eeyore9990:

definitelynotadulting:

eeyore9990:

Okay, so I’m really not here for the traditional pack mom Stiles where he acts like a happy little housewife and is basically, uh, June Cleaver.

I just… that’s not Stiles. (to me, ymmv)

What I am here for is the other version of “Pack Mom”… the version where one of the “kids” is threatened or hurt and Stiles goes so hot with fury that it turns ice cold in his veins. The Stiles that picks up his bat and crackles with intent to cause death to the person that hurt what’s his. His pack, his family, his town. HIS.

You’ve heard the stories of mothers who lift cars off their children? That. That is Pack Mom Stiles.

When the guy who is “147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones” turns into the living embodiment of Death – that’s the Pack Mom Stiles I’m here for.
Any thoughts?

Pack Dad Stiles who learns to French braid because Erica’s bouncy hair is always getting in her face during training.

Pack Dad Stiles who organizes camping trips so the pack can bond. He builds the fire even though he’s the only one whose fingertips can get burned. He makes smores with perfectly roasted marshmallows for Allison while they wait for the wolves to stop eating rabbits in the woods.

Pack Dad Stiles who tears the Nemeton out by the roots when Lydia tells them she’s pregnant.

Pack Dad Stiles who cannot bake to save his life, doesn’t have the patience to clean basically anything ever, but can actually cook really well and likes to make Family Dinners at the new Hale House.

Pack Dad Stiles who has gotten so much work done on the Jeep that he does a lot of it himself now, so when the pack has car problems, they ask Derek, assuming the leather, tank tops and penis car equals mechanic skills, only for Derek to shrug and call for Stiles, passing him in the hallway back to the living room, slapping him on the ass on the way out.

oooooh, yes. Yes okay. Oh man, the visual you gave me though, of Stiles ripping the Nemeton out with his bare hands, roots and all. I just.

*shivers*

I can see that going two ways:

The first way: Stiles gets a shovel and a pick axe and basically every implement known to wood-cutting professionals everywhere. And maybe a few crowbars for the hell of it. And he spents weeks, okay, WEEKS digging and hacking and digging some more. And he takes it out in little pieces that he BURNS until they’re ash that can be spread along the rapidly flowing creek (they’ve gotten some rain lately) until it’s all fucking GONE.

and then there’s

The other way. @crossroadswrite and @tattooedstilnski will back me up here that Stiles gets his magic on. He goes and gets tattoos even though it scares the fuck out of him. He gets those magical tattoos and runes and whatever else he needs to make him deadly powerful. And he goes to the place where the Nemeton is and he stands in the center of that huge, magically blackened stump, and he calls up every bit of magic in his veins and he pulls until he’s levitating thirty feet in the air with the Nemeton under his feet.

And then he lowers it onto a magically null concrete slab and the pack is there and … they light that big ol’ bitch on fire. Probably with Deaton in the background looking a little pissy because he thinks they’ve upset the balance or whatever, but Stiles is like, “I don’t give a goddamn flying fuck about balance. I’ll plant a new tree later. But this one is toast. Because it’s either spend a few hours killing it or a lifetime killing the shit it drags to town.”

“I’ve got better things to do with my life,” he adds quietly, looking around at his pack, happy and healthy and toasting marshmallows over the open flame.