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capquinn · 1 month ago

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okay i keep seeing fics and thoughts about how attentive quinn would be towards his partner and it got me thinking…

i feel like it would get to the point where he knows your body and your queues better than you know yourself. start to realize your allergies aren’t allergies? he already bought the meds you need and is making dinner. got your period? no surprise there, he has his own app for you and stocked up on snacks last week.

which brings me to this heheh.

i feel like once you have one or two babies with quinn he knows your pregnancy symptoms like the back of his hand. so much so that he tells YOU you’re pregnant again. and it would just hit him one night laying in bed (you know that man thinks himself to sleep)

I’m gone for him, enjoy my delulu land thoughts

hello????? this is so cute and so husband!quinn coded. i love this trope sm <3

Quinn moved through your world like he’d been born knowing the map of it. His care wasn’t loud or showy — it was quiet, woven into the seams of everyday life. He had a way of catching the things no one else would: the small shift in your posture when you were tired, the pause in your laugh when something was weighing on you. His hands knew the rhythm of your days, reaching for your mug before you could, adjusting the blanket without needing to ask if you were cold. It wasn’t that he studied you; it was more like you existed in a frequency he was always tuned into, effortlessly aware of every note, every shift, every unspoken word.

So, when the subtle changes began to creep in, Quinn noticed before you did.

It started with the small things — too small to put into words, but just noticeable enough for him to store away. The way you sighed a little heavier, your shoulders barely lifting before falling, as though the weight of the day had settled in deeper than usual. Or how you hesitated in doorways, pausing like you’d forgotten what you needed or where you were going, your brows knitting together in quiet thought. And then there was the tiredness, creeping in like a quiet visitor. Some afternoons, he’d find you curled up with Bug during her nap, the two of you tangled in a mess of blankets on the couch, her tiny hand resting on your chest as you dozed. It wasn’t like you, not the you he knew who thrived on filling the hours, always moving, always doing.

At first, he dismissed it. Everyone had their moments, days when energy flagged, when the world felt a little out of sync. But then the bigger, more obvious changes began to take root.

It began with the walk. You, Quinn, and Bug strolled through the neighbourhood on a crisp winter morning, the kind where the air felt fresh but not too biting. Bug was hopping along, gripping Quinn’s hand and jumping over cracks in the pavement. You paused by a lamppost, your gaze snagged on a flyer stapled to the pole. It was for a missing dog, the corners frayed from the cold. The photo — a golden retriever with the sweetest, dopey smile — stared back at you, and your throat tightened inexplicably.

You tried to hide it, quickly swiping at the tears that pricked your eyes, but Quinn noticed instantly. “You okay?” he asked, his brows knitting in concern.

You nodded too quickly, your voice unconvincing. “I’m fine. It’s just…” You trailed off, breathing a shaky laugh as the tears spilled anyway. “The poor dog…”

Quinn stopped in his tracks, gently pulling Bug to his other side so he could wrap an arm around your shoulders.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, his voice warm and steady. “We’ll keep an eye out. Maybe someone’s already found him,” he said softly, though his brows furrowed as he held you.

You were sentimental, yes, but crying over a lost dog poster wasn’t like you. He kissed the top of your head, the thought lingering as Bug tugged at his hand to keep moving.

A few days later, it happened again. Bug had tripped over a loose stone in the driveway. It wasn’t anything dramatic — just one of those little stumbles kids have a dozen times a day. She scraped her knee, barely even a mark, and at first, she just sat there staring at it, trying to decide if it was worth crying over. Her lips wobbled, her big eyes filling with tears, and then came the wail — not loud, not panicked, just enough to let you know she’d decided it hurt.

Quinn crouched beside her in a heartbeat, his voice gentle and steady. “Hey, Bug, you’re okay,” he murmured, brushing the tiny specks of gravel off her knees. His hand lingered there for a moment, his thumb grazing the fabric as if to check for any real damage. “It’s just a little scrape. Barely even a scratch, see?”

Bug sniffled, her tiny hands clutching at the hem of his shirt as she leaned toward him, and Quinn scooped her up without hesitation. She buried her face against his chest, her little body shuddering with the last remnants of her tears.

You stood a few steps back, frozen in place. It wasn’t the scrape that did it, not really. It was the way her small shoulders shook, the way her face had crumpled like her whole world had been upended. It was her tears — so big and overwhelming for someone so small. Watching her cry felt like something cracking open inside you, and before you could stop yourself, tears pricked at the corners of your own eyes.

Quinn looked up, catching your expression in an instant. His brows furrowed slightly, his concern shifting toward you.

“She’s okay,” he said softly, his voice meant to reassure.

But the sight of him, standing there with Bug tucked safely against his chest, his voice low and calming, only made the ache in your chest sharper. Your hand flew up to your face, brushing quickly at your cheek to catch the tear that escaped, but Quinn noticed anyway. Of course, he noticed.

“Hey,” he said, his tone even gentler now, his eyes searching yours. “What’s going on?”

You tried to smile, but it came out shaky, your voice catching as you whispered, “Nothing, I’m fine. Just—” You swallowed hard, glancing at Bug’s little face as she peeked up at you, her tears already drying. “I’m being silly.”

She blinked at you, her sniffles slowing, her tiny voice soft as she said, “I’m okay, mommy.”

The sweetness of her reassurance undid you completely. Another tear slid down your cheek, and you let out a quiet, shaky laugh, brushing it away as Quinn stepped closer. He didn’t say anything, just wrapped one arm around your waist, pulling you into the circle of warmth he and Bug created.

But even as the moment passed, it stayed with him.

And then came the smell of popcorn.

Family movie night was the kind of weekly tradition that carried a quiet comfort, the kind that made the whole house feel warmer and softer. Bug had already claimed her spot on the couch, clutching her stuffed bear, her little feet kicking in excitement as Quinn rummaged in the kitchen, the air popper humming softly. The scent of fresh popcorn started wafting through the house, buttery and rich, and he could already hear Bug giggling at the first loud pop.

But something was off.

You were mid-step to the couch, arms full of blankets, when you froze. Your nose crinkled, the kind of subtle movement Quinn might’ve missed if he hadn’t glanced up right then. You turned your head slightly, as if testing the air, and then your hand shot up, waving in front of your face like you could swat the smell away.

“Can you—” you hesitated, your voice uncharacteristically small. “Can you open the windows? Please?”

Quinn, mid-pour as the popcorn spilled into a bowl, paused, confused. “It’s freezing outside,” he said lightly, not in a way meant to argue but more like a question.

“Quinn, please” you said, cutting him off, your voice sharp with desperation. Your face had scrunched up, your hand pressing against your nose as you braced yourself on the back of a chair. “The smell...”

That was all it took. Without another word, he crossed to the window, shoving it open. A gust of cold air rushed in, making him shiver, but he stayed there for a second, staring at you as you sank onto the couch. You were pale, almost a little green, pulling the blanket over you like it could shield you from the lingering scent in the air.

He settled the bowl down, watching you carefully.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice soft and steady, the way it always was when he was trying to gently coax the truth out of you. There wasn’t an ounce of judgment in his tone, just that familiar warmth that made it impossible to brush him off completely.

“I’m fine,” you replied quickly, though the tight smile on your face didn’t convince him. “It’s just… the smell of melted butter. It’s so strong tonight.”

His gaze lingered, his brow furrowing. The smell? The smell of buttery popcorn? You’d practically declared it your comfort food not long ago, sneaking bites every time he made a batch before the film had even started, laughing as Bug scolded you for eating hers. He could count on one hand the number of family movie nights where you hadn’t stolen the first handful, claiming quality control. But now? Now, you looked like you couldn’t stand to be in the same room with it.

“You want me to grab you something else? Crackers? Tea?” he offered, trying to fill the silence with solutions, throwing them out suggestions like lifelines.

You shook your head, brushing him off with a small wave. “No, it’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

But Quinn wasn’t convinced. He sat beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as Bug wriggled into his lap, her giggles filling the room. You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest, and for a while, it felt like everything was back to normal.

But it wasn’t.

As Bug chattered happily about the movie, Quinn’s mind lingered on you. On the way your face had twisted, the way you recoiled from something you once loved. It wasn’t like you. Not at all. And the longer he held you close, the more certain he became that this wasn’t just a bad reaction to popcorn. It was something more. He just didn’t know what — yet.

But the biggest changes came just a couple of days later, revealing themselves in moments that caught Quinn completely off guard.

It was early in the morning, the kind of stillness that only came before the rest of the house stirred awake. Bug was sound asleep in her room, her soft snores barely audible through the monitor, and the house seemed wrapped in a peaceful hush. The air between you and Quinn felt heavier, charged, but in the best way — soft whispers, shared breaths, and the warmth of his body pressed close.

His hands moved over your skin with practiced tenderness, his touch warm and familiar, every stroke an unspoken declaration of love. His lips followed, pressing soft, languid kisses along your collarbone, trailing a path that left your skin tingling. This was how he loved you — slowly, deeply, making you feel like you were the only person in the world.

But then his lips brushed against your breast, featherlight, as if he was testing how far he could push before the teasing turned into something more. And yet—

“Quinn,” you whimpered, a sharp intake of breath cutting through the stillness as you shifted away from him. “Be gentle.”

He froze instantly, his concern immediate as he lifted his head to look at you. “I am,” he murmured, his voice quiet but tinged with confusion. He searched your face, his hands stilling on your waist as if waiting for you to say more.

You shook your head, swallowing against the lump in your throat. “It just… hurts,” you admitted, the words coming out softer than you intended, almost like you were embarrassed by them.

Quinn’s expression softened, an apology already forming in the tilt of his brow. He leaned in, brushing a kiss to the inside of your breast as though it could somehow make up for the discomfort, but you pulled away again, wincing before his lips even made full contact.

“Quinn, that hurts,” you repeated, a little louder this time, your hand coming up to shield yourself instinctively, a clear sign for him to avoid the area altogether.

His hands dropped to your hips, retreating as he leaned back, his brows knitting together further. He watched you carefully, his gaze full of questions he didn’t ask, giving you space but not pulling away entirely.

Quinn frowned, his thumb brushing over your skin in a soothing motion. “I didn’t mean to,” he murmured, his voice full of quiet sincerity.

“I know,” you replied quickly, offering him a small smile to reassure him. “It’s just… everything feels so sensitive.”

He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your neck instead, but he could feel your hesitation, the way your body tensed slightly, as if bracing for more discomfort.

But even as he moved his touch elsewhere, skimming his hands over your back, your thighs, he couldn’t stop his mind from racing. Your reaction was unusual, out of sync with how things normally were between you. He’d always been attuned to your body, your needs, and this? This was different.

Still, when you pulled him closer, guiding him to where you wanted him, he let it go for now.

And it's later that night when everything makes perfect sense.

Quinn crawls into bed and the first thing he notices isn’t the movie playing on Netflix or the cosy way you’re propped up against the pillows. No, his attention zeroes in on the plate balanced on your lap — a plate of pickles, shiny and brined, with a big dollop of peanut butter right in the middle. His movements falter, half under the covers, as his eyes flick between you and the plate, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

You don’t even notice him staring, too distracted by scrolling through movie options. “What?” you ask, glancing over briefly before returning your attention to the TV.

“Who’s that for?” he asks, his voice slow, deliberate, like he’s waiting for the punchline.

“Me,” you reply without missing a beat, your tone distracted. “Why, you want some?”

He’s fully under the covers now, leaning back against the headboard, one brow raised as he studies you. “You hate pickles,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s holding back a smile.

You pause mid-bite, glancing over at him with a small frown. “I don’t hate them,” you argue, tone light but defensive, gesturing to the plate like it proves your point. “They’re just not my go-to snack. But they’re fine.”

His brow furrows deeper, his gaze flicking between you and the plate. “Since when?”

“Since now, I guess,” you shrug, as if it’s not worth discussing. Without missing a beat, you swipe another pickle through the peanut butter and take a bite, chewing like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Quinn doesn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watches you. The corner of his mouth twitches again, but this time it’s not amusement — it’s something closer to realisation. Something is clicking into place, and as he leans his head back against the pillows, his gaze softens, filled with something you can’t quite place.

“What?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him as you catch the look on his face. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

He leans back against the pillows, shifting as if to settle in, and shrugs, his tone casual — too casual. “No reason,” he says, his voice smooth, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him.

You squint at him, suspicious. “Quinn…”

He shakes his head, lifting the blanket higher around his chest like it’s a shield, his eyes now glued to the TV. “Seriously,” he murmurs, his voice low, distracted. “It’s nothing.”

But you can see the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes, the way his lips press together like he’s holding back a grin. You open your mouth to press him further, but he shifts again, leaning into your side under the blanket as if that’s the end of the conversation.

Later, when the movie ends with a soft hum and the credits roll, the light from the screen flickers faint shadows across the room before everything dims into darkness. The lamp on the nightstand clicks off with a quiet snap, leaving the room bathed in a cosy stillness. The only sound now is Bug’s tiny snores filtering through the baby monitor, soft and steady, her little sighs rising and falling in a rhythm so gentle it could lull anyone to sleep.

You’re curled against Quinn’s side, warm and relaxed, your head resting on his chest, his arm draped around you as his fingers trace absentminded patterns over your back. The weight of the day lingers faintly in the air, softened by the quiet and the comfort of each other’s presence, and it should feel serene, the kind of moment Quinn would normally soak in without question, but not tonight.

His eyes are open, fixed on the ceiling though he isn’t really seeing it. His body is still, though his mind is anything but. It’s racing, piecing together a puzzle he didn’t even realise he was solving until tonight. The pickles and peanut butter. The popcorn. The tears over Bug’s scraped knee. The extra naps curled up on the couch. Each moment replays in his head, flashing brighter with every pass until there’s no way he can chalk it up to coincidence.

Bug’s little snore drifts through the monitor again, and he glances down at you, still nestled against him, your face soft and relaxed. He’s usually content to let moments like this pass unspoken, holding them close without the need to fill the silence. But tonight, the weight of what he’s realised feels too big to ignore.

It’s not nothing. Not even close.

“Baby?” he murmurs, his voice soft, careful not to break the quiet too harshly, trying not to startle you.

You hum softly against him, your head shifting slightly to nuzzle closer against him, your body too close to sleep to fully respond.

His hand stills on your back, and he swallows, the weight of what he’s about to say heavy in the stillness. “I think…” He draws in a breath, steeling himself for how to say it. “I think you’re pregnant.”

Slowly, you lift your head, your eyes meeting his in the dim light filtering through the blinds, your expression a mix of confusion and disbelief.

“What?” you whisper, your voice rough with sleep, your tone teetering between shock and amusement. “You can’t possibly know that.”

Quinn tilts his head down to meet your eyes, his own full of something soft and sure. There’s the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, as though he’s both amused and completely serious all at once. Like he knows how absurd this might sound but believes it wholeheartedly.

“The pickles and peanut butter,” he says simply, his voice calm. “That’s not normal.”

You sit up a little, propping yourself on one elbow, your brow furrowing. “It’s not that weird,” you try to argue, though your voice wavers, betraying your uncertainty. “People eat stuff like that all the time.”

“Not you,” he counters immediately, insistent. His hand moves to rest on your waist, grounding. “You hate pickles. Always have. The only time you’ve ever eaten them was when you were pregnant.”

Your lips part, but no words come out. His statement hangs in the air between you, heavy with meaning, his certainty pressing against your rising disbelief.

“I mean… that’s not…” you start, your voice trailing off as the pieces begin to fall into place in your mind. “That doesn’t mean I’m pregnant,” you insist, but even as you say it, doubt creeps in. Your free hand drifts unconsciously to your stomach, resting there like it might offer some kind of confirmation.

Quinn’s thumb brushes against your side, the touch grounding but gentle, as if he doesn’t want to push you too far, too fast. “Maybe,” he says, his voice soft, like he’s offering you the space to deny it if you want. “But you’ve been tired, more emotional… and now this?” His lips twitch again, the faintest smile playing there, but his eyes stay steady on yours, filled with a quiet conviction.

You blink at him, a laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep in your chest — not from amusement, but disbelief. “Quinn, people eat weird food combos all the time. This doesn’t mean—”

“You really think it’s just a coincidence?” he interrupts gently, his tone more curious than challenging. “Pickles and peanut butter, of all things? That was your thing, baby. With Bug.”

The reminder makes you pause, your brow furrowing deeper as you glance down at where his hand rests on your waist. “That was… different,” you mutter, though the protest sounds weak even to your own ears.

Quinn leans in slightly, his forehead almost brushing yours, the closeness pulling your gaze back to his. His eyes are soft but insistent, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. His face is so steady, so full of quiet certainty, and it makes something flicker in your chest — a suspicion, a possibility, something you hadn’t let yourself consider until now.

“You’re serious,” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath, the words more of an observation than a question, as if it’s just dawning on you that he isn’t joking. He genuinely believes it.

His hand comes up, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. “I know you,” he murmurs, his tone as gentle s his touch. “And I’m telling you… you’re pregnant.”

You blink at him, your lips parting slightly, but no real words come out at first. Then, with a quiet laugh that’s half disbelief, half affection, you shake your head and murmur, “how do you always figure me out before I do?”

Quinn’s lips curve into a soft, lopsided smile, the kind that makes your chest ache with how much love it holds. “I pay attention,” he says simply, his hand still cradling your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye.

You lean into his touch, your own hand coming up to rest lightly over his wrist. "And what if you're wrong?"

His chuckle rumbles low and easy in his chest as he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there like he’s trying to pass some of his certainty onto you. "I don’t think I am," he says, his voice gentle, but the confidence behind it makes your pulse hum.

You don’t argue. Instead, you let the quiet between you stretch, the weight of his words settling softly over you. It’s fragile and insistent, nudging at the edges of your disbelief, coaxing you to consider it.

The idea blooms slowly, like a dawning realisation, soft and tentative, but impossible to ignore. It unfolds in layers — the thought of two children filling your home with laughter and chaos, the sight of Bug as a big sister, her tiny hands guiding even tinier ones, her voice full of pride and importance. You can almost hear the way she’d say it, proclaiming herself the helper, the protector, the best big sister in the world. The idea of another little person, someone with Quinn’s soft eyes and quiet strength, someone who might scrunch their nose when they smile, just like he does. Another piece of him, and of you, wrapped up into someone entirely their own. The thought is overwhelming in its sweetness, in the weight of its possibility.

You press closer against Quinn’s chest, your head resting over his heart as his fingers trace those lazy, familiar patterns on your back. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat thrums beneath your ear, grounding you in the moment, as if reminding you that you don’t have to figure it all out right now. And as the quiet fills the room, pierced only by Bug’s little sighs through the monitor, you let yourself imagine it more fully, the beginnings of a smile tugging at your lips.

Maybe — just maybe — he’s right.

#the second that pregnancy test turns positive he's gonna be so smug about it #all soft smiles and 'told you so' while trying not to look entirely too pleased with himself <3 #dad!quinn #capquinn's writing #capquinn’s requests #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes

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casually-eat-my-soul · 3 months ago

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I don’t know why I’m equating stiles to penguins and crows but stiles gives really pretty and super shiny rocks to his favourite people.

Maybe it stemmed from collecting rocks with his mother — “See, Stiles there are stars in the sea”— because they both loved looking at stars together so now they can carry stars around with them. (Stiles buried his best rock with his mother)

Stiles only clued into his feeling about Derek after the third time he had given him a rock.

The first time had been the day after Derek had killed Peter. Stiles knew what it was like to bury a family member. It took him nearly the whole day to find the perfect rock, or else he would have given it over sooner. Stiles awkwardly dropped it in his open palm stammering out broken sentences — “I like rocks- me and my mom - when she - it’s a good rock” — Derek looked very confused and frustrated. (He was thinking about the collection of rocks he had seen on stiles bookshelf when he was a fugitive.)

Stiles tried to defend his rock choice while also trying to explain why he gave it to Derek. It made for a very uncomfortable 4 minutes. Stiles gave up and just told Derek he could keep the rock or throw it away or fucking bury it with Peter. That he wouldn’t care what Derek did with the rock (lie). And with that he stormed away.

Unbeknownst to him, Derek heard the lie and kept the rock. He wasn’t going to at first, and had tried to just drop the rock but his hand wouldn’t uncurl from around the stone. Derek had generally understood that stiles had been trying to comfort him, and this rock was his confusing way of doing that.

He only truly understood after seeing the headstones that read Claudia Stilinski when going to deliver flowers to his families grave.

It was the first piece of kindness he had received since Laura died. So he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it.

—————

The second time stiles had brought Derek a rock was a week after holding Derek up in the swimming pool. Stiles had tried going down to the lake the day after swimming pool but couldn’t bring himself close to the edge. He had cried for hours after, scared that he’d never be able to get back in the water again. He wouldn’t be able to look for rocks and pretend his mother was still with him. Pretend that she was the one sending him the stars in the “sea”.

So after a week of going back to the lake and trying, he had succeeded in getting about knees deep. While celebrating Stiles stepped on a rock. Well two rocks. He had finished them out of the lake after he was done cursing. Loving how cool the rocks looked he went to make his way home. he had planned on giving the second less shiner rock to Scott so they could match. But he saw Derek on his way home and felt compelled to give it to him instead.

Still wet from the lake stiles walked up to Derek and asked him to hold out his palm. There was far less hesitance, glaring, and arguing than the first time stiles had demanded that.

Without even realizing it, Stiles had given Derek the rock he was going to keep. He was going to ask for it back and switch out the rocks but the look on Derek’s face stopped him. He looked more open and relaxed than stiles had even seen him, more vulnerable. There was a look of wonder in Derek eyes, as he fiddled with the stone.

Stiles no longer cared that about having the less shiny stone. In fact he was completely okay with not having it. When Derek realized stiles was staring with his mouth totally not open, he went right back to a closed expression. Words immediately begin spilling out of stiles mouth, without his permission.

—“ I couldn’t get in the water, after… - the lake, it’s … It’s a good rock, super shiny and it’s got a smooth texture. It’s kinda red like your eyes.” —

He even flipped his own hand and showed Derek his rock. “We’re matching, kinda. Well we were the only two in the water that night” He trailed off again before reiterating that Derek could just throw out the rock but Derek thanks him in the middle.

Derek walks him out of the preserve towards his car and reminded Stiles to be careful as there was still a kanima and argents on the lose.

——

The third time Stiles give Derek a rock is the night of his kidnapping. And technically Erica and Boyd’s. It was also the night he fully joined the hale pack, by protecting Boyd and Erica from hunters. The night he thought he was going to die.

Instead of leaving Erica and Boyd tied up, the hunter dragged them to the woods. They were planning on having a proper hunt. It was only by sheer luck that the three of them got away. Well that and the fact that the hunter were stupid enough to underestimate very desperate and pissed off Stiles. The fact that he had grown up in beacon hills and the hunter hadn’t was an added bonus.

During the fight stiles had tripped and and caught a stone in his hand. He was still holding it when he slammed his jeep through a wall. He only gave it to Derek after everyone else passed out for the night.

Stiles was sitting on a very uncomfortable chair in the train deport. However, that wasn’t enough to stop him from getting lost in his head. Vaguely watching as the rest of the pack slept in a pile. Stiles only came back to himself after Derek sat down beside him. The warmth of the werewolf’s arm around his shoulder allowed him to release the tension his body.

Stiles curled into Derek as sobs shook his body, not caring at pretending to be okay at the current moment. Derek only held him tighter, nearly pulling stiles into his lap.

When stiles had calmed down he grabbed one of Derek’s hand and gave him the rock. He heard a hum of confusion, one that prompted a sudden laugher.

“I thought I was going to die tonight.”

At his confession, Derek went still. Stiles stumbled through explaining what had happened that night. Derek just held him through it. He felt a little insecure when he finished. Over both the story and the ugly rock.

Derek just dropped his face into the crook of stiles neck and breathed out a thank you and that was that.

They stayed like that for what felt like hours. Stiles didn’t feel need to move. Moreover he didn’t want to. Which was a revelation in of itself. He would pay more attention to the maybe crush in morning, for now he was safe to sleep.

A few weeks later after everything calmed down and the pack is having a movie night, he give a rock to each member if the pack. Derek leaves the room for a second before returning. Later on that evening he goes to grab his sweater from Dereks room. He sees his three little rocks, now four. He absolutely falls in love with Derek in that moment. He didn’t know that Derek kept any of this rocks, but seeing the proof made him really happy.

Lydia makes a joke about stiles being a penguin. Stiles squawked in offense, of both himself and penguins. Claiming that giving rocks as a way of courting someone is perfectly valid. But that he wasn’t a penguin so it doesn’t count. She just gives him a knowing look.

This is what finally clues Derek in. His wolf already knew and was laughing at him.

Derek had wanted to give stiles back a rock when he confessed to him or on their first date or something romantic. Unfortunately that didn’t happen. Instead it happened after an exhausting fight with a troll. Stiles had stormed up to Derek about to lay into him for his self sacrificing tendencies. Derek thought stiles still looked like the most beautiful thing he had even seen. Even covered in gore.

So he plucked one of stiles waving hands out of the air and gave him the stone that had been in his pocket for far to long.

Like a switch of their roles, Stiles stared at the rock in quiet awe for a minute, while Derek stood insecure. Stiles let out a small giggle, quite happily whispered “he got me a rock, you got me a rock!!” And preceded to haul Derek by the shirt and kiss him.

Stiles goes around excitedly telling everyone that derek gave him a rock. He also used it in an argument with dad over their relationship.

They exchanged rocks and well as rings in their wedding. One of their wedding cake toppers were penguins.

Now that I’ve finished writing this all out I’m realizing that this could also be a creature stiles au.

#sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #stiles x derek #teen wolf #sterek fandom #stiles collect and gives away shiny rocks #it’s his crow Brain activing #I can find any and all way to make headcannons about stiles and his mom #Derek uses this as excuse to deck stiles in dimonds #but stiles favourite rock is his first kiss rock #they do that tictok thing where they look for rocks with the same colour and the others eyes #Derek loves it when stiles give him rocks #he gets so smug and happy when stiles gives him a new rock #will growl at anyone who makes even the slightest mocking comment about the rocks #derek x stiles

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