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  1. Public Bookmark 91

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    17 Jul 2017

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    one night, Stiles didn't go home.

    He followed Derek upstairs after their dinner to play video games. When his vision went blurry with exhaustion, Derek nudged him back down the stairs.

    By that point Stiles was delusional from fatigue and figured that he deserved to crash on the first bed he encountered.

    That bed just happened to be Derek's.

    And it wasn't all pretty and graceful like it was in the movies either. Stiles literally flopped face first onto Derek's bed. His face smooshed into the covers, converse clad feet sticking off the end.

    He tried to half-assedly kick his shoes off, but Derek merely grumbled out a, "I'm not taking the couch." and undid his laces for him.

    Once free of his shoes, Stiles wriggled up to the top of the bed then slid under the covers. "Thanks, bro."

    "You owe me pancakes in the morning." Derek muttered, stripping to his jockies before climbing under the covers himself.

    "A-huh."

    And once that first time went by without any fuss of fanfare at all, Stiles found himself sleeping in Derek's bed a couple times a week.

    It got to the point where he'd even bought a spare toothbrush to keep beside Derek's in the bathroom.

    After Derek noticed the toothbrush he went and got a spare key cut for Stiles. So should he ever come round to the loft when Derek wasn't there and it was locked, he could get in.

    In short, shit became domestic fast, but neither of them mentioned it.

    They didn't talk about whether this was weird or not. Two mates just casually spending many of their evenings and sometimes mornings together. Sharing meals and a bed.

    Although they slept in the same bed, they never really migrated towards each other.

    Sure, some mornings they would wake up and one of their limbs would be stretched out over the other. Stiles had woken up a few times with his head pillowed on Derek's arm, drooling onto his bicep. Derek had woken up with his face right up in Stile's armpit more times than either of them liked. And one truly memorable time, Stiles had woken up burrowed under Derek's bulk on a particularly cold morning.

    But no spooning.

    No awkward, half asleep, morning wood grinding on the other man's ass.

    Just… casual, bro, sleep.

    And it's only once Stiles realised this that his brain utterly betrayed him.

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    “…I want a dude who’s going to take me out on dates. And I want him to meet my dad in, like, a sweater vest and khakis and shake his hand and talk about sports with the guy. And I want him to have a car and an apartment – not like, nice ones? But ones, you know? He’s got a dog, too. He drives me around and buys me stuff and is nice to my dad and my friends but then, like,” he squeezes the basketball extra hard and is sure he feels some air being let out of it, “…he ties me up sometimes, too. Is that too much to ask for? Am I reaching for the stars?”

    Scott shakes his head, shuffling the cards and making piles out of them, likely by category. “There are no kinksters in Beacon Hills. We’ve been over this.”

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    9 Jul 2017

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    Stiles twiddles his fingers as he stands up and pads across the carpet into the foyer. He peeks through the peephole, sees Derek standing there, and pulls away for a moment, biting his lip. He’s, honest to God, a little bit terrified. It’s a lot like when he’d get in trouble at school and he’d get sent home and then have to sit there and wait for his dad to get off shift to come home and yell at him about it.

    All the same, he unlatches the door and pulls it open, revealing Derek is all his unblurry glory, and yeah. He pretty much just looks pissed. Without saying a word, he walks into the house and takes Stiles by the arm, not roughly at least, and starts leading him off towards the table Stiles had just been sitting at.

    He sits Stiles down, but he doesn’t sit down himself. He leans over the table, gives Stiles the most stern, serious look he’s ever seen on a human face before, and Stiles swallows nervously. He thinks about opening his mouth and explaining, or apologizing, but he knows that right now, it really wouldn’t do him any good.

    Derek puts both hands on the edge of the table and sort of leans over it, towering over Stiles in a somewhat menacing way, and then it begins. “I am not some possessive, obsessive control freak. I don’t need to be fucking calling you twenty times a day. That’s crazy. But when my boyfriend decides to get angry with me for next to no fucking reason and then vanish without a trace, what else am I supposed to do? You think I liked having to sit there a dozen times getting sent straight to your voicemail? I had better things I could have been doing.”

    Stiles twiddles his fingers and looks at his lap, and says nothing.

    “I don’t have time for fucking mindgames. You are a fucking brat. I don’t even understand what you’re angry with me about, I don’t even get what the god damn issue was! You can be upset with me about anything you want to be, but at the bare minimum, can you explain it? But ignoring my phone calls just –“ he shakes his head, knocks his fist on the top of the table as if getting Stiles’ attention. Stiles looks up and meets his eyes, feeling a lot like a chastised little kid. “…that’s not an option. You understand me?”

    Seeing as how this is a lecture by any other name, Stiles figures he needs to be deferent. He says, “yes, sir,” in a low voice, and Derek taps his fingers on the tabletop.

    “You can be mad at me all you want,” his voice is gentler this time, and he sort of pulls back from looming over Stiles like that, standing up normally and walking around the table to stand closer to where Stiles is. “But when you’re angry with me, I expect you to explain to me exactly why, what I did wrong, what you’re feeling, and if you just don’t want to talk to me for a while, tell me that. Don’t just go fucking nuts over text and freak out and then disappear. That’s high school shit.” He bends down to crouch right next to where Stiles is sitting to get down on his level, and Stiles nods his head, his neck bowed as he listens.

    “And second of all, the money thing? Baby. Of course I was going to ask you about why the credit card I gave you to buy yourself nice things was showing a charge from Albertson’s grocery store. I gave that to you so you could buy shoes and things like that.”

    “I know, but –“

    Derek holds his finger up. “I’m not done,” he says, and Stiles shuts his mouth and bites his tongue. “That card is for spur of the moment spending. You want a pair of hundred dollar pants, you can just get them without having to come and ask me for money. But other things, like when you need money, you come and you ask me directly.”

    “But it’s –“

    “It’s not embarrassing,” Derek corrects before Stiles can even say it, shaking his head. “You agreed to this relationship. You said you wanted a sugar daddy. Now you’re too chicken to ask me for money? You could come up to me and hold your hand out and say money, please with no explanation and I’d give you a fifty dollar bill.”

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    Stiles jabbed his finger at Boyd, and then at Derek. "We're going to have a long talk about information that is important for the rest of the pack to know. Like where you've been going every summer, apparently?"

    Derek sighed and crossed his arms. "It's a summer camp. For born werewolves."

    Scott spun around so fast he nearly fell off his stool and careened into Allison. "There's a summer camp for born werewolves?"

    "My family used to go every year," Derek said. "When things calmed down here, I started going again."

    "Why the hell didn't you ever tell us about it?" Scott demanded.

    "A summer camp for born werewolves," Boyd said dryly. "Gee, I wonder why."

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    14 Jun 2017

    Bookmarker's Notes

    "I heard your conversation with Alpha Traeger," he blurted out.

    Derek poked at the fire with a long stick, but didn't raise an eyebrow or glare or otherwise react. "I thought I heard someone on the trail."

    "You're not going to tell me I shouldn't eavesdrop on private conversations?" Stiles asked, and really? That was the first question that popped out of his mouth?

    Derek huffed. It might have been a laugh. "I would, but one, it's already done, and two, you're at a camp with professional eavesdroppers. It's a safe bet that no conversation is private, here."

    "Oh."

    Derek set the stick down and sat back on the log beside Stiles. "So what do you really want to ask me?"

    His heart hammered in his chest, and Stiles chewed on his lower lip. "Is that what you want?" he asked. "I mean...to be in a real pack?"

    "This is a real pack," Derek said.

    Stiles rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean. I mean a pack where you aren't the only born werewolf, where you actually have people like you to hang out with, where you aren't stuck with a bunch of kids that you just got thrown together with because of an act of fate, or an act of the supernatural freak show that is Beacon Hills."

    "Technically, you're all adults now."

    Stiles groaned rubbed his face in frustration. "That's not the point! Look, I don't want you to go, but more than that, I want you to be happy. Don't stay with us because you feel obligated, stay with us because it's what you actually want to do. I'm sick and tired of watching you martyr yourself. If going to another pack will make you happy," he swallowed the lump in his throat at the thought, "then—"

    "It won't," Derek cut in quietly.

    Stiles snapped his mouth shut.

    Derek was looking at him, in that soft, open way of his that Stiles had so rarely seen. The first time had been after the pool, when he'd called the kanima an abomination, and Derek had looked so utterly shocked and vulnerable and hopeful that someone didn't see him as a monster. Since then, Stiles could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen this look. He'd catalogued each time, filing the incidents away in his mind, holding onto them like precious jewels.

    Jeez, how had it taken him so long to realize how fucking gone he was on Derek?

  4. Public Bookmark *

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    Stiles would do anything to protect his Pack. He would even lie, though it means slowly falling apart at the seams.

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    9 Jun 2017

    Bookmarker's Notes

    Not that it mattered in the long run, though: an accident ruined all the secrecy Stiles had coveted.

    Because of the Pack bonding, Jackson had become closer to everyone (and less of an asshole, for what it was worth); Derek had loosened up some; relations all around with Allison were easier, and Scott announced that they were Mates; Isaac was trying his hand at covertly wooing the duo, though Stiles was pretty sure he was the only one that noticed; Stiles got slowly used to approaching and being approached by others once more; and Boyd and Erica realized they were so close because they were Mates (platonically, though not for long, Stiles knew). It was good for morale all over.

    When Derek spontaneously declared it to be a fun day, not a training day, Stiles got into it with the best of them. Stiles and Jackson had slowly been growing more cordial, without a middle-man to balance them out, and had faced one another playfully when the opportunity presented itself. However, when Jackson began roughhousing with Stiles, it all went to pot.

    Everyone thought it was okay. Everyone was having fun (especially in Peter’s absence and Derek’s newly-revived inner child). Stiles was man enough to put up with some playful wolves (it helped that he’d gotten over how jumpy most involuntary touches made him). Jackson was aware enough of human fragility to play lightly, where Stiles was concerned. Play-wrestling – or puppy scuffles, as it was known affectionately by the humans – was a common, harmless game.

    In an effort to get leverage without hurting his weaker human opponent, using a fair and common move, Jackson pinned Stiles arms above his head in the dirt. All hell broke loose.

    As far as Stiles was aware, the moment a pair of hands wrapped around his wrists, he lost all track of time. His breath froze in his chest, his body went rigid, his sight blurred, noises telescoped meaninglessly, and his conscious world narrowed down to the feel of that tight, sweaty, painfully enduring (loose, mild, gone as soon as his heart spiked) grip on his arms. He wasn’t aware of the faltering, keening whimper pulling itself from his painfully tight throat, even if everyone else was. The moment Jackson (was tossed away by an unconscious, directionless Spark flare), Stiles curled up, hands tucked to his chest, though his mind didn’t register the loss of grip or his own movement.

    The moment Stiles’ Spark roared to life, throwing Jackson into a tree with splintering force, Boyd and Erica leapt into action. The sharp, cloying tang of mindless terror in the air did its best to pull them into flashbacks as well, though it was less successful than it had been on Stiles: they were still marginally aware of their surroundings. Erica roared furiously, a mother bear protecting her cub; Boyd howled viciously, a rabid dog on the hunt. Eyes flashing a dangerous bright blue, she’d crouched low in front of Stiles’ shaking body, snarling violently at anyone who moved closer. Boyd – eyes also blue, and coldly furious – slowly pulled an unresisting Stiles into his arms. He buried his nose in the hair on top of Stiles’ head, without taking his eyes off of the ‘danger’ that the other wolves represented, and let a low, rumbling growl be his voice. Erica backed up, and settled down beside her two companions, voice lowered to her own growl, and began carding clawed fingers through Stiles’ hair, all her attention now focused on him once she was assured that Boyd was on watch.

    “Stiles, baby, it’s alright. You’re okay. We’re here. Shh-shh-shh.” Erica crooned softly. “It’s over; we’re here. Feel the sun, Stiles, feel my hands? You’re not there anymore. Whatever your head’s showing you, it’s not real anymore, Alpha.”

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    (AKA The Sterek Scrubs AU)

    In which Stiles learns that med school didn’t prepare him for much at all; even the most epic of bromances can be weakened with the right amount of long, curly hair and dimples; and sometimes, first impressions aren’t all they’re cracked up to be - it’s the digging beneath the bravado that reveals who’s worth getting to know a little better.

    Dr. Hale’s probably still a dick, though.

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    8 Jun 2017

    Bookmarker's Notes

    Surprisingly, it’s Laura who corners him in the supply closet.

    “What are you doing?” she demands, pinning him with a glare. He was right to be terrified of her.

    “I--um..”

    “It’s been four days, Stiles.”

    He deflates, feeling the guilt swell up like a tidal wave, crushing his sternum. “I know, okay, I know.”

    “He’s a fucking mess, and nothing’s working, and the only fucking time I see any reaction out of him is when the front door opens and he checks, every time to see if it’s you,” she says, her voice cracking. “Please tell me you have a good reason for abandoning him at a time like this.”

    Stiles stiffens. “I’m not abandoning him, alright?” he grits out, because he’s thought of nothing else but Derek since he heard the news. “I’m just not-- I can’t go there and pretend like... I just can’t.”

    She’s looking at him like she doesn’t know who he is, and he feels it sting, right down in his gut. “Why can’t you? He needs you right now, more than ever.”

    “You say that like I’m not just his fucking colleague!” he snaps. “I’m sorry this happened, and I’m sorry that he’s going through this, but I can’t just click my fingers and fix him.”

    “But you’re more to him than just-- are you really that dense?”

    He makes to argue, but she cuts him off.

    “He thinks he’s let you down, Stiles.”

    And that’s all it takes.