#➤ lydia martin — study

[blackhholes]

The Horror Genre in Teen Wolf

Dread, Taboo, and The Thing: Toward a Social Theory of the Horror Film by Stephen Price / Bodies of Fear: David Cronenberg by Steven Shaviro / Mutations and Metamorphoses: Body Horror is Biological Horror by Ronald Allan Lopez Cruz / Exploring Mutilation: Women, Affect, and the Body Horror Genre by Carina Stopenski

[skylerverse-teenwolf]

Have some concept art 👍

[thepopsicle]

No one is going to care about this but me (probably), However, that’s not enough to stop me from ranting about something I noticed in my most recent teen wolf rewatch.

I’ve finally made it to season three which I’ve always considered to be a season of major shifts in dynamics and even characters themselves- I don’t usually give all my attention on my second or third binge of a series but Im watching it with my mom who’s never seen it before and Im determined she pays attention to all the good shit.

So, there I was , doing my best to turn my mom into a Stydia Stan and making sure she looks up at her phone for the important bits when we finally reach season three and we get that opening bit of Stiles ‘dreaming’ but as we all know it’s a dream within a dream within another dream.

I hadn’t put much thought into what was actually going on around Stiles aside from the whole door thing because it’s obvious symbolism, The door is not only an exit but an entrance, yet, during this rewatch I had to force myself to actually take notice and this thought hit me full force- I was honestly pissed I hadn’t noticed sooner.

During this entire opening/ his dream, Stiles is laying in bed with Lydia and when you take it at face value, you can say “yeah that’s how we know he’s dreaming” or that it’s something a teenage boy would dream of.

Except for the way that Lydia reacts in this ‘dream’. She’s beside him, holding him and trying to comfort him but the minute he takes note of the door her entire demeanor shifts into panic. Lydia is actively begging him to just leave it alone and to not go near it, she shifts to different tactics to do it but you can hear the panic and it had me thinking about the implications.

Long before Lydia was his actual and official tether, He had held a flame for her, he paid so much attention to her that he noticed things that no one else would; She had already been keeping him grounded and had no idea.

By the time this scene is happening, Lydia is quite literally his tether to this world, to his reality, sanity and humanity- Lydia keeps him grounded on so many levels that it makes perfect sense for her to be the one thing his subconscious would put in the path between Stiles and that door.

His mind created Lydia because she represented safety and the one thing he would willingly and consistently return to- She was the one thing that could pull him back (or that’s how his mind would’ve rationalized it)

Lydia wasn’t just a figment or memory pulled at random; Stiles put her there in his dream to keep him from danger whether he knew it or not.

[toastybugguy]

Actually such a crime that Lydia and Mason RARELY share scenes. They’re the smart snarky(ish) best friends I DESERVED what do you MEAN they barely interact…

[toapaixonar]

re: lydia + the teen wolf movie. i'll have a verse where i oblige with the movie's canon, but as of right now, in lydia's main verse, here are some important things to note about her post-canon:

after graduating, lydia leaves beacon hills and goes to live with her mom in a small town in california (i'm leaning towards sausalito or carmel by the sea). they do this so that lydia can see a therapist and have time to properly heal and process the abuse she suffered in eichen house. also so that they can financially recover from all the hospital visits that lydia had to face throughout the show's canon.

lydia does end up going to uni, but she does not leave the state because they could not afford it (even with her getting scholarships due to her grades). she also has a special permission not to live in the dorms, terrified that she might wake up screaming and become a freak at university too. her years in college are rough and she feels absolutely disconnected from everybody, but she does not know how to create bonds with people who do not know who she is.

her relationship with stiles does not last because they are not in love with each other. they have been, in different points of time, but timing is not on their side. they are, however, best friends and always will be because they are each other's anchors (this is something i have developed with @notsolved throughout the last few years)

lydia ends up choosing to pursue a career in psychology, so that other supernatural people have a chance to talk about their traumas and experiences without ending up in places like eichen or being haunted. she also does it because she wants to help people, since she cannot do it with her powers.

she never properly learns how to tap into her powers. she tries and takes several trips to europe and other places, gets in touch with other families of hunters with chris' help, but there is not a lot of information. she never seeks out other banshees, however, still feeling guilty because of meredith. she also rarely uses her powers again. she does allow herself to tune into the voices (much like in the movie), but her screams/wails and fighting? she is terrified of doing it and killing someone again.

she pushes the pack away because she is always scared of losing the people she loves. which is funny because her biggest fear is being alone but she isolates herself. she is also closer to the younger pack than the older pack by the time she gets her degree, seeing as they all went through college around the same time and it is easier to be friends with them since they didn't see her fail to save her best friend/seeing as she can keep them at arms' length more easily. this is all subject to plotting, however.

she never comes back to beacon hills permanently. the only way she would return is if the pack asked for her help, especially scott. she also visits to see allison's grave. at first, she would go on her birthday, her death anniversary and the holidays. but then it got too hard and too painful so now she goes only once a year. as she grows older, she stops visiting it and chooses to remember allison other places that do not bring her as much pain.

i do not think lydia and jackson would be best friends after everything they went through in season 2. she does love him more than words, but she also knows their relationship was unhealthy and she would keep her distance from him. i could forgive their hug in season 6 because lydia was still young but after that? they do not become best friends. jackson put her through hell and, again, she will always love him because he is her first love, but she also knows they need to go their separate ways. they are civil, however, because she is friendly with ethan (they talk every year on aiden's birthday & death anniversary)

[starsdrewa]

◟ ★ ⊰ [ madelaine petsch ] i just saw that lydia martin arrived in mystic, ct ! they're twenty two and a canon character from teen wolf. however, you might want to check first because while they've been here three months they believe they have been here their whole lives. make sure to make them feel right at home.

[ellllsia]

What is that ? My notes are helping you understand maths.

✨️CALL ME LYDIA MARTIN ✨️

[drfrankensteinvsthequeerborgs]

I don’t know what this is, Anna’s intro just felt very Lydia-coded but then I remembered it’s the other way around

[clean-bands-dirty-stories]

Tread Carefully ~ S.S.

Request: “Stiles x male reader, reader getting hurt trying to protect stiles from a werewolf” by anon

Word Count: 1400+

MASTERLIST

Stiles had been harboring a crush on Lydia Martin for as long as he could remember. Even longer than Scott had known about it; and that was ages. So when he actually became friends with her, he'd thought he'd had a chance.

And then she'd dated Allison.

If he was honest, Stiles really hadn't ever considered that before. I mean yeah, he knew about queer people. But every time he brought it up, people had brushed it off and dismissed it. Stiles especially just wasn't - according to everyone. So he had never thought about it, until his old crush became one of his best friends and then she was taking about it all the time. Telling him about how happy she was, and when he asked, about how she'd realized she was into women. And suddenly he realized something he'd never considered before: he'd one hundred percent had a crush on Scott when they were kids. 

He didn't tell anyone for a long time. Well, anyone but Lydia. She was a fantastic confidante and an even better secret keeper. And she was good at keeping Stiles' sexuality a secret... until he developed a crush on her brother.

Y/n Martin was very different than his sister. They were a unit, they always had been, but where Lydia leaned into expectation to make herself popular and as perfect as possible, Y/n had leaned away from it. He didn't have a lot of friends, outside of the kids in the programming club, and some people he'd met over the internet. He was the type that knew high school was stupid, and thought that made him a little bit cooler than everyone else.

Stiles thought he was awesome. Y/n was putting as little effort into school as possible, focused less on college and more on learning to program and prepping himself to just do that forever. He was smart, which meant he knew that school didn't actually teach you anything you needed to know - as long as you knew what you were heading into. He often talked Lydia's ear off about how school was just preparing you to be part of the machine of society, and rolled his eyes when Lydia tried to get him into a "better outfit" or take him shopping.

But that was actually why Stiles liked him. They had math together, and Y/n made jokes under his breath and talked about how stupid it all was, and then leaned over and gave him pointers and help with the work in a way he could actually understand. He never ran out of patience and didn't find Stiles' burst of energy or hard time focusing or burn out annoying. He encouraged Stiles and hyped him up and when he did a good job and Y/n was leaning over his shoulder grinning at him, whispering compliments to him and joking about having to reward him one of these days, Stiles couldn't help but think that all he wanted in that moment was to kiss him.

Lydia picked up on it too fast. She was at first a little hesitant, making Stiles promise this wasn't about her, because her brother deserved better than being a replacement, but Stiles promised that wasn't it. And he proved it too, even if the pining looked the same. He talked to Y/n and became friends with him and fought against werewolves and other big-bads, and they bonded over being the only two just-humans on the team, but Stiles never reached out to him to tell him how he felt. Stiles didn't want anything from Y/n that he didn't want to offer; which was sweet except Lydia wanted to see her best friend and her brother happy.

So what was she to do except play match maker?

Her butting in was helping, too. Y/n was telling her all the time now about how he liked Stiles, how well they got along, all the stuff they were doing together. About his eyes and his smile and his laugh and how brave he was. About how they made so many plans together and learned to trust each other. About how nice his voice was, and how they studied together and often fell asleep late into the night and woke up next to each other.

And yet... it took Y/n almost dying for either of them to do anything about it.

It was a shit storm like all the others they had to live through. A battle, injuries all around, and Stiles and Y/n trying to find each other because this time they'd gotten separated. It was never good when those two got separated, they were both idiots.

Something that showed more than ever when Y/n rushed into the room, saw Stiles being cornered by a werewolf, and screamed at the top of his lungs. It was a faceless beast at this point, mind controlled by a spell that a witch had cast. She was making their lives hell, and this was only the most recent of poor bastards that had been mind controlled and sent their way. The only way to break the spell was to find the object that mattered to them most and destroy it. This worked because the witch had to cast the spell on such an object, and destroying it broke the spell. But she was aware of this, so she often sent her subjects after whoever found or had the object at the moment.

And right now, that person was Y/n.

So the werewolf turned, getting on all fours and shooting after the teenager, who's eyes went wide as he turned sharply and began barreling down the hallway as quickly as he could. It was a ploy to save Stiles' life, and it was a good one, but it couldn't last forever. The werewolf swiped at him, sending him flying one way and the thing he was carrying flying the other way. Derek arrived that moment, having been tied up before, and managed to fight the creature off while Stiles scrambled onto the scene and burned the object.

It was over.

But the damage had been done.

The pack brought them to Deaton, who immediately launched into stitching the poor boy up and lathering something on him to fight infection and help him heal faster. Then they were all left to simply wait and hope Y/n would wake up. He still had a heartbeat, but shock had hit his system and he still might not make it. A lot of blood lost, a really bad concussion...

Stiles of course never left Y/n's side. Y/n woke up to the boy asleep on his little make shift hospital bed, head on Y/n's leg, holding his hand. Y/n smiled, exhausted and sore and feeling like shit, but unable to deny that Stiles still looked adorable when he was asleep. Y/n ran his hand through Stiles' hair and the boy jolted up. "Oh." He blinked sleep out of his eyes, rubbing his face and shaking his head to clear it. "Hey."

Y/n laughed. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty," Y/n joked. His voice croaked from disuse and he flinched. "Jesus I sound like I died."

Stiles' smile withered. "You almost did."

There was silence at that. They couldn't meet each others' eyes, couldn't pass that stiffness and awkwardness. Neither of the boys were good with silence and always tried to scramble to crack jokes or entertain or cheer up, but Stiles' bluntness had shattered that. And it was kind of nice. Vulnerable.

"Stiles," Y/n began. "I... liked you." He sighed, shoulders dropping. "Like, really really like you. And I know it might ruin everything, and I don't want you to say you like me back because I almost died. I don't even need you to say anything right now, just, know I like you. And everyone knows you've always liked my sister but-"

At that, Stiles broke. He caught Y/n's face between his hand and pulled him into a kiss. They both sighed, smiling into it, and all the unspoken things seemed to be understood without any of the words needing to be said. They often communicated like this, with just an understanding, and no need for specifics or long rants. Leaning their foreheads together, Stiles still did say one thing. "I like you too." They both laughed, and all the tension melted away from both of them.

"Maybe next time you two need to talk about your feelings, one of you doesn't need to die for it?" Lydia sassed from the doorway. The boys parted, blushing, as she tackled her brother in a hug. But all of them laughed, and for now all of them were okay, and that... that could be enough. After all, they still had a witch to kill.

-

Male Readers: @ravenpuff-oli @sortzz @fadedver

[sterekcollabang]

Falling Together On Purpose

Writer: @adeceasedtulip

Artist: @escharis

Rating: T Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski, Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Isaac Lahey, Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Lydia Martin, Allison Argent, Vernon Boyd, Erica Reyes, Peter Hale, Sheriff Stilinski (Teen Wolf), The Nemeton (Teen Wolf), (Mentioned) Claudia Stilinski - Character, Alan Deaton Additional Tags: Stiles Stilinski is Derek Hale's Anchor, Derek Hale is Stiles Stilinski's Anchor, they're cute what can i say, Flustered Derek Hale, Character Study, sorta - Freeform, there is a lot of internal workings out, Pack Alpha Derek Hale, Hale Pack 2.0, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Getting Together, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Lucid Dreaming, Monster of the Week, well issue of the week but eh semantics, Spark Stiles Stilinski Summary:

The Nemeton has been on the Beacon Hills land for centuries. It has stood strong and protected the Hale pack and been protected in turn. It was only when that was ripped from it that things started to change and the power became tainted. It all changed once Scott Mcall was bit. A Hale came back and stayed. A short period of time passed since all the drama surrounding the events. It was only then that the Nemeton recognised a spark in its midst. It once again began to hope to be free of the darkness. In an attempt to do so, it called out to the spark. Stiles. It called out to Stiles. OR The Nemeton plays matchmaker for Stiles and Derek in hopes of chasing away the darkness that has haunted Beacon Hills for too long.

[Read More]

[gremlinbabe]

Favorite trope for 2 characters:

Apart they are geniuses and together they share a brain cell. Yet still even tho they’d out smart m most if not all the people in the room with the singular brain cell.

Exhibit A your honor:

Graduated hs with good enough grades that he was able to get into a fbi program, that’s with missing months of school cuz of the hunt & regular supernatural bullshit interference. Against LYDIA MARTIN who is already smart af.

Was able to stall and outsmart a 1000yr old fox demon on multiple occasions and defeated it

Regularly studies and translates ancient magical & supernatural text and updates a bestiary. While keeping said text hidden from anyone that could misuse it.

Multilingual king. And most likely in charge of financials after his family died if all the places he gets are anything to go by. (house included in teen wolf movie)

Together = shared brain cell but adorable

Can still get shit done when others don’t know what to do

(Stiles kept Derek alive for hrs while a creature is actively hunting them and poisoned Derek)

(Played into a bit to get into a security system undetected)

(Saving everyone and each other’s asses)

[bamboozledbird]

𝕚𝕗 𝕚 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕚 𝕨𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 pt.2 // stiles stilinski imagine

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Theo Raeken, Lydia Martin Pairing(s): Stiles x you, Theo x you (no use of y/n) Word Count: 5.3k Tags: a fix-it for y'all bc i'm a pushover Warnings: Underage drinking (at least in america rip, they're all 19+), creepy guys in bars, emetophobia, new jersey slander (please forgive me jerseyans)

Request: for all you people i made cry with part 1. this is my love letter to you. A/N: you don't necessarily need to read part 1 to understand, but this is a follow-up to if i could lose you i would.

The night starts well enough. Theo’s hand is a warm, steadying weight against your lower back, and his cologne cuts through the vague funky smell clouding the bar. Lydia chose it; somehow, no matter the city, she always knows about the coolest, underground spots that seem to only circulate within an elite circle of twentysomethings. It really isn’t all that shocking when you think about it as you nurse your bitter cocktail; every single person who catches a glimpse of Lydia immediately craves her attention. Unfortunately for them, Lydia always takes you as her date, though lately she’s been ending your nights out at a stranger's apartment more often than not. She’s never said it, but you know it’s because, ever since the disastrous end to her start-of-summer bash, Theo's made himself a permanent third-wheel on girls’ night. He’s never said it, but you know he started tagging along because you’ve been distant since Stiles poured into your bedroom and pressed on all the bruises his fingertips left behind when he left you. You really thought you’d washed them all away with 3,000 miles, 3 months, and 3 weeks of the scrape of Theo’s teeth. 

You sip on your fourth drink of the evening, sitting on a barstool because your legs are too wobbly to stand on, and Theo watches you watch Lydia spin a girl with a radiant smile and glitter tinsel in her hair. 

“You wanna dance?” he hums in your ear. You can barely hear him over the bass and the buzz of too much tequila. 

You nibble on your straw and hiccup around it, “Don’t think I can.”

Theo makes a move to grab the drink in your hand, and you bend backwards to keep it out of his reach. “Come on,” he frowns, “you can’t even stand.”

“So?” you purse your lips petulantly and punctuate your point with a loud suck, draining the last few drops of your lime margarita through a few chunks of leftover ice.

Theo looks tired as he studies your face. “What the hell is going on with you? I see you every day, and I still don’t have a fucking clue.” 

You’re too drunk to pretend you don’t know what he’s talking about. Hiccupping again, your nose scrunches, “I’m just…I wanna go home.” Theo pats his jacket pockets for his keys, and you shake your head a few too many times. “No, not there.” Your stomach turns when you finally realize what you actually mean. You want to hitch a ride on the melting ice in your glass and dissolve into knotted hair on Sunday mornings, freckled skin washed with the shifting sun, and pouted pink lips, cursing the snooze button and your cold toes. You don’t say that. You’re drunk, not cruel. “I wanna go back to Stanford. I hate it here.”

Theo’s eyes are shadowed in the dim light of the club, but they’re calculating. “You really think that’s far enough?” 

Blinking slowly, your mind spins with the drinks in your stomach as you try and fail to think of something clever. “Feels far,” you mumble, and Theo doesn’t look reassured. It’s hard for you to differentiate pain from anger through watery eyes and the brume of tequila, but whatever emotion is darkening Theo’s expression, you think it’s justified. He’s smart enough to know what you mean. 

 His face goes blank as he searches for his keys again, “I think that’s enough fun for tonight.”

You shake your head and wriggle down further into the cradle of your hips, “I wanna stay.”

Theo exhales through his nose and runs a hand over his face, “I thought you wanted to go home.”

Your tongue is thick as you struggle for words, sniffling as they tease you from the fraying edges of consciousness. “Not there.” You know you sound like a baby, recycling the handful of words you can remember, and you know that tears will only make it worse, but they still bubble along your lash line.

“Stay at Lydia’s then,” Theo spits out through gritted teeth, but he shoves a napkin towards you to mop up your running mascara, so you forgive him. It’s your fault, after all. At least, you think so as you watch him leave. 

“Boyfriend troubles?” Your head lulls to the side as you blink dumbly, all big-eyed and glassy, at the stranger leaning against the bar beside you. He’s tall, well-built too, but you’re mostly focused on his pungent cologne. It’s hard not to; you’re suffocating in it. 

The man laughs and grabs your chin, shaking your head a little, “You’re adorable. How could anyone stay mad at you?” 

You recoil, wrenching your face from his sweaty grasp, and run your tongue over your teeth. “He’s not…” your protest gets lost in your throat when he steps into your space and slides his hand along your spine, just shy of your ass. Your dress is backless, completely exposed to his wandering gaze, and your skin crawls with the sensation of his fingertips grazing your back.

His breath is hot and wet on the shell of your ear, “You want to forget about it for a while, angel?” 

“No,” your head jerks from side to side, eyes screwed shut, “I don’t—I think I’m gonna puke.”

A wave of relief rolls over you when a red-taloned hand slithers between your bodies. Lydia shoves the stranger’s chest sharply, sending him stumbling into the stool behind him, and his hand falls from your hip. 

“Does it look like she wants to contract something from a limp-dicked lowlife in tacky shoes?” The top of Lydia’s head barely reaches his shoulder, but her eyes are sharp and her sneer is venomous. The creep has the good sense to look a little afraid. “You have exactly two seconds to get the hell out of here before I personally ensure you’re on every public sex offender registry from here to Quebec.”

She grabs your hand before he has the chance to disagree and pulls you into the bathroom. In comparison to the loud, muggy dancefloor, it’s a wonderful reprieve: an oasis of cold air and muffled bass. 

Lydia fusses over you for a minute; you wave off her concerns and push yourself onto the sink even though your arms feel distinctly gelatinous. You can tell she doesn’t believe you, but men preying on drunk women is a tragically large and present underbelly of girl world, so after a moment she turns her intense focus to the lighted mirror. She looks perfect—she always looks perfect—but she won’t believe anyone except her own reflection.

The aching strain in your arches slowly dissipates to a faint tingle the longer your feet dangle from the counter, your heels discarded below. They’re black strappy things from the back of Lydia’s closet, and so is the scrap of black silk that Prada has the audacity to call a dress. You are grateful, however, for the short hem and open back now that your skin finally has the chance to breathe. 

You watch Lydia apply her lipstick with a precision brain surgeons could only dream of, smiling lazily. She’s graceful with the slender brush, like Botticelli stroking a swathe of red silk over a canvas of smooth skin. You envy her, with your eyeshadow already melting below your waterline, but mostly you love her. So proud to have such a goddess for a best friend. 

Her head tilts as she smiles at you, and she must be at least a little godly because she doesn’t smear her lipstick when her mouth curves. “What?” she hums around her puckered lips. 

“Nothing,” your words slur together, “you’re just perfect.”

She tucks her lipstick into her clutch and shakes her head, “And you’re so drunk. Lethal, babe.”

“I love it,” you sigh as she starts fixing your hair, clicking her tongue when you start to fidget. You slump into her careful touch and watch her fingers smooth through a few knots near your ends. “Being drunk is my favorite.”

She twirls her finger, indicating you should turn around, and begins twisting your flattened curls into an elegant bun. “I’ve noticed,” she mutters through the bobby pin clutched between her teeth, “you’ve been drinking more than you’ve sober lately.”

“It’s summer!” You blow a curl off of your nose and close your teary eyes so that your mascara doesn’t flake onto your cheeks, “You’re supposed to be drunk.”

Lydia hums and pulls a few strands of hair loose to artfully frame your face. “I didn’t realize alcoholism was seasonal.”

“You,” you bop her nose and giggle when it scrunches under your finger, “are being a major buzzkill. Don’t kill my buzz; that’s murder in the first.”

“Someone has to be.” Lydia leans her hip against the sink, and her brows curve, “Where’s Theo? I thought he was your DD tonight?”

You let the intoxication sweep over your senses because it’s easy and knock your ankles together like a child on the swings. “He left,” you chirp.

“He what?”

Your bottom lip juts out a little, “I think I hurt his feelings.”

Lydia is incensed. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and mutters a few choice words under her breath, “I’m going to hurt a lot more than that when I find him.” You curl in on yourself a little, and she sighs, unwinding her fingers from tight fists as her eyes soften. “He really left you here?” she asks quietly.

You shrug, refusing to feel sorry for yourself, and make grabby hands at her sleeves, “It’s okay. You’re here, and you’re my best friend, and I love you.”

She laces your fingers together and squeezes your hand, “It is not okay. That creep had you halfway to his car.”

You shudder at memory, and feel the ghost of the stranger’s clammy hand against your lower back, “But you rescued me. So it’s okay.” 

You frown at Lydia’s frown and push her cheeks together, squishing her mouth into a crinkled half-smile. She rolls her eyes a little and takes your wrists in her hands gently, “He shouldn’t have left you. It was a shitty thing to do, babe.”

“I made him sad, I think.” You hiccup a little, “I think I always do.”

“He can’t leave you blackout drunk in a skeezy bar just because you’re in love with someone else,” she huffs.

You tease the tip of your tongue through your front teeth, swinging your legs back and forth below the sink, “It wasn’t skeezy when you picked it.”

Lydia huffs again and folds her arms over her chest, “That was before I saw tall, dark, and creepy try to take you home.”

Your playful grin crumbles as your drunk-numb mind finally catches up with the burning behind your ribs. “I’m in love with someone else,” you say, voice sticky and thick in your throat. 

She lets out a sigh so soft you wonder if you just imagined it and takes both of your hands, “I know.”

Whimpering quietly, you turn your nose into your shoulder, slightly embarrassed by the sound. “I’m sad about it.”

“I know,” Lydia combs a few strands of your hair off of your tear-tacky face and smiles a little, “let’s get you home, okay?”

Another round of nausea hits you as you finally realize that you’re truly, really, horrifically drunk, and you still can’t forget him. 

“I don’t think I know where that is anymore.” 

Lydia was able to corral you into an Uber after you puked a few times. She held your hair back and helped you brush your teeth. You cried a little when she wiped the sweat off of your face with a makeup wipe, watching her take care of you with big wet eyes, as she tucked you into bed like the baby tequila and heartbreak had turned you into. She made you promise to call her in the morning, and then she left you to sleep off the ache in your throat and the six margaritas in your bloodstream—or was it seven, you can’t remember. 

You can’t remember much, it seems. You scroll through your feed for a while and squint at the blurry splotches of color, trying to recall if you were good enough friends with the girl from software systems to leave a comment on her post about how hot she looks in red. Your fingers drift, swiping away from Instagram to the only thing you remember. The thing you’ll always remember.

The phone rings exactly two times.

“Hi.” It’s the only thing you can think of besides, ‘I love you. I love you. I love you. Please make it stop.’

“Hey.” You listen to Stiles breathe on the other side of the line and snuggle further into your pillow. “You there?” 

His voice is soft in your ear, and your eyes go lidded, “Uh huh.”

He clears his throat, “What are you doing up this late?”

You twist around your sheets, and the tip of your tongue pokes out at your phone. Apparently, you’ve also forgotten that he can’t see you. “What are you doing up this late?”

“It’s uh,” Stiles pauses and there’s a rustling sound on his side of the line, “almost 8 here.”

You blink and frown at the time on your screen, “Nuh uh.” 

There’s a pause; you hate it. You want him to keep talking until you fall asleep. He finally sighs, “Are you drunk?”

Your tongue pokes out again, “I’m not the one who can’t tell time.”

“Baby,” your heart skips and your breath hitches, and he must be tired because he doesn’t seem to notice the slip, “we’re in different time zones.”

Your heart stumbles over the skip this time, and it feels a lot like flatlining. “You went back already?”

“I, uh,” he shifts, must be in his desk chair because you can hear something rolling, “my lease started. Figured if I’m paying to live in Philly, I should actually, y’know, live in Philly.” 

“Oh.” One little syllable, and it’s heavy with so many things you can’t bring yourself to dwell on it. 

“Yeah.” 

“So, uh,” you hear him scratch at something, most likely the back of his neck because he sounds anxious, “why’d you call?” He’s quick to correct himself, words overlapping like ripples in a creek, “Not that I’m not glad you called; I’m stoked you called—or maybe something a little less embarrassing—but I, uh,” there’s that scratching sound again and a quiet thudding of drumming fingers, “I really didn’t think you would.”

“Dunno,” there’s a smile in your voice, but you aren’t sure if he can hear it through the wobble, “just started dialin’, n’ I ended up here.”

He stands, and the phone shifts against his cheek as he starts to pace, “Where are you?” He sounds worried. You frown—you don’t want him to worry. You want him to hold you.

“Home,” you pause, nose wrinkling because that’s not quite right, and then add, “my house.”

“Did you drink anything?”

“Clearly.”

You can hear the eye roll from the other side of the country when he huffs into the phone, “I meant water. Did you drink any water?”

“Uh,” you nibble on your lip, “yes?”

He huffs again, but this time you can tell he’s smiling, “Get up and get some water—Advil too. Put it on top of whatever book you’re reading so it doesn’t get lost in your pile of shitty chapsticks and hair thingies.” 

Your eyes cross, affronted, “They are not shitty.”

“They’re an endless cycle of chapped hell.”

“But they taste good,” you grumble, cuddling your pillow to your chest.

He’s smirking; you know it. “Oh, I know.” 

You both just breathe through the line for a long moment, remembering the same slick slide of lips and tongues. 

“I miss you,” you whisper. 

Stiles inhales sharply, “I miss you too.”

“No,” you shake your head, smearing mascara on your pillowcase, “I miss you.” Your mouth is dry, and you can’t find the right words to explain it, how he’s apart from you even when he’s standing right there. There just aren’t enough words in the English language to explain the ache in the marrow of your ribs, how he still lingers inside your skin like some kind of fucked-up, agonizing osmosis, how you love him so tortuously, so effortlessly. Indefinitely. 

You can’t explain, but when he whispers, “Yeah, me too,” you know he knows. 

You sniffle and hiccup a few times, and a sigh crackles through your speaker. “Drink some water for me, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper. You roll onto your stomach and sit up a little on your elbows, “Will you stay?”

“Yeah, baby,” his chair squeaks as he sits back down, “‘till you fall asleep.”

“Promise?” Your voice is thick, like you’ve been crying for hours, and Stiles’s voice is tight when he finally replies. 

“Promise.”

You wake up with dry eyes and a rank taste in your mouth. There’s a glass of water and a handful of Advil on your nightstand, and you just know. You’ve known for a while actually, maybe forever, but you can’t pretend you don’t anymore. 

Theo seems to know why you invited him over so early on a Sunday morning. He doesn’t even look sad when you officially end it, and you wonder if it’s because he knew it was over a long time ago. You wish, selfishly, that he would’ve let you in on the secret so that you could’ve avoided all this. You hug him before he leaves, and it’s stiff and awkward, and you feel a little shitty about the whole thing—but it doesn’t feel wrong. 

You feel like yourself for the first time in a long time, and that feels good.

Summer is almost over, and you don’t have the time to obsess over all your wanting. All the air leaves your body sometimes, no room for anything but honey, veins, and new stubble, but you have so much to do. There’s no time for drowning in it when you’ve only got a few weeks before the semester starts. 

You don’t even have the time to acknowledge the nerves wriggling up your esophagus until you’re standing in front of a black door. Your screen is lit with the address Scott texted you, along with roughly 100 exclamation points and a dozen or so brain explosion, party popper, and happy face emojis. They steady you as you knock on the splintering door. The unit is cute and quaint, and you distract yourself by getting a better look at the sage green columns. 

Stiles opens the door, looking disarmingly soft in his worn sweatpants and stretched-out t-shirt—like cuddling on the weekend, like playing video games until sunrise, like home. He blinks at you slowly, pretty pink mouth slightly ajar.

You shift on the soles of your sneakers, jamming your hands into your hoodie pockets. “Hey.”

He blinks some more and seems to be only capable of repeating what he hears, “Hey.”

“So,” you dig the toe of your shoe into the porch, staring at a warped patch, curved from seasons of melting snow, and shrug, “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop by.”

He recovers from his stupor and leans against the doorframe, hands tucked under his armpits. “You were in the neighborhood,” his head tilts with his arched brow, “in Philadelphia.”

“Well,” you try not not to smile, “it was on my way.”

Nodding, Stiles rubs his chin and purses his lips. You want to kiss the smirk off of his stupid face. “Right, the classic eastbound Stanford route.”

“Not quite.” You adjust the strap of your duffle bag on your shoulder, easing some of the ache pinching at the base of your skull, “New transfer orientation is on Monday. Turns out Princeton’s comp sci department is decent.”

His face becomes guarded, but there’s a little something like hope behind the uncertainty, “4th in the country.”

Something warm inside your stomach flutters. He knows. Of course, he knows. He probably researched it all the way back in high school. You brush your hair out of your eyes and hum, “Mhm.”

Stiles slides his socked foot back and forth, slipping on the polished floor of his cozy entryway. He barely catches himself on the doorknob. You laugh until he says, “Stanford’s 2nd.”

Your shoulder lifts, “That's correct.”

His chin dips as he searches your face for something. You smile at him, and he swallows; it looks painful. “You turned down MIT because it was too far from home.”

“That's also correct,” you say quietly with a jerky nod. 

His eyes go wide as he shakes his head, almost violently. He almost slips again with the dramatic effort, “MIT’s 1st in comp-sci.” 

You steady him with a palm against his chest, swiping your thumb over his ribs. His heart thrashes under your touch, and your face lifts with a timid, tender smile. “Sure, but Princeton’s ranked #1 nationally. Overall champs, baby. Suck it.”

Stiles finally smiles, but it’s hesitant. “You don’t say.”

You let a breathy exhale and drop your hands to your sides, curling and uncurling your fingers into tight fists. He’s still looking at you, a cute little wrinkle in-between his brows, waiting for something more. Fair enough. He kind of laid it all out on the line the last time you spoke in-person—he kind of deserves to stew a little after everything he put you through, but you’ve forgiven him, decided you want to be happy more than you want to punish him.

You roll your shoulders back and tilt your chin to meet his gaze. “I don’t believe in soulmates.”

Stiles’s face goes sour, and he crosses his arms firmly over his chest, mouth twitching between a pout and a frown. “You stopped in Philly just to tell me tha—”

You rock onto your tiptoes to press a finger to his lips, biting back a smile when they pucker like a fish, and say, “Will you kindly shut it for a minute? I need to get through this. I practiced a lot on the plane.” His eyes narrow, sullen and irritated, but he keeps his lips pressed together, waiting impatiently for you to finish.

You slip your finger from his mouth to cup his jaw, thumbing just below his cheekbone, and his body goes lax, irritation slowly seeping from his lanky limbs to the floor. Grinning, you poke the tip of your tongue at him, and he swallows hard as he tracks the movement.

“As I was saying,” you smile through the snark and slide your hands to his chest, resting against the vibration of his thudding heart, “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I don’t think there’s just one person out there for everyone—but that’s a good thing, right? I mean, the entire concept of a soulmate is basically just a blackhole. You’re falling, and falling, and falling—and there’s no end; you’re just trapped. There's no choice. I don’t want to love like that—I don’t want to love you like that.” 

It’s cute, the way his face screws up around a theory. It’s a familiar expression, and you can’t help but melt at the knees while you watch his eyes flick back and forth, adding up all your expressions and trying to calculate the meaning. The corner of your mouth pulls into a slip of a smile, “If I turned around right now and never saw you again, I’d be okay. I mean, I wouldn’t drop dead or anything.” 

He sucks in sharply, head jerking back, “What the fu—”

“Hush, I’m almost done.” You keep going before he can interrupt you again, rushing through the rest of your speech, running out of air and restraint, “I think that I could get over you, eventually, years and years from now—but the point is—what I realized is: I don’t want to. I don’t want to get over you. I don’t want to find someone else. Stiles, I love you—I’m in love with you, and I really think tha—”

His lips are wet and warm against yours, and you whine softly into his mouth at the familiarity. He hooks his thumbs in the belt loops on your jeans and yanks you closer, until your chests are pressed together and you can feel him breathe. You were right—the beard burn is delectable.

The kiss slows into something less desperate, something more like forever, and Stiles brushes his lips over yours in a few chaste pecks. When your lashes finally flutter open, you see that he’s grinning at you. It’s so wide, so happy, and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he says, “Sorry, you just would not shut up, so I figured it was either kiss you or shove something in your big mouth—and I’m not super confident in my CPR skills. Scott and I really spent most of the time figuring out how many pencils we could fit into the dummy’s mouth.”

“I take it back.” You push his face away from you, but a laugh bubbles past your swollen lips when Stiles pinches your waist. “I hate you.”

“Nope. No refunds.” Stiles shakes his head solemnly and wraps his hand around your hip, squeezing possessively, “You kiss it, you buy it. That’s what Coach said about the dummy.” 

“Well,” your arms find their way around his neck, and your fingers wind into the soft hair curling behind his ears, “you are a dummy.”

“The dumbest,” he agrees. He’s smiling, but his eyes are sincere, cloudy with guilt. “Baby, I never should’ve—”

You take great satisfaction in your turn shutting him up with a kiss, tugging on his hair until you’re on your tiptoes and he’s groaning into your mouth. “I think we’ve been miserable for a long time,” you whisper, breath ghosting across his shiny lips. He shivers, and you press your temple against his forehead, “I think I’ve had enough of it. How ‘bout you?” 

Stiles nods quickly and dips in to kiss you again. “Can I say sorry one more time?” he mumbles, kissing the ridge of your ear.

“I suppose,” you sigh and fall back onto your heels. 

He takes your bag from your shoulder and guides you into his apartment, kicking the door shut so that he doesn’t have to let go of your hand. There’s a thud as he drops the duffle bag onto the floor, and you barely have the time to take-in the ratty little sofa and coffee table piled with empty pizza boxes before he’s on you again. “I’m,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, and it twitches with the contact, “so,” his lips trail to your cheek, “very,” he presses a kiss to your temple, “truly,” to your hairline, “forever-ly,” to the tip of your nose, “sorry,” to your mouth. 

You sigh as he settles in for a real kiss and fall back onto the couch with him on top of you, disrupting his rhythm with a breathy giggle. He braces his weight onto his arms, and you wriggle down until your face is directly below his. “Hi,” you trace his bottom lip with your finger, smiling when he purses his lips to kiss it. 

“Hey.” He looks drunk: cheeks flushed, eyes hazy with pleasure, body loose and free from critical thinking—and you think to yourself that you’d do just about anything to make sure he’s this happy for the rest of his life. 

Stiles rolls, bringing you into his side with an arm around your waist, and presses against your lower back until you're crushed against him. Still, you squirm closer. Neither of you say anything for a long time, content with the sound of each other’s breathing, and then Stiles hums in his throat a little and plays with the ends of your hair, “So. You’re gonna live in New Jersey.”

“Yup,” your mouth pops with the ‘p.’

He grins, “Wow. You must, like, really love me or something.”

“Or something,” you tease, and he bites your shoulder in retaliation. 

“Jersey isn’t so bad,” his voice is muffled against his teeth, still embedded in your sweatshirt. Well, his technically.

You laugh, “It’s not?”

“Nah,” Stiles pulls back to look at you and scratches at the back of his neck, lifting a shoulder, “wouldn’t mind living there for the…beaches.”

“The Shore, you mean?” you grin, trying to imagine Stiles with a bad spray tan and slicked back hair. 

He grins right back and strokes your cheek, “Yeah, I’d move there for the Shore. I’ve actually been searching for just the right opportunity to show off my scrawny arms and pasty complexion. It’s like, what, a 40 minute drive from there to Penn?”

“Trenton would be around that, but I was thinking Pennypack would only be 30 from Princeton.” Stiles looks at you through lidded eyes, suspicious. You grin, “For the cheesesteaks, obviously.”

“Obviously,” he quips, but you can tell his heart isn’t in it. His face turns serious as he whispers, “You don’t have to do this,” into the quiet air humming between you. “I would’ve transferred to a school in California if I knew you still wanted me.” A flash of something ignites behind his eyes, warming the amber to whiskey, and he sits up a little, reaching over your head for his phone, “I’ll do it right now.”

You clutch his wrist and shake your head, pulling on his arm until he’s close enough to feel your lashes brush against his skin, “That’s why I didn’t ask. You’ve been dreaming about this program your entire life.”

Stiles is unusually still as he stares you down. His incisor digs into his bottom lip with a cruel bite, “What about your dreams?”

You huff, “What part of #1 don’t you get? I literally just told you to suck it. In case you forgot, I cordially invite you to suck it again, #6.” He smiles, but his eyes remain unconvinced. Your face softens, all the muscles and cartilage going gooey with affection, “It was never about Stanford, Stiles. It was about home. Guess it took you going away to figure out home sucks without you. S'not really home at all, actually.”

His lashes flutter slowly as he blinks, shaking his head, tongue running over his teeth as he struggles for air and words in equal measure. You kiss him until he finds them. “I know you don’t believe in it,” Stiles breathes out, “but I don’t think I could survive you being gone. Not again.”

You stroke over the planes of his face and hum thoughtfully, “I believe you wouldn’t want to.” Your shoulder twitches with a quick shrug as you add, “I know I don’t.”

His mouth chases your fingertips, pressing kisses to them every so often, and he closes his eyes heavily—like he hasn’t slept in months, maybe since the night he broke up with you. “These last few months have been just the fuckin’ worst,” he finally manages a smirk after you kiss his nose in agreement, “like a fuckzillion times worse than the summer I broke my leg, and you and Scott signed up for rec soccer without me.”

“You’ve got to let that go,” your voice is high and whiny, and Stiles’s smirk widens, “we didn’t even win any games.” You tickle him, heart leaping into your throat when he laughs and squirms away from your relentless fingers, “Didn’t have our good luck charm with us, obviously.”

“Obviously,” his grin is smug with satisfaction. Stiles tangles your legs together, legs clunking clumsily but that’s just part of the delicious charm, and hooks his chin over your shoulder, “So, Pennypack, huh.”

You nod, “I really don’t want to live in Jersey.”

You can’t see him, but Stiles peers at you, a little dubious, a lot fond. “And it’s not just for me?”

You grin, caught, and shake your head firmly, “Absolutely not.”

“It’s for the cheesesteaks,” his brow arches, and he seems to finally understand when the room becomes a swathe your smile, of your bubbling laughter: He makes you as happy as you make him. 

“Obviously.” You mean, I love you, I love you, I love you, and I never ever want to stop.  Stiles hears it, of course he does, and he says it back, sealing it with a kiss, “Obviously.”

[skylerverse-teenwolf]

*holds them all gently

[takaraphoenix]

Camping & Bonding (Part 4)

Tags: m/m, Erica Lives, Boyd Lives, Jackson Doesn't Leave, Pack Mom Stiles, Pack Feels, True Mates, fluff, hurt/comfort, camping, mutual pining, m/f

Main Pairing: Derek/Stiles

Side Pairings: Scott/Allison, Boyd/Erica, Jackson/Lydia

Teen Wolf Characters: Mieczysław 'Stiles' Stilinski, Derek Hale, Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd III, Isaac Lahey, Jackson Whittemore, Lydia Martin, Cora Hale, Scott McCall, Allison Argent

@writersmonth Prompts Part 4: season + school

Summary: Stiles thinks the pack should go camping, as a bonding exercise. Much to his surprise, Derek agrees with his plan. So the pack goes off into the mountains to camp together.

This Fic on AO3 | This Fic on FFNet

Stiles Summer Stories 2024

--

Part 4: The Confession

They brought enough eggs to make twenty omelets. While the wolves went on their morning run to also hunt a little meat on the side of those eggs, Stiles went to forage for mushrooms and herbs with Lydia and Allison. A little walk of their own. It was nice. Chilly, but beautiful. The orange and red and yellow leafs. And every now and again, they saw the pack running by in the distance.

When the three of them returned to their camp side, they started prepping everything for breakfast before the wolves returned from their hunt. Once again, Derek dropped a dead animal in front of Stiles, which was going to keep freaking Stiles out. Just because he knew how to take them apart didn't exactly mean he enjoyed the sight of dead animals, especially not when they were unceremoniously dropped metaphorically in his lap.

"Good hunt," Stiles offered when the Alpha kept staring at him. "Now go wash up. Seriously."

And since when did Derek need this much affirmation? Still, it was kind of cute to see that preening Derek did at the praise before once again rounding up the pups to herd them to the creek for a quick wash. Shaking his head, Stiles waved Allison over to help him take apart the catch of the day.

"We could save some cuts for lunch, we brought enough bread to make sandwiches," Stiles suggested. "I was thinking we could go on a hike, so take them with us. Yes, we. All of us. Stop groaning, Lydia. It will not kill you, I promise you that."

Not that Stiles himself was the biggest fan of hiking. But he knew the pups needed the exercise and he knew this would be a great way of bonding. Plus, he'd heard the view was breathtaking.

"You do know what Derek is doing though, right?" Lydia asked, while stirring the omelet.

Stiles looked confused at her. "Uhm, currently? Taking a bath, I guess?"

"No, Stiles," Lydia heaved an exasperated sigh. "You look so confused every time Derek drops the hunt in front of you. I thought it was weird yesterday."

"Yeah, it really was weird, right?!" Stiles threw up his hands. "Thank you, Ly-"

"No, your reaction was weird," Lydia furrowed her brows. "Like you didn't know what he was doing. And now again. You don't know what he's doing, do you?"

Stiles paused, looking at her. "What… What do you mean? What is he doing?"

"How do you not know that, I thought you researched werewolves to the smallest detail."

"Don't sound so accusatory," Stiles glared. "How am I supposed to know everything. There might be things even I missed. Or didn't deem important at the time due to the massive volume of research to be done. Also school. Like. There are more things than the supernatural that I have to do too, studying and helping Scott study, and take care of my dad, and the household, and the pack-"

"He's courting you, Stiles," Lydia blurted out to interrupt him. "He's bringing you the game he caught himself, and don't think the wolves haven't noticed how much you two smelt like each other this morning. Jackson froze up and told me. You two weren't just sharing a tent."

"We shared some body-heat," Stiles defended with a blush. "But that's not-"

"Stiles," Allison offered him a small, nearly pitiful smile. "You're the only one who can sway Derek. Don't get me wrong, he listens to everyone's opinion, he learned to do that. But… but you are the one who can convince Derek of any of our ideas and who always has his ear and trust. You're his second, Stiles."

At that, Stiles huffed out a laugh. "No, I'm not. Peter is Derek's left hand."

"Not his left hand," Lydia heaved an exasperated sigh. "His second. His second half. The co-leader of this pack. The only one to outrank the left hand. How do you not see it."

Stiles froze and stared at the girls a little dumbly. He wasn't Derek's mate. He would know if he was Derek's mate. They'd known each other for well over a year now and they had been… close, for months. And Stiles was the one who figured these things out! Erica and Boyd. Jackson and Lydia. Allison and Scott. Heck, Allison and Scott were how Stiles had figured out that mates were a real thing, he had put that together. He would know if he was someone's mate.

/break\

Something had happened while the wolves bathed. When they returned, Stiles was… jittery. Even by Stiles standards. Derek frowned as he watched his mate cautiously.

"Training," Derek growled after breakfast. "Pair up. Erica and Jackson. Cora and Isaac. Boyd and Scott. Don't groan at me. You have predictable patterns that your usual go-to sparring partners know. Switch it up. Now go."

"Sourwolf," Stiles huffed annoyed as soon as the betas got up. "Don't growl at the pups."

He had his arms crossed and he was glaring at Derek, making the Alpha falter a little. Damn it, he needed to have better control. But when Stiles was upset – and especially when Stiles seemed upset with him – it still messed with Derek. Perhaps because Stiles was his anchor, Stiles calmed him, so when Stiles was upset, his anchor was the reason for Derek's own upset feelings.

"You flinched away when I touched you earlier."

How much Derek hated admitting these things. He crossed his own arms, trying to brace himself, glaring at a point behind Stiles – where the betas were training with each other and decidedly pretending they couldn't hear Stiles and Derek's conversation. Allison and Lydia were pretending to be busy with the clean-up. Stiles stared at him in bafflement.

"I didn't…" Stiles trailed off and then sighed. "I didn't mean to. I was just really in my head and you startled me. But, Der, c'mon. Even if I flinched, that should not make you lash out at the pups! They didn't do anything."

"They didn't," Derek agreed, with a heavy sigh. "I'm… sorry. I just… It messes with me when you… When something is wrong with you."

"Why," Stiles frowned at him.

Derek remained stubbornly silent. He couldn't tell Stiles. He shouldn't tell Stiles.

"Why," Stiles asked again, more pointed, his eyes narrowed. "I need you to tell me, Derek."

"Why do you need to know," Derek growled. "It doesn't matter."

"It does!" Stiles threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "If it affects our pack, then I need to know, so I can figure out what to do to avoid it!"

"I don't like when you're upset, or hurt, or – or when anything is wrong with you."

Stiles stared at him like the air got knocked out of him. "They're right."

Derek tensed at that, hunching over a little like he was bracing himself. "Who was right."

"The…" Stiles motioned over to Lydia and Allison. "The girls! They said that I'm your mate. That's what kept me so distracted during breakfast. Because surely that can't be, right. 'Surely, Derek would have told me at literally any point during the past months that we've been friends, that I've been in his pack. There's no way he would have kept something like that from me. Even if he doesn't want me, he knows how important the trust between us is to me, he would have told me the truth,' while I replayed pretty much every single interaction between us since I joined the pack, I kept thinking that. And I guess I'm fucking wrong, huh."

The more he talked, the more bitter and louder his voice grew. He turned away from Derek, a sneer on his face. The cold autumn breeze carried over a scent of misery and Derek's inner wolf whimpered because he knew they were the cause of it.

"I could have been okay with you not wanting me, Derek," Stiles turned to look at him with a devastating look on his face. "You know I can handle rejection. But this… this is about more than you and me. If I'm your mate, I'm the Alpha mate. That… That's really fucking important information regarding our entire pack and I should have known that. You should have told me."

Derek didn't know what to say, or how to say it, not that he got a chance to, because Stiles barreled on. "I deserved to know. You know how weird the past months were for me? I kept cuddling up with my classmates, I fucking nuzzled Jackson at school the other week. I genuinely started to think I was losing it but no. No, I'm the Alpha mate, of course have I been more in tune with the betas. Which also, explains why I keep thinking about them as the betas! Part of me has gotten really fucking worried that I kept mentally excluding myself from them, like, what, was I not seeing myself as pack, what was my problem? But no. No, my problem was that I'm not a beta. I just didn't know it. Because nobody fucking told me."

Stiles was radiating frustration and anger and hurt and all Derek could do was watch and listen quietly, knowing his mate needed to vent. He always talked a lot, especially when he was being emotional. Maybe it'd help him to get it out of his system.

"I would have been fine, Derek," Stiles whispered, and the whispering scared Derek much more than the yelling. "I was in love with Lydia for years and I was fine when she rejected me and got back together with Jackson and we're friends now. I would have been fine if you just told me that you don't love me. We could have led this pack together. As friends. Even if you don't want me."

Suddenly, it felt much colder than it had any right to, and it had nothing to do with the season. The blood in Derek's veins froze as Stiles' words – all of his words – finally fully sank in and context was webbed between them. Stiles was angry because Derek hadn't told him. Stiles… expected rejection. Because of Derek's actions, or rather his inaction, Stiles thought he wasn't wanted.

"Can I… talk now?" Derek asked softly. "Can I explain why I didn't tell you?"

With a sarcastic smile, Stiles made a gesture that indicated 'the floor is all yours'. Derek took a deep breath, trying to mentally prepare himself to talk about his feelings. The feelings he hadn't shared for good reason so far. But that had hurt Stiles, the last person he wanted to hurt, and now he had to fix this somehow, he had to make Stiles stop hurting.

"I want you, Stiles," Derek looked his mate directly in the eyes, wanting for Stiles to see how serious and sincere he was. "I want you more than I ever wanted anything, I want you so much that it scares me, because if I… if I had you, I could lose you again. I would lose you again."

Stiles stared at him in confusion. "That doesn't even make sense. If you don't have me, you can't lose me. Well, great, but you're also not having me, so what's the big difference."

"The difference," Derek growled and ground his teeth together hard. "The difference is that every good thing I ever dare hope to have dies or is otherwise forcibly taken from me, Stiles. P… Paige died. My family died. Laura died. Boyd and Erica were taken and tortured because they were part of my pack. Everyone I love gets hurt because of me. And the thought that someone hurts you, takes you away from me – from the pack, from your dad – all because of me? I can't… I would much rather not have you than lose you for good, Stiles."

In front of him, Stiles crumbled. The anger and hurt melted away to make room for the most heartbroken look Derek had ever seen. Stiles walked up to him, with careful and slow steps, as though he was approaching a cornered animal. Once he stood close enough, he reached both hands out for Derek's face, gently cupping it and leaning closer.

"You big, dumb idiot," Stiles heaved a sigh. "Look at me. Look at me. I'm the human who runs with wolves. I got hunted by a less than sane Alpha. I got tortured by an evil hunter. I regularly get attacked and nearly killed by whatever evil lurks in Beacon Hills. And I'm still standing. You are not getting rid of me that easily. You are not going to lose me that easily. I love you. You and me, we save each other. That's what we do, Derek, and that's what we'll continue doing."

He leaned in, more and more, until Derek could feel the ghost of Stiles' breath against his lips and for once, he didn't hold back. He wrapped his arms around his mate and pulled Stiles into a kiss filled with all the emotions he'd tried to reign in these past months. Stiles practically melted against him, warm and firm and there. Right there, in Derek's arms.

[angelcbf]

Head cannons about Hale reader Pt 2

Season One

-Derek had her double her dosage on mood stabilizers on her first day.

-And he also insisted on driving her to school.

-The amount of sounds and smells were very overwhelming.

-Had her first class of the day with a boy with a buzz cut who stared a little too much and talked a little too loud.

-Refused to introduce herself to the class as she found it useless.

-Spent her entire lunch in the library where it was quieter.

-Caught the attention of Lydia Martin in the hallway because of a green shirt that she was wearing.

-Got dragged to a lacrosse practice and ignored everyone around her for two hours.

-Ran to her brother’s car and begged him to never her let her go back.

-He made her go back the next day.

-Got dragged into the woods and found her sister’s body and the two boys from her class.

-She pretty much ignored the death of her sister and acted as if nothing ever happened.

-Was cornered by the boy with the buzz cut and was interrogated by him.

-And found out his name was Stiles, and then threatened to cut his tongue off if he talked to her again.

-Gets super annoyed when Stiles and his friend who name she learned was Scott, was poking around her old house.

-Ends up getting dragged on a triple date with Lydia, her boyfriend, Scott and a girl Allison and Stiles.

-Has a nice talk with Scott about killing people at her old house.

-Lies to Derek to get out.

-Ends up talking with Stiles a bit while the other four play, getting to know him a little better.

-But, she still found him annoying.

-Doesn’t realize when Derek leaves the house in the middle of the night, but does become concerned when he’s not there in the morning.

-Gets dragged to help Stiles study English but finds her brother dying on the floor.

-Freaks out when she sees him bleeding and nearly kills Stiles when he refuses to drive.

-Nearly passes out when she sees her brother’s dying arm.

-Goes with Derek to take Scott to the hospital to visit her uncle for the first time in six years.

-Takes too many mood stabilizers and ends up half asleep in her bed, making her stay home.

-Gets very confused when Stiles ends up in her house, but is too drugged out to care.

-Gets the Triskelion tattooed on her shoulder as a 16th birthday gift from Derek.

-Nearly gets skinned by Derek when he finds out that she’s failing history after parent teacher.

-Is begged by Scott to help him control his changes, and eventually agrees, trying her best.

-Makes her hate for Allison known.

-Helps piss Scott off by throwing balls at him and keying cars with her claws.

-Sees her brother get stabbed and is hidden in the school with Scott and Stiles.

-Gets mad when they say that the Alpha killed Derek, not believing that he would die that easy.

-Looses her shit when Scott tells Jackson that Derek was the murderer.

-Goes with Scott to get the keys.

-Carves the Triskelion in her arm to calm herself down.

-Gets taken into custody of the state when Stiles and Scott say that Derek was the killer.

-Spends two days in a cell.

-Ends up taken in by Melissa McCall as a foster child.

-Punches a boy in the face after he made a comment after her brother, spending most of her day in the office.

-Has a freak out in the office, having a panic attack for the first time in three years.

-Still hangs out with Stiles and Scott but is incredibly distant.

-Helps Scott steal Allison’s necklace during gym class.

-Watches her first lacrosse game that same night.

-Threatens to break Jackson’s neck after he asks for the bite, making him back off.

-Goes dress shopping with Allison and Lydia and drags Stiles to help her, telling him that he’s going with her.

-Has a breakdown in the McCall bathroom as she gets ready.

-Has a freak out outside of the school, thinking that she won’t be able to handle it all.

-Gets dragged to dance with Stiles most of the night.

-And spends most of the night clinging to his back to calm herself down.

-Follows Scott outside and finds Allison and her dad.

-Drags Scott to the woods for their own safety, ditching her heels.

-Had a panic attack for the second time when Kate Argent pointed a gun at her and Scott.

-Felt unreal anger when she found out that Kate and burned up her family and refused to accept her apology.

-Felt a sense of relief when Kate died.

-Froze when a fire started, petrified by fear almost.

-Found her uncles burned body for the second time.

[toapaixonar]

how do you need to be touched?

FERVENTLY. you crave a hug that cracks your ribs... the feeling of your wandering soul being crushed back into the bones that can't seem to hold it. you need a hand gripping yours so tightly you almost fear it may leave a bruise, a reminder that you are here. and that you are not alone.

tagged by: @wolfburnt ( kinda )

tagging: @shadowbrn ( tyler ), @scandalises ( anais ), @fraegiles ( fez ), @slaghtyr ( ace ), @coaxedparadise ( caleb ) and you !!