tw | theproblemwithstardust

yodas-yo-yo:

Hope you like soulmate AU’s, my friend, because that’s what this is:

“So what’s your plan?” Scott stands over Stiles, his patented ‘True Alpha Guidance Counsellor,’ expression firmly in place.

With a dramatic shrug, Stiles slumps further in his desk chair, and stares disconsolately out of his bedroom window. Perhaps he should be celebrating. After all, this afternoon a soulmark appeared on his wrist revealing the name of his soulmate.

He has a soulmate.

Fuck. He scrubs one hand across his face.

This is a disaster.

“Don’t front with me dude,” Scott says, crossing his arms. “I know you have a plan.”

“You think I have a plan for this eventuality? This one? Specifically? Seriously? You expect a plan?” Stiles laughs high and a little hysterical, while tugging the fabric of his hoodie down over his wrist. “A plan?! What was your plan when your soulmark showed up? Ohhhmygodddd!!! Must make out with Allison immediately?”

“Pretty much.” Scott cuffs Stiles over the back of the head gently and grins. “And don’t mock, it worked out pretty well. Plus, you can adapt it: Make out with Derek.” He throws his hands in the air palms up as if to say ‘problem solved.’

“Ha! Yeah. That’s going to happen. I’m going to make out with Derek. Make out. With Derek. Derek.” Stiles flails so hard he almost falls off his chair. “I’m just going to walk up to Derek fucking Hale and plant one on him apropos of nothing. That’ll go down well. I’m sure it won’t end in death and dismemberment.”

“He’s your soulmate.”

“No! No. No he isn’t–”

“The name on your wrist–”

“Reads Derek. But that could be any Derek. There are probably a couple million Derek’s in the world at any given time. It could be–” Stiles searches for a name. “–Derek Jeter. Derek Jeter could be my soulmate.”

“Jeter. Seriously? That’s who you’re going with?”

“Yes!” Stiles huffs in a breath through his nose, then throws himself forward in his chair and opens up his laptop. “In fact. To prove my point I’m going to find a way to email Derek Jeter now and–”

With a sigh Scott reaches out and catches Stiles’ wrist. “Your soulmate is not Derek Jeter. For one thing, you’re a Mets fan.”

“Well it’s at least as likely to be Derek Jeter as it is to be Derek Hale.”

“No. No it isn’t.”

“I–”

“Why don’t you just speak to the Derek you know in real life first? Remember Occam’s Razor?”

Scott McCall.

Always so patient.

So reasonable.

So fucking irritating.

It’s a wonder Stiles has managed to maintain this friendship so long in the face of such blatant provocation.

“‘Just speak to the Derek you know,’” Stiles mimics, rising to his feet. He points at a finger at Scott. “This whole thing is a clusterfuck of epic proportions, and I am going to do what I do best–”

Scott sighs deeply. “You can’t just ignore–”

“Oh you just fucking watch me. I am a pro at ignoring all the things. Homework. The ending to virtually ever TV show I’ve ever liked. The entirety of Infinity War. The way you pronounce the word ‘supposedly–’

“What’s wrong with–”

“–the increasing threat of antibiotic resistant super viruses, meteors, the Yellowstone super volcano, not to mention the lingering feeling that I’m disappointing everyone I know. I have a Ph-fucking-D in pretending things are not happening. I’m just gonna wear long sleeves for the rest of my life, that’s all, and everything is gonna continue on as normal.”

“But–” Scott looks like he doesn’t know where to begin. “Duuuude.”

“No! No. Don’t even–”

“I know you like him. Why don’t you just talk to him. Maybe ask him whether he has your name on his wrist?”

Stiles just stares at him. Stares. Because nobody asks anyone that question. It’s considered the height of rudeness. “Just ask–” Stiles laughs, high, and hysterical. “Just ask. Just ask whether he has my fucking name on his wrist.”

“What’s the worst–”

“The worst? Okay. Let’s conduct a little thought experiment here, Scotty. Let’s pretend for one moment that Derek does have my name on his wrist even though he hasn’t mentioned it. Hasn’t even hinted at it.”

Scott opens his mouth. Then closes it again. Waits.

“If he has my name on his wrist,” Stiles continues, “then why hasn’t he been knocking on my door to confess his undying love for me, why do I have to go first?”

“Awww, bro.” Scott’s expression goes all soft and mushy, he reaches out and places a hand on Stiles arm. “You do love him. I knew it.”

“No!” Stiles says, flinching backwards. “No. That isn’t– I can’t believe you would try and imply that I–”

“Just speak to him–” Scott pats him on the shoulder. “Even if you don’t want to ask whether he has a soulmark, you could show him yours and see what happens.”

“Oh my god.” Stiles covers his face with his hands. “You get that not everyone ends up like you and Allison, right?”

“Stop deflecting. We both know you wouldn’t want to be like me and Allison anyway. But if you take a risk, you might get to be Stiles and Derek. Isn’t that worth something?”

“Ugh. I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“Maybe. Even though you sound like Lucy Van Pelt dispensing all your wise advice and tough love. Are you gonna charge me 5 cents for this shit?”

“My fee is a grilled cheese sandwich and the right to say ‘I told you so.’”

Stiles sighs. “You can have a grilled cheese,” he says, “But don’t hold your breath on the other thing.”

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