2Katsu_Kin0
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Summary
Every werewolf has an anchor to their humanity, they just have to find it. Derek begrudgingly teaches Stiles about being a werewolf after Stiles is bitten and left inside the ruins of the Hale house. Alternate Universe, things will definitely change.
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Summary
Stiles is visited in his sleep in hopes of changing his past and the fate of everyone he loves, specially those long since passed.
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Seven years of unspoken words, hidden truths, and a bond forged in the shadows of Beacon Hills.
Now, hidden away in a secluded bunker, Stiles Stilinski is completely on his own, carrying a secret pregnancy that connects him forever to the Hale lineage. As he looks back on the chaotic history that brought him here, he prepares for the hardest choice of his life—and the ultimate sacrifice made out of love.
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Or just my version of the sterek ship throughout the series and After that until the Movie happened.
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Summary
Derek was, for some reason, leaning over the bed Stiles was in and hovering directly over him. Stiles now realizes that the thing that tightened over his hand was definitely Derek’s hand. Holding his.
“What day is it?” Derek asks, still hovering uncomfortably over him. Not even unnecessarily uncomfortable for Stiles, though it definitely was a bit strange, but it just seemed an uncomfortable position for Derek to maintain.
“The 11th, I think,” he replies, though it’s honestly more of a guess. He’s not the best with keeping track of the date.
Derek’s face immediately seems to completely shift into pure relief, and it actually unsettles Stiles because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man so unburdened. He collapses down on top of him, though thankfully catches himself at the last moment so he doesn’t squish the man below. Derek buries his face in Stiles’ neck and seems content to just… stay there.
Was he sniffing him?
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Summary
Something is happening in the Preserve. The ley lines are humming. Someone has been drawing ritual circles in clearings that haven't seen magic in a generation. And there's a boy—a teenager, living rough in the woods—who smells like woodsmoke and ozone and something impossible. Derek wants him gone. Derek wants him caught, interrogated, expelled, because the last time someone showed up in Beacon Hills smelling like something they shouldn't, people died. But the boy won't talk. The boy runs. The boy looks at Derek with amber-gold eyes and a sharp jaw and an expression of such carefully controlled grief that it makes Derek's wolf howl. And Stiles—Stiles, who was supposed to be leaving, who had one foot out the door and a Georgetown acceptance letter on his laptop—Stiles can't stop looking at the boy either, because something about him feels like recognition. Like déjà vu. Like coming home to a house you've never lived in.