'I know where love comes from, I understand beauty.'
Russell Brand, ‘Scandalous’.
Ok I was talking with spaggel and steammmpunk being older than EVERYBODY in TW and the TW fandom and promised to make a badge, so yup. This. It’s the official ‘oh god everybody is so younger than me' Teen Wolf Fan Club.
You also need to love cats, cardigans, tea and yelling at kids.
Feel free to take them and show your proud oldness.
In which Moss is an average tumblr user.
Instantly connect to what’s most important to you. Follow your friends, experts, favorite celebrities, and breaking news.
Stuart Heritage: So Sky Movies has swiped Elf from Channel 4, and an annual mass-watching tradition has been thwarted. Without hyperbole, this means Christmas is ruined
OH GOD THEY’VE STOLEN ELF. CHRISTMAS IS CANCELLED.
all i’m asking for is aus where derek hale is a wine snob (╯◕_◕)╯
Oh fuck so much. Or running a winery. Or a Sideways AU where Derek is marrying Jennifer and Stiles takes him across the country appreciating fine wines and the error of his ways.
Sideways AU sIDEWAYS AU!
I did think of calling it 'Fuckin' Merloooo-oooo-ooooo-ooooooooow!' Would that be so terrible?
Also: Chris Argent: WEDDING PLANNER.
Wine, Women and Wild, Wild Werewolves
'You say Toyota, I say tomato, let's face the music and WE'RE TAKING THE CAMARO,' Stiles intones. Everything about his voice states plainly, meanly, that he means business. He fronts up to Derek, out on the gravel driveway of the Hale house in front of the double-door garage, nose to nose, toe to toe. It's not that he doesn't find Derek intimidating: he's not an idiot, and since he got back from college they've got better acquainted, what with Derek and Scott both joining the local fire service.
Getting to know Derek better has led to increased intimidation, not less. The guy combines a short fuse with terrifying levels of hotness. Sometimes Stiles doesn’t know whether to fear unprovoked (well…) assault or inconvenient arousal more. Or both combined.
But this issue is non-negotiable. A road-trip through wine-country in the Toyota Derek uses for work? Come on.
Derek’s head isn’t about to explode, this time, but he looks stubborn. (And amazing. Stubborn and amazing, both, up this close.) ‘It has better fuel economy. It doesn’t make sense to take the Camaro. We’ll be out half of any spending money we take immediately, just on gas.’
And Stiles staggers back, crunching on the gravel. Being so drama queeny about it, he actually stumbles and nearly winds up with embarrassing toddler grazes on his knees. Because? ‘I can’t believe you’re going with pragmatism, dude,’ he expostulates, regaining his balance by grabbing onto Derek’s forearm, where it’s stubbornly folded across his caveman chest. ‘Look at you! You’re like a twenty-first century James Dean with eighty extra pounds! It’s against nature and pulchritudinous endowments, not to go with that and make sure you’ve got the right accessories!’
He flails a little: lets go of Derek to do it, and Derek rubs his arms, looking uncomfortable. And largely uncomprehending. Stiles cuts down on the syllabic overload.
'I mean,' he says, hands jiggling like the broad, frantic gestures mean anything, 'you look good. The car looks good. That means we look better! Especially me: consider yourself my accessory, and the better you look, the better I look. Road trip! Girls! No Toyota, Derek!’
Derek pinches at his chin, tilts his head as he gazes at Stiles, and there’s a dawning light of comprehension in his eyes. And a brow-twisting disapproval. ‘There aren’t going to be any girls, Stiles. I’m getting married. We’re taking a stag trip to get a break from wedding planning and get out of Laura’s hair. And my Mom’s hair. And Jennifer’s hair. Before they kill me for ordering chocolate sponge instead of fruitcake, or suggesting a sweetheart neckline for the bridesmaids’ dresses.’
Stiles is unwillingly sidetracked, sobered up. Too much so even to point out that just because there’ll be no more cakes and ale – and girls - for Derek, doth he think… ‘You know what a sweetheart neckline is?’
Derek winces. ‘Yeah. Now I do. You see why I need to get out of here for a week.’
He really, really needs to get away. But that doesn’t mean Stiles is going to let him get away with the Toyota scam. Uh-uh. Before Derek goes inside to say good-bye to Laura and his Mom, and Stiles tromps off to the end of the driveway to call Scott, The Camaro – heavily capitalized – is out on the gravel. The Toyota is safely snoring, abed in the garage. And Derek heads inside with a surly and defeated expression.
Inside, Derek puts his head cautiously in the door of the main lounge, current location of his Mom and Laura. ‘Okay, we’re going. Back in a week, then it’s all systems go, right?’
Laura’s scrunched up on the floor, with Talia Hale leaning towards her, holding out a swatch of fabric. Laura is surrounded by more fabric: she might as well be eight, and pretending to be a Disney princess, her ballgown pouffed out around her. They’re always surrounded by swatches of fabric, these past couple of months. Derek has pretty much given up on asking why. The trouble is, if he asks then he gets an answer: sometimes twenty minutes’ worth.
They look up at him, dazed, so he risks going in for a hug – careful not to step on hot-salsa cambric or rose-sunset satin. First his Mom, then Laura, and his Mom has collected herself, pulled herself away from bridal dreams. The hug is tighter and more of a reprimand than he needs: accompanied by a cuff around the head. ‘One week,’ she says, sternly. ‘Deserter.’ Then she softens a little. ‘You look like you need it, darling. Have fun, bring back a couple of cases for the reception. Don’t get into any trouble. Or I shall be very cross.’ That is certainly a threat, worded as only the Hale alpha is likely to word it.
As he pulls away, she pats his cheek, more fondly. ‘It’s a shame Jennifer has this education conference, she could have waved you off with your, ah, little friend. At least he’ll be company for you. Stiles, isn’t it?’
Laura’s grip is a stranglehold, too: and she follows him out into the hallway. Talia Hale is already murmuring to herself about muslin versus toile, and he barely gets a final wave.
The punch to the back of the head isn’t designed for injury. Just to stop him in his tracks, let him know who’s the alpha heir apparent here, and that he has questions to answer.
Derek pretty much already knew it would be coming, and turns around, resigned. ‘What?’ He still puts some incredulous sibling hostility into the face, the voice.
Laura gives him another hug, then puts him back down and scrutinizes him. ‘Tell me what you’re playing at, Der. Or you could just tell me you’re doing a runner and eloping with Scott McCall’s college buddy instead, because that would be even better.’
Derek rubs his face and glares at her. ‘I’m having a guy’s road-trip, run-up to the wedding, leaving you guys free to organise without my inhibiting guy-ness. As you know, Laura,’ he points out, heavily. ‘And, also, can you cut it with the stuff about Jennifer. You don’t like her, fine. You’re civil, and that’s what matters. We’re getting married, get used to it. Mom likes her: and she’s still the Alpha, last I checked.’
It’s a stare-off, a stand-off. Derek breaks and turns away, swinging sulkily. Laura’s hand on his arm is conciliatory. ‘Oh, okay. If you’re happy, I’m happy. See me zip my lip.’ She makes with the zippy motions. Then hesitates. ‘What’s going on with this trip, though? I mean we don’t even know the Stilinski kid, except that he’s the Sheriff’s son. I though Scott was going, and Boyd, Jackson, Greenberg… What happened?’
Derek shrugs. ‘Scott has food poisoning, Boyd got shanghaied by Erica to go to Summerfest with tickets for his birthday, Jackson’s filming a soup commercial in Nebraska. Greenberg…’ He scrunches up his brow some. ‘I think I just forgot to ask Greenberg.’
'So Stiles…' Laura prompts, dark hair swinging. She still looks puzzled, troubled. Derek doesn't know what he's done to merit it, besides getting engaged to someone she doesn't approve of, and they've hashed that one out too many times.
Derek shrugs. ‘Scott asked him. They’re good buddies, knew each other in high school. I don’t really know him, but he’s up for it and it’s too late to re-schedule. Time on his hands: just graduated, and he wants to get some research in for his project. For which I’m ideal material, seems like.’
'You like him? He's a good guy?' Laura interrogates.
Derek makes with the shoulders again. ‘Kind of annoying. And he’s a cocky little bastard, what with the book deal. It’s only a week.’
The hug gets closer, he’s pulled back in, and Laura rubs her face against his shirt.
'Can you not wipe your snot over me?' he complains. 'I have a tissue, right here…'
'Shut up,' she orders him, but smirks a bit as he's released. 'You know, I hate these cycle-blockers you're on for the job: it's impossible to read you any more, or not clearly. All the signals are a little bit off: I can tell there's stuff you're not telling me, but not if you're actually lying, or just unhappy, or…' She leans back, and there's a worried frown on her face as she looks at him. She leans in, sniffs at him again, and he flappy-hands her off, irritable.
'Part of the job, Laura. I've got to go.' He dives in for one last peck on the cheek: reluctantly caught out in affection. Then hauls the front door open and pretty much runs away from her, 'cause she knows too much and understands him too well. Not fast enough to avoid the cuff to the head, but at least he evades the headlock.
The meds do dull the senses: but his werewolf hearing is still pin-sharp. But he wouldn’t need it, as he jogs down the drive. Their neighbours can probably hear her, and their nearest neighbours are twelve miles away. ‘Have a good time!’ she hollers. ‘Get drunk! Have fun! Get laid! A lot! Stand the bitch up at the altar, why don’t you, make my fucking day!’
Derek swivels and turns, pirouettes as he keeps on running, and gives her the finger, with grace and economy and style, keeps turning, keeps running.
He’s not listening. He’s not.
When Derek ducks into the Hale house to see his family and grab bags, Stiles takes his own chance. Last opportunity, maybe, to make a quick call to Scott, when he’s absolutely sure he’s not within hearing distance of lupine eardrums. Not here in the car, or by it, of course. He slips out, makes his way down the drive. Based on his knowledge of Scott’s own capacities and faculties, he judges how far he has to walk. Then he wonders a moment if that’s far enough: maybe the Hales are prodigies of werewolf auditory capacity. Fuck it, he thinks, walks another fifty yards. That’ll do.
Scott doesn’t answer first ring, not second, not tenth, not fifteenth… Finally, he probably stops necking with Allison – or whatever else, Stiles doesn’t want to speculate. Picks up.
Scott is psyched to hear from him, enough to dispense with social niceties. ‘Man, man, you on the road with Derek already? How is it? Is he behaving himself? Tell him we’re expecting some top quality firebug action while he’s away, he’s going to miss out! Has he copped a feel yet?’
Stiles puts the phone away from his ear a minute, grimaces at it and seriously considers the wisdom of some of his life choices thus far. Especially in the matter of best buds. But he soldiers on. It’s a bit late for a re-think now: and Boyd and Isaac are both taken. ‘I don’t even know where to start with you, Scott,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Sequentially: no, it’s fine, what do you even mean, and you are fucking weird. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled, maybe a little disturbed to know you’re looking forward to risking life and limb, property damage and maybe fatalities. Derek Hale, Scott. You’re going to treat firebugs with levity around Derek Hale? I envy your ballsack and pity your deathwish.
That last, I’m not even gonna dignify it. I have a book deal, Scott. I have a book deal, and I am a big deal, I am fresh out of college and I have an actual legit big six contract for a memoir. I am Elizabeth Wurtzel without the scrip meds and boobs and delusions of twenty-year-old hottiness. And being forty-nine. It’s on wolves, your work colleague is a were-wolf, he wants to take a last buddy road trip before he mates for life. And I need raw material that isn’t basically, ‘Uh, my best bud got bit when we were sixteen, we nearly got killed by the local Alpha pack, it was rad!’ It’s a match made in heaven. That is all there is to it.’
The silence with which Scott meets this is pretty eloquent all by itself. And there’s more dryness in the, ‘Riiiiight,’ he finally dignifies it with, than Stiles would ever have thought an ingenuous puppydog like Scott capable of. He lets the silence spin on a moment, hoping Scott will let him off the hook. Scott will always normally let him off the hook. He’s not normally enough of a Sherlock to even know when he’s onto something.
Today is not Stiles’ lucky day, however. Scott is a puppydog: and he’s aware that he’s got hold of a juicy bone. He worries it a bit. ‘All there is to it,’ he echoes, thoughtful. ‘Hm. I’m not going along with you, though, Stiles. Am I?’
'You didn't want to come along,' Stiles reminds him, trying for a sidetrack. 'You think Derek is a pain in the ass. He makes you drill the new recruits on safety measures about a thousand times, while he grabs the glory on actual call-outs. He pulls seniority and pack status on you when you whine about wolfy meds for fire-fighters. He's a straight-edge asshole who won't lace his beer with a little splosh of wolfsbane, even at full moon. You're only nominally buddies, because you work together and the Hale pack took you in when you moved back after college.’
'Yeah, but I was going all the same: wolf bros forever, man.' Scott is inexorable. 'Until you got a few beers inside you, a week after you got back from college, and got a load of my workmate.'
Fuck, fuck, rouse every cowboy at the ranch out of his bunk, head ‘em off at the pass… Everything in Stiles’ brain is jamming, and says this is very bad. Sober discussion of drunken pulling of bro privileges must not stand, cannot be allowed to stand… Too late. He tries, though. ‘Hale? Come on, man. I’ve seen Derek Hale around before now. The Hales practically built Beacon Hills. Remember when we trespassed back when we were sixteen and he terrorized us with a lecture on the Hale wood’s ecosystem and making us pick up not only our own litter but also every camping party’s for the last forty years?’
'Yeah,' Scott says, remorseless. 'That was back when you were still Lydia-stupid in the head. Before you went off to college and had your man-liking dick-friendly epiphany and got over her. Then six years on, you come back, get a load of little Derek Hale all growed-up – little engaged Derek Hale, I might add – and decide that I have to duck out of the road-trip, along with Boyd and Isaac. “Please, Scott,’ he mimics, and it’s cruel and unusual. Probably accurate, but still cruel. “Pur-leese! This might be my only chance to bone the most beautiful beta of Beacon Hills! I’m pulling rank, pur-leese!’
'Oh please, yourself. Fuck yourself,’ Stiles sulks. ‘I didn’t whine like that, Scott. And the werewolf research is completely legit. That is true and factual.’
'Yeah,' Scott concedes, contemplative. 'So is you thinking you might convince him to pull a Graduate and run out on Miss Jennifer, for the sake of your infatuated ass.’
Stiles yelps at that. It’s a step too far. ‘I do not think that!’ He pauses: offers a crumb. ‘Maybe the bone thing, okay. One little last fling? You should never have told me he bats for both teams, Scott. I’m totally blaming you for this entire episode. But not breaking up the wedding. There’s an ethical and moral line, man. I’m not crossing it.’
'Not unless you get the chance,' Scott mutters. Stiles doesn't hear. He's very careful not to hear.
Derek bangs out of the house with his terrifying sister shouting something after him, but Stiles doesn’t have wolf eardrums and can’t make it out. He looks irritable, and begins to fling luggage into the Camaro in silence, only nodding at the passenger seat to Stiles. Who would be right on that, but Talia and Laura Hale lean out of an upstairs window before he can, and he freezes.
He’s never met Laura, but he’s seen her around. (He may be dick-friendly, as Scott has it, now, but he’s not blind or dead, and no more than a five on the Kinsey gay-o-meter. Laura is fine, and terrifying by reputation.) He has actually met Mrs Hale – the pack Alpha – before now. But he was pretty little at the time, and with his Mom, and she probably doesn’t remember.
'Stiles Stilinski!' she calls out, smiling down at him. She's regally beautiful, and you don't need to be a wolf to feel the static buzz of absolute authority bouncing off her. 'How rude of my son not to bring you in for us to get to know each other all over again. I'd know you anywhere: you were a darling child, with those eyes in a five-year-old face. Natalie Wood with a Buzz Lightyear toy in hand. I’d offer you tea, but Derek is clearly eager to be off.’ And here she glares at her second child. Who shifts uneasily on the crunching gravel, and feels the back of his neck like something just invisibly bit into it. ‘And we’re a mite busy with wedding plans. But when you get back, you come on in and we shall have tea and cake and talk of your dear parents.’ She exits smiling, back into the room, and Stiles’ chest feels tight suddenly.
Laura, though: Laura isn’t done yet, seems like. She leans further out the window, and suddenly Stiles is the one who feels like the back of his neck is being savaged, under her scrutiny. Her eyes are bright, very bright, and very amused. ‘Well,’ she says. ‘Well, well. Well, well, well, well, well, well, well.’
Stiles knows she’s the alpha apparent of the Hale clan: but still, that appears to be enough goading – is it goading? He’s not sure what it is – for Derek to break rank. ‘Yes,’ he says, lifting his head but not his volume: no need, Stiles supposes. ‘You’re amazed. And we’re out of here. Goodbye, Laura: see, I have your list of specifications, we’ll bring the wine back, have a nice time planning the rest of my life, why don’t you?’
He gets the Camaro driver door open, but it does him no good. Laura has her eyes fixed on Stiles, and is set on conversation. ‘Stiiiiiles Stilinski,’ she says, with a big grin stretching her face. If she was a big fat guy she’d be rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet, exuding satisfaction. Maybe with a cigar. She looks extraordinarily pleased.
'That's me,' Stiles says, outwardly cheerful, inwardly uncertain. 'I am the guy, I am the Stiles. Accept no substitutes. Uh, maybe Ryan Gosling. Or Chris Hemsworth, you can accept either of them. But barring them, no acceptable substitute for the original Stiles, I have it on reliable authority.'
So she lets him ramble on: and her eyes alternate. Him. Then to Derek. Him. Derek. ‘And you’re keeping my little brother company for the next week?’ she says, like she wants it signed sealed and notarized. Stiles opens his mouth, but she’s not done, switches her attention. ‘Oh, brother mine,’ she breathes out at Derek. ‘Holding out on me. Holding out on meeeeee. Is it ever a good move?’
Something in Derek seems to break at that: at least he rounds the trunk of the car, gets a hold of the back of Stiles’ neck, and makes forcible indication that it’s time to get in the car. And Stiles would, gladly. Because Laura Hale is hot, and gorgeous, and powerful, and clearly smart…. and her reputation is accurate.
Stiles is a little scared, and he doesn’t feel it dents his masculinity to admit it. So he’d be in the Camaro and hunched into a little-boy little ball, hiding from scarifying big sisters. But they’re interrupted mid-interrogation.
A Chevy Tahoe rounds the bend of the road at the rim of the visible forest: it’s going way past anything acceptable to national statute or local byelaws. And when it swooshes past the posts of the open gateway, and scrunches up close, too close, with a dramatic spray of gravel, the door’s flung open with a real flair for drama and making an entrance.
A handsome silver-foxy middle-aged guy jumps out. He’s light-eyed, greying at the temples, his mouth is permanently amused and his bod is long and lean. He’s gorgeous. And familiar to Stiles. He’s even met the guy a couple of times. It’s Scott’s college girl-friend’s Dad. Allison’s Dad. And as his brain fumbles the deduction, cogs clicking one tooth after another as they grind, he strides up to Derek, and hands him a business card.
'Mr Hale? Derek Hale?' he enquires. 'Good to meet you.' And he sticks his hand out to shake. 'The name's Argent. Chris Argent. Wedding planner.'
So finally I got it. Matt gave me his drumstick! He read my “Matt, give me your 16 inches of wood” sign during Fluorescent Adolescent and he made me understand he would give me later. Then, after R U Mine? he came towards me on the stage and, smiling, gave me the drumstick… then he pointed out at me and he told me to open my sign and he took a pic of me holding it! I’m still freaking out. Thanks a lot, Matthew! - X
what a story, god!