Be warned! This blog contains Teen Wolf, Bones, Kurt Hummel, Blaine hate, WWE and many other fandom-related things leaning heavily to the side of slash.
I also reblog about feminism, equality, LGBTQ issues, rape-culture, fat-positivism, mental issues and art.
Also, there will be cats.
"Heads up, Derek!"
Derek frowns and ignores the volleyball the flies right past him, rolling down the shore and towards the ocean.
"Not cool, man," Isaac says, running past him to rescue the volleyball before it gets lost in the surf. "You were right there, why didn’t you grab the ball?"
Derek just scowls and looks back down at the book he isn’t reading.
"Right, that looks totally captivating, Derek. The Life and Times of the Pacific Jellyfish. This is a pack beach trip, it’s supposed to be fun. Why don’t you play volleyball with me and Scott, or—”
"Don’t want to," Derek says, gritting his teeth.
Isaac looks over to where directly in Derek’s line of sight is Stiles and his sandcastle, Danny standing behind him, rubbing sunblock onto Stiles’ shoulders, Stiles groaning with the pressure of Danny’s hands.
Isaac smirks. “Okay, have fun reading,” he says.
"Shut up," Derek says.
Danny is rubbing Stiles’ neck now, whispering something in his ear, lips barely grazing his ear, and whatever he says must be funny because Stiles laughs, that amazing laugh that shakes his whole body with mirth.
”Your book is upside down,” Isaac remarks knowingly before he flicks his curls and dashes off to the volleyball court.
Did you see that video of that baby who stopped crying whenever her parents played Beyonce? I’m pmuch falling into spasms of lols picturing this being the case except Derek is every baby’s Beyonce.
Like, please imagine a situation where Scott’s baby is crying, like NORMAL CRYING, not that anything’s wrong, but it’s just kind of harder to deal with than Scott thought because of enhanced hearing. He can’t really tune her out because hello, goes against every instinct, but also she’s not crying because anything’s wrong. She’s just disgruntled about everything, but especially being put down.
Except Derek walks into a room, and her eyes snap to him and immediately calms down. She super doesn’t care about being put down in her little chair as long as she’s facing Derek, and she just quietly stares at him.
CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE THIS. STILL LAUGHING. STILES RECORDS DEREK ONE AFTERNOON FOR LIKE THREE HOURS. DEREK ISN’T EVEN DOING ANYTHING, IS JUST COOKING AND WASHING DISHES AND SHIT BUT ALL SCOTT HAS TO DO IS PUT IT ON TV AND THE KID STOPS FUSSING AND STARES INTENTLY.
DEREK HALE INADVERTENTLY RUNNING AN INFANT DAYCARE DESPITE HAVING NO QUALIFICATIONS WHATSOEVER JUST CAUSE BABIES LIKE HIM. DEREK GETTING A JOB IN THE NICU BECAUSE EVEN THOUGH THOSE BABIES ARE TOO LITTLE AND SICK TO FOCUS ON HIM, THEY’RE QUIETER AND SEEM TO THRIVE JUST A LITTLE BETTER WHEN HE’S IN THE ROOM. HE JUST BRINGS A BOOK AND SITS IN THE ROCKING CHAIR. EVERY SO OFTEN HE GETS UP AND MAKES ROUNDS, SAYING A GRUFF HELLO TO EACH BABY.
DEREK HALE: EXACTLY HOW HE IS IN CANON EXCEPT SOMEHOW SENDING OUT POSITIVE VIBES TO ALL BABIES.
BUT WE DON’T KNOW THAT HE ISN’T LIKE A BABY MESMERIZER. WE JUST DON’T KNOW. UNTIL I AM SHOWN A BABY THAT STILL CRIES WHEN IT SEES DEREK THIS IS CANON. JUST LIKE THE SHERIFF’S FIRST NAME IS SHERIFF, SCOTT’S DAD’S FIRST NAME IS AGENT AND IT’S ALL A GIANT BAG OF NOMINATIVE DETERMINISM.
"HELLO BABY," DEREK SAYS QUIETLY AS STILES BOGGLES. THE BABY JUST STARES UP AT HIM, EVEN THOUGH DEREK HAS, LIKE, NO BABY TALK AT ALL. STILES CAME IN TO DEREK DESCRIBING THE FUCKING WEATHER TO ONE OF THE KIDS, AND YET THEY STILL COO, AND STARE, AND FIND HIS PRESENCE BIZARRELY COMFORTING. DEREK HALE KNOWS NOTHING ABOUT BABIES. STILES HAS TURNED INTO HIS FREAKING PA OR SOMETHING, BECAUSE HE’S THE ONE GOOGLING WHETHER IT’S OKAY TO FEED THEM STEAK, AND HOW TO PREVENT DIAPER RASH WHILE DEREK JUST EXISTS AROUND THEM AND OCCASIONALLY TELLS THEM INCREDIBLY OBVIOUS THINGS. “HELLO, YOU’RE SMALL,” DEREK SAYS SOLEMNLY TO ONE BABY, BENDING DOWN TO RUN A FINGER ALONG THE ARCH OF HIS FOOT. THE BABY LOOKS AT HIM LIKE HE’S JUST EXPLAINED STRING THEORY USING BELL PEPPERS.
"YOU’D BE NOTHING WITHOUT ME," STILES HISSES. "AND YEAH, THAT SOFT SPOT ON THEIR HEADS IS MEANT TO BE THERE."
DEREK SITS BACK DOWN AND STARTS WHITTLING AGAIN. THE BABIES LIE IN A CIRCLE SO THEY CAN ALL SEE HIM, AND STARE, TRANSFIXED.
omega werewolf babies.
Derek gets a reputation eventually. He has a youtube channel which is him reading instruction manuals out loud, sat in a rocking chair in front of a fire, which has had over a million hits. He’s pretty bemused by the whole thing. Then the Werewolf social services call him, and he’s a little twitchy at first because he thinks he got Scott to cosign Isaac’s college applications but he’s not completely sure, but it turns out it’s not because he’s gotten tangled up in werewolf bureaucracy again. It’s because there’s a baby born wolf who’s lost its pack, and they don’t know what to do. They’ve tried everything, and they’ve got five of their best case workers on it, but the cub won’t stop crying, and it’s getting closer to the full moon and it’s getting literally painful to be in hearing range of it.
Derek’s saying yes before he’s really thought about it, then sits down and stares at the table for a few minutes. The first few months after the fire, he and Laura were shunned by other werewolves. Their grief, the taboo of being born wolves without a family, Derek’s guilt and confusion— it was something that carried a scent and sound that made everybody edgy. For a cub to be going through that loss without an anchor is unthinkable. He’s still sitting there when Scott and Stiles come in, still having their eternal fire hydrant on ice skates debate (Stiles is for, Scott against). They’re at his side immediately, their hands on each of his shoulders.
"There’s— there’s a cub. In Oregon," he says, and they both immediately go into planning mode, and before he knows it they’re bundled into Stiles’s jeep, Stiles is trying to persuade Scott that the whole of Tusk is good road trip music and he’s not sure how he thought he was going to get to the cub but this is a better way.
They get there crumpled and tired, smelling of Stiles’s jeep and motel beds. Scott’s on edge as soon as they get in hearing range. Stiles picks up on their uneasiness, does all the talking as they get closer and closer to the desolate, exhausted sounding cries. Scott and Stiles wait in the corridor as the caseworker opens the door, shows him in, her eyes glowing yellow in her distress , nails making gouges in the doorframe.
He nods to her, closes the door behind him and looks at the cub. Her name’s Emma, and she doesn’t have a pack any more. She smells like grief and everything that’s wrong with the world, and he tastes ash at the back of his throat. She hasn’t seen him yet, changing forms as she thrashes on the mattress, leaving tears in the fabric, clouds of stuffing and feathers around her. “I, uh, I like your dress,” he says quietly. It used to have sunflowers on it, he thinks. He can see patches of bright, bright yellow. He comes to the edge of the mattress, sits down, taking deep breaths to keep himself under control. It’s unbearable. “I like yellow. It’s a good color. People— happy people wear it.”
She stills a little, the spaces between her form changes getting longer. “And your eyes go yellow too, when you get your little fangs and your claws. Maybe your mom wanted to match your dress to your eyes, huh?” It gets a little easier to breathe as the pitch of her cries becomes less urgent. He keeps talking to her, stretches his legs out on the mattress, his back to the wall. He doesn’t touch her yet, though, just lets her get used to his scent, the sounds he makes. When she’s quietened down to making hiccoughing sounds, eyes flashing as her body spasms, he puts his hand out and puts it on her foot.
"Hey you," he says, and can’t help smiling when she goes limp and stares at him with rapt, trusting eyes. It feels a little like he’s come through a storm. He can breathe again, without the crushing bands around his chest, his head. He brushes her hair back from her sweaty forehead, tickles her gums where her fangs drop, like his mom used to. "Stiles, Scott. She needs feeding and bathing, new clothes. Come in when you have them, but come in quietly, you hear?"
"Sure thing, buddy," Scott says, starts charming the caseworkers. He doesn’t want too many strange people in here yet. He picks her up, supporting her head, rests her on his crooked-up thighs and just looks at her. She’s filthy, a little dehydrated, and has no control yet. He’s not sure what the werewolf family services will do with her. He smiles as she grabs a handful of his sweater in her hand, starts mouthing at the fabric.
"You’ll be okay. Good cub," and yes, his conversation could do with some work, but she’s a baby. All he needs to do, really, is be in the same room. He’s already trying to work out if being terrible at paperwork is going to count against him in the adoption process. He can always nominate Scott and Stiles as responsible co-parents. Or something.
Two days later, they’re in an office. Scott and Stiles are sitting either side of him, and he feels a little bit like he’s walked into a double act. Three out of the five caseworkers are actually pinching the bridges of their noses. The other two have audibly sighed three times. He’s enjoying it, in a horrified sort of way. “Mr Hale, while we understand that the…situation in Beacon Hills has stabilized now, there is the matter of your personal life. There has been a certain pattern in your choice of partner,” and the woman breaks off there, all delicate pauses and inferences. Stiles leans forwards, a shit-eating grin on his face.
Kind of a 5/1, but a 3/1. Enjoy.
Part One can be found here
- - -
After their moment, of sorts, Peter grows callous. Stiles isn’t surprised. Or if he is, he doesn’t show it.
Stiles is very good at pretending things haven’t happened. It’s one of those things that Peter has noticed about him over time, has come to admire about him, among many of Stiles’ other little quirks—though mostly the more insensitive little ticks, the crassness with which he spoke, the touches of dark that Peter enjoyed so very much. Stiles acts as if the entire situation never occurred when Peter refuses to acknowledge it himself.