break up
Story idea, it can never work between us. Frankly, you make no sense, and you're just too much work. There are other stories in my life and I can't commit to you, but that doesn't mean that I won't think of you often, and very fondly. It just isn't mean to be.
What about a story wherein STILES is a hot, hotttt mid-twenties werewolf whose family died in a horrible fire and Derek is Scott's best friend, a weird, intense loner who has to talk to the school counselor once a week because he wore a trench coat that one time, who draws tattoos in himself in ballpoint and gets indifferent grades but occasionally blows it out of the water if he studies, whose sister is Class President and Star of the Track Team, who never stands up straight or talks voluntarily to anyone (except Scott,) and then Scott gets bitten by a werewolf and suddenly has a girlfriend and is amazing at sports and not as much time to just bum around with Derek, talking so Derek doesn't have to say much.
There are SO MANY reasons this couldn't really work, the first being that if Stiles is in charge of getting Scott on board, rooting out the alpha, making his burnt-out house livable, cutting a deal with the hunters, and playing nice with local law enforcement, you betcha it gets done, and it would make for the most boring, unsuspenseful TV ever made.
"As you can obviously tell," Stiles says, picking up a paint tray and then putting it back down. "I'm a werewolf, but not the one who's been killing people and leaving their bodies in the woods."
"Is that so," Chris Argent says. He looks up the home depot aisle and back down; it's empty except for Stiles, who's holding a fistful of paint swatches and a bucket.
"Yes, and I'm about as happy about it as you are," Stiles says. "So. If I can just get your number, I'll give you a call when I figure out who it is, and we can go fuck him up together."
"You'd turn on your own kind?"
"My kind," Stiles says, "doesn't include murdering or turning kids without asking, but thanks for that assumption. Vast Sky?" he says, holding out one of the paint swatches. "Pewter Blue? Bluebell? Blue Refrain? It's for the kitchen."
"Blue's a little cold, for a kitchen."
"Yeah," Stiles says. Sighs. "Crap. Look, if you can get the rest of your family to stand down it would really help me keep this thing contained. We have rules too, you know."
"I can try," Chris says.
"Awesome," Stiles says. "You know, text me or whatever."
*
"Scott, stop being a fucking jackass, you're gonna rip her throat out if you don't get a goddam grip," Stiles says.
"But I--"
"I wrote you a note for your lacrosse coach," Stiles says, rolling his eyes. "Everything is going to be fine. Being a werewolf isn't a death sentence, you can still go to junior prom--"
"It's not fair," Scott says, trailing after him, "I never asked for--"
"I know, it's a shitty deal, life's not fair, get over it," Stiles says. "I have things to do, too, so don't make me resort to threats and violence."
"What are you going to threaten me with," Scott shouts. "I already hate you and my life and--"
"And I'll tell Chris Argent I think you might have VD, how about that?" Stiles says. Scott stops, pale. "Or," Stiles says patiently, "I can tell him you're a nice kid who had a sheltered upbringing with a strong single mom, that you deeply respect women and their choices and that I'm pretty sure you're saving yourself for marriage. All up to you, your call."
*
It's not that I think Stiles is perfect, he just has a modicum of people skills and is less of a complete fuck-up than Derek. Don't get me wrong, because you know what I love? IT IS FUCK-UPS. FUCK-UPS AND TRY-HARDS, UGH, I can't get enough.
*
So, anyhow, Derek, and how much he hates Stiles for taking his best friend away from him, and how he gets it, he has to help because people are being killed, and he has the free time and Stiles talks to him like he's a person, not just some social reject, and how Derek is the only person in Stiles' life who doesn't expect anything from him or need him to fix anything for him, and how Stiles gets a look at the doodles on Derek's notebook and shows up with a rune book to ask if Derek can copy some stuff for him, sits on his bed and makes him copy it over and over until he can do it in his sleep, and then takes him out in the woods and makes him do it for real, kneeling on the hardpacked earth, blind-folded, painting with stag's blood ("sorry, it's gross," Stiles says, pulling his shirt off over his head and tucking it in his back pocket. Derek has seen Stiles without a shirt before, Stiles shot and bleeding out, Stiles sitting in his sunshine yellow kitchen drinking coffee in a pair of ragged sweatpants, but this is different. "Yours too," Stiles says, gesturing, and when Derek hesitates, says "It's okay." After, he takes Derek back to the house and makes him take a shower and eat a huge bowl of ice cream. "It helps," he says, but doesn't elaborate. His eyes look dark and sad, so Derek doesn't ask.) and how Stiles says, just like everyone who ever meets Laura, that he really doesn't see how they can even be related, but what he means is that Laura is completely unremarkable and Derek is--sixteen, sixteen, sixteen, no matter what he looks like, his height, the cut of his jaw, sixteen, Stiles thinks, wonders if he should ask Chris Argent--a decent guy, and, it turns out, a guy who knows how to install a tiled backsplash--to administer some sort of beat down, because--sixteen, no matter how funny he is, when he bothers to say anything, no matter how much it's such a relief that Stiles never has to explain anything to him twice, no matter how his mouth--ANYHOW, SIXTEEN.
My point is, I really, really, really, really like thinking about Stiles crowding Derek back against his closet door, the poster he taped there tearing a little, Derek pressing into him, Stiles's breathing harsh and controlled until he gives up and presses his mouth to Derek's throat, and Derek can feel a gentle prickle, Stiles' fangs.
What about a story wherein STILES is a hot, hotttt mid-twenties werewolf whose family died in a horrible fire and Derek is Scott's best friend, a weird, intense loner who has to talk to the school counselor once a week because he wore a trench coat that one time, who draws tattoos in himself in ballpoint and gets indifferent grades but occasionally blows it out of the water if he studies, whose sister is Class President and Star of the Track Team, who never stands up straight or talks voluntarily to anyone (except Scott,) and then Scott gets bitten by a werewolf and suddenly has a girlfriend and is amazing at sports and not as much time to just bum around with Derek, talking so Derek doesn't have to say much.
There are SO MANY reasons this couldn't really work, the first being that if Stiles is in charge of getting Scott on board, rooting out the alpha, making his burnt-out house livable, cutting a deal with the hunters, and playing nice with local law enforcement, you betcha it gets done, and it would make for the most boring, unsuspenseful TV ever made.
"As you can obviously tell," Stiles says, picking up a paint tray and then putting it back down. "I'm a werewolf, but not the one who's been killing people and leaving their bodies in the woods."
"Is that so," Chris Argent says. He looks up the home depot aisle and back down; it's empty except for Stiles, who's holding a fistful of paint swatches and a bucket.
"Yes, and I'm about as happy about it as you are," Stiles says. "So. If I can just get your number, I'll give you a call when I figure out who it is, and we can go fuck him up together."
"You'd turn on your own kind?"
"My kind," Stiles says, "doesn't include murdering or turning kids without asking, but thanks for that assumption. Vast Sky?" he says, holding out one of the paint swatches. "Pewter Blue? Bluebell? Blue Refrain? It's for the kitchen."
"Blue's a little cold, for a kitchen."
"Yeah," Stiles says. Sighs. "Crap. Look, if you can get the rest of your family to stand down it would really help me keep this thing contained. We have rules too, you know."
"I can try," Chris says.
"Awesome," Stiles says. "You know, text me or whatever."
*
"Scott, stop being a fucking jackass, you're gonna rip her throat out if you don't get a goddam grip," Stiles says.
"But I--"
"I wrote you a note for your lacrosse coach," Stiles says, rolling his eyes. "Everything is going to be fine. Being a werewolf isn't a death sentence, you can still go to junior prom--"
"It's not fair," Scott says, trailing after him, "I never asked for--"
"I know, it's a shitty deal, life's not fair, get over it," Stiles says. "I have things to do, too, so don't make me resort to threats and violence."
"What are you going to threaten me with," Scott shouts. "I already hate you and my life and--"
"And I'll tell Chris Argent I think you might have VD, how about that?" Stiles says. Scott stops, pale. "Or," Stiles says patiently, "I can tell him you're a nice kid who had a sheltered upbringing with a strong single mom, that you deeply respect women and their choices and that I'm pretty sure you're saving yourself for marriage. All up to you, your call."
*
It's not that I think Stiles is perfect, he just has a modicum of people skills and is less of a complete fuck-up than Derek. Don't get me wrong, because you know what I love? IT IS FUCK-UPS. FUCK-UPS AND TRY-HARDS, UGH, I can't get enough.
*
So, anyhow, Derek, and how much he hates Stiles for taking his best friend away from him, and how he gets it, he has to help because people are being killed, and he has the free time and Stiles talks to him like he's a person, not just some social reject, and how Derek is the only person in Stiles' life who doesn't expect anything from him or need him to fix anything for him, and how Stiles gets a look at the doodles on Derek's notebook and shows up with a rune book to ask if Derek can copy some stuff for him, sits on his bed and makes him copy it over and over until he can do it in his sleep, and then takes him out in the woods and makes him do it for real, kneeling on the hardpacked earth, blind-folded, painting with stag's blood ("sorry, it's gross," Stiles says, pulling his shirt off over his head and tucking it in his back pocket. Derek has seen Stiles without a shirt before, Stiles shot and bleeding out, Stiles sitting in his sunshine yellow kitchen drinking coffee in a pair of ragged sweatpants, but this is different. "Yours too," Stiles says, gesturing, and when Derek hesitates, says "It's okay." After, he takes Derek back to the house and makes him take a shower and eat a huge bowl of ice cream. "It helps," he says, but doesn't elaborate. His eyes look dark and sad, so Derek doesn't ask.) and how Stiles says, just like everyone who ever meets Laura, that he really doesn't see how they can even be related, but what he means is that Laura is completely unremarkable and Derek is--sixteen, sixteen, sixteen, no matter what he looks like, his height, the cut of his jaw, sixteen, Stiles thinks, wonders if he should ask Chris Argent--a decent guy, and, it turns out, a guy who knows how to install a tiled backsplash--to administer some sort of beat down, because--sixteen, no matter how funny he is, when he bothers to say anything, no matter how much it's such a relief that Stiles never has to explain anything to him twice, no matter how his mouth--ANYHOW, SIXTEEN.
My point is, I really, really, really, really like thinking about Stiles crowding Derek back against his closet door, the poster he taped there tearing a little, Derek pressing into him, Stiles's breathing harsh and controlled until he gives up and presses his mouth to Derek's throat, and Derek can feel a gentle prickle, Stiles' fangs.