During his move to Washington, DC, Stiles made a number of realizations about life, the most prominent of which was that it was amazing what kind of hobbies a guy could pick up when his days weren’t packed full of running for his life from various supernatural horrors. Like trivia nights, for example. Stiles had a regular team and the entire bar groaned when they walked in because they knew they were about to get creamed.
Or the tabletop gaming club he joined, where everyone was just as competitive as he was, and punches had been thrown on more than one occasion.
Or like, Stiles jogged now.
Through the National Mall.
Like Captain America or some shit.
And with these hobbies came a sort of routine, and though most were on hold during the summer when his trivia team and gaming rivals were back home, the running stuck. It was calming and got his mind off things, gave him a chance to think about any papers he had to write, or de-stress about his FBI internship when it got a little hectic.
It was a good routine.
So every Saturday morning, Stiles got up a little earlier so he could get in his longer route, and left his dorm for his jog through the National Mall. On Saturdays, he took the path that went through the war memorials, down into West Potomac Park, and over to the Jefferson Memorial. It was his favorite place to take a breather because that early in the morning, there were rarely any tourists, and other joggers left him alone. It was nice and private, with a great view of the city across the water.
Stiles leaned back against the front steps and glanced around him casually, making sure there was no one too close before pulling out his little burner flip phone.
He had an old school drug dealer flip phone. His dad would be so proud.
There was only one number the phone ever called, so there was no need to save it under a name.
He waited for a few minutes, biding his time until the clock hit 7:15am, and then he called that number.
On the third ring, Derek picked up.
“Morning, sunshine!” Stiles greeted, already wide awake from his jog. Derek grunted back. He must’ve had a late night at the bar. “Any leads?”
Derek yawned loudly. “Still no werewolves with triskele tattoos, still wanted for murder.”
thanks to carrie for the mix up earlier this week, which reminded me about this prompt. it’s…not really about beds, whoops. and i went over the word limit again (1246 words)
Stiles has never seen snow this heavy. In fact, before an hour ago, he’d barely seen snow at all; being so close to the coast, a winter wonderland Beacon Hills is not. If he’d been expecting it – if he was inside and warm, watching the snow fall through a window – he might be enjoying it, but an hour ago – was it only an hour? Maybe it’s been longer; he can’t tell, can’t unbend his fingers to find his phone – it was ninety degrees and sunny, and he’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and the snow’s already up to his shins. He’s never been so cold in his life; he’s already lost feeling in his feet and he’s not sure which is worse – not being able to feel his feet, or the wet way his jeans cling to his legs, burning colder and colder with every step.
Derek’s there. They got separated from the rest of the pack when the storm descended, and the only reason he hasn’t lost Derek in the driving snow is because he’s got his fingers curled through the loops of Derek’s belt as they trudge through the woods. He can’t feel his fingers, or his arms in general, and he can barely lift his head against the wind. He can hear Derek breathing heavily over the wail of the wind; it’s a surprise to Stiles how hard it is to walk through the snow, and that’s with Derek in front of him, forging the path. He’s not sure where they’re going, not sure Derek knows either – to find the edge of the storm, or the road, or shelter, whichever comes first. He’s scared they’re lost – that they’re heading away from the road, that this magical storm won’t end. He’s heard you get warm when you die of hypothermia, and that’s the only reason he welcomes the sting of snow against his cheeks, but he’s getting tired, and he’s terrified of what’s going to happen when he’s too exhausted to keep lifting his frozen feet.
Derek stops so abruptly that Stiles, too tired to lift his head, walks into his back. Derek doesn’t even snap at him: not a great sign. Any other time, being so close to Derek might have made him hot all over, and he certainly would have welcomed that heat right now, but all he can think about is the refrain that keeps repeating in his head: I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.
When Stiles came home from the grocery store, there was a wolf in his living room. A really big wolf with curly brown fur like he’d never seen before, even in pictures. The animal was curled up on his couch, but as soon as Stiles’s bags slipped out of his shocked fingers to spill all over the floor, the wolf sprang up to stand on the couch instead, front feet braced on the back of it and long pink tongue lolling out of its mouth.
“What the actual fuck,” Stiles said, softly but with feeling.
He was just about to slowly back away and then start running when the wolf yipped at him. That didn’t actually make him feel much safer about the gigantic predator in his home, but it did stop him from moving. Then, quite abruptly, the wolf was gone. In its place, there was a naked Scott, with his modesty blessedly preserved by the upright back of the couch.
“Stiles!” he said brightly.
“What the fuck?” Stiles reiterated, more forcefully as the initial burst of adrenaline started fading, leaving him a little shaky and hyped up but eminently relieved that he wasn’t gonna get eaten. “Since when the fuck can you do a full shift? And Scott, dude, what in the name of all that is holy made you think it was a good idea to alert to me that development by scaring the ever-loving shit out of me?”
Scott looked so innocently surprised, like it hadn’t even occurred to him that this might not be the best way to approach his anxiety-prone best friend.
“Oh,” he said. “Sorry, man. I was just really excited. I wanted to show you right away, while I still could.”
“What do you mean by that?” Stiles asked, finally stooping down to scoop up the loaf of bread, three bananas, two boxes of poptarts, and seven boxes of microwavable mac ‘n cheese that comprised his menu for the week. “While you still can? I didn’t even know it would ever be possible for you to do the whole wolf thing. I thought Derek said it was a family-specific ability.”
“It is!” Scott told him. “Most of the time, it’s just a few bloodlines that are still pure enough to let loose their inner wolf, or whatever. Almost all of the time, actually.”
“So why am I gonna need a lint roller to get all your new fur off my couch?” Stiles asked.
“Dude, it’s a solar eclipse!” Scott said, as if that meant anything at all in this context.
The first group of weres pass through Beacon Hills on a Thursday. Stiles probably wouldn’t notice except that he’s spent the past year and a half hanging out almost exclusively with supernatural beings and that… well, ok, these guys aren’t exactly subtle. They tilt their heads almost in sync as he passes by them –– heading in to pay cash at the gas station while they pile back into their packed SUV. Noses flare, stances shift, and Stiles has about point five seconds to plan a bolt back to the Jeep before one of them’s announcing “Don’t trouble your Alpha; we’re just passing north for the event.” And then they’re back in the SUV and gone.
So… yeah, not to diminish Stiles’ awesome deductive skills here but… not subtle.
The second sighting happens before school on Friday, when Stiles ducks into the Dunkin’ Donuts for some much needed coffee and practically trips over a trio of sugar-high toddlers. One of them, wearing what looks like a home-painted t-shirt, decorated with a slightly uneven yellow circle, is midway through whining “Momma, we’re gonna miss the––“ when she stops in her tracks to stare up at him.
Stiles blinks down at her, the door perched against his elbow.
“Say ‘scuse me,” the boy next to her murmurs. It’s too early for this, brain crawling the sludge-slow of non-coffee through his system, and Stiles isn’t sure which of them he’s talking to.
“Excuse me,” he says and all three immediately shuffle, staring wide enough it makes Stiles’ eyes ache for them. He starts past, scrubbing a hand across his jaw self-consciously, wondering if he’d missed sleep drool or a sock in his hair or something on his mad rush out the door but, two steps past, the youngest kid snuffles and speaks up, soft: “Are you gonna come see the moon with us?”
It takes another step for Stiles to register that she’s talking to him, but by the time he blinks back the boy’s already tutting at her.
“No Lucy. He’ll go with his own pack.”
The little girl’s mouth opens in a wide, understanding O, while her older sister tugs proudly on her yellow circle shirt. It’s painted a messy black in the middle, inside the bright golden edge, and Stiles kind of forgets coffee for a minute in the face of actual werewolf children and then there’s a woman stepping up behind them, coffee and a box of munchkins in hand, dropping a fond hand to ruffle the boy’s hair as she gives Stiles an apologetic smile.
“Sorry about that, they’ve never been through another pack’s territory before. We’ve been driving since Arizona –– long trip for the little ones. But I couldn’t miss the chance for them to experience this. Best sighting until totality in 2017!”
“I’ll be ten,” says the boy, in the tone of one who’s done the math very carefully a dozen times over.
Stiles nods, a little lost because werewolf toddlers, and manages “well that’s… good.”
“I’m two,” the youngest puts in proudly, vaguely missing the thread of the conversation but eager to take part, and Stiles smiles back, wishing he had a little more coffee in his system because it’s not like he’s oblivious about what’s going on in the world this weekend, but he’s starting to feel a little dense for not connecting all kinds of dots sooner.
Then again, there’s another person who probably could’ve connected them for him.
“They don’t know how lucky they are,” the woman adds, beaming down. “I had to wait years for my first one and I’ll never forget the experience. Of course, you won’t feel it the same way as us,” her tone going apologetic, “but I’m sure your pack can’t wait to take part.”
And then she’s ushering the kids out the door with promises of donuts in the car, and Stiles is tugging out his phone, pulling up Derek Hale’s number.
Summary: Derek isn’t an uptight person – seriously, for an alpha, he’s downright laid-back – but something about Stilinski makes him want to bare his teeth and grasp him by the scruff and bite.
No, not bite. That would be incredibly inappropriate, of course – and Derek plus the legal department are aware of that. Anyway, the point is, Stilinski needs to be kept in line.
Or, wherein Derek’s office rival might be the same person keeping him sane at night when the loneliness hits.
Sterek Reversebang 2017 : Art for Behind the Lens for @yoshifics (on AO3 here, read on tumblr here)
Summary from AO3:
When Derek’s therapist suggest he should engage in social activities in order to meet new people, Derek didn’t expect his road to cross the path of Stiles Stilinski, freerunner and pole dancer extraordinaire. Gradually, he begins to stop hiding behind his camera lens and learns to better appreciate the people that surround him.
Thank you so much to the Sterek Reversebang mods and to my amazing writer Yoshi for letting me do something for the fandom. We were ridiculously in tune with the flow of ideas for this prompt!
(Based on this post, because let’s be real, if anyone would talk that way about someone eating their plants, it would be Stiles. Unbeta’d.)
“I’m going to kill whoever did this to you.”
Derek froze at the low, angry voice coming from the other side of his
fence. He guessed it was
his new neighbor, but Derek hadn’t yet met them.
“I’m going to find them and kill them,” the voice
continued vehemently.
Holy shit. What the hell had happened over there?
Derek edged closer to the fence, wondering if he should call
the cops, or if he should go mind his own damn business and quit eavesdropping. His neighbor sounded pissed.
“Don’t you worry, baby,” the voice said.
“I’ll kill them all. They’ll die screaming. They’ll regret ever having
taken a bite out of you.”
What.
Derek peered over the back fence with his phone in hand to call 911, half-expecting a scene of
carnage to greet him.
Instead, he saw his neighbor crouching next to a tomato
plant, examining the leaves. The leaves which, Derek could see, had been
mauled by some insect.
Sterek AU based off this fantastic post where Stiles (and in this version, Scott) go undercover as high school seniors to bust a kidnapping ring where two students are missing.
Just when he thinks he is making some headway into the case, he runs into his arrogant yet exceedingly hot ex: Derek Hale.
He is not thrilled.
seems as good a day to reblog my FBI!stiles set haha HAAHAHHHDHSDHFHSDkfhalkfjlkasjflka *insert insane cackling here*
Im so upset that i got sucked back in fuck jeff davis
“So what? Are we just not going to talk about it?” Stiles says, pacing
back and forth in front of Derek. He had
stormed into Derek’s house moments before, not bothering to knock. Searching
the main floor for Derek, he had found said man sitting on the sofa in the den
reading; the sight had made Stiles’ blood boil.
Derek doesn’t look up from the book in his lap as he replies, “there’s
nothing to talk about.”
Stiles looks at Derek in shock, his expression morphing into a glare as
he takes in the older man in front of him. While Derek seemed relaxed, his
posture is stiff and he clutches the book in his hand, causing his knuckles to turn white.
“No,” Stiles announces with a shake of his head, “I am not letting you
ignore this!”
“What do you want from me, Stiles?”
“I want you to acknowledge what I said last night.”
shealwaysreads 