: Steve was reactivated for a mission with the SEALs and been away for too long. It’s Danny’s birthday and he’s spending the day with Gracie while waiting for a phone call from Steve.
Danny couldn’t be sure how long it’s been since Steve was gone, because the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months, but it was long enough that his birthday had rolled around. He knew he shouldn’t get get his hopes up too much since there was a chance Steve won’t be able to even call, but he couldn’t help it. He kept checking his phone and willing it to ring but even when it did ring it wasn’t Steve. Friends, family, colegues called to wish him a happy birthday, but not the person he really wanted to hear.
He was grateful he had his sweet little girl to keep him company because the evening wouldn’t have been very good if he was left alone at the end of the day. They had watched a movie, played a few games and decided to put up the tent just because they could.
The sound of the doorbell made his heart flutter anxiously in his chest even though he knew it was just the pizza guy bringing their dinner. And yet with every step he took towards the door, his heart beat increased until it was pounding wildly, ready to break out of his ribcage.
He was pretty sure he had stopped breathing at some point after opening the door because he couldn’t believe his eyes. He couldn’t believe that Steve was standing right in front of him, alive and smiling that stupid goofy smile of his.
For Daunt as a belated valentines failwolf (I feel I deserve extra points for failing at both Failwolf Friday AND Valentines – that takes skill, man).
Betaed by the amazing Verity, who, without a doubt, kept me from FUCKING THIS UP BEYOND ALL MEASURE, HOLY GOD. Bow to her coffee-making genius. BOW I SAY!
Points also go to Halffizzbin, who pointed out to me that this was a thing:
- - -
Derek hears Stiles before he sees him, mostly because Stiles hasn’t yet learned how to enter The Halemouth without half falling through the door. He doesn’t let himself look up, instead surreptitiously taking down a mug from the shelf and adding a few pumps of hazelnut syrup. It’s absolutely because it’s the closest thing to hand and not because Stiles always moans a little bit around his first sip if Derek puts hazelnut in it.
“Dude!” Stiles says, and Derek looks up to find Stiles practically vibrating at the counter in front of him. “You gotta tell me about werewolf mating rituals!”
Derek fumbles hooking the portafilter, because Jesus. “What?”
Stiles uses his old, beaten laptop as an arm rest as he leans across the counter. Derek would feel sorry for the thing, but he knows it’s been through worse. Stiles wrote his first best-seller on that antique and it’s chugged on ever since. “Mating rituals,” Stiles says giddily, like he didn’t fry Derek’s brain with it the first time. “I need it for the ending of the Roth Trilogy.”
Derek leans over to grab a fresh bottle of milk from the fridge and when he straightens up, Stiles’ cheeks are a distracting pink. Derek feels mildly satisfied that talking about fucking mating rituals seems to affect him like a normal human being.
Stiles clears his throat. “But yeah – I’ve decided Leon and August are gonna have to go undercover as a mated pair and-“
“Leon and August?” Derek says before he can stop himself, twisting the cap off the jug. “Really?”
Stiles grins. “Fuck yes, really – I’ve been planning this shit since halfway through book one,” he says, and Derek has to swallow a little hard because that’s around the same time he’d started picturing Stiles’ two main characters as him and Stiles. “Speaking of,” Stiles says. “Is knotting a thing?”
Derek sloshes the milk everywhere.
ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOT
Derek’s computer is broken. It is so incredibly broken. He swears he can smell the electronics burning or something. Hot New IT Guy is going to look at him with that face again. The one that says how can anyone be so bad at computers these days? and Derek won’t have a response.
“Just go down and see him,” Boyd says, watching Derek waggle the mouse around like that might help.
“It’d be the third time this week,” Derek says, pressing random combinations of keys.
“I think you’re making a bigger deal out of this than you need to,” Boyd shakes his head. “It’s just Stiles.”
“His name is Stiles?” Derek asks, leaving off his efforts and looking up at Boyd. Boyd’s eyes widen slightly.
“Uh, yeah?” he says. “Man, he introduced himself when he started last week. Do I even want to know why you didn’t notice that?”
Derek remembers Hot New - Stiles - he remembers Stiles coming up to the office and talking. He also remembers getting distracted by Stiles’ long fingers and what they might feel like on his body.
“Um,” Derek can feel his ears heating up. Boyd unfolds his arms and holds his hands up.
“Oh my God, Derek,” Boyd shakes his head again. “Just go and tell him you fucked up your computer. Then ask him out when he saves you from having to do your report by hand. Jesus.”
Boyd leaves before Derek can decide whether he wants to protest or not. He looks around slyly and kicks gently at the side of the tower under the desk. Still nothing.
“Are you hurting Moya?” Derek flinches at the voice and hunches his shoulders up to his ears. A hand comes down onto the back of his chair and Stiles leans over him to look at the computer.
“Moya?” Derek asks, proud when his voice stays level.
“Named all the computers after fictional spaceships when I started,” Stiles says, fondly patting Derek’s monitor. “Moya’s from -“
“Farscape, I know,” Derek finds himself reflexively smiling at the memory. Stiles looks at him with surprise before his eyes dip to Derek’s mouth then quickly away.
“Why did you name mine Moya?” Derek asks, leaning back into his chair a little so his back brushes against Stiles’ hand.
“Because Moya was eccentric but always my favourite,” Stiles says, raising a hand to push his glasses up his nose. Derek gets distracted by his fingers again.
“Do you want to get coffee?” Derek blurts wincing as he adds: “Sometime. I mean. With me.”
“Nah,” Stiles shakes his head and Derek feels his heart sink. He looks down at his hands. “But I’d like to get lunch. You know. After I figure out what you’ve done this time.”
“Yeah?” Derek looks to find Stiles blushing, his cheeks going ruddy and appealing. Derek smiles slowly.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, returning the smile. “I would.”
If Derek surreptitiously pats his computer and thanks it after lunch, well, only Boyd sees.
It’s been ten long years since Derek Hale disappeared AGAIN.
He’d left without warning after losing everything for the second time around.
Coincidentally enough, all the strange goings on had died down almost completely during those same ten years.
The children of Beacon Hills grew up and each of them went about their own lives and each of them had taken their own path.
Scott and Allison were engaged now. After getting back together and breaking up, and then getting back together again, they decided it was about time they tied the knot.
As for Lydia, she and Jackson had found each other again. Jackson came back and swept her off her feet like they were still teenagers, like they were never apart.
Then of course there was Stiles, who now worked with the police. He’s one of the best they have, in fact. Stiles pretty much stayed the same, only with added scars and a stubble he’s too lazy to shave.
Yep, it was going swimmingly and there was almost a sense of normalcy among Beacon Hills for a long while…
Well, all until the past began to repeat itself.
Now things were going terribly wrong, people were being attacked, people were going missing.
Was it the return of the invisible mountain lion? More Alpha packs gone wild??
Whatever everyone else was thinking, Stiles knew that this was a serious case of the supernatural.
And of course whenever there’s something completely not human going on, Derek Hale just so happens to show up.
“It’s been a while, sourwolf. What brings you here after all these years?” Stiles asked.
“The same thing that brings you here, sheriff.” Derek replied.
Future!Teen Wolf AU
I’m hoping to actually draw better stuff for this. T8
“Alpha two here, Stiles,” the curly-haired one says. “My ideal for our first date would be you and me and the first season of Buffy. I’m thinking pizza, beer and an all night marathon. What do you say to that?”
Stiles lets out a delighted laugh. “Well, I’m more of a season five guy myself, but hey. I’ve still got love for season one. And you can never go wrong with pizza and beer. So, yeah. Great date, Alpha two. What about you, Alpha one?”
Alpha one rest his arms on the back of the white couch they are sitting on, head tilting back thoughtfully. “I’d take you to the boardwalk at Santa Monica. We’d do the rides and games thing until the sun set, then we would walk down the beach to this little Mexican joint I know that is overlooking the ocean. After that, I’d take you back to my place for some desert.”
“Oh I bet you would,” Stiles says, his voice wry. “Let me guess, you’d have something sweet for me to lick?”
Alpha one laughs at that. “How’d you know?”
“I’m just clever like that,” Stiles shoots back. “Anyway. Moving on now. Alpha number three?”
Derek lets himself smile, because he’s got this one in the bag. “Comic-Con.”
Scott: Mocha frappucino. Scott does not give a fuck whether people interpret that as “masculine enough” or not; a mocha frappuccino is a gigantic coffee chocolate milkshake covered in whipped cream and, usually, sprinkles, since any coffee place he goes to regularly has established him as a favorite customer and will pull out the stops for him. Why the hell WOULDN’T he order it? (When it’s his mom buying the coffee, he orders whatever the cheapest thing on the menu is and exclaims over it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Melissa is not really fooled, but she appreciates the effort.)
Derek: Black with three creams and four sugars, unless anyone’s watching him order. Then just black. (He’s got a sweet tooth, but he’s trying to pretend otherwise.)
Stiles: Just black, unless anyone’s watching him order. Then he gets whatever random concoction he can come up with, peppermint raspberry mochas and double cinnamon pumpkin spice lattes. (He likes cop coffee, the bitterer the better, but has spent so long lying to his dad about drinking it that it’s become habit with everyone else).
STOP IT RIGHT NOW.
Steve’s hands are still shaking, even after he gets home. Even after he’s gone for a swim because he can see that red dot on Danny’s chest every time he closes his eyes. He can see Danny’s face when he asked Steve to look after Gracie; his perfect little girl named after a partner he lost.
But Steve can’t lose Danny. He can’t and he knows it. He hadn’t stayed with Danny because he’d been confident the bomb wouldn’t explode. He’d stayed with Danny because he’d been terrified that it would. And as much as he’s gotten back since he came back to the islands: his team, his family, his friends. The precious little girl that he’d be lucky to call his own. He couldn’t do it without Danny. If he lost Danny he’d lose himself and his hands won’t stop shaking.
“Hey mom,” he says when he hears the door open, and prepares to make his excuses to not talk about anything. But it’s not his mom standing there watching him with an even expression. Steve swallows hard. “I guess you did decide to wear a suit.”
Danny looks down at himself and huffs out a laugh. “Decided against the tie though. You all have ruined me.”
“You love us,” Steve says, his smile faltering when he realizes what he said.
“Yeah about that,” Danny says walking forward. “I’m still pretty pissed you didn’t walk away.”
Steve’s hands fist at his sides, but he to make his voice sound easy when he says, “Never going to happen.”
Danny looks at him for a long moment, and Steve’s chest goes tight. He knows he should say something, break the tension that’s making the air thick and hard to breathe, but Danny’s watching him with his too blue eyes and Steve can’t look away.
“That’s good to know, actually,” Danny says, and he’s closer now. Close enough that Steve can feel the heat of him. “Makes this a little easier.”
He steps in again, hand up like he’s going in for another hug, and Steve’s, “Danny, what-” is cut off by the soft press of Danny’s mouth.
Steve gasps, and then honest to God whimpers, his shaking hands clinging to Danny’s suit jacket as opens up and lets Danny inside, just like he’s done every other moment of their partnership.
“You planning on walking away?” Danny murmurs against his mouth, and Steve lets out a shaky laugh against Danny’s shoulder and tightens his grip.
“Not on your life, partner. Never going to happen.”
In light of that perfect piece of fanart I just reblogged, can we all just take a moment for how great Tyler Hoechlin actually meeting Stiles would be? How much he’d have to fight to keep his cool when he just wanted to fanboy all over him and gush about how great and funny and totally awesome Stiles is? And Stiles just doesn’t even know wtf, this is definitely the strangest moment of his life so far, and hi, werewolves.
Imagine it with me, folks.
“They found a Derek,” Erica says, creaking back and forth on the porch swing and looking a little shocky, combing through her hair with her nails when he gets there. The text message he’d gotten - universe collapsing help - doesn’t really give him any kind of context.
“They found a what?” Stiles says stopping on the stairs, then holds up his hand when she opens her mouth. “Never mind. I’ll just—” he gestures vaguely at the door and leaves that hanging, heads inside. He toe-taps his shoes on the mat, manages to spot Derek as he stomps into the kitchen, spends a second contemplating his life, why him, why didn’t he go to military school, and then heads into the living room. It can’t be that bad.
It is that bad.
“No,” Stiles says to the room at large and the hipster Derek sitting pretty on the couch, looking a bit cowed in his big black-framed glasses by the ring of fretfully hovering wolves. Derek perks up when he spots Stiles, which is alarming, and smiles a little, which is more-so, before Scott growls a little, involuntary judging by the resulting sheepish look on his face.
“Sorry,” Scott mumbles.
“Hey no worries,” Derek says, a little shaky, and to Stiles, “I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding. Dylan?”
“What?” Stiles says.
“Never mind,” Derek says, laughs a little, but it sounds a little forced. “I’m Tyler.”
“Are you a doppleganger?” Stiles asks, shoves his hands into his pockets and wonders why he’s surprised. This is obviously par for supernatural course. They haven’t hit mermaids yet, but he’s pretty sure that’s only because they’re inland.
“No—uh, no not really,” Tyler says. He tries smiling again, but it freaks them all out. “I don’t know how I got here. You’re Stiles right?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says.
“I’m an actor,” Tyler says. “On this TV show. I—look.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out a sleek looking phone, takes a second and swipes through some screens to get to the pictures. He holds it out to Stiles, who crosses the room to take it. There are pictures of him and Scott, him and Lydia, him and Matt even, Victoria Argent, and him and—Tyler, all candids, all smiling, making goofy faces, wearing silly hats, sleeping on each other, wolfed out Derek and half-kanima Jackson having lunch in a cafeteria. He sits down on the couch and is only a little weirded out by Tyler leaning into his space. “That’s Dylan,” he says, pointing to a picture of Stiles. “He’s a—coworker, my friend. That’s Tyler—Posey, and Holland, and Crystal. We’re all on this show, about—you guys.”
“I was not prepared for this at all,” Stiles says, and flips through a couple more out of some sick sense of morbidity. There’s Peter and Derek and Chris Argent at a bowling alley. “Oh holy jesus shit.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Tyler says out of nowhere, a little shy sounding. When Stiles looks at him, he’s grinning, this big, happy, toothy thing. It freaks Stiles the fuck out. “I’m a big fan.”
oH MY GOD
OH MY GOD
The thing is - the thing is - Stiles hasn’t seen Derek since the Hale Christmas party two years ago. The party where his awkward, gangly, sixteen year-old self had super awkwardly confessed his Epic Love for Derek. Awkwardly.
(The Hales are beloved of Beacon Hills and hold a series of parties during the holidays for the emergency services. Their way of giving back after a swift response saved their house from burning down when Stiles was ten.)
Stiles feigned illness last year because he couldn’t face Derek. Not after the rejection. It wasn’t even the worst rejection Stiles has had - that would be Lydia’s very public rejection of him in freshman year. It was that Derek was so kind, let Stiles down so gently, and Stiles can’t deal with that sort of kindness.
His Dad insists this year - making all sorts of noises about how Stiles probably won’t even be in the state for the party next year and how Stiles has to make the most of old traditions while he can. Stiles gives in because he can’t not. Not when his Dad starts talking about how proud of him his Mom would’ve been.
Stiles knows Derek’s back from New York for the holidays - no reprieve from that corner - because it’s all the deputies have been talking about. Derek Hale is basically so attractive that even the deputies that don’t swing his way check him out when he’s in town. The Camaro probably helps - Stiles is pretty sure there isn’t a deputy working for his Dad that hasn’t pulled the Camaro over on a flimsy excuse just to get a look at Derek in the car.
So Derek is going to be there and Stiles tells himself firmly that he doesn’t have to dress up special for him because he’s not going to impress him. Which means he shows up in his usual layers and pretends not to care. He’s not very good at pretending, it turns out, because after Mrs Hale hugs him she tells him Derek’s out the back.
(You see - Stiles befriended Derek after the attempted arson. Stiles was with his Dad when the call came in and he’d seen this older boy, all tight and upset, and he’d done what all Stilinskis knew to do when someone was upset - he hugged him. Mrs Hale told him that Stiles’ friendship was what got Derek through the revelation that his much older girlfriend was responsible for the fire.)
They’ve e-mailed since. Derek’s one of Stiles’ oldest friends - he couldn’t just stop talking to him. Stiles knows that Derek’s thinking of settling in New York, that he’s lonely sometimes but happy, that he has friends. He’s even told Stiles to come out and visit him. Stiles hasn’t told him that he’s going to NYU - he’s worried it will seem creepy. They’d talked about it before Stiles’ confession, as an option for Stiles, but he’s still not sure how Derek will react.
Stiles steps out onto the back porch and Derek looks up at him, artful stubble and styled hair, and it’s like a punch to the gut that winds Stiles. He’d actually forgotten how attracted to Derek he is - how just looking at him makes his chest feel tight and his heart pound. Stiles lets out a breath and steps down to stand awkwardly opposite Derek.
“Hey,” Derek says. He looks awkward too.
“Hey,” Stiles says back, tucking his hands into his pockets.
There’s a long silence, Derek just looking at Stiles in a way he can’t understand.
“I’m sorry,” Derek says at the same time as Stiles blurts: “I’m going to NYU.”
“Wait,” Stiles says. “What?”
“You’re going to NYU?” Derek asks, that sunshine smile lighting his face up.
“Uh, yeah,” Stiles says, removing a hand from his pocket to rub over his hair.
“That’s great,” Derek says. “I’m - that’s really great.”
“Why are you sorry?” Stiles asks, taking a step towards Derek.
“What I said - last time we -” Derek stops and Stiles can see he’s frustrated with himself. He’s never been good at feelings. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You were right,” Stiles shrugs, faking nonchalance. “It was just a stupid crush. I’m totally over it.”
“Oh, you are?” Derek says, ducking his head. His voice is wistful, quiet, and Stiles’ heart skips a beat.
“Do you want me to be?” Stiles asks, hesitant, not daring to hope.
Derek lifts his head, slowly, and there’s something in his eyes that Stiles has never seen before. A bit of hope and a little yearning and a sort of warmth that Stiles can’t be sure he’s parsing correctly. He gasps a breath and Derek’s eyes crinkle very slightly at the corners.
“Oh,” Stiles breathes and then he’s covering the ground between himself and Derek and Derek’s stepping forward to meet him and they’re the same height, when did that happen, and Derek is cupping his face and kissing him, Derek is kissing Stiles, and it’s sweet and awkward as their noses bump together but hot and full of everything Derek can’t say with his words.
“You should’ve said,” Stiles says, wonderingly, brushing a thumb over Derek’s cheek where it’s flushed red. Derek presses his forehead against Stiles’.
“I just did,” he says and Stiles lets out a stuttery laugh before tilting their heads together to kiss Derek again.
WELL, NOW I KNOW THAT IT LITERALLY IS POSSIBLE FOR MY HEART TO EXPLODE. JESUS CHRIST.
“Why won’t you stop pushing?” Chris demands, chest almost flush with his.
“A fatal flaw in my character,” Peter forces out, reveling in the harsh pull of breath past Chris’ grip.
Nat wrote the most amazing Peter Hale centric fic. Like, seriously, just run before you walk and go read it now. It’s so wonderful it hurts, and also features the epic angsty hotness of Peter/Chris.
So we ended up doing a art+fic together because of reasons.
I hope you like it <3
(as usual, reblog is love, but please please don’t repost art in a new post/use without asking me. <3)