Written for Day two of @sterekweek-2018: Vampires! Please enjoy your 2.6k of Vampire!Stiles very, very loosely based on this post.
The howls echo through the trees. Stiles clutches Lydia’s arm more tightly and quickens his stride. They are coming closer.
A triumphant howl rises up as they break through the tree line and Stiles bites his lower lip so hard that it should have bled. If only lack of blood hadn’t been their main issue at the moment. He risks a glance at Lydia next to him and worries at how pale her skin is, translucent almost. Things really are getting desperate.
They only make it a few steps away from the forest before the wolves crest the hill in front of them. There’s four of them but Stiles counted more howls earlier. Lydia is subtly angling herself so that she’s facing partly backwards at least, so she must have noticed the same. Good. They are weakened, dangerously so, but that doesn’t make them easy prey.
It’s something the leader of the pack seems to be aware of, too, snarling at them, but keeping a careful distance and making sure the others stay away, too. Stiles gives them a moment to posture and then he straightens himself to his full height, making sure that the light hits his eyes just so. The largest wolf’s eyes flare red in response and Stiles tilts his head ever so slightly in acknowledgment.
Being able to deal with the alpha directly is a relief at least, even if he isn’t entirely sure who the alpha actually is at the moment. They’ve been on the run for a while, with nothing more but rumours as news and no way to confirm or disprove any of them. There were talks of a fire, of madness and monstrosity, murders and resurrections, a lot of it very over the top and distorted by distance and time. But one thing everyone agreed upon was that the pack was settled again and stronger than ever. So Stiles stands tall and says:
“Alpha Hale, the history between my clan and your pack spans centuries and our agreement goes back almost as long. My sister and I have come to call it in.”
Summary: Written for Scooby Wolf theme for sterek week. The pack have to hunt down yet another monster from the preserve.
Words: 2,188
Rating: T
If Stiles was being totally honest,
he’d thought these pack meetings were a joke at first. The idea
that the ragtag pack of misfits would meet up and discuss what to do
about the monster of the week, and try to learn how to werewolf made
him cackle till he cried, he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. But once
Scott actually agreed to be part of Derek’s pack and he – and by
extension, Stiles – actually got invited, they learned that it was
really just the pack lounging around and hanging out. With occasional
discussion of monster problems, and always with food. Plus, Derek
totally made sure his werewolf training classes were held when the
pack humans weren’t present.
This week, there was discussion of
monster problems. It’s not like Stiles wasn’t expecting it.
Something had been digging up the preserve, but they’d put their
lupine noses to the ground and been unable to find any trace of who
or what was doing it. Literally none.
Derek suspected witchcraft. So did
Lydia. And Stiles, but he couldn’t admit that he thought Derek was
right this early in the game.
Imagine Stiles wearing a super baggy sweater/hoodie and boxers around the house.
The first night Stiles stays the night, Derek feels something small and tight and afraid unclench. Like he can trust this.
That he can have this boy, beautiful and bright and impossibly, his.
Stiles laughs when he rolls them in the sheets and kisses him, hard and hungry, and its a long time before he lazily complains about being hungry.
But the first time he comes home and finds Stiles there–
That’s when he realizes how deep he’s in.
Stiles is standing by the sink, sipping his coffee and glaring at his phone. He’s wearing Derek’s old NYU sweatshirt, the one two sizes too big for Derek that fucking swallows Stiles, and it hangs down almost to Stiles knees. He’s not wearing pants, and he has one foot braced against his knee, his toes curled against the cold ground and he looks perfect.
Derek moves across the room and Stiles smiles up at him, kissing him gently as Derek’s hands slip under the sweatshirt, curling at his hips, gripping the band of his boxers.
“Stay,” Derek murmurs and Stiles sighs against him.
“For how long?”
“Forever,” Derek breathes.
It’s too much. Too soon. Stiles is too young.And he can’t stop himself because he wants this. Wants Stiles.
Stiles smiles at him and presses a kiss and a promise to his lips. “Ok.”
Derek Hale can handle anything. After all, he is
an alpha werewolf and a member of the Supernatural Emergency Containment,
Rehabilitation, and Eradication Taskforce.
After Stiles hits send on the text, he lays the phone down on the table by the front door, toes carefully out of his sneakers and peels his socks off as he pads quietly over to the couch where Derek is sitting. “See, no shoes to drop,” Stiles laughs softly, sitting down on the seat beside Derek. He wiggles his bare toes and Derek stares at them, looks up at Stiles with a caged, frightened expression on his face that clenches at Stiles’ heart.
“Okay,” Stiles sighs, breath catching in his throat, he’s so not good at this. Scott is good at this. Scott is good at Hallmark levels of sap and Stiles just has words that always sound sarcastic even when he means them, and gestures that feel too big even when he tries so hard.
“Okay,” Stiles says again and he shifts himself towards Derek and snakes a hand out, grabs Derek’s in both of his, rubs his thumb across the back of it.
“I love the look on your face when you first wake up in the morning,” Stiles says, voice coming out scratchy and it cracks at the end but he doesn’t stop even as he feels the light flush building on his cheeks. “It’s this…sort of dopey expression, especially when your hair’s all mussed up one side and there are lines from the pillow indented in your face,” Stiles smirks, “like you have no idea where you are or how you got there. This split second of total bleary confusion.”
(Inspired by the gorgeous photos of Hoechlin found here)
Stiles knew that Beacon Hills was toxic. He knew it was hell wrapped up in suburbia and small town and that it was killing him.
He’d watched it, watched it sucking the life from his father, from Peter and Derek, from himself.
The truth was–watching Derek drive away hurt. In ways he didn’t expect, it dug in and cut at him. They were barely friends, but Derek–Derek was more. He was safety during the very worst times of Stiles’ life, a quiet companion on the anniversary of his mother’s death. A snarky dry wit when they watched movies that long summer when Scott was too busy trying to be better and Derek was desperate to find his missing pack.
He was the one who always protected Stiles, and the one Stiles always rescued and after watching him almost die–to watch him walk away hurt.
He needed to leave. Stiles understood that, and even though his absence sometimes felt like a gaping wound–he never fought it.
In all the long conversations they had, over text and phone calls that felt intimate and sacred–he never asked why Derek left.
He never let himself ask Derek to come back.
Beacon Hills was toxic, a black hole that would kill him, if he let it and Derek got out.
After everything that he had survived, Stiles sure as fuck wasn’t going to be the one that drug him back. Not even if the texts and phone conversations that felt intimate and sacred were becoming heavier, laden with things neither was addressing head-on, but that neither was ignoring outright.
They were dancing around more and Stiles–he wanted it.
He wanted it so bad sometimes he could taste it, could imagine it, what life would be like free of this place and all it’s shit, what it would be like to share space and life and love with Derek in a world that wasn’t dark and filled with shadows and things constantly trying their damnedest to kill them.
He dreamt about it, about waking up next to him, seeing that familiar grumpy face softened by sunlight and peace, kissing him because he could and not because desperation and another near death experience finally drove him to it.
He dreamt of Derek and peace, and a future. And sometimes, when Derek whispered his name, quiet and heavy in the dark and Stiles knew the ‘wolf could hear him moving, the slick glide of his fist over his skin, and rustle of bedsheets, the uptick in his heart–when Derek murmured his name, like a plea and a promise, and Stiles came, shaking silently apart, he let himself believe they’d have more than texts and phone calls, intimate and sacred.
The address was surprising because he never expected Derek to settle in Montana, and not because Derek sent it the morning of his graduation.
He was on the road within twenty four hours, and he wanted to feel guilty about leaving, about abandoning the pack and Scott–but Peter told him before he left that he should never feel guilty for surviving and Kira echoed it in the rare letters he got. Lydia skipped graduation altogether, flying out of Beacon Hills the day of her last final.
The drive was quiet, and he thinks he should be more anxious than he is–but this doesn’t feel impossible and terrifying so much as it does like the next step, the logical progression, the only choice.
He listens to music and eats jerky and Reese’s and drives until he hits golden plains in Montana, rolling mountains and endless stretches waving grass, and a sky that feels eternal.
He sees Derek first. It’s maybe the only time he’s ever seen Derek first, and he’s so beautiful it makes Stiles tremble.
His beard is full, and his clothes are a little lose, and he looks…settled. Comfortable. Content.
Then he turns, and Stiles watches that quiet content melt away as his brows furrow and a smile, as bright as the sun shining overhead, brightens his face.
Derek Hale never smiled in Beacon Hills, Stiles thinks, absurdly, before his werewolf is pulling him into an impossibly tight hug, a whine in his throat, and his face pressed to Stiles shoulder.
He laughs, softly, breathlessly, a noise he doesn’t recognize because Stiles can’t remember the last time he laughed.
But here–here in a wild world of windswept gold and wide open skies and sunshine–Derek smiles and Stiles laughs, and when the stars spangle the sky like a million tiny diamonds, they curl together and whisper about the future, and Derek kisses him, and it feels intimate and sacred.
When Scott is bitten by a werewolf on Halloween night, the Stilinski-McCall family is whisked away to a parallel world called Halloweentown so that Scott can learn to control his new instincts. With going on coffee dates with Derek Hale, Scott’s werewolf mentor, making a new best friend in Scott’s crush, Allison Argent, and finding his calling working with the Hale pack ravens, will Stiles even want to go home when the year is up?
All he wants are some Pumpkin Spice Pancakes. Sure the strawberry ones are good, but he’s still craving fluffy, sweet and spicy, pumpkiny fried batter. With all the Hale siblings acting a little weird, Stiles isn’t sure he’ll ever get what he’s looking for. Thankfully; Pumpkin Patches, pushy sisters, and his lack of a verbal filter; he might just land himself a date with Derek Hale.
The Christmas sweater alone should have sent any rational person running; the terrible customer service and delight in Derek’s suffering were just icing.
“My name,” the kid tells Derek, sounding amused. “It’s Stiles. I figure if I’m going to wrestle a complete stranger for a pumpkin the least I can do is offer my name afterwards.”
“Stiles,” Derek tries, testing the way the name sits on his tongue. “I’m Derek.”
“Derek,” Stiles breathes, like he’s testing the weight of the name too. He grins, bright and blinding, which Derek guesses means that he likes the sound of it. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but since we almost got to second base a minute ago, I’d say we’re past that point.”
Stiles likes Autumn. He likes Derek. He hates pumpkin-spice flavored everything.
“It offends me,” Stiles said. “It offends you.” “Why are you repeating everything I say?” “Honestly? I’m hoping it’ll help me make sense of your words. I feel like I’m missing something.”
“You do realise I bought this new mattress so you would stop sleeping on me?” Derek’s voice rumbles through his into Stiles’s and Stiles shifts, presses his face into Derek’s neck.
“You’re more comfortable,” he mutters sleepily and Derek runs a hand up his thigh.
“You’re heavy,” Derek replies, his fingers dipping under Stiles’s underwear. Stiles shifts again, presses his hips downwards and drags his lips across Derek’s neck.
“No I’m not,” Stiles sulks and Derek lets out a laugh, winds his other arm around Stiles and pulls him tighter to him.
“No,” he says, and Stiles slides his lips across his cheek, “you’re not,” Derek mutters into Stiles’s mouth.
theproblemwithstardust 